This story is an entirely fictional work of adult erotic fantasy, copyright Boy Mercury X 2019.
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MIDNIGHT MALCOLM by Boy Mercury X
John, Putter and Hutch stood before the headstone and the pink marble slab covering the grave. The fog was just rolling in low over a blanket of fallen leaves in the long neglected corner of the cemetery, and the full moon glowed. Hutch jerked his elbow forward into John's back suddenly, provoking a startled gasp from his frat brother.
"Asshole," John muttered, quickly regaining his composure.
Hutch and Putter laughed, and John shook his head and joined in. None of the trio wanted to admit how on edge the night time cemetery left them. They had their bro cred to think of.
The headstone read simply,
MALCOLM WOODBURY 1660 - 1693
The lower slab had the same lettering etched into it.
WHOSO THOU BE THAT PASSETH BY SUCH AS THOU ART ONCE WAS I AS I AM NOW, SO THOU SHALT BE CALL ME THRICE TO BECKON ME
John and Hutch snickered, but Putter just glanced at his watch. "Come on," he said, "let's do it."
"It's not even midnight," Hutch replied.
"Close enough," said John, digging his fists into his frat jacket pockets, his sturdy legs shifting in place in snug sweats.
The three jocks exchanged nods, inhaled and together said the words. "Midnight Malcolm. Midnight Malcolm." It was stupid to feel a chill in the small of their muscular backs over this, but they did. "Midnight... Malcolm."
They exhaled together, the plumes of their breath mingling in the air over the grave. There was no sound but the crunching of leaves under their feet.
"Well," said Hutch, after a minute passed. "Nothing." He sounded disappointed.
"What did you expect, a big gay ghost?" asked Putter.
"I dunno," Hutch replied, restlessly rising and lowering on the balls of his feet.
The Californian had been so eager to summon a ghost in the creepy old Colonial graveyard. Standing there among the mossy headstones and crypts, he thought the New England states had such a deeper, more twisted history than sunny Los Angeles.
The legend of Midnight Malcolm, described in local historic record as "the notorious Sodomite witch," was well known to every student at their small college. Sentenced to hang by Judge Thomas Putnam, his vengeful ghost was said to come back when called three times. There was barely a student who hadn't at some point ventured into the cemetery to invoke him, as part of an initiation or a prank, or tonight a cheap Halloween thrill.
"Let's go," said John, turning to make his exit. It was only eleven o'clock, still plenty of time to get to the parties on Greek Row.
His frat brothers turned to follow, but before he could take a step Hutch inhaled sharply and froze in place, as if grabbed by an invisible force. "Unf," he grunted. He breathed hard, and his hand reached out to take hold of John's rear, cupping the firm mound of muscled jock ass.
"Dude," John gasped, a tremble in his voice.
Hutch's eyes rolled up in his head, as if he was nudged out of his own body by some other force. "I desire your flesh," he said in a flat tone, so unlike his ordinary voice.
John's heart raced and Putter looked on, his eyes darting between the two.
Hutch's face contorted and he erupted into a loud laugh. "Got you!" he howled, slapping John's hard rear.
"Very funny," John said with an eye roll.
He projected irritation, but his heart was still beating fast, and he could taste the adrenaline rush in his mouth. He could feel it in his fists, as if he were on the football field. He could even feel it in his crotch.
"That's enough" Putter declared, in that tone he sometimes had. It was the same voice he used when he refused to wear costumes, just their matching frat jackets.
They were all three built jocks, physically formidable enough to take on almost anything, but he wasn't comfortable at all. The gnarled denuded trees, the old family crypts and the sculpted angels with their judging stone faces creeped him out.
"Let's go," he said with a smile, assuming his more good-natured affect.
"Hold up," said Hutch. "It's not midnight yet."
"Dude, I don't want to waste another hour," groaned John. "We're missing the Tri Delt party. Sexy witch costumes. Sexy kitten costumes. Sexy... unf. You know the last time I had some Tri Delt pussy?"
