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[Fistcumslut]

2 hours ago, Tallallman said:

This reminds me of Chris . . .

Does he remind you Chris? I thought he was eighteen and with a younger look while whole shaved.... Oh well, maybe in the "opening" and his astonished expression...

Edited February 11, 2018 by Fistcumslut

[Guest Somebody]

Yes, I did not mean his age.

 

[shoreboy]

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

[shoreboy]

6. The Glass Compound

You ride the waves and don’t ask where they go
You swim like lions through the crest
And bathe yourself in zebra flesh

The ’78 Camaro loaded with a 350-cubic inch V8, fender vents, dual exhaust and a full spoiler out back, roared down the LIE toward Manhattan. Chris’ brain was slowly descending down to earth, back into his body. He had no idea where it’d been, all he knew is it hadn’t been in his head for a long time. Nothing seemed real. Manetti didn't seem real. The powerful purr of the black muscle car didn't seem real. He looked over at Manetti sitting there all smug, all teeth. Manetti glanced sideways at him every now and then. Suddenly, without warning, rage overtook him and he flew into a fury, walloping Manetti on his arm, ribs, thigh—anywhere he could land a punch.

“Ow!” Manetti laughed, his forearm up to block most of Chris’ jabs.

“It’s not,” Chris landed hard, deliberate strikes against Manetti’s shoulder, “funny!”

“Stop. Seriously." Manetti carved the road like he owned it, quickly jetting into the left lane with one hand on the wheel, zooming around a tan Buick, then swerving hard right back into his lane. "You’re going to get us killed.” 

“I thought you were dead, you shit pig fuck-face. Hate you!” Chris punched his arm.

“Ow!” Chris' blows barely registered on Manetti's sculpted frame, but since it made Chris blow off steam he played up the injured act. “Seriously. Stop. Tell me, would you have gone with some escaped cons to do a job if I asked you? No, you would not. Your dumb ass had to be tricked.” Chris crossed his arms and said nothing. Manetti glanced sideways at him again. “Anyway, it was Master Drax’s idea, not mine.” He outstretched his hand and ran it down Chris' arm. Chris angrily brushed him off. Manetti eyed the gym bag; eyed Chris. “So—how much?”

Chris turned, shouting, “They were going to kill me!” He turned back again, eyes front, clamming up.

“Nah,” Manetti said with only a shade of doubt.

“Yes they were. This close, pig fuck.” Chris was stone faced.

Manetti let Chris’ accusation roll around in his mind. He, too, went silent for a while, but kept checking the bag Chris held so tightly. “Seriously,” he eventually said, “how much? Hundred K? That's what Drax thought.” Chris stared straight ahead. Manetti eyed him with raised eyebrows, impressed. “One fifty?”

“Polanski almost strangled me to death!” Chris spewed, eyes still locked forward.

Light was just starting to glow in the rear view mirror. Manetti rocketed the car up to ninety. They sat next to each other in the Camaro’s bucket seats, the gearshift separating them, yet they’d never been farther apart. Chris started shaking. The harder he tried to stop the more he shook. He was coming down from the meth and the adrenaline. He was also hallucinating badly. Unintelligible symbols stood out on the sides of building, on traffic signs, and on the billboards they passed. Egyptian symbols from an eighth grade text book spun out ankhs and sunrays from his fevered brain, falcons and crocodiles, snakes eating their tails, stone etched waves of water. It was more pronounced if he closed his eyes, so he gave into the visions and the tremors. Finally, breaking the silence as much to distract himself from what he was seeing as to confess to Manetti the terror of his last twelve hours, he said, “I shot a man.”

“Who hasn’t,” returned Manetti much too quickly. Defensively. It was his turn to turn into a sphinx, steely-eyed, staring straight ahead when Chris looked over.

The city glistened in the distance. Chris broke into tears, then quickly grew angry at himself, wiped his face, but the sudden convulsion had a calming effect. Admitting what he’d done, even to the stoic Manetti, eased his fever a bit. He looked into the green light of the dashboard. Watch the red needle twitch at eighty. Out of the blue, he volunteered, "Two." 

Manetti, from his own mind’s dark place, recalled he’d asked the kid about the money. “Two hundred K, huh?” He whistled. 

The edges of Chris' lips curled with an undercurrent of unexpected pride. “Not two hundred,” he clarified softly. “Two million.” He knew he wasn’t imagining this fact. He closed his eyes and saw the five rows times four columns times packets ten deep. It was two million dollars he pressed into his lap.

Manetti inspected him and judged he wasn't joking. He pulled the Camaro to the side and skidded to a stop. Snatching up the bag, he unzipped it. Under damp t-shirts and jeans he found packet after packet of hundred dollar bills crammed inside. “Fuck. Dude.” He looked at Chris with his jaw open. It was the first time Chris had seen Manetti speechless. 
The man scanned the sparkling city ahead, looked back in the bag, and then back at Chris. He weighed the likelihood that the crooks had planned to kill the kid, thought about Drax’s involvement, his own complicity.

The Camaro’s engine revved, then it tore out, making a U across the traffic island downing some orange cones, and sped away from Manhattan into the rising sun, roaring east along the LIE. 

***

The 6:45 ferry from Sayville sputtered across the choppy bay. Small, wispy clouds shone pink and gold, while the ferry bobbed, rising and splashing over rough water. Manetti had done a line of coke back in the parking lot before they left the Camaro. He'd offered a line to Chris who looked at him like he had to be a moron. Now his fingers flutter on his kneecap, deep in thought behind his shades. 

Chris, with both arms wrapped around his gym bag, and Manetti sitting next to him staring off into the distance, were the only passengers sitting on the ferry’s upper deck. When they boarded, they made a strange pair to the crew. A kid in a red track suit much too large for him, the other, a decked out brawny leatherman in jeans, shirtless vest, boots, leather cap, and mirrored sunglasses. Since the boat was heading for the gay mecca known as The Pines, Manetti was hardly an unusual sight, but the kid dressed like a ghetto rapper, now that was something the teenage crew took notice of. All that was missing was big gold chains and a sideways cap. Vanilla Ice in the house, yo, one of them joked in the wheelhouse. 

A noisy flock of seagulls escorted them across the water. The landing was fast approaching. The store, the motel, the disco became distinct entities as the boat cruised into the harbor. Manetti scrutinized each boat they passed, his mind brewing with plans. A sea plane was getting ready to fly out, having disembarked two passengers who were making their way down the landing. Chris thought he recognized the bigger of the two men—the distinctive mustache, the deep dimples in the handsome face framed by curly auburn hair. It had to be—it was!—the action star, Chuck Brunswick, from his favorite TV show, Stacks Lightning, devoutly watched when he lived at home. Wednesday nights, eight o’clock, every episode, including reruns. From age twelve when it first aired, he watched it for all the fast paced action, the exotic locales, Hawaii, New York, the Congo. By fourteen he became aware that almost every episode featured Chuck Brunswick without a shirt. By fifteen, the car chases lost his interest, as new interests emerged watching each episode alone in his bedroom on Ben’s old black and white TV, a Kleenex box next to him and the door securely locked. He’d been sleepy from the half hour crossing but now he was wide awake, excited. Here, within spitting distance, was a real TV star. And not just any TV star. He nudged Manetti and pointed. Manetti lowered his sunglasses and gave Chris a blank look, then went back to examining the boats. As the ferry passed, Chris made out the famous tuft of dark chestnut hair sticking out the man’s aqua polo shirt. He didn't know the other guy. They were wheeling black suitcases that both had lightning bolt decals on them.

The teenage crew cut the engines to prevent unnecessary wake that would disturb the harbor’s yachts. As they neared the dock, all but the captain scuttled downstairs. They threw open the side door and tossed a line to one of the crew members that had jumped off. With the boat secured, they slid out a ramp. One of the teenagers pointed out the actor to his mates, as the celebrity and his companion rounded the corner of the thumping disco. 

Chris flew down the boats steep stairs, Manetti barely keeping up. "That's Chuck Brunswick up ahead," Chris said to Manetti on the ramp. Even though he was still miffed with Manetti, seeing someone so famous he couldn't hold in his excitement.

"Who?" Manetti said.

"He does that show Stacks Lightning,” Chris explain. Still Manetti was clueless. “Where he's a spy? Always chasing bad guys in cars and boats, and sleeping with lots of babes?"

"Oh," Manetti said with distain. "An actor."

Chris gave Manetti a sour look. They trailed the TV star and his companion for several blocks. The disco discharged a few revelers coming out bleary-eyed, squinting and shading their eyes to adjust to the morning light. Chris speaking about Chuck Brunswick was the first time in hours they’d spoken. Right after they left the outer borough, Manetti told Chris he'd made an executive decision. Drax could wait. He was enacting his own Plan B and that meant visiting an old friend in The Pines. 

Eyeing the tall, broad-shouldered actor ahead on the boardwalk, Chris ventured, "So everybody here’s queer?" Manetti confirmed with a nod. Chris contemplated that. The boardwalk was uneven and Manetti in boots was trying to take it slow and not trip. After several more blocks, seeing they were falling further and further behind the TV star, Chris groaned, “How much farther is your friend’s house?" Manetti told him it was at the end of the boardwalk. Chris frowned, and gave into Manetti slower pace. "Then how far is the beach," Chris asked. Manetti nodded at an approaching walkway. Chris peered down the path and saw shimmering waves. "If we’re not going to catch him, I want to walk on the beach," he said, turning down the walkway without waiting for Manetti. 

Manetti huffed. Boots in sand would be harder than the uneven boardwalk, but he followed the kid anyway. Specifically, he followed the green gym bag.

On the beach Chris' mood brightened considerably. He was almost his old self. He’d pulled off his sneakers and socks, and wiggled his toes in the sand as he trotted next to the crashing waves. The sound of the sea, the salt spray, cold early morning sand—it was a reminder of home. It cleared his senses. He picked up a driftwood stick and drew a line in the sand in front of him, jumped over it, then flung the stick into the foam. 

The houses that lined the beach were grand. Rich in wood and glass, they were tributes to wealth—honestly made or otherwise. Large two story structures, all with decks and pools, all stacked alongside each other. One, he observed, had sliding windows who's four large glass panes folded right into the walls, leaving the living room’s fourth wall completely open. Another one had a pool whose beach front side was a giant window of glass. Two joggers in speedos, a blond and a curly red-head, passed him. They turned their heads back to get a look at the kid in the hip hop getup. They laughed when they saw it was a young white kid. To Chris they looked like models out of a magazine—flawless, tanned, manikin smooth, air-brushed generic. 

Manetti tromped behind trying to catch up. Once he did, he draped his arm across Chris' shoulder and told him to take it easy on him. 

Chris smiled to himself. "This is just like Long Beach," he said.

"This is just like Long Beach?" Manetti questioned.

"See." He stopped and turned to the ocean. "This beach is like facing south. Most everything on the west coast faces west, and on the east coast faces east. But here, the ocean faces south. In California, Long Beach is the only place that faces south, like here, see?"

"Well, I did not know that," Manetti responded. Chris had lost the Prior Puss, and he had to admit, with the kid beaming like he was, he could do him right here out in the open. "Ya know,” Manetti said, “I'm from Long Beach, too. Long Beach, New York."

"Well, I did not know that," Chris mimicked Manetti with his own words. They exchanged a smile, the first in a long, long time. Genuinely interested, he asked, "Where's your Long Beach?" They had started walking again.

"It's about forty miles ‘at-a-way." Manetti pointed straight ahead. Chris wanted to know if they could walk there from here. "Only if you're Jesus," Manetti replied, and they laughed. A couple of waves crashed to shore as they padded through the sand. For a few minutes they were silent, just listening to the sea’s rhythm, a set of waves, a pause, then another set, on and on. Manetti cocked his head to one side, said with wistfully, "It's one of the first things Ben and I found we had in common. Long Beach." Manetti questioned why he volunteered that. Immediately he regretted it.

Chris looked over at Manetti. Was he sad? Sad didn’t fit his image of him. He tried to read Manetti, but behind the mirrored sunglasses, staring down the beach, he was impenetrable. "Do you think he's all right?” Chris wondered aloud. “Ben is?”

