Echo Park-2
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ECHO PARK
================
by Stephen Shore
two
Although in Russian, it went something like this: “You know he’s a straight guy, yeah?” Alexei asks, holding his cigarette out the passenger window as they sit in front of Alexei’s apartment complex. “All the time, you look like a dog with its tongue hanging out. He knows it too.”
“I’m not coming with you. Tell Jenny’s sorry but I have a bad headache,” Sergei replies. Alexei lets the cigarette drop in the gutter and pops a Tic-Tac in his mouth. Sergei knows Jenny knows Alexei sneaks cigarettes. He wonders why he bothers trying to cover it up.
“To me it’s sad. My brother, not just in such puppy love, but in love with someone who doesn’t give a shit about him. Where is your pride even? Even homos have pride. They have pride parades for fucking sake. He doesn’t care for shit.” Alexei isn’t mad but he is loud.
Sergei looks straight ahead down the street. He watches a man spraying his driveway, pushing leaves with his hose down his driveway out to the curb. “Are you finished? Please go. You make my headache worse.”
Alexei gives him another look before he pops open the car door. “And why did you say he could shower at the house? That was not for you to say. Before you go home, you make sure he locked up properly. What if Mr. Elijah comes home to him? Huh?” He bends down looking through the open window. Sergei looks back to him. Alexei shakes his head, but can’t leave his brother with such a dejected face. “You come over tomorrow for the game.” He cracks a small smile.
Sergei considers him, then says, “Who plays?”
“Sbornaya against Polskies.” Alexei’s smile broadens, and adds in a sing-song voice, “Igor Akinfeev plays.”
That brings a crooked smile out in Sergei. He knew he should never have admitted, even if he was drunk at the time, how handsome he thought the Russian goalkeeper was. “Fuck you and fuck Igor Akinfeev,” he says putting the car in gear.
Alexei reaches in to sock his brother’s shoulder. “In your dreams, babushka.” Sergei peels off making sure his brother’s arm is whacked in the window. He sees in the rearview mirror his brother rubbing his bicep, yelling and laughing, “Only in your wildest dreams!”
***
The green garage door is open and Mr. Elijah’s car isn’t there. Tucker’s truck is across the street. His brother’s admonishment still rings in his ears. He knows Tucker plays him for a fool. Maybe he can play Tucker for a fool, scare him, surprise him, play a trick on him. He sneaks up the stairs, finds the door unlocked. He looks under the ceramic frog and sees the key’s still there. He stealthily enters closing the door behind him. He tip toes up the stairs and checks to see if the coast is clear. He hears water running through the master bedroom. As he’s walking quietly to the bathroom he contemplates jumping in the room and shouting “Boo!” but discards that as being childish. Approaching the door he gently pushes it open and sees Tucker’s masturbating in the shower. Sergei freezes.
Tucker’s face is mangled in ecstasy, his cock full, the head purple in fervor, his P.A. sparkling in water and light. My God, thinks Sergei, he truly is an Adonis, a David carved to perfection. He could not imagine a more perfect being. Tucker flinches several times and sperm runs down the glass door. His hand braces against the wall for balance. Sergei squeezes his own crotch in sympathy and arousal. He watches Tucker from the darkness of the bedroom. He can hardly breathe, he’s that taken with the image of water running over the most beautiful body and face he’s ever seen.
Tucker lets the shower drench his hair. He reaches down and grabs a shampoo bottle, sniffs it and lathers his head. It’s then that Sergei knows what to do. While Tucker leans his head under the showerhead, Sergei slips in and grabs Tucker’s short and shoes from the floor. The day pack on the counter he unzips and takes out Tucker’s change of clothes, and then zips it back up. He tip toes out giving Tucker’s perfect bubble butt one last look, and slips out of the house. It’ll be a funny joke he can laugh with his brother about. He puts the clothes under the ceramic frog so Tucker will eventually find it when he leaves. He’ll even wait in his car till he comes out to make sure he finds them. He thinks about that again and worries Tucker will be mad at him. Maybe he should just leave so Tucker won’t see him. Yeah, that would be a better plan.
