Last Known Address-ch3
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LAST KNOWN ADDRESS
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by Stephen Shore
3. Waves
“Fuck!”
“Fuck!” Waves...
“Fuck!” Tidal waves...
“Fuck!” Tidal waves of pleasure...
“Fuck!” Tidal waves of pleasure explode, like a meteorite plummeting in the ocean radiating whitecaps tall as mountaintops roiling from his cock, balls, asshole, rising upward, outward, unrelenting, uncontrollable. Nothing could ever exceed this feeling, sending him ablaze in molten heat with red hellish light behind clenched eyelids. Fingers and toes claw inward; his face, too. “Fuck,” he repeats again and again, thrashing in rivers of lava and sweat. The only thing that could ever top this feeling had to be death. Snuffed. Blackness. Oblivion. Because right now—motherfuck…—at this single moment, he felt everything. Every fucking thing. He’s Colossus. He's a Titan. He's God. The world channels through him. Fuck yes! He’s the eye of the needle; the eye of the beholder; the fuckin' category five swirling eye of the hurricane. Nothing exists before this moment, nothing would after. He embodies the chord alpha and omega struck together throughout eternity jammed into one single note. Bam! Fuckin’ right here. Right now. Shit, man, it's a tsunami in here and he's riding this skinny little surfboard called Chris. It’s a thrill of a lifetime, and he's hanging on for dear fucking life!
“Fuck. Shit.” He's overboard! He lost where he was, who he was. He's swimming up for air. Someone tells him to breathe. But all he senses is a tongue in his hole and a gummy mouth sucking his shriveled dick. Hairy arms hold him and run their hands over mounds of flesh, his burning flesh, saying, breathe. He grinds his ass over someone’s furry pubes. Fuck, dude, tell me, how good is that? He'll never be able to sustain how aroused he is, every synapse of ecstasy is firing simultaneously. He's burning through every pleasure he'll ever have for the next twenty years in these first few seconds—he's certain of it. He's sure someone’s talking to him but he can’t comprehend, even less respond. All he can react to is touch, those that touch him, those he can touch. Other senses abandoned him. No sight except the reddish blackness of eyes shut tight, no sound except for being deep underwater. Hard flesh he feels, leathery muscle, sagging flesh, sinewy muscle, all attached to him in some area of his body, but he can’t differentiate the sum of all he senses.
“Fuck.” There’s a discussion around him, then a suggestion to him. Slowly he’s regaining sight. The pictures he sees through his lens stutters like a reel of film falling off its track. Still he makes out bits of a room that could be the underworld. Red flakes falling off walls. Metallic roof reflecting flames all around him. An orange object dangled in front of him. What the fuck's that? A tentacle? He thought of a tentacle, one that is extraordinarily long and extremely pliable. “Fuck.” It was going in his anus and going in deep. “Fuck.” Voices emerged in the hellscape. Take it in—let it penetrate you. I've still got you. Long Beach Carl, his mother’s boyfriend is there. He's pushing the tentacle into him. Oliver Fuckin’ North is there as are a million cameras firing off strobe after strobe in his brain. Pop! Pop pop pop. He feels the invader, initially so slender you hardly know it’s there until its mass grows with every inch it's inserted. The thing passed through his rectum and entered his large intestine. “It jus' pass through his second ring,” says a Caribbean sounding voice. He's in a James Bond movie. He closes his eyes, he's tripping heavily. He knows he's not in a James Bond movie. Yet in his mind he imagines there's a race car that's tearing down a winding Jamaican road. He sees Sean Connery driving the winding road. His colon is the road, the object a vehicle that’s opening up his insides; every twist, tunnel and turn.