"Like I said, he's changed." It was Manetti's turn to clam up. They trooped through the sand. There weren't many more houses left before the town ended and turned to forest. 

“So what’s Plan B,” Chris asked.

“Hmm.” Manetti took his time. “We’re dropping in on a regular of mine. His name’s Tobias Glass. Real rich. A real pig when you get him going. He was this child actor way before my time, now he has a Village cabaret act. Show tunes and shit. He’s gonna take one look at you and will want to eat you up. Don’t let ‘em unless I get a cut.” Chris laughed nervously. “He’s got connections. If anyone can find us a boat, he can. Then we’re off to the Caribbean or South America—Belize maybe. Your choice.”

Chris listened to him. Then stopped dead in his tracks. “Wait. You want to leave the country with the two million? Without Ben? Screw over Master Drax? Are you out of your fuckin’ out mind! Master Drax will skin you alive! Me too, probably Ben just for being related to me. That’s your brilliant Plan B? Neg-a-tive,” he said, shaking his head.
He turned around and started walking back to the ferry dock, when Manetti hooked him with two words.

“Ben’s here.” 

Chris halted abruptly. “Where?” He glared at Manetti.

“A couple possibilities.” He waited till Chris walked back to him. “I have other clients on the island. One of them had purchased time with Big Ben, as he’s called. That was a week back. If you let me do a little digging, Chief, give me some time, I think I can find him, then the three of us can sail right off the map.” He approached Chris, closing in the final pitch, “do you know what kind of life we’d have, baby?” He reached under Chris’ baggy shirt and pinched his tits.

“A life on the run, is my guess. Brody and Polanski said Master Drax actually cut the skin off a guy named Jackson.”

“Then Jackson was stupid. We’re not stupid.” Chris was standing his ground in the sand even with Manetti playing with his nipples. “C’mon, will you at least give me twenty-four hours, let me ask around for Ben, and a boat?” Manetti cozied up intimately right in Chris’ face. He drew his hands down around Chris’ bubble butt, stroking it lovingly, pushing Chris’ crotch into his own. He felt Chris stir.

Chris pushed his hands away and resumed their trek with a bit of a stiffy swinging in his jogging suit. “Twenty-four hours—but you have to find Ben. And I’m not letting go of my bag.” Manetti saddled up next to Chris, draping his arm over his shoulder, pulling the kid up under his hairy armpit, assured his scent carried its own persuasion. They walked in step but Chris became increasingly conflicted. “So if you find Ben, then what? That’s going to be a whole other can of worms. You, me, Ben.”

“Are you shittin’ me?” Manetti erupted skyward in a wail of laughter. “Do you have any idea of the fucked up groups Ben and I have been in—on and off camera? Ask me about us and my step dad at that skanky Jersey motel shoot. Better yet, don’t. Talk about awkward—but even that turned out interesting once Drax got the cameraman naked. Family on family make up half the porn industry.” Manetti pointed to the last staircase on the beach before the town turned to forest. They veered toward it. 

At the top of the stairs, a large wooden fence extended from the beach back to the main boardwalk. Halfway along the fence they came across an archway with a large weathered door. "This is Glass' compound. He won't be up for hours, but I know where he keeps a spare." He reached up inside one of the sconces and produced a key. He opened the door and they entered a courtyard that could have been in the middle of Japan. 

The garden was lush in greenery and rich in detail—a Buddha serenely rested on a mound of green moss; an area of white sand raked with wave-like patterns surrounding an upright rock; trickling water flowed out a bamboo branch splashing onto a bowl of black, smooth stones. They crossed a red lacquered bridge that extended over a pond filled with lily pads. The light through the overhanging branches played on the water, and beneath the covering large fish swam, their scales, luminous red and orange, sparked like underwater fire. Coy fish, Manetti told Chris. The pond was fed by a running stream that ran throughout the compound. If silence could make a sound it was this. 

They came to the compound’s courtyard. Manetti stopped Chris and pointed. A doe and her fawn stood at the forest’s edge, nibbling sprigs of grass they could reach through a broken slat in the wood fence. Chris couldn’t help himself and gasped just loud enough to prick up the doe’s ears, and the two disappeared into the dense forest. 

A swimming pool, outlined with grey slate, laid in the center of the compound. Four structures surrounded it. The main house, closest to the beach, wasn't very big, but beyond the plate glass and sliding windows, Chris saw it was minimally but opulently furnished. Sleek black couches were in the living room, and a white grand piano stood in a corner with a large dining room standing in the cool shadows. The remaining three independent structures were cabanas. Each with a large picture window. Each with their curtains drawn. The sound of someone lightly snoring came out of the cabana on the far side of the pool. In the cabana to their right, men murmured within. Two wheeled suitcases parked next to the door. Chris pulled excitedly on Manetti’s arm pointing to lightning bolt decals on the suitcases’ sides. Manetti shook him off and went into the last cabana. He came out motioning for Chris to come in.

They went in and Chris immediately ran into his reflection in a tall full-length wooden mirror. Seeing himself in his baggy red track suit for the first time he thought no wonder he got strange looks. He dropped his shoes and flopped backward on the feathery bed. Though the room was warm and stuffy, he melted into the cool white comforter. 
Manetti opened a high window and a skylight to get a cross-breeze going. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots, ran a hand through his hair. In the full-length mirror he looked at his own reflection. Maybe he’d wait for the kid to fall asleep and just run off with the money. That would be the simplest plan. What kept him here? The Prior brothers? Talk about not simple. He knew he was a mass of contradictory impulses, had known it for a long time, ever since he moved to New York, probably before if he let himself think about it. He refused to go there. He pushed off his jeans and underwear, and tossed off his cap. Down to just his skin and leather vest, he crawled over to Chris, who turned away from him, not mad but exhausted. Manetti scooched closer till he was spooning the boy.

Chris didn't protest, even when Manetti pressed his erection into the butt of his track suit. Earth quickly was falling away as he fell deeper into the soft bed, deeper down the rabbit hole of this new life. He felt the buckle unfasten on his belt, and Manetti pulling down his pants. His butt exposed, he fell asleep dreaming he was on a train, then he became the train, specifically the train coupler, those metal clasps that, like hands, fold into one another to secure train cars together. Somewhere in the world he felt Manetti couple into him, acquire a hold, while he allowed the rod to enter, then gripped it from slipping out of his ass. Who held whom?

Manetti lifted off Chris' top and pulled his skin into him. Pelt on hairless boy, hairless boy melting into a bed of fur. Manetti entering him deeper made him moan in his sleep. His ass was still tender, he protested semi-conscious but didn't reject. Manetti went deeper still. Chris gasped louder, struggling to overcome the pain he still felt from the recent abuse. Manetti's ridged pole did not give nor forgive, it pushed in beyond the pain. Chris pushed back, impaling himself, deep, seizing on the pain to raise himself out of his hazy sleep, not ignoring the penetrating object but beginning to ride it, riding Manetti, forcing himself to feel the pain, want the pain, waking with the pain. Manetti obliged. He was good at his craft. He was the best rough trade in town, wearing nothing but his leather vest and a hard on, sticking it to the boy. He would teach Chris to be rough, hardened like him.

He pushed the boy's pants off his ankles, pulled out of Chris’ hole, raised the boy’s leg and was back on top of Chris, penetrating him, before Chris even realized how he’d accomplished the feat. He looked into Chris' face, pushed his massive erection further now that he could lay his crotch directly over Chris' open cavern. The added inch made Chris lurch in pain from the spot where Brody had fisted him too deep. Manetti waited right on that torturous spot, neither retreating nor pushing him beyond it. He waited, making only the slightest of movements, an itch to scratch, waiting and watching Chris’ face turn from pain to desire. He brushed away a lock of blond hair that had caught in an eyelash. 

He kissed his mouth. Chris opened for him. Once Manetti saw lust in Chris’ open eyes he turned his attention to his bucking hole. He stayed in a holding pattern, enjoying the pleasuring of expanding Chris' hole with his growing shaft, feeling it surrender to him completely. The cabanas always had supplies of lube and poppers, among other pleasures, tucked away in the nightstands. Manetti reached in the drawer and withdrew some mentholated cream on his fingers. As he gently fucked Chris’ hole, sensually stimulated his opening with his massive bush, he added a finger, then two, to pull the boy’s hole wider. Chris objected, saying it hurt, but with the mentholated cream soothing his tender canal. Manetti convinced the boy with few words that this is what he wanted. With four fingers lathered he pulled his dripping cock out and replaced it with his large palm. He took all the time necessary for Chris to accept his hand, pulling out a bit when he reach his second knuckles. He could sense Chris wanting him to push in again. He did, sliding four fingers up to the third knuckle, then held there, looking for Chris’ eyes to say yes. He knew the boy was deciding and he’d abide by his decision. He felt the clenched muscles in Chris’ ass relax and he went in an inch more, up to the web of his thumb. He chanced a half rotation, another test to see where Chris’ mind and body were. After a second, he felt he boy bear down on his hand, a signal of his willingness to surrender his hole.

Manetti removed his hand as Chris moaned his disappointment. “Take one of the poppers, boy. That tall one.” Chris obeyed. It was one of Manetti’s favorite English poppers, much stronger than its American counterpart. He greased his whole hand with the mentholated cream to overcome the fear Manetti believed the convicts instilled. He pushed a wad of grease into the boy’s crack and smeared it around with three fingers, then pushed those three fingers back into his chute. They slid in easily. Manetti added a fourth and told Chris to take a hit. He waited till Chris recapped the bottle, then slid his thumb in, told Chris to look at him. Chris was trying to focus his gaze on Manetti, and Manetti saw the moment the poppers kicked in. Chris hole grew relaxed and wide as lust for Manetti pushed his hand over Manetti’s palm. In one constant movement the boy mounted Manetti’s whole hand and slid his entrails over the ridges down to the man’s hairy wrists. He felt each strand of hair slide through his loosened sphincter. Manetti slowly twisted his wrist tickling the cunt he was giving the boy. Knuckles ground against sensitive walls, the wrist’s black fur slithered over the exposed sphincter nerve endings, silent fingertips touched blind boundaries that yielded, surrendering Chris’ resistance to Manetti’s will. Manetti fisted Chris’ mind even more than his body. Chris’ synapses were firing and he was helpless to resist Manetti’s mastery. The sensations painful and inviting. The cold-hot feeling in his loins made his body undulated onto Manetti’s hand, like a snake swallowing a mouse. Manetti’s hand went further into his hole, further than it had ever been. “Take three more hits, boy,” instructed Manetti. Chris again obeyed. Manetti applied more salve over his wrist and this time over his forearm while Chris huffed and replaced the cap. His eyes were glued on Manetti. Manetti watched as a lewdness sweep across the boy, not just his face but over his whole body, his mouth open just as his hole was opening. Of his own volition he crawled down further onto Manetti’s wrist and the boy began the journey of the man’s hirsute forearm. Manetti flexed his wrist twisting in exploration of where his hand was in the boy’s body, and where it should go next. He straightened his hand and slowly pulled the boy’s colon away from its mooring so that the passage extended along the length of his forearm. It was a long process, he knew, that would change the boy forever.

Chris traveled halfway down Manetti’s forearm before he realized how deep Manetti was inside him. A world of pleasure exploded in his core, physically and mentally, when he looked in the full-length mirror and saw how much of Manetti’s forearm he’d taken. And still he slid ever deeper on the proffered arm. He inched serpentine-like, feeling the ancient original sin drawing him on, driving him deeper into it, not able to get enough of the pleasure Manetti was offering. He saw Manetti had no boundaries either and wouldn’t stop until Chris satisfied the powerful lust he had for him. Yes, it meant physically Chris wanted the fucker’s whole arm up him, but the revelation, rational or not, was that he wanted to make his body an offering to the man. “I want,” Chris moaned as he agonized over ever scintilla he could take of Manetti, “all of you.” But he was fighting a two stage battle: for every millimeter he took in of Manetti’s hand, he also had to accommodate the ever-widening girth of forearm. Manetti thick, muscular arm was as much of a challenge as taking his hand ever-deeper. This is when Manetti took over.

