shoreboy

2. Bullfrog and Otter Boy Quartermaine’s familiar tattooed dome strode by the high trailer windows. A moment later there was a wrap on his door, and a low, “Get him out of here,” and then Quartermaine was gone. Jeremy, Jeremiah, Bullfrog—let’s stick with Jeremy for now—Jeremy nudged the old dairy farmer who definitely smelled like his livestock. The cot was narrow so they were right up against each other. The farmer continued to snore. Jeremy shook the old man again. “I’m up. I’m up,” said the farmer. He threw his spindly legs over the cot, bare feet on the grungy linoleum. “Up an atom,” the old man said out of habit, mostly to himself, blinking, putting out his hand on the nightstand searching for his glasses. Jeremy, already sitting next to him in threadbare boxers, handed them to him. “Milk the cows or they’ll be hell to pay,” the farmer said smacking his lips, making sure his dentures were still intact. He seemed to have forgotten where he was. He looked around at the trailer, then at Jeremy. “Thanks for stopping by, Shamus,” Jeremy said, getting up and going over to his small coffee maker, pouring himself a cup. He wasn’t going to offer the old farmer any. He needed to make sure he was gone before the camp had officially gotten into the buzz of opening day mode. It was still early enough that no one would be wiser that Shamus had been there all night. “Ya know,” Shamus said pulling up his coveralls, slipping the suspenders over his narrow shoulders, “you remind me of someone.” “Who,” Jeremy asked taking a sip of coffee, singing his upper lip. “My youngest. Bonnie,” the farmer said, tying up his shit-caked work boots. “Okay,” Jeremy said cringing while he felt his lip, “that is so wrong in so many ways I can’t even count.” The old man put a twenty on the nightstand. “She’s not as old as you but has the same round butt that…” “Shamus, zip it. I don’t need to know.” Jeremy was cinching his belt then buttoning the top of his plaid shirt. He put a strawberry-frosted Pop-tart in the toaster, then opened the door for Shamus. Shamus shuffled out, stopped at the door in front of Jeremy, saw that whatever was between them last night had been ushered out with the dawn. The old man’s stubbled face registered sadness, then resignation, as he patted Jeremy’s cheek and descended the trailer’s steep metal stairs clutching firmly to the handrail. Jeremy watched the back of the old man’s red #MAGA cap bob between the carnival trailers. In the morning haze, he watched the red hat pass through the back end of the half-erected carnival rides, through the empty game booths, and finally out the arch into the supermarket parking lot. Few carnies were up yet. He took another cautiously sip of his coffee. The September air was moist, warning of another hot day before autumn broke summer’s hold. The toaster popped, and the intense aroma of strawberries and roasted sugar clung in the air. Better than the cow dung and Old Spice that came with Shamus, he thought. He brought the Pop-tart out with him on the trailer steps and looked at the rising sun through the pink clouds. He tried not to think bad of any of the men that came to see him. They were usually old, married much too young, usually with a kid on the way, and stuck in a marriage that had lasted decades with no end in sight. As he ate the frosted pastry, he got out his ancient iPhone and clicked on the browser to bring up Craig’s list, how he managed to plan his tricks as the carnival went from small town to small town. He was hoping to reconnect with one of the college boys he’d hooked up with last year. It was by accident that he met him, thinking that the guy in the post was lying about his age, saying he had a swimmer’s body, and all the other things men said that turned out to be untrue. The boy turned out to be the real deal, the most gorgeous specimen he’d ever been with. The kid indeed had a swimmer’s body and much more, in anything he’d undersold himself: sandy blond hair, a peach-fuzz mustache, dark blue eyes—how many times did he beat off remembering that face? But the boy also had a monstrous stutter and large gashes on one of his cheeks. But he was also sweet, muscular, a wing-span that didn’t quit, and a bubble butt he could munch on for days. They hadn’t talked much, mostly from the boy’s self-consciousness over his stutter. The oddest thing was he wore a chastity cage, which he was vague, if not right down evasive about. The most he said was that he was into chastity, but it was hard for Jeremy to believe. The entire time the lad had spent in his sling, he’s poor dick was bursting against the metal trap. Jeremy concentrated on his butt in the myriad ways he knew, which was the focus that Ken, Kenneth—something like that—texted him he was interested in when they first made contact. He’d made love to the boy’s butthole alternatingly sweetly then, at times, aggressively. The boy had liked it both ways. There were only a few stops on the year-long carnival schedule he really looked forward to and this town was at the top. He licked the crumbs off his fingers and downed enough now warm coffee to get him through the busy day. He clicked on Craig’s list regional personals. He thought he should plan now since the day the carnival launched in a new town was the busiest it would get except for the tear-down. The tear-down lasted all night, a twenty-two hour day and then a drive to the next town, usually involving plenty of amphetamines provided by Quaretermaine and management. He scanned down to the personals section and found it was gone. He checked out another random region and it was gone there too. It had to be a mistake, some glitch. He wasn’t dependent on turning tricks, but it did help him supplement his living expenses. Without them he’d wind up with the other carnies who were dependent on the measly salary management offered, living in near-destitution in what was infamously called ‘the bunkhouse,’ a converted eighteen wheeler split down the middle, broken up into small spaces which only fit a twin mattress with ten inches of space to spare on each side and a mirrored medicine chest for toiletries next to the door. His life was a steady stream going downhill. There weren’t a lot of job opportunities for ex-felons, but he’d found this one. He’d hit his high when he was thirty years old, working for a start-up wind farm outfit setting up wind turbines all around New England. He was unafraid of heights, having spent summers teaching his little brothers to high-dives off a nearby quarry. Setting up these humongous wind turbines, with blades that stretch a football field in length, there was something meaningful and monumental he was doing, transforming mountaintops, creating renewable energy, powering tens of thousands of houses wherever his company sent him. He made enough money to send back to assist his youngest crazy brother who grew marijuana and lived in a teepee. The dope froze in Vermont’s long winters, but he was happy kid, so there’s that. But for one god-forsaken road trip to Canada to hook-up with a gay couple outside of Montreal, his life could have continued on an upward trajectory. He got up to pee in his miniscule bathroom. He flushed the toilet, washed his face, shaved, then scrutinized himself mercilessly in the mirror. At forty-seven, he’d once been considered attractive, at least his mother had thought so, long, long ago. Unfortunately, so did his father. Even in the midst of middle age, he’d kept slim and still had some of the physique he acquired in the prison weight room. His greying hair kept most of his mousy brown color. His face was slim, gaunt some would say, and had a sharp chin with a big, wide lips. He’d maintained his undetectable positive status ever since he converted, never knowing if it was from sharing needles or unprotected sex, but what did it matter? He caught the bug, but it was under control. There were bags under his eyes this morning from Shamus waking him up all night wanting him to fuck him every which way every couple of hours. He’d finally gotten a straight four hours, from two to six, when Quartermaine had pounded on the side of his trailer. Throughout the day, as usual, he was all professional, worked well with the other carnies and ride operators, the staff at concessions, and all the performers from the Big Top to the Freak Show. Because he wasn’t afraid of heights the Ferris wheel and Hammer ride operators always wanted his help. He made the final electrical connections on the Hammer’s lighting, and still had time to dress his own joint, the ‘knock three dolls down and get a prize’ booth, before the carnival flicked on its lights at exactly three o’clock to begin opening day operations. He brushed out the knockdown dolls’ deceptively long hair and wedged them between the front piece of wood and the hidden backstop that made them next-to-impossible to knock down for some worthless prize that the marks were so eager to get for their girl. But the rubes kept coming and over the last couple of years he’d learned a good bit of patter to keep his joint one of the top money-makers. The couple in Montreal had the usual stupid screen names common for the site he was on: dirtypig4u and VelvetHole. He had their address on his phone with directions; he also had a shit-load of nasty porn on it, which he didn’t really think about as he crossed the Canadian border. He’d just taken a Viagra at a McDonalds down the road as his Subaru pulled up to the first border agent, a young Asian-Canadian woman. She looked bored and asked where he was staying. He said he hadn’t made a reservation but he thought he’d stay in a Montreal hotel. She looked at him suspiciously and told him to pull over to an area at the border patrol offices. He followed her direction and pulled into one of the docks. Two border guards were waiting for him, asking him to get out of his car. They were both nice, respectful, almost apologetic about the delay. The first officer had tattoos covering his arms up to his neck, and the other one was extremely handsome with a close cropped dark head of hair. They were a pleasant distraction until they asked him for any electronic equipment. “Like my phone?” Jeremy asked, a little apprehensive. The handsome one nodded, and he turned over his phone giving him the access code, and warning him that there was porn on it. They asked him to step inside. They then proceeded to tear the car apart end to end. The tattooed agent brought back several bottles of poppers and asked what the bottles contained. He told him the contents, saying feebly that he hoped he’d get lucky. The tattooed guy looked less friendly after that. They were both gone for about an hour leaving him in a benchless waiting area. When they returned they were stone-faced and asked that he follow them. He felt trapped like a mouse in a maze, a maze that had only one path to walk down knowing this wasn’t going to end well. They took him into a windowless room and asked he take off his shoes. He did and the handsome one motioned for him to slide them over to him. He complied as the tattooed agent read him his right and asked if he understood that they were detaining him for suspicion of trafficking in child pornography. His heart stopped. To back up for a second. He’d had a major run-in with the law before stemming from a hunting accident when he was fourteen. Hunting trips with his father always ended up in their two-man pup tent and was always where sexual abuse took place. It had been going on since he could remember and it was never anything he looked forward to. Quite the opposite. He came up with any excuse he could think of to get out of going, but never to any avail. Even his mother put pressure on him to spend some time with his hard-working father who only asked that his oldest son go out the first day of deer season with him. What changed on this particular hunting trip was after his father had finished with him, as he was drifting off after his fourth beer, he started mumbling about how old Jeremiah was getting, and how Jacob, who’d just turn nine, or maybe even better, Jasper, who was six-and-a-half, might enjoy coming with him next year in his place. Jeremy was able to convince the sheriffs, but not his mother, that his father had accidentally taken a bullet to the head as he hid, unseen by Jeremiah, in the brush. It’s possibly she knew what was happening between her husband and son by a million small details but never said a word. She also never said anything to the sheriffs in her home about her suspicions, nothing at the funeral, not a word at the courthouse. Not one word ever. But she never treated him the same after the incident, only found excuse after excuse to keep his younger brothers away from him. She encouraged Jeremy to graduate early, get his electrical engineering certificate his last year in high school, and leave the house the day he graduated. He was not unwelcome in her house, especially around holidays when his brothers begged him to come home, but neither was he especially warmly welcomed. A kiss on the cheek on entering and leaving, a Tupperware of leftovers, but not an inch more of affection than was necessary. So the father-son pornography he’d harvested on his phone was buried deep in his history and his character. The Canadian shrink who interviewed him prior to trial asked him whom in the photos he identified with. He told her the boys, and he argued that he thought none of them were underage. He wasn’t into kiddy porn, he pleaded. But the ages of the kids in the photos were questionable enough, it didn’t matter whom he identified with. Child pornography is child abuse, argued the Canadian Crown Attorney. She wasn’t interested in the psychiatric deposition his attorney tried to put, unsuccessfully, into evidence. So he did his time, labeled a child sexual predator, the lowest of scum in the prison hierarchy, beaten, raped, infected, unemployable once outside, until he found a job at the dime toss booth, turning penny-ante tricks on the side for extra money, sucking off old men who smelled of Brylcreme and Aqua Velva, because they were coming into town for a ‘date’ and having a nice piece of cheap flesh that reminded them of their daughter. He placed the last knockdown doll on the top shelf, secured it in place. He pinched the bridge of his nose feeling a migraine coming on. Now that Craig’s list no longer did personal ads, how long before he took up room in the Bunkhouse? How similar were those eight by twelve foot rooms to the cell he did time in? How much lower could his life go? “Jeremiah was a b-b-bullfrog,” sang a voice behind him. “Hello, B-bullfrog.” Kenworth Paxton. He remembered the name even before turning around. As he spun around, he fretted that he’d aged unrecognizably in the last year, was afraid of being looked at by a creature he remembered being so astonishingly perfect, scarred but perfect in every way. The boy was the same, a little taller maybe, a bit broader in his chest if that were possible, same scars on his cheek, and wet, shoulder-length sandy blond hair, longer than the previous year before. But the length suited him, framed his face, his beautiful imperfectly-perfect face. He came over and leaned on the red lip of his booth, his fingertips just brushing the lad’s. His smile was from ear to ear. He felt an immediate rousing desire in his groin for the young man, but an even stronger desire to just lean there for hours, taking him in. A full year of imagining him and now, here he was, made flesh, even more ideal than what was indelible in his mind. “You look…” Jeremy couldn’t find the words. He noticed drips of water coming off his hair onto his collar. “You look wet,” he laughed. “I c-c-came right after try-tryouts. I’m al-al-alternate goal-goalkeeper this year,” he beamed. “That’s fantastic, man. Congratulations!” Jeremy enthused, clasping his hand, an excuse to hold him, to feel how real he was. He rocked his head acknowledging that he really was here, that he showed up. He didn’t quite know what a goalkeeper was—he guessed soccer—but if the kid was happy, and the smile spread across his face said he was, then so was he. Ecstatically happy. “So how you been?” “G-good,” the young man said, looking at Jeremy hungrily. He looked back at him the same. “So can you come by tonight? Meet me later?” Jeremy’s face clouded for a second, coming down to earth. “Nah, you’ll probably be with all your friends tonight. First night of the carnival and all.” “No. Yeah. I can m-m-meet you,” he said. The kid began to shuffle his feet. “Like is t-t-ten okay?” he blinked hard to spit out his proposition. “Yeah, yeah,” said Jeremy happily. He kept nodding his head practically disbelieving who was before him. The kid was just as happy to see him too, starting to pick up Jeremy’s head bobbing until both of them were bobbing in synch together, very happy to see each other. There was a pause between them, not of awkwardness but a hint at a mutual anticipation for what ten o’clock would hold. “Yeah, ten. Perfect. Here or at my trailer? Yeah, let’s meet at my trailer. You remember which one it is? The green one? Small, has flowers painted under the window?” “Couldn’t forget it,” Kenworth Paxton said. “Best night of my life.” “Best night of your life?” Jeremy noted he hadn’t stuttered. “Best night of my life. That is until tonight, I promise you that.” The kid really seemed to be happy seeing him again. Whenever he allowed himself the luxury of thinking about Kenworth Paxton he figured he’d forgotten him, or got interested in someone else, college flings, but he seemed to have the same connection right now that he had the week he’d been here a year ago. Should he have kept up writing to him? Texting him? That would’ve been presumptuous, weird. The kid was a baby, he was a middle age, part-time hustler who worked as a carnie. What could possibly go wrong? “So, yeah, ten. Okay.” Both their heads were still bobbing. “Bullfrog!” yelled a burly, red plaid shirt-wearing, bearded lumberjack, coming up to Jeremy’s joint. “Hey kid,” he said, noticing their bobbing heads. Then to Jeremy he said, “If I can tear you away, we need you pronto on Big Eli.” “Be right there.” The lumberjack spun on his toe, not before giving the kid another once over, and then headed back to the back lot. “I got to go help with the Ferris wheel...so ten then.” Jeremy wanted to whisk Kenworth Paxton straight back to his trailer and throw his legs in his sling and have at him for the next week straight. Instead, he brushed the boy’s knuckles, and hollered over to Ronnette, his neighbor with a dart throwing booth, if she’s keep an eye out on his junk. She said sure and wiggled her arched brows. He always used the gate at the back of his booth to get out, but today he spontaneously hopped over the booth’s lip next to Kenworth Paxton, to smell him, to size him up. He put his hands on the kid’s shoulder and gave him a tight, quick squeeze. He didn’t care who saw. He cocked a thumb at the rides. “Gotta go,” he said transfixed, not moving. Kenworth Paxton smiled once more, and Jeremy ripped himself away from the spot, and headed to the back lot with a grin he wouldn’t shake the rest of the day. As he stood at the top of Big Eli replacing the Ferris wheel’s burned out neon light, seventy feet in the air, both feet solidly anchored between two beams, overlooking the small town below, the college off in the distance, the green forest hills beyond, standing atop his entire world, nothing, no one remotely as high as him at that moment, he wondered if the kid was still committed to that damn little chastity cage? And if so, how was he going to get it off him? *** Marlon Reznor swaggered down the sidewalk leading the pack. House, that is, Trent van der Haus and Steve Reynolds, head bent under his hoodies, still texting, walked side by side, but not talking. Tommy Derkheim was the only one chirping away behind them all, asking his teammates what they want to do first at the carnival. He thought the Hammer ride should be their first stop, and then maybe the freak show. He was really just excited they’d invited him along. “Freak show,” Steve Reynolds mumbled under his hoodie. House nodded his large head in agreement. Raznor cut through one group of geeky boys and then another group of girls coming back from the fair, giggling, eating cotton candy, one girl’s hair exactly matching its pink color. Raznor stroked his chin fuzz, looked back at Tommy and the diamond their quartet made slicing down the sidewalk. “House of mirrors first,” he said taking out a joint, to which House and Reynolds nodded and Tommy shrugged happily. They finished the joint as they walked through the fair’s archway, passing Dr. Moreau’s House of Curiosities, i.e., the freak show, just as a woman in a flesh-colored bathing suit adorned with shiny dangling bangles, and draped with an albino boa constrictor, was leaving the small stage in front of the tent and a scaly lizard-man was climbing onto it. The bald barker, a large man with a blue tattooed scalp that had a dome of stars and constellations from his chin to the back of his neck etched on his face and head, was in the middle of his patter. “Some applause for the beautiful Misty Morning and her serpent Houdini, who can get into and out of the tightest of places. The girl your friends and neighbors are talking about, with an act with which they can only whisper. Man oh man, she’s got all the things a girl should have, and she’s gonna shake ‘em loose like a bucket of juice!” Misty shook her ample butt with all her bangles jangling before disappearing behind the tent flap. “And Larry the Lizard Man, who suffers the persecution of unjust inequity a man or lizard could endure.” Larry, in a large pair of trousers with a cutout accommodating his large reptilian tail, sat on a stool and stared at Tommy. His split tongue slithered out as it darted out over a mouth that stretched from wide across his jaw. His black diamond-shaped pupils unnerved Tommy and Tommy tugged at Raznor’s shirt wanting to go. “Looks like Lizard Man like our Otter Boy,” Raznor taunted his small teammate. ‘Otter’ was the name the team called him, a name that followed him from his family, where anytime he was in water he was in bliss, a small otter who flipped and spun off diving boards effortlessly, gracefully, playfully, sometimes recklessly in the chances he’d take on a dive. Third string on the water polo team last year, but who’d won enough first and second places at last year’s diving competitions, that he was wholly embraced by the team. Otter was the man! “C’mon, Raz. He gives me the creeps,” Tommy said, trying to act casual but his reedy voice betrayed real distress beneath his plea. Steve Reynolds held his phone aloft and snapped a photo of him and Tommy with the lizard man in the background. Reynolds scrutinized himself in the pic, decided it was good enough to post, clicked share, saying, “I googled it and these freak show lizard-men mostly suffer from extreme ichthyosis. Probably has some body mods like that split tongue. I think we should do the show, maybe introduce Otter to him.” “No,” Tommy begged, pulling on House’s shirt, the only one who never teased him. House made a face of disdain at Reynolds, and led the way to the House of Mirrors. He pulled out a second joint, lit it up and passed it around as they took a circuitous route through a bunch of trailers to get to a ticket booth. House collected money from each of them, and at the House of Mirrors, handed over the tickets to the fun house attendant. A very stoned Reznor, Reynolds, House, and Tommy filed in. Reznor immediately ditched them, whipping around some glass to get away from the group. As the remaining trio wound through the maze, Reznor snuck up on Tommy and jumped him, making Tommy scream and fall into House. Reynolds broke off and went his own way, House went another, and soon the four of them were exploring confusing corridors of reflections and glass partitions alone, laughing and jumping on each other when they reconnected. Sometimes they found each other with a touch, but more often they thought one of them was at an arm’s distance away only to find themselves bumping into glass. At the center was a black room of warped mirrors that made the foursome look lean and tall as giants, others that made them look like dwarves with tiny legs. Tommy and the others laughed at their reflections, knocking each other around the black room, pointing in the mirrors, taking overhead picture on their phones, seeing who could make the most warped photo. Raznor got bored and headed out, then House followed, Reynolds took a third path leaving Tommy behind only for a second. An unseen hand swiveled a pane of glass, cutting Tommy off from his friends. He followed this new path into the back of the ride and watched his teammates in the distance, cutoff first by two rows of glass, then three, then he didn’t see them anymore. He met his reflection, then his reflection’s reflection, then himself reflected until he was surrounded by an army of Tommys, saw himself in every direction and saw nothing but himself. “Guys!” he said loudly as he stumbled through the glass and mirrors. “Guys!” he shouted. He heard the other boy’s laughter dying away, replaced by music from the carousel. There was mist at his feet. Gas climbed slowly up the glass. He coughed and started to feel dizzy and a little faint. He ran through the maze quicker, looking for a way out, looking for some shred of the outside world, but all he saw was more glass, more dead ends, more of himself. He stretched out his hand which pressed against his reflection. His knees buckled under him and he fell. His head pressed against the glass. His cheek ran down a sheet of glass, squeaked the pitch of straining flesh against a slick surface. The oils of his face left a trail of grease as he slid lower, legs tucking lazily under him, head going forward until it hit the House of Mirrors’ floor. Then he fell into a woozy blackness. Barely conscious, he heard the faint music of the carousel, felt hands picked him up, carried him off. A false back wall creaked open, and he disappeared from sight. Hands undressed him as he hung like a limp dolls, placing him in a suit that was much too tight. Someone or something touched his exposed butthole. His butt filled with something cold and wet. Whatever it was soon enveloped him in a warm blanket, made him feel dreamy floating in a dark semi-consciousness, made him acutely aware of his body and of the hard metal cage that locked away his maleness. Tommy came out of a haze feeling exposed, exceedingly relaxed and even more horney. Part of his brain said he should panic, but overall he felt himself drifting somewhere between wakefulness and dozing in twilight. He rested on a padded red leather tabletop, his ass riding slightly higher than his shoulders as he laid crumped on his left arm. Around the red table was a gold rail. To the rail, his wrists and ankles were secured. His skin felt strange, alien, oddly furry. It felt like most of his body was in a tight fitting diving suit. Looking at his arms and back at his legs he saw this suit had a light fur glued to the suit’s skin. His chest, abdomen, and genitals were all him, however, and they rubbed sensually against the red leather. His dick and balls though still were captured inside their metal cage. He looked around. The room was octagonal, all eight sides mirrored. Between each mirrored pane stood a panel of fluorescent lights. Presently, the white tubes flickered on making the small enclosure extremely bright to the point of being almost blinding. Seven of the eight mirrored panes had slot removed at head height, and within the gaps, seven sets of eyes watched him studiously, anonymously. The eighth mirror directly in front of him swerved open and the barker from the freak show, the one with the blue tattooed head of stars, came in and, with a black gloved hand, closed the mirror behind him. The barker addressed the anonymous onlookers behind the mirrors. “Behold, our newest creature, captured for your investigation into nature’s oddities, gentleman. A boy of quality, to be sure. Note his blond fur, the extra vertebrae at his tailbone sporting his diminutive tail. Don’t let his blond coat of young fur mislead you, for he is a special marvel, a naturally born hairy Otter Boy, a small but wild animal which is why we must constrain him to this table. He is the Otter Boy for which you’ve paid to scrutinize. And study every part of him you shall.” It was then that Tommy saw the purpose of the suit he was in. He saw himself in the mirrors in a fur suit that made him look like the water creature, his nickname cruelly turned on himself, the Otter Boy the barker assured the audience he actually was. He tugged at his bindings and found he was not completely immobile but tightly constricted in how much he could move. He tried to speak but found his mouth had a small mask over it, which, when he looked in one of the mirrors, saw they had given him an otter-like muzzle. He blinked at his reflection and recognized the absurdity, the phoniness of the ruse, and how little it seemed to matter. He would have panicked but for the underlying calm his body felt and the stroking the barker was applying to his butt and caged genitals. “Note, too, gentlemen,” continued the barker, “how his sex has been cruelly bound. This must be, because in captivity, kept in his cage, being a young male, all he would do when first captured was to play naughtily with himself day and night. But tonight, for his pleasure and yours, we will unbind the young animal and let him play as I know he will for whomever comes forward with a slight extra token of coin and a deep-seated need to satisfy his curiosity.” A lubed forefinger, cracked and callused, entered his hole causing Tommy to wince. It withdrew and he felt the barker fiddling with the chastity cage’s lock. With a click his cock and balls hung loose. Immediately they were lubed, and were drawn down, massaged, blood squeezed into them making them flush, then beginning, through constant stimulation, to harden. What should have been acute humiliation, so publically on display, was instead erotic, in fact, intoxicating. Tommy couldn’t explain it even to himself. He was a virgin, no male or female had been drawn to him, or he to another. He was cute, undeniably, but shy, reluctant to show any attachment when it came to anyone outside his family. Now after one year spent with his teammates, he was finally opening up to them, though not about his sexuality. This act, this pulling on his hardening phallus, was the first time he’d ever had anyone put a finger or fist on his genitals. He wanted the callused finger inside him again. He didn’t have to wait long. “You will see, gentlemen, our initially reluctant creature is eager to participate. The Otter Boy is a playful pup. Note how quickly he is engorged.” Indeed, Tommy was hard as steel with only a few seconds of stimulation, could easily shoot his wad were the barker not easing up masturbating him. “You will witness for the first time the Otter Boy submitting to penetration.” The barker held up a bulbous glass nob that sparkled in the lights. He poured a thick gelatinous liquid over the rod and some over Tommy’s upturned hole. The viscous liquid was cold and made his hole tweeze shut, only to be stroked by the bulbous rod rubbing up and down his crack. He couldn’t help himself and pushed his butt to receive the rod, and the barker obliged, allowing only a small portion of the instrument to glide smoothly in his hole. It gave him satisfaction beyond his imagination. The glass bulb spread him open to the possibility of something foreign taking over his body, forcing him to open up whether he was willing or not. The barker steadied Tommy’s torso, placing his warm callused palm on the small of his back, and pushed the grass rod in a few more inches. There was something at work in his body that was pushing him to be lewd, to want the whole of the object to be inside him. The barker pulled the object out, showed it to the audience of eyes, demonstrating the length that would soon travel inside the boy. It was not going to be a short journey either. Tommy felt the instrument smoothly spreading open his hole, stretching his tender ass lips, lips that had never had anything touch them in this manner. There was something, however, this time different in the slickness, like a fine sand had been added to the lubricant, something rough and burning just a bit. He looked back and saw the barker surreptitiously sprinkle a white powder on the glass rod. The deeper it went the more it burned. He squeezed his hole to try to block any further penetration but he was in no position to resist, and the bulb stretched his hole open to its widest spot, the skin of his rectum spread so wide the powder came in contact with his whole rectum and made his entire insides light on fire, and like that, snap!, the bulb was in. He had an entire new feeling about the invader. He loved it! He squeezed it to make it go in deeper. He flexed his butt muscles to provoke it to penetrate him as much as possible. The barker took note, raising a hand above the boy’s gyrating bottom, illustrating the transformation from human to unthinking animal. The circle of eyes started bouncing within the slots, eyes squinted, pupils became pinpricks of pleasure within their private booths. The barker returned to stroking the boy’s erection causing Tommy to further pleasure himself, writhing, rutting his pelvis, grinding it into the barker’s fist. “And now,” the barker announced with both of his hands in the air, the white lights turning to green and blue, “the moment you’ve been waiting for, the reason you’ve paid your admission to witness the taboo scene of carnal pleasure, what you were promised and will not see anywhere else, see here with your own two eyes. I give you the forbidden lust between the Lizard Man and the Otter Boy!” In the aquatic light the mirror in front of Tommy swiveled open and the Lizard Man entered with a long scaly erection, split down the middle into two penises. The barker withdrew the glass rod and stepped back into the shadows, while the Lizard Man, his tail dragging along behind him, circled Tommy. Tommy’s eyes were wide and frightened. He knew this was just a man, but the disguise and the drug that was emanating inside his hole, was playing with his mind. He thought the man had contacts to make his pupils into vertical slits but they looked real enough, especially as they expanded and contracted as he came closer to him. The man’s tongue definitely was split as was his dick, and he made the most out of his tongue slithering it in and out of his extremely wide mouth. The man’s thin lips were chapped which only made him appear to have scales entirely over his face right down to the insides of mouth. That serpent tongue entered his ear and made a gushing sound that drowned out his own panicking cries. “Relax,” whispered Larry, the Lizard Man, “It’s just a show for the rubes.” The Lizard Man walked around Tommy’s face, jiggling his spit cocks, going to his other ear, whispering, “It’s a suit just like yours. Act like you’re scared.” Tommy didn’t need to act, he was out-of-his-mind frightened and abhorred at the repulsive creature. The Lizard Man disappeared, but soon he felt a tongue flutter at his butthole. Then the tongue entered him and as revolted as he was knowing the man was eating his hole, his body reacted to the pleasure that he felt. Without wanting to, he nonetheless pushed out his spongy lips so the lizard tongue could go in deep. And deep it did, fluttering and weaving, a rapid in-out, over and over, following the maze that was his colon. How deep could that tongue go? He turned his head but only saw the hideous reptilian snout of the man pressed up to his butt, but he could feel him traveling obscenely fast and unbelievably deep into his yawning cavern. Nothing had prepared him for this kind of invasion that was at once a violation of his body but also as gratifying as itching a scratched non-stop. He shuddered on his hands and knees, wanting the Lizard Man to end this exquisite torture, but feared if it ended, what would happen next. And it did stop, and this happened next: Tommy felt two small hard penises pushing at his hole. The barker spoke softly, while the Lizard Man worked his dicks into Tommy. “As any biologist will tell you, male mammals have only one phallus, which they theorize is due to the fact that embryonically it comes as an extension of the tail or in humans from the tailbone.” With a pop, the Lizard Man’s cocks slithered into his hole, the man’s claws on either side of his butt cheeks pulling Tommy back further onto them. “These same biologists will tell you reptiles, lizards and snakes alike are born with two penises that emanate not from a tail but vestiges of legs. Imagine, gentlemen, double your pleasure, double your fun. Observe the pleasure in the Otter Boy’s face.” Tommy couldn’t believe how much the two dicks were hurting him. One would have been intense enough, but both, were it not for the mask-muzzle over his mouth, he would be screaming for the Lizard Man to stop. The man kept pulling him back deeper on them and he tried to get away, but this tug-of-war only caused the man’s erections to swell harder, putting more pressure on stretching Tommy’s hole wider. And then there was the underlying, but growing, sense of pleasure Tommy was deriving from the penetration. Mix that with the white powder the barker had slid into him, mix that with the humiliation of being ravaged in front of an anonymous public—it made Tommy shake his head in a crazed way that made the onlookers think he was madly enjoying being fucked by this scaly monster. The creature picked up its pace and Tommy instinctively impaled himself harder as he lost himself to the lust of the moment. He flung his ass back wildly trying to take even more of the Lizard Man’s dicks. The split dicks, the hard they got, the more they separated away from each other, the wider Tommy’s hole got spread. He heard a loud hissing behind him and a tongue that was whipping against his neck, then his hole got sprayed with jism that ran down his balls, dripped over his legs, and spontaneously, without touching himself, he came on the table, white spew pooling on the red leather. Larry pulled out, patted Tommy on the head and before exiting the chamber hissed in his ear, “Good show, mate.” “Now, gentlemen, who among you will come forward with an extra coin and a deep-seated need to satisfy his curiosity—who will be next?” One by one, out stepped a local store owner, the town librarian, a bespectacled college professor, a slick-hair barber, a old pharmacist, a greasy auto mechanic, and finally Coach Brandon, all taking turns coming out of their booth and pleasuring themselves inside the Otter Boy, while the Otter Boy pulled on his liberated dick and satisfied himself, time after time, man after man, with his furry paws.