***
It stays late this time of year in L.A., especially in the hills of Griffith Park. There’s a wind that comes with dusk, a dryness in the rustling of leaves. It’s eerie enough to be out in the half-dark, looking for men. As the shadows take over, and guilt and hesitancy compounds--a feeling of ‘why am I here?’ starts to haunt Sergei. There’s a dreamlike, otherworldliness to the landscape. He is here, but part of himself is not. He is a sleepwalker; the part that is here is the part that is in a dream. Walking down the paths, Sergei looks over his shoulder more than once. Two men holding hands pass by him. They’re big and meaty looking. Cops, he’s sure of it. He looks back and, yes, they’re checking him out. Not in a good way.
Around a bend is a park bench next to a restroom. There’s an older man in a hat, brim lowered, thick glasses, looking up expectantly at him. The man’s eyes dart to the men’s entrance. Sergei keeps walking, but turns around and sees the man get up, look back at him, and enter the restroom. He’s been horny ever since he watched Tucker beat off and can’t get the picture out of his mind. The restroom light flickers off. A signal. He goes back and opens the door, takes a step in the dingy light filtering through the frosted window. The old man he senses lurks in the shadows. He goes to the urinal and unzips his pants. A figure comes up next to him and kneels. Sergei turns to the man as the man gropes his crotch to find his cock. He swallows him in one gulp. The mouth is smooth, soft, warm and oh so wet. In the dimness Sergei notices the man holds something in his hand. They’re pink and white and shiny. His cock is swelling in the old man’s mouth. The old man’s tongue swirls around his head drawing greater and more intense pleasure. He’s almost fully erect as the man reaches into Sergei’s pants and fondles his balls. Sergei squints to make out what the old man is holding. They’re his teeth. Smooth gums gnaw over his member as he shoots down the man’s gullet. Teeth rest in his hand on the lip of the urinal, dentures that from the force of Sergei’s shudder as he cums tips the man’s hand and the choppers clank into the porcelain fixture landing open, like they’re biting down on the urinal's blue deodorizing cake.
***
He's backlit so it's hard to make out the face but this is what Tucker can see: his leather cap, with black shiny visor and chain that lays over its brim; the cap’s brim almost scrapes the top of the door; there's a black beard with a touch of grey; eyes that are deep set, hidden; leather jacket, black shirt, leather tie, leather pants, leather boots; a black baton that clinks against a ring on his left hand.
"Find what you’re looking for?" the figure mocks. The voice is the essence of authority--calm, resonant, deliberative. The voice of a cop who pulls you over; the solemnity you hear in a doctor who has bad news; the judge who asks how you plead--final, unequivocal, no second chance.
Tucker's compelled to respond but at the last minute is taken aback by absurdity of the situation. He’s Tucker Benson, after all. He doesn’t have to explain himself. "Say what?" He's incredulous, ignoring the fact he's naked, who’s this guy to question him. The whole situation is backward. "I ... no! I'm working on your roof, man. I'm one of the roofers."
"You're naked going through my drawers is what I see. And I don’t employ roofers." He waves the nightstick. Calling him out of his bedroom, he says, “Let’s go.”
"Wait. Dude, I just took a shower and my clothes are missing. That's it. Maybe you know where they are. I get it. You see me going through your things, but I just want to get some clothes on and leave."
"You think your clothes are in the drawer under my dildoes? I'm not telling you again, let’s go." He beckons with the nightstick a second time. Tucker has no choice but moves toward the man who backs out of the door to let him pass. "Up the stairs," he instructs, pointing with his stick. Tucker takes a quick glance around the room as if his clothes might be out here. When he’s a foot away from the man, his fight-or-flight response kicks in and he decides to make a run for it. Naked be damn, he'll choose running naked in the street rather than stay here. He tears past the leatherman who only has to take one step in his direction, grab his ponytail, yank him back and crack the back of his knees with the baton. Tucker's crumples to the floor. The leatherfuck pulls him up by his hair and tosses him like a doll toward a stairwell between the kitchen and the bedroom. "Up," is all man has to say. It's not the stairs to the great room but through an archway, that, if Tucker has his bearings right, would be leading him further into the side of the mountain. This seems unlikely but can’t be otherwise. "Up," says the man. "You don’t want to disobey me." Tucker staggers up the steps feeling the backs of his legs. Now he's truly scared. The man pokes his butt with the nightstick. "Move," he orders. Tucker takes two steps at a time.