“Take another hit, baby. Relax. Lay down. Daddy’s gonna drive.” While Chris prepared himself with a deep inhalation, Manetti’s other hand played with Chris’ cock. His greasy hand toyed with the boy’s balls and ran numbing fingers over the boy’s nub. The cooling sensation wasn’t lost on the boy. His groin joined the sensation of coolness his whole ass was feeling inside as well. Far from numb, his body was on fire and able to take more intense sensation, a deeper fisting, than when the convict were pummeling him. Now between the poppers and the looseness of his body, as well as the loosening of his morals and inhibitions, he began writhing in pure sensuality when he felt Manetti curling his fingers inside him balling into a fist.

“Yeah. Fuck yeah. Fist my hole, daddy,” Chris hoarsely cried.

Manetti’s balled fists slowly pulled out to the edge of Chris’ sphincter, giving it such a beautiful stretch, he could see his black wrist hair through the translucent taut pink skin of Chris’ ass lips. Chris’ gulped in air as Manetti encouraged him to take it, take it. He could see Chris’ couldn’t sustain such rapid breathing nor such an intense stretch. Manetti pushed back inside to the depth where he started. It was nautical miles of sensations traveled in two second through Chris’ hole. All the nerves stroked went straight to his brain—hole to brain skipping the rest of his body. The boy’s synapses could hardly keep up. Desire and sensation manifest in deranged calls to fuck my hole, daddy, open my pussy, give me a sloppy cunt, with Manetti responding, encouraging, validating everything Chris was saying. “You like daddy giving you a cunt.” “Yes, daddy, open my hole.” “You want daddy to fuck you like this.” Agreement. More aggression. The fist came out and immediately pushed back to try to get in. It took a moment, but both of them wanted it, so it slid right in. Making the initial break and re-entry, triggered something in both of them. They wanted more just like that.

Obscene wet farts emitted from Chris’ ass. Each fart increase the capacity to take Manetti’s fist deeper into him. They were in a cycle of passion—Chris wanting to give, Manetti wanting to take. Chris could see, and Manetti approved, that after several punches, Chris’ hole blossomed into a small rosebud. Manetti encouraged it, tended to this new flower, inserted a single finger to wiggle around in it, excite the bloom to display more itself. “Look in the mirror,” Manetti said, pulling Chris’ ass lips apart, showing the boy what his opened hole looked like. “Push,” he ordered and Chris bore down, and a small mushroom sprouted from his hole. At the center, the beginning of his red inner flesh peeked through. Manetti resumed methodically fisting his hole. For the next hour he put Chris through practiced paces, training him to think about nothing but being a hole. 

After crouching then kneeling off the bed, Manetti grew restless. Slowly he adjusted his position and slid up next to Chris parallel to his body, his head next to Chris’ open hole. The position also afforded Chris the ability to pleasure Manetti’s stiffened member sticking up right in front of him. With intense gratitude triggered by Manetti manipulating his hole, Chris sucked Manetti with an urgency of the famished. His throat opened and the whole shaft went down till his face was smothered in thick, black bush. And now Manetti, lying next to the boy, with less force but deeper penetration, could maneuver his hand easily, pushing Chris to his limits. Chris handed him the opened popper bottle to share. After his first hit, the man felt the intensity of his lust boil over, let the chemicals overtake him and felt deeper inside the kid’s colon. He traced the boy’s resisting internal muscles, teased them relentlessly with his middle finger until they submitted and he won another quarter each of Chris’ body. Methodically, while Chris nursed his cock, he gained more territory that almost took Chris to the crook of his arm. 

Chris ran his hand over Manetti’s arm to feel how far his forearm with inside. He felt how close he was to the man’s elbow. Carnal thoughts about Manetti raged inside. He lifted his leg like a submissive dog so Manetti had easier access, to take as much of him as he wanted. At the same time he lifted Manetti’ leg and went in search of the man’s nougaty center. It didn’t take him long to find Manetti’s spongy hole. Licking it only made it expand. The sixty-nining of pleasure drove them both to experiment.

With Chris’ leg in the air Manetti felt free to pull apart the kid’s pussy, grab hold of his leg and pull out and push back in. It made Chris crazy. Chris reciprocated by finding the nightstand lube and applying it to Manetti sprouting rectum. With a slippery hand he pressed into Manetti who readily gave way. His hand easily slipped into the man, and for the first time he felt what a real sloppy hole felt like. His hand balled into a fist as soon as he entered. He was spelunking deep inside a cavern that seemed endless. There was no resistance as he passed his wrist deep into what felt like a second opening. Manetti bore down on the kid’s fist and the kid’s forearm easily slid deep into Manetti’s hairy hole. As much as he thrilled at what Manetti was doing inside him, it was compounded by how he got off watching the hairs around Manetti’s hole slide in and out with each pump he produced. 

They glided into each other with gratifying moans each time they crossed a new boundary. With bodies pressed against one another, their free hands ran across skin, stroking cocks, squeezing balls, running a big hand over smooth skin, running a small hand over muscled fur. They couldn’t get enough of each other. When Chris passed his elbow through Manetti’s hole, the man cried out and told Chris to pull back. Chris stopped, followed through with how Manetti had been treating him, slowly rolled his fingers across the sealed chamber that then opened like a camera lens and he passed his small hand through. Manetti eased out of Chris and fell on his back. He put one leg over Chris’ torso so the boy was at an advantaged angle to penetrate him further. Chris rolled the poppers to him. Manetti wiped the grease off the bottle cap, unscrewed it and inhaled deeply. Chris knew by now how easy it was to finger a resisting wall, feel for the blood pumping through the thin, retreating membranes, and allow Manetti to internally guide him where his hand should travel. Working together, Chris found the small opening each hit of poppers revealed. He followed the opening that unveiled new chambers his hand could conquer. When he was up to his bicep, Manetti was twitching in ecstasy to the point where he couldn’t take it. He signal for Chris to withdraw. Chris didn’t move but left his hand exactly where it was. Manetti pleaded for him to back off, but Chris laid there tranquilly. Manetti found he was starting to rut on Chris’ small arm, fighting within himself whether he want more or wanted release. In a fog, the man lifted his head to find Chris smiling ear to ear. “You little fucker,” he said to Chris, and started the long journey of extracting the kid’s arm from his body. 

Chris helped him to withdraw but not completely. After a number of inches of relief, Chris would go back into Manetti’s colon, which Manetti was not completely opposed to. But it soon it became a matter of will as opposed to sensation, and Manetti refused the kid’s domination. Manetti crab walked back the last of Chris’ forearm ordering him to let him go. Like a lizard losing its tail, Manetti shot off the last foot of Chris’ arm. His cock dripped with pre-cum, and where he’d dragged his ass over the sheets, there was a trail of brown mucus.

“You little fuck. Get over here. Lick that up,” he said grabbing Chris’ neck, pushing him into the slime. “Lick it up, I said.” Chris did. Much too eagerly. Manetti struggled to regain dominance after surrendering his hole so completely. He flipped the kid on his back. Chris’ chest and crotch were coated in the brown sludge. From the skylight the sun shown on the kid’s stained face. He glistened in contented degraded radiance. Manetti slapped the smile off his face, pulled up his legs and stuck his cock all the way to the root in one surge. Chris grunted, but was so opened, he welcomed him inside. Manetti soon found a rhythm that included slapping the kid's ass. He soon found his breath accelerating. Chris was beneath him taking in all the pleasure of his pounded flesh. He reached up and twisted Manetti tits, which made Manetti hammer him faster and harder. The boy wrapped his legs around the man’s waist, bucked up his ass with equal fervor.

As the pulse of their fucking increased, their fierce pace drawing to an inevitability, Chris took one of Manetti’s hands curled on the side of his head and placed it on his neck. He took Manetti's other hand and placed that too on his neck. Manetti recognized what the boy was asking for. Like the rough trade he’d been trained to be, he obliged. He started squeezing his neck as Chris stroked his dick with increasing desperation. Manetti was good rough trade, fuck no, he was great rough trade! He was all powerful, in control, scum fuck bad ass rough trade. He was back in the saddle, enjoying how he was abusing his bottom boy. He watched Chris' face turn bright red, watched his eyes bulge, watched him struggle silently beneath his crushing hands. Chris’ hands clasped around Manetti’s wrist, feeling the strength, their girth, the hair. When Manetti erupted inside Chris, Chris exploded over him even harder. Beneath his easing hands, the unconscious kid flopped a few time like a landed fish. The little fuck even had a smile on his face while he rasped in a daze. Manetti’s pubes rested between Chris’ hairless cheeks. As he laid on top of him, his dick draining the remains of his wad, he felt small internal clutching like he was being milked by the boy. That, too, quieted after a few moments. As his breathing returned to normal, he examined this blond hair kid’s young face beneath him. He pushed back some of his matted hair caked with shit juice. What exactly did he think he could teach this street urchin, this abused stray puppy about being hardened, about being rough? Jesus fuck, whatever the men in his family had done to him was already hard-wired in his brain. It was buried so shallow under the surface, only a scratch revealed it. 

Passed out, Chris’ legs slid down Manetti’s thighs and Manetti rolled off him, still hard, his chest covered in the kid’s spooge. On his back, mindlessly he traced a finger through a string of the kid’s white sperm. He tasted its warm saltiness. He followed passing clouds in the skylight, heard Chris breathing beside him. He could see both Prior brothers were fucked up, out of control, but in opposite ways. Well, he was a fuck up too, wasn’t he? Sure, he’d promised he would find Ben. He knew he could. But would bringing them together defuse Ben or detonate Chris? Or maybe it’d be the other way around. Either way he’d be in the cross-hairs, suffer the collateral damage. It was stupid to care about either of these stupid brothers. It was stupid for a hustler to even care at all. He got up to take a shower, and spied the gym bag on the nightstand. The smartest thing to do would be to swipe the kid’s bag while he was still out and roar off in his Camaro. He looked at the mess sprawled on the bed, this sprawled out filthy mess of a kid. Looking at himself in the mirror, he ran a hand through his mane. Yeah, he’d swipe the money. That was the smart move. Uncomplicate things. Make a clean break. Yeah, he convinced himself, right after a shower.

 

Edited February 11, 2018 by shoreboy

[Guest Marq]

This story just keeps getting better, cant wait to read the next chapters and see what a pig Chris turn into

[Guest Somebody]

Fuck yes, Chris is turning into a versatile pig, and turned the tables on Manetti.  And somehow I think, um, actually maybe know, that Manetti's plan for after his shower will not come to pass exactly as planned.

[Fistcumslut]

I really would know Shoreboy, his fisting sessions descriptions are beyond the simple fantasy... few people knows that only a bottom whose know what a fist means, what a fist felts inside its own ass, its own body, the movements, the feeling... only that bottom can be a even better FF top.

Into Fisting sessions experience FF versatile guys are the best partners for hours of FFun.

Pity Shoreboy we are so far because, I suppose, you should be one of them...

[deepfix]

Beautiful description of fisting - as always awaiting the next chapter eagerly....

[shoreboy]

7. Night of the Green Fairy

It was early evening. Above the compound, the last light of day blushed scarlet between the treetop leaves. Deep male laughter and the clinking of dinner plates came from the main house. The cabana’s picture window shades were open, and from the courtyard tiki flames illuminated the room in flickering shadows. He sat up groggy on the edge of the bed trying to focus. For a second he panicked searching for his bag on the floor. It sat on the nightstand where he’d left it. The nightstand’s drawer was open. Although the room was dark, inside he saw the lube they used and poppers, but also a large assortment of dildos, some black, some flesh-color, white nylon rope, dog collars, cuffs and other stuff, things he had no idea what they were for. He closed the drawer and picked up his bag and shuffled to the bathroom mirror, flicking on the light to check his neck. It was fine, unbruised, still red though from Polanski the night before. He set the bag on the toilet. Manetti was good, going to extremes but knowing where to draw the line. His stomach growled as he stepped in the shower to wash off the crud of sex. He realized he hadn’t eaten anything since the Popeye’s chicken the night before. While he was drying off, a succulent fragrance wafted in the air. He looked in his bag and felt his clothes were still damp. Dang, why didn’t he remembered to hang them out? He was such a moron. He draped them on the shower rod. That left only the baggy red track suit to wear. He climbed into it, cinched his pants, but before going in search of food—and Manetti—he went out with his bag, crawled under the middle of the cabana and stuffed the green bag between two joists. He climbed back onto the pool deck, brushed dirt off his knees, and went to the main house.

