Abandon

[shoreboy]

Thanks @billy88666 and @FFRubbrPIG. Really, thanks everyone. I love the characters in Last Known Address. Hope I can do justice to these nasty, goofball, monsters, too. I’ll try to keep my trap shut and just let the stories tell themselves.

[demon pig]

I so wish that could be me I'd give anything to be a dirty nasty pig

[TboTTomfun]

Nice story hope to read more

[shoreboy]

5. Scorpion

Jesse slinks down the stairs and hauls back a half-asleep Eros to the priest’s bedroom. Rubbing gunk out of his eyes, Eros stares at the priest’s thin, naked body slowly twirling. “Yeah he’s dead all right.”

Suppressing a yawn, Tommy tiptoes in quietly closing the door behind him. He presents a large plate of sandwiches to Eros and Jesse. "I found these on the counter. They're a little stale but I think they're—" Eros nabs two roast beefs before Tommy even finishes, "—okay." 

“Mustard?”

“Like I’d forget,” Tommy says, annoyed, as he hands over mustard packets from his pocket. 

Eros is not a morning person, especially after just two hours of sleep. “Coffee?”

“How many fucking hands you think I have?” Tommy’s prickly as Eros on two hours of sleep. The corpse does a full three-sixty as he munches a tuna fish wedge. When the monk’s pumped member glides in front of him, he turns to Jesse, “He fuck you with that thing?”

“Jesus, Tommy. That’s the first thing you think of?” says Jesse, snatching an egg salad triangle whose crusts are sliced off. He watches the monk continue to rotate. “But, yeah. He fucked me with that thing.”

Eros gobbles one of his roast beefs in a few bites. He goes to the bed and picks up a piece of rope. “Bondage, huh? What a shock.”

“So you woke up and he was just hanging there?” Tommy suspiciously asks. He’s finished his tuna, and now starts on a turkey and avocado.

“First I took a piss.” Jesse looks at the door and quietly slides the bolt lock so no one barges in unexpected. “When I came back I saw him hanging there.”

Eros and Tommy circle the body chewing. Tommy looks at Jesse puzzled. “If his arms and legs are duct taped, how’d he manage to climb on the chair and hang himself? He had to have help.”

“I told you, he slammed me a second time and I don’t remember anything after that."

"So maybe you helped him and don't remember." Eros suggests. “There’s things I’ve done that I didn’t remember till T told me the next day.”

"I barely could stand up after the first slam. No way I’m propping up a monk all taped up and getting him up on a chair. Look at me. On a good day I couldn’t lift, what—,” he gauges the body. “Like one-thirty, one-forty pounds? I’m not like T.” Tommy flexes a bicep for Eros and wiggles his eyebrows.

Eros frowns, considers the situation. After finishing his second roast beef he proposes an idea raising his index finger. “What if someone comes in, binds him, and strings him up while you’re passed out?”

“Except, when I got up to pee, the door was bolted on the inside,” Jesse counters.

“Shit, that does complicates things,” Eros concedes. He takes the remaining turkey and avocado, which make Tommy snarl. He puts it back and chooses a lone lobster roll.

“That actor guy and the tall kid were in here...I think,” Jesse reflects. “I’m not sure when that happened. But I felt a little dick as some point fucking me. Just like T said. I bet it was him. And the kid bitched about not having a hard on, but he got it up and fucked me, too.”

“So tell me everything.” Eros squirts mustard on his lobster roll. “All you can remember.”

“Dude,” Tommy balks. “You have to put mustard on everything?”

“It’s the good kind. I didn’t know it came in little packets.”

“Listen!” Jesse hits Eros to get his attention. “I remember the priest giving me this Prince Albert.” He pulls down his underwear and flashes his jeweled P.A.

Tommy’s chewing the turkey and avocado and lifts the empty plate. "Should I go down and get more?"

"Nah, you'll risk someone seeing you before we figure out what to do." Eros looks down to the pool below. Still empty. The sky's clear but it's brisk. Leaves are gathering around the pool filter.

“Yeah, so after he gives me the P.A., he slams me the first time, and we fuck for a really long time, then he spanked me some, and then we fist—punch fist, sixty-nine fist. I never been so far up someone’s ass, ever! It was crazy weird.” Tommy whistles. “So many things happened. I’m might be confusing the order but I think I was gagged and blindfolded when the actor and the kid came in. I don't know how long they were here but they left, I'm pretty sure. I remember hearing the priest lock the door and then it got really quiet. Then after he poured hot wax on me—,"

"God damn, Jesse!" Eros bursts out. "You gonna listen to me next time?"

"Like I need you to lecture me!” Jesse crosses his arms, looks defiantly at Eros. “Look at you all judgy. Say, how’d you and Mac D.P.-ing the kid go? You give him any choice?”

“Let’s say he learned to like it,” Tommy says, watching Eros grind his jaw.

“Fuck last night.” Eros snaps. Ostensibly he checks out the pool again, but then suddenly he picks up the antique chair and slams it down hard on the carpet with a boom.

Jesse gives him a dirty look, shushing him, but then he blinks, looking wildly around. “Wait.” He searches the monk’s satchel then scurries around the room. “Where’s his case?” 

“What are you looking for,” Tommy asks, his mouth full.

“He had this little case with a hypo in it. It had a couple vials strapped inside.” He looks under the bed, in the empty chest of drawers, and then rummages in the closet. “When he saw I was coming round he got out this kit—I don’t see it here. He also got out some scary tools—I think he must’ve pierced my nipple when I blacked out. After that second slam, I don’t remember anything. But that case should still be around."

“Maybe whoever hung him took it,” Eros suggests. “Listen. Bottom line, it won’t look good you drugged up and locked in a room with a dead guy. You’ll be the cop’s suspect numero uno. Good you came and got us so we can get ahead of this. T, before anyone gets up we should get the body out of here. Bury it in the forest or maybe out at the lighthouse. Hardly anyone goes out to the cape.”

Tommy pauses, swallowing the rest of his sandwich before he holds up his hand, waving it in disagreement. “No, someone might eventually find it. We should take it out to sea and Davy Jones it.”

“No,” Eros says pacing. "It might float back. Then they’ll see neck burns and that’ll lead to a bunch of questions.”

“Okay,” Tommy's pacing now, too. “Between here and the dock there’s that swamp. We can take it there, and weight it down with rocks. Nobody’s going to go traipsing into the swamp." Eros enthusiastically bobs his head in agreement. "Okay. Then we take one of the kayaks, make it look like he took one out early—“

“Like,” Eros says, clapping him on the shoulder, “we put his sandals in it—“

“—and his rosary—“

“Genius! And his rosary in the kayak and turn it over on the beach like it floated back without him.”

“Yeah. Or just let it float out to sea! It’ll look like he went out before anyone else got up.” They’re holding each other’s shoulders, nodding, electrified by their brilliance. “He's still high—right?—he tips over and accidently drowns. No body to be found, but the police would have reason to believe they'd eventually find one. Right? That’s if Mac even reports him missing.”

“I’ll get the kayaks if you guys get the body,” Jesse says. But then he pauses. “Wait. Why wouldn’t Mac report him missing?”

Tommy and Eros exchange a look. Tommy says, “Let’s say he’s got his reasons not to attract attention.”

Jesse collapses on the leather divan, the corpse spinning above him. He laces his fingers and put them on his head staring up at it. “So, if he didn’t hang himself—all duct taped up like that—someone else did. And if someone else did and got the inside bolt to somehow lock, he’s gonna know Father Lucius didn’t drown. They’ll rat us out!”

“Well,” Tommy says, reasoning with him, “if we assume he didn’t hang himself—and I agree that it's impossible he did it—then someone went to a lot of trouble to get you locked into a room with a dead guy. So whoever that was, the last thing he’s going to do is make waves. What’s he gonna say? Like 'I know there’s no body,” he says in a stupid guy voice, “but I know that the body we can’t find wasn’t drowned—it was hanged'?” Jesse cracks his first meager grin of the day. “No way! No one’s going to say that. That’d be stupid.” Tommy claps him on the shoulder, leaning in reassuringly. “And whoever it is, isn’t stupid. So: no body, no evidence, no problem!”

While Tommy clips Jesse’s chin bringing out a bigger smile, Eros climbs up on the chair and cuts down the body. He and Tommy slip the monk’s robe back on him. Tommy give Jesse the rosary beads. Eros lifts the shoulders and Tommy takes the feet. Unlocking the bolt, Jesse makes sure no one’s in the hall, and Eros and Tommy take the body away. 

With the monk's sandals and rosary beads in hand, he sneaks down to the pool. Quietly lets himself out the side gate, takes a bright green kayak off the rack and, though it weighs a ton, lugs it to the beach. There’s white caps all the way to the horizon—fortunately the wind is at his back. He lays the kayak down in the wet sand, places the sandals and rosary beads in the hull, and pushes it out with the tide. It bounces for a while in the surf, spins directionless, but gradually the steady wind guides it from the shore. Soon it’s only a vibrant green dot bobbing under an indigo sky.

Far down the beach, rocks surrounding the lighthouse spray white foam in the air from crashing waves. The storm has traveled inland for hours but the ocean remains angry. Seagulls squawking on the sand part before him as he wanders back to the shack. Jesse waits nervously inside for Eros and Tommy to return. Minutes turn to hours. Inside the compound he hears the beginning of activity at the pool. Cups clinks, a low murmur of tired voices just waking up.

Laying on Tommy and Eros’ futon he curls into a small ball. Their smell is comforting. After a long, harrowing night followed by a frantic morning—one filled with more questions than answers—he drifts off like the green kayak, into a very dark, very troubled sea of sleep.

*

Mr. McPherson drives the golf cart down a rickety wooden walkway. He’s none-too-shabby, thinks Jaxton, taking in his broad, tan shoulders, muscular back, and neck thick as a linebacker. Certainly the first good thing on this stupid island getaway Eddie planned. They head, clackety-clack, to the compound. The passing maritime forest would be pretty if you were into nature. He prefers Tribeca. Eddie sits gabbing excitedly beside Mr. McPherson. Jaxton, tuning out the chit chat with earbuds firmly in place, is in the back seat with a creepy old priest named Father Lucius dressed like an honest-to-fuck monk. The monk keeps checking him out. He sees his sideways glances. Jaxton’s trying to ignore him by concentrating on his Nintendo Switch. The moment the priest lays one finger on him, he’s ready to punch the fucker in the face.

They disembark in the oppressive heat and take a smaller walkway to the house. They pause at the entrance watching some young guy—in his underwear, for fuck sake!—park the cart. He’s cute but short. Jaxton prefers guys tall like himself—like the owner of the compound, e.g. The owner says something about everyone being casual at his place and pinches his tit, which Jaxton does not like one bit. He thinks the man’s attractive, but he’s not one for men he doesn’t know thinking they have access to his body just because he’s hot and they’re rich. (Well, Eddie notwithstanding. But then Eddie’s paying him a hell of a lot for a bogus “assistant” position and he knows never to pinch.) Jaxton hunches forward letting his blond dreadlocks fall over his face so no one sees he’s simmering.

He blasts his iPhone to drown out the men talking. But before Mr. McPherson has a chance to open the front doors, the monk unexpectedly flashes his junk, which is pumped to a grotesque size Jaxton’s never seen in his life, and to which no one but him seems to think is completely revolting, not to mention inappropriate.

