Abandon

[westfist]

So pleased you and your great writing are back @shoreboy. Thanks for your great stories. Has part 2 been deleted?

[njalondon]

So well written, more please

[twstdpigboy]

On 1/14/2022 at 2:30 AM, westfist said:

So pleased you and your great writing are back @shoreboy. Thanks for your great stories. Has part 2 been deleted?

I knew I had been reading more of this story  ... I think part 2 had been entitled "Possession". I was roughly 1/2 way through that chapter and it seemed to disappear when my screen refreshed ...

[pigwest]

Fuck, most excellent.  Though I fear something this dirty would not be allowed on this site.  Please let us know if you’ve posted the continuance elsewhere!? 

[shoreboy]

2. The Perfect Slave

Jesse’s reading a book on a chaise lounge by the pool, but he keeps losing his place. The shirtless pool man—most definitely a man, not a pool boy—glances his way a couple of times from the far end of the pool. This guy has to be, Jesse thinks, one of the most ruggedly handsome men he’s ever seen, even from this distance. Slim waist, washboard abs, broad shoulders, longish sun-lightened brown hair, scruffy beard with a full mustache and hairy sideburns, and chest hair that aches to have a hand run through it. He’s mister fantasy cowboy in gym short instead of chaps. No, more like one of those perfect guys in magazine ads for expensive watches or name-brand colognes—water beaded on sculpted pecs—pictures he jerked off to back in his Long Island bedroom.

The pool man squats holding his pH testing tubes up to the sun, his lats glisten with sweat, a tuft of black hair under his arm, muscular butt fills out his black gym shorts, thighs taut in a crouch, calves flexed, extra-large bare feet. Satisfied with the pH levels, he dumps the tube's liquid on the deck. He snaps up his kit and returns it to the shed where vacuum hoses, chlorine canisters, and other paraphernalia of his trade are kept.

Jesse shoves his face back in his book searching for where he left off. Absently he runs a hand over his newly-buzzed scalp. 

He’s totally caught off guard when the pool man calls over to him, “Hey, Cue-ball, what’cha readin’?” The pool man closes the shed doors and saunters around the pool in a stride that conveys supreme confidence. An unmistakable oscillation in his gym shorts leaves no question as to why he’s so confident. He sits on the edge of the adjoining chaise across from Jesse, folds his hands in front of him, elbows on knees leaning forward, the bare tip of foreskin peeking out from a leg of his loose silk shorts. “Looks dirty.”

Jesse feels his face flush as he again runs his hand self-consciously over his shaved head (a late night inspiration of Mr. McPherson's, reluctantly agreed to by him before he was allowed to go off to his quarters). In a way the buzz cut gives him a feeling of renewal, but he’s still getting used to it. Jesse flips the book around and inspects the two Tom of Finland men fucking on the cover. Trying to sound casual, he reads aloud the title: "The Perfect Slave."

“’Hah!” croaks the man. “Mac gave you a manual?”

“I dunno. It was in my room," Jesse says, squinting into the sun. "I think it's just a made-up story.” He only now notices some disturbing welts on the man’s wide shoulders he hadn't seen from far away. “All the books in my room are about slaves and masters and junk. Some of them are really nasty, but this one not so much.” Jesse feels the man studying him. His dark olive eyes land on Jesse’s underwear. Shading his brow, curious to get a better look at the man, he sits up on the chaise and asks, “Is 'Mac' Mr. McPherson?”

“Mac is what me and Tommy call him, yeah." He reaches out to shake hands. His big mitt fully engulfs Jesse's small paw. "I'm Eros." His grip is really strong, leaving Jesse’s hand a little sore. “Don’t tell anyone," he whispers conspiratorially, "but my name’s really Eric, but Mac and Dante had other ideas. So Eros it is! Me and Tommy are in the shack down by the walkway.”

“I’m Jesse. But Cue-ball sounds about right,” Jesse says, grinning. “Yeah, I seen the shack. Looks small for two guys.”

“S’okay. Works for me and Mr. T—Tommy. T does the gardening, I do the pool. Sometimes we do Mac and Dante. Sometimes they do us,” Eros explains with a broad smile.
He’s taken aback by something else he didn’t see from far away: Eros has a few missing teeth. He assumes with his flawless frame and face he'd be perfect—Jesse scans his furry six-pack abs, his cut arms and legs, his brown hair he’s putting into a ponytail—but up close he can pick out minor oddities: a bruise under an eye, the nervous clenching and unclenching of his jaw, two grisly scars along his right wrist, more than a few nasty purple bruises inside the crook of his arms and a nasty one on his ankle.

“So what’s Mac’s book teaching you about being a perfect slave?” Eros asks, nodding at the book.

“It's just a dumb story. Um, I haven’t read that much."

"What's it about?" Eros leans back, his black armpit hair sticks out, glistening with sweat from the earlier pool vacuuming. Jesse bets this man doesn’t trim anything.

"So far? I guess it’s about these two guys who meet this older master, and one of them gets scared and runs off. But in a couple of months, because he didn't hear from his friend, the guy who ran off gets worried and goes back to the master’s house and sees the master has trained his friend to be like the perfect slave." Eros looks at him intensely, like no one has ever looked at him before. It makes him nervous and he begins chattering faster. "Like, I don't know, like he didn’t even know his friend anymore. Like his friend was completely buff now, and, like, worked out every minute and had this totally shredded body, but he isn’t all there.” Jesse taps his temple. He sees that Eros is looking up at Mr. McPherson's window. “That’s as far as I....” his voice trails off.

“Sounds oddly familiar,” Eros says, distracted.

Jesse looks up and sees Mr. McPherson opening the balcony door—naked, per usual, he’s come to realize. “Jesse," he calls down. "You ought to put on a cap. There should be several in your closet. And Eros, tell Tommy there’s a shipment of plants I want him to pick up at the dock.”

“Aye-aye, Cap'n,” Eros calls back up to him. “I’ll let him know.” Mr. McPherson thanks him, gives him a mock salute, and goes back inside. Eros looks sideways at Jesse, and flashes a provocative wink. “Your shoulders are getting a little red, my man. I have sunscreen in my shack. Come over and I’ll do your shoulders. You're back could probably use some too.”

Jesse grins, replies, “Aye-aye, Eros.” He likes that Eros doesn’t even ask if he wants him to put sunscreen on him, just assumes he would. He guessed right.

Eros leaves by the side gate and Jesse goes in his studio to look for a hat. He opens his closet and, sure enough, several caps line the top shelf. He picks up a black leather one, tries it on and, in the full length mirror on the back of the door, likes what he see: a guy he imagines looks a little tough, with kind of a butch air that Eros might like. It’s certainly better than his stupid lightbulb head. Satisfied, he comes back outside into the bright sunlight, exits through the same gate Eros used, and bounds down the shady walkway. 

It’s cool under the canopy of trees. Waves brake softly on the other side of the dunes. A chorus of chickadees and wrens peep and chirp from the branches above him. He passes a trickling fountain set in the middle of a koi pond on his right, close to the house. In the dark water fat speckled gold and ruby red carp swim, burbling up their large mouths to the surface before plunging down into the green mossy depths. Following the walkway downhill, a faded pink shack lies on his left before the walkway veers off to the boat dock. 
In front of the house, Eros chats with a slim blond guy. This presumably is Tommy. Smaller than Eros but definitely defined, the guy has a scraggly beard and is clipping low branches off a large oak as they talk. He’s in ripped denim cutoffs, work boots, no shirt, and is covered in tattoos from ankles to neck. He stops mid-snip when he sees Jesse. 

“Cue-ball,” Eros hollers at him. “Come meet T.” 

Jesse approaches tentatively. There’s something sketchy in the way T’s eyeing him. He’s staring at Jesse’s underwear for starters and that makes him suddenly self-conscious. The guy’s blond hair is stringy, long and unkempt like he never met a comb. There doesn’t look like there’s an inch of skin not covered on his chest and arms. As he approaches he notices not even a single finger is without some kind of mark or symbol on it. Across his chest and arms, skulls, top-hatted skeletons, names and words, and a lot of angry animals vie for room on his torso: a roaring lion, a panthers with bloody claws that cling to his ribs, a growling wolf, a snapping shark, a gnarly octopus reaches his tentacles into his cutoffs. Some are poorly drawn, kind of amateurish, some unfinished, like an eight ball on his neck seems to have been abandoned half-way through. One tattoo, however, has Jesse mesmerized: a realistically drawn twelve-inch wooden ruler, one exactly like he'd had in St. Teresa’s Catholic school, one he’d gotten his knuckles rapped more than once for talking back to Sister Helena. It’s accurate right down to the yellow-brown wood grain, with numbered markings down the side notched by eighths of an inch. It travels from the T’s wrist to the crook of his arm.

“Like what you see, friend?” Tommy asks, sneering at Jesse whose mouth gapes like one of the carp in the pond. The guy pulls out a pack of Marlboros and lights up. “He sure is a biddy one, in’t he?” he remarks to Eros. “He Mac’s new chew toy?” He blows out the match and flicked it toward Jesse. "You the new chew toy, boy?"

“Suppose he is. But he looks right size to me. A pretty pup—” Eros plucks the smoke from Tommy’s mouth, takes a drag and returns it, playfully cuffing Tommy’s chin. “And that’s a fact. Don’t mind him, Cue-ball. He was raised by a pack of wolves so don’t know no better. Takes him a while to warm up, but he eventually does. You just have to scratch his belly.” Eros overpowers T, surprising him, wrapping his arm around his waist and tickles his ribs.

Tommy’s doesn’t seem like someone prone laughter and hates it when Eros does this. He tries to feign anger but enjoys Eros' riling nonetheless, shouting, "The fuck off me, motherfucker," pushing Eros away forcefully enough to send the big guy to his butt into the ground ivy. "Asshole," he says, trying to regain his composure while suppressing a smirk. He pushes back his hair and manages to regain his initial scowl, which appears to be his go-to expression. Jesse notices, though, against this tough guy shell, his alert blue eyes, wide smile forced out by Eros, his button nose and apple cheeks, his features fight the supposed gruff guy exterior. Without the tats, scowl and maybe a haircut, he could be the boy next door, the one that dated your sister but snuck into your room late at night and fucked you silly. Where’d that idea come from, Jesse wonders? It’s from the book, it dawns on him, the character that ran away. Weird. Still, it doesn’t make him like Tommy any better. He’s nobody’s chew toy.

Tommy feels Jesse staring at him, probably judging him. He spits out, “So Mac fuck you like you never been fucked before, am I right?” Somehow, even after wrestling with Eros, he manages to keep his cigarette parked in the side of his mouth. He coolly takes a draw and calmly exhales with popping smoke rings. Jesse stiffens his lower lip not wanting to respond. Tommy leans his clippers against the tree, saying, “That’s what I thought. Your bow legs give you away.” He turns to Eros who glares at him from the ground. “Tell Mac I’ll bring the plants back in the golf cart." 

“Sure thing, Oscar,” Eros says, getting up and brushing dirt off his butt.

“What you say to me?” Tommy snarls at Eros.

Eros rises to his full height, towering over Tommy. “I said, sure thing…Oscar.” The two stare each other down, frozen like statues.

Finally, Tommy flicks his cigarette into Eros’ chest and then leaps onto the walkway. As he disappears behind an overgrown thicket of blackberries, he yells back to Jesse, "Awesome cap."

Eros brushed off the remaining dirt. “Well, that's T to a T."

“Why’d he get so pissed when you called him Oscar?”

"Oscar who lived in a garbage can? Well, when I first met T he was living out of a dumpster. Well, he didn't actually live in the dumpster, exactly.” Eros thinks about it for a second. “But pretty much. He don’t like being reminded of those days." Eros looks off in the direction of the dock. "Believe me, he's not always a dick, even if he seems like one.” He hops up on the walkway pulling Jesse up after him.

“If you say so.” They follow an offshoot from the main walkway to the shack.

“No, really. He’s a good guy. We've been together a long time,” Eros says, searching his pockets and pulling out a key. 

“How long?”

“Dunno. Long time.” Eros seems cagey about the subject. “See, I want to be a tattoo artist. Not much use for a pool guy in winter, right? And I don't wanna be stuck here forever. T's been letting me practice on him. Gives me an idea and I go on Mac's computer and find a stencil." He unlocks the door and stops in the doorway. "Maybe you let me practice on you sometime.”

“Maybe,” Jesse returns, noncommittally.

Eros motions for Jesse to come in. “Lasciate ogne speranza!” he melodramatically recites.

To Jesse’s ear it’s such incredibly bad Italian he barks out a laugh, but quickly returns in equally feigned seriousness, “Voi ch’intrate,” as he goes through the door.

“Say what?” Eros snorts, confused but somewhat miffed at Jesse's suspected snub in what sounded like pretty authentic Italian. He doesn’t like not having the upper hand.

