Last Known Address

Last Known Address-ch7

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LAST KNOWN ADDRESS

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by Stephen Shore

7. Night of the Green Fairy

It was early evening. Above the compound, the last light of day blushed scarlet between the treetops’ canopy. Deep male laughter and the clinking of dinner plates came from the main house. The cabana’s picture window shades were open, and from the courtyard tiki flames illuminated the room in warm flickering light and shadows. Chris sat up groggy on the edge of the bed trying to focus. For a second he panicked searching for his bag on the floor. It sat on the nightstand where he’d left it. The nightstand’s drawer was open. Although the room was dark, inside he saw the lube they used and poppers, but also a large assortment of dildos, some black, some flesh-color, white nylon rope, dog collars, cuffs and other stuff, things he had no idea what they were for. He closed the drawer and picked up his bag and shuffled to the bathroom mirror, flicked on the light to examine his neck. It was fine, unbruised, still red though from Polanski the night before. He set the bag on the toilet seat. Manetti was good, going to extremes but knowing where to draw the line.

His stomach growled as he stepped in the shower to wash off the crud of sex. It’d been almost twenty-four hours since he’d had the Popeye’s chicken. No wonder he was starving. While he was drying off, a succulent fragrance wafted in the air. He looked in his bag and felt his clothes were still damp. Dang, why didn’t he remembered to hang them out? He was such a moron. He draped them on the shower rod. That left only the baggy red track suit to wear. He climbed into it, cinched his pants, but before going in search of food--and Manetti--he went out with his bag, crawled under to the middle of the cabana and stuffed the green bag between two joists. He climbed back onto the pool deck, brushed sand off his knees, and went to the main house.

Tobias Glass stood at the head of a black lacquered dining table surrounded by his friends, Manetti among them. He was holding court in his favorite green silk kimono, pushing back a decorative katana sword stand on a side table to make room for the finished dinnerware. On a blue Flemish plate with windmills and Dutch girls dancing in clogs, lines of coke were being passed around. A sprightly septuagenarian, Tobias was a tall, thin man with wild, curly gray hair, whose eyes never rested, continually observing his guests, making sure everyone was enjoying themselves. He made his way around the table, making a comment, picking up a dish, running his long fingers through Chet Brunswick’s wavy locks. Tobias was the first to notice Chris coming into the main house through the sliding door. Cheers erupted around the table as the boy slid the screen closed.

“Sleeping beauty!” Manetti called out to him. “Everybody. This is the Chris Prior, Big Ben’s little brother, I was telling you about.” Knowing glances flashed around the table. “We finished, Chief, but I saved your plate.” He was embarrassed by the sudden attention and a little uneasy about what Manetti had told the table. He smiled shyly at Tobias who had his hand parked on Chet Brunswick’s shoulder. Brunswick wiggled his bushy eyebrows at Chris, one of his trademarked gestures that seemed to make its way into every episode. Chris’ heart skipped a beat.

“Sit. Eat,” said Tobias, collecting the lasts of the dinnerware. The chair next to Manetti was empty. As soon as Chris was settled in Manetti served up several slices of pork tenderloin, asparagus in a rich hollandaise sauce and creamy mash potatoes. Across from Chris sat Brunswick’s traveling companion, a very aristocratic, very pretty young boy only a year or two older than Chris. Tobias was making the rounds of introductions, saying he was sure Chris new Chet Brunswick. Chris nodded assuredly, trying to stop himself from staring. “And his...secretary, Andrew Hollister. Secretary? Seriously, that’s not what you’re calling him, dear,” he pleaded to Brunswick.

“Personal assistant,” Brunswick said, smiling wryly.

“Very personal,” said a short, muscular man at the end of the table. In his early thirties, balding, he sported a mustard-colored horseshoe mustache, and was passing his empty dinner plate up to Tobias.

“Andy,” Andrew Hollister added to his introduction, not looking at Chris but tipping a rolled twenty dollar bill down to the plate of coke. For all his refined facial features, high cheekbones, dark hair that contrasted with his deep set blue eyes and deeper tan, he filled out his tank top, pecs and arms, with impressively cut muscles. On second glance, though, Chris couldn’t help notice his neck seemed disproportionately thin compared to the rest of his bulk.

“And at this end of the table, this little person barely able to get his wee arms up to the table,” Tobias continued, and then said to the man in a mock aside, “I do wish you’d let me get you a booster seat, dear. You might recognize, Chris, if you can see him, Mister David Crusher, he of Crusher Gyms.” Tobias was ridiculing the short, but clearly not dwarfish man at the end. The man’s broad, generous smile oozed confidence, some might even say conceit. Chris could tell he relished Tobias’ attention. He saluted Chris with his wine glass. Despite his stature Chris saw he was a serious body builder, hiding bulging arms and massive shoulders underneath his white hooded pullover. What hair he still had he buzzed short, which only accentuated his jovial face, his small button nose, and a serious cleft in his chin.

He clasped Tobias’ hand in mock pity, saying, “He’s not going to recognize me, you daft old queen. But I know you forget thing so easily at your age. Don’t you remember Manetti telling us a few minutes ago this is the kid’s first time in New York?” Tobias smacked his hands away and took his empty dish to the side table. “Yo, Hip hop,” Crusher teased Chris. For a small guy, his voice was surprisingly deep and rich, with a friendly jockishness that suggested he schmoozed easily with his fellow bodybuilders and wealthy investors alike. “You know Manetti’s a real low life. A clean cut kid like you shouldn’t be hanging around with the likes of him. You’ll get fleas.”

“I’m hardy old,” Tobias injected, dabbing a napkin to his lips, then taking a pile of dishes into the kitchen.

“Listen, Fireplug,” Manetti responded to Crusher, “Stop trying to steal my date. The kid’s perfectly satisfied. Trust me.” Chris gave Manetti a startled look to see if he was being as protective as he sounded. He also couldn’t believe Manetti called him his date.

“Wine, Chris?” offered the man sitting on the other side of him. He held up a bottle of Chablis.

“Thank you. Just water, please,” he answered. The man poured him a glass from a pitcher. Chris noted the iced pitcher had lemon rinds floating in it. Black rimmed glasses with thick lenses magnified the older man’s hazel eyes. He was fiftyish, had a long horse face that was kindly and calm, salt and pepper hair slicked back, not quite handsome but a smile that made his eyes shine attractively. He, too, appeared to be built under his Columbia University sweat shirt. Pairing everyone off, Chris assumed he was with Crusher.

“I’m so sorry,” cried Tobias hurrying in from the kitchen, sitting back at the head of the table. “Forgive me Chris. Last and certainly not the least is Mother, Jacob Goodman, nee esquire, now professor of law,” Tobias said, waving a long green sleeve at the man next to Chris. “My husband of twenty-two long, excruciating years.”

“Tobias, if you keep this up, we’ll have to seal you back in your coffin before the party guest arrive.”

“Promises, promises,” Tobias sang. “Now Michael, my pet,” he said, placing his spindly hand over Manetti’s paw. “I know you said you and Chris want to keep a low profile, and you may if you must. But you do know you arrived on Towel Night.”

Between gobbling down forkfuls of pork, potatoes and asparagus, Chris asked what Towel Night was. He’d finished his plate and Manetti was piling on a few more tenderloin slices.

Everyone glanced around the table suppressing grins. Crusher sniffed loudly and passed the tray of coke to Jacob. Jacob tapped Chris’ shoulder and offered more asparagus. Chris nodded enthusiastically. As he was serving, Jacob explained, “Tobias and I host a bacchanal for selected guests, no more than eighteen or twenty, mind you, men that throughout the summer have caught his and my eye.” He set down the asparagus and quickly bent down and snorted two lines, then perked back up and continued a little more brightly. “The Towel Party is a Fire Island institution! It’s not suitable for wallflowers or twinks, but since you’re our house guest you’ll be treated like a dignitary.”

Tobias broke in, “Or at least a novelty.” All the men laughed except Manetti, who eyed Chris. Tobias went on to explain further, “A white towel and white face mask along with an invitation were left on each of the invitees’ doorsteps late last night.” He added to the table as an aside, “This year, gentlemen, you won’t believe the variety. A potpourri of perversity!” To Chris he said, “The invitation is for ten o’clock, and the celebrant is expected to wear the towel, mask and nothing more.”

“One question, Mr. Glass,” interrupted Andy, finishing his Chablis. “Aren’t most houses home to several men, for the most part? How do they know whom the invitation is for?”

“That’s the fun part. Self-selection,” Tobias answered. “It’s a house’s decision who they designate. And they almost always select the most philistine participant, making for the most delicious, unpredictable party. Even if it turns out to not be the one Mother and I had an eye on, the collective house knows best, don’t they dear?” Jacob agreed wholeheartedly. “The result is always better than we could have anticipated or hoped for--and always in surprising ways.”

“Chris?” Jacob said, passing the coke tray to him.

“No thank you, sir,” he said, passing the tray to Manetti, finishing his last bites of food.

Manetti said, “What. You’re suddenly a prude about drugs?”

“I’m still eating,” Chris groused. “And I don’t want to.”

“Oh, Mother,” crooned Tobias. “An old married couple already, just like us.”

“Do it,” was all Manetti had to say. Chris growled and snatched back the tray glaring at Manetti.

After coming back up, wiping his nose, Chris asked, “Mr. Glass. What is a bacchanal?”

“Oh, dear,” said Tobias.

***

The small dinner party had moved outside. Down in a freshly lit fire pit, Brunswick sliced the air with the katana blade, showing Chris and Crusher some swordfight moves from a recent episode. Chris watched enthralled. Crusher was duly impressed. Andy not so much. Manetti had maneuvered Tobias to get him alone by the pool, and was quizzing him about boats he thought might be for sale. Tobias’ eyebrows raised as Manetti explained that Drax authorized him to purchase a yacht, which is what brought him and Chris here today.

“I can’t quite picture Drax on the open sea,” said Tobias, lighting another cigarette as he put out his first. Jacob walked by, frowning at Tobias as he passed, carrying coffee mugs to Brunswick and Crusher. “Don’t give me that look, Mother. It’s only my second.”

“He has some idea about a new series of videos,” Manetti went on. “Something like Chris the cabin boy, or something like that.”

“Mmm,” Tobias pondered, blowing smoke into the air. “Sailors, pirates, swarthy men who haven’t bathed in months, capture an innocent boy and teach him the ways of the sea. Ah, the timeless story.” Tobias raised his hand as if reading a marque. “Shanghai Seduction. I’d buy that. Hell, I'd produce it if Drax would let me be the fluffer.” He took another long drag off his cigarette. “Well, as a matter of fact, we have some acquaintances that own a mortuary in Montclair. Very macabre characters, with unseemly tastes. If half the rumors are true I certainly wouldn’t leave Chris alone in their company. They’re calling it quits after thirty years. Such a pity. Boris caught Roger milking the milkman.”

From the fire pit Jacob corrected, “He was a beer distributor.”

“Shush. A milkman makes for a much better story. Anyway, they’ll be docking here in the morning. They always take the week before the Fourth off. If you’re serious I can have them for brunch, but only if you’re serious. They are undertakers, after all. Not really the life of the party.” He exploded with laughter. Manetti snorted. “I have a feeling that aside from all the mishegas of selling the business, the house, oy, I can’t image, they’ll most likely want to get rid of their yacht.”

Jacob came up behind Tobias and rested his hands on his shoulders. “Who will get Wallace, do you suppose?”

“Oh, dear. I hadn’t thought about their Great Dane. Poor Wallace. I suppose they’ll have to use the katana and split him in half.” The two men chortled.

Manetti pressed, “How much do you think a boat like theirs would run.”

Jacob squeeze in next to Tobias on the lounge chair, “They bought it ten years ago, didn’t they?” Tobias nodded. “That yacht at today’s prices? Maybe one hundred fifty, one sixty. I wouldn’t go any higher. Have you seen how worn and cracked the outdoor seating is?” Jacob said sliding his hand over Tobias kimono sleeve. “Almost as cracked and worn out as they are.” Jacob croaked, while Tobias gave him a playful slap on the wrist.

Chris had overheard part of the conversation about yachts and, since Brunswick had finished his demonstration and was putting the sword away inside, he drifted over with his hands behind his back. The coke made him feel mischievous and also a bit daring from all the male attention he was getting. He let his jogging suit fall off in back of Manetti and then, knees to chest, exploded an enormous cannon ball in the pool just inches from him.