"Come on," Hutch pleaded. "Tell the story at least."
He and John turned to Putter, well known to be descended from an old local family going all the way back to the Mayflower. Despite his athletic build and affable demeanor, their blond preppy bro was a blue blood WASP through and through.
"Don't look at me!" he exclaimed, shrugging his broad shoulders. "I don't know anything about it."
Hutch cocked his head to the side, making the coy face that worked so well on the girls he bedded. When would he learn that didn't work on the guys, Putter wondered. At least mostly.
Hutch pulled out his phone. "Wiki says..."
"Oh I'll read it," conceded Putter, letting his fingers rest against Hutch's as he took the phone. He smiled boyishly. "Flirt."
Putter read aloud.
"Of those convicted during the latter day witch trials, Malcolm Woodbury was among the most infamous. His family wealth, rumored homosexuality and contempt for the proceedings made for a courtroom drama that scandalized Puritan New England.
"Prior to being accused, Woodbury's wealth gave him license to flout the drab standards of the day. It is reported that though he wore conventional black, his clothing was stitched with silver thread and lined with rich fabrics in flamboyant colors, tailored in Europe to flatter his proportions. He was fond of music more worldly than the acceptable religious hymns. He had a reputation for being a wit, and was even charged later with taking pride in his drollery. He is recorded as saying `In my defense, being a wit in a Puritan age is no great claim.'
"Woodbury might have lived and died in obscurity had itinerant witch hunter Judge Thomas Putnam not ventured too close and taken an interest. On rumors of Woodbury inducing unnatural lusts and living extravagantly, Woodbury was charged with witchcraft.
"The Woodbury family fortune and influence afforded Malcolm privileges not enjoyed by most of the accused, including house arrest and an opportunity to mount a legal defense. Perhaps his privilege lulled him into overconfidence, as he openly expressed his disdain for Judge Putnam. Court records note that Malcolm Woodbury, when asked if he would meet the Black Man in the nearby haunted woods and be taken by him, replied `Oh I do hope so!'
"Though his wealth provided him a more comfortable trial, it could not alter the inevitable conclusion. By the time of Malcolm's trial, Judge Putnam was the region's most notorious witch hunter, having condemned two dozen women and men to guilt and death. Like them, he convicted Malcolm to hang, saying `There is a natural order and you have violated it.'
"Woodbury reportedly scoffed, but on the scaffold he took a more serious turn and laid a curse on Judge Putnam, saying An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. As you take this body from me, so I will I take one from you or yours.' As the noose was laid around his neck, his last words were I was already hung, now I'll be hanged.'[a]
"While most of the convicted were interred in unmarked graves, the Woodbury family arranged for Malcolm to be buried in the church cemetery. There is no written record of a quid pro quo, but the Woodbury family is known to have built the church a new rectory and bell tower the following year. Malcolm himself had already purchased the pink marble for his resting place, flamboyant in death as he was in life."
Putter paused, and feeling John and Hutch's eyes on him he resumed reading.
"Despite Malcolm's curse, Judge Putnam lived to a ripe old age, dying of natural causes, settling in the very area where Malcolm lived and died. His single child, a daughter named Mercy, and her husband lived out their lives without a hint of scandal, fading into New England society. But the fate of Midnight Malcolm became the stuff of local legend, most notably the tale that when summoned by saying his name three times at midnight, Malcolm Woodbury would return to the earthly plane. This was only fueled by the wording of his epitaph, CALL ME THRICE TO BECKON ME, referencing both his Puritan belief in bodily resurrection and the biblical story of Lazarus who was restored to life by being called three times"
Putter's thumb slid over the phone, putting it to sleep.
"There? Happy?" he asked, sweeping his blond hair back. He pulled his car key from his pocket. "Let's go to the party."
In one swift move Hutch snatched the key from his preppy bro, bouncing back on his heels. He smiled wickedly as a plan wormed through his head.