“It’s the rest of the line from The Inferno, ‘Abandon all hope…ye who enter here’,” Jesse explains. “The nuns loved to scare us with all that nine circles of hell crap. And my grandpa…when I was little, he lived with us—never spoke one word of English—it was one of the only books he brought over with him. He use to read it to me. I remember crying one time cause he got so carried away with the devil part. He distracted me by having us watch some wrestling match. Became our Friday ritual." Jesse glances at Eros. “Bruno Sammartino, God he loved him. You look like him a little. If you had a bigger nose.” He’s rambling because, whether he knows it or not, he’s so goddamn envious of what he see looking around the shack. "It’s not exactly what I expected hell to look like,” he says, trying to make a joke of it.

The shack’s small, but a perfect breeze flows through the many windows. The forest might as well be part of the room. Dappled light plays across the lacquered floorboards. A worn wooden counter runs along one wall, next to a sink with a little round mirror hanging on a string, a mini-fridge and a hot plate. Across from the counter a gray futon lies on the floor, a beat-up dresser next to it. “Funny. Hmm. I still haven’t met him yet. Dante,” Jesse remarks, absorbing the life he feels in here.

“Didn’t know there was a second line.” Eros’ face has clouded over, like a rainstorm approaching. “That’s all Dante said when he showed me the place the first time. Lasciate ogne speranza.”

Paraphernalia’s strewn on the dresser includes a packet of cigarettes, a glass pipe in a ceramic ashtray, lighter, several cellophane baggies of white powder, and a dozen or so orange capped syringes.

Eros notes Jesse freeze when he sees the needles. "Thought T had cleaned up," he says.

Jesse feels the weight of Eros staring at him again. A tense silence shrouds the room since he’d spied the syringes. Jesse instinctively goes to the opposite corner of the room to examine some pornographic stencils thumbtacked to the closet door.

“Yeah, maybe you could do that—give me a tattoo. Like, two stars maybe, here and here," he says, pointing to his hip bones. "I always seen that on porn guys—not that I think I’m a porn guy.” Studiously he examines a stencil of a very phallic looking snake. “Not really me. Awhile back I got a fish tattooed on my ankle. Cause I’m Pisces.” He angles his foot to show Eros, who’s cooling looking at him. Jesse points to the scorpion tattoo on the back of Eros’ hand. “You’re Scorpio, right? I bet that hurt, tattoo on bones and all.” Eros keeps quietly staring at him. "Pisces and Scorpies get along real good," he babbles, suddenly hearing what an idiot he sounds like. He becomes quiet waiting for Eros to say something.

One of the bamboo blinds catches a breeze, and unrolls with a snap against the windowsill. Jesse winces.

Eros goes over and ties back up the blind. “The scorpion means something else.” Eros seems about to add more, but changes his mind. 

The earlier mood has been deflating by the second since they entered. Jesse's shoulders begin to sag. Eros tells him, “Sit or lay down and I’ll do your shoulders, so you can get back to your slave book.” 

Jesse think for a second about just leaving—about crying, actually—but instead kneels onto the futon and then lays down.

Eros pauses, then asks, "You want skivvies on or off?”

Without a second’s thought, Jesse pulls off his underwear.

He hears Eros above him hold his breath before suddenly bursting into a fit of laughter. “Fuckin’ A, boy! That is the whitest ass I’ve ever seen!” Eros can’t help himself now. He’s escalated to braying! “C’mon, you’re blinding me, kid! Where’s my fuckin’ sunglasses?” 

Fucking donkey, Jesse thinks, but keeps it to himself.

Eros remains genuinely committed to ridicule. The longer it goes on the more Jesse can’t help but start to break down his defensiveness. It's probably more relief than belief that his white ass is as hysterical as Eros’ guffaws make it out. But still it makes him titter at Eros under his armpit. In return the pool man he'd met back on the chaise returns an expansive, tooth-gapped grin. It’s funny and stupid and meaningless all at the same time.

Eros plops on the futon to his left and draws an ‘S’ with the suntan lotion down his back all the way to his tailbone. Eros gives out a few last blurts, but he’s getting into his task. The boy’s smooth back and bubble butt, white as it is, also helps.

A little cold dribble trails from Jesse’s coccyx into his crack. Eros massages the lotion over Jesse's back, kneading his shoulder with a firm grip. Jesse melts into the futon. The strong musk of two men wafts up from the pillow. He tries to ignore it as best he can lest he spring an immediate boner. Eros forcefully applies pressure over his back and slides greasy hands along the sides of his ribcage.

“Fuck, Eros, you’re great at this,” he says. He’s beginning to feel like putty in the rugged man’s hands—which kind of is the plan of him coming to the shack, well, before he’d encountered Tommy.

“Folks say I’m the best." Eros grazes his hairy chest over Jesse’s back with the excuse of rubbing lotion on Jesse’s extended right arm. "And not just putting on sunscreen,” he brags shamelessly. He glides slippery lotion around each of Jesse’s butt cheeks, then draws a line down each of his legs, rubbing it in and around the sides of his thighs. “Your legs are so smooth. Mac shave you last night?” he asks softly, massaging his left calve, then running his palm inside his thigh stopping as he brushes Jesse’s taint.

Between the smell of Eros and Tommy buried in the pillow and Eros’ increasing erotic touch, Jesse feels an inevitable erection coming on. He shifts his hips for a second to free his hardening dick, but the move coincides with Eros’ gliding his fingers close enough to Jesse’s crack that it causes a slight detour. Eros’ pinky and ring fingers slip easily inside Jesse’s sloppy butthole. The boy can’t help but yelp in instant surprise overlapping with pleasure.

Eros smiles to himself and keeps massaging, as if spreading lotion always involved sticking fingers up someone’s ass. “You’re lucky,” Eros says, not losing a beat. He puts his full weight into Jesse's thighs, wrapping his hand under to massage the top side of his leg along with the back. Jesse’s smooth balls get their share of Eros’ furry fingers grazing his testicles. “Hair’s always getting caught up wherever, when I’m getting greased." His hands slip under both sides of Jesse's pelvis. Then, in an opposite motion, Eros presses down with the heels of his hands pulling Jesse’s ass cheeks apart. "Your hole is smooth, too, I bet,” Eros says, examining his sphincter. A dollop of spit drools onto the hole and then a finger follows up. “Yep. You’ll never need to shave that pretty bung hole. That's an A-1 puckerer if even I saw one. And that’s no lie.”

Jesse doesn’t know how to respond, but knows he doesn’t want Eros to stop. “Thank you?” Jesse weakly proposes in his state of arousal. Eros released another string of spit collecting in the crevice. “Mmm,” Jesse murmurs. Giving into desire, he pushes out his ring so it opens slightly.

Eros uses his finger to swirl his saliva around the small opening. Like an undulating worm, his index finger crawls inside the entrance, eliciting a deep moan from Jesse. Eros licks his other fingers, and slides his full palm inside. Once he feels Jesse accepts his hand, he rocks in and out. “You like that, baby?” Jesse groans a deep, gratifying affirmative. With Jesse’s hole submitting, Eros tries a couple of fingers from his other hand. Now six fingers occupy Jesse’s hole. Jesse can’t help but grunt as Eros pulls open his ring from side to side, massaging both inside and outside the hole. Eros lets drop another large dollop of spit that seeps down into the gaped opening. Jesse whimpers as Eros has three fingers from each hand now pulling his sphincter apart. Eros rocks his fingers in and out, pulling the interior walls in opposite directions. He lowers himself just above the boy’s ear, “How’s that for you? You want me to keep going?”

“Yesssss,” Jesse wheezes, pressing his ass up into Eros’ expert hands. “Fuck, Eros, Mr. McPherson gave you the right name.”

Eros withdraws one hand and with his other adds his pinky finger into Jesse's open butt, immediately following up with the whole palm of his other hand. “Two hands, eight fingers, kiddo. Mac really opened you up nicely. Your hole is really hungry, isn’t it, baby?” Jesse affirms, mm-hm. “Did he fist you?”

“No. But I've always fantasized about it.” The shack is quiet for some time as Eros feels inside Jesse's body, pulling his ass apart, spying deep into his colon. With his face smooshed into the bed, Jesse confesses, "I seen a lot of fisting on the internet and I always wanted to be a guy that rides a fist." 

"From my experience, it's mostly a psychological barrier." Eros’ palms turn one way then the other, causing all kinds of grunts to erupt out of Jesse. “Got my scorpie stinger fully inside you, buddy, but I don’t know if you’re ready to take a fist as big as mine. I got extremely big paws and they don’t collapse. Mac and Dante can take 'em but more than likely a first timer’s a no-go."

"No. Keep going, Eros," Jesse urges, face muffled in the pillow, fully enraptured by Eros’ and Tommy’s scent, loving the sensation of this hot man inside his rectum.

"Okay, I’ll go slow and you tell me if it starts to hurt.” He pulls his hand out, opening the bottom dresser drawer and gets out a can of grease. He applies a heaping amount over his hand and pushes some inside Jesse's hole. He slips two fingers back in and, with the pads of his fingers, coats the walls as far into the kid’s rectum as he’s able. He slides four fingers in fairly easily, but at the web between his finger and thumb the boy flinches. He tries again, slower this time, but Jesse recoils with a cry in the futon. "Baby, you're probably sore from last night. You might need a break."

Jesse turns on his side not ashamed to show Eros' how his hand has turned him on. His rigid cock points straight up, his newly upgraded 6 gauge P.A. falls heavily to the side.

“Look at you with your hard on and P.A.,” Eros chuckles, giving the ring a tug.

"Maybe you can use just your dick then," Jesse suggests, helpfully. He’s never wanted a man inside him like this before. Mr. McPherson definitely opened his floodgates. 

The door swings open and Tommy returns home. Jesse quickly turns onto the futon burying his hard-on together with his not-well-thought-out plan. 

Tommy absorbs the scene, and begins washing dirt off his hands. “Hey, don’t let me stop you." He turns off the water and picks up a towel. "Awesome P.A., chew toy,” he teases, playfully smirking.  

Eros’ cock is tenting his shorts. He says to Tommy, “What do you think, T? My man, here, wants to take his first fist and we all know my big mitt is to too much for a newbie."
“Eros!” Jesse quickly interjects, “I thought it was just you and me."

"I’m hurt, kid," Tommy says, disingenuously, finishing drying his hands. “You cut me deep. Maybe all I wanna do is watch Eros rip apart a punk's fuckhole.”

Jesse has his face buried in the futon. Eros sticks two fingers into Jesse butt. Jesse grabs his hand and yanks it out. This makes Eros growl and slap his ass, hard. Jesse yelps and sits against the wall, his hard-on still completely rigid. Jesse pouts, his arms wrapped around his knees, his balls hiding his butthole.

“I think,” says Eros slowly to Tommy, “my man came here to get his first fist, and Mr. T, with his human-size mitts, is the perfect one for cherry popping.”

Jesse bites his lower lip, considers his options, seeing Tommy eyeing him, waiting to see what he has to say. “Maybe he don’t wanna fist me,” he says. “He don’t even like me.”

Tommy studies Jesse, takes in Eros' bulging shorts, and sniggers, “I like you okay, but I'm more interesting in fisting you.” He jumps down next to Jesse and plays with his P.A. Seeing the boy sitting there compromised, maybe a bit humiliated, but at the same time defiant, brings out some empathy for the punk. “Sorry ‘bout earlier,” T says, still toying with his P.A. “Sometimes I'm an asshole—sometimes a dick. You caught me being both." He takes a bead of pre-cum off Jesse's ring and licks it. "How’s ‘bout me and Eros get naked with you, smoke a peace pipe, and see where that goes,” Tommy says, the forest light catching his blue eyes, teeth shining beneath sandy blond whiskers. He unbuttons his cutoffs, and slips them over his work boots, revealing a growing hard-on beneath a shaved but colorful crotch. Where the pubes would be, the smooth area is dominated by a red and black demon tattoo whose mouth ends with Tommy's dick sprouting out like a big pink tongue. “How’s that sound, Chewbacca?"

The proposition persuades; the demon dick seals the deal. Jesse nods his head excitedly. 

Eros brings over a full bowl and lighter. They sit cross-legged in a circle passing around the glass pipe. Tommy shows Jesse how to shotgun, and once he gets the hang of it, he shotguns Eros and Eros shotguns Tommy. After the pipe makes a few rounds, Eros strips off his shorts springing to life his dark, fat uncut cock, its pink head poking through monumental foreskin. He lays Jesse on the mattress and dry humped his hairy torso against Jesse smooth body. Tommy tilts the pair to their sides and takes up frotting Jesse from the back. Sandwiched Jesse writhes in heaven.

Eros goes down on Jesse, and Jesse almost loses his mind. The rough beard and mustache tortures his skin. He twists his head around and sticks his mouth on Tommy, then urges Tommy to get higher up the bed so he can suck his demon dick. Close up, he sees the pantheon of small experimental tattoos Eros has created. All are filthy and beautiful. Hairy gorilla-men with huge cocks and giant nipples, fucking, sucking, eating ass, bald demons fist-fucking startled, orgasming boys, phallic aliens spurting fountains of cum, men transforming into wolves, bears into men, men into beasts. Tommy’s pelvis is a temple of perversion. Jesse ogles them all, touching each degenerate image. He sees bravery in Tommy putting his imagination and desires on permanent display, how much he doesn’t give a shit what the world thinks of him or his desires. He wants to be like him, wants Eros to carve images like those into him, too. He sucks on the demon tongue, getting Tommy fully aroused, showing him he can swallow his demon to its root. And Tommy’s fine with that, pressing the kid’s head against his pubic bone, skullfucking him hard.

