shoreboy

Reminded me of Manetti

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

Thanks, everyone, for your comments and encouragement, even the down votes! Hope this makes up for it.

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

3. Hole Fuck. Fuck. A triangle Fuck. A triangle of pleasure Fuck. A triangle of pleasure spreads Fuck. A triangle of pleasure spreads from his cock, balls, asshole, erupting outward, unrelenting, uncontrollable, to his entire body like an volcano exploding. Nothing could ever top this feeling sending him ablaze in molten heat and light. Fuck. The only thing that could ever top this feeling had to be death. Snuffed. Blackness. Oblivion. Because right now, mother fucker, at this single moment, he felt everything. Every fucking thing. He was Colossus. A Titan. God. The world channeled through him. Fuck yes. He was the eye of the needle; the eye of the beholder; the fuckin' cat five swirling eye of the hurricane. Nothing existed before this moment, nothing would after. He embodied the chord alpha and omega struck together throughout eternity jammed into one single note. Bam! Fuckin’ right here. Right now. Shit, man, it's a tsunami in here and he's riding this skinny little surfboard called Chris—it’s a thrill of a lifetime—and he's hanging on for dear fucking life! Fuck. He's overboard! He lost where he was, who he was. He's swimming up for air. All he feels is a tongue in his hole and a gummy mouth sucking his shriveled dick. Hairy arms hold him and run their hands over mounds of flesh, his burning flesh. He grinds his ass over someone’s furry pubes. Fuck, dude, tell how good is that? He'll never be able to sustain how aroused he is, every synapse of ecstasy is firing simultaneously. He's sure someone’s saying something to him but he can’t comprehend, even less respond. All he can react to is touch, those that touch him, those he can touch. Other senses abandoned him. Hard flesh, leathery muscle, sagging flesh, sinewy muscle, all attached to him in some area of his body, but he can’t differentiate the sum of these sensations. Fuck. There’s an argument, then a suggestion. Slowly he’s regaining sight. The pictures he saw stuttered like a reel of film falling off its track, still he made out bits of a room that could be hell. Red flakes falling off walls. Metallic roof reflecting flames all around him. An orange object dangled in front of him. What the fuck was that? A tentacle? He thought of a carrot, albeit one that was extraordinarily long and extremely pliable. Fuck. It was going in his anus and going in deep. Fuck. Voices emerged in the hellscape. Take it in—let it penetrate you. I've still got you. Long Beach Carl, his mother’s boyfriend was there. He's pushing the carrot into him. Oliver North was there as are a million cameras firing off strobe after strobe in his brain. Pop! Pop pop pop. He felt the object, initially so slender you hardly knew it was there until its mass grows with every inch it's inserted. The object passed through his rectum and entered his large intestine. It jus' pass through his second ring, said a Caribbean sounding voice. He's in a James Bond movie. He closes his eyes, he's tripping heavy, he knows he's not in a James Bond movie. Yet in his mind he imagines there's a race car that's tearing through a winding road in the Alps. He sees Sean Connery driving the winding road. His colon is a road, the object a vehicle that’s opening up his insides; every twist, tunnel and turn. Boom. Fuck. Chris is back in his body trying to come to terms with an object he feels somewhere on the right side of his abdomen. He ran his hand down to the spot and definitely felt an object inside him. Someone, Manetti it must be, pulled his hand back over his head. There are two men, Jamal and Master Drax he recognized, conferring at his hole, pushing something, a malleable orange sex toy through his anal canal. "The last mile is always the most difficult," Master Drax said to Jamal. Jamal goes back to sucking Chris' peanut. It not only distracted, but felt indescribably soothing. "Are you still with us, child?" Master Drax asked Chris. Chris wanted to communicate that he was still with them, raise a thumb or something, but he can't. He's immobile. He blinked instead hoping that said something. Words won't come back for quite a while, except for one. "Fu-u-u-u-ck," he yowls, forcefully arching his back. "I told you, Christian. New worlds. Hold him down. It doesn't give you pain. It's simple something you've never experienced." There is nothing to compare this to. He's hornier than fuck. He imagined his colon is being invaded by the tentacle of an octopus. He vividly hallucinates Master Drax is holding an octopus and guiding it to slither deep and deeper into him. But the tentacle had hit an impasse. It refused to penetrate into the next chamber. It had a life of its own, the tentacle; it poked and prodded against an impenetrable wall, won't proceed no matter how much Chris or Master Drax want it to. "The last foot is always the most revealing," Master Drax said to Chris, who could do nothing but look at him, and feel what was happening inside. "Jamal, get the amyl from the drawer." Jamal left the boy's dick and returned with a handful of capsules. He broke one and put it up to Chris nostrils. "Inhale it deeply, child." The effect it had on him was to immediately knock his head off his body. More than freeing his gut to allow the sex toy to penetrate, was the attitude it instilled: lust overpowers everything. He wanted that orange tentacle further up his ass. Jesus Fucking Christ he did! And his lust made it so. "F-u-u-u-u-ck." He feels it so intensely slip deeper inside. Two inches, three? It's a tickle that grows to a finger, which grows two feet in length to the size of a fist. The final girth is a medium size clenched fist. Master Drax has gotten the entire sex toy to press up against Chris' sphincter, but he's not satisfied. He bares down with his own fist to get his fist inside the boy too. "Another one," he instructed Jamal, who already had another hit of amyl under Chris's nose. Chris doesn't say, ‘fuck.’ Instead out rasped a throaty animal sound, a squall of air reacting to muscles going beyond what they're meant for: to hold shit in. There was pain, undeniably, but there was a definite element of pleasure in the animal cry, too. A sound an animal might shriek when it was dying but more like when it gave birth. To Chris, it was a sound emanating from his guts, and the large object within him and the large fist, that even after it entered his hole still plunged deeper into his bowels. He started stammering mindlessly, "fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," throwing his pelvis in the air, trying to get whatever's inside him outside him. This was where Manetti came in, holding him down, calming his colt. "Shhh. You did it, Chief.” He brought the kid down to him. “Good boy, good job." And though Manetti was as high as he's been in quite a while, he knew how to ride these twenty foot waves to shore. "Breathe. Get used to it. Accept it.” Manetti ran his hand over Chris’ chest, tweaked his nipple lightly. “Breathe, buddy. Relax your hole around it. Now squeeze! Now relax. Do it again." He's more a disembodied voice to Chris, but it was a familiar, disembodied voice, and it seemed to work. Though his hole was ready to explode again at any moment, and though the strain was more intense than anything he'd ever felt, he was over the agony of a few seconds ago. As he squeezed, then released, he was letting go of the panic and accepting the new sensation. Master Drax's pulled his fist out. This set off on another round of spasms, this time dispelling, like a two foot long shit—which pretty accurately described how it felt—the orange two-foot long object inside him. What would usually take his body hours of wave-like contractions to expel, happened in two seconds, which left him with an amazing feeling. Besides having the relief of not having the object ripping and pulling every which way, he was left with a sense of profound emptiness, and one other feeling he didn’t expect: he wanted it back in again. *** "Jamal, we need to capture this. Put two lights there and the camera there." Jamal went about setting up the shot. "Pig, let Christian up and bring over some grease. And take off that cage. I want you fluffed up when we shoot." Manetti helped Chris out of the sling. "I don’t think he’s ready to take my paw. Let Jamal fist him. He can probably take that,” he said to Master Drax. "Nonsense. Are to telling me how to conduct his affairs?" Master Drax handed Chris a bottle of poppers. "Use this right before we shoot." "No, Master,” Manetti replied. “You always know best. I just think the kid should..." "Enough. I determine what he 'should.' Jamal, are we ready?" Jamal nodded, and then helped Chris get into the sling. "Chief, how you feelin'?" Manetti asked Chris, who was adjusting the leg straps. "I feel great! That was mind-blowing. I am so fucking high." Manetti acknowledged he was too. Chris hadn't really considered that. Nothing seemed to exist beyond the skin of his body. "Places." Master Drax was in his element. "Jamal, take the boom, I'll operate the hand held. Pig, I want you coming into the shot. Christian, you just stay where you are. Enjoy it and encourage Manetti however you'd like. Use the seduction you know you have—you have the hole everyone wants, own that—but make sure you don't fake it, make sure you really want it from Manetti. No BS. Let's see how you do." "Yes, Master. Thank you for all of this." Master Drax nodded his approval, and called, "Action:" FADE IN: ABANDONED BUILDING - NIGHT There's a close-up of Chris' little puckered butthole. Its lips pout out like it's waiting for a kiss. It's not virginal anymore, but it's hardly gaped either. It lusts for something, someone. Manetti's broad back and hairy shoulders enter the frame and, yes, he's hard, very hard. You can tell there's chemistry, pun intended, between him and the boy. Let's not hide the fact they both look heavily drugged. He sits on a stool facing the boy's vulnerable hole. He puts a finger on its lip and pulls it down, testing its elasticity. The boy starts only slightly. He's excited yet there is an edge of fear in his face. We zoom in. His eyes are more than a little crazed with desire. The world weighs heavily on him, but he's young and resilient. It will take a lot to wear him down completely, and Manetti is more than capable of doing it. The man brings up two greased fingers and inserts them in the boy's velvet hole. They slide in easily. He coats the canal and bends down and brings up three fingers and more lube. The man's other hand is stroking his own rigid pole. He could nut at any point but he’ll hold off, at least for now. Three fingers easily slide into the boy's opening. The man shoves his three fingers up to where his pinky stops him from going further. He twists around the boy's hole, causing the boy to stir in pleasure. It's a very new sensation to him, and there's an exhilaration in his eyes that this man is going to penetrate his rectum with those enormous paws. He anticipates what it will feel like, how much it will hurt, but still grants there’s a deeper lust in him, a hedonistic impulse he's knows he's always had, that wants this man, wants this man in the most carnal of ways. Four greased fingers come up to the boy's butt and slide in, this time not as easily. Manetti has to go slow, gathering his fingers together, twisting slowly, applying pressure ever so slowly, prying the kid's sphincter apart, easing it open. He still has the large ridge of his thumb to go and he doesn't want to rush Chris. "Pick up the pace, pig. Let's get to it," says the director. Manetti sees Chris is taking a hit of poppers. That should help. He greases his whole hand and swathes the boy's entire butt. He prods the hole with four fingers, then adds his thumb. It's all funneling down into this tight hole. He's fighting with Chris' sphincter, it's resisting the circumference of his palm. Manetti twists slowly one way then the other. "Take three hits in a row, boy," he instructs Chris. Chris has only had single hits up to now, and each one has left him spinning, but he listens to Manetti and takes three consecutive hits. He barely manages to replace the cap but his eyes signal he's ready. Manetti holds his hand out in place. Not only is the kid's hole relaxing, he’s pushing out his butt and on his own, starts swallowing Manetti hairy paw. He keeps jutting his ass out so it swallows Manetti’s thumb, clutching the entire appendage down to his wrist. He’s instinctively squeezing Manetti’s huge mitt into him, as the hand tapers to a wrist. The vice-like clamp slides Manetti fingers into the boy's soft internal flesh. He howls at his accomplishment. He's in ecstatic agony as his rectum comes to accept the large foreign object. A huge invader, the likes his internal organs have never known. Master Drax was large, but Manetti's huge. Manetti rests his hand just where it is. He tells Chris to take another hit, which he does, and then starts slowly turning his hand inside the boy. They look into each other's eyes, and you can see the intensity of their communication transcends words. There is a microsecond of pain registering on Chris' face, and Manetti stops twisting, but begins again as soon as he sees Chris has accepted the sensation and now enjoys it. The tip of Manetti's middle finger is the first to touch a deeper area. He feels the rapid pulse of the boy in what feels like strings guarding a new chamber. He gently swirls the finger clockwise, then slowly traces the finger counterclockwise. Chris initiates a release of internal muscles that allow Manetti to add his index and ring finger deeper into Chris' canal. Manetti rotates slightly to allow his pinky and thumb to follow into the chamber. Chris inhales deeply as he senses where Manetti is in his body. It’s both an open invitation to go further, and a dawning realization of how far he ultimately wants Manetti to penetrate him. It’s just the two of them, eye to eye. Again he's in an enclosed confessional with Manetti. “You owned me," he admits, "ever since I met you. I can't resist you." He proves it, too, by sliding down deeper and impaling himself further onto Manetti's hand. You only have to look at the earnestness in his expression, his utter submission to the will of the man inside him, to see Manetti can do to him whatever he wants. Manetti knows that and will exploit it. The splayed out fingers start balling into a fist. The fingertips scrape against the raw colon sending nerve cells into an explosion of sensation, firing round after round of alarm to Chris' brain. Chris trusts Manetti with his body. He breaths and quells the panic. There is a joy about him knowing Manetti now actually has his fist, his balled up fist, in his ass. The noun, fist, he sees, is why it's also a verb. Yes, he signals to Manetti. Yeah, do it, fist me, say his eyes. And Manetti starts, ever so slowly, pulling out then pushing in. It's building. You can see it in the boy's face. It's revving up to become a piston fuck, which is animating Chris' face: joy, pleasure, excitement, apprehension, and at last at a building rhythmic pace, lust; demonic lust for Manetti to do it harder. Manetti knows this. This isn't his first rodeo. He's a great Top and is proving again. When