"Hutch..." began John, recognizing the look in his buddy's face when the devil got into him. "Don't."
Hutch held the key out, taunting Putter. He grinned and stepped back once and then again more quickly, trotting backward with his agile hips.
Putter and John rushed him, throwing their bigger bodies on his and bringing him down to the crunching leaves below. As he went down, Hutch whipped the key overhead. It arced high, glinting in the moonlight before it came to land somewhere in the dark.
Hutch cackled as the trio rolled on the ground. His eyes rolled in his head with the delight of feeling the heft of their bodies on his, their hips and thighs grinding against him, their strong arms on his own muscular frame.
"ASSHOLE!" Putter cursed, lifting himself onto one elbow, his free hand resting on Hutch's ribs. "Do you know how long it's going to take to find that in all... this?" He looked around at the sea of brown and orange leaves in the deepening fog.
"About an hour I hope," Hutch said slyly. Their faces were so close it took hardly anything to plant a peck on Putter's soft lips.
Putter's eyes narrowed in response. "Quit that."
"We'll find it. Then we can go watch Uzumaki," Hutch continued, lying back.
"Fuck that!" grumbled John, hoisting himself to his feet. "That's about a hair in a drain."
"It's a classic horror movie!" Hutch declared.
"Japanese classic crazy shit, Hachiro," John replied, using Hutch's full name to make his point.
"Man shut the fuck up," Hutch scoffed. "You're just pissed `cause there's no black horror movies."
"Black people are too smart to mess with that shit," said John, winking as he extended both hands to pull Hutch and Putter up.
Despite his jocular tone, John was more than half serious. Growing up in Savannah he'd heard his share of ghost stories. There were forces in the world best left to themselves. The only reason he was in on Hutch's foolishness was the Bro Code; when your bro does a dumbass thing, you have to do it with him.
Putter watched their banter, penduluming back and forth as the fog thickened and the moon slowly made its way across the black sky. He glanced up at a family crypt just up a hill, where a sculpted stone angel stood vigil, one hand on the crypt entrance, as if ready to open it on the day of the resurrection. The angel's form was masculine, with chiseled muscle, his face stern, and through a trick of the moonlight it appeared he was watching the trio, silently judging.
"Well let's start looking," Putter said resolutely. "If we each go in a different direction..."
"See?" interrupted John, shaking his head. "The white guy always says `let's spit up'."
"Walk in different directions, and loop back," Putter ended.
His easy confidence was hard to resist when he was commanding. And they could hardly lose bro cred now.
What else could John do but sigh and agree?
It wouldn't be the first time Hutch's antics had gotten things off track.
John guessed it started with that gangbang at Spring Break two years back. They call two guys and a girl the Devil's Threeway, so what did that make all three of them with a girl? The Devil's Floodgate?
Maybe so.
John had known in a gang bang not to look at his bros. Definitely to not make eye contact. Stay focused on the girl, as if the other guys aren't there. But damn, it could be hard. There was only so much space, even in that king-sized bed, with just one more nameless faceless girl between their panting, sweating thrusts. In the end, what was she but a convenient bit of flesh bringing them together, easily forgotten as they got off on the sight and feel of each other's lusty thrusts?
They'd noticed each other before, of course. Looking the way they did, how could they not?
They'd already nicknamed John's hefty member The Monster, dating back to freshman year shared showers. You weren't supposed to notice each other's dick's either, but John's cock had a presence of its own that couldn't be ignored. Monstrous only in size, like John's handsome face and thick necked, beefy assed build, it was perfectly formed, awe inspiring.
No one didn't notice Putter. His wholesome mop of blond hair, clean white smile and boyish features belied his sinful body. Years of crew built up broad shoulders that trailed to slim hips and a supple waist. Though visible only in certain light, he was covered with downy little hairs that split his abs like a book and cleaved his ass cheeks.