Boom. “Fuck!” Chris is back in his body trying to come to terms with an object he feels somewhere on the right side of his abdomen. He ran his hand down to the spot and definitely felt an object inside him. Someone, Manetti it must be, pulled his hand back over his head. There are two men, Jamal and Master Drax he recognized, conferring at his hole, pushing something, a malleable orange sex toy through his anal canal. "The last mile is always the most difficult," Master Drax seems to be explaining to Jamal. Jamal goes back to sucking Chris' peanut. It not only distracted, but felt indescribably soothing. "Are you still with us, child?" Master Drax asked Chris. Chris looked into the Master's eyes. To him, his eyes are like embers; they glow like coals. Chris wanted to communicate he was still with them, raise a thumb, something, but he can't. He's immobile. He blinked instead hoping that said something. Words won't come back for quite a while, except for one.
"Fu-uh-uh-uh-ck," he yowls undulating, forcefully arching his back.
"I told you, Christian. New worlds. Hold him down, pig. It doesn't give you pain. It's simple something you've never experienced."
There is nothing to compare this to. He's hornier than fuck. He's back to hallucinating his colon is being invaded by the tentacle of an octopus. Surreally he sees Master Drax is holding an octopus and guiding it, letting it slither deep then deeper inside him. But the tentacle has hit an impasse. It refused to penetrate into the next chamber. It had a life of its own, the tentacle; it poked and prodded against an impenetrable wall, won't proceed no matter how much Chris or Master Drax want it to.
"The last foot is always the most revealing," spoke Master Drax to Chris, who could do nothing but look at him, and feel what was happening inside. "Jamal, get the amyl from the drawer." Jamal left the boy's dick and returned with a handful of capsules. He broke one and put it up to Chris nostrils. "Inhale deeply, child."
The effect it had on him was to immediately knock his brain out of his body. More than freeing his gut to allow the sex toy to penetrate, was the attitude it instilled: lust overpowering everything. He wanted that orange tentacle further up his ass. Jesus H. he did! And his lust made it so.
"Fu-uh-uh-uh-uh-ck." He feels it so intensely slip deeper inside. Two inches, three? It's a tickle that grows to a finger, which grows two feet in length to the size of a fist. The final girth is a medium size clenched fist. Master Drax has gotten the entire sex toy to press up against Chris' sphincter, but he's not satisfied. He bares down with his own fist to get his fist inside the boy too.
"Another one," Jamal is instructed, who already had another hit of amyl under Chris's nose.
Chris doesn't say fuck. Instead out rasped a throaty animal sound, a squall of air reacting to muscles going beyond what they're meant for: to hold shit in. There was pain, undeniably, but there was a definite element of pleasure in the animal cry, too. A sound an animal might shriek when it was letting go of life, or, more exact, like when it gives birth. To Chris, it was a sound emanating from his guts, and the large object within him and the large fist, that even after it entered his hole still plunged deeper into his bowels. He started stammering mindlessly, “uh-uh-uh-uh," throwing his pelvis in the air, trying to get whatever's inside him outside him. This was where Manetti came in, holding him down, calming his colt.
"Shhh. You're doing it, Chief. Almost there.” He brought the kid down to him. “Good boy, good job." And though Manetti was as high as he's been in quite a while, he knew how to ride these twenty foot waves to shore. "Breathe. Get used to it. Accept it.” Manetti ran his hand over Chris’ chest, tweaked his nipple lightly. “Breathe, buddy. Relax your hole around it. Now squeeze hard! Now relax it. Do it again."
He's no more than a disembodied voice to Chris, but it’s a familiar, disembodied voice, and it seemed to work. Though his hole was ready to explode again at any moment, and though the strain was more intense than anything he'd ever felt, he was over the agony of a few seconds ago. As he squeezed, then released, he’s letting go of the panic and accepting the new sensation. Another body within his body. Someone was feeling him from the inside now.
Master Drax's pulled his hand out. This set off on another round of spasms, this time expelling, like a two foot long shit—which pretty accurately described how it felt—the two-foot long orange object inside him. What would usually take his body hours of wave-like contractions to expel, happened in two seconds, which left him with an amazing feeling. Besides having the relief of not having the object ripping and pulling every which way internally, he was left with a sense of profound emptiness, and one other feeling he didn’t quite know what to make of: he wanted it back in again.