Images come alive to Jesse as he accepts Tommy’s cock down his throat. He gags only a few times, and each time it makes Tommy more excited. Jesse’s mind wanders as he’s sucking cock. The illustrated performance of degenerate acts becomes a roadmap of where he wants to travel and how to get there. He grabs Tommy’s hand—the one with the wooden ruler—and puts it between his legs, shoving it into his crack and grinds on it.

Jesse releases Tommy’s rod and relaxes against Eros’ chest. Tommy lifts a leg, Eros lifts his other and inches them back against the wall. Both legs in the air, Jesse’s puckering hole now fully exposed, Tommy touches it was a dollop of grease.

"Give him some amyl," Tommy suggests, holding one of Jesse legs while Eros fumbles with the dresser drawer and takes out a wooden box. He opens it and brings out a capsule.
Jesse looks up to Eros curiously. "It’s like poppers only stronger,” Eros assures him. “Don’t worry. I got ya." Eros breaks a capsule under Jesse nose and tells him to breathe deep. 
Jesse obeys and feels his morality shed like snake skin. "Oh, fuck, yeah," he breathes, as Tommy pushes in a ball of grease. It feels incredibly slimy and he feels incredibly sleazy—loving this new state of mind. "Aw, shit, man. Yeah! Stick that shit up my ass," he bellows.

"Hey Tommy, I think he likes it," Eros gloats, pulling Jesse’s legs farther apart.

Tommy knits his brow and pushes in more grease, making sure it fully coats Jesse rectum. Four fingers easily slide in, as Jesse’s anal nerve endings catch fire. He melts back into Eros' pelt, and runs his peach fuzz cheek against his fur, running his fingers up to the man’s powerful shoulders, then down through Eros' armpits. He slathers the wetness he finds there across his palm, holds the man’s scent to his nose, then sticks his fingers in his mouth. He savors the acrid taste, at the same time giving Tommy more access to his guts. He feels his ass being probed and stretched by a knowing hand. The amyl seduces his mind, surrendering to these two experts, craving their control and wanting them to mold him in the fashion they were molded. The more perverse the better.

"Up to the fleshy part of my thumb,” reports Tommy. His other hand slowly strokes his hard-on.

"Three big hits,” Eros says. “Ready?" He breaks a second capsule and holds Jesse tightly, holding the chemical under his nose, getting a heady waft of it himself. Jesse feels lightheaded, swoons after the third huff, tries to avoid any more by tilting his head away, but Eros hold his head fast, not allowing him to move. He orders Jesse to keep inhaling and to hold it until he, Eros, permits him to release.

Jesse holds it in. Obeying Eros is instinctual. His mind reels with obscene thoughts of what he wants Eros and T to do to him. Most of all he wants Tommy’s hand to impale his hole. Eros tells him can exhale. Jesse is wild as he draws breath. "Yeah, fist my hole open, T. Wreck it, wreck my hole!" Tommy's hand slides in as Jesse yowls, his sphincter squeezing the fleshy part of Tommy’s hand, which of course pushes Tommy’s hand in deeper, quickly slurping up to the wrist inside the burning virgin cavern.

"That's it, good job," Eros murmured in his ear, holding his legs with his forearms, lightly playing with his nipples.

But a sudden panic flares up inside Jesse’s bowels. His body sets off alarm bells with the realization of a large foreign object now resides inside his body. "Take it out. Get it out," he wails, clamping his asshole.

"Dude, I can't. Relax. You're squeezing too hard. Give him another cap, Eros."

Eros scoops up another amyl, breaks it and holds Jesse's head firmly until he feels the boy surrender in his arms. "Enjoy it, baby,” he growls seductively. “Feel T's hand inside you. It's a man's hand that has you. Feel how he controls you with the slightest movement of his fingers." Tommy enacts exactly what Eros is saying as he says it. “Feel how T’s touching the most intimate parts of your body. It’s your virginity being deflowered.” On cue, Tommy twists his hand feeling the vast internal wall of the boy’s rectum, feeling the heat and wetness of this enraptured creature under his control. “Feel,” Eros whispers, “how he can twirl a finger and tease parts of you open that have never been touched. You can’t stop him even if you wanted. I’m holding you open and T is probing you. And, besides, you don’t want it to stop.”

“I don’t,” Jesse gasps in complete agreement.

“The fucker’s really opening,” Tommy says, feeling a new depth he can get to. Feeling his hand reach the proper depth, he starts curling his fingers toward his palm.

"Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. T, what are you doing?" Jess asks incredulously, not being able to see anymore, only feeling the strangest sensation of Tommy doing something inside him, a feeling he never in a millions years could imagine. "What is that?"

"I'm rolling my hand into a ball.” He pauses: mission accomplished. “You've got your first fist in you, dude. You’ve taken my fist. How's that feel, motherfucker?" Tommy watches any strain melt from Jesse face, as he slowly rotates his fist inside the kid's body. "You like being my hand puppet, Chewbacca? Huh?" He pulses it only slightly to let the kid know he’s got total control of his bowels.

"Yeah. I wanna be your meat puppet, T," Jesse confesses, opening his eyes, taking Tommy in for first time since taking his hand. He looks up into Eros' face. "I've got T's fist in me, Eros. Fuck, it’s so fuckin’ good," he rasps, as Tommy twists it back and forth. He feels Tommy starting to pull out. He pleads, emphatically, "No, no, no. Leave it in."

Tommy releases it back in. Jesse runs a finger down Tommy's forearm tracing the inches of the ruler to see how far in he is. Tommy sees what he was after. "I'm in two inches, fucker," he says, stroking his cock.

"Fuck," is all Jesse can say in amazement. 

Eros exchanges a look with Tommy. Tommy nods. Eros lays Jesse back on the mattress and breaks another amyl under the boy’s nose. Jesse put up no resistance. His arms fall open like he’s on a crucifix. He relishes how far away he is, how good he feels, breathes in the amyl over and over, getting completely lost in the gauze of his mind. He’s the Good Thief on the cross. He’s a Roman soldier. He’s the spear that’s piercing him. He’s entered the first circle of Hell and loving it.

Tommy opens his hand, pulls it out slightly, then slides it back in. Jesse grabs his knees and mutters fuck me over and over. Tommy and Eros give each other knowing smile. Tommy slowly works up to piston-fisting without ever coming out of the boy’s chute. He notes how much of the broadest part of his hand can stretch apart the boy’s hole. He coolly observes how much Jesse is getting off on being stretched. Feeling his power and control over the kid, Tommy rock hard cock leaks pre-cum. 

Eros approvingly watches T getting ready to use Jesse’s hole. He sees him bend over the kid and helps him to lube up his rigid pole. 

Tommy pumps his hand to the fleshiest part of his palm, where he expands Jesse’s hole to its maximum stretch. Jesse relishes the stretch now, grimacing at first, but slowly coming round to desiring this sensation. Once Tommy knows Jesse is able to take the full stretch, he inserts his hand deep, opens his palm inside the hole, leaving his thinner wrist at the entrance. Slowly he eases in his erection next to his wrist and the stretched hole begins to accept the added flesh. 

Eros break yet another cap under Jesse’s nostrils then shares it with Tommy. He savors Jesse's expression of submission to his man: the boy’s eyes staring into the distance, mouth agape, as Tommy presses his hand and cock deep inside the boy’s hole. Eros strokes himself, too, as witness to the lust of these two beasts heaving in exaltation. 

Tommy feels his cock inching toward the palm of his hand, feels it slide into his grip, then starts rocking his cock back and forth in his palm. As he masturbated inside the boy, his cockhead expands even larger, his cockhead engorged by his tight grip. His cockhead flattens until he feels it pop through his thumb and finger, into the viscous, fleshy canal beyond, with Jesse blasting out a rapturous cry.

Jesse’s overwhelmed by new sensations: first, the additional stretch being asked of sphincter, enjoying that Tommy, a man he hardly knows, is pulling him apart—this hot, tattooed dirt bag douchebag is fisting the shit out of him; and second, the size of the fist had increased, not painfully but noticeably. But he was also aware of a new rhythmic throbbing of an internal piston, something familiar yet combined with stimuli he can’t grasp. Opening his eyes, sees Tommy above his body humping him. He puts it together, first in a burst of panic, but then aware his body has already accepted and, more, is enjoying the fuck out of it. He speaks directly to Tommy above him, "Yeah, jerk off in me, T. Fuck my guts. Shoot your cum and breed me, sir." 

Hearing sir triggers something in Tommy and he explodes, quaking his body into his hand and inside Jesse’s hole, flooding this scumbag motherfucking chew toy with copious amounts of his tainted seed. He pinches his cockhead buried inside the fucker, squeezing out his swimmers, causing him pleasure and increasing shudders of post-climactic distress that he doesn’t want to end. Eros plants his mouth on Tommy and they make out over the writhing boy beneath.

As Tommy empties the last of his load, he looks down, saying, “Open.” Jesse opens his mouth and Tommy hocks a wad of spit into his mouth.

Tommy dislodges his cock and is slowly extracting his hand when Eros grabs him by the wrist. "No way, dude," he snarls. Tommy kneels to the side, hand still firmly lodged inside Jesse's cum-covered guts. Eros rubs the foreskin of his large emerging cockhead against Tommy lubed wrist. The foreskin slowly slides its way alongside Tommy’s wrist. Tommy watches Eros' body dominate the kid’s small frame, feels the pressure build at the boy’s resisting hole as even further girth is demanded to stretch open his sphincter. 

Eros' stone-hard cock is no match for Jesse. He breaks the entrance with Jesse giving a sharp gasp. The girth of Eros combined with the volume of the hand is too much for Jesse. He tosses his head in rejection and pushes at Eros’ chest. Eros holds the boy’s head in his hands, his eyes boring into Jesse’s, wresting control of his will. Jesse realizes he can’t resist Eros, nor—in his heart—does he want to, and accepts his manhood, with Tommy's hand stroking the tip back and forth inside him. Eros waits for an outward sign of the boy’s surrender. Jesse’s mouth opens, and Eros spits in it. Eros slides more of his shaft deeper into Tommy's waiting hand making Jesse inhale in distress. "So fucking hot, boy, getting jacked inside you with my man’s hand." His deep voice seduces him, overrunning his resistance, overturning every red flag his body throws out. Jesse cringes, takes a breath, then parts his leg wider so Eros can dive all the way to his thick black bush. He feels Eros’ wiry hairs scratching his hairless balls. Tommy forces back Eros’ foreskin, and Jesse feels this enormous cockhead infiltrating his intestine, the girth like nothing he's ever felt. 

"Try to push us out," Eros instructs Jesse as he impales him.

It’s a futile order, but one he knows not to disobey. Furiously he clamps down with all his might. After only a few seconds of pounding, he’s not able to keep up the strain of clamping down, and surrenders. Tommy's hand slides in deeper. Where once Tommy had grasped Eros at the base of his cock, he now is further up Jesse’s colon pulling on Eros’ foreskin driving him and Jesse into a frenzy, both bucking wildly, Jesse in distress, Eros in ecstasy. 

"Get me off, T,” says Eros. “Get me to knock up this hole," he pants, his forearm coiling like a boa constrictor around Jesse’s head, his black armpit hair drenching the boy's lips.
In an abandonment he submits to, Jesse licks the dripping sweat from the man’s pits, feeling Tommy pistoning his guts, Eros’ cockhead ravishing his entrails in the deepest part of his body. Jesse reaches down and feels how hard his own cock is. He clutches and releases his helpless hole, allowing both men to use his intestine with violent recklessness, until his hole orgasms in tectonic quakes, stronger even than his cock had ever erupted. His body shakes repeatedly as Eros explodes, Tommy squeezing his manhood mercilessly because he knows Eros wants it no other way. Eros spasms along with Jesse, roaring with the timbering of a heavy body from the sky, raining down on Jesse, crushing him, a torrent of cum spewing in his guts, heavy breath, sweat, stench, then secondary tremors, first in Eros, then in Jesse, then back again to Eros.

Jesse’s body vibrates like a plucked bass string, trembling in shocked overload. Unable to process all that’s been done to him, all of which was willingly and unwillingly accepted. His mind is untethered—free floating. The powerful wrestler Bruno Sammartino lies on top of him. He glides his palms over the wrestler’s enormous shoulders, along the powerful chest. The wrestler kisses him and he kisses him back, deeply. Then the nasty boy next door in all his tattoos bends over and kisses him, too.

A warm breeze passes through the shack. The bamboo blinds catch the ocean air, and fall to the window sill. No one moves. Jesse feels a little more sperm leak in his hole. Tommy and Eros’ sperm will be with him for a long time.

Eros extracts himself from Tommy's hand. Out of T’s grip and Jesse’s wrecked mess of a hole, Eros falls on his back. Slowly his breathing calms as he stares at the ceiling. He listens to the sea on the far side of the dunes, and feels the waft of the ocean cool his dripping body.

