Last Known Address

[Fistcumslut]

I really hope that Shoreboy hasn't been banned because is really a good writer.

With his well described sex sessions he was near to give you the real FFeeling of the situation...

Indeed the intro of the last chapter, a story in a story, has been a little too hard but IMHO it was a warning to his readers: Fisting IS dangerous no one can go from virgin to shoulder deep in a session no matter how much chem you have taken before.

Fisting is a cooperative task, both have to be aware, trust each other, the two become one, one lissen your muscles, your breath, your heartbeat exploring you with his hand feeling how deep, how width and how fast he can go; the other have to relax himself, letting his muscles loose for you, letting you in, normalising his breath, trusting you... It's the heaven.

[Fistcumslut]

... and about the animal nothing has been done but a not appropriate request by Drax... Nothing that a simple warning couldn't resolve...

[Lure]

Has there been another part posted since the 20th?  My understanding of Master Drax say "hello doggy" was either he was saying it to the dog or to Manettis who had in Master Drax's eyes done a runner on him, as he knew the set up. But now is a double crossing dog. Does Master Drax know that Ben is on the Island & has been to house?  Think there is some blood between an the shit is going to hit the fan.

[Guest Somebody]

16 hours ago, Lure said:

Has there been another part posted since the 20th?  My understanding of Master Drax say "hello doggy" was either he was saying it to the dog or to Manettis who had in Master Drax's eyes done a runner on him, as he knew the set up. But now is a double crossing dog. Does Master Drax know that Ben is on the Island & has been to house?  Think there is some blood between an the shit is going to hit the fan.

Yes, there was an additional installment posted and then taken down.  I did not get a chance to read it in detail, but it made reference to K9, and then set up a future installment where Drax would be filming Chris and doggy.

[Guest takingdeepanal]

1 hour ago, Tallallman said:

Yes, there was an additional installment posted and then taken down.  I did not get a chance to read it in detail, but it made reference to K9, and then set up a future installment where Drax would be filming Chris and doggy.

Which is most likely the reason (apart from the snuff, possibly) that the chapter was deleted. On the bright side, the author has not been banned (and the story has not been deleted).

[Fistcumslut]

well, even if the owner of this site has always kept it free of charge for us we don't have to forget that this is a commercial site and the sponsor's condition forced the moderators to follow some strict guidelines.

It's not my intention to debate about what is or isn't permitted here but that are the facts.

Shoreboy should be really pissed of but I hope to read soon his news...

[Fistcumslut]

drscorpio should be one of the moderators, you could ask him everything...

Edited February 28, 2018 by Fistcumslut

[Guest takingdeepanal]

@Fistcumslut - there are certain things that can't be included on a site that lives outside the darkweb. If someone goes to law enforcement over something they see on this site, there is the potential for all members to be charged with something, depending upon which country in which they reside. As this is a US site, there is a USC which governs that members don't post certain things.

Remember what happened with AshleyMadison.com? Names were published and lives were ruined over something that may not have been considered moral - but no law was being broken at the time.

[Fistcumslut]

First Amendment: freedom of speech.

Those are stories and fantasies just to spend some time with a bit of adrenaline in your system, teasing your dark souls and desires...

I think that should be valid in all democratic countries, don't you?

Edited February 28, 2018 by Fistcumslut

[FFRubbrPIG]

Jeez this is So sad! This is probably the best story on here and unbelievable that it has ended like this. Shoreboy may not be able to see these remarks if he has been banned. So if anyone is in contact with him another way perhaps he could post on Nasty Kink Pigs instead?

[Fistcumslut]

In any case I agree with you hotcoldgayslut, there are limits to be respected.

I hope that shoreboy would be disponible to edit his story according those rules...

Edited February 28, 2018 by Fistcumslut

[nanana]

This is Breeding Zone's best chance of being reviewed in the New York Times Book Review! Great writing, somewhere between Larry Kramer's Faggots, eveningsong, a Sotheby's auction, and a triple-dicking.  Go ShoreBoy!

[shoreboy]

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

[shoreboy]

8. Skippy, the Pirate de Sade, and the Buried Treasure

Here lies one whose name 
was writ in water

The end of the pool faced the beach and was all glass—one very big window. The morning fog was still burning off so if you looked through the glass from the pool you couldn’t really see much, mostly a foggy view that kinda looked like the ocean. But that’s only because you knew you were looking at the ocean. Guys that walked by were multi-colored blobs. “Cool daddy-o,” Skip said to Rusty, with just a hint of irony. From the beach looking into the pool, however, you could see both the pool’s occupants plain as day. Passers-by saw freckly Rusty and a sandy-haired beachcomber, Skip. Skip was the one you noticed, slender, rippled stomach, sinewy smooth pecs and arms, his strong soccer legs scissoring to keep afloat in his knee-length bathing suit hanging out in the pool’s deep end. His angular face was finely crafted without being pretty. The jaw that came to a point at his cleft chin was strong, and often clenched; a long slender nose; light brown hair, sun-bleached at the tips, matched his glowing amber eyes evoking both mischief and mystery. As much as you got to know Skip, there was always a part of him that remained out of reach.

Rusty plunged underwater, looked through the glass with cupped hands, and also saw the same hazy ocean. Coming back up he wiped his eyes. “Yeah, neat-o,” he said trying to mimic Skip’s tone. They were encouraged to say things like that at work, and the beach house was still part of work. The retro lingo was former actor Cyrus Johnson’s—or “Whitey” as he chose to be called—remembrances of Malibu beach party teen movies he’d been in, acting with Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello, back in the early sixties. Hey, the Chelsea bar called Paradise was his, they just bartended there, so he got to make the rules.

White-haired Whitey, a man now in his forties, a silver fox save for a beer gut, hung out under a deck umbrella talking to a striking Mexican. The gentleman who’d shown up with some associates at noon, had long, black wavy hair and was an imposing figure on the pool deck. Skip eyeballed the dark visitor and speculated. Sexy even if he was a little intimidating, he moved stiffly, a buck ninety pounds of barrel-chested muscle. He’d abandoned his shirt surrendering to the day’s humidity. His shoulders and back were covered in fur. A hulking daddy-type if ever there was one, Skip thought. He looked way more interesting than any of Whitey’s usual backers who came around to ogle Whitey’s pool twinks. Desperado. Racketeer. Mobster. Skip searched for the word best to describe him. Thug. Gangster. Cutthroat. Yeah, cutthroat maybe. The gentleman sure was animated, pressuring Whitey about something, poking a finger into Whitey’s chest. His dark tanned skin, almost black under his suit of hair, glistened in the humidity. The deck’s potted palms suddenly began to rustle by a mercifully cool gust of wind, sending the cutthroat’s hair flying into his face. He struggled to make his point while trying to keep strands of hair out of his mouth. Finally frustrated, he untied a knotted red kerchief from his neck and bound his wavy hair in a pirate bandana. Yeah, that was it—Pirate! ”Yo ho,” Skip said.

