Echo Park

[asslikker]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

2. The Closet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[DudeLiquor]

Damn dude if you haven't got my interest UP...very much enjoy the way you write

[Buttcakes4batter]

Hell yea !! Arroused!

[TTFN]

Glad you are back asslikker.

Pity you never got to finish your last story but this one has the makings of another good one

[DutchChemPig]

Very promising start... I'm looking forward to the next chapter!

[asslikker]

3. The Aquarium

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bitch did your wings too?"

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

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

"Not really."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No. Don't."

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

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

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

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

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

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

[TTFN]

I have a feeling Tuckers roofing days are over.

Taking  his anal cherry with a 4' eel is out of this world, Tucker should have no problem taking anything after that.

[asslikker]

4. Duncan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How much was that," Riggs asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Duncan. Show him more," instructs Samuel.

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

 

[bottomboyam]

Damn.   That was hot. 

[TTFN]

Beautiful description of Tucker taking his first fist.

[pssilverbear]

Definitely an exceptional experience for Tucker.  Can't wait to see how Duncanny expands his hole further and how much more he will enjoy it.  And another rig is sure to be coming as well for him to take it where I think it's going.  Good work.

[seattlebbbtm]

Hot

[Guest Somebody]

Looking forward to seeing where this goes.  Wish I could be in Tucker's place.

[asslikker]

5. To the Elbow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Guest Somebody]

Now that was a beautiful scene.  Tucker is a lucky boy.  Why are such scenes so hard to come by in real life?