you say 'handpuppet' this is what it means. Manetti twists Chris on his wrist. He's testing the boy constantly, seeing what he can take, seeing where he has to push him to accept his, Manetti's, will. Manetti knows the kid's body will reveal the course his hand will take and guide him along the way, but it's Manetti's confidence in his power that allows Chris to relinquish his. When the kid says he owns him, Manetti takes him at his word. He unfurls his fist, stretches his fingers deep into the kid's rectum, finds a new ring, swirls, charms, and enters his intestine. He straightens out the curve he finds, using his hand to reshape the boy under his care. He then almost pulls out, sphincter puckered to the extreme, then goes back in and rests just momentarily. He's traveled a great distance in those inches. Chris is undulating with libidinous hunger, but calms down when Manetti rests. He syncs to Manetti’s mastery. The man's palm is holding his prostate, holding it like it's resting in a hammock. As he rocks it gently, Chris is in ecstasy as if Manetti is rocking his soul. But Manetti doesn’t simply the boy's soul. He’s looking for the point where Chris will give up everything. That’s the ultimate power he seeks. He's probing the boy again feeling all his organs till he finds the pressure point he's looking for. Manetti's other hand grabs the boy's erect cock and a spray of piss erupts out of him. "Beautiful," says the director. Manetti first directs it toward himself, lets it splash in his mouth, noisily slurping down a few gulps and spits some out, then he points the stream back at Chris. Chris is out of his mind with sensation he's perceiving inside his body with the awareness that his pissing uncontrollably in front of a group of strangers, and being recorded doing it, and he's finding pleasure in the lewd act of primal degradation. He doesn't care, and that is incredibly erotic. He lets out a spontaneous, "Oh, fuck, Sir," as the stream hits his face and he greets it open mouthed. Manetti has pulled his hand back into a fist and is tugging at the inside of the kid's sphincter. He lets it sit at the extreme point of the stretch, pushes back in as far as he can, then yanks the fist completely out. Chris' hole flairs out with the camera capturing the red pedals of the freshly opened boyhole, the newly revealed flesh the world has never seen before. It's the first promise that a rosebud will bloom. Chris is convulsing wildly. Manetti stands, puts a hand on the kid's heaving chest, and with his other hand he's diddling, strumming his fingers against the boy's excited hole, doesn't want to lose the gape he fought for. Before Chris has a chance to come to his senses, Manetti's inserting three, and then four fingers back inside him. It tells Chris he's still open enough to keep fisting. Chris eyes him. Manetti has broken through something, for Chris says with clear intent, "Sir, destroy my pussy." "You want me to destroy your pussy, boy?" "Yes, Sir. I want you to give me a sloppy cunt." "You got a nasty mouth, boy." He sits back down on the stool, and there's a new lasciviousness that wasn't in Manetti before. He applies grease, a lot more grease, to his hand and some to his large hairy cock; black hair spotted with chunks of white Crisco. He also spreads some lube over his massive balls. He's back at the boy's hole with four fingers twisting around. His second hand joins the first with another swath of grease. They're sliding over each other and the rapid stimulation shows on the boy's face. He grabs for the poppers and takes a hit. His head releases back and he's now solely focused on his hole. He feels fingers sliding in and out. Pulling at his hole. Two fingers on each side pry him open, then three fingers on each side, then four. The hands pry his hole apart so hard they’re shaking. The inside of his hole feels like pudding, malleable flesh that submits to each stroke of Manetti's churning hands. One hand slips easily inside, then comes right out. The other hand disappears inside the kid's hole then reappears. Manetti's hand crunches into a fist and strains at Chris’ sphincter, trying to punch through. Chris leans his head forward and takes a couple more hits, and the fist punches in. The kid utters a loud moan. Manetti leans in, asks, "You okay, boy?" Chris answers, "Punch my fuckin' pighole." Manetti does, let's loose his fury. At first, one first in and out, then the other in and out. He's building up momentum until Chris is wailing in delirium. He pulls out a fist violently to watch the hole again flair open, this time much larger, almost the size of his palm. Chris' body shakes until Manetti puts a single finger on Chris gaping hole. He is in charge of that hole; he will tell it when it is allowed to have an orgasm. "Take more hits, boy." Chris does, and with a head clouded with poppers, Manetti resumes his repetitive punching, but now, Chris grabs his legs and pulls them to his chest, pulling his ass cheeks apart, begging to be Manetti's hole. Manetti obliges, inserting a fist and goes deep, pulling out quickly, then inserting a second fist in as far as it will go. It's not as rapid, but it’s a much deeper punch. Chris is not only taking it but continuing to pull his legs apart farther. In fact, he's taking his right leg with both arms and falling to his left side in the sling, moaning like a whore pushing his boy pussy obscenely out of the sling for Manetti to pummel. It's too much for Manetti seeing the boy in such a lewd pose. He needs to fuck this cunt right now, while he's in this state of abnormal delirium. He’s turned the kid into a whore and he’s the stud who gets the reward of fucking a possessed cunt! He grabs both of Chris' legs and pulls him forward in the sling. He stuffs his gaping hole with his cock, then pops one wiry ball in, then the other. He fucks him in short, staccato strokes. Chris is in rapture and eggs Manetti on, squeezing as much of his loosened sphincter as he can. What he lacks in strength he makes up in how extended his pussy has become. With his entire rectum he surrounds Manetti's genitals in a gelatinous, gluey grip. He knows—he feels!—Manetti's hairy balls are scraping against his bowels. He experiences Manetti gyrating inside him, perceives a iron erection stirring his entrails. Wanting him to cum in him, spread his dirty cum in his raw hole, he begs and pleads aloud for Manetti to breed him, to knock him up. Manetti pulls out completely. His balls swing freely dripping lube and other viscous droppings. His engorged cock plops out and slaps Chris’ balls. The kid jumps. Manetti likes what he sees, so he slaps his balls again with a greasy hand. Instead of retreating, the kid pushes his balls up toward Manetti's chest. The man grabs the kid’s balls and twists them till the kid cries in agony. With his other greasy hand Manetti smacks his ass, then plays with the boy’s hole, lowering him down. He takes the hand that smacked the kid's ass and penetrates him with it. The kid gasps, but accepts the hand immediately, starts squirming on it, becomes ravished by it. Manetti is in heat. He takes his dick and inserts it into the palm of the hand that’s inside Chris. It's far more girth then Chris has so far endured. You can see that in his strained face. But he's not rejecting it. His desire for Manetti overwhelms everything. He wants Manetti's to jerk off inside him, he encourages it with a slight rocking movement. When Manetti stops he realizes that Manetti wants to control his own hand job, so Chris completely submits, holds his legs apart so Manetti can do what he wants to him. Manetti observes the complete, utter subservience as does the camera. There's not much movement for you to see for a moment except in close-up of the hole. There's a rapid vibration only showing in the tendons of Manetti's wrist. He’s jerking his hand inside the hole. Manetti contorts his face as Chris watches in awe. He's getting close. Chris relaxes some muscles to encourage Manetti to use more of his insides to beat off. He's fisting his cock just as violently as he's fisting Chris' hole. The more Chris submits to Manetti's violet masturbation, the harder Chris realizes he's getting fisted. It's win-win. They're in perfect sync. Manetti is using long strokes to pleasure himself and Chris is writhing in pleasure. Manetti releases as Chris' eyes roll back in his head. Manetti's trained to show the money shot but he's locked into this moment of seeding this hole. He explodes, shoots deep into the bowels, sending his fist into the innermost depths. He pulls out very briefly to show cum leaking from his dick, but he's quick to get back inside, still jetting, smearing his dickhead around and around Chris' entrails. He squeezes every last drop out of his balls. He pinches his foreskin to not leave any semen behind. There both stare at each other. Manetti drips sweat onto Chris, who's also shining in heat. Manetti has a look of relief of a man who has given everything and held nothing back; Chris looks beatific, fulfilled—a bride inseminated. Manetti looks in his wide blue eyes, raises an eyebrow, and floods his hole with piss. Chris looks surprised, and states astonished, "You’re whizzing in me." Manetti pulls out for a second, pisses all over him, then reinserts himself. He flashes his famous shark tooth smile. Chris sends an identical shark tooth grin right back. "Cut," the director says.

2. Condemned There’s nothing you and I won’t do I’ll stop the world and melt with you The warm night air felt good. No, a shit fuck better than that. The night felt like it was groping him, diddling with his brain as much as booty. It felt outrageous being naked on a rooftop on a hot summer night, his first night in New York, with the breeze drying his matted hair. The city lights were so foreign, many lit windows from high-rises off in the distant, like far off stars, like oil tankers out on a black sea. It made him feel he's in an alien world; he is. In alien skin; he is. Time felt fluid, running backward and forward, never fixed. He smelled piss drying on his skin. He licked it reminding himself it's Manetti's stench he's wearing. It's the only thing he's wearing, except his brother's wet jock around his neck. How fucked up is that?! His tightening skin reminds him of how it used to be when he came out of the ocean back home, the feeling of salt drying under a blazing sun. Tonight, though, a full moon beamed overhead. As they clamored over embankments to the neighboring building, he's still rushing with the vulgarity of his thoughts. He’s not expressing them out loud anymore, but they're still running through his brain. He keeps coming back to a memory that a man just peed on him, that he's going to visit someone, naked, someone Manetti calls his ‘Master.’ He has no reference for what a Master is except for pictures in a magazine. It's part of an imaginary vocabulary. A Zeus figure or Mister Universe. More of a cartoon really. He's not really thinking though. His thoughts are like birds that have escaped their cage and flying lost in the air; freedom they’ve never had before and don’t know what to do with. Manetti leading him is the only thing that grounds him to earth. If he thinks at all it only happens in small bursts. Fragments. He's nervous. He sees his dick has shrunk. His balls feel cold and hide, shriveled up inside him. This moment he's nervous. The next he's more excited than nervous. He regarded Manetti' arms. He's still very horny. Manetti had enormous triceps that flexed under the full moon as he pulled himself over the half wall to the next building. Manetti reached out a hand and helped pull him up. The moon had a glowing ring around it. During the last full moon he was looking at it from the rear window of an Impala, made a decision he wasn’t going back to school the next day. Now here he is naked on a rooftop, being led on a dog leash. Life’s so strange; it is. Wait. There's a collar around his neck? When did that happened? Are there other things he's not remembering? The leash Manetti's holding is attached to his collar. That seems familiar now, part of the plan. Wait. What's the plan exactly? Another thought pops in his head while he's feeling the studs on his collar. He gathers some birds together to string out a sentence. Making sentences is hard and takes enormous effort. "This building,” he said in a hushed voice to Manetti, like someone was going to overhear them. “The one we're on. Sir. Walking on. Tink-tink." He shows him fingers like they're walking, like Manetti wouldn’t know what walking meant. "Yes?" said Manetti. They're at the next building's rooftop hatch. "The front door said 'condemned.' This one." Chris pointed downward. He closed his eyes. A picture formed from a few hours ago. Metal buttons. His brother's name on tape. He steps in a puddle, real time, right now, in his bare feet on the tar roof. He's back in the here and now. It's warm, the puddle. He thinks he’d like to sit down in it. A leash tugs him on. He’s never been on a leash before. He kind of likes it. He could see himself being a dog. Maybe a pet for Manetti and his brother. He’d sleep on the floor, he would. His mind is flying off. Wet shoes that squished. He remembered that. He was cold. When was that? "This building," he said to Manetti absently. "The front door and all the windows were boarded up. Like no one’s home." "That's what Master wants people to think." Manetti popped open the hatch and pointed down the stairs. Chris looked in and descended into the darkness. It's quiet except for the creak of the stairs. Chris' heart raced. He relied heavily on the banister going down, but this feeling of nervous excitement, palpitations, it never leaves him, not since Manetti stuck the needle in his arm. When was that? Wet shoes. He's lost the thread. He's anxious to meet Manetti's Master. He’s curious what Manetti's Master could possibly look like. He gathered birds and released them to Manetti. "What's he like, Sir? Master Drax." Moonlight poured from the skylight over the stairs onto their bare shoulders. He can’t see what’s in the shadows. Formless things. Nameless. It’s the drugs that make him imagine things that aren't there, he told himself, but he’s walking slower. Manetti had to keep nudging him forward so he doesn't bump into him. Manetti sensed Chris was having second thoughts. As they walked the long hall, Manetti told Chris the short version of Master Drax, owner of a stable of boys, all kinds, he and Ben among them. A defrocked priest from Eastern Europe, they all, the stable boys, think. He talked to him in a voice you'd use to corral a young colt you were breaking in, inching him closer to the only door down the corridor. "And he publishes magazines, vanilla ones and hard core ones, too. You said you liked them, the ones under Ben's bed," Manetti suggested. "Do you think he know where my brother is?" Chris asked as they stopped at the door. Manetti put his hand on Chris' shoulder, as much a gesture calm him as well as making sure he wouldn't bolt. With the other hand he knocked. “I wouldn't ask him that tonight.” "I like Magnum." said Chris. They heard someone unlatch the door. “I wonder where he is.” "Maybe you can be in Magnum someday." The door opens and Chris jumps, backing into Manetti. *** A very tall, very lanky black man, a bit older than Manetti, examined the two visitors at the door. The young, very white one, was