Skip wasn’t Skip’s real name. Whitey had given all his bartenders nicknames he remember from that bebop, doo wop, shama lama era: Ace, Buzz, Stretch, Moose. Getting a new Paradise nickname did come with advantages. Skip discovered variants that could emphasize different traits for different customers offering different subtexts. Name’s Skippy when he wanted to highlight his youth to an older patron; They call me Skipper to a cute bottom boy, intimating that he was the boss, the alpha dog of his bar crew; and Skip, well, just that he was Skip, informal, kinda butch, kinda rich, none of it untrue. His real name was Alastair Inge, well, even worse before his grandfather had shortened it, Alastair von Ingerschleben—“from the village of Inge,” if you wanted to get real technical. Alastair was pretentious enough, so Inge sufficed. If you pressed him he actually didn’t mind Skip. In fact, he started introducing himself that way at Columbia U during his junior year. No one there questioned its legitimacy since he already had that Nantucket air. 

Skip surveyed his latest fling sharing the pool, a new bartender at Paradise, Aiden Reilly, a.k.a. red-headed “Rusty”—no one said white haired Whitey was a creative genius. All Irish. All freckles. Rusty was cute, had a rather bulbous nose, a nice size prick, but was a little fey in some of his mannerism—a little too overtly bottom, truth will out—not that Skip was a total butch top, but he did most of the pedaling during sex. The thing that really annoyed Skip, though, was how Rusty worshipped his lesbian twin sister, Briana, who also attended Columbia. Not that Skip disliked lesbians, he just never socialized much with them. After meeting Rusty, he did a lot. And if not socializing, then hearing about her. A lot. Rusty was always going on about how Briana said this, Briana broke up with Kirsten, Briana did the funniest thing, Briana started going back out with Kirsten, and on and on till Skip wanted to shoot himself. Or Rusty. Or Briana. Sometimes Skip believed Aiden would be happier to have a sex change just so that he could be a lesbian like his sister. That kind of thinking made Skip’s head hurt. But that’s what made the pirate, slapping his bottle of Corona on the table, so damn attractive, despite, or maybe in addition to, the gorilla coat he sported. He couldn’t imagine for one second the pirate had any desire to be anything other than a man, a pirate king guzzling his beer. The pirate caught him staring at him, and raised his bottle and gave him a red-scarf nod. 

Rusty was busy scanning his associates. “Organized crime,” he pronounced.

Skip smiled at the thought. “Why do you think that?” he asked.

“Well, you know what a gossip Slim is?” Skipped agreed. “He chatted a couple of them up as soon as they got here. You know Whitey’s obsession with our stupid names? You should get a load of theirs. Tito, Khan…”

“That could be their names,” Skip pointed out.

“One of them is named Knuckles. Knuckles! How much more mobster can you get?”

“Which one’s Knuckles,” Skip asked. Rusty pointed to the largest guy on the deck, talking to a tall, slim black bartender, named—you guessed it—“Slim.” Knuckles had on a grey t-shirt with large yellowed pit stains, black jeans and a black leather vest. 

Slim was pestering Knuckles about something under his vest. Knuckles flapped it open. Even from the far end of the pool, the holstered snub nose .38 was easy to spot. Slim leaned back surprised, then tipped forward enticed, and ran his fingers down Knuckles’ breast bone. Tito and Khan chuckled at the pair’s open flirtation. Rusty returned to Skip with one ginger eyebrow raised.

Skip swam down to the shallow end and raised himself out, flexing his triceps hoping the pirate would notice. He did. “Skippy,” Whitey shouted to the lad as he dripped on the deck. “Get your little tail over here and meet my compadre, Bernardo.” Skip strutted over, wiping himself with a beach towel, confidently brushing back his spikey hair. He greeted the man with an engaging smile, as Whitey made the introductions. “Bernardo de Sade, meet the best bartender in Paradise, Alistair von Ingerschleben.” Skip gave Whitey a congratulatory smile, impressed that Whitey knew how to spit out his whole name in full Germanic glory. “But y’all can call him Skippy.”

Skip extended his hand, which was immediately engulfed by de Sade’s two large paws. He didn’t shake so much as grab. “What is Skippy? Is like jumping?” De Sade erupted at his joke. His bellicose laugh was a little disturbing. It wasn’t that funny, but Skip produced a grin nonetheless.

Whitey was clearly nervous about something, Skip sensed. Whitey made like de Sade’s joke was the funniest thing. “Yes, Bernardo, Skippy hops to, runs the bar shipshape like the skipper of a ship, don’t you, Skipper?”

“I guess I do, Whitey. I guess I do,” Skip replied, acting greatly complimented, puffing up his smooth chest. Whitey was a giggling fool, Skip thought, but smiled cordially nonetheless. Seeing that de Sade wasn’t letting go of his hand anytime soon, Skip doubled down and placed his other hand over the back of the man’s tight grip. Skip reckoned this was one of the bar’s major money men that Whitey was always fretting about. He knew how to make a good impression on wealthy men born into it himself. Skip’s smile never faltered, his eyes never shied away. The man slowly released his hands with a middle finger tracing Skip’s palm. De Sade’s cruise was hidden from view but blatant enough for Skip. The edges of Skip’s lips curled and he cruised de Sade right back with his shining golden eyes. 

Skip felt the come-on granted him some permission, so he drew up a chair between the men. “Señor de Sade, I take it you’re one of Whitey’s silent partners.”

