Last Known Address

[damsonffpig]

Cant wait to hear how Manetti gets prepped ;))

 

[deepfix]

Astonishing piece of writing, I'm hoping to read how Chris receives further modifications......

[shoreboy]

10. A Record of Mike and Ben

Mike and Ben captured in a photo lie under a magnet on the refrigerator. Mike wears a goofy, stoned smile and Ben looks supremely happy, happier than he ever had a right to be. We like to think photos stop time, but they’re really markers of time passing. We say photos “capture” us and they do. They’re traps, like tar pits or quicksand that stop us in our tracks. We shed the image, leave it behind like a skin, and we move on leaving our past self preserved in celluloid, or pixels, or amber. 

A photo is “shot,” you “take” a picture. And you pay a price for this tiny immortality, you, who always will exist at that moment, in that frame of mind, never changing, never growing another day older, innocent of the future course your life will take. They’re breadcrumbs, we believe, that will bring us back to our original selves, as if there were such a thing. We collect these images and put them in a box of memories, or in an album that sits on a shelf, or in the attic long forgotten. 

The more industrious of us sell the most salacious ones. Think Drax. The brilliant make them art, think Mapplethorpe, objectifying their subject; that is, make them an object of desire, whether the sculpted form of a black dancer, the long stamen of a calla lily, or a close-up of a ten-inch cock. This objectification, this simulacrum—merely a representation of the thing itself—exists in the humble Instamatic vacation snapshot, or the family posed and idealized at Thanksgiving through a Brownie lens, or the selfie we take pressing a button, our phone held aloft, revealing our junk in a bathroom mirror to an indifferent, anonymous world where we hope someone will notice. We do this to ourselves, as we do unto others, capturing a moment, taking a slice out of time, interrupting life’s unrelenting progress, its numbing continuity, in exchange for a piece of eternity. That, my brothers, is the bargain—and what a bargain it is.

***

Jesus Christ Almighty, did this guy who how to fuck!

Ben, as a top, was a power driver, pounding away at any available man cunt or boy pussy that was under him, only every now and then tuning in to see how his bottom was doing. And that was purely optional. But this guy who was fucking him? Damn! The way he closely surveyed Ben, every twist and turn of his big uncut Italian dick registering in some lewd and impactful way, he was there, in the moment, with his big brown eyes looking down, checking how his cock was making Ben feel. Most guys at the baths, himself included, were there to get off, but, Shit! this guy in the public area was sending him to the moon. No, not the moon but Pluto or whatever was beyond that. And purposely doing it for all to see. And he, Ben, was on his second round of cumming. Think of that! He didn’t even leave after he got off. He came once by this guy, yes, but this fucking guy wasn’t letting him go anywhere so soon. He was still drilling into him, wildly, bucking against him like a stallion, pressing Ben’s feet against his shoulders, fucking him like he was his bitch—oh, he was—spreading his legs, pressing deep into his hole, then twisting him around, screwing him literally one-eighty, setting him upright on his knees, doing him, pulling him back, driving him wild until—Ben couldn’t believe it—Ben was the one slamming his ass back on this guy’s long and extra-wide boner, humping it like a drugged up whore—which, okay, he was—but still, he couldn’t get enough of this fucking guy’s shit! The guy let Ben fuck himself silly on his big ol’ Johnson, that is until he (fuck, what’s your name again?), Manetti, chose to drive, and then he, Manetti, would just hold Ben’s hips stationery and undulated like a snake, slapping Ben’s ass like he was some fucked up cowboy smacking his horse, slithering and slamming, bucking and ramming into his hole again and again, then climb all over him, mounting him higher, throwing his hairy brown legs over Ben’s butt and just fucking the shit out him. Fuck! It drove Ben insane, and that was the point, wasn’t it? He wanted to drive Ben crazy in front of this crowd, which started off with a couple of bystanders, but now was a group of around twenty men, whacking their oh-yeahs, watching this horny ass stud fucking this other horny ass stud. What was it? Twice they’d flipped? No one kept count. The sight was its own aphrodisiac that made men watch for a while, then suck off or fuck their neighbor. You couldn’t help yourself. The Italian would unmount and take Ben from the side for the bath house to observe, holding Ben’s right leg high up in the air, Ben’s enormous cock bobbing hard in front, lying next to him, making sure he knew the Italian was in charge. (For now.) And slide repeated up his chute, reaching around, seeing where Ben was at. Was he still hard? Was he close to coming? How did this feel if he torpedoed into his butt like this? How did Ben feel if he slowed it down, a nightcrawler in his ass, smoky Barry White bass strokes, almost sliding out, then fucking shooting back in, hard, hurtful, audacious? Did he feel fucked and controlled in front of the crowd? Did he like being controlled? Did he like everyone seeing he was a fucking bottom toy to this hairy wop? Dealer’s choice, pal.

The amazing thing, the thing that got him hooked, that made him want to see him outside of the bath house, afterward, for a lifetime, was that when he heard him cum, when he whispered in his ear he was cumming, he still kept fucking him after he shot. Not only was he a good fucker, he was a giving fucker. He allowed Ben to get off while he still poked his chute. But Ben wasn’t going to let this fucker off that easy. After Ben felt cum dripping out his hole, he pushed the guy off and, to the bath house’s amazement and captivation, Ben flipped the fucker for the second, or was it a third time, sticking him with his patented Big Ben dongle. How’d he like that, motherfucker? Wham, bam, and now Manetti’s legs were spread in the air, Ben rapidly jack hammering that sexy, hairy Italian ass. Ben fucked the living shit out of him. Plowed him, swirled his hips, gyrated into him like the guy was all seven cars on a Tilt-O-Whirl, spinning him like a top till Manetti’s big uncut cock was hard again and leaking as severely as a faulty water hose.

***

There was a sound of trickling water. It reminded him he had to pee. His vision was cloudy but he was sitting up. There was greenery around him, a wall of bricks, something gleaming white. Okay, what was that? It had a name: oh, a white fountain. The white fountain had three tiers dribbling a constant stream, splashing away in the quiet garden. Ivy hung on trellises over the brick. He looked to the sky and felt dizzy. Clouds drifted overhead, four stories above. He watched the clouds for a while trying to focus, trying to remember, but found it impossible, like gauze wrapped his brain. Why couldn’t his hands move? Goddamn he had to pee, wished the fountain would stop reminding him of it.

His head fell forward heavily. He noticed his arms were bound with plastic ties to the rails of a chair. His right arm had a tube that ran to an IV bottle standing next to him. The chair had wheels. It had a name: a wheelchair. Why was he in a wheelchair, with an IV in him, in a small, private garden, sitting across from a wrought iron bench with metallic flowers swirling as a backrest? The white fountain continued to flow. At the top was a frog whose mouth sprayed upward a small finger of water.

He had to pee. He couldn’t stop it now if he tried. His bladder flowed and he waited for the humiliation of wetting himself, but it didn’t happen. No stain spreading in his hospital gown, no splashing on the stone pavement below. He looked up at a man sitting down in the wrought iron bench watching him, watching a colostomy bag start to fill with brownish urine. The man’s name was Drax. He remember that much, but someone was covering the sun. The garden was growing dark. The trickling fountain grew faint, till there was no sound. No light. Nada.

***

Ben gave his step-dad the finger. His mom yelling but why New York over his step-dad yelling what kind of job do you get offered in a bar, while eight-year-old Chris stood on the curb crying rare tears. Ben knelt down to his little brother. “You be brave, buddy,” he told him. “You just wait. We’re going to be together again, just wait and see.”

All he had was his wallet, his windbreaker, and a business card that had a Bel Air Motel room number on it. He left everything else behind, his record collection, his clothes, his pot, his porn. But it was Chris he felt the deepest pain abandoning. But what was he supposed to do? He was just eighteen. Two weeks before his step-dad jumped him out in the front yard for being insubordinate. Insubordination was a big thing with that stupid ass, all former marine, all present-day dick. In a reversal from earlier fist fights, John, his step-dad, received most of the punches before the police came. John was stronger, way stronger, but Ben was angrier, insanely mad, in fact, lost it, on how the guy treated his mom and especially on how he beat his little brother. Chris could be a pest, he knew that, but he never deserved the physical drubbing and mental abuse John doled out.

But he was eighteen and had no Plan B, just had to get out at that moment, or wait for the police to arrive and arrest him. That was John’s threat anyway, accusing Ben of dealing pot out of their house. No matter how much Ben argued he was just holding for a friend, partly true, alright, he was lying through his ass—still, dealing pot in their rundown neighborhood, where the nearby penitentiary let out its cons? Seriously? Where if you wanted to score something harder all you had to do was hang out at the local Burger King? Where at the nearby Bel Air Motel, you could have a girl by the hour, or a boy, or anything in between. Dude, c’mon. Open your fucking eyes, John! Look where we live! Which was what Ben spat out, fed up with this shit. John, of course, who’d had it up to here with Ben and his insubordinate mouth shoved him out the door. Dirty faggot! That was the straw. Ben flipped him the bird.

Walking away as pissed off as he’d ever been, then walking quickly down the street because of the approaching siren, he turned down an alley and pulled a card out from his jacket. He examined it. Three Jolly Rogers, their three cross bones spelling out X X X and Drax Enterprises in raised type underneath. He flipped it over. Room #12, it read in chicken-scratch script.