being propped up by the one he knew as Manetti. The man wore only a harness, naked otherwise, and was shaved from head to toe including his eyebrows. A very long, dangling cock gripped by a metal ring had a leather strap running from his cock to his chest, then split out to each bony shoulder and ran down his back. His cheeks were hollow, and his mouth was agape, and each tooth filed to a sharp point. Manetti pushed Chris away, but Chris quickly took a step back again. "Hello, Jamal," Manetti said. "We're expected." "Yes," the servant said, unfazed by the rudeness of scaredy-boy. "He is waiting in great room. This is the new one?" he asked in his faint island accent. Manetti nodded. Jamal appraised the kid with the wide blue eyes. There was a flicker of lust that brought out a grotesque smile. He then turned and led them down the hall. Manetti stepped in front of Chris, annoyed, yanked him along by his leash. Chris whispered in his ear, “The guy’s teeth.” Manetti quietly answered back, “Too many complaints about bad blow jobs so Master had all his teeth yanked out. Has to wear fake ones or nothing.” Chris scanned the crumbling walls as they walked. Pornographic graffiti filled every inch. Men with large pompadours, sailors, woodsmen, with big tits, big butts, and bigger cocks getting fucked and fisted, and were either pissing or spewing cum. Chris whispered again to Manetti, "Like hieroglyphics. Dirty ones." Manetti yanked his chain. "Stop talking." The hallway ended in a large living room. A fireplace, too hot to be lit, was filled with candles. Standing candelabras were also scattered throughout the room. A few Klieg lights stood dark in corners. The room was covered in peeling red paint. Tin plates on the ceiling were broken in areas where water had seeped in. The floor had rotted out years back. Now warm, stale air seeped up through the cracks of the floorboards. Two old black leather wingback chairs faced each other on both sides of the fireplace, a tattered leather couch between them. Master Drax, sipping a glass goblet of some blood-red liquid, motioned for Manetti to take the opposite chair. Chris stood between them facing the fireplace not knowing where to look after the first shock of seeing Master Drax. Manetti quickly spoke: "Kneel, boy. Eyes down." Chris knelt staring at the candles on the lip of the fireplace. What brief glance he’d gotten of the sitting man, was that he possessed the biggest cock he’d ever seen; it's played in his mind. Even Jamal’s ringed cock paled to the black clad figure. "Michael, where is his cage?" Master Drax asked. "Put it on him." Manetti rose and went down on one knee to hook the chastity cage over Chris' genitals. He took Chris’ arms and placed them behind his back. Once the cage was locked, Manetti rose and handed the key to his Master. It was the first time Chris ever had his penis and balls shackled. The metal was cold and constricted tightly around him like a vice. If he felt helpless before, he now felt hopeless. Chris tried to give the Master a fast sideways glance but only saw Jamal who stood behind him. He smirked his razor grin from the sidelines. "Has he at all been hard since you drugged him with, what, methamphetamine?" Chris looked down to see his cock was indeed shriveled to the size of a peanut inside the cage. "Yes, Master Drax. He actually has a nice piece on him. So scrawny, he looks above average." "Really?" Master Drax said in somewhat disbelief. "Tell me, Michael, exactly have you given him so far? A full account, if you would." "Eight drops of GHB, which I shared a little with him to encourage him. His works had point two meth. And a Valium in case you wanted to fist him, Master. He also drank some chem piss but not much. He's a virgin, well, was as of two hours ago. I have to say he takes a good fuck, opened pretty quick after about an hour. His hole was loose when I shaved him, but probably it’s tight again." Master Drax leaned forward and spoke, with a bit of a smile, conspiratorially to Chris. "Michael would make a good pimp for you, wouldn't he? You would do anything for him." Chris stared into the fireplace, not knowing what was expected of him. His right hand tightly clutched his left wrist behind his back. His unease made him dig his nails into his flesh. "Tell me: of all the enhancements Michael provided, what did you like best? You can speak. Look up at me." Chris looked up. His earlier glimpse of the man registered as a big dicked scary old man, a man with glasses, black vest and crotchless chaps. And though he had sat far back in the chair, his huge uncut cock had hung over the seat of the wingback chair. That anaconda of a cock is what registered most and still does. Now that he was able to truly take him in, his initial fear was not diminished by what he’d seen, but now possibly built on it. Bald, random liver spots covered his head. Behind wire-rim glasses, rheumy eyes darted from his skeletal sockets. The glasses hooked around large ears, where black hairs jutted around the fleshy lobes. His stubbly beard couldn't hide severely sunken, ashy cheeks, and in his open mouth there were multiple missing teeth. His tongue slithered over chapped lips, and his jaw had the junky habit of gnawing from side to side that his mother had when she itched for a fix. He breathed heavily through his nose like Manetti did right after he slammed. That nose was narrow and hooked, hung with green mucus extending as he huffed in and out. He saw Chris was mesmerized, so as he removed his vest and touched himself in a manner that a whore might use to attract a timid client. With his vest removed, he ran his hand over large white breasts that hung down to a pair of engorged nipples, each one pierced with mammoth horseshoes of heavy silver metal. He fondled them noting Chris' reaction. A silver pentagram swung on a chain and rested between his sagging breasts. Tattoos adorned his torso and arms. The first image that caught Chris’ eye was of a large dragon, identical to the one Ben had draped over his shoulder with its accompanying tail covering the old man's pronounced rib cage. Words were inked up and down his arms, all in Latin, some spiraled around his forearm, others in bands around his shriveled biceps. Chris recognized some of them stored in a backlog from catechism: Deus, mortem, cazzo, satanas. Though he didn't know what the phrases said, they couldn't have translated to anything good. Mixed in with the words were inverted crosses, a triangle of sixes on his other shoulder, horned creatures fucking, a goat with an erection, a man hanging by his foot. Most of the ink was old, faded, blended into his shriveling skin. There was one exception. A somewhat newer one etched over his hard, distended belly: the same three-pronged biohazard symbol Manetti had. Below his belly he had a vast field of grey public hair. Beneath the translucent hair, a demon's mask, the long, slender tongue extending along the top of his manhood down to the tip where it hung off with an obscene amount of hanging foreskin. Within the wrinkled foreskin, thick yellow spooge formed and crusted. Master Drax inched closer to get a better look at Chris. He was still awaiting an answer. He propped his elbows on this knees to support himself, his hands folded monk-like before him. Chris glanced at the arms. They were heavily bruised with track marks and scabbed veins; one engorged artery still had a bead of bright red blood shimmering. He saw the boy starting at it. He extended his arm. Before he could stop himself Chris licked the bead. “Very good, child,” the Master beamed. "You have proper instincts." Chris felt himself sitting inside his head, detached somehow. He thought he would have been repelled, but oddly, examining him at such close range, as at the same time he was being inspected, he was strangely drawn to the man. Before this moment, if he'd come across him on the street, he might try to avoid him, cross the street. But being scrutinized so attentively by him in this moment, kneeling naked in front of him, he still had fear, some repulsion, yes, but he couldn't deny an undercurrent of desire. The Master immediately pick up on his thoughts, for as Chris gazed down at the demonic mask etched on his pubis, it was evident that an erection was beginning to form. The serpent tongue stirred within the overflowing foreskin, a monstrous snail emerging from its shell. Chris, too, was starting to become aroused the longer he took in man's strangeness. But for him the feeling of arrested movement reminded him painfully and clearly that his dicklet was going nowhere. He summoned the courage to look pleadingly at Master Drax, but he wasn't ready for the Master’s stare that entrapped him. Like a tiny mouse might freeze all functions when looked down on by a giant cobra, Chris froze. Didn’t move, didn’t blink, barely breathed. Master Drax's presence was formidable, a fact he felt deeper than anything he'd ever sensed inside. A bit of urine dripped from his cage that too quickly turned into a stream that fell through the floorboards, echoing floor after floor below. Master Drax gave out an asthmatic, rumbling laugh, coughed up phlegm, pointed to the boy’s mouth. Chris opened it slowly. Master Drax hurled his green phlegm directly into his mouth. He then pointed to the boy’s stomach. Chris blinked, then swallow nauseously. And still the man held him in a awe. His dark eyebrows raised. There had been a question dangling, Chris at last remembered. Birds settling down on their perches. However far his control might extend, Master Drax was able to make him focus. He thought back to what the man had asked, what he'd like best, responded cautiously, "I guess I like the slam, Sir." "It’s ’Master,’ boy," instructed Master Drax without malice. With slight satisfaction of the boy’s performance thus far, he sat back in the chair. The released tension in the room was a pronouncement of having done and said the right things. Having felt he answered correctly, he sat with a bit straighter spine, and said, "Sorry, Master. I liked the slam best, definitely." He was almost confident, an emotion he rarely felt. "And only a point two slam,” he said to the boy, shaking his head theatrically. “I don't know if I'd even feel that, Michael. We'll double that in a bit, maybe five, we'll see. Your name, child?" Chris became alarmed. There followed an awkward silence, while Chris contemplated what a doubled slam, or possibly more, would do to him. He would be insane, would never survive. He was terrified at the prospect, slumped again a little. "Chris," volunteered Manetti, when it was obvious there wasn't an answer coming from the boy. "Is that short for Christopher, child?" Chris' mouth felt incredibly dry but managed to reply, "Christian, Master." "Christian," he said savoring the word on his lips. "A Christian in our house, Jamal." He looked back at his servant who nodded approvingly. "We shouldn't change that a bit, should we, Michael?" Chris had trouble looking at the Master after he proposed the double slam, one so close on the heels of his first. He worried the man saw his fear, read what he thought. To try to deflect, he darted his eyes around the room. Silhouettes against the walls outlined the shadow of a massive wooden slings, a Saint Andrews cross, a fuck bench—things he’d seen in Magnum but never imagined he’d encounter in real life—an examination table with stirrups raised high, a large wooden throne with a toilet seat cutout, and a three foot high cage with an expansive padded top. He spotted a video camera pointing out the window into an air shaft. Across the air shaft he recognized Manetti's studio. Master Drax, it was obvious, had been their audience. "So besides slamming, Christian, what else did you like to do with Michael?" Master Drax played with the foreskin of his growing erection. Pulling back the skin, its head was pierced by a horseshoe P.A. that ended in two sharp points at either ends. He uncovers it to show Chris, then lets the skin fall back covering the jewelry. His erection was already the size of Chris’ forearm, from elbow to wrist. He couldn’t imagine it getting any bigger or how anyone could take being penetrated by it. Just looking at it wide eyed, obliterating any of his thoughts. He knew once again there’s a question, but words wouldn’t form in its monstrous presence. The two sharp points rose out of the foreskin as the beast begins to stand on its own. "He takes a fuck real good," Manetti chimes in to help Chris out. "He took my..." Before Manetti embellished, Chris spat out, "Eating ass. I like to eat ass." It was as if he were back in the confessional, compelled to empty his soul. Manetti chuckled, adding, "Pretty dirty ass, too, Master. Not many guys like to get in there.” "Yes," Master Drax said in a low voice. "Look, the child’s little bird is struggling in its cage. Confession frees the soul, but will not free your cock. You tiny prick is of no interest to me. Stand and turn around." Chris did as he was ordered. "Bend over. Spread your cheeks." Master Drax let out a groan. "Boy, didn’t you ever play with your hole? Boys come to me with their hole destroyed from massive toys. Yours looks like you've never touch it. How tight is he, Michael?" "Tight as fuck, Master Drax. The booty bump helped, otherwise it would have taken hours." "You were able to get in before the slam?" Manetti nodded. "Okay, kneel, boy. You, too, pig.” Both of them got to their knees. "I don't know how much this greasy pig has told you, but I own him and your brother. Depending on what happens between us tonight, I might own you, too. Do you think that you would like that, boy?" "Yes, Sir…Master. I think so." Master Drax leaned over close. The nipple rings swung reflecting light off multiple candles, entrancing Chris, who had the compulsion to reach up and touch the man's chest. He managed, though, at least for a moment, to instead look the man in his face. But as the seconds ticked by his desires won out, and his gaze fell to the temptation of the distended nipples. "You must always fall into temptation.” The boy looked up with a start. Master Drax went on, “Yes, your thoughts are easy for me to read. Your face is an open book. I will rewrite you. You like these tits? Go ahead, touch them." Chris tentatively reached up with both hands and squeezed the engorged nubs. "Would you like yours to look like these?" Chris found himself nodding. "It'll take work. We’ll start you with small nipple rings later tonight. But you’ll have to earn them. This pig here can tell you, I like grinding boys down with their darkest perversions. I like my boys hard, like I like their holes sloppy. Sit," he said to Manetti, punching him in his breast bone hard enough to make him fall backwards. "I require their holes be loose, extremely loose. Show Christian your pig hole, pig." Manetti lifted his legs, his hairy balls falling over his sizable cock, and spreads his ass cheeks for the boy to view. As he bore down he pulled his asslips apart. Soon Manetti's red rectum started exposing itself. "Push hard." Master Drax didn’t raise his voice, but his tone grew menacing: "Harder." The red rosebud pushed opened even further, protruding just outside the ring of his sphincter. Around the edges Manetti's asslips were lumps of dark red and purple ridges. Chris' bound erection was getting very extremely uncomfortable. At first a pearl of pre-cum appeared on the piss