De Sade nibbled a flake on his chapped lip. It seemed there were things he preferred not to talk about, Skip realized. “I’d say I’m more involved with Mr. Johnson’s supply chain,” de Sade replied mysteriously and sipped his beer. The man’s wide-set eyes were penetrating and enticing, oozing hot-blooded sex as he sized Skip up. His mustache was finely trimmed, with a small soul patch beneath his lip, and sideburns shaved to fine points on his dark, sunken cheeks. Pitch black chest hair flowed from his neck directly to his broad fleshy pecs. Skip couldn’t help himself and gave a quick glance down and marveled at the dense pelt covering the man’s abdomen, and even more astonished by the amount of flesh buried in his khaki shorts. Down his right pant leg the outline of a big dick rose like a pipe; a bit of foreskin even peeked out against his hairy kneecap. When he glanced back up, Skip was met with the lewd, knowing smile of a confident, well-endowed, brazen buccaneer.

As Skip checked out de Sade’s package, Whitey was subtly, desperately trying to signal Skip. He pinched his nose a few times, attempting to clue Skip into what supplies in the supply chain de Sade meant. Once Skip got it, Whitey gave the smallest of head shakes, telling Skip he shouldn’t pursue this particular supplier. Skip wasn’t so easily put off—actually he was more intrigued, if you really want to know. He himself dealt a bit of blow in the bar’s bathrooms from time to time, so felt simpatico to the pirate. “This your first time to Fire Island, Señor de Sade? I’d love to show you around,” Skip offered.

“No. Many times I’ve been here. High tea, low tea, the meat rack—I feel much at home here.” The mention of the meat rack, a dune swept labyrinth for anonymous sex, made Skip see de Sade in a new light. “Usually I am Señor Johnson’s guest, isn’t that right, mi amigo,” he replied patting Whitey’s hand. Whitey withdrew his hand unconsciously, then put on a too broad smile to hide his discomfort. “But this time I drive a big boat. You’d like to see my big boat?” the man jested, knowing exactly what Skip wanted to see. He and Skip rose together. De Sade cocked his head to tell his men it was time to leave. He’d gotten what he came for.

Whitey was not subtle in how happy he was to see them abruptly leave. By all means, Skip should see the boat, he told them, ushering them to the side gate. Knuckles led the pack, carrying a paper bag with de Sade’s monthly cut in it. Slim pouted his lower lip, disappointed in seeing Knuckles go. Tito and Khan followed Knuckles, with Skip and de Sade bringing up the rear. His henchmen grinned like goons, familiar with how their boss weaved a web around a new victim. Whitey wiped his brow and waved, while Rusty stewed jealously floating in the pool in his water wings.

***

It started innocent enough. The yacht tour started with a quick, teasing tour of de Sade’s master cabin with its large bed covered in black rubber—Skip had to touch—then in the kitchen galley, on the way to the wheelhouse, de Sade pulled out a small brown bottle of coke. Would Skip like a hit? Skip would. Then topside in the wheelhouse, Khan, the yacht’s pilot, a slender, half-Mongolian, half-Peruvian guy with a wispy brown beard and long, stringy ‘stache, asked Skip if he would like to skipper the boat into the bay? Skip would. Purring west in the Great South Bay, Tito came up and said de Sade wanted to know if Skip was up for a couple more lines and some Tequila? Skip was.

Until they passed under the Robert Moses Causeway and were out to sea, Skip had no reason to worry. I mean, if things got too sketchy he’d just jump off the boat and swim to shore, right? That would be a major pain in the ass getting back to The Pines, but he wasn’t going to be kidnapped, for Christ’s sake. The truth was it was turning into a totally awesome, coked-up afternoon with some hot and sketchy characters. He couldn’t wait to tell the other bartenders about it. Tito turned out to be this outrageously clownish guy. Hyperactive, great at voices and imitations. At first he thought Tito had a mole near his left eye but it turned out to be a tear tattoo, which freaked him at first, but after a few lines and a couple shots of Tequila, Tito was this natural prankster, making fun of Knuckles’ Neanderthal stance and calling de Sade “Gomez Addams’ dirty, hippy cousin.” Skip thought that was hilarious. “Very, very dirty cousin, aren’t you, Capo?” Tito said, insinuatingly, running his hand down his boss’ chest. Skip was in hysterics and kinda turned on.

Knuckles, for his part, wasn’t as he first seemed. More a big teddy bear when you got down to it. Skip realized that Knuckles stooped over, knuckles almost dragging, because he tried to hide how absolutely monstrously tall he was when he stood straight. Also the galley ceiling was really low, so he had to extra hunch over in the space, and Tito took full advantage of the fact. Scratching his armpit, making monkey sounds. And de Sade? Well, de Sade was sexier with every line they passed around. Still intense in every way, especially in the forceful way he laughed, slapping the table, knocking the back of Tito’s head, throwing his head back with a full belly laugh that ricocheted almost painfully off the white plastic ceiling. 

De Sade treated him like crew from the moment he stepped aboard, slapped him on the back, clipped his chin slowly with his fist for no reason, looked at him in the same possessively, fatherly way he looked at his crew. De Sade was very open, in fact, he was pretty provocative in his affectionate for his men. Yeah, he’d smack Tito’s head but he’d also lay a kiss on his head when he passed him, bringing back everyone cervezas from the mini-fridge, or pull on one of Knuckles sagging nipples after Knuckles slammed back his fifth Tequila shot. Skip wondered exactly how close they all were, if there were boundaries, if they had sex—it sure seemed that way. With his coke-fueled brain flying, he considered what it would be like to really be a part of this crew. What nerve it would take to drop out of school, screw his parents’ plans of him becoming a lawyer, and totally turn to the life of a real modern-day coked-out, sex-crazed pirate. How awesome would that be? Pretty awesome!

Looking out the window, seeing land was quickly disappearing from the horizon, Skip mentioned to de Sade that he really should to get back soon, he had a public policy paper due on Monday, hadn’t even started it yet, hadn’t even picked a topic. The coke was making him ramble, watching the last of Fire Island becoming a thin brown line. Maybe he’d do Nixon’s trip to China or the release of the Iranian hostages, maybe arms for hostages that was lately in the news. De Sade reassured him they’d be back before sunset, and pushed a mirror with lines of white powder toward him. Skip bent over the galley table and snorted. He pinched his nose feeling the substance burn. “Oh, man, strong! Whew! Maybe I can I buy one of Briana’s old policy papers. She’s the sister of this guy I know. She bailed me out before, yeah, but then she’ll tell Rusty. Wait, was that coke?” he asked Tito who’d been chopping white powder out of new bag since they’d finished the last one a while ago.