With much more care, Tommy slides his hand almost out of Jesse ass. At the beginning of withdrawal, Jesse moans. He anticipated the disconnectedness the boy would soon feel, the confusion of regret and still simmering desire. He knows because once, long ago, amid the back alley trashcans, anything-for-a-fix days he’s fought to suppress, he’s knows this feeling. Much to Jesse's satisfaction he returns his hand inside.

Jesse isn’t yet ready to give up T’s offering, but his mind is beyond spent. Raw, inflamed, yes. Jesse runs a finger over Tommy's forearm, and Tommy understands.

"Six inches," Tommy says to the silent query. "Good start, Chewbacca. Now push out your pussy and give me back my fuckin’ hand.”

Jesse complies and grunts with an epic shudder as Tommy’s hand dislodges. 

“Show us your wrecked cunt,” says T. Eros rolls over to watch Jesse stretch his cheeks apart and push out a small, cum-filled rosebud. A tiny creature slithers out like some shy, exotic sea anemone then returns inside his rectum. Eros taps two fingers against his hole ordering him to push again. Jesse pushes harder this time. As his guts pushed out, Eros pulls the lips apart and Tommy traced a finger around the sphincter. Eros bends in and laps some cum out of the boy’s feathery pedals, depositing spent seed back into Jesse waiting mouth. Tommy puts pressure around the boy’s delicate tendrils. Eros and Tommy admire the gaping protrusion, each taking a turn to lick it.

Tommy lobs a comment to Eros, "Looks like we'll pull a prolapse out of Chewy yet." 

Eros grins, and brushes his shadowy beard against Jesse's sensitive bloom, causing Jesse to flinch, and yet he responds by exposing even more of his rose to Eros’ sandpaper chin. He knows that that’s a sensation he wants much, much more of.
 

[YEGfaggot]

Fucking hot story so far! 😈🐷

[Nkdnudist]

More I hope 

[westfist]

So good, thank you @shoreboy

[FFRubbrPIG]

This is fucking unbelievable! I want Tommy and Eros in my hole giving me their tainted cum and fists!

[shoreboy]

3. The Hung Priest

He's free! 

Jesse takes the stairs two at a time. Having cleaned the living room, office, and kitchen, and having just changed all the upstairs bedrooms' linens and washed all the windows (and there’s a ton of windows in this glass house), Jesse's free for the rest of the afternoon. He sprints down the stairs to his room to grab a towel before hitting the beach and meeting up with Eros and T. 

Of course he can’t resist skidding to a stop in front of his full-length mirror. He runs his palm over the dark buzz cut that's quickly growing in, grinning back at himself. Rummaging through the top shelf's collection of caps he selects an olive green one that says ARMY, which matches his feeling of being on leave from boot camp. 

He’s been through his own kind of intense training this past week: snake bite kit has enlarged his nipples; he now sports one of Dante’s cast off Prince Alberts swinging through his dick; and his hole can take Tommy’s, Mac’s and even Eros’ big fist. But back to the mirror. From one of the two star tattoos Eros added on either side of his treasure trail, he flakes off the last remaining scab.

He sprints to the side gate but decides to dial it back a notch and slows his pace to seem more chill before he meets up with his BFFs. 

The golf cart Tommy uses to transport plants from the dock now carries passengers. You can tell by how heavy the cart's load is by the immense clattering of the loose walkway boards as it approaches the house. It pulls up to the front as Jesse closes the gate behind him. He pauses behind a trellis of ivy next to the koi coy pond observing Mac. (Noted: no longer Mr. McPherson, being under Eros' and Tommy's tutelage. Mac doesn't mind as long as he still gets to fuck the kid any time he wants.) His boss gets out of the cart ushering an extremely heavy man and a very tall kid that’s bent over because of the golf cart’s low roof. The big man's vaguely familiar. A movie star. A former screen idol his mom said she'd swooned over twenty years ago but has now gone to seed. A hundred extra pounds of seed, roughly. He's forgotten his name, but he now appears mostly in hard-core revenge dramas, most of them of the poor oppressed white man variety.

The kid looks up before he jumps out of the cart. Jesse figures he’s about his age, a little too hipsterish to be his type. Long blond dreadlock hang in his face. He's trying to conceal his height with bad posture. All his focus is on his Switch screen, ignoring everything and everyone around him. He's got earbuds in so he doesn't hear the actor yelling at him. Mac's trying to help the actor with his luggage, but the man shoos him off. The kid’s mad because the fat man distracted him and messed up his game. He shakes the screen then looks around puzzled, wondering where he is.

One more passenger gets out of the cart. A white haired older man dressed in a brown Franciscan robe cinched simply with a plain white rope around his waist. Though everyone in the group sweats profusely, the monk is the only one that seems delighted to be in such a lovely setting. He looks around taking in driftwood glass house, the bright green forest mirrored darkly in all the house’s tinted windows, the magnificently attended to garden, smiles at his present company and then at the gorgeous little army boy in white underwear who demurely hides behind an ivy trellis next to a trickling fountain. The monk is, quite literally, in paradise.

Through the ivy leaves Jesse observes the priest's white hair is in bangs that emphasize his prominent forehead. Sunken cheeks and steel grey eyes give him a skeletal look. Adding to this appearance is his toothy rictus grin. Jesse guesses him to be in his sixties, possibly seventies. You'd assume he’d be feeble, but you'd be wrong. He maneuvers artfully around the golf cart—not an easy feat on the narrow walkway—and flits past the others on the crowded path with the balance of a tightrope walker. He's the first to reach the front doors, his satchel clutched in his arms, patiently waiting for the others.

“Jesse!” Mac yells to him as he tries to slink his way to the beach unnoticed. The entire party looks over at him. Even the dreadlocks kid looks up from his game taking out an earbud. “Pull the cart around to the side of the house, please,” Mac asks, more order than request. The keys fly through the air and Jesse catches them one-handed. 
The actor pulls a backpack over one shoulder and, huffing, carries two suitcases to the house's entrance. The kid wipes his brow, pushing his hair out of his face and goes back to his screen. As Jesse climbs in the cart, he heard the kid ask the actor, almost indignantly, “Why is that guy wearing underwear?"

“How the fuck should I know, Jaxton,” returns the fat man, dropping his load at the front doors.

“We’re casual here, Jaxton,” Mac explains, looking back at Jesse. “He feels very comfortable in his briefs. Everyone here is free to do exactly what he likes. That goes for you, too, young man.” Mac tweaks his nipple, to which the kid elbows Mac’s arm away with a scowl. “And for you, too, Father Lucius,” Mac says brightly.

At the door, the Franciscan monk stares at Jesse with his frozen grin. "Don't worry. I'm as delightfully unencumbered as I could possibly be," he replies, lifting his robe to the assembled group. The kid is taken aback by what he sees, but the others remain indifferent. Father Lucius drops his robe and watches Jesse reverse the cart around the side of the house. Jesse senses the monk’s eyes never leaving him. Mac drapes his arm around the old man's shoulders and steers him through the front doors.

The empty beach stretches for miles in each direction with ribbons of brown kelp washed up at high tide. The waves are turbulent from an approaching storm. It's still many miles out to sea where the sky darkens like an ominous bruise, but he sand's warm, crunching pleasantly under Jesse’s toes as he ambles toward the waves. 

Eros, in sunglasses, and T, slathering lotion over his sunburnt nose, have their beach chairs set up at the water line. They sit naked, dicks hanging limp for once, each with a beer in their chair’s cup holders. Jesse slips off his briefs and hangs it, his army cap and beach towel on the back of T’s chair, and runs to the breaking waves. He make a backwards flip at the last second before a large wave has a chance to bowl him over. He body surfs for a while, barking seal sounds, doing cartwheels in the shallows—basically trying to show off for Eros and T who are infuriatingly ignoring him. 

The men are in a serious discussion when Jesse emerges dripping wet. He grabs his towel, bangs his head a couple of times to clear water from his ear, and starts drying himself.

"Well, can I?" Jesse begins.

"No!" Tommy and Eros say simultaneously.

"Why not?" He hits a higher register in annoyance.

Tommy says, "Definitely not," over Eros saying, "Just drop it already."

"It's not fair!" He stomps his foot between their chairs, then yanks on his army cap, lips pursed.

The men sips their beers. Eros gives him the once over. “Can’t really call you Cue-ball anymore, can I?” Eros, expressionless behind his Ray-Bans, hands folded over his abs, gives Jesse's ankle a sandy brush with his big toe.

Jesse in spite of his petulance, smirks, rubbing his towel over his dark buzz cut.  

Shading his eyes from the sun, Tommy looks up at Jesse. “How ‘bout we call you Raisinets,” he teases, grabbing at Jesse’s shriveled nut sack. 

“How ‘bout, fuck you T-bag,” Jesse counters. He takes a step back, eyes sparkling with mischief, and snaps his towel with a crack against Tommy’s exposed butt.

Tommy yips, and yells, “You little fuck!” He jumps out of his chair and chases Jesse down the beach. Eros snorts beer while he watches the two zigzag down the shore, leaping over large clumps of seaweed.

Jesse evades T for quite a while before T dives and tackles him. They roll around in the sand, T smacking the kid’s head and making Jesse eat sand. T flips him on his back, sets his haunches on Jesse hips, pins the kid’s skinny arms at his side. They're roughly the same size, though Eros works Tommy out mercilessly building up distinctive biceps and pecs. As Jesse struggles to get up, T’s also given the advantage that he’s actually miffed. He threatens Jesse with a drool of spit, but Jesse turns his head away before it hits him. 

“Okay! I give, I give, I give!” Jesse pleads. T sneers victorious over him. Jesse jiggles his hips in the warm sand that coddles his backside. With Tommy’s ass sitting on his dick, he starts getting aroused. It wouldn’t be the first time this week Jesse, at Eros' urging, fucks Tommy. It just'd be the first time out in the open where anyone could see. 

T feels the growing boner, gives Jesse a last smack to the head, rises off him with his own cock semi-rigid. Walking back to the beach chairs, he shouts, “Fucker’s a little [banned word].” He plops back in his chair, snatches his beer, feigning indignation.

“Where’d he get that from, I wonder?” Eros says, grinning his gap-tooth smile.

Jesse returns brushing off sand then plops down on his butt between the chairs. He twists his cap backwards. "I got payed so I can pay you for it," he says.

"No!" Eros says, emphatically. "Subject closed." He looks angrily out at the gathering storm. "Blowing clouds, okay. Slamming, not okay. Got it?"

“Okay, okay. Sheesh. What a grouch," Jesse says. Eros regards him with a cocked eyebrow. Jesse points at his beer. Eros hands it to him, but when Jesse starts guzzling it he snatches it back. Jesse uses his toes to play with Eros' ankle but Eros is done playing. Jesse perks up. "You made me forget—d’you see those guys come in from the dock?”

“Mac's friends made it before the storm, huh?” Eros observes. The sun's gets swallowed by clouds as he prepares to leave. He shaking his auburn mane and puts it in a ponytail. “Mac said we’d have visitors this weekend—one of his old actor pals.”

"Please, not Eddie Gleason!" Tommy tragically wails.

Eros interrogates Jesse. "Big, fat guy? In all those sand and sandal religious  movies?" Jesse affirms this and Tommy buries his face in his hands. “Eddie Gleason's got a major hard-on for our boy T.”

"Minor pud more like it. Awww,” Tommy moans, “he's gonna want to fuck me again and he takes for-ev-er to cum. ‘Sit and spin, sit and spin,’ he says. He thinks he’s hysterical. Scooby and Shaggy is what he calls Eros and me." This breaks Jesse up. "Yeah, he thinks it's rich, too."

“Well, he’s got a tall kid with him,” Jesse offers. “Maybe you’re off the hook.”

Eros shakes his head “Nope. That’s this guy’s M.O. Always brings a fresh kid, calls them his assistants. New kid each time he brings for me and Mac to D.P., so he can watch and get off while the kid's—.”

“What’s D.P.?” Jesse interjects.

“Double penetrate,” Tommy says. “Like what me and Eros plan on doing to you tonight.”

“Unless me and Eros do it to you first,” Jesse sasses childishly. “Oh, there was a priest, too, in a monk’s robe. And you also made me forget to tell you I saw steaks in the fridge!”

“You think those are for us, dick weed?” Tommy asks, rhetorically. “Although a dirty Catholic boy might get a nasty priest’s meat up his butt.” 

Jesse leaps up and grabs Tommy’s head, yanks on his hair knocking him to the ground. Sand flies everywhere. The two roll around snarling and hissing, initially in fun but quickly getting fierce. 

Eros jumps up, pulling Jesse off, legs and arms flailing to get at Tommy. Eros easily has him under his wing and shakes him once to stop. “Knock it off! Both of you!” He gives Tommy a warning glare, then drops Jesse unceremoniously on his ass. “For fuck sake. Pair of alley cats. Swear to Christ.” The afternoon's quickly turning dark. There is a faraway crack and a low rumble of thunder. Eros picks up his beach chair and walks toward the compound.