***
"Jamal, we need to capture this. Put two lights there and the camera there." Jamal went about setting up the shot. "Pig, let Christian up and bring over some grease. And take off that cage. I want you fluffed up when we shoot."
Manetti helped Chris out of the sling. "I don ’t think he’s ready to take my paw. Let Jamal fist him. He can probably take that,” he said to Master Drax.
"Nonsense. Are you telling me how to conduct his affairs?" Master Drax handed Chris a bottle of poppers. "Use this right before we shoot."
"No, Master,” Manetti replied. “You always know best. I just think the kid should..."
"Enough. I determine what he 'should.' Jamal, are we ready?" Jamal nodded, and then helped Chris get into the sling.
"Chief, how you feelin'?" Manetti asked Chris, who was adjusting the leg straps.
"I feel great! That was mind-blowing. I am so fucking high, Mike." Manetti acknowledged he was too. Chris hadn't really considered that. Nothing seemed to exist beyond the skin of his body.
"Places." Master Drax was in his element. "Jamal, take the boom, I'll operate the hand held. Pig, I want you coming into the shot. Christian, you just stay where you are. Enjoy it and encourage Manetti however you'd like. Use the seduction you know you have—you have the hole everyone wants, own that—but make sure you don't fake it, make sure you really want it from Manetti. No BS. Let's see how you do."
"Yes, Master. Thank you for all of this."
Master Drax nodded his approval, and called, "Action:"
FADE IN:
CONDEMNED BUILDING - NIGHT
There's a close-up of Chris' little puckered butthole. Its lips pout out like it's waiting for a kiss. It's not virginal anymore, but it's hardly gaped either. It lusts for something, someone. Manetti's broad back and hairy shoulders enter the frame and, yes, he's hard, very hard. You can tell there's chemistry, pun intended, between him and the boy. Let's not hide the fact they both look heavily drugged. He sits on a stool facing the boy's vulnerable hole. He puts a finger on its lip and pulls it down, testing its elasticity. The boy starts only slightly. He's excited yet there is an edge of fear in his face. We zoom in. His eyes are more than a little crazed with desire. The world weighs heavily on him, but he's young and resilient. It will take a lot to wear him down completely, and Manetti is more than capable of doing it.
The man brings up two greased fingers and inserts them in the boy's velvet hole. They slide in easily. He coats the canal and bends down and brings up three fingers and more lube. The man's other hand is stroking his own rigid pole. He could nut at any point but he’ll hold off, at least for now. Three fingers easily slide into the boy's opening. The man shoves his three fingers up to where his pinky stops him from going further. He twists around the boy's hole, causing the boy to stir in pleasure. It's a very new sensation to him, and there's an exhilaration in his eyes that this man is going to penetrate his rectum with those enormous paws. He anticipates what it will feel like, how much it will hurt, but still grants there’s a deeper lust in him, a hedonistic impulse he's knows he's always had, that wants this man, wants this man in the most carnal of ways.
Four greased fingers come up to the boy's butt and slide in, this time not as easily. Manetti has to go slow, gathering his fingers together, twisting slowly, applying pressure ever so slowly, prying the kid's sphincter apart, easing it open. He still has the large ridge of his thumb to go and he doesn't want to rush Chris.
"Pick up the pace, pig. Let's get to it," says the director.
Manetti sees Chris is taking a hit of poppers. That should help. He greases his whole hand and swathes the boy's entire butt. He prods the hole with four fingers, then adds his thumb. It's all funneling down into this tight hole. He's fighting with Chris' sphincter, it's resisting the circumference of his palm. Manetti twists slowly one way then the other. "Take three hits in a row, boy," he instructs Chris. Chris has only had single hits up to now, and each one has left him spinning, but he listens to Manetti and takes three consecutive hits.