The Glastonbury Swim Team 1. Drake’s Wet I was accepted on a swimming scholarship to a small, picturesque New England college. Any story that begins: I was accepted on a swimming scholarship to a small, picturesque New England college, you just know at some point is going to turn into some Stephen King, fifty shades of crazy, tale of terror. Well, this one’s no exception, just not in a Stephen King sort of way. Banana pajama pants crazy, yes, but not a horror story, well, whore story, yeah, that’d be about right. I’m Kyle Dupree. Hi. How are you? My stats, to start, because that’s what I had to fill out on my college application: nineteen (I was held back one year before they diagnosed me with ADHD because it’s hard for me to pay attention for any long stretches of time, but I’m not dumb, quite the opposite), five ten, one forty-five. “Beanpole,” Jacob calls me. Jacob’s one of the quicker wits in our trailer park. He’s dating my mom and he’s nice enough to her, so there’s that. Hair: brown, short, spikey. Eyes: yes, I have them. Okay, my mom says they’re the color of freshly cooked maple. What she means is that they’re amber brown with little specks of gold in the right light. Nationality: you want them all? Alright, application sez: Native American, Belgian, Polish, German, Dutch, English and French Canadian. In other words a garden variety New England mutt. I put them in that order since I thought I’d have a better chance at getting a scholarship. I was right. If you want to know the truth, though, I should’ve put them in the exact reverse order, because I’m mostly French Canadian, eh, but if it’s good enough for Elizabeth Warren (the Abenaki people in my case—and I am damn proud of that, one sixteenth proud) it’s good enough for me. For those of you taking notes for a guaranteed A+ History paper (and you should), the indigenous Abenaki people covered a huge swath of Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine and have been here for like twelve thousand years. The one tattoo I have is a dream catcher, that was before everyone and their lesbian sister got one. But mine was one of the first. I got it from Dash, who’s this old biker dude who lives in the second trailer from the park entrance, three down from our double-wide, at his kitchen table. I bartered for it, smoked some clouds with him, then let him diddle me on his couch before he picked up his tattoo gun and went at my ribcage in his kitchen. He’d been giving me blow jobs since I can’t remember, but this once I let him finger my hole while he sucked my dick, which the way he did it felt weird—like in, out, in, out, real fast—but still kinda felt good, but I’d rather it wasn’t Dash, but I let him do me anyway like that till I spurted in his craggily-face mouth of his. Other stats that weren’t on my application—because if you’re any kind of perv like me you’d want to know: seven and a half inches, uncut, smooth but with dark hairy legs, swimmer’s build (obviously) and short black pubes that I clip, dark wispy pits, and a little bit of dark peach fuzz on my tailbone that eases down the road between two perfectly shaped round, white boulders. See, I knew you’d want to know. So anyway, like I was saying, Dash got up to his second knuckle of his middle finger in my butthole. I acted like that was crazy deep, but I’d taken big cucumbers way deeper than that since dinosaurs roamed, I just didn’t tell him. Or anyone else, like when mom, Jacob and I were eating our dinner salad with a freshly sliced aforementioned cucumber. Washed, of course. My mom’s a nurse at the county hospital so there were a lot of anatomy books around the house when I was growing up, and I was a curious kid. I was fascinated by the human body, mine and others. Most of the kids in Cozy Meadows, our little trailer park in the sticks, weren’t allowed to play with me after a certain age because I not only played doctor with them, I played specialist: urologist, gynecologist, proctologist, you name it, I became an expert in the field. I didn’t really care that I was shunned in Cozy Meadows. I’d seen what I wanted to see, felt what I wanted to touch. I moved on. Cozy Meadows was close to this lake and for most of the year I’d swim endlessly, taking Waldo, our family’s chocolate lab, with me. He and I would swim across the lake to the side where all these older men used to hang out, sunning naked on a pebbly beach. Waldo was both a good way to break the ice with these old guys—never was any younger guys my age—and at the same time, if I didn’t want to talk to one of them, Waldo kinda sense it and would give a low grumble, and they’d high tailed it. So anyway, I got to know a fair number of these men, and them me. I was technically a virgin when I left home, technically—I liked getting my dick sucked and I didn’t mind returning the favor, but I didn’t like anyone touching my butthole. That was my domain. Dash was probably the only human that had gotten finger deep. Cucumbers and zucchinis fared much better. The school where I got my swimming scholarship was about two hours away from us. Jacob, who lived at the end of the cul-de-sac but was always at our house, drove me in his old rusty red Ford pickup, Waldo in the back with my one suitcase, and my mom scrunched between me and the gear shift. It’s a hot day as we drive down out of the mountains to the flatlands; the temperature rises another ten degrees by the time we hit the college town. Mom’s trying not to cry. Close to the school we pass a circus setting up in a grocery store parking lot. “Look, honey,” she says to me, “a carnival,” but she loses it when we pass through the school gates, and her misty-eyes turn to real silent tears. I get out of the truck in front of my dorm and grab my suitcase. Waldo tries to get out of the truck but I push him back behind the tailgate. He just looks at me and doesn’t know why he can’t go with me. I give him a big hug, my mom, too, and shake Jacob’s hand but, at the last minute, he pulls me in and gives me a big ol’ Jacob bear hug. And then they drive off, exhaust spewing black smoke out the tailpipe, Waldo shouting out barks from the back of the rusty Ford. My forehead’s sweating from the late summer day, and I look up at Hannaford Hall, this six-story, ugly beige cinderblock monstrosity, and spot the top floor where I’ll be living for the next school year. I almost didn’t get in at the start of the school year because I’m a fuckup when it comes to paperwork and deadlines, and rules in general. I was supposed to get some meningitis shot but I forgot, but my mom pulled strings at work and got me a shot the week school started. I got the form filled but I missed all that first days orientation shit. ‘Plunge into the deep end and see if you come up’ has always been my way. I was already in trouble with the coach because the swim team warmups started a week before school did. Anyway, I’m used to being a fuck up and feel like I’m always in trouble anyway, so what the fuck. They weren’t going to take away the scholarship from me. The only sticking point was that I had to try out for a slot on the water polo team. Swim season was in the spring, water polo in the fall. I didn’t know from fuck what water polo was. Sound ritzy, Jacob said at dinner while I was looking over my financial papers, doubt it’s a game for folks like us. Anyway, across the street there’s a nicer dorm. Hannaford Hall looks like some backwoods bunker hospital but Avery Beckwith Hall looks like something that exploded out of an architect’s brain. All angles of metal and glass, overhanging study rooms, electric sliding glass doors. Everyone there, I read in the school’s brochure, lives in five bedroom suites, but it was for the richer kids. Lot of them had their own room. Then there were the townhouses down the road at the school’s gates, but they were for upper classmen. Some of them housed twenty-one year-olds so they could legally have alcohol, but what did I care, I had a jar of gen-u-ine Micky-G’s moonshine in an old glass jar that Micky-G had given me himself as a going-away-to-college present; and some mighty pure crystal from Dash, the biker-tattoo artist, my finger-pumping mentor; and homegrown weed from Jasper, who was Jacob’s younger brother that lived in the backwoods in an honest-to-god teepee and farmed the best pot around, well, good for Vermont I guess. His farm was patrolled by these fuckin’ huge-ass geese who were nasty motherfuckers if they didn’t know you. Even if they did know you, you always had to keep your eye on where they were. Both Waldo and I more than once had them sneak up on us. Getting goosed by a goose is not my idea of fun. Anyway, he gave me a nice supply of his best buds. And then while I was packing, Jacob slipped me a carton of reds, which was very cool of him, ‘cause I know he’d catch grief if my mom found out. I told you she was a nurse. And me on a swimming scholarship. But that’s Cozy Meadows in a nutshell. We don’t think too much about the future. We concentrate on the pleasures of the now. So I walk in the entrance, push aside these heavy-ass metal glass doors, and inside it’s really air-conditioned cool. There’s this guy with a name tag that says Raf, a good-looking dark-skinned guy, who checks out my paperwork, sees I’m on a swim scholarship like him. He gives me a swipe card for the door, a crooked smile, and tells me I’m on the top floor with a guy name Drake Chadwick. We get to talking and I find out Raf’s the goalkeeper on the water polo team and a R.A., which means resident assistant, meaning free board and room. He’s like a concierge, he says. I tell him I have no fuckin’ clue to what that is. He says if I want something just ask. Cool. He’s a junior, polysci major. I tell him I’m a freshman, majoring in English I think. He says most of the swim team are sophomores, and live across at Avery Beckwith Hall. A couple juniors and seniors live together in one of the townhouses. He says he’ll introduce me to some of the team at dinner. Raf has a funny way of talking, like English is his second language or something. Well, it’s time for me to go up and meet ol’ Drake Chadwick. Raf and I shake hands, and I go up in the elevator. But I got to tell you, I get kinda nervous in elevators. I’m not used to them, see. You’re in this tiny cage and that kind of freaks me out. So my hearts beating, and six dings later I’m on my floor. The hallway’s hot and stuffy. I’m holding my swipe card in my sweaty palm walking down the hall looking for 6G. It’s at the end of the hall and I put in my card and it clicks and I push open the door, and there’s Mr. Drake Chadwick on his bed, holding a Maxim in one hand and jacking his big banana cock in the other. Just as I come in he’s spitting a huge load of dick juice all over his magazine and himself. He tries to stifle a fuck! then flails around with his jeans down around his ankles trying to get them up, struggling to not look like a spaz, but I’m sorry, it’s funny, and I start laughing hysterically. He has this totally embarrassed, humiliated look on his face, sees it’s hopeless to remedy the situation, and rolls over to his side hiding his face against the cinderblock wall and kinda starts groaning, pained, but chuckling. I close the door so no one else sees this, and I stand there admiring his perfect, white bubble butt that’s on its side jiggling in an embarrassed snigger. A nice light brown fuzz of butt hair outlines these two muscly white, perfect cannonballs. He can’t look over at me yet. He’s just staying there, tucked to the wall. He reaches up and takes his pillow and pulls it over his head. I find that I am suddenly in love with good ol’ Drake Chadwick. I want to go over and either kiss that big round ass of his or smack it. Maybe I’ll do both. All I know is I want it, wanna stick my tongue in letting it butterfly between his fuzzy crack, but I feel introductions are necessary first. “I’m Kyle,” I tell him, “and you must be Drake. My friend Jacob says you never get a second chance to make a first impression. And I gotta say, dude,” I tell him while I’m setting my suitcase on the empty bed, “you have made one hell of a first impression. Can’t think how to top it.” He finally flips over giving me another sight of his big wanger and low hangers, struggling to get his underwear over his still hard cock and Donkey Kong balls, carefully zipping up his fly so he doesn’t catch himself. Man, the bulge is still showing through his khaki shorts, I see. That eggplant ain’t going nowhere anytime soon. He sits up in bed, pulls down his black Mario Brothers t-shirt over his chest, which was pulled up while he was whacking. Sitting on the bed’s edge, I realize what a beefcake ol’ Drake Chadwick is. He’s this very pretty, very big boy, six foot something hunched on his bed, big feet wiggling in flip-flops, innocent looking face, wide lips breaking into a shy smile, a mop of golden brown hair, with large fluffy brows arching up asking for forgiveness or at least understanding. Come to the wrong place, bub. He’s got this cuddly teddy bear face that should have little black buttons for eyes but instead are dark chocolate brown, and cheeks that are all ruddy red like he’s been crying or just ran a marathon. I go over to extend my hand and he extends his. He doesn’t see it yet, but there’s a jiggling pool of cum slopped on the crook between his thumb and forefinger. I grab his fist and tightly embrace it. I bring that crook up to my mouth, angling it so he sees his wad’s just about to drip off the side. I stick out my tongue, let the spooge fall in, and audibly slurp it up. Two can play at first impressions. *** Drake tells me on the way to the cafeteria that he’s a second year. He worked all summer but didn’t have the bucks to afford Avery Beckwith with the other guys. Besides, he says, he’s found of cinderblock. I meet most of team already sitting around the table in the cafeteria as Drake and I bring our food trays over. Raf’s there eating a heaping of vegetables and rice, while everyone else is either scarfing down Sloppy Joes or cheeseburgers. Drake makes introductions around the table as we settle in: Kenworth Paxton (head nod), Marlon Reznor (head nod), Tommy Durkheim—“hi,” he squeaks—Trent van der Haus—“just House,” House says, reaching over the table to shake—and Steve Reynold. Steve Reynolds looks up from his phone for a nanosecond and then goes back down. I say, hey, to the table. I’ve already forgotten their names. “So, Dupree, you-you-you trying out for water polo to-to-to-tomorrow?” Paxton stutters horribly next to me. He’s blondish, my size, wide shoulders, prominent chin, and has three deep nasty looking scars on his left cheek. He blinks his eyes forcefully to get out a whole sentence. “Yeah,” I tell him. “Don’t know if water polo is my game, but I’m a fast swimmer.” Then this Marlon Reznor guy, who has a scruffy little chin beard, says with a heavy southern drawl that’s so thick it’s almost comical, “What’s y’alls event?” Reznor’s a little shorter than me, bulkier, and like Paxton, has sandy blond hair. In fact, everyone at the table except for Raf and Drake is somewhere on the blond spectrum. Aside from Raf, I’m by far the darkest at the table, then Drake, and then you could easily confuse Paxton, Reznor, Durkheim, House, and Reynolds as all being the same guy: all blondish hair, broad shoulders, high cheekbones, straight pearly teeth, tan, and privileged. Raf hasn’t said a word. He just sits quietly eating his veggies, studying all the blonds, quizzically. Looks at me that way, too. I can’t tell if he’s like Middle Eastern or Black; could be both. He’s got extremely buzzed black hair, big brown eyes, a broad nose with flaring nostrils, and thick dark lips that occasionally flash an absurdist’s smile when he thinks no one is looking. He’s around the same size as everyone around the table but has huge hands, whose fingers reach out and twirl the straw in his ice tea. “Dunno what my event is. Coach’ll have to tell me.” I chow down on my first burger. “No pool where I come from. School was a one room deal and that was it,” I say chewing at Reznor. He and Paxton look at me kinda pitifully, which pisses me off, but I just grin, gnawing some curly fries on my molars. “Hey, it was great. I had the same teacher, Mrs. Duckworth, from kindergarten to twelfth grade.” My teacher’s name makes the guys laugh, but it doesn’t faze me. “There was a lake I swam in, but we also had this quarry where this stoner guy, Jasper, taught me diving from off the cliffs.” I gobble down a few more curly fries. “First time I tried out for anything was here at this college. My mom’s boyfriend pushed me and I said why not. Coach said I was a natural but needed a lot of training. But what do I know?” I say and finish my first of three burger. I see Steve Reynolds, who’s in shorts and wearing a Glastonbury College sweatshirt, its hoodie pulled over his head, text something in his phone, and then a second later Reznor’s reading something on his. Reznor types something back. They both exchange a sly grin. Jerks. Suddenly there’s two large hand clasping my shoulders, giving them a tight squeeze. “How you men getting along?” Speaking of coach, Coach Brandon had snuck up behind me, the one who said I was a natural, and was kneading my taut shoulders muscles, quizzing the table. “These knuckleheads giving you a hard time?’ They all snicker. “Nah,” I say back over my shoulder, picking up a couple of fries and scarfing them down. “Just the usual poking and seeing what’s under my skirt.” I gotta tell you, I’m trying to act as casual as I can, but coach rubbing my shoulders like this is giving my pecker a little stir, especially when I look up in his face. He looks around forty, has on a tight fitting blue sweater, hugging these enormous pecs and massive shoulders. The sweater’s color sets off his fluorescent blue eyes. He’s bigger and fitter than any of these bozos, still has a slim waist, salt and pepper hair, big blue eyes—I guess I said that—he could like be the dad of any of these guys. Well, I guess not Raf. Well, on second thought, seeing as how they both share this same lopsided smile, maybe they could be related. Raf brightens when he sees coach. “Kyle was schooled in a one-room schoolhouse, just like I was," Raf informs coach. I look at Raf surprised. “Yeah?” I say. “Where?” “Botswana.” I’m taken aback. I’ve never met anyone from another country, and I have no idea where Botswana is. “A little game reserve on the Kalahari Desert,” he says. “An area called Deception Valley.” “Deception Valley, eh? No shit? I love it,” I say sipping my diet coke. Coach is still hanging onto my shoulders. If he doesn’t stop massaging me soon I’m not responsible for the stiffy percolating in my jeans. “Hey, Rafiki,” Reznor says, “y’all went to a little red schoolhouse like Dupree?” The others giggle. I interject, “Well, mine was actually a little brown schoolhouse.” “Mine was a brown grass hut,” Raf retorts. We exchange conspirator’s smiles. “A game reserve. For real, Raf?” Drake says. “I knew about Botswana, but I didn’t know about the game reserve.” “Yes. I grew up with families of giraffes, and cheetahs, prides of lions,” says Raf. He looks pointedly at Reznor. “Jackals.” The guys all laugh. Reznor puts on a sarcastic sneer. “Hyenas, too, I bet.” He looks at the guys who were laughing and are now back chewing their burgers. “Play nice, men,” Coach Brandon scolds. “Listen: I want you to hit the sack early tonight. Seven a.m. tryouts tomorrow and I want you all locked and loaded when you arrive. Got it?” He looks around the table meaningfully. “Locked and loaded.” All the guys look down guilty-like for no reason I can make out. They all nod sheepishly. I glance up at coach who gives me a wink, and he’s off. Swear to God, he packs a lot in one wink. I sip to the bottom of my soda until it makes a loud empty gurgle. I ask the guys, “So what’s he mean by ‘locked and loaded’?” There’s a long pause, until Tommy Durkheim, the youngest of the group, peeps, “We all have to wear these…” “If you make the cut,” interrupts Trent van der Haus, taunting in his rich baritone, “you’ll find out soon enough. But you got to make the cut first, Dupree.” He’s the blondest on the table’s spectrum. His green eyes sparkle like a cat’s. The guys all look at each other covertly. “O-kay,” I say nonplussed, curious but not willing to show it. I look to Drake and Raj for their input, but they’ve clammed up too. “I’m getting another diet soda. Anyone else want a refill.” There’s a cloud over the table now. “O-kay then, just one diet coke.” I get up. Tommy breaks the silence. “Diet cokes makes you gay,” he says looking up quickly at me, then back down at the table. I guess I’m looking at him quizzically, because he adds quickly, “That’s what Reznor says.” Renzor rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say diet coke makes you gay, dick-wipe. I said it makes y’all look gay.” “Hmm,” I say considering the statement while I scan the table nodding my head. Tommy’s studying something interesting in the catsup on his plate. Renzor looking at me challengingly. Paxton and van der Haus are looking at me expectantly. Steve Reynolds head’s down under his hoodie, texting away. Raf’s sitting back stirring his tea with his straw. Drake is caught mid-chew, and has one eyebrow raised at me. “’Funny,” I finally say, “‘cause I was gay a long time before I drank my first diet coke.” Steve Reynolds stops texting and looks up. I leave the silent table behind for the soda machine. When I get back everyone’s gone. I’m not too surprised. I slurp on my soda playing with a second plate of fries. I scan the almost-empty cafeteria. There’s some overweight girls with multi-colored hair in one of the booths, each one quietly texting on their phones. A few tables away, two nerdy guys in matching black-rimmed glasses stare and occasionally type into their laptops. The older lady cafeteria workers in hairnets and white smocks are clearing salt and pepper shakers, refilling napkin dispensers, and wiping down tables. Some of the lights around the serving trays are being switched off. It’s quiet except for the steely stream of cold air coming out of the AC vents, and an occasional “oh my god” coming from the booth of multi-colored hair girls. I take out my flip phone, the one my mom gave me today as a present. I bring up the only number I have stored besides hers and Jacob’s. u there? I type. I get back, yes. I think about Jasper, the goose guy. I think about his weed in my suitcase. 420? I type. There’s a pause, then yes pops on the screen along with a smiley face. I’m a little sad, this being my first night not living at home anymore. Knowing Waldo won’t be sleeping on my bed. A little scared, too, if you want to know the goddamn truth. But the biggest thing, more than anything else I’m feeling? I’m very, very horney. I type in: can i suck ur dick? There’s a really long pause. I’m waiting, finishing my drink. One of the nerds at the other table closes his laptop and reaches across the table for the other nerd’s hand. They clasp hands as an old red-headed cafeteria lady reaches over them and grabs their napkin dispenser. Finally Drake Chadwick, the third number in my contact list, texts me back: f i cn suck u2. *** Micky-G’s moonshine in a canning jar sits between me and Drake out on the lawn behind the library half finished. When I got back up to the dorm it was way too hot to stay in the un-air-conditioned room. The fan did nothing but blow around hot humid air. Avery Beckwith Hall has AC, as do the townhouses, but not good ol’ Hanniford Hall. So I take my reefer, my pipe, Mickey-G’s canning jar, and my roommate, and we traipse down behind the library. It’s dark and the entire night sky is spread out above us. It’s cloudless and there’s no moon, so we have billions of blinking lights outlining our dark shapes. I warn Drake that you don’t need much of Micky-G’s to get a buzz going. And you’ll definitely hurl if you drink too much. And here, take a hit of Jasper’s herb. You get a good balance between the two of them. I don’t think Drake is that familiar with either weed or hooch ‘cause he’s only taking small hits, imbibing on both minimally, and looks, in the dim light, pretty unstable. Me, too, but it’s not my first rodeo, muchacho—hooch, herb, or hombre. Drake falls back taking in the sky and pointing at small shooting stars along the horizon, wordless. I see them too, but it’s him I’m admiring. The enhancements help, but right now, looking at his silhouette, his long nose, the rise and fall of his chest, his sharp chin jutting into the shadowy outline of the Juniper bush, he’s the enhancement I want. I’m horney and happy and nicely roasted. I lean over and kiss him. He’s startled but not unwilling. He’s melting into the grass with me leaning over his face. I sense he’s never had another man kiss him before and, curiously, he draws his finger over the stubble of my nine o’clock shadow. For such a big hunk, his face is soft, smooth, his lips downy. I pass my tongue through his lips and he’s awash in a dreamy, smoldering passion. He’s warm and responsive to everything I’m doing to him. I reach up under his black t-shirt and feel his strong, smooth chest, his racing heart, stroke through the damp hair under his pits. I smell him. He’s between the musk of a freshly run mile and freshly laundered clothes. He’s the good son still, I can tell, but with every kiss, parts of his younger, innocent self wash away. I undo his shorts and slide them down to his knees, then pull down his checkered boxers. He tells me the grass is cold. Only for a minute, I say, and go down on his very hard cock. I can tell I could get him off in a few seconds if I really went at him, but I want it to last and just trace my tongue along his shaft, licking, outlining, every now and then wrapping my lips around his knob, pulling down his foreskin, swirling over his head, tasting bits of smegma buried deep in the bottom of his ridges. I have a white flake on my tongue and kiss him with it. If he wasn’t high he might have been revolted, but like me, in our ardor, it’s something that turns us both on. He’s into it and is clamoring to get into my jeans. I let him. All he has to do is unsnap a few buttons and he’s in. I’m good and stoned, and, yeah, the grass is cold, dewy, and the individual blades of grass astonish my tickled crack, but not more than the feeling of Drake’s hand running over my erection. This boy is good and goes straight in for the killshot, almost making me cum the first time he goes full-Nelson on my pecker. He peels the skin down my shaft, exposing my head. I have a lot more foreskin than he does, and he’s much cleaner than I. I’m trash and I know it and I revel in it. But I’ve a mom that’s a nurse and she’s reined me in. Mostly. His first taste of dick cheese, if I’d had my way, would have packed a lot more punch, but since he’s this great big one-eighty pound virgin, I guess he’s better off with just a hint of rankness. Anyway, we slip into a sixty-nine and he’s dripping and oozing like he needs a plumber and I’m there to lap it up. I’m sure I’m leaking too. He just taste so fucking good, the hooch and the pot say so anyway. I can’t get enough of his big bent dick and he’s acting on the same impulses. First he climbs over me, his giant rod angling over my face. My neck’s pulled back to look up at it, in a perfect position to thrust it deep down my throat. Between his legs, his furry balls dangling, I see the heavens and shooting stars as he slides his shaft into my mouth. Over time I’ve gotten good at deep throating. Practice from cucumbers, bananas, and countless men at the lake. He’s a challenge being so big, but with big challenges come even bigger pleasures. That big cock slides down my throat and ends with his dark pubes stuck up against my nostrils. He smells and tastes of soap, but the longer I spend nursing his huge cock, it starts to meld into that special scent and taste of a man. His acrid crack slowly pushes and grinds its way towards me. I don’t think he knows he’s doing it but his ass crack is coming into shadowy view. His dick pops out of my throat and before he or I even realize it, my tongue is buried between his two smooth white cheeks. I reach my hands up and feel the flexing of his muscled ass. I squeeze them and sense the conflict between what he wants and what he’s afraid to ask for. I pull his cheeks apart and settle that conflict with my tongue, riding deep into the valley to find his hole. He lets out an audible gasp as my mouth covers the entrance to the Drake I want to get to know. I dart my tongue inside and he lets out a fuck into the night air, in the dark, behind the library. We’re shadows writhing in shadows, him riding my face. There’s only the slightest of movements, we’re dark statues frozen on the lawn, the only unseen movement is my tongue tracing a spiral inside his ass, then jabbing into his hole. He emits a quiet moan of gratitude. His hole’s loosening. I feel his sphincter pushing out, wanting me to penetrate him deeper. I happily comply while I reach up his shirt, play with his pin-point nipples. He starts grinding his ass over my face, getting the scruff of my cheeks to burn against his rutting ass. There is no resistance in him, he wants me to go deeper. I wiggle a finger next to my mouth and let the saliva provide the necessary lubrication for my digit to slide in. Into the warm night air, in the shadow of the library lawn, he emits another amazed fuck, and pushes down on my finger so I penetrate him deeper, now up to my second knuckle. He’s still grinding down, but rather than pushing further into to him, I withdrawal a bit and wet my middle finger and let it join the first. Oh fuck, he cries softly, knees on the grass, realizing what it feels like to have two fingers invading him, and before he’s settled comfortably into it, I wet a third and slip it in. “Fuck man,” he says quietly, now aggressively pushing his butt down on my hand. “I’m going to cum,” he pants helplessly as his bucks on my fingers. “Like hell you are,” I say pulling out. “You fucker,” he says, his teeth shining from the light of the library windows. “You fuck,” he says. “Turn on your side.” “Why?” I say, but know where he’s headed. He pulls a small tube of hand cream out of his shorts and dangles it in front of me with a devilish smile. “You thought that far ahead?” I say. “Sneaky, sneaky, honey badger. Was that going to be for me or for you?” “Didn’t know, but I do now. Turn on your side,” he says sure of himself. I toe off my sneakers and slip off my jeans. We’re outside in the shadows, footpaths, flowerbeds, brick staircases, alone, quiet, lit by a billion stars, cloaked by night. I pull off my shirt. His Mario Brothers shirt and khaki shorts come off. His checkered underwear lies over them. We’re naked next to shrubs, dirt, the smell of freshly mowed grass, moist. I roll on top of him. Our hard cocks press into each other’s belly, his dark and my darker pubes intertwine, the dew of the lawn make us slick and slippery. I have one leg between his, and he has one leg between mine. Neither one of us has relinquished who, for the moment, will bottom and who will top. We’re dancing, we’re jockeying for position, we’re enjoying the chase, the pursuit, the open question. Our hands at first clutch tenderly as I bend to kiss him. Then I feel his palms clutching tighter. Then we’re wrestling for control. He’s pushing up as I’m holding him down. He’s bigger but I’m quicker. I flip him and have him pinned so his face is pushed into the grass, but I feel him powering up like a hydraulic lift, slow pushing me back. His face comes out of the grass and he’s wearing a conqueror’s smile. “You can fuck me afterward but I’m going to fuck you this second,” he says, throwing me onto my back, lifting my legs apart. He smears some cream on his dick and sticks his hand under my butt. I feel his fingers run over my hole, then push inside. Like I said, I’m pretty much a virgin with man meat but not unfamiliar with penetration. But there’s a universe of difference between me playing with my hole and someone else doing it. Especially if that someone else is as hot and aggressive as this fucker. He pushes my legs forward and lines up his thick member against my hole, and slowly pushes in. The whites of his eyes shine as does his shimmering wet body. He’s a merman from the sea and he’s diving inside me, burying his thick veined shaft, his foreskin pushing back revealing his velvety knob pushing deeper than even the most daring vegetable has ever gone. How can it hurt and feel so good at the same time? Fuck, yeah, I encourage him. Do it, I whisper in his ear. And he’s in up to his bone. I feel his pubes grinding against my hole, his solid rod spreading the width of my chute apart like its never been spread. I’m trying like mad to get used to his size but he’s frenzied and nineteen and in heat. He doesn’t care about anything but what he wants, and that would be cumming inside me as quickly as he can. I stroke myself and could easily get off this very second. I feel the burn building inside my balls. He’s pounding against them, abusing them with each thrust of his pelvis. Fuck, the thrust and pressure themselves could bust my nut any second I chose to let it, and I’m torn, but Drake decides for me, and holds my legs apart, shudders, breaths strained rushes of air through clenched teeth, and I know he’s cumming inside me deep. I want to cum, too, but I want it to be inside him when I do, so I hold back. It’s an ecstatic moment feeling him rutting inside me, spewing his first load in me, while I wait, watching him return to behind his eyes. His eyes are alive in a new way. Knowing something I don’t yet know. I’m jealous of the fuck. He rolls off me, looking up at the night, smiling. He lies next to me and grabs my hand and brings it up to his mouth, licks it. Doesn’t kiss it, but licks it. That makes me laugh. I comment, “So, we’re batting two for oh, boy-o, aren’t we?” “What’d you mean, boy?” He comes back and leans over my face. He licks my lips. He’s on top of me again, his dick’s still hard. “You gotta cum whenever you can, boy-o.” “Says my wanker roommate,” I say and knock him off me. Both our dicks are hard, standing off our bellies as we lie on our backs squeezing hands. There’s a fireball in the sky, not a small specks of light, but something that lights up our faces. I see his eyes shine. He’s enraptured, blissful. I’m jealous and want his lube. He sees how much lust is in me, scrunches his face uncertain, and grabs for his clothes. “I don’t fucking think so. Turn on your side, boy,” I order. “I don’t know, Dupree,” he says sitting up holding his checkered brief. “I do, Chadwick. Where that tube?” He hands it to me tentatively. “I never…” he begins. “I know. Me neither,” I say back at him. “You'll like it. I'll make sure you do. I’ll go slow. Hell, before, you were ready to have me to fist you.” “What’d’ya mean?” he asks as I lube my cock, shaking my head. I reach between his butt cheeks, those beautiful white boulders I’d first seen this afternoon and have been thinking about ever since. My lubed finger pushes at his hole. Boy is he tight, tighter than when I was fingering him moments ago. He’s purposefully clenching, not wanting me to go any further. “Ow,” he says quietly. “I don’t think I can, Kyle.” “You’re not the only boy scout that comes prepared,” I say rifling through my jean pocket. I pull out my bag of T, lick my un-lubed finger and then a second, and stick them in the bag. I pull out white fingers and rub them on his tight hole. “What is it?” he asks, as it goes inside his chute. He’s lubed enough to take my fingers up to my second knuckle. I rub them all around the wall of his wet rectum. He takes a grimaced inhalation. “It burns, man,” he complains. “Just for a second,” I say. I don’t take my fingers out, but leave them in him. After a few seconds I start wiggling the pair around. Then there’s the first moan I’ve been waiting for. His hole seems to not only be loosening up but wanting more stimulation. Another inhalation through his clenched teeth. My fingers inside are conflicting him. He squeezes. My fingers being squeezed is not of rejection but enticement. He doesn’t yet know it, but he wants more. His brain will catch up to his body, but even before it does I lube a third finger and slip it in, then a fourth. He gasps as he thrusts his hips back to take more of my fingers. I’m more than willing to give it to him. On his side, he pushes up on his elbow while he thrust back his ass and starts rocking gently. I go with his rhythm and let him pump himself on my hand until it’s buried up to the crook of my thumb. “Fuck, man,” he whispers. “Fuck that’s good.” “Yeah?” I ask him. “More?” He answers by pushing harder onto my hand. I lube my thumb and the thickest part of my hand. The thumbnail slides it. He’s pushing on me, hungrily, greedily. My thumb knuckle is buried and still he’s rocking, trying to take in more. He’s hissing on the lawn through clenched teeth, writhing, fingers digging into the turf, wanting something he doesn’t have a name for. “Ah-ahh!” he hollers loudly, and I look around to see if anyone hears us. I then realize he’s swallowed my whole hand. “Wait, wait, wait, wait,” he cries, gulping air like a drowning man, his head drooped over. I can’t believe it either. Neither of us can. But it’s done. I don’t move. I wait. We’re like that for some time, unmoving, sweating into the wet grass. I’m hard as a steel beam. He drops to his side, hissing again through his teeth, the slightest of moans germinated from deep inside his chest. He gently moves his hips. Stops. Tests the water. Pushes back a little. Stops. I let him control what we do, but my dick is getting impatient. It’s jealous of the attention my hand’s been given. I lube my shaft. Stroke it slowly. Try to appease it. But it know what it wants, and where it’s going. I slide up behind Drake, let my knob rest between my wrist and the top of his ass. My cock traces down my wrist finding my palm held open at the entrance of Drake’s body. Drake knows what’s what, and begins a torturous journey against my pelvis. He can’t help himself. He’s drawn to the thought of it like I am. He pushes back as I arch forward, the knob of my cock crawling down my palm into his out-stretched hole. He’s drenched, sweat pours down his back, off his butt, dripping on my arm; his body burning on the lawn. I fear any moment he’ll spontaneously combust, become nothing but ashes. His desire is burning as hot as mine, he’s as determined. I push forward and he pushes back, in small minuscule movements. Then, with a pop and a gasp from both of us, suddenly, like falling through an hourglass, I’m inside his ass, his hot lava ass. He cries out even louder, his fuck is deeper, more lustful, craven. He’s molten inside. His fire surrounds my hand, my groin is a wick ignited. His body makes me insane. My fist and cock move around inside this crushing volcano, my cock clenched tightly inside my fist. No anatomy book prepares you. The body is a body, wet, liquid, flesh, a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, pliable, strong, vulnerable, unimaginable; the mind is only one small occupants of the body. I know what we’ve done, what we’re doing. But it’s not knowing, it’s feeling that composes the body. He feels so fucking good, what I’m doing to him is a violation against his surrender. That makes me even harder. He growling next to me like a mongrel clinging to a bone, my fist, my cock. I lick the sweat off his spine. My free hand reaches across his slick torso, and I grab his steely cock. I fuck him from behind, jacking myself off in him and jacking him at the same time. We’ve found a rhythm we can sustain, not for long but forcefully. I’m breathing through clenched teeth. Wanting to hurt him, wanting to bring him pain and with it, massive, fierce, masculine satisfaction that only males can satisfy in other males. Fuck, he cries with my fist violently ramming up his shithole. We find a plateau of ferocity, a place where I could abuse him indefinitely, and he knows it, I know he knows it, except I’m feeling his dick leak, then spurt, then gush, then his ass squeezes my fist internally. The dominos of orgasm are falling mightily. His seized ass is pulling the cum straight out of me. I have no choice but to shoot, a steady stream of cum liquefies his perfect hole. I quake for a moment at the precipice, appreciate his beauty and his submission, then fall endlessly, rush after rush of pleasure, filling him with me. “Stop. Wait,” he gasps, trembling, after only seconds have passed. “Please don’t move,” he begs as I still feel a stream of semen flow into his bowels. I squeeze my fist to push out a few more drops, a last shudder, and then relax my hand. “I’m not moving,” I say, and it’s true. I’m locked within him. Only he can release me. He’s shaking and I pull him in tightly with my free arm. I stroke his heaving chest. Is he cringing? I can’t tell but his body quivers. I feel his guts rumble and tense, and he shits out my cock and hand savagely with a harsh grunt of exhalation. “Fuck!” I yowl at the intensity of the sensation of having my cock and first aborted all at once. He rolls over on his stomach, buries his face in the grass, his dark hair matted to his scalp. He’s a beautiful mess and I want to hold him. I slip an arm over his broad shoulders but he throws it off, hiding his face in the shadowy blades. I’m stung by his turnaround but I’ll wait for him as long as he wants. I won’t get dress. I’ll wait with him till daylight when the safety officers discovers our naked bodies on the library’s back lawn. I pick up the Mason jar half full of Micky-G’s moonshine, twist open the top and take several unwise swigs. I screw the lid tight and lay back, looking up at the inky sky; watch for a long, long time as meteors and satellites glide across the firmament above us. I lay the back of my hand on the small of his back. He rocks it off. I rise on an elbow. I want him to look at me, to show him I’ll lick his slimy guts off my hand, I have no pride, I’d be his mutt if he'll be mine—but his face remains buried. I lie back and find the rings around nearby Saturn, tick off the moons of Jupiter—Ganymede, Io, Callisto, Europa, Themisto, Amalthea, Elara. I stare into the black holes where the stars aren’t anymore. Observe galaxies whirl, whole universes dance through each other, disburse in a prism of gas. I see far off stars hurtling toward me at a million light-years a second, while others swim into the black emptiness toward oblivion, never to be heard from again. Like people do. “Drake?” I ask a bit panicked at how quickly I'm alone in the universe. “You there?” The vacuum of space swallows the question. u there drake? He’s a digital ghost, a celestial body untethered. I can’t reach him though he’s inches away. I don’t know how to chart this course; I’ve never traveled here before. Did I do something wrong? Do something right? The longer I stare the more I see the stars aren’t white; have never been. Some glow red, some yellow, others are a ghostly blue. I feel the earth rotating under me, the lawn taking me along for the ride. The constellations wheel across the black vault above. Their stories elbow into my brain—the hunter, the serpent, the bears, the belt, the lion, I know them all, just like at home on our trailer’s roof. Same stories, same stars; stories spread down through millennia, through a trillions souls, eventually to mine. I’m drunker than shit and will probably puke in a moment. I’ll push dirt over the puke like it never happened. As I look above my head, upside down at the library windows, three figures stand peering through the glass, backlit, unmoving. Even with the world upside down as it is, the central figure in a blue sweater, with salt and pepper hair, comes into focus. Coach Brandon. What I can’t comprehend in my addled brain, what I can’t wrap my mind around, is why he’s there standing next to a dark figure in a cowl and, on his other side, why there’s a bald guy whose head shines in a mosaic of tattoos. None of this makes sense. Huh. But I can tell you this: coach just winked at me. That’s the second time tonight.