“No, amigo. This is much better. This is Miss Tina,” Tito said. “Más amoroso.” He wiggled his brows suggestively as he passed the mirror around. The four of them laughed, Skip just a little bit uneasy. Still, in this new light Tito did looked hotter than he did before. Was that from Tina? His gang tattoos on his neck, arms, and chest, were kinda sexy. His broad face, Skip noticed, had a slight gap between his two front teeth. Now that Tito was smiling all the time he couldn’t help but notice it. And when he glanced at Knuckles? Forget about it! As homely as they come, all acne scarred, tiny black eyes, overweight and sagging breasts. But Knuckles had to be packing a good, solid thirteen incher in his jeans. No doubt about that lump. There were things you could overlook, and there were things you can’t.

“Más amoroso, huh?” Skip repeated. “I’m amped but kinda tingly all over. Is this how you’re supposed to feel?” De Sade and his boys smiled. “I always stick to coke, but I’ll have to remember this.” Skip got up to pace in the cramped galley.

De Sade got with him. “You party, my friend?” he asked.

Skip laughed a little too loud. “I thought that’s what we’re doing.”

“Nah. If you want to really party with us,” de Sade said as a pointed invitation, “let’s introduce you to something I know you’re going to love.” Skip gave his a why not shrug of his shoulders. De Sade went down to the master cabin.

Knuckles caught Skip as he paced and sat him back in the booth, pinning him between himself and Tito. “Beuno, sí? Do another. Twice as good,” said the big man. Skip sensed heat radiate off him, and felt Tito’s sexy perspiration sliding against his other arm. The room was hot and what might have been smelly body odor any other time was acting like an aphrodisiac. 

“Fuck, I am ready to crawl out of my skin as it is, Knuckles. I gotta lay off a bit.”

De Sade heard what Skip said as he came back in and sat across from the three of them. “I have the perfect–cómo se dice—remedy. You won’t want to crawl out of your skin—you will shed it.” He laid a tourniquet and a syringe with a cloudy brown liquid on the table. 

Skip’s eyes widened. He looked at Knuckles and Tito who displayed big smiles. “Uh, not big into needles, guys,” Skip said trying to sound cool but resolute. Tito put a hand on Skip’s back and rubbed his shoulder to get him to relax. Knuckles too started kneading Skip’s shoulder. “What is that?” Skip asked uneasy, feeling the room closing in on him. Under the table Tito rubbed his cock through his swimsuit. For a brief moment he was conflicted. Yes, he want to be with these guys, but didn’t want to get into the whole shooting up junky thing. He just couldn’t see his life going that way.

De Sade held the syringe up to the swaying overhead light. He tapped the vial dislodging tiny air bubbles and squirted out the thinnest stream of liquid out the end. “Most people mix heroin with coke to make a speedball. But coke fades long before the heroin does. Meth last much longer and is muy amoroso, right Tito?” de Sade asked. Tito nodded in agreement. Skip searched de Sade’s face. What was unnerving was that he was still being friendly, like a dad trying to get his kid to get into the ocean, or to take his first swig of alcohol. 

“Ah, yeah, guys, I’m gonna take a rain check on this. So maybe we get the boat turned around, like, now?”

Tito moved his head close to Skip’s. “I know, man, it looks scary, but trust me. One stick, Chico, and pow,” he said, eyes wide and crazy, “heaven spreads its legs for you.”

“Put out your arm,” de Sade firmly. Skip started to struggle, then realizing Tito and Knuckles weren’t going to let him out, made a violent attempt to climb out of the booth…and then what? Jump off the yacht and swim back to a shore that wasn’t even there anymore? Fuck yes, but Knuckles and Tito had him locked in. Skip no longer had a plan, he only had instincts. He fought until Knuckles pushed him back into the booth so he couldn’t move. Tito wrapped the tourniquet tightly around his bicep and a few small blue veins revealed themselves on his forearm. Knuckles held his wrist firmly against the table. “Don’t be like this,” de Sade said. “We want you to be one of us. And your veins are very small, it’s hard enough without you fighting. You’ll make me miss,” warned de Sade. Skip gave one last burst to get free but Knuckles and Tito leveraged their full weight against him, which didn’t allow any more movement. Skip braced himself and felt the needle prick his skin. His blood combined momentarily with the vial’s mixture before de Sade began pushing the speedball into his system.

“Mierda,” de Sade grumbled. He held up the needle, displaying a full vial of reddish-brown liquid. “Your vein rolled, Chico.” He set the syringe on the table. “I really would like you to be with us, but I need you to cooperate. Knuckles let him go. If he doesn’t want, okay.” Knuckles release his grip. Skip still felt Tito playing with the lump rising in his bathing suit. “Your choice, Skippy. Lay out your other arm if you want this and be with us.” A funny thing was happening to him. Just the small amount that pricked his skin and got it into his bloodstream was making him feel extremely good and more than a tad bit horney. Maybe de Sade planned this. If he did it was a good plan. Skip took a deep breath, and then laid his arm on the table. 

“Yes!” Tito exclaimed, and undid the tourniquet and handed it to Knuckles. Knuckles bound Skip’s other bicep, and de Sade instructed him to make a fist. De Sade looked into Skip’s eyes smiling like an approving father. 

“Ah, look. Here is the one I’m going to hit,” de Sade said, tracing a vein on the inside of Skip’s arm. Even that small about of tactile contact made Skip feel good. What would the whole amount do, he wondered? “Ready?” Skip nodded. “Stick,” de Sade said. The needle registered fresh blood, and the full speedball went into Skip’s system.

***

It’s been said a speedball’s rush is like a handjob from God. In Skip’s cases it was a handjob from Tito. Skip repeated fuck, over and over, hoping the intensity of the rush wasn’t going to keep getting more intense. But that’s exactly what happened, like someone continuously polishing your nob after you’ve cum, pleasure not meant for mere mortals. The meth rush hit first. He fell fast from it, a massive surge of elation jammed into the first few seconds, then ten, sixty…this wasn’t stopping. His stomach almost puked sensing the speed of this unending elation, he couldn’t take one more second of it, but then the hammock of heroin caught him, rocked him, bounced him, swirled him in slow motion, sending his brain out in every direction. His head fell forward. He gripped the table with both hands thinking that would stabilize him. But nothing was stable. Everything was in motion. He saw de Sade crawl over the table toward him and give him a strong, forceful kiss. He stuck his tongue right back as forcefully as he received. De Sade pulled back only an inch to admire Skip’s dilated pupils, the iris so thin, like the corona of a sun in eclipse. “You love it,” he whispered, “don’t you, papi?”