And many times out carousing had John let his heavy arm drop around Hutch's able shoulder, letting his big hand casually run over the wrestler's chest, even grazing a nipple now and then? When he cupped a rocky pec, they laughed. Innocent enough, just bros being bros, but enough to give John a rush in his crotch.
John could feel a swell in his own crotch. The Monster rising.
He rolled his eyes at getting so turned on by the thought of his bros. He'd had regular pussy ever since his pubes came in, looking the way he did, barely going a week without a good fuck. But thoughts of the guys increasingly wormed their way in and around his head. They were so easy to be with, so comfortable, and they felt so fucking good. They had chemistry.
He twisted his hips to get some relief from the tightening of his briefs. Make good choices, he told himself, channeling the voice of his coach in his head. Stay focused.
He turned to look for the key in the fallen leaves and slammed up against something -- some one -- a body even bigger and harder than his own. He gasped out loud, fumbling at the phone flashlight in his hands. He turned it up to see the flat face of a statue. Fuck, just another statue.
It was a young man, naked with an athlete's physique, a burial sheet carved to strategically cover the mound of his junk. He rested in the skeletal arms of a hooded robed figure. Death. As his panicked heart eased, John reached out and let his fingers trail over the sculpted pecs and ridged abs, coming to rest on the hard swell of cock and balls under the stony sheet.
He could practically see his bros there, Hutch resting against Putter, the lacrosse player reaching his long arms down to wrap around Hutch's thighs, parting them, opening them wide for John, Hutch's fat cock dripping for him, the clear precum trailing down around his balls to the hollow between his asscheeks.
John's eyes turned up to the hooded figure in Putter's position. Its face was hidden in shadow under the hood, unknown. He turned his phone to illuminate it, the light panning slowly on the sculpted muscle and bone and sheets, from the base up. As it neared the hood, John's heart beat hard and a sweat broke out in his pits. He heard a voice.
"What is he hiding?"
He pivoted, expecting to see Hutch mocking him with that creepy delivery. Then he heard Hutch's laugh, and as he spun around his flashlight panned the lithe wrestler running by, kicking leaves, disappearing again into the dark.
Man, fuck this shit. He turned away from the hooded statue. He didn't need -- didn't want -- to know what was under there. He turned back to sifting through leaves looking for the key.
"Gonna kill you Hachiro," John called out. "Right after I get a piece of Tri Delt ass."
"Oh John, fuckkkk me," Hutch sang out in response, squealing like a sorority girl, from somewhere in the fog.
"How about we find the key?" Putter called out from yet another direction.
They sounded distant, their voices pinging from one direction and then another, bouncing off headstones.
As much as John tried to focus on the task, the thoughts of his bros wormed through his head. Did anything feel as good as Hutch's hard pecs in his hands? The trickster was practically sculpted himself, with that smooth skin and solid muscle, pale blue veins marbling him. Did anything look as good as Putter? His pale blue eyes, his tawny ribs against John's dark skin, the small of his back drawing John in? Putter had a way about him.
He reached a hand down the front of his sweats. He wrapped his fist around the base of his meat, stroking up once to produce a bead of precum. That felt good, so he stroked again, easing out a surge of the clear liquid. He caught it up in his palm and smeared it down the thick shaft of his meat.
Yessss, the wind seemed to hiss in the rustle of leaves, whipped up in a vortex wrapping around his beefy frame.
He glanced at the words etched in stone under the statue he'd felt up.
"HE WILL KEEP YOU FIRM TO THE END." 1ST CORINTHIANS 1:8
He slowed the stroke on The Monster and tucked it awkwardly into his briefs. The night wasn't done yet.
Hutch trotted around the graveyard, slowing to his usual bandy-legged wrestler strut, laughing to himself.
He was in no rush to end this, especially not before midnight. Putter could find his own damn key. He sure could be a stiff now and then. Must be all that uptight Mayflower blood knotting up in him.