"Dude," he whines during his ascent, "I swear to Christ I just took a shower and someone took my clothes. Hey," Tucker says, turning around halfway up the stairs. "Whoever took my clothes maybe is still here. The door was unlocked, I bet, right?"
"By you. Move!" Tucker proceeds to climb but his feet are damp and he stumbles on the last step, falling forward. "Get up and get in that room." Tucker scrambles up holding onto the railing, sees the door the man intends for him to enter.
"I bet he ran away just before you came in." Tucker turns the glass doorknob and stands in the doorway. The room is bathed in blue light, undulating in waves, filtered through the water of a large aquarium. It's dark except for the tank taking up the entire far wall. A small window is cracked open at the top of the wall, but it’s on the mountain side of the house so no light comes in the small opening. On the right side of the room is a single bed and next to it a nightstand. In the center of the room stands an ornate, old-fashioned barber chair. "Sit," the man says indicating the heavy chair.
"Please, sir. I apologize. I'm really, really, really sorry." He doesn't want to go in. The nightstick prods against his butt again. He turns around and pleads. "I just want to leave." He’s afraid he won't come out of this room if he goes in. That isn’t an altogether unreasonable assumption judging by the scowl on the man’s face. "I work for you, sir. Ask Alex or Serge. Call him. I even asked if it was okay to use your shower and he said it was okay." As the man encroaches, his physical presence forces him to step backward into the room. Tucker quickly scans the room, sees inside the aquarium a long eel slip out between a pile of rocks.
"Were you in my refrigerator?" the man asks.
"What? No. Yes, I drank some of your wine." The man is backing him deeper into the room. He hears the aquarium’s filter hum as he nears the chair. "My wallet's in my clothes. I'm sorry. I'll pay you. I didn’t drink a lot. It turned bad, I think." He's totally creeped out by the large, dark grey eel he spies out of the corner of his eye. It's four feet long at least, and it’s tracking back and forth in the tank. Tucker looks up at the man hoping his eyes plead strong enough. He’s trying to keep it out of his mind but he's flashing on the cum on the shower glass, the crystal he drank out of and left unwashed, wonders if he put the naked men photos back exactly as he found them, how fucked he is in this stranger's eyes.
"Sit." Tucker falls back in the chair and looks up to the man's face bathed in the blue aquarium light. His face is broad with wide set eyes. The brows arch menacingly. His nostril flare as anger washes over his face, then recede when his face becomes placid as he observes Tucker’s erection. His beard covers everything but pock marked temples and a deeply creased forehead. Between his thick brows a furrowed W forms as he scrutinizes Tucker. He has one large gold earring on his left lobe. Tucker's uncomfortably sticking to the chair trying to move back away from him. The large chair’s cold, the brown cowhide’s tacky on his bare ass, and metal arms have straps, which brings him to a new level of anxiety. "You drank the yellow liquid in my refrigerator?" asks the man. Tucker nods apologetically. The man's burst into a roar of laughter. “Hope you liked it, fucker.” His mood quickly lightens. He takes off his jacket, then his leather tie and throws them on the bed. "Your cock. I see you enjoyed it. Strap your legs down."
"What are you going to do?" His mind is racing. What choice does he have? The man's unbuttoning his shirt displaying a chest that’s incredibly ripped. His pecs are enormous boulders, bulging with muscled indentations. Even his nipples are enormous, unnatural, each tip the girth of his finger. "What was in the bottle?" he asks unsure if he wants the answer.
“It’s keeping you hard, isn’t it, or are you just a happy little burglar?” The man's teeth shine fluorescently blue. "Strap yourself in."
"What? Why?" Tucker asks, confused. Looking down he sees straps at his ankles, thighs, waist, and chest.