slit, Master Drax observed, but as the boy watched Manetti strain to flair out more of his rectum, puffing out into a full prolapse, more pearls appeared. Finally pre-cum began to drool from the boy's cage to wooden floor. Master Drax watched delighted. "Go on, touch it. We'll get yours like this too, eventually. Being so young, your ring will be smooth. It will be a glorious sight to behold, won't it Jamal?" "Indeed, Master," Jamal responded, running his tongue over his teeth. Chris reached over and felt the flesh. Soft, incredibly soft. He'd never felt anything so soft. As he fingered it, Manetti let out an unconscious wail. "You want to taste it, don’t you? Go ahead. Kiss it. Kiss the inside of a man’s rectum." Chris couldn't believe he wanted to kiss it. He kissed it, and after looking at Master Drax who nodded at him, he licked it and pressed his mouth against the prolapse. He went farther, licking around each red pedals, sucking each fold splayed out before him. He pinched the ring of flesh, which made Manetti flinch, and without quite knowing why pinched it harder. Manetti cried out but had been trained not to resist. Chris searched for the center as he pulled the man’s hole further apart with his fingers. He stuck a finger inside and licked around the hole before sticking his tongue deep down inside the cavern. Manetti moaned ecstatically. Chris felt like he was coming into heat again for Manetti, but their roles felt reverse. He began chewing on the prolapse, and as he did his body temperature rose and a fine sheen of sweat glazed his body, a trickle of sweat ran down his ribs. Master Drax looked enormously pleased with the boy. "Both of you, sit," commanded the Master. He sniffed the air. "Boy, is that you I smell? B.O. and piss?" "Yes, Sir," Chris said proudly, sitting straight. "Sir pissed all over me before we came. I drank his piss too. Some went in my butt." "The boy has been homeless for the last month and hasn't showered,” Manetti explained. He gave Chris a quick look of concern. He grew aware something was changing in Chris, that he was more enthusiastic than fearful. "Excellent," Master Drax said reflexively. "Christian, do you know what limitations are?" Chris nodded. "What limitations do you think you have?" Manetti protectively broke in quickly, "He doesn’t do scat or bestiality or..." Master Drax interrupted softly, slowly, but emphatically, "Did I question you what Christian’s limitations are? Whom did I asked, Michael?" Manetti knew he'd have to pay for his outburst. "You asked Christian, Master,” Manetti said, lowering his head. Chris' felt that he, at least, is in Master's good graces and wants to please him more. "No limits, Master Drax." He'd read that in one of Ben's nastier bondage magazines. Realizing he doesn't exactly know what that means, he added tentatively, "At least that's what I'd like to be." Chris saw this made Master Drax reveal his jagged smile. Jamal nodded to Chris. A split tongue like a lizard swept across Master Drax's lips as he contemplated how to start with this near-virgin boy. "Come here. Play with my nipples, child. Nothing gets me more stimulated quicker." He was in heaven. He reached up and felt the Master's chest. Sparse grey fur swirled around his nipples. The boy's hands glided over his drooping pecs. He then dared to slip a hand into the man’s hairy arm pits. He was energized, doing things unprompted he'd never thought to do. With his other hand he was pulling on his cage. There was something in the Master's gaze that egged on his libido. Almost guided him. He felt the wet body odor emanating from Master Drax's pits. He brought his fingers out and sniffed them, then put them in his mouth. "You have a real pig's tendencies, don't you boy? Manifest much earlier than your brother." He looked down at the boy's cage. "Those tendencies will be quite beneficial and financially rewarding for us both. I cater to a specialized clientele, or has Michael told you this? Some with, uh, exotic tastes. Let's free you for tonight and see where your tendencies might lead. Pig," he said to Manetti. "Get up and take his cage off and put it on you. You don't deserve an erection tonight.” Manetti rose and got the key on the table next to Master’s chair. “You don’t deserve this either, but I’ll permit you hold Christian while I rape him.” Manetti released the lock on Chris cage and his small penis started to quickly fill out. Though his own was still flaccid, he struggled to get the cage to capture his ample meat. Jamal added assistance, pinching and prodding until his balls fit inside. They struggled with metal cap to get it locked over the shaft. “Jamal,” Master Drax said to his servant. "Leave him. He'll attend to himself. Please be so kind as to prepare cocktails for these two." "Very good, Master Drax," he replied, leaving Manetti to struggle getting his pecker in the stocks. “And one for Master?” "Of course. Yes. Make them extra hearty, Jamal. Take it from the Czech inventory, not the Mexican. And mix in a bit of Ketamine with the boy’s dose. His hole will never accommodate otherwise." The Master picked up Chris leash and pointed Manetti to the large wooden sling. "In, pig. I want you to hold him as he struggles. He is too bound to you at this point. You will be an accomplice in his rape." Manetti marched over to the sling, climbed in and put his legs through the straps. Master Drax came up behind Chris, knelt behind him, nudging his legs apart. He began fondled him intensely. His hands ran over the thin chest pulling him into himself. His enormous erect blade sliced up and down Chris’ crack, inched up the small of his back till it rested between his shoulder blades, illustrating how deep he would be penetrated. The wet foreskin left a small trace of slime as it climbed each vertebrae. The man felt all the indentations along the boy’s rib cage, pinched the small nipples, grabbed the boy’s erect dick and gave it a slap. His hand dove under his crotch weighing his dangling balls with one hand and feeling his tight, wet hole with the other. It slowly dawned on Chris, far from molesting him for his own pleasure, Master Drax was more interested in assessing him as you would an animal you were about to purchase. Sure enough, the man turned the boy around, pulled down his eyelids, then pushed up his lips sticking a finger in his mouth to open his teeth. After examining inside his mouth, he slid in a second finger, then a third, finally all four and pushed them down Chris’ throat until the boy gagged and doubled over. “No. You will not gag. Open.” Four fingers again went into his mouth as far back as Master Drax’s fingers would reach. He wanted to retch but fought against it. He'd never felt anyone assess him over so thoroughly or felt so dehumanized. The glasses enlarged Master Drax's watery eyes and continued to drill into him, wordlessly inserting himself into him. He felt the man inside his head, rooting around, rummaging inside him for something; changing something here, reordering something there. Master Drax withdrew his slime-covered fingers and wearily got up. He plucked Chris’ dangling leash from the ground and gave a small tug on the chain. As Master Drax led him toward the sling, he said, "Point two, you said? A child’s portion. Are you ready for your first man-size slam? It'll open up worlds you've never imagined. Worlds that will swallow you whole. Where you'll be mine ever after. Are you willing to succumb completely to me so I can show you those worlds?" Chris was extremely agitated, but he knew better than to contradict Master Drax, much less deny him what he knew he wanted. Instead he searched for a way to temper his fear and possibly backpedal a bit. "I'm pretty high now, Sir," Chris said uncertainly. "The first slam fucked me up good. I was saying things when I was rushing, I don't know if I really wanted to do all those things. Not really." Master Drax stopped short, looked at him with tired disappointment. "My fuckhole never says 'no'." Master Drax wasn't angry but he closely examined Chris’ face. "You want me to give you your first man-size slam? I'll ask it again, this one time only." Chris looked over at Manetti for some assurance. “Don’t look at him. Look at me.” "Yes, Sir." Chris whispered. Then seeing Master Drax was still holding him in his gaze, he added firmly, "Please, yes Master Drax, slam me however much you want." "And I will.” He finished leading his boy by the leash over to the heavy wooden sling. He unclipped the collar and let it drop noisily to the ground. “Climb up on pig. That’s correct, lie with your back on his belly. I want you to feel it while you observe it." Chris awkwardly climbed up on Manetti, with Manetti giving him a little hand to secure himself in the sling. Manetti's large, broad chest easily cradled Chris on top of him. He felt Manetti’s warm fur on his back, his hairy belly tickling his tailbone. He felt him breathing slowly beneath him. Manetti starting caressing him to get him to relax. Chris melted into him with every stroke of his large hand. He, in turn, began stroking Manetti's sides for comfort. While Master Drax was taking off his chaps folding them on a table, Chris whispered to Manetti, “I didn’t mean to hurt you when I was playing with your hole.” His head tilted so he could see Manetti’s reflection in the mirror hanging above him. “I feel your heart pounding away,” Manetti said to Chris in the reflection. “You can do this, Chief. Remember how it hurt at first but then it got better and you came to like it? Am I right or am I right?” Chris nodded with a bit of an embarrassed smile. “The K is going to help relax your hole. This will be more intense but it’s the same. I promise. I'll be here the whole time.” Jamal came back with three prepared needles and a rubber tube on a tarnished silver tray as. Master Drax followed him over and wanted to know how much Jamal had allotted. Jamal held up four fingers. Chris held tightly to Manetti's side and took a deep breath. Master Drax attended to Manetti first. Chris watched in the mirror as the needle emptied into him. Manetti coughed and he realized the man was burning up, from his chest down to his groin. He felt a wet sheen of sweat instantly coat his back. His breathing was insanely rapid. But what suddenly frightened Chris was Manetti saying, barely audible, "I can take it. I'm okay. I can take it." Over and over. If doing .4 was hard on Manetti, how was he going to bear it? Master Drax said to Jamal who stood passively staring straight ahead, "I'll do myself, you do the boy." "Very good, Master," replied Jamal, breaking into a small grin. He indicated the closest syringe on the tray was for Master. He then set the tray down on a side table. Chris looked up into Jamal’s jaundiced eyes. He saw desire smoldering in them, something he would not act on unless invited. His sumptuous black skin glowed in the candlelight. There was sweat along his strong brow. He wondered if the man had tasted any of portions he had prepared. Jamal smiled at him displaying a mouth missing all its teeth. Blackened gums were now all he had in his open maw. Jamal took up the rubber tube and placed it around Chris' bicep. He felt his forearm and decided on a pronounced vein. Removing the orange cap of the last syringe, he held it at an angle to the vein. Chris noticed that the vial wasn't clear but cloudy with a touch of pink. Jamal peered directly into Chris's eyes, saying softly with his island lilt, "I make this special, an extra gift from me to you." He retracted the plunger enough to cause it to spill Chris' blood into the pink liquid, then pushed the swirling content into his vein. "I also up you to five." The servant pulled out the syringe, released the tourniquet, and held Chris’ arm up in the air. As Chris bucked within Manetti's strong grip, the servant turned Chris' arm out to licked the bead of blood where the needle had just been.

Chris leaked when Manetti squeezed his dick. His still hard purple head was covered in spooge and Manetti wanted to torture the kid for a bit, polishing his nob, just cuz he could. The palm of his hand went back and forth as Chris squirmed in pleasure and pain under his control. “Stop! Nooo,” he laughed howling and thrashing. The wall phone in the kitchen immediately began to ring and light flood into their darkened room from across the airshaft. The light brought Manetti more in focus to Chris, breaking their intimacy slightly. As his mind settled back from his raging high, what they had just done started to frighten him a little. Manetti’s slimy cock slid out of Chris' ass like a fat slug. There was an audible 'plop' like a cork as it popped out of the grip of his sphincter, and he felt a small amount of liquid dribbled out his crack, down his tail bone and slide under his back. Manetti went into the kitchen and picked up the receiver and silently listened. "Thanks," he finally said. "Yes, he definitely has a hot pussy, Master," said Manetti into the receiver. The long phone cord allowed him to come back into the room talking. "We were that loud, huh?" He gave Chris an 'oops' look. "Well, I'm glad it enticed you, Sir." Manetti paused, then was quiet for quite a while, considering the proposal from the person on the other end of the line. He grew serious looking at Chris while the voice on the other end continued speaking. There was a pause on the other end, seeming to wait for Manetti to reply. Then the voice added a few words, which brought a smile to Manetti’s lips. "Well, we were probably going to bed, but I think our boy could be convinced otherwise. What do you say, Chief?" Manetti asked the bound boy covering the mouthpiece. "Up for a drop-by to my Master’s? Could be worth your while," he said rubbing his fingers together and wiggling his dark brows. "Even might be the beginning of a long term plan. A little for you, a cut for me, and the rest for Master. Maybe the plan you were looking for, Chief." Manetti’s teeth glowed in the light from across the airshaft. Chris gave him an I-don’t-know look in return. Frankly, he'd do what Manetti wanted him to do as long as Manetti was there. Back to the phone, he said, "Sure, the kid's psyched to meet you. We’ll come over right away." He paused. "Yes, Sir, I know what you like. I'll get him prepped just like that. Right, give us a little time then." Another pause, then a finger went up Chris’ hole. “Yep, he’s still wet but his hole is tightening.” Manetti sucked his finger smiling at Chris. “Sure, I have some G. Will do.” He went back into the kitchen and hung up. "Boy, to get through this night, I think we need to up your game." Manetti came back into the room and stopped by the bookcase and picked up the box with the orange tipped needles. He came over to Chris, who suddenly became alarmed, shook his head emphatically side to side. Manetti saw the kid stressing and put his hand on his face to reassure him. “Nah, Chief, nothing like that,” he said lifting out a little vial of liquid, putting a reassuring hand on Chris’ beating heart. “Only a couple of drops of G right now to prep you.” He took an eyedropper and counted out some drops in his water glass, swirled it around, and put the class up to Chris’ mouth. “What is it?” “Something that’ll take the edge of the booty bump I gave you. Makes you relax. Kind of like a warm bathtub. Nasty tasting though,” he broke into an evil grin. “But you like nasty, right?” Chris took a