The spray drenched Manetti's entire head and back, water dribbled down his forehead. “That’s it, you little prick,” he said, stripping off his jeans and vest. He dove naked into the water chasing Chris who was squealing with delight. The dinner party gathered round the pool laughing as Manetti caught up with the skinny boy, picked him up by the neck and legs, rose him naked kicking and hollering high in the air, and threw him into the deep end.

Crusher stripped off his top and shorts revealing a large, semi-erect woody. He dove in and swam up next to the submerged Chris. Chris popped up wiping his eyes. He said to the boy, “I told you he was low rent scum, didn’t I?” He ran his hand up Chris’ torso. “You come stay with Uncle Crusher when you get back to the city. I’ve got a guest room and I’d like to see what I can do with this body,” he said, as underwater he groped the boy’s hairless crotch.

Manetti quickly swam up and got between Crusher and boy. “Afraid he’s got other plans, Uncle Crusher.” Manetti wrapped an arm around Chris’ torso and swam away with his charge.

“What, you got a monopoly on the whole family, Manetti?” Crusher bellowed.

“Gentlemen, niceness. I’m sure there’s enough Chris for everyone, isn’t there Michael?” Tobias ventured.

“Not for free, there isn’t,” Manetti said, urging Chris out of the pool.

“What a crab, Manetti,” Chris said, grabbing a white towel and going back over to the fire pit. Manetti followed him, wiping himself off and settling into one of the chairs next to Chris. Brunswick came over and sat opposite Chris. He pulled off his shirt flexing his chest, clearly for Chris’ benefit. The boy toweled his hair, astonished, seeing in real life what he’d fantasized about so often in his bedroom back home.

“Yeah, Manetti, what a crab,” Crusher said, joining them with his own towel tucked around his waist. Manetti finished drying, popped his towel under his butt and wrapped the towel around his waist. Instead of covering himself like the others, Chris flung his towel around his shoulders and sat provocatively with his legs spread wide for Brunswick’s benefit. Tobias and Jacob had gone in the house and were bringing back several glasses filled with a fluorescent green liquid.

Tobias took a look at Chris who was starting to get an erection. “Oh dear,” he said, handing the boy a glass. “And before any of the guests have even arrived.”

As Tobias and Jacob finished handing out the spirits, Chris asked, “What is this, Mr. Glass.”

“It’s called le fée verte, a Towel Party tradition,” Tobias replied.

“The green fairy,” Andy translated for Brunswick trying to distract him from Chris’ noticeable and none too shabby hairless boner.

“Absinthe?” guessed Brunswick.

“Certainement,” responded Jacob. “We always have a shot before the festivities begin.”

Crusher sniffed his glass. “They say, absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.” He looked up at Chris. The boy didn't really get the joke but liked Crusher a lot and snickered.

Andy held his glass to the light of a tiki torch. “But it’s illegal in the states, isn’t it?”

Brunswick clucked his tongue at Andy. “And how many lines of coke have you done tonight, young man?” He ran his hand up Andy’s smooth leg, into his shorts and gave a squeeze. Andy beamed an embarrassed but radiant smile, a smile that showed just how smitten he was with the actor.

“Illegal? Then I’m in,” Chris said. He downed his glass all the while looking at Manetti. “Oh, yuck, dude! That’s nasty.”

“Dear, boy,” Tobias rushed over to Chris. “It’s meant to be sipped.” He ruffled his blond mop. “Ooo, I could just eat you up! Now, if you’re good," he said conspiratorially, "I’ll show you a neat little trick, but you’ll have to come to the table to see it. And you have to wrap your towel. You’re distracting everyone. Look. Poor Mister Crusher can’t keep from poking through his towel.” Several of the men took small sips. Manetti downed his absinthe in one defiant gulp, and followed Chris and Tobias to the patio table. Crusher followed and, true to what Tobias indicated, was having a time of it trying to keep his towel tied with his very impressive hardon tenting out.

When Manetti and Chris sat down on either side of Tobias, he refilled their drinks. Brunswick and Andy grew curious and gathered round the table. Over the two refilled glasses Tobias produced two slotted spoons and set them atop the rims. From the table’s sugar bowl Tobias picked out two sugar cubes, dipped them in his own absinthe and set them on the spoons. Jacob dimmed the porch lights, then brought over a book of matches and lit the cubes. They all watched as ghostly green flames wavered above the glasses. Tobias informed the group, “This is the old bohemian method of drinking absinthe.” He twisted the spoons and let the flaming cubes fall into the glass. The entire contents lit up, casting a bright green light over the men's faces.

Chris was fascinated with the green fire. Manetti tried to look indifferent but felt slightly hypnotized by the light.

Tobias extended his green kimono-draped hand over the flame. “Et voila! The flaming green fairy.”

“You or the absinthe?” Crusher quipped. That got even Manetti laughing.

“This was the only way Baudelaire drank his absinthe,” Jacob said.

Andy added, “I read Oscar Wilde did too.”

“It brings out all sorts of dark impulses--harbinger of our darkest angels, Edgar Allen Poe wrote.” Tobias said to those around the table, “You’ll soon see why Van Gogh painted in the manner he did.” He wagged a finger at Manetti. “Now no cutting off Chris’ ear, Michael.” Manetti and Chris looked at each other blankly having no idea what the man was talking about.

Chris held up the clouded green liquid and blew out his flame. He waited till it was cool enough to drink and tasted a sip. “It’s like licorice,” he said.

The rest of the men wanted to try their absinthe the bohemian way, too. Manetti again shot back his in a single gulp. As Tobias poured out another round, Jacob warned everyone that cooking the absinthe made it a lot stronger and brought out the legendary hallucinatory qualities.

“Yes, Mother,” Tobias sighed, igniting everyone’s drink.

“Mr. Brunswick?” Chris said, rubbing a hand over his thin chest. The combination of the coke and the initial effects of the absinthe had given him the courage to seek out his hero’s advice.

“Call me Chet, Chris,” he said, blowing out the flame in his glass and taking a sip.

“Mr. Ch--? I mean Chet,” Chris snickered. He started tweaking his nipples unconsciously. Manetti pushed his hand down. “Um, what was I going to say? Oh yeah.” He took another sip as Manetti grabbed for his glass. Chris held his glass aloft and continued. “You remember that episode where these crooks confronted a crooked cop, killed him and stole all his money?”

“That set up, Chris,” he responded, rubbing a hand through his fleecy chest. He too was starting to feel the absinthe. “That plot seemed to happen in a lot of episodes.”

“Yeah,” Chris said, looking at his idol’s chest, the pecs so round, his shoulders so hard. “Um, if there was a third guy that didn’t know any better, but the crooks got him to fetch them the illegal money, ‘cause the money was from drugs that the dirty cop had been skimming off of, and this third innocent guy kills the two crooks, and steels their money, would Stacks Lightning still have to track him down?”

Manetti caught a quick exchange between Jacob and Tobias, stood up and grabbed Chris glass.

“He’d say the money should be turned over to the police, I would guess.”

“But if he didn’t? If say, he bought a...?” Chris looked at the mustache and wondered what it would feel like if Chet was sucking his cock with the mustache brushing his skin, "bought a boat..." or if they got into sixty-nining and the mustache was tickling his balls.

“Dirty money has a habit of getting people dirty, son.”

“That’s what I say, too. Makes you dirty,” Chris looked over at Manetti. “Real dirty. The money’s gotta go to the authorities.”

There was a knock at the compound’s archway. The door opened, and an extremely buff Latino man with long caramel hair strolled in accompanied by a regal Black man with long grey dreadlocks and a burly brown-bearded bear of a man. They all wore towels, their white masks and varying degrees of joviality. Tobias got up to greet his first guests putting on his own mask, while Manetti picked Chris up under his arm, saying he wanted to talk to him. He dragged the protesting Chris to their cabana, tossed him on the crusty bedsheets, and locked the door.

“That’s it for you tonight. You’re grounded.”

“No,” whined Chris, finding it difficult to get off the bed. “I want to play with those guys. I want to play with Chet.”

“You got too big of a mouth.” Chris was about to holler, but Manetti covered his mouth and pinned him to the bed. He raised a finger to warn Chris to behave, but Chris was struggled drunkenly and noisily. Manetti, too, was feeling the effects of the absinthe and knew he had to act quickly. He opened the nightstand’s drawer. He rifled through the paraphernalia. Out came a muzzle that went over Chris face. He cinched it tight. Chris tried to speak but his voice was severely muted. Manetti then took out some rope, tied the boy’s hands together and looped it into one of several discreet eye hooks behind the headboard. Chris rolled around trying to get up but Manetti used his weight to secure the boy, first tying one leg, then the other, till the boy was spread eagle on the bed. He battled against the ropes, but the little snot wasn’t going anywhere.

Once he was assured Chris couldn’t escape, he observed his helplessness. Maybe it was the green fairy but he was starting to get aroused. His cock stirred beneath the folds of the towel. He looked the boy over, his eyes squinting with brooding thoughts. He sided up next to him and started stroking the defenseless boy’s cock, wanting him excited as he was. “So I’m a crab, am I?” Chris stopped contesting, and lay still. There was a new tone in Manetti’s voice, not quite playful anymore, a note of corrupt intent. “You know you've been trouble all night. You've been disobedient.” The tone his father took when he was about to get a beating. Manetti starting scanning the room. “Do you think I haven't noticed the gym bag’s not here. Where is it? What did you do with it?” he asked menacingly, not playing around. Not playing with his dick, just gripping it hard.

Genuine fear lit up in Chris’ eyes.

Manetti reached into the bondage drawer and brought out a thick studded dog collar. “I think it’s time we play a new game. A game where you learn your place, the same way Drax schooled me.” He locked the collar around Chris’ neck. He shuffled through the drawer’s contents, found something that brought up an evil smile. He pulled out a roll of copper wire and an electro kit. "I can stretch this game out for a very long time and it never leaves a trace. Or you can tell me where it is. The bag." Hearing no response, slowly he wrapped each one of Chris’ testicles tightly so they each stood out away from his body. He then attached alligator clips to the end of each wire and connected it to the kit. “Where it is?” He lubed his fingers and rubbed the tip of Chris erect shaft. With his other hand he turned on the machine. Chris instantly felt as if rubber bands were snapping his balls. The ceaseless electric shocks made his body dance on the bed. Manetti turned the dial down, and repeated the question. Chris refused to answer as much from his inborn stubbornness as resistance to Manetti coercion. Manetti turn the dial up again. He continued to rub the kid’s nob, beginning to confuse Chris’ sense between pleasure and pain. “The money, kid. Where. Is. It?” He turned the dial higher and stroked his fist tighter around Chris’ erection. Chris pleaded under his muzzle for Manetti to stop. Feeling the power he had over this boy, Manetti started playing with himself. He asked Chris, “It almost feels good, doesn’t it?” He jacked them both. “Almost.” He upped the voltage again and Chris shuddered, real tears forming in his eyes.

“Under the house,” he confessed through his muzzle, praying Manetti would stop.

“Which house? This house?” Chris nodded. “Too many people outside.” Manetti looked wild contemplating his next move. He stared at Chris like a stranger, his dark brows scowling. His expression changed from anger to hurt. “Why’d you hide it from me?" He dialed the kit back up not for fun but to make him feel pain like he felt. "I could have just swiped it you know.”

The voltage going through his balls brought out a scream but party music had started and a large chorus of men milling around the pool muffled his cry. Chris yelled for help. That made Manetti’s mask switch back to anger. He dialed the machine even higher. Chris repeatedly begged for him to stop, but his pleas were easily drowned out by the thumping disco music. Manetti closed his eyes. He’d never seen this side of Manetti. Didn’t want to. “Stop!” came out as a muffled plea.