Drax was this older biker dude he’d met in the alley behind the Tic-Toc Bar where he dealt weed. Okay, let’s pretend that that how he made his money. Sure, we’ll go with that for now. Lot of bikers hung out there so Drax didn’t really stand out much, just one of many forty-year-old plus leather losers mixed in with the ex-cons. You try to pick out which is which. A lot of the patrons knew Ben since he was a kid. Many lusted after him. Why not? This stony, surfer dude act he had down pat. Also his herb had a good reputation. Imported from Hawaii, distributed through a Samoan classmate who dealt large quantities, it was a gazillion times better than its Mexican cousin. Maui Waui, Thai Stick, and Purple Rhino were his most popular brands. Hanging out with some of his regulars, he’d do a doobie with a few of them in their homes or motel rooms. One thing might lead to another. Not that he turned tricks for a living—which is what he told himself at first—but it was just a little extra income. He had a nice stash of cash saved up and thought he’d get his own apartment, before John busted in on him as he was weighing out baggies in his bedroom. I mean the guy didn’t even knock. He knew John had been looking for a reason to boot him out since June when he graduated. So stars converged, bridges got burned, his stock got confiscated after he stormed out, and little brother got left behind. He climb the Bel Air Motel’s back staircase looking for Room #12.

He actually liked the sleaziness of the Bel Air Motel. It was part of how he got off. He’d turned not just a few tricks—there, we’re admitting it now—in the past few months. It was conveniently close to the Tic-Toc so quite a few nights some rough customer he enjoyed getting high with, who’d bring Jack Daniels back to the motel room, he and whoever would have a little party. He found a lot of these older guys were just lonely or had an old lady back home with some snot-nosed kids, and they just wanted to get laid, man. No strings, okay, but twenty bucks for whatever. Sometimes they’d want to fuck him, which he didn’t like so much, but it did pay good, or they’d want to get fucked, which was his preference. Or sometime they just wanted to get their cock sucked or suck his not insignificant Big Ben. Or sometimes they’d just pay to talk. Thoughts on God, on marriage, on why they gave up on their dreams, rationalizing whatever the fuck was stuck in their craw that night. Ben was no therapist. He’d sit there staring at the guy going through some mid-life whatever, and he’d zone out, drunk, stoned, watch words trip out their beards. Maybe some spit when their ideas got intense. It was crazy they would pay to just blather. Sex made much more sense.

Officially he was barred from the Tic-Toc Bar. Got busted there a few years back even with his fake ID. But the owner, Tony, a widower in his late fifties, who’d spent a few good times with him—nudge, nudge—at his nearby house, let him hang out in the alley, would sneak him a beer in exchange for a few puffs off his joint every now and then. 

The night he met Drax there was a rare summer downpour. Most rainy nights Tony took pity, would let Ben come in through the back where he could stay if he sat at the corner of the bar, out of sight, close to the back exit just in case. If the fuzz came, Ben was to slip out quietly, no harm, no foul. He was sipping his Jack and coke, when Drax slid onto the barstool next to him. 

“How much?” Drax asked.

“How much what,” Ben said looking forward, observing Drax in the bar’s gold veined mirror.

“How much you want?” Drax answered.

Ben tried to get a bead on this guy. “Depends on what you want,” Ben replied, taking another sip of his drink. He didn’t know if the guy was looking for weed or was playing him for a hustler. Didn’t matter which, he’d copped to both sides of that coin, he just wanted to know which the guy was after.

“Let start with you.” Drax offered him a smoke, which Ben accepted. Drax flicked open his lighter and lit both their cigarettes.

“Well,” said Ben, looking at Drax directly, exhaling a cloud into the air. Short cropped grey hair, grey beard, dark eyes with deep, dark circles underneath. H-A-T-E tattooed on the digits of one hand. F-U-C-K tattooed on the other. “Depends on what you want to do.”

Drax draped himself over the bar, looked into Ben’s face. “I don’t want to do anything. I want to know how much to buy you.” The man took a long drag. “Outright. Permanently,” he said flatly, the words exhaled through smoke.

Ben howled. Tony came over behind the bar to make sure Ben kept his promise of maintaining a low profile. The bar wasn’t crowded, the juke box had ended, and the old guy and the young hustler at the end of the bar were the prime attraction.

“Permanently? Doesn’t work that way. Sorry friend,” Ben said, finishing his drink. He gave Tony a two finger salute and went out the back door. 

It was really coming down now. You could smell the heavy salt air blowing in from the ocean. The beach was a few blocks away but with the wind roaring, you could hear waves crashing and imagine the waves were spraying right over you. He turned up the collar of his thin windbreaker, resigned to the fact that he’d be a soaking mess by the time he got home.

Suddenly, there was a figure next to him. It was the guy from the bar walking at his pace.

“You already know this,” the man said over the wind, “but you have something men want. You know this.”

“I know this?” Ben said, without looking at him, his blond hair dripping down his face. “How do I know this?”

“I see you do. Don’t be a coy little pansy shit. You know what you have has value and it’s not just what’s swinging between your legs. But what’s between these ears,” the man said, tapping Ben’s temple.

The moment he touched Ben, Ben stopped and looked at him. “Dude, how many ways I gotta say this? I’m not for sale—permanent or otherwise.”

The man looked amused. He pulled out a business card and wrote on the back. He handed it to Ben, and said, “For when you figure out what that price is, come up and we can begin a negotiation. What you will do, what you won’t, and what you want to become. I'll make it happen.” He pivoted and headed back to the bar. He called back over his shoulder, “I’m here till Monday then I go back to New York, with or without you.”

Ben was about to toss the card in the gutter but he felt a flicker of flattery. Something vague, something vulgar, something exciting, something that made him feel maybe there was something he was meant for besides turning tricks out of a back alley. The guy was probably some lonely old fart that wanted to blow him or blow smoke up his ass. But he put the card in his pocket anyway and continued marching forward in the gale and spray.

***

The second floor recovery suite had a hospital bed that looked out the tall French windows. Typically reserved for celebrity patients whose black limousines secreted them through the basement garage, brought up here to this charming suite that overlooked a lovely garden, where the celebrity would await surgery—face lift, nose job, breast implant, pec implant, penis enlargement, foreskin restoration, whatever—and afterward, recuperate for as long as they wished in the self-contained suite, complete with kitchenette and valet service, resting downstairs in the lush backyard garden, or lounging on the rooftop that commanded a stunning view of midtown and Central Park, sipping a Mai Tai from the outdoor bar. The roof was a perfect spot to visit with a spouse, or rendezvous with a lover, or to reveal to one’s entourage the surgery’s amazing results. Voila! Un tout nouveau vous. An all new you.

The French windows, which opened onto a small balcony, were parted. A pleasant late afternoon breeze ruffled chiffon curtains. Once again he woke to the fountain dribbling softly below. His arms, once again, were anchored with plastic ties to the bed’s aluminum side rails. The large television console was playing a daytime game show. The sound was muted. A heavyset blonde woman on the game show was choosing between a new car and a new kitchen. Consternation filled her face. Consternation filled Manetti’s face. His bound hands didn’t make sense. Then, like a lightning bolt, pain struck his groin and he tried to crunch into a ball. At the same time, a man in a white lab coat, followed closely by a bald intern he definitely remembered, came in and checked the instruments Manetti was hooked up to. The lab coated guy stuck a needle in his arm and injected him. He instantly went numb, the pain evaporated, but he couldn’t move anything except his eyes. 

The lab coated guy lifted Manetti’s hospital gown and felt up Manetti’s crotch. Manetti saw him under his hospital gown but felt nothing. The pain was gone and was replaced by, not even numbness, nothing. The curtains stirred and he at least expected to feel the breeze but nothing registered. The lab coat guy removed some bloody bandages from beneath his gown. 

“Barkley,” the man said, addressing the orderly. “Take a look. I’d say this is the best I’ve ever done.”

The orderly, Barkley, had droopy eyes and carried himself like a dolt, his fat lips hanging. He took a look under Manetti’s gown and sneered lecherously, “Fuck, doctor. I’d eat that.”

“Not for a while, Barkley. Mustn’t rush it,” said the doctor. “Let it heal then you can have all the fun you want.” 

Manetti eyes quivered in alarm. His heart monitor started beeping wildly, the screen spiked with rapid fire bolts. He tried to speak but whatever the doctor had given him made all his muscles useless. 

“Bring me the fids,” the doctor said calmly, pointing to a case by the door. While the doctor slipped on latex gloves, Barkley brought over a small case, and opened it. Inside were a series of long cone-shaped brass posts, which ran from a half inch in diameter and three inches in length, up to the largest, a fid two inches in diameter and seven inches in length. The doctor selected the smallest fid, applied KY jelly over it, and brought it under Manetti’s gown. Manetti felt nothing physically, but emotionally he was frantic. The doctor followed up the fid insertion with a heavy gauze pad and adhesive tape.

On the television, the fat woman was jumping up and down in her new kitchen.

“Let’s let the patient rest,” the doctor said, and twisted a nob on the IV drip. Manetti felt the light fading, his head falling back, and a dawning terror surfacing, which crept with him into the darkness. “For now, change his colostomy bag. And in the morning, Barkley, bring our guest up to the roof for some sun. He looks awfully pale.” 