But he knew how to have fun when it suited him.
Hutch had seen him at work picking up girls, flattering them enough -- but not too much -- to draw them in. He'd get past their defenses so they'd want just a little more, and he'd taunt them, holding his favor just outside their grasp, letting them taste it so sparingly. Even with a honey skinned blonde between them, choking down John's meat in her throat while Hutch railed her ass and Putter's wood buried in her snatch, he'd hear Putter giving faint praise. That's okay baby, you're doing good... just a little more. And fuck if he wouldn't get it.
Hutch hoisted himself up onto an old headstone, straddling it, perched like a cat. He stripped off his frat jacket, sweaty after running loops through the graveyard, and chucked it in the direction of the car. He watched the triple Alpha insignia fall into the fog, and looked around for amusement. The headstones looked like crooked teeth.
He bent at the waist and cocked his head around to read the epitaph on the stone beneath him.
"THE SHELL IS HERE BUT THE NUT IS GONE."
Hutch giggled and then laughed and then cackled. He licked both palms and used his spit and the sweat of his scalp to smear the sides of his hair upright, laquering them into makeshift horns.
He extended a leg to deftly churn up a spiral in the fog. Fuck John, Uzumaki was a great movie. John and Putter didn't know anything.
It made sense he'd been the first to recognize the shared carnal desire among his bros. John was a footballer, and Putter had his rich-boy sports, crew and lacrosse. But Hutch was a wrestler. He'd trained for years to read the subtle cues and signals in another guy's body. He could detect the tension preceding a move, or a tremor of uncertainty, or a feint. It wasn't hard to sense a touch that lingered longer than necessary, the not-so-innocent graze of fingers or a grind of pleasure. There were so many ways a body could betray the intent of its owner, and he was an expert at them. He was like a seismograph for desire.
It wasn't far from his first kiss of one of his bros to the next. And from there to John finally letting his big hands roam Hutch's body, Putter rubbing his dick up between them. His mind raced at the thought of all their exchanges and touches, their groaning cumming and the panting recoveries in between. It was funny how the girls whose bodies they used were so interchangeable, just vehicles for them to touch each other. What could he say, but life wasn't always fair?
He dropped a hand down the front of his sweats to loosen things up in his tightening jock.
He heard a breathy whisper in response, just behind him. He spun around with a smirk, ready to laugh with his frat bro but there was no one. "John?" Fuck. It couldn't be... "Putter?" He smirked. "Malcolm?"
There was no response but the soft breathing of the night and the rustle of leaves among the gravestones.
Someone was playing with him, and he liked it. He slid his sweats down, balanced on the headstone, and pulled them over his chunky sneakers. He stripped his tight t shirt off and dropped it into the fog. The night air felt good on his taut muscles.
He bounded off the headstone with a little leap and wandered in just his jock and sneakers, his hair still slicked up into playful devil horns.
It was time to go find his bros.
Asshole Hutch, Putter thought, kicking through the cemetery debris, watching the thick fog swirl around him as he came full circle.
But an asshole could be fun, if you treated it just right. His own or another's. He'd been surprised at first at how willing -- eager -- his bros had been to explore his and let their own be licked, pressed, eaten. They'd had some great times, especially with the excuse of drunkenness between them, or the lack of snatch. Heh, as if that had ever been a real problem for any of them.
What would his ancestors think of him, with his vigorous body and fleshy desires and indulgences? He could imagine their faces as gray and tight-lipped as the stone angel standing at the door of their nearby crypt, watching him in judgment. He chuckled.
Yes, he had his secrets. Secrets from his family, about his bros, and in turn secrets from his bros about his family. But what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them.
Soon he'd put this all behind him. After commencement he'd take a senior position in some subsidiary of his father's business. Marry a girl from a good family, one with a little experience but not too much. Not like those Tri Delt skanks. He sighed, hoping good girl sex wouldn't be too bland, and guessed that's what a sidepiece was for.