Inside, it’s what he’s come to expect in modern beach houses—it isn’t grossly ostentatious, at least—a minimum of chrome and brass with lots of wood and glass. Mid-century modern furniture in the living room, an Eames lounge chair, the requisite pair of Wassily black strap chairs arranged around a Noguchi coffee table; a Jasper Johns and a Warhol in the dining room. In the airy foyer and leading up the staircase are pictures of Mr. McPherson with a hell of a lot of famous men, Eddie as a twenty-year-old shirtless stud among them. Dark mullet aside, Eddie was something back in the day. It’s sad, really. 

Jaxton stops and points at the photo. In it, Eddie, shirtless wearing a leather vest, has his arm draped around very pretty boy about the same age. “That thirst trap is you?” he asks, incredulous. Eddie nods and huffs with their luggage up the stairs. “Look at you, bossman.” Jaxton says, which only irritates Eddie. Eddie hates when he drops into his faux-Jamaican act. “Who was the blondie?” Jaxton pesters him up the stairs. 

“No one you ever heard of,” he wheezes, clomping his way to the room.

Their bedroom is large and thankfully frigidly air conditioned. Eddie wants to go immediately to the pool but Jaxton grouses that he’d rather stay in and play his Switch in the A.C. Eddie states categorically he is not going to have his weekend ruined, and demands the game with an outstretched hand. Back in the city a move like that would have caused Jaxton to tell Eddie to shove it and leave, but here he’s stuck and feels like he’s going to have to be at least a little accommodating. He turns over the game, binds his dreadlocks up in a man-bun, and put on his knee-length swimming trunks.

“You heard Mac,” Eddie says. “This place is for the uninhibited. Either you wear that dental floss thingy I bought you, or a speedo like mine or nothing. But you are not wearing those ridiculous trunks. You’re not hanging your surfer friends in Montauk.”

“That’s a negative on the speedos, bossman. Too much weenie for the bikini. And the thong barely packs me in.”

“Then it’s nothing.”

“Fine,” Jaxton sneers, and slips off his swimming trunks.

He trots down the stairs having no problem displaying his body, especially if it catches the head of the house’s eye. He finds a shady spot by the pool. With his earbuds in and his player turned up, he doesn’t hear the priest dive in the water.

Eddie taps his shoulder, hands him a frozen margarita. A peace offering. Jaxton graciously accepts. 

Eddie wedges himself on the lounge next to his. Besides his own margarita, Eddie’s brought a full pitcher, which he sets on the ground in the shade. He’s in his speedo, which Jaxton finds tragic. A moment later Jaxton’s alarm is set off warning him the old priest is swimming up. He registers Eddie and the monk are talking about him, so he turns down the music a little to catch if any of what they’re saying is of interest.

“He’s a mighty tall drink of water, isn’t he?” comments the priest, leering at Jaxton.

The music goes right back up. Jaxton hates that phrase. It’s right up there with String Bean, Bean Pole, Bean Stalk—anything Bean-adjacent really.

Though the music is too loud for him to actually hear it, he sees the priest ask him, “How’s the weather up there?”

That’s another one that ticks him off. The best he can manage is a minor scoff. He checks for any texts from anyone, anyone—even the DJ he’s currently ghosting—but seeing no bars, sags into the chaise. With a thick bottom lip he nurses a sip of his margarita, but perks up instantly when Mr. McPherson comes out to join them. He’s awesomely naked, too. DILF, definitely, Jaxton muses. No tan lines on that boulder butt, and a cock swaying like an elephant trunk. With a cool sip of his drink he gifts the man a restrained two-finger wave. He takes one earbud out as a courtesy. “Hey,” he murmurs.

Mr. McPherson acknowledges him with barely a hi—which straight away sets Jaxton off on offense while destroying his self-esteem at the same time, none of which he allows to register on his face. Mr. McPherson bounces on Eddie’s chaise and rumples his sparse hair. Eddie’s a kid again soaking up attention from someone powerful. Mr. McPherson says, “So if the storm holds off a little we can grill steaks.” He looks expectantly at the monk and then at Jaxton. “I trust I have men here that like to eat meat.”

Jaxton pauses his music. If Mr. McPherson wants to be indifferent, he can be as serious as a morgue. “Actually, I’m vegan, Mr. McPherson.”

Mac makes a theatrical grimace—turns to the actor, “I thought you said no food issues, Eddie.”

Eddie slaps Jaxton’s ankle to get him to sit up. Jaxton reluctantly complies. “You eat meat. I’ve seen you eat a whole chicken.”

“Dude, it was a free range guinea hen we had in California before the prelims. It made me sick all during the finals.”

The priest emerges from the pool, his junk dripping like he’s taking a piss. He stands fists on hips at the end of Jaxton’s chaise. Jaxton scoots a little away from him, which causes Eddie to raise a cautionary eyebrow. “I’m sure I can find something in your pantry for our young giraffe, if you’ll allow me. Most of our monastery is vegetarian along with a few pescatarians.” Jaxton looks as if a turd is under his nose. Eddie looks puzzled. “Fish eaters, Mr. Gleason.”

“Lobster,” Jaxton proposes. He’s being accommodating. “I do eat lobster.”

Mac laughs, interjecting, “So you’re not that vegan.”

Jaxton insists, “I’m totally vegan, bro."

“Except for shellfish,” Father Lucius replies, also amused. He sits at the bottom of Jaxton’s chaise and runs a cold, wet palm over Jaxton thigh. “These have got to be the legs of a swimmer.”

Eddie notices Jaxton is horrified by the monk’s touch. “A surfer. Also a competitive snowboarder, aren’t you, Jaxton.” Jaxton nods and hides his distain behind multiple sips of margarita. “He’s won prizes at Telluride and Sundance.”

“Racing and freestyle,” he says, with a bit of blossoming pride seeing this interests Mr. McPherson. “And in May I just took first at the Rip Curl competition in San Clemente.”

“Amazing.” The priest’s hand is higher up Jaxton’s thigh.

“Father Lucius,” Mac trumpets, slapping Eddie on the shoulder as he’s rising to his feet. “How about you and I find our resident bro something he’d like to eat.”

“I’d like nothing more.” Both men chuckle as they go into the house.

Eddie scowls refilling his drink as Jaxton reinserts his earbud and tunes out the world. 

Somewhere during his playlist, Jaxton notices he’s cold. He looks up to see clouds gathering overhead. He’s had enough. Eddie’s finished the pitcher of margaritas, his head lolling to the side with a bit of drool in the corner—it’s sick to the point of being hysterical. In addition to having goosebumps, he finds he’s hungry. He wanders in the backdoor and discovers a naked Mr. McPherson fixing sandwiches at the kitchen counter. Jaxton cruises the man, making sure he knows his ass is being checked out.

“Ah, I was just about to get you two. Grilling looks like we’ll have to put off till tomorrow. But I did find lobster salad. I made you some lobster rolls. Tell me mayo or gluten aren’t a problem.”

“No way. Lobster rolls are dope.” Jaxton grabs one and hops on a stool at the counter.

Mac finishes slicing brie for a series of sandwiches. “You know,” he says, without looking up, “you’re probably vegetarian not vegan, and not a strict one at that.” Mac picks up a hard roll roast beef, and joins Jaxton at the counter.

“Maybe. These are lit, Mr. McPherson,” he says, finishing his first and takes up another.

“Call me Mac.” They both savor their sandwiches, eyeing each other.

“Where’s Father Lucius?” As if on cue, a rumble of thunder echoes in the distance, which causes Mac to croak a laugh.

He points to the stairs. “The good Father is entertaining our young houseboy with card tricks, or something or other.”

Jaxton’s eyes keep dropping down to Mr. McPherson’s hanging cock and back up to his large nipple rings. “I’ve thought about getting one of those,” he says, pointing to Mac’s piercing.

“You’d look great with one.”

“Sic. Only my left though. Is it true two rings means you flip?” Jaxton face is completely neutral. He slides the plate between them and starts working on another lobster roll. “I bet you think I’m an oinker.” 

“I’m all in when it comes to piggishness. Eat! You could use a pound or two.” He nudges the plate toward Jaxton. “And, yes, I most definitely flip. But I’m surprised you’re caught up in this whole left side, right side thing. That’s very old timey.” Mac reaches over and tweaks his right nipple. Jaxton elbows him away.

“I prefer to top, but I’ll flip for the right guy.” He studies Mac’s reaction. Detects none. His brows furrows as he chews.

Mac enjoys how seriously the boy takes himself. He’s lucky he gorgeous—stubble on his cleft chin, wispy hint of a mustache on his upper lip, long dark lashes, solemn brow, a slender face, with dazzlingly hazel eyes that turn on a dime: defiant, mischievous, dangerous, wounded, vengeful. What he would do with this boy over time. He could do without haystack of hair, though—but overall a perfectly lithe specimen of young manhood. Spirited, arrogant, entitled, unbroken.

“Can I ask you something personal,” Mac says, opening his sandwich and picking off some roast beef. Jaxton looks at him with a raised eyebrow. “Do you and Eddie fuck?”

Jaxton appears disappointed with the question. “Oh, that. No. Oral sometimes. Works out for the best.” Mac considers this a second, then takes a piece of the red meat and offers it to Jaxton. The young man doesn’t disappoint when he opens his mouth. Mac slips it in, fingers Jaxton’s bottom lip. Jaxton chews it down lustily.

Mac picks off a smaller piece. “Try swallowing this without chewing.” Jaxton opens his maw and gulps it down. Mac emits his shark tooth smile, and slides off his stool. “You were drinking tequila?” He opens a cupboard and pulls out a bottle of Grand Patron.

“A margarita,” Jaxton corrects him. His eyes flash as he recognizes the high-end tequila. “It should be illegal, don’t you think, to mix a two-hundred-fifty dollar tequila with corn syrup.” Mac brings out two shot glasses, fills them, and slides one across the counter. Jaxton throws it back as does Mac. Both slams down their glasses on the counter. “Oof!” Jaxton rasps. Mac fills them again. “You trying to get me drunk, Mr. McPherson?”

“Do I need to?” They both down their shots and again hit their glasses on the counter.

“Dude,” Jaxton rasps. “That is some fine hooch.” Two back-to-back shots and Jaxton feels warmth in his belly. He cracks his first smile since he’s been on the island. Mac sees he’s got a slight gap between his front teeth. He’s completely taken.

“You think? Follow me,” says Mac, heading to the dining room. “Bring your glass.”

In the dining room Mac takes a fat, unlabeled bottle off the bar cart. It only has a few inches of amber liquid in it. Jaxton notices something dark, maybe sketchy floats on the bottom. Mac pops out the wide cork and pours a shot for himself and refills the boy’s glass. “Mezcal de escorpion. This,” he swirls the bottle, “is muy, muy contraband. I dare you.” Mac sees the boy’s reluctance. “Pussy.”

“Let me see that. Don’t pussy me, pops.” Jaxton takes the bottle, tilts it. “That a fuckin’ scorpion!” He’s incredulous. His façade of aloofness complete breaks down. “I make two shots my limit, but you gone and double dog dared me...Mac.” He spits out the man’s name and their eyes lock. He sips it, not taking his eyes off the man. With lips on fire, he’s challenged to down any more, but glaring at Mac he defiantly finishes it off. “Fuck me!” His eyes shine with a fiendish afterglow. “Gah!” he exclaims, violently shaking his head.

