Abandon

[Yultidelog2009]

Amazing writing with a wonderful twist . Currently torn between  whether to jerk off or wait for the next installment to see whether Jesse was one of those incompatible guys that would end up being the abbot's end... haven't had this type of indecision since my comic book days. 

[shoreboy]

Love it @Yultidelog2009 @YEGfaggot @pozpopperpig @pigwest ! I'd jerk off now AND later. I’m in the middle of a slight detour, but I won’t Abandon Jesse. Thanks for your encouragement! Oink!

[bottomboyam]

I think we need to understand Mac’s story. How is he connected to all these supernaturals?  And who and what is Dante?

[shoreboy]

I hear you @bottomboyam Trust me, we'll get there. But first you have to know about Oscar.

[shoreboy]

8. Oscar

Sunday, the day after Eddie’s death and Father Lucius’ suspicious disappearance, is a warm summer morning. High above the island, a few gauzy clouds caught in a light breeze stretch across the deep blue sky. Wave crash softly beyond the dunes on the empty beach. Out at sea, miles east of the lighthouse, a regatta of sailboats race each other blissfully unaware of the horrors that have fallen or are ready to fall on a few residents of this cursed island.

Jaxton knocks on the shack door. Peeling flakes of pink paint fall from his rap onto his sandals. A few moments go by before Tommy answers. The door creeks open and Tommy stands naked, rubbing his eyes. The slightest suggestion of crinkles in the corner of his eyes show his thirty-five years on this earth. Over his shoulder, Jaxton zeros in on Eros’ hairy ass lying face down on the futon.

“What’s up?” Tommy scratches his hanging balls.

Jaxton looks down at all his tattoos focusing on the red demon above his plump cock. Points. “That one is definitely your finest.”

“Oldest one I have. What’s up?” Tommy repeats.

“Mac says he doesn’t want the steaks he had for Eddie and Father Lucius to go to waste.”

“Uh-huh.” 

“I can grill them for you guys. If you like.”

“Hey, Eros. You up for a steak breakfast?”

“Course,” he says, stirring from bed. He sits up with an impressive morning wood. “When?”

Jaxton calculates in his head, slightly distracted by Eros’ enormous erection. “Um, maybe twenty minutes? I can fix them with some eggs. Uh, steak and eggs?”

Eros yawns. “Sounds good. How’s Jesse?”

“Sleeping,” Jaxton lies with a smile. “See you in twenty.” Tommy nods and closes the door.

“No way that’s the same dreadlock bro from yesterday.” 

“Nope.” Eros gets up, goes into the bathroom and lets out a powerful stream of piss.

“So he get brainwashed or something?”

“Dunno.” Eros emptying in the toilet bowl makes it sound like Niagara Falls.

“We should check on Chewy.”

“C’mere first. I need my dick sucked.” 

Tommy is nothing if not accommodating. He walks in the bathroom and kneels before Eros’ dripping cock. Looks up. “You gonna drink my piss after?”

“Course.”

*

Dante swings opens the pink shack’s freshly painted door. “Lasciate ogne speranza,” he says with his ironic smile.

“Say what?” a fresh faced, twenty-five-year-old Tommy asks, peering inside. It not a bad place. Small, maybe, with a boyfriend the size of Eric. But it’s better than hiding out in the Bronx apartment avoiding Eric’s brother like he has for the past six months. 

“It’s something I wrote long, long ago: Abandon all hope,” says Dante, sweeping his hand into the shack. He’s the same height as Tommy, has the nose of a falcon, sad, alert eyes, and a cruel, straight mouth. 

“Lascia—uh.” Eric tries to repeat Dante’s phrase.

“Lasciate ogne speranza,” pronounces Dante slowly, fingers pinched together, gliding through the air like he’s threading a needle. “Hope—it means—forget about it,” he laughs. The two boys’ stare at him curiously then scrutinize their possible future living arrangements. The taller one is dressed in a blue shirt, grey slacks, and white Converse sneakers; the blond one with long stringy hair is in jeans and a black t-shirt that reads, “FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING FUCK.” Dante sometimes questions Mac’s hiring choices. 

Both are nice to look at, though. The taller one is strong, but afraid of looking unintelligent—no, Dante thinks, mulling the adjective “unintelligent.” No, his fear is looking crazy. (Dante, if nothing else, is specific in how he writes about people.) The tall one is very beautiful in a very masculine way. His father, Dante muses, is a good father, wrestles with his sons after a hard day riding on the back of a sanitation truck. The mother, however, would be an exquisite beauty, the youngest and prettiest of three sisters, but extremely neurotic. Dante imagines the taller one’s family is allowed only to patronize restaurants that have male waiters, no waitresses—the mother wants no competition. There are no mirrors hung anywhere in the house. This neurosis would grow worse over time as her looks fade. Eventually she cannot leave her home lest people think her not still beautiful. Even her family would be discouraged to lay eyes on her. “What, what are you looking at?” she would say to a violator of this unwritten rule, her fingers fluttering in front of her face. It would be ingrained in him, this fear of growing old, of being judged by others. Like a bit of sand stuck in an oyster: a quality that becomes, over time, either a beautiful pearl or a malignant cancer. Pearl or cancer—TBD.

The smaller one, quite defensive, is even more damaged, with many sharp edges to his personality. An early loss of a father is written all through him. He imagines life, Dante observes, squinting his aged eyes to read him deeply, life to him is a poker game and he has to get through it with only four cards to play whereas everyone else has been dealt five. Why? When did the damage occur? What becomes of him?

*

A teenage Tommy holds his skateboard in one hand while washing beach sand off his foot with the other. A few feet away there’s a middle-aged guy in sunglasses, slim but not skinny, shirtless, alone at a picnic table eating a burger and fries.

Tommy, nose burnt and freckled from the sun, sets his skateboard down; his bare toe pushes it back and forth. He’s staring at the burger when the guy suddenly says, “Want one?” Tommy realizes the guy’s speaking to him. He didn’t know he was staring so intently, but he didn’t have breakfast—rarely did. He’s taken to slipping out of the house before his mom and her boyfriend, Conrad, get up. Extremely wiry kid back then, looks at most fifteen even though he isn’t. He still gets carded buying cigarettes, but his I.D.’s legit. The middle-aged guy doesn’t know that—just sees a skinny kid staring at him.

Tommy rides the short distance over to him on his skateboard. The rubber wheels crunch over the gritty concrete. “Alright,” he says, taking up the guy’s offer. Guy gets up and puts in an order to a pimply girl at the snack bar window. While he’s away, Tommy sits at the table and shoos off an aggressive seagull trying to steal the guy’s last remaining fries. After a few minutes he comes back with a burger and fries in a plastic basket. Tommy lodges his long, straight hair back over his ears, says thanks, and then gobbles the burger noisily. That amuses the guy, the noise Tommy makes. Tommy’s downing a couple fries at a time when the guys asks his name.

He looks over the guy in sunglasses for a second. “Tommy,” he says between French fries.

“Perry Rosen. Esquire. How come you’re not at school, Tommy?” 

“Cause it’s Wednesday and I don’t go to school on Wednesdays,” he ad libs. Really he hasn’t gone to school since winter break on account of all his D’s and F’s. When Conrad smacks you for being snide at Thanksgiving dinner, you kind of lose interest in the future. Besides, what fucking business is it of this guy? “What are you—a truant officers? Why aren’t you at work?”

“Because I’m on disability.” Perry tosses his last fry to the pushy seagull who nabs it mid-air and flaps off. “You like video games?” Perry lights a cigarette from his pack and offers one to Tommy. Tommy accepts it and stashes it behind his ear.

“Gee, mister, what kid doesn’t like video games?” he gushes sarcastically, finishes his burger. “You gonna offer me candy next?”

Perry laughs and raises his sunglass onto his brown wavy hair to get a better take on the kid. Tommy sees his brown hair matches exactly the color of his eyes. He presents Tommy with an appreciative smirk behind those watchful eyes. Tommy doesn’t trust this clown one bit, even if he is grateful for the meal.

“You’re a smart ass, huh?” Tommy dangles a fry over his mouth and lets it fall in, not answering. “Fact is, I bought the new Grand Theft Auto.” 

“Awesome.” Tommy says sarcastically, but that tidbit has his attention. “You like some [banned word] picking up young guys at the beach?”

“Nope. Just bored playing GTA by myself.” He flicks his ash, which tumbles over the concrete.

Tommy senses what he says might be true, but still eyes the guy suspiciously while he finishes his fries.

“C’mon. Let’s go.” Perry gets up. “I’ll drive you home afterward.” He puts the empty baskets on top of the trash bins. “You live around here?” 

“Yeah. Massapequa.” Tommy skates trying to keep up with Perry. He’s not all that bad looking, Tommy thinks, as they wind through the parking lot. Making an effort to get beside him, he observes his strong jaw, pointed chin, and a sly cat-like expression whenever he glances at Tommy—and he glances at Tommy a lot. On the skateboard he’s almost as tall as the guy, otherwise he’d probably be up to his nose.

“You skate all the way to the beach?” 

Tommy nods, says, “Yep.” He takes the cigarette from behind his ear, cups his hands to light it. 

“This is me,” Perry says, as Tommy looks up. They’re stopped at a silver Mazda Miata. An older model but still makes an impression. Tommy skates around to the passenger side and gets in holding his board. There’s a blue Mother Mary plastic statue glued to the dashboard. He raises a dirty blond eyebrow at Perry. “Not guilty. Well, I am Jewish so I’m always guilty. But Mare was there when I bought this off an old geezer. Bad juju I figure if I break her off. Besides she’s looking out for me at the road. So what harm could there be?” He releases the roof hook on his side then reaches over Tommy and unhooks the other hook. “’Scuse me,” he says, leaning very close to Tommy. Tommy catches a whiff of coconut-smelling suntan lotion mixed with the musk of sweat. When he pushes the roof back, Tommy spies a small tufts of wet dark curls in his armpits. Perry pulls his sunglasses down, starts the convertible, revs the engine, then squeals out of the lot.

Tommy hastily buckles in and hugs his board like a security blanket. The Miata roars down Ocean Parkway, taking the roundabout faster than any of the other cars. Perry pushes in the lighter and pulls a cigarette from his pack with his full lips. The ashtrays he opens overflows with butts. “So how old are you, Tommy from Massapequa?” he hollers as he guns the engine passing one car after another.

“How old you think I am?” Tommy yells back.

“Thirteen.” Perry eyes wrinkle with a smile behind his aviator frames.

“Fuck you. Eighteen.”

“You don’t look it. No hair in your pits that I can see.” He looks over at Tommy.

Tommy lifts an arm to show him. “Some. It’s just blond. Why you care?”

 “I don’t. Prove it.”

“What, that I’m not thirteen?” He gets out his I.D. and pushes it in the guy’s face.

The lighter pops out and Perry press the glowing coil to his cigarette, glances at Tommy’s I.D. “Looks fake.”

“It’s not.” Tommy slides it back in his cutoffs. The wind does a number on his hair making it flick in his face. He tries to put it behind his ears without much luck. He takes a hit off his cigarette and blows smoke into the turbulence. Looks out as the beach houses, scrub brush and dunes as they zip by.

They drive for a while not talking. The guy seems to like weaving in and out, overtaking cars, which scares and exhilarates Tommy. He gives Perry a couple of sideways glances. Doesn’t look like a predator. Figures he’s in his forties, seems to keep in shape, has a few random dark hairs on his sternum, but smooth and deeply tan otherwise. He could be a high school track coach, if a high school track coach chain smoked.