It was a shame to put and end to the most pleasurable part of his life. He could feel himself chub up at the thought of their bodies, John's handsome face when he came, Hutch's gasps when Putter teased his pucker with the head of his cock. But he and they were on different trajectories.
They could afford a few years more partying after college, not having Putter's prospects. He'd miss their antics, but he'd have to cut them off for appearance's sake.
Nothing personal, boys. There's a natural order. There are consequences.
"Isn't that right?" he asked, turning his flashlight on the pink headstone and slab.
He was filled with antipathy for the long-dead Malcolm Woodbury. What a fool he'd been to not play along. Be a Puritan in the streets and a devil in the sheets. If he'd been smarter he'd have had himself a family and lived to a ripe old age, not been hung in a public spectacle, ending up a stupid ghost story.
The light from his phone glinted on something resting on the headstone. Something metallic.
Putter stepped up, standing on the pink slab. There on top of the headstone was his car key.
He shook his head. They were so sure it had landed in the depths of the leaves. But here it was on Midnight Malcolm's ridiculous grave.
Stupid fucking Malcolm Woodbury. He'd plagued Putter long enough.
Feeling his bladder full, Putter smirked. He peeled his jacket off his broad shoulders and dropped it off to the side. He positioned his long legs spread wide and unzipped his fly.
"Piss on you, Midnight Malcolm," he muttered, pulling his meaty cock out.
As he was about to let a stream of hot urine loose on the grave, a gust of wind wrapped around him. He felt a surge of blood in his fit body. His cheeks burned and his prick stiffened at his touch, and even his pink nipples hardened and his hole tensed. The leaves spun around him with a rolling hiss.
It was stupid, but he felt he wasn't alone. He closed his eyes, as if they couldn't be trusted, and reached out a hand. His fingers trembled, expecting to touch another body. But they only trailed open space. His eyes fluttered open to look again, but there was nothing. No one.
He looked down at his throbbing cock and a clear bead of precum pearling on the head. That was fast. He wondered where John and Hutch had gotten off to. They'd have so few chances until graduation, and then it would all end.
He didn't know quite what had gotten into him, but he had a notion that the night might not be a loss after all.
Even John's hips told a different story as he returned to where he started. His walk was looser, more muscular and confident. More predatory, like a panther. His desire for sex had swelled up in him, evident in the solid mound in his sweats. The Monster was awake.
Putter turned to face him, standing on the pink marble slab, his own cock in his hand, rigid, upright as the hands of a clock at midnight. He smiled at the sight of the handsome footballer and cocked his head to the side. He knew that walk, the intensity in John's gaze, and in turn John recognized Putter's own lusty look of readiness.
They really did know each other's bodies so well now, whether they said so or not.
John weaved a path to his blond bro, his feet stopping by instinct at the edge of the pink slab covering Malcolm Woodbury's grave. He looked down and his heart pounded in his chest. It didn't want to cross. But Putter and that cock were there, so warm, so wicked, so willing. John forced one foot, then the other, to cross over. That was what his family used for passing from life to death, crossing over.
He buried that thought in the back of his head as his lips met Putter's and he felt the hard cock press against his own, straining in his sweats, yearning to thrust into Putter's warm body. When Putter wrapped his hands around John's beefy ass and pulled him forward, John didn't even care that they used a headstone to brace themselves. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but their bodies coming together.
Hutch's arrival in just his jock and his devil horns didn't surprise them. Of course it would be the three of them in the end. They'd made their pact years ago. The Devil's Threeway. The girl between them was just a ghostly necessity, an insubstantial phantom between the brawny flesh of their bodies, vanishing under their longing for each other. It was always really just the three of them.