“Right?” Mac concurs, downing his glass.

Jaxton steadies himself with his bare butt on the edge of the dining room table. Mac pour himself one more and attempts to empty the bottle in Jaxton’s glass, but Jaxton puts his hand over it. “No-no-no-no, papi. I can’t.”

“Sure you can. You win the prize.” Mac pushes his hand aside and empties the few last drops. There’s a plop. The small, black scorpion falls in his glass.

“Dude,” he says with cloudy eyes. “You’re trying to poison me.”

“The cartel I work with embalm the scorpion in mescaline. Not to be confused with mezcal. Bottled for a month, it neutralizes the poison and absorbs the narcotic. I promise you’ll get insight into how the universe truly works.”

“Cartel, huh?” He suddenly very glad he came. “You’re lucky I’m as fuckin’ crazy as you are. Bring it.”

With his two fingers, Mac plucks the scorpion from the glass, and dangles it in front of Jaxton’s mouth. Jaxton haltingly relaxes his jaw, battles second thoughts, and closes it. “Pussy,” Mac says flatly. Jaxton’s eyes blaze aggressively at him. Mac sees briefly the turbulence hidden beneath Jaxton’s cool surface. The tall lad reopens and Mac drops the scorpion in. 
Jaxton’s suddenly not sure about this, but two fingers go under his chin and Mac seals his mouth around the arachnid. “Now swallow.” Jaxton grimaces, displaying an agonized face. “Swallow. Don’t chew, just swallow.” Mac traces his finger down Jaxton’s throat, gently coaxing him. “You can do it.” His mouth and tongue burning, Jaxton struggles to keep his eyes from tearing wanting to spit the creature out. He fixes his gaze on Mac who’s sternly watching him.

He feels the man’s dominance over his own instincts. He’s awestruck. Jaxton wants to submit to him, he desperately wants to please him, to cast himself off into those cruel blue eyes. He gulps the scorpion whole and begins to retch.

“Don’t you puke! You keep it the fuck down.” Jaxton breathes rapidly through his nose. His eyes widen, then he collapses backward, sprawling out over the dining room table, his long legs hanging off the edge. He’s in shock at what he’s done and yet feels incredibly triumphant, victorious: more intense then riding the purest wave; his heart beating faster than the swiftest decent down an icy mountain.

Mac examines the kid laid out like a human feast. He gives a squeeze to one of his nipples as a test and gets little reaction save a small grunt and a pulse from his dick. He runs his hand over the boy sandy blond bush, then takes his cock in his mouth and slathers his cock with saliva. Jacking the boy till his eight inches is standing at attention only takes a few stokes. Jaxton moans and grinds his hips in delicious revelry on the table.

Jaxton’s head’s swimming. His eyes open, staring at a Warhol soup can, but his entire being is focused on his cock deeply engaged by Mac’s masterful technique. He’s being swallowed whole down an undulating, slick throat. One of the man’s hands glides through his pubes, over his abs, up to his tit. It’s pinched and Jaxton grabs it and moves it to his other nipple. Mac pinches that one twice as hard. Jaxton grabs the man’s ears and gently rocks his cock in and out his mouth. It’s a rare man that he can’t make gag. Mac flows with the motion and lets the kid have at his throat unimpeded, his tongue deliciously going along for the ride. Jaxton got his cock down his throat all the way to his pubes. Holding a guy here long enough always bring about a panicked gag reflex, but not this motherfucker. His long tongue even slithers out, tickling the underside of his heavy, prickly blond balls. It’s the softest, most thorough blow job of Jaxton’s life. And Jaxton’s going to enjoy skull fucking the man as long as he can.

Mac lets him enjoy believing he’s the one in charge, skullfucking him by his ears. He can feel the increase of rhythm and the elevated breathing that’s a definite tell the boy’s about to blow. He releasesf his cock much to Jaxton’s disappointment. But he quickly jumps up on his dining room table and set his knees next to the kid’s ribs, feels for his hard meat and sticks it in his sloppy ass. It’s in before Jaxton has had time to mourn the loss of such expert fellatio. Mac slides his muscled ass back and forth adding an occasional gyration for spice. Jaxton’s aware what a good bottom the older man is, aware of how expertly he’s being milked. He’s on his back with a stud of a daddy taking proper care of his boy’s big bone. It’s a boy-daddy ‘ship he could get into. Up, down, round and round his long cock is stirred; stroked, pulled, slathered and slurped by a power bottom that knows exactly how to pleasure his cock in the way he’s entitled to be indulged.

He grabs the man’s big swinging dick, one he’d love to get his lips around but he doesn’t have the dexterity. He settles for stroking it one hand and with his other hand gliding over the man’s muscular rock-hard ass, his six-pack abs, and his expansive chest pulling on those awesome door knockers.

Visually and sensually he’s close to shooting, but again Mac frustrates him by climbing off before he can nut. “I’d say we’re ready for our next course,” Mac says. He climbs off the dining table and pulls a very drunk and slightly tripping Jaxton back toward his playroom. As they travel through the hallway, Jaxton feels the scorpion’s narcotic begin to wash over him in increasingly intense waves. They surprise Eddie swaying in the back door from the pool. Eddie and Jaxton happily recognize each other, both are happy drunks. Both rest their foreheads together in a gesture of familiar greeting.

“You having a good time, kid?” Eddie asks him.

“The best, Eddie.”

Mac steers Eddie toward the stairs. “Eddie, go get your nose candy and summon Shaggy and Scooby to the playroom?”
Eddie beams, elated, giggling in a sing-song to himself: Shaggy and Scooby, Shaggy and Scooby. He staggers upstairs for his stash that will get him through the night and into Tommy’s hot little ass.

Mac puts his hand on Jaxton's shoulder so primed to perfection, so ready to be broken in. He observes Jaxton staring up at the light fixture. He’s waving his hand back and forth, observing sparks flying off his fingers, blurred trails following behind.

"Come boy.” He guides Jaxton to the door. “This is when the fun begins."

[Shotsfired]

Fuck this is hot.

[slutviking]

Love it.

[shoreboy]

6. Two Oranges

Jaxton teeters at the playroom door taking in all the bondage and S&M equipment. He points.

“Birthing station.” Mac is at his ear explaining the device at a forty-five degree angle with two large stirrups. “It’s for fisting.”

Jaxton points several times, a little distracted by the trails coming from his fingers. “Fuck bench. Suspension bars, for stringing someone up. Good for a lash. Stocks, for clamping someone down. Fuck ‘em from behind.”

“All that stuff. Next to the dildos?” Jaxton can only take in so much—this world is opening too fast.

“Besides those dildos,” Mac continues, “collars, whips, tit clamps, riding crops, canes, floggers, harnesses, masks, hoods, bridles and mouth bits, ball gags, and of course various size butt plugs, finger thin to skull girth.” Jaxton starts stroking his cock in excitement. Points to another area. “That’s a medical examination table with equipment for medical play: urethral sounds, human speculum, horse speculum, forceps, e-stim equipment, dental mouth opener and cheek retractor.” Jaxton’s body quakes from over-stimulation. Mac massages his shoulders, pushes his long dreadlock to one side. “Sling with requisite ceiling mirror, but I’m sure you’ve seen that before.” Jaxton shakes his head no. “My barber kit. Where did I leave that?”

Jaxton points and takes his first steps into the room intent on getting to a black leather mattress on the room’s far side. He looks around but Mac has disappeared. He’s sure he can make it on his own even with the room bending in odd shapes. The walls are black, the floor padded with black rubber mats like a gym. Red lights strung around the room makes him feel like he’s inside an inferno. He makes his way past the sling, past a whipping post, past a St. Andrews cross, finally to a black leather mattress. He flops onto the bed and rolls his head around looking for that hot ass he was boning a couple of minutes ago. There he is at the door, that Mr. McPherson. That hot daddy’s now wearing a leather vest and nothing more. Fuck yes he is!

There’s a crack of lightning outside and the red lights flicker once then cut out. An electrical sizzle comes from the breakers close to his mattress. His body feels like it needs its own breakers because of all the neurons firing in his brain.

The rooms pitch black for a lifetime of heartbeats. He’s relieve to be sightless. Wherever he looked the psychedelic trails were becoming too intense. It’s better to let his hand roam across his body, plucking his nipples, running his hand over his bush and stroking his big cock. It’s familiar and soothing and charged with intense sensation. He begins to run a hand under his heavy balls, over his taint and fingers his asshole. 

Then harsh emergency lights kick in; two strong beams pointing in opposite directions now illuminate the space. Residual smoke from the blown breakers spread across the room giving it a misty haze. It’s like he’s on some porn set complete with fog machines. He smiles to himself—it’s where he’s always wanted to be.

His Leather Daddy emerges through that smoke, big, hard dick swinging, open leather vest still showing those silver nipple rings his mind’s fixated on. Leather Daddy grabs Jaxton’s legs, spreading his thighs apart. The stud rims his tongue deep inside his spread butt cheeks. Jaxton’s mind and body are ricocheting sensations and thoughts, but nothing overcomes this feeling of a powerful man tonguing his asshole. He’s fingering him and lubing him at the same time—the hot Leather Daddy can do anything he wants; he thinks he might even be saying that out loud. There doesn’t seem to be any difference between what’s inside him and what’s outside—he’s the universe and the universe is him. It can do with him whatever it wants.

What Leather Daddy wants is to stick his amazing huge rod up his hole. He takes Jaxton from the rear, both of them on their sides. The man has one of Jaxton’s legs in the air and is slowly sticking his massive member inside Jaxton chute. It’s hard going at first because of its girth, but they both have the same goal in mind. Jaxton pushes back to impale himself, while Mac pushes in deeper. Jaxton’s got a long, deep hole and Mac is taking full advantage of that fact. It’s a complex journey, full of twists and turns, and Jaxton is enjoying every second of it.

A thunderclap of immense proportion explodes over the house. The storm’s power charges his body—it’s majestic, terrifying, a breathtaking force of nature; a cyclone sucking the house and everything into the stratosphere. Fuckin’ Dorothy’s on her way to Oz. The storm shakes the house down to its foundations. The playroom has no windows; the crash reverberates through the walls like they’re inside a drum. Jaxton fingertips claws the mattress as he’s being fucked; he feels the tempest’s vibrations, but nothing compared to the fury that’s firing deep into his hole. It’s incredible how desperate a cock can want an ass. He thrusts back each time driving it in deeper; their balls clacking as they collide; testicle punishment becomes its own reward—he never knew something could hurt so good!

Through this mesmerized pounding, felt all the way up to his small intestines down to his scrotum, he spies on the far side of the playroom Eddie lying on top of the exam table giving some scruffy tattooed guy his little jackhammer fuck. Eddie twists the guy’s butt back and forth. He’s glad it’s not him—but everyone should be happy tonight. He’s enjoying the night, all control of his bowels now lost. He’s totally into how hard Leather Daddy is crushing his battering ram into him. Leather Daddy’s so big it makes him piss uncontrollably.