Tommy and Jesse eye each other. Their fighting is mostly show but without Eros as an audience it ends up kind of pointless. Tommy tosses Jesse his underwear and towel before he folds his chair and trots after Eros. Jesse scoops up his fallen cap and scrambles after both of them. He catches them at the walkway. The three of them hop up and, using each other’s shoulders for balance, brush sand off their feet. 

The Franciscan monk, Father Lucius, is at the front door admiring the three of them. He's smoking a joint. “Hey,” he calls out with a friendly wave. He offers to share his joint.

Tommy and Eros wave back, declining, but Jesse quickly hustles over and relieves him of the joint. He takes a hit, then a second long draw, and hands it back to the monk. He flops his underwear jauntily over his shoulder and holds out his hand introducing himself. “I’m Jesse,” he says. "Mr. McPherson’s houseboy." He can tell right off the monk can’t resist him. He wants to make sure Eros and Tommy know it, too, so he keeps looking over at them beaming. “Nice to smoke a bit of ganja with you, Father." T and Eros crack up laughing at how cool Jesse is trying to be. Jesse sneers at them. "Just ignore them. Those two are lowlife junkies who won't let me party with them.”

"Oh, poor little Rasta man," Tommy wails.

“I’m Father Lucius. Enchanted meeting you, Jesse,” the priest says, taking a hit and handing him back the joint. “Will you join us for the bar-b-que?”

“He’s eating with us,” Eros calls over to them. 

Jesse looks at him surprised. “I am?”

“Yes. You are,” Tommy says, suddenly in protective big brother mode.

“What are we having?” Jesse, the brat, wants to know. He takes another hit off the priest’s joint.

“Pasta and meatballs, your highness,” Eros snidely replies.

“I’d rather have steak,” Jesse proclaims, handing the joint to the Father.

“Suit yourself, Rasta man,” Eros says. He and Tommy head to their cabin, leaving Jesse and Father Lucius passing the joint between them. There is a flash of lightning from the other side of the dunes followed by a soft rumble.

“I like your Prince Albert. May I?” the priest asks leaning forward.

“Sure." With fists on hips, he pushes his dick forward provocatively. “It’s new, I’m mean it’s new on me. It’s an old one of Dante’s. You know I still haven't met him. Do you know him.” Lucius pulls the horseshoe P.A. back and forth through Jesse piss slit. Though still a little tender, the pot gives him a warm buzz of excitement rather than discomfort as the priest tugs on his jewelry.

"I only know him by reputation. You should be cautious. Make sure others are around." The priest releases the P.A. “That’s a nice one. Eight gauge, is it?” He takes a hit and holds it before passing the joint to Jesse. 

“Nope. It’s a six gauge,” Jesse boasts. “This is some fuckin’ awesome weed, Father Lucius,” he says, holding up the joint. "'Scuse my language, but it really is!"

“Isn’t it just? It’s laced,” the priest informs him. “I hope you’re not a purest about such things, Jesse. I'm a bit of an amateur botanist. Tinker in chemistry, too. Always experimenting. Exploring nature’s limits, such as they are.”

"I'm curious to explore limits, too," Jesse says, passing the joint. The priest takes a deep hit and breaks into a coughing fit, putting his hand on Jesse’s shoulder for balance. It’s dawning on Jesse that although the priest's old and thin as a rail, there’s something attractive about him. How he’s leers shamelessly at Jesse's body might have something to do with it. And maybe it's just the weed, but his attention makes Jesse feel special, spotlighted—the way he's smiling at him as he gets control of his racking cough; the way he’s rubbing his soft hand over Jesse’s bare shoulder.

The monk looks back down at Jesse's penis. He clears his throat. “Your six felt loose like you could be ready for something bigger. Have you been wearing that particular Prince Albert long?” He offers Jesse the last hit before the joint is spent.

Jesse pinches the joint. “Worn it a week. Cause it’s heavier than my last one, maybe it pulls at the hole more,” Jesse speculates. He tokes then offers the last of the joint, but the priest waves it away. Jesse tosses the tiny ember into the ivy bed.

"I have a double zero, myself,” Father Lucius says, lifting his robe showing he's completely naked underneath. On the internet Jesse's seen penises like his before, but never in real life. He's stunned and amazed by this monstrously deformed penis, pumped he'd guess for years to the width of a beer can, and, even flaccid as it is now, it looks like it would take at least two fists to handle it. He can't picture what it would look like hard, or if it could get hard. But the kicker is that beyond the rolls of sagging foreskin, at the tip of all that engorged flesh is a thick P.A. the width of his pinky.

Jesse is fascinated by both the size of the priest’s cock and his P.A. “Can I touch it?”

“That's what it’s meant for,” chuckles the priest. Jesse runs his palms down the soft skin of the priest's hairless pubic bone. He scoops up the man’s expansive flesh, pulls back the plentiful foreskin and rubs his thumb from the top of the priest’s glans down to the P.A. With his other hand he weighs the hefty P.A., getting a staggering two-handed feel for the Father’s gargantuan cock.

The front porch lights flick on electrifying the scene. Jesse's skin tingles holding this behemoth. Recessed spotlights illuminate from the ivy bed casting light up from the ground. Their bodily outlines shadow the house with twisted shapes. The porch lights amplify the darkness of the surrounding forest and inky dunes. Wind whips through the oak tree and rattles the shrubs. A flash of lightning illuminates their faces, followed by a loud crack. 

“You know,” Father Lucius says, dropping his robe and earnestly enjoying the boy's enchanted face, "I have with me an antique four gauge captive bead that might be perfect for your penis. May I show you?" The monk considers the sky. "We should get inside. It looks to be a devil of a storm.”

Jesse follows the priest without a word into the house and up to his room. 

They pass Mac on the staircase. Lightning flashes through the many windows of the foyer. "I'm so sorry, Father Lucius. It looks like we'll have to postpone our bar-b-que. I'll set up cold cuts in the kitchen for you and the other guests." He smiles eyeing Jesse. "Jesse, are you feeling okay? You look pale." He brushes Jesse's cheek.

"I'm fine, sir," he responds, unusually sedate for Jesse. "Father Lucius told me about a captive bead that might be right for me."

"Well, whenever you’re ready, please to come down."

"So gracious of you, sir," the priest says, clutching this host's hand in both of his. "I promised the boy a gift. We were just on our way for me to confer it, if he so inclined. We might join you later, but please don't let us hold you up."

"Nor I hold up you," Mac says with his broadest smile. His hand passes down Jesse back and rests on the boy’s butt. After a light tap, he says, "I expect you to give special attention to our esteemed Father. Make sure his every need is met.”

"Yes, sir. I will, sir." Two men exchange a look and then a courteous bow before the monk takes the boy's hand and leads him to his room.

His cleaning of the bedrooms earlier included putting silk sheets on all the beds but he sees Father Lucius has exchanged the cast iron bed's linens for a black rubber sheet. 
The priest escorts Jesse to the room’s spacious sitting area situated before a wall of glass. A leather divan faces a carved antique chair, an inlaid table between. A box sits in the center. There’s a burst of lightning immediately followed by a rumble that rattles the house. The forest beyond the glasses flashes several times illuminating the forest. If he gave into paranoia Jesse’d swear there were faces in the trees. He looks up past the exposed beams to the roof's skylights and, in the hazy euphoria of the laced drug, witnesses the tempest pouring down. The room lights flicker an instant. There is a loud crash and the room goes completely dark. Gloom envelops everything.

Jesse feels his skin alive with goosebumps. He's not frightened but he's very aware he's naked and has no idea where the priest is, until he hears somewhere in the blackness, "Not to worry. A priest, like a good boy scout, is always prepared." He hears Father Lucius riffling through his satchel. A large black candles is lit, then several more. The candles he produces as thick as his monstrous cock, thinks Jesse. It takes a while for light to bathe the room, but candle by candle it does. The warm glow counters the fury of the storm clawing at the glass wall and skylights. Lightning and thunder gradually diminish, but leave behind sheets of rain and a howling wind.

Jesse takes a seat on the leather divan and the priest sidles next to him. His wool robe scratches Jesse's bare skin. The priest opens the box. It's a jewelry case, but rather than ordinary jewelry between the black velvet slots, there are various sized piercings: shiny barbells of different widths and lengths, horse shoes P.A.s, ribbed wands, penis plugs, nipple rings, and, in the center stands a thick Prince Albert four gauge captive bead. A sparkling red ruby is captured by the P.A.'s heavy ring. The jewel glistens as brilliantly in the candlelit room as the red in priest’s eyes.

“It’s a star ruby, rarest of the rare," the monk whispers in Jesse's ear, as if he doesn't want to wake the gemstone. "Most star rubies are either three or six pointed. But look here," he says, plucking it from the case, rotating it before Jesse’s mesmerized eyes. "You can see this rarity has five points.” He displays it from many angles and sees the boy can’t look away. “It’s said to be blessed—or cursed—depends on your point of view, I suppose. Shall we see if it fits?” 

The priest fondled his penis, which Jesse, still feeling the intense buzz of the joint, enjoys. He relaxes his body, arms along the back of the divan, feeling Father Lucius twist off the end of his horseshoe P.A. The priest slips the ring out below Jesse's frenulum. “We should lubricate the piercing, don’t you think, so it’ll be in easier for you to accept the new ring?” Jesse tilts his head forward and catches Father Lucius leering at his dick then darting his eyes hungrily up at him. The candles’ shadows exaggerate the cadaverous hollows of the monk’s sockets.

“Yeah, get it slick. The six gauge bump was really painful.” Jesse gives a quick shivers remembering how long it took for Mac to get Dante’s old P.A. through his piercing.
"Pain need not always be an unintended consequence, my child," says the priest, “but I understand your reticence.” 

Father Lucius goes down on Jesse's cock. He moans in surprised pleasure. The priest pauses for a moment and shocks Jesse by removing dentures from his mouth. He sets them on the table and drools back down on his cock. The look is complete: a cadaverous skull is giving him head. The priests spits on Jesse’s member. He licks the top of his glans and then swirls his tongue underneath where the pierced hole resides. Jesse’s head falls back as the priest gums his member up and down. The soft, sensual teasing of the Father’s mouth, lips and smooth gums arouses him, aided by the priest fondling his nipples. Father Lucius lifts off his erection with a mocking, “Don’t get too carried away, my child.” He rubs his slick thumb back and forth over Jesse’s engorged cockhead. I’ll never get it in if you keep growing.” The priest toys with Jesse dick, pushing the four gage ring through his piss slit, finding the piercing within but gets snagged on the narrow opening. Jesse flinches. The priest tries several more times. Each time Jesse jumps. “Does this hurt too much,” he asks, repeated pushing the large ring against the small hole. Jesse nods, and puts his hand in the way of further abuse. “Oh, such a shame. This ancient piece of jewelry would look so lovely dangling from a young boy’s penis.”

The priest continues to glide his thumb over the tip of Jesse cockhead. The effect wears down his resistance. "No, keep trying, Father," he rasps. "I don’t care. I think you almost got it to go through." He lifts his bare leg over the monk's scratchy robe, giving more access to his body.

The priest is pleased with the boy's subordination and rubs his soft hand under Jesse's thigh, cupping his balls and running a finger along his taint. “Seems like you have a bit of a masochist in you, child. How provocative and persuasive you can be.” In the undercarriage of the jewelry case there is a drawer the priest opens. In it are housed several tools. Among these are a pair of pliers. It makes Jesse nervous that the pliers are so near his dick head, but the monk holds his penis so firmly, he trusts him to be careful. In addition Father Lucius pulls out a long silver piercing needle, the width of the new P.A. He jabs it through Jesse piss slit finding the piercing, stretching it with the needle's width, and begins pull the ring along after it. Jesse pants trying to battle the growing pain. He’s at the threshold of what he can tolerate and begins to wail like an animal and clutching his groin, folding in half, just as Father Lucius falls back on the divan. It’s in. 

“Look at that!” says the priest in amazement, rolling his head to the side. “Would you look at that? It adorns your boy penis magnificently.”

Jesse is astonished, too. Never mind the tenderness, he wags the ring back and forth so it flops from side to side out of his piss slit. It’s hefty and he likes it. His cock’s tinging from his pierced hole, but it’s a sensual discomfort, something he could get used to, will have to get used to. His dick isn’t fully erect, but his cock feels more substantial than before. He's beginning to realize that it comes with each P.A.'s increased size.

"All we need now is to set the gem." The monk rolls the ruby in his fingers, and wedges it between the two end points of the ring. The pliers is there to bend the thick ring into place. There a stab of pain accompanying a small click. "A solid sealed, Jesse. What do you think?"

He looks down at his dick. Even semi-erect it looks so hot to him. He’s also feeling particularly drawn toward the monk at this moment, grateful, as captivated by Father Lucius as the ruby is in its ring. He reaches over and puts his hand behind the priest's thin head and draws his skull forward. He kisses him gently, astonished that he’s not repulsed by the man’s toothless gums. He puts his hand beneath the robe and fondles the monstrous cock and P.A. 

The priest pulls away. "Child, you must forgive me. I've given you such confusing signs.”

Jesse immediately sits up, upset. “Shit, no, my bad, Father. Celibacy, I get it, your vow. All that. Please, can you forgive me?”