They pass over the Great South Bay Bridge. At the top of the bridge they’re flying so fast Tommy feels like any second they’ll take off and soar into the sky. Construction on the other side of the bridge and a stalled truck cause Perry to hit the brakes. As they squeal to a stop, he puts up a hand over Tommy’s chest to protect him. His hand falls back on the gear shift after he makes a detour to feel Tommy’s thigh.

“Didn’t scare you, did it?”

“Fuck no.” Tommy picks up the pack off the dashboard and takes another cigarette and light his old one with this new one. Perry looks at him and tries not to laugh. 

They ride the streets of Islip for several minutes, until they pull into the driveway of a two story apartment building: open garage parking on the first floor, apartments on the second. Tommy tosses his cigarette as they pull into a parking spot. Perry crush out his butt in the ashtray. “Be it ever so humbles,” Perry says, getting out.

Tommy climbs out of the convertible, notices a Triumph motorcycle parked next to the Miata, wants to know if that’s Perry’s. It is, Perry confirms, as Tommy follows him up the back stairs. With the sunlight fading, Perry hold his set of keys close to his sunglasses, finds the right one, and unlocks the door. He usher Tommy and his clutched skateboard inside. 

It’s stuffy and smells like stale beer and cigarettes. Not surprisingly, on the coffee table there’s an ashtray brimming with butts. There’s an old, green couch with leopard print throw pillows and a La-Z-Boy over in the corner; a big screen TV sits on a stand opposite, with a DVD and VCR players underneath; unmarked DVD cases and video boxes are stacked on the sides. A swivel chair sits in front of a monitor on a desk, with game controls, and a PC tower adjacent on the floor.

A framed Lion King poster adorns the hallway leading to the bedroom. It’s one of the only movies he love, a movie his mom—pre-Conrad—took him to when he was eight. “You like the Lion King?” Perry doesn’t answer. He’s quickly trying to clean up. Above the monitor there’s a huge framed photograph of the Savanna with a lion, lioness, and their cubs lying on a vivid green plain. He gets up close to it. In the corner there’s a small signature. Perry Rosen, 1999. “This really Africa?” 

Perry says it is as he’s closing a draw. He sets down his sunglasses and pack of cigarettes on the kitchen pass through.

Tommy’s uneasy with what he sees in the dining area. A camera on a tripod, and in back of it are two stand holding up a dark grey backdrop. The backdrop spools to the floor behind a stool. A light on a stand aims at the backdrop, unlit. “What’s that?” Tommy wants to know.

“What’s it look like?” Perry answers.

“Like something a [banned word] would have in his apartment.”

“Guilty as charged. But just a hobby.” Perry takes a cigarette from his pack and lights up. He turns on his monitor, boots up the game, and sits in the swivel chair and starts racing around the screen being chased by police cars. Tommy stands in back of him, still holding his skateboard. He’s familiar with the old 2D version of the video game—he’s played it often at friends’ houses—but this version is the new 3D one, and is so much cooler. For an old guy, Perry’s a pretty impressive gamer. He’s on it for a long time, screeching, shooting, before his avatar gets killed. He makes a big deal as he ceremoniously hands over the controls and the chair to Tommy. “Show me how it’s done, champ.”

Tommy climbs in the chair and Perry watches him play. He cheers him on as he goes through various levels racking up wanted stars, money and guns. When Tommy fucks an in-game prostitute—racking up his health score—he turns around and shoots the whore to get his money back. Perry roars in astonishment and claps him on the shoulder. “You are one sick little fuck.” Tommy smiles in spite of himself. “I didn’t know you could do that,” Perry says.

“I didn’t know I could do it either. Until I did it.” Tommy’s got a line of cop cars and helicopters chasing him. He gets distracted by the sound of a click, wipes out and his game character dies. He tosses the gaming controls on the desk and hears another click. 

Perry has his camera taking photos of Tommy. “My bubbee would have said something just like that.” He continues taking pictures of an increasingly annoyed Tommy. In a Yiddish grandma voice, he says, “’You never gonna know what you can do…unless you do it.’ She was all about taking changes, my bubbee.”

“What are you doing, man?”

“Taking a chance. Look how serious you are. Like a cross teddy bear.” Perry clicks several more times. Tommy holds up his hand to block Perry. “Ten bucks,” says Perry. “Aw, come on. Let me take a couple more.” He flips on the light on the stand. The brightness highlights the dinginess of the room: pale blue walls; a yellow water stain on the ceiling; burn marks on the checkered blue and grey linoleum floor, with a few more burn scars on the coffee table.

“You serious? Ten. Just for some pictures?” Tommy asks distrustfully. Perry opens his wallet and takes out a ten dollar bill.
“I said it was my hobby. Look.” He hands Tommy a photo album, dangling the ten out of Tommy’s reach.

Tommy opens the album and flips through it. Page after page is of boys. None of them particularly good looking, just pretty average Joe’s; a few chubby ones, some even skinnier than him, like boys he goes to school with. Toward the back of the album he comes across a red flag—shirtless men, some with tattoos, some showing their hairy butts and, on the last page, some full frontals of pretty rough looking guys that look like they’re about to pounce on the photographer, fists clenched. “I knew you were a [banned word].” He gives back the album.

“No. The boys are all legal. I have learned my lesson, your honor. Like I said, it’s just a hobby.”

“Yeah, well, I gotta go.”

“Five minutes and you get a ten spot.”

“Not interested.”

“You don’t have to, like, take anything off. You’re cute just in your trunks with your angry teddy bear face.” Tommy frowns and snatches the bill from Perry’s hand. He clutches his skateboard as he climbs on the stool. As Perry positions the camera framing Tommy tight, he says, “Would a smile kill you?” 

“Yes.” He grips his skateboard tighter to his chest. Perry takes a couple of photos then pleads with him to lower the skateboard, an inch, two inches. Tommy reluctantly does, looking stern and a little embarrassed. 

“Mind if I put on some music?” Perry asks. Tommy shrugs. He pops in Green Day, holds the camera close and moves with the music. Tommy thinks he’s such a doofus, the way he dances with his camera. It makes him sneer. “That’s it.” Perry starts clicking rapidly and sings with the song, “Don’t know where it goes. Yeah, curl that lip.” Tommy can’t help let escape a small smile at how dorky Perry is. “Gorgeous.” Perry’s really getting into the music and teasing Tommy with the camera. “I walk alone,” he sings getting the camera up in Tommy’s face. Tommy pushes the camera away and Perry swings it right back, taunting him. Perry falls to his knees looking up at him. “That’s it. Show me that distain. How fucked up is Tommy’s world?” Scorn is easy for Tommy to fall into. “That’s it. More. I walk alone.” Tommy leers at the man. “Go ahead, spit on me.” That takes him by surprise.

“Say what?”

“Yeah, or like you want to."

Tommy considers what he asks. He feels the guy’s completely serious, so he spits on him a little just to see what he’ll do. It pushes Perry to a new passionate level. He starts clicking away like mad. “That’s it, that’s it. You think I’m some kind a loser, don’t you? Disbarred lawyer living in a shit hole like this. Come on, spit on me, motherfucker! Take it out on me—your fucked up little cunt!” Tommy sees he really gets off on this—and he doesn’t like what he’s saying—so he builds a big wad of saliva and hocks it at him. It lands on the guy’s forehead and runs down his face. “Wonderful!” Perry looks up from his camera. “That’s going to be a great one.” Perry puts the camera back on the tripod, shaking his head, more than a little embarrassed. He gets out a tissue and wipes his forehead and cheek.

Tommy honestly doesn’t know what to make of this guy. Something reminds him how he drives his car, the fast-shifting moods. Something exhilarating being around him. “You’re a freak, dude,” he tells him.

“Yes, I well aware of that.” He lights a cigarette. “I think you got a little freaky-deaky in you, too, Tommy from Massapequa.” He throws him the pack.

Tommy pulls out one and lights it. He tosses the pack back to Perry. “What you said about being a disbarred—”

“Yes, yes. I plead the fifth, your honor,” he says. Going into the fridge, he pulls out a couple of beers, offers one to Tommy who takes it.

“What’d you, like, do?” Tommy pops his beer while exhaling smoke through his nose.

Perry turns red face. He pulls the corners of his lips down in a mock sad face. “Uh, moral turpitude,” he says. 

Tommy doesn’t know what that means, but seeing Perry’s expression after he releases his lips—it’s a complex face he doesn’t know what to make of: angry, embarrassed, defiant, challenging—he knows he should drop it, but he persists giving Perry a quizzical look. “What’d ya do?”

“Okay-okay-okay. Let’s just say, it’s why I wanted to see some I.D. from you. I’m not going up the river on a second offense.” There’s something shady, almost criminal, in way the guy’s eyes dart back and forth looking at him. It looks like he’s weighing what he’s going to do next. That same fear and thrill Tommy felt in the car.

Tommy’s trying to decide if he should be wary of this guy or if he’s attracted to this side of him—he definitely feels danger coming off him. He’s never been presented with a choice like this before. Sure, he could walk out, but he decides he’s not going to. The guy could be a little deranged and he might like him more because of it.

Perry smashes out his cigarette. “So,” he says, frighteningly normal-looking again like none of the past few second ever happened. “May I have my last two and a half minutes, please?” he asks, holding up his camera. Tommy shrugs his shoulders, puts out his cigarette. Perry pivots and puts on an old, scratchy Supremes record. As the music takes a hold of him, it seems to make him more stable, more average Joe, thinks Tommy. 

As Perry adjusts him on the stool, he sings to him: “Baby, baby…baby don’t leave me.” Tommy can’t help grin, if for no other reason than he’s relieved the guy’s like he was before. Perry is ready to shoot, but with his hands on his hips, the camera hanging on a strap around his neck, he says patiently, “Ya know, as much I love the street urchin look, can I get you to just brush your hair? Just a little?”

“No,” says Tommy. He’s back to comfortably frowning at Perry. 

“Okay, wear this then.” Perry hands him a green knit hat. Tommy pulls it on. “Ah, you look like a cute little elf.” Tommy pulls it off. Now his hair is mussed at all angles. “Perfect,” says Perry, and starts shooting. Tommy gives him a disapproving glare, which Perry eats up. “Yeah, yeah. Right. You are so fuckin’ beautiful, Tommy. Has anyone ever told you that?” He stops, expecting an answer. Tommy’s not about to respond. Deeply scowls instead. “Well, you are ab-so-lutely stunning.” Perry grinds his hips to the music. “I’ve got this burning, burning, yearning feelin’ inside me.” He grabs his crotch and tease Tommy. “Ooh, deep inside me.” He pumps his hips at Tommy. “And it hurts so bad.” He steals a kiss.

“Hey!” Tommy hops off the chair and pushes Perry backwards.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,” Perry shakes his head in shame. “I know. Bad Perry. Perry very, very bad. Never do it again.” Tommy’s more in shock than mad. He can’t tell if Perry is acting or really is just a complete mess—he’s on his knees begging for forgiveness. “Here,” he says, pulling out his wallet and handing over a ten. “I promise you. Won’t happen again. You can hit me if I do.”

“I don’t want to hit you, dude. I need to go.”