Manetti turned off the kit. On re-opening, Manetti’s eyes were clouded, it looked like he didn’t recognize Chris, only that he had a tied up naked body before him. From the drawer he withdrew a leather hood that covered Chris' head down to his cheeks leaving only two eye slits to peer through. He laid a case on the bed and unzipped it. The case revealed twelve shiny metal instruments, long rods whose widths ran from thin to very thick, secured onto a bed of red velvet. Manetti removed one of the thinner ones. He was still stroking the thin body of the boy, but stopped momentarily to grease the rod. “You need to mind completely. Do whatever ever I say when I say it.” He pushed Chris’ pole straight up. With his pinky finger, he pushed lubricant into the boy’s piss slit, then held the instrument against the opening. He let it slide in about an inch, sending shockwaves over Chris as he realized what was about to happen. Manetti took a firm grip of his cock and stroking it, encouraged the weight of the rod to penetrate the boy’s urethra. It slowly made its way down. At first Chris bucked against the invasion, but that made the rod fall even faster so he stopped, tried to accept it, and felt it ooze steadily and unrelentingly downward. He flung his head back and forth at the odd and unnatural sensation. Never thought anything could enter him so intimately, so overwhelming his sense of what could and what couldn’t be done to his body. With every inch he wanted it out of him, but with every inch it seduced him with its callous indifference. There was a slight S-shape bend in it, and about four inches in, it fell quickly in line with the contours of his channel, slid swiftly in all the way. Manetti then once again started stroking him. The thrill of steel violating his body like this, having Manetti control all his senses, was enough to bring him to an orgasm in spite of the perversity or perhaps because of it. Manetti read how the faceless body bucked in his hand. He released the cock and let it bob on its own, as the kid twitched but didn’t cum. He pulled the tip of the rod almost all the way out then let it slide back in again on its own accord. After minutes of these internal dick fucks, Chris grew to desire this new feeling of his penis being tortured, loved that Manetti was his torturer. When Manetti allowed him to jerk his cock into his hand, Chris realized this man could do anything to him he wanted. “Are you a good boy?” Manetti pulled out one of the thicker instruments and held it up to Chris to contemplate. Chris shook his head both with fear and excitement. “No, you aren’t a good boy?” Chris nodded that he was. “Oh, you’re saying you want this?” Chris shook his head no. “Doesn’t really matter what you want, boy.” The man pulled the tip of the sound out, lubed the new thicker rod, pushed more lube in his slit and held the sound against Chris’ thin opening. “I’ll eventually fuck your cock with my pinkie. Think you’ll like that?”

Manetti pushed the thicker sound into his piss slit. Chris cried No! under his muzzle, but the heavy rod dropped steadily and painfully down his shaft, stretching it wider than his urethra was meant to stretch. The boy rasped inside his muzzle, his body shaking at the odd and torturous discomfort. Manetti had started stroking him again, again confusing his receptors, unable to determine whether he wanted this feeling or wanted it to stop. Manetti wouldn’t stop either way so he laid there while the rod inched its way down, aided by Manetti’s pumping fist. The rod halted about three inches into his shaft. Manetti eased his grip and with his fingers started rubbing the spot in his shaft just below where the sound had stopped. The finger stimulated Chris’ urethra, involuntary inviting the painful invader to continue its journey. It fell in deeper. Manetti kept at him, lightly scratching further down his shaft, provoking the painful acceptance of the monstrously thick instrument. Tiring of how long it was taking, Manetti pushed the remaining inch of the sound into Chris, who let out a muffled holler of pain. He then took sadistic delight in pulling the large rod out and back in, spending an extraordinary amount of time watching the boy’s body go from excruciating agony to mild excitement and, eventually, complete rapture. The boy gradually began fucking the air, gyrating his hips. “Good little pain pig. That’s it, be daddy’s pain addict. You like this, don’t you, fucker.” Chris' brain was too addled to respond. All he knew to do was fuck the air harder to keep the instrument poking his prostate. He’d convulse uncontrollably, then return to fucking the fucker inside his shaft. He was ready to blow but Manetti felt darker impulses emerge. He pulled off the boy's mask and intimately appraised Chris face. How easy it was, Manetti thought, to pervert the boy. How the kid’s instincts, being Ben’s brother, were on the slutty side anyway. He decided he wanted to be the one to push him over the edge, make him a dirtier pig than even he was.

He left the sound where it was and searched the drawer withdrawing several plastic tubes, a metal ball clam and hex key, and a hand pump, and placed all of it on the bed. “You think you’re some fucking clean cut kid. But I know there’s a dirty street whore in you, a homeless pussy boy who'd do anything for a meal, anything for his next fix.” He licked the kid’s nipple and placed one of the smaller tubes over it and pumped it till it sucked in a good inch of the kid’s tit. He did the same for the other one. It didn’t hurt but Chris saw how plump his nipples were in the vacuum. Soon he’d have utters like Manetti and Master Drax.

Manetti unwrapped the copper wire and pulled Chris’ balls painfully down, locking the thick ball weight around his stretched testicles. With the hex key, he locked it in place. “Who owns you now, boy?”

“You do, Sir,” Chris called out from under the muzzle, hoping Manetti would let him go.

“Hardly mine yet, boy,” Manetti replied. “Soon though. Sometime tonight you're going to prove to me you're a whore. Only then will you'll be mine.” He picked out a very large butt plug with a metal strip running down it. He generously applied lube and twisted it into Chris ass, who grunted as it was going in. As it stretched his ass open to the object’s full width, Chris’ protesting cries came to a crescendo. His ass lips slipped over its wide smooth edge and, as it quickly narrowed, his sphincter pulled it into himself. Chris breathed heavily trying to adjust to the huge object now inside his rectum. Its base kept his anus opened with a constant three inch stretch. Manetti took the wire that came out of the butt plug’s base and connected it into the electro kit. He then took an alligator clip and attached it to the tip of the thick sound going into the boy's shaft. He adjusted some setting and flicked it on. “This cycles up for a very long time before it comes back down. You’re going to love it. Or maybe not. I didn’t at first, but Drax used it to finally persuade me to not only use my hole, but to be it.”

Chris felt the first tiny spark slowly run down his penis, then snap sharply through his prostate and land on the metal edge of the butt plug traveling from inner tip slowly ascending out to his sphincter. Once the journey ended, it began again. Tip to root, snap through his prostate, and run out his hole. It didn't really hurt, more or less tickled.

“Do you know the story of the frog who was put in a bowl of warm water and was slowly boiled to death?” Manetti asked the muzzled Chris. “That’s the setting on the machine. It's called the boiled frog. The voltage increases so slowly you won’t realize when it eradicates what's up here,” he said, tapping Chris’ temple. “After, all you’ll see yourself as, is as a hole.”

The spark was manageable. Not painful. Its regularity was almost soothing. Almost.

Manetti got up and after washing up in the bathroom came back in and searched his jeans, pulling out a small baggy of white powder. “Holy Christ, do you even know how hot you look right now, baby? I don’t know why," he said with glossy eyes, "but I'm lovin' the idea of whoring you out all night. I want you to take so many loads you’re going to be shitting cum into next week.” He returned to the bathroom and soon came back with two orange-capped rigs. Tapping the vial to the light, Manetti said, his voice dispassionate and clinical, “This’ll get you through the next hour. You want to flirt with Crusher and Brunswick? I’ll let you play with them all you want. I want everyone to play with you, but first they gotta pay. Don’t move your arm.” Manetti felt for a protruding vein, stuck him, saw the flash of red, and slammed him good. Chris coughed beneath the muzzle. Manetti ran a hand across his hot flesh, his skinny ribs, the smooth concave belly. He lightly stroked the boy’s flicking dick. The kid responded with the expected quiver everywhere he touched. He removed the muzzle. “You want dick, don’t you, boy?”

Chris licked his lips as if starving. “Yeah, Sir,” he said in a steady and determined voice, eyes like large black pearls. “Lots of dick. And fist, Sir. Lots of fists.” Chris bobbed his head eagerly, mouthed a silent thank you. Every now and then his hips twitched as the voltage leapt through his prostate.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Manetti responded, uncapping his rig. He stuck himself, rode the rush, and steadied himself with a hand on the door. He turned off the lights, opened the drapes, and left Chris to spin, while he went out to fuck someone or get fucked, he didn’t give a fuck which, and then come back to fetch Chris for his first trick of many.

The door clicked shut. In the dark, Chris laid spread eagle on the bed, rushing wildly, shuddering lightly. Pain sat with him so he wasn’t alone. It was becoming familiar, pain was, not a friend exactly--maybe more of an escort. He glanced through the window, each round of electricity growing a little more pronounced, drilling a bit deeper into his permanent hard wiring.

He looked through the window. It was an aquarium. In the wavering light refracting from the pool, a sea of a hundred naked men swam toward him.

***

Midnight

"C'mon! Up-ee!"

Manetti came in the room clapping his hands, startling Chris. The room had a foul stench. Chris was sweating profusely, and had moistened the bedsheets with their dried butt juice from earlier that day. The kid was oblivious to the stink, awash in perpetual, carnal thoughts, though if you pressed him he couldn't tell you one of them. Manetti turned off the electro kit and started taking off all of Chris attachments. Manetti smacked his lips, his nostril flaring with powder. "Swear to Christ, you should be paying me for this first one. It's a twofer and you better not fuck it up. Client wants his puppy to try Tina, so it has the potential to be interesting. Ah," Manetti said, pausing to admire the hour's growth of Chris' nipples, "Look at those sweet tits, man. Beautiful little eraser heads." Manetti twisted them. Chris looked down to see his nips were pretty hefty now. Nowhere near Manetti’s and far from Master Drax's, but much more plump than the tiny pimples he had before. Manetti pulled out the sound and butt plug without much protest from Chris. He untied the kid, and plunked him in the shower to wash the bed crud off. He needed to be, at the very least, initially presentable. Tricks could fuck him up as much they wanted, but let him at least start from a baseline of decency.

They left their cabana amidst men walking around cruising each other and taking off to the shadows where portable slings had been set up. All around, under the throbbing disco music, moans of sex and the scent of reefer and poppers filled the night. Manetti led the way holding a prepared .3 rig in one hand and Chris' dog leash in the other. Both wore their white towels and masks as did everyone on the grounds. Manetti walked up to the cabana next to theirs, Chet Brunswick and Andy's, and knocked. Chris looked at all the men walking by. Some stared at him, licking their chops. He licked his chops hungrily back at them until Manetti yanked his leash. "Focus," Manetti said. In the garden shadows, Chris made out slings clanking in secluded walkways. Fireflies winked their little lights in the dark.

***

Andy Hollister, in the bright California sunlight, had eyes that shined a luminescent aquamarine. No joke. What the TV star saw when he emerged from his trailer in Santa Monica, ready to film another boring expositional beach scene with his co-star, L.A. Police Chief Roy Ebbing, was Andy playing volleyball with the other day players. The extra, even from a distance was mesmerizing. Dark brown hair, a sculpted brow, a wiry frame--the kid wasn’t tall, but he was excellent at spiking the ball with a running start. As the actor approach the volleyball game to get a better look, Chet Brunswick was captivated by the extra’s eyes. He couldn’t think of one beach he’d been to--Cyprus, Oaxaca, or Zakynthos Island of Greece--that was a clearer blue than the happy kid spiking the ball against his outmatched opponents. He, Andy Hollister, was assigned a background role of one of the volleyball players that Stacks Lightning would pass on the boardwalk while milking Police Chief Ebbing for necessary plot-related intel. Walk-and-talk scenes were typically the most tedious parts of the script to film--pure exposition that was next to impossible to enliven. But that day, with a hot young twink consistently in his line of sight, each take they did gave the actor a pleasant distraction from the humdrum dialog, gave the scene an extra spark that it was missing.

After the shoot, Brunswick got the front office to track down the extra and called in a favor from one of the executive producers. Andy was offered a Production Assistant’s job, which, to him, came out of the blue, but was eager to accept it. It paid little more than job as cashier at Kentucky Fried Chicken, and the glamor of working on one of television most popular shows made him the envy of all his friends in the San Fernando Valley, especially his high school girlfriend who told everyone that Andy was starting to make it big in Hollywood.

Once Andy got comfortable in his new PA job, Brunswick started hitting him up to fetch things for him: coffee, newspapers, cocaine (discretely, from one of the prop guys). This friendship, mentorship, whatever you wanted to call it, grew to where Brunswick eventually had him running dialog between takes. One night they were filming a chase sequence at an El Segundo refinery. The shoot ended about four in the morning and Brunswick was pretty wired from the fight sequences and the cocaine he’d been doing with Andy in his trailer. As the film company was breaking down their equipment, Brunswick mentioned he was concerned for Andy riding back out to the valley so late. Why didn’t he follow him home and he could stay in the downstairs guest house. His one and only tenant had recently vacated and he could spend the night there, no problem. Andy enthusiastically agreed and followed him on his Kawasaki back to Brunswick's Malibu pad.

The house was built on the cliffs with its pier foundation drilled deep into rocks below. The main overhanging house had a small studio apartment tucked underneath where Brunswick said he could crash. When they entered, day was breaking. From the hallway Andy could see another bright, azure sky unfolding over the expansive Pacific ocean. He’d seen sunrises, of course, but never anything so amazing where blue ocean folded into blue sky. Brunswick, looking into Andy’s eyes, felt the same amazement. He took the boy’s face in his hands and spontaneously kissed him.