“Oh, my boy, I blame myself,” the priest counters, putting his soft palm on Jesse crotch. His thumb wanders across Jesse’s trimmed pubic hair, his little finger runs over Jesse’s new ring. “I am the one not being truthful. I’m not in the least celibate, but I’m also not enticed by what you would call typical homosexual relations. It simply is not how I was created. I’m not ashamed, but what you would call normal relations between men, or in your case boys and very old men, doesn’t ... animate me. I’d hope you understand." Jesse is really confused. As the priest is saying this he's running his hand up and down Jesse cock trying to get him hard. His other hand is playing with his nipples. He smiles that skeletal grin at him. "I am so pleased you have allowed me to bestow my gift.”

Jesse finds himself flummoxed but also aroused and curious. He flop his leg back again over the monk's lap. “Well,” he swallows, excited but a little fearful of what he might hear: “What exactly do you like?” The priest attends to his body, fingering his taint, then running a finger to his butthole. “I mean I do kinky things, too, Father Lucius. With Mac—uh, with Master. Also with Eros and Tommy. Like letting them fist me. Is that what you like to do…” Jesse pauses, in his own inexperienced way, attempting to entice the priest, “… what you like to do to boys.”

Moving Jesse to one side, the priest rises with a noticeable lump at his groin. He ambles in front the darkened glass to look out into the night. Untying the white cincture from around his waist, he pulls the brown Franciscan robe off revealing a leather and chain harness rattling over his thin naked frame. He turns to face Jesse. His body is ancient; his breast turn upward at thimble-sized nipples; a long rope of drool slithers off this thick P.A. He runs his cincture back and forth through his palms, giving Jesse a dark look. “I was informed that, yes, you possess kinks of your own. I must confess when we shared our joint outside your adventurous nature kept crossing my mind, your proclivities intrigued me, and I hoped I might introduce you to a few of my own.” He moves to the back of the heavy antique chair and let his cincture graze the chair’s carved arms. “It’s not something I can simply tell you about. We’d have to participate together communally.”

Jesse gulps. His cock remains semi-rigid, but in his gut he feels a wariness that causes him to back down. “Maybe some other time, Father," Jesse proposes, immediately seeing the disappointment cloud the monk’s face. Weighing the ruby P.A. between his fingers, he adds, "I really do like your gift. But you probably want it back now."

The priest shakes his head, holding up a hand in acquiescence. “Of course it belongs to you. Perhaps some other time indeed. When I pass this way again," he says with a drip of irony. The monk reaches in his satchel and produces a small zippered leather case. He sighs, "Oh, well." He relaxes in the chair across from Jesse, with his pumped member starting to stir. Tooth by tooth he opens the case slowly revealing an orange-capped syringe, several vials of liquid and a blue rubber tourniquet. Taking off the orange cap, monk examines the tip.

A small air bubble tracks back and forth within the vial. Jesse can see it’s fully loaded, ready to go. “Scary,” says Jesse. He contemplates putting on his briefs and making a polite exit, but his cock in a full state of erection betraying his most intimate desires.

“I certainly wouldn't want to lead you into temptation, but deliver you from wholesomeness. I understand your desire for the mundane, the safety of the ordinary. But look! It appears that you don't want to really leave this room. The jewel states its desires, too.” He nods at Jesse’s erection. “And it isn’t scary,” Brother Lucius replies, licking the tip of the needle. “Quite a new road for someone who likes to explore their limits, I would think.”

Jesse eyes the hypodermic then the priest. “I’ve never done it before.”

“Booty bumps, blowing clouds, chem piss, but, no.” Father Lucius’ eyes gleam in the firelight. “I agree. You have never done this, child. Not my concoction.” The priest rises from the chair and, with a sweeping palm, offers Jesse the seat.

Waves of rain washes against the black glass. He contemplates the dark reflection of himself and the naked back of the priest he sees in the window. It’s just the two of them, and he’s already gone so far. He would have done it anyway with Eros and Tommy, he reasons, if they’d have let him. He gets up and strides over and sits in the chair. He fidgets nervously. 

A cadaverous, toothless smile emerges out of Father Lucius’ bony face. “Let me examine your arm,” he says, as he binds Jesse bicep with the tourniquet. The priest kneels before him, pressing his thin torso between Jesse legs spreading them far apart. He strokes Jesse’s skin resting on the arm of the chair. He runs his nails up and down the boy's smooth skin tracing a long prominent vein. “This should prove simple enough.” He places the syringe at an angle to his arm and asks if the boy is ready. Jesse says he is.

There was a sharp pain where the needle breaks his skin. He watches Father Lucius pull back the syringe slightly as blood swirls into the clear mixture. “Think nasty thoughts,” says the priest as he pushes the plunger down as he releases the tourniquet. 

He coughs! and a tidal wave sweeps Jesse away. There was the Before Jesse and now an After Jesse. No matter if this is his only time or he does this a thousand times, he will always be the After Jesse. His head’s thrown back. He feels incredible—what ancient gods must have felt. Monumental! Powerful! His desires are inhuman, uncontainable in this body. He is so much more than this body. Nothing is out of bounds as his mind frees the bonds of his banal existence. What's unleashed is wicked, sinful, unhealthy, has no name, can only be viewed in a sideways glance. He’s never felt so unhinged or amoral in his life. He coughs again. It's only been a second from the first, but this one makes him fall deeper and feels the rush increase, thinking that's impossible, but there it is. He barely holds on to the reality of this room as it is—but it flies away. What left is a feeling of teetering over the edge of never-ending darkness. He falls forward into it, stuttering fuck-fuck-fuck, as a way to ground himself, but it's useless. He's so overwhelmingly potent, unstoppable, a blind god raging in erotic torment. He leaps out of the chair with unheralded energy, but simultaneously his legs give out from under him.

“I know, it’s normal, loss of motor control,” cautions the monk, who holds him up under his armpits.

Jesse can’t help himself and he clutches the monk in his arms, ruts against his bare skin, against the leather and chains, runs his tongue down the monks fleshy breasts and suckles the engorged tits, feels the priest's demonic serpent growing, raising it's monstrous head.

“I know, I know. It feels so damnably good, doesn’t it boy? Best you lie down as you ride the wave.”

Whatever the priest says he’s wed to. He lies down on the black rubber sheets unable to focus on the priest in the infinite distance of the antique chair shooting up. Writhing in ecstasy on the bed, he’s consumed in flames, touching his magnificent body, his nipples, his cock and balls, his stretched butthole. His mind is being pulled through a pinhole, a camera obsura, where on the other side everything is upside-down, backward. Something is emerging through that pinprick in his arm that wasn't him before: a negative, a doppelganger, comes through from the other side. A beast is in the room, getting out of the chair. "Morax,, Zepar, Moloch," he listens to a long recitation of meaningless name. Demons he sees summoned in the shadow fight for the scraps of what's left of his soul; the soul itself is liquified by the drug coursing through his body. It leaches out like an overrun cesspool; lust seeping into every thought. Lust is in the darkness; lust is the smooth, black sheets he rubs his hands across; it’s in his nipples that he pinches wantonly, whore like; is in the priest he is pulling down to the bed on top of him. 

“Yes, yes, you’re feeling Him take you over, aren’t you child?” whispers the priest in his ear, taking the white cincture, guiding Jesse’s hands through the bed’s iron bars and tying them securely above his head. Father Lucius bends down and licks Jesse’s armpits, sucks on his nipples. ‘”Enjoy the rush, child. Let Him take you where He wants to go." The monks produces more rope and secures each of Jesse's legs to the frame above. "You need to confess your sins, don't you child?" Jesse parrots mindlessly whatever is said. "You have depraved thoughts, don't you child?"

"I have depraved thoughts, Father."

The monk takes out a knotted rope. "Confess your sins to me. You allow men to abuse you."

"I allow men to abuse me, Father."

Father Lucius cracks the cord against his legs. Jesse cries out. "Say 'thank you, Father.'"

"Thank you, Father."

"You let men violate you."

"I let men violate me, Father."

Another powerful whack impacts Jesse ass. Again he cries, "Thank you, Father."

"Push out your ass lips, boy. Show me what sinful men have done to you."

Jesse pushes out his asslips, spouting his tiny rosebud. Father Lucius hold the cord perpendicular and whips Jesse between his legs repeatedly. Jesse sobs in pain and the priest bends over him, fat cock erect and peers into Jesse eyes, the priest's pupils so dilated his eyes are pitch black. "Child, child, I can save you." He spreads Jesse checks and rims his burning hole. Jesse moans, allowing his rose to bloom in the priest's mouth. 

"You tempt me with your ruination. With your damnation.” Jesse moans and the priest spreads open his hole. “Let me enter you. My release will be your salvation."

Jesse pushes out his ass as the priest kneels over him, allowing his deformed mass to slowly slither into his rectum and then further crawl deeper into his intestines. Jesse feels the blazing hot metal ring leading the monstrous serpent deep into his body. The monster is fucking him, burrowing into him, seconds that turn to minutes, inch by inch it possesses him, pounding him painfully, mercilessly, minutes that stretch to hours. He wants it to devour him for eternity. Time is warped, has no meaning, is wiped away by lust that derails his mind and body, untethered from this universe.

He's on his side, his ear against one outstretch arm, the other arm way up inside a sloppy, wet cunt. A hand is also inside him. He’s sixty-nining on the rubber sheets, fisting the priest just as the priest is fisting him. He has no idea when this happened, but it’s happening now, and the priest is taking full advantage of shoving his fist in and out of Jesse's open gape. Jesse disengages his arm from the depth and responds in kind to punch fisting the priest. He's mindless, desperate to inflict on the priest what the priest is inflicting on him. There's brutal symmetry at play. They're tearing each other apart in the flickering firelight in the presence of witnesses watching from the dark. The savagery inside him is so intense it’s beyond what he can fathom. His mind just doesn’t engage, only his body is responding. The priest increases the pounding until he's ferociously punching Jesse guts, Jesse grunting in wedded agony and pleasure. Jesse can't keep up with the priest’s barbarity, and collapses lying catatonic, overloaded, more stimulus than his body can absorb, and yet it does. His leg is lifted in the air by the frenzied monk, who’s pounding even more violently on his knees at Jesse's side since Jesse collapsed. In the darkness Eros and Tommy emerge naked as two of the witnesses. They watch approvingly, with hideous smiles. But it can’t be them. Eros smiles with perfect teeth; and Tommy’s tattoos are wrong, misplaced, near perfect. They laugh as he’s drowns in a sea of ecstasy, their faces fading into the depths.

The blackness is complete. Someone puts a blindfold over his eyes. A ball and gag go in his mouth. Each leg is tied again overhead. He hears voices. He feels a small dick fucking him for a long time, then pull out, a fresh trail of sperm flows over his tailbone.

"How many loads is that?"

"I've been at him since this afternoon. Yours was his fifth."

"Boy, you fuck him while the monk fucks you." There's a howling from others in the room or perhaps the wind. Jesse has lost the thread. He no longer knows what's real. "Get the fuck on top of him, dammit."

"I'm not hard," a voice mewls. 

"Just put your cock against his hole and let the monk fuck you."

Jesse feel a soft cock at his hole and, as weight is added on top of him, he feels the soft cock start to stiffen inside him. The longer the grinding continues above, the harder the cock in him becomes. Soon the cock is hard enough and aroused enough to begin fucking him too.

"He's not going to remember this?" wheezes the whiny voice above.

The priest pants, "Best kind of drug fuck. He remembers nothing."

The rhythmic fucking melts into monotony, his mind fades, and the drug and time lose their grip behind his blindfold.

A door creaks closed, and Jesse hears the door’s barrel bolt slide shut. His gag and blindfold is removed. He thinks it’s just him and the old monk who hold the last illuminated candle. Shadowy figures move in the murky blackness but he hasn’t trusted reality for a while. He's spread eagle on the cast iron bed, ropes immobilizing him. The monk holds the candle above. He dips it slightly to the side. Hot wax hits one nipple then the other, Jesse crying out. More wax hits his navel and he shakes his head, begging to be let go. He promises not to tell. 

The monk tilts the candle above his balls, and burning wax scorches them. "You're awake, now, aren't you, Jesse?"

"Please, let me go," he begs. 

"If you're awake, then it must be time for a pick-me-up," says the priest setting the candle on the inlaid table. He brings back the zippered case, then neatly lays out his pliers, weighted alligator clamps, urethral sounds, and the several sizes and shapes of forceps.

"No!" Jesse pleads.

The priest presses a finger to Jesse's lips. "Best you not remember how this evening ends." He unzips the case, fills the syringe. "Now don’t put up a struggle or it could damage you." He feels the priest’s nail glide down the thick vein of his arm. "I don't want you damaged. I want you perfect." He empties the syringe as Jesse vision disconnects. The last thing he sees is plyers on his nipple. The last thing he feels is its cold teeth clamp down on him sharply, shooting pain that electrifies and short-circuits his brain.