The only impediment standing this way of his complete enjoyment of the nigh is appearing through the fog, a massive, brutish guy kneeling in front of him. He’s not even sure if he’s real or imagined, but Daddy’s lifting his head indicating he wants Jaxton to suck this figure’s big, smelly, uncut dick. Fuck that noise! Jaxton does only what Jaxton wants to do. He shakes his dreadlocks in resistance. Daddy smacks his head. “Bad dog, no treat,” he barks at him. No. Fuck no! Now Jaxton wants to get up and fuck all this shit, but Daddy’s holding him down, pinning one arm back, still holding one leg up fucking the shit out of him, demonstrating that if he won’t suck the guy, the guy is going to join in the fuck.

The hairy gorilla reclines holding his shoulders, pressing his hairy chest against Jaxton’s. He feels his slick cock painfully prodding his balls, searching for his chute. He should know Daddy’s already got that fully occupied. Jaxton is trapped with a new hard cock sliding under his balls and encroaching on his already stretched ass. The fucker doesn’t seem to care; he’s going in whether Jaxton wants it or not. Jaxton’s never squeezed his sphincter as hard as he is now trying to ward off anything more going inside him. Occupied, thanks anyway! His squeezing seems to please Daddy, which isn’t exactly what he’s going for. The gorilla’s slimy member is rubbing his taint, and he feels its head gliding alongside Daddy’s big dong. With a strong lunge the ape’s cockhead pops in. Jaxton wails and clamps harder pushing it out but the man’s massive foreskin remains. The man roars savagely and plunges his cock in deeper, shooting pain directly into Jaxton’s brain. The pain triggers endorphins that not only accepts the intrusion but relishes it. How can that be? His internal circuitry is sparking, his breakers blown.
The ape rests for a second seeming to appreciate Jaxton’s submission at least of his cockhead, watches the sparks in his eyes. But just as Jaxton stops struggling, the guy starts up again pushing his massive cock in deeper.

“Wait! Wait!” Jaxton yells, but Daddy grips him tighter, claps his hand over Jaxton’s mouth, and the gorilla stabs his ass again, until he’s got a good length of his meat buried. “Okay, okay,” he struggles to utter through Leather Daddy’s palm. “Let me get used to it, okay?” He’s trying to be reasonable, seeing he’s pinned in this position and can’t move anyway. Some part of his brain remains rational—he’s done with the cosmic bullshit he’d been attuned to—pain is real time. He just wants to negotiate his physical surrender, slowly. Daddy and the ape have other ideas. 

The hairy brute starts fucking him with half his cock inside, but each thrust puts him in deeper and is stretching Jaxton more painfully open. He can tell on an animal level that his captors are getting off rubbing their dick together with Jaxton’s colon as the object that’s jacking them. The more excited they get—Jaxton senses it by their increased rigidity and girth—the harder they drive their cocks into him. The two men are totally in synch with Jaxton screaming into Daddy’s salty palm. But there’s something driving Jaxton, too. A part of him enjoys it, craves this stretch, this hard fuck ripping him apart, grinding his inhibitions into complete submissions. It’s like when he falls inside a pitiless wave, has no choice in direction, gives himself up into the ride. The dopamine flows throughout his whole body. He’s easing into the pain and, in accepting it, becomes part of this duo making it a trio of bodies rising in exaltation.

Sensing Jaxton starting to writhe in synch with both of them, Mac releases his hold of Jaxton’s arm, and Jaxton twists his head and slips his tongue in Mac’s mouth. Now Jaxton twist back and rubs the dark pelt that’s in front of him. “Good dog,” Mac says in his ear. The face isn’t bad looking; vicious, though; bad teeth. The brute’s looking right through him as if he’s not there, only a hole to be fucked. He likes this indifference. He seems to fuck him harder the more Jaxton warms up to him. He crushes Jaxton’s face with his big hands, spits, saliva running off Jaxton’s cheek, which he also likes. He opens his mouth and the hairy beast spits again. He and Mac pound his hole violently and Jaxton accepts it, pushes back defiantly on their cocks. His cock and balls nestles in the ape’s pubes, a black hair jungle his genitals rub against. The animal, teeth bared, grabs his man-bun and thrusts savagely several times leeching his cum deep inside. Mac’s right there, too, hot breath pitched in rapid breathing, straining his hips into Jaxton’s ass in rhythm of the brute. Jaxton feels the sudden extra slickness in his hole, hot spunk dribbling down a thigh. Rubbing his cock against the jungle of hair he spews his load unassisted into the dark forest, his colon clutching the two objects he feels he owns.

“You like that, boy?” Eddie bellows across the room, Jaxton only now realizing he’s been yelling fuck my hole over and over. Not seeking a response from Jaxton, only commenting, Eddie turns back to the tattooed guy on his exam table. “Sit and spin, sit and spin,” he sings to him.

Eros slips out of Jaxton, looks over to Tommy’s face seeing a strange combination of humiliation and boredom. He’ll make sure Jaxton pays for that.

After oozing out of the boy, Mac tells Eros to get him in the sling. Most of the electrical smoke has dissipated, but the two emergency headlights cast the room in sinister shadows at the same time it illuminates skin too blindingly white. Eros leads the surprisingly affable kid to a sling and easily cuffs his arms and legs. He sits on a stool between the leg straps, take off the Crisco lid and slides a large wad of phosphorescent white paste into the kid’s dark crevice.

“You be careful with my property, Eros, and I’ll be careful with yours,” sings a delighted Eddie. The kid will pay for that too. 

Eros slips in a thick finger into the kid’s wet hole causing him to grunt. Mac returns to the sling with hair clippers, scissors and a straight razor. A second finger goes into Jaxton stretched hole. Jaxton realizes what Mac has in mind, and starts building a crescendo of no-no-no-no, his bound hands waving back in forth in an impotent attempt to delay Mac’s mission. Mac approaches the sling answering amused, yes-yes-yes-yes. He bends down, whispering to Jaxton, “Eros takes care of one end, I take care of the other.”

Panicky tears well up in Jaxton’s eye. The more fingers Eros adds the more tears, but it’s not the stretch of Eros’ big mitts that produces the tears. It’s the years of cultivating his image. It’s the snip-snip of each lock of hair that drops to the floor. “Eddie,” Jaxton cries out from the sling, “tell them they have to stop!” Eros jams in four knuckles. “Oh, fuck!” Mac has shorn most of his dreadlocks off. Now the clippers flips on with a horribly loud click and buzz. “Eddie!” he bellows.

Eddie’s coked out of his mind—ignoring him or liking the sound of panic in the air—Tommy twisting on his dick like he’s the agitator of a washing machine and Tommy is a bundles of clothes.

The boy cries in distress as Eros breaks through his sphincter with his thick palm, his hand fully inserted to his wrist. Jaxton’s colon clutches Eros’ huge hand in torment, pleading out loud to let him get used to it. He begs repeatedly, but Eros hears Eddie’s sing-song tune in his head, and balls his hand into a fist and spins it side to side pulling shrieks out of the boy.

“Ease up, Eros. Ease up,” Mac says in a calming voice. “You’ll make me nick him.” He calls over to Eddie. “Hey Eddie, think this is short enough? A nice, clean cut blond boy for you, Eddie. Now about these tufts.” He takes the clippers to Jaxton’s left arm pit and glides off his hair.

Eros pulls his hand almost out, then pistons back in. He repeats this again and again as Mac finishes one pit and moves to the other. Eros gets off the stool, lining his meat with his wrist, savoring how Jaxton is being transformed before his eyes. His erection is coming into form as Mac removes Jaxton’s pubic hairs. Eros gets hard watching the fight drain out of this arrogant kid. The boy’s acceptance become compliance as the victim locks eyes with him. He feels Jaxton’s sphincter give up the battle to keep his cock from penetrating him while his fist is still buried inside. Eros’ dick slides straight into his palm with only a trace of tears at the corner of Jaxton’s eyes. Eros squeezes his dick to get himself fully hard within the walls of the boy’s rectum.

“Look Eros. An angel, no?” Mac studies his handiwork, using the straight razor to scrape away the last of Jaxton’s sandy pubes. Eros silently strokes his rigid flesh inside the boy. “A fallen angel, but an angel nonetheless.” Eros surveys the long, lean body under him: large, smooth balls flopped to either side, a dick shriveled yet still arresting lying over his hairless torso, a blond beauty, yeah—no doubt of that—panting in an agonized ecstasy. He feels his part in the fucker’s defilement, shudders, shooting a second load, pinching his thumb against his foreskin making sure Jaxton receives every drop of jizz. 

Mac stands back, his teeth blazing brilliantly white off the headlight beams. “And fallen angel are my favorite kind.”

*

Like the dying embers of sparks fading from his fingertips, excruciating hours of torment being passed back and forth from Mac to Eros, the night devolves into a blur. Jaxton’s broken. Coherent he’s not. Catching sight of himself in the sling’s mirror is someone else, someone unrecognizable, someone who’s a slut that’s passed around, even to the tattooed guy Eddie fucked, even on this rare occasion to Eddie himself. Jaxton’s given up. He confesses he’s a slut to whomever cares to listen. And no one particularly cares.

After hours in slings, bred on fuck benches, fisted in birthing chairs, poked and prodded on examining tables, and forced to eat ass under rim seats—bottoming for each man two or three times—each degradation sapping his soul lower and lower, Eddie finally takes pity and brings him upstairs. At their bedroom door they hear muffled cries down the hall from the monk’s room. Eddie’s jittery from all the coke he’s been snorting, he’s not quite ready for bed. Jaxton tries to pull him into their room, but Eddie shakes him off and gives a few raps on the priest’s door. The naked priest answers holding a riding crop, gently slapping his palm.

“Good evening, gentlemen. How delightful to see you both. Oh my, Jaxton,” he says, appraising him up and down. “You look absolutely transformed. A model right out of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalog, though I don’t really know about such things. But my manners. Please, come join us.”

Jaxton slumps miserably in the hallway, his eyes pleading to Eddie. “Jaxton, don’t be a wet blanket.” Eddie pulls Jaxton into the priest’s bedroom. They witness Jesse blindfolded and gagged, his legs tied over his head. The boy’s butt is red with blisters, some wax has hardened on his testicles, his hole gapes with a prominent rosebud peeking through. “This is the pretty houseboy?” Eddie gasps in amazement.

“Isn’t he just,” sighs Father Lucius. “He’s devilishly tempting, isn’t he?”

Eddie’s pud is starting to rise. “You wouldn’t mind if I…just—“

“By all means. The more the merrier, I always say.”

Eddie climbs on the bed and presses his dick into the boy. Jaxton slouches in the doorframe, not wanting to watch, but for once he’s not the victim so he impassively observes Eddie fuck the tied up kid.

“Would you like a go?” asks the priest while Eddie humps away. “I would love it if I could have a go at you while you’re at him.” Eddie hears one more opportunity to take Jaxton down another peg, which causes him to quickly spurt into Jesse.
“How many loads has the kid taken?” Eddie asks, getting off the bed.

“I’ve been at him since this afternoon, but, believe it or not, yours is the first. Would you like to add a second?” he asks Jaxton.
“Yes, he would,” Eddie answer for him. “I want to see you take Father Lucius’ anaconda, Jaxton. Let him fuck you while you fuck the houseboy.”

“But I’m not hard.” Jaxton voice is low, filled with resignation. He’s tired, sees faint hallucinatory trails if he turns his head too quick, and doesn’t like at all the idea of being fucked by the monk. 