He barely manages to replace the cap but his eyes signal he's ready. Manetti holds his hand out in place. Not only is the kid's hole relaxing, he’s pushing out his butt and, on his own, starts swallowing Manetti hairy paw. He keeps jutting his ass out so it swallows Manetti’s thumb, clutching the entire appendage down to his wrist. He’s instinctively squeezing Manetti’s huge mitt into him, as the hand tapers to a wrist. The vice-like clamp slides Manetti fingers into the boy's soft internal flesh. The boy howls at his accomplishment. He's in ecstatic agony as his rectum comes to accept the large foreign object. A huge invader, the likes his internal organs have never known. Master Drax was large, but Manetti's huge.
Manetti rests his hand just where it is. He tells Chris to take another hit, which he does, and then starts slowly turning his hand inside the boy. They look into each other's eyes, and you can see the intensity of their communication transcends words. There is a microsecond of pain registering on Chris' face, and Manetti stops twisting, but begins again as soon as he sees Chris has accepted the sensation and now enjoys it. The tip of Manetti's middle finger is the first to touch a deeper area. He feels the rapid heart beat of the boy in what feels like spider webs guarding a new chamber. He gently swirls the finger clockwise, then slowly traces the finger counterclockwise. Chris initiates a release of internal muscles that allow Manetti to add his index and ring finger deeper into Chris' canal. Manetti rotates slightly to allow his pinky and thumb to follow into the chamber. Chris inhales deeply as he senses where Manetti is in his body. It’s both an open invitation to go further, and a dawning realization of how far he ultimately wants Manetti to penetrate him.
It’s just the two of them, eye to eye. Again he's in an enclosed confessional with Manetti. “You owned me," he admits, "ever since I met you. I can't resist you." He proves it, too, by sliding down deeper and impaling himself further onto Manetti's hand. You only have to look at the earnestness in his expression, his utter submission to the will of the man inside him, to see Manetti can do to him whatever he wants. Manetti knows that and will exploit it.
The splayed out fingers start balling into a fist. The fingertips scrape against the raw colon sending nerve cells into an explosion of sensation, firing round after round of alarm to Chris' brain. Chris trusts Manetti with his body. He breaths and quells the panic. There is a joy about him knowing Manetti now actually has his fist, his balled up fist, in his ass. The noun, fist, he sees, is why it's also a verb: to fist. Yes, he signals to Manetti. Yeah, do it, fist me, say his eyes. And Manetti starts, ever so slowly, pulling out then pushing in. It's building. You can see it in the boy's face. It's revving up to become a piston fuck, which is animating Chris' face: joy, pleasure, excitement, apprehension and, as it’s building a rhythmic pace, lust; demonic lust for Manetti to do it harder. Manetti knows this. This isn't his first rodeo. He's one of the great Tops in the industry and is proving it again.
When you say 'handpuppet' this is what it means. Manetti twists Chris on his wrist. He's testing the boy constantly, seeing what he can take, seeing where he has to push him to accept his, Manetti's, will. Manetti knows the kid's body will reveal the course his hand will take and guide him along the way, but it's Manetti's confidence in his power that allows Chris to relinquish his. When the kid says he owns him, Manetti takes him at his word. He unfurls his fist, stretches his fingers deep into the kid's rectum, finds a new ring, swirls, charms, and enters his intestine. He straightens out the curve he finds, using his hand to reshape the boy under his care. He then almost pulls out, sphincter puckered to the extreme, then goes back in and rests just momentarily. He's traveled a great distance in those inches.