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

It’s cumming @bottomboyam

12. Veracruz Para bailar la bamba, Para bailar la bamba, Se necesita una poca de gracia One week after the townhouse fire, they were anchored off the coast of Virginia, and Mike was done, had had it. The End. Flash disclaimers: no animals were harmed in the making of this film; all actors were eighteen or older at the time of production. Roll credits. He swam out to sea, far enough so he couldn’t make it back. Not a great plan, but he didn’t need a plan that was great, just one that would do the job. He swam away from the yacht as far as he could till he couldn’t see it anymore, then swam some more. This wasn’t the way he wanted the rest of his life to be. He wouldn’t let anyone touch him. Not Ben. Not Chris. He didn’t even want to be seen. The one thing the orderly Barkley got right, he was a freak. He swam for miles. The yacht had long vanished, the coastline gone hours ago, his arms were finally growing tired. Still he swam. He’d go till he hit England or France or whatever the fuck was on the other side of the Atlantic. He was getting more than tired. He was getting delirious. Desperate, he wanted to rid himself of life, wanted to shit it out of his body like diarrhea, vomit it out like bad Little Neck clams. He managed seroconverting years ago, it was sketchy time but became manageable, something he sealed a bargain with and could live alongside. But this wasn’t something manageable, something he could live with. This made him not him. He swam harder. Furiously faster. Further out. Not a chance of returning. How much longer could he keep it up? If nothing else it was becoming tedious. He was bored killing himself. He could feel himself shiver, and yet it was July, after the Fourth for god sakes, but he was cold nonetheless. Maybe the cold would kill him first before he drowned. He wished he could stop thinking. The time for thinking was over. Thinking was overrated. Still he swam, one arm in front of the other, one kick and then another. Exhaustion kept at bay, but he could feel it creeping up on him like sleep. It was in the corner of his eye. He could never spot it, for when he moved to catch a glimpse, it moved, lingering just at the edge. He rubbed his eyes. They stung from the salt water. He hated the taste of the brine, hated almost everything right now. Except for Ben. Except for Chris. They let him be. He wished they hadn’t, wished they’d pressed him, made him talk about it, but anytime they did, he’d storm out of the room. So once they’d bought Boris and Roger’s boat and drove into the Great South Bay and points south, no one brought it up, no one talked about anything. Talking was overrated. Swimming was everything now. A goal in and of itself. Dying was everything. Dying consumed him. Dying. It’s an active verb, isn’t it? Means: Not Dead Yet. Because he wasn’t, and because this thing had been on his mind for weeks, he knew he wasn’t dead yet—he pictured Ben and Chris as he put one arm in front of the other. He wished inside he were dead, but he wasn’t—he was very alive. He was conflicted, confused. He hoped in death he would escape confusion. There wasn’t an easy answer. Either he cared for one or the other. He pictured he was with one or the other. It was a binary choice. And yet either choice was null as he felt himself to be null, he’d never satisfy either one. So, the coward that he was, he search for a third option: he swam. Thinking about any of this pissed him off and he swam faster, tried to outpace his thoughts. He doubled down on his strokes, kicked faster, harder, frantically wanting to die before these feelings killed him. He began to weep as he swam. Real body sobs. And why not? He was alone. He was in the middle of the fucking ocean. Who’d see him weep? Fish? Mermaids? If one caught him boo-hooing with his face in the water, he could always say it was the salty ocean not salty tears in his face. He breathed in water accidentally as he sobbed and he choked. He was going to Davy Jones’ Locker soon, so did he care if he choked? He’d be meeting Davy Jones soon. Davy Jones. Wasn’t he one of the Monkees? He laugh. He stopped swimming. He tread water. He was laughing and crying. He was tired, really tired, hadn’t slept for days, tossing and turning, wrapped in his desires and utter pointlessness of feeling anything at all. He’d swum for hours and hours, far, far away, and if not physically swimming away, then for days and days he’d been mentally, emotionally swimming away. Closing off; shutting down. Away from everything. Away from anyone who cared. Treading water as an excuse for living. Suddenly cramps. He folded in half, exploded bubbles underwater. Saw his toes. Coming up for air, he threw his head back, wailing to the sky, crying, Fuck you! for meeting Ben who introduced Drax, and the path his life took. But how could he ever really curse meeting Ben? And with Ben came Chris. He heaved and bobbed, sputtered profanities into the sky, shouted blasphemies into the water, thrashed violently against the waves, but there was nothing to make contact with, nothing to hit to make him feel better, only worse, more hollow, empty. Yelling at God, at the sky, was as fruitless as tossing matches at the sun. The sun didn’t care. It laughed. And at last he was growing weak. It couldn’t be much longer. Small whitecaps broke around his ears. Soon. Soon. He’d wait right here. Death knew where he was. He didn’t have to search any farther for it. Soon it would find him. But like an obligation he couldn’t get out of, like a promised he couldn’t keep, his tangled love followed him, came in sight—Chris at the bow with binoculars trained on him, Ben at the helm navigating to where Chris pointed. They sped up their approached with Chris waving his arms. They didn’t press, didn’t ask, didn’t tell, but they also never gave up. But just as they pulled alongside him, Manetti’s body gave out. He slid down into the depths, went to meet Davy Jones. The Jolly Roger pulled up beside where they’d last seen him. Ben cut the engines. Manetti was finally let go, threading down to the bottomless sea. Chris jumped in the water. Turbulently he dove kicking down, searching desperately for Mike, saw nothing but fingertips disappearing into the grey expanse below. He kicked frantically till whole fingers then a hand came into view. He grabbed it, pulled on it till he grasped the whole hand, Mike’s still warm hand, then the arm, and pulled and stroked and kicked stubbornly trying to rise to the surface. He made no progress with the heavy body. He hadn’t taken in enough air and it was running out. His lungs burned but still he kicked doggedly, didn’t matter he wasn’t rising to the surface. He’d let Mike pull him under before he’d give him up to the sea. There was another splash. Ben dove beneath him, found Mike’s other arm. Together they pulled till the surface came into view. The sun glistened like an orb rippling far above. They sliced water with their free arms, kicking stubbornly with their feet, chasing their breath in the form of bubbles racing to the surface. They broke through the ocean’s skin and gasped for air. Ben had left a life vest waiting close to the boat. Chris grabbed it and tucked it under Mike’s chin. Mike coughed salt water out of his lungs, barfed water back into the ocean. Dazed and half conscious, his chin rested on the orange life preserver. He eyed Chris. He eyed Ben. For a second he thought he’d fallen into heaven looking at the brothers. But then he remembered who he was, where he was, what he was, felt the whitecaps break around his ears. Maybe death hadn’t found him today. But if he had any say, he’d let it find him. One day. Soon. *** he yacht they bought from the morticians, Boris and Roger, called—what else—The Jolly Roger, skull and crossbones painted on the stern, bobbed gently in the harbor. Tucked in their rented slip, the vessel swayed slightly as Chris woke from a nap. He felt the movement so knew they were still on the sea. There was something reassuring about living on the ocean over the last several months. Maybe it was growing up so close to the beach, it was the one place of refuge he knew he could always turn to. She was always there, constant, unchanging from one season to the next. Each year he grew older, she didn’t. Veracruz was a port town similar to Long Beach in a lot of ways. The smell for one. Brackish water mixed with heavy industry. Massive freighters carrying millions of tons of crude oil sat next to cargo ships with thousands of stacked containers. Millions of transaction daily. The port covered over five hundred acres of water, nine hundred acres on land. Veracruz was one of Mexico’s busiest port, its open hand to the world. The volume of exchange was hard to fathom, but it had been this gateway for centuries. Its open hand brought with it Caribbean and African influences. You could hear it in its music, see it in the people. The pleasure boats docked closer to the city hotels and to the city’s center; the massive ships stayed out by the barrier reefs with a nearly thousand foot quay connecting it to land. It was an extremely active port, a lively scene in the daytime, with huge cranes loading and unloading cargo till late afternoon. Then activity ebbed, trucks loaded with containers drove off, and the harbor took on a more serene and festive mood. He got up from his small bunks, and climbed to the top deck bar where he knew Mike and Ben would be. Yep, they were there in flowery Hawaiian shirts bought in Miami, sipping vodka cranberries, watching the lights of the city start to flutter awake. The deep azure sky was quickly fading to night. The first stars of the night were unveiling. “How you feeling, Chief,” Manetti asked him. “Better,” Chris replied. “Can I have one too?” Ben looked him over. “If you’re not gonna get sick, I guess you can.” Manetti, the ship’s official bartender, asked if he wanted a cherry in his Shirley Temple. Chris glared at him. Manetti mixed his vodka cranberry grinning his goofy grin, throwing in a lime. “Arrrrg,” he said in a pirate voice, handing over the drink, “Yer wants to prevent scurvy, matey.” They settled on their barstools. “Perty, ain’t it?” Manetti said to no one in particular, watching the rippling lights coming toward them across the water. He’d come a long way, Chris thought, since the incident in Virginia months back. They all had, healed some or scarred over. Still no one talked about what they all kept quiet about. What was there to say? If you come to an understanding, an unspoken compromise, why talk? So they all slept in the boat’s many separate bunks in different parts of the ship, the master cabin at the bow left empty. Each alone in his bunk with his solitary thoughts, they sailed the Caribbean, hiding from each other as much as from Drax. After a long silence Ben said Veracruz reminded him of Miami. Long Beach, Chris replied. The radio softly played a local folk station—guitars, plaintive Spanish songs, son jarocho. A tune came on that pricked up Ben’s and Mike’s ears. Ben said, “Isn’t that…” “La Bamba,” Mike finished the thought. “Yeah, a lot different from—what’s his name?” “Richie Valens,” Ben said. “Who’s Richie Valens,” asked Chris. Ben explained, “He was someone who died in a plane crash with the The Big Bopper and Buddy Holly back in the fifties.” “Who,” Chris asked again. “Shut up,” said Mike. After a few moments listening to the familiar song overlaid by the original folk melody, not as brash as the early rock n roll rendition, but with complex guitar work still rhythmically inviting, Ben asked Mike what they were saying. Mike listened intently. He’d grown up speaking broken Italian in his house, so over the last months, as they sailed around Mexico and the Caribbean, he’d managed to pick up and got pretty good at Spanish. “The guy’s singing: To dance the bamba, to the dance the bamba, you need a little grace.” “What the bamba?” Chris asked. “I don’t know,” said Mike, “It’s the name of the dance, I guess, like the twist or something.” “What’s the twist,” Chris asked again. “Please let me throw him overboard,” Manetti begged Ben. “Kidding,” Chris laughed. Then something stopped Manetti. A light went off in his face as he cocked an ear to the radio. “Aw, this is good. Listen.” Manetti sang, not very well, but passionately, a refrain, “Yo no soy marinero, yo no soy marinero, soy capitan. He says, I’m not a sailor, I’m not a sailor, I’m captain, I’m captain.” His smile blossomed, the first true smile Ben and Chris had seen since they left New York. Not sardonic or ironic either. Saying something for the first time he believed. “I’m captain,” he sang in his raspy off-key baritone. The three of them sipped drinks and gazed over the port town, felt shrouded in the approaching night. The rocking of the boat brought them together. They didn’t need to talk. Maybe wounds weren’t healing so much as scabbing over. During their months at sea, they’d developed their own silent language, speaking only when something had to be said. Something like they needed a refill of meds, or they needed a new fuel filter. Their exchange over La Bamba had been the most they’d spoken to each other in months, particularly Manetti. Maybe they were ready to talk. Or maybe it wasn’t words they needed to express. A little buzzed, Chris swayed on his barstool to the song’s refrain. As the song went on he got up and swayed to the music in front of Manetti. He’d grown tall in the last few months, still skinny as a rail but now eye height to Manetti. So with Manetti perched on his barstool, Chris looked him straight in the eye. He got in close and was dancing closer. “Bamba la bamba,” he sang in his reedy voice, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. *** A brief history of the internet would likely begin with the Advanced Research Projects Administration network, or ARPANET, a U.S. Department of Defense project, based on the idea that if nuclear war took out parts of the country, decentralized yet connected computer operation would allow data to continue to flow in the un-nuked parts of the United States. Comforting thought. ARPANET was a pioneering network for sharing digital resources among geographically separated computers. You can trace a direct line from its initial demonstration in 1969 to the development and adoption of what we now know as the Internet. Chris was two that year, making his first stack of building blocks—four high. He clapped his fat little hands sitting on the living room rug, while his mother, dad, and twelve-year-old brother watched a shoot-out on Bonanza. In 1976, Queen Elizabeth II sent her first email. As she pushed the send button, she placed her white gloves against her lips. She was very excitedly. The royal family, surrounding her, shared in her delight. When Ben and Mike fucked for the first time at the St. Marks Bath in 1983, the Domain Name System, or DNS, was established giving us the familiar website suffixes .com, .net, .gov, etc., which was a heck of a lot easier to remember than the series of numbers websites previous used, like, say, 176.191.49.254. Two years later, when bath houses and sex clubs were shut down by the health department, in 1985, the internet was well on its merry way. So were Chris, Ben and Mike having dug up Chris’ buried treasure, bought The Jolly Roger, and set sail for a four years voyage hiding on the open seas. Miami, Freeport, Key West, Veracruz, Belize, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, Martinique, Aruba, through the Panama Canal, up to Acapulco, Puerto Vallarta, Cabo San Lucas, with a brief stop in Long Beach to pick up Ben’s record collection and check in on mom. She was better than fine, had a new boyfriend named Burt, who actually was decent to her. She was disappointed they had to leave so soon, but packed the three sea voyagers a lunch, kissed their cheeks including Manetti’s scruffy beard, and with records tucked under their arms, they were back sputtering up the California coast by noon, chomping on Mrs. Prior’s peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and homemade Rice Crispy treats. Mike, Ben and Chris sailed under the astonishing Golden Gate Bridge revealing the magnificent San Francisco skyline, August of ’89. Within a week they dry docked The Jolly Roger, and set up house in the Castro. Chris was twenty-two. One year later, 1990, Tim Berners-Lee develop the HyperText Markup Language, or HTML, which is still the basis of how we navigate and view the internet today. (Where you going with this, Chief? Bear with me, I’ll get to it.) Chris got his first computer the same year. It’s not really a part of internet history, but it’s important to the story because it was important to Chris: his first computer was a Macintosh IIfx. Mike and Ben chipped in together to celebrate both Chris getting his GED and an acceptance letter to Stanford just down the peninsula. That was back when Stanford wasn’t next to impossible to get into. Chris discovered that besides having a knack with car and boat engines, he had a natural aptitude for figuring out how things fit together—physical or otherwise. The very first thing he did when he got his Mac was to take it apart and reassemble it. So combine aptitude with physical objects to a newly discovered affinity for reading and writing code, Stanford was a logical place to park his butt for the next four years. Reading and writing code was intuitive for him. He tried to explain it to Ben and Mike, passing around some ganja they’d brought with them from Long Beach; it’s simply another form of language, he said. Ben and Mike tried to follow as he prattled on. It reflects the same rules as any language: the mechanics of verbs, whether motor engines, electrical systems, or logical functions and methods; the structure and solidity of nouns, whether you’re talking car parts or object-oriented programming’s classes and instances; the skin of adjectives, colors, attributes, the aggregate of forms that determine design; finally the assembled thought, the purpose, the reasoning, the expression, the i/o of flowing data, the brain giving orders—what is it you want this thing to accomplish, man?—it all interlocked in his mind, he’d just never had a way to express it before nor much inkling he even wanted to. But now all that changed: Hello world! Mike took the joint out of Chris’ hand. It didn’t hurt that he graduated from Stanford in ’94. Two guys in the class before his had a startup called Yahoo! They brought Chris onboard first as an intern in his senior year, and then fulltime by summer. There wasn’t a whole lot of money in those lean, early days—the two founders were working with venture capitalists who weren’t immediately forthcoming with cash—so Chris got paid, against Ben and Mike’s advice, in options. Since he was a workaholic, staying up writing code throughout the night wired on caffeine and an occasional jolt of amphetamines, he piled up a shitload of options. He kept them in a shoebox under the bed. When the company incorporated the following year, Chris converted options each time the stock hit a new high. He made a killing in just the first year alone, and still had an almost-full shoebox under the bed. In 1996, Match.com was launched, and other dating sites sprang up soon after. One night, after Mike had brought home some kickass Peyote buttons, and during some powerful, transformative sex—i.e., the first night Chris took his first double fist—he realized he should create a new kind of dating site. He bought a domain the next day, and built the site, still amped from the Peyote and fuckin’ awesome sex, over the course of one weekend. Chris’ life, informed by Mike and Ben, showed him that the rainbow flag not only transcended a spectrum of races and cultures, it also, and more in line with his experiences, encompassed a spectrum of sexual universes. Where dating sites that competed for survival in the burgeoning, Darwinian world of online hookups viewed the model from top down as straight white vanilla, tossing out a net to capture the broadest swath possible, his take on sex was completely opposite, bottom up, a banquet of chocolatey rocky road. He started with all the categories and sub-categories of life he knew viscerally, starting with Master Drax and continuing over the last few years in San Francisco: leather, master & slaves, fisters, S&M, bondage, grunge& raunch, hoods & masks, pups & trainers, military, medical, uniforms, watersports, smokers, skinheads, punks, tats, piercings, feet, chastity, bareback, bikers, bears, rubber, and friendship—you name it, there was a place, or maybe several places, for you somewhere on his site. San Francisco was the perfect beta test city to incubate his idea. His site was free with limited search capability—proof of concept, man, search is gonna be the key, he claimed—but for a few dollars more, a monthly Premium membership gave you unlimited search capabilities. This bottom up approach, this one-size-does-not-fit-all model, this choose-your-own-adventure paradigm—plus, add-on messaging, chat rooms, picture sharing, winks, scorekeeping, leaderboards: the whole gamification of getting laid—it caught fire. First city-wide, then nationally, and within a year, internationally. We’re talking beaucoup bucks here, sailors. It, his website, and he, its sole founder, made scads of money from the get go and attracted attention. But, perhaps, attention might not be what he was looking for. But then you have to figure, hey, he—they—could only keep out of site forever. *** The old guy at the end of the bar lit a Camel cigarette. Bobo, a large, very attractive middle-aged drag queen who helped Manetti run the place weeknights (and who had an obvious, though unrequited crush on him—but that’s another story) served Duke, a young, wiry, opinionated hustler who liked to badger Mike incessantly. They were at the center of the long saloon bar staring at the smoking man. It was a slow Tuesday night—only four of them in the place. The big green neon clock showed it was almost one-thirty in the morning, a half hour from closing. “Not cool,” said Duke to Manetti. Bobo checked her nails studiously. “Hey, mister,” Manetti said, walking over to the man. “You can’t smoke here.” He stopped short recognizing Drax. Under his black leather cap, what used to be grey beard had gone completely white and was now pointed and quite long. His bald head had had a buzzed crown around the sides, but he’d let that grow long, too, so the wispiest of white hair hung over his shoulders. Black circles sagged under his eyes. He’d once worn glasses but now they were absent. Instead his dark eyes were ghostly pale with thick cataracts. He hacked a loud, phlegmatic cough as Manetti approached. “Bourbon neat, barkeep,” he said. “We got a backyard bar for smoking,” Manetti said under his breath cautiously. Though Drax looked infirmed, he knew a wounded snake was a more dangerous one. He gave Drax a once over, checked what he could to ascertain if anything were holstered under his leather coat. It didn’t look like he was packing, but you never knew with Drax. He’d surprised many a wary adversary. He shot a glance to Duke and Bobo, a little afraid for them if things suddenly went south. “We’re getting close to last call. How ‘bout I get us a bottle and we talk out back?” he offered Drax. The old man luxuriated in his cigarette, picking off a shred of tobacco from the left side of his split reptilian tongue. Manetti had forgotten that tongue. Drax took a long drag and blew a large plume into the stale barroom air. “Not cool, man,” Duke pronounced from the center of the bar, waving his hand in front of his face as if from that distance he was bothered by the smoke. Manetti raised a scolding finger at Duke. Don’t! the finger and Manetti’s scowl warned him. Duke usually would take that up as challenge and start arguing with Manetti, but something told him to stand down. He clamped his pie hole and instead blinked at Bobo. Bobo took out a nail file and glanced a disconcerting look at Mike. “These San Francisco street whores—little pansy ass lung fairies, aren’t they,” Drax said to Manetti. He turned his head only slightly, not bothering to look at Duke but making sure he knew he was talking to him. “Fuck you, cunt,” he said in his gnarly voice. “Hey, now!” said Bobo alarmed and angry, pointing her nail file at the old man. “No C-word in my joint.” Manetti sauntered back to Bobo and Duke. “Hey kids. This is an old acquaintance of mine,” Manetti said. “Sweetie, would you mind watching the door till closing? I’m going out back so he can finish his smoke. If anyone else comes tell ‘em I’m out back,” he said and kissed Bobo’s rouged cheek. “Night, Chief,” he said to Duke. “You be good, ya hear me.” He held up that warning finger again, and gave them both his reassuring shark-tooth smile. He knocked Duke’s chin, friendly-like, with his knuckles. Duke sheepishly grinned. Who didn’t have a crush on Manetti? *** The back patio had a little straw tiki bar with two bar stools. Mike set Drax’s glass and his on the bamboo surface and poured generous amounts of Four Roses in each. He set down the bottle, picked up his glass and waited. Off in the harbor a plaintiff foghorn wailed. Drax came out hobbling with a cane. He limped along favoring his right hip. The patio bar was perched on the side of a hill. Several picnic tables were scattered about, barstools lined the railings overlooking a deserted alley far below. Manetti positioned himself in back of the tiki bar and Drax slid onto one of the stools. Drax flicked his ash on the floor, hooked his cane on the bar ledge, and set down his lighter and pack of Camels next to his bourbon. “You grow a beard?” he asked squinting. Manetti nodded yes, running his fingers over it. “This your place then, huh,” he said to Manetti with an undercurrent of disbelief and maybe a little envy. Drax’s eyes were fixed on the bartender, his former stable boy, now spouting a few grey hairs in his unruly auburn mop. Drax’s near-blind eyes shined luminous in the gloom. “Ben and mine,” Manetti answered. He picked up Drax’s Camels, took one out. He plucked Drax’s smoke from his fingers and lit his from it. He handed him back his cigarette. “Long time, MD. How’d you know we were here?” “It's an odd thing,” Drax began in an effete manner, flicking his wrist exaggerated by his cigarette. It was completely discordant with his nature, so against his butch, hard guy character, yet a very spot on mimicry. “But anyone who disappears is said to be seen in San Francisco.” He brought his fingers to his lips and puffed. Manetti gave a smile in recognition. “Master Drax quotes Oscar Wilde. A sign of the apocalypse,” Manetti snorted, taking a hit off his own smoke. Drax curled his lips displaying a gummy smile. Manetti exhaled into the overhead fog. “And then Wilde exclaimed,” speaking in his own mincing voice, “It must be a delightful city and possess all the attractions of the next world.” Drax took a sip of bourbon. “I haven’t seen any evidence of that yet,” he said, “but give me a day. I only arrived tonight.” He approved of the bourbon and took a bigger swig. “When’d you get so fucking literary?” Manetti took a long drag. He’d quit smoking when they were at sea, but tonight was a special occasion. The cool air and the warm smoke had a familiar sensation. It provoked some relished, decadent, post sex memories. He took another hit, felt the nicotine work its magic, salving the undercurrent of nervousness being back in Drax’s presence. He’d always been charmed and at the same time repulsed by the man; tonight was no different. “Taking a couple of night classes at City College, finishing my degree.” “Hm,” grunted Drax. He paused thinking back. “You were on scholarship at NYU ages ago, weren’t you?” Drax asked. “Afore you became just another burnout.” “I was on a wrestling scholarship back then, yeah.” Manetti drew deeply from his glass. “I was working out some issues. But I’m back now. It’s cheap. I’m getting a degree in English literature next year. Lot of good it’ll do me working here,” he laughed. “Hm,” Drax grunted again. “You trying to impress me?” He fidgeted on his stool. “It’s cold for fucking July,” he groused. “Welcome to San Francisco,” Manetti responded. “Drink up, it’ll warm you. Might even thaw you a bit.” Smoking brought out a sense of security. He went on, “I’m working on something that might interest you. Working with Bobo on it. Besides being one of the best bartenders around, she’s a great lyricist. You met her inside.” The bourbon was loosening him up, warming his gut. “Maybe you knew him when he bartended at The Mineshaft. He was Carlos back then. Big dockworker type. Large black horseshoe mustache?” Drax looked at him blankly. “Well, I remembered him.” Drax downed the rest of his drink, then plunked down the glass. “Too hard to tell,” his said, pointing to his head. “All that big hair.” “We’re collaborating, she and I,” Manetti said. He raised his hand eliciting a marque. “Mineshaft, the Musical,” he said with a flourish. Drax crowed hard once, while Manetti refilled his glass. Drax crushed out his cigarette, drifted in reflection, studying the dying smoke. “Hm.” He rolled thoughts over. Manetti watched the old man’s pale eyes flutter. It was dark out here. Fog lowering. Getting dank, too. Drax looked up and tried to scan Manetti’s face in the dingy light. Mike saw his former director, confessor and pimp, shiver. Manetti, too, was cold, wearing his usual bar uniform: white t-shirt, jeans, leather vest. He flipped on an overhead heater. It cast both of them in a devilish orange light. The heat lamp sizzled, chewing on the fog as it warmed them both. The foghorn softly moaned again. “I remember,” Drax finally began after taking a sip, “taking Benjamin to the Mineshaft for the first time.” He lit another cigarette. It triggered a bout of hacking and a prolonged, phlegmatic rumbling. It ended with him spitting phlegm onto the ground. He paused for a second, then took another hit off his cigarette, and ruminated for quite a while lost in thought. “Hm,” he said, looking off in a middle distance. “He only had been in the city a year. He was still so cherry. Hadn’t taken a fist, hadn’t done scat or been whipped, he’d only been pissed on once but hadn’t drank from the tap yet. You don’t want to rush a boy. Good pornography, it’s best when it records discoveries. We’re born like a rock with all these rough edges,” he said swirling around the contents of his glass. “Life wears you down. But you don’t want to smooth a boy down all at once. One step at a time down that long descending staircase. If you can, you capture that moment when a synapse fires off, that shows he actually likes it, whatever kink it is, that’s what make your viewer shoot his load. Yeah, sure, it’s also that big throbbing dick, but it’s also that spark of recognition. That identification. And sometimes to get it, you need to go off script. Plant some seeds. See what’s in the boy’s true nature.” Drax flicked his ash, stared at his ember. Took a long draw sucking in his hollow cheeks. “So this night, it’s the night of the blackout of ’77, July. It’s sweltering hot in his apartment, we’re naked and dripping in sweat. I wanted him to learn to take a fist. I just slammed him for a second time, but we were getting nowhere. Been shoving big dildos and plugs up his ass, he was begging for them, shoving ones bigger than my hand, but when my fingers touched his hole?” Drax demonstrated for Manetti Ben’s tightly clenched butthole with his closed fist. “My experience, a good slam fixes that, but not Ben, not that night. Then the blackout happens, power goes out in the apartment and you might as well call it quits. Except we’re both higher than fuck, and I tell him, put on your jock and those chaps, I’m taking you somewhere. We usually didn’t go out in public. Some men recognized him, mostly from vanilla stuff that first year. Spreads in the soft core rags, beach boy, long hair surfer, jacking. Pics of him playing with his hole. Some with other pretty boys. He preferred boys his own age he could dominate. He was still skinny, tall though, aggressive with my other twink bottoms. Slapped them around some, nothing too violent, more bossy, really. Naturally verbal I was discovering. Bit of a nasty streak if you wanna know the truth. Had a real foul mouth when he got started. Loved when he got his bottom confessing to being his fucktard bitch,” Drax chuckled. “Said he got it from his stepdad.” “Chris’ real dad,” Manetti injected. “Ben’s stepdad. He used to beat Chris mercilessly.” “Yeah?” Drax paused interested, curious, mulled it over. “I could see that.” He gave Manetti a harsh once over, then pulled on his cigarette, letting the smoke drift out his teeth as he spoke. “So we ride in the cab seeing there this blackout going on all over the city, wasn’t just the fuses in the building. We pass a Walgreens being looted, I don’t know, old men carrying out cartons of cigarettes, six-packs, old ladies with shopping carts full of boxes of clothespin and plastic tablecloths, the strange things people do. Plastic flowers piled in their shopping carts. We pass a couple of cars on fire on Broadway and Eighth, both of us high as shit. We’re in this real-life Hieronymous Bosch