“Whoa. Dude!” Andy said, jumping back, but it wasn’t entirely unwelcome or unexpected. With each step of their increasing intimacy, Andy had gotten closer and more in tune with the actor’s unspoken needs. First minor innocent touches, a pat on the back, say, might be replaced with a tap on his butt; Brunswick coming out of the shower to run lines with him, the star would linger spending an inordinate amount of time naked, fluffing up his package, drying himself off. Once, running lines with him next to the catering truck on the studio backlot, Brunswick got up to a part in the script where he was supposed to kiss this week’s babe. As he got to that part, he reached out, putting a hand on Andy’s face and said, “This is where I kiss you.” Andy had never forgotten that confusing moment because right on the heels of that, Brunswick’s blond-haired teenage son and his ex-wife came on set and went off to his trailer to sign some papers of divorce. “Fuckin’ look at your eyes, man,” Brunswick said to him at the beach house that early morning. Andy, rather than backing off and playing coy, came forward and pressed his face against that famous mustache. He moved in that week, broke off with his girlfriend, and thereafter never left Brunswick’s side.

Or a better way to say it is that Brunswick never let him leave his side. Once Andy moved in, in small and subtle ways, Brunswick started to narrow his exposure with anyone else. His valley friends weren’t to visit the house. “They’re black holes that only want to be your friends so they can hang out in Malibu.” Andy disagreed but not fervently enough to actually invite any of his old friends over. One by one, friends, even family, contacted him less and less. The studio apartment downstairs where he ostensible lived was rarely used, only when studio executives came over for a dinner meeting would Andy be required to remain downstairs until they left. Brunswick nonchalantly suggested clothing Andy might wear, eventually taking him into Beverly Hills, picking out his Polo and Lacoste wardrobe. He adopted this dapper style that mirrored the actor’s, a sweater tied round his Tommy Hilfiger button-up shirt, Calvin Klein cargo pants and a Ralph Lauren sweater pushed up to show off his sinewy forearms. From happy, grungy skater kid--torn jeans, mope rock tee shirts, backward Dodger cap--to serious preppy boy in less than a year.

The second year they lived together, Brunswick had him quit his job as a PA, persuading him he’d be more content to stay home and enjoy the solitary beach, cook meals, clean, and wait for him every evening for his return. Andy was his servant, secretary, and--to Andy, anyway--his lover. He dressed in a manner that pleased Brunswick; now he took on the interests the actor had, the conservative politics the actor espoused, as well as telling anyone that enquired that he was the actor’s personal assistant. In exchange for this closeted existence, he enjoyed the finer things Brunswick exposed him to. When the show was on hiatus, they traveled first class to Paris, Bangkok, Rio, took their meals discreetly at the finest London restaurants, stayed at the best private Mediterranean villas. He was introduced to famous and, sometimes, infamous acquaintances, artists, politicians, shady characters that had “boys” of their own. It was on a flight to New York with a connecting seaplane after that, that brought Andy face to face with a naked Chris Prior standing in front of him, and a man he’d met that afternoon called Manetti, a pretty sketchy character if you wanted to know the truth, who was running a hand down the skinny blond kid’s torso, fluffing up his dick, displaying him like he was some county fair animal, like a slab of sirloin brought over as a main course by a swarthy Italian waiter.

"One hundred to fuck him. Two to fist," Manetti informed Brunswick, holding Chris’ towel in one hand, a leash in the other.

"Same price for two of us, right?" Brunswick inquired. Manetti nodded. "Does he top or only bottom?"

"Dunno," Manetti said honestly perplexed. “It’s never come up. Can you fuck, boy?"

"Fuck who?" Chris asked, only semi-aware he was on display, naked in front of Chet and Andy, both draped in their towels while he looked down seeing he was not.

"You’d fuck Andy, of course," Brunswick said. "And your status is neg, right?"

"Yes, Sir. Practically a virgin, Sir," replied Chris, giving Andy a lascivious examination. Andy thought that this didn’t seem like the same kid running around the pool squealing happily a couple of hours ago. The kid now in front of him was as crude as Manetti. He also noticed the blond was getting a pretty big hardon.

"And I’ll admin to your boy, too," Manetti added, "no charge except for product. Point three is my reco. It’ll pack a pretty good wallop for a first timer."

"Alright," Brunswick said, reaching for his wallet and pulling out several bills and handing them to Manetti.

Andy looked alarmed. “Wait, what’s this admin stuff?”

“You know how we’ve been trying to get you into fisting?” Brunswick began in his persuasive tone. Andy looked at Manetti quickly. “Well, this should open you up. It’s Tina and you inject it. You trust me, don’t you, kiddo?”

“I don’t know, Chet,” Andy said looking at the ominous needle in Manetti’s hand. “Can’t I just snort it like coke?

“Much better to have it injected, Chief,” Manetti advised. “Trust me, you’ll love it.” That was enough for Andy to sour on the whole deal. He didn’t like Manetti. Certainly would never trust him to stick a needle in his arm.

“Aw, c’mere Raggedy Andy,” Chet said, pulling Andy in close, stroking his bicep and chest. Andy went limp in his arm like he always did. “Remember our first night after you got your implants?"

Manetti asked quizzically. "Implants?"

"Yeah, how do you think my boy got so buff? No gym membership needed," Brunswick replied. He ran his hand lavishly over the boy’s expensive biceps, the sculpted deltoids, squeezed the boy’s yoked shoulders. “Baby, you remember how good the painkillers were the doctor prescribed? How I almost got all my fingers inside you? Well, this will be a hundred times better than that.”

Chris chimed in, “Yeah, you'll feel, like, so great and you get this big rush, bigger than when you take a hit of coke. Dude, I’m telling ya it’s a million times more better.”

Andy stared at Chris’ growing erection and started to feel his own dick start to rise. “Okay, but you’re staying here the whole time, Chet, right?” He definitely did not want to be alone with this thug Manetti with his prominent biohazard belly tattoo.

“The whole time, buddy. The whole time,” Chet reassured him. “Why don’t I hold you, while Manetti injects you? I’ll hold you, kiddo, if you like. Okay?” Andy nodded, still nervous.

Brunswick got situated at the headboard and pulled Andy in between his legs, put one arm on a shoulder and started massaging him, his other hand traveled over Andy's downy chest. Manetti sat next to Andy, propped a pillow under his arm, and told him to make a fist. Andy followed his instruction, and Manetti went in search of a vein. Chris sat at the edge of the bed and witnessed each detail. His hardon demonstrated how hot he was for this young man, admiring the short dark hairs that were just starting to cover his sculpted chest, the tufts of black hair tucked under his carved arms. “I can see you’re scared,” Manetti said, “I’ll just do half. You tell me if you want it all. Sound good?” Andy like the idea and nodded.

His white skin displayed many prominent blue vein possibilities. “Let's do this one, Chief,” he said poking a ridge on his forearm. “Ready?” Andy’s face said he wasn’t but Manetti went on anyway. “Okay think of a nice place you really like.” Andy thought of that first night at Chet’s, looking out the window watching the day break, seeing fins, dolphin fins in the distance. Manetti stuck him and pulled back the plunger and Andy’s red blood swirled mixing with the crystal meth. Or could they have been shark fins? “Here we go,” Manetti said slowly pushing half the vial contents into him. Andy felt an increasing warm bath of joy. How wonderful his life was, how strong his feeling was for Chet, how good it was that Chet guided him, protected him, advised him, even controlled him a little. Just this much of crystal was perfect. He held up a hand to Manetti saying as much.

“Do all of it,” Chet said coldly to Manetti.

“Wait,” Andy said. Manetti smirked and emptied the remaining meth. Andy sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. His eyes spun. He went from a smile to a grimace, back to a smile, then he lost all cognizance of where he was.

“See,” said Brunswick, “you love it don’t you, baby boy? Daddy know best, doesn’t he?”

“Ah, fuck, daddy,” stammered Andy, remembering Chet was there, holding him. “Fuck, this is so good. Ah, fuck, fuck.” Chris put his hand under Andy’s towel and started stroking his small shriveled penis. Brunswick undraped Andy and told Chris to suck him. Chris did, with pleasure. Andy moaned on the bed wanting to get up, but Brunswick held him back. Unable to move, simply taking in all the sensation of his first major Tina rush, he ran his hands over Chris’ blond mop, humping his mouth. Brunswick toyed with Andy’s nipples, played with the boy like he was a life-size rag doll. Picked up his long, thin hand and sucked his fingers, bent over and put his tongue in his ear.

"You like what daddy gives you? A cute, little teddy bear to suck your pretty little dick, a big bad wolf to shoot you up, and daddy who's finally going to get his big paw inside you tonight."

"Fuck," said Andy barely aware of what Brunswick was saying, keenly aware of how good he felt, how good a cocksucker was sucking on his dick and balls, getting his pubes so wet and warm. Who was it that was slipping a thin, wet finger across his silky crack? Who slid a finger against his velvety hole? Who wiggled its way inside? Andy wanted to slide down on this finger, and Brunswick released him. He slid down and wormed his way onto the finger that prodded against him. "Fuck," he cried as the finger passed inside him. As the drug pulsed through his body, lust encouraged him to push down on the finger so it would go in deeper.

"Yeah, that's it baby. Let the whore finger fuck you." Chris continued playing with Andy's hole. Pushing in deeper, taking his finger out, licking two, tasting Andy's musky juice, slipping the two wet fingers back into his hole, twisting them slowly. He ran his tongue up the growing shaft, felt the treasure trail of black hairs that left his dark bush and swirled up to his belly. Chris kept going till his hands reached the few hairs that speckled Andy’s breast bone between his pec implants.

Watching Chris work on Andy got Manetti aroused. His job done he pulled into the room's shadows and simply observed. Chris was getting the fucked up kid to squirm, adding in an occasional nasty sounding, yeah, fuck yourself on my fingers, yeah, that's it, let yourself enjoy it. Brunswick was also enjoy it, playing with himself, taking a swig of absinthe from the nightstand, putting it back, reaching forward and playing with Chris' nice eraser head nips.

"Alright. Up on your knees boys. Stick your dick in Andy, boy."

Andy slowly turned around and crawled onto all fours, with Chris sliding between his legs while Brunswick got off the bed. Manetti came out of the shadows to hand Chris some lube. Chris covered his erection with thick, viscous grease and spread a little over Andy's hole. He rubbed his dick up and down Andy's crack. "You want this cock? Tell me you want it."

"I want it. I want your cock," Andy responded breathlessly.

"Good." He pushed Andy's shoulders down so his head was on the bed, then started pushing his cockhead into him. Andy sucked in air when Chris’ purple head first popped in. Chris pulled out a little then pushed back again. "That's it, take it." Behind him, Chris felt Brunswick's large paw press him onto Andy's body. Chris fell on top of Andy's back and Brunswick spread his legs and pushed his cock into Chris' accepting hole. Chris was a lot looser than Andy ever was and Brunswick quickly slid up to his root, hairy dark pubes rubbing against the boy’s hairless hole. A big beer can dick Brunswick had. Not long but meaty and thick.

Chris jabbed Andy fiercely, and just as fiercely pushed his ass back on Brunswick. The three of them found a rhythm they could sustain. Andy stayed passive, letting Chris fuck him hard, emitting small cries of satisfaction with each slam. Chris reached around and jacked Andy's pecker till it got stiff. The young man’s pubes were like silk, and he felt him up, all the bushy pubic hair he was denied. He squeezed and pulled on Andy’s balls, which Andy protested at first but then started enjoying it. Chris’ own balls swung in their heavy metal sleeve Manetti had left attached, smacking into Andy’s vulnerable balls.

"Baby, you got a great ass," Brunswick hoarsely whispered in Chris’ ear.