sip and made a face. “Yeah, I know. Here, I’ll take some too so we’ll be on the same planet, okay?” Manetti drank and made the same face as Chris. He got Chris to drink a little more. “Drink me, Alice,” Manetti said in a tiny voice. “You’ll need it to get through the door.” Chris gave him a blank look. “Never mind. Here, take this too. It’s a muscle relaxer. I think you’ll need it.” He put a white pill on Chris' tongue, and let him wash it down with a last sip from the glass. “Why do I need a muscle relaxer? Is he going to fuck me, Mike?” “Most definitely, he’s going to fuck you, buddy, and he’s a lot bigger than me, and I ain’t no small zucchini, am I?” “Oh shit.” Chris' head fell backward. “Yeah, but on the bright side look how hard you are. I gotta warn you though, if you come with me, Master Drax does believes in everyone slamming and doesn’t take no for an answer. So rule number one: never say no. He has lots of ways to make you say yes and they aren't any fun, believe me. Second rule: don't say 'I can't.' To him that translates to 'I won't.'" Chris looked trouble. Manetti went on, "Your Catholic so you'll get this: Saying no means he can always change your mind, so to him that's a venial sin. But refusing him outright, saying you won't? That's a mortal sin. And you don't want to do that. Ever. Got it?” “I think I wanna stay here, if that’s alright.” “You're scared of needles cuz of your ma, huh?” asked Manetti, with a note of compassion. “Your brother told me she was tasting even before Carl came sniffing around. He said last time he checked in with you guys, she was living with Carl, but she was married to her H.” “Can you untie me?” Chris asked. Manetti removed his cuffs and Chris slid out of the sling and sat on the futon crossed legged. He started looking around the room then looked at his boner. “Man, is this ever going down?” He tried to make a joke of it, but Manetti saw the G was making only a mild dent in his mood. He was playing again with himself, pinching his nipples, which seemed to be something new to him, was a tactic, thought Manetti, to try and take his mind off his family and this, Manetti saw, wasn't working. The Prior Puss was taking over the evening. Manetti knew he had to distract the kid for a while for the G to take full effect. “Hey, how’d you like me to shave you?" Chris perked up and looked at him curiously. "I shave Ben all the time and he loves it. It’ll really calm you down. It goes well with G too. Wanna try?" His caterpillar eyebrows wiggled. "I love shaving your brother.” “What do I do?” “Nothing but lie there. Just look pretty." Manetti went toward the bathroom. "Like you could ever not look pretty.” The words did their job and Chris laid down smiling. Manetti went in and made preparations. Chris lay there blushing and grinning to himself. He could see why Ben liked this guy. “But I like my bush,” he called out to Manetti in mock protest. He felt his small bush. Not much of one he had to admit. “You clip it, baby. Think it makes you look bigger, right? Ya’know you got nothing to be ashamed of.” He came back in with a bowl of water, shaving cream, and a straight razor. "I know you'll enjoy this." He sat next to Chris, and set out his wares. "Listen: Master Drax has special tastes. We're start with the simplest. He likes his new boys shaved. Everywhere." Manetti wrang out a wash cloth over the pan and soak the little bit of blond pubes Chris had. "You like keeping it short. But maybe you don't want them at all. Prefer to stay a boy." He sprayed foam in his hand and covered Chris' pubes. For pleasure or torture, he also coated his shaft and balls, massaging it in until Chris was squirming again in his hand. A few well-placed strokes of the razor and Chris' pubes were gone. He spent special time kneading his balls, flattening them out, squeezing them hard. Part pain and eventually part pleasure for Chris. "Lay your arms back." His pits were easy to shave. While on the second pit, Manetti said, "Man, how long since you showered, boy?" "A month, I guess." Chris was starting to float in his body. He succumbed the water and the warmth of the rag. With Manetti taking care of him, they were bonding closer. It was a feeling he didn't want to stop. "A month?" he asked incredulously. "Last gym class I took, I guess. After that I stopped going to school." "Well, no wonder you smell like a hobo." He gave a small laugh as he scraped the last of Chris' arm pit hair. "Master's probably gonna like your smell. Once I finish your butt, I should probably douse you with a finishing touch." Chris opened his eyes to see Manetti pretending to take a wiz on him. Chris mouthed silently, fuck, yeah, agreeing to whatever came into Manetti's dirty mind. "Up, Chief. Back in the sling." Chris got up slowly, then slunk back in the sling and put his legs in the stirrups. Manetti moved down below Chris' butt hole, pulled up a stool and started soaping his crack. To Chris, the feeling was sensuous; to Manetti it was salacious. He played with the boy's hole for a while, prying it apart with two fingers up and down, and then side to side. He spat in it and pulled some of his own cum out to use as lube. He stuck a finger deep inside, rubbing his prostate and generally feeling out the kid's hole. Chris head lolled to the side enjoying the sensations, looking up to the mirror occasionally catching Manetti brown head studying his anal anatomy. Soon, with a few deft strokes, his cheeks were soft and smooth. His purple hand prints were fading to pink. "Okay, hardest part. You're nicely stretched but I want you to remain totally relaxed." He took the straight razor and made micro-scrapes against the boy sphincter. Each stroke made the boy clench. He stopped for a moment, stood up, and smacked his ass hard. "I'm serious now, boy. Stop flinching or I'm going to slice you. I'm a lot more careful than Master would be, so you want me doing this, not him." Chris bit his lip. He liked when Manetti ordered him around, but he was apprehensive if he could keep his hole perfectly relaxed. "I'll try." "Rule three: there is no try, only do. Think Yoda. Seriously, I'm going to put this inside you," he said holding up the straight razor. "I'll be twisting it a full three-sixty. If Master finds even one hair in there I can guarantee you your ass is going to be a bloody mess when he's done. Trust me, I know. Picture my hole for a minute. Yours is a piece of cake." Chris felt the warm washcloth wipe the remainder of soap away. He then felt Manetti's tongue circle his hole, licking the edges then spiraling deep inside. It felt fantastic. His hole relaxed even more the deeper Manetti's tongue went. Then he felt the cool razor slide ever so gently and slowly into his hole. He concentrated on how relaxed he was under Manetti's spell, how much he liked him, put all his trust in him. Thought only of that. He felt the razor slowly twisted around his open hole. Six, then seven nicks of stray hairs he felt intensely as if they were being ripped out of him. Still he remained open. "Good boy. I'm coming out." The blade fell out slowly. It almost tickled. At the last moment of contact, however, he couldn't hold back a last minute flinch. The blade pricked him only slightly, but enough to draw a small trickle of blood. It stung and his sphincter went into delayed spasms, pushing some residual cum out his hole. Manetti lapped at it without without scolding him. His tongue was soothing though Chris knew blood, saliva and Manetti's cum was mixing in his wound. But the lapping tongue was hypnotic. Minutes went by silently. His sphincter stopped clenching and he lightly dozed off feeling Manetti tongue going on for eternity. Not caring what happened next. Remembering only Manetti's tongue lulling him to sleep. He would fall asleep every night like this if he was Manetti's. *** But he wasn't Manetti's. First one hand was pulled up and buckled in place. Then the other. Still he was content and floating like a baby in a swing. "Good boy. Now for your reward." From far away he heard the words and responded like he was still asleep. "What?" His words felt unnaturally slow coming out of him. "Wait." He realized his arms were again bound. "Wait. What...?" Through droopy eyes he saw Manetti take out a prepared point. "Just a small one, Chief. It'll put you in the right frame of mind to meet Master. He's expecting it." Manetti tied a rubber tourniquet around Chris' small bicep and began tapping the crook of his arm. It was pretty easy to find a vein on the skinny boy. He found a juicy one and told the kid to hold still or he might hurt him. Chris stopped squirming and watched with fascinated horror as the needle found it target. "Stick. Tell me if this burns." A swirl of red flooded into the vile and slowly Manetti unloaded the liquid into Chris' vein. The boy felt nothing immediately as Manetti withdrew the needle and pressed his thumb on the point of entry. His other hand unleashed the tourniquet, just as the boy coughed. Chris panicked. Manetti stood above him, his face easing into that large shark smile he'd had before. "That's it, my red blooded American boy." He watched the kid flush beet red, going through alternating phases. Panic turned to ecstasy, turned back to panic. "Just ride it. That's it. Enjoy it." "Too intense." Manetti leaned over Chris' face. He knew what would help the kid. He pushed his pec out to hover over his face, unleashing one of the boy's arms. Chris put his hand on Manetti's chest, felt the muscle flexing just for him. He caressed the hair, found the pierced nipple. Manetti bent even lower to the boy. Chris started sucking away, nursing like an infant, both metal and flesh. Chris looked up at Manetti and met the shark smile with one of his own. A smile shaded with a bit of evil he'd never let out before. He struggled to get up forgetting his other hand was still bound. Manetti helped him get it off. Chris buried his face in the man's chest, inhaling him, licking him. Put his face under Manetti’s armpit. Manetti took pleasure in letting him lick the pit, then helped him get up. Chris slid off the sling and began pacing around the bedroom murmuring fuck repeatedly. "How's that feel? You like?" Chris couldn't form any words but held up his thumb. "Go ahead and lay down. Enjoy the rush. Just ride it through." As he sat he fell back, feeling like he was falling down a rabbit hole, that the ceiling was rising above him, his vision was crossed and he felt the rush of euphoria jet through him. He was giddy, flush with excitement, he only wished Manetti's cock was back inside him. "Fuck," he grabbed onto the only words that made sense, confessing, "I feel like a little boy with you. I want you to molest me." He felt around his smooth, wet hole and stuck a couple of fingers inside. Manetti laugh. "You feel it don't you. Feel all those carnal urges you've buried. You want to suck a dog dick, don't you?" "Yeah. Big horse dick. Your dick. I want to be buried in cum. I want you to fist me like those guys are doing." He flicked his head at the TV where a black guy was punch fisting a young guy in a sling. "I want you to fist me like you and Ben fist. I want you to use dildoes on me and make me have a huge cunt like yours. I want you to fist me to your elbow and your armpit. I want to feel your hairy pit rub against my hole." "Looks like you like-y? And that's just a teeny bit. More to come at Master Drax." Manetti put the orange cap back on the syringe, and pointed the camera back on the boy as he rolled around feeling all his erogenous zones, spewing a watershed of perversions. Manetti left him to his pleasure, feeling his hole, pulling on his flaccid dick, tweeking his nipples, going at them all with abandon. He went over to the closet and pulled out chaps and put them on, then pulled out a chastity cage out of a drawer and put it in his pocket. He went into the kitchen where he took the metal lid off the bathtub. Fuck, he heard Chris repeating, unable to contain himself. He heard a never-ending stream of fucks and perverted ideas spewing out of the kid's mouth, that he wanted Jeff to fuck him, for Carl to fuck him. He wanted to have someone at work named Shakir cover him in Valvoline oil and fuck him. He wanted to get fucked in the gas station toilet. He wanted the gas station owner named Duke to fuck him from behind while he licked the urinal. “You think I stink, man? You should smell that toilet some time. It's righteous foul!” The kid had an imagination! He enjoyed how spun the kid was on such a little amount, how open he was to anything right now. As a test Manetti came back in the room and picked up a filthy jock strap, held it out for the boy to smell. "What do you think of this? It's your brothers." The boy sniffed it and then began to tear into it. He sucked it and his saliva made the jock wet and unlocked the odor of piss emanating from the stains. "You want to wear it over your face to meet Master? I know he'd love that. He's a nasty mother fucker like no one you've ever met." Chris was almost unrecognizable animal in his drug frenzy, nothing at all like he was when he first came in the door. He was so into it with the jock, it looked like he hardly heard what Manetti was saying. "Ya'know, you’re lucky I took your cherry. Master Drax wouldn't have been so gentle." "I don’t think," he managed to get out while chewing the jock strap, "that you were that gentle." He was high on piss fumes, high on the residual cum, reeling in lust sucking his brother's jock. He looked at Manetti like an idea had just struck him. "I liked it rough.” "I'll relay that thought, boy. C'mon, get up. You’re ready to meet Master. He's got a wide variety in his stable. The rougher, the more money he'll make off you. The less limits, the more we’ll all make. Think you'll like that?" Chris bobbed his head, agreeing to anything Manetti said to him. He sprung up and put the wet jock around his neck. Manetti steered him into the kitchen, told him to get in the tub. "You need a douse before we go." "Douse of what?" Chris asked, stepping in. "Master likes raunch, heavy raunch. Let's get you prepped and stinkin'. Open your mouth, pig. You know you want it." He hadn't thought about it but was susceptible to any suggestion coming from his idol. He laid down in the tub and opened his mouth. Manetti immediately covered him in piss, going up and down the kid's naked body. Chris ran his hands up over his torso like he was washing himself. He let out a low moan of pleasure. "Warm," he sighed. "Open." Chris stopped rubbing and opened his mouth, propping himself up on his elbows. Manetti took aim and hit his mark right on target. "Swallow." The boy obeyed. It was salty and bitter and came out of Manetti, so he guzzled the piss letting it splash in his mouth, and gulped it down into his stomach. "Good pig. You like that, pig boy?" Chris bobbed his head. Without prompting he leaned back and spread his legs to expose his hole to Manetti. "Okay, you fucking filth pig." With that, Manetti let a stream of piss hit his hole. Some went in and the kid pushed it out like a mini-geyser. "You stinkin’ fuck pig! Get up—you’re ready.” Chris scrambled getting up. They both stopped for a second regarding each other, listening to the remains of piss draining down the pipe. Two massive shark grins flashed between them. Manetti helped him step out of the tub; Chris' platinum hair yellow and flattened, his eyes electric.