painting. Are we really seeing these things? Maybe we are. Guys breaking into the Crazy Eddies store, a dog running up the Six Avenue by itself, no street lights of course, so the driver takes it easy. We get to Washington Street, there’s cops lined up. Ben’s afraid ‘cause of the cops. I have to convince him they’re just dress-up cops, club customers waiting to get in. We get out, climb the stairs past leather men, policemen, denim cowboys, we push up the line ‘cause Wally’s at the ropes and he sees me and takes one look at this beautiful boy I have in chaps and a jock, and opens the rope right up. We’re walking around the bar and I’m holding his leash. I got him to cut his hair that week. Made him get a Mohawk, I thought it’d be fun.” Manetti almost snorted his bourbon through his nose. “You’re shittin’ me. Ben let you give him a Mohawk?” he said. “Of course he didn’t. You think he’d ever go for that, the little priss. But I did get him to cut it shorter. Much better. He twern’t at the beach no more, were he? Dorothy ain’t in Kansas.” “Guess not,” said Manetti. He poured himself another glass and stole another of Drax’s smokes. Drax didn’t seem to care, but he did notice. “So of course there’s no lights or music in the club ‘cause it’s the fuckin’ blackout of nineteen seventy-seven! We’re in the middle of this sweltering heatwave, Son of Sam’s on the loose knocking couples off, and Ben’s making his debut at The Mineshaft on my leash, struttin’ around in his jockstrap and chaps, and I got everyone salivating. Boy don’t yet know his worth, but the men do. The bar’s all lit up by a thousand candles. Men all murmuring. It’s like a fucking church, which is exactly what The Mineshaft is actually. Am I right? It’s hotter than shit so I have Ben strip, which he’s high but a little reluctant to do right out in public, but I strip and others are walking around naked, so what the fuck. He asks sort of innocently, what kind of bar is this? Not a bar, son, I say. Let’s go down those stairs, I tell him. We leave the second floor bar, go down naked to the first floor and he’s like a kid in a candy store. His eyes are wide, his pupils like black saucers, and I see he’s hungry for what the store has to offer. There’s glory holes, rim seats, slings, but what does that sick pup pick up on first? There a spotlight and a bunch of men surrounding the spotlight. Of course he’s drawn to it. We go over, and the light’s focused on a bathtub. Two guys are in it getting pissed on by all the men standing around it. He begs me to let him get in. I unleash him, and he runs over naked wearing just his dog collar, making his way through a sea of naked or semi-naked men in harnesses, all their cocks waving, and he climbs in and gets on his knees. More men come over to get a load of this new dirty blond hunk, this gorgeous piece of fresh meat, and of course they want to piss all over him, mark him. He opens his mouth and consumes shit loads of their piss. One short Asian guy nuzzles up to him with his big black bush, and Ben learns to drink from dick, then he takes this black guy’s Johnson and sucks out his piss till the guy’s empty. He can’t get enough drinking piss, piss, piss, piss, piss, and wallowing under the spotlight doing it. No telling what bonus chems are in those streams, but he’s certainly changed after that. He’s a wild man the rest of the night. Hyped and wired.” Drax’s eyes are glowing, the orange reflecting off the white, like a red-eye photograph. He, too, looks to Manetti like a wild man, not really here, but in the past, a blind seer, watching Ben decades before soaking in piss, riding the limelight in that tub. Drax takes a sip to fortify the memory. “And then this big muscled cop, or a guy in a jockstrap wearing a cop’s shirt, pulls him out. I think he’s going to fuck the shit out of the kid, this big stud cop, but the cop finds an empty sling, pulls Ben with him, and then flops back in the sling himself, and slides his big jackboots through the sling’s leg straps. I pull up next to him to see what Ben’s gonna do. He’s wet, smells acrid from the piss, short hair slicked back—never looked better—asks the guy if he’s a real cop. The guy, in a low voice, admits he is—he’s the real deal! The fucker should have been out protecting the city but he’s here, looks high, waiting for Ben to bone him. Seeing he’s a real cop, Ben pops an instant stiffy. It’s saluting at full attention, with veins so hard around his thick shaft they look like crawling worms, for fuck sake. Men around him notice. I notice. He sticks his engorged meat in the guy in one balls-deep thrust, buries himself right up to his brown curlies. The guy yells to let him get use to his big fuckstick, and more guys come over hearing that. It’s all shadows and flickering candles, and what your eyes can’t see, your brain fills in. Fuck, man, the sounds they make. Not human sounds. Animalistic. Some ritual not even I understand is going on between cop and his former prey, between victim and abuser—rolls reversed. He’s fucking someone in his past, or a group of someones, I can tell, ‘cause whatever motivates him out of his past he’s taking it out on this cop in the sling, right here, right now—and it’s something fuckin’ brutally beautifully. It has all the sounds of a rape but let me tell you the cop is absolutely into it. His ass ain’t never had a Big Ben in it before and he’s enjoying the shit out of it. It ain’t a bottom and a top going at it. It’s a top being fucked by an über-top. That’s what The Mineshift spawned, the original anti-Eden: not butches doing fems, but the homomasculine submitting to the Über-masculine. We’re in Tom of Finland territory. Ben rips the cop’s shirt open, fucking him blindly, pinching the shit out of his big cop tits. They’re exchanging snarls, gorilla grunts, and Fuck Yous, and he’s releasing on the cop’s ass a lifetime of stored up rage. He climaxes shooting all over the guy’s uniform and in his face, but isn’t done with him yet. No sir. He’s got the whole corner of the room captivated. He shouts, Crisco, putting his hand out like he’s waiting for a stagehand. He’s in command. He truly is. He’s sweating profusely from the meth, and whatever chem piss is running through his system, and someone puts a wad of grease in his hand. Ben lubes his fist and doesn’t go gently into that good night. No sir. He pulls up next to the cop’s face, pushes his still hard, shit-crusted cock in the cop’s mouth, and pushes his clutched fist into the guy’s ass. Not a gooseneck hand to start, but the full magilla, his big clutched fist plunges into the guy’s gut. You can almost hear it go pop. There’s this loud fart of air as Ben pulls all the way out afore he pushes back in. The cop’s gagging on his cock from its girth as he’s struggling with the force of Ben’s arm pumping straight into his chute.” “Jesus,” Manetti said. “That’s what the cop is crying. Jesus Chris, slow down, man! he’s shouting, but Ben’s not listening to any of that shit. Not that he’s punch fucking the guy violently. No. He’s standing next to him, making him suck his shitty cock, pistoning him slowly but deep into this big cop’s ass like he’s kneading a big vat of dough. In, out. Stroke after stroke, sending the guy into both heaven and hell at the same time. Then they’re not even talking anymore, just Ben silently watching the cop’s anguished-exhilarated face, watching what he’s doing to the man, what effect he’s having on this cop he’s turned into a meat puppet. All the while the cop’s nursing Big Ben like an infant suckin’ on his mama’s teet. It gets quieter the deeper Ben pushes in his arm. Swear to God, it got as solemn as a church service. Wasn’t a cop and a top anymore. More biblical, priest administering to a penitent, more like it. Like the agony he’d put the man through came out the other side and he was now tending to him, fist going in deeper and pulling out. A part of the cop’s colon comes with it, big ol’ prolapse, probably the first one Ben ever saw. Didn’t bother him, got him hard again, he just pushes it back in and goes deeper. Wants to see how much gut he can pull out of the guy. Men gathered around, some stroking, some just watching in wonder, trying to fathom what the story is between this naked holy man and the supplicant. When Ben forced the man to cum, and forced him he did if you saw his face…” Drax said. “I’ve seen that face,” Manetti confirmed. “Well, then, you know how Ben is when he’s in charge. The cop cums all over his uniform, his chest, over his face, shoots over his head. Rope after rope of cum. Men fall to their knees to worship this new priest among them, some fell to the cop’s ass and chewed on his spent prolapse, all wanted Ben to do to them what he’d just done to the cop. They lick Ben’s feet, like he’s fuckin’ Jesus coming out the desert, kiss his thighs, lick his ass, stick their tongues inside his anus, suck on his armpit, whatever Ben offered raising up his arms to his new flock. Three at a time are under him worshiping his cock, balls, and taint. The cop slowly gets out of the sling, shaking his head, pushing his prolapse back in, trying to figure out where the fuck he’s been for the last hour, and I come with a can of grease and lay Ben back down in the sling, in front of this group of envious men. I lock his arms over his head and hand the cop a bottle of strong poppers to administer to him, then I buckle the strap holding Ben’s feet high in the air. He’s spread eagle with men groping his body like a holy relic. I lube my hand and take a good scoop of Crisco and start pushing it into the boy’s ass. I do this a couple of times so there’s a lot inside him when I start pushing two fingers in his slippery chute. He’s as tight as he’s ever been but he’s also rock hard. You want this, I tell him. Tell me how much you want this, I say. Please, Master, he begs, put your arm inside me. I slide in three, then four fingers. Stop fighting me I say at him. Give him a hit, I tell the cop. I’m getting pissed if he don’t let me fist him this time, with this audience. The cop bends the kid’s head over the bottle and lets him huff all he wants. He breathing in the bottle for a while afore he lets his head fall back against the leather. I can feel now not only has his ass relaxed, he’s trying, as much as he can tied up, to slide down the sling on my hand. I don’t even have to push in. His hole is opening and his weight is falling over the edge of the sling onto my hand on its own accord. And then I’m in and still sliding deeper without me having to do anything. He’s yelling Oh Fucks the deeper I go. But I gotta tell you: too much is made over the trust a bottom must have from his top. Bullshit I say. Fisting comes out of the school of S&M, and giving the bottom control of the scene ruins it. Fisting was created as a form of punishment as much as it was a form of control. I tell the cop to give him another hit. He does and I’m taking the boy for a ride he won’t forget. My hand comes out and goes back in a second time in the form of a fist. He’s struggling to accept the width but I won’t budge until he lets me in. From sheer pressure he pops open but not without a cry of distress. Good, I tell him, that feeling is what you can expect for the next hour. And that’s exactly what I give him, no merciful, sensual assplay, but forced punching of his anus until its lips hang loose and sloppy. The red of his colon starts to show after a while. His first night fisting and I’m developing this beautiful small rose. Push out, I yell at him. It’s a pretty pink flower for all to see. I clear some of the Crisco so the men around can see it better. Someone goes down and licks it, giving the kid the first taste of what getting his rosebud eaten feel like. He’s loving it. I go for depth after the first hour. Each time he takes a hit from the cop I’m pushing in deeper before the chemicals have an impact so that when they do I can push him even further. The cop asks if he can take over for a while, Ben becomes afraid, begs me no. Did I ask you? I say to him. Sure. Have at it. And the cop, with his big hairy paws, is plunging into him. I make the boy suck my dick while the cop is exacting revenge on the boy’s sphincter. The cop’s even slipping in a couple of additional fingers while he’s alternating hands in the kid’s ass. He’s almost got two hands in but I see pink in the grease on the cop’s forearms so I have him pullout. I don’t want him damaged. He relinquishes him, but not without one last deep punch, sending Ben’s head flinging back in agony. His suffering is my aphrodisiac. I’m dripping, so I slowly and savagely fuck him. Hours—you been at my receiving end afore, so you know—hours reaming him in chem-filled lust. No need for a bathroom break ‘cause I got my toilet attached to my cock. Besides the chem-piss makes him even more of a whore. Around daybreak, as most all the candles have burnt out, it’s now almost pitch black inside, you can see some outside daylight in the cracks, the last two or three flickering candles are fading, so Ben can’t really see but only feel my cock inside him. I slide my hand in next to my cock, which has been tenderizing him in the last of the wee hours. I wrap my fingers in a fist and piston my cock. He don’t know what he’s getting but the whore likes it. In the cavernous dark as the last candles go out, men are kissing him, nursing his nipples, sucking his cock. And he’s moaning, speaking in tongues, is tweaking on another plane, sucking on other cocks being fed to him, asses bent over for him to eat, and I jack my spooge inside my fist inside him. He’s blathering invites to anyone around him to fist his hole. He’s where I want him. He turns me on so hard, so broken, so open, and I let other guys fist and fuck him, watching along the wall, drinking my beer. “Drax, you fuck,” Manetti said. “He’s struggling under a brutal Neanderthal, fucking his insides out. Ben the boy is suddenly gone, surrendered, arms hanging off the sides of the sling. Taking it, accepting it, a martyr to sex. I bend over and ask him why he’s suddenly surrendered. He whimpers, Hunters got me trapped, Daddy, I can’t escape. I’m lost. Cops got me in a back alley. He’s lost in his past or his fantasy, it’s taken him over. He’s biting his lip. Four more men fuck him and four more fist him. I’m kissing him while they do, telling him accept what he is, just a hole for men to use as their cumrag. Then I see his hole drooling a steady, cloudy white stream of men’s seed, all pooling on the floor under his ass. I know I want back inside that warm, wet cave. I fuck my baby well into the day. Daddy’s got you, I tell him, won’t ever let you go. Then around noon the harsh club lights flickers back on. The blackout’s over. I don’t know how many times I shot into him. I know he shot wads more. Did he remember? Probably half of it. We go out into the daylight, blinded, looking to hail a cab. Butchers right next door to The Mineshaft, in their bloody white aprons, haul in large stabs of meat. Ben looks like just another one of their carcasses. I fold him into the backseat of a gypsy cab. Like one of the many hanging carcasses we ride away from, I look at him, his head’s back, he’s staring at the cab’s cloth ceiling talking to himself. This big human carcass of meat, flecked with viscera across his chest, his and many others—he’s a rock now as smooth as I want him.” Silence falls between Drax and Manetti. Fog veils the alley from sight. They both sip bourbon. Drax’s cigarette was a stub, had long ago gone out. Drax looks at the cigarette butt in his hand with his white eyes, and sets it in the ashtray. “Best fuck of my life,” he says, downing his second drink. *** He’s fumbling with his cigarettes and lighter. He knocked one out of the pack. His lighter shook in an unsteady hand. He’s unable to aim the flame under his cigarette, so Manetti reached over and steadied his hand, and Drax managed to get it lit. Manetti considered the man on the other side of the tiki bar. Sure, it’s the orange heat light and the backlit fog that created the illusion, but Drax wears the expression of a weary demon or maybe a withered angel; some hybrid of bliss and torment. He, Manetti’s, had witnessed that ecstatic tortured look, that rapture, firsthand whenever Drax was cumming inside him over the year he spent in his stable. This suspension between extremes, this balance between worlds; no wonder Ben stuck around more than a decade. Moth to a flame, night after night. It had its draw. “So,” said Manetti, rolling his ember in the ashtray. The glass ashtray’s imprinted with The Plan B Bar, the name he and Ben chose. He’s pretty sloshed by now, as is Drax, who’s smoking with exaggerated control. “How’d you really find us?” Manetti asked a second time, refilling his glass. Drax covered his emotions with each cloud of smoke he exhaled. “Read this article in Wired back when I could read,” Drax said. “Don’t look shocked. I read sometimes.” Drax took up his drink, swirled it, and gave it a small sip. “There was this article, a profile of a kid, called himself Alistair Enge. Didn’t want to give out his real name to the magazine. ‘Fraid his mama’d find out, I suppose. He started a porn site, the article said, e-commerce, premium subscriptions, whatnot. It claimed it was changing the face of porn. No photo of this new face of porn, but I said to myself, Drax, you old fuck,” he flicked his ash, “where you hear that name afore?” He paused long enough to take a drag. “Then I remembered your pirate story from back in the day. When was that, Michael? Eleven, twelve years ago?” Manetti thought for a second, stoking his beard, a few strands of grey now blending in. “Twelve years,” he says. “Well, I thought to go ask my friends Boris and Roger—they’re still together, if you’re wondering. Wallace died though. Pity, nice pooch. I asked my old friends Boris and Roger, I said, hey Boris, hey Roger, what you’d ever do with that boat. What was its name?” “We bought it. The Jolly Roger.” “The Jolly Roger, yes.” He swirled his drink again and sipped a little more urgently. “So this is yours and Ben’s establishment. What about Chris, or is it Alistair now?” Drax held his cigarette to his mouth, sucked hard on the tip, smoke curling around his tattooed knuckles, H-A-T-E. “Yeah, we own it. Chris has his own thing going, has a crew of programmers and managers, sales, regulatory, things like that. But Ben and I run this.” He hit his cigarette and blew smoke out forcefully threw his nose. “What made you think of the boat?” he asked. “Alistair—the new face of porn—said he’d spent several years sailing with his family around the Caribbean before Stanford. Family,” Drax scoffed bitterly. “Three of you, huh? How does that work?” “Works quite well,” Manetti replied, taking a last hit from his cigarette and then stamped it out. “So MD. You came all the way out here to…?” Manetti let the question hang. Drax let it dangle. “Shame about Bichon, but I suppose karma has a way of catching up to even the best of us, wouldn’t you say, Michael?” Drax’s ghostly eyes looked accusingly at him. The patio’s becoming darker each minute by the encroaching fog. “So, how’s tricks, boy-o? Turned any lately?” Manetti returned a cold smile. “No, man. Lifetime ago,” he said, calmly sipping his drink. “Very happily married. Proud owner of The Plan B, which we live above.” He pointed to a lit window over them. “Part-time bartender, full-time husband.” “Not even a nibble?” “Not even a taste.” “I have to say, when you three ran off, a third of my stable initially went with it. That took a big hit on my livelihood. To tell you the God’s honest truth, devastated my livelihood, completely. Put me right out of business.” Manetti considered this. He tipped the glass to his lips, swallowed. “Never had much overhead, MD,” he said a bit confused. “Hard to see how that could’ve impacted you in any meaningful way.” “Meaningful.” Drax tries the word in his mouth. “Meaningful. Full of meaning.” In the feeble light he searched Manetti’s face through his cataracts. “You tell me, Michael, what meaning is there when a usurper comes and steals your favored boy, the only boy you want, and gets away clean? I’ll tell you what that means. It means the rest of the stable sees there’s no repercussion for abandonment, and the whole stable dismantles, the tower crumbles.” “Hold on,” Manetti said, brows tightly knit. “I’m supposed to feel sorry for getting away from you? You cut off my cock, fucker, planted a pussy on me, and I’m the one that should feel guilty about what happens to you?” He barked a mirthless laugh. “The night of the fire you’re lucky Ben and Chris talked me out of tracking you down. I would have been much more medieval on you than I was to the good doctor.” Drax pulled out another cigarette from his pack. He wasn’t done with the first and tried to light the new one from the old, but his hand shook too much to get it lit. Manetti just watched him struggle, feeling no pity, only disgust. Drax finally got his Camel to light and blew out an enormous stream of smoke. “Truth is, you were damaged long before I met you, Michael. I just removed the damaged part I saw that was rotting away.” Manetti grabbed the old man’s shirt across the bar, and pulled him partially over the bamboo top. He cocked back his other arm in a fist but not before Drax pulled out a snub nose pistol from his pocket. Manetti saw the gun, dropped him and took a step back. “Whoa, whoa,” he said, hands where Drax could see them. He’s making no fast moves but his brain is racing. “So,” he ventured, seeing if he could tamp down the situation, “you come cross-country just to kill me because, what, you miss Ben? Mineshaft closed more than ten years ago, Drax. Boys grow up. Birds fly from the nest.” “I came for the one point eight million you stole,” Drax hissed. Manetti’s hands are still in the air. “Okay,” he conceded. “Fair enough. You’re owed that. We can more than cover it.” “And for stealing Ben,” Drax spits. “Can you cover that?” Manetti didn’t have a comeback. Manetti’s heart was racing. “No, you’re right, you’re right.” Drax had him in a corner, emotionally, logically, physically. “I fucked you over. I’m sorry. You have every right.” But then, finding himself cornered, he felt a spark of anger he couldn’t hold back. “So castration isn’t enough,” he said darkly, “you have to off me, is that it?” Drax looked out through his white glowing eyes and slowly, viciously nodded yes. Manetti looked down, thoughtful, then looked at his drink. Looked at Drax. Saw nothing but the cold, dead eyes of a shark. “So I guess, cheers, to my rotten life, then, huh?” He’s pleading, reaching slowly for his drink, hoping Drax will grant him a dead man’s right for a last fortifying drink. Drax gave him a gummy smile. “Go ahead, boy-o. On the house,” he said, pulling back the gun’s hammer. Manetti raised this glass, saluted Drax, and then tossed the alcohol in Drax’s face. Drax fired and hit Manetti, but Manetti snatched his lighter, flicked the wheel, and put the flame to the old man’s long beard. The alcohol ignited his doused beard, face and hair, and Drax’s whole head, right up to his eyebrows, lit into one giant flame. He’s reeling back, a human matchstick. He’s screaming, slapping his head, stumbling, wobbling blindly all over the patio. He’s firing at empty air, senseless of where he was. Manetti smacked the gun out of his hand and kept pushing him back, again and again, toward the railing. Drax was still screaming, clutching his head, consumed in fire. At the railing, Manetti gave him a final tap, not even that hard, and the old man flew downward into the alley, landed head first with a snap. Bobo and Duke ran out soon after the gunshots. Mike was holding his shoulder by the railing, peering over at something. Bobo rushed to Mike to see the extent of his wound, while Duke gazed down, inspecting the singed, smoldering figure, its arms and legs bent out at unnatural angles, sprawled over the asphalt. Duke turned to Mike grimly, “I told you smoking could kill you.” *** Chris danced in front of Manetti, with Ben looking on encouragingly. Manetti tried not to smile. The ocean was calm, the harbor breeze warm. The night sky was a dome of lights, moonless. Chris was feeling good, a bit buzzed. He swayed his hips close to Mike perched on his barstool. Chris reached up to the top button of Mike’s flowered shirt. “Bamba la bamba,” he sang. “No,” said Manetti. Chris unbuttoned it anyway. He reached for the second button. “C’mon, knock it off,” Mike said batting Chris’ hand away. Chris went back and undid the second button and reached in his hand and felt Manetti’s massive, fur-covered chest. He leaned in and lightly brushed his lips, felt his scruffy dark beard. Manetti started breathing unevenly. Chris kissed him slowly, purposefully, sensually. Manetti relaxed, for the first time letting down his guard. Chris pulled away with a spark in his eye, undoing the flowered shirt’s last button revealing the man’s entire black pelt. Ben was behind him and removed the Hawaiian shirt and placed it on the bar. He kissed Manetti’s right shoulder, then his left, then the nape of his neck. He threaded his hands around Manetti’s chest, feeling his warmth and his racing heart. Chris grasped the man’s belt and Manetti stood up quickly and pushed Chris away. “I can’t,” he cried. “No. Don’t,” he pleaded. Chris got on his knees and unlatched the belt, started lowering the zipper. Manetti was never one for underwear, so when the shorts fell, he stood on the deck naked, exposed for all the world see. Chris bent in and kissed Manetti’s regrown bush, his soft black hair, brushed it delicately with his fingertips, drew a line along the soft pink lips. “Stop,” Manetti gasped. “It just a cunt.” “Not just, it’s you,” the young man said. “You is who I want.” He put his face between Manetti’s legs, breathed him in, licked Manetti. The unfamiliar sensation caused the man to heave a monumental breath, brought a sigh of pleasure but also one of confusion. Shaking he stepped back off balanced. Ben was there to catch him. Manetti felt weak, fought against his frailty. Turning his vulnerability to strength, he steeled himself, grabbing Chris and Ben by their hands and pulling them forcefully down to the master cabin. There he ripped off Chris shirt and tore off the boy’s pants, then combatively, ripped the buttons off Ben’s shirt, held his head forcefully, and sucked his face like he’d been wanting to every day for the past six months. Ben, still locked onto Manetti’s lips, slipped off his shorts. Chris came over and stuck his face close to theirs. Manetti pulled back as Chris kissed Ben’s bent forehead, then as Ben looked up at his brother, Chris kissed his cheek. Ben found Chris’ mouth, and slid his tongue over his brother’s tongue. Both men were erect, which Manetti took full advantage of. He suck his lover’s massive member, then his brother’s smaller but still generous meat. He stuck both their cocks in his mouth and tortured them, rubbing their cockheads against each other, sliding his tongue around them, making them leak in arousal. He grabbed some bedside lube and rubbed it on Chris and Ben erections, then on his front lips and between his cheeks. He positioned himself on his side pulling Chris down with him. Ben laid down in back. Manetti eased his butt, like so many times in the past, against Ben protruding erection. Ben’s stiff and metal adorned organ slowly slid inside Manetti, familiar and so welcome. Chris faced Mike and held his cock at Mike’s new lips and looked in his eyes. Mike gave him a smile of permission, and Chris slowly, sensually parted Mike’s virginal lips. Chris rubbed his dick up and down, rhythmically finding he could part Mike’s body. Mike helped by rocking back on Ben’s cock, allowing it to penetrate him deeply, then rocked forward to take a bit, an inch, then two, of Chris’s cock. There was electricity in the dark cabin, palpable breath on a face, on a neck, mouth against mouth, inhalations and exhalations exchanged. A painful tearing of skin, slowly, erotically. Of all the collective torture they’d been through, this was the most protracted and agonizing. Like a band aid slowly being ripped off, one cell at a time. Tension and desire continually traded places, body parts awash in lubricants, smoothly flowing, painfully, exhilaratingly, new sensations every second between three men who found they were heading into unexplored territory. Mike felt the violation of his organ, both past and present, ravishing him, making him loose control. Once past the initial pain, at first the pleasure was too intense, but the allure of submitting to two men stroking inside his body, became intensely satisfying. Then, after accepting the satisfaction, he recognized he could invert it. Suddenly he felt more in control of them than they were of him. Writhing between them, he was in charge of their pleasure. He controlled their body’s rhythm, granting them unending satisfaction through his rhythmic, velvety undulations, granting them the pleasure they sought within his body. Chris whispered almost inaudible, “Oh, fuck Ben. I feel you.” Their faces so close together not a breath escaped detection by any of them. The three shared this discovering. “I feel you, too, brah,” said Ben deep inside Mike. The closer he drew into Mike, the more Ben’s cock pressed against a wall that barely separated him from his brother. Ben withdrew and slid in deep with each stroke, not only thrilling Mike but also erotically rubbed under Chris’ cockhead. Not one of the three of them saw this coming. They gasped at the orchestra of sensation flowing through their bodies, the variety of pitch and crescendos they could produce. Chris was almost in to his balls, when Manetti cried out in pain. They halted abruptly. They caught their collective breath. No one moved. Chris slowly eased all the way out fearing he’d damaged Mike. But the look on Manetti’s face showed how amorous he still felt, how much he wanted Chris back inside. Ben never left Mike’s ass. One of life’s greatest feelings for Manetti was having Ben’s full python buried deeply inside him. He nudged Ben until Ben fell onto his back pulling Manetti along with him. Then Manetti rocked on top of him, rising forward to impale himself in a squatting position. He bobbed in a wave of lust against his lover’s groin, sending waves of pleasure careening through both their bodies. He smiled lewdly at Chris, his hands parting his new lips, inviting the young man to come back in. Mike fingering his twat was an obscene gesture that excited the fuck out of Chris. He knelt like he was in church in front of the holy alter of Mike, as Mike reclined back spreading his legs, fall back onto Ben’s chest. Chris slipped in cautiously, but increasingly giving into his arousal, his desire to fuck Manetti as deeply and as hard as he could. Chris never imagined he could share in such a complicated arrangement, of boomeranging and ricocheting needs and lust-filled desires. He made out with Mike as his cock rocked inside the man, then found his brother’s face alongside Mike and satisfied his forbidden, incestuous appetite, discovering how deep within Mike he could fuck against his brother’s hard, massive cock. How could they know how good this would feel, how tangled their emotions would entwined, how bound together their souls would become? They united in the moment, tonight, tomorrow, for a lifetime. Manetti felt the brothers shudder together, felt how wet he suddenly was, leaking out both sides of his body as the brothers continued to quake. And somewhere within, sliding against his core, against his body’s tectonic plates, a quake overtook him too, pulled him over a vista and he could see how this could all work out. He shuddered in gratification of the corruption and purity of this comingling of brothers cumming within him at this moment. They gasped, all breathing unevenly, laid there motionless except for the rising and falling of their chests. Chris was the first to make a move, cascading them all to the side, all still holding each other for dear life. Had this even a chance of continuing? Just because it hadn’t been done before it still could be done. It’d be messy and complicated. They’d expect no understanding from others. Gee, didn’t that already sound all too familiar? Chris and Mike looked at each other with faces radiating satiation, Ben kissing the swirling hairs, the soft opera of Manetti’s neck. They lay quietly for a long time. Then Mike exploded. “Alright, you fucking perverts,” he roared between them, snapping into drill sergeant mode. He quickly and rudely untangled their cocks from his body. Rising off the bed, he grabbed the grease. “Prior brothers!” he barked. “Edge of bed with your asses in the air! Now!” He greased both his hands greedily. “It’s time you boys ride the Manetti Chariot!” He smacked both their asses hard. They responded, excitedly bounding to their knees, aligning next to each other on all fours, pulling and playing with each other’s floppy cocks like naughty schoolboys, while Mike lined up his fingers against their holes. Ben draped his arm over Chris’ shoulder and Chris draped his arm over his big brother’s. “And don’t expect me to take it easy on either one of you sick fucks,” Manetti growled, plunging deep inside their cavities.