"Ah, fuck, Sir. Your boy does too," Chris answered back. It was true. It was the first boy pussy he’d ever fucked, and its creaminess, on top of the dominance he felt over someone like never before, was getting him close to cumming. "Ung," Chris uttered, deep guttural expression of enjoyment each time he slammed into Andy ass. "Ung-ung-ung..." he repeated with every piston thrust of his hips. He was banging back and forth in the erotic sensation of simultaneously fucking a soft, tight hole with his long, slim dick, and being fucked by a thick daddy cock banging into his ass. Part of his brain fantasized about the hairy bush he was backing into, Stacks Lightning. But it was the actual hard man he felt inside him, grunting, animal-like, lewdly talking in his ear. "How old are you anyway?" Chris grunted. "Bet my son’s age. You like daddy fucking you, son? Daddy wanted to fuck you for so long." Not only did Chris grunt in the affirmative, the confession hinting of a secret desire for incest made him blow immediately, deep within Andy, pouring a steady stream of cum into the kid. Andy, too, felt Chris’ rhythmic climax and also came hard into Chris' fist. Loud and lewd, the boy’s stuttered over each other a smattering of oh fucks and oh shits, while they nutted. Brunswick disengaged frustrated quickly after, looked at Manetti sitting in a chair stoking his big Italian cock.

"What?" Manetti protested. He could see Brunswick was irritated, that he was just getting started when the boys finished themselves off. Manetti argued, "They’re teenagers for fuck sake! They can't help it! They’d cum like coo coo clocks every fifteen minutes if you let them."

"I expected him to keep it going for more than two minutes. We still have fifty-five minutes, right? Jesus Christ!"

Chris wiped Andy’s cum on the bed. "I'm sorry, Sir. I won't cum so fast next time, but your boy’s cunt feels so good." Chris began rubbing two fingers over Andy's dripping hole. He wanted to immediately dive deeper. He was still fucking horny.

"Boys, on you backs," barked Brunswick. "Chariot time." He pulled the ottoman from under Manetti's feet and positioned himself between the two boys who had their asses at the edge of the bed waiting. Manetti tried to make peace, and came over and spread grease over Brunswick's hands. The hand ready for Chris' hole Manetti applied a lot more grease to the actor's forearm. He made sure Brunswick understood the implications. Manetti applied two fingers of grease on both boy's holes and pushed it in, then spread some around inside their holes. Andy's hole, replete with short dark boy hair, felt incredible, but also puckered tight. Chris looked at Manetti with intense excitement and anticipation. Manetti held up a single finger as a warning. Chris pouted. Andy looked at Brunswick a little frightened, but excited in anticipation all the same.

Brunswick stuck in two fingers in both boy's ass lips and twisted. Andy yelped while Chris moaned deeply. "Do a couple hits, boy,” Brunswick encouraged Andy. Manetti sat on the bed next to him, uncapped the bottle of poppers and fed it to the boy. Brunswick felt his hole loosen considerably so he slipped in a third finger. Chris had no problem with two fingers or the third that was incoming. He rocked his butt to take Brunswick’s fingers all the way to his knuckles in one go. Brunswick pushed in three fingers in each boy, easily slipping into Chris, not so easy with Andy. Chris reached over and stuck his tongue in Andy's mouth, surprising him with a passionate kiss. The poppers aroused Andy's lust. He liked kissing Chris in front of his mentor, started making out with Chris passionately, much to the pleasure of both Brunswick and Manetti.

Chris whispered nastily, "Fuck yeah. Let your daddy fist us. Let daddy take our holes however he wants." Chris looked in the boy's deep blue eyes and saw lust building, as Brunswick added a fourth finger. Chris wiped some lube off his butt and stroked Andy's shriveled cock. It didn't get hard but it did get Andy to start pushing down on Brunswick's hand. Manetti let them share the poppers. Chris took charge of the bottle, giving himself a good hit, then putting it up to Andy nostrils. Both boys began desperately pushing their holes trying to take Brunswick's meaty paw.

"That's it, son. Bear down on daddy. Look what a good job Chris is doing." Having Brunswick's hand inside him was Chris’ goal since he saw the lightning bolt suitcases outside the cabana. Chris swallowed his hand in one greedy gulp and let out a passionate cry of achievement. Both his hands flew above his head in passionate surrender, wallowing in the accomplishment, squeezing and releasing the monstrously large hand inside him. Brunswick kept twisting inside Chris' expanded hole, while he still toyed with opening up his boy. Brunswick's hand was bigger than Manetti's, but Manetti definitely possessed better technique. Manetti continuously checked in with his bottom, whereas Brunswick was thoughtless, mechanical. Chris didn't really care though. This is how he imagined Stacks Lightning would fist him: forceful, dispassionate, at times hurting him. It was something he wanted.

After several minutes of twisting and re-lubing, and still not getting into Andy, Brunswick was about to give up on both of them. Chris saw his growing frustration. "Let Manetti get him open, Sir. He's got smaller hands," Chris said.

With a single raise eyebrow, Manetti protested, and would have said something, but saw the kid was working an angle. Manetti gave Andy a once over, admiring the black pubes on such milky white skin. It got an easy rise out of Manetti, and he gave Brunswick a why-not look.

Brunswick assented and turned his attention to Chris' malleable hole, while Manetti took his towel and wiped excess grease from Andy's butt. He knelt down and began lapping at the hole, swirled his tongue in circles, while Andy breathed through clench teeth, relishing the sensation of the man's rough beard and feathery tongue. Brunswick had never been into rimming, and since he’d been the one and only man he'd ever had sex with, the thought of someone low enough, someone as rough and shady-looking as Manetti, wanting to put his mouth on his shitter, excited him. It was exactly what he expected a criminal would like to do. And, man, the feeling of a tongue licking his hole was beyond description. He relaxed and Manetti stuck his tongue inside the kid's rectum, licking the musky flavor of his hole. It drove the kid crazy. He pulled his cheeks apart so Manetti could dig deeper if he wanted. He wanted.

Brunswick watched in fascination his boy's hole getting so professionally eaten. He looked at Chris and twisted his hand once more, balling up his fist, and pushing his arm further up Chris' hole. Chris took a hit of poppers and gritted his teeth and pushed his ass onto Brunswick large hairy arm. He went quite a distance on the first try but at a price. The man's knuckled brought him a lot of pain. He lowered his legs and placed them on Brunswick's muscular shoulders and gave them a slight push so his arm pulled out slightly, taking off some pressure. He took another hit and fell in a trace looking at the actor's face. The international spy, Stacks Lightning, had his arm inside his body. How fucking awesome was that? Not as awesome as it would be if he were piston fucking him. So he relaxed his legs on the man's shoulders and felt his mammoth fist slide deep within him. He rocked his feet off the spy's shoulders feeling him go in deep then come out. He kept up the motion seeing it pleased his all-time hero. The more it pleased him, the harder he rocked. Chris had been the one in control, determining the rhythm by pushing his feet against Brunswick, but he could see Brunswick wanted to dominate, so he laid back on the bed and pulled his legs apart to show submission.

It’s exactly what Brunswick wanted and immediately rose to the challenge. He pulled all the way out and then punched back in. Chris gave into his fantasy that the internationally famous undercover spy, Stacks Lightning, wanted to punch fist him. The spy could do no wrong; he would be this week’s willing hole. Chris pulled his ass cheeks apart and let him pile drive in first one fist, then the other. He grunted like a swine with each punch, leaving dignity far behind, and snarled and snorted at Brunswick, nodding his head to punch him more and harder. Brunswick had the look of a drunk madman and pummeled the boy's ass mercilessly. If he was damaging the boy, he didn’t care. He allowed him to suck on his popper bottle for a moment, then began again to use the kid’s body as a punching bag. At one point, catching his breath from his battering, he witness Chris pushing out his internal organs. They popped through his hole, lips like a volcano rim with red lava oozing to the surface. What had been a small bloom earlier in the day, now grew to a soft-ball size mound of flesh pushing through. Brunswick used his towel to wipe it, then bent down and, for the first time, started chewing and sucking on Chris' small prolapse. Brunswick had never given in to such depravity, but the sight of this teenager with such a disgustingly obscene asshole, drove him to lick and nibble and kiss it, using his tongue to drive the boy to insanity.

To Chris, nothing had ever felt like this. It was like being rimmed by twenty tongues. So many nerve endings were raw and exposed, stimulated all at the same time. If he even thought about jacking himself right now he'd shoot and hit the wall. He left his hard, purple-headed erection alone, and instead grabbed the head of auburn locks attached to his hole and push his rosebud harder against that mouth. The international spy's lips were locked, eating his shithole. How incredibly awesome was that? Not as awesome as the spy’s hand going back inside and starting to punch his organs again. They got into a long series of punching that lasted minutes or hours--time didn't registered. But suddenly his body did something it'd never done before. Brunswick’s fist stayed in the air ready to go back in but he was suspended in curiosity. Chris was convulsing. More than an orgasm that normally started in his balls and shot out of his dick, an earthquake rocked his entire core. He thundered in ecstasy as tremors uncontrollably took over his body. He rode it to what he thought was a finale, but a second, then a third aftershock quickly followed.

There was a loud cry out of Andy at the same time. Chris glanced over at Manetti while his own body shook. Manetti had just seduced the boy's hole with his hand, popping Andy’s fisting cherry. As he rested inside the kid, letting him get used to what a fist felt like, he said to Chris, "It's a body orgasm. It’s natural." In his old calming voice, he explained to him, "It’s your whole body orgasming not just your balls nutting. Ride it. Enjoy it." Chris spasmed several more times, calming down after a few more seismic quivers.

"Oh, shit," Chris said getting up on his elbows looking at Brunswick. "What the fuck did you just do to me," Chris rasped. He sat up on the edge of the bed and, not being able to control himself, pressed his face against Brunswick and stuck his tongue down his idol's throat. He squeezed Brunswick’s cock, which was engorged and dripping. The man eyes were clouded with drink. He threw Chris on his back and stuck him like a pig. Chris squealed in contentment, letting him rut to his heart's satisfaction. He cast an eye over at Manetti, who was still holding silently inside Andy, but saw Manetti inching his cock ever closer to Andy's furry hole. Chris let Brunswick rock away inside him and gradually pullling Brunswick head close to his, blocking Manetti and Andy from sight. He wanted all of Brunswick attention, and undulated madly under the man, distracting him with the seductiveness only his hole could provide. He rubbed the man's chest, running sensual fingers over his nipples, rising up to touch his mouth. He felt the bed give and saw Manetti pick Andy up off the bed. Manetti had swapped hand for dick, his mouth clamped onto Andy's mouth, rocking the kid in the air, pounding mercilessly into the boy like a sack of heavy grain. Andy fully surrender to Manetti, wrapped his legs around the man’s waist, and let him fuck him relentless standing by the door. Manetti’s butt clenched wildly. He was coming to a climax. Brunswick started to shift his head toward the standing pair, but Chris moved his head back and heaved himself forcefully on the man's cock. Brunswick still wanted to know what the noise by the door was. Chris took that moment to make him an offer, "Put your hand in me, Chet, and jack off inside." The actor refocused on Chris’ face, realizing this boy would let him do whatever he wanted it. Chris spied Manetti climaxing inside the boy, just as Brunswick slipped his entire hand inside Chris’s rectum and started whacking away. The perverseness of fisting and wanking inside an asshole got him to cum quickly. Only after he felt the final hard thrust of the actor’s fist inside him, then did he allow himself to beat off. It took no time at all; within second shot he shot his wad into Brunswick’s chin. A bead of semen clung to the famous mustache like white snot. Brunswick licked it off with a drunken smile.

Brunswick slipped his hand and cock out of Chris, just as Manetti eased Andy softly back on the bed. Brunswick was none the wiser to what had just happened to Andy. Chris let the drunk man roll off him, away from Andy and Manetti, and just laid on his back squinting at the ceiling. "Fuck, baby, you are a real whore, aren’t you?" Brunswick said, closing his eyes. He reached over and pinched one of Chris' fat baby nipples. He licked his mustache once more and relaxed in post coital bliss. Chris brought his spread legs around and turned on his side to attend to Andy. Manetti had got what he wanted but just left the kid laying there in a state of shock. Andy looked dazed, staring at Manetti biohazard tattoo, leaking his toxic cum onto the bed sheets.

Chris talked to him quietly in his ear. It was okay. It felt good, didn't it? He then bent down and started sucking Andy's small stiff cock while the young man kept staring at Manetti's belly. Chris slipped a single finger in Andy's hole and started pushing in Manetti's drippings. Within only a few moments Andy's body began to rock to the rhythm of Chris' mouth. Chris used more fingers to swab the sheets gathering more cum, and pushed more of Manetti into the kid’s receptive hole. There was plenty of Manetti’s spooge covering the bed, and Chris used all of it to get his small hand back inside Andy. The moment Chris’ fist entered Andy, Andy's head fell back and he shot a fountain of salty white cum into Chris' mouth. Chris hungrily swallowed every drop. Like milk was the kid's fresh cum. Fresh but not so pure.

