All copyrights belong to author, Michael Gleich
Los Murcielagos
My boss called me in. It didn't take long to get this job and now it looks like it won't take long to lose it.
"Matt! Good to see you, sit down." Mr. Stearns, usually somber as the dead, now had a happy face stuck on.
"Sir, what can I do for you?" I figured I was safe with this lead question.
"We have a story for you. A special story."
I was worried about the last article I did on separate but equal bathrooms for straights and gays.
Mr. Stearns put his hand on my shoulder. "Remember that psychological test you took about six months ago?"
"Ah-so I like purses. I just like to collect old ladies handbags. What's wrong with that? It's just a hobby for Christ's sake."
"Huh... no...not that. You, my boy, are going to interview one of the most demented murderers of this century. It was about two years ago, that incident in the desert. The gay priest that murdered hundreds of people."
"Sure. Who could forget it? A priest murdered an entire town. Found having intercourse with the town sheriff while killing him. They had the guy plastered on every Halloween costume last year. I thought the dildo hanging from a rosary was a bit much."
"We want you to interview him."
"He's locked up. They threw the key away and salted the earth where the town sat."
"He is locked up, but we have a special court order to see him. That article Rebecca did, about the right wing trying to suppress gay, lesbian, transgender rights, because of this priest. Well, we showed in court that there is reasonable doubt as to who committed the crime. We hope with your interview, we can show he is not guilty-- crazy as hell, but not guilty.
"Why not Rebecca, then?"
"She didn't pass the screening test. You're the only one who did."
"I don't get it."
"I was told that the reason he is kept in strict isolation is that he can use mind control."
"I get it. This is a 'Lambda News' joke, right? You get the new guy in, get him to sniff the bait and then wham, I'm the office stooge."
"No, this is for real."
"Okay, go on. I can take a joke as well as the next guy." I somehow liked the somber Mr. Stearns better.
"You're going to a special prison for the insane. A unit built just for him. You cannot take any recording device, nothing electrical. Pen and pad is what they will give you. You'll interview for an hour a day, for one week, or until... you break."
"Break?"
"You need to read this, and if you agree, sign it. It says you're aware of the possibility of becoming insane by being in the presence of Father O'Leary."
"Okay, that's it. Party is over. Come out, come out, wherever you are."
"Matt, I'm serious. I know this all sounds crazy, but I'm serious. Here are the papers for you to look over. Plane tickets, money, and letters giving you the right to do the interview. This could be the chance of a lifetime."
Looking over the contents of the folder, I thought it was a lot of work for a joke. The plane ticket looked real. Letters from the court with official seals stamped on them, and a- 'I won't sue the hell out of you if I should go insane' clause, written in legalese. "I'll get my name on the headline news section?"
"Hell yeah."
"I'll do it. Apparently, a man who enjoys the curve of a well-made lady's handbag has the fortitude to go against
mind-bending murderers." I knew there was a reason I was so fascinated by them.
"Do me a favor, Matt?
"Yeah?"
"Don't talk about the handbag thing. Okay? Let's keep that between the two of us."
"Sure."
"On your way out, stop at Rebecca's desk. She'll go over on what she has on this guy."
"Will do." Pulling out a pen, I signed the agreement not to sue the newspaper should I go postal. "Here's the deed to my soul," I said when I handed him the agreement.
"Get out and get a story."
I felt better, now that Mr. Stearns took the happy face off. Right after that, I went to our News Vamp. People walked quickly passed Rebecca, lingering to chat at her desk has caused some to faint.
Rebecca, was our nightshade of the Lambda News Team-- if you had any dirt under your fingernails, she was the one who knew where it came from. Her desk, nearest the restroom, had piles of paper, books scattered, and two computers-- one to watch what god was doing.
"Mr. Stearns has me interviewing Father O'Leary. What can you tell me?"
"So, you're the one that passed the psycho test." I swear her eyes narrowed to a laser bead, aimed dead center on my forehead.
"Yeah, lucky me. So what do you have?"
"You're in for a treat. The guy was the only one alive in a town of five hundred souls. When the Federal Marshals arrived, he was in the process of fucking the sheriff to death. The sheriff died from drowning. His lungs filled with semen.