“Just put your dick against his hole and see what happens. As your boss I’m telling you, Jaxton.”

Jaxton reluctantly climbs on top of Jesse and plops his flaccid dick on Jesse’s wet rosebud. Father Lucius sidles over his own butt and, with two hands, guides his behemoth down through Jaxton’s sloppy ass lips. It cold and slimy going in, something more reptilian than human. It continues still cold and slimy as it penetrates his second ring. The P.A. at the tip of his cock is even colder, ice cold, so cold it feels like it’s burning. However, it has a surprising reaction on him, one he can’t explain. The icy burn arouses his dick. It’s growing the deeper the icy fire inside him burns. The monk is starting to hump him just as he’s humping the kid under him. 

“Is he going to remember any of this,” Jaxton asks, picking up the pace to match the monk’s.

“Not at all,” Father Lucius whispers in his ear. “Best kind of fuck is a drugged up fuck, I always say.”

Eddie stands beside them, watching them go up and down, up and down—his face turning green.

Father Lucius and Jaxton are definitely getting into a charged, erotic rhythm, Jaxton’s hand back on the priest’s bony ass, the other squeezing Jesse’s balls. The priest’s breathing heavy, feels up Jaxton flank and occasionally slaps his ass. The monk glances sideways at the actor. “Mr. Gleason,” says the alarmed priest. “You look quite ill.”

Jaxton also peers over at Eddie. “Go to bed, dude. You’re going to pass out,” grunts Jaxton, getting excited as hell by the fire in his loins. If he’s going to do this, he doesn’t want to be distracted by Eddie, or, worse, see Eddie puke.

“How’s he gettin’ home?” Eddie slurs, putting his hand on the wall for balance.

“You’re right across the hall. Fuck,” Jaxton moans, as at that moment the entire mass of the monk’s flesh flows throughout his intestines taking over his guts.

“See he gets home, Padre,” Eddie says, waddling his way out the door and shutting it behind him.

As soon as the door closes, the priest hammers home his pelvis against Jaxton’s swollen hole, his tongue swishing in Jaxton’s ear. Father Lucius strains lustily, groaning as he releases his spew. “Stop! Shit! What is that?” Jaxton stops fucking Jesse, feeling an acidic liquid burning deep in his bowels. “You did not just piss in me, did you?” he says, disgustedly.

“Not urine, child. Venom. I had to wait for Eddie to leave before injecting you.” The priest climbs off him. Jaxton’s horrified seeing drops of black liquid like crude oil spool from the priest’s his piss slit. Father Lucius sits with a sliver of a smile on the edge of the bed.

Jaxton want to get off Jesse, but feels his joints stiffening to where even his smallest movement is increasingly difficult. “What’s happening to—” but he can’t finish the sentence. His jaw clamps shut. He moans wild eyed behind frozen teeth and wild eyes. He’s starting to panic. Eyes darting around the room, feeling even his eyes are beginning to rigidly stare straight ahead.

“Sorry, but while the venom sets in, I need to prepare you for the next stage.” He strokes Jaxton back, trying to calm the boy’s whimpering. “Over countless years I’ve experimented with insects and plants that paralyze their victims before devouring them.” Jaxton convulses attempting to shriek behind his frozen face. So restricted are his movements there’s only the slightest twitch of his body. “No, no, no. I’m not going to eat you.” The priest is amused by the thought. “Although you would be a tasty morsel, I do admit. But I tease, Jaxton. I misspoke. Child, child, you are much too serious.” Father Lucius pulls Jaxton off of Jesse, and sets him up against the wall. “The paralyzing venom is the easy part. What’s next is much more difficult to explain.” 

The priest sits hip to hip next to Jaxton. At six foot seven, even sitting, the boy is still half a head higher than the priest. When he turns the boy’s face to his, he has to look up into his tremulous eyes. He kisses this beautiful boy lightly on the lip. But then his face turns serious: he becomes the teacher making sure his pupil pays attention. “In its basic form it’s simple transference. I like to think of it like skinning an orange.” He runs his soft hand down Jaxton’s hairless chest, through his shaved crotched, pulls his balls, runs his palm over Jaxton’s wiry thighs. “You know that special thrill you have when you manage to stick your finger under the skin of an orange, slowly separating the orange’s skin from its flesh, its juicy meat? The special thrill if you can get the peel to come off in one long spiral? You start at the navel and, inch by inch, work your way until the entire flesh is revealed? Well, imagine two oranges, both expertly peeled in this manner, both fruits’ flesh nakedly exposed. Swapping the two skins and covering up the oranges again, you’d never know what orange contained which flesh. It’s a flawed analogy, I know, but the best I can offer you. But you do understand what I’m saying, don’t you?” Father Lucius places his soft palm on Jaxton’s belly and pushes. Jaxton knows it’s not real, but he senses the priest’s hand under his skin, separating him from himself. His palm goes about its task over his shoulders, around his arms, down his torso, through his genitals, over and around his legs, his ass, under his back—his hand softly, soothingly flaying him—over his scalp and, finally, gently, separating his features from his skull. It’s a suggestion, at best—nothing that’s real or can be seen.

“The interesting part, a tertiary effect of the venom aside from the paralysis and sloughing of skin—one I’m not sure the reason for, but I do recognize the truth of: during the transference, I feel what you feel and you feel what I feel. For instance, I hear your mind screaming its denial, that this isn’t real—though you will come to accept it is. I feel the terror building within you as my words lodge in your mind, the existential dread of being removed from your body, this body that has been with you all your life, the only corporeal flesh you’ve ever known. But, at the same moment, you must also be feeling how excited I am by what’s to come, how much I’m anticipate mounting you. Yes? Yes, I see it in your eyes.” The priest pets his cheek. Jaxton feels the fingers on his face and also feels the sensation of touching a young man’s face. “Such lovely eyes. I will take good care of them.”

The monks goes to his satchel and takes out silver duct tape and places it on the bed. “You know, before you knocked, I was just about to release my venom into the houseboy and transfer myself to him.” He pats Jesse’s behind fondly. “I was enchanted with him the moment I saw him. I had finished punishing the body for its sins, but then He brought you to me. I sensed our connection on the drive here, at the pool. I saw how drawn you were to me, and I to you. I thinks it’s a far better exchange, don’t you?”

The priest stands and moves his hand over himself as if he’s in a tantric dance, trailing his hands over every inch of himself, ritualistically preparing his flesh for Jaxton. “Best you not witness the creped flesh exchanged for the rejuvenated.” He closes Jaxton’s eyelids. “It would be just too disturbing. Trust me, there won’t be any pain, but there is a strange alienation, the familiar mixing with the disquieting: like a shirt put on backwards, or the feeling of a left and right shoes switched. One could get used to it in time, I suppose. Yes. In time.”

Jaxton is laid face down on the bed. He feels a strange vibration throughout his body. His arms are moved behind his back and taped together. The paralysis is wearing off and he’s able to move but only if assisted. He’s righted to a sitting position on the bed. Still very weak, moving extremely slow with stiffened joints, he’s helped up to what must be a great height. He feels unsteady but a strong hands balance him. The sound of tape being pulled, then feeling tape wound round his legs. He feels he’s about to fall, but again a strong hand steadies him.

His manages to pry open his eyes. The dark room lit by a flickering candle. He sees Jesse’s ropes have been untied, and somehow he’s grateful for that. The houseboy lies there asleep, breathing peacefully.

He looks down and sees his penis is grossly deformed, monstrously large. His eyes dart in the dark, then land on his face, the face of Jaxton. Him, but not him; another’s flesh inside his skin. 

“You must think me the devil incarnate,” the handsome young man says. “But I can assure you tonight I’ve bestowed two gifts that Lucifer never would. One on the housekeeper, though I hadn’t intended it—a last minute pairing with you, left him with a priceless gem between his legs. Something I’ll have to rectify before my superiors catch wind. And this that I give to you, for you wouldn’t want it to, trust me, be otherwise. You won’t see it as such, but I give you a blessed gift.” He smiles, a boyish, slightly grievous curl to his lips, the merest gap in his front teeth. Three steps takes him to the back of the chair, which he gently tips it to one side. 

As he dangles from the beam above, spinning slowly, he sees the dazzling young man enclose himself inside the closet, patiently waiting for a new day. One he won’t see.

[billy88666]

What a great twist with the  body swap! Loved it!

[Pozitivly]

Masterful!

[Shotsfired]

Holy shit! I didn't see that coming.  Still processing.  Fantastic. Horrifying.  Hot.

[drscorpio]

Yeah, @shoreboy, I have really been digging where you have been taking this, but that last twist knocked it out of the part. Creepy and sexy in equal measures. 

[shoreboy]

7. Prey for the Sinners

It’s night. He’s naked and disoriented. He stumbles barefoot through the swamp. Toads croak all around him. Snakes slither through the bog. Gliding by, one caresses his bare ankle. Dark outlines of lifeless trees everywhere. Each stride is a slog. Loud, slurping sounds accompany each step. Is he going the right way? He keeps falling deeper into the mire. Black ooze surrounds him up to his thigh and getting higher. All too quickly his cock and balls touch the mud and then, with his next step, are sucked down, invisible below the surface. He feels things down there. Unseen things.

There’s a large creature beating overhead, a demon hovering with a massive wings above the treetops. It creates great gusts of wind over the brackish water. The disturbance bring up waves that crest over his chest, splash over his collar bone, get in his mouth. He’ll drown, he frets. The night might swallow him whole.

Something rises from the center of the swamp. A face discernable only by the shape of a skull, is bone only. The sockets have eyes but there is no skin. A cowl hangs around the figure’s neck. The cloth, a muddy robe, drips with muck. The skull glides toward him. The wings above grow louder, closing in. The skull opens its mouth with an eyeless serpent slips out. It plops into the water. He feels it circling his body. It pokes and prods, searching for an orifice to penetrate. He feels it wrap around his chest, crushes the breath out of him. Its head surfaces, writhes before his face, swaying in an eyeless dance, weaving its lips across his. The serpent’s darting tongue violates his mouth, tunnels in before he can stop it from slithering down his throat. Beating wings crescendos into a scream. It's him. Screaming.

Eros and Tommy shake him, tell him to wake up, what’s wrong, it’s okay. It’s a cascade of words he clings to, uses them to climb out of the terror. Tommy and Eros kneel on the futon, each holds one of his a bare shoulders. Jesse recognizes their faces, dives his arms around their necks, clutches them so tight he could snap them off.

“Okay. Christ!” Tommy says, pulling off Jesse’s strangling arm. He coughs a mirthless laugh weighted by concern over the dopey kid.

A strong wind bangs the blinds; cold, misty daylight seeps in. Jesse eyes ricochet around the shack. He’s alarmed because he still hears the same sound of wings beating from his dream.

Eros searches his face, holding it reassuringly. “Just a dream, Chewbacca.” His perfectly imperfect smile is soothing, a balm to his fears. Jesse realizes Eros’ face is wet, his dark hair dripping. “Can’t imagine why you’d be having nightmares…or day-mares.” He poses the question to Tommy, seeing if that’s a word. “Day-mares?”

“The fuck should I know. At least he stopped yelling.”

“What’s that whopping sound?” Jesse crawls on his knees to the windows—the noise comes from the beach.

“Rescue helicopter landed a few minutes ago,” Tommy says. He points to the dunes. “This morning just keeps getting better and better. Gleason’s being airlifted out by that chopper.”