Brunswick was snoring lightly as they gathered their towels and masks to leave. Manetti opened the nightstand drawer and found a large black dildo the same size as his cock. He bent down, gave it to the kid and spoke quietly in his ear. He could see the kid was wide awake and horned out of his mind. "We got another call to make. Practice on this for the next hour, then come to my room and I’ll give you the real deal for the rest of the night.” He stuck his tongue in the kid’s open mouth. “You got one of the finest pussies I’ve ever had the privilege to fuck,” he said, with the nastiest grin on his face. Andy beamed, and laid there greasing the dildo, while Brunswick turned to his side to sleep the rest of the night away.

***

1:30 a.m.

As they made their way to Crusher’s cabana, the garden was even busier than before. Chris was amazed by the cornucopia of men, their sizes, shapes, their varied form. He also saw that the entire grounds was dancing with yellow and green lightning bugs. They stood out against the dark forest, blinked and buzzed in the night air, appeared and disappeared like phantom particles of light.

The men were in various stages of copulating. Pairs were making noisy use of the portable slings. A group of three men they passed--on second glance, these were the first guests to arrive, the muscled Latin, the distinguished Creole, and the large bear--were all pissing on a very happy host. Tobias was wallowing in a sand bed rubbing himself in their salty piss. It reminded Manetti that he needed to pee. Chris exchanged a smile with Tobias when Manetti smacked his butt. "Leg up on the chair." Chris did as he was told and Manetti, pushed his large flaccid cock up Chris' open hole. "Stay still," Manetti said. Chris felt a warmth flow into his body. His colon, having been expanded all day and night, was accepting quite a lot. Manetti really did have to pee like a race horse, and was inside Chris for a long time. Chris felt his chem piss working immediately, most likely because of the volume and its potent concentration. As he ended, Manetti squirted three final times and pulled out. "Keep it in," Manetti simply said and they continued their journey. Chris lost track of where they were going or why, only saw how pretty the dancing lights were and how happy Tobias looked gulping down three hot men’s urine.

Manetti didn’t bother knocking on the cabana door but went right in, Chris following. Crusher had just done a line of coke and waved his hand over four remaining lines he’d laid out for them. Chris went first and while he wiped his nose told Crusher about all the fireflies in the garden.

Crusher was pacing. He was in quite a state of agitation. He’d been doing blow for some time, obviously, and doing it alone so was welled up to talk. “Well, first of all, technically, they should be called ‘fire-beetles.” Crusher’s backlog of knowledge had hit a watershed moment, all falling on Chris. Though he held an M.S. and B.S. in Athletic Training with certifications from the National Strength and Conditioning Association and American College of Sports Medicine, he had a passionate hobby that occupied all his free time: bugs. His Soho loft walls were framed with them. Mounted on pins, displayed all over the bricked surfaces, their metallic colors shined, sizes that ranged from tiny to frighteningly large. The study of insects, entomology, was an undergraduate requirement, but that interest had stuck with him through the years. You’d think his home would be filled with Muscle & Fitness or Iron Man magazines, but you’d be wrong. Instead there were exact, neat, OCD stacks on the coffee table of American Entomologist and Entomologist’s Monthly, stacked in chronological order for the last three years. “Fireflies, lighting bugs--they’re interchangeable--are part of the Lampryridae family of insects in the beetle order Coleoptera,” he pronounced, pinching his nostrils, waiting for Manetti to do his line so they could get started. But he was on a roll and couldn’t stop if he wanted to: “The green and yellow light they produce--which lacks both infrared and ultraviolet frequencies, wavelength that range from 510 to 670 nanometers, which is the colors green and yellow--is in their butts, a chemical call luciferin. Yes, Manetti, from the Latin Lucifer in case you’re wonder.”

“I’m not,” said Manetti, squeezing his nostrils.

Crusher went up to Chris and admired his dog collar. “How was Implant Andy?” Crusher asked them. Manetti asked how he knew the young man had implants. “Duh, man. Just look at the twink’s neck. Never lifted a single weight in his life.”

“Sweet piece of tail though,” Manetti volunteered. “Scooter here, helped me tag him when Brunswick wasn’t looking.” Manetti patted Chris cheek. Chris was happy, had dropped his towel and started pulling unconsciously on his cock.

“So as I was saying, Scooter, when the luciferin combines with oxygen, calcium and adenosine, it produces their bioluminescence.”

“Shut the fuck up, man,” complained Manetti. He’d heard Crusher go off on these coke jags before.

“Wow,” Chris said. “And I thought they just were just wiggling their butts like I seen in cartoons.” He found the idea funny, wiggled his own butt at Crusher in illustration and giggled.

Crusher paced to the bathroom and ran the faucet. He wet his fingers and sniffed some drops into his nose, snorting deep. “Dude, wiggling their butts is exactly what they’re doing. They have two weeks in summer to attract a mate and lay eggs before they croak.” He brought from the bathroom two c-notes and gave them to Manetti. “This Towel Party is just another ritual like theirs, everyone wiggling their butts, only we only got one night. So, get over here, Scooter, and start wiggling your butt. One hundred to fuck him, two for a fist. What about if I want him to eat my shit?" It was hard for Crusher to stand in one place. He went to the window and opened the drapes, then decided against that, and closed them again.

"No scat. No animals," Manetti stated, all business.

"What about if I want to eat his shit?"

"On the house."

Crusher placed a rim chair next to the bed. "Okay, kid. Take a seat." Chris sat on the rim chair and stroked his dick, while Crusher squirmed under him and started twirling his tongue around the boy's hole. Manetti again raised his finger at the kid and he stopped playing with himself. "Ah, dude, you're a sloppy mess. That Brunswick's cum around your hole or Manetti's?"

Chris’ eyes were spinning, feeling Crusher playing with his hole like he was he was in no condition to talk, so Manetti answered for him that it was Brunswick’s.

Crusher tongued a variety of flavors, piss, lube, cum, digging his tip between Chris' ass lips. Chris' involuntarily relaxed his hole from the erotic twirling Crusher’s tongue was providing. A flush of Manetti's piss suddenly spurted into Crusher's open mouth. He gulped down as much as he could, the remaining simply flooded the bamboo floor.

"Well, pig, I hope you enjoy fresh chem piss," Manetti said. “Free of charge.”

"Okay, off," Crusher said, nudging Chris off the rim seat. "On the bed. Let's see how much of Uncle Crusher you can take."

"Yes, Sir," Chris replied. Manetti had already positioned himself at the headboard and motioned Chris to lie between his legs. He had a row of poppers lined up next to him. Chris put his towel under his ass and laid back in Manetti's lap lifting up his legs. Manetti grabbed his ankles, exposed his hole, and kept his leg suspended.

"Manetti, lemme see your arm." Manetti held one out. Crusher compared the length of his arm to Manetti's. "How far up the kid's ass have you gone?" he asked. Manetti pointed to the crook of his arm, which corresponded to the start of Crusher's bulging bicep. "Let's see if I can take him to long head. Think I can stretch your pussy that far, boy?" Crusher asked, pointing a good two inches beyond his elbow.

"Dunno. I hope so, Sir." He wiggled his butt excitedly. Manetti held out an open popper bottle and had Chris take in several hits.

"Oh, baby, look at this sloppy pussy," Crusher said, sending a greased hand into Chris hole up to his knuckles. "Somebody's been a busy little cunt. Look at your hole. So tight." He began trading hands without going in but pressing them harder each time. Chris pushed against his alternating hands, wanting one of them inside him. "Whoa! Look at the hungry cunt, sucked me right in. Good pussy. Gotta be a record."

Chris looked up at Manetti, who tweaked his nipples. That made him hornier so he spread his legs wider for Crusher to pull out and push in another hand. So far Crusher was using open hands, not a fist. Chris was receptive, pushing a bit to get over Crushers big knuckles and accepting the girth of his wrists. Crusher was a twister and, once inside Chris' hole, like to give a half twirl stimulating the colon walls, preparing Chris to take some major forceful punches. Crusher's technique didn't hurt as much as cause an overload of stimulation every time he entered and spun his hand, every knuckle gliding roughly around Chris rectum. Manetti made him take another hit so Crusher could advance further into him.

Poppers made him want abuse, which, as he got used to it, turned to desire, craving Crusher to push in deeper no matter if it hurt. Crusher quickly got to a place where Chris’ colon was locking up, forcing him to turn to a slower, continuous approach. Crusher accepted Manetti’s offer to give him a hit of poppers and got into Chris' headspace. He eyed him closely for signals he could penetrate his hole more deeply. It was a silent affair, visible only by seeing tendons move on Crusher's forearms that connected to fingers, testing, twisting, prodding, retreating, advancing, finding an advantage and moving the whole hand at once, like an army conquering, disarming, taking over an inch of new turf. An inch is mile in a body, a chamber that is conquered is slid into, a hand suddenly making itself at home. A conquered territory gives up any previous rights and accommodates the intruder: twenty-seven bones of the hand cram into a tight new space. The longer it remains the more at home it feels in the conquered chamber, both to the hand and chamber itself. The connection is as astonishing as a conquered people learning the habits of an invading army. A common language is born, a mutual cooperation. The desire for stretching, for working out cramps, for sensual explorations, what happens when I do this? An infinitesimally small movement shoots out tectonic disruptions within the body. Or nothing is disturbed, and the hand feels free to continue its journey.

Crusher's hand played inside Chris like a maestro plays every instrument on stage. He'd obvious had a lot of practice, but because of the enormity of his musculature not many could take him very deep. That's why he was fascinated by how much of Chris he was able to take in such a short about of time. After the initial warm up of punching his ass then changing over to easy pistoning, Crusher laid on the bed at a right angle to Chris’ opened butt and proceeded to steadily climb inside him. Inch by inch he was soon up to his elbow, with Chris squirming and surrendering in delight. Even though Crusher wasn't yet as deep as Manetti had been, Crusher was stretching him out width-wise much farther than Manetti had. Crusher occasionally pulled out, and using his second hand, a finger, two fingers, three, eventually four, to supply an additional stretch that Chris not only enjoyed, but after a hit of poppers, participated in actively. With a determined, lasciviously expression on his face, he impaled himself on the proffered forearm and digits. Once stretched he could accommodate the incredible girth of Crusher's herculean forearm and concentrate solely on breathing into and loosening the next chamber, release any obstacle for the hand’s journey to continue. In this way, the pair, or if you considered Manetti as part of the package--tweaking Chris' nipple, holding his legs occasionally, urging him to lose himself with another hit of poppers, generally playing coach on the sidelines--this triumvirate collectively took Chris past Crushers elbow in just under an hour.

As soon as Crusher passed his elbow through Chris hole, Crusher let out a whistle. "Thar she goes," he said. Chris who had been huffing and puffing through the last few centimeters, threw his head back in Manetti lap. A milestone achieved. Manetti rewarded the boy by releasing a long drool of spit that ran from his lips to the boy’s open mouth.

“Who's a hole whore now?” Chris asked, looking up at Manetti.

“You are, boy,” Manetti replied, with a face that alternated between anguish and joy. Manetti pinched his nips hard, a sort of congratulations. This had, however, a domino effect and made Chris squeeze his ass lips tightly around Crusher's arm. The upper arm, the humerus, before all the muscles and tendons are attached, is slightly thinner than the bones at the elbow. Manetti pinching, and in turn Chris squeezing Crusher’s arm, clamped down on this narrower area before the bicep begins, and the aforementioned long head of the bicep along with a lot more Crusher, two inches to be exact, went into Chris in a very short amount of time. One single inch of Crusher's mass was a lot for Chris to take in in two seconds, but two inches was overwhelming, and Crusher instinctively felt an on-coming crisis in the making. Even coach Manetti on the sidelines looked worried. All froze to see if this would be an anatomic emergency. In fact--huzzah!--the opposite was true. It opened up in Chris the new world of realizing he long since was Past the Elbow! Actually, quite a bit more. With Manetti holding Chris head in suspended alarm, stroking his face in case he had to talk the boy out of panicking, Chris relished both the relief of being stretched less than a moment ago, combined with the knowledge of how deep Crusher was inside his colon. There was the added tender concern he saw in Manetti face. In gratitude that Manetti was watching out for him, he turned his head and started licking Manetti dark skinned cock.