"So the priest was a little sex kitten. What else?" I knew she wanted to see me run to the toilet, hurling breakfast.
"According to the government, the population of Bumfuck died from loss of blood. Apparently, the priest was able to produce huge amounts of semen by drinking huge amounts of human blood." I liked the way she did her nails while talking of carnage.
"How do they know he drank their blood?"
"No blood anywhere. No blood on their clothes, or on the ground, and two puncture wounds on the neck where the blood was sucked out."
"He's a vampire?"
"If he is, then he doesn't need a coffin. He's not afraid of the sun, or a cross, and he hasn't left the asylum. He does have a few unusual traits." The smirk on her face told me she was coming in for the kill. "He can put thoughts into your head. Make you feel sensual... even lustful: for him." She fluttered her mascara eyes like a moth beating its wings.
"What about fangs?"
"Nothing unusual in his dental makeup. X-rays showed he needs a crown on his lower right molar."
"How did he do it then?"
"That's a question the government doesn't know. He had no blood in his stomach, or on him. His version of what happened is this. Rebecca looked up from putting the final polish to her nails. "A gypsy did it." She then went back to polishing her stilettos.
"It's always the gypsies isn't it?"
"Not just a gypsy, but a gypsy god, a walking, breathing god, that came here in search of human blood."
"What's the town's name again?"
"Los Murcielagos, New Mexico."
"Gee, what a swell place that must be. Any gay bars there?"
"Not a one. One more thing, hot stuff."
"Yeah?"
"The priest has a dick of death, literally, he killed the sheriff with it; be very-very-careful." She smiled at me, and then turned to see what god was doing.
I left the office and headed for my apartment. The next question on my mind was what to wear when interviewing a notorious killer. I needed to call the boyfriend about the weekend. I knew he wasn't gonna like this.
When I got to my apartment the computer was on and the coffee still plugged in, giving the aroma of stale socks. It might be socks, for that matter. The plane leaves in the morning for Billings. The wacko farm was located in a berg not far from there. Where is that phone? Ah, beneath the boxers.
"Jim!"
"Hey, Matt"
"Listen, I have a real important assignment and I'll be gone for a week, maybe more."
"So you're not going to the concert with me?"
"Huh, it looks that way, but I'll make it up to you when I get back."
"This is the second time you stood me up Matt."
"Second?"
"Maybe third, but I can tell you one thing for sure."
"What's that?"
"It's the last time."
"Jim! Damn." I hung up the phone and sniffed the boxers to see if they were good enough to pack. I had time for a quick trip to the department store down the block. Why anyone would want to live more than a block from a department store, or fast food chain, I had no idea.
My boss, bless him, gave me first-class accommodations on a crop duster. The aircraft came with a pilot and about twenty passengers. I sat down next to a man who looked like a pig farmer. Turned out he was. After a very bumpy ride, we arrived in Billings where I grabbed what passed for transportation. A magnetic sign stuck on the side of a Datsun, displayed 'TAXI.' The driver was well-informed and drove me to a motel five miles from the asylum. A greasy spoon named 'Vic's Diner' sat next door to the motel. I checked in, and took my suitcase to the room. Opening the door, I flipped the light switched and turned on the air-conditioner. The bed seemed firm enough and the phone worked.
I dialed the number for the asylum and asked for Dr. Kresler. "Hello, Dr. Kresler?"
"Yes, this is Dr. Kresler."
"My name is Matt Stanton, from Lambda News. I'm scheduled to interview a patient named Brady O'Leary."
"Yes. Your boss, Mr. Stearns, called me. You have the court papers with you, and identification?"
"Yes."
"Where are you staying?"
"In a motel called, Roads End, next to, Vic's Diner, charming place really."
"I go by it everyday. Don't have the meatloaf if you value your life.
"I'll keep it in mind."
"Do you have a car?"
"That was my next question."
"I'll have someone pick you up. Only one hour a day."
"Yes sir."
"I'll need to talk with you before the first meeting. Has someone told you about the patient?"
"He can put thoughts in your head, and is dangerous."
"Yes, well... we'll have a talk beforehand. See you tomorrow then. Bye."