***

He pretty much new Room #12 was at the end the second floor by the ice machine. He knocked. Silence. He looked over the railing at the parking lot below. The San Diego freeway buzzed a block away. A black Camero gleaming below caught his attention, one of the only cars in the parking lot. It was Saturday afternoon. A nice California day. By six o’clock the motel would be hopping, by midnight the No Vacancy sign would be lit. He was about to leave when the curtain inside pulled back revealing the guy from the bar who gave him the business card. 

The door opened and the man blinked at Ben. He thought the man had forgotten who he was. “I met you at Tic-Toc. You gave me this.” Ben flashed the business card.

“I know who you are. Are you ready to come in?” he asked.

Ben went inside. He flopped casually in the only armed chair in the room. Drax sat at the desk and waited. “So, man, what’s this permanently jazz?” Ben asked.

The man looked him up and down. “Far, far down the road, boy.” The man picked up a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray and inhaled. He smiled coldly, exhaling. “First step. Allow me to take some Polaroids.” He took a camera off the desk, and pointed it at Ben. “Test photos. Take off your jacket and shirt.”

Ben took out a cigarette pack from his jacket, picked out a joint. “Mind if I…?” he asked. The man said nothing. Ben sat back, lit it and took a long drag while he stared back at the man. He took a second drag, and still the guy sat at the desk holding his camera saying nothing. Ben made a decision, put the joint in the ashtray and took off his jacket, sat back and gave the joint another toke. The man remained silent. “Okay, then,” Ben said, and pulled off his shirt displaying his broad, tan chest. He was just beginning to sport hair at his breast bone, and a few dark hairs spouted around his nipples. Against his well-defined abs, a brown treasure trail began at his navel and disappeared at his belt.

“Why don’t you sit on the edge of the bed,” Drax suggested. “Take the joint with you, if you like.”

Ben got up and sat on the bed. Drax flashed the camera, and the Polaroid went through its noisy mechanics and spat out a blank photo. While Ben gave the joint a couple more tokes, the image of Ben’s eighteen-year-old perfect surfer self came to life. Drax showed him his picture and he like what he saw. Serious, a bit sketchy, a bit innocent, dirty blond hair in a ponytail, a long sculpted nose, suspicious blue eyes, a thin mouth with thick lips, pinching a joint in his fingers.

“What I expected,” Drax said. “Take off your shoes and pants.” Ben kinda liked the idea of being photographed. He kicked off his shoes and took off socks. Drax observed him as he stripped. Ben unbuckled his belt, let his jeans drop to the floor and stepped out of them. “Get up by the headboard, slip your hand in your boxers.” Ben was also getting into being directed. Usually a trick would let him improvise however he wanted as long as it led to a blow job or a fuck. But it seemed this guy knew exactly what he wanted and it wasn’t that. It was more like he was getting into Ben head and sculpting him in a way.

He sat at the headboard and felt his hardening cock through his fly. Drax flashed another shot. Ben took one last hit and stubbed the roach out on the bed’s side table ashtray. As was his routine after getting a buzz, he went back over to his pack of cigarettes, his cock tenting in his shorts, took out a smoke and lit it. On the way over to the headboard, Drax told him to drop the boxers and just sit on the side of the bed. Ben did. Thought it odd all the guy wanted was to take naked Polaroids of him smoking. Drax stood away from him by the door and flashed a wide shot. There was a knock.

Drax cracked the door. “You ready for us,” a deep voice outside said. Drax opened the door and let in two men, a black guy and a white guy, both in their early thirties. Ben knew instantly they were ex-cons by the black guy’s builds and both their wary eyes. The black guy reeked of penitentiary muscle, was a couple inches taller than Ben, which put him at around six-two, six-three. Rock hard shoulders and arms, with a slim prison food waists. The white guy had mousy brown hair, was sorta pudgy, shorter than the other guy, and had a severely receding hairline.

“Whoo-ya,” said the black guy smiling ear to ear, checking out the naked surfer on the bed sporting a nice big woody.

His partner said to Drax, “So, c-note for each time we fuck him? Shit, Daddy,” he laughed, “we’d pay you that much for such a pretty tail.”

The black guy went to the bedside ashtray and picked out the half-finished joint. “Skootch over, Pony boy,” he said relighting the reefer. “You gonna be my bitch tonight?”

Ben said to Drax, “I usually don’t like to get fucked.”

“Did I ask what you like?” Drax replied. “This is Zion and Dave. They got out of lockup this morning, so they’ve got a lot of, uh, energy stored up. You’re going to need stamina. You up for it?” Drax asked. Ben shrugged his shoulders probably yes. Drax took out a small kit with several orange capped points in it. “This will help. You’ve slammed before, yes?” Ben shook his head no, uneasy, but not afraid. 

“Ah, lemme do him, Daddy,” Dave, the white thug, begged.

Drax smiled indulgently. He gave the first syringe to the con. 

“Let’s see that arm, Scooter,” he said, feeling Ben’s forearm. “Make me a fist. So many choices.” He made a lip-smacking sound and pop in the needle, registered and signed Ben off. “See ya on the other side, man.”

Ben fell back on the bed wild-eyed. Zion rubbed his smooth chest and pinched a nipple. “You feel good, don’t’cha, Pony boy?” 

“Oh, shit,” breathed Ben. He brought his knees to his chest in a fetal position. Zion wet his finger and traced Ben’s butthole. Ben jumped up, excited. “Oh, fuck, man. Fuck!”

“Ready to get gangbanged? Here, put on this dirty jock while these boy’s get do themselves. No soft cocks in my films,” Drax said. Zion and Dave took up their rigs, while Drax brought out a large camcorder. Ben put on the jock, his erection hanging out the side, and sat breathing heavily on the bed’s edge. There was another knock. Zion, who was taking off his shoes on the second bed next to the door, he reached up and opened it. Three more felons came in, nodding to everyone in the room. Some knew each other, some not. Didn’t matter. This wasn’t a social call. “Hang up your clothes next to the bathroom,” directed Drax. “Get hard. Even if you’re not in the shot,” Drax instructed, “I want you hard. You can suck each other if you want, but don’t cum. No fucking, except to fuck this kid. Anybody got STDs?”

A tall big dicked Irish guy, his shirt still on but pants on the floor, raised his hand tentatively. “Clap,” he said.

“Okay, just so you all know, in case any of you do any felching. It’s on you, but felching will get you three c's, if that’s incentive, just snowball it to the kid, don’t swallow.” Drax opened a second camcorder case. “Mac,” he said to the guy with gonorrhea, “you’re my second camera when you’re not fucking him. Okay, so everyone’s clear. One c-note for each money shot. No money shot, no money. Let me hear it when you nut. Don’t think anyone hear is shy, right?” The men all laughed. “Kid, why don’t you break the ice and start sucking Zion’s big snake. Get your bubble butt in the air.” Drax turned on the camera as Zion spread his legs at the headboard and Ben started going down on him, his freckled shoulders down, his round ass high. That’s where Drax started, a big close-up of Ben light brown hole. Dry for now. 

Several men went into the bathroom to slam. Zion pushed Ben down on his growing pole. Dave and Mac crawled on either side of the bed slinking toward Ben. Mac got to Ben’s hole first and spat and began sucking on it, getting it juicy. Dave bent under Ben and started pinching his titties, slipped a hand and wanked Ben’s expansive meat. “He’s hard, Master Drax. You want to see it?”

“Suck it and choke on it. That’ll sell this kid. Don’t be dainty. If you puke you puke,” said Drax.

Dave went to town trying to take as much of Ben’s dong as he could. Ben did the same for Zion. Mac was at Ben’s hips, sliding his cock between Ben’s white butt cheeks, ready to bone him. Drax got the camera even with Mac’s cock, and recorded as it slowly penetrate Ben’s receptive ass. Ben let out a cry of distress and wantonness as the big Irish meat slipped in. As soon as Mac was completely buried, he pulled out and in rapidly quickening his pace. He climbed onto Ben’s ass and rode him fiercely. He bent over him, with Drax closing in on Ben’s face. You could see Mac whispering, “You want my disease, bitch? Want me to infect you? Knock you up, fucker?” 

“Yeah,” Ben got out, alternating between Zion’s and now Dave’s hard tools. “Yeah.” Mac yanked Ben off his knees and flipped him around, spread his legs and pushed back inside. He raped his hole while others sauntered around in the background, telling him to give him his load, encouraged his assault. Ben was spinning out of his mind, open and loving being Mac’s fuck bottom. 

“I’m cumming, bitch. Take my filthy load,” Mac said, pulling out, yanking his wet red meat, spurting over Ben’s balls and ass cheeks a full eight shots of long strands of white spooge. He took his still milking cock and wipe strings of diseased sperm and pushed it into Ben’s ass. He then penetrated him all the way up to his red pubes, and fucked him for a while longer holding his legs in the air. Dave licked up some of the spooge and fed it to Ben.