Tobias Glass stood at the head of a black lacquered dining table surrounded by his friends, Manetti among them. He was holding court in his favorite green silk kimono, pushing back the decorative katana sword holder on the side table to make room for the finished dinnerware. On a blue Flemish plate with windmills and Dutch girls dancing in clogs, lines of coke were being passed around. Tobias was a tall, thin man with wild, curly gray hair, whose eyes never rested, continually observing his guests, making sure everyone was enjoying themselves. He made his way around the table, making a comment, picking up a dish, running his long fingers through Chuck Brunswick’s wavy locks. Tobias was the first to notice Chris coming into the main house through the sliding door. Cheers erupted around the table as the boy slid the screen closed. 

“Sleeping beauty!” Manetti called out to him. “Everybody. This is the Chris Prior, Big Ben’s little brother, I was telling you about.” Knowing glances flashed around the table. “We finished, Chief, but I saved your plate.” He was embarrassed by sudden attention and a little uneasy about what Manetti had told the table. He smiled shyly at Tobias who had his hand parked on Chuck Brunswick’s shoulder. Brunswick wiggled his bushy eyebrows at Chris, one of his trademarked gestures that seemed to make its way into every episode. Chris’ heart skipped a beat.

“Sit. Eat,” said Tobias, collecting the lasts of the dinnerware. The chair next to Manetti was empty. As soon as Chris was settled in Manetti served up several slices of pork tenderloin and asparagus with hollandaise sauce. Across from Chris sat Brunswick’s traveling companion, a very aristocratic, very pretty young boy only a year or two older than Chris. Tobias was making the rounds of introductions, saying he was sure Chris new Chuck Brunswick. Chris nodded assuredly, trying to stop himself from staring. “And his secretary, Andrew Hollister. Secretary? Seriously, that’s not what you’re calling him, dear,” he pleaded to Brunswick.

“Personal assistant,” Brunswick said, smiling wryly.

“Very personal,” said a short, muscular man at the end of the table. In his early thirties, balding, he sported a mustard-colored horseshoe mustache, and was passing his empty dinner plate up to Tobias. 

“Andy,” Andrew Hollister added to his introduction, not looking at Chris but tipping a rolled-up twenty dollar bill down to the plate of coke. For all his refined facial features, high cheekbones, dark hair that contrasted with his deep set blue eyes, he filled out his tank top, pecs and arms, with impressively cut muscles. On second glance, though, Chris couldn’t help notice his neck seemed a little thin compared to the rest of his bulk.

“And at this end of the table, this little person barely able to get his wee arms up to the table,” Tobias continued, then said to the man in a mock aside, “I do wish you’d let me get you a booster seat, dear. You might recognize, if you can see him, Mister David Crusher, he of Crusher Gyms.” Tobias was ridiculing the short, but clearly not dwarfish man at the end. The man’s broad, generous smile oozed confidence, some might say conceit. Chris could tell he relished Tobias’ attention. He saluted Chris with a glass of water. Despite his stature Chris saw he was a serious body builder, hiding bulging arms and massive shoulders underneath his white hooded pullover. What hair he still had he buzzed short. It only accentuated his jovial face, topped off with a button nose, and a serious cleft in his chin. 

“He’s not going to recognize me, you daft old queen,” he said, clasping Tobias’ hand with mock pity. “But I know you forget thing so easily at your age. You really don’t remember Manetti telling us a few minutes ago this is the kid’s first time in New York?” Tobias smacked his hands away and took his empty dish to the side table. “Yo, Hip Hop,” Crusher teased Chris. His voice was surprisingly rich and deep, with a friendly jockishness that suggested he schmoozed easily with his clients and wealthy investors alike. “You know Manetti’s a low life. A clean cut kid like you shouldn’t be hanging around with the likes of him. You’ll get fleas.”

“I’m hardy old,” Tobias injected, dabbing a napkin to his lips, then taking the dishes into the kitchen.

“Listen, Fireplug,” Manetti responded to Crusher, “Stop trying to steal my date. The kid’s doing just fine. Trust me.” Chris gave Manetti a startled look to see if he was being as protective as he sounded. He also couldn’t believe Manetti called him his date.

“Some wine, Chris?” offered the man sitting on the other side of him. He held up a bottle of Chablis.

“Thank you. Just water, please,” he answered. The man poured him a glass. His black rimmed glasses had thick lenses that magnified his hazel eyes. He was fiftyish, had a long horse face that was kindly, almost handsome, and he, too, appeared to be built under his Columbia University sweat shirt. Pairing everyone off, Chris assumed he was with Crusher.

“I’m so sorry,” cried Tobias hurrying in from the kitchen, and sitting at the head of the table. “Forgive me Chris. Last and definitely least is Mother, Mitchel Goodman,” Tobias said, waving a long green sleeve at the man next to Chris, “my wife of twenty-two long, excruciating years.”

“Tobias, if you keep this up, we’ll have to seal you back in your coffin before any of the party guest arrive.” 

“Promises, promises. Now Michael, my pet,” he said, placing a hand over Manetti’s. “I know you said you and Chris want to keep a low profile, and you may if you must. But you do know you arrived on Towel Night.”

Between gobbling down forkfuls of pork and asparagus, Chris asked what Towel Night was. He’d finished his plate and Manetti was piling on a few more tenderloin slices.
Everyone glanced around the table suppressing grins. Crusher sniffed loudly and passed the tray of coke to Mitchel. Mitchel tapped Chris’ shoulder and offered more asparagus. Chris nodded enthusiastically. As he was serving, Mitchel explained, “Tobias and I host a bacchanal for selected guests, no more than twelve or fourteen mind you, men that throughout the summer have caught his and my eye.” He set down the asparagus and quickly bent down and snorted two lines, then perked back up and continued a little more brightly. “The Towel Party is a Fire Island institution! It’s not suitable for wallflowers or twinks, but since you’re our house guest you’ll be treated like a dignitary.”

Tobias broke in, “Or at least a novelty.” The men all laughed except Manetti, who eyed Chris. Tobias went on to explain further, “A white towel and eye mask along with an invitation were left on each of the invitees’ doorsteps late last night.” He added to the table as an aside, “This year, gentlemen, you won’t believe the variety. A potpourri of perversity!” To Chris he said, “The invitation is for ten o’clock, and the celebrant is expected to wear the towel, mask and nothing more.”

“One question, Mr. Glass,” interrupted Andy, finishing his Chablis. “Aren’t most houses home to several men, for the most part? How do they know whom the invitation is for?”

“That’s the fun part. Self-selection,” Tobias answered. “It’s a house’s decision who they designate. And they almost always select the most philistine participant, making for the most delicious, unpredictable party. Even if it turns out to not be the one Mother and I had an eye on, the collective house knows best, don’t they dear?” Mitchel agreed wholeheartedly. “The result is always better than we could have anticipated or hoped for—and always in surprising ways.”

“Chris?” Mitchel said, passing the coke tray to him.

“No thank you, sir,” he said, passing the tray to Manetti, finishing his last bites of food.

Manetti said, “What. You’re suddenly a prude about drugs?”

“I’m still eating,” Chris complained. “And I don’t want to.”

“Oh, Mother,” crooned Tobias. “An old married couple already, just like us.”

“Do it,” was all Manetti had to say. Chris growled and snatched back the tray glaring at Manetti. 

After coming back up and wiping his nose, Chris said, “Mr. Glass. What is a bacchanal?”

“Oh, dear,” said Tobias. 

***

The small dinner party had moved outside. Down in an unlit fire pit, Brunswick sliced the air with the sheathed katana blade, showing Chris and Crusher some swordfight moves from a recent episode. Chris watched enthralled. Crusher was duly impressed. Andy not so much. Manetti had maneuvered Tobias to get him alone by the pool, and was quizzing him about boats for sale. “Drax authorized me to purchase a yacht for him, that’s what brought us here.”

“I can’t quite picture Drax on the open sea,” said Tobias, lighting another cigarette as he put out his first. Mitchel walked by, frowning at Tobias as he passed, holding coffee mugs for Brunswick and Crusher. “Don’t give me that look, Mother. It’s only my second.”

“He has some idea about a new video,” Manetti went on. “Something like Chris the cabin boy, or something like that.”

“Mmm. Sailors, pirates, swarthy men who haven’t bathed in months, capture an innocent boy and teach him the ways of the sea. Ah, the timeless story.” Tobias raised his hand as if reading a marque. “Shanghaied and Seduced. I’d buy that. Hell, I'd produce it if Drax would let me on the set.” He took a long drag off his cigarette. “Well, as a matter of fact, we have some acquaintances that own a mortuary in Montclair. Very macabre characters, with unseemly tastes. If half the rumors are true I certainly wouldn’t leave Chris alone in their company. They’re calling it quits after twenty years. Such a pity. Boris caught Roger milking the milkman.”

From the fire pit Mitchel corrected, “He was a beer distributor.”

“Shush. A milkman makes for a much better story. Anyway, they’ll be docking here in the morning. They always take the week before the Fourth off. If you’re serious I can have them for brunch, but only if you’re serious. They are undertakers, after all. Not really the life of the party.” He exploded with laughter. Manetti snorted. “I have a feeling that aside from all the mishegas of selling the business, the house, oy, I can’t image, they’ll most likely want to get rid of their yacht.”

Mitchel came up behind Tobias and rested his hands on his shoulders. “Who will get Wallace, do you suppose?”

“Oh, dear. I hadn’t thought about their Great Dane. Poor Wallace. I suppose they’ll have to split him in half.” The two men chuckled.

Manetti pressed, “How much do you think a boat like theirs would run.”

Mitchel squeeze in next to Tobias on his lounge chair, “They bought it ten years ago, didn’t they?” Tobias nodded. “That yacht at today’s prices? Maybe one hundred fifty, sixty. I wouldn’t go any higher. Have you seen how worn and cracked the outdoor seating is?” Mitchel said sliding his hand over Tobias kimono sleeve. “Almost as cracked and worn out as they are.” Mitchel croaked, while Tobias gave him a playful slap on the wrist. 

Chris had overheard part of the conversation about yachts and, since Brunswick had finished his demonstration and was putting the sword away, he drifted over with his hand behind his back. He was feeling mischievous from the coke and also a bit daring from all the male attention he was getting. He dropped his clothes next to Manetti and then did a cannon ball next to him. 

The spray soaked Manetti's entire back, water dripped over his forehead. “That’s it, you little prick,” he said, stripping off his jeans and vest. He dove naked into the water chasing Chris who was squealing with delight. The dinner party gathered round the pool laughing as Manetti caught up with Chris, picked him up by the neck and legs, rose the naked boy kicking high in the air, and threw him into the deep end of the pool.

Crusher stripped off his top and shorts revealing a large, semi-erect woody. He dove in and swam up next to the submerged Chris. Chris popped up wiping his eyes. He said to the boy, “I told you he was low rent scum, didn’t I?” He ran his hand up Chris’ torso. “You come stay with Uncle Crusher when you get back in the city. I’ve got a guest room and I’d like to see what I can do with this body,” he said, as underwater he groped the boy’s hairless crotch. 

Manetti quickly swam up and got between Crusher and boy. “Afraid he’s got other plans, Uncle Crusher.” Manetti wrapped an arm around Chris’ torso and swam away with his charge.

“What, you got a monopoly on the whole family, Manetti?” Crusher bellowed.

“Gentlemen, niceness. I’m sure there’s enough Chris for everyone, isn’t there Michael?” Tobias ventured.

“Not for free, there isn’t,” Manetti said, urging Chris out of the pool.

“What a crab, Manetti,” Chris said, grabbing a white towel and going back over to the fire pit. Manetti followed him, wiping himself off and settling into one of the chairs next to Chris. Brunswick came over and sat opposite Chris. He pulled off his shirt flexing his chest, clearly for Chris’ benefit. The boy toweled his hair, astonished seeing in real life what he’d fantasized about so often in his bedroom back home. 