The room is barely discernable in the gloom. Through the wall of glass Jesse sees outlines of trees backlit with growing clarity. For minutes—maybe he's mistaken and it's hours—he lies there, not moving, watching the forest mist glow through pine needles and black oak leaves. The first sign of life: chittering wrens bounce with song on colorless branches. Life happens even if he can’t move, or doesn’t wish to move. It's a fine morning to wake into, around five a.m. by the light, he thinks. His nipple really hurt. He feels it and finds a small barbell pierced through it. His butthole stings. He touches it, twitches in pain, and vows to leave it alone. His dick wears the ruby bead P.A. he fuzzily remembers getting. At first the night’s a jumble, but laying there on sweat-covered sheets, the night gradually comes back in sinister flashes.

“Fuck,” he says, sliding his legs off the side of the bed. There's loose ropes at the foot of the bed and by the headboard. The more awake he is the more like shit he feels. Still, he can't put pieces of the night together. It might be he doesn't want to. 

The forest slowly brightens through the wall of glass revealing a foggy summer morning—as foggy as his head, he thinks to himself. He's got an urgent need to pee. 

He gets up, slides open the door’s barrel lock, and crosses to the guest bathroom, lifts the lid, and releases a flood of piss. It’s dark brown, his piss, and burns like a motherfucker. Done, he shakes his dick. It's sore from the new ruby P.A., which he can't help but being a little impressed by. In a flash he now remembers the events that led to it.

He returns to the bedroom to retrieve his underwear and then get the hell out of there. 

Framed by the wall of glass, bare legs bound with silver duct tape twist round before the early morning forest. He shuts his eyes thinking it's the residue of a dream, or maybe some hallucination still acting on his addled brain. But no, he follows the thin, veiny legs up to the emaciated torso, bony arms duct taped behind the naked figure's back. In the brutality of daylight the black leather harness and chains seems absurdly inappropriate on an old man's torso. 

Sunbeams hit the body slowly rotating under invisible fingers of an air vent. The heavy antique chair rests on its side. Jesse's eyes trace the rope looped several times over an exposed beam watching Father Lucius' lifeless body hang from his braided cincture expertly tied into a long, white noose. A gathering of black caped chickadees erupt in a chorus of song welcoming the light of another spectacular day.
 

[bottomboyam]

 
So well written.  Gothic erotic horror. One of your best installments ever.
 

The question is did he kill himself?

Edited February 1, 2022 by bottomboyam

[dazzasboy]

Fantastic.writing, draws you right into the story. Thanks and please keep going with it.

[shoreboy]

4. The Tale of Scooby and Shaggy

You see them now, what, in their early thirties? That’s about right. How they met? One story. How they died? Two stories.

But back to now. Eddie Gleason, the fat actor, comes out the side gates and yells for Scooby and Shaggy to get their asses to the playroom, pronto. “I brought Scooby snacks,” he croons, as if the stepped on coke they know he always brings would motivate them. It’s more what Mac and Dante would do to them if they didn’t perform. 

Eros and Tommy defiantly finish their spaghetti and meatballs, okay, Spaghetti-Ohs that comes with something vaguely resembling meat. While they’re eating Eros complains to Tommy it’s too high in carbs, but Tommy reminds him it’s what's in the cupboard. 

They look at each other hearing the fat man baying for Scooby and Shaggy again, like they didn’t hear him the first time. They set down their spoons together.

“Sit and spin time,” Tommy says, woefully. They’re in synch like they most often are, picking up their spoons again and continue a few more shovelfuls mostly to put off the inevitable. But they’ve lost their appetite. Tommy takes the bowls and scrapes out what’s remaining and then washes the dishes in the sink.

Eros lights a cigarette, comes up behind Tommy, and lets him take a hit while he’s washing. Eros isn’t one for broad displays of affection but he know what Tommy’s feeling. He leaves his fingers against Tommy’s lips as T draws in smoke.

His arms around Tommy, he takes a hit himself. Eros is back in a moment where he’s just Eric, smoking a cigarette on a Bronx street after swearing he'd quit for the millionth time. He has to take a wicked leak. He far enough from his Bronx apartment shared with his brother that he doesn’t think he’ll make it. He steps on this last butt and promises he won’t pick up another pack, then ducks in a dark alley. 

There’s light snoring in a corner where a guy’s passed out on a stained mattress. They’re in their twenty back then. He thinks the guy would be cute if you looked passed his filthy clothes, his stringy hair and his track marks. Eric, as the middle brother in a series of three, has a bit of a sadistic streak from torturing baby bro, Evan. But, since this is just between us, he also has a masochistic streak being under the thumb of his much older bro, Eli, who’s pretty much a sociopathic monster. (Yeah, he’s in a family that likes E names.) He whips out his cock and pees on the cute guy snoring away. 

He immediately regrets it. 

Tommy sputters waking from a dream of being in a warm bathtub, sharing it with a long-ago boyfriend. Since deceased. Brain cancer. Didn’t know him at the end. Part of his depression leading to this particular alley. “What the fuck,” he blurts, once he realizes what splashed in his face. “Motherfucker!” He wobbles to stand. The mattress isn’t helping him with his balance. “The fuck you think you’re doing, man?”

“Sorry,” Eric says, really meaning it. He doesn’t know why he did it. It would be something Eli would find funny and Evan would think him a pig for doing. Devil and angel on his shoulders, always. His bi-polar problem. Tommy’s feisty and up in his face, but seeing the guy’s a head shorter than him he knows he could take him if it came to that. But the guy’s orneriness mixed with him being destitute makes him sympathetic in Eros’ eyes. He really is genuinely sorry. “Didn’t know you were there till I heard something. I turned to see, and I guess it was you snoring,” he lies.

“Now I smell like piss. Fuck dude. Why’d you gotta do that?”

“Totally my bad, friend,” Eric confesses, now kind of disgusted about the whole thing. “Get you a cup of coffee. Peace offering.”

Tommy looks him up and down as best he can in the shadows—a streetlight on the sidewalk doesn’t bring much light this far back, which is kind of the point. A part of him is completely humiliated. Another part is indignant. But another part of him is ravenously hungry. “And a donut,” he interjects.

“Sure,” agrees Eric. “Get you one at the Korean market.”

Tommy wipes his face on his sleeve, looks at his dirty blue and grey—used to be blue and white—striped shirt. He sees most of the fucker’s piss hit him in the face not his clothes. Is he supposed to be happy about that? He’s sure he still stinks, just not of piss.

Eric rummages his pockets and finds a pack of tissues, gives it to the guy. The guy wipes his wet face. Hands back a damp tissue. “Keep it,” Eric says, as they make their way to the Korean store.

It’s a warm night for fall. Leaves brown or missing, but pleasant for October. Tommy hesitates outside the market. He knows the Korean lady doesn’t like when he comes in. The tall asshole brings out two coffees and a donut in a paper bag. Glazed. His favorite but he won’t say that. They walk to the edge of the park and sit on a series of benches far enough apart that it looks like they don’t know each other.

Tommy’s gobbles half the donut before Eric asks, “You live here long?”

Tommy sucks the sweet sugar off his fingers and scoffs, “Yeah, right.” Tommy slowly savors the second half of the donut. In a way he doesn’t want the asshole to leave. First person to actually talk to him in as many days as he can remember. He’s shivering as he drinks his coffee. The caffeine’s not mixing well with him coming off his buzz. Quarter of his donut left, he feels compelled to cross-examine the guy, “You live around here?”

“I do,” Eric replies. “Grew up here in the Bronx. You?”

“Massapequa. It’s on Long Island.”

“I know it’s on Long Island. I go to Jones Beach all the time.” He sees Tommy look away from him. “My parents are in Westchester now, but I have an apartment here with my brother.”

Tommy takes one of two last bites. “Lucky you.” Tommy’s back in snide, could give a shit mode. He sees Eric slap his knee and is done with him. “Hey, thank you,” he says quickly. He realizes he hasn’t really thanked someone is a long. He means it, too. Eric looks at him and sees he means it. Tommy’s down to the final bite of his donut, gets up wiping his hands on dirty jeans. Thinks for a moment for something else to say. He’s got nothing. “Got any spare change?” It’s the default go-to tape always running in his head.

Eric’s on his feet, reaching in his pocket. He’s almost grateful to play this role. He pulls out eighty-seven cents in change and gives it to the bum. His fingers are always counting coins in his pockets because, well, that’s Eric. He notices the bum takes the handout with cupped palms. He’s examining the coins. He’s a little stooped over. This annoys Eric. The bums not old enough to stoop. He’s his age. Maybe younger. Hard to tell because of the dirt. “No problem,” he says, and leaves to go make dinner for him and his brother.

Every time he passes the alley now, he looks for the guy he pissed on. He never sees him there. Then one weekend, on a mild winter afternoon, the measliest traces of snow piled in the corners of buildings, he’s returning from the gym and there’s the guy at the subway entrance—not his subway line, which is a few blocks away—and the guy’s hands are cupped, he’s stooped again like some old beggar. He’s hassling the few pedestrians going down to catch their train. At first he pretends not to notice him, but he sees recognition in the guy’s face. But the guy doesn’t say anything, and he’s not going to say anything. So he keeps walking, picking up his pace.

Now when he passes that same empty alley he feels guilty. Not every time, just some days. He sees the guy often at the subway entrance. When it’s really cold he imagines he’s downstairs. One Friday night when he’s coming back late from work, he’s so tired he misses a connection so he has to take a different line that ends up at this particular station. It’s February and bitterly cold. His brother Eli is spending the weekend in Westchester with Evan and his parents, pumping the folks for a loan so he can marry the fiancé he’s had on the hook since high school. She’s recently put her foot down. He’s got one, too, a fiancé, though for him it’s only been two months since he proposed. Him and his brother joke about who’s getting the ol’ ball and chain first. He’s walking to the exit and, on the opposite platform, there’s the guy in a maintenance door alcove. A couple of cops are hassling him with their nightsticks. 

Officer one says he can’t sleep there. He’s got to move on. In his tattered coat, the guy struggles to stand. He’s high, it’s obvious, but he’s aware enough to know that the cops aren’t going to let up till he’s gone. A subway screeches into the station and he heads for it. Officer two blocks his path. “Outside,” he says. Eric watches through the gap between subway cars, sees the guy stumbling up the platform steps. He and guy meet at the passageway between platforms, and walk next to each up to the street. The guy won’t acknowledge him, which kind of bugs Eric, but he also sees the guy has a sliver of pride still in him. Or maybe the guy’s just so high he doesn’t recognize him.

The wind’s howling on the street. There’s a few snowflakes in the air but the weather report says they’re about to get hit by the season’s first nor’easter. Eric steps in front of him and places a hand on his chest. The guy slaps it away. “Hey,” Eric says, trying to get the guy to look at him. “You got somewhere to go?”

“Fuck off,” he says. He couldn’t tell you what day it is but he knows for damn sure he’s doesn’t need this pissing asshole’s help—things you remember when most everything else you don’t. In more than one shelter he’s been told freezing to death isn’t a bad way to go. His alley mattress had been tossed but that alley was out of the wind. For right now that’s all he cares about.

Eric stops him again. “Listen, dick wad, I asked you if you had a place to go.” The guy stares at Eric. His eyes are glassy, pupils dilated the size of dimes, his eye dart left to right several times to see how much this guy is going to fuck with him. He’s a little afraid of him because of his size, but he’s been beat up before. So who fuckin’ care. “Well, do you?” the guy demands.

“Sure, I got a suite at the Waldorf, now get the fuck out of my way,” he says, trying to push Eric aside. But the guy’s big and doesn’t budge, so he ends up bumping into him. He just stands there. His face buried in Eric’s chest. 

Eric rest his chin on top of his head. He smells. Well, what’d he expect? “C’mon,” he says, practically dragging him by his threadbare coat.

Tommy, freezing and tired, doesn’t have the wherewithal to resist. At the stoop of Eric’s apartment, Eric asks him if he’s got a name.

“Everyone’s got a name,” Tommy says, struggling up the stoop. “Tom. Tommy Price.”

“Tommy P.,” Eric taunts, brightly. “The famous Mr. T paying me a visit.”

Tommy gives him the stink-eye as he’s let into the building. This guy, he reckons, really is an ass.

As soon as they’re in the apartment, Eric forces him into the shower. It’s a pretty big three bedroom apartment. One room for his older brother, one for Eric. The third bedroom was supposed to be for Evan, but since he’s still in high school he lives with their folks. So right now the bedroom’s empty, except there’s piles of GQ magazines all over the floor. All belong to Eric’s.

Eric’s in the kitchen heating up a can of sloppy joe mix when a wet Tommy, wrapped with a towel around his waist, another one over his shoulders, wanders in. He seems lost, but looks a hundred times better than twenty minutes ago. Eric sniffs him. “Presentable,” he pronounces, to which Tommy sneers back. “Hungry?”

Tommy flops in the chair, still tweaking but starting to get his bearings. “Fuckin’ kidding me?” He looks at the label on the counter. “Manwich?” he scoffs. Eric opened two buns on separate plates and divvies up the meat.

“Got another dinner engagement, you’re welcome to leave.”