"Legs first," instructs the man. Defiantly Tucker shakes his head no. The man immediately strikes his nightstick down hard on the metal chair's armrest. Tucker barely gets his arm away before the baton strikes with a loud clang reverberating in the room. Tucker makes sure he's not going to swing the baton again, then folds over to take the two ends of the strap at his feet and loops one strap through the metal binding of the other. He does the same at his thighs, waist and then chest. The man sets the stick down with a clunk on a metal tray behind Tucker. The leatherman binds one of Tucker's arms down, once at the wrist and once above the elbow. He then slowly walks around in back of the barber chair and puts his hand on Tucker's bare shoulder. It's the first time he's touched by the man and his large, cold digits wrap around his entire shoulder, sending a shiver through him down to his erect dick. His ice cold hand runs down his bicep and the man binds his other wrist. "Chem piss in that bottle. I’m guessing that’s why the dick," he says nodding at Tucker’s crotch. His voice is calm, relaxed, even amused. His words are chosen and explicit. "How long have you had that Prince Albert piercing?" he asks. There is a layer of seduction lying between his words, the phrasing, his cold breath on Tucker's shoulder, the slightest smell of ocean brine about him. He comes around from his back into the blue light and places cold fingers on Tucker's erection, stroking him soothingly. His shirts off and his upper torso is unbelievably pumped.
"Almost three years." Tucker's never had a man touch him. As much as he’s ready to protest in disgust, still his cock is rock hard. "When I turned eighteen. Sorry, man, can’t seem to lose the stiffy. Had it since the shower. Chem piss was in the bottle? What’s chem piss?" The man tilts his head and smiles, the whites of his eyes bright blue, the pupils dilated black. Tucker is trying the read the man's face. One moment he’s amused, the next angry, and in the next lascivious. The wavering blue light makes it hard to get a fix. His size is obviously intimidating. He's gotta be one of those Gold Gym body builders. A ‘roid rat. Muscles on top of muscles. Veins in the neck when he's pressing rows of multiple plates, teeth gritted, grunting. His spread lats makes him look like a cockroach. The black beard hides most of his face, a mask. His eyes are dark caves, but Tucker’s seen that lascivious look when it crossed his face before. He sees it in Sergei occasionally--a marked intensity that scurries away in Sergei’s case when confronted, lays hidden, crouched behind the eyes. But it isn’t hiding in this man. It is front and center as he’s stroking Tucker’s large woody. Back in his sophomore year in high school, he’d lure unsuspecting men in department stores into a back dressing room when he came across this furtive look. Then on threat of accusing them of molesting a minor, threatened with being turned over to security, he'd rob the stupid mark blind. Once Tucker even peed on one of his sniveling victims just because he could. Now that same look flutters across the man's face, only this time there’s no one he can report him to.
The man puts a frigid finger through the P.A. and gives it a tug. "You must be one of the first boys to get one of these." He unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants letting his heavy leather pants fall to the floor. He steps out of them. A majestic meaty member flops back and forth, surrounded with a black bush as hairy around his cock as he is hairless over the rest of his body. Smooth cut legs, rock solid, extremely vascular arms, slim six-pack abs, crowned by an enormous, thick double zero P.A. jutting out of his piss slit. "Malloy did mine. He pierce you? You’d probably be the youngest one to ever get one from him."
"Uh, some girl in a store in Hollywood. I forget her name."
"A girl?" The man examines him skeptically. There’s anger brewing in him. "There's no women I know doing this. Malloy's the only one I know that is in the business of piercing. Next to the pier. Venice. Across from the cable car stop." His nose flairs as he's breathing. "You telling tales again, boy?"
He doesn't know why the guy is getting worked up. "Uh, no, sir. They got a couple of bitches piercing on Hollywood Strip." He sees the man looking at him sidelong. He's pacing back and forth like the eel’s doing in the tank.
"Same bitch did your devil wings on your back, too?"
"No, sir. Old geezer in Long Beach. Did it on the boardwalk. Kinda used me to draw in customers. Took three days."
"You like pain, then?" He’s starting to flop his dick around in his hand, getting it stiff.
"Not really."