Chris is undulating with libidinous hunger, but calms down when Manetti rests. He syncs to Manetti’s mastery. The man's palm is holding his prostate, holding it like it's resting in a hammock. As he rocks it gently, Chris is in ecstasy as if Manetti is rocking his soul. But Manetti doesn’t simply require the boy's soul. He’s looking for the point where Chris will give up everything. That’s the ultimate power he seeks. He's probing the boy again feeling all his organs till he finds the pressure point he's looking for. Manetti's other hand grabs the boy's erect cock and a spray of piss erupts out of him.
"Beautiful," says the director.
Manetti first directs it toward himself, lets it splash in his mouth, noisily slurping down a few gulps and spits some out, then he points the stream back at Chris. Chris is out of his mind with sensation he's perceiving inside his body with the awareness that his pissing uncontrollably in front of a group of strangers, and being recorded doing it, and he's finding pleasure in the lewd act of primal degradation. He doesn't care, and that shamelessnes is powerfully erotic. He lets out a spontaneous, "Oh, fuck, Sir," as the stream hits his face and he greets it open mouthed. Manetti has pulled his hand back into a fist and is tugging at the inside of the kid's sphincter. He lets it sit at the extreme point of the stretch, pushes back in as far as he can, then yanks the fist completely out.
Chris' hole flairs out with the camera capturing the red pedals of the freshly opened boyhole, the newly revealed flesh the world has never before seen. It's the first promise that a rosebud will bloom. Chris is convulsing wildly. Manetti stands, puts a hand on the kid's heaving chest, and with his other hand he's diddling, strumming his fingers against the boy's excited hole, doesn't want to lose the gape he fought for. Before Chris has a chance to come to his senses, Manetti's inserting three, and then four fingers back inside him. It tells Chris he's still open enough to keep fisting. Chris eyes him. Manetti has broken through something, for Chris says with clear intent, "Sir, destroy my pussy."
"You want me to destroy your pussy, boy?"
"Yes, Sir. I want you to give me a sloppy cunt."
"You got a nasty mouth, boy."
He sits back down on the stool, and there's a new lasciviousness that wasn't in Manetti’s eyes before. The camera captures this; the wolfish glare is what he’s known for. He applies grease, a lot of grease, to his hand and some to his large hairy cock; black hair spotted with chunks of white Crisco. He also spreads some lube over his massive balls. He's back at the boy's hole with four fingers twisting around. His second hand joins the first with another swath of grease. They're sliding over each other and the rapid stimulation shows on the boy's face. He grabs for the poppers and takes a hit. His head releases back and he's now solely focused on his hole. He feels fingers sliding in and out. Pulling at his hole. Two fingers on each side pry him open, then three fingers on each side, then four. The hands pry his hole apart so hard the hands shake. Inside his hole it feels like pudding, malleable flesh that submits to each stroke of Manetti's churning hands. One hand slips easily inside, then comes right out. The other hand disappears inside the kid's hole then reappears. Manetti's hand crunches into a fist and strains at Chris’ sphincter, trying to punch through. Chris leans his head forward and takes a couple more hits, and the fist punches in. The kid utters a loud moan. Manetti leans in, asks, "You okay, boy?"
Chris breathlessly answers, "Punch my fuckin' pighole." His words are so in front of his mind, id run away from ego, they spew before he catches up not knowing if he means them, although Manetti takes him at his word.
Manetti does punch his fuckin’ pighole, let's loose all his fury. At first, one fist, in and out, then the other, in and out. He's building up momentum until Chris is wailing in delirium. He pulls out a fist violently to watch the hole again flair open, this time much larger, almost the size of his palm. Chris' body shakes until Manetti puts a single finger on Chris gaping hole. He is in charge of that hole; he will tell it when it is allowed to have an orgasm. "Take more hits, boy."
Chris does, and with a head clouded with poppers, Manetti resumes his repetitive punching, but now, Chris grabs his legs and pulls them to his chest, pulling his ass cheeks apart, begging to be Manetti's puppet. Manetti obliges, inserting a fist and goes deep, pulling out quickly, then inserting a second fist in as far as it will go. It's not as rapid, but it’s a much deeper punch. Chris is not only taking it but continuing to pull his legs apart further. In fact, he's taking his right leg with both arms and falling to his left side in the sling, moaning like a whore pushing his boy pussy obscenely out of the sling for Manetti to pummel.