...and here it is, the last chapter. Thanks to all you hot men, for the hits, likes, comments and encouragement. Hope the ride's been as good for you as it has for me. XXX, sb

I can only say all your words floor me and hope the next and last chapter is up to your high praise.

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

You nailed it @studlyjo Then this happened...

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

9. Le Papillon Usually coming out of the Queens Midtown tunnel you’d make a left to go downtown back to their apartments, but Jamal, the one driving the black Camero back from Fire Island, exited the midtown tunnel and drove to Park Avenue and made a right. “Why are we going uptown?” Manetti asked suspiciously from the backseat. “We need to make a deposit,” Drax responded from the bucket seat ahead of him. The sports car charged up Park, careened around Grand Central and raced uptown through the tall canyons of office buildings and apartment complexes. They zipped along Park Avenue with its meridian of summer flowers. It was approaching sunset, and the late afternoon light reflected a kaleidoscope of orange suns off the myriad glass towers. They passed a church whose late day service was just letting out. Chris spotted two twin girls in matching blue Sunday dresses and white gloves whispering secrets in each other’s ears. “Christian,” Drax began in a happy, singsong voice, “Do you remember our first night together?” Jamal looked over at Master Drax with a toothless smile recalling the night. “Not really, Master Drax,” Chris replied. He looked out his window at the center divider’s hundreds of flowers—red begonias, white tulips, blue lilacs. “I remember up to where Jamal peed chem piss in me, but I don’t remember much after that.” He cracked his window enough for some of the lilac aroma to stream into the car. “Pity,” Drax said, looking back at the boy. “We had such fun. You laid on by chest and played with my nipples, while I fed you poppers and showed you how much fun it was to stick needles in your penis. We had a whole ladder running up your shaft. You cried at the first, scared of the first needles I put in you, but after a while you said you liked it. You don’t remember any of this?” Chris shook his head emphatically. “Pity.” Drax’s attention drifted back out to the street observing the Waldorf-Astoria fly by. “I remember something hurt,” Chris said staring at the back of Jamal’s head, reliving a vague stinging sensation that sent a shiver down his back. Manetti watched him. The kid was finally back in his own clothes wearing what he brought with him, torn jeans with rips in the knees and a grey t-shirt with a yellow, flaking Adidas logo on the front. He put his arm around Chris and pulled him into his black vest. Chris inhaled the leather and looked up at Manetti’s troubled face. “I saw Ben last night,” Chris said softly. Manetti held him out at shoulder length, and search his face. “At the party?” Chris nodded. “Apparently,” over his shoulder, in his Caribbean lilt, Jamal said, “he beat the boy senseless with a sword not know it was his little brother. And then he fisted him, and then he fucked him, until the boy passed out.” “I didn’t pass out,” Chris stated flatly. “Yes. Ben confessed that,” Drax said. “For whatever reason he was distraught about it. I told him the only thing to be upset about is that we didn’t get it on tape.” Drax twisted around to confront Manetti. “He got back to your apartment at dawn, came over agitated, had been up for four days. He said he’d done some outrageous things to the boy to which the boy refused to surrender even a whimper. I tell you, Christian has the making of a true star, he just needs a little more experience.” Drax observed the boy looking out the window at all the tall buildings going by. “Obviously it was you who brought the boy to the compound, which is how I knew where to find you. Christian, please,” Drax said, annoyed. “Roll up your window. The air smells like an old cunt’s boudoir. This one, Jamal.” Drax pointed to a street up ahead. Jamal turned left, and they proceeded down a street of pink and cream-colored townhouses, most with small ivy gardens lining the narrow sidewalks. Chris rolled up his window watching an elderly lady with a cane walking her Toy Spaniel and another lady walking toward her with her little Pekinese. As the ladies passed each other the Pekinese leapt at the Toy Spaniel and bit its neck. A tremendous high-pitched scuffle broke out. Chris whipped back around and watched out the rear window. The two elderly ladies were yelling at the other, each pulling their dogs apart by their throats. The Spaniel lady took her cane and harshly jabbed the Pekinese. It yelped, wounded, and the Pekinese lady pushed the Spaniel lady, and the lady fell backward onto the sidewalk hitting her head on a cement planter. Other pedestrian came over to the skirmish until he couldn’t see the ladies anymore, or their dogs, because of the crowd that surrounded them. “This one,” Drax called out, pointing to a townhouse that had a small garage door. Jamal pulled up to the door, and Drax reached over and honked the horn. Chris looked up at the four-story building. The façade was all white carved stone. It had tall arched windows, three across, on the second and third floors. The fourth floor windows were smaller and he could see bushes and trees peeking over the roof. Heavy, ornate iron and glass French doors were set back at the entrance, with a shiny brass placard next to the garage door. Dr. Pierre Bichon, MD, it read, Plastic Surgeon. Despite its understated elegance, there was something fortress-like about it that Chris didn’t like. The garage door rose electronically and Jamal descended into the townhouse bowels. Once they were in, the garage door lowered and the afternoon glow dimmed into a dark cave. Two large orderlies waited alongside Drax’s door. One of them, a very large bald man, opened it for him. Drax got out and pointed into the backseat. “That one,” Drax said, pointing to Manetti. Built like a tank, the bald orderly jerked the bucket seat forward and reached in for Manetti. His chrome head reflected the single bulb hanging in the small garage. Manetti used his boot and, with an enormous roar, kicked the guy with all his might. It sent the orderly reeling backwards, bouncing into Drax and the cellar’s elevator door. The second orderly, taller and even meaner looking with dark, close cropped hair, gritted his teeth and charged into the backseat shoving Manetti into Chris. Chris climbed on the guy’s head, swinging his fist wildly against his head and ear, while Manetti sent a fist flying into the guy’s throat. The guy fell back choking. Jamal swung around, pushed Chris aside, and covered Manetti’s mouth with a white rag. The bald intern came barreling back into the car again and pressed his enormous gut over Manetti’s face, pinning him against Chris. Manetti swung wildly, but crammed as he was in the backseat, the gut punches he threw had no power in them. He flailed until the effects of the rag’s chloroform took effect. Chris felt him weakening and after a minute Manetti fell like a rag into his lap. “You’re the deposit I needed to make,” Drax said to the unconscious Manetti. “As are you,” he said to Chris. The second orderly reach in and grabbed Chris by his t-shirt and tore him out of the Camero. *** The six of them were packed like sardines in the small elevator, Manetti held up by the two orderlies in the back, Chris between Jamal and Master Drax in the front. It was hot in the slow-moving elevator, and smelled like sweat, antiseptic and cheap aftershave. Chris watched the elevator buttons change from G to 2 to 3. The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. Drax nudged Chris out with Jamal following. Chris looked back, watched the doors close with Manetti out cold in the hands of the orderlies. The townhouse was richly appointed, designed for a high-end clientele. Chris had never been exposed to this kind of luxury. The house in Queens was lavish, with its pink marble kitchen and its bright shag carpets, but this was like being in a museum. The elevator deposited them across from a large waiting room with a heavy mahogany reception desk. The waiting room stood empty. It felt like the whole place was deserted except for a soft shuffling on the floor above. Two black and chrome couches faced each other with mahogany end tables on either side, each topped by lamps with shades made out of stained glass in the shape of dragonfly wings. A tall grandfather clock chimed softly six o’clock as they plodded down the hallway. Thick oriental runners covered polished walnut floors, and white molding ran the length of the tall ceiling. Stark black and white photographs in large black frames lined the ivory walls. A black naked dancer; a single white calla lily; the singer Patty Smith, with her dark hair and white shirt he recognized from his brother’s record collection. As they walked down the hallway he peaked into a series of small dazzlingly lit examining rooms. The house was lavish in its details but the emptiness made it feel creepy. There was something fake about it, like a veneer so thin you knew it was covering a structure built on rot. Without warning a great commotion exploded upstairs. It made the three of them jump. There were a couple of soft thuds, and the house went back to silence and the ticking of the grandfather clock. Descending the staircase ahead of them, making it creak loudly with each footfall, the bald orderly, out of breath, met them at the bottom. He told Drax the doctor would be there shortly. The only room that wasn’t open was at the end of the hall. When they got to it, the orderly pulled a set of keys from his retractable keychain on his belt and unlocked the door. Drax pushed it open and brought Chris inside. The orderly stood at attention to the side of the door, and Jamal, frightened, refrained from following them in. The complete opposite of the other examination room, this one was painted minty green and looked antiquated, like everything was from decades before. It had a grey metal examination table with stirrup that raised by silver wheels you cranked to raise or lower them, and brown leather straps all around the edges. The cabinets that lined the walls were white painted metal and greenish beveled glass. One forty-watt bulb lit the room so it felt somber and grave, that is, until Drax switched on a standing lamp with tripod legs. Its big bulbous light was blinding. It focused solely on the examination table. A dark grey tray next to the table shined with a selection of medical instruments. Chris recognized a set of sounds right away, but the other instruments were foreign and frightening: pointed clamps that ended with flat pink rubber, other clamps that ended with jagged pinchers; spreaders of various sizes, some long, some wide, one the size of his arm; an assortment of wheels with various lengths of sharp pins around their circumference. Then he spied a green painted metal and glass cabinet that stood separately in the corner. It contents sent a chill down his spine. Black masks and blindfolds on mannequin heads, one with zippers for eyes and mouth, one with no eyes but a long tube that made it look like a fly’s head, one with no eyes, no mouth, and two small holes at the nose. Who thought of these things? On second thought, he didn’t want to know. There hung, opposite the door above the exam table, a single photograph in a large black frame similar to the ones in the hallway. In the photo a bearded leatherman stood over a boy in a wingback chair who was encased entirely in leather and chains. The formality was almost comical, almost normal looking, like a father and son relaxing in their den, except for the fact that the boy was locked in leather and chains! From the hallway, Jamal’s eyes were wide and wary. He seemed to be familiar with the room and wanted no part of it. Drax saw he was unsettled, and told him to wait in the car, he would be down shortly. Drax then closed the door. He pulled Chris’ grey t-shirt off him, and instructed him to hang his pants and underwear on the hook on the door. “Where’d they take Mike,” Chris said, unwilling to move. “Quick, before doctor comes,” Drax said, annoyed the boy hadn’t obeyed. “Do I need to get the orderly?” he asked archly. Chris thought about that for a moment, then began removing his shoes and socks reluctantly and hung his jeans and underwear on the door hook. Drax patted the exam table and Chris grudgingly climb on it. There was a small knock before a man opened the door. Chris was shocked. The man appeared identical to the leatherman in the photo. Bearded, tall, with dark hair, deep-set eyes, trimmed black brows, no, not in leather but wearing a white lab coat. But what was most shocking was, in a split second, Chris realized the lab coat was all he was wearing. His bare chest was hairless, and his well-defined legs were hairless, too. He wore black leather lace-up boots, but beside the lab coat, that’s all Chris could see he had on. His eyes glistened maliciously, and the moment he saw Chris, his flashed a wide, white smile that emitted lust and little joy. “You must be Christian,” he said to the naked boy on the exam table. He carried a clipboard in one hand and extended his other to Drax. The two men shook. “So much more youthful than I had imagined.” The doctor put down the clipboard on the counter and cranked the two metal stirrups. “Please place your legs in these, son,” he requested. Chris hesitated, but a stern look from Drax prompted him to comply. Chris had to lean back on his elbows to get his legs in the stirrups. The doctor came to his side and encouraged him to lay back. The metal table was ice cold, so Chris laid back carefully. The doctor shined a light in his eyes. “When was the last time he was medicated?” Drax looked at Chris to answer the question. “Uh, Mike slammed me last night before the party,” Chris answered. “Is Mike okay?” “At least once every twelve hours. I thought we agreed that for first week all new boy would be medicated at least twice a day,” the doctor scolded Drax. “Michael absconded with him, which is why Michael is now upstairs,” Drax responded. “Christian, this is Doctor Bichon. He’s a very important man with whom we have a special, bartered arrangement. You’ll be staying the night here in his charge. He’s going to take good care of you, and you must do everything he says no matter if you want to or not. Do you understand?” Chris got out of the stirrups and sat up. He’d had enough being ignored. “What’s going to happen to Mike?” he asked Drax sharply. “Are you going to skin him alive? That’s what the bad men in Queens said you do.” “Christian,” the doctor said, putting his hand on the boy’s bare shoulder. “Christian, we don’t skin people alive.” Chris shrugged off the man’s hand. The doctor turned to Drax. "You see, this is what happens when they’re not regularly medicated when you take them in. I recall years ago you were lax with Michael, too, and you see where that leads.” Dr. Bichon looked up at the ceiling. “Christian, I’m going to inject you with something that Master Drax says you like very much.” “No!” he said emphatically, jumping off the table and going for his clothes. “Barkley!” the doctor shouted. The bald orderly came in quickly and grabbed the naked boy. Chris kicked and fiercely fought to get away, but the orderly was much bigger, and inevitably got him back on the table. While he was being held in place, the doctor strapped his wrists above his head and, with his legs over the stirrups, he secured him in place. Chris was seething, breathing angrily through clenched teeth. The orderly stood to the side of Chris’ head, Drax by his right foot. Out of a drawer the doctor pullout out a syringe, then riffled through a shelf looking for the vial he wanted. While he searched he casually asked Drax, “If want him to retain this youthful look, I should like to castrate him. It will also make him more docile.” This caused Chris to start struggling even harder in his binding. He looked at Drax who was mildly angry, but also amused by Chris’ ornery, helpless resistance. “It would be a shame,” Drax said. He reach over and picked up the boys testicles weighing them in his hand. “Beautiful walnuts, aren’t they, doctor?” He put one testicle between his thumb and index finger and pressed down hard, making the boy yelp in pain. He let go of his ball sack and gave it a smack. “A good five centimeters, I’d say, maybe slightly more.” Bichon put down the hypodermic needle and started massaging Chris’ ball sack. “If they were grape size I’d say why not get rid of them, but I can see why you’d want him to keep these. Much less fun to play with if he were neutered. What about if I give him a subincision, not a full one, just perhaps starting at his piss slit here,” Bichon suggested, running a fingernail down the boy’s rising shaft. “Just enough to get your finger in his urethra. Raw accessible flesh anytime you wanted. You could urinate inside him. Use your largest sounds on him. Tear him downward, bit by bit. There’d be so much you could do to drive him wild.” Drax examined Chris’ face closely. He read his defiance and his fear. Chris eyes started to well despite his best effort at controlling his growing terror. “I think,” Drax said, pausing to emphasize to Chris just how much his fate rested in his next few words, “for now, Doctor, I’d like to keep Christian intact. Feel free to use him however you wish, though, but no permanent mutilation tonight. If you’re inclined add some decorative touches. I do think two small nipple rings would be attractive on such small boy titties. Even a wee Prince Albert, ten or twelve gauge, perhaps. Whatever you think would look best.” “Rather than a P.A., what about an apadravya,” Bichon suggested, holding the top of Chris’ semi-erect dick head, “just like his brother’s, a stud straight through the glans, top to bottom. A matching set of Prior boys.” The two men laughed. “I leave that to you, Doctor. I’ll come by around noon tomorrow to see how the patient upstairs is adjusting, and to pick up the boy. Enjoy your evening. Pierre, Barkley,” said Drax. “Christian, be good. Or if you can’t be good, be compliant. I’ll learn from doctor either way.” He closed the door behind him. “Barkley, his head to the side, please.” Bichon watched Chris fight but there was no choice once the orderly pressed his ear to the table, leaving his neck exposed. “Just a booster, son, a quarter gram. I want you to enjoy yourself as much as I will. I want you compliant, not comatose. Relax, breathe normally. This might sting a bit.” The doctor swabbed the point of entry with alcohol, and then stuck the plunger in and slammed Chris directly in his brain. No middleman. “Now how does that feel?” “Oh fuck. Oh shit,” he said with clamped teeth. “I can’t, I can’t,” Chris said, panicked as his body twitched on the table. The orderly released him mildly concerned. “He’s fine. Just relax, son. Enjoy it.” The doctor and the orderly observed the naked boy, now sporting a large erection, writhing on the table. “Thank you, Barkley. That’ll be all for the evening,” he said, excusing the bald man, who tried to hide the rising lump in his white pants. Once he’d left, Bichon took a key from his pocket and locked the inside of the door. Bichon undid his lab coat revealing a black leather harness over his hairless chest. A thin horizontal line of pubic hair rode above his long, curved cock. The doctor hung his lab coat over Christian’s jeans and approached the boy. His balls were as large as limes and swayed as he walked. “You feel good?” he asked. Chris nodded. “Good. You want cock?” Chris nodded again. “Very good. Why don’t you start by sucking my cock, son.” He’d heard from Drax the boy was an excellent cocksucker, and it was true. Such a soft, wet mouth. He humped Chris’ face slowly, feeling his long member ride down the boy’s esophagus. Such a smooth face, only peach fuzz for a beard, light brown narrow brows, wide-set eyes like his brother. It was difficult for most cocksuckers to get his bent dick all the way in, but Chris seemed not to have a problem. His brother Ben never did. He held his dick down the boy’s throat, holding the back of Chris’ head until his trimmed pubes rubbed against the boy’s wet lips. Chris started gagging, but Bichon held his head firmly until the boy started retching heavily. He released him, with Chris drooling out a pool of saliva on the table’s edge. Chris was rushing trying to catch his breath while his brain spun out of control. Energized, high, feeling good and bad and nervous and angry, and most of all wanted that big dick back in his mouth or any orifice—his emotions bounced all over the place like they were in a pinball machine. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t remember where he was. Lived only in the Taoist moment of now. A mint green room. A tall, naked man in a leather harness, playing with his nipples, causing them to be erect. The man took out an instrument off the tray, long slender clamps with hollow tips, and pinched the shit out of his left tit. Through the hollow ends of the clamps, the man jabbed a needle through his nipple. He hollered while the man thread a thin ring replacing the straight needle. The man put a hand on Chris’ chest, telling him to lie still while he clamped the other nipple. Chris struggled when another clamp pinched his right tit, but stopped when the man holding the needle aloft waited for Chris to calm down. Once he did, the needle pushes through his other nipple, causing Chris to scream out again, as the man slipped another small ring into place, completing Chris’ first set of tit rings. The man stepped back and admired his work. “Magnificent,” he said, and stroked his curved dick. He then brought out a paddle shaped object that had its center cut out and put Chris penis through it and then forced his balls to also pop through the hole. Around the paddles edge were a series of quarter inch nails. Bichon took small rubber bands and crisscrossed them so his balls protruded, tightly swollen, in two large separate spheres. He took out a wheel that had small sharp pins and ran it lightly over one testicle. Chris jumped in surprise at how painful yet fleeting it felt. Then Bichon treated his other ball to the same sensation. Again he jumped. Chris’ mind raced—he couldn’t focus on where or how or why these new confusing sensation were being forced upon him. Bichon then ran the spiked wheel up his shaft ending in his piss slit. The delicate interior of his urethra being stuck with the wheel's sharp pins, made him cry out in alarm. He knew he was higher than fucked, but he also knew he didn’t have to understand pain to feel it. “Let’s set some ground rules, son.” Bichon brought over a hood, the one that looked like a fly’s head, and held it ready to put it over Chris’ head. No cutouts for eyes, and only a long tube to breathe through at the mouth. At the end of the tube there was an attachment, into which Bichon placed an open bottle of poppers. The doctor explained, “Words like stop and no, to me, Christian, mean you want me to do whatever I’m doing but harder or more of it. Screams also tell me to accelerate. Your job is to strive to endure the pain, breathe into the pain. Desire it and you’ll overcome it. Ready?” the doctor asked starting to pull the hood over Chris head. Chris shook his head no. “But, son, look at your erection. It answers mais oui.” Chris looked down at his betrayer. His cock was at full attention, eager it seemed to be tortured. The hood slipped over his head and he felt the doctor pulling laces, tightening it at the back. He was still rushing from the meth, confused now in partial sensory deprivation, breathing through the tube in a state of panic. He felt the poppers taking over and soon wanted the doctor to touch him again in any obscene way he wanted. He didn’t have long to wait as the wheel, with its agonizing pins, ran over his chest from newly pierced nipple to newly pierced nipple. Each time he jumped, Bichon waited until he rested back down to the table, then ran the wheel again over the same sensitive tit. Then there was a long pause and the clinking of metal. A cold hard shaft ran its length along his piss slit before it invaded. Not like the smooth sounds that Mike had inserted into him, this rod had harsh ridges every quarter inch. His urethra was erupting, the jagged edges felt like glass slicing him open from the inside. He screamed in terror and agony. “Which means he wants a bigger one,” the muffled voice of the doctor said in the black void. The rod came out and he soon felt a larger diameter rod take its place. This brought even greater torment. He tried to breathe through the pain, taking in deeper hits from the bottle. With each huff, it was not that the pain no longer resonated, it’s that he desired it, started humping the rod, wanting it to ram into him, tear his cock to ribbons. Bichon’s greased hand gripped Chris’ cock and jacked him. Chris felt tormented but he was also in the throes of lechery, pumping his hips into Bichon’s fist, calling out yes through the tube. He was just about to cum when Bichon release his erection. Chris still poked his hips in the air but with no resistance, his desire to cum receded after a time. The rod was pulled painfully out of his dick and replaced with a very narrow smooth rod. Curiously it just floated easily down his shaft simply resting against his prostate. Bichon let it lie there for some time. So long that Chris thought the doctor had left, when suddenly he heard an electronic buzzing and the rod came alive inside his shaft. A vibrator touched the tip of the sound and the million vibrations hammered not just throughout his shaft, but beat directly against his prostate. Pre-cum had formed and Bichon played the vibrator all around the glans, moving away, down the shaft, vibrating between his balls, finding where the rod was down deep inside his body, never letting Chris get used to any one area for more than a few seconds. Bichon knew how to continue to stimulate him, tease and torment him, shred his libido apart until he was putty in the doctor’s lubricated hand. Again, he felt close to cumming, breathing yes into the tube. And Bichon again released him before he could release. He heard the doctor rise, a drawer opened, and then what sounded like rustle paper. The doctor return to his stool with a squeak on the linoleum. Chris heard rubber gloves being snapped in place and then hear the sound of ripping paper, repeated maybe twenty times. His dick was still erect but not as fiercely as before. Then he felt Bichon pull the rubber bands off the board that held his cock and balls so his scrotum, unrestricted, relaxed into a fleshier bag. He felt Bichon lightly pinch the bottom of his scrotum, pull the skin down, and then felt a sharp needle pierce his skin and pin the flesh to the underlying board. He cried out in distress and shock. It wasn’t agonizing but it did hurt. Apparently his ball sack didn’t have as many nerve ending to torment. He then felt the right side of his penis pressed down flat against the board and another pin impaled that skin to the board. He let out a muted cry. Then the other side of his shaft was laid flat and another pin went through it, nailing his dick to the board. “Le Papillon, son. The butterfly. Agréable, no?” “No,” Chris called inside the tube. “Which means, yes you do. Do more, Doctor Bichon. Do my whole willy,” the doctor said in a mocking voice. “Okay, son, I shall.” The doctor pressed the skin between Chris’ shaft and balls and put a needle first on one side then the other. He pressed all around Chris’ balls placing a needle, alternating sides each time, until his entire scrotum was flattened to the board. He then worked one side of his shaft alternating with the other. Chris realized this wasn’t going to stop and breathed in the poppers until he looked forward to each pin’s pain. After a while he felt it didn’t hurt as much as it did at first. The doctor quietly spoke to him, “As you penis become more flaccid, the skin is pulled much less, alleviating the pain to a certain degree.” He was correct. As the doctor was finishing the last few areas of his shaft not yet pinned, he continued, “The warning I give to you—and you can reflect on this in the dark—that should you become aroused, your manhood will once again swell, and you will start pulling harder against these pins. As your erection has done before, this area,” the doctor floated his fingers across the top third of Chris’ phallus, “will try to rise off your belly anywhere between a thirty to forty-five degree angle. This will be the greatest area of pain, that is, unless of course you ejaculate. An orgasm will make you twitch from balls to tip. That twitching would cause you much suffering, so I would advise fighting against gratifying that desire. Resist, if you can.” He had finished the last needle along his shaft, the last wince of pain, when Chris heard one last paper ripping. It sounded like a much bigger piece of paper, which meant a much bigger needle. “Take a deep hit off your popper, my son,” instructed the doctor. Chris felt the side of his cockhead pressured, then stabbed, then pierced, then pain travel excruciatingly through the entire glans, right through the urethra, poking through the rest of the fleshy cockhead and coming out the other side. This wasn’t soft flesh being pinched. This was full on damage inducing pain that produced a horrid scream inside the mask. “Which means you’d like another,” said the doctor. “Please, Sir, I’d like some more,” he said in the same mocking voice. Chris cried no in his tube. “Oh, yes. Another two then.” Chris clamped up as another needle came out of its wrapper, Chris breathed rapidly inhaling the popper, trying not to cry out, crawled into the head of a masochistic, rode the pain of the next needle on the top of his cockhead, above where the first one pierced, and then, since he didn’t cry out, the last needle sliced through his glans, lower, below the first. He felt like he was on fire. His fingers and toes clawed the air. It was hell inside his black hood. A stream of tears silently ran down his temples. He felt his body sliding around on the exam table. Felt exposed, helpless, felt that mercifully the worst was over. A piece of metal was struck and he heard a low tone brought to his ear. He was confused. A tuning fork? The sound went down his to his prick and he felt the tone touch the rod inside his urethra. He’d almost forgotten the metal rod was there. Immediately the tonal vibration was picked up and rang through his shaft. It felt intensely satisfying sending waves of pleasure from his dick spreading throughout his body. His cock stirred, then he knew what the doctor planned. Another tuning fork struck the metal table. It was a higher frequency and was brought up to his ear. Again the sound traveled down to his genitals. Again it touched the tip of his penis and sent the rod vibrating. So two opposite and equal sensations traveled through his body: one, the ravishment of sexual delight as this quicker vibration beat against his prostate and throughout his meat; the other, growing anguish as the arousal began to swell his cock and it began pulling harder against the restraining pins. The more he was excited the worse became the pain. As the tone faded, he anticipating an even high tone. But he was wrong. The familiar buzzing of the vibrator clicked on. He rocked his head from side to side. Bichon touched him once lightly in the balls searching for the metal rod. Finding the small metal pole grew Chris’ erection significantly, ripping his flesh against the pins. Then the doctor touched the three needles pierced through his cockhead. It both stung and excited him with a sensation he could never have imagined. Against his will he felt his cock trying to flick up off his belly. The doctor ran the vibrator up and down his shaft, indistinguishable from a lubed hand not only jacking him externally, but jacking him inside as well. Drugged, sense deprived, unanchored from reason, floating within a black void, seeing nothing, he felt even more vividly each sensation. The thought of his body acting against him got him harder still. The rewiring was beginning. He wanted to scream against the anit-logic, the cognitive dissonance his body put him through, amplified, echoing in a world only of sensations. It wasn’t fair! Bichon kept the vibrator coming back to his cockhead. Three needles pierced him, the middle needle touched the sound, so whenever the doctor stuck the vibrator on the tip of the sound, not only did it vibrate directly against his prostate, it also send shockwaves through the needle vibrating directly through his glans. It hurt like hell and yet sent him into orgiastic heaven. Each time Bichon went there, Chris, despite himself, repeated through the tube that he was about to cum, and each time Bichon moved the vibrator away. Bichon wanted to see how long he could keep this up, to see if the boy would actually ejaculate after having explain in detail what cumming would do to his delicate member; to see if the boy’s mind would rule over the boy’s body. He knew the answer. Bichon left the vibrator sitting on the sound for minutes, moving it around only slightly, rotating around the head, always keeping it in contact with the rod, hitting the other three needles that pierced the glans, each one, when touched, sending new punishing waves of lustful bliss shooting out in all directions. Increasingly Chris couldn’t speak, no words, no thoughts to express, only guttural, animal urghs and unggs rose deep from within his chest. It was as if his heart was crying out. He was a creature trapped on the edge of eternally cumming, never able to get over the wall—two steps forward toward sexual gratification, two steps back in withering agony. Bichon finally, not for the sake of pity for the animal on the table, but wanted to see the boy fall off the cliff. He slipped in his middle finger into Chris’ anus. He poked and prodded the boy’s prostate pushing it up against the vibrating sound. Chris had no choice but to plunge headfirst of the edge. The ejaculation was excruciating, sending his stiff, long cock flying away from the board, pulling on all the needles, some of which popped off, stretching the skins with every round of ejaculate he spewed. Sperm leaked around the sound with each relentless orgasm. He came and came and came, and each time thrilled and was punished for his pleasure. The last sound that he emitted was not a word but a sound of discovery, an ahhhh! that soldered his most pleasurable sensation welding it pain. “Very good, son. Very good.” Bichon shut off the vibrator and the room was deadly silent, except for the sound of distressed breathing emitting through the tube. Bichon unpinned Chris’ dick and balls. Lastly he withdrew the sound. The doctor wiped the kid’s dick off—no bleeding had occurred—and massaged the penis in a slow, soothing rhythm. He could tell the kid was spent, but the boy would still be up for hours because of the meth amphetamine. The doctor took off his gloves and, from a cabinet, took out a black box with a large dildo attached to it. He put the box on a tray at the end of the exam table and locked the wheels in place. Christian was putty. It was easy to strap his knees up toward his ears so his hole spread open and vulnerable. Bichon twisted a dial on the box and the dildo slowly oscillated forward and back. He pushed the dildo into the boy’s rectum and turned the dial a little higher. The black phallus pushed in six inches and then pulled out. Christian moaned fervidly inside his hood. His mind was gone but his body reacted to the phantom lover that he felt crept over him. His fingers and toes curled in pleasure. The boy’s cock was withered and the new sensation of continually being fucked came as a relief. Bichon changed the bottle of poppers to a new one and let Chris stew in his sightless limbo for the rest of the night and into the morning—the dildo mindlessly, mechanically fucking his sleepless, mindless body. Bichon put on his white coat and unlocked the door. It was time to prep Manetti.

Honestly, I think you can thank @drscorpio for that. I got to rethink the story and, with some off-line discussion with @Fistcumslut, it gave me a chance to see how to bring this thing in for a landing. Porn is like gum, it does lose its flavor after awhile, so it’s good to know when to wrap it up. Couple more to go, but if you’ve liked it so far I think you’ll like the destination. Even if it’s a little painful getting there. ;-)

More BDSM to cum.

Thanks @seattlebbbtm @ejaculaTe @Tallallman & @Arcaner You guys are inspirational! BDSM, huh? Probably Ben's turn is coming, but Chris and Manetti have to “man up” first, lol.