I showered and thought about shaving, but didn't. Time to see what god's little acre looked like. Walking out of my room, I strolled to the road in front. The area was flat, dry and windy. A few trees grew around the motel and diner with an asphalt road that went nowhere. The diner sat in the middle of a dirt lot where big rigs and pick-ups parked at the weather-beaten eatery. I walked to the entrance, opened the door and stepped in. No one turned, but the ceiling fans. Country music spewed from a radio in the kitchen. I walked to where a man sat at the counter, leaving a seat between us. He wore dusty blue jeans that fit his stool-perched ass, like frosted cupcakes at a bakery counter. Lean, lanky and very male; he turned his head towards me, smiled a thin-lipped grin and with big brown eyes looking me over, said, "Howdy."
"Hi!" it sounded like someone squeezed my balls.
He held out his tanned leathered hand. "Name's, Shane." They'll never believe me at the Blue Dot Lounge back home.
"Matt, Matt Stanton, reporter for Lambda News."
"Reporter? Huh." He sounded like he just got word of locust headed his way.
"I'm interviewing a patient at the asylum up the road from here."
"A patient at the asylum? Huh." I was losing him, I could tell.
"Say, enough about me, what about you? You have a ranch around here?" I'm picturing ponderosa pines, a chic but modest cabin with a babbling brook running in a green pasture: and us.
"What you want to know about me for?" oh-oh. This was somehow, not working.
A very large man in a white t-shirt, stretched to the maximum cotton could go, who came out from the kitchen said, "You want something, Bud?" while he stared at me from the other side of the counter.
"Coffee laté, please."
"Coffee whatie?" he said back.
It was so quiet. I could hear flies trying to escape. "Huh. Just coffee with cream or milk." He pulled a mug out from under the counter and filled it with something black in a pot behind him.
"Here's the coffee and this little metal container on the counter? Is cream. Help yourself." His eyes never left me.
"Thanks." My voice sang out.
"That's a dollar."
"Any specials?"
"Meatloaf."
"I'll have a burger, well done, no cheese, fries and cole slaw on the side."
"I don't have cole slaw."
"Just the burger and fries, then."
"That'll be five bucks, with the coffee."
I sat in silence, hearing Jessie belt a mournful tune through a blown-out speaker. Shane never came back, but stared straight ahead, sipping hot coffee.
Morning came not soon enough. I was dressed, modestly but well. I got a quick coffee at the diner and what looked like a bagel, but sold as a donut. I stood out front of the motel waiting for the car Dr. Kresler sent. A black station wagon hit the dirt lot, slamming on the brakes next to me. "You Matt Stanton?" I heard from the cloud of dust thrown up. The driver's billed hat advertised chewing tobacco and his smile missed a front tooth.
"Yeah."
"Hop in. I'll take ya to Doc's." I walked around the other side, opened the door and sat down. Country blared from another blown speaker. The inside smelled as if someone vomited in the air conditioner.
"Leave your window down. The dog puked in the air conditioner. I'm trying to blow it out."
"I see. Do you work for Dr. Kresler?" The driver had bugged eyes, his cheeks sunk in, and his ears were the size of dinner plates. I began to worry about unusual experiments at the clinic.
"Yes, Sir. Sure do." He did a U-turn, squealing the tires in the curve, heading to the asylum. The wind, the air conditioner and the broken speaker braying Tammy, prevented any conversation.
We pulled up to what looked like a prison. Barbed wire strung like a Slinky on top a twelve-foot-tall chain-linked fence, wrapped its way around a gray building. Small black windows sat in its cement sides. The driver put his thumb on a disk surface that came out from a pole by the gate. The gate opened and we drove to the back of the asylum. An elderly man in a suit and tie stood next to the entrance. The driver stopped and I got out.
"Dr.Kresler?" I asked, extending my hand.
He took my hand in his and asked, "Did you bring the papers and identification?"
"Yes, I did." I showed him my I.D. from the Lambda News Association and the papers. He asked if he could photo copy them and I said sure. He walked me into the building to the security counter where I was fitted with an I.D. badge that had a bar code. It hung around my neck on a nylon cord by a clip. The security man told me that when I came to a door I was to stand in front of the camera and show my I.D. before the door would open.