Eros joins Jesse at the window. “He had a heart attack at breakfast. Right when we got back from…you know.”

“All that fucking coke he did last night. And he’s a cow,” Tommy adds.

“They’re about to fly him out.”

"And you owe me a pair of work boots.” Tommy points to solidly caked boots at the door. Next to them sit Eros’ muddy—formerly white—sneakers, the ones he wears when he cleans the pool. 

“We’re in the outdoor shower when we hear shouting.”

“Shamu keels over, clutching his heart and falls into the pool. He’s lucky Eros and Mac think they’re deep sea divers. They jump in and fish him out.”

“Mac's puts in a bunch of calls. Gets the Coast Guard out here. And then you starting screaming like a banshee. Helluva morning.”

Suddenly the pool area comes alive with commotion, voices, rattling metal wheels. The side gate opens. Jesse scrambles to the door with Tommy and Eros right behind. Two EMT workers wheel Eddie down the path strapped to a gurney. The actor’s frozen, his fingers claw the rails, an oxygen mask over his wet face. His eyes open wide in terror and pain. He glances at the three of them, pleading—something—with his eyes. Mac and a newly-clipped Jaxton follow directly behind the gurney. Eddie’s lifted off the walkway ready to be taken to the helicopter. One of the EMT guys holds up his hand. He’s too far away to hear what’s being said, but it’s enough to turn Jaxton and Mac away. Jaxton, with his new short blond hair, is almost unrecognizable lacking the curtain of dreadlocks always covering his face.

“They’re taking him to the county hospital,” Mac says to the three of them.

“Why can’t I go with him?” Jaxton petulantly demands behind Mac’s shoulder.

Mac shakes his head. “I’ll call the hospital. Once he’s stabilized we’ll take the boat over.”

“You’re too kind, Mr. McPherson,” Jaxton says, glumly.

Jesse scrutinizes Jaxton’s new look and recognizes Mac’s handiwork. He was never of fan of Jaxton, but, man, the guy looks like he could be one of those Calvin Klein poster boys now. Not jacked, but one of those really thin models, all cheekbones, like no one ever is in real life. He doesn't even slump, which of course makes him even taller.

Mac puts a hand on the gangly kid’s shoulder. As he’s taking him back to the house, he stops, turns back to the shack and asks if any of them have seen Father Lucius?

Jesse, Tommy and Eros begin a chorus of huh-uhs, nopes, and head shakes.

“Odd,” Mac says, studying their faces. “No one’s seen him since he went upstairs with you, Jesse.”

“I noticed there’s a missing kayak.” Eros helpfully points to the rack of canoes and kayaks next to the side gate.

Mac pauses. Considers it. He looks up at the milky sky with the trees rustling in the wind. “Not really a great day to take out a kayak. Really choppy ocean, I bet. Seems he would be back by now, though, don’t you think? All this aerial activity.” He points at the Coast Guard helicopter taking off.

All three again are all shoulder shrugs, don’t knows and maybes. Mac gives them a quick sideways glance. Shakes his head. He smiles at Jaxton and tweaks his nipple. Jaxton returns a breezy smile. He stretches his arms in the air like he’s just waking up, and they go back through the side gate.

Tommy gapes his mouth at Eros. “’You’re too kind?!’ The fuck was that?

*

The morning mist never really burns off. After Eddie’s evacuation there’s a calm pervading the compound. It’s almost too quiet.

The filter hums while Eros skims leaves from the pool. He looks uneasily at the monk’s room’s wall of windows. Twigs crunch underfoot as Tommy picks up armfuls of broken branches scattered around the yard from last night’s storm. Inside the silent house, Jaxton and Mac huddle in the office, lowering their voices when Jesse walks by. He changes Eddie and Jaxton’s bedding, disinfects the monk’s rubber sheets and replaces them with a paisley cotton percale.

Then, an hour later, Mac’s office phone rings. The hospital regrets to inform that Eddie is dead.

Mac gathers Jesse, Tommy and Eros together to let them know about it, and that they can take the rest of the day off. If they wouldn't mind, he asks them to watch after Jaxton while he makes calls on Eddie’s behalf.

The sky’s steely gray when the three of them get to the beach. A sedate Jaxton in the long swim trunks that Eddie hated, tags along. He keeps his beach towel a little away from theirs. It’s like he wants to be alone, but there’s not much point on an empty beach.

Eros and Tommy body surf in the rough water, and Jesse, in his white briefs, lies face down on his towel between their two beach chairs. He listens to the breaking waves for a while, then hears, “You know what a usurper is?” Jesse looks up from his towel—Jaxton’s propped up on his elbows watching the guys attempting to ride the waves.

“Huh?” Jesse gets up and turns on his side. “What’d you mean?”

Jaxton studies the two men. “That kind of turbulence isn’t made for catching waves.” He pauses. Looks at Jesse. “You’re like a fifth wheel. I think they tolerate you, maybe even feel a little sorry for you. But they’re definitely not into you. Not like you think.” Jaxton thinks for a moment, then adds, “except maybe to abuse you.”

“What do you know.” Jesse gets up and flops into Tommy’s chair, near Jaxton’s towel. He digs into their Yeti cooler and pops open one of Eros and T’s beers. “You don’t know anything.” He sips. Tommy and Eros are bobbing in the waves, splashing each other in the face. “Why, did they say something?”

“No,” Jaxton says. “I can just tell.”

Eros and Tommy trudge out of the surf, then happily race back dripping with sand-crusted hair.

“Gnarly,” Eros comments to Jaxton. “Am I right?” 

Jaxton give him a wan smile. “I suppose.” Jaxton stares at Eros’ naked body as he dries himself.

Tommy eyeballs Jesse in his chair. “Out.”

“And who says you could take a beer?” Eros barks. 

Jaxton throws Jesse an I-told-you-so look.

Hurt, Jesse offers the beer up to Eros who tells him to just keep it, but ask next time. Jesse rises from Tommy’s chair. He toes on his flip flops, throws his sandy towel across his shoulders, and shuffles off toward the lighthouse. Maybe Jaxton’s right, he thinks, sipping his beer. He does sometimes feel like he overstays his welcome. Like the other night, hanging out with them, watching a Frasier re-run on Eros’ phone. Did they mind him falling asleep, spending the night with them?

There’s gulls screeching on the rocks of the lighthouse. A trawler bounces near the coast line; seagulls swirl and dive around it. He drains the rest of his beer. Mist overtakes the trawler and grows thicker. By the time he hits the rocks it’s disappeared in the rolling cloud. He rarely comes to this end of the island. No one does. The lighthouse lantern lights up and a fog horn moans ushering in the bank of fog. He rattles the dregs of the beer and tosses the can between the rocks.

Looking up at the tall structure, he watches the fog encircles the catwalk. The lamp's beam slowly rotates. With the fog rolling in, it seems he hears the ocean crashing on the rocks rather than sees it. The fog chills him and, though it does little good, he pulls the towel tighter around his shoulders. He tries the lighthouse door and discovers it's unlocked. “Hello?” he says cautiously opening the door. Met with silence, he inches into the room.

Inside it’s murky but there’s still a bit of afternoon light remaining. He feels for a switch but doesn’t find one. Instead he discovers the table at the entrance holds an old kerosene lamp and matches. He lights it and the hollow space illuminates with the lanterns yellow glow. A winding staircase extends around the walls. It loops around twice before disappearing into the room above. Below the staircase there’s stone steps leading to a basement. He’s never visited a lighthouse before and he’s curious about what’s upstairs.

The metal steps creak as he ascends. Twice around the interior walls he climbs before he enters the kitchen-living room area of the upper level. Light comes through the vertical window slats the color of Vaseline. Someone lives here—he can see that. He puts his hand on the cold potbelly stove. A coffee pot sitting on top is slightly warm. There’s an unmade single bed, with a piss pot next to it. A desk has writing papers scattered about; several journals are stacked; one lies open. 

Jesse shuffles in his sandy flip-flops over to the desk. Holding up the light he reads words in the open journal. The Hung Priest, it starts. After a few sentences he stops, incredulous—he’s in it! Jesse takes the stairs two steps at a time, it reads. Eros is in his beach chair watching Tommy chase him down the beach! Even the part where he gets a hard on from Tommy sitting on top of him! His arms suddenly prickle with goosebumps; the hair rises on the back of his neck. Someone’s watching him? But why? He’s not at all interesting. 

Footsteps clanks above on the metal grating—someone’s descending. He quickly scrambles down the stairs as quietly as he can. He’s about to slip out the front door but something stops him dead in his tracks. It’s a soft moan, or more exact, several moans. It comes from the stairs that lead down to the basement. It’s definitely a group of men, bass voices, muffled cries, rasping groans. He moves to the stone steps.

In the living space above someone prepares a fire—twigs snap, a match strikes, the potbelly stove’s door shuts with a clank. A voice in the room seems to be debating himself.

Jesse peers down into the gloom where the moaning voices softly reverberate. Holding out the lantern he makes out a thick wooden door. Treading lightly down the steps, each wet and slick with algae, he reaches the door. The whimpering is clearly coming from the other side, yet still they seems far off in the distance. Slowly he twists the knob but it’s locked. Part of him feels relieved that it is. “Hey,” he breathes through the door. “Hey,” he repeats. The murmurs continue unresponsive, seeming not to hear him. He promises himself he’ll come back but next time with Eros and Tommy—if they’ll believe him. Jaxton’s right, though, that they’ve probably had enough of him. Why should they do anything more for him after what they’ve already done? 

He climbs the stone steps unsure of anything—their friendship, his place in the world. On the top step he slips on algae. He crashes to his knees. The lantern snuffs out and clatters noisily across the floor. He picks himself and dashes to the entrance. 
“Who goes there?” an authoritative voice booms from the top of the stairs. The figure holds out his lantern but the weak light shows only a small, shadowy figure dart out to the entrance.

Outside, front door bangs shut as Jesse sprints into the fog. After putting enough distance between him and the lighthouse, he slows to a brisk walk. Looking over his shoulder he sees the glowing light rotate but growing dimmer the farther away he gets. The moan of the foghorn stay next to him, however, like a phantom he has yet to escape.

For several minutes he strides along the beach, his heart beating rapidly in his ears, the surf pounding. Several times he thinks he should head away from the shore and cut inland. He’s most worried though about getting far away from the lighthouse, so when he finally does cuts away from the waves, he find high dunes blocking the way. Regardless, he marches over them hoping to find the wooden walkway that will lead him home. 

Sliding down the other side of the dunes, he discovers the fog is thinner but he’s overshot the compound and is in the swamp. He’s not crazy about walking back in the direction of the lighthouse but he’s sure the path will take him back to the house soon enough. 

As he walks further he loses track of the ocean’s constant roar. He should be walking parallel to the surf, but now he’s afraid he’s walking deeper into the swamp. There’s no reliable direction he can discern in the remaining light. Sound is his only guide, but that’s now quieted, leaving only the marsh choir of croaking toads. Vapor off the swamp mixes with the mist in the air. It’s all wrong, and too close to his earlier nightmare. He thinks better of going deeper into the swamp, turns around and goes back the direction he came.

An owl hoots directly overhead startles him. The sounds of the marsh grow louder—croaks, rivets, peeps, more hoots surround him. Then he hears something that freezes him to his core—a low growl.