“Yeah, Manetti, what a crab,” Crusher said, joining them with his own towel tucked around his waist. Manetti finished drying, popped his butt up and wrapped the towel around himself. Instead of following the others, Chris flung his towel around his shoulders and sat provocatively with his legs spread wide for Brunswick benefit. Tobias and Mitchel had gone in the house and were bringing back several glasses filled with a fluorescent green liquid. 

Tobias took a look at Chris who was starting to get an erection. “Oh dear,” he said, handing the boy a glass. “And before any of the guests arrive.”

“What is this, Mr. Glass,” Chris asked, as Tobias and Mitchel finished handing out the spirits.

“It’s called le fée verte, a Towel Party tradition,” Tobias replied.

“The green fairy,” Andy translated for Brunswick trying to distract him from Chris’ noticeable and none too shabby hairless boner.

“Absinthe?” guessed Brunswick.

“Certainement,” responded Mitchel. “We always have a shot before the festivities begin.”

Crusher sniffed his glass. “They say, absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.” He looked up at Chris. The boy didn't really get the joke but liked Crusher and snickered anyway.

Andy held his glass to the light of a tiki torch. “But it’s illegal, isn’t it?”

Brunswick clucked his tongue turning to Andy. “And how many lines of coke have you done tonight, young man?” He ran his hand up Andy’s smooth leg, into his shorts and gave a squeeze. Andy beamed an embarrassed but radiant smile, a smile that showed just how smitten he was with the actor.

“It's illegal? I’m in,” Chris said. He downed his glass all the while looking at Manetti. “Oh, yuck. Man! Nasty.”

“Dear, boy,” Tobias rushed over to Chris. “It’s meant to be sipped.” He ruffled his blond mop. “Ew, I could just eat you up! Now, if you’re good," he said conspiratorially, "I’ll show you a little trick, but you’ll have to come to the table to see it. And you have to wrap your towel. You’re distracting everyone. Look. Poor Mister Crusher can’t keep from poking through his towel.” Several of the men took small sips. Manetti downed his absinthe in one defiant gulp, and followed Chris and Tobias to the patio table. Crusher followed and, true to what Tobias said, was having a time of it trying to keep his towel tied around himself with his very impressive hardon tenting out.

When Manetti and Chris sat down on either side of Tobias, he refilled their drinks. Brunswick and Andy grew curious and gathered round the table. Over the two refilled glasses Tobias produced two slotted spoons and set them atop the rims. From the table’s sugar bowl Tobias picked out two sugar cubes, dipped them in his own absinthe and set them on the spoons. Mitchel dimmed the porch lights, then brought over a book of matches and lit the cubes. They all watched as a ghostly green flames wavered above the glasses. Tobias informed the group, “This is the old bohemian method of drinking absinthe.” He twisted the spoons and let the flaming cubes fall into the glass. The entire contents lit up, casting a bright green light over the men's faces. 

Chris was fascinated with the green fire. Manetti tried to look indifferent but felt slightly hypnotized by the light.

Tobias extended his kimono-draped hand over the flame. “Et voila! The flaming green fairy.”

“Appropriate,” quipped Crusher. That got even Manetti laughing.  

“Baudelaire loved it this way,” Mitchel said. 

Andy added, “I read so did Oscar Wilde.”

“It brings out all sorts of dark impulses—‘harbinger of our darkest angels,’ wrote Poe.” Tobias stated. “You’ll soon see why Van Gogh painted in the manner he did. Now no cutting off Chris’ ear,” he wagged a finger at Manetti, who had no idea what the man was talking about. 

Chris held up the clouded green liquid and blew his out his flame. He waited till it was cool enough to drink and tasted a sip. “It’s like licorice,” he said.

The rest of the men wanted to try their absinthe this way. Manetti shot back his again in a single gulp. As Tobias poured out another round, Mitchel warned everyone that cooking the absinthe made it a lot stronger and brought out the legendary hallucinatory qualities. 

“Yes, Mother,” Tobias sighed, igniting everyone’s drink.

“Mr. Brunswick?” Chris said, feeling his chest. The combination of the coke and the initial effects of the absinthe had brought him round to seek advice from his hero.
“Call me Chuck, Chris,” he said, blowing out the flame in his glass and taking a sip.

“Mr. Chuck? I mean Chuck,” Chris snickered. He started tweaking his nipples without realizing it. Manetti pushed his hand down. “Um, what was I going to say? Oh yeah.” He took another sip before Manetti took his glass away. “You remember that episode where these crooks confronted a crooked cop, killed him and stole all his money?”

“That set up, Chris,” he responded, rubbing a hand through his fleecy chest. He too was starting to feel the green fairy. “That seemed to happen in a lot of episodes.”

“Yeah,” Chris said, looking at his idol’s chest, the pecs so round, his shoulders so hard. “Um, if there was a third guy that didn’t know any better, but the crooks got him to fetch them the illegal money, ‘cause the money was from drugs that the dirty cop had been skimming from, and this third innocent guy kills the two crooks, and steels their money, would Stacks Lightning still to track him down?”

Manetti caught a quick exchange between Mitchel and Tobias.

“He’d say the money should be turned over to the police, I would guess.”

“But if he didn’t? If say, he bought…?” Chris looked at the mustache and wondered what it would feel like if Chuck was sucking his cock with the mustache brushing his skin, "bought a yacht..." or if they got into sixty-nining and the mustache was tickling his balls.

“Dirty money has a habit of getting people dirty, son.”

“That’s what I say, too. Makes you dirty,” Chris looked over at Manetti. “Real dirty.”

There was a knock at the compound’s archway. The door opened, and an extremely buff Latino man with long caramel hair strolled in accompanied by a regal Black man with long flowing dreadlocks and a burly brown-bearded bear of a man. They all wore towels, their white masks and varying degrees of smiles. Tobias got up to greet his first guests putting on his own mask, while Manetti picked Chris up under his arm, saying he wanted to talk to him. He dragged the protesting Chris to their cabana, tossed him on the crusty bedsheets, and locked the door.

“That’s it for you tonight. You’re grounded.”

“No,” whined Chris, finding it difficult to get off the bed. “I want to play with those guys. I want to play with Chuck.”

“You got too big of a mouth.” Chris was about to holler, but Manetti covered his mouth and pinned him to the bed. He raised a finger to warn Chris to behave, but Chris was struggled drunkenly and noisily. Manetti, too, was starting to feel the effects of the absinthe and knew he had to act quickly. He opened the nightstand’s drawer. He rifled through the paraphernalia. Out came a muzzle that went over Chris face. He cinched it tight. Chris tried to speak but his voice was severely muted. Manetti then took out some rope, tied the boy’s hands together and looped it into a discreet eye hook behind the headboard. Chris rolled around trying to get up but Manetti used his weight to secure the boy, first tying one leg, then the other, till the boy was spread eagle on the bed. He battled against the ropes, but the brat wasn’t going anywhere.

Once he was assured Chris couldn’t escape, he observed his helplessness. Maybe it was the green fairy but he was starting to get arouse. His cock stirred beneath the folds of the towel. He looked the boy over, his eyes squinting with brooding thoughts. He sided up next to him and started stroking the defenseless boy’s cock, wanting him excited as he was. “So I’m a crab, am I?” Chris stopped contesting, and lay still. There was a new tone in Manetti’s voice, not quite playful anymore, a note of corrupt intent. “You know you've been trouble all night. You've been disobedient.” The tone his father took when he was about to get a beating. Manetti starting scanning the room. “Do you think I haven't noticed the gym bag’s not here. Where is it? What did you do with it?” he asked menacingly, not playing around. Not playing with his dick, just gripping it hard. 

Genuine fear lit up in Chris’ eyes.

Manetti reached into the bondage drawer and brought out a thick studded dog collar. “I think it’s time we play a new game. A game where you learn your place, the same way Drax schooled me.” He locked the collar around Chris’ neck. He shuffled through the drawer’s contents, found something that brought up an evil smile. He pulled out a roll of copper wire and an electro stimulation kit. "I can stretch this game out for a very long time and it never leaves a trace. Or you can tell me where it is. The bag." Hearing no response, slowly he wrapped each one of Chris’ testicles tightly so they each stood out away from his body. He then attached alligator clips to the end of each wire and connected it to the kit. “Where it is?” He lubed his fingers and rubbed the tip of Chris erect shaft. With his other hand he turned on the machine. Chris instantly felt as if rubber bands were snapping his balls. The ceaseless electric shocks made his body dance on the bed. Manetti turned the dial down, and repeated the question. Chris refused to answer as much from his inborn stubbornness as resistance to Manetti coercion. Manetti turn the dial up again. He continued to rub the kid’s nob, beginning to confuse Chris’ sense between pleasure and pain. “The money, kid. Where. Is. It?” He turned the dial higher and stroked his fist tighter around Chris’ erection. Chris pleaded under his muzzle for Manetti to stop. Feeling the power he had over this boy, Manetti started playing with himself. He asked Chris, “It almost feels good, doesn’t it?” He jacked them both. “Almost.” He upped the voltage again and Chris shuddered, real tears forming in his eyes.

“Under the house,” he confessed through his muzzle, praying Manetti would stop.

“Which house? This house?” Chris nodded. “Too many people outside.” Manetti looked wild contemplating his next move. He stared at Chris like a stranger, his dark brows scowling. His looked changed from anger to hurt. “Why’d you hide it from me?" He dialed the kit back up not for fun but to make him feel pain like he felt. "I could have just swiped it you know.” 

The voltage going through his balls brought out a screamed but party music played and a large chorus of men milling around muffled his cry. Chris yelled for help. That made Manetti’s mask switch back to anger. He dial the machine up even higher. Chris repeatedly begged for him to stop, but his pleas were easily drowned out by the din and disco music. Manetti closed his eyes. He’d never saw this side of Manetti. Didn’t want to. “Stop!” came out as a muffled plea.

Manetti turned off the kit. On re-opening his eyes were clouded, it looked like he didn’t recognize Chris, only that he had a tied up naked body before him. From the drawer he withdrew a leather hood that covered Chris' head down to his cheeks leaving only two hole for his eyes to peer through. He laid a case on the bed and unzipped it. The case revealed twelve shiny metal instruments, long rods whose widths ran from thin to very thick, secured onto a bed of red velvet. Manetti removed one of the thinner ones. He was still stroking the thin body of the boy, but stopped momentarily to grease the rod. “You need to mind completely. Do whatever ever I say when I say it.” He pushed Chris’ pole straight up. With his pinky finger, he pushed lubricant into the boy’s piss slit, then held the instrument against the opening. He let it slide in about an inch, sending shockwaves over Chris as he realized what was about to happen. Manetti took a firm grip of his cock and stroking it, encouraged the weight of the rod to penetrate the boy’s urethra. It slowly made its way down. At first Chris bucked against the invasion, but that made the rod fall even faster so he stopped, tried to accept it, and felt it ooze steadily and unrelentingly downward. He flung his head back and forth at the odd and unnatural sensation. Never thought anything could enter him so intimately, so overwhelming his sense of what could and what couldn’t be done to his body. With every inch he wanted to it out of him, but with every inch it seduced him by its callous indifference. There was a slight S-shape bend in it, and about four inches in, it fell quickly in line with the contours of his channel, slid swiftly in all the way. Manetti then once again started stroking him. The thrill of steel violating his body like this, having Manetti control all his senses, was enough to bring him to an orgasm in spite of the perversity or perhaps because of it. Manetti read how the faceless body bucked in his hand. He released the cock and let it bob on its own, as the kid twitched but didn’t cum. He pulled the tip of the rod almost all the way out then let it slide back in again on its own accord. After minutes of these internal dick fucks, Chris grew to desire this new feeling of his penis being tortured, loved that Manetti was his torturer. When Manetti allowed him to jerk his cock into his hand, Chris realized this man could do anything to him he wanted. “Are you a good boy?” Manetti pulled out one of the thicker instruments and held it up to Chris to contemplate. Chris shook his head both with fear and excitement. “No, you won’t be good?” Chris nodded that he would. “Oh, you’re saying you want this?” Chris shook his head no. “Doesn’t really matter what you want, boy.” The man pulled the tip of the sound out, lubed the new thicker rod, pushed more lube in his slit and held the sound against Chris’ thin opening. “I’ll eventually fuck your cock with my pinkie. Think you’ll like that?” 