When Mac was finished with him, he rolled off and Dave was instantly inside Ben’s hole. Mac went up to Ben’s head and demanded to be cleaned off. Ben was milking Zion’s cock, keeping him hard, but made room for both the men in his mouth. He stuffed their cocks in his greedy maw and got a nice moan out of them as their cockheads slithered over each other, Ben’s tongue stimulating them both. Zion, at his peak of excitement, pushed Dave off and climbed straight over Ben’s torso. He pulled Ben in the air spreading his legs, standing fully upright on the bed with Ben dangling below. The other men laughed and cheered as Zion twisted the kid in mid-air and plugged him while he was suspended. It was a spectacular act of precision, appreciated by Drax, but even more by a surprised, ecstatic Ben. Zion fell back on the bed penetrating Ben balls deep. Ben had never had anyone that big in him before and never so suddenly. Drax was there to pick up every yowl and shriek that Zion was so good at producing in pretty white boys.

Dave was aggravated at having been shoved off but provided Zion with some ball and shaft licking as he fucked Ben. Dave’s tongue traced Ben’s hole as Zion’s priapic tool plowed away. Seemed like Zion and Dave had done this before. 

Ben was higher than fuck and enjoying every minute of this. He was starting to come off the initial rush, but his sense of reality was out of whack. As he was getting fucked by the biggest, blackest dick ever, and getting his asshole licked at the same time, he looked over and saw himself on television. Drax had the camcorder hooked up to check lighting and framing, but to Ben it was like he was living in two realities, both mind-blowingly fucked up. He felt Zion pummeling his hole, Dave’s tongue flicking his balls, but he also split off a part of himself, living in the image of himself getting fucked by a big, hot black stud, and teased by a horny gremlin determined to devour his balls. He floated between the live version of himself and the one for posterity, comingling in his brain. He was forced through his senses to live in the moment of each thrust Zion crushed him with, yet he also watched himself on TV—he was the main character, this guy getting gang-fucked by a series of anonymous strangers in a tawdry motel room. 

The men started blending into each other. Crystal made reality blur. Hours flew by. Two white lights followed every move he made or men made his make. A leg on the side of the bed where a second black guy was pumping in him from behind, a camera under his balls, watching his semi-erect dick hanging out his jock strap, bobbing up and down. A dark haired guy with a goatee, handsome in a hardened way, lay spread eagle on the bed. Ben crawled over him and bounced on the man’s long stiff P.A.'d cock, feeling the metal ramming his guts while he watched himself on TV bouncing on that same hard and handsome guy. The guy sneered up at him euphorically. Fuck, he never felt so good!

He was pushed forward by Zion who wanted another piece of him. Still penetrated by the guy on the bed, Zion pushed his immense cockhead in Ben's elastic hole and slid his hard shaft up alongside the hard and handsome guy already inside. Ben had never been double dicked before and couldn’t believe how ripped open he felt, nor how good it was. Pain, pleasure, degradation, satisfaction could all exist together. Who knew? Better yet, with his head to the side he got to watch the spectacle outside himself, how others saw it, on the monitor. He thrust back on the men’s cocks, gratifying his ass as well as appreciating how visually hot it looked. He was in a feedback loop, making himself harder the more intense it looked, which increased the intensity of how it felt, which made him fuck himself even harder on their cocks—chicken and egg. And it wasn’t just him. Hard and handsome got more aroused and so did Zion. Both cocks engorged to their peak of arousal, their girths in overdrive, which only stretched Ben’s hole wider. He slammed into his tops as they ‘bated into him. There was sort of internal quake, a psychic agreement, a chord struck, and all three exploded together. No money shot for Drax—Ben’s hole got flooded and he himself, sandwiched by the two men, shot all over hard and handsome’s hairy chest. No, no money shot, but it paid off even better with the ecstatic chorus of howls produced by three men cumming in unison. Their orgasmic faces were priceless on camera, you didn’t need to see it to believe it, the audible growls and roars palpable to the men in the room, and still Drax got to end the shot intimately crouched between the men’s legs—Ben’s hole leaking out a deluge of cum, running out all over the bed; two sets of balls twitching, draining, with a pool of white semen soaking the sheets.

***

It was the strangest sensation, and not altogether unpleasant, like a tickle but more satisfying. A tickle in his groin that blossomed in his belly and spread to the rest of his body. The opposite of a thought, a sensation that led him to a strange memory of the first time someone had rimmed him. 

Manetti lost to his teammate Enge in an after school practice wrestling match. This was in his senior year of high school, not a good year for him. He’d known Coach since he made the team his sophomore year, and after punching the mat after he lost the match, Coach made him hang back, wanted to help him deal with his anger. His parents were divorcing and he was supposed to pick a parent to stay with for the rest of the semester. Coach was aware of that. Manetti was furious with Enge for beating him, but more with himself for letting Enge get the upper hand. Life sucked generally and now specifically. 

Coach sat down on the mat next to him, draped his arm over his shoulder. Manetti sat there in the team’s blue unitard trying not to show emotion. Couch was this very attractive middle aged guy, greying at the temples but knew how to take care of himself, who always favored Manetti, whether in Coach’s math class, or on Coach’s wrestling team. “You know what you did wrong, don’t you?” Coach asked him, trying to get him to stop fuming.

“I had my arm too far forward and it had all my weight. I was off-balance,” Manetti replied, masking his melancholy with anger. “Enge took advantage.”

“No,” said Coach, “you let him get into your head. I saw your face. You were mad at him and you let emotion take over. You were all defensive. You can never get the upper hand if that’s all you are. That’s what beat you. It wasn’t Enge.” Manetti sat there, downcast, staring at the wrestling mat. “But I get it, Mike. I would be all defensive too. You have to go the lawyers tomorrow, don't you? Make a decision?” Manetti nodded his head. Coach pulled up his chin and brushed some of his wild chestnut hair out of his eyes.

The unitard had always been a very vulnerable and unforgiving uniform. Your cock’s outline was always apparent. Because he had such a big one, everyone was always aware of it. But now, especially, feeling miserable and being comforted by a man he’d always admired, who always had taken him under his protective wing, now literally, raised his chin and made him look him in the eye. He couldn’t help but his truest feelings were beginning to show. He felt his crotch stirring.

“You’re eighteen. Only a few more month and you’ll be off to NYU, so whatever you decide is temporary. Both your folks love you. That will never change.” Coach was warm, smelled good, but it was becoming obvious that Manetti was getting a hardon. Coach was slightly embarrassed, “Why don’t you hit the showers, champ. Come to my office and we’ll talk afterwards, if you want.”

Manetti tried to crouch and slink off, to try and not emphasize how big of a boner he had. That was the first time that ever happened, but he’d never been held so intimately by a man before. He slipped off his uniform and hung it in his locker. In the shower his dick was still at half-mast but he didn’t care, he was alone. He put his head under the warm water and just let it run over him. 

He heard the locker room door lock, and saw Coach now as naked as he was, a figure as sculpted as Zeus, coming through the shower’s steam sporting a man-sized hardon. He’d masturbated late at night, fantasizing something like this might happen. Coach wore a wedding band, but apparently that didn’t matter. The man bent down on his knees and put Manetti’s stiffening cock in his mouth. It was the most incredible feeling he’d ever had. Water was running over his shoulders and splashing over Coach’s head. He shut off the shower and held Coach’s head while it bobbed up and down over his large appendage. He was going to shoot any second and he wanted to make the moment last longer than five seconds. He dropped to his knees and kissed Coach. He’d never before kissed a man on the mouth. His shaved face grazed Coaches face. He pulled back astonished at the sensation. Something he wanted to do for years, and now felt he had permission. Coach pulled his face back to his. Their kiss was passionate, earnest, sincere. Innocent as much as it was taboo. A onetime only encounter the Coach said after that day. Never to be allowed again, but remembered always. And right in the middle of the shower room, Coach did something unexpected. He brought Manetti down on the warm, wet tiles, laid him on his back, and lifted his muscular hairy legs apart. He spread Manetti open and drove his tongue straight into his butthole. 

Manetti was stunned he’d do that to his hairy hole, stick his tongue in there and start licking around, swirling it in circles, licking like a dog would, spreading his butt hair outward, always coming back to his center, tickling that sweet spot, a place he’d never imagine someone, especially this man who he’d looked up to for years, would ever want to put his mouth there. How delicious, sublime, dirty and obscene it felt.

Something was now feeling as good as that first rim job he’d gotten by his wresting coach ten years ago.

He opened his eyes and awoke in the recovery suite, his gown pulled up to his chin and the doctor was licking him between his legs. But it wasn’t a blow job he was getting. His dick was missing. He was shaved and flat down there. His hairy legs were secured to the end of the bed, spread apart, and both arms had plastic ties anchoring him to the guardrails.

“What the fuck?!” he yelled. He got a good look and saw where his massive meat used to be was a slit, a cunt, pussy lips still wet from where the doctor’s mouth had been. He shrieked, “What the fuck did you fuckin’ do to me?!” Manetti rocked furiously against the bed, thrusting up his hips knocking the doctor away. He thundered out a banshee’s wail that reverberated far beyond the room, screeches of terror and fury echoing in the garden, flying to the sky. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you!” he roared, his face contorting demonically. “I’ll fuckin’ tear you apart!” He rocked the heavy hospital bed until it came close to toppling.