“No, don’t go. I’ll put away the camera. I got some dynamite pot. We’ll watch a movie. I’ll order Chinese.” Tommy purses his lips. Perry turns off the music and the light on the stand. “Really. Any movie you want.” He pats the couch. “Come on. Sit.” Tommy sits at one end and Perry flops down at the other. He digs in his cigarette pack and produces a rumpled joint. He lights it, takes a big hit and hands it to Tommy. He pushes off the couch and goes through the DVDs under the big TV. “So, what do you feel like? Girl on girl, boy on girl?” He gives Tommy his sly-puss sideways glance. “Boy on boy?”

“Straight,” say Tommy, as nonplused as he can.

Perry pops in a disc and sits back on the couch. Tommy tokes and leans in to give him back the joint. The movie comes on. Cheesy graphics spin in the title: Anal Angels. Tommy throws him a disparaging look. “What? It’s Charlie’s Angels except they like it up the butt. Where’s the harm?” 

They watch for a while, passing the joint back and forth, while busty babes get rammed by a tattooed biker and an immensely endowed Black guy. Five minutes into it, one of the “angels” take both guys up her ass. It’s in extreme close-up, right between their pumping dicks. Perry starts rubbing his trunks where a rising lump is building. “I don’t’ know about you, but this is making me really horny. It won’t bother you if I rub one out, will it? I promise, line in the sand.” Perry draws an imaginary line between the couch cushions, between himself and Tommy.

Tommy acts nonchalant and makes like he’s cool with it, even though he’s getting horny too. The double-dicked angel seem to be really enjoying how much it’s ripping her ass apart, and, with the pot loosening him up, and Perry beating away, he thinks he should lighten up, too—maybe pull out his dick. Never mind he’d be jacking next to a guy. Honestly, he’s done it a few times before at a few different buddy’s sleepovers, after they’ve been drinking, looking at Penthouses, and getting trashed on weed. Doesn’t happen often, but it has happened. So why not?

Tommy guzzles his beer, then pulls down his pants and starts whacking along with Perry. He focuses strictly on the screen getting himself hard. He knows Perry’s looking over at him but he stares straight ahead. Then Perry stops jerking, leans over, and slips his mouth over Tommy’s cock. This first time a warm, wet mouth takes in his dick makes him almost cum instantly. With his palms pressing into the couch, he looks up at the water stain on the ceiling and then down at dark wavy hair, feeling the man’s soft tongue swirling around his cock. How good it feels, how stoned he is—Perry’s spittle sliding down his shaft, wrapping around his balls. As Perry bobs, Tommy places his hands gingerly on the man’s hair. 

His dick’s really wet and Perry amazingly manages to slide his cock deep down his throat, all the way down till he’s swallowed his cock down to Tommy’s sparse blond pubes. Perry wraps his hand under his balls and plays with them, then strokes Tommy’s cock with a clench fist. He looks at Tommy. “Feels good, yeah?” Tommy moans lightly as Perry swirls his palm around the head of Tommy’s cock, gripping him harder. “Like it, son?”

Something about calling him son triggers him. “I’m cumming,” Tommy breathes a second before he releases. Perry increase the pressure of his palm and takes in Tommy’s dick head and swallows all the cum Tommy’s gushes out. Tommy claws the edge of the couch and buck wildly with Perry continuing to swirl and suck as he continues to spew. He thinks Perry will stop after he finishes cumming but he’s still slurping away way long after he’s climax. “Stop. Dude!” He pushes Perry’s head off him.

Perry picks up his beer and lies back. “Time was,” Perry says, swigging some beer, “back in the Jurassic age, I’d have charged you twenty for that.” Tommy sucks back some of his beer, too, and looks at the screen avoiding Perry’s eye contact. The man’s evaluating him, he feels it. Doesn’t know what more he could want. Perry finally turns away and watches a new “angel” in a sling, legs spread wide, pussy lips hanging and red gaping butthole pushing open. The Black guy is greasing up his hand and slides grease in her butt. Slowly he slides this entire hand into her red gape. Perry starts beating off again. Tommy sits there stunned that the girl can take a hand as big as the Black guy’s. Tommy sits with his mouth open and his trunks still at his ankles, his dick hard as metal. The angel writhes and shrieks, encourages the Black guy to fist her harder. Tommy’s mesmerized, eyes glued to the screen with Perry’s spanking his cock beside him. Perry reaches a hand over and fondles Tommy’s cock while he beats his own.

“Payback time,” Perry sings. He turns to Tommy. “Twenty bucks, you do that to me.” 

“Huh?” Tommy looks at him confused.

“No seriously. I want you to stick your hand up my butt. Fist me just like that.”

“That’s not possibly.”

“Well.” Perry pauses masturbating, and begins to cross-exam Tommy: “First of all, your initial response is you didn’t say no. Secondly, see, she’s doing it, so you can clearly see it's possible. And finally, I like it. More than like it. I love taking a guy’s fist. But if you don’t feel like it, I can always get online after I take you home, and find someone who will. But I’d really like it if it was you. Easy twenty.”

“I doubt if I can.”

Perry claps excitedly. “Sure you can. I’ll lead you through it.” Perry steps out of his swimsuit, very erect. “Leave you trunks on the floor. God you’re hot!” He takes Tommy into his bedroom where a sling’s set up, one very much like the one in the movie. A can of Crisco is clipped to one of the poles. Perry plugs in red chili lights strung around the sling, and climbs in placing a leg in each of the hanging straps. 

The room is all reds and shadows. The sling’s chains sparkle. Perry skin shines, his pits and crotch are dark as midnight. “You’re going to be great. Okay, put Crisco all over your hand. Now take a wad and push it into my hole.” Tommy follows his instruction, can’t believe he’s about to do this, but completely intrigued by the idea of fisting someone.

Pushing the wad of Crisco into Perry, it’s the first time he’s ever touched a man’s asshole. He can’t say he’s repulse—actually the opposite—it’s the softest thing he’s ever felt. He hears the actress in the other room continue to screech in what sounds like pleasure and agony.

“You sure about this? It’s gonna hurt you.”

“Yes, and?” Perry says. “Now make your hand like this,” he instructs, pointing all his fingers together. “Slowly push on my hole. No, don’t let up. That’s it. Keep going in.”

Tommy loves how silky Perry’s hole is, like velvet. He takes two greased fingers and traces the asslips in a full circle, much to Perry’s satisfaction. The guy’s gushing him with praise. “Like a duck to water,” he’s says, as Tommy penetrates his entrance. The hole relaxes open as he pushes in. He penetrates him without a bit of grimace from Perry at all.

“Aw, fuck baby, you make my hole sing!” Perry reaches up to a hanging sack dangling from a support bar. It clanks from a number of bottles inside. He pulls out a brown bottle and takes a hit from it. He offers it to Tommy, who doesn’t know what it is, but follows Perry’s lead. Perry holds one of his nostrils as he sniffs, then the other. There’s a cloud that forms in his head that overwhelms him, a desire to push his whole hand inside Perry hole, a relishing at how nasty this is, amplified by how much he loves the filthiness of this. Perry’s lying back looking at the ceiling coaxing Tommy to continue going in. Tommy doesn’t need any encouragement. He loves the way Perry’s sphincter opens for him, creamy as rose petals the touch of his skin. He’s up to his third knuckle before Perry says to wait a second, let him get used to his hand, but Tommy ignores him and keeps pushing in. Perry’s breathing rapidly through tight lips, murmuring obscenities, when Tommy breaks through. He glides his palm in, diving straight into a cavern up to his wrist. Perry’s sphincter clamps around him like a handcuff—he’s captive in a way he’s never been. Perry’s breath slows, his face melts in total bliss.

“Fuck,” Tommy says, surprised at the accomplishment. His hidden hand feels all wet and warm, slimier than anything he’s ever felt. When he wiggles his fingers, Perry’s eyes roll up in his head in painful pleasure. Perry uncaps the bottle again and Tommy leans forward wanting another hit. Perry gives it to him, as he instructs Tommy to fold his hand into a ball. Tommy does and Perry tells him how good he’s doing, what a natural he is.

“A star is born, baby!” Perry heaves in ecstasy, sniffing his bottle. “Streisand’s got nothing on you!”

Tommy tries variations he witnessed in the movie. He pulses in and out of Perry’s hole. There’s so many cross-currents of tissue rubbing across Tommy’s fist, like he’s guiding his hand through a spongy cave, ramming his hand through a winding tunnel of flesh. He withdraws his fist almost out then pumps back in. “Aw, fuck me, you own this hole. Anything you do, just remember I feel it times a hundred.” Tommy pulls his hand out, slides more grease into Perry loose asslips, and follows through with his fingertips re-entering the hole. “Yeah. Go deep. Yeah, deeper.” Tommy does and finds Perry’s rectum is an amazing, pliable object that has its own set of rules. It’s like he’s suddenly handed the game console that controls another man’s body. With his fingertips, he twists them one way and then the other, which makes Perry twitch and cry. He lets the palm of his hand glide against the walls in a one-eighty, then reverses. He feels a bump at the top of this man cave. He lets his fingers dance against it. Perry is twerks on his hand like crazy. “You found my prostate. No! Don’t squeeze it,” which of course makes Tommy squeeze it. Perry jerks in the sling. Tommy feels powerful, in command for possibly the first time in his life. It starts to get a rise out of him.

His dick’s straight out, aimed at Perry sloppy hole. As he pulls his hand out, he replaces it with his erection. It slides in like he’s fucking warm butter. It’s like his cock is in warm, viscous mud. Like he’s fucking mucous. All the imagery bombarding him makes him harder.

“Slide your hand inside with your cock, if you can,” Perry suggests, looking up in Tommy’s direction. He’s cross-eyed in exaltation, unable to see the boy in the red shadows, but feels every inch of him. “Aw, fuck,” he exclaims, as Tommy slips his hand inside, surrounding his penis with his hand. “Jack off in me, baby.” Tommy does. The act is sick and feels so good, and brings such pleasure to Perry who hitting the poppers like a maniac, offering Tommy some on occasion. When he does get a hit, he goes crazy deep into Perry, whose loving every second of it. Perry starts jacking again, hard as a rock. He gives Tommy the three-second warning and points his dick straight up. Tommy, straight off a hit of poppers, eagerly bends down and takes the man’s cockhead in his mouth. Perry explodes his semen immediately, which Tommy swallows. The clenching rectum spasms as Perry orgasms. Tommy’s first swallow of cum and how good his cock feels whacking inside a sloppy hole, makes him gush again—a second time within an hour.

Tommy pinches off every last drop, then slowly pulls out a slick hand and wraps his fist around Perry withering cock. “No, please don’t.” But Perry’s begging makes Tommy smirk and stroke his cock harder. Perry bounces like a marionette in the sling, jingling all the chains, pleading to Tommy to stop. He takes pity and reluctantly lets him off the hook. 

Tommy jumps up hanging from the top bar of the sling with his non-greasy hand, swinging back and forth making monkey sounds. “I knew you were a freak, baby. Saw it in your eyes the minute you skated over to me.” Tommy drops to the ground, scratching his armpit, still making monkey sounds. “No really, you could make some serious coin doing what you do.”

Tommy still feels the saltiness of cum in his mouth, the buzz of the poppers, the lingering euphoria of the pot. Looking at Perry resting in the sling, he wonders what it would be like to switch positions. He smiles, beaming contented for the first time in a really long time.