“Fuck you,” Tommy says, snatching the plate and starts scarfing it down, orange sauce staining his sparse beard. In between open mouthfuls, he says, “I’m back in my fifth grade cafeteria!” He looks up at Eric. “You live in this big place alone?” He’s impressed but tries to not show it.

“Nah, told you it’s me and my brother.”

“What’s with the room with the nudie magazines?”

“GQ, not nudie magazine,” Eric snaps, indignantly.

“Right,” says Tommy, as he finished his sandwich.

“You want another?”

Tommy’s not one to refuse an offer. “Ab-so-lute-ly,” he says, merrily. He hasn’t felt warmth in his belly since he doesn’t know when.

When it relaxes, Eric sees Tommy’s got a nice face, pretty almost, with a cute dimpled smile. The track marks, though, are definite off-putting. As he’s fixing Tom’s second round, Eric says, “So you can’t stay in my brother’s room, but I got a rollout under my bed.”

“Sure. Whatever.” Tommy reaches up to relieve Eric of the plate before he might change his mind. Deep into the second sandwich, he asks while he chews, “So, like, what’s your name?”

“Eric,” he says.

He swallows. “Got a last name?”

“Why?”

“Just wondering. Most people do?”

“Jones.”

“Eric Jones. Sounds like an alias,” Tommy says, finishing the sandwich, then starts licking his bright orange fingers. “It’s okay. Lot of guys use phony names.”

Eric laughs sardonically. “Well it’s my name.”

“And you’re gay.”

“No!” Eric states, emphatically. “What makes you think I’m queer?” It’s what Eli’s always accused him of, sometimes joking, sometimes not—now he’s pissed.

“Why’d you ask me up here? Your brother out and all.” 

“You know what? I made a really bad call. You probably need to get out of here.” Eric won’t look at him as he’s taking the plates, spraying them in the sink, shoving them in the dishwasher—Tommy’s up on his feet saying sorry, sorry. Eric slams the dishwasher’s door. He leans his back against the counter, arms crossed.

“My bad, man,” Tommy’s pleading. “Look, I’m an idiot. I never thought you were queer.” He’s backpedaling as fast as if his life depended on it. “No, man. I just didn’t know what was up, y’know? Like if you were expecting—”

“I’ve got a fiancé,” Eric interjects. “A place in Scarsdale we’re moving to. At some point.” Tommy’s silent, like, whatever, doesn’t matter to him. Eric’s frustrated, exasperated. “Fuck I’m explaining to you for.” Then: “No good deeds goes unpunished, do they?”

“Wouldn’t know,” Tommy says, drudging through the apartment looking for his clothes. “I try to avoid good deeds. So, where’s my clothes? I’ll leave.”

“In the washer.”

Tommy purses his lips. “So, what, now you’re shanghaiing me? Or you gonna throw me naked on the street? What’s the deal, man?” Tommy’s now frustrated, too, but more than anything he’s confused.

“Sure. I’m kidnapping a bum off the street.”

“I ain’t a bum.”

“Sorry. I take a kid off the street—”

“I ain’t a kid either.” A tremor goes through his body. He wraps the towel for warmth around his shoulders. He doesn’t want the asshole to see it, but his trembling is beyond his control.

“You want a robe?” Tommy tries to mouth yes as his teeth chatter, but he knows a robe won’t stop his shaking. He knows what will.

Eric goes to his bedroom and comes back with a thick terrycloth robe. Tommy takes the towel off his shoulders, puts on the robe. He pulls the towel from his waste and Eric glimpses a red and black tattooed demon from navel to cock on Tommy. He ties the robe and wraps his arms around himself, which doesn’t keep his teeth from chattering. 
Tommy’s agitated, thinking through what he’ll need to do to score: who; where. “So, when my clothes dry I’ll leave.”

“Shut the fuck up.” The washer buzzes and Eric goes in the laundry room. There’s banging of metal, appliance doors opening and closing, clicking, then a whir of a dryer. “You don’t have to fuckin’ leave.”

Tommy is again search the apartment. “I had a coat when I came in.”

“In the hall closet. Don’t worry. I didn’t steal your stash, or whatever. An empty baggie fell out. I just threw it out.”

“In here?” Tommy asks, going through the kitchen garbage can. He finds the baggie. Opens it. Rubs his finger getting any residual powder and spreading it over his gums. 

Eric looks on, repelled. “Better now?”

Tommy looks slightly relieved. “You smoke?” he asks Eric.

“Cigarettes?” Eric responds.

“No. Smoke crack. Yes, cigarette.”

“I quit. My brother might have left a pack,” Eric says, leaving the kitchen. He returns with a filtered cigarette and gives it to Tommy. 

Tommy gives a mock bows, then rips off the filter and tosses it in the trash. He bends over the gas stove and gets it lit. Tommy leans back on the stove and is as serene as Eric’s ever seen him. “So, what d’ya feel like doing? Little late news? Round of canasta?” Tommy arches a playful eyebrow. “What do you and your brother do at night?”

Eric doesn’t like the implication. “Sleep, which is what I’d like to do. I bet you can’t though. You’re gonna be up all night?”

“No. I’ll conk out at some point.” He follows Eric to his bedroom bringing the ashtray from the kitchen with him. The room’s Spartan. No poster, books, or pictures; a few CDs and CD player; a bong on his nightstand; and there’s a large TV on top of his chest of drawers. His closet, though, Tommy notes, is stuffed with nice clothes. “Wouldn’t mind falling asleep to a movie. Been a while since I did that. Smoke bother you?”

Eric shakes his head and pulls a foam mattress from under the bed. Puts some sheets on it. He throws Tommy a blanket who tucks it under his arm. Eric turns on the TV, gives Tommy the controls, and tosses a couple of pillows from his bed on the foam mattress. Tommy quickly props himself up with the pillows. Tommy sets the ashtray next to him, stubs out his half-finished smoke, and flips through the channels till he finds an old black and white movie. He turns the sound way down so the actors are barely audible. 

Eric hangs his shirt and khakis in the closet. Crossing in front of the TV, he slips off his underwear with an attentive Tommy watching. He finds his gym shorts and slips them on. The room’s quiet except for the couple on TV.

“If you want water or anything, you know where the kitchen is. You okay till your clothes dry?”

“Don’t have much choice, do I?” Tommy’s looking up at Eric as he climbs into bed and shutting off the light.

Blue lights flicker across the ceiling. Lauren Bacall’s sultry voice taunts Humphry Bogart, “You know how to whistle, Steve?” Tommy and Lauren speak as one: “You just put your lips together and blow.” The TV cuts to a car commercial and Tommy hits mute. Now it’s just blue lights and silence. Eric flips over on his side facing the wall. Under the covers, Tommy opens his robe and starts stroking his cock. 

This goes on for some time. A steady swishing of the cotton sheets. Tommy’s breathing. Tommy stops. Listens. Starts up again. He’s beats off for a while. Stops. Listens. Listens some more. What’s he listening for? For Eric’s reaction. He knows Eric’s awake. He’s too quiet to be sleeping. Eric, in fact, is barely breathing. Eric’s listening, too. Tommy can hear him listening.

Tommy puts a hand under Eric’s sheets, finds Eric, who jumps and is now tense as a trapped hare. Tommy’s hand stays on Eric’s ribs, waiting for rejection, but it doesn’t happen. His body flows up into Eric’s bed. His hand reaches around Eric’s flat rippled stomach. Eric’s actually trembling. Tommy is at his neck. Gives his neck a soft peck, then his collar bone. His hand runs up Eric’s chest, turning him on his back. He runs his hand through the soft pelt of his chest. Up to his shaved chin, his clenched jaw, his open eyes staring straight at the blue dancing lights on the ceiling. Tommy slides himself up. Over his lips. Leans down so they meet.

Eric puts out his hand, touches Tommy’s beard, not to stop him, but to feel whiskers for the first time. He’s never had a man’s this close to his face before. A new sensation. Beard on his skin. Whiskers brushing across his lips. A sparse blond beard on his cheek. It answers his question of what it would be like. Now he knows. 

Eric's erect like he’s never been before. Tommy finds it through his gym shorts and starts stroking him, disappearing under the covers, pulling off the shorts. Eric jumps as Tommy’s mouth devours his cock. His big cock’s never been deep throated, and he can’t believe a throat can swallow his member down to his pubes. But Tommy’s down there, his cockhead buried deep inside his throat. It’s enough to make him cum on the spot, but Tommy rises from under the sheets and straddles Eric’s waist. His wet cock pokes at Tommy’s ass and slowly Tommy’s lowers himself onto it.

“You have Vaseline or anything?” Tommy asks. “Something you beating off with?” Eric takes a tube of KY from his nightstand and hands it to Tommy. Tommy lubes his hole and Eric’s mammoth rod, and eases down on the cock, lowering himself slowly, excitedly, till this butt rests amid Eric’s pubes. Then he starts writhing slowly, grinding his ass against Eric’s rock hard cock, pleasuring him with long strokes—from his tip then plunging down to his base. Eric runs his hands along Tommy’s sides, feels his smooth, flat chest, and for the first time grabs hold of a cock that’s not his own. Tommy’s hard, too, and Eric stroking him makes Tommy pounce on his cock that much harder. They’re easily in synch with one another’s bodies, as natural as one hand washing the other.

Tommy plays with Eric’s nipples. It’s another new sensation. Eric’s not sure if he likes it, but apparently his dick does because he’s fucking Tommy’s ass harder still the more Tommy pinches his nipples. That’s not lost on Tommy, who tweaks Eric’s nipples even harder. Eric can’t hold back anymore, and bucks his cock into Tommy, holds his hips, fucking fiercely and spurting the most feral orgasm of his organized life. He’s loud and he doesn’t care. “Fu—uh—ck!” he shouts, taking Tommy’s hips and slamming them down repeatedly on his cock. Tommy’s right there spewing cum over Eric’s hairy chest. They keeping fucking after each of them has climaxed, simply enjoying the feel of each other’s bodies. One hand still washing the other. Tommy riding Eric’s cock, drawing out as much cum from him as possible, and Eric seeing that by stroking Tommy’s spent cock it makes him flinch and moan—a torture he gets off on, inflicting small torments on this guy.

“Stop,” Tommy begs him after he’s been milking him for quite a while, but that only makes Eric snarl and continues the torture. Tommy’s contributing, too, continuing to gyrate Eric’s big cockhead, but it’s getting softer and threatens to pop out. So Tommy stills Eric’s hand and simply rests on Eric’s deflating dick. Even flaccid, Tommy finds it still fills his ass with its enormous girth and length, and won’t come out even if he squeeze it. That’s a new one. He’s content to let it rest inside him for now, and Eric’s happy to have his cock buried in such a warm, wet ass.

When Tommy leans over to lap up cum entwined on Eric’s neck, Eric’s cock oozes out along with a dribble of spunk. Tommy’s got of mouth full of cum and bends over to pass it to Eric. Eric turns his face to the side causing Tommy to frown. He slurps down the cum. “More for me then,” he says, and flops next to Eric.

Eric turns to his side and kisses Tommy, tasting salty remnants of cum for the first time. So many firsts. He feels like he’s suddenly seeing color after living a lifetime in black and white. But he can’t see past tonight, even past this moment. How could he ever integrate this street person, this bum, a beggar, who’s opened his eyes to a spectrum of hues where he lived only in monochrome before? Would he pull Tommy up, or will Tommy pull him down?

Tommy lights up the half-finished cigarette from the ashtray, lighting it with matches from Eric’s bong. Eric slips his arm under Tommy’s head, who rests it back on Eric’s shoulder. Eric plucks the cigarette from Tommy’s fingers and takes a hit. Still holding the cigarette, he lets Tommy take a drag. It’s like Tommy’s kissing his fingers. He is.

Tommy’s finished with the dishes at the sink in their island shack. He removes the cigarette from Eros’ fingers, takes a hit before giving it back. “Time to sit and spin.”

 

[billy88666]

I found this story this afternoon and was hooked from the first paragraph. Your writing is so vividly detailed, I was drawn in like a moth to a flame. Your words brought every scene to life, I became so absorbed that I felt like I was watching a 3D movie. Few people in this world are are blessed with such a gift and I want to thank you for taking the time to share this novella with us. There's one other writer here (losolent), who is also a truly excellent wordsmith. He also has the capacity to bring his words to life and make me  feel like I'm a voyeur.

I'm absolutely stunned and thrilled at finding your post here today.  I feel like I've found a piece of treasure❤️

[FFRubbrPIG]

On 2/6/2022 at 4:08 PM, billy88666 said:

I found this story this afternoon and was hooked from the first paragraph. Your writing is so vividly detailed, I was drawn in like a moth to a flame. Your words brought every scene to life, I became so absorbed that I felt like I was watching a 3D movie. Few people in this world are are blessed with such a gift and I want to thank you for taking the time to share this novella with us. There's one other writer here (losolent), who is also a truly excellent wordsmith. He also has the capacity to bring his words to life and make me  feel like I'm a voyeur.

I'm absolutely stunned and thrilled at finding your post here today.  I feel like I've found a piece of treasure❤️

I totally agree with you. I would thoroughly recommend  that you read his first story on here," Last Known Address", it is without doubt my favourite story on this site. In my view there is none better.