1. Apt #5C He was drenched. Dripping. The rain let up two blocks from the address he held in his hand, but too late. He was already soaked. Shoes squished climbing the stoop. Manetti/Prior, written in faded blue ink on yellowed masking tape, ink running in splotches, evidence of at least a year exposed to weather—rain, snow, cold; now heat and steamy humidity, even now near midnight—but those words he could make out. The second, his and his brother's last name. There was a stack of buttons each with tape next to it, each with a name or names next to hard, rusty buttons. Manetti is who he wrote to the second time, the time he asked if he could come out and stay with him, with them. The first time he wrote to his brother directly, but Manetti, Mike Manetti, answered for his brother. He wrote he didn't know where his brother was. He thought he might have gone back to his mother’s house in Long Beach. Back to California. Chris pushed the button. There were only quiet sounds of a summer Tuesday night in New York. Except for a cab slowly prowling down the street, the block was abandoned, desolate. A fire hydrant left open poured into the summer street. The cab's tires slushed through the puddle and drove off into the night. The facades of the streetscape was dreary, few building’s windows lit, most were boarded up. The one next to this building had a big 'Condemned' placard on the door. A movement in a trashcan at the bottom of the stoop. A rat emerged setting the lid ajar. A couple of needles lay on top of black garbage bags inside. No, he wrote to Manetti, his brother Ben hadn't come back to California. He, Chris, Ben's younger brother, lived in Long Beach with his mother—well, had lived with her, he wasn't exactly getting along with her at the moment—well, her boyfriend actually, which is why he was trying to get a hold of his brother. The letter he sent back to Manetti was rambling. He didn't have a place to live. His mother didn't actually ask him to leave, but every morning, usually at the bathroom, Carl, his mother's new boyfriend, posed, arm on door frame, menacingly in his heavily sweat-stained underwear, pee stain in the crotch. Chris would squeezed passed him. Every day it seemed Carl took up more and more of what was left of the space in the doorway, inched his underwear's yellow bulge closer and closer to him. The day he wrote to Manetti, he felt desperate. He had felt Carl's body heat as he passed under his arm, felt a wisp of his chest hair, a brush on his shoulder from Carl's black, musky pit. He felt Carl's wetness linger on his shoulder, his residual stink. Could he crash with them? He'd pay his way. He couldn't stay at home any longer. Please, he implored in his letter. Yes, Manetti wrote back. A single word. So Manetti. The door buzzed and Chris leaned into its weight as the bolt unlocked. After receiving Manetti’s reply, Chris, a month shy of graduating high school, stopped at his house to pick up some clothes. For the last couple weeks he was crashing in the back seat of his best friend's Impala. His mechanics job at the Chevron gas station where he worked after school and on Saturdays didn't pay enough for him to afford an apartment, but he had saved enough for a one way ticket to New York. California didn't seem to want him, and living in a car’s back seat wasn't living. Carl was a growing menace that was about to boil over into...he didn't know what. And didn't want to know. The type of menace in Carl’s eyes he was unfamiliar with. Abuse, yes. His own father was brutal to him and his brother sometimes. But there was something else he felt in his gut with Carl. Maybe lower than his gut. It stirred some excitement, but he wanted to get away from it before he knew exactly what its root was. Inside, the hallway was lit by a flickering fluorescent bulb. Two dogs barked in an apartment down the hall. There should have been two bulbs in the ceiling fixture, but one was flickering its way out. The halway was dim, full of shadows. A rickety staircase filled half the narrow corridor. He climbed five floors, each landing a bit dingier than the last, heavier in graffiti as he climbed. On the top floor landing it was nearly pitch black, but a door stood open a crack and a shadow draped in a flimsy robe hovered in the door frame. "You Chris?" a deep voice asked. Chris set his gym bag down at the landing and said yeah, catching his breath. He felt his heart beating. There was a momentary fight or flight response he was trying to suppress. He hadn't expected that he'd be fearful upon arriving at his brother's apartment, but his brother wasn't here. Just Manetti. Manetti moved a little forward, enough so the apartment's light spilled over his broad shoulders, put a halo in back of his long brown hair. Chris made out teeth, a bit of a smile. Manetti extended his hand and the two shook. “Manetti. Mike Manetti.” His grip was firm but the skin soft, a little clammy. "And your Ben's little brother Chris. C’mere!" Manetti pulled him forward, gave him a warm friendly bear hug. Chris could have stayed there in that embrace forever. There was a familiar smell to him. And strength. He hadn't expected it, but he suddenly felt relief; his worry and a continent-wide anxiety melted in that embrace. Manetti released him and looked him over. "Dog shit day out there, Chief. Thunderstorm didn’t even help. Looks like it got you bad. Get in here and take your wet sneaks off." Chris saw the robe was open and that Manetti was naked underneath. He caught a quick view of Manetti' dark hairy torso, thick uncut cock, donkey balls dangling between two muscular, wooly legs. He opened the door for Chris while at the same time knotted up his robe. Chris carried in his gym bag, his few pitiful things: gym clothes, another pair of worn jeans, two old t-shirts (The Romones, Adidas), underwear (dirty), socks (smelly). Manetti closed and bolted the door. Three separate locks snapped into place. "Sorry, I was thinking about going out. Didn't know if you'd get here tonight. It's pretty late." "No, yeah. Sorry." Chris was pretty quiet generally. Didn't like to talk. Always self-conscious of saying something dumb, a leftover from an over-critical father. He looked around at the filthy kitchen—sink full of dishes, ashtray full of butts, dark grimy windows—not much different from home, actually. It was kind of reassuring in a perverse kind of way. Manetti was giving him an intense examination in the kitchen light. He felt he needed to say something to distract from his self-consciousness. "Um, I waited a long time for the bus in Newark. And then I walked to the East Village from the bus station. Lot farther than I thought. I wasn't prepared for rain. Didn’t bring an umbrella. Didn’t really think I’d need one. Dunno why. Guess I'm an idiot." His voice trailed off. Usually he never even said that much. That was [robably more than he'd said in a week. He was nervous, a little frightened, and yet glanced up several times to get a better look at Manetti. “Sorry, I’m going on like a moron. I’m tired I guess. It’s been a long day.” "I can see that," Manetti said, ruffling Chris’ wet hair. “Take your things off and hang them on the window bars. Let ‘em dry out." Manetti picked up Chris' gym bag and tossed it next to the archway to the next room. The kitchen window had retractable bars. It was set at an angle to the building, faced a brick wall and shadowy darkness beyond. Chris looked up and gave Manetti a quick smile, then concentrated on kicking off his shoes. He peeled off his socks and shirt, hanging them through the diagonal bars. A light from across the airshaft flashed. The flash blinded him for a second, and maybe it was a residual image imprinted on his retina, but he thought he saw an outline of a figure lurking in the gloom across the airshaft. "Pants," said Manetti, snapping his fingers. It almost felt like an order, but Chris didn't seem to mind. He was, though, a little embarrassed especially because Manetti was so big compared to him. He looked like some of the dockworkers he'd seen in the port of Long Beach. Big and burly, a little intimidating. He felt the man's eyes running over his thin frame. He felt small, miniature even, in this tiny kitchen. His pant legs dripped on the linoleum but Manetti didn't seem to care. He sat down at the dinette table in his threadbare underwear, setting his back to the window, putting his folded hands in his lap. "Is the bag all you brought?" Manetti nodded to his gym bag. "Yeah, not much, right? I'm not used to packing. Never really gone anywhere. I didn't have no time. Just picked up what was on my floor." Chris noticed the robe had fallen open again revealing one of Manetti's dark, hairy thighs. He quickly looked around the kitchen. "Bathtub?" he said surprised that there was a bathtub in the kitchen. It sat right smack in the middle of the kitchen, dividing the room essentially in two. Didn’t know how he could have missed it when he first walked in. A metal top that doubled as a counter lay on top of it. "Yeah, it’s pretty common in these old walk-ups. Hey, you want some soup or something? I have some left over. Just need to heat it up." Chris nodded eagerly. He hadn't realized just how starving he was. He had a cheese sandwich on the plane but that was hours ago. Manetti was nice, he thought. His furtive glance took in his deep set brown eyes and thick black brows over a smooth forehead. Long brown hair and sideburns. It was weird his brother never spoke about his roommate. "How do you know Ben?" he asked. Manetti went to the fridge and took out a pot and started warming it up on the stove. "Met at a bath house last winter. Took pretty quickly to each other. He fucked me, then I flipped him. We did that all night. Didn’t hook up with anyone else. That night anyway. Then I moved in here with him a week later." Manetti gave him a once over to gauge his reaction as he stirred the soup. Then he added, "You don't really look like brothers." Chris was surprised by how frank Manetti was about being gay, especially that part about the bath house. We wished he could be that bold. "We're step brothers. My dad adopted him when he was sixteen, but that didn’t work out," Chris said. Chris stopped himself from saying more. He listened to the spoon stirring in the pot. It was pretty common for people to say, that they didn’t look alike. He had thin blond hair, almost white, parted on the side, was skinny and on the short side. He liked wearing his hair shoulder-length, whereas his brother had almost a lion’s mane of thick dirty blond hair he always wore in a ponytail. It was one of the first things he could recall, Ben's ponytail. Ben was tall, athletic, broad chested, ten years his senior. They both had their mother’s wide face and striking blue eyes, but that’s where the similarity ended. Ben ruled any room he was in. People flocked to him. He was magnetic. Chris was a loner, shy. Not the brightest bulb, said he dad endlessly. But he was resourceful, could figure stuff out. He was a pretty decent mechanic without ever having any real training besides a semester in shop class. It was the one 'A' he ever got. His mother tried to shield him from his father, but she had her own demons and wasn’t always there for him. So he retreated. To his room, or the back of his friend's Impala, and now to a red Formica kitchen table sitting in his wet underwear with his hands folded in his lap. He looked at the refrigerator across from him. A magnet held up by a photo of Manetti and Ben, arms around each other’s shoulders, standing in knee-length bathing suits on a balcony that looked out at the sea. Chris wondered where they were? Manetti looked a few years younger, had shorter hair and wore a huge goofy smile. He looked a little stoned. Ben's deep tan set off his blue eyes; they almost glowed. He looked happier than he ever did growing up. It must have been breezy because his long ponytail flew like a kite behind him. Chris stared at it while his soup heated up. He idolized his brother. Worshiped him really. Many times after his father had given him a bad spanking, he’d sneak into Ben’s room, into his bed, and silently fall asleep on his chest refusing to shed a tear. He did cry, though, wept inconsolably really, when Ben said he couldn’t stand their house anymore and shouted he was moving to New York. Manetti tested the soup with a loud slurp. His mother demanded to know why New York. He'd met someone in a bar, Ben said, who'd offered him a job. What kind of job do you get offered in a bar? shouted his step father, but Ben was storming out the door raising a middle finger. “When’s the last time you saw him?" Manetti asked. "He’s changed some, you know,” he said. "He's not that Long Beach surfer you used to know." In the photo Chris saw Ben had added a bunch of tattoos. A big dragon crawled over his right shoulder, it's tail re-emerging over his ribs. He saw his brother wasn't that slim teenage surfer he once was either. He was a lot more bulked up, even handsomer if that was possible. "Ben moved out right when he turned eighteen. Hated my dad. Can't blame him. My dad was pretty much of a dickhead. He was okay to me except for my whoopings. He tackled him one time, tried beating the shit out of him, and Ben wailed on his so hard my mom called the police." Chris caught himself as Manetti eyed him. He didn't like to talk about his family’s problems—not to the school counselor, and never to strangers. He rarely did talk about them, didn't even really like to think about them especially. Manetti filled a soup bowl, grabbed a spoon from a drawer, and set it in front of him. "Yeah, I've seen him loose it. He's pretty awesome. You want a towel? You're still dripping," he said. Chris nodded and dug into the soup. Manetti popped out and then returned with a large terrycloth towel. The soup was full of large chunks of vegetables and warmed his stomach. He took the towel and mopped his head, then draped it over his shoulders. For the first time in as long as he could remember—weeks? months?—he was beginning to relax. He wasn't used to someone being nice to him. Especially someone he didn't know that well. After his dad left, his mom had turned into a basket case. And now, any day with Carl in the house was like walking through a minefield; made his dad seem like Gandhi. He must have been scowling into his soup because when he looked up, Manette said, "You Prior boys are so serious, aren't you?" Manetti flashed him a warm smile, which he shyly returned, then went back to shoveling spoonfuls of soup. "In your letter you said you haven't seen my brother in two weeks,” Chris said between bites, keeping his eyes in the soup bowl. “Ain't like him to just disappear. He’d split for a time but would always come back. Know where he’s at?" Manetti sat across from him, reached in the ashtray and took out a half-burnt joint. He lit it and took a long drag and looked up at the ceiling. He exhaled, thought for a moment before offering it to Chris. Chris put down his soup, pinched the joint, and took a short toke. He exhaled, said thanks, handed it back and went back to his soup. "Well,” said Manetti thoughtfully. “Chris Prior..." He paused, taking a long hit, taking an even longer time to reflect before exhaling. "...Ben Prior, or Big Ben, as he's called, disappears from time to time. So do I. I didn’t want to get into it in the letter, but truth is, sometimes, a client will want us for an extended period of time." Manetti took another hit. As he exhaled, he leaned in toward Chris. "Sometimes drugs are involved, so you know, we’re sometimes really out of it. Sometimes someone buys one of us for a time. Comes with the territory. We come back to each other. Eventually. But we’ve learned our partnership needs to be very open." Chris' spoon stopped in mid-air at some point while Manetti was talking. He looked him over. Long dark wavy hair, highlights of red in the harsh kitchen light, long side burns who's points hit his high cheek bones, a wide mouth with lips like seagulls wings, brown eyes that suddenly glinted with mischief. His robe had fallen open again revealing swirling black hair over pale white skin across an expansive chest. Chris' brain twitched. Something was off. He knew stoned, and he wasn't getting stoned. Manetti scratched his chest but his fingers lingered in his mat of chest hair. Chris saw him open his robe a bit more to brush his left nipple on his massive pec; he diddled with a thin metal bar that pierced his large tit. Chris placed the spoon in the bowl, took up the proffered joint, took a hit as casually as he could. With a clenched throat, hoping it sounded like he was being offhand, he asked, "So you're