Perry’s focusing now, finally coming back to earth. “Baby, you got a knack. And I’m not just yanking your chain.” He awkwardly reaches Tommy’s cock and pulls on it. He flops back, looking at Tommy admiringly. He needs work, he realizes, but the raw talent is there with a little dash of crazy. “Listen, I get fisted all the time. Sometime I’ll pay for it, sure—and I definitely will pay for that. But you must think bigger. You have got the right amount of nasty and recklessness that some men like, that some men seek out.” He leans forward as much as he can with his legs still suspended. He grabs Tommy’s ribs. “Come here.” Perry reels him in. Tommy flops like a ragdoll over Perry sweaty, slick torso. He allows himself to be kissed repeatedly by Perry all over his face—doesn’t kiss him back. He grins smugly, regarding him like he’s full of it. Perry notes his reticence. “Alright. I can work with that.” He releases Tommy who stands there, even now, with his half-hard eighteen-year-old constant erection. “We need a name on your profile. Tommy's too boy next door. We need to get you geared up in leather, introduce you to a little S&M, get pics of you on a few nasty sites. I bet there’s a ton of men to hook you up with. They’d gladly line up to be disciplined by a hot skater boy like you, grovel at your feet. You put them through their paces, all right, and they’ll be happy to pay for the privilege.” Tommy scowls at him, thinks this is all bullshit. “Yeah, just like that. That cross teddy bear face.” He inhales suddenly. As if his name appeared to him on a movie marque, Perry sweeps his hand across the ceiling for Tommy to read: “Oscar. You’re garbage to him.” Perry lies back dreamily grasping the chains above his head. 

Tommy spies the wet dark tufts in his armpits. He slips his semi-rigid dick back in Perry’s dripping hole, and leans over to lick his pits like he’s wanted to since the car ride. 

“That's right.. Get piggy, boy.” Perry takes control of Tommy’s head, holding it tightly in his pit while Tommy sucks on his sweat-drenched curls. “Clean it up. Lick all of it. Oscar, we are going to make one hell of a fortune, you and me.” He guides Tommy's head over to suck out his other pit. “We need just one tweak.”
 

Edited March 10, 2022 by shoreboy

[pozpopperpig]

Great backstory chapter!

[YEGfaggot]

Fuck that's hot 😈

[negchaserlooking]

Fuck!!!!

[Shotsfired]

Man oh man.  Edge of my seat. What's to become of Jesse?

[shoreboy]

9. When There Are No Silver Bullets

Early Sunday morning—the day after Jaxton poisoned Eddie, and Tommy and Eros buried Father Lucius—Jaxton straight out lied when he said Jesse is asleep. Jesse is not asleep. He’s playing possum in Mac’s bed where he’s been accosted in a drug-induced state throughout the night—some things he remembers, some things it’s best he doesn’t. 

He squints open an eyeball. The two old monks sit naked by the large picture window facing the ocean. Through the window the sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon. The monks speak in hushed voices, lounging in the same bird-upholstered armchairs he once sat in with Mac. Geez, that seems a lifetime ago. The monks murmur to each other in Italian assuming, when Jesse awakens, he won’t know what they’re saying. Jesse most definitely knows what they’re saying. He’s been following their conversation for quite some time. The Italian his grandfather taught him when he was small allows him to follow almost word for word. And word for word, it’s scaring the holy fuck out of him!

“L-Lucius, dice che puoi prenderlo … L-Lucius, he says you can take the b-boy’s body at any time,” Virgil stammers.

“I prefer to wait until the drug has run its course. I don’t wish to awake in a body that is still hallucinating with methamphetamine.”

“So I should go fi-first with the pool man? Lucius says he is using the paralyzing drug on the pool man and killing the ta-tattooed gardener with rat poison at breakfast. He will prepare their drugs with their breakfast.”

“I think it better you go first. I have business to attend to regarding the ruby.” Santana studies his companion. “Virgil, are you not excited to be inside such a magnificent young man? His cazzo is as big as my arm!”

“No, no. I am. I am. It is hard for me to believe once I see him that I will be in that stupendous body. But, no, I am very, very excited. But maybe I am a little intimidated too.”

“Don’t be foolish.” Santana slides his armchair over to him. “Listen. Tonight, I want you fucking me like a filthy, dirty batana, okay? You cum up my ass so hard I weep tears of sperm!”

Virgil snickers as he looks the Abbot in the eye. “The pleasure will be mine.”

“Listen, before I take the boy, I wish to confirm the meeting with the buyer of the ruby—not absolutely necessary but prudent, I think. Some place public, I have told him. This evening, at the stroke of six, he is to meet me in the middle of Grand Central Station.” 

Virgil nods excitedly, rubbing his palms together in agreement. “So it is the mercenary, that exquisite soldier of fortune, who is the buyer?” Santana affirms this. “You get all the money at once, in U.S. dollars, I suppose?”

“Five million fits easily in a suitcase. A large suitcase in Grand Central Station will not bring attention. Once I see the money I give him the star ruby.”

“It’s good thinking,” Virgil says admiringly.

“Ah, my dear. First thing we’ll do is take a trip. Where should we go with these attractive father and son bodies?”
Virgil gazes out the window. “You think we might visit Roma?”

“Ah, Roma. Wonderful! It has been so long, has it not? We have not been since … when? Early fifteen hundreds, I think. You remember Dante introducing us to the young Michelangelo?” asks the Abbot squeezing Virgil’s hand.

“Yes, yes. And his b-beautiful boyfriend, David,” sighs Virgil. “No bigger hands have ever been up my culo.”

“And the smallest piccolo I have ever seen.” They snicker together like snakes, then grow quiet gazing out at the sunrise. Their prolonged silence causes Jesse to squint open an eye again to see if they’re still in the room. They are. The Abbot’s black curly head leans against Virgil’s bald scalp.

“This body,” Virgil suddenly asks, pointing to himself, “it will enter the entrance to hell under the lighthouse?”

Jesse has trouble understanding what Virgil means. He questions his translating abilities—entrance to hell under the lighthouse. The words themselves unnerve him but might explain the moaning he’d heard the day before. It’s absurd—he must have misinterpreted. He lays his head into the pillow and closes his eyes to listen more intensely. 

The Abbot admonishes the bald monk, “Virgil, you know it will! Like all hell’s entrances scattered across the world, yes, the sinner in your discarded body enters at the closest hell mouth. From there it wanders half-dead beginning its journey, wandering down into hell as deep as your cast-off sins demand. You are cleansed of sin in your new body, he is not.” Jesse cocks an eye observing the Abbot scolding Virgil with his finger. “Its burden—and after this you must nevermore speak of it—is to carry your lifetime of sins deep into the fiery pit. Mine, with the boy inside, will do the same. Years and years will they relive the evils that these present bodies of ours have inflicted on the world—the children we have corrupted, the money we have stolen from the pool, the food we have taken out of the mouths of the hungry. We need not remember these sins, but they surely will as their flesh burns in punishment. Lucius, I tell you true, he was a fool letting his boy off so easy by a mere hanging. He rashly allowed death without suffering. Our discarded body’s suffering is our tribute to the Master below for the gift He gives us above. I deeply fear for Lucius, what his impetuosity might cost him.”

There’s a noise from pool deck: the familiar creaking of the side gate and the metal clang when it shuts. Eros and Tommy voices greet the tall young man that looks like Jaxton, but Jesse knows is the cretin Lucius. Possum time is over—it’s now or never.

“Hey!! Guys!!!” Jesse’s blaring shout startles the two monks. He’s wiggling his flaccid penis, propped up on an elbow. Did you guys wake up just as horny as me? What you guys did to me last night was sick! Those metal rods you dick-fucked me with—you still got them? I’m up for that kind of heavy metal, if you are.”

Virgil, his eyes wide and pleading, looks to Santana, who smiles his permission. “Ma, no,” Virgil corrects him, very amused. Using his arms he pushes himself out of his chair. “It is not metal. Is expensive medical instruments, made with the purest silver.” He helps Santana up and they amble toward the bed. On his way he stoops to picks up his case of sounds from his satchel. He rolls the set out next to Jesse.

“Abbot,” says Jesse, acting all coy, patting the bed next to him. “Maybe both of you can play with my little cazzo. I think, last night, you stretched out my hole enough to fit in two silver rods. Can both of you play with my wiener?”

“Such a vulgar child,” says the gleeful Abbot. With great effort, he climbs over Jesse so he can sit by his side. In passing, Jesse pinches a few of Santana’s plump teets, which causes the Abbot to chortles with pleasure. He begins stroking the boy’s cock with his furry fingers. Virgil parks his butt on Jesse’s other side. Both the Abbot and Virgil’s wrinkled cocks grow steadily. A sneer raises the right side of Abbot Santana’s lip. His canine tooth elongates along with his erection. The razor-sharp tooth glints blood red off the morning sun.

*

The Sunrise Motor Lodge has a gazebo that Tommy’s waiting in. He’s supposed to meet some guy named Frank. He guesses Frank’s not his real name. Whatever. The skateboard he rode on from his house lies on the gazebo’s wooden flooring. His worn out sneaker toes it forward and back. He’s bored and anxious at the same time. He just wants to get on with it.

A big, nervous-looking man in a Scout Master uniform comes out of the unit next to the soda machine. He looks around. It’s got to be Frank. Tommy questions if he’s really going to do this, steels himself, then signals to the man. The guy shades his eyes, then makes small motions for Tommy to come over. Tommy grabs his board and passes the humming soda machine and follows him into his room.

“So. You must be Oscar.” Tommy says mm-hmm. Frank’s the shape of a large egg, and seems ashamed to be taking up so much of the small room. “Mind putting this on?” Frank asks, holding out a brown grocery bag.

Tommy takes the bag and looks inside. “A Boy Scout uniform?”

“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind.” Tommy scowls, then drops his cutoffs on the floor, slips off his Motörhead tee-shirt and puts on green shorts, buttons the tan shirt laden with Boy Scout patches, and knots a yellow and red scarf around his neck. The guy fusses with the scarf for a long time. Tommy stares at his jowly, stubbly cheeks, smells the odor of cheap aftershave. To his disgust it’s the same one Conrad, his mom’s boyfriend, wears. Finally, Frank places a scouting cap on his head. “Oh, wait,” Frank says in alarm. Manically he searches his gym bag finding a merit badge sash and hands it over to Tommy. Tommy examines it and drapes it over his shoulder. Satisfied, the Scout Master gets on the bed and unzips his pants, pulls them along with his yellow-stained underwear down to his ankles. “Okay, Oscar. Scout Master’s ready.”

Tommy goes and sits on the side of the bed and starts stroking him. Frank remains soft. It could take all afternoon, so Tommy leans over and combines sucking and stroking him with a slippery hand. This seems to do the trick. Most of the time the guy stares at the ceiling, but occasional glances over at Tommy.

Frank asks, “Could you not using your hand, just suck?”

Tommy wipes his palm on the bedspread and picks up the pace, bobbing up and down on the penis. Perry taught him to slobber plenty so the cock will go down his throat. Frank’s not large but big enough that he has to suppress his gag reflex when his nose gets buried in the man’s pale pubes. 

Scout Master Frank groans and starts rocking his pelvis in time with Tommy’s bouncing head. He rests a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, then runs his hand down the sash, and promptly cums in a series of quick, short bursts. Tommy swallows the discharge and perches back up on the side of the bed. Frank tells him how nice that was, then shifts his large body back up to sitting, and slides up his underwear and pants. As he’s leafing through his wallet he asks for the uniform back. 