There aren’t any dangerous animals on the island, he’s sure of it, or has never heard of any, but a growl’s a growl. He makes out waves crashing straight ahead, which convinces him he’s heading in the right direction, but it’s also the direction of whatever made the noise. Step by step he makes his way in the dark; his thin flip flops test each board trying not to draw attention to himself with a creak. He comes to an intersection with a larger walkway, the road he’s familiar with that’s between the dock and the compound. This feels right. He sighs a small relief. The sound of waves resumes on his right, so he’s fairly certain he now headed back toward the house. 

Then, abruptly, he bumps into something upright and furry. He looks up into glowing red eyes. A large creature peers down at him. It snarls menacingly, large fangs glistening as its lips pull back. Jesse’s mind races—fight or flight rears its head. Flight, he’s out of there, no question about it! He pivots and there’s a loud crack: a fractured wooden plank snaps in two and he falls several feet through the walkway, into the cold wet swamp below. As his feet hit the mud, he cracks the back of his head against the plank with an audible thwack!

*

Jaxton furiously rides Mac’s cock on the dining room table. His swinging dick beats out four-four rhythm like the baton of a crazed band leader. He grinds his ass on Mac’s gargantuan cannon of a cock, pulling his ass lips apart straining to capture Mac’s slick balls into the bargain. Just as Jaxton’s on the cusp of blowing his first wad in this new body, the front door chimes. He yowls with unrestrained frustration. He and Mac sourly scramble off the table. Jaxton finds his swim trunks and Mac pulls up his khakis. They answer the door and two extremely old and frail looking monks peer back at them.

“Abbot Santana,” Mac says, pulling down his tank top. “I didn’t expect you at the earliest till tomorrow.” He ushers the elderly pair inside. The Abbot, a small man with a pointed salt and pepper beard and a mop of curly dark hair, hobbles on his cane into the foyer. His petite assistant, bald and spindly, carries a large satchel. “Plans changed so quickly, I didn’t realize you would—,”

“Yes, yes,” Abbot Santana interrupts with a wave of his hand. “Bueno sera, signore. Bueno sera.” He points his cane at the other monk. “My attendant, Brother Virgil.” The Abbot looks Jaxton in his swimming trunks up and down. “Lucius, is you?”

"I'm Jaxton, Mr. Gleason’s personal—”

“Ridiculous, I see you Lucius.” He jabs the rubber tip of his cane up into Jaxton’s chest. “You make a terrible mess of things.”

Mac and Jaxton exchange a look. Jaxton pleads, “Forgive me your Eminence. It was spur of the moment decision. I was caught off guard by the boy’s regal—“

“We no do ‘spur of the moment’ nonsense. Idiota!” The Abbot taps his cane, looking over the house. “Signore,” he says to Mac. “I must sit. The walk, it is long, and coming here, we were accosted by an animal.”

Mac motions to his living room. “Please, your Grace.” With a flick of a switch the living room brightens and the gas fireplace is set aflame. “Can I get you something? Water? Some tea?” Virgil aids the Abbot toward the sofa. “What sort of animal accosted you?”

“An animal animal. I know not what kind. Scotch, for such a cold night. Single malt, not your blended rot.” After sitting he leans toward Virgil, patting his hand. “What will you have, my dear?” Virgil murmurs he’ll have the same. “And the same for Virgil!”

Jaxton follows them into the living room and sits across from the two monks in one of the black strap chairs. “I’m astonished how fast you got here.”

“Your impulsiveness demanded it. But, I confess,” the Abbot takes a moment to appraise Jaxton, “it is a most pleasing form. Michelangelo never did better, eh, Brother?” Virgil eagerly nods in agreement. “Oh, bless you,” Santana says, taking a glass from Mac. Virgil also expresses gratitude, mumbling a hushed grazie. “So this Jaxton fellow. You vetted him? And he was the personal assistant of who?” He takes a sip. “Ah, bellissima. Mille grazie.”

“An actor who passed away earlier today,” Mac replies, then goes back to fix himself and Jaxton a drink.

Jaxton bows his head. “A tragic heart attack.”

“I’m sure it was. Not induced by you, I hope.” The Abbot frowns at Jaxton. Jaxton doesn’t reply. “At least not traceable to you and one of your experiments in chemistry.”

Mac brings Jaxton a bourbon. “Thank you. Nothing that would be suspicious in his already taxed circulatory system. Severely obese, doing cocaine all night—it’s not too surprising.” Jaxton takes a sip of bourbon. “In the morning he knew I wasn’t his assistant any longer, so I might have had to hurry things along a smidge,” Jaxton says with a glint of pride. “An extra little push laced in his coffee, perhaps mistaking a gram of amphetamine for a packet of Sweet n Low. Oops.” Jaxton puts his hand over his mouth.

“Might I trouble you for another, signore?” Abbot Santana bows his head humbly to Mac. “A water back, I suppose wouldn’t hurt. An encore, Brother?” Virgil stammers an assent. “And another for Virgil. I suppose this accelerates things, does it not, signore?”

On his way to the bar Mac replies over his shoulder, “I suppose it does. But I’m sure you both can still be accommodated.” He quickly returns with a tray of water glasses and refilled scotches, and sets them on the glass coffee table before sitting next to Jaxton. “If your Grace approves the boy’s body, my housekeeper Jesse, and if Brother Virgil is amenable to the pool man, I believe the transference can be accomplished quickly.”

“I will, of course, need to test the boy’s body.” The Abbot’s wrinkled face pulls back into a painful smile. “It will be fun, Virgil, will it not? You being the older of us this go-round. It will be—what do the young brothers say?—a hoot!” The Abbot raps his cane excitedly on the floor several times. He clinks glasses with Virgil. They both take a long quaff of their drinks.

“Mi scusi,” Virgil bashfully says so softly that Mac and Jaxton have to lean forward to hear him. “The p-p-pool man. I understand he has a marito—?” His voice trails off to being completely inaudible.

“Speak up, Virgil!” Santana demands.

Virgil clears his throat. “Si, the pool man has husband. What is to become of him?”

Jaxton adds, “Tragically, he, too, might succumb to another tragic overdose.”

“Only if we can watch,” chuckles the Abbot, to which the Jaxton joins in with his droll humor. 

“Ma—” Virgil holds an index finger in the air. “Is two overdoses too many overdoses? To the authorities, I mean?”

Jaxton leans toward Virgil conspiratorially, “Not if a body isn’t found.”

Virgil is confused, but quickly catches on, nodding his head with a snickers.

Mac looks at his glass before taking a sip. “Thomas Price has been an addict ever since his mother kicked him out as a teenager, Lucius. I’d go down that road with caution.” Jaxton scoffs. “All I’m saying is that junkies can surprise you with their tolerance.”

Jaxton waves his hand. “I know the limits of the human body. Three times the actor’s dosage—no one can survive.”

Mac shrugs his shoulders, but then turns his attention to the Abbot. “Your Grace. I understand—” Mac pauses, not sure how to broach the subject. “I understand you have a…condition.”

“Ah,” says the Abbot. He and Virgil share a look. “Si. A thing I pick up—” He gives Jaxton a stink eye, “—before we begin vetting more carefully. Back when we do a thing in haste.”

“In Romania,” Virgil adds, bobbing his shiny head. “M-many centuries ago.”

Mac leans toward the Abbot. “Will the boy…” Mac isn’t sure how to phrase it, “…inherit this condition?”

“Si. Not at first, but it always come back over the years.” The Abbot starts lifting his robe. “Let this be the lesson to you, Lucius.” As he lifts his robe, he reveals a massive amount of dark body hair on his tiny frame, with a perfectly normal old man’s wrinkled penis. He continues raising his robe and above his navel, first two, then four, then six, and finally eight plump nipples run from abdomen up to chest. “I believe it was a transference in the eighteenth—” Virgil shakes his head correcting the Abbot. “—oh, si, seventeenth century. Tainted boy before we make habit of checking more thorough.”

“Werewolf?” Jaxton says in disbelief, to which both Abbot and the Brother chuckle.

“No, no, no. We rule out Lycanthropy,” Abbot Santana says, “long, long ago.”

“Old w-wives tale,” Virgil stutters. “Wolf-man n-n-nonsense.” He clears his voice. “Supernumerary maladaptation, is science name for Abbot’s condition.”

Mac leans over the coffee table and brushes one of the lower nipples with his fingertips.

“Oh!” gushes the old Abbot. “Sensitive.”

“And on full moons?” Jaxton asks mesmerized by the surplus of teets.

“No worry about full moons.” The Abbot laughs. “But no come up and surprise me. Ah grrr!” He and the Brother exchange a laugh, playfully clawing at each other. “Only thing that brings on condition is emotions that are strong. Passion, fear, anger, et cetera, et cetera.” He turns to Jaxton and Mac with a sneer of his upper lip and a laugh. “Ah grr!” he growls at the two of them.

The doorbell chimes and the four men exchange concerned looks. The Abbot drops his robe covering his nipples. They sit in silence until the chimes urgently ring several times. Santana turns to Mac. “You answer your door?”

Mac warily approaches the entrance. “Yes?” He cracks it open to see who it is and Eros pushes in, knocking him backwards, holding Jesse in his arms. Jesse shades his eyes from the sudden brightness. His legs drip mud. “We need get him to a hospital.”

“Eros, knock it off! I’m okay,” he says. “Just let me down.”

“I need the keys to your boat.” Eros shakes Jesse in his arms, scolding him. “You need to be looked at.”

“We found him on the marsh,” Tommy quickly fills over Eros. “I guess he fell through some planks. He was up to his neck, shaking, whining—”

“I was in mud, T! Of course I was shaking.”

“What are you talking about? Slow down.” Mac says, his hand on Eros’ chest.

“Don’t tell me to slow down.”

Tommy continues speaking over Eros, “He went off at the beach and didn’t come back.” He checks the back of Jesse’s head. Jesse swats his hand away. “When it got dark, we went searching for him.” Tommy points to the lounge chair in the living room. “Put him on that. We thought he got lost in the fog.”

“I was lost!”

“He just now is coming round. I think he was knocked out. He was dazed when we got him out.” Eros sets him on the lounge chair. He and Tommy realizes there’s others in the room. They give the monks a cursory grunt but are obsessed with Jesse. 

“I wasn’t knocked out. I was stuck in cold mud.” 

The two sit on the ottoman, fidgeting. Eros says, “See, there’s a little blood back here.” He twists Jesse’s head to show a dried patch.

“Hey. I’m not a mannequin!” Jesse squawks.

"Oddio!” says the Abbott rising with Virgil’s help. “The fault is ours. We are terrible—how you say—scaredy cats. Something frighten us walking from the boat. We think it an animal. We are afraid and hurry to the house. We don’t think to find out what it was.”

“Apologies,” Mac says to the monks. “Eros and Tommy, this is Abbot Santana from Father Lucius’ monastery and his attendant, Brother Virgil.” Tommy and Eros give them distracted greetings.

“Fortune smiles, gentlemen,” the small Abbot says, putting his hand on Eros’ bicep surreptitiously squeezing it and exchanging a gleeful look with Virgil. “No need for hospital. Brother Virgil is registered nurse. He see to your friend.”