“Ah, fuck, yesssss. Fuck. Fuck me. Fuuuck.” The meth made him want to get up but the impulse was countered by the heroin, and he lolled in a no-man’s land of pure bliss, hovering in his body, suspended in a feeling he was floating in a warm bath, wrapped in a cocoon of pleasure, orgasming directly in the grip of God. “Ah, fuck, what is this?” he said dazed, unmoored. This had no relation to his previous life. This was like trying to explain colors to the blind. He looked around this table of men. You have these concepts—bath, floating, orgasm, God, men—but to the uninitiated they remain concepts. Who knew what was inside these words? He now was inside them, felt it all, was it all, was the orgasm, inside the finger, was God. There was no separation between him and the men at the table anymore. He was captive of the rush, which wasn’t going anywhere. Like de Sade’s first grip on him, it wasn’t letting go of him anytime soon.

Tito and Knuckles rousted him out of the booth, carrying him, one arm draped over each of their broad shoulders, taking him down, step by enormous step, down to the master cabin. In the master cabin Tito face was now in front of his. Tito held his head, stuck his tongue in his mouth. Ever since the drug hit, Skip felt a moment behind each motion he went through. The delay allowed for something however, a new lack of inhibition, a leaving behind his former self. The snake skin de Sade had promised. Thinking trailed far behind him, desire had free reign. He made out with Tito like a drunken sailor, slobbering, flopping onto his naked chest, pinching his tits, grabbing his crotch, groping his growing pecker through his shorts. Tito laughed at Skip’s wanton intensity, and ripped the kid’s swimsuit off, letting him weaved naked in front of them, holding out an arm for balance or to try to touch Tito again. Between the motion of the ship and his imbalance, he had to be propped up. Knuckles scooped him up like a bride, and laid him on the rubber bed, but not before Skip pulled himself close enough to Knuckles' face and stick his tongue down the large man’s throat. Knuckles was at first surprise, then aroused, then responded forcefully pushing Skip’s face back on the bed with his open mouth. Knuckles looked at the kid, wiped his face, was smitten. No one had ever kissed him like that, especially someone so beautiful. 

“You like this feeling, Chico?” de Sade asked. Skip nodded his head slowly as he reach up to kiss de Sade again. De Sade push him back. “Papi Chulo is what I’ll be for you this week. You want for nothing.” Skip ran his hands over his own torso. Felt his burning chest, his heart beating wildly under his breast bone, heard de Sade voice like it was underwater. “I make you feel this way from now on, día y noche.” Skip tried to speak but de Sade put his mouth around his erect pole, slid down, down to the root, so just a gasp of air aspirated out. De Sade then stripped as did his men. All were rigid, dripping, ready to take turns fucking the new crew member. 

There was nothing Skip wouldn’t do in his present state, nothing too debauched. Tito put a leg up on the bed so that his hairy asshole was available for Skip to chew on. A hairy cave was Tito cavern, full of smells of hell’s pit from which Skip greedily ate. The boy spat into it and mixed his saliva with the crust that engulfed Tito’s crack. Knuckles took up where de Sade had left off, and sucked Skip’s tool, while de Sade raised the kid’s legs to eat out his hole. Knuckles rested his head and rubbed Skip’s chest and belly. De Sade’s tongue drilled into Skip’s hole sending waves of fire through Skip’s body. De Sade reach up and started stroking Tito’s dripping cock. Four men became a new creature, a slowly careening, ricocheting embodiment of lust.

“How you like partying with us now, papi?” Skip had no words, just nodded deep within Tito’s crack. He felt one long finger drill deep into his hole. It scanned around, greasing his rectum. Then he felt another thicker finger enter him. They worked at first in concert, going in and out alternately. They then joined together and started stretching him, north and south, east and west. Another long finger joined in, then another fat finger. Again, the four fingers stretched his sphincter in all directions. It felt like he’d entered heaven, until two more fingers, one thick, one thin, united with the first four. Now six fingers were filling his hole, pushing in thick viscus lube, pushing it deep into his guts. Of course he’d been fingered before, also fucked, but this was stretching him much wider. The girth of six fingers felt like the width of largest cock that had ever penetrated him. He couldn’t remember whose cock that had been. That was in a time that no longer existed. Only now is what he felt. He barely remember who he was? Skip? Alastair? It didn’t matter, all that mattered was that two more fingers were fusing into his hole. Eight fingers pulled and prodded, ripping his hole open in the most sensual way. He couldn’t resist. Four thick finger came out and the other four went deep inside. A sensation like no other he’d ever felt, a hand it was that went into his body, his rectum accepted it without question, his sphincter clamped on the hairy wrist, which pushed the hand inside another inch. 

It was impossible. A man’s hand was inside him. It sat there Immobile, massive, the queerest sensation of fullness, pleasurable, yes, uncomfortable, yes, intensely gratifying. What more than yes? And then fingertips moved. “Oh, fuck, daddy,” he cried. “Yes,” he panted. Tito moved his leg over Skip’s torso so he could sit squarely on his face. Skip laid blind within Tito’s hairy, musky butt, and he gratefully ate Tito out, while Tito wanked himself watching de Sade hand push into Skip’s hole. Knuckles laid on his side greasing de Sade’s forearm.

Skip had diminished senses operating. The taste and smell of Tito’s rancid butt were two. But Tito’s muscular ass masked Skip’s sight and muffled sound. That left touch. And touch was overpowering everything else. These fingers teased within. He didn’t know what was happening, couldn’t tell if they were going in deeper or being pulled out. When he felt a vast emptiness he knew the hand had been withdrawn, but then a few thicker fingers slid inside. Colder and slipperier lube accompanied these new fleshy fingers. He felt a large hand with insanely large knuckles ripping at his hole. Just part of the hand was fitting inside but was insisting on full penetration. Pain started registering and he started crying out. Tito got off his face, and broke something under his nose. He’d done popper before but this was different, stronger, hit him hard, made him bare down and want those knuckles inside. The hand came out and more lube poured into his open hole. He felt the cold slop turn warm inside him, and the knuckled hand went back in as another snap cracked under his nose. “Take it, papi,” de Sade whispered in the dark, swaying cabin. “Want it.” He wanted, desired, couldn’t live without this hand inside him. 