Tommy changes, hands him back the grocery bag. In the bathroom Tommy washes his hands and rinses his mouth, spits. When he reemerges, Frank’s gone, but there’s two crisp twenties sitting on the dresser. 

Closing the motel door behind him, Tommy searches his pockets for change. He inserts quarters in the vending machine and pulls out a Mountain Dew, then glides serenely through the tree-lined streets of suburban Massapequa.

*

Thanks to Oscar’s initial outings, the next time Tommy shows up at the park to meet his crew, he’s sporting an expensive pair of Nikes. Nice kicks, one of his friends tell him. Where’d he score the money, asks another. He says his mom, and no one presses him, but no one believe him either. She’d never shell out the bucks for the high-end sneakers Tommy’s wearing—not on a receptionist’s salary.

It isn’t even that hard, these early tricks. Perry arranges all the meetings: twenty for hand jobs (2), and forty for blow jobs (3). The cash is Perry department, but he gives Tommy whatever he wants. Sneakers out of the trunk of a guy he knows, say, or a bag of excellent weed to share with his crew. If nothing else, Perry has a surprisingly number of shady connections.

After the next dozen tricks, the team of Perry and Oscar get new flip phones. Tommy exchanges numbers with a few of the guys in the park and gets texts during the week from a couple of them. Mostly, though, the messages come from Perry giving him various logistical instructions. Room numbers, times to show up, e.g. It’s also a way for Perry to keep an increasingly tighter leash on Tommy without him knowing it. what r u doing? who u with? that loser! ditch him! want 2 cum over - hehe? His solo hookups with Perry definitely pick up after the flip phones. Also it begins Perry weening Tommy off his skater friends.

It’s not just for sex that Perry gets Tommy to come over. It’s also Tommy’s becoming his go-to party bud. Tommy thinks Perry’s a fun guy to be around, especially when they’re high—and they’re almost always high. Perry’s the worldliest guy Tommy knows. He’s been to places all over, like Europe and Asia, Hawaii, Brazil—he’s even been on an Africa safari. Perry promises to take him to these places someday. Tommy can even choose the country.

Tommy even likes Perry controlling him in a weird kind of way. It’s sort of cool, he thinks, to have someone tell him he should have another beer right before he’s finish his first one. Or, like they should smoke another joint even though they’re already wasted. Perry in charge of what movie they watch, and the movies, man! It’s fucking amazing and sometimes revolting how sick men can be with one another. Tommy starts to notice when something really nasty is about to be on the screen, Perry starts sucking him off. Inevitably he’ll nut at the most disgusting parts in a movie—an amputee fisting a guy’s hole with his stub, or, not just fisting, but a guy pulling out another guy’s rectum. It’s completely sick!

Contrasted with the good times at Perry’s with the fights escalating at home with his mom and Conrad. They get more frequent and increasing more nasty. Since Conrad struck him at Thanksgiving, Tommy despises him. Since the incident erupted from him being snotty to his mom, his relationship with her is for shit. Over the last few months he’s ceased to care about her. Perry reinforces this alienation. He always is on Tommy’s side—what a cunt she is to him, what a leech that fucker is. This, in turn, justifies Tommy spending more time at Perry’s, usually trashed, sometimes crashing on his couch, or increasingly waking up in Perry’s bed.

Two month after they first met at Jones Beach, Tommy’s hanging out in the parking lot waiting for Perry to pick him up. He’s late as usual. Tommy, in ripped jeans, sleeveless Metallica tee-shirt, with his now broken in Nikes, practices a kickflip. He executes a couple of three-sixty back shuvs on his board as Perry coasts the Triumph into the lot. Perry revs the motorcycle as a kind of hello, but Tommy ignores him. Perry balances the Triumph between his legs and pushes up his face shield. He takes the camera hanging around his neck and clicks a few photos of Tommy in the air jumping off the curb.

Perry shuts off the motor and saunters over. His white tee-shirt’s ridden up his chest on the way over. He pulls it down beneath his new leather jacket. Tommy slyly glances around to make sure no one he knows is around before acknowledging him. “S’up,” he says when Perry’s in range.

“What’s up with you? Your trick thingy looked awesome.”

He scowls at Perry. “I suck.”

“Yeah, but you suck so much better now,” Perry tells him, pulling off his helmet.

“Shut up.”

“No, really. The skating, you’re like, what do you call it—like, some sort of skating Zen master. I never realized that.”

“Nah.” Tommy feels his face flushing. “I’m average. Not even.”

“Accept a compliment graciously, dip shit.” Tommy smirks, kicks his board up into his arms and pushes a knot of hair behind his ear. “Speaking of how hot you are … the last shoot.” Perry whistles. “The pictures, they’re awesome, especially a couple of you in that harness. You are one sexy fuck. And I bet these—,” he pats his camera, “—these are going to be doubly awesome. Every daddy on Long Island will want to suck my skater boy’s cock.” Perry shades the camera so Tommy can see the LCD display on the back. “Hard to see in the sun, I know. But look at these.” Perry flicks photos across the screen: Tommy lying back on the couch gripping his cock; another on his stomach showing his white bubble butt; a few portrait shots in a leather harness and a dog collar. 

“I got a big nose,” Tommy comments after the last close-ups.

“Yeah, right. You’re talking to the king of schnozzes.” Perry holds his head in profile, which amuses Tommy who tries to hide it. “I bought a GoPro so we should do some point-of-view videos. That’d be hot on your profile. What’d’ya say, pupster? Hot skater boy fucking his sling daddy? Oh, and I have a little surprise a friend left behind.” Tommy shrugs, whatever. Perry puts his helmet back on and Tommy rides his board to the motorcycle. He pops a little Ollie in the air to show off. “Aw-rooo!” howls Perry behind him. Tommy bursts into a big smile that he knows Perry won’t see.

Strapped to the back of the bike hangs the helmet Perry bought him. Perry revs up the bike, while Tommy stows his board in a side case and adjusts his helmet. He climbs on wrapping his arms around Perry as they roar out of the lot. Tommy holds on tight. His fingers travel inside the open jacket feeling the soft white tee-shirt and Perry’s prominent ribs beneath. He feels secure hanging onto him with such ferocity. The faster Perry races down the road, the stronger he clutches him. When Perry gets on the Southern State Parkway, he weaves the bike recklessly between passing cars. It feels like they’re practically at forty-five degrees to the asphalt, leaning one way then the other. Tommy coils his arms around Perry’s abs and chest, inclining his helmet against Perry’s shoulder, letting the world cruise by feeling it’s only him and Perry in it. He’s never allowed himself to trust someone as much as he trusts this man. No one’s ever made him feel special like this. There’s a mad symbiosis at play: the faster Perry speeds dangerously ahead, the harder Tommy holds him; the harder Tommy holds him, the more chances Perry takes regardless of risk to them both. 

After the parkway, Perry take a side street and they coast into a KFC drive-through. Perry decides what they’ll have, pays, and Tommy holds the plastic bag as they tear down the street.

Inside the apartment, Perry takes the food to the kitchen, throws keys, smokes and wallet on the kitchen pass-through. The computer monitor’s on with Tommy’s face on the screen. He hasn’t seen this before so of course he’s drawn over. “Oscar,” Tommy reads,” PNP-yes. Unsafe sex-only. Poz, not on meds.” There’s other stuff he’s never heard of, and other stuff he’d never go near in a million years.

“PNP is partying, like coke and meth?” Tommy asks Perry.

Perry pops his head through the kitchen pass-through. “I put the chicken and mash potatoes in the fridge for later. Unless you want it now?” 

“Watersports. That’s playing in piss, right?” Tommy scrolls down his page reading about someone he doesn’t recognize. 

“Did you see what my friend left on the coffee table?”

“Hey, why is there a picture of an asshole? That’s not even me. Look. Dark hair.”

Perry dances into the room and plucks a small bag of white powder off the coffee table. He waltzes to the computer and plops down. “It’s all part of upping your game, pup. Guys like to see assholes. I didn’t have one of yours, so I plucked one from someone else. If you don’t like it I’ll take it down.” Perry opens the baggie and dips in a finger and rubs it on his gums. “This is just an update I’m working on. So chill. None of it’s posted.”

“What’s that?” Tommy points at the baggie.

“Something I got from Jerome, one of my top. It’s for us.” Perry scoots over on the desk blocking Tommy from seeing any more of his profile. He swings the white powder in from of him like a pendulum.

“What do you mean, one of your tops?”

“Just that. One of my tops. What?” He hadn’t meant it to sound so caviler but he sees his mistake immediately on Tommy’s face. It crumbles as Perry’s words land harder than Conrad’s Thanksgiving smack ever did. “Oh, baby,” he says, putting both hands on Tommy’s heated cheeks. Perry’s instinct is to feigns disbelief in his defense. “You didn’t think we were exclusively—”

Tommy whips his face out of Perry’s hands, cringing at what he knows should have been obvious. “But I thought …” He can’t even finish. “Fuck this.” Tommy clamps down his face. Expressionless, he pushes away from the desk and storms to the door. 
Perry’s urgency gets him to the door first. He block it so Tommy can’t leave. “Knock it off. Don’t be like that!” he reprimands him. Then adds, more gently, “You know I see guys. I never made that a secret. Hell, you see guys now, too. I know, I book them. And, for god sakes, you get paid for it. You should be grateful. I wished I knew half of what you know at your age.” He puts his hands on Tommy’s shoulders. “It took me another ten years to have the balls enough to suck a dick.”

“Let me go.” Tommy shrugs him off and makes for the door handle.

“Then go. You’re being a child. I thought I was dealing with an adult, but you’re acting like an immature girl.”

With his hand is on the doorknob, Tommy asks, “This Jerome guy, he’s like a … your—?” Tommy’s desperate not to put a name to what his mind’s racing toward.

“What? Boyfriend? Lover? No. As much as Scout Master Frank is one of yours.” Tommy stares at the door. “This guy is just a guy. Personally, I don’t even like him—he’s dumb as that doorknob—but he’s got a great cock and knows how to use it.” Perry tries to get Tommy to turn around and look at him. “There’s lots of guys I play with, but you’re the only pupster in my life. The one who has my heart. What? You don’t know that?” He pulls Tommy’s chin around so he’s looking directly into his eyes. He sees Tommy’s eyes are misty and that makes him want to kiss him, but Tommy defiantly turns his head. Perry doesn’t relent, just wraps his arms around the boy and rocks him. Once his hand falls off the door handle and turns around, Perry toys with him, grinds his crotch into Tommy crotch so he knows he feels his bulge. A minute goes by till he feels the boy fully give in. He whispers in his ear, “I’m sorry it’s a guy like me that loves a guy like you. Tommy from Massapequa.” Tommy can’t hold back his fear, his insecurity, his youth, and lets tears silently stain the white tee-shirt. His fingers dig into the Perry’s jacket. “You are the center of my world.” Perry clutches him tight. “You’ll always be the center of my world, no matter how many men you’re with or I’m with. It’s just the two of us, understand?” The more Perry talks the more tears flow. Tommy pushes back and give him a hard punch on the pec. Perry grabs his fist and kisses it.

“What about those things on my profile. They’re not true. I’ve never take it up the butt. And you wrote I’m poz. You fucking made all these things up. Guys are gonna expect things.”