The doctor shouted over his frenzy, “Do you want to be sedated again?” Manetti didn’t let up. He convulsed up and down, saying how he wanted to rip him apart, while trying to break free of his bindings. The ties around his arm showed red marks, bulging skin. The doctor persisted evenly, “Do you want me to knock you out for another four days? Is that what you want?”

Manetti suddenly stopped. He looked down at his missing member. In a rasping voice, he said, “I’ll fucking rip your lungs out. What the fuck have done to me?”

“If you calm down, I’ll tell you.” Manetti looked at him with fury in his eyes, eyes that bulged, eyes that flamed red. “I’ve given you a simple sex reassignment. Your organ was merely inverted. I just tested you and you responded as so many others have. It is pleasurable you’ll find. You’ll derive as much pleasure as you had before. More actually. You’ll be pleasantly surprised, I predict.”

“Let me tell you what I predict, motherfucker.” Manetti began slowly, vehemently, each word committed to the violence he intended to pursue. “I predict, at some point, you’re going to have to let me go. And then. I will. Raze you. To the ground!” Again he erupted with even greater rage. The wheels of the bed rocked about to tip over.

The doctor smiled his joyless smile, eyes that were dead of human empathy. “Then we simply must not let you go,” he stated, taking up a hypodermic needle and sticking it into the IV drip’s tube.

Manetti fought with all his will to cling to his rage, but the drug injected was sapping him of strength, quickly making him compliant. He was calmly breathing, though with madness lingering in his eyes, but he was trapped inside a mutilated body that couldn’t fight. The doctor observed his quelling state, and once again approached him. He bought with him a camera and, with a clack over his crotch, recorded his handiwork. He set the camera aside, wet his middle finger, then cupped his hand over Manetti’s shaved cunt, slithering his middle finger up inside. There was not a thing Manetti could do about it. The fight had deserted him leaving the shell of his body behind. The doctor bent over and once again buried his mouth over his delicate vulva, fluttering its lips apart with his tongue. 

Manetti drifted off, his mind twirling down a rabbit hole. He fell onto his back on the white, wet tiles of the locker room ten years before, and Coach was between his legs, ravishing his beautiful, virginal mangina.
 

[Fistcumslut]

Awesome... and I 'm sure his mangina will not stay virgin for long

[Fistcumslut]

It was late night when I 've read it so I hadn't the time nor the mood for longer comments.

Wow, Shoreboy always leave me wordless, nice story ... maybe the final could be a little weird but IMHO it's a valid and plausible alternative to a death sentence by Drax.

I know maybe a term like mangina or vagina is disturbing even more than the devil's names, if so please consider it as another fuck hole and maybe soon another FFuck hole, name it frontal anus or whatever you like.

Manetti is still a man, he think, act and cry like a man, nothing has been created, nothing has been destroyed but simply transformed.

[Fistcumslut]

16 minutes ago, Fistcumslut said:

I know maybe a term like mangina or vagina is disturbing even more than the devil's names, ...

Sorry, it was my intention to write " is for someone disturbing".

We now live in a Pangender, Pan ethnic and multicultural society and all those things doesn't disturb me at all.

[cumbro]

This is simply amazing, without doubt the finest fiction I’ve ever read here, or anywhere for that matter. It takes BZ to a new level. Thank you!

[Arcaner]

2 hours ago, Fistcumslut said:

It was late night when I 've read it so I hadn't the time nor the mood for longer comments.

Wow, Shoreboy always leave me wordless, nice story ... maybe the final could be a little weird but IMHO it's a valid and plausible alternative to a death sentence by Drax.

I know maybe a term like mangina or vagina is disturbing even more than the devil's names, if so please consider it as another fuck hole and maybe soon another FFuck hole, name it frontal anus or whatever you like.

Manetti is still a man, he think, act and cry like a man, nothing has been created, nothing has been destroyed but simply transformed.

I'm a fan of the term "Bonus hole", but I'm not sure it was in common usage back in the bad old days when the gipper was still in the White House.

[seattlebbbtm]

Brilliantly written but the reassignment leaves me disappointed 

[deepfix]

I love the detail and twists to this story, riveting read -  I wonder how Chris will react to his mentor's "modification" - and what he will be given to enjoy/accept...........

[Fistcumslut]

7 hours ago, seattlebbbtm said:

Brilliantly written but the reassignment leaves me disappointed 

I totally understand your point of view, we all will miss his cock but Manetti isn't just a cock... He has already demonstrate how he does sex with all his body, not really a fuck 'n go.

His life is mainly made by sex & lust, love is an option, indeed a possibility but still a non necessary option and even if it will happen I suppose he will never been engaged in a 1:1 relationship.

So why should he matter about his cock when he can have his beloved ones, his partners, his victims fucked by someone else or many others else?

Edited March 18, 2018 by Fistcumslut

[studlyjo]

WOW! For a man like Manetti, an alpha male even when he bottoms, this is the hardest punishment. It's  really the ultimate rape.  Great writing, EVIL mind! What the fuck is next?!

[shoreboy]

You nailed it @studlyjo Then this happened...

[shoreboy]

11. Manetti Unleashed

Both under influence, we had divine sense,
To know what to say: mind is a razor blade

In the photo, Mike’s and Ben’s arms drape over each other. Chris took the Polaroid off the refrigerator to examine as he ate leftover soup. Staring at the image for quite a while, and thinking about them over the past several days, Mike and Ben’s loved seemed so casual, almost sloppy. Unafraid of putting love on display—whether quiet love staring at him in a photo like this, or howling on a VHS tape, fists flying up each other’s asses in crazed ecstasy—they remained unfazed if there were someone else in the picture, as long as, at the end of the day, they both came back to this dingy apartment. Hard to wrap his mind around it. He was envious, but not jealous, of their pact. Weighing their casual love in his hand, he ran a thumb across Mike’s face. He knew what he had to do, he just didn’t know how to do it. He needed Ben.

It’d been several days since he returned to the apartment with his new nipple rings and small Prince Albert. He’d been soaking the P.A. in a cup of salt water as Dr. Buchon had instructed. It was pretty much heeled. The doctor said the salty urine would make him heal faster so he peed at every opportunity. His cock was tender but didn’t throb anymore. He even wacked off last night watching porn. It gave him this really massive orgasm, tickling him under the hood, as it were. He didn’t know that that came with the territory. He thought about what it’d be like when he got it in his first manhole. He hoped Manetti would let it be his. 

He remembered vividly the needles that pierced his tits, but the actual memory of receiving the P.A. that was a lot duller. He recalled that pain was nothing compared to the earlier torture the doctor had put him through. If the butterfly and the needles through his cockhead was a ten, the P.A. was about a six. It remained, though, way back in his mind, the dildo machine foregrounded, with a vague but intense slicing pain in his dick sometime in the middle of the night. It was like a gut punch in the blackness, but it quickly faded. Gauze wrapped his peter, but the dildo machine, which persisted unabated, was all he felt for hours and hours until the black hood came off in the morning.

The doctor released him to Drax at noon. Drax played with his new nipple adornments, causing Chris to flinch at each touch. The doctor reminded Drax that they needed to heel before he played rough with them. Drax acknowledged this, which was why he figured he’d been left alone in Mike and Ben’s apartment for the past couple of days. 

Ben was asleep when he got back Monday afternoon. He laid down next to his brother, fell quickly asleep, and didn’t wake up for an entire day. Tuesday Ben was still snoring away. Chris went to the refrigerator, looked inside and found the soup Mike had made days before. It smelled okay, so he heated it up and ate it at the kitchen table taking the Polaroid in hand. While studying the photo, he felt Drax’s presence across the airshaft observing him. He wished Ben and Mike had invested in curtains or something, but he figured that was part of the arrangement. He also wished Ben would wake up. 

At nightfall, he again climbed into bed with Ben and put on one of their many videotapes. All they owned was porn, some with them in it, some of other guys. He put on one that he thought they weren’t in but, sure enough, three scenes in, Ben and Mike were at it at some cheap motel with a guy Mike was calling Dad, although the guy didn’t look like him. Then the cameraman got involved sticking his dick into the shot, but by that time he’d already jacked off, surprised by his intense orgasm, and wasn’t really paying attention anymore and fell asleep.

The next day he got up, put on jeans and his Ramones t-shirt and shuffled into the kitchen. He searched the cupboard looking for food, when he heard rustling coming from the bedroom. He peeked in and saw Ben sitting up. He ran over and threw his arms around him. Ben clutched him back tight, wrestled him to the ground, crushed him, rolling side to side in a tremendous bear hug.

He drank in Chris face. “Buddy, you are the absolute best and last thing I expected to see,” Ben said warmly embracing him. “What can I say? I made a tremendous mis…” He didn’t’ want to finish the sentence and instead kissed his cheek, and squeeze him again.

An awkward moment of silence passed between them, neither knowing what to say. Chris ended it. “You know what you can say? You can say you’ll help me get Mike out.”
“Mike? From where?” Ben asked, clutching his crotch painfully. He got up a bit wobbly. “Where is he? Sorry, bud, but I gotta piss like a race horse. Keep going.” As Ben stumbled crouched over heading for the bathroom, Chris inspected his brother’s scarred back. It was a horrible crisscross of healed over slashes. He looked down, troubled and puzzled. Ben’s eruption in the toilet bowl rang deep and thunderous. 