Happiness reined in Pleasure Island, as Chris’ mind wander off imagining himself Pinocchio being led astray by a handsome fox and a clever cat. Pleasure Island is where he wanted to stay with the two of them. The final seduction came when Crusher flexed his enormous bicep. Ripples of euphoria spread through Chris’ body. A new intimacy was uncovered between Crusher and Chris, hidden from Manetti. Crusher communicated through his bicep stretching Chris in the most intimate of ways. Chris communicated back by clamping down on Crusher's bicep. They both looked at each other in amazement. They exchanged communiques, a Morse code, if that's what you want to call it, telegraphed between them again and again. In communicating this way, a secondary manifestation occurred: the expansion and relaxation of Chris' hole additionally allowed Crusher to fist him deeper.

Crusher saw what Chris was gearing up to do. He said one word to him: "Careful." Chris considered this only for a second before deciding to take the risk. He pushed himself away from Manetti, physically pushed against Manetti’s rib cage, and bared down onto Crusher's entire arm. For his part, Crusher relaxed his bicep and triceps, as much as he could, and allowed Chris, who was beyond reasoning with at this point, to swallow his arm all the way to his pit. The final moment came when Chris felt the slight tickling sensation of Crusher’s bushy armpit brushing his hairless hole. The two of them laid there completely relaxed, somewhat exhausted, careful not to move. But Crusher was Crusher, and he ever so slightly made a muscle inside Chris. Chris gasped in astonishment. Manetti looked at him confused since there seemed to be no movement on the surface once he had taken in Crusher’s arm, but the tectonic plates inside Chris' body was enough to cause an earthquake. He tried to keep his body from shaking since he knew he was in an extremely vulnerable position. Crusher pumped his arm again. It was obscenely pleasurable, like his bowels were speaking, that the greatest shit of his life was about to occur. And, in truth, it was about to occur. With nowhere to go, Crusher started to evacuate from Chris’ body, and with it, Chris’ entrails were dragged along Crusher’s arm. And as he had tortured Manetti earlier, Crusher continually crept back in an inch for every two given up. This lasted a long and confusing time. Chris lost track of where Crusher was in his body, couldn't tell if he was coming in or going out. Every time he realized less of Crusher's arm was in him he too had to fight against not fully impaling himself back onto Crusher's entire arm, all the way back up to the armpit. Another quarter hour flew by, then another, but Manetti wasn't looking at the time any more. You couldn't put a price tag on how far the boy had advanced or how hard it made him to see this muscleman buried in this skinny blond boy.

When Crusher finally release Chris, Chris saw his arm was covered in butt slime. Bits of yellow, brown and pink spotted his arm, but no red. Chris laid there extinguish once Crusher released him, but Manetti immediately admonished him, saying, "What about thanking your Top, boy." Chris slowly sat sideways on his legs unsteadily, propped up on his arm. Still he got close enough to Crusher to reach up and give him a deep and appreciative kiss. Crusher reciprocated holding his arm high in the air, covered as it was with the biological graffiti he'd pulled out of Chris’s body. Manetti grabbed the back of his neck, reprimanding him, "Not like that, piglet." He pushed the kid’s face into the bodybuilder's raised arm. Chris made his way to his knees, placed his hand behind he back, and began licking Crusher's arm. Crusher twisted it one way then the other so Chris could find all the bit and pieces of himself traced along Crusher's indomitable arm.

Satisfied, Crusher's sprinkled the remains of white powder on this dresser top and cut it into six lines. Each of them snorted two lines, then Crusher, Manetti and Chris split off going down different darkened paths, each to find their final tricks of the night.

***

4 a.m.

_Abashed the devil stood,
And felt how awful goodness is, and saw
Virtue in her shape how lovely--saw, and pined
His loss
_ —John Milton

Ben Prior stood with six other men stroking his long cock watching the tableaux on the black lacquered table. The other men along the wall recognized Big Ben. If nothing else, the multiple adornments of his cock gave him away. Huge significantly weighty cock, yes, but bejeweled with shiny metal, like flesh melded with clockworks--dangerous, a real weapon if manned recklessly. The six other men were probably aroused less by the dining room table’s tableaux, although that’s hard to imagine, and aroused more simply by Big Ben’s presence. Tall, still handsome even with his shaved tattooed head, bushy auburn beard, and his back’s terrain of welts that had become his signature, the scarified terrain of ridges and valleys. These deep contusions from lashes he’d taken over the last few years were now permanent, scars overgrown with scars. A back as pronounced in relief as a topographic map. His scarification, brandings, and other body modification were a far cry from when he first blew onto the sex industry ten years ago: the cocky, brash, beautiful long-haired surfer boy, slim, sleek as a gazelle, gorgeous--the envied hunk next door. Over the years his taste in S&M grew to the exclusivity of whipping, giving and receiving, a niche of an already niche market. It was a shame the industry lost such a golden boy, so many opined, unless your tastes were aligned. Riding crops, bullwhips, floggers, paddles, canes, cat o’ nine tails--he wielded them all with mastery, and knew with great familiarity both ends of the lash. In dungeons, backrooms, palaces, monasteries, seedy motel rooms, basically anywhere in the world that partook in ceremonies where these instruments were employed, he was a well-known practitioner. Men paid dearly, and not just in coin, to abuse or be abused by him. How does it go_? Some of them want to abuse you, some of them want to be abused by you._ Indeed. Saudi princes, South American cartel chiefs, Argentinean Fascists in exile, Monsignors banished to cloisters of the lowest repute--these were the legions of men who were drawn to the persona Ben had burnished, first in Drax’s films, but then by means of independent self-promotion. No mere Wall Street titan, Washington insider, or European monarch stood up to Big Ben and his whip. They bowed, scraped, and begged for his lash, or, when he felt a need to indulge a masochistic whim and the price was right, purchased his hide for a night, a week, a fortnight, or a month.

A middle-aged club owner with slicked-back hair and mob ties presently employed him at his beach house at the east end of The Pines. A towel had been left at the club owner’s door the night before. Foregoing attendance since he was a mass of bruises, scars from flogging, a broken lip, sporting two black eyes, and had been up for the past four days on meth, he’d given the towel, mask and address to Ben as a gratuity for the excellent work he performed over the last two weeks. Ben had also been up for the past ninety-six hours, but he’d endured far longer sessions and wasn’t the one needing to heal.

The tableaux on the table wasn’t unique save the boy wearing a popper gas mask entirely covering his head at the center of it all. He looked awfully young, maybe not even legal. Ben knew Tobias wouldn’t invite a minor, but hell, the kid looked like they could all get arrested for just being in the same room as the kid. Small, extremely skinny, ribcage almost skeletal, hairless, the boy was being fucked by the wrestling world’s Santiago “The Skull” Gutierrez, a handsome man with rippling muscles, high cheekbones, almond eyes, smooth copper skin, a single tattoo draped across his chest that read I am what I am, and a big, black uncut dick that he was putting to good use. The kid was taking it like a pro, his legs spread wide for The Skull to pummel. The boy was simultaneously satisfying two others: the sculptor Baptiste Germain, whom Ben had partied with several times at the baths, a stately sixty-year-old Creole with long grey dreadlocks; and a big bear that had to weigh over two-fifty, maybe even three, who looked as if his could snap the kid’s arm like a twig. Both men were riding the boy’s forearm practically down to the table.

Santiago’s gyrations were getting quicker. It was apparent he was about to crack his nut. His pelvis thrusts became harder, pulling the boy’s hips to him faster. All at once he heaved forward, his neck arched back as he shot into the boy. He held the position for a pure moment of joy, mouth agape, then performed a series of thrusts accompanied by embellished roars of might, while he pounded his chest in an over-the-top theatrical ring-worthy performance. He unceremoniously pulled out of the kid, flung residual cum and butt juice at the boy’s ass with his dick, and walked out of the limelight. The sculptor and the bear climbed off as well, and the kid flipped around on his knees, ass high, taking off his popper mask, forehead pressed to table, awaiting the next comer.

Ben felt the assembled men wordlessly acquiesced to him. For a moment he contemplated the small bubble butt, then noticed a mounted katana blade on a side table. He took it out of its sheath, feeling its cold, silver blade and smacked the kid’s ass with it hard. The kid didn’t move or make a sound, even though the blade left a bright red outline across his cheeks. Ben was impressed. Not many men would have been able to keep quiet. He raised the blade higher and with a whoosh that sliced the air, the blade landed again on the kid’s ass with a tremendous crack that even Manetti heard far off in his cabana with his dick buried in Andy. Still the kid remained still, his ass defiantly in the air. The red mark left from the previous lash was joined by a crimson bruise that made a red X on his butt. Ben order the kid to count to ten. The boy obeyed, and with each count he received an additional wallop on his ass. He made no protest, no extraneous whimper, simply took what was coming to him. After the ten lashes Ben sheathed the blade and set it on its mount, and approached the boy ass. He rubbed his hand appreciative over the velvety smooth cheeks, feeling the heat of the crimson bruises and the welts they caused. He knew passing his hand over the fresh bruises had to sting, and yet the boy remained stoic. Only Chris, his little brother, could rival the silence of this kid during a beating like he’d just been given him. He felt the boy’s asshole and pushed two fingers into it. The boy was extremely open and tempting. Ben pushed in three fingers, then quickly followed up with a fourth. The hole was drawing him in, there was no doubt. He pulled his hand out and made a fist between the kid’s cheeks. He pressed and with very little effort pushed his giant knuckled mitt inside. The kid grunted but otherwise accepted him without fanfare. He was curious about how much this boy could take. He pulled out and punched in with his other fist. He hadn’t applied lube but the kid was slick from a night of men fucking and fisting him, he didn’t need to. He crouched in a boxer’s pose, bracing himself before the sloppy gape, and pounded the hole relentlessly. The boy registered only occasional fucks and moans, farting out extraneous air along with copious fluids. Ben slowed down and exchange rapid punching with alternating deep arm fisting. The kid could not only take it, but purred deep groans of pleasure. He pulled up along his side, and wrapped an arm around the boy’s torso. With his other arm, he pistoned his forearm from shallow to deep, a depth nearly to his elbow. The kid continued burbling obscenities, begging Ben to wreck his hole. This was the youngest pig he’d ever met and it induced a long-dormant excitement. He was surprised to see he was growing his first “Big Ben” boner in over a year. This boy’s ass, he began calculating as his flesh grew, wasn’t going to waste.

The men who hung back in the gloom started yanking faster as Ben perched on his knees and spread the boy’s legs. Chris looked under his arm at the bearded bald guy who was about to fuck him. The beard and mask shrouded his face, but there was something familiar about his eyes. Across his shaved head, a spider web was inked onto his skull, both arms were sleeves of dark ink that had fishes like in the coy pond, swimming in blue swirls of water from his wrists to his shoulders. And what shoulders! Crusher was the most muscular man he’d met but, maybe because of his height, even kneeling, this guy looked bigger. Lats rose from his back like insect wings, his neck had muscles that went from ears straight to shoulders, and the only thing more veined than his mountainous arms were the veins that stood out on his cock. And what a cock. Chris was awestruck by the beast he spied through his legs that was about to enter and destroyed his hole. Rings and rods sprouted in all directions.

The man slammed inside him without warning. A ripple of metal bars spaced evenly under the man’s shaft stuttered sensations he’d never before felt. Any one of them would have cause him to jump, but in rapid succession he became overwhelmed, stopped processing thought and became only aware of the sensations deep within his hole. The last thought he clung to before the onslaught of anal annihilation was where had he seen the shoulder and rib dragon tattoo before?

(It was that bit of meat stuck in your tooth that your tongue keeps coming back to.) Ben enjoyed watching the twink struggle with all the new feelings he was triggering in his hole. Like a xylophone, the six barbells of the Jacob’s Ladder along his shaft played along the bottom of his colon and lower lip of his sphincter. The apadravya going from the top of his head to the bottom of his piss slit was driving the bottom and top of the kid’s hole wild, especially when the upward curve of his cock pushed the top metal bead against the kid’s prostate. He knew jabbing the kid forcefully scraped his prostate mercilessly. He could feel the bodily confusion and the titillation it was causing in the boy. (It was that scratch in the middle of your back that, over your shoulder or under your wing, you can’t get to.) The five dydoe piercing over the top ridge of Ben’s cock making up his King’s Crown, raked across the top walls of the boy’s hole, so with each thrust by an already monstrously large cock mauling his hole, there was an extra eighth-inch of metal jewelry that added sensations from tingling to clawing in an already over-stimulated anus. Ben observed the boy’s struggling, his fingers curling and clawing the lacquer table, trying to hold onto some semblance of reality, but Ben wanted to drive out thought, leaving only fleeting gasps of consciousness. The boy’s final act of defiance was to take one last look back at the man destroying him before he passed out from overstimulation. But it wasn’t the man’s face he saw, but a dragon that had him in his clutches. (It was that apprehension of greeting someone you know but whose name eludes you because the context is all wrong.)