Perry leads him to the couch. On the way he pulls off his jacket and drapes it on the desk chair. He collapses back, pulling Tommy so he flops with his back on Perry’s chest. Blond hair spreads out on his tee-shirt. He rubs Tommy’s chest. “I put them there so they’ll get you more money.” Perry kisses the back of Tommy’s head. He brushes his hair behind an ear and speaks softly. “I didn’t know when I would tell you this, but I’m thinking of changing our game plan.” Tommy twists he head to look at Perry. “What if … you and I … left Long Island … and move to New York?”

Tommy abruptly pushes off him and ends up at the kitchen pass-through. “You want me to live with you.” It’s not a question, but he's trying to take in all Perry is proposing. Tommy feels his heart racing, the drum in his ears of both fear and excitement.

“Okay, listen. Hear me out.” 

He looks at the Perry sternly from across the room. “You’re fuckin’ with me.” Perry motions that he wants Tommy to come back to the couch, but Tommy hovers stubbornly out of reach. 

Perry’s head flops forward looking down at the coffee table. He begins, “Okay. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I’m thinking we should get into a bigger market. One where you could make a lot more money. The only place like that is the city.” He looks up and sees Tommy’s turned away. “But to do that—look at me.” Tommy lights a cigarette, listening, but won’t look at him. He leans against the pass-through, exhaling smoke through his nose. “First of all, most men who respond on the site you’re looking at, especially men that’ll spend for sketchy sex, they like danger but not risk. They’ll settle for a blow job from a poz boy—makes them think they’re playing with a young rattlesnake. But—would you fucking look at me?” Tommy paces over to the desk and perches on the back of the chair, smoking, arms crossed.  He meets Perry’s eyes defiantly. “But in the this city, you’re going to run across some men that are just fine going all the way—could be poz, could not be, might not even know one way or the other. Fact is, they just want to fuck or be fucked. And, to play in this sandbox, if we take this leap together, move in together I mean, I want you to be prepared for that.” 

“What’d’ya mean prepared?”

Perry laughs a little, reaches over the coffee table and grabs him with both hands. He drags him reluctantly back to the couch. Twisting him around so his back is once again on his chest, he takes the cigarette, inhales off it, the leans over and snuffs it out in the ashtray. He takes his palm, slips it under Tommy’s shirt and grazes his smooth belly. Slowly his hand makes its his way down his pants. “I mean, when we get an apartment together—and I’m not saying we’ll getting a palace on Fifth Avenue. More like a place in the Spanish Harlem or maybe, like, the Bronx—” Tommy traces his hand down Perry’s wrist into his pants. He laces his fingers across Perry’s fingers. Perry squeezes Tommy’s swelling cock. “By upping our game, I think you need to be willing to put out, to flip when it’s called for.” Perry traces his fingers under Tommy’s balls and lightly grazes his hole. “That means … sometimes … taking it up the butt.”

Tommy’s quiet with Perry’s hand leaving his hole and finding its way up to his chest. His hearts still racing. He knows Perry can feel it pounding: how scared he is by the proposition, and the temptation. It’s not like he’s never thought about it. Perry brushes away his hair and kisses his neck, his ear. 

“But I’m like a virgin, like, that way.”

“Yeah, you and Miss Madonna.”

“It’s not funny.”

“I know. I know that. And this,” Perry says, pointing to the bag of white powder, “is the way we remedy that.” Tommy wiggles to get up but Perry holds him so he stays put, planting another kiss on his neck. “Listen, I never want you to do anything you don’t want to do. But if you want us to move in together, I have to know we’ll have the means to afford it. It’s expensive, anywhere in the city. My disability checks and your twenty dollar hand jobs won’t cut it. We’re not playing in the minors, and that calls for hundred dollar fucks. So. What do you think? It’s completely up to you.”

“Taking a cock. In my ass.” Again, not a question. Tommy ponders the idea, staring at the smoke cinder Perry failed to fully put out in the ashtray. “You’re poz, aren’t you?” Perry nods once, his chin poking Tommy’s shoulder. “On meds?” Tommy twists around to look at him.

“No, I am not. Don’t believe in it. Never will. Listen. We can put in your profile you only play safe. That will always be your decision.”

Tommy takes a long moment looking in Perry’s eyes. “Okay. Only safe.”

“And that’s what we’ll put.” Perry clutches the baggie. “Now this, I’m telling you right now pupster, will put our past parties to shame. Guar-an-teed.” Perry kisses his forehead and runs a hand through his hair. He moves into the kitchen and for several minutes goes through drawers, turns on the tap, goes through other drawers, reemerges, an excited smile on his face, holding two syringes.

Tommy shoots upright. “Uh-huh. You didn’t say that.” 

“Just to get you over the speed bump. I promise, it’ll open horizons you won’t believe. Faster than ten years of tepid little steps that I took.” Tommy backs up to the end of the couch away from Perry. He clutches a leopard print pillow to his chest. “Baby, I would ever let anything hurt you. You know that. This, I promise, is the opposite of that.” Tommy pulls his legs up on the couch sitting in a fetal position, knees pushing into the pillow. “Now just stop it! Your being a pussy.” He lets up a bit, seeing Tommy’s scared, exactly what he doesn’t want him to be. Tacks a complete one-eighty, asks playfully, “Where’s that daredevil that flies skateboards straight into the air? Who risks going into strange men’s motel rooms and does god-knows-what in a scout uniform?” Perry smirks, seeing this type of persuasion is more effective. “I swear, Tommy from Massapequa, you’ll thank me for this. I know you will. I bet you’ll do more than thank me once you get flying.” 

As Tommy takes the first few tentative steps to uncurl on the couch, Perry praises him. “Good boy.” Perry waits. Tommy looks nervously at him. Gently, Perry sidles up next to him. Perry sets the two needles on the coffee table. He lures him seductively. “You’re such a good boy.” Perry brushes back the hair hanging down in Tommy’s face. “I promise I’ll with you every step of the way. We’ll start looking for apartments this weekend. How’s that?”

Tommy sets the pillow on his knees. “What do I do?”

“Nothing. Put your arm on the pillow.” Tommy does, while Perry glides his fingers over Tommy’s forearm. He twists the arm over and back, finds a ridge and pushes the tip of the syringe into his vein. Pulls it back. The vial flashes dark red, and Perry give Tommy his first slam, the first among the incalculable number of slams he’ll keep administering over the next six years.

*

Perry’s GoPro video focuses first at his own cock. The cock’s hard and making its way between Tommy’s white cheeks. On the leopard print bed, Tommy’s holds open his legs. His balls and his dick are shriveled. He’s rushing hard, caught up in how sexually alive he feels. His rapid breathing causes his chest to rise and fall. Perry’s purple head leaks a drip of precum. It glistens out of his erection, teasing against Tommy’s virginal barrier. Background audio picks up Tommy’s wordless mutterings, cries that vacillate between frenzy and splendor. 

You don’t see Perry but you hear him. “What do you want?” He’s plucking Tommy’s small nipples.

The GoPro tilts up to Tommy’s face. A blindfold is perched across his forehead. He wears a thick dog collar. His eyes are wild. He answers Perry not a robotically, but full of intense, desperate desire. “I want your raw cock inside me.” Perry’s tells him what he can’t see, won’t hurt him, as he pulls the blindfold over his eyes.

Tilting down, you see Perry again toying the tip of his large head against the boy’s puckered hole. “What do you want from my cock?” Gently he rubs the head slightly in and out, tempting Tommy with more to come. 

“I want your cum.” Perry get off the bed and applies more lotion on Tommy’s hole. There’s a dark stain on the bedsheets where lotion is already oozing out, but this is Tommy’s first cock and he knows it’s already going to hurt. He squats down so the pink clenched sphincter winks at the camera. A single finger goes in and comes out. Goes in, comes out. That alone brings moans of desire off camera. We’re back to a bird’s eye view of a hard cock and a black triangle of pubes pushing into a virgin.

There’s a gasp and you see Tommy’s mouth open in surprise. His head turns on the pillow, turns back with grimacing satisfaction.

“What kind of cum is it?” Perry distracts him, seeing he’s in pain. He’s taken his first inch of cock.

“Toxic. Cum.” Each word reflects the pain he feels. Looking down at Tommy’s shriveled cock and balls, legs spread, you see him pulling his cheeks apart desperately bucking his pelvis upward. His flaccid cock points up like a stubby pen, balls almost nonexistent. He continues pulling his cheeks apart, pushing his hips up to his unseen violator.

“You want me to knock you up with my charged load?” Perry’s half way in, making his way quicker than he thought. Tommy’s hole is exceedingly wet and receptive.

“Please. Yes. Knock me up.” There’s a subtext of doubt in what he’s saying. Then his mouth tightens. Perry pulls out slightly. Tommy’s next words contradict the tentativeness of his previous. With assurance, he says, “Yes, fuckin’ charge me.” He thrusts up his hips wanting back the inch Perry withdrew, and now wants more.

The GoPro buffets wilding around the room as Perry flips Tommy on his side. The red chili lights dangle over the sling next to the bed. Above the headboard there’s a passing view of a large tapestry of a lion. Swinging back down, Perry pulls one of Tommy’s legs in the air. We track back focusing on Perry’s long cock going back inside the white butt cheeks. Perry leers over Tommy’s shoulder seeing him pulling on his soft cock. 

“Take it. Take what you want.” Tommy hips thrust back and you hear the cameraman’s moan as his cock is milked. Closer, he’s inching in so his entire cock’s inside Tommy. He fucking is increasingly more violently against Tommy ass. “You want me to knock you up, don’t you?” he says in his ear. Tommy’s stopped listening, submitting completely to the intense feeling he’s never felt before deep in his body. He has no reference for this. It’s not like he’s shitting with the turd fighting to get back inside. No, it’s Perry’s cock buried deeply in him. A man is fucking him, saying in his ear: “No turning back. My DNA is going to be your DNA.” Rather than verbally responding, Tommy pushes his hips repeatedly into Perry’s crotch. “You’re going to be New York’s finest cum-dump whore and put your ass out for every fucker in the city. I know you want that. Show me how bad you want it.” 

Tommy bucks wildly against Perry, and squirts white cream across the leopard sheets even with his flaccid prick. He keeps breathing rapidly in the same rhythm that Perry’s fucking him even after he’s nutted. It’s a sensation he loves as much as he loves Perry. His big cock pummeling inside him. How it makes his insides satisfied in a way he never could have imagine. He begs Perry to fuck him harder, for him to cum inside him, both hands gripping the side of the bed and frantically pushing into Perry.

“I’m close,” Perry groans. Tommy’s grunting in Perry’s rhythm. “I’m not pulling out.”

In post-production, Perry slows this final section. You see Tommy gnaw at his bottom lip so hard it starts to bleed. One of his hand launches slowly into the air, blindly searching for the fucker inside him. The camera tilts and the hand finds Perry’s hip—a wasted, wiry leg fucks hard into his ass. Tommy’s hand grabs Perry’s stringy ass not allowing him to pull far away. Perry’s climaxing, while Tommy begs to be pozzed, wants Perry to breed him. He begs Perry to shoot his poisonous cum up his hole so far it’ll never find its way out. Tommy’s voice slows mechanically, unnaturally deep, the audio slowing even as his rant picks up with unintelligible insistence. A series of measured, hard, violent fucks confirms Perry has unloaded in him. Perry grips Tommy’s hips, straining against his no-longer virgin hole, his emaciated hipbones locked into Tommy’s bubble butt. 