“He’s at this Doctor Buchon’s clinic,” Chris called to him. 

“Buchon? Nasty fucker,” hollered Ben over his pissing.

“I know he’s in trouble, Ben,” Chris said. When Ben came back in, Chris began filling him in on his misadventure since he’d come back from Fire Island. He related graphically the fight with the orderlies, Mike getting knocked out, and his own experience with the doctor. Ben sat down next to Chris, lit a cigarette and, with a knitted brow, looked him over. Chris told him about his P.A. and pulled up his t-shirt to show Ben his nipple rings, as if it was proof he wasn’t lying about any of the events. He felt sure Mike was in trouble, he said. “He hasn’t come back for four days now and Master Drax was really pissed off at him for taking me to The Pines. We have to get him out, Ben,” Chris pleaded. “I think they’re going to skin him alive.”

Ben glanced across the airshaft, took a drag off his smoke, then looked back at Chris. “He’s been gone since Sunday? And what’s today, Wednesday?” Chris nodded. “I promise you, they won’t kill him. That’s not Drax or Buchon’s style. But I agree with you, we gotta get him out.” Ben put on underwear and pants, dressing and thinking while he talked. “I’ve been to Buchon’s clinic too many times to count and, let me tell you, you got off lucky with only light CBT.” Chris shivered that that was considered light. “I can’t imagine what Mike’s going through for four days. He’s gotta be deranged.” Ben took another hit, rubbed his eyebrow sleepily, and exhaled pensive. “Why’d he take you to Fire Island in the first place?”

Chris thought for a moment, and then relayed the whole saga with the crooks, the dead family, and finding the money in the air duct. He skipped over the buried treasure part in case Master Drax had the apartment bugged, and avoided the whole Towel Party because he was afraid where that could lead. He wasn’t ready to talk about any of that with Ben, and Ben never directly brought it up. But even so, Chris saw his brother in a new light, a light he could never have understood before he came to New York. He’d no real experience with so much that he’d experienced since he met Mike, and what Mike and Jamal and Master Drax and so many others had shown and done to him, so much pleasurable and some not so much. He struggled to put this feelings about it into words. It was impossible, he couldn’t really, it was too fresh, unprocessed, but he tried anyway. “So am I weird? Maybe I’m just a freak, Ben,” Chris began shyly, “but when that doctor forced me to cum with his vibrator with all those needles in me, I’ve never had anyone hurt me so bad—‘cept maybe dad, but he never did it down there—but when the doctor make me to shoot, I’ve never shot that hard before.” Chris looked at the floor, embarrassed, then made his way up to his brother’s understanding face. “Is that why you do it, Ben? Like what you did to your back. Because somehow you want to have that feeling again?”

Ben took a final drag off his Marlboro, exhaled, and then stubbed it out. He pulled on a rugby shirt and stood up. “Put your shoes on, kiddo. That’s how we’re getting in.”

***

Lightly sedated but awake, he kept hearing a series of cracks. He focused his eyes. If it was lightning outside there were no accompanying flashes. They continued. No, they were too methodical, too evenly spaced, sharp and deliberate. He shook his head trying to get rid of cobwebs in his head. Then one last piercing snap! Unmistakably, it was an echoing report of a whip biting flesh down in the garden. There was some indistinguishable murmuring from below, then the murmuring became faint until it was quiet.

Eyewitness news was playing softly on the television console. Frank Fields at the weather desk pointed to a fast moving summer storm traveling across central New Jersey. It would hit the city within the next hour, he related, and Long Island an hour after that. Maybe the cracks he’d heard were approaching thunder. His brain had been fried long ago, so putting two and two together was a struggle. Big orderly Barkley was sitting on the blue velvet settee looking as if any second he’d break its delicate legs. The orderly stared at the TV with his lower lip protruding. Manetti expected drool might fall off any second.

Barkley looked over at him. “You’re awake,” he said.

“You got a keen eye there, pal,” Manetti replied. He flexed his hands bound to the rails. “Hey, wadda ya say. These things are cutting off my circulation. How ‘bout you loosen the straps just a little.” Barkley ignored him. “Really. Feels like my hands are numb.”

“Doctor says not to. He says I can play with you however I want, but not to fuck your pussy. Not yet. He says you like to get fuck in your ass. I can fuck your asshole, he said. If I want. Strap your legs up to those hooks.”

Manetti looked up and saw the leg straps on the headboard he was talking about. “Oh, he said you could do that, huh?” The big orderly nodded. “Well, how you gonna do that with my legs strapped at the bottom of the bed? How you supposed to get to my hole if everything is pinned down? You gonna break the laws of physics, Einstein?”

“He says I can undo your legs and tie them above your head, but under no circumstances am I to loosen your arms. Not even a little bit. You’re a cagy one, he says.”
Manetti stared straight ahead out the open French Doors. It was humid and the air was still. At the top of the garden wall light was hitting at an obtuse angle, but fading slowly, he guessed, because of the approaching storm. “You might want to close those doors, Mongo,” Manetti said. “Maybe turn up the A.C. a little.”

“I don’t like a be cold. And my names Barkley, not Mongo,” he snapped, annoyed.

“I don’t give a fuck what your name is, pal. You’re nothing but shit to me.”

Barkley turned up the sound on the remote as the weatherman handed off coverage to sports. “You best watch your mouth, freak. You know, you ain’t in no position to mouth off.”

The freak comment struck Manetti deeper than it ought to have, although he didn’t allow it to show, but it did keep him quiet for a few minutes. The sedative was definitely wearing off, and what had kept him calm was now emerging as anger mixed with good dollop of depression. Maybe he could get Barkley to just off him, put a pillow over his face, put him out of his misery.

“Hey, Mongo, so why don’t you fuck my ass. I haven’t had my ass diddled for a couple of days, and I could sure use a nice, tiny prick up my butt. Wadda ya say?”

“I’m Barkley!” he insisted. “I want to see sports first, and then I gotta see Spin the Wheel. Then maybe I’ll fuck ya. If you’re lucky.”

“Oh, I’d be lucky alright. I’d be the luckiest guy in the world, or am I the luckiest girl in the world now?”

“Hush,” Barkley warned, making a fist, turning up the sound once more. The sports announcer shouted off highlights from last night’s Yankee’s and Mets’ games. The Mets coverage showed a melee breaking out in the bleachers over a foul ball. Fans were climbing over each other to get to it.

“I don’t know, Mongo,” Manetti yelled over the television. “I still feel like a guy. I still sound like a guy. I got a guy’s urges,” said Manetti. “Somehow, I still feel like I want to fuck your mama.”

Barkley shot up off the settee and stomped over to Manetti. A cloud of thought passed across his face. He looked at the door, then punched Manetti in the face. “You don’t talk about my mother.” Manetti picked his head off the bed. With his tongue he felt a thin red line where his lip split. He snapped his teeth and growled at Barkley, trying to get a piece of him, but as big as Barkley was, he agilely jumped back. “Anyway, you ain’t got nothin’ to fuck with no more, freak,” he scoffed and tittered.

Manetti flexed his hands wanting to get at the orderly. He eyed the man standing still beside him. The orderly had lost focus on him and was watching the television instead. “I don’t know, Barkley,” he confided. “I still got a couple of fists I could stick up your mama’s flabby old twat!” he snarled.

Barkley was back at his head again and this time smacked Manetti a few times in the face. Manetti’s head bounced to the side against his pillow leaving it blood stained. He laughed madly at the orderly, coughing out some red spittle. “Yeah,” he taunted, “I still got two good fists. One for her sloppy cunt and one for her shit-stained ass.”

The orderly was seething. “You’re a pig, freak,” he shouted, taking off one of Manetti leg straps. “I’ll show you who’s gonna get a fist. Even if I can’t touch your pussy, I can still punch your asshole. Doctor said I could.”

“Yeah, Mongo, punch my hole. Punch it, you fuckin’ dumb ass bitch.” Manetti kept working the guy up in a froth. “Yeah, fist me Mongo. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Bet you do this every night you get home, don’t cha? Hey, mama! Time for your sponge bath and fist fuck!” Barkley undid his other leg and pushed Manetti’s legs up in the air, leaning over Manetti, getting a strap ready at the headboard. “Mama likes baby’s big mitts in her smelly butthole, don’t she boy?” Barkley bent over Manetti’s torso, anger overcoming and frustrating him because Manetti’s feet were dodging and uncooperative. He couldn’t get his feet in the overhead straps. Then in one move Manetti got both feet against the orderly’s shoulder and shoved him with all the power of his muscular thighs. Barkley went flying back, airborne for a moment, then hitting the ground stumbling back, arms flailing on both side like a crazy windmill. The orderly passed through the French doors, just about regaining his balance, but took one last step back, hit the low balcony ledge, and flipped over backwards. There was a split second of a high-pitched scream, then a tremendous splat, like three hundred pounds of wet Jell-O slapped the concrete. Manetti felt the sound and winced.

Two dim flashes of light lit the garden followed by a low, rolling thunder.

Manetti sat there breathing heavily, stunned, flexing his anchored hands uselessly. His eyes flicked around the room. “Great move, genius,” he mumbled to himself. “Now what?”