“Si, Concussion, very serious.” Virgil is again barely audible so Tommy and Eros have to lean toward him. “But he no pass out, so is good.” Virgil takes his glass of water and offers it to Jesse.

Jesse grabs Eros’ forearm. “See, they heard an animal, too. It had red eyes. And before that, back at the lighthouse, I heard voices under the floor!”

“He might wish something stronger,” the Abbott suggests to Mac, softly.

“And, guys, someone’s writing about us!”

Mac brings back a whiskey. Virgil takes it. “Here,” he whispers to Jesse. “You drink.” Jesse sips then grimaces from the taste. “Come. Once more.” Jesse takes a second reluctant sip.

“Gees,” Tommy says. “You poor guy. You musta really knocked your head.”

“It doesn’t sound like he was unconscious,” Mac assures Tommy and Eros. “But he could be in shock.”

“Let’s get him to the shack,” Tommy suggests.

“You can. But you’ve got a registered nurse right here,” Mac suggests. 

“Are delusions a sign of a concussion?” Eros quietly asks Virgil.

“Eros. I’m right here. You know I can hear you? Jesus Christ! Sorry Father,” he says to the Abbot. “I’m cold, wet and upset, not delusional.” Jesse takes a deep breath, then adamantly states his case: “There’s voices in the lighthouse basement. There’s someone in the lighthouse who’s writing about us. And there’s some red eyed monster in the swamp.”

“Just listen to yourself,” Tommy says, aggravated. "Total nut job."

“He got a big conk on his head is all.” Eros says to Tommy. He scans the room and sees everyone is skeptical. “You know where you are, don’t you, Chewy?”

“Of course I do,” Jesse says impatiently. Then seeing Eros clearly wants him to answer. Rolling his eyes, he says, “Okay. I’m in Mac’s living room. But there really were voices—” Tommy and Eros are nodding indulgently. He sees they’re just humoring him. “Someone was writing…In the swamp, there was—” He takes in the concerned looks of the monks, and sees Jaxton’s behind them smirking. He leans back into the lounge chair and exhales. “Okay. Forget it. I guess I am totally…” He twirls his finger around his temple.

“He should stay here tonight.” Mac puts his hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “Jesse, why don’t you go upstairs, take a hot shower and wash off all that mud?” Jesse nods. He gets off the lounge chair, scowls at Tommy and Eros, then trots up the stairs.

“C’mon, Eros.” Tommy elbows him. “We’ll check on him in the morning.”

Eros sees the small bald monk is beaming at him adoringly. He snarls not liking that one bit. He jabs his finger at him savagely. “You just make sure he stays okay. You hear me?”

Virgil cringes from Eros’ hot breath. The Abbot cuts in front of Virgil, “Oh, most definitely.” He places his hand on Eros’ chest. “We will be with him throughout the night. I assure you this.”

Eros pushes off his knees and rises. He confronts Mac, poking his finger in his face. “You got Gleason airlifted. You’ll do the same for the kid if it comes to that. Got it?”

“Got it,” Mac replies. His eyes shine from Eros’ insolence, but he keeps his cool. Eros and Tommy get ready to leave, but Eros turns back giving the group a last menacing look, before slamming the door.

“Most unpleasant fellow,” says the Abbot.

“Not for much longer,” Mac says under his breath. 

“Another statue of Michelangelo, eh, Brother Virgil? But the teeth, they will need repair.”

Mac climbs the stairs and finds Jesse relaxing under the streaming shower. The last of the mud swirls down the drain as Mac slips off his khakis and top and joins him. He gently washes Jesse’s shoulders and back, soaping up his chest, under his arms, between his legs. Jesse unwinds in Mac’s arms. He turns the boy around and kisses his lips lightly. 

“I’ve so enjoyed out time together.”

“Me too.” Jesse wraps his arms around the man and clutches him tightly, tasting the saltiness of his skin.

Mac soaps the boy’s groin and gets a rise out of him. Jesse smiles as he’s being stroked. Mac rinses him off and turns off the shower. He grabs a warm towel and dries him. “Like our first time, isn’t it?” Mac says.

He leads Jesse into his bedroom straight to the sling. Jesse eagerly climbs in letting Mac slip his legs into the straps and positioning his butt at Mac’s crotch. He places his hands above his head grasping the chains ready for Mac to slide his cockhead into him. 

Slipping quietly through the door, Jaxton grabs Jesse’s right hand and puts it in a restraint, while Mac quickly cuffs Jesse’s legs. 

“Motherfucker!” the boy shouts at the top of his lungs, thrashing wildly. Jaxton tapes his mouth with duct tape and Mac secures Jesse’s other hand. No matter how hard he bounces he’s held in place by his cuffs.

Abbot Santana and Brother Virgil enter naked, Santana rubbing his hands together excitedly as Virgil sets down his satchel next to the sling. They both leer at the helpless boy, whose eyes widen in fright taking in the hairy Abbot surplus of nipples. The aged monk seems to grow taller as he bares a wolfish smile, his teeth unusually large and his ears, under dark ringlets of curls, appear pointed. His shoulders and flanks are black with thick fur as are his arms and legs. The Abbot walks between his parted legs, running his hands on the inside of Jesse’s thighs. He has grown larger than Mac and Jaxton, who close rank on either side of the hairy Abbot. They stroke the Abbot’s many nipples causing his wrinkly dick to swell to attention. 

As the veiny dick rises it pokes Jesse in the balls; the boy, revolted by the canine monstrosity bearing down on him, redoubles his effort to try to escape. He hollers and yells behind his tape, shaking his head, kicking his arms and legs in every direction. The sling clangs away in his frantic struggle to get away from the beast. 

“Can you not calm him down?” the Abbot says to Jaxton.

Jaxton produces his zippered drug case and removes a hypodermic. “Hold his head to the side.” Mac presses down on Jesse’s ear so that his neck is exposed. The veins pop out prominently as Jesse strains against Mac’s hand. Jaxton finds a suitable candidate and injects the fluid. Mac releases him as Jesse coughs behind the tape, begins breathing rapidly and starts trembling violently as the drug directly hits his brain. 

The men around the sling watch the alteration of the young boy, from rebellious captive to writhing slut. 

“Virgil, we start with il cazzo. See what he can take, but mind the ruby.”

Virgil, eyes lit up with excitement, pulls out a set of sounds from his satchel. Staring with one of the smaller one, he coats the silver rod with lubricant and places a drop on Jesse’s piss slit. The old attendant expertly inserts it. Jesse pumps his hips up into the sound, wanting it to penetrate him faster. “Slow, slow, child,” says the Abbot amused. “You have much time to enjoy your impaling.” 

Virgil holds his cock, squeezing and releasing it as the weight of the sound drills deeper into Jesse’s urethra. The tip disappears and reappears as Virgil pumps his dick. A happy look of enchantment blooms across his face as he nods to the Abbot.

Virgil extracts the sound and replaces it was a much larger one that has multiple ridges. He coats the new sound and lets its weight fall much more quickly down into Jesse’s erection. Almost vanished, the Abbot grabs the tip and pulls it out and then pushes it quickly back in. He masturbates the boy from the inside out. Jesse eyes roll up in his head at the overwhelming agony and ecstasy of the sensation.

Virgil coats a huge sound, one thick as his finger, and gives it to the Abbot. The Abbot removes the medium rod and attempts to insert the new gigantic one into the narrow piss slit. Just the tip is difficult for Jesse to accept, but the Abbot teases the boy’s small opening until Jesse, his eyes filled with dark cravings, pushes his pelvis to force in the sound.

He can’t help himself. The pain is great but his corrupt desires are stronger. In pure anguish, notes the Abbot, he still keeps pushing up on the impaling rod. For several minutes the men watch the dance the Abbot and Jesse perform—almost out and then all the way in. It makes the boy crazed and amuses the ancient monk. He loves the exquisite torture he’s giving the boy. 
Mac brings over a brown bottle, uncaps it and places it under Jesse nose. Whether he’s aware or not, Jesse hits the bottle hard, and then relaxes into the sling and lets the Abbot glide the enormous sound in and out, as he shudders in the Abbot’s hand.

“Magnifico,” the Abbot says, as he molests the boy. “Decidedly a masochist. We can only pray he also displays a sadistic side.” The Abbot extracts the sound and slaps Jesse’s balls. The boy spreads his legs inviting more abuse from Santana. “Stupendo,” breaths the Abbot, and continues the slapping, harder and harder, until the hand turns from palm to fist. Jesse rams his crotch into the man’s clenched hand, tears streaming from his eyes in his desire for more pain. 

“Molto bene. Now we fuck,” he says, leaving the sling and moving to the bed.

Mac and Jaxton release Jesse’s cuffs, help him out of the sling and lead him to the Abbot. The old man sees the boy’s eyes are dark and corrupt. He plays with his many nipples to increase the young boy’s debauchery. Jesse’s dick rises at how perversity of what he’s offered. He climbs on the old man who rips the tape off his mouth to allow him to bend down and suckle the many plump choices. The Abbot writhes in delight as the boy nurses him. “Ah, ciccio. Fantastico. Sit, sit,” he says, wiggling his erection. Jesse climbs over his hips, while Brother Virgil slicks his butt with lube. Jesse lowers himself on the hairy mutant’s penis and squirms down on it. His hands on the headboard, he winces in perverted pleasure as he accepts the cock sliding inside his body.

Mac strokes Jesse’s cheek and offers him another hit of poppers. Jesse grabs Mac’s hand and pulls it to his nose and hits it hard. He moans, doubling down on the Abbot’s furry crotch. Virgil lubes his own bloated cock and crawls behind the boy. He introduces his member to Jesse hole, and Jesse bends over presenting his sloppy cunt to the Brother. Virgil happily grinds himself in, rubbing his cock against the Abbot’s.

Jesse feels his sphincter incredibly stretched as he maniacally pounds his hips against the two old perverts. He gives in to the foul scene and pinching the nipples of the abnormality below him. Santana pants, his tongue lolling to the side, a long red tongue. His pace of fucking his cock into the boy grows faster as the boy pinches his nipples harder. He snarls, grabs Jesse’s head and gnaws at his neck, growls viciously and explodes his load into the boy. The slick wet hole triggers Virgil, knowing the Abbot sperm engulfs his cock. Jesse growls himself and bites the Abbot’s neck in return. He rubs his hand up and down the Abbot’s chest and abdomen, pinching them pitilessly till the Abbot howls in pain. The pure depravity of the act makes Jesse cum all over the Abbot many teets. He rubs his sperm into the old man’s pelt. Looking down into the Abbot’s face, he sees blood red eyes glowering back at him. 

The Abbot bares his fangs, growls hungrily at the boy, quite ready to devour his soul.

 

[pigwest]

ok what the literal fuck. 
 

I feel used, abused, manipulated…totally hijacked and mindfucked and it is so good. Been reading this all day, totally engrossed and then WHAM shit gets weird and I did not see it coming, nor is it a path I would normally choose to go down. But it’s twisted and hot and I’m here for it! 

@shoreboy you sir, are exceedingly talented and I thank you for sharing your work with us, for free no less.  This post took me 20 min to write because I’m kinda speechless, still. 🙏

[pozpopperpig]

Holy fuck!  This is some prime twisted engrossing and brilliant wriitng!

[YEGfaggot]

I dont know what I'm reading now, but I ABSOLUTELY LOVE IT!