Off camera, ropes of sperm entangle in the boy’s entrails, absorb into his body, enough to alter his negative status. On camera, you see the aftermath: long stringy hair plastered onto Tommy’s face. One frame at a time, his heaving breath puffs a blond lock forward, back, forward, back, forward. And right there, with a strand of hair suspended, the last frame freezes—under the straw-colored hair, contours of a contented smile.

Six years after that moment, Perry will be out of the picture—breaking his promise of being there forever—by way of a malignant brain tumor on the temporal lobe. Difficulty speaking; forgetting words; short-term memory loss; not knowing Tommy: it’s textbook stuff. Unmanaged and destitute, Tommy will be evicted from their Bronx apartment, living—if you can call it that—in an alley where there’s a mattress to crash. Strung out, high when he panhandles enough, until one night when he feels warm, salty piss hit his face, and his life, yet again, is transformed.

*

Jesse bites down so hard on his lip that it starts to bleed. Two small medical sounds are down his urethra and Brother Virgil has the bright idea, since it seems Jesse can tolerate two sounds, a third, even larger, is in order. Abbot Santana poppers the boy while Virgil slowly lowers a third sound between the other two. The dreadful sensation of his dick being ripped open from the inside is mitigated by the poppers, which finds pleasure amidst the pain.

Stronger even than the popper’s odor is the unmistakable aroma of seared flesh. Grilled steaks Jesse hopes is what he’s smelling, but in this house you never know. Still the smell makes his mouth water as the wild sensation of having his prostate poked from inside sends mixed signals to his body.

From the open sliding door poolside, sounds of dishes and silverware clatter. Jesse hears Eros and Tommy complimenting Jaxton for their breakfast. He can't wait any longer. Jesse takes a deep breath, then grabs Virgil and Santana’s hands and yanks the sounds out swiftly and painfully.

This violent action confounds the monks. Jesse picks up the sounds, one in each fist, and jams them up into Virgil’s eyes. All the old man’s breath shrieks out of his lungs. Blindly he flies forward off the bed, stumbling, tripping over used dildos, plops sideways through the sliding door’s screen. He hit the balcony railing, fumbles, twists round, hands clawing at his face. He leans too far back, flips over going headfirst, straight down until his bald head cracks open on the concreate. 

Abbot Santana, momentarily stunned, his sexuality at its bestial peak, is transformed completely into a lupine form. Furious and yet cock stiffly engorged, it bares its fierce teeth, eyes bloodshot in lust and anger, its cock drips as it turns to rip Jesse to shreds. They roll together off the bed. On the floor, arms flailing in fury, Jesse kicks the feral thing in its soft underbelly right between its teets. It falls back under the sling while Jesse backs up to the upholstered chairs at the ocean window. The thing’s snout arches to the ceiling. It produces a wounded, ferocious bay that is at once heartbreaking as it is enraged. Its red eyes glare at Jesse with the hatred fitting a creature of hell.

In one bound, it leaps across the room pinning Jesse down. It snarls and snaps at his throat. Several times the razor-sharp teeth snap a hair’s-breath from his neck. His youth, combined with pumping adrenaline and resuscitated by his own anger, he dodges the creature’s lurches, and rolls to the far side of the bedroom. He looks around frantically, but there’s no weapon he can see to protect himself. The beast growls low, paces in a semi-circle so there’s no escape. It manages to speak with an inhuman voice, barely discernable, and yet it makes Jesse tremble: “You are not long for this world, pitiful child. So young, your fate as one of the hollow discards will last for eons and be full of agony. I will personally see to it. Your eyes myself will take from you as you have taken from my beloved.” 

Enraged by its own speech, it shakes its head, then vaults across the floor, trapping Jesse against the sling. The beast arches its back to deliver a decisive blow to Jesse’s tender neck. Jesse reaches above to the sling and finds a horse dildo and shoves it as hard as he can into the creature mouth.

The rubber dong stuns the beast, but only for a second. Jesse crab-walks back but is stopped against the bed. There’s nowhere now to escape. The creature flings away the rubber toy, and stalks slowly toward his prey, its eyes red and radiant, the fur on its back standing up. Under the bed Jesse’s palm feels something cold and hard. Watching the creature crawl up his naked legs, its front arms push his torso back against the bed. The unearthly fiend’s jaw opens poised at Jesse’s protruding veins. Its lips bare back, saliva dripping from its knife-edged teeth. Jesse grips the cold silver rod and drives the third large sound with both hands directly into the beast’s heart.

It howls in torment. Blood gushes down Jesse’s arms. The beast roars at the effrontery of what a mere boy has done. Jesse pulls with all his might down the creature's body ripping open its chest, spilling the contents out in a heap over his bare torso. Its eyes momentarily meet his. It looks down at the carnage. In one instant, the millennia it has evaded the grave sweep over its body. Red eyes turn to white, dark fur and pale flesh crumble, then become ash. Dust combines with the gore coating Jesse. His mouth hangs open agape. He spits out the ashy residue, but the Abbot’s bitter rancidness lingers on his tongue. 

Not wasting a second, he sprints to the balcony to warn Tommy and Eros, but at the railing he’s struck by a new horror: Virgil lies dead by poolside, but it’s Tommy clutching his stomach, seizing next to him that pierces his heart. Eros looks on from the breakfast table, eyes fixed, body and face paralyzed, tears trail across his stubble as he watches helplessly Tommy convulses in death throes. White foam froths from his mouth, draining poison from his lips, spilling into the water. 

Lucius, in his stolen youthful form, oversees his work, flips Tommy onto his back. The tattooed gardener, Tommy, T, rented out as Oscar, worshipped by Eric, the love of Eros’ life, seizes less and less. The demon below looks up at Jesse above, and offends all decency with a glint of devilish pride.
 

[bottomboyam]

What I love about your work, other than the very hot sex, is that the really bad guys (see Drax for instance in Last Known Address) usually get what’s coming to them. 

[shoreboy]

Coda: The Tradeoff

The clock in the center of Grand Central Station reads five minutes to six. The station is packed. People rush to catch trains, disembark from all parts of the east coast and beyond, dash for taxis, line up at ticket windows, some linger taking selfies of themselves with their friends marking the beginning of their exciting adventure in New York City. Jesse is simply waiting. 

He scans the crowd looking for a military-type guy he studied in one of the photos in Mac’s office—an apparently very rich leader of the largest paramilitary company on the planet. Former Navy SEAL, he’s the mercenary leader the Abbot talked about, the buyer of the star ruby now hanging between his legs. Studying the photograph, Jesse couldn’t help notice how hot the man is—square jawed, a dimple in his chin like a baby’s butt, blond hair slicked down and parted on the side, broad-shouldered, massive biceps, and wide set, fear-inducing eyes. The guy probably won’t be wearing anything hinting at his military background, like wearing fatigues like he is in the photo. More likely he’ll be just dressed like a regular dad-type guy—although hard to miss being big as fuck—passing through New York on his way from here to some non-descript somewhere else. 

He’ll definitely have a large suitcase with him, one big enough to hold five million dollars. The thought of that gets Jesse’s heart pumping. 

*

So intent on inflicting Jesse with heart-stabbing pain, Lucius isn’t aware of Eros rising in back of him. It’s Eros’ eyes that are first able to move again. He adjusts to the mist fogging his sight as he watches Tommy’s final breaths. Those eyes then dart to the villain hovering over the dying body. Hatred fills him allowing him to break free of the paralyzing drug. Stiffly he rises, slow but unstoppable. He looms behind the priest. Eros glances down at T’s empty blue eyes, then with a furious yowl, nabs the unsuspecting fiend around the waist and plunges both of them into the pool. Eros continues yelling under water filling his burning lungs. The remains of the drug leaves him too wooden to move other than to coil his arms around the transformed monk, squeezing him with an inescapable death grip until they both settle at the pool’s deep end. They wrestle on the pool’s floor in an epic struggle. Eros’ last breath floats to the surface as he collapses over the monk who wildly struggles to break free. The dead weight succeeds in pinning the monk in Eros’ final embrace. The immovable body on top of him holds him fast, each breath exchanged for another inhalation of water, until he, too, expels his last wretched breath.

Jesse doesn’t wait to see how the struggle ends. His heart pumps running down the staircase taking two steps at a time. He dashes past Mac coming out of his office, and darts out the back door and dives straight into the pool. He grabs Eros’ gray tee-shirt, yanking him to the surface. The lifeless body he pulls to the side isn’t Eros any longer—just a shirt, a large body, wet skin, slick brown hair, slack face, soggy shorts, barefoot, sodden with water. It’s easy enough to prop up a slack doll of his size on the pool steps. He climbs out of the pool next to Tommy’s body. It rests as before on its back, motionless, white foam caked on his lips. The priest, no longer weighted by Eros at the bottom of the pool, rises to the surface, his dead glassy eyes open staring sightless at the sun. 

The chlorinated water stings Jesse’s eyes. It mixes with his tears. His shoulders sag looking at his tattooed-covered friend. The guy he was initially leery of but came to realize he had no reason to be—who always looked out for him like the older brother he never had. Except for the white residue and his purple skin, Tommy could be asleep. But who the fuck is he kidding, he curses to himself? T looks dead, like some fucker strangled him till his eyes bulged out and his skin turned this unnatural shade of purple. And Eros? His head lolls stupidly to the side, a rag doll whose eyes will never open.

Ash and gored wash off his skin in a red-grey puddle of muck. Jesse’s eyes turn from Tommy to Virgil. The cracked open head stopped oozing; the two silver sounds still stand upright in his sockets. But then, without cause or warning, the rods fall out of the sockets, clanging metallically on the concrete. It’s then that Virgil’s body starts to become translucent, growing lighter and lighter until it fades away entirely—only a bloody stain and two silver wands remain behind. 

There is a screech and the side gate opens. The shadowy figure Jesse had seen at the lighthouse, a small, ancient man with a hooked nose, enters aided by his cane, and quietly closes the gate behind him. 

“It’s to be expected,” Mac says, appearing behind Jesse. Jesse turns quickly around, shielding his eyes from the sun, and sees Mac staring sadly down at him. In the water Jaxton, too, is beginning to transform. His body becomes indistinguishable from glass, and the glass becomes indistinguishable from water. He, too, then vanishes from the center of the pool. 

“Are they in …” Jesse looks up at Mac, and asks with a shudder, “in … under the lighthouse?” 

“Yes,” replies the old man at the gate. “They most definitely are.” He ambles on his cane over to join them. “You are the boy that ran out of my quarters the other day, are you not?” 

“Yes, sir.” The man’s presence seems to have brought a sudden chill to the air. Jesse trembles as a brisk morning breeze rustles the trees around the house. Grimy, wet and naked, he shakes as now the bodies of Tommy and Eros also start to fade. “No, please,” he begs Mac, his throat tight and distraught. “Not them. You know they’re not like the others.”

Mac removes his shirt and drapes it over Jesse’s tremoring body. “That’s up to Dante. Dante,” Mac says to the old man, placing a hand on the old man’s bony shoulder. “What say you?”

Jesse scrambles up and clasps Dante’s brittle hands. “I know they’re not saints. But they’re good. Down deep they’re good. They don’t deserve the same thing as those other guys.”

“What would you have, then, be they’re fate? If not hell and certainly not heaven, purgatory can be many things.”