8. Skippy, the Pirate de Sade, and the Buried Treasure Here lies one whose name was writ in water The end of the pool faced the beach and was all glass—one very big window. The morning fog was still burning off so if you looked through the glass from the pool you couldn’t really see much, mostly a foggy view that kinda looked like the ocean. But that’s only because you knew you were looking at the ocean. Guys that walked by were multi-colored blobs. “Cool daddy-o,” Skip said to Rusty, with just a hint of irony. From the beach looking into the pool, however, you could see both the pool’s occupants plain as day. Passers-by saw freckly Rusty and a sandy-haired beachcomber, Skip. Skip was the one you noticed, slender, rippled stomach, sinewy smooth pecs and arms, his strong soccer legs scissoring to keep afloat in his knee-length bathing suit hanging out in the pool’s deep end. His angular face was finely crafted without being pretty. The jaw that came to a point at his cleft chin was strong, and often clenched; a long slender nose; light brown hair, sun-bleached at the tips, matched his glowing amber eyes evoking both mischief and mystery. As much as you got to know Skip, there was always a part of him that remained out of reach. Rusty plunged underwater, looked through the glass with cupped hands, and also saw the same hazy ocean. Coming back up he wiped his eyes. “Yeah, neat-o,” he said trying to mimic Skip’s tone. They were encouraged to say things like that at work, and the beach house was still part of work. The retro lingo was former actor Cyrus Johnson’s—or “Whitey” as he chose to be called—remembrances of Malibu beach party teen movies he’d been in, acting with Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello, back in the early sixties. Hey, the Chelsea bar called Paradise was his, they just bartended there, so he got to make the rules. White-haired Whitey, a man now in his forties, a silver fox save for a beer gut, hung out under a deck umbrella talking to a striking Mexican. The gentleman who’d shown up with some associates at noon, had long, black wavy hair and was an imposing figure on the pool deck. Skip eyeballed the dark visitor and speculated. Sexy even if he was a little intimidating, he moved stiffly, a buck ninety pounds of barrel-chested muscle. He’d abandoned his shirt surrendering to the day’s humidity. His shoulders and back were covered in fur. A hulking daddy-type if ever there was one, Skip thought. He looked way more interesting than any of Whitey’s usual backers who came around to ogle Whitey’s pool twinks. Desperado. Racketeer. Mobster. Skip searched for the word best to describe him. Thug. Gangster. Cutthroat. Yeah, cutthroat maybe. The gentleman sure was animated, pressuring Whitey about something, poking a finger into Whitey’s chest. His dark tanned skin, almost black under his suit of hair, glistened in the humidity. The deck’s potted palms suddenly began to rustle by a mercifully cool gust of wind, sending the cutthroat’s hair flying into his face. He struggled to make his point while trying to keep strands of hair out of his mouth. Finally frustrated, he untied a knotted red kerchief from his neck and bound his wavy hair in a pirate bandana. Yeah, that was it—Pirate! ”Yo ho,” Skip said. Skip wasn’t Skip’s real name. Whitey had given all his bartenders nicknames he remember from that bebop, doo wop, shama lama era: Ace, Buzz, Stretch, Moose. Getting a new Paradise nickname did come with advantages. Skip discovered variants that could emphasize different traits for different customers offering different subtexts. Name’s Skippy when he wanted to highlight his youth to an older patron; They call me Skipper to a cute bottom boy, intimating that he was the boss, the alpha dog of his bar crew; and Skip, well, just that he was Skip, informal, kinda butch, kinda rich, none of it untrue. His real name was Alastair Inge, well, even worse before his grandfather had shortened it, Alastair von Ingerschleben—“from the village of Inge,” if you wanted to get real technical. Alastair was pretentious enough, so Inge sufficed. If you pressed him he actually didn’t mind Skip. In fact, he started introducing himself that way at Columbia U during his junior year. No one there questioned its legitimacy since he already had that Nantucket air. Skip surveyed his latest fling sharing the pool, a new bartender at Paradise, Aiden Reilly, a.k.a. red-headed “Rusty”—no one said white haired Whitey was a creative genius. All Irish. All freckles. Rusty was cute, had a rather bulbous nose, a nice size prick, but was a little fey in some of his mannerism—a little too overtly bottom, truth will out—not that Skip was a total butch top, but he did most of the pedaling during sex. The thing that really annoyed Skip, though, was how Rusty worshipped his lesbian twin sister, Briana, who also attended Columbia. Not that Skip disliked lesbians, he just never socialized much with them. After meeting Rusty, he did a lot. And if not socializing, then hearing about her. A lot. Rusty was always going on about how Briana said this, Briana broke up with Kirsten, Briana did the funniest thing, Briana started going back out with Kirsten, and on and on till Skip wanted to shoot himself. Or Rusty. Or Briana. Sometimes Skip believed Aiden would be happier to have a sex change just so that he could be a lesbian like his sister. That kind of thinking made Skip’s head hurt. But that’s what made the pirate, slapping his bottle of Corona on the table, so damn attractive, despite, or maybe in addition to, the gorilla coat he sported. He couldn’t imagine for one second the pirate had any desire to be anything other than a man, a pirate king guzzling his beer. The pirate caught him staring at him, and raised his bottle and gave him a red-scarf nod. Rusty was busy scanning his associates. “Organized crime,” he pronounced. Skip smiled at the thought. “Why do you think that?” he asked. “Well, you know what a gossip Slim is?” Skipped agreed. “He chatted a couple of them up as soon as they got here. You know Whitey’s obsession with our stupid names? You should get a load of theirs. Tito, Khan…” “That could be their names,” Skip pointed out. “One of them is named Knuckles. Knuckles! How much more mobster can you get?” “Which one’s Knuckles,” Skip asked. Rusty pointed to the largest guy on the deck, talking to a tall, slim black bartender, named—you guessed it—“Slim.” Knuckles had on a grey t-shirt with large yellowed pit stains, black jeans and a black leather vest. Slim was pestering Knuckles about something under his vest. Knuckles flapped it open. Even from the far end of the pool, the holstered snub nose .38 was easy to spot. Slim leaned back surprised, then tipped forward enticed, and ran his fingers down Knuckles’ breast bone. Tito and Khan chuckled at the pair’s open flirtation. Rusty returned to Skip with one ginger eyebrow raised. Skip swam down to the shallow end and raised himself out, flexing his triceps hoping the pirate would notice. He did. “Skippy,” Whitey shouted to the lad as he dripped on the deck. “Get your little tail over here and meet my compadre, Bernardo.” Skip strutted over, wiping himself with a beach towel, confidently brushing back his spikey hair. He greeted the man with an engaging smile, as Whitey made the introductions. “Bernardo de Sade, meet the best bartender in Paradise, Alistair von Ingerschleben.” Skip gave Whitey a congratulatory smile, impressed that Whitey knew how to spit out his whole name in full Germanic glory. “But y’all can call him Skippy.” Skip extended his hand, which was immediately engulfed by de Sade’s two large paws. He didn’t shake so much as grab. “What is Skippy? Is like jumping?” De Sade erupted at his joke. His bellicose laugh was a little disturbing. It wasn’t that funny, but Skip produced a grin nonetheless. Whitey was clearly nervous about something, Skip sensed. Whitey made like de Sade’s joke was the funniest thing. “Yes, Bernardo, Skippy hops to, runs the bar shipshape like the skipper of a ship, don’t you, Skipper?” “I guess I do, Whitey. I guess I do,” Skip replied, acting greatly complimented, puffing up his smooth chest. Whitey was a giggling fool, Skip thought, but smiled cordially nonetheless. Seeing that de Sade wasn’t letting go of his hand anytime soon, Skip doubled down and placed his other hand over the back of the man’s tight grip. Skip reckoned this was one of the bar’s major money men that Whitey was always fretting about. He knew how to make a good impression on wealthy men born into it himself. Skip’s smile never faltered, his eyes never shied away. The man slowly released his hands with a middle finger tracing Skip’s palm. De Sade’s cruise was hidden from view but blatant enough for Skip. The edges of Skip’s lips curled and he cruised de Sade right back with his shining golden eyes. Skip felt the come-on granted him some permission, so he drew up a chair between the men. “Señor de Sade, I take it you’re one of Whitey’s silent partners.” De Sade nibbled a flake on his chapped lip. It seemed there were things he preferred not to talk about, Skip realized. “I’d say I’m more involved with Mr. Johnson’s supply chain,” de Sade replied mysteriously and sipped his beer. The man’s wide-set eyes were penetrating and enticing, oozing hot-blooded sex as he sized Skip up. His mustache was finely trimmed, with a small soul patch beneath his lip, and sideburns shaved to fine points on his dark, sunken cheeks. Pitch black chest hair flowed from his neck directly to his broad fleshy pecs. Skip couldn’t help himself and gave a quick glance down and marveled at the dense pelt covering the man’s abdomen, and even more astonished by the amount of flesh buried in his khaki shorts. Down his right pant leg the outline of a big dick rose like a pipe; a bit of foreskin even peeked out against his hairy kneecap. When he glanced back up, Skip was met with the lewd, knowing smile of a confident, well-endowed, brazen buccaneer. As Skip checked out de Sade’s package, Whitey was subtly, desperately trying to signal Skip. He pinched his nose a few times, attempting to clue Skip into what supplies in the supply chain de Sade meant. Once Skip got it, Whitey gave the smallest of head shakes, telling Skip he shouldn’t pursue this particular supplier. Skip wasn’t so easily put off—actually he was more intrigued, if you really want to know. He himself dealt a bit of blow in the bar’s bathrooms from time to time, so felt simpatico to the pirate. “This your first time to Fire Island, Señor de Sade? I’d love to show you around,” Skip offered. “No. Many times I’ve been here. High tea, low tea, the meat rack—I feel much at home here.” The mention of the meat rack, a dune swept labyrinth for anonymous sex, made Skip see de Sade in a new light. “Usually I am Señor Johnson’s guest, isn’t that right, mi amigo,” he replied patting Whitey’s hand. Whitey withdrew his hand unconsciously, then put on a too broad smile to hide his discomfort. “But this time I drive a big boat. You’d like to see my big boat?” the man jested, knowing exactly what Skip wanted to see. He and Skip rose together. De Sade cocked his head to tell his men it was time to leave. He’d gotten what he came for. Whitey was not subtle in how happy he was to see them abruptly leave. By all means, Skip should see the boat, he told them, ushering them to the side gate. Knuckles led the pack, carrying a paper bag with de Sade’s monthly cut in it. Slim pouted his lower lip, disappointed in seeing Knuckles go. Tito and Khan followed Knuckles, with Skip and de Sade bringing up the rear. His henchmen grinned like goons, familiar with how their boss weaved a web around a new victim. Whitey wiped his brow and waved, while Rusty stewed jealously floating in the pool in his water wings. *** It started innocent enough. The yacht tour started with a quick, teasing tour of de Sade’s master cabin with its large bed covered in black rubber—Skip had to touch—then in the kitchen galley, on the way to the wheelhouse, de Sade pulled out a small brown bottle of coke. Would Skip like a hit? Skip would. Then topside in the wheelhouse, Khan, the yacht’s pilot, a slender, half-Mongolian, half-Peruvian guy with a wispy brown beard and long, stringy ‘stache, asked Skip if he would like to skipper the boat into the bay? Skip would. Purring west in the Great South Bay, Tito came up and said de Sade wanted to know if Skip was up for a couple more lines and some Tequila? Skip was. Until they passed under the Robert Moses Causeway and were out to sea, Skip had no reason to worry. I mean, if things got too sketchy he’d just jump off the boat and swim to shore, right? That would be a major pain in the ass getting back to The Pines, but he wasn’t going to be kidnapped, for Christ’s sake. The truth was it was turning into a totally awesome, coked-up afternoon with some hot and sketchy characters. He couldn’t wait to tell the other bartenders about it. Tito turned out to be this outrageously clownish guy. Hyperactive, great at voices and imitations. At first he thought Tito had a mole near his left eye but it turned out to be a tear tattoo, which freaked him at first, but after a few lines and a couple shots of Tequila, Tito was this natural prankster, making fun of Knuckles’ Neanderthal stance and calling de Sade “Gomez Addams’ dirty, hippy cousin.” Skip thought that was hilarious. “Very, very dirty cousin, aren’t you, Capo?” Tito said, insinuatingly, running his hand down his boss’ chest. Skip was in hysterics and kinda turned on. Knuckles, for his part, wasn’t as he first seemed. More a big teddy bear when you got down to it. Skip realized that Knuckles stooped over, knuckles almost dragging, because he tried to hide how absolutely monstrously tall he was when he stood straight. Also the galley ceiling was really low, so he had to extra hunch over in the space, and Tito took full advantage of the fact. Scratching his armpit, making monkey sounds. And de Sade? Well, de Sade was sexier with every line they passed around. Still intense in every way, especially in the forceful way he laughed, slapping the table, knocking the back of Tito’s head, throwing his head back with a full belly laugh that ricocheted almost painfully off the white plastic ceiling. De Sade treated him like crew from the moment he stepped aboard, slapped him on the back, clipped his chin slowly with his fist for no reason, looked at him in the same possessively, fatherly way he looked at his crew. De Sade was very open, in fact, he was pretty provocative in his affectionate for his men. Yeah, he’d smack Tito’s head but he’d also lay a kiss on his head when he passed him, bringing back everyone cervezas from the mini-fridge, or pull on one of Knuckles sagging nipples after Knuckles slammed back his fifth Tequila shot. Skip wondered exactly how close they all were, if there were boundaries, if they had sex—it sure seemed that way. With his coke-fueled brain flying, he considered what it would be like to really be a part of this crew. What nerve it would take to drop out of school, screw his parents’ plans of him becoming a lawyer, and totally turn to the life of a real modern-day coked-out, sex-crazed pirate. How awesome would that be? Pretty awesome! Looking out the window, seeing land was quickly disappearing from the horizon, Skip mentioned to de Sade that he really should to get back soon, he had a public policy paper due on Monday, hadn’t even started it yet, hadn’t even picked a topic. The coke was making him ramble, watching the last of Fire Island becoming a thin brown line. Maybe he’d do Nixon’s trip to China or the release of the Iranian hostages, maybe arms for hostages that was lately in the news. De Sade reassured him they’d be back before sunset, and pushed a mirror with lines of white powder toward him. Skip bent over the galley table and snorted. He pinched his nose feeling the substance burn. “Oh, man, strong! Whew! Maybe I can I buy one of Briana’s old policy papers. She’s the sister of this guy I know. She bailed me out before, yeah, but then she’ll tell Rusty. Wait, was that coke?” he asked Tito who’d been chopping white powder out of new bag since they’d finished the last one a while ago. “No, amigo. This is much better. This is Miss Tina,” Tito said. “Más amoroso.” He wiggled his brows suggestively as he passed the mirror around. The four of them laughed, Skip just a little bit uneasy. Still, in this new light Tito did looked hotter than he did before. Was that from Tina? His gang tattoos on his neck, arms, and chest, were kinda sexy. His broad face, Skip noticed, had a slight gap between his two front teeth. Now that Tito was smiling all the time he couldn’t help but notice it. And when he glanced at Knuckles? Forget about it! As homely as they come, all acne scarred, tiny black eyes, overweight and sagging breasts. But Knuckles had to be packing a good, solid thirteen incher in his jeans. No doubt about that lump. There were things you could overlook, and there were things you can’t. “Más amoroso, huh?” Skip repeated. “I’m amped but kinda tingly all over. Is this how you’re supposed to feel?” De Sade and his boys smiled. “I always stick to coke, but I’ll have to remember this.” Skip got up to pace in the cramped galley. De Sade got with him. “You party, my friend?” he asked. Skip laughed a little too loud. “I thought that’s what we’re doing.” “Nah. If you want to really party with us,” de Sade said as a pointed invitation, “let’s introduce you to something I know you’re going to love.” Skip gave his a why not shrug of his shoulders. De Sade went down to the master cabin. Knuckles caught Skip as he paced and sat him back in the booth, pinning him between himself and Tito. “Beuno, sí? Do another. Twice as good,” said the big man. Skip sensed heat radiate off him, and felt Tito’s sexy perspiration sliding against his other arm. The room was hot and what might have been smelly body odor any other time was acting like an aphrodisiac. “Fuck, I am ready to crawl out of my skin as it is, Knuckles. I gotta lay off a bit.” De Sade heard what Skip said as he came back in and sat across from the three of them. “I have the perfect–cómo se dice—remedy. You won’t want to crawl out of your skin—you will shed it.” He laid a tourniquet and a syringe with a cloudy brown liquid on the table. Skip’s eyes widened. He looked at Knuckles and Tito who displayed big smiles. “Uh, not big into needles, guys,” Skip said trying to sound cool but resolute. Tito put a hand on Skip’s back and rubbed his shoulder to get him to relax. Knuckles too started kneading Skip’s shoulder. “What is that?” Skip asked uneasy, feeling the room closing in on him. Under the table Tito rubbed his cock through his swimsuit. For a brief moment he was conflicted. Yes, he want to be with these guys, but didn’t want to get into the whole shooting up junky thing. He just couldn’t see his life going that way. De Sade held the syringe up to the swaying overhead light. He tapped the vial dislodging tiny air bubbles and squirted out the thinnest stream of liquid out the end. “Most people mix heroin with coke to make a speedball. But coke fades long before the heroin does. Meth last much longer and is muy amoroso, right Tito?” de Sade asked. Tito nodded in agreement. Skip searched de Sade’s face. What was unnerving was that he was still being friendly, like a dad trying to get his kid to get into the ocean, or to take his first swig of alcohol. “Ah, yeah, guys, I’m gonna take a rain check on this. So maybe we get the boat turned around, like, now?” Tito moved his head close to Skip’s. “I know, man, it looks scary, but trust me. One stick, Chico, and pow,” he said, eyes wide and crazy, “heaven spreads its legs for you.” “Put out your arm,” de Sade firmly. Skip started to struggle, then realizing Tito and Knuckles weren’t going to let him out, made a violent attempt to climb out of the booth…and then what? Jump off the yacht and swim back to a shore that wasn’t even there anymore? Fuck yes, but Knuckles and Tito had him locked in. Skip no longer had a plan, he only had instincts. He fought until Knuckles pushed him back into the booth so he couldn’t move. Tito wrapped the tourniquet tightly around his bicep and a few small blue veins revealed themselves on his forearm. Knuckles held his wrist firmly against the table. “Don’t be like this,” de Sade said. “We want you to be one of us. And your veins are very small, it’s hard enough without you fighting. You’ll make me miss,” warned de Sade. Skip gave one last burst to get free but Knuckles and Tito leveraged their full weight against him, which didn’t allow any more movement. Skip braced himself and felt the needle prick his skin. His blood combined momentarily with the vial’s mixture before de Sade began pushing the speedball into his system. “Mierda,” de Sade grumbled. He held up the needle, displaying a full vial of reddish-brown liquid. “Your vein rolled, Chico.” He set the syringe on the table. “I really would like you to be with us, but I need you to cooperate. Knuckles let him go. If he doesn’t want, okay.” Knuckles release his grip. Skip still felt Tito playing with the lump rising in his bathing suit. “Your choice, Skippy. Lay out your other arm if you want this and be with us.” A funny thing was happening to him. Just the small amount that pricked his skin and got it into his bloodstream was making him feel extremely good and more than a tad bit horney. Maybe de Sade planned this. If he did it was a good plan. Skip took a deep breath, and then laid his arm on the table. “Yes!” Tito exclaimed, and undid the tourniquet and handed it to Knuckles. Knuckles bound Skip’s other bicep, and de Sade instructed him to make a fist. De Sade looked into Skip’s eyes smiling like an approving father. “Ah, look. Here is the one I’m going to hit,” de Sade said, tracing a vein on the inside of Skip’s arm. Even that small about of tactile contact made Skip feel good. What would the whole amount do, he wondered? “Ready?” Skip nodded. “Stick,” de Sade said. The needle registered fresh blood, and the full speedball went into Skip’s system. *** It’s been said a speedball’s rush is like a handjob from God. In Skip’s cases it was a handjob from Tito. Skip repeated fuck, over and over, hoping the intensity of the rush wasn’t going to keep getting more intense. But that’s exactly what happened, like someone continuously polishing your nob after you’ve cum, pleasure not meant for mere mortals. The meth rush hit first. He fell fast from it, a massive surge of elation jammed into the first few seconds, then ten, sixty…this wasn’t stopping. His stomach almost puked sensing the speed of this unending elation, he couldn’t take one more second of it, but then the hammock of heroin caught him, rocked him, bounced him, swirled him in slow motion, sending his brain out in every direction. His head fell forward. He gripped the table with both hands thinking that would stabilize him. But nothing was stable. Everything was in motion. He saw de Sade crawl over the table toward him and give him a strong, forceful kiss. He stuck his tongue right back as forcefully as he received. De Sade pulled back only an inch to admire Skip’s dilated pupils, the iris so thin, like the corona of a sun in eclipse. “You love it,” he whispered, “don’t you, papi?” “Ah, fuck, yesssss. Fuck. Fuck me. Fuuuck.” The meth made him want to get up but the impulse was countered by the heroin, and he lolled in a no-man’s land of pure bliss, hovering in his body, suspended in a feeling he was floating in a warm bath, wrapped in a cocoon of pleasure, orgasming directly in the grip of God. “Ah, fuck, what is this?” he said dazed, unmoored. This had no relation to his previous life. This was like trying to explain colors to the blind. He looked around this table of men. You have these concepts—bath, floating, orgasm, God, men—but to the uninitiated they remain concepts. Who knew what was inside these words? He now was inside them, felt it all, was it all, was the orgasm, inside the finger, was God. There was no separation between him and the men at the table anymore. He was captive of the rush, which wasn’t going anywhere. Like de Sade’s first grip on him, it wasn’t letting go of him anytime soon. Tito and Knuckles rousted him out of the booth, carrying him, one arm draped over each of their broad shoulders, taking him down, step by enormous step, down to the master cabin. In the master cabin Tito face was now in front of his. Tito held his head, stuck his tongue in his mouth. Ever since the drug hit, Skip felt a moment behind each motion he went through. The delay allowed for something however, a new lack of inhibition, a leaving behind his former self. The snake skin de Sade had promised. Thinking trailed far behind him, desire had free reign. He made out with Tito like a drunken sailor, slobbering, flopping onto his naked chest, pinching his tits, grabbing his crotch, groping his growing pecker through his shorts. Tito laughed at Skip’s wanton intensity, and ripped the kid’s swimsuit off, letting him weaved naked in front of them, holding out an arm for balance or to try to touch Tito again. Between the motion of the ship and his imbalance, he had to be propped up. Knuckles scooped him up like a bride, and laid him on the rubber bed, but not before Skip pulled himself close enough to Knuckles' face and stick his tongue down the large man’s throat. Knuckles was at first surprise, then aroused, then responded forcefully pushing Skip’s face back on the bed with his open mouth. Knuckles looked at the kid, wiped his face, was smitten. No one had ever kissed him like that, especially someone so beautiful. “You like this feeling, Chico?” de Sade asked. Skip nodded his head slowly as he reach up to kiss de Sade again. De Sade push him back. “Papi Chulo is what I’ll be for you this week. You want for nothing.” Skip ran his hands over his own torso. Felt his burning chest, his heart beating wildly under his breast bone, heard de Sade voice like it was underwater. “I make you feel this way from now on, día y noche.” Skip tried to speak but de Sade put his mouth around his erect pole, slid down, down to the root, so just a gasp of air aspirated out. De Sade then stripped as did his men. All were rigid, dripping, ready to take turns fucking the new crew member. There was nothing Skip wouldn’t do in his present state, nothing too debauched. Tito put a leg up on the bed so that his hairy asshole was available for Skip to chew on. A hairy cave was Tito cavern, full of smells of hell’s pit from which Skip greedily ate. The boy spat into it and mixed his saliva with the crust that engulfed Tito’s crack. Knuckles took up where de Sade had left off, and sucked Skip’s tool, while de Sade raised the kid’s legs to eat out his hole. Knuckles rested his head and rubbed Skip’s chest and belly. De Sade’s tongue drilled into Skip’s hole sending waves of fire through Skip’s body. De Sade reach up and started stroking Tito’s dripping cock. Four men became a new creature, a slowly careening, ricocheting embodiment of lust. “How you like partying with us now, papi?” Skip had no words, just nodded deep within Tito’s crack. He felt one long finger drill deep into his hole. It scanned around, greasing his rectum. Then he felt another thicker finger enter him. They worked at first in concert, going in and out alternately. They then joined together and started stretching him, north and south, east and west. Another long finger joined in, then another fat finger. Again, the four fingers stretched his sphincter in all directions. It felt like he’d entered heaven, until two more fingers, one thick, one thin, united with the first four. Now six fingers were filling his hole, pushing in thick viscus lube, pushing it deep into his guts. Of course he’d been fingered before, also fucked, but this was stretching him much wider. The girth of six fingers felt like the width of largest cock that had ever penetrated him. He couldn’t remember whose cock that had been. That was in a time that no longer existed. Only now is what he felt. He barely remember who he was? Skip? Alastair? It didn’t matter, all that mattered was that two more fingers were fusing into his hole. Eight fingers pulled and prodded, ripping his hole open in the most sensual way. He couldn’t resist. Four thick finger came out and the other four went deep inside. A sensation like no other he’d ever felt, a hand it was that went into his body, his rectum accepted it without question, his sphincter clamped on the hairy wrist, which pushed the hand inside another inch. It was impossible. A man’s hand was inside him. It sat there Immobile, massive, the queerest sensation of fullness, pleasurable, yes, uncomfortable, yes, intensely gratifying. What more than yes? And then fingertips moved. “Oh, fuck, daddy,” he cried. “Yes,” he panted. Tito moved his leg over Skip’s torso so he could sit squarely on his face. Skip laid blind within Tito’s hairy, musky butt, and he gratefully ate Tito out, while Tito wanked himself watching de Sade hand push into Skip’s hole. Knuckles laid on his side greasing de Sade’s forearm. Skip had diminished senses operating. The taste and smell of Tito’s rancid butt were two. But Tito’s muscular ass masked Skip’s sight and muffled sound. That left touch. And touch was overpowering everything else. These fingers teased within. He didn’t know what was happening, couldn’t tell if they were going in deeper or being pulled out. When he felt a vast emptiness he knew the hand had been withdrawn, but then a few thicker fingers slid inside. Colder and slipperier lube accompanied these new fleshy fingers. He felt a large hand with insanely large knuckles ripping at his hole. Just part of the hand was fitting inside but was insisting on full penetration. Pain started registering and he started crying out. Tito got off his face, and broke something under his nose. He’d done popper before but this was different, stronger, hit him hard, made him bare down and want those knuckles inside. The hand came out and more lube poured into his open hole. He felt the cold slop turn warm inside him, and the knuckled hand went back in as another snap cracked under his nose. “Take it, papi,” de Sade whispered in the dark, swaying cabin. “Want it.” He wanted, desired, couldn’t live without this hand inside him. Knuckles broke through. Not many could take his fist. He felt the connection that most of the other crew felt all the time with each other. It was rare for him to penetrate and he wasn’t going to waste it. He pulled out almost all the way, stretching Skip’s ass to its widest point, then went back in where he had just been, resting until he felt Skip relax. He slowly twisted his hand, which elicited deep moans from the most beautiful boy he’d ever been with. His cock dripped in his desire for the boy. De Sade bent down and slowly sucked Knuckles' gargantuan member like he done many times before. It sent a passionate frenzy through Knuckles' body and he slowly began pumping his hand into and out of Skip. Skip was in a delirium of mixed sexual agony and ecstasy. Truth be told, he didn’t know what he was feeling, had never felt anything like this in his life, so had nothing to compare it to, he just knew he wanted more. He gave up his body completely, letting Knuckles explore his interior, encouraged him with amorous moans, affirmed the pleasure Knuckles provided, felt Knuckles’ body up with gratitude. With Tito off him he could see Knuckles in the shadows, carefully and lustfully driving his large hand deep and stretching him out. De Sade added two fingers to Knuckles large wrist and rode them along the large man’s forearm as he went back in. Added a third digit on the next thrust of his arm. Skip groaned but not in protest. It was a groan like he’d never made before, surrendering, pleading, begging for more. De Sade added a fourth, and held it in place until Knuckles pulled out completely, causing Skip to yelp, and immediately replaced Knuckles' huge hand with his clenched fist. It went in with little resistance. Skip watch Tito start stroking his cock. The eroticism of simultaneously feeling his insides being stretched in unimaginable ways, while he was getting jerked off by this beautiful criminal, he couldn’t figure out what he’d done to deserve this. He started bucking on de Sade’s arm and into Tito’s fist. De Sade encouraged him. “Sí, papi, let it go. Fuck yourself on my arm. Let Tito get you off,” he said. Skip raised his knees up and slowly pulling himself off de Sade stationary arm before using his weight to slide back down, feeling each single black hair on de Sade’s forearm slide into him, satisfying his fevered hunger. Repeatedly he rose and fell. “Ah, good boy, sí. Show us how a puta likes to take it.” Tito broke another capsule under Skip’s nose and Skip increased his rhythm and flailed on de Sade’s arm in greedy abandon. He couldn’t get enough of the sensation, the expansion in his bowels that unnerved him and unveiled his inner pig. “Fuck, yeah, daddy. Fist that hole, give me a crater, wreck it, fuck yeah, destroy that hole,” he shouted. “Hold him,” de Sade said. Tito took one leg and Knuckles the other. “Sí, I will.” Skip laid back on the rubber sheets and scanned the faces of Knuckles and Tito. He was puzzled why they looked so concern. De Sade put the nozzle of the lube bottle inside his hole and squeezed an insane amount till it oozed out. He slid one hand inside and added two fingers from his other hand along his wrist, pushed in, then pulled out. De Sade slid in his other hand into to the gaping hole adding four fingers of his other hand. He pushed in deep and held it there. He pulled out and slid his first hand back inside, rose on his haunches, and pushed his immense dark, eel of a dick inside, slithering his cock along his arm until his head crowned into his palm deep inside Skip’s bowels. De Sade started playing with his uncut meat, squeezing his foreskin over his glans like he enjoyed when he was jerking himself off solo. Well, he was jerking off, it was all just surrounded by the boy’s colon. It didn’t take him long. Tito cracked some amyl under de Sade’s nostrils and then shared a second with Skip. That got Skip to start humping de Sade’s fist and cock ferociously, which, in turn, excited de Sade. De Sade increased the rapidity and depth of his strokes, until, seeing Skip’s silent, distorted face, he convulsed, shooting multiple times, pumping his fist deep in Skip’s hole each time he shot another wad. Skip’s body absorbed the shocks, each time howling, unable to make sense of what was happening to him. Tito stroked his cock furiously on the last of de Sade seizures, and the kid, in delirium, shot across the room, white webs of cum clinging to the headboard. After de Sade wiped sweat from his eyes, he needed to piss. Having the boy still attached made him a perfect receptacle. He waited until he had a steady flow, then played with his piss stream, pinching his slit, then letting it burst with a fierce gush. Skip definitely felt pin prickly gushes in his gut—a burning hot sensation along his colon walls—and since it was all chem piss, it absorbed directly into his system. He got higher, if that was still possible, hornier, more deviant. But to be real for a minute, with the more potent chemicals rapidly filling his body, his consciousness was starting to fade. There are diminishing returns with too much of a good thing, and Skip was reaching that limit, but not before de Sade slithered out his dick and tried inserting a second fist. The effects of chem piss brought out a manic desperation. Skip tried, determined to take de Sade’s second fist. He bore down, pushed, strained, with de Sade assisting, applying pressure on his end. De Sade withdrew both fists, and reinserted the first fist going deep. He then eased in the second hand gliding down the inserted wrist, but was held in check by the flesh above his thumb. Tito snapped one last capsule and Skip inhaled deeply. His ass relaxed with his desire at its peak. Two fist were inside Skip. A feeling of massive fullness, even a sense of utter completion, he look up at de Sade knowing what was inside him, which spread a smile across his face. Tito and Knuckles would take turns after de Sade was finished. The next morning Khan would have his chance and the cycle would begin again. Seven days would pass by the time the yacht anchored in Veracruz, his hole completely broken, ready for his new life. Skip never became fully consciousness again. Once they reached their destination, de Sade held an auction and Skip was sold to the highest bidder. His new owner kept him permanently drugged, selling him nightly as the fuck junky he was now destined to be. “Roll credits. Flash disclaimer. The end,” said Manetti. *** “What?! No-no-no-no-no.” Tobias cried out appalled. “Michael, that’s your ending? What is wrong with you? That is completely unacceptable.” Tobias was ticked. Mitchel looked over at the two mortician’s who wore sinister sneers on their faces. Drax was, as always, inscrutable. Only Jamal blinked in confusion at Manetti’s ending. “Well, how would you end it?” Manetti asked Tobias, having just spent the last half hour improvising his ass off, trying to spin a tale of how Drax could buy a boat and make a porn film on it, dreaming up what kind of porn film it could be. Yeah, that’s his story! He was out on the island to buy Drax a boat. That’s why he didn’t come back to the apartment last night. He, of course, would have first gotten Drax’s okay, naturally, it was his money after all. Manetti was just being an entrepreneur. He’d been scouting out possibilities, locations. Yeah, Skippy and the Pirate—just a concept, he stressed—was the type of film Drax could shoot. “Okay,” Manetti capitulated to Tobias, “maybe not sell Skippy as a sex slave if that bothers you.” Roger suggested that Skippy in the House of Whores, might be an interesting sequel. Boris chortled at that. “I feel betrayed!” Tobias was unrelenting. “What a sick, twisted little mind you have, Michael Manetti. You don’t do that to the main character. Not if you cared…” “Tobias, stop,” Boris interrupted the man’s rant. “Mother, get her smelling salts. She’s about to faint. Tobias, bubbe. When was the last time you actually cared about a character in a porn film? I’ll tell you when. Never. The kind of collections I have at home?” He held up a wagging finger. “Not one redeemable character. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’ll tell you one thing: I don’t watch porn for plots. Climaxes yes, plots no.” “In our line of work,” Roger injected, “it’s actually refreshing to see someone get used by scores of men for no particular reason. It counteracts the savagery that comes to us regularly from the city’s morgue.” Both morticians nodded gravely. “You can’t begin to imagine the real horror people inflict on each other.” That actually got an eyebrow raise from Drax. Tobias still had a fisheye trained on Manetti. “What?” Manetti barked. It was Manetti’s turn to feign hurt. (Secretly he felt relieved his story caused so much vexation. Perhaps it was enough to distract Drax and ward off suspicion—that he’d cooked up a story convincing enough, that buying Drax a boat for a porn shoot was potentially plausible. It could happen, he reasoned.) “It’s just a stupid story, Tobias, enough to get you from one fuck scene to the next.” “But just look at Chris,” Tobias said pointing to the boy. They all looked at Chris whose dick was so hard it was purple. “You’ve totally corrupted him with your lurid tales. And the only character that might have any redeeming quality you heartlessly sell as a junky for life. Unconscionable.” Manetti saw the kid was definitely in a state. “You know I’m just pulling shit out of my ass, don’t ya kid?” Admittedly he was a little shock the kid sported such a big hardon from a pretty tawdry story. “I thought the pirate was going to make him part of his crew,” Chris said almost wounded. Regarding Manetti through his thick coke-bottle glasses, Mitchel agreed, “Yes, Michael, that would make a better ending. If you’ll allow me to get a little Freudian, dear, a bit of your subconscious is showing.” Manetti quickly looked away. “If Skippy is Chris, and the pirate is a stand-in for you, I think your ending betrays a conflicted moral compass. Do you want to corrupt or are you seeking to redeem?” Manetti refused to meet his gaze. “I’m Skippy?” Chris asked startled. “Okay, okay. The pirate makes Skippy part of the crew, in fact, he made him his cabin boy. Satisfied?” Manetti said exasperatedly. “No, Chris, you’re not Skippy. Mitchel’s the one now pulling shit out of his ass.” Roger turned to Boris. “Mmm, the pirate and the cabin boy. Very Treasure Island.” “Treasure Island equals awesome,” Chris squeeled to the morticians, “Mike, you’d be a great Long John Silver.” “I’d say,” mumbled Roger. Tobias just shook his head in dismay. “I know it only two o’clock but I’m parched. Anyone else care for a cocktail,” Tobias asked the room. “Sweetheart?” he asked Mitchel. “School night, Pumpkin. We need to get back. I have papers to grade.” Mitchel spotted Crusher wheeling his suitcase through the courtyard. “A short one,” Boris said, looking at Roger. “Make it two, but if you have any plastic cups from the party, let’s use those. We need to be going.” Tobias swept out of the room. “So,” Mitchel said, getting off the couch, passing Drax with a wary eye. He unlocked the sliding door, and instantly a cool Atlantic breeze floated in. “Alastair von Ingerschleben. Where did that come from?” he asked Manetti in passing. “Crusher, bring me the franchise papers to look over this week,” he yelled. “Will do. Thanks Mitch. Great party. Kisses to the Misses,” called Crusher, wheeling his suitcase over the coy pond bridge. Mitchel didn’t like Drax in his house, but he was amused by Michael’s improvised story. The cool breeze brought a briny smell of the sea with it. Wallace rose, his tail wagging, sniffing the salty air. “Alastair Inge was this snooty kid on my high school wrestling team,” Manetti said, shrugging his shoulders. “Never liked him.” “Although apparently you remember many details about him,” Mitchel teased. He sat back on the couch and lit a lilac scented candle on the coffee table. The closed room, or perhaps it was Drax’s mere presence, left an unpleasant, lingering odor. Manetti wasn’t sure how or if Drax was buying any of this, so he tested the waters. “So you see, Master Drax, I was telling these guy you wanted to buy a boat to make an outdoor porn film.” “And why on earth would I ever want to do that,” Drax laughed. He got up waving the candle scent away from him, and roamed around the room. He examined objects on the display case—a fine china vase, a few first edition books—finally landing his hand on top of Chris’ blond head. “How was your night, Christian? Did you and Michael have fun at the party?” “Yes, we did, Master Drax,” Chris said. “There were all these fireflies, but they should really be called fire-beetles, ‘cause they’re beetles and not flies at all. And they wiggle their butts to attract mates. And that’s what I did all night. I attracted lots of mates with my butt.” Drax chuckled. “I’m sure you did, child,” Drax said as he regarded Manetti. “The things he’s learned since he’s been with you, Michael. What clever, clever boys I have,” he snickered darkly. Drax’s mirthless laugh had a chilling effect on the room. Although Chris seemed oblivious, the morticians and Mitchel stiffened as they sat. Manetti guarded his emotions, still trying to assess where he stood with Drax. Drax said to Mitchel, with insipid friendliness, “We’ve been sitting here for so long listening to Michael’s tall tale of boats and pirates, we never got around to proper introductions. I don’t know these dapper gentlemen, but something about them tells me I should like to know them better. Would you be so kind, Professor, as to make the introductions?” Mitchel looked like he had something foul in his mouth, but he introduced Boris and Roger, nevertheless. Tobias came back with three gin and tonics for himself and his two guests in red plastic cups. “And who is this fine strapping lad?” Drax inquired after the Great Dane. He placed a hand on the dog’s face. The animal slapped his tail against the sliding glass window several times. “That’s our Wallace,” Roger admitted proudly. Boris fidgeted uncomfortably. Drax watched both men curiously. “Mr. Drax, can I offer you coffee, or a cocktail perhaps?” Tobias offered. “So kind of you, Mr. Glass, but no. I’m still trying to understand why Michael and Christian are out here and not back home in New York where they were supposed to be after…” “We had invited Michael,” Mitchel interrupted. “Our special guests of the night and he brought Chris along with him.” “Yes,” Tobias picked up from Mitchel, “for our Towel Party. You are familiar with our annual event, certainly.” “Most certainly. Legendary, I believe. I had hoped some of it was still going on. I had Jamal pack the camera just in case. You can imagine my disappointment that all the guests had departed. Still, maybe we can improvise something. It’s true, gentlemen. No one wants porn to have stories, especially stories with silly names, and pirates and boats. No, what we want is nameless men to simply fuck and be fucked, or fist, or jerk off, suck, pee, tie each other up, beat each other with whips, and do the most astonishing things to one another. To just come into a room, a room like this one, and show us something we want to see. Perhaps shock us by showing something we’ve always wanted to do, or, at the very least, wanted to witness. The only satisfying ending in porn, Michael, is a happy ending—someone or everyone needs to cum. That’s all one needs to get to the credits. Let me demonstrate.” Drax leaned over as an aside to the morticians, “Knowing our boy, this won’t take long.” The morticians snickered. “No plot, simply a naked boy with an erection, gentlemen. Observe. Christian?” he said, while pointing to Jamal to get the camera ready. “I wonder if you would show us what so many men have done to you lately. Maybe start by sitting on my fist. Just frame him, Jamal, and my hand. I’m sure, Christian, our guests would like a little entertainment. No plot, gentlemen. Just spectacle.” Jamal had the camera rolling. Christian rose fingering his butt, but Mitchel quickly stood up and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Our guests, Mister Drax, would not like a little entertainment. While our debauchery knows no bounds—we have, after all, our house filled with it last night—but let me point out first, I have no wish for our compound to be the setting for one of your little films. Second, I don’t appreciate a lecture on lechery. I grant you none of us knows the subject better than you, but spare us such a crass demonstration of licentiousness using this young boy simply to prove your capacity to corrupt. You, sir, are corruption—we’ve never had a doubt about that.” Mitchel looked at the two mortician’s who had been leaning in, ready for a show, but now looked despondent. “Sir,” Mitchel said to Drax, “during the time it takes us to escort our guests back to their boat, I would very much appreciate if you wrap up your business with Michael, quickly, and be gone before we get return. Chris, it was an honor and privilege to have you with us. Michael, please call me and we’ll have lunch. There are some outstanding issues that need to be resolved. Gentlemen, Wallace, Sweetheart, after you.” With that Mitchel opened the door for the disappointed mortician’s, their dog, and Tobias who had his hand lovingly over his heart. Tobias stopped at the sliding door and planted a kiss on his husband. Drax said nothing, showed no emotion, but his face was red with fury. “Of course, Professor. We shall be done momentarily, and will leave, all of us, and remove ourselves from your premises.” “Thank you. Mister Drax,” replied Mitchel. He slid the screen door behind him. “Jamal, put away the camera.” Drax was seething, but remained wooden. He stood next to the display case and with one finger pushed a blue and white porcelain vase off its shelf, which Manetti leapt to catch before it hit the floor. “It would be a pity if a candle fell and lit this rug and the entire complex on fire!” Drax shouted the last word, then immediately caught himself. “What do you think, Michael? Should I set things right now or at a more suitable hour?” Manetti pushed the vase back against the wall. “I think if you did anything Mitchel would sue the shit out of you, honestly, if there were even one singe on his carpet,” Manetti replied. “He doesn’t practice, but he’s still on the board of his old firm and well connected.” “He could sue, yes, possibly, unless some accident befell him,” Drax countered. “An ex-con, say, that still held a grudge, a student he flunked who sought revenge, even a random homeless derelict could accosted him on his way home from a late night class. A shiv on a darkened street…” “Alright, enough!” Manetti growled, the first time he ever stood up in all the years he’d known Drax. Drax gave Manetti an ice cold stare. Manetti knew he crossed a line, maybe his second for not coming back to the apartment last night. “Forget about it, Master Drax, let’s just leave. I have your money, and it’s even more than you thought.” He felt—he hoped—the news might deflect him. “How much more?” “Chris, go get it,” Manetti said. “It turns out Chris found two…” “Two hundred thousand dollars in the vent, Master Drax!” he exclaimed, jumping up as if he couldn’t contain himself. “I put the money in my gym bag like you told me to, and hid it before the party.” “Two hundred, you say?” Drax asked surprised. He forgot Mitchel’s rudeness for the moment. Between the money and watching the boy jump up and down so excitedly, pulling on his delightfully semi-erect penis, it put Drax in a better humor. “Go. Fetch it, child,” he said, waving his hand. He watched Chris scampered out the door, jump off the deck, and disappear underneath the cabana. Chris quickly located his green bag. He took out almost all the packets of wrapped hundred dollar bills, each packet ten thousand, and left twenty of them in the gym bag. He dug a big hole in the sand and pushed all the money he’d poached in it. He spied a big palm frond lying under the deck. He grabbed it and laid it over the one million eight hundred thousand dollars, and then pushed the sand back to bury the loot. He smiled seeing as how he now was the pirate with his own buried treasure. He took a stick and marked it with a big X. He scurried from under the cabana, ran over and promptly placed his gym bag with its two hundred grand into Drax’s outstretched hands. Drax couldn’t be more pleased. Nor could Manetti.