Knuckles broke through. Not many could take his fist. He felt the connection that most of the other crew felt all the time with each other. It was rare for him to penetrate and he wasn’t going to waste it. He pulled out almost all the way, stretching Skip’s ass to its widest point, then went back in where he had just been, resting until he felt Skip relax. He slowly twisted his hand, which elicited deep moans from the most beautiful boy he’d ever been with. His cock dripped in his desire for the boy. De Sade bent down and slowly sucked Knuckles' gargantuan member like he done many times before. It sent a passionate frenzy through Knuckles' body and he slowly began pumping his hand into and out of Skip. Skip was in a delirium of mixed sexual agony and ecstasy. Truth be told, he didn’t know what he was feeling, had never felt anything like this in his life, so had nothing to compare it to, he just knew he wanted more. 

He gave up his body completely, letting Knuckles explore his interior, encouraged him with amorous moans, affirmed the pleasure Knuckles provided, felt Knuckles’ body up with gratitude. With Tito off him he could see Knuckles in the shadows, carefully and lustfully driving his large hand deep and stretching him out.

De Sade added two fingers to Knuckles large wrist and rode them along the large man’s forearm as he went back in. Added a third digit on the next thrust of his arm. Skip groaned but not in protest. It was a groan like he’d never made before, surrendering, pleading, begging for more. De Sade added a fourth, and held it in place until Knuckles pulled out completely, causing Skip to yelp, and immediately replaced Knuckles' huge hand with his clenched fist. It went in with little resistance. Skip watch Tito start stroking his cock. The eroticism of simultaneously feeling his insides being stretched in unimaginable ways, while he was getting jerked off by this beautiful criminal, he couldn’t figure out what he’d done to deserve this. He started bucking on de Sade’s arm and into Tito’s fist. 

De Sade encouraged him. “Sí, papi, let it go. Fuck yourself on my arm. Let Tito get you off,” he said. Skip raised his knees up and slowly pulling himself off de Sade stationary arm before using his weight to slide back down, feeling each single black hair on de Sade’s forearm slide into him, satisfying his fevered hunger. Repeatedly he rose and fell. “Ah, good boy, sí. Show us how a puta likes to take it.” Tito broke another capsule under Skip’s nose and Skip increased his rhythm and flailed on de Sade’s arm in greedy abandon. He couldn’t get enough of the sensation, the expansion in his bowels that unnerved him and unveiled his inner pig. 

“Fuck, yeah, daddy. Fist that hole, give me a crater, wreck it, fuck yeah, destroy that hole,” he shouted.

“Hold him,” de Sade said. Tito took one leg and Knuckles the other. “Sí, I will.” 

Skip laid back on the rubber sheets and scanned the faces of Knuckles and Tito. He was puzzled why they looked so concern. De Sade put the nozzle of the lube bottle inside his hole and squeezed an insane amount till it oozed out. He slid one hand inside and added two fingers from his other hand along his wrist, pushed in, then pulled out. De Sade slid in his other hand into to the gaping hole adding four fingers of his other hand. He pushed in deep and held it there. He pulled out and slid his first hand back inside, rose on his haunches, and pushed his immense dark, eel of a dick inside, slithering his cock along his arm until his head crowned into his palm deep inside Skip’s bowels. De Sade started playing with his uncut meat, squeezing his foreskin over his glans like he enjoyed when he was jerking himself off solo. Well, he was jerking off, it was all just surrounded by the boy’s colon.

It didn’t take him long. Tito cracked some amyl under de Sade’s nostrils and then shared a second with Skip. That got Skip to start humping de Sade’s fist and cock ferociously, which, in turn, excited de Sade. De Sade increased the rapidity and depth of his strokes, until, seeing Skip’s silent, distorted face, he convulsed, shooting multiple times, pumping his fist deep in Skip’s hole each time he shot another wad. Skip’s body absorbed the shocks, each time howling, unable to make sense of what was happening to him. Tito stroked his cock furiously on the last of de Sade seizures, and the kid, in delirium, shot across the room, white webs of cum clinging to the headboard. 

After de Sade wiped sweat from his eyes, he needed to piss. Having the boy still attached made him a perfect receptacle. He waited until he had a steady flow, then played with his piss stream, pinching his slit, then letting it burst with a fierce gush. 

Skip definitely felt pin prickly gushes in his gut—a burning hot sensation along his colon walls—and since it was all chem piss, it absorbed directly into his system. He got higher, if that was still possible, hornier, more deviant. But to be real for a minute, with the more potent chemicals rapidly filling his body, his consciousness was starting to fade. There are diminishing returns with too much of a good thing, and Skip was reaching that limit, but not before de Sade slithered out his dick and tried inserting a second fist. The effects of chem piss brought out a manic desperation. Skip tried, determined to take de Sade’s second fist. He bore down, pushed, strained, with de Sade assisting, applying pressure on his end. De Sade withdrew both fists, and reinserted the first fist going deep. He then eased in the second hand gliding down the inserted wrist, but was held in check by the flesh above his thumb. Tito snapped one last capsule and Skip inhaled deeply. His ass relaxed with his desire at its peak. Two fist were inside Skip. A feeling of massive fullness, even a sense of utter completion, he look up at de Sade knowing what was inside him, which spread a smile across his face. Tito and Knuckles would take turns after de Sade was finished. The next morning Khan would have his chance and the cycle would begin again.

Seven days would pass by the time the yacht anchored in Veracruz, his hole completely broken, ready for his new life. Skip never became fully consciousness again. Once they reached their destination, de Sade held an auction and Skip was sold to the highest bidder. His new owner kept him permanently drugged, selling him nightly as the fuck junky he was now destined to be.

 “Roll credits. Flash disclaimer. The end,” said Manetti.

***

“What?! No-no-no-no-no.” Tobias cried out appalled. “Michael, that’s your ending? What is wrong with you? That is completely unacceptable.” Tobias was ticked. Mitchel looked over at the two mortician’s who wore sinister sneers on their faces. Drax was, as always, inscrutable. Only Jamal blinked in confusion at Manetti’s ending.