his boyfriend. You’re both hustlers?" He was confused, but not by the news that his brother turned tricks, but that Manetti’s nipple, so unusually large, looked so very appealing. He'd never seen a pierced nipple up close in real life. So much was flooding his senses at once it was hard for him to keep up with his thoughts. "Boy, this is strong shit," he said, handing back the joint. "Laced?" "Just a bit." Manetti's grin widened displaying a beautiful row of perfectly white teeth. Why hadn't Chris noticed just how good looking Manetti was before? He had looked at him through a filter as one of his brother’s friends. But whatever the joint was laced with was magnifying Manetti's magnetism. If Manetti was a hustler he must be a very good one, thought Chris. Manetti’ smile, as it grew, highlighted his strong jaw, became the smile of a shark. Chris was easily bait. "This soup is really good," he said, trying to snap out of his gaze. He finished up the last of it. "Uh, can I use your bathroom?" "Other side of the bedroom. Ready for some more soup?" Chris stood up, placing a hand on the back of the chair. For some reason he didn’t feel hungry anymore. “Nah, I’m good.” He glanced out the airshaft and again a slight paranoia gripped him as he looked into the inky darkness. In the apartment across from them something was moving. He was wobbly, but more than stoned, he was suddenly horny. He also saw he was starting to get a woody, one that was pretty evident wearing only thin underwear. Manetti noticed it too. Chris excused himself before it became even more obvious. Suddenly, he was confused by the apartment layout. Off the kitchen was the only other room, a bedroom. Off it, a small closet, and a smaller closet with a toilet and a dinky sink. In the bedroom a sling hung over a futon on the floor. He knew what it was even though it was the first sling he'd ever encountered. He'd seen them in Ben's magazines, the ones he left behind between his mattress. Rawhide, Stroke, Bound and Gagged, and Chris' favorite, Magnum. He saw the leg straps, the leather pillow, the wrist restraints, the mirror perched over the top. He felt himself woozy, and grabbed a leg strap to steady himself. Not the best choice, for it immediately flew away from him and with his other hand he had to grab the metal support. The whole sling set into motion a round of clanging as chains banged against metal posts. "You okay in there?" Manetti's voice called out from the kitchen. He peered around the kitchen door to see if the kid was still standing. "Yeah, I'm good," Chris answered stumbling to the bathroom. "I bet you are," Manetti responded with a laugh. "Ben said you were a choir boy. That really true?" "Really true." He shut the bathroom door, relieved that he had found a room, compact as it was, where he could compose himself. As soon as he shut the door, he struggled to get his act together. He mulled over the fact that there were only two rooms in the entire apartment—kitchen, bedroom. Where was he going to sleep? And, fuck, he couldn’t deny how horny he was for Manetti. He saw how the evening was leading in one direction, and he saw he couldn’t and didn’t want it to go any other way. Manetti would be gentle, he reassured himself. That first embrace in the hallway surely proved he would understand that, being his first time, his brother’s lover would be gentle, would let him take things at his own pace. But he was his brother's lover. But he was also a hustler. His brain was frazzled. Sitting down with his underwear around his ankles he looked up at the back of the bathroom door. Taped to it was a foldout from Magnum magazine. It was Ben and Manetti sixty-nining each other with their forearms up each other's ass. Cocks dripping, Crisco smearing, Ben and Manetti were frozen in a frenzy of fists. Chris popped a rock hard boner and dropped the biggest shit of his entire life. *** Manetti unhooked the leg straps from the end of the sling, folded it in half, then re-attached the straps to the arm hooks. That left the futon on the floor unencumbered from above. He popped in one of Drax's bareback twink videos in the VCR, grabbed the remote and laid back on the futon propping his head with an oversize pillow against the radiator. It was late but the Tina laced joint had him in a semi-energized mood. He was sure Chris must have felt similarly. The toilet flushed and Chris emerged. The boy, still clad only in his white underwear, shirtless, flawless, a thin little scarecrow, stood at the bathroom door. Blond hair, dry now but flying every which way. A perfect skinny beach boy, ten years Ben's baby brother. Their resemblance was minimal. Whereas he and Ben worked out regularly, having pecs, necks, and 'ceps to prove it, Chris, looking around the small studio confused, seemed frail. He was more than a little intimidated by all the pornography he was discovering on the walls, porn stars Manetti and Ben had either known or worked with over the years. Mostly signed. "To Manetti / Good times, bad times, baddest times! Rich" or "Big Ben / Your name does not lie, Eric." "Come. Sit," encouraged Manetti patting the space next to him. "How you feel? Like the joint?" "Yeah, man," said Chris, trying to sound cool. "That's powerful dope. It's dusted?" "Nah, a little Tina. You like?" Chris gave a single nod with a flicker in his eye that Manetti zeroed in on. He casually took a sip of water he’d brought from the kitchen. "Want to try it pure?" Chris sat next to him cross legged. "I guess so," he said. Manetti could smell him. A little grungy, a slight smell of urine probably from the wet, dirty underwear. Ben had told Manetti he thought his little brother was on-again and off-again homeless, at least not staying at his house much cuz of the mom's new boyfriend. Manetti grabbed a pipe from the window ledge, set his glass aside, and stuffed the pipe with a little white powder from a baggy. He handed the pipe to Chris. "Have you blown clouds before?" Manetti knew the answer before he asked it. Chris shook his head. Up close Chris was even more striking than across the table. It was his eyes, soulful lost puppy eyes. When you first looked at him he looked just like any skinny white kid, but sitting crossed legged next to him, you could really see how lost he was. His six pack abs wasn’t from working out but from not eating enough, his ribcage pronounced as he breathed. Hairless chest, tiny nipples, little or maybe no armpit hair. The kid didn't even look like he shaved yet. Whereas he was all hair. From his heavy five o'clock shadow that was dark even right after a morning shave, strong jaw with a cleft chin, his father’s rugged aquiline nose, shaggy, unkempt cluster of chestnut hair, and trade-famous pointed sideburns. "Just inhale it like you would hash and hold it." Chris did as he was told. The kid was nothing if not a fast learner. And obedient. The idea of introducing him to Drax crossed his mind. He brushed the thought away. The kid was much too cherry. Drax would eat him alive. Still, what was he going to do with him after tonight? He was definitely going to get in the way of his trade. As Chris was about to blow the smoke out, Manetti took the boy’s mouth and covered it with his own. He breathed in the smoke from Chris' lungs, held it for a beat before exhaling. "No need to waste it. You take it from me this time." Manetti lit the bottom of the pipe, waited for the white cloud to form, then sucked it in. Out of the corner of his eye he could tell Chris was grappling with how Manetti had grabbed his chin and brought their lips together. Chris watched him, biting his lip with anticipation, moving closer to Manetti’s mouth. It was almost like kissing, something he'd never done with man. Manetti motioned with his finger and Chris moved in. Manetti exhaled into him, breathed a new kind of life into him. As he held it, Manetti leaned back against the pillow. "So, what's your plan, Chief?" Chris followed suit and leaned back into the large pillow he shared with Manetti. After he'd exhaled, Manetti took a long sip of water. He offered the glass to Chris. "Don't really have one. Thanks." Chris took a sip and handed the glass back to Manetti. "Not a really good plan, Chief—not to have a plan. Ben thought you were queer. He right?" Manetti was fixed on the TV, watching a blond dude about Chris' age but not as skinny getting sucked by a balding, stocky daddy type. "I used to beat off to Ben's porn. So I guess, yeah. Twice, when I stayed over at my best friend Jeff's place, before his parents didn’t want me coming around anymore, we jacked off to some straight shit.” Chris looked around again at all the porn posters and photos hanging on the walls. “I think I recognize that guy in that poster there from one of them," he said pointing to a huge 'roided porn star with an extra-long dick, one with perfect hyper-masculine features perched on the hood a Rolls Royce. It was signed "To Manetti, thanks for the ride, TJ. "Mr. No Balls? Hah! Tyler says he's straight, only does gay for pay. Don't believe him. You can shit in his mouth and he'd pay you for it." Chris barked out a surprised laugh. “No, seriously he loves twinks. I bet if I call him right now, he’d come over and ask you shit in his mouth.” Manetti made a motion like he was going to get up and call, but Chris, laughing, held him back. Chris’ hand on Manetti’ shoulder, feeling it's mass, registered quickly on both of them. Chris quickly put his hands back in his lap. Manetti added a little more white power to the pipe. "’Nother hit, Chief?" Chris nodded. His heart was already pounding and he felt flush all over. He was also pulling on his pud unconsciously, getting a little wet spot on the tip, staining his already stained underwear. Manetti took note, seeing the kid was totally unaware of what he was doing. He calmly fired up the pipe and slowly leaned into Chris. He blew into his lungs lightly adding just the tip of his tongue, and deliberately scraping the boy’s face lightly with his cheek. Chris's eyes widened. He'd never felt a beard against his face like that. "So that's it. A couple wanks with Jeff, you on one end of the couch, your best bud on the other, eyes glued straight to the TV. Aware of him but never dared to looking. Am I right or am I right?" "Yeah, something like that.” Chris’ mind spun. His next words flew out of him as if he was compelled to confess to Manetti. “Except one time this real nerd, Kyle—I never told nobody this—he helped me with some math homework. His parents both worked so we were alone at his house. Everyone knew he was a fairy. Ran like a girl. We were in his bedroom. He put his hand on my pants, which usually kind of hangs cuz I don’t hitch ‘em up, and he pulled them right off me and gives me a blow job. Like, I didn’t even stop him even though he was sucking my dick. I can’t believe I’m telling you this.” But it felt good being open with Manetti. He felt a mild release and a kind of excitement in the act. "Did you give Kyle a blow job back?" Chris scoffed at the thought. Then after a beat, added, “Actually, I thought about it. Sometimes late at night, jacking off under the covers, I remembered how much I liked it. How soft his mouth was. How it felt to cum into it, into this big wet thing. Like how I didn't have to hold back at all. Like how maybe I’d like to give Jeff a blow job. Give him the same feeling. Like he wouldn’t have to hold back and just come in my mouth and I’d swallow it. Okay, shut up. Stop talking now,” he said, talking to himself in a voice that could have been his father's. Manetti laughed, but made a quick U-turn and became serious. "Well, what wasn't nice, Chief, is that you should always reciprocate. Know what I mean? I mean if I gave you a blow job, I'd expect you'd give me one back. That’s only fair, right? And if I rimmed your ass, I expect you'd return the favor." "What’s rimming?" asked Chris. Manetti looked at him sideways, saw he was honestly confused. This kid was too innocent to be believed! “You must have seen it in one of Ben’s magazines.” Chris shook his head. Manetti found the remote control and sped the video up. "There. See what that kid’s doing?" Manetti pointed at the screen where the blond kid was under the older daddy’s hairy ass. "He’s eat out man's pussy." "The fuck out!" said Chris but didn't take his eyes from the screen. Manetti saw the kid's boner tenting up in his shorts. "That's fucking nasty, man. Gross! Why would someone do that?" Yet the boy’s eyes couldn’t be pried from the screen with a crowbar. He was pulling again at his underwear. "It's like getting a blow job but a hundred times better.” He motioned to Chris’ hardon. "Looks as if you like the nasty." Chris stopped pulling at his dick alarmed. “Wait. I’ll fast forward. You're gonna love this." The VHS tape sped up, then skidded to a stop. The boy was now under a rim seat with the daddy sitting on top. A close-up showed the boy lifting his head, licking the daddy’s balls then sticking his tongue deep into the daddy’s hairy ass. "I bet you’d be good under there." Chris felt his whole skin glisten in a light sweat. His nerves felt electric. Manetti flicked off the room lamp. The room basked in the dark glow of the TV. Chris felt an imaginary blanket was enveloping him and Manetti, separating them from the world. With the light off, he had an urgent need to take off his underwear and bare himself to Manetti. Manetti sensed it and reached out and slipped off Chris' underwear. The kid had a nice seven inch rod, rigid and beaded with pre-cum. Very little pubic hair. Looked like he clipped it, too. His legs were hairless, thin and smooth. Such smooth pale skin got him excited and he casually opened his robe revealing his long, uncut cock angling above his firm, hairy belly. Chris looked at him achingly. He took the boy's hand and placed it on his manmeat. Chris caressed it lightly at first, the first time he'd ever touched a man’s penis. Manetti felt him quickly go from a light touch to a firm grip. He pumped a little in the boy's hand. The hand barely wrapped around his shaft. But what he did hold was like being in the grip of a cobra. His other hand aimed for Manetti’s chest. His finger ran through his chest hair making a bee-line for his pierced nipple. When he make contact Manetti could wait no longer. He pounced, gripping Chris’ legs and spinning him around, pulling his legs into the air to expose his butthole. He dove down to engulf his sphincter and the kid let out a moan of pure pleasure, his neck arched looking up to his face. "Oh, fuck, dude," Chris cried. "Oh, shit that feels good. Jesus. Christ! Oh shit." It coaxed Manetti to pull the boy's pursed asslips apart even more and deep dived his tongue into this virgin hole. “Push out,” ordered Manetti. "More!" The boy hadn't wiped well and there was an acrid taste of shit around the kid's stained hole. It horned Manetti even more, driving his tongue deeper into this nasty, puckering pit. “Push fucker!” Every nerve ending in Chris' bunghole bristled in pleasure as he pushed out his hole. Manetti's long tongue dug into the hole, which fought instinctively against entry. Manetti’s mouth was relentless, chewing, licking, sucking on the boy's ass lips. Chris tried fighting against the tongue from entering, but bit by bit he felt the pleasures of giving up his hole, physically and mentally, to push out and let this man he’d met only a few hours before enter him in his most vulnerable spot. Manetti beard scratched his tender skin, but it felt incredible, loosened him more and more. He heard the man spit, his hole dripping wet, and felt a finger entering him. This was the first time he'd ever been penetrated, and though it was uncomfortable and hurt, at the same time it excited him. He felt conflicted, fooling around with his brother's boyfriend, afraid of where this might lead. But he knew where he wanted it to lead. Manetti held his legs firmly, looked down into his open face. Chris was afraid and yet attracted at the same time. Manetti was all hair, chest, shoulders, a black jungle around his cock, even a bit of hair on his back that he felt with his legs. Manetti held his legs over his shoulders to dig into that smooth, tasty boyhole. From that vulnerable position, Manetti sucked in a testicle, then the other, which made the kid cry out in pleasure and surprise. He then returned to that beautiful virginal, pliable, slowly opening tunnel. The sensation of having his hole eaten was driving him wild. Hoarsely, he spat out, "Mike, I want to return the favor." Manetti looked down into the boy's face, became curious, wondering if the kid would do it or would cop out at the last minute. He released him and the kid scurried