Thank you all for sticking with me. Yes, I wasn’t aware of some of the site's guideline. That’s on me. I like the site a lot and wouldn’t want to put it at risk. The installment was taken down and I thank @drscorpio for not killing the story and letting me re-edit it. It’s long and still needs to be tightened up, but it’ll follow the guidelines of the site. Thanks again for all who posted. I saw your messages but couldn’t say anything till now. That said, I hope you enjoy the next installment, which should be up soon.

Great phrase “sticky end” lol. Thanks for that @hotcoldgayslut I’ll see that they will....

Thank you ejaculaTe for taking the time to post! Your words definitely encourage me to keep going.

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

Midnight "C'mon! Up-ee!" Manetti came in the room clapping his hands, startling Chris. The room had a foul stench. Chris was sweating profusely, and had moistened the bedsheets with their dried butt juice from earlier that day. The kid was oblivious to the stink, awash in perpetual, carnal thoughts, though if you pressed him he couldn't tell you one of them. Manetti turned off the electro kit and started taking off all of Chris attachments. Manetti smacked his lips, his nostril flaring with powder. "Swear to Christ, you should be paying me for this first one. It's a twofer and you better not fuck up. Client wants his puppy to try Tina, so it has the potential to be interesting. Ah," Manetti said, pausing to admire the hour's growth of Chris' nipples, "Look at those sweet tits, man. Beautiful little eraser heads." Manetti twisted them. Chris looked down to see his nips were pretty hefty now. Nowhere near Manetti’s and far from Master Drax's, but much more plump than the tiny pimples he had before. Manetti pulled out the sound and butt plug without much protest from Chris. He untied the kid, and plunked him in the shower to wash some of the bed crud off. He needed to be, at the very least, presentable. Tricks could fuck him up as much they wanted, but let him at least start from a baseline of decency. They left their cabana amidst men walking around cruising each other and taking off to the shadows where portable slings had been set up. All around, under the throbbing disco music, moans of sex and the scent of reefer and poppers filled the night. Manetti led the way holding a prepared .3 rig in one hand and Chris' dog leash in the other. Both wore their white towels and masks as did everyone on the grounds. Manetti walked up to the cabana next to theirs, Chuck Brunswick's and Andy's, and knocked. Chris looked at all the men walking by. Some stared at him, licking their chops. He licked his chops hungrily back at them until Manetti yanked his leash. "Focus," Manetti said. In the garden shadows, Chris made out slings clanking in secluded walkways. Fireflies winked their little lights in the dark. *** Andy Hollister, in the bright California sunlight, had eyes that shined a luminescent aquamarine. No joke. What the TV star saw when he emerged from his trailer in Santa Monica, ready to film another boring expositional beach scene with his co-star, L.A. Police Chief Roy Ebbing, was Andy playing volleyball with the other day players. The extra, even from a distance had mesmerizing eyes. Dark brown hair, a sculpted brow, a wiry frame—the kid wasn’t tall, but he was excellent at spiking the ball from a running start. Chuck Brunswick couldn’t think of one beach he’d been to—Cyprus, Oaxaca, Zakynthos Island of Greece—that was of a clearer blue than the happy kid in the sand. Andy was assigned a background role of volleyball player that Stacks Lightning would pass on the boardwalk while milking Police Chief Ebbing for intel. Walk-and-talk scene were typically the most boring parts of the script to film—pure exposition. But that day, with a hot young twink consistently in his line of sight, each take they did gave the actor a pleasant distraction from the humdrum dialog. After the shoot, Brunswick got the front office to track down the extra and called in a favor from one of the executive producers. Andy was offered a Production Assistant’s job, which, to him, came out of the blue but he was eager to accept it. It paid little, but more than his waiter job, and the glamor of working on one of television most popular shows made him the envy of all his friends in the San Fernando Valley, especially his girlfriend who told everyone that Andy was starting to make it big in Hollywood. On set, Brunswick started hitting Andy up to fetch things: coffee, newspapers, cocaine (discretely from one of the prop guys). Their friendship, mentorship, whatever you want to call it, grew to where Brunswick had him running dialog with him between takes. One night they were filming a chase sequence at a refinery in El Segundo. The shoot ended about four in the morning and Brunswick was pretty wired from the fight sequences and the cocaine he’d been doing with Andy in his trailer. As the film company was breaking down their equipment, Brunswick mentioned he was concerned for Andy riding out to the valley so late. Why didn’t he follow him home and he could stay in the downstairs guest house. His one and only tenant had recently vacated and he could spend the night there, no problem. Andy enthusiastically agreed and follow him on his Kawasaki back to Brunswick's Malibu pad. The house was built on the cliffs with its pier foundation drilled deep into rocks below. The main overhanging house had a small studio apartment tucked underneath where Brunswick said he could crash. When they entered, day was breaking. From the hallway Andy could see another bright, azure sky unfolding over the Pacific. He’d seen sunrises, of course, but never anything so amazing where blue ocean folded into blue sky. Brunswick, looking into Andy’s eyes, felt the same amazement. He took the boy’s face in his hands and spontaneously kissed him. “Whoa. Dude!” Andy said, jumping back, but it wasn’t entirely unwelcome or unexpected. With each step of their increasing intimacy, Andy had gotten closer and more in tune with the actor’s unspoken needs. First minor incidental touches, a pat on the back, say, might be replaced with a tap on his butt; Brunswick coming out of the shower to run lines with him, the star would linger spending an inordinate amount of time naked, fluffing up his package, drying himself off. Once, running lines with him next to the catering truck on the studio backlot, Brunswick got up to a part in the script where he was supposed to kiss this week’s babe. As he got to that part, he reached out, putting a hand on Andy’s face and said, “This is where I kiss you.” Andy had never forgotten that confusing moment because right on the heels of that, Brunswick’s blond-haired teenage son and his ex-wife came on set and went off to his trailer to sign some papers. “Fuckin’ look at your eyes, man,” Brunswick said to him at the beach house that early morning. Andy, rather than backing off and playing coy, came forward and pressed his face against that famous mustache. He moved in that week, broke off with his girlfriend, and never left Brunswick’s side. Or a better way to say it is that Brunswick never let him leave his side. Once Andy moved in, in small and subtle ways, Brunswick started to narrow his exposure with anyone else. His valley friends weren’t to visit the house. “They’re black holes that only want to be your friends so they can hang out in Malibu.” Andy disagreed but not fervently enough to actually invite any of his friend over. One by one, friends, even family, contacted him less and less. The studio apartment downstairs where he ostensible lived was rarely used, only when studio executives came over for a dinner meeting would Andy be required to remain downstairs until they left. Brunswick nonchalantly suggested clothing Andy might wear, taking him eventually into Beverly Hills, picking out all his outfits. He adopted this dapper wardrobe, a sweater tied round his Lacoste shirt, as his new style. From happy, grungy valley kid to serious, snappy preppy boy in less than a year. The second year they lived together, Brunswick had him quit his job as a PA, persuading him he’d be more content to stay home and enjoy the solitary beach, cook meals, clean, and wait for him every evening for his return. Andy was his servant, secretary, and—to Andy, anyway—his lover. He dressed in a manner that pleased Brunswick; taking on the interests the actor had, the conservative politics the actor espoused. He came round to enjoying the finer things Brunswick exposed him to. When the actor was on hiatus, they traveled to Paris, Bangkok, Rio, took meals at the finest London restaurants, stayed at the best Mediterranean villas. He was introduced to famous and, sometimes, infamous acquaintances, artists, politicians, shady characters that had “boys” of their own. It was on a flight to New York with a connecting seaplane after that, that brought Andy face to face with a naked Chris Prior standing in front of him, and a man he’d met that day called Manetti, a pretty sketchy character if you wanted to know the truth, who was running a hand down the skinny blond kid’s torso, fluffing up his dick, displaying him like he was some county fair animal, like a slab of prime meat brought over as a main course by a swarthy Italian waiter. "One hundred to fuck him. Two to fist," Manetti informed Brunswick. "Same price for two of us, right?" Brunswick inquired. Manetti nodded. "Does he top or only bottom?" "Dunno," Manetti said honestly perplexed. “It’s never come up. Can you fuck, boy?" "Fuck who?" Chris asked, only semi-aware he was on display, naked in front of Chuck and Andy, both draped in their towels while he was not. "You’d fuck Andy, of course," Brunswick said. "And you're neg, right?" "Yes, Sir, sir. Practically a virgin," replied Chris, giving Andy a lascivious examination. Andy thought that this didn’t seem like the same kid running around the pool a couple of hours ago. The kid in front of him now was as crude as Manetti. He also noticed the blond was getting a pretty big hardon. "And I’ll admin to your boy, too," Manetti added, "no charge except for product. Point three is my reco. It’ll pack a pretty good wallop for a first timer." "Alright," Brunswick said, reaching for his wallet and pulling out several bills and handing them to Manetti. Andy looked alarmed. “Wait, what’s this admin stuff?” “You know how we’ve been trying to get you into fisting?” Brunswick began in his persuasive tone. Andy looked at Manetti quickly. “Well, this should open you up. It’s Tina and you inject it. You trust me, don’t you, son?” “I don’t know, Chuck,” Andy said looking at the ominous needle in Manetti’s hand. “Can’t I just snort it like we do coke? “Much better to have it injected, Chief,” Manetti advised. “Trust me, you’ll love it.” That was enough for Andy to sour on the whole deal. He didn’t like Manetti. Certainly would never trust him. “Aw, c’mere Raggedy Andy,” Chuck said, pulling Andy in close, stroking his bicep and chest. Andy went limp in his arm like he always did. “Remember our first night after you got your implants?" Manetti asked quizzically. "Implants?" "Yeah, how do you think my boy got so buff? No gym membership needed," Brunswick replied. He ran his hand lavishly over the boy’s expensive biceps, the sculpted deltoids and yoked traps. “Baby, you remember how good the painkillers were the doctor proscribed? How I almost got all my fingers inside you? Well, this will be a hundred times better than that.” Chris chimed in, “Yeah, you'll feel, like, so great and you get this big rush, bigger than when you take a hit of coke. It’s a million times more better.” Andy stared at Chris’ growing erection and started to feel his own dick start to rise. “Okay, but you’re staying here the whole time, Chuck, right?” He definitely did not want to be alone with this thug Manetti with his prominent biohazard belly tattoo. “The whole time, buddy. The whole time,” Chuck reassured him. “Why don’t I hold you, while Manetti injects you? I’ll hold you, son, if you like.” Andy nodded, still nervous. Brunswick got situated at the headboard and pulled Andy in between his legs, put one arm on a shoulder and started massaging him, his other hand traveled over Andy's downy chest. Manetti sat next to Andy, propped a pillow under his arm, and told him to make a fist. Andy followed his instruction, and Manetti went in search of a vein. Chris sat at the edge of the bed and witnessed each detail. His hardon said how hot he was for this young man, admiring the short dark hairs that were just starting to cover his sculpted chest, the tufts of black hair tucked under his carved arms. “I can see you’re scared,” Manetti said, “I’ll just do half. You tell me if you want it all. Sound good?” Andy like the idea and nodded. His white skin displayed many prominent blue vein possibilities. “Let's do this one, Chief,” he said poking a ridge on his forearm. “Ready?” Andy’s face said he wasn’t but Manetti went on anyway. “Okay think of a nice place you really like.” Andy thought of that first night at Chuck’s, looking out the window watching the day break, seeing fins, dolphin fins in the distance. Manetti stuck him and pulled back the plunger and Andy’s red blood swirled mixing with the crystal meth. Or could they have been shark fins? “Here we go,” Manetti said slowly pushing half the vial contents into him. Andy felt an increasing warm bath of joy. How wonderful his life was, how sexually strong his feeling was about Chuck, how good it was that Chuck guided him, protected him, even controlled him a little. Just this much of crystal was perfect. He held up a hand to Manetti saying as much. “Do the rest of it,” Chuck said coolly to Manetti. “Wait,” Andy said. Manetti smirked and emptied the remaining meth. Andy sucked in a breath through teeth-gritted. His eyes spun. He went from a smile to a grimace, back to a smile, then he lost all cognizance of where he was. “See,” said Brunswick, “you love it don’t you, baby? Daddy know best, doesn’t he?” “Ah, fuck, daddy,” stammered Andy, remembering Chuck was there, holding him. “Fuck, this is so good. Ah, fuck, fuck.” Chris put his hand under Andy’s towel and started stroking his small penis. Brunswick undraped Andy and told Chris to suck him. Chris did, with pleasure. Andy moaned on the bed wanting to get up, but Brunswick held him back. Unable to move, simply taking in all the sensation of his first major Tina rush, he ran his hands over Chris’ blond mop, humping his mouth. Brunswick toyed with Andy’s nipples, played with the boy like he was a life-size doll. Picked up his long, thin hand and sucked his fingers, bent over and put his tongue in his ear. "You like what daddy gives you? A cute, little teddy bear to suck your pretty little dick, a big bad wolf to shoot you up, and daddy who's finally going to get his big paw inside you tonight." "Fuck," said Andy barely aware of what Brunswick was saying, keenly aware of how good he felt, how good a cocksucker was deep-throating him, getting his pubes so wet and warm. Who was slipping a thin, wet finger across his silky crack? Who slid a finger against his velvety hole? Who wiggled its way inside? Andy wanted to slide down on this finger, and Brunswick released him. He slid down and wormed his way onto the finger that prodded against him. "Fuck," he cried as the finger passed inside him. As the drug pulsed through his body, lust encouraged him to push down on the finger so it would go in deeper. "Yeah, that's it baby. Let the whore finger fuck you." Chris continued playing with Andy's hole. Pushing in deeper, taking his finger out, licking two, tasting Andy's musky juice, slipping the two wet fingers back into his hole, twisting them slowly. He ran his tongue up the shaft, felt the treasure trail of black hairs that left his dark bush and swirled up to his belly. Chris kept going till his hands reached the few hairs that speckled Andy’s breast bone between his pec implants. Watching Chris work on Andy got Manetti aroused. His job done he pulled into the room's shadows and observed. Chris was getting the fucked up kid to squirm, adding in an occasional nasty sounding, yeah, fuck yourself on my fingers, yeah, that's it, let yourself enjoy it. Brunswick was also enjoy it, playing with himself, taking a swig of absinthe from the nightstand, putting it back, reaching forward and playing with Chris' nice eraser head nips. "Alright. Up on your knees boys. Stick your dick in Andy, boy." Andy slowly crawled onto all fours, with Chris sliding between his legs. Manetti came out of the shadows to hand Chris some lube. Chris covered his erection with thick, viscous grease and spread a little over Andy's hole. He rubbed his dick up and down Andy's crack. "You want this cock? Tell me you want it." "I want it. I want your cock," Andy responded breathlessly. "Good." He pushed Andy's shoulders down so his head was on the bed, then started pushing his cockhead into him. Andy sucked in air when Chris’ purple head first popped in. Chris pulled out a little then pushed back again. "That's it, take it in." Behind him, Chris felt Brunswick's large paw press him onto Andy's body. Chris fell on top of Andy's back and Brunswick spread his legs and pushed his cock into Chris' accepting hole. Chris was a lot looser than Andy and Brunswick quickly slid up to his root, hairy dark pubes rubbing against the boy’s hairless hole. A big beer can dick Brunswick had. Not long but meaty and thick. Chris jabbed Andy fiercely, and just as fiercely pushed his ass back on Brunswick. The three of them found a rhythm they could sustain. Andy stayed passive, letting Chris fuck him hard, emitting small cries of satisfaction with each slam. Chris reached around and jacked Andy's pecker till it got stiff. The young man’s pubes were like silk, and his felt him up, all that pubic hair he was denied. He squeezed and pulled on Andy’s balls, which Andy protested at first but then started enjoying it. Chris’ own balls swung in their heavy metal sleeve, smacking into Andy’s. "Baby, you got a great ass," Brunswick hoarsely whispered in Chris’ ear. "Ah, fuck, Sir. Your boy does too," Chris answered back. It was true. It was the first boy pussy he’d ever fucked, and its creaminess, on top of the dominance he felt over someone like never before, was getting him close to cumming. "Ung," Chris uttered, deep guttural expression of enjoyment each time he slammed into Andy ass. "Ung-ung-ung..." he repeated with every piston thrust of his hips. He was banging back and forth in the erotic sensation of simultaneously fucking a soft, tight hole with his long dick, and being fucked by a thick daddy cock banging into his ass. Part of his brain fantasized about the hairy bush he was backing into, Stacks Lightning. But it was the actual hard man he felt inside him, grunting, animal-like, lewdly talking in his ear. "How old are you anyway?" Chris grunted. "Bet my son’s age. You like daddy fucking you, son? Daddy wanted to fuck you for a long time." Not only did Chris grunt in the affirmative, the confession hinting of a secret desire for incest made him blow immediately, deep within Andy, pouring a steady stream of cum into the kid. Andy, too, felt Chris’ rhythmic climax and also came hard into Chris' fist. Loud and lewd, the boy’s stuttered over each other a smattering of oh fucks and oh shits, while they nutted. Brunswick disengaged frustrated quickly after, looked at Manetti sitting in a chair stoking his big Italian cock. "What?" Manetti protested. He could see Brunswick was irritated, that he was just getting started when the boys finished themselves off. Manetti argued, "They’re teenagers for fuck sake! They can't help it! They’d cum every fifteen minutes like coo coo clocks if you let him." "I expected him to keep it going for more than two minutes. We still have fifty-five minutes, right? Jesus Christ!" Chris wiped Andy’s cum on the bed. "I'm sorry, Sir. I won't cum so fast next time, but your boy’s cunt feels so good." Chris began rubbing two fingers over Andy's dripping hole. He wanted to immediately dive deeper. He was still fucking horny. "Boys, on you backs," barked Brunswick. "Chariot time." He pulled the ottoman from under Manetti's feet and positioned himself between the two boys who had their asses at the edge of the bed waiting. Manetti tried to make peace, and came over and spread grease over Brunswick's hands. The hand ready for Chris' hole Manetti applied a lot more grease to the actor's forearm. He made sure Brunswick understood the implications. Manetti applied two fingers of grease on both boy's holes and pushed it in, then spread some around inside their holes. Andy's hole, replete with short dark boy hair, felt incredible, but also puckered tight. Chris looked at Manetti with intense excitement and anticipation. Manetti held up a single finger as a warning. Chris pouted. Andy looked at Brunswick a little frightened, but excited in anticipation all the same. Brunswick stuck in two fingers in both boy's ass lips and twisted. Andy yelped while Chris moaned deeply. "Do a couple hits, boy,” Brunswick encouraged Andy. Manetti sat on the bed next to him, uncapped the bottle and fed it to the boy. Brunswick felt his hole loosen considerably so he slipped in a third finger. Chris had no problem with two fingers or the third that was incoming. He rocked his butt to take Brunswick’s fingers all the way to his knuckles in one go. Brunswick pushed in three fingers in each boy, easily slipping into Chris, not so easy with Andy. Chris reached over and stuck his tongue in Andy's mouth, surprising him with a passionate kiss. The poppers aroused Andy's lust. He liked kissing Chris in front of his mentor, started making out with Chris passionately, much to the pleasure of both Brunswick and Manetti. Chris whispered nastily, "Fuck yeah. Let your daddy fist us. Let daddy take our holes." Chris looked in the boy's deep blue eyes and saw lust building, as Brunswick added a fourth finger. Chris wiped some lube off his butt and stroked Andy's shriveled cock. It didn't get hard but it did get Andy to start pushing down on Brunswick's hand. Manetti let them share the poppers, each taking a hit, then another. Then both boys began desperately pushing their holes trying to take Brunswick's meaty paw. "That's it, son. Bear down on daddy. Look what a good job Chris is doing." Having Chuck Brunswick's hand inside him was his goal since he saw the lightning bolt suitcases outside the cabana. Chris swallowed his hand in one greedy gulp and let out a passionate cry of achievement. Both his hands flew above his head in passionate surrender, wallowing in the accomplishment, squeezing and releasing the monstrously large hand inside him. Brunswick kept twisting inside Chris' expanded hole, while he still toyed with opening up his boy. Brunswick's hand was bigger than Manetti's, but Manetti definitely possessed better technique. Manetti continuously checked in with his bottom, whereas Brunswick was thoughtless, mechanical. Chris didn't really care though. This is how he imagined Stacks Lightning would fist him: forceful, dispassionate, at times hurting him. It was something he wanted. After several minutes of twisting and re-lubing, and still not getting into Andy, Brunswick was about to give up on both of them. Chris saw his growing frustration. "Let Manetti get him open, Sir. He's got smaller hands," Chris said. With a single raise eyebrow, Manetti protested, and would have said something, but saw the kid was working an angle. Manetti gave Andy a once over, admiring the black pubes on such milky white skin. It got an easy rise out of Manetti, and he gave Brunswick a why-not look. Brunswick assented and turned his attention to Chris' malleable hole, while Manetti took his towel and wiped excess grease from Andy's butt. He knelt down and began lapping at the hole, swirled his tongue in circles, while Andy breathed through clench teeth, relishing the sensation of the man's rough beard and feathery tongue. Brunswick wasn’t into rimming, and since he’d been the one and only man he'd ever had sex with, the thought of someone low enough, someone as rough and criminal looking as Manetti, wanting to put his mouth on his shitter excited him. It was what he expected criminal would like to do. And, man, the feeling of a tongue licking his hole was beyond description. He relaxed and Manetti stuck his tongue inside the kid's rectum, licking the musky flavor of his hole. It drove the kid crazy. He pulled his cheeks apart so Manetti could dig deeper if he wanted. He wanted. Brunswick watched in fascination his boy's hole getting so professionally eaten. He looked at Chris and twisted his hand once more, balling up his fist, and pushing his arm further up Chris' hole. Chris took a hit of poppers and gritted his teeth and pushed his ass onto Brunswick large hairy arm. He went quite a distance on the first try but at a price. The man's knuckled brought him a lot of pain. He lowered his legs and placed them on Brunswick's muscular shoulders and gave them a slight push so his arm pulled out slightly, taking off some pressure. He took another hit and fell in a trace looking at the actor's face. The international spy, Stacks Lightning, had his arm inside his body. How fucking awesome was that? Not as awesome as it would be if he were piston fucking him. So he relaxed his legs on the man's shoulders and felt his mammoth fist slide deep within him. He rocked his feet off the spy's shoulders feeling him go in deep then come out. He kept up the motion seeing it pleased his hero. The more it did the harder he rocked. Chris had been the one in control, determining the rhythm by pushing his feet against Brunswick, but he could see Brunswick wanted to dominate, so he laid back on the bed and pulled his legs apart to show submission. It’s exactly what Brunswick wanted and immediately rose to the challenge. He pulled all the way out and then punched back in. Chris gave into his fantasy that the internationally famous undercover spy, Stacks Lightning, wanted to punch fist him. The spy could do no wrong; he would be this week’s willing bottom. Chris pulled his ass cheeks apart and let him pile drive in first one fist, then the other. He grunted like a swine with each punch, leaving dignity far behind, and snarled and snorted at Brunswick, nodding his head to punch him more and harder. Brunswick had the look of a drunk madman and pummeled the boy's ass mercilessly. If he was damaging the boy, he didn’t care. He allowed him to suck on his popper bottle for a moment, then began again to use the kid’s body as a punching bag. At one point, catching his breath from his battering, he witness Chris pushing out his internal organs. They popped through his hole, lips like a volcano rim with red lava oozing to the surface. What had been a small bloom earlier in the day, now grew to a soft-ball size mound of flesh pushing through. Brunswick used his towel to wipe it, then bent down and, for the first time, started chewing and sucking on Chris' small prolapse. Brunswick had never given in to such depravity, but the sight of this teenager with such a disgustingly obscene asshole, drove him to lick and nibble and kiss it, using his tongue to drive the boy to insanity. To Chris, nothing had ever felt like this. It was like being rimmed by twenty tongues. So many nerve endings were raw and exposed, stimulated all at the same time. If he even thought about jacking himself right now he'd shoot and hit the wall. He left his hard, purple-headed erection alone, and instead grabbed the head of auburn locks attached to his hole and push his rosebud harder against that mouth. The international spy's lips were locked, eating his shithole. How incredibly awesome was that? Not as awesome as the spy’s hand going back inside and starting to punch his organs again. They got into a long series of punching that lasted minutes or hours—time didn't registered. But suddenly his body did something it'd never done before. Brunswick’s fist stayed in the air ready to go back in but he was suspended in curiosity. Chris was convulsing. More than an orgasm that normally started in his balls and shot out of his dick, an earthquake rocked his entire core. He thundered in ecstasy as tremors uncontrollably took over his body. He rode it to what he thought was a finale, but a second, then a third aftershock quickly followed. There was a loud cry out of Andy at the same time. Chris glanced over at Manetti as his body shook. Manetti had just seduced the boy's hole with his hand, popping Andy’s fisting cherry. As he rested inside the kid, letting him get used to what a fist felt like, he said to Chris, "It's a body orgasm. It’s natural." In his old calming voice, he explained to him, "It’s your whole body orgasming not just your balls nutting. Ride it. Enjoy it." Chris spasmed several more times, calming down after a few more seismic quivers. "Oh, shit," Chris said getting up on his elbows looking at Brunswick. "What the fuck did you just do to me," Chris rasped. He sat up on the edge of the bed and, not being able to control himself, pressed his face against Brunswick and stuck his tongue down his idol's throat. He squeezed Brunswick’s cock, which was engorged and dripping. The man eyes were clouded with drink. He threw Chris on his back and stuck him like a pig. Chris squealed in contentment, letting him rut to his heart's satisfaction. He cast an eye over at Manetti, who was still holding silently inside Andy, but saw Manetti inching his cock ever closer to Andy's furry hole. Chris let Brunswick rock away inside him but gradually swung them both away from Manetti and Andy. He wanted all of Brunswick attention, and undulated madly under the man, distracting him with the seductiveness only his hole could provide. He rubbed the man's chest, running sensual fingers over his nipples, rising up to touch his mouth. He felt the bed give and saw Manetti pick Andy up off the bed. Manetti had swapped hand for dick, his mouth clamped onto Andy's mouth, rocking the kid in the air, pounding mercilessly into the boy like a sack of heavy grain. Andy fully surrender to Manetti, wrapped his legs around the man’s waist, and let him fuck him relentless standing by the door. Manetti’s butt clenched wildly. He was coming to a climax. Brunswick started to shift his head toward the standing pair, but Chris moved his head back and heaved himself forcefully on the man's cock. Brunswick still wanted to know what the noise by the door was. Chris took that moment to make him an offer, "Put your hand in me, Chuck, and jack off if you want." The actor refocused on Chris’ face, realizing this boy would let him do whatever he wanted it. Chris spied Manetti climaxing inside the boy, just as Brunswick slipped his entire hand inside Chris’s rectum and started whacking away. The perverseness of fisting and wanking inside an asshole got him to cum quickly. Only after he felt the final hard thrust of the actor’s fist inside him, then did he allow himself to beat off. It took no time at all; within second shot he shot his wad into Brunswick’s chin. A bead of semen clung to the famous mustache like white snot. Brunswick licked it off with a drunken smile. Brunswick slipped his hand and cock out of Chris, just as Manetti eased Andy softly back on the bed. Brunswick was none the wiser to what had just happened to Andy. Chris let the drunk man roll off him, away from Andy and Manetti, and just laid on his back squinting at the ceiling. "Fuck, baby, you are a real whore, aren’t you?" Brunswick said, closing his eyes. He reached over and pinched one of Chris' fat baby nipples. He licked his mustache once more and relaxed in post coital bliss. Chris brought his spread legs around and turned on his side to attend to Andy. Manetti had got what he wanted but just left the kid laying there in a state of shock. Andy looked dazed, staring at Manetti biohazard tattoo, leaking his toxic cum onto the bed sheets. Chris talked to him quietly in his ear. It was okay. It felt good, didn't it? He then bent down and started sucking Andy's small stiff cock while the young man kept staring at Manetti's belly. Chris slipped a single finger in Andy's hole and started pushing in Manetti's drippings. Within only a few moments Andy's body began to rock to the rhythm of Chris' mouth. Chris used more fingers to swab the sheets gathering more cum, and pushed more of Manetti into the kid’s receptive hole. There was plenty of Manetti’s spooge covering the bed, and Chris used all of it to get his small hand back inside Andy. The moment Chris’ fist entered Andy, Andy's head fell back and he shot a fountain of salty white cum into Chris' mouth. Chris hungrily swallowed every drop. Like milk was the kid's fresh cum. Fresh but not so pure. Brunswick was snoring lightly as they gathered their towels and masks to leave. Manetti opened the nightstand drawer and found a large black dildo the same size as his cock. He bent down, gave it to the kid and spoke quietly in his ear. He could see the kid was wide awake and horned out of his mind. "We got another call to make. Practice on this for the next hour, then come find me and I’ll give you the real deal.” He stuck his tongue in the kid’s open mouth. “You got one of the finest pussies I’ve ever had the privilege to fuck,” he said, with the nastiest grin on his face. Andy beamed, and laid there greasing the dildo, while Brunswick turned to his side to sleep the rest of the night away. ***

Agreement to everything Fistcumslut said. I'm inspired by everyone's posts. You're all invited to Tobias Glass' next Towel Party!