“Well, how would you end it?” Manetti asked Tobias, having just spent the last half hour improvising his ass off, trying to spin a tale of how Drax could buy a boat and make a porn film on it, dreaming up what kind of porn film it could be. Yeah, that’s his story! He was out on the island to buy Drax a boat. That’s why he didn’t come back to the apartment last night. He, of course, would have first gotten Drax’s okay, naturally, it was his money after all. Manetti was just being an entrepreneur. He’d been scouting out possibilities, locations. Yeah, Skippy and the Pirate—just a concept, he stressed—was the type of film Drax could shoot. “Okay,” Manetti capitulated to Tobias, “maybe not sell Skippy as a sex slave if that bothers you.”

Roger suggested that Skippy in the House of Whores, might be an interesting sequel. Boris chortled at that. 

“I feel betrayed!” Tobias was unrelenting. “What a sick, twisted little mind you have, Michael Manetti. You don’t do that to the main character. Not if you cared…”

“Tobias, stop,” Boris interrupted the man’s rant. “Mother, get her smelling salts. She’s about to faint. Tobias, bubbe. When was the last time you actually cared about a character in a porn film? I’ll tell you when. Never. The kind of collections I have at home?” He held up a wagging finger. “Not one redeemable character. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’ll tell you one thing: I don’t watch porn for plots. Climaxes yes, plots no.”

“In our line of work,” Roger injected, “it’s actually refreshing to see someone get used by scores of men for no particular reason. It counteracts the savagery that comes to us regularly from the city’s morgue.” Both morticians nodded gravely. “You can’t begin to imagine the real horror people inflict on each other.” That actually got an eyebrow raise from Drax.

Tobias still had a fisheye trained on Manetti. “What?” Manetti barked. It was Manetti’s turn to feign hurt. (Secretly he felt relieved his story caused so much vexation. Perhaps it was enough to distract Drax and ward off suspicion—that he’d cooked up a story convincing enough, that buying Drax a boat for a porn shoot was potentially plausible. It could happen, he reasoned.) “It’s just a stupid story, Tobias, enough to get you from one fuck scene to the next.”

“But just look at Chris,” Tobias said pointing to the boy. They all looked at Chris whose dick was so hard it was purple. “You’ve totally corrupted him with your lurid tales. And the only character that might have any redeeming quality you heartlessly sell as a junky for life. Unconscionable.”

Manetti saw the kid was definitely in a state. “You know I’m just pulling shit out of my ass, don’t ya kid?” Admittedly he was a little shock the kid sported such a big hardon from a pretty tawdry story.

“I thought the pirate was going to make him part of his crew,” Chris said almost wounded. 

Regarding Manetti through his thick coke-bottle glasses, Mitchel agreed, “Yes, Michael, that would make a better ending. If you’ll allow me to get a little Freudian, dear, a bit of your subconscious is showing.” Manetti quickly looked away. “If Skippy is Chris, and the pirate is a stand-in for you, I think your ending betrays a conflicted moral compass. Do you want to corrupt or are you seeking to redeem?” Manetti refused to meet his gaze.

“I’m Skippy?” Chris asked startled.

“Okay, okay. The pirate makes Skippy part of the crew, in fact, he made him his cabin boy. Satisfied?” Manetti said exasperatedly. “No, Chris, you’re not Skippy. Mitchel’s the one now pulling shit out of his ass.”

Roger turned to Boris. “Mmm, the pirate and the cabin boy. Very Treasure Island.”

“Treasure Island equals awesome,” Chris squeeled to the morticians, “Mike, you’d be a great Long John Silver.”

“I’d say,” mumbled Roger.

Tobias just shook his head in dismay. “I know it only two o’clock but I’m parched. Anyone else care for a cocktail,” Tobias asked the room. “Sweetheart?” he asked Mitchel.
“School night, Pumpkin. We need to get back. I have papers to grade.” Mitchel spotted Crusher wheeling his suitcase through the courtyard.

“A short one,” Boris said, looking at Roger. “Make it two, but if you have any plastic cups from the party, let’s use those. We need to be going.” Tobias swept out of the room.

“So,” Mitchel said, getting off the couch, passing Drax with a wary eye. He unlocked the sliding door, and instantly a cool Atlantic breeze floated in. “Alastair von Ingerschleben. Where did that come from?” he asked Manetti in passing. “Crusher, bring me the franchise papers to look over this week,” he yelled.

“Will do. Thanks Mitch. Great party. Kisses to the Misses,” called Crusher, wheeling his suitcase over the coy pond bridge.

Mitchel didn’t like Drax in his house, but he was amused by Michael’s improvised story. The cool breeze brought a briny smell of the sea with it. Wallace rose, his tail wagging, sniffing the salty air.

“Alastair Inge was this snooty kid on my high school wrestling team,” Manetti said, shrugging his shoulders. “Never liked him.”

“Although apparently you remember many details about him,” Mitchel teased. He sat back on the couch and lit a lilac scented candle on the coffee table. The closed room, or perhaps it was Drax’s mere presence, left an unpleasant, lingering odor.  

Manetti wasn’t sure how or if Drax was buying any of this, so he tested the waters. “So you see, Master Drax, I was telling these guy you wanted to buy a boat to make an outdoor porn film.”

“And why on earth would I ever want to do that,” Drax laughed. He got up waving the candle scent away from him, and roamed around the room. He examined objects on the display case—a fine china vase, a few first edition books—finally landing his hand on top of Chris’ blond head. “How was your night, Christian? Did you and Michael have fun at the party?”

“Yes, we did, Master Drax,” Chris said. “There were all these fireflies, but they should really be called fire-beetles, ‘cause they’re beetles and not flies at all. And they wiggle their butts to attract mates. And that’s what I did all night. I attracted lots of mates with my butt.”

Drax chuckled. “I’m sure you did, child,” Drax said as he regarded Manetti. “The things he’s learned since he’s been with you, Michael. What clever, clever boys I have,” he snickered darkly. Drax’s mirthless laugh had a chilling effect on the room. Although Chris seemed oblivious, the morticians and Mitchel stiffened as they sat. Manetti guarded his emotions, still trying to assess where he stood with Drax. 

Drax said to Mitchel, with insipid friendliness, “We’ve been sitting here for so long listening to Michael’s tall tale of boats and pirates, we never got around to proper introductions. I don’t know these dapper gentlemen, but something about them tells me I should like to know them better. Would you be so kind, Professor, as to make the introductions?” 

