hkleatherluv Posted February 1, 2018 Report Share Posted February 1, 2018 On 1/29/2018 at 5:16 PM, shoreboy said: 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. what a gift. thank you! More please, Sir, may we have some more? 5 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
shoreboy Posted February 2, 2018 Author Report Share Posted February 2, 2018 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. 12 10 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
hkleatherluv Posted February 2, 2018 Report Share Posted February 2, 2018 fantastic. thank you. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
daddybear Posted February 2, 2018 Report Share Posted February 2, 2018 excellent last instalment! 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
studmufnz Posted February 2, 2018 Report Share Posted February 2, 2018 WOW! Nicely done... the best thus far! 2 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
deepfix Posted February 3, 2018 Report Share Posted February 3, 2018 Better with each chapter, clever and unexpected twist, cannot wait to see where this goes next........ 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
shoreboy Posted February 3, 2018 Author Report Share Posted February 3, 2018 Thanks, everyone, for your comments and encouragement, even the down votes! Hope this makes up for it. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
shoreboy Posted February 3, 2018 Author Report Share Posted February 3, 2018 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. 5 9 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
hkleatherluv Posted February 4, 2018 Report Share Posted February 4, 2018 I am in awe of your ability. reading this is like being on a great rush! 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
seattlebbbtm Posted February 4, 2018 Report Share Posted February 4, 2018 Stunningly engaging and stimulating 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
SoCalHole Posted February 4, 2018 Report Share Posted February 4, 2018 Amazing Story, more twists and turns than the fist in Chris's ass! 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
shoreboy Posted February 8, 2018 Author Report Share Posted February 8, 2018 (edited) Reminded me of Manetti Edited February 8, 2018 by shoreboy Edited text 3 4 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Somebody Posted February 11, 2018 Report Share Posted February 11, 2018 I would prefer the next installment over the picture. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Somebody Posted February 11, 2018 Report Share Posted February 11, 2018 This reminds me of Chris . . . Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest Somebody Posted February 11, 2018 Report Share Posted February 11, 2018 And, Chris needs to learn to serve like this . . . Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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