From the TV, a very excited contestant squealed, “Pat, I’d like to buy a vowel.” 

***

Chris pressed the intercom button below the video lens and waited. 

“Yes,” came Dr. Bichon’s voice through the speaker.

“Um, Dr. Bichon. I wonder if I could come up,” Chris said to the camera.

“For what purpose, son?” replied the doctor.

Chris looked around him. A lady with her Pekinese passed on the sidewalk in back of him. “Uh, I’d rather not say out here, if you know what I mean.” The door buzzed and Chris slipped in. The plan was to drop a small tree branch so that Ben could come in a few seconds later. Then he and Chris would force the doctor to tell them where Mike was. Pretty solid plan. Chris set the branch down and made sure the door remained ajar, then went inside looking back over his shoulder at Ben waiting across the street.

He took the stairs to the second floor and called out for Doctor Bichon. Down the hallway, the orderly with the close-cropped haired, the one that had yanked him out of the Camero, marched toward him. “He’s on three, waiting for you,” he leered, passing Chris as he went down the staircase two steps at a time. At the entrance the orderly came across the tree branch wedged in the door and kicked it out as he left.

Ben was forced to wait as the orderly took the stoop’s steps two at a time, and then ambled toward Madison. By the time Ben got to the entrance, the heavy glass and iron door had just click, and their plan derailed. Ben paced frantically scanning the front of the building. Above the roof, clouds were forming, blocking out the sun. It was getting prematurely dark and he didn’t know what to do.

To Chris, the hallway seemed darker than the first time he was here. He heard the familiar tic-toc of the grandfather clock and crept down the hallway to its end. The old-fashion examination room was open. Dr. Bichon wrapped the lab coat around his otherwise naked body. Chris went inside and Bichon closed and locked the door.

“What a pleasant surprise to see you so soon,” he said. He patted the metal tabletop. “Master Drax said we would have weekly session to acclimatize you to high levels of tolerance. He seems to think, and I would agree, you have strong masochistic tendencies. It appears you’re taking the initiative, which is always a good sign, but, to be honest with you, if you’re anything like your brother, I’m not truly surprised.” Chris climbed cautiously up on the table. “How are you little nipple rings? Sore or tolerable.”

“They’re okay, doctor.” Chris wondered where Ben was. He should have been here by now. The plan didn’t include Bichon locking him inside, and certainly didn’t include getting back in that hood and getting slammed with meth again. 

The doctor raised Chris t-shirt and gently pulled Chris’ rings. He spoke to Chris low and seductively, “Does this feel erotic to you? Does it cause a stir?” Chris nodded. “Your pupils. When was your last medication?”

“I guess Master Drax has been letting me alone so my P.A. heels.”

“Well that’s no good at all,” said the doctor, going to his cabinet to prepare an injection.

“Truth is, Doctor Bichon,” Chris blurted out spontaneously, “the medication makes me forget so much and I really think you’re probably the hottest man I ever met. You did things no one ever has. All night when the machine was fucking me?” Bichon eyed him warily. “Honest, doctor, that’s all I thought about that night, when that machine was inside me, was what it would be like if it was you. It’s what I’ve been thinking about every night since. It’s what I got off thinking about last night, the first time I came with my P.A. No matter what you want to do to me now, no matter what I had to do to earn it, I swear I’d do it, just to have you fuck me once.” Jesus Christ, where was Ben? He didn’t know how much longer he could fake this. He masked his feeling and pleaded with his eyes as much as he could.

Bichon considered the offer. “Anything I want, just to fuck you once?” A sly smile curled his thin lips. “You know I don’t use safe words?” Chris nodded. “And my strongest addiction is to the whip.” He waited for Chris’ reaction. None was forthcoming. “Ask your brother. I was the one to first lead him down that path. Perhaps, a gene runs in the family.” Bichon ran a hand inside Chris’ jean. Chris smiled as the doctor groped his cock, playing with his P.A. “You agree to the lash, accompany me to the garden where I can introduce you to the whip?” 

Chris nodded, keeping his poker face. “Yes, Doctor Bichon. If that’s what I need to do? But then you’ll fuck me?”

“I warn you, I won’t be starting off gentle. Spare the rod, spoil the meat, is what I say. Leave your clothes up here and wear this collar and leather jock. I don’t want the whip to damage your genitals. That’ll be my desert.” Chris put on the leather gear. “Good boy. Magnificent.” Bichon removed his lab coat, already in his leather harness and knee-high boots. He curved cock was fully erect. “Proceed,” he said unlocking the door.

They went down the stairs to the garden level, and stopped before an oak armoire. Bichon unlocked it. Inside were a series of whips, canes, floggers, and riding crops. He studied Chris for a while. Chris tried to look calm, although his heart raced fearing Ben wasn’t coming. Bichon picked up some nylon rope, then ran his hands over several whips. He landed on one, whose braided handle ended in an amber bead, a small preserved scorpion suspended inside. He traced the handle between Chris’ legs, which made Chris jump. 

“I want you to be intimate with this instrument for it will be intimate with you. It’s an Australian bullwhip given to me by a Saudi Prince fifteen years ago. It was made at the beginning of the century, nicely broken in by its many owners, all for the same purpose. It is the first whip I used on your brother. I would say it still is his favorite.” Bichon ran the long whip over his palm. “You see the handle connects to the lash, this braided part here? Fifteen feet in length. The lash connects to the fall, a single piece of leather another fifteen feet long. It ends in these strings called a cracker, which produces the pop.” Bichon’s eyes widen, and he exploded his fingers apart like fireworks. “The cracker you should not fear, it only makes a loud noise. The fall, this middle piece between the lash and cracker, it is what strikes and makes the deep cut. It does its damage long before you will hear the snap.” The doctor paused examining his victim. Satisfied with the fear building in Chris’ eyes, he ordered, “Allons!” and pushed him through the garden doors. 

The small bricked off area had a fountain on the right. Three trellises lined the back wall, each with ivy climbing them. Bichon marched Chris to the left trellis and ran one of the ropes through an eye loop on one side of the trellis anchored in brick. He pulled Chris arm up and put it through the slipknot. “You see, you are not even locked in place.” He took Chris’ other hand and slipped it on the other side of the trellis. Chris faced the ivy biting his lip for fear this was actually going to happen. “You are free at any time to disengage, but then that will be the end of the session, and you will go home and not return. Comprends-tu? Donc, no fuck. Shall we begin?”

Chris was frozen, not able to respond. “Uh…” he said hesitantly.

“Forgive me. That was not really a question. It was rhetorical.” Bichon pulled both of Chris’ arms down sharply and the slipknots tighten, trapping him to the wall. Bichon pulled each rope a bit and re-knotted so Chris was on tiptoe, dangling. Now there was no escape. “No, no, my son, no chance to disengage now.” Bichon smiled watching Chris trying to balance on his toes with his arm stretched like wings.

Whether he wanted it or not, Chris was part of Bichon’s scene. A moment later he heard a whirring in the air behind him, and suddenly he felt something like a red hot poker shred his back, followed on top of it by the whip’s crack. It echoed against the bricks and flew into the gathering clouds. The pain was like a knife of fire slicing his back, cutting deep down to his spine.

From the sidewalk, Ben recognized that crack. He knew what it meant. Bichon had pulled out the Australian bullwhip and he feared who was on the receiving end. 

In the garden the whirring began again. Chris counted three rotations in the air, and then felt his skin flay as a lightening crack reverberated in the garden. A knife ripping flesh from his back in an opposite diagonal. “What? No tears, Christian?” mocked Bichon. “Not even a small cry for doctor to stop?”

Chris stared straight ahead, focused on the leaves of ivy, extinguishing everything else in his mind and everything else in his field of vision. He gazed at the darkness between the leaves, the negative space where nothing existed, when the whirr took up again, and once again a blow streaked across his back and exploded skyward. All pain was internalized, screaming inside his core, silent outwardly.

Ben leapt up on the wall, began clawing the building, frantically trying to scale the sculpted cement. He made it halfway to the second story windows finding some ridges to scale, but before he made it up, another snap resounded from the building. It distracted him, his hand slipped, and his weight yanked him off the façade. He fell hard to the ground.

“Here is a lash for your buttocks to join those of your brother’s.” The whip whooshed in the air. “I was told your brother’s caused those welts but never broke the skin. Not this time, my son. Breaking skin is the point.” The whip slashed the air and cut across his ass cheeks, leaving a horizontal line that seeped a trail of red beads. 

Chris bit his lip hard. Teeth marks drew blood from his lower lip. 

“C’est très beau. Look at that. Two more on the ass to make a star.” Two quick slices through the air, two resounding cracks of the whip, and Chris’ butt became a crisscross of slashes.

Chris collapsed against his bindings. He didn’t weep or sob, but his face was contorted in pain. His head fell into the trellis leaves. In the hot, humid air, the ivy felt cool against his forehead. He didn’t crying but salt water stained the leaves. His will was indomitable. Pain couldn’t conquer him. Not yet.

“I am impressed. Even your brother couldn’t take seven lashes. He begged after only five. The Prince himself could take only six. No other initiate has done as well. Christian, you arouse me. I am very hard. Here feel.” Chris slumped into the ivy and Bichon picked up his hand for him to feel his erection. “Let us break the record with one last strike, and then consummate your victory.”