Manetti pushed the thicker sound into his piss slit. Chris cried No! under his muzzle, but the heavy rod dropped steadily and painfully down his shaft, stretching it wider than his urethra was meant to stretch. The boy rasped inside his muzzle, his body shaking at the odd and torturous discomfort. Manetti had started stroking him again, again confusing his receptors, unable to determine whether he wanted this feeling or wanted it to stop. Manetti wouldn’t stop either way so he laid there while the rod inched his way down, aided by Manetti’s pumping fist. The rod halted about three inches into his shaft. Manetti eased his grip and with his fingers started rubbing the spot in his shaft just below where the sound had stopped. The finger stimulated Chris’ urethra, involuntary inviting the painful invader to continue its journey. It fell in deeper. Manetti kept at him, lightly scratching further down his shaft, provoking the painful acceptance of the monstrously thick instrument. Tiring of how long it was taking, Manetti pushed the remaining inch of the sound into Chris, who let out a muffled holler of pain. He then took sadistic delight in pulling the large rod out and back in, spending an extraordinary amount of time watching the boy’s body go from excruciating agony to mild excitement and, eventually, complete rapture. The boy gradually began fucking the air, gyrating his hips. “Good little pain pig. That’s it, be daddy’s pain addict. You like this, don’t you, fucker.” Chris' brain was too addled to respond. All he knew to do was fuck the air harder to keep the instrument poking his prostate. He’d convulse uncontrollably, then return to fucking the fucker inside his shaft. He was ready to blow but Manetti felt darker impulses emerge. He pulled off the boy's mask and intimately appraised Chris face. How easy it was, Manetti thought, to pervert the boy. How the kid’s instincts, being Ben’s brother, were on the slutty side anyway. He decided he wanted to be the one to push him over the edge, make him a dirtier pig than even he was.

He left the sound where it was and searched the drawer withdrawing several plastic tubes, a metal ball clam and hex key, and a hand pump, and placed all of it on the bed. “You think you’re some fucking clean cut kid. But I know there’s a dirty street whore in you, a homeless pussy boy who'd do anything for a meal, anything for his next fix.” He licked the kid’s nipple and placed one of the smaller tubes over it and pumped it till it sucked in a good inch of the kid’s tit. He did the same for the other one. It didn’t hurt but Chris saw how plump his nipples were in the vacuum. Soon he’d have utters like Manetti and Master Drax. 

Manetti unwrapped the copper wire and pulled Chris’ balls painfully down, locking the thick ball weight around his stretched testicles. With the hex key, he locked it in place. “Who owns you now, boy?”

“You do, Sir,” Chris called out from under the muzzle, hoping Manetti would let him go.

“Hardly mine yet, boy,” Manetti replied. “Soon though. Sometime tonight you're going to prove to me you're a whore. Only then will you'll be mine.” He picked out a very large butt plug with a metal strip running down it. He generously applied lube and twisted it into Chris ass, who grunted as it was going in. As it stretched his ass open to the object’s full width, Chris’ protesting cries came to a crescendo. His ass lips slipped over its wide smooth edge and, as it quickly narrowed, his sphincter pulled it into himself. Chris breathed heavily trying to adjust to the huge object now inside his rectum. Its base kept his anus opened with a constant three inch stretch. Manetti took the wire that came out of the butt plug’s base and connected it into the electro kit. He then took an alligator clip and attached it to the tip of the thick sound going into the boy's shaft. He adjusted some setting and flicked it on. “This cycles up for a very long time before it comes back down. You’re going to love it. Or maybe not. I didn’t at first, but Drax used it to finally persuade me to not only use my hole, but to be it.”

Chris felt the first tiny spark slowly run down his penis, then snap sharply through his prostate and land on the metal edge of the butt plug traveling from inner tip slowly ascending out to his sphincter. Once the journey ended, it began again. Tip, to root, snap through his prostate, and run out his hole. It didn't really hurt, more or less tickled.
“Do you know the story of the frog who was put in a bowl of warm water and was slowly boiled to death?” Manetti asked the muzzled Chris. “That’s the setting on the machine. It's called the boiled frog. The voltage increases so slowly you won’t realize when it eradicates what's up here,” he said, tapping Chris’ temple. “After, all you’ll see yourself as, is as a hole.” 

The spark was manageable. Not painful. Its regularity was almost soothing. Almost.

Manetti got up and after washing up in the bathroom came back in and searched his jeans, pulling out a small baggy of white powder. “Holy Christ, do you even know how hot you look right now, baby? I don’t know why," he said with glossy eyes, "but I'm lovin' the idea of whoring you out all night. I want you to take so many loads you’re going to be shitting cum into next week.” He returned to the bathroom and soon came back with two orange-capped rigs. Tapping the vial to the light, Manetti said, his voice dispassionate and clinical, “This’ll get you through the next hour. You want to flirt with Crusher and Brunswick? I’ll let you play with them all you want. I want everyone to play with you, but first they gotta pay. Don’t move your arm.” Manetti felt for a protruding vein, stuck him, saw the flash of red, and slammed him good. Chris coughed beneath the muzzle. Manetti ran a hand across his hot flesh, his skinny ribs, the smooth concave belly. He lightly stroked the boy’s flicking dick. The kid responded with the expected quiver everywhere he touched. He removed the muzzle. “You want dick, don’t you, boy?” 

Chris licked his lips as if starving. “Yeah, Sir,” he said in a steady and determined voice, eyes like large black pearls. “Lots of dick. And fist, Sir. Lots of fists.” Chris bobbed his head eagerly, mouthed a silent thank you. Every now and then his hips twitched as the voltage leapt through his prostate.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Manetti responded, uncapping his rig. He stuck himself, rode the rush, and steadied himself with a hand on the door. He turned off the lights, opened the drapes, and left Chris to spin, while he went out to fuck someone or get fucked, he didn’t give a fuck which, and then come back to fetch Chris for his first trick of many. 
The door clicked shut. In the dark, Chris laid spread eagle on the bed, rushing wildly, shuddering lightly. Pain sat with him so he wasn’t alone. It was becoming familiar, pain was, not a friend exactly—maybe more of an escort. He glanced through the window, each round of electricity growing a little more pronounced, drilling a bit deeper into his permanent hard wiring. 

He looked up. Outside, in the wavering light of the pool, a sea of a thousand naked men swam toward him.

***
 

[Guest Somebody]

Sorry I posted the pics earlier, I should not have done that.  I really should not do anything.  It would be better if I was not alive.

[Fistcumslut]

Tallallman, please, let me publicly hug you, IMHO you haven't done nothing of wrong.

I 'm sure you like this story as I do and it is natural that a supporter would post his contribute (and your second pic was very hot, thanks).

[shoreboy]

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

[Guest Somebody]

I am not welcome at any party.

[deepfix]

Love the detailed description of the sounding - it was almost like being on the receiving end, very exciting ! Cannot wait to read how the party progesses ( and if Chris's conditioning works ?).

[shoreboy]

Midnight

"C'mon! Up-ee!" 

Manetti came in the room clapping his hands, startling Chris. The room had a foul stench. Chris was sweating profusely, and had moistened the bedsheets with their dried butt juice from earlier that day. The kid was oblivious to the stink, awash in perpetual, carnal thoughts, though if you pressed him he couldn't tell you one of them. Manetti turned off the electro kit and started taking off all of Chris attachments. Manetti smacked his lips, his nostril flaring with powder. "Swear to Christ, you should be paying me for this first one. It's a twofer and you better not fuck up. Client wants his puppy to try Tina, so it has the potential to be interesting. Ah," Manetti said, pausing to admire the hour's growth of Chris' nipples, "Look at those sweet tits, man. Beautiful little eraser heads." Manetti twisted them. Chris looked down to see his nips were pretty hefty now. Nowhere near Manetti’s and far from Master Drax's, but much more plump than the tiny pimples he had before. Manetti pulled out the sound and butt plug without much protest from Chris. He untied the kid, and plunked him in the shower to wash some of the bed crud off. He needed to be, at the very least, presentable. Tricks could fuck him up as much they wanted, but let him at least start from a baseline of decency.

They left their cabana amidst men walking around cruising each other and taking off to the shadows where portable slings had been set up. All around, under the throbbing disco music, moans of sex and the scent of reefer and poppers filled the night. Manetti led the way holding a prepared .3 rig in one hand and Chris' dog leash in the other. Both wore their white towels and masks as did everyone on the grounds. Manetti walked up to the cabana next to theirs, Chuck Brunswick's and Andy's, and knocked. Chris looked at all the men walking by. Some stared at him, licking their chops. He licked his chops hungrily back at them until Manetti yanked his leash. "Focus," Manetti said. In the garden shadows, Chris made out slings clanking in secluded walkways. Fireflies winked their little lights in the dark.

***

Andy Hollister, in the bright California sunlight, had eyes that shined a luminescent aquamarine. No joke. What the TV star saw when he emerged from his trailer in Santa Monica, ready to film another boring expositional beach scene with his co-star, L.A. Police Chief Roy Ebbing, was Andy playing volleyball with the other day players. The extra, even from a distance had mesmerizing eyes. Dark brown hair, a sculpted brow, a wiry frame—the kid wasn’t tall, but he was excellent at spiking the ball from a running start. Chuck Brunswick couldn’t think of one beach he’d been to—Cyprus, Oaxaca, Zakynthos Island of Greece—that was of a clearer blue than the happy kid in the sand. Andy was assigned a background role of volleyball player that Stacks Lightning would pass on the boardwalk while milking Police Chief Ebbing for intel. Walk-and-talk scene were typically the most boring parts of the script to film—pure exposition. But that day, with a hot young twink consistently in his line of sight, each take they did gave the actor a pleasant distraction from the humdrum dialog. After the shoot, Brunswick got the front office to track down the extra and called in a favor from one of the executive producers. Andy was offered a Production Assistant’s job, which, to him, came out of the blue but he was eager to accept it. It paid little, but more than his waiter job, and the glamor of working on one of television most popular shows made him the envy of all his friends in the San Fernando Valley, especially his girlfriend who told everyone that Andy was starting to make it big in Hollywood. 

On set, Brunswick started hitting Andy up to fetch things: coffee, newspapers, cocaine (discretely from one of the prop guys). Their friendship, mentorship, whatever you want to call it, grew to where Brunswick had him running dialog with him between takes. One night they were filming a chase sequence at a refinery in El Segundo. The shoot ended about four in the morning and Brunswick was pretty wired from the fight sequences and the cocaine he’d been doing with Andy in his trailer. As the film company was breaking down their equipment, Brunswick mentioned he was concerned for Andy riding out to the valley so late. Why didn’t he follow him home and he could stay in the downstairs guest house. His one and only tenant had recently vacated and he could spend the night there, no problem. Andy enthusiastically agreed and follow him on his Kawasaki back to Brunswick's Malibu pad.

The house was built on the cliffs with its pier foundation drilled deep into rocks below. The main overhanging house had a small studio apartment tucked underneath where Brunswick said he could crash. When they entered, day was breaking. From the hallway Andy could see another bright, azure sky unfolding over the Pacific. He’d seen sunrises, of course, but never anything so amazing where blue ocean folded into blue sky. Brunswick, looking into Andy’s eyes, felt the same amazement. He took the boy’s face in his hands and spontaneously kissed him.