"First, I need to talk with you. My office is right over here." We walked to a door and he opened it with his badge. Inside the office sat a desk near the small window with two leather chairs. The walls held books and placards, the usual affair for shrinks.
"Sit down, will you? First, you need know that if we see any unusual signs, such as you being influenced by Mr. O'Leary, we will abort the interview."
"What signs?"
"If you should try to get near him. Try to take your jacket off. Plead with the guard to let you see him."
"Why the jacket?"
"You will be wearing a restraining jacket. It will have a cord attached at the back that you will not be able to reach, in case we have to pull you back to the room's security door." For the first time I started to worry.
"We'll monitor you at all times. Four people will watch you from cameras and speakers. You will wear a heart monitor, to measure your pulse and blood pressure. The room is very cold. That's how he likes it. There will be a chair for you where you are to sit. If you move it, we'll pull you out."
"What about the mind bending?" I began to think there was a reason for all this protection.
"He can and he will definitely try to put thoughts in your head. That test you took and passed. That was to see how prone you are to persuasion. It's the best we can do for now. He affects some people less than he affects others, but he affects all people to a degree. It depends on whether or not you can resist him."
"I didn't know psychiatry believed in mind bending."
"Officially, no. Far as I know, this is the only case and it's only of a seductive nature. We never tested a gay man with him, thinking he would have no problem seducing another gay male. That's why we want to monitor you. In a way, you're a guinea pig for us." I wasn't sure if I wanted to thank him or run.
"Well, ready? Mr. Scott outside will fit you up and take you to the holding area we have for him. Good luck!" He stood up and escorted me to the door shaking my hand again.
Mr. Scott's paunch hung out and over his belt. Pasty-white with jowls and rimmed glasses, he stood with a bent back and a canvas strapped jacket held out in his hands. "I'm pretty sure this will fit. Try it on and I'll cinch up the straps."
The jacket was sail canvas, fastened with leather straps in back and one up the crotch. Kinky yes, but nothing I would wear to The Cellar on a Saturday night. I thought Mr. Scott was taking his sweet time with that crotch strap. With the last strap buckled, I felt like one of the patients.
"Here you are, pen and pad." Moving my arms was difficult but I tried out the pen and I could write okay.
"The room is not far. Follow me." We walked down a short corridor where a guard sat at a desk at the side of a door. A monitor was on the desk with two phones. The guard asked me to sign my name and time to a note board. Mine was the only name on the list. He then stood in front of the door and showed his I.D. The door buzzed and he opened it asking me to step in. We entered a hall with a glass door on the end and a trap door on the side. He told me to open the door at the end, and stand with my back to the left side of the door. I opened the door and stood where he wanted me. I heard the trap open and something hitched to the back of my jacket. The guard said that when ready, to walk through the curtain in front. I stepped forward and pulled the middle of the curtain. They were heavy and made from a kind of metal weave. The room was dark, cold and empty except for a chair in front of me, with bars beyond that. A light in the ceiling illuminated the room. Someone sat on a cot inside the cell. I walked towards the chair; the smell of lavender and roses rushed my senses. It reminded me of my grandmother's garden on a cool summer day. I could see my breath with each exhale as I moved to the chair and sat down.
"The Irish have a saying, that you're blest by angels when visitors call." A voice, gilded like an Irish tenor, spoke from the cell. A man, who looked no more than a teenager, wearing a black shirt, dark jacket and slacks, like a priest, but without a collar, sat on a cot. Thick waves of brown hair cascaded from his head. A single curl danced on his brow. The bluest eyes shined from a radiant face that glowed with purity. A blush from his cheeks gave an almost make-up appearance. He looked about six feet. Sitting down, it was hard to tell. Lean, maybe weighing hundred and fifty. The smile, as if he knew you like an old friend, beamed with perfect white teeth and red hued lips.
"Good day to you, sir." I had my pen and pad on the ready.
"Good day to you, Matt. May I call you Matt? They told me that you wanted an interview."
"Yes, sir. I would. Matt is fine, and how would you like me to address you?"