Chris forced himself to stand again, to suffer but not surrender. Bichon stepped back. He heard the whip spin through the air for an eternity. It cracked over Bichon’s head before the doctor brought it down, ripping over Chris’ shoulder, slicing skin along a trail that cut down his breast bone. And again, the whip came down a second time, ripped down to his ribs, whirled in the air, until it fell on him for a third and final time. He looked down and saw the damage of his torn chest. He started to convulse. Suddenly, Bichon was there, holding him in his arms, unstrapped his hands. “Ten times, my son. You shall go down in my journal.” Bichon cradled him like the Pietà, sitting on the iron bench, kissing both his cheeks, feeling him thrash and shudder in his arms. He waited for Chris to come back from where he had sent him, and then carried him back into the clinic.

The doctor stood him up at the stairs to see if he could walk. Chris stumble with his arm draped over the doctor’s bare shoulder. “You are in shock, my love,” the doctor said as they climbed the stairs. “Don’t try to speak.” Chris collapsed on the third floor staircase and the doctor carried him the rest of the way. Within the antiquated examination room, Bichon propped Chris on the table ledge. Chris was coming out his fugue state when Bichon tried to make him lay back. The cold metal table against his torn skin made him jump up in pain. He was coming around. He sat on the edge, tasting blood on his lip, seeing lines of flayed skin across his chest. “You remain in shock,” repeated the doctor brushing his hair. Chris reached out and drew the doctor’s face to his, kissing him tenderly, climbed off the table, climbed onto the doctor, delirious, as if Bichon were a tree, a mountain, a tower to climb. The doctor had seen this before. A cascade of gratitude caused by a flood of endorphins, uncontrollable, unstoppable, insatiable. It made for the best kind of fuck. The doctor was hard and ready. 

“I want to milk you, Sir,” Chris rasped, a manic look in his eyes. “Please let me milk you. I want your seed. I need it in me.” 

The doctor smiled his joyless smile and climbed on the table as Chris worshipped him, licked his balls, ran his tongue from the bottom of his boots, up his thigh, and sucked on his dick down to his root, down to where the doctor’s trimmed pubes rubbed into his bleeding lips. He threw himself into a frenzy of lust, abandoned reason, enacted pure submission. He hovered over the doctor, running his tongue over the black hair of his armpit, so wet from his recent flagellation, so covered in musk, they both were seduced. Chris found lube on the counter, lathered his mangled ass and the doctor’s cock. He climbed on the table startling Bichon with deranged intensity, found the center of his hole, aligned the erection and impaled himself punishingly. The swiftness of Chris decent was unexpected and Bichon curled his toes in pleasure. Frantic and insane Chris was, hammering onto the doctor in a fervor of madness, again leaning over him, licking his pits, pushing the doctor’s arms to the table’s edge, flattening himself on him like a supplicant, running his tongue along the veins of his arms, gnawing, rutting against the man like a rabid animal, pleasuring the man with his oscillating bruise ass, pleasuring himself at the same time. The doctor closed his eyes in self-satisfaction, completely stretched out on the table, Chris fingering overhead until he found the straps he was seeking at the tables edge, and wrapped them tightly around Bichon’s wrists and knotted them above his head. He jumped down and, before Bichon fully grasped what was happening, he grabbed Bichon’s right legs and pulled it over a stirrup with all his weight. He held onto the man’s legs in a wrestler’s grip, searching for a leg strap, found it and knotted it so the right leg was secure over the stirrup. Bichon, with one leg free, kicked wildly at the kid, who dodged and weaved avoiding being struck. Chris picked up the metal tray of instruments, and tossed the tools to the ground. He raised the heavy tray above his head, and hurdled its sharp edge straight into the doctor’s kneecap. The man shrieked in agony, and Chris took quick advantage to secure the injured leg over the stirrup. In one movement the second leg was captured.

Ben came flying into the room drawn to the scream. Chris heaved with labored breath, taking in his accomplishment, then taking in his brother. “Where the fuck have you been?” Chris demanded, panting, bent over with his hands on his knees.

“Fuck! Dude,” Ben cried. “Your back!” At that moment there was a splat, like three hundred pounds of wet Jell-O hitting the back patio.

“Forget my back. Find Mike,” Chris urged his confused brother.

“He can’t get up?” Ben asked with suspicion. Chris shook his head while testing each of the straps. “This guy,” Ben stuttered, “this nurse, he came out after you went in and kick away the branch. I finally got in through the second floor and broke through the window.” Ben displayed his scraped fingers and cut palms.

“Find Mike, Ben,” Chris repeated. “Go!” Ben gave him a glance like he was seeing him for the first time, then shot out of the room running to where the splat had come from.

Chris stood near, but not too near, Doctor Bichon. “My old man,” Chris began, judging his abuser. “He’s dead. Cancer. Ate his brain from the inside. Didn’t know mom or me at the end. You know what, doctor? I couldn’t have cared less.” Chris circled him, examining him from different angles. “He was about as mean as a fuck as you. But honestly, compared to him, you’re a sadistic featherweight, Doctor Bichon.” Chris ripped off his collar and jock strap and threw it at him. “Costume,” he pronounced. He stood naked in front of Bichon displaying his bloody body. He climbed onto the metal exam table, stood tall between the man’s legs.

“You should let me go now. Master Drax inevitably will find out about. If you don’t release me I cannot help you. You, your brother, and your friend Manetti will pay. Truly, you will be skinned alive. I promise this will happen,” Bichon threatened.

Chris looked thoughtful for a moment, then began urinating over Bichon. As his stream of piss grew in strength, he aimed for the doctor’s face. Bichon laughed and swallow some of the piss at first, then as the stream was steady and strong, and wasn’t letting up, the force of it started making him choke. “My old man,” continued Chris, pissing hard, now urinating over the man’s whole body, “he used to give me the belt almost every Saturday night, whether I’d done anything to deserve it or not.” He finished pissing and climbed off the table. He put on his pants and shoes. His torso stung, so he gingerly pulled on his Ramones t-shirt. Blood stains seeped through the white cloth. “My favorite shirt,” he observed emotionless. “He wouldn’t, my old man, just give me the belt. No. He like to whip me with the buckle. Your whip hurt like fuck. It sure did.” He slapped his chest, and the pain of his torn chest warped his face but brought no tears. “Do you must know what metal feels like on a skinny body, on a bony body like mine? It rings, doctor. It rings through your bones like a bell. You hear it in your brain. I still hear it. Your whip? Feathers.”

Ben stormed into the room. “You should’ve seen it,” he told Chris. “Mike threw this big orderly over the balcony—big bloody mess—and he’s just hanging out watching Wheel of Fortune.” He was trying to make light of what he’d, not just the repulsive scene of the splattered orderly, but the shock of seeing Manetti with his gown above his neck. But he sensed immediately, looking at Bichon and Chris, knew that he’d interrupted something foreboding. Chris’ mood was as dark as he’d ever seen. Manetti’s walked into the room. His mood was darker. The promised storm broke over New York, and with it, thunder, lightning, and the wrath of Manetti.

Bichon, splayed helpless on the metal table, tried to remain composed. “As I promised, Christian, only a moment ago, it would be better for you, all of you, to release me. Drax would not stop until he has your skins. And I do mean literally. Michael, you’ve witnessed this.”

Manetti spoke so quietly, with rain pouring in the garden and thunder rumbling through the city canyons, he was barely audible. “I told you,” he said to Bichon, “that I would raze you.” He looked around the room, and spied a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “You have matches?” he said to Ben. Ben produced them. “When you skinned Johnson alive? Yeah, I remember. But I have in mind something different, faster, and I gather more painful. You won’t have the chance to skin me alive because I will roast the skin right off of you,” he said, pouring rubbing alcohol over hair, over his chest, his groin, feet and down the table. He then spilt the liquid behind him as he walked out the door. He showered the hallway walls, tossed some on the curtains. Ben backed Chris out of the room. Manetti looked at the doctor. “You took one invaluable thing from me. But now I’m taking everything from you.” 

Manetti flicked a match and dropped it on the alcohol-soaked carpet. Bichon howled mad laugher from his inner sanctum. The flames crawled the hallway walls, igniting chiffon curtains and oriental rugs. The flame followed the combustible trail back to the exam table. It crawled up and ignited the man entirely. His howls of laughter turned to screams of torment. Black smoke billowed and gathered at the ceiling. Just as Manetti, Ben and Chris made their way through the soot-filled corridor, at the staircase, a torched wraith, his bindings burnt away, ran toward them screaming the wail of the dying. The fiery specter collapsed in a heap of blackened flesh at the top of the stairs, inches from where they stood. They descended to the entrance, as the building around them engulfed into an inferno.

They stood in the torrential rain, mesmerized, their faces aglow from the clinic’s blaze. Far across the street, in the shadows, they still felt the heat. Firetrucks' red and blue lights illuminated their faces. The townhouse was gone. It acted like a chimney sucking in air from the base, rising up through the stony structure, erupting flames like a volcano, shooting fires from hell into heaven itself. 
 

[seattlebbbtm]

Off the charts literary art with crescendo prose. Simply brilliant