Mitchel looked like he had something foul in his mouth, but he introduced Boris and Roger, nevertheless. Tobias came back with three gin and tonics for himself and his two guests in red plastic cups.

“And who is this fine strapping lad?” Drax inquired after the Great Dane. He placed a hand on the dog’s face. The animal slapped his tail against the sliding glass window several times.

“That’s our Wallace,” Roger admitted proudly. Boris fidgeted uncomfortably. Drax watched both men curiously. 

“Mr. Drax, can I offer you coffee, or a cocktail perhaps?” Tobias offered.

“So kind of you, Mr. Glass, but no. I’m still trying to understand why Michael and Christian are out here and not back home in New York where they were supposed to be after…”
“We had invited Michael,” Mitchel interrupted. “Our special guests of the night and he brought Chris along with him.”

“Yes,” Tobias picked up from Mitchel, “for our Towel Party. You are familiar with our annual event, certainly.”

“Most certainly. Legendary, I believe. I had hoped some of it was still going on. I had Jamal pack the camera just in case. You can imagine my disappointment that all the guests had departed. Still, maybe we can improvise something. It’s true, gentlemen. No one wants porn to have stories, especially stories with silly names, and pirates and boats. No, what we want is nameless men to simply fuck and be fucked, or fist, or jerk off, suck, pee, tie each other up, beat each other with whips, and do the most astonishing things to one another. To just come into a room, a room like this one, and show us something we want to see. Perhaps shock us by showing something we’ve always wanted to do, or, at the very least, wanted to witness. The only satisfying ending in porn, Michael, is a happy ending—someone or everyone needs to cum. That’s all one needs to get to the credits. Let me demonstrate.” Drax leaned over as an aside to the morticians, “Knowing our boy, this won’t take long.” The morticians snickered. “No plot, simply a naked boy with an erection, gentlemen. Observe. Christian?” he said, while pointing to Jamal to get the camera ready. “I wonder if you would show us what so many men have done to you lately. Maybe start by sitting on my fist. Just frame him, Jamal, and my hand. I’m sure, Christian, our guests would like a little entertainment. No plot, gentlemen. Just spectacle.” Jamal had the camera rolling.

Christian rose fingering his butt, but Mitchel quickly stood up and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Our guests, Mister Drax, would not like a little entertainment. While our debauchery knows no bounds—we have, after all, our house filled with it last night—but let me point out first, I have no wish for our compound to be the setting for one of your little films. Second, I don’t appreciate a lecture on lechery. I grant you none of us knows the subject better than you, but spare us such a crass demonstration of licentiousness using this young boy simply to prove your capacity to corrupt. You, sir, are corruption—we’ve never had a doubt about that.” Mitchel looked at the two mortician’s who had been leaning in, ready for a show, but now looked despondent. “Sir,” Mitchel said to Drax, “during the time it takes us to escort our guests back to their boat, I would very much appreciate if you wrap up your business with Michael, quickly, and be gone before we get return. Chris, it was an honor and privilege to have you with us. Michael, please call me and we’ll have lunch. There are some outstanding issues that need to be resolved. Gentlemen, Wallace, Sweetheart, after you.” With that Mitchel opened the door for the disappointed mortician’s, their dog, and Tobias who had his hand lovingly over his heart. Tobias stopped at the sliding door and planted a kiss on his husband.
Drax said nothing, showed no emotion, but his face was red with fury. “Of course, Professor. We shall be done momentarily, and will leave, all of us, and remove ourselves from your premises.”

“Thank you. Mister Drax,” replied Mitchel. He slid the screen door behind him.

“Jamal, put away the camera.” Drax was seething, but remained wooden. He stood next to the display case and with one finger pushed a blue and white porcelain vase off its shelf, which Manetti leapt to catch before it hit the floor.  “It would be a pity if a candle fell and lit this rug and the entire complex on fire!” Drax shouted the last word, then immediately caught himself. “What do you think, Michael? Should I set things right now or at a more suitable hour?”

Manetti pushed the vase back against the wall. “I think if you did anything Mitchel would sue the shit out of you, honestly, if there were even one singe on his carpet,” Manetti replied. “He doesn’t practice, but he’s still on the board of his old firm and well connected.”

“He could sue, yes, possibly, unless some accident befell him,” Drax countered. “An ex-con, say, that still held a grudge, a student he flunked who sought revenge, even a random homeless derelict could accosted him on his way home from a late night class. A shiv on a darkened street…” 

“Alright, enough!” Manetti growled, the first time he ever stood up in all the years he’d known Drax. Drax gave Manetti an ice cold stare. Manetti knew he crossed a line, maybe his second for not coming back to the apartment last night. “Forget about it, Master Drax, let’s just leave. I have your money, and it’s even more than you thought.” He felt—he hoped—the news might deflect him. 

“How much more?”

“Chris, go get it,” Manetti said. “It turns out Chris found two…”

“Two hundred thousand dollars in the vent, Master Drax!” he exclaimed, jumping up as if he couldn’t contain himself. “I put the money in my gym bag like you told me to, and hid it before the party.”

“Two hundred, you say?” Drax asked surprised. He forgot Mitchel’s rudeness for the moment. Between the money and watching the boy jump up and down so excitedly, pulling on his delightfully semi-erect penis, it put Drax in a better humor. “Go. Fetch it, child,” he said, waving his hand. He watched Chris scampered out the door, jump off the deck, and disappear underneath the cabana. 

Chris quickly located his green bag. He took out almost all the packets of wrapped hundred dollar bills, each packet ten thousand, and left twenty of them in the gym bag. He dug a big hole in the sand and pushed all the money he’d poached in it. He spied a big palm frond lying under the deck. He grabbed it and laid it over the one million eight hundred thousand dollars, and then pushed the sand back to bury the loot. He smiled seeing as how he now was the pirate with his own buried treasure. He took a stick and marked it with a big X. He scurried from under the cabana, ran over and promptly placed his gym bag with its two hundred grand into Drax’s outstretched hands.

Drax couldn’t be more pleased. 

Nor could Manetti.
 

[ejaculaTe]

5 minutes ago, shoreboy said:

Drax couldn’t be more pleased. 

Nor could Manetti.

Nor could any of your loyal readers here.... One can almost think that there is a God that smiles upon authors who post on this site.