“Oh,” Chris said. Somewhere back inside his lizard brain, the dragon tattoo appeared in the photo with Manetti. On the refrigerator. Barely able to speak, over-wrought with carnal feelings off the charts as his mind pieced reality together in an altogether alternate reality, his motor functions laying in tatters, the realization about to make him cum, he fumbled with his mask, fumbled with words, cumming as he spoke even without touching himself: “Ben,” he exhaled in a whisper.

Men along the bamboo wall and around the table, shot over both of them. Time slowed down. A shower of semen, drop by drop, rained on Chris and Ben.

Ben looked down. Not having ejaculated in over a year, not having slept in ninety-six hours, was certain he was hallucinating. He was fucking his baby brother. The thought itself made him spew relentlessly without pause. He couldn’t stop fucking the hole he was in or break out of the feedback loop of how this couldn’t be his little brother, not here, not at a Fire Island orgy. But the squealing inside the feedback loop pieced together why the kid could take the beating he did, the same beatings he took regularly from Chris’ father, how thin and small he knew his brother to be, and, in that feedback loop, how good his hole felt. He couldn’t stop fucking while the screeching of the feedback continued, while the world made no sense. How had he gotten here? How could his hole have gotten so loose that he could punch and piston him so effortlessly? He pumped the remains of his orgasm as he removed his mask.

Though Chris recognized immediately that it was his brother, at the same time, struggled with the thought that though he knew with complete certainty who he was, he failed to see an iota of his brother in the steroidal, scarred body before him. Random pieces of Ben’s face started to come to him: the eyes, the brow, the lips, even the size of his cock. But his cock, it was now part machine. Slowly Ben pulled out of Chris, each millimeter causing a thrill mixed with madness.

When Ben finally was out, the man who made actual Lords and drug lords alike scrape before him, the man who princes and scum bags prostrated themselves before, the man who clerics begged, and middle-aged congressmen wept, fled himself in abject terror from a boy, hiding his face, stumbling for the garden gate, pining for a line he couldn’t uncross. Not now, not ever.

Chris felt his hole ooze Ben’s ejaculate. With a finger he tasted it. Then tasted some more.

***

Brunch

Early morning fog had burned away, but left the island overcast and humid. The compound’s residence were stirring. Brunswick and Andy had caught an early seaplane back to La Guardia, to enjoy a day in the city before going back to Los Angeles. Crusher was off for a beach run before going to the town’s gym. Manetti was trying to rouse Chris with not much luck.

There was a knock at the gate, and two men entered the garden with a large silver Great Dane. “Yoo-hoo,” the older of the two men said. He was in his late sixties, wearing an ill-fitting black toupee and a yellow ascot. He scanned around the compound looking for Tobias or Jacob. “Are you decent?”

“Never!” Tobias exclaimed, coming out of the main house to greet them in grey khakis and a red hibiscus Hawaiian shirt. “Boris, you old she-devil, you never age.” Boris, the man in the ascot, waved him away. The two men kissed each other on alternating cheeks.

“Boris, give Toby the scones. If you flatter her this early, her ego’s never going to fit back on the boat,” said the other man, Roger, holding back the big dog. He was in his early sixties, had thin white hair grown long in back and a prominent receding hairline. Except for the flair of the yellow ascot, a jaunty accessory to celebrate the beginning of their week on the island--most likely, as a couple, their last--both men wore black. Matching black short-sleeved shirts with black cuffed Bermuda shorts and frighteningly white legs. Afraid of the dog, Tobias air-kissed Roger as he took a bakery bag from Boris.

Jacob came out in an open blue terrycloth bathrobe over a lime green bathing suit. Both hosts looked worn out from the night before. “Ladies, so nice to see you,” Jacob said, shading his hand over his eyes. “Hello Wallace.” The dog wagged its tail while Jacob patted his head. “Coffee’s ready.” Tobias handed him the bakery back. He snuck a peek. “Mmm. Shall we sit indoors or out?”

Roger brushed the air. “Oh, honey, indoors, please. Too many bugs out here,” he said leading the way with Wallace ahead of him. Tobias and Jacob exchanged glances, then forced radiant smiles.

While the four men settled in the living room drinking their coffee and nibbling scones, Manetti came out of his cabana naked and threw himself in the pool. The events at the end of the party were spotty in his brain. He’d pushed Chris all night, but in spite of the discipline he imposed and some of the torments he put the kid through, he thought the boy had enjoyed all the attention he’d received. He also thought, if the kid every got up, he’d have a changed boy on his hands. He certainly was a hit, worshipped and adored by nearly a dozen men on the dining room table, reported Santiago Gutierrez, especially by the exalted embrace Ben showered on him, whose sudden appearance, rhapsodic climax, and then abrupt, mysterious departure capped the evening for everyone. When Santiago delivered Chris finally back to Manetti just before daybreak, Chris was incoherent, literally speaking in tongues. Manetti held him against his chest until he fell asleep just as the sun crept into the treetops.

The morticians sipping coffee, gossiping and chit-chatting, abruptly stopped, observing Manetti pushing himself off the pool’s gray slate tiles, strutting over to the patio table, his hefty meat swaying, to pick up a clean towels from a large stack.

“Is that--?” asked an amazed Boris.

“Yes,” confirmed Tobias, pleased that Michael was recognized. “He of Master Drax Productions.” They nodded with knowing, lascivious smiles. “Not only that, but we had the one and only Stacks Lightning and his boy toy here as well.”

Roger gasped with mouth agape, partially eaten scone precariously close to falling out. Jacob rose an annoyed eyebrow Tobias’ way as Roger slapped Boris’ shoulder exclaiming, “What did I tell you!”

Boris shrugged, as Manetti, mostly dry, slid open the screen door and entered shaking his wet mane. Wallace the dog barked. Manetti eyed him with suspicion. Tobias couldn’t be more pleased to intimate his friendship and familiarity with such a studly presence in his home. As Manetti walked by he gave him a soft tap on his toweled butt.

“Oh, don’t worry about Wallace,” Roger said, admiring the broad mat of curly black hair. “He’s tougher than he looks.”

“Just like Manetti,” quipped Jacob. The men laughed as Manetti pursed his lips at Jacob.

“There’s coffee?” he asked, reminding himself a moment too late to smile at the boat-owning guests.

“Help yourself, in the kitchen, love,” Tobias said. He began filling the morticians in on what Manetti had told him Mister Drax was proposing regarding a purchase of a yacht. He embellished the pirate and cabin boy story, adding extra-lurid details straight from his imagination. Jacob nudged him halfway through his story of a deranged gangbang scene, to get him back to the proposal. They heard a splash in the pool, and saw Chris’ blond head bobbing up and down in the water. Boris played nervously with his yellow ascot and was in an outright trance gazing after the boy. Roger looked at Boris irritated.

Boris intoned, “Speaking of boy toys. Really Tobias. You invited a minor to your festivities?”

Tobias wagged his finger as Jacob got up nonchalantly, excused himself, saying he’d forgotten to tell Michael all the coffee mugs were still in the dishwasher.

He entered the kitchen with Manetti hunting through several cabinets. Jacob opened the steaming dishwasher and took out a mug and handed it to Manetti. While Manetti was pouring, he said, “Do you want to tell me what’s going on, cowboy?” Manetti looked at him blankly. “This story of Chris’ last night. Some crooks. A dirty cop. Funny money. A similar story, except for the money angle, was on the local news yesterday. An entire family in Queens was killed two nights ago along with two escaped convicts. Is this part of that?”

“No,” Manetti pronounced flatly. He was busy looking through drawers distractedly. “The kid was high, trying to impress Brunswick with a far-fetched story.”

“Tobias would buy that,” Jacob said, handing Manetti a sugar bowl and spoon. Manetti pour a few scoops in his coffee, stirred and sipped. “Tobias would, I don’t. You don’t practice law for thirty years and don’t immediately spot links in people’s stories and holes in others. Far-fetched or otherwise. And I know you, buddy.” Manetti gave him a boyish smiled and shoveled another spoonful of sugar in his coffee. “Developing quite a sweet tooth,” he said with a clouded brow. “Bubeleh, you’ve been in my life since before you could walk. A skinny kid in braces, who you came out to in high school. Now I see bruises on your arms since you’ve begun associating with Drax. I’ve never judged, have I?”

“Not till now, your honor.” Manetti took a sip, trying to maintain his smile though with a bit less innocence.

“This story the boy jabbers about. The Times stopped short of the very lurid details, but what they did report was heinous enough. A whole family, the youngest twelve. I’m afraid for what you might have gotten into, Michael.”

“Don’t be, Uncle Jake. Everything’s on the up and up. Drax sent me out with cash, being he’s more comfortable without a paper trail, the IRS and everything. You can understand in his business.”

“See, sweetie, this is where the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.”

Theirs was a long and complicated history. Tobias, to Manetti, was a client first and always, one of his favorites, but still a client, whereas Jacob was someone that went way back, someone he respected and trusted. Someone, time and again, whose advice he sought but refused to heed, and whose eyes he always found it hard to meet. But this particular morning in this kitchen, he forced himself to meet his eyes, put on his most captivating smile. “Don’t worry, Uncle. I got worked this out from every angle. I know what I’m doing. I’m getting out of the business. Trust me.” He put an arm on Jacob’s shoulder and wrapped him in an embrace. Hugged him hard with all his might, kissed his cheek.

Manetti returned with his coffee and took up residence in an Eames lounge chair next to a display case of objects d’art, his towel wrapped tight around his washboard waist. Roger gave him a hungry look, which Manetti returned with a crocodile smile, teeth slightly apart. Jacob followed back from the kitchen with his own coffee, and sat looking worn out next to Tobias on their black leather couch.

“So,” Jacob said brightly slapping his knee, trying to mask his concern for Michael, like so many times he had a client he knew was guilty but had to convince a jury of a concocted reality. “Master Drax Productions is looking for a property for a sea-faring adventure and we thought of you.”

“Sweetie, we’re passed that,” Tobias scolded. “We’re now talking price. Two hundred thousand, our guests have offered.”

Manetti sipped his coffee, then while watching Roger, ran his tongue over his chapped bottom lip. “I can give you one fifty today, cash, if you give me title and bill of sale and the keys.”

Boris scoffed. “Cash? You carry that much with you?” Just then Chris opened the screen door with his towel wrapped around him. The water had woken him up, but he still seemed dazed and looked at the two men dressed in black in a fog but also with a bit of apprehension.

“The production company prefers cash transactions. I won’t go into detail but records, paper trails, sometimes get in the way.” Chris came and sat on the ottoman in front of Manetti. Manetti was Boris was straightening his toupee, smiling oafishly at Chris. “Boy, where do you belong and why are you hiding in that towel?” Chris rose from his seat, folded his towel on the floor and sat cross-legged naked on it.

Boris’ eyes bulged as he took in the youngster. He had to shift so that his stirring cock wouldn’t tent in his shorts. “It sounds shady, this no paper trail,” Boris uttered uncomfortably as he fidgeted.

“Well,” Manetti said. “Take the boy’s driver’s license. Sure it says he’s eighteen. It would have to if he were to be in an adult film now, wouldn’t it? Jacob, close your ears.” Chris turned around and looked at Manetti confused. Manetti raised his brows, and Chris turned back around taking his cue.

Boris and Roger examine the skinny, hairless boy. “One eighty,” offered Boris, staring as the boy as Chris touched himself for his benefit.

“Fifty,” Manetti countered, leaning forward as his towel parted, displaying his round hairy balls cushioning his famous monstrously thick cock. “And we’ll throw in a free fuck for both of you--both me and the kid. Deal?”

“Deal!” cried Boris and Roger together.

The screen door opened and Master Drax entered, followed by his servant Jamal who clasped a large case. “Deal?” he asked scanning the faces in the room. He smiled at the boy who, while he played with himself, sat on the floor with a full erection. “Hello, Christian. What a pleasure to see you, and in such a happy state.” He inspected Manetti’s suddenly stoic face. “What sort of deal would that be, Michael?” He then shut the heavy sliding glass door, and locked it. “Hello, friends.”