"Well, twould be wrong to call me Father now, wouldn't it. Shame too, but the Holy Father himself defrocked me. Why not call me Brady, then." He seemed nonchalant about getting kicked out of his religious order.
"Brady it is. I want to hear your side of the story, if you would like to tell me."
"I will, Matt, but could you come a bit closer? I feel like a banshee, yelling in the wee hours."
His gaze met mine with the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. He was stunning, absolutely striking, with pouted lips, and a laugh in the gleam of his eye. My cock began to harden, pressing against my pants.
"No, sir. They told me I cannot move the chair, or they would stop the interview."
"Tis a pity, it is. Where would you like me to start?"
"Well, sir, in the court records, you said a gypsy was the cause of what happened in your community back in New Mexico. Is that true?"
"More than a gypsy. Oh yes. If you saw him yourself, you would worship him. Glorious he is. I crave him like a miser craves gold."
"You said he came with a carnival. Is that right? What happened the day he arrived? Where did the carnival come from and go?"
"Twas a witches' moon. The second full moon in the month came up from the mountains, cold and blue it was in the night sky. I heard wolves howl all through the night. Lonely they were, with hunger in their voice. The whole town heard them crying. I was next to my bed saying a rosary when the candles blew out. I looked out my window and saw lights winding down the mountain pass. Someone was watching me. Someone outside could see my very soul, they could. There was a stirring in my loins. A yearning to pleasure myself stronger than I ever felt in all my days. I went back to my prayers, but the Hail Mary's wouldn't come. I kept saying other things. Filthy words about how I would suck cock. Get on my knees and be a cocksucker for any prick put in front of me, then I had an orgasm in my cassock. I ripped opened my pants and gathered the jism in my hand licking it, wondering how to get more, where could I suck a dick. I looked at the crucifix at the head of my bed. The Christi on my crucifix had a large hard cock sticking out as if it wanted me to suck it."
Brady began to pant and then suddenly stood up, pulled out a cock that must have been eleven or twelve inches and masturbated. Cum shot from his cock in an arch. It hit the floor in front of my feet making a puddle that trailed back to his cell. He stood there with his erection in his hand smiling at me.
"Tis an Irish mischief." An eerie laugh erupted from him, like a hyena that made the hairs on my neck stand up. Jizm dripped from his prick coating down the sides and onto his hand holding the cock. He brought the hand to his mouth and licked cum from his fingers, sucking each digit. His dick stood out slightly limp, hanging down, dripping more semen on the floor.
I tried to sound as nonchalant as possible when I said, "Does this happen often?"
"Well, laddie, I'm afraid it does. I hope I didn't offend you." He winked at me and gave that grin again, as if it was all a big joke.
"No offense taken. I guess we all have certain peculiarities." Actually, I was impressed and mesmerized.
He sat back down on the cot, but left his prick hanging out of his pants between his legs. He picked the story up where he left off, as if nothing happened.
"I fell asleep or passed out. I don't know which. When I woke there were strange sounds coming from the parking lot of the church. I got off the floor and went to the window. There in the lot, men were putting up a tent, lights and all kinds of fanfare. One man stood out among the others. He was wearing pants, no shirt, and black boots. I couldn't turn away. He seemed to direct the others as he stood there below my window. Then he turned and looked straight at me. Twas the most beautiful man I have ever seen. His hair matched his coal black eyes and every muscle glistened in the moonlight. Like a Greek god, perfect in every way, with rivulets of hair outlining each muscle on his torso. I could see in his pants a cock that hung half way to his knees. The great head outlined through the fabric as it snaked down. He squeezed the cudgel in his pants while he looked at me. I went weak and another orgasm washed over me more intense than the last. He didn't say anything, but I knew he wanted me to come down to the parking lot where he was. I drifted, as in a dream to the vacant lot, taking my clothes off until I was stark naked. When I got outside, I fell to my knees and crawled to him, lying at his feet. I watched the men put the carnival up. So fast, they were and strong, they lifted huge poles into place and hammered the stakes in seconds. Suddenly Master grabbed my hair and dragged me to a trailer parked nearby."