“Whoa. Dude!” Andy said, jumping back, but it wasn’t entirely unwelcome or unexpected. With each step of their increasing intimacy, Andy had gotten closer and more in tune with the actor’s unspoken needs. First minor incidental touches, a pat on the back, say, might be replaced with a tap on his butt; Brunswick coming out of the shower to run lines with him, the star would linger spending an inordinate amount of time naked, fluffing up his package, drying himself off. Once, running lines with him next to the catering truck on the studio backlot, Brunswick got up to a part in the script where he was supposed to kiss this week’s babe. As he got to that part, he reached out, putting a hand on Andy’s face and said, “This is where I kiss you.” Andy had never forgotten that confusing moment because right on the heels of that, Brunswick’s blond-haired teenage son and his ex-wife came on set and went off to his trailer to sign some papers. “Fuckin’ look at your eyes, man,” Brunswick said to him at the beach house that early morning. Andy, rather than backing off and playing coy, came forward and pressed his face against that famous mustache. He moved in that week, broke off with his girlfriend, and never left Brunswick’s side. 

Or a better way to say it is that Brunswick never let him leave his side. Once Andy moved in, in small and subtle ways, Brunswick started to narrow his exposure with anyone else. His valley friends weren’t to visit the house. “They’re black holes that only want to be your friends so they can hang out in Malibu.” Andy disagreed but not fervently enough to actually invite any of his friend over. One by one, friends, even family, contacted him less and less. The studio apartment downstairs where he ostensible lived was rarely used, only when studio executives came over for a dinner meeting would Andy be required to remain downstairs until they left. Brunswick nonchalantly suggested clothing Andy might wear, taking him eventually into Beverly Hills, picking out all his outfits. He adopted this dapper wardrobe, a sweater tied round his Lacoste shirt, as his new style. From happy, grungy valley kid to serious, snappy preppy boy in less than a year. 

The second year they lived together, Brunswick had him quit his job as a PA, persuading him he’d be more content to stay home and enjoy the solitary beach, cook meals, clean, and wait for him every evening for his return. Andy was his servant, secretary, and—to Andy, anyway—his lover. He dressed in a manner that pleased Brunswick; taking on the interests the actor had, the conservative politics the actor espoused. He came round to enjoying the finer things Brunswick exposed him to. When the actor was on hiatus, they traveled to Paris, Bangkok, Rio, took meals at the finest London restaurants, stayed at the best Mediterranean villas. He was introduced to famous and, sometimes, infamous acquaintances, artists, politicians, shady characters that had “boys” of their own. It was on a flight to New York with a connecting seaplane after that, that brought Andy face to face with a naked Chris Prior standing in front of him, and a man he’d met that day called Manetti, a pretty sketchy character if you wanted to know the truth, who was running a hand down the skinny blond kid’s torso, fluffing up his dick, displaying him like he was some county fair animal, like a slab of prime meat brought over as a main course by a swarthy Italian waiter. 

"One hundred to fuck him. Two to fist," Manetti informed Brunswick.

"Same price for two of us, right?" Brunswick inquired. Manetti nodded. "Does he top or only bottom?"

"Dunno," Manetti said honestly perplexed. “It’s never come up. Can you fuck, boy?"

"Fuck who?" Chris asked, only semi-aware he was on display, naked in front of Chuck and Andy, both draped in their towels while he was not.

"You’d fuck Andy, of course," Brunswick said. "And you're neg, right?"

"Yes, Sir, sir. Practically a virgin," replied Chris, giving Andy a lascivious examination. Andy thought that this didn’t seem like the same kid running around the pool a couple of hours ago. The kid in front of him now was as crude as Manetti. He also noticed the blond was getting a pretty big hardon.

"And I’ll admin to your boy, too," Manetti added, "no charge except for product. Point three is my reco. It’ll pack a pretty good wallop for a first timer."

"Alright," Brunswick said, reaching for his wallet and pulling out several bills and handing them to Manetti. 

Andy looked alarmed. “Wait, what’s this admin stuff?”

“You know how we’ve been trying to get you into fisting?” Brunswick began in his persuasive tone. Andy looked at Manetti quickly. “Well, this should open you up. It’s Tina and you inject it. You trust me, don’t you, son?”

“I don’t know, Chuck,” Andy said looking at the ominous needle in Manetti’s hand. “Can’t I just snort it like we do coke?

“Much better to have it injected, Chief,” Manetti advised. “Trust me, you’ll love it.” That was enough for Andy to sour on the whole deal. He didn’t like Manetti. Certainly would never trust him.

“Aw, c’mere Raggedy Andy,” Chuck said, pulling Andy in close, stroking his bicep and chest. Andy went limp in his arm like he always did. “Remember our first night after you got your implants?"

Manetti asked quizzically. "Implants?"

"Yeah, how do you think my boy got so buff? No gym membership needed," Brunswick replied. He ran his hand lavishly over the boy’s expensive biceps, the sculpted deltoids and yoked traps. “Baby, you remember how good the painkillers were the doctor proscribed? How I almost got all my fingers inside you? Well, this will be a hundred times better than that.”

Chris chimed in, “Yeah, you'll feel, like, so great and you get this big rush, bigger than when you take a hit of coke. It’s a million times more better.”

Andy stared at Chris’ growing erection and started to feel his own dick start to rise. “Okay, but you’re staying here the whole time, Chuck, right?” He definitely did not want to be alone with this thug Manetti with his prominent biohazard belly tattoo.

“The whole time, buddy. The whole time,” Chuck reassured him. “Why don’t I hold you, while Manetti injects you? I’ll hold you, son, if you like.” Andy nodded, still nervous.
Brunswick got situated at the headboard and pulled Andy in between his legs, put one arm on a shoulder and started massaging him, his other hand traveled over Andy's downy chest. Manetti sat next to Andy, propped a pillow under his arm, and told him to make a fist. Andy followed his instruction, and Manetti went in search of a vein. Chris sat at the edge of the bed and witnessed each detail. His hardon said how hot he was for this young man, admiring the short dark hairs that were just starting to cover his sculpted chest, the tufts of black hair tucked under his carved arms. “I can see you’re scared,” Manetti said, “I’ll just do half. You tell me if you want it all. Sound good?” Andy like the idea and nodded. 

His white skin displayed many prominent blue vein possibilities. “Let's do this one, Chief,” he said poking a ridge on his forearm. “Ready?” Andy’s face said he wasn’t but Manetti went on anyway. “Okay think of a nice place you really like.” Andy thought of that first night at Chuck’s, looking out the window watching the day break, seeing fins, dolphin fins in the distance. Manetti stuck him and pulled back the plunger and Andy’s red blood swirled mixing with the crystal meth. Or could they have been shark fins? “Here we go,” Manetti said slowly pushing half the vial contents into him. Andy felt an increasing warm bath of joy. How wonderful his life was, how sexually strong his feeling was about Chuck, how good it was that Chuck guided him, protected him, even controlled him a little. Just this much of crystal was perfect. He held up a hand to Manetti saying as much.

“Do the rest of it,” Chuck said coolly to Manetti.

“Wait,” Andy said. Manetti smirked and emptied the remaining meth. Andy sucked in a breath through teeth-gritted. His eyes spun. He went from a smile to a grimace, back to a smile, then he lost all cognizance of where he was. 

“See,” said Brunswick, “you love it don’t you, baby? Daddy know best, doesn’t he?”

“Ah, fuck, daddy,” stammered Andy, remembering Chuck was there, holding him. “Fuck, this is so good. Ah, fuck, fuck.” Chris put his hand under Andy’s towel and started stroking his small penis. Brunswick undraped Andy and told Chris to suck him. Chris did, with pleasure. Andy moaned on the bed wanting to get up, but Brunswick held him back. Unable to move, simply taking in all the sensation of his first major Tina rush, he ran his hands over Chris’ blond mop, humping his mouth. Brunswick toyed with Andy’s nipples, played with the boy like he was a life-size doll. Picked up his long, thin hand and sucked his fingers, bent over and put his tongue in his ear.

"You like what daddy gives you? A cute, little teddy bear to suck your pretty little dick, a big bad wolf to shoot you up, and daddy who's finally going to get his big paw inside you tonight."

"Fuck," said Andy barely aware of what Brunswick was saying, keenly aware of how good he felt, how good a cocksucker was deep-throating him, getting his pubes so wet and warm. Who was slipping a thin, wet finger across his silky crack? Who slid a finger against his velvety hole? Who wiggled its way inside? Andy wanted to slide down on this finger, and Brunswick released him. He slid down and wormed his way onto the finger that prodded against him. "Fuck," he cried as the finger passed inside him. As the drug pulsed through his body, lust encouraged him to push down on the finger so it would go in deeper. 

"Yeah, that's it baby. Let the whore finger fuck you." Chris continued playing with Andy's hole. Pushing in deeper, taking his finger out, licking two, tasting Andy's musky juice, slipping the two wet fingers back into his hole, twisting them slowly. He ran his tongue up the shaft, felt the treasure trail of black hairs that left his dark bush and swirled up to his belly. Chris kept going till his hands reached the few hairs that speckled Andy’s breast bone between his pec implants.

Watching Chris work on Andy got Manetti aroused. His job done he pulled into the room's shadows and observed. Chris was getting the fucked up kid to squirm, adding in an occasional nasty sounding, yeah, fuck yourself on my fingers, yeah, that's it, let yourself enjoy it. Brunswick was also enjoy it, playing with himself, taking a swig of absinthe from the nightstand, putting it back, reaching forward and playing with Chris' nice eraser head nips.

"Alright. Up on your knees boys. Stick your dick in Andy, boy."

Andy slowly crawled onto all fours, with Chris sliding between his legs. Manetti came out of the shadows to hand Chris some lube. Chris covered his erection with thick, viscous grease and spread a little over Andy's hole. He rubbed his dick up and down Andy's crack. "You want this cock? Tell me you want it."

"I want it. I want your cock," Andy responded breathlessly.

"Good." He pushed Andy's shoulders down so his head was on the bed, then started pushing his cockhead into him. Andy sucked in air when Chris’ purple head first popped in. Chris pulled out a little then pushed back again. "That's it, take it in." Behind him, Chris felt Brunswick's large paw press him onto Andy's body. Chris fell on top of Andy's back and Brunswick spread his legs and pushed his cock into Chris' accepting hole. Chris was a lot looser than Andy and Brunswick quickly slid up to his root, hairy dark pubes rubbing against the boy’s hairless hole. A big beer can dick Brunswick had. Not long but meaty and thick. 

Chris jabbed Andy fiercely, and just as fiercely pushed his ass back on Brunswick. The three of them found a rhythm they could sustain. Andy stayed passive, letting Chris fuck him hard, emitting small cries of satisfaction with each slam. Chris reached around and jacked Andy's pecker till it got stiff. The young man’s pubes were like silk, and his felt him up, all that pubic hair he was denied. He squeezed and pulled on Andy’s balls, which Andy protested at first but then started enjoying it. Chris’ own balls swung in their heavy metal sleeve, smacking into Andy’s.

"Baby, you got a great ass," Brunswick hoarsely whispered in Chris’ ear.

"Ah, fuck, Sir. Your boy does too," Chris answered back. It was true. It was the first boy pussy he’d ever fucked, and its creaminess, on top of the dominance he felt over someone like never before, was getting him close to cumming. "Ung," Chris uttered, deep guttural expression of enjoyment each time he slammed into Andy ass. "Ung-ung-ung..." he repeated with every piston thrust of his hips. He was banging back and forth in the erotic sensation of simultaneously fucking a soft, tight hole with his long dick, and being fucked by a thick daddy cock banging into his ass. Part of his brain fantasized about the hairy bush he was backing into, Stacks Lightning. But it was the actual hard man he felt inside him, grunting, animal-like, lewdly talking in his ear. "How old are you anyway?" Chris grunted. "Bet my son’s age. You like daddy fucking you, son? Daddy wanted to fuck you for a long time." Not only did Chris grunt in the affirmative, the confession hinting of a secret desire for incest made him blow immediately, deep within Andy, pouring a steady stream of cum into the kid. Andy, too, felt Chris’ rhythmic climax and also came hard into Chris' fist. Loud and lewd, the boy’s stuttered over each other a smattering of oh fucks and oh shits, while they nutted. Brunswick disengaged frustrated quickly after, looked at Manetti sitting in a chair stoking his big Italian cock.

"What?" Manetti protested. He could see Brunswick was irritated, that he was just getting started when the boys finished themselves off. Manetti argued, "They’re teenagers for fuck sake! They can't help it! They’d cum every fifteen minutes like coo coo clocks if you let him."