“Here.” Jesse falls to his knees imploring the man. “Let them stay here. I know here they’re happy.”

Dante scrutinized Jesse. A puzzled look comes over his face. The boy seems to be someone he can no longer read. He presses on with what he knows. “I hold men who are known to me to account. Mac procures them, but I don’t determine any man’s fate, simply keep records of their actions. They, then, determine their own fate. If they are not good enough for their spirits to rise, nor evil enough to descend below, then yes, they may stay here. But they can never leave, you understand? And you cannot stay with them. You are among the living, not they.”

“Hmm,” says Mac, eyeing the old man and Jesse. “Which means, Dante, you and I need to abandon this place, too, correct?”
“Most certainly. We are forbidden to commune with them once their spirits roam free over the island. We have many places where we can go to. They do not.”

“I don’t understand, Mac. I don’t get any of this.” Mac pulls Jesse up and wipes some grey residue from his cheek. “Are you like Jaxton or Lucius—whoever—and like the other monks? Like you just jump from one body to the next whenever you feel like it?”

“Nope. My job is to simply procure. I’m human, a sexually potent forty-two-year-old human who loves to fuck young tail. A human who will die … when is it, Dante?”

“As far as I am concerned, in the blink of an eye, at the age of eighty-four. It’s in the books, my boy.”

“Eighty-four. Already half over.” He mulls the number, then shrugs. “I’m a simple mortal with an unbridled taste for the finer things. I was lucky to latch onto my own methuselian early in life. Dante’s the true eternal. Well, he is as long as people still know him, know of him at least. The monks, they’re not eternals. The only power they have is that they have access to boundless stores of money. And I, being an astute businessman, am happy to relieve them of it, no matter how dirty it is or for what purpose. I’m sure one day I’ll wind up same as them, under some lighthouse, wandering down to find my proper place in hell, moaning about what a raw deal I got. It’s a tradeoff. I can live with that. As long as I’m happy in this life, that’s my only goal.”

Mac takes a towel from one of the lounge chairs, gives it to Jesse to wrap himself in before he continues. “There’s plenty of people like me. Ghislaine and Jeffrey are my doppelgangers, on the straight side of the scale—well, I should say, Jeff was, past tense. I’m sure he’s moaning under some lighthouse, somewhere, about how unfair life has been for him. Not me. I’m on the queer end of that procurement spectrum, and couldn’t be happier. For now, anyway. There’s a never-ending supply, every generation, of others like us. All any of us needs to make our way through this cold, cruel world, is to hook up with a methuselian. They hold us mortals to account, and with that knowledge I find ways to monetize what they know by—scare quotes—helping others. With our assistance we perpetuate the surprisingly same cast of characters, good ones and bad ones, over and over—for a slight service fee of course. Popes, dictators, sultans, CEOs, oligarchs, senators, luminary world leaders, lately even the slimiest movie and recording executives—you’d be surprised how familiar the usual suspects are. Eternals have been overseeing this kind of human trafficking for thousands of years, but they need grunts like me who’re willing to get their hands dirty to pull it off. It’s the way the world keeps spinning, kiddo. Am I right, Dante, or am I right?”

“You have the most tiresome habit of stretching out a monologue until the point is forgotten.” Dante takes Jesse chin. “Suffice it to say, I am the world’s engine; he, unfortunately, is rudder.”

Mac thinks this over for a minute. “Fair enough.”

*

“You’re Santana?” An impressive, bald Black man with a trim grey beard, is in back of Jesse. He’s a little incredulous, holding a photograph, looking from it to Jesse. Jesse’s startled for a moment, but composes himself quickly. The man has on wraparound tactical sunglasses that mirrors Jesse back to himself. It’s unnerving. He’s in an olive green, tight-fitting tee-shirt that clings around his arms and over his chest. There’s no mistaking his military rigidity. He looks like, with one move, he could snap Jesse in half.

“I am, yeah. But you’re not Major King.”

“I’m Coronel Reynolds. Come with me.” The man doesn’t wait for Jesse, but moves swiftly and descends Grand Central’s staircase to the lower level. Jesse hurries after him, following him in and out of clumps of tourists, straight into the station’s men’s room. The coronel stops at the last stall and raps his knuckle on the door—three knocks, then two. The stall’s metal lock slides open. Reynolds holds the door open. Jesse’s wary, but realizes this is what he’s here for and walks inside. 

Major King, the blond man from Mac’s photograph, squats on the toilet next to a large suitcase. He’s in civilian: a tight fitting navy blue tank top printed with a Captain America shield of red, white and blue. His muscular arms have a prominent vein running over his biceps, and his powerful chest, even bigger than Coronel Reynolds’, is topped with light brown chestnut hair in thick swirls going up to his collar bone. His deep set eyes bore into Jesse. He clenches his jaw accentuating his deep chin’s dimple. Jesse guesses it’s got to take hours of shaving to get that baby-butt dimple so smooth. The man’s intense stare is so over-powering Jesse can’t hold it. He has to look elsewhere. Elsewhere turns out to be him looking down at his khaki shorts resting over the largest pair of black shit-kicker boots he’s ever seen. Elsewhere is also Jesse spying a dark blond bush between the man’s legs with a fat hog hanging down inside the toilet. “Let’s see it.” 

“Excuse me?” Jesse asks, very distracted.

“The star ruby.” King leans in intimately close in order to close the stall door behind him. The metal lock snaps shut.

“Let’s see the money first.” King glares at him but puts the suitcase on his lap. He clicks open the luggage locks. Jesse lifts the lid and finds hundreds of wrapped packages of hundred dollar bills. He fans through one of the stacks, then counts the rows and columns. After doing a quick calculation in his head, he nods his satisfaction to King.

King closes the suitcase and sets it aside. He pulls out several sheets of toilet paper and reaches under himself and wipes his crack. He does this several times all while keeping an eye on Jesse. Jesse wonders why he couldn’t have taken care of that beforehand.

“Ruby,” King says, holding out his large, callused palm. 

“You don’t talk much, do you?” The man’s dark blond brows furrow. Jesse drops his drawers and lifts up his dick to show King. The major takes his cock between sandpaper fingers and twists the ruby around to observe the five rare veins that run through it. As he’s examining it, Jesse can’t help feel his dick starting to swell. He tries not looking at King’s biceps that are as big as his own thighs. The thick, defined muscles flex as he twists the jewel. Jesse focuses instead on King’s forest of chest hair, but that also seems to add to his swelling dick. So he drops his eyes and realizes Kings uncut hog is rising from the depths of the toilet. His erection appears to get hung up under the rim of the toilet. Regardless, the trapped cock continues growing, now to the thickness of Jesse’s wrist. 

King takes his monster out of the toilet so it doesn’t get drenched, reaches behind him and pushes down the flush handle. The roar of the water is somewhat blocked by King’s butt. Both of them with raging hard on look at each other. It seems as though they’ve arrived at an unspoken understanding.

*

Eros’ cock is as hard as a California redwood tree. His fingers claw at the lip of the shack’s sink. Bent over, his hairy ass presents itself shamelessly to Tommy, and Tommy takes full advantage of plunging his cock deep into Eros’ asshole. As he’s fucking the big guy he’s smacking his ass like a bronco rider as hard as he can, pummeling his cock deep into Eros. Eros growls enjoying being fucked this ferociously. Tommy throws one leg up on Eros’ back, his foot pushing Eros’ face to the shack’s floor, which allows him to plunge even deeper into Eros’ hairy pussy. 

“So they can’t see us?” Jesse asks at the shack’s window, dressed with a backpack over his shoulder.

“You are a mere disturbance to them, like a mosquito buzzing about the room. More annoyance than presence. You’re simply not a part of their story anymore,” Dante says. He then turns to Mac. “Nor are we, so we must make haste. The longer we stay, the stronger, too, our disturbance to them will be.”

“So, like, are they going to be like that forever?” Jesse wants to know. Eros’ is panting heavily and Tommy is slapping his ass harder and harder as he getting close to shooting.

Mac looks in, admiring the studs in action. “Well, their bodies won’t age, their souls will though. But as long as love and lust is in them, they’ll exist on this island.”

“Then I believe they’ll be here forever,” Jesse pronounces. He turns to the old man wobbling on his cane. “What about me, Dante? What’s happens to me?”

Dante stares at him for the second time that day. “I am amazed but I truly don’t know. You’re unclear to me. You’re no longer part of their story but you are also not part of ours. Before I read you clearly: a boy who’d lost his parents, who was infinitely curious, and equal parts brave and foolish. But something about you has changed. I’m unsure what that is.”

“First time for everything, I guess,” Mac says. “I’ll drop you on the mainland when we leave. Get yourself to Grand Central, make your swap with King, and the world’s your oyster, kiddo.”

“You don’t mind that I get to keep the ruby money?” Excited howling by Tommy and Eros blast from the shack causing the three of them to look again inside. Tommy’s flipped Eros’ on his back. Eros has his legs wrapped around Tommy’s waist, and Tommy’s whooping in the air, riding him like a show horse around a rodeo rink. Eros snorts, jacking his log while pulling Tommy’s head down to plant his mouth around his.

“I’m sorry. What were we talking about?” Mac focuses back on Jesse; Dante keeps spying on the boys. 

“The money,” Jesse reminds him.

“No, yeah. I think you deserve all of it. To me, it’s a rounding error. You have to figure my procurements are in the hundreds of millions, often more. You yourself cost the Abbot a hundred million, and fortunately there’s no one to ask for a refund.” Jesse can’t help suppress a smile imagining someone would pay that much for him. “Don’t get cocky, kid. That pair in there? Ten times that.” Jesse does the math and his jaw drops. Dante pulls himself from the window and nudges Mac. “Okay, we’ll go, we’ll go,” Mac says indulgently to the methuselian.

“Since you get to keep all that dough,” Jesse bumps up against Mac, “can you spot me twenty bucks so I can get a train ticket to New York?”

Mac puts a hand on Jesse’s head, pushing him down to his knees. “It’s cost you a blow job first.” Dante shakes his head, then peeks back inside the shack.

*

“Reynolds, the little guy’s coming with us. I don’t have the tools to relieve him of the ruby. But I do at headquarters.”

“Understood, sir,” says Reynolds. He leads the way clearing a path for them through hordes of tourists swarming Grand Central. Jesse follows Reynolds pulling the suitcase, with King hanging on to Jesse's backpack and bringing up the rear.

In the backseat of King’s limousine, on their way to an undisclosed location, King’s got his hand on the lump in Jesse’s pants. He gently squeezes it. King studies his reflection in Reynold’s sunglasses, gives the coronel a quick wink. Behind his shades and the trim grey beard, Reynold’s eyes crinkle and his mouth parts into a large, toothy smile. King looks back at Jesse. “I can fix us something in the mess hall when we arrive. If you’re hungry.” 

Jesse thinks for a moment looking at Reynolds and then at King. “Ya know, I’m suddenly famished,” Jesse says, running a long tongue along a razor-sharp canine tooth. “I don’t think I’ve been hungry like this ever in my life.”

What follows, well, that’s a completely different story.
 

[FFRubbrPIG]

Thank you for another excellent story ,and I am pleased that you found a way for Eros and Tommy to exist together for eternity!

[bottomboyam]

Jesse is a werewolf. Love it. 

[shoreboy]

Thanks everyone. It’s been fun! You’re the most awesome pervy guys to write for.

Edited March 25, 2022 by shoreboy