"Bullshit. See this pentagram?" He bends his shoulder over to show Tucker. "Hurt like a mother fucker. That was one day." His dick’s oozing a little pre-cum, grown out now to maybe a good nine inches and still counting. "You lay there for three days for those devil wings? You have to be one hell of a masochist. Wanna be one of the Black Sabbath boys, don’t ya?" The man's up against Tucker's shoulder rubbing his fist and dick against him, with his other hand he’s pushing Tucker’s head down to his cock. "Not that I have anything against a good boy masochist."
"I'm not queer, man," declares Tucker, snapping his head away from the man’s waving python.
The man smacks Tucker's with his palm hard enough for spittle and a trickle of blood to splat out his mouth. "You calling me a queer, boy?” He takes Tucker’s face in his large hand. “The fuck you're not. The only reason I didn't call the bulls on you right away was because of those wings. I thought, maybe this boy might have some further surprises in him. Didn’t even care so much if ya even were playing around in my dildo drawer." The man is holding back final judgment, searching Tucker's face. He's looking at him quizzically. "So tell me--boy who runs around naked in a stranger's house--are you a Greek passive?" Tucker's lip feels swollen but he looks at the man as if he's crazy, which he probably is.
"What the fuck are you talking about, you crazy-ass sick fuck."
Tucker thinks he'll be hit again, but the man's pacing, not nervously, but in thought, deliberating. He stops. The man’s eyes are fixed on the eel watching it swim back and forth. His eyes follow it like a metronome. The whites of his eyes are lit blue. He speaks, staring past Tucker at the tank, "There's something off about you, boy, which I like. Your speech is strange. The words you use, odd. You're not like the other boys." The man comes in close enough for Tucker to smell a faint scent of something familiar but hard to place. Seaweed. "But you will be. We just need to re-write you." He's now pondering Tucker's dick. "Three years you had that and you're still only at a puny ten gauge, huh?" The man goes to the nightstand, suddenly enticed, decides. He takes out a small box and brings it over to the tray behind the chair. Tucker hears metal on metal, then something heavy hits the tray. "We have a long night ahead of us," he hears the voice behind him say, "but first things first." He wheels the tray around, also bringing with him a stool. "Anyone who’s going to sit at my feet the night of my dinner party better have at least a zero gauge hanging between its legs." Tucker’s shown a massive piece of P.A. jewelry, a thick captive bead ring, one that will in no way fit through his narrow pierced hole. “You got a piece of meat where it will hang nicely.” He tugs the pull chain cord overhead and a bare bulb illuminates the room. In the light, Tucker sees how dilapidated the room actually is, the cracks in the walls, the tiles chipped away on the floor, the painting peeling off the ceiling. The light also reveals how wrinkled the skin of the man is, how ancient his face and body is under the surface brawn. The man pulls a lever on the chair and Tucker falls backward, almost horizontal in the chair. His captor straddles a stool and closes in on him. He picks up a two-inch rod, thin at one end, tapered thick on the other, and applies a liberal amount of lubricant over it. He takes Tucker's P.A., bend it open and releases the small ball that holds the captive bead. It flicks off and rolls under the bed. The man pulls the opened P.A. out through Tucker's Prince Albert hole. He then takes the tapered rod and sticks the narrow end into Tucker's piss slit, feeling around till he finds the pierced tunnel and starts pushing it through. As the rod grows fatter Tucker starts squirming against his restraints. His hands claw at the arm rests, and, as it gets to the thickest point, he starts yelling in genuine pain. The small nerve clusters scream out as they're being torn and ripped open. The man pauses the stretch. "This will pull you apart to a four gauge but not as big as zero I have in mind. Zero gauge is like getting pierced for the first time. Did you enjoy your first time?"
“No, please, stop. No, I didn't enjoy it, but it was fast. Not like this."