"Mr. Stanton, your time is up for today. Please walk back to the curtain behind you." A voice announced on a loud speaker.
I looked at the ex-priest. His eyes glazed, staring out while masturbating again. This might be a good time to go before the next volley. He didn't seem aware that I was leaving as I walked back to the curtain. I looked in time to see another load shoot in the air, probably a pint of semen, and heard the noise it made when it hit the cement floor.
The guard helped me with the jacket, then showed where the exit was, reminding me to bring my badge for future visits. I was thinking perhaps an umbrella as well.
The next day, Goofy did another donut in the parking lot to pick me up. Apparently, the dog had barfed again. I had on two t-shirts under my long-sleeved shirt and coat. Rain was falling and when we arrived at the fortress, it looked more foreboding than the first day.
No one was there to greet me. I used my badge to open the door and entered. The hallway to Brady's cell was close by and I could see the guard ready with my rescue coat. He had me buckled in short order, no lingering at the crotch strap for him. Handing my pen and pad, I signed the sheet under my name from the day before.
After having the cord attached, I walked to my chair and noticed there was no longer the smell of a garden. Rather it smelled like a seedy bathhouse, something between locker room and whorehouse permeated the air. Someone had cleaned the floor from the day before, but the cold still penetrated my layers of clothing.
Brady sat on his cot stark naked. He had his knees up exposing not only his genitals, but his asshole as well. I swear the pucker winked at me. I had to admit that he had a great body. Pale white with perfect skin, he was hairless except for the thatch on his head and a small delicate bush on his groin. He looked like a hundred dollar hustler, unless he sold it by the inch, then he would definitely get more.
"Good day to you, Matt," he said in that wonderful lyrical Irish accent.
"You're looking quite well, Brady. Most people look better in clothes, but you're not one of them." My erection was digging a hole in the right hand pocket of my pants.
He stood up, walked to the bars of the cell, poked his cock through and waved it side to side. His eyes drilled through me. The voice changed to a deeper, darker tone. "Twould be a pleasure indeed to have you ride my pony." I felt sweat on my forehead, yet I could see my breath. No longer was I cold. I tried not to look at the swaying python in front of me, or the incredible body Brady flagrantly showed. "I'll pass for now. Yesterday this gypsy boss you referred to as, Master was dragging you by the hair to a trailer. What happened?"
He nonchalantly walked back to his cot and sat down, put his knees up to his chest and held them together with his arms, like a pouting youth. His cock and balls hung down beyond the rail of the cot where they swayed with every movement.
"I was powerless. Like a fly in a spider's web, I could do nothing. Inside the trailer, it was pitch black. The windows were sealed. Master threw me on a bare mattress. He lit a candle on each side of a black leather chair and sat down facing me with his legs spread, staring at me. Saliva drooled out of my mouth looking at the cock in his pants." Brady's cock went hard and beat the air; pre-cum dripped and glistened on his cock's head. He reached down and pulled on his balls before he stood and walked toward the bars.
"Master finally spoke. He asked me if I remembered when my uncle Sean would come home from the mines with my father. They would stop at a pub on the way and have a few pints. I would wait at the gate; my prick hard in my pants because I wanted to play horsy with Daddy and Uncle Sean. Daddy would lift me up with his hand pressed on my crotch. His thumb would find my hole and he would stick it in while pressing my on my cock with his fingers. Then toss me into Uncle Sean's arms. I would smell his ripe armpit. He would look down at me sniffing and feeling his hard pecs with my little hand. He would say what a little bugger I was, and then stick his middle finger in my mouth to suck. They would go in the house and sit with a pint. That's when I would ride their leg like a dog. They would take turns bouncing me on their thigh. My legs spread over their hard muscled leg, feeling the wool of their trousers grind into my crotch and asshole while they bounced me up and down. Oh, what fun to smash my butt-hole against their leg and grip on to their pants feeling their big cocks caught in their trousers. I would hold their pricks feeling them get bigger and harder. My arse flying in the air with my legs spread wide coming down grinding my butt-hole into their muscled thigh. Oh, god, I loved it."
Brady walked backed to his cot. He sat in a squat and fingered his asshole with one hand while he held his dick in the other, so he could lick the cock juice that dripped from its piss slit.