"I expected him to keep it going for more than two minutes. We still have fifty-five minutes, right? Jesus Christ!"

Chris wiped Andy’s cum on the bed. "I'm sorry, Sir. I won't cum so fast next time, but your boy’s cunt feels so good." Chris began rubbing two fingers over Andy's dripping hole. He wanted to immediately dive deeper. He was still fucking horny.

"Boys, on you backs," barked Brunswick. "Chariot time." He pulled the ottoman from under Manetti's feet and positioned himself between the two boys who had their asses at the edge of the bed waiting. Manetti tried to make peace, and came over and spread grease over Brunswick's hands. The hand ready for Chris' hole Manetti applied a lot more grease to the actor's forearm. He made sure Brunswick understood the implications. Manetti applied two fingers of grease on both boy's holes and pushed it in, then spread some around inside their holes. Andy's hole, replete with short dark boy hair, felt incredible, but also puckered tight. Chris looked at Manetti with intense excitement and anticipation. Manetti held up a single finger as a warning. Chris pouted. Andy looked at Brunswick a little frightened, but excited in anticipation all the same.

Brunswick stuck in two fingers in both boy's ass lips and twisted. Andy yelped while Chris moaned deeply. "Do a couple hits, boy,” Brunswick encouraged Andy. Manetti sat on the bed next to him, uncapped the bottle and fed it to the boy. Brunswick felt his hole loosen considerably so he slipped in a third finger. Chris had no problem with two fingers or the third that was incoming. He rocked his butt to take Brunswick’s fingers all the way to his knuckles in one go. Brunswick pushed in three fingers in each boy, easily slipping into Chris, not so easy with Andy. Chris reached over and stuck his tongue in Andy's mouth, surprising him with a passionate kiss. The poppers aroused Andy's lust. He liked kissing Chris in front of his mentor, started making out with Chris passionately, much to the pleasure of both Brunswick and Manetti. 

Chris whispered nastily, "Fuck yeah. Let your daddy fist us. Let daddy take our holes." Chris looked in the boy's deep blue eyes and saw lust building, as Brunswick added a fourth finger. Chris wiped some lube off his butt and stroked Andy's shriveled cock. It didn't get hard but it did get Andy to start pushing down on Brunswick's hand. Manetti let them share the poppers, each taking a hit, then another. Then both boys began desperately pushing their holes trying to take Brunswick's meaty paw.  

"That's it, son. Bear down on daddy. Look what a good job Chris is doing." Having Chuck Brunswick's hand inside him was his goal since he saw the lightning bolt suitcases outside the cabana. Chris swallowed his hand in one greedy gulp and let out a passionate cry of achievement. Both his hands flew above his head in passionate surrender, wallowing in the accomplishment, squeezing and releasing the monstrously large hand inside him. Brunswick kept twisting inside Chris' expanded hole, while he still toyed with opening up his boy. Brunswick's hand was bigger than Manetti's, but Manetti definitely possessed better technique. Manetti continuously checked in with his bottom, whereas Brunswick was thoughtless, mechanical. Chris didn't really care though. This is how he imagined Stacks Lightning would fist him: forceful, dispassionate, at times hurting him. It was something he wanted. 

After several minutes of twisting and re-lubing, and still not getting into Andy, Brunswick was about to give up on both of them. Chris saw his growing frustration. "Let Manetti get him open, Sir. He's got smaller hands," Chris said.

With a single raise eyebrow, Manetti protested, and would have said something, but saw the kid was working an angle. Manetti gave Andy a once over, admiring the black pubes on such milky white skin. It got an easy rise out of Manetti, and he gave Brunswick a why-not look.

Brunswick assented and turned his attention to Chris' malleable hole, while Manetti took his towel and wiped excess grease from Andy's butt. He knelt down and began lapping at the hole, swirled his tongue in circles, while Andy breathed through clench teeth, relishing the sensation of the man's rough beard and feathery tongue. Brunswick wasn’t into rimming, and since he’d been the one and only man he'd ever had sex with, the thought of someone low enough, someone as rough and criminal looking as Manetti, wanting to put his mouth on his shitter excited him. It was what he expected criminal would like to do. And, man, the feeling of a tongue licking his hole was beyond description. He relaxed and Manetti stuck his tongue inside the kid's rectum, licking the musky flavor of his hole. It drove the kid crazy. He pulled his cheeks apart so Manetti could dig deeper if he wanted. He wanted.

Brunswick watched in fascination his boy's hole getting so professionally eaten. He looked at Chris and twisted his hand once more, balling up his fist, and pushing his arm further up Chris' hole. Chris took a hit of poppers and gritted his teeth and pushed his ass onto Brunswick large hairy arm. He went quite a distance on the first try but at a price. The man's knuckled brought him a lot of pain. He lowered his legs and placed them on Brunswick's muscular shoulders and gave them a slight push so his arm pulled out slightly, taking off some pressure. He took another hit and fell in a trace looking at the actor's face. The international spy, Stacks Lightning, had his arm inside his body. How fucking awesome was that? Not as awesome as it would be if he were piston fucking him. So he relaxed his legs on the man's shoulders and felt his mammoth fist slide deep within him. He rocked his feet off the spy's shoulders feeling him go in deep then come out. He kept up the motion seeing it pleased his hero. The more it did the harder he rocked. Chris had been the one in control, determining the rhythm by pushing his feet against Brunswick, but he could see Brunswick wanted to dominate, so he laid back on the bed and pulled his legs apart to show submission. 

It’s exactly what Brunswick wanted and immediately rose to the challenge. He pulled all the way out and then punched back in. Chris gave into his fantasy that the internationally famous undercover spy, Stacks Lightning, wanted to punch fist him. The spy could do no wrong; he would be this week’s willing bottom. Chris pulled his ass cheeks apart and let him pile drive in first one fist, then the other. He grunted like a swine with each punch, leaving dignity far behind, and snarled and snorted at Brunswick, nodding his head to punch him more and harder. Brunswick had the look of a drunk madman and pummeled the boy's ass mercilessly. If he was damaging the boy, he didn’t care. He allowed him to suck on his popper bottle for a moment, then began again to use the kid’s body as a punching bag. At one point, catching his breath from his battering, he witness Chris pushing out his internal organs. They popped through his hole, lips like a volcano rim with red lava oozing to the surface. What had been a small bloom earlier in the day, now grew to a soft-ball size mound of flesh pushing through. Brunswick used his towel to wipe it, then bent down and, for the first time, started chewing and sucking on Chris' small prolapse. Brunswick had never given in to such depravity, but the sight of this teenager with such a disgustingly obscene asshole, drove him to lick and nibble and kiss it, using his tongue to drive the boy to insanity. To Chris, nothing had ever felt like this. It was like being rimmed by twenty tongues. So many nerve endings were raw and exposed, stimulated all at the same time. If he even thought about jacking himself right now he'd shoot and hit the wall. He left his hard, purple-headed erection alone, and instead grabbed the head of auburn locks attached to his hole and push his rosebud harder against that mouth. The international spy's lips were locked, eating his shithole. How incredibly awesome was that? Not as awesome as the spy’s hand going back inside and starting to punch his organs again. They got into a long series of punching that lasted minutes or hours—time didn't registered. But suddenly his body did something it'd never done before. Brunswick’s fist stayed in the air ready to go back in but he was suspended in curiosity. Chris was convulsing. More than an orgasm that normally started in his balls and shot out of his dick, an earthquake rocked his entire core. He thundered in ecstasy as tremors uncontrollably took over his body. He rode it to what he thought was a finale, but a second, then a third aftershock quickly followed.

There was a loud cry out of Andy at the same time. Chris glanced over at Manetti as his body shook. Manetti had just seduced the boy's hole with his hand, popping Andy’s fisting cherry. As he rested inside the kid, letting him get used to what a fist felt like, he said to Chris, "It's a body orgasm. It’s natural." In his old calming voice, he explained to him, "It’s your whole body orgasming not just your balls nutting. Ride it. Enjoy it." Chris spasmed several more times, calming down after a few more seismic quivers.

"Oh, shit," Chris said getting up on his elbows looking at Brunswick. "What the fuck did you just do to me," Chris rasped. He sat up on the edge of the bed and, not being able to control himself, pressed his face against Brunswick and stuck his tongue down his idol's throat. He squeezed Brunswick’s cock, which was engorged and dripping. The man eyes were clouded with drink. He threw Chris on his back and stuck him like a pig. Chris squealed in contentment, letting him rut to his heart's satisfaction. He cast an eye over at Manetti, who was still holding silently inside Andy, but saw Manetti inching his cock ever closer to Andy's furry hole. Chris let Brunswick rock away inside him but gradually swung them both away from Manetti and Andy. He wanted all of Brunswick attention, and undulated madly under the man, distracting him with the seductiveness only his hole could provide. He rubbed the man's chest, running sensual fingers over his nipples, rising up to touch his mouth. He felt the bed give and saw Manetti pick Andy up off the bed. Manetti had swapped hand for dick, his mouth clamped onto Andy's mouth, rocking the kid in the air, pounding mercilessly into the boy like a sack of heavy grain. Andy fully surrender to Manetti, wrapped his legs around the man’s waist, and let him fuck him relentless standing by the door. Manetti’s butt clenched wildly. He was coming to a climax. Brunswick started to shift his head toward the standing pair, but Chris moved his head back and heaved himself forcefully on the man's cock. Brunswick still wanted to know what the noise by the door was. Chris took that moment to make him an offer, "Put your hand in me, Chuck, and jack off if you want." The actor refocused on Chris’ face, realizing this boy would let him do whatever he wanted it. Chris spied Manetti climaxing inside the boy, just as Brunswick slipped his entire hand inside Chris’s rectum and started whacking away. The perverseness of fisting and wanking inside an asshole got him to cum quickly. Only after he felt the final hard thrust of the actor’s fist inside him, then did he allow himself to beat off. It took no time at all; within second shot he shot his wad into Brunswick’s chin. A bead of semen clung to the famous mustache like white snot. Brunswick licked it off with a drunken smile.

Brunswick slipped his hand and cock out of Chris, just as Manetti eased Andy softly back on the bed. Brunswick was none the wiser to what had just happened to Andy. Chris let the drunk man roll off him, away from Andy and Manetti, and just laid on his back squinting at the ceiling. "Fuck, baby, you are a real whore, aren’t you?" Brunswick said, closing his eyes. He reached over and pinched one of Chris' fat baby nipples. He licked his mustache once more and relaxed in post coital bliss. Chris brought his spread legs around and turned on his side to attend to Andy. Manetti had got what he wanted but just left the kid laying there in a state of shock. Andy looked dazed, staring at Manetti biohazard tattoo, leaking his toxic cum onto the bed sheets.

Chris talked to him quietly in his ear. It was okay. It felt good, didn't it? He then bent down and started sucking Andy's small stiff cock while the young man kept staring at Manetti's belly. Chris slipped a single finger in Andy's hole and started pushing in Manetti's drippings. Within only a few moments Andy's body began to rock to the rhythm of Chris' mouth. Chris used more fingers to swab the sheets gathering more cum, and pushed more of Manetti into the kid’s receptive hole. There was plenty of Manetti’s spooge covering the bed, and Chris used all of it to get his small hand back inside Andy. The moment Chris’ fist entered Andy, Andy's head fell back and he shot a fountain of salty white cum into Chris' mouth. Chris hungrily swallowed every drop. Like milk was the kid's fresh cum. Fresh but not so pure.

Brunswick was snoring lightly as they gathered their towels and masks to leave. Manetti opened the nightstand drawer and found a large black dildo the same size as his cock. He bent down, gave it to the kid and spoke quietly in his ear. He could see the kid was wide awake and horned out of his mind. "We got another call to make. Practice on this for the next hour, then come find me and I’ll give you the real deal.” He stuck his tongue in the kid’s open mouth. “You got one of the finest pussies I’ve ever had the privilege to fuck,” he said, with the nastiest grin on his face. Andy beamed, and laid there greasing the dildo, while Brunswick turned to his side to sleep the rest of the night away.

***