through Manetti’s legs, putting himself beneath the man's furry butt like he'd seen the twink do on TV. Manetti squatted over his face as he felt the boy’s lips surrounding his crack. The kid pulled on Manetti's legs to get him to squat lower. "Oh, fuck yeah. You're as big of a pig as your brother. Eat my shithole, boy. Dig in, get lost in it.” Manetti ground his ass over the boy’s face. “Rank, right? Be a little toilet pig. You felt what I did, how deep I got. Return that favor. Be a sewer. Be a cell pool. Just give in to it. Get lost in there." And Chris did. His cock remained an iron pole, Manetti noted, while his tongue didn’t stop for a moment cleaning his dirty shithole. Chris had never felt as uninhibited as this. Manetti’s whole butt was one massive trench of black hair. The crack seemed to go on forever. He licked and licked, searching to find the center. Manetti’s musky odor drove his brain into delirium. He was a boy on a mission and would not give up until he made Manetti’s hole feel as good as Manetti had made his. Minutes went by till he arrived, finding the smooth oasis of flesh through the dark brush. It pulsed with heat on his tongue, and gave off the pure scent of a man. He couldn't believe how wonderfully soft the skin felt across his tongue nor the nasty taste that reeked from his hole. Instead of being repulsed by the stench, he was in a frenzy to please Manetti but he also found he really liked it. He did what Manetti had done and lapped and circled the hole, until he found he could dart his tongue inside, which produced an animal snarl from Manetti. "Rrrrrr, fuck yes, piglet. Get in there you little fuck pig." Then something happened Chris didn't quite understand, but knew in his gut he liked right away. The hole he was chewing on opened up slightly and a vast area of Manetti's rectum pushed out with it. His mouth was confronted with his first rosebud, although at the time he didn't know what it was. Right after this mound of gelatinous flesh revealed itself to him, like some startled sea creature, it pulled back into its hole. Manetti went wild. Chris felt his legs being pulled in the air again, separated, a tongue slithered into his entrance. An infinite amount of pleasure, giving and receiving, before there was a brief pause, then a heavy hand cracked against his butt. "Say, Thank you, Sir." "Thank you, Sir," repeated Chris, his ass stinging, feeling a sense of shame and pleasure and pride all at the same time. "You taste so fucking good, I want to eat you up, pig boy," growled Manetti. "Let's get you in the sling. I have to bang this pretty pussy." They sprang up and he quickly showed Chris how to connect the legs chains back to the hooks. Chris rubbed his butt and felt the heat from the slap Manetti had given him. "Climb in, boy, and I'll give you the ride of your life." As Chris was figuring out how to get in, Manetti said, "You liked blowing clouds?" Chris nodded. "Then you're going to love this." He quickly poured some powder in a shot glass, mixed a little water in it and sucked it up in a plunger. "Okay, settle in. Put your legs through here.” Manetti paused, then ran a hand up and down Chris' torso, ending by fondling his cock and balls. “You happy you met me?” Chris nodded. "And you've never been fucked before?" Chris shook his head fiercely, anticipating what was to come. “Comfy?" Chris nodded again eagerly, starting to slowly hump Manetti's paw. "Not so fast, boy. I want you to learn to feel it not just in your dick but also inside your hole.” Manetti pulled Chris' dick away from his body to the boy cried, then let it slap against his belly. “You gonna do whatever Sir says, yes slave?" Manetti squeezed a little lube on Chris' hole. He wet a finger in his mouth and pushed it up Chris' ass a good inch or two. It was uncomfortable for a second while Manetti twisted his finger lubing all side of Chris’ tight cave, but Manetti kept wiggling it around and Chris not only got used to the sensation, but found himself writhing a bit on Manetti finger, trying to get him to penetrate him further. "Okay, this'll be a little cold and might sting, but just for a minute." Manetti replaced his finger with the plunger, stuck it up Chris's canal as far as it would go, and then shot the liquid into the boy's empty hole. Shit yes, it was cold and stung like a bitch. Chris bore down as Manetti finished injecting his ass with the cold liquid, then pulled the plunger out of him. At first he felt nothing but coldness warming up inside him. He felt a bit let down anticipating something intense. Manetti looked him over, stroked his erect dick and tweak his small nipples. “Feel anything?” Chris shook his head. Manetti went over to the VHS recorder and switched tapes. While it was revving up, Manetti put on a leather cap and vest over his otherwise naked body. Chris was truly impressed, if not a little intimidated, by the severe transformation a few bits of costume made to Manetti. It also altered Manetti's attitude. Manetti looked straight out of one of his brother’s leather magazines. It brought out a sense of privilege and arrogance even. Manetti went to the bookshelf and opened a box and pulled out an orange capped rig. He strapped his arm with a tourniquet, feeling for a vein against the dim TV light. He slammed himself and started breathing heavily. His mouth shaped into an round 'O' and his eyes widened in sudden astonishment. Something was happening in Chriss too, something like a serpant eminating from his hole. He felt a strong surge of desire. "You look so fucking great, Sir. Like a god." Chris could not see Manetti’s eyes, only dark pockets where his eyes should be. Chris couldn’t help himself and started pleasuring the feeling his ass. Words flew out of him. "Or like the devil," he whispered like at confession. Something heating up inside his hole made him feel intensely desirous of Manetti. Wanting him like he never wanted anything before. Manetti cough. "FUCK!" Manetti shouted widening his eyes. "Christ fuck!" He could barely stand, and leaned heavily on the bookcase. "Hot damn, boy. How you feeling?” He was breathless, trying to put the orange cap back on the rig. “You feel it yet?" Manetti looked to him out of focus, but a feeling of euphoria was sweeping through Chris' body, making himself pull on his cock at the same time he fingered his butthole. He felt electric, energized, wanted Manetti to touch him all over, maybe even smack him again. "I feel great, Sir,” he said. As Manetti staggered from the bookcase and came closer, he sat up in the sling and ran his hands across Manetti’s hairy chest. "I wanted to do that the second I came in the door, Sir. Fuck, you are so hot. My ass is yours. Whatever you want to do to it. Beat me if you want to." "Beat my ass—SIR!" returned Manetti, now holding on to the chains while he was rushing, where Chris' butt lay exposed, so desirous of being fucked for the very first time. "Yes, SIR, beat my ass again—SIR." And Manetti did, harder than the first time. "Thank you, SIR," replied Chris, falling back against the leather pillow, pushing his ass out of the sling. A light turned on in the room across the airshaft. Chris didn't notice, but Manetti did. "You're welcome, boy. Let's get you settled in." With that Manetti quickly locked his leg restraints, still breathing heavily, punctuating fucks under his breath as he worked. Before Chris knew it, Manetti had restrained his arms above his head. He gladly went along with whatever Manetti wanted to do. As long as it didn't involve needles. That was the only thing that freaked him a little but he tried not to think about it. If it wasn't for the feeling of horniness overcoming every molecule in his body he might have been spooked by the restraints. But now he was accepting everything that this hairy demon breathing over him was doing. It was easy to inhale Manetti’s pheromones, which blotted out the picture of him hunched over, shooting up. Or maybe he secretly liked that. He didn’t know what he thought anymore. He arched his head toward Manetti’s cock. It was veiny, half sheathed in foreskin. Leaking pre-cum. He licked it. A taste of salt and cheese. Nothing had ever tasted so delicious and desirable to him. He still had a trace of Manetti’s dirty ass on his lips and it mixed with salt and cheese from his foreskin. Manetti turned on a light over the sling and flipped on a video camera propped next to the bookcase. Manetti slowly turned the boy’s peach fuzz face to the side, checked that the view finder was in close, recording each translucent strand of blond hair on the boy's upper lip, and slid his veiny cock into the boy's mouth. He swallowed have his fat nob. Manetti was impressed at how much Chris could take. He pushed him further, getting half his shaft into the boy's mouth, feeling where the boy’s throat constricted, made him choked on his shaft, then skullfucked him at that length for a while as his cock grew from semi-flaccid to fully engorged. Manetti withdrew his cock from his mouth, and a web of pre-cum hung like a spider web between them. He let his uncut cock trace over Chris’ pursed mouth. "Ah Chris," he said looking into his eyes. "I'm going to fucking love knocking you up." Chris felt the words echo in his head, puzzled at first by their meaning. On the TV screen a body was being pummeled by a Master with a whip, with a boy writhing in pain and ecstatically twisting under the lash. He looked back at Manetti. Beyond the harsh light shining on him, in the dim light of the room, he saw covered by the beautiful black fur surrounding Manetti's navel, the three prongs of a biohazard tattoo. Manetti placed a red ball in his mouth and tied it behind his head. Chris realized too late what the ball was for, and started fighting against his bindings. Manetti pushed in between his legs. The kid tried to close his legs but the sling and Manetti easily pried him open. He was exposed and vulnerable. Manetti greased his cock and lubed the boy's tight hole. With his first thrust his aim was true. He slid the entire length of the kid's clutching rectum, straight up to his thick black patch of pubic hairs. The girth of his shaft ripped the boy's hole apart. Manetti's hairy balls smacked into the boy's tailbone. He didn't stop till he was right up the boy's chute, fully inside. The boy cried in anguish behind the red ball, tears in his eyes, panic running across his face. Fiercely he was beathing, spitting saliva through the ball in heaving gulps of air. Spit ran down his chin and cheek. He fought as much as he could against the thickness of Manetti’s enormous shaft, against his cuffed arms and legs, but the struggle only engorged Manetti’s immense tool more. "Fight against it, bitch. I love it." Manetti picked up his pace. The pain was unbearable but he was helpless to stop it, and with every stroke he felt his resistance falling away. The longer it went on, and against his will, he started deriving a small bit of pleasure from the pain. Chris slowly began to unclench against Manetti’s girth. For a while, at the pinnacle of each thrust, Manetti would hold his crotch against Chris' hole, letting the boy experience the magnitude of the amount of raw flesh that filled his hole. Chris felt all the hairs of Manetti's pubis surround his hole. Manetti gyrated inside him. He felt the stiff cock push his insides around, moving everything inside, his bladder, his prostate, a gateway to an inner chamber. The sensations started owning him. Making him feel things he didn't know he could feel, sensations that were newly possible. Manetti felt Chris’ hole beginning to open. He looked into the bound boy’s blue eyes and saw a dawning pleasure deep within him. He wasn’t sure the boy even knew he was beginning to draw pleasure from his pain, but he would know and eventually desire it in ever increasing amounts. He new his journey and he would have the boy follow in his tracks. Tears were being overcome with lust as the chemicals were taking over Chris' body. The boy stopped struggling and for a moment became placid. He grew annoyed with the passivity so with both hands, as hard as he could, he smacked with all his force Chris' ass. It made Chris yelp and clench his sphincter which pleased Manetti. He looked down on the boy and was surprised to see a spark of gratitude in Chris' eyes. Just a spark. He needed to work him harder. They fell into a rhythm. For minutes that turned to hours Chris got used to the battering his hole was taking. When he went slack, Manetti slapped him to tighten him up, or twisted his small nipples until he tried to cry out in pain behind the gag. At the beginning, Chris fought the massive rod slamming into him and the occasional whipping his ass endured. But after non-stop fucking, accepting the alternating pleasure and pain, he came to desire the torpedo that was tearing him inside. The familiar walloping he received growing up, he secretly desired from Manetti. In the mirror he watched and felt his butt turn from pink, to red, to purple. At some point he got lost in it, started thrusting himself to get impaled deeper, to be slapped hard, to be punished for sins he couldn’t name. Manetti felt Chris' entire canal loosening. The ass smacking was now built into their fucking. Chris, in fact, in a haze, began thanking him behind the red ball. Whether or not Manetti heard him was questionable, for Manetti's eyes rolled back in his head and he mindlessly fucked and abused what at times became an anonymous body splayed beneath him. Manetti occasionally snapped out of his daze and saw how much he was controlling this innocent young kid, this younger version of his partner, his boyfriend, his lover—imagined he was fucking an innocent version of Ben, one from long ago—then he would lose himself again to the sheer, dark pleasure he derived from his raw cock having its way in a stranger's body. He felt himself edging closer to a climax as his mind vacillated between thoughts of Ben and this new fresh piece of nameless meat. As he felt he was close to cumming, he broke through to awareness of Chris beneath him. He saw Chris' sweat dick never lost its erection no matter what he did to him. He started playing with the boy's meat, milking him, lightly slapping his face so that he came out of his drugged revelry. "I'm about to cum, Chris,” he said as the boy focused on his mouth and words, “but I’m not going to cum in you unless you cum first, got that? That shows you want me to give you my poz cum. Shows me you want to be my fuckhole no matter what. Lets me own you." Through blurred eyes Chris lobbed his head no, but almost immediately started squirming his cock in Manetti clenched fist. "I can't tell if you're trying to get away from me, fuckhole, or you're jacking yourself in my hand. I think you're jacking, you little cum pig." He broke into a dark smile. "Feel how hard you are?" Chris kept bucking, thrashing, squirming away in a sea of ecstasy and lust, both wanting this man to cum and fearing it with all his fiber, but he couldn't hold back, jacking into his fist and slamming back onto his cock, a see-saw that wouldn't end until he pushed himself over the edge. He let loose the longest stream of cum he'd ever shot. Ribbons of sperm spewed over the room. The boy’s hole clenched and spasmed as he shot, immediately triggered Manetti who gushed in rivers of ropey sperm up the boy's open chute. They both quaked in orgasms, each building on the other’s spuming bodies, until they were thrashing uncontrollably against each other, grinding bone against bone, skin against raw skin, till there was a thrust of Manetti that hung in the air, then one more, then a final lunge plunging Manetti deep inside Chris. He held it there, on the edge, feeling himself unload an afterbirth of cum. Manetti stood dripping heavy sweat onto Chris' glistening chest. He rubbed Chris' cum all over his chest and face. He sucked the boy's small nipples, licked up and down the boy's arms, licked his pits, still hard and draining inside him. “You still with me?” he whispered, as he loosened the ball in Chris’ mouth. “That was fucking fantastic.” The boy’s eyes, drugged as they were, did not lie. Manetti kissed him deep, then lay on top of him feeling his heart beating against his. He rested there for a moment feeling the slickness between them, the kid’s sperm matting his chest and abs and pubes. He licked up a river of the boy’s cum welled in his sternum, and was surprised to see Chris open his mouth for him. The boy had the makings of a true pig, he thought, as he released the drool into the greedy boy's maw. He watched the lust still simmering within the boy as he swallowed. Maybe he was Drax material after all. ***