After a while, he raised his head and said, "Master asked me if I remembered me mum fucking the constable. Everyday Daddy and Uncle Sean went to the mines; she would have a noon fuck. I would watch them. Mike, the cop, knew I was watching. He made sure I could see him face-fuck mum. He would wink at me while he held her head between his legs and rammed his cock down her whore mouth. After he shot his load, she would suck his balls while he smoked a fag. When he was through, he would go into the loo where I would wait for him. He would let me clean his cock, licking it after he fucked her." "Mr. Stanton, your time is up. Please walk back to the door." Damn, just as it was getting good. "Sorry, Brady we'll have to pick this up tomorrow." He was in another world. I could see him working another load, so I high-tailed it to the door just as I heard a loud splat hit the floor behind me. When the guard unfastened the straps and I was ready to go, I asked him who cleaned up Brady's cell. "Bots." He stated. "Bots?" "Robots. They had them specially built in Japan. They're not affected by Brady," he said with a grin.
At my third interview and I wondered if I could last. Brady was definitely getting to me. He was so damned hot, with that dick and ass carved from alabaster. If he wasn't such a damned whore and crazy as hell, I'd get drunk enough to do it. The guard had me cinched in. I had my pen and pad at the ready, and was ready to see what was behind the steel curtain of door number three. The room smelled musty, like my aunt May's cellar. Brady was naked, lying on his back with his legs bent back and his knees on each side of his head. It looked like dried and wet cum was in his hair, down his face and over his chest. The floor was wet around him. His head was propped up against the cot, so that he could lick and suck his dick. His ass-pucker had three of his fingers jammed in it, working back and forth in a very slimy chute. He stopped when he saw me sit down. "Top of the day to you, Matt." He then went back to sucking his cock. In one lunge, he took it to the root. "I can see you're very limber. Yoga?" "Master loved watching me perform for him. The boys did too. When I was serviced them they would teach me tricks." "Tell me about your Master. Where is he now?" "He's on the other side." "The other side of what?" "In ancient time, the gypsies were a fierce warrior tribe. They guarded the gate of the gods, where only the dead pass to the underworld and gods come and go as they please. Somewhere in the Karakoram Mountains is where Master is from. He was a great warrior who disobeyed the gods and went through the gates as a living mortal, to become an immortal. The gods cursed the gypsies for this. They were to forever roam, never to return to their beloved mountains, or know of the passage. Master became an immortal and can make others so, but they must pay a price, to return to our world for human blood."
"Are you immortal?"
"Master wouldn't make me immortal, but he promised to come back for me." Brady stopped playing with himself and sat still on his cot.
"How did you get this power to put thoughts in people's heads?"
"Back in the trailer, Master asked me if I wanted to suck his cock and be a whore for him and his tribe. I said yes. Please! Make me your whore; I'll be your slut. Anything! I said to him." Brady was getting excited again, feeling his nipples as he pulled on his balls.
"I crawled to him kissing and licking his booted feet. Master pulled out his cock. He told me to suck it like the slut I was born to be. I lifted my head and licked the piss slit, lapping the nectar that flowed out of it. Some strange transformation occurred, as I gulped at his cock, taking more and more until I was at the root of the great dick. I could feel the head down my throat fucking my guts. I blacked out. When I came to, he was fucking me in the arse. I screamed for him to keep fucking me. The men that put up the carnival came into the trailer and began to mount me as well, fucking my arse and throat. While they were gang-banging me, they told me I was going to be the bait for their trap. My new powers would draw the town to the carnival so that they could feed on them. That's when they heard the sheriff outside looking for the owner of the carnival. They dressed me like a gypsy fortuneteller. Put a wig and makeup on me, with an old black dress and told me to go out and talk to the sheriff. I went out, it was about noon, and the sheriff asked where the owner was. That's when I learned what I could do. I thought of enticing him and getting him in the trailer. I could see it working. His cock became hard and he began to lust for me. I told him we could go to my trailer and he could fuck me. When he entered, Master and his tribe grabbed him and made him a sex slave like me. They were fucking the both of us, shooting immortal semen in our bodies. Our cocks began to grow and we began to shoot enormous loads ourselves. All we could think of was having more sex, more cocks to suck and fuck us. When night fell and the moon was full, we were lead to a stage in front of the carnival. We were to entice everyone to come to the carnival for the best show anyone ever saw. Oh, they came all right. The whole town came; the sheriff and I were dressed in costumes that showed everything. We lured them with sexual cravings they never felt before. Men, women, boys, girls, none were able to escape the honey of our thoughts. The tent twas full of people so horny that they began to feel each other up. Men and women groped each other, taking their clothes off licking and sucking on each other; that's when the show began. Out came the gypsy tribe with Master as the ringleader. Oh, what feats they performed. They flew in the air, twirls and acrobatics never seen by humans. Then, when the crowd was under their spell, they attacked. The sheriff and I prevented anyone from fleeing. Master and his men gorged themselves on the crowd until they were full and the people drained of blood." "Mr. Stanton your time is up." "I'll see you tomorrow. That's quite a story Brady." He was lost in another world staring out in space as I left the room.