It's too much for Manetti seeing the boy in such a lewd pose. He needs to fuck this cunt right now, while he's in this state of abandoned delirium. He’s turned the kid into a whore and he’s the stud who gets the reward of fucking a possessed cunt! He grabs both of Chris' legs and pulls him forward in the sling. He stuffs his gaping hole with his cock, then pops one wiry ball in, then the other. He fucks him in short, staccato strokes.
Chris is in rapture and eggs Manetti on, squeezing as much of his loosened sphincter as he can. What he lacks in strength he makes up in how extended his pussy has stretched. With his entire rectum he surrounds Manetti's genitals, both cock and balls, in a gelatinous, gluey grip. He knows—he feels!—Manetti's hairy balls scraping against his bowels. He experiences Manetti gyrating inside him, perceives a iron erection stirring his entrails. Wanting him to cum in him, spread his dirty cum in his raw hole, he begs and pleads aloud for Manetti to breed him, to knock him up. Manetti pulls out completely. His balls swing freely dripping lube and other viscous droppings. His engorged cock plops out and slaps Chris’ balls. The kid jumps. Manetti likes what he sees, so he slaps his balls again with a greasy hand. Instead of retreating, the kid pushes his balls up toward Manetti's chest. The man grabs the kid’s balls and twists them till the kid cries in agony. With his other greasy hand Manetti smacks his ass, then plays with the boy’s hole, lowering him down. He takes the hand that smacked the kid's ass and penetrates him with it. The kid gasps, but accepts the hand immediately, starts squirming on it, becomes ravished by it.
Manetti is in heat. He takes his dick and inserts it into the palm of the hand that’s inside Chris. It's far more girth then Chris has so far endured. You can see that in his strained face. But he's not rejecting it. His desire for Manetti overwhelms everything. He wants Manetti's to jerk off inside him, he encourages it with a slight rocking movement. When Manetti stops the boy realizes Manetti wants to control his own hand job, so Chris completely submits, holds his legs apart so Manetti can do what he wants to him. Manetti observes the complete, utter subservience as does the camera. There's not much movement for you to see for a moment except in close-up of the hole. There's a rapid vibration only showing in the tendons of Manetti's wrist. He’s jerking his hand inside the hole. Manetti contorts his face as Chris watches in awe. He's getting close, says his eyes. Chris relaxes some muscles to encourage Manetti to use more of his insides to beat off. He's fisting his cock just as violently as he's fisting Chris' hole. The more Chris submits to Manetti's violet masturbation, the harder Chris realizes he's getting fisted. It's win-win. They're in perfect sync. Manetti is using long strokes to pleasure himself and Chris is writhing in pleasure. Manetti releases as Chris' eyes roll back in his head. Manetti's trained to show the money shot but he's locked into this moment of seeding this hole. He explodes, shoots deep into the bowels, sending his fist into the innermost depths. He pulls out very briefly to show cum leaking from his dick, but he's quick to get back inside, still jetting, smearing his dickhead around and around Chris' entrails. He squeezes every last drop out of his balls. He pinches his foreskin to not leave any semen behind.
They both stare at each other. Manetti drips sweat onto Chris, who's also shimmering in heat. Manetti has a look of relief of a man who has given everything and held nothing back; Chris looks beatific, fulfilled—a bride inseminated. Manetti looks in his wide blue eyes, raises an eyebrow, and floods his hole with piss. Chris looks surprised, and states astonished, "You’re whizzing in me." Manetti pulls out for a second, pisses all over him, then reinserts himself. He flashes his famous shark tooth smile. Chris sends an identical shark tooth grin right back.
"Cut!" shouts the director, pleased.