The man moves the tray closer and brushes up against Tucker's ear. "Where's the pleasure in pain that is swift, mate?" he asks, and continues pushing the rod to its broadest width, letting it hang there agonizing the stretch while Tucker hollers, takes a breath and hollers again. "Almost done." And he passes the object all the way through. He strokes Tucker’s brow. "Right on, baby, right on," he praises as Tucker shudders, forcing back tears. The man examines Tucker's face, almost as if seeing him for the first time; searching for who he is, what kind of person is revealed through pain. Tucker realizes this is the currency in which the man transacts. "Now, what's this on your hat about making America great again?" He reaches up, takes off the cap, and runs his hands through Tucker's hair, calming the boy down. "I thought hippies hated America." The man runs his icy fingers over Tuckers face, traces a single tear trickling down. Tucker’s trying to recover, breathing in diminishing huffs. "I have to tell you, I'm conflicted, boy. I do like something to hold onto when I fuck a slave, but truth is, I prefer them shaved, completely. Tell me, have you been collared and shaved before, freaky hippy boy, with your devil-wing tattoo and your sexy Prince Albert? You must have a Master. Maybe keep a few boys yourself? Greek active maybe? A kinky perv that likes to play with stranger’s sex toys, that gets off on nasty pictures of filthy men. Yeah, I knew you were in my desk. You want to be with filthy men like me? Your dick doesn't lie, boy." Tucker's realizes he jacking himself in the man's hand, riding his cock up and down through the man's clenched fist. "You want to serve Master Elijah?"
Tucker stop his jacking, but Master Elijah’s not having it. He bends over and sucks Tucker's nicely cut dick. Tucker's hand splay out trying not to enjoy it but he feels he might cum at any second. "I'm not into it, man. It's cool you are, and I'm not dissing you, but, dude...oh, shit, you’re going to make me nut."
Master Elijah releases his dick. "French passive. How about French active?" He gets up and offers his half-mast dick to Tucker. Tucker turns his head away. "You're are a tease, aren't you, my long-hair prowler? Either that or you’re conflicted. One thing you're not: you’re not not digging this. I think all you need is to be opened up. Your limits pushed. Relax your morals. What does a pervy hippy boy like you like: uppers or downers?"
Tucker shakes his head. "Not any of that shit. I’ll do molly at a club, sometimes, but that’s it."
"You are a strange one, I have to say. Never heard of molly. But I have something that will definitely un-conflict you. They say speed kills." He goes over to the nightstand and opens a second drawer and brings out a syringe. "But I say speed reveals. It has all my boys anyway."
Tucker eyeballs the works from across the room. "No, definitely not. Dude, seriously, no needles. Swore off 'em. Never again."
"I think I want my friends to meet you. You’re funny...dude. What are you, in a cowboy movie? But what I have here, boy,” he says holding out his syringe, “is going to make you belong completely to Master Elijah. I guarantee. You won’t believe the things I’ll do to make you feel good, boy. Unbelievable things. Things you didn’t think possible." The man runs his cold palm down Tucker’s chest to his stiff prick. The man flips Tucker's arm over, taps inside the crook, and jabs the needle in a thick vein drawing a plume of blood. "Ready for takeoff, Buck Rogers?"
"No. Don't."
"Just go with the flow, baby. Dig the crazy scene."
He releases a complete half gram of speed into Tucker's body. Tucker coughs violently, while Master Elijah withdraws the syringe and bends over to lick the trace of blood. “Dude, you really don’t want to do that.” Tucker's head’s thrown back, his eyes lose focus, he feels a rush sluice through his body, in his ears, in his heart, in his ass. There’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears as he’s rips through a tiny hole in reality that changes his orientation to the world. Wrong is right, hot is cold, Master is God, good is evil and evil good. His eyes focus back on the huge hulk that's in front of him. Thank you, he mouths while Elijah licks the needle. He takes up a very large two-inch rod, lubes it and sticks it into Tucker's pee slit. He finds the hole and pushes it in as far as the stretch allows. "Master's got to hurt you but then it will all be alright. If you want to cry it's okay. Be a big boy and it will be all over soon." Master Elijah sports a raging hard on as he push the fattening rod further through the hole. He can see Tucker's face contorting in sweet, blissed out agony. He's fighting the pain as best he can, the drug careening through him is scrambling his senses. "Master's so proud of his boy. Almost through. Boy loves how much his pud is hurting, doesn't he?"