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

6. The Glass Compound You ride the waves and don’t ask where they go You swim like lions through the crest And bathe yourself in zebra flesh The ’78 Camaro loaded with a 350-cubic inch V8, fender vents, dual exhaust and a full spoiler out back, roared down the LIE toward Manhattan. Chris’ brain was slowly descending down to earth, back into his body. He had no idea where it’d been, all he knew is it hadn’t been in his head for a long time. Nothing seemed real. Manetti didn't seem real. The powerful purr of the black muscle car didn't seem real. He looked over at Manetti sitting there all smug, all teeth. Manetti glanced sideways at him every now and then. Suddenly, without warning, rage overtook him and he flew into a fury, walloping Manetti on his arm, ribs, thigh—anywhere he could land a punch. “Ow!” Manetti laughed, his forearm up to block most of Chris’ jabs. “It’s not,” Chris landed hard, deliberate strikes against Manetti’s shoulder, “funny!” “Stop. Seriously." Manetti carved the road like he owned it, quickly jetting into the left lane with one hand on the wheel, zooming around a tan Buick, then swerving hard right back into his lane. "You’re going to get us killed.” “I thought you were dead, you shit pig fuck-face. Hate you!” Chris punched his arm. “Ow!” Chris' blows barely registered on Manetti's sculpted frame, but since it made Chris blow off steam he played up the injured act. “Seriously. Stop. Tell me, would you have gone with some escaped cons to do a job if I asked you? No, you would not. Your dumb ass had to be tricked.” Chris crossed his arms and said nothing. Manetti glanced sideways at him again. “Anyway, it was Master Drax’s idea, not mine.” He outstretched his hand and ran it down Chris' arm. Chris angrily brushed him off. Manetti eyed the gym bag; eyed Chris. “So—how much?” Chris turned, shouting, “They were going to kill me!” He turned back again, eyes front, clamming up. “Nah,” Manetti said with only a shade of doubt. “Yes they were. This close, pig fuck.” Chris was stone faced. Manetti let Chris’ accusation roll around in his mind. He, too, went silent for a while, but kept checking the bag Chris held so tightly. “Seriously,” he eventually said, “how much? Hundred K? That's what Drax thought.” Chris stared straight ahead. Manetti eyed him with raised eyebrows, impressed. “One fifty?” “Polanski almost strangled me to death!” Chris spewed, eyes still locked forward. Light was just starting to glow in the rear view mirror. Manetti rocketed the car up to ninety. They sat next to each other in the Camaro’s bucket seats, the gearshift separating them, yet they’d never been farther apart. Chris started shaking. The harder he tried to stop the more he shook. He was coming down from the meth and the adrenaline. He was also hallucinating badly. Unintelligible symbols stood out on the sides of building, on traffic signs, and on the billboards they passed. Egyptian symbols from an eighth grade text book spun out ankhs and sunrays from his fevered brain, falcons and crocodiles, snakes eating their tails, stone etched waves of water. It was more pronounced if he closed his eyes, so he gave into the visions and the tremors. Finally, breaking the silence as much to distract himself from what he was seeing as to confess to Manetti the terror of his last twelve hours, he said, “I shot a man.” “Who hasn’t,” returned Manetti much too quickly. Defensively. It was his turn to turn into a sphinx, steely-eyed, staring straight ahead when Chris looked over. The city glistened in the distance. Chris broke into tears, then quickly grew angry at himself, wiped his face, but the sudden convulsion had a calming effect. Admitting what he’d done, even to the stoic Manetti, eased his fever a bit. He looked into the green light of the dashboard. Watch the red needle twitch at eighty. Out of the blue, he volunteered, "Two." Manetti, from his own mind’s dark place, recalled he’d asked the kid about the money. “Two hundred K, huh?” He whistled. The edges of Chris' lips curled with an undercurrent of unexpected pride. “Not two hundred,” he clarified softly. “Two million.” He knew he wasn’t imagining this fact. He closed his eyes and saw the five rows times four columns times packets ten deep. It was two million dollars he pressed into his lap. Manetti inspected him and judged he wasn't joking. He pulled the Camaro to the side and skidded to a stop. Snatching up the bag, he unzipped it. Under damp t-shirts and jeans he found packet after packet of hundred dollar bills crammed inside. “Fuck. Dude.” He looked at Chris with his jaw open. It was the first time Chris had seen Manetti speechless. The man scanned the sparkling city ahead, looked back in the bag, and then back at Chris. He weighed the likelihood that the crooks had planned to kill the kid, thought about Drax’s involvement, his own complicity. The Camaro’s engine revved, then it tore out, making a U across the traffic island downing some orange cones, and sped away from Manhattan into the rising sun, roaring east along the LIE. *** The 6:45 ferry from Sayville sputtered across the choppy bay. Small, wispy clouds shone pink and gold, while the ferry bobbed, rising and splashing over rough water. Manetti had done a line of coke back in the parking lot before they left the Camaro. He'd offered a line to Chris who looked at him like he had to be a moron. Now his fingers flutter on his kneecap, deep in thought behind his shades. Chris, with both arms wrapped around his gym bag, and Manetti sitting next to him staring off into the distance, were the only passengers sitting on the ferry’s upper deck. When they boarded, they made a strange pair to the crew. A kid in a red track suit much too large for him, the other, a decked out brawny leatherman in jeans, shirtless vest, boots, leather cap, and mirrored sunglasses. Since the boat was heading for the gay mecca known as The Pines, Manetti was hardly an unusual sight, but the kid dressed like a ghetto rapper, now that was something the teenage crew took notice of. All that was missing was big gold chains and a sideways cap. Vanilla Ice in the house, yo, one of them joked in the wheelhouse. A noisy flock of seagulls escorted them across the water. The landing was fast approaching. The store, the motel, the disco became distinct entities as the boat cruised into the harbor. Manetti scrutinized each boat they passed, his mind brewing with plans. A sea plane was getting ready to fly out, having disembarked two passengers who were making their way down the landing. Chris thought he recognized the bigger of the two men—the distinctive mustache, the deep dimples in the handsome face framed by curly auburn hair. It had to be—it was!—the action star, Chuck Brunswick, from his favorite TV show, Stacks Lightning, devoutly watched when he lived at home. Wednesday nights, eight o’clock, every episode, including reruns. From age twelve when it first aired, he watched it for all the fast paced action, the exotic locales, Hawaii, New York, the Congo. By fourteen he became aware that almost every episode featured Chuck Brunswick without a shirt. By fifteen, the car chases lost his interest, as new interests emerged watching each episode alone in his bedroom on Ben’s old black and white TV, a Kleenex box next to him and the door securely locked. He’d been sleepy from the half hour crossing but now he was wide awake, excited. Here, within spitting distance, was a real TV star. And not just any TV star. He nudged Manetti and pointed. Manetti lowered his sunglasses and gave Chris a blank look, then went back to examining the boats. As the ferry passed, Chris made out the famous tuft of dark chestnut hair sticking out the man’s aqua polo shirt. He didn't know the other guy. They were wheeling black suitcases that both had lightning bolt decals on them. The teenage crew cut the engines to prevent unnecessary wake that would disturb the harbor’s yachts. As they neared the dock, all but the captain scuttled downstairs. They threw open the side door and tossed a line to one of the crew members that had jumped off. With the boat secured, they slid out a ramp. One of the teenagers pointed out the actor to his mates, as the celebrity and his companion rounded the corner of the thumping disco. Chris flew down the boats steep stairs, Manetti barely keeping up. "That's Chuck Brunswick up ahead," Chris said to Manetti on the ramp. Even though he was still miffed with Manetti, seeing someone so famous he couldn't hold in his excitement. "Who?" Manetti said. "He does that show Stacks Lightning,” Chris explain. Still Manetti was clueless. “Where he's a spy? Always chasing bad guys in cars and boats, and sleeping with lots of babes?" "Oh," Manetti said with distain. "An actor." Chris gave Manetti a sour look. They trailed the TV star and his companion for several blocks. The disco discharged a few revelers coming out bleary-eyed, squinting and shading their eyes to adjust to the morning light. Chris speaking about Chuck Brunswick was the first time in hours they’d spoken. Right after they left the outer borough, Manetti told Chris he'd made an executive decision. Drax could wait. He was enacting his own Plan B and that meant visiting an old friend in The Pines. Eyeing the tall, broad-shouldered actor ahead on the boardwalk, Chris ventured, "So everybody here’s queer?" Manetti confirmed with a nod. Chris contemplated that. The boardwalk was uneven and Manetti in boots was trying to take it slow and not trip. After several more blocks, seeing they were falling further and further behind the TV star, Chris groaned, “How much farther is your friend’s house?" Manetti told him it was at the end of the boardwalk. Chris frowned, and gave into Manetti slower pace. "Then how far is the beach," Chris asked. Manetti nodded at an approaching walkway. Chris peered down the path and saw shimmering waves. "If we’re not going to catch him, I want to walk on the beach," he said, turning down the walkway without waiting for Manetti. Manetti huffed. Boots in sand would be harder than the uneven boardwalk, but he followed the kid anyway. Specifically, he followed the green gym bag. On the beach Chris' mood brightened considerably. He was almost his old self. He’d pulled off his sneakers and socks, and wiggled his toes in the sand as he trotted next to the crashing waves. The sound of the sea, the salt spray, cold early morning sand—it was a reminder of home. It cleared his senses. He picked up a driftwood stick and drew a line in the sand in front of him, jumped over it, then flung the stick into the foam. The houses that lined the beach were grand. Rich in wood and glass, they were tributes to wealth—honestly made or otherwise. Large two story structures, all with decks and pools, all stacked alongside each other. One, he observed, had sliding windows who's four large glass panes folded right into the walls, leaving the living room’s fourth wall completely open. Another one had a pool whose beach front side was a giant window of glass. Two joggers in speedos, a blond and a curly red-head, passed him. They turned their heads back to get a look at the kid in the hip hop getup. They laughed when they saw it was a young white kid. To Chris they looked like models out of a magazine—flawless, tanned, manikin smooth, air-brushed generic. Manetti tromped behind trying to catch up. Once he did, he draped his arm across Chris' shoulder and told him to take it easy on him. Chris smiled to himself. "This is just like Long Beach," he said. "This is just like Long Beach?" Manetti questioned. "See." He stopped and turned to the ocean. "This beach is like facing south. Most everything on the west coast faces west, and on the east coast faces east. But here, the ocean faces south. In California, Long Beach is the only place that faces south, like here, see?" "Well, I did not know that," Manetti responded. Chris had lost the Prior Puss, and he had to admit, with the kid beaming like he was, he could do him right here out in the open. "Ya know,” Manetti said, “I'm from Long Beach, too. Long Beach, New York." "Well, I did not know that," Chris mimicked Manetti with his own words. They exchanged a smile, the first in a long, long time. Genuinely interested, he asked, "Where's your Long Beach?" They had started walking again. "It's about forty miles ‘at-a-way." Manetti pointed straight ahead. Chris wanted to know if they could walk there from here. "Only if you're Jesus," Manetti replied, and they laughed. A couple of waves crashed to shore as they padded through the sand. For a few minutes they were silent, just listening to the sea’s rhythm, a set of waves, a pause, then another set, on and on. Manetti cocked his head to one side, said with wistfully, "It's one of the first things Ben and I found we had in common. Long Beach." Manetti questioned why he volunteered that. Immediately he regretted it. Chris looked over at Manetti. Was he sad? Sad didn’t fit his image of him. He tried to read Manetti, but behind the mirrored sunglasses, staring down the beach, he was impenetrable. "Do you think he's all right?” Chris wondered aloud. “Ben is?” "Like I said, he's changed." It was Manetti's turn to clam up. They trooped through the sand. There weren't many more houses left before the town ended and turned to forest. “So what’s Plan B,” Chris asked. “Hmm.” Manetti took his time. “We’re dropping in on a regular of mine. His name’s Tobias Glass. Real rich. A real pig when you get him going. He was this child actor way before my time, now he has a Village cabaret act. Show tunes and shit. He’s gonna take one look at you and will want to eat you up. Don’t let ‘em unless I get a cut.” Chris laughed nervously. “He’s got connections. If anyone can find us a boat, he can. Then we’re off to the Caribbean or South America—Belize maybe. Your choice.” Chris listened to him. Then stopped dead in his tracks. “Wait. You want to leave the country with the two million? Without Ben? Screw over Master Drax? Are you out of your fuckin’ out mind! Master Drax will skin you alive! Me too, probably Ben just for being related to me. That’s your brilliant Plan B? Neg-a-tive,” he said, shaking his head. He turned around and started walking back to the ferry dock, when Manetti hooked him with two words. “Ben’s here.” Chris halted abruptly. “Where?” He glared at Manetti. “A couple possibilities.” He waited till Chris walked back to him. “I have other clients on the island. One of them had purchased time with Big Ben, as he’s called. That was a week back. If you let me do a little digging, Chief, give me some time, I think I can find him, then the three of us can sail right off the map.” He approached Chris, closing in the final pitch, “do you know what kind of life we’d have, baby?” He reached under Chris’ baggy shirt and pinched his tits. “A life on the run, is my guess. Brody and Polanski said Master Drax actually cut the skin off a guy named Jackson.” “Then Jackson was stupid. We’re not stupid.” Chris was standing his ground in the sand even with Manetti playing with his nipples. “C’mon, will you at least give me twenty-four hours, let me ask around for Ben, and a boat?” Manetti cozied up intimately right in Chris’ face. He drew his hands down around Chris’ bubble butt, stroking it lovingly, pushing Chris’ crotch into his own. He felt Chris stir. Chris pushed his hands away and resumed their trek with a bit of a stiffy swinging in his jogging suit. “Twenty-four hours—but you have to find Ben. And I’m not letting go of my bag.” Manetti saddled up next to Chris, draping his arm over his shoulder, pulling the kid up under his hairy armpit, assured his scent carried its own persuasion. They walked in step but Chris became increasingly conflicted. “So if you find Ben, then what? That’s going to be a whole other can of worms. You, me, Ben.” “Are you shittin’ me?” Manetti erupted skyward in a wail of laughter. “Do you have any idea of the fucked up groups Ben and I have been in—on and off camera? Ask me about us and my step dad at that skanky Jersey motel shoot. Better yet, don’t. Talk about awkward—but even that turned out interesting once Drax got the cameraman naked. Family on family make up half the porn industry.” Manetti pointed to the last staircase on the beach before the town turned to forest. They veered toward it. At the top of the stairs, a large wooden fence extended from the beach back to the main boardwalk. Halfway along the fence they came across an archway with a large weathered door. "This is Glass' compound. He won't be up for hours, but I know where he keeps a spare." He reached up inside one of the sconces and produced a key. He opened the door and they entered a courtyard that could have been in the middle of Japan. The garden was lush in greenery and rich in detail—a Buddha serenely rested on a mound of green moss; an area of white sand raked with wave-like patterns surrounding an upright rock; trickling water flowed out a bamboo branch splashing onto a bowl of black, smooth stones. They crossed a red lacquered bridge that extended over a pond filled with lily pads. The light through the overhanging branches played on the water, and beneath the covering large fish swam, their scales, luminous red and orange, sparked like underwater fire. Coy fish, Manetti told Chris. The pond was fed by a running stream that ran throughout the compound. If silence could make a sound it was this. They came to the compound’s courtyard. Manetti stopped Chris and pointed. A doe and her fawn stood at the forest’s edge, nibbling sprigs of grass they could reach through a broken slat in the wood fence. Chris couldn’t help himself and gasped just loud enough to prick up the doe’s ears, and the two disappeared into the dense forest. A swimming pool, outlined with grey slate, laid in the center of the compound. Four structures surrounded it. The main house, closest to the beach, wasn't very big, but beyond the plate glass and sliding windows, Chris saw it was minimally but opulently furnished. Sleek black couches were in the living room, and a white grand piano stood in a corner with a large dining room standing in the cool shadows. The remaining three independent structures were cabanas. Each with a large picture window. Each with their curtains drawn. The sound of someone lightly snoring came out of the cabana on the far side of the pool. In the cabana to their right, men murmured within. Two wheeled suitcases parked next to the door. Chris pulled excitedly on Manetti’s arm pointing to lightning bolt decals on the suitcases’ sides. Manetti shook him off and went into the last cabana. He came out motioning for Chris to come in. They went in and Chris immediately ran into his reflection in a tall full-length wooden mirror. Seeing himself in his baggy red track suit for the first time he thought no wonder he got strange looks. He dropped his shoes and flopped backward on the feathery bed. Though the room was warm and stuffy, he melted into the cool white comforter. Manetti opened a high window and a skylight to get a cross-breeze going. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots, ran a hand through his hair. In the full-length mirror he looked at his own reflection. Maybe he’d wait for the kid to fall asleep and just run off with the money. That would be the simplest plan. What kept him here? The Prior brothers? Talk about not simple. He knew he was a mass of contradictory impulses, had known it for a long time, ever since he moved to New York, probably before if he let himself think about it. He refused to go there. He pushed off his jeans and underwear, and tossed off his cap. Down to just his skin and leather vest, he crawled over to Chris, who turned away from him, not mad but exhausted. Manetti scooched closer till he was spooning the boy. Chris didn't protest, even when Manetti pressed his erection into the butt of his track suit. Earth quickly was falling away as he fell deeper into the soft bed, deeper down the rabbit hole of this new life. He felt the buckle unfasten on his belt, and Manetti pulling down his pants. His butt exposed, he fell asleep dreaming he was on a train, then he became the train, specifically the train coupler, those metal clasps that, like hands, fold into one another to secure train cars together. Somewhere in the world he felt Manetti couple into him, acquire a hold, while he allowed the rod to enter, then gripped it from slipping out of his ass. Who held whom? Manetti lifted off Chris' top and pulled his skin into him. Pelt on hairless boy, hairless boy melting into a bed of fur. Manetti entering him deeper made him moan in his sleep. His ass was still tender, he protested semi-conscious but didn't reject. Manetti went deeper still. Chris gasped louder, struggling to overcome the pain he still felt from the recent abuse. Manetti's ridged pole did not give nor forgive, it pushed in beyond the pain. Chris pushed back, impaling himself, deep, seizing on the pain to raise himself out of his hazy sleep, not ignoring the penetrating object but beginning to ride it, riding Manetti, forcing himself to feel the pain, want the pain, waking with the pain. Manetti obliged. He was good at his craft. He was the best rough trade in town, wearing nothing but his leather vest and a hard on, sticking it to the boy. He would teach Chris to be rough, hardened like him. He pushed the boy's pants off his ankles, pulled out of Chris’ hole, raised the boy’s leg and was back on top of Chris, penetrating him, before Chris even realized how he’d accomplished the feat. He looked into Chris' face, pushed his massive erection further now that he could lay his crotch directly over Chris' open cavern. The added inch made Chris lurch in pain from the spot where Brody had fisted him too deep. Manetti waited right on that torturous spot, neither retreating nor pushing him beyond it. He waited, making only the slightest of movements, an itch to scratch, waiting and watching Chris’ face turn from pain to desire. He brushed away a lock of blond hair that had caught in an eyelash. He kissed his mouth. Chris opened for him. Once Manetti saw lust in Chris’ open eyes he turned his attention to his bucking hole. He stayed in a holding pattern, enjoying the pleasuring of expanding Chris' hole with his growing shaft, feeling it surrender to him completely. The cabanas always had supplies of lube and poppers, among other pleasures, tucked away in the nightstands. Manetti reached in the drawer and withdrew some mentholated cream on his fingers. As he gently fucked Chris’ hole, sensually stimulated his opening with his massive bush, he added a finger, then two, to pull the boy’s hole wider. Chris objected, saying it hurt, but with the mentholated cream soothing his tender canal. Manetti convinced the boy with few words that this is what he wanted. With four fingers lathered he pulled his dripping cock out and replaced it with his large palm. He took all the time necessary for Chris to accept his hand, pulling out a bit when he reach his second knuckles. He could sense Chris wanting him to push in again. He did, sliding four fingers up to the third knuckle, then held there, looking for Chris’ eyes to say yes. He knew the boy was deciding and he’d abide by his decision. He felt the clenched muscles in Chris’ ass relax and he went in an inch more, up to the web of his thumb. He chanced a half rotation, another test to see where Chris’ mind and body were. After a second, he felt he boy bear down on his hand, a signal of his willingness to surrender his hole. Manetti removed his hand as Chris moaned his disappointment. “Take one of the poppers, boy. That tall one.” Chris obeyed. It was one of Manetti’s favorite English poppers, much stronger than its American counterpart. He greased his whole hand with the mentholated cream to overcome the fear Manetti believed the convicts instilled. He pushed a wad of grease into the boy’s crack and smeared it around with three fingers, then pushed those three fingers back into his chute. They slid in easily. Manetti added a fourth and told Chris to take a hit. He waited till Chris recapped the bottle, then slid his thumb in, told Chris to look at him. Chris was trying to focus his gaze on Manetti, and Manetti saw the moment the poppers kicked in. Chris hole grew relaxed and wide as lust for Manetti pushed his hand over Manetti’s palm. In one constant movement the boy mounted Manetti’s whole hand and slid his entrails over the ridges down to the man’s hairy wrists. He felt each strand of hair slide through his loosened sphincter. Manetti slowly twisted his wrist tickling the cunt he was giving the boy. Knuckles ground against sensitive walls, the wrist’s black fur slithered over the exposed sphincter nerve endings, silent fingertips touched blind boundaries that yielded, surrendering Chris’ resistance to Manetti’s will. Manetti fisted Chris’ mind even more than his body. Chris’ synapses were firing and he was helpless to resist Manetti’s mastery. The sensations painful and inviting. The cold-hot feeling in his loins made his body undulated onto Manetti’s hand, like a snake swallowing a mouse. Manetti’s hand went further into his hole, further than it had ever been. “Take three more hits, boy,” instructed Manetti. Chris again obeyed. Manetti applied more salve over his wrist and this time over his forearm while Chris huffed and replaced the cap. His eyes were glued on Manetti. Manetti watched as a lewdness sweep across the boy, not just his face but over his whole body, his mouth open just as his hole was opening. Of his own volition he crawled down further onto Manetti’s wrist and the boy began the journey of the man’s hirsute forearm. Manetti flexed his wrist twisting in exploration of where his hand was in the boy’s body, and where it should go next. He straightened his hand and slowly pulled the boy’s colon away from its mooring so that the passage extended along the length of his forearm. It was a long process, he knew, that would change the boy forever. Chris traveled halfway down Manetti’s forearm before he realized how deep Manetti was inside him. A world of pleasure exploded in his core, physically and mentally, when he looked in the full-length mirror and saw how much of Manetti’s forearm he’d taken. And still he slid ever deeper on the proffered arm. He inched serpentine-like, feeling the ancient original sin drawing him on, driving him deeper into it, not able to get enough of the pleasure Manetti was offering. He saw Manetti had no boundaries either and wouldn’t stop until Chris satisfied the powerful lust he had for him. Yes, it meant physically Chris wanted the fucker’s whole arm up him, but the revelation, rational or not, was that he wanted to make his body an offering to the man. “I want,” Chris moaned as he agonized over ever scintilla he could take of Manetti, “all of you.” But he was fighting a two stage battle: for every millimeter he took in of Manetti’s hand, he also had to accommodate the ever-widening girth of forearm. Manetti thick, muscular arm was as much of a challenge as taking his hand ever-deeper. This is when Manetti took over. “Take another hit, baby. Relax. Lay down. Daddy’s gonna drive.” While Chris prepared himself with a deep inhalation, Manetti’s other hand played with Chris’ cock. His greasy hand toyed with the boy’s balls and ran numbing fingers over the boy’s nub. The cooling sensation wasn’t lost on the boy. His groin joined the sensation of coolness his whole ass was feeling inside as well. Far from numb, his body was on fire and able to take more intense sensation, a deeper fisting, than when the convict were pummeling him. Now between the poppers and the looseness of his body, as well as the loosening of his morals and inhibitions, he began writhing in pure sensuality when he felt Manetti curling his fingers inside him balling into a fist. “Yeah. Fuck yeah. Fist my hole, daddy,” Chris hoarsely cried. Manetti’s balled fists slowly pulled out to the edge of Chris’ sphincter, giving it such a beautiful stretch, he could see his black wrist hair through the translucent taut pink skin of Chris’ ass lips. Chris’ gulped in air as Manetti encouraged him to take it, take it. He could see Chris’ couldn’t sustain such rapid breathing nor such an intense stretch. Manetti pushed back inside to the depth where he started. It was nautical miles of sensations traveled in two second through Chris’ hole. All the nerves stroked went straight to his brain—hole to brain skipping the rest of his body. The boy’s synapses could hardly keep up. Desire and sensation manifest in deranged calls to fuck my hole, daddy, open my pussy, give me a sloppy cunt, with Manetti responding, encouraging, validating everything Chris was saying. “You like daddy giving you a cunt.” “Yes, daddy, open my hole.” “You want daddy to fuck you like this.” Agreement. More aggression. The fist came out and immediately pushed back to try to get in. It took a moment, but both of them wanted it, so it slid right in. Making the initial break and re-entry, triggered something in both of them. They wanted more just like that. Obscene wet farts emitted from Chris’ ass. Each fart increase the capacity to take Manetti’s fist deeper into him. They were in a cycle of passion—Chris wanting to give, Manetti wanting to take. Chris could see, and Manetti approved, that after several punches, Chris’ hole blossomed into a small rosebud. Manetti encouraged it, tended to this new flower, inserted a single finger to wiggle around in it, excite the bloom to display more itself. “Look in the mirror,” Manetti said, pulling Chris’ ass lips apart, showing the boy what his opened hole looked like. “Push,” he ordered and Chris bore down, and a small mushroom sprouted from his hole. At the center, the beginning of his red inner flesh peeked through. Manetti resumed methodically fisting his hole. For the next hour he put Chris through practiced paces, training him to think about nothing but being a hole. After crouching then kneeling off the bed, Manetti grew restless. Slowly he adjusted his position and slid up next to Chris parallel to his body, his head next to Chris’ open hole. The position also afforded Chris the ability to pleasure Manetti’s stiffened member sticking up right in front of him. With intense gratitude triggered by Manetti manipulating his hole, Chris sucked Manetti with an urgency of the famished. His throat opened and the whole shaft went down till his face was smothered in thick, black bush. And now Manetti, lying next to the boy, with less force but deeper penetration, could maneuver his hand easily, pushing Chris to his limits. Chris handed him the opened popper bottle to share. After his first hit, the man felt the intensity of his lust boil over, let the chemicals overtake him and felt deeper inside the kid’s colon. He traced the boy’s resisting internal muscles, teased them relentlessly with his middle finger until they submitted and he won another quarter each of Chris’ body. Methodically, while Chris nursed his cock, he gained more territory that almost took Chris to the crook of his arm. Chris ran his hand over Manetti’s arm to feel how far his forearm with inside. He felt how close he was to the man’s elbow. Carnal thoughts about Manetti raged inside. He lifted his leg like a submissive dog so Manetti had easier access, to take as much of him as he wanted. At the same time he lifted Manetti’ leg and went in search of the man’s nougaty center. It didn’t take him long to find Manetti’s spongy hole. Licking it only made it expand. The sixty-nining of pleasure drove them both to experiment. With Chris’ leg in the air Manetti felt free to pull apart the kid’s pussy, grab hold of his leg and pull out and push back in. It made Chris crazy. Chris reciprocated by finding the nightstand lube and applying it to Manetti sprouting rectum. With a slippery hand he pressed into Manetti who readily gave way. His hand easily slipped into the man, and for the first time he felt what a real sloppy hole felt like. His hand balled into a fist as soon as he entered. He was spelunking deep inside a cavern that seemed endless. There was no resistance as he passed his wrist deep into what felt like a second opening. Manetti bore down on the kid’s fist and the kid’s forearm easily slid deep into Manetti’s hairy hole. As much as he thrilled at what Manetti was doing inside him, it was compounded by how he got off watching the hairs around Manetti’s hole slide in and out with each pump he produced. They glided into each other with gratifying moans each time they crossed a new boundary. With bodies pressed against one another, their free hands ran across skin, stroking cocks, squeezing balls, running a big hand over smooth skin, running a small hand over muscled fur. They couldn’t get enough of each other. When Chris passed his elbow through Manetti’s hole, the man cried out and told Chris to pull back. Chris stopped, followed through with how Manetti had been treating him, slowly rolled his fingers across the sealed chamber that then opened like a camera lens and he passed his small hand through. Manetti eased out of Chris and fell on his back. He put one leg over Chris’ torso so the boy was at an advantaged angle to penetrate him further. Chris rolled the poppers to him. Manetti wiped the grease off the bottle cap, unscrewed it and inhaled deeply. Chris knew by now how easy it was to finger a resisting wall, feel for the blood pumping through the thin, retreating membranes, and allow Manetti to internally guide him where his hand should travel. Working together, Chris found the small opening each hit of poppers revealed. He followed the opening that unveiled new chambers his hand could conquer. When he was up to his bicep, Manetti was twitching in ecstasy to the point where he couldn’t take it. He signal for Chris to withdraw. Chris didn’t move but left his hand exactly where it was. Manetti pleaded for him to back off, but Chris laid there tranquilly. Manetti found he was starting to rut on Chris’ small arm, fighting within himself whether he want more or wanted release. In a fog, the man lifted his head to find Chris smiling ear to ear. “You little fucker,” he said to Chris, and started the long journey of extracting the kid’s arm from his body. Chris helped him to withdraw but not completely. After a number of inches of relief, Chris would go back into Manetti’s colon, which Manetti was not completely opposed to. But it soon it became a matter of will as opposed to sensation, and Manetti refused the kid’s domination. Manetti crab walked back the last of Chris’ forearm ordering him to let him go. Like a lizard losing its tail, Manetti shot off the last foot of Chris’ arm. His cock dripped with pre-cum, and where he’d dragged his ass over the sheets, there was a trail of brown mucus. “You little fuck. Get over here. Lick that up,” he said grabbing Chris’ neck, pushing him into the slime. “Lick it up, I said.” Chris did. Much too eagerly. Manetti struggled to regain dominance after surrendering his hole so completely. He flipped the kid on his back. Chris’ chest and crotch were coated in the brown sludge. From the skylight the sun shown on the kid’s stained face. He glistened in contented degraded radiance. Manetti slapped the smile off his face, pulled up his legs and stuck his cock all the way to the root in one surge. Chris grunted, but was so opened, he welcomed him inside. Manetti soon found a rhythm that included slapping the kid's ass. He soon found his breath accelerating. Chris was beneath him taking in all the pleasure of his pounded flesh. He reached up and twisted Manetti tits, which made Manetti hammer him faster and harder. The boy wrapped his legs around the man’s waist, bucked up his ass with equal fervor. As the pulse of their fucking increased, their fierce pace drawing to an inevitability, Chris took one of Manetti’s hands curled on the side of his head and placed it on his neck. He took Manetti's other hand and placed that too on his neck. Manetti recognized what the boy was asking for. Like the rough trade he’d been trained to be, he obliged. He started squeezing his neck as Chris stroked his dick with increasing desperation. Manetti was good rough trade, fuck no, he was great rough trade! He was all powerful, in control, scum fuck bad ass rough trade. He was back in the saddle, enjoying how he was abusing his bottom boy. He watched Chris' face turn bright red, watched his eyes bulge, watched him struggle silently beneath his crushing hands. Chris’ hands clasped around Manetti’s wrist, feeling the strength, their girth, the hair. When Manetti erupted inside Chris, Chris exploded over him even harder. Beneath his easing hands, the unconscious kid flopped a few time like a landed fish. The little fuck even had a smile on his face while he rasped in a daze. Manetti’s pubes rested between Chris’ hairless cheeks. As he laid on top of him, his dick draining the remains of his wad, he felt small internal clutching like he was being milked by the boy. That, too, quieted after a few moments. As his breathing returned to normal, he examined this blond hair kid’s young face beneath him. He pushed back some of his matted hair caked with shit juice. What exactly did he think he could teach this street urchin, this abused stray puppy about being hardened, about being rough? Jesus fuck, whatever the men in his family had done to him was already hard-wired in his brain. It was buried so shallow under the surface, only a scratch revealed it. Passed out, Chris’ legs slid down Manetti’s thighs and Manetti rolled off him, still hard, his chest covered in the kid’s spooge. On his back, mindlessly he traced a finger through a string of the kid’s white sperm. He tasted its warm saltiness. He followed passing clouds in the skylight, heard Chris breathing beside him. He could see both Prior brothers were fucked up, out of control, but in opposite ways. Well, he was a fuck up too, wasn’t he? Sure, he’d promised he would find Ben. He knew he could. But would bringing them together defuse Ben or detonate Chris? Or maybe it’d be the other way around. Either way he’d be in the cross-hairs, suffer the collateral damage. It was stupid to care about either of these stupid brothers. It was stupid for a hustler to even care at all. He got up to take a shower, and spied the gym bag on the nightstand. The smartest thing to do would be to swipe the kid’s bag while he was still out and roar off in his Camaro. He looked at the mess sprawled on the bed, this sprawled out filthy mess of a kid. Looking at himself in the mirror, he ran a hand through his mane. Yeah, he’d swipe the money. That was the smart move. Uncomplicate things. Make a clean break. Yeah, he convinced himself, right after a shower.

Tallallman, I understand your sentiment of installment over photo. I debated whether to post it while I worked on the next couple of chapters. I hope the next installment, which should be up shortly, makes up for the wait.