It was all so unbelievable, no wonder they locked him up. Still, how did he get this power to affect people? How could he produce vast amounts of semen and the stamina for continuous sexual arousal? My fourth interview and the curtain seemed heavy as I pulled it open. My chair looked far away. Brady wore his cassock, looking angelic, like an Irish priest ready to bless his flock. The room smelled of disinfectant. I bet the bots were just here. "Good day to you, Matt." Brady smiled so beautifully. He could sell milk to cows with that smile. "Brady, you look very much the priest." "Old habits are hard to break." He then let out one of his spine tingling inhuman laughs. My blood turned cold and fear gripped me to see such an innocent-looking person, yet to hear a voice from hell come from it. "When I was last here, you talked of how the town people were killed. Why did you kill the sheriff?" Brady pondered; a smile crossed his face as if he found the right word for the morning crossword. "It was just the two of us left. I wasn't thinking of killing him. There was no one left for us, but each other. After Master and his tribe had their fill of blood, they fucked us for a whole day. The next night, they packed everything and left. The sheriff and I began having sex; it went on for three days before the marshals arrived. I didn't know he was dead until they pulled me off him. I had my cock down his throat for so long I forgot it was in him." He said and stared into space for a moment. Master said he was coming back for me." Brady's stare went beyond me. I felt that Master was somewhere in the room. He seemed distant, like he was listening to something. "Brady, are you all right?" "Yes. He's coming tomorrow for me. If you're here you'll meet him." Brady sat back down on the cot. Looking like a schoolboy waiting for the bus. "Ask him if I can have an interview." I thought, what the hell, I'll play along.
"Brady?" He just sat there and stared out. After a while, I left. I still had one day with him and I thought it might be interesting to see what happened when Master was a no show. My ride dropped me off in front of the motel. I took a shower, typed up my notes and had a nap. I decided to go over to Vic's Diner and mingle. The parking lot was full of trucks and I hoped to come across someone in need of a little manly relief. The evening was a dud, but I did hear a few interesting stories on road life. I opened the door to my room and there on my bed was the most beautiful ladies' handbag. No strap, but a clasp at the top that gathered the folds of the softest black leather I have ever seen. I thought my boss, knowing of my collection, sent it to me. I walked over to pick it up. Something was strange about it, I wasn't sure what. It seemed to move, and as I reached out to pick it up, the purse broke into flight. A terrible screech came from it and what I thought was the clasp now looked like fangs. The handbag, turned out to be a bat that flew around the room, and then out the door, and screamed into the night. I had a hard time sleeping that night. Finally, in desperation, I took a sleep tablet and woke up with the phone ringing.
"Hello?"
"Matt, you're okay?"
"Yeah, sure I am. Mr.Searns, is that you?"
"Yes, it's me. Haven't you heard?"
"Heard what?"
"That nut you're interviewing escaped last night. He killed everyone at the asylum. They found the night crew drained of blood this morning when the staff arrived. It just came over a police broadcast."
"Mr. Stearns. Have I got a story for you."
If you enjoyed the story, I would very much like to hear from you. mgleich@earthlink.net