"Yes, Master, hurt me." Tucker's face is twisted from too many sensations at once, his hands are clawing the arm rests. He's beet red fighting against his bindings and from the initial rush of the slam, his heart rushes blood everywhere. "Wait, wait! Please, it too much. Let me get used to it."
"Master needs to finish, boy. Master’s got lots to do before the party. Master Elijah wants to show you off with a big boy piercing to the guests. Just a bit more and it's through." He pushes the rod another fraction of an inch, drawing a wail that echoes thunderously through the house, roaring through windows and chimney, through the canyons of Echo Park. A coyote high up in the brush recognizes a wounded animal and howls back an answer. Tucker’s head thrashes against the chair's headrest. Anguish is entwined with the drug, bringing him past shock, laying him out naked to a world with awe that is at once ecstatic as it destroys who he is, his logic of desire, where his sexual loyalties fall, what he wants--no--what he now needs from the man destructing his mind and body. The man sees Tucker fall through another rush of the drug’s powerful pleasure, not only accepting his tormentor along with the pain, but bearing through drug and shock, encouraging the Master to hurt him even more.
Tucker looks in Master Elijah’s face and whispers, “Do it.” With that final surrender of his soul the breach is ripped wide open, there is very little blood, and the circular ring passes through his piss slit and through the newly stretched passage. His head is back in a silent scream.
"One last thing to do, beautiful hippy boy, my debauched intruder, who called me out and debased himself for me." Tucker sees through watery eyes his Master hold up pliers that are closing the thick ring onto an enormous bead. With a pressure that shakes his Master’s grip, the ball is sealed shut. He’s locked into the zero gauge. The ache is strong in his dick but the acute agony is starting to diminish. The chair’s straps are released and his Master's lips seal over his mouth. He wrestles a startlingly cold tongue filled with passion and lust. He's being lifted from the chair, cradled in the most powerful arms he’s ever felt. He utterly surrenders to the man who will take care of him, provide for all his needs, who lays him on the bed for the final act.
Tucker unmoors himself from time and wallows adrift in the coolness of the turned down sheets, in the aquatic light of this unusual room. He's breathing underwater. His legs float up to his Master's shoulders. Something cold, wet and mucous-covered is being pressed against his small, tight butt hole. Something quickly pops in and he feels it slither into his rectum. He's waiting for it to start to hurt since this is all new to him, the territory virginal, but surprisingly it doesn't hurt. He likes it in fact; the viscosity’s soothing, his muscles contract and expand, inviting it to flow inside him as deep as it wants. He senses one hand being tied above him, then the other. He wants to be tied, he wants whatever his Master wants. He's being plowed deep and it's invading the most intimate parts of him, where no one ever touches, where no one knows, places even he never felt existed. So deep he feels his organs rearrange. His intestines realign, straighten, his body dictated by some outside force to conform to a new arrangement. His body is overtaken with pleasure; it’s no longer him but a primordial version of him. A cloth is tied over his mouth and knotted behind his head. He moans in ecstasy into the rag as the invasion transforms him to the core. He feels one leg lowering off a rock-hard shoulder, then the other, each tied to the bottom of the bed. He feels warm liquid spray across his face. He sucks on the wet rag tasting salty remnants of warm spooge of his new Master. He looks up to see Master standing next to his head, flicking the last of his pale seed across his cheek. He still feels his bowels being invaded, but wonders how that can be with Master hovering beside him. Master reaches between his legs and grabs the end of object, a living object, and squeezes it to encourage its ultimate journey entirely through his sphincter. It’s completely inside him now. It moves forward generating a body wave that slithers up in one direction, then eases out reversing the undulation back without coming out. Back and forth it drills within him. He’s fallen out of time as his body orgasms, releasing wave of pleasure outside of forward-sliding chronology. Master is leaving, preparations need to be made. The gratification he feels within him is like none he's ever known or will ever know again. The door closes. He’s alone--or so he believes. He's left breathing underwater, internally erupting in waves breaking within him, over and over awash in blue light of the aquarium, which is now void of its sole tenant.