They tore at each other's clothes, their hands indistinguishable, their mouths interchangeable. Putter's mouth latched onto John's nipple on his cresting pec, slapping his hands on his solid sides. Hutch's lips trailed Putter's backside, using his deft tongue to making a swirl in the the thatch of nearly invisible blond fur at the small of his back. He looked at the spiral and smiled -- Uzumaki -- before lapping down the into the crack of his ass and the pink hole. The preppy gasped as John's big hands reached down to pull his cheeks apart, giving Hutch full access to penetrate him with the hot poker of his trickster tongue.
They bent him over the headstone where Putter braced himself, his capable arms grasping the sides as John and Hutch took turns at his hole, eating and tongue-fucking him. He spread his legs wide, feeling the night air on the little hairs of his legs and the heat of his bros entering him. He almost laughed at the thought of doing this here, of all places. The silently judging stone faces all around them made it so much better.
John slapped the meat of his erection in his hand. The Monster yearned. Its girth was veined and ridged, thick enough to fill even John's broad palm. He spat on it three times, smearing the shaft and head. That would have to be enough. Under the heft of The Monster's weight, Putter's ass was hiked up, white as a sheet in the moonlight, the spit slathered hairs around his hole standing like a crown.
Putter gasped as the head nudged into him, slowly opening him. John held it there, letting Putter's entrance adjust to his trespass, teasing the soft membrane. Little by little he pressed his way in, easing open the ring of muscle, then stretching it, then testing its limits. He pushed in further in a long slow sink to the root, filling Putter, occupying him in some deep pit he didn't know existed.
Putter's breath came faster as his body strained to accept the invader in it, triggering an animal panic. Still, he spread his legs to let himself be taken, and as the invader nestling in him, his eyes reeled in his head. Every nerve in his body was alert, his senses sharpened and the pleasure nucleus at his core was being pressed hard by the dense knob filling hm. He bit into his own forearm, sucking at his own muscles and the little hairs on his skin. God, it felt so good to be alive.
John fucked him hard, throwing powerful thrusts up into Putter's center. As he did, Hutch sidled between Putter and the headstone, slapping his own fat cock against the blond's handsome face. He peeled the soft lips apart, pressing the head of into the mouth of preppy bro, running over his tongue, teasing his tonsils and nudging into his throat. His surging precum helped to lube Putter's trachea to take the head and then the shaft in, swallowing down the dark communion, readying for a deep throat fucking.
Putter convulsed, sweat running down his flanks as his core was violated and his airway choked off. He choked and groaned as his fight, flight or fuck instincts flickered in with every slam into his prostate and every cock thrust filling his throat. By force of will he let himself be taken, surrendering command of his own body, yielding.
"Yeah buddy," John said, feeling Putter's body ease, transition, under his steady hands. His voice was like warm caramel, thick and comforting as he talked his bro through it in his slight drawl. "You can take it. You got this."
John and Hutch leered at each other as they pumped into Putter. John reached out to cup Hutch's pecs, his thumbs twisting at the near-purple nipples, hard as rock. Hutch's cock surged streams of precum down Putter's throat, and he lifted John's hands to his face, sucking the fingers one by one.
Putter's cock oozed precum, running in an unbroken flow from the inflamed head to the marble below. If Hutch twisted his head just so, he could see it there, filing the divots of the letters engraved there, CALL ME THRICE TO BECKON ME. He laughed with mischievous delight.
John's thrusts came on harder and faster, his breath more furious in his nostrils, and the muscles in his powerful body tensed, articulating. His thick neck seemed to swell like The Monster inside Putter, and John slammed hard enough to lift Putter off his feet.
John gasped, "Fuck bro, fuck, yes yes, FUCKKKK!"
He groaned as his cum flooding his bro's guts, his balls unloading in waves of shuddering pleasure. The Monster ground into Putter's slicked hole, churning John's hot gushes into his bowel, filling him.
The sight of John's O-shaped lips and tensing muscles, the thought of his fat meaty cock swelling and spewing inside Putter, put Hutch over the edge. His own load boiled up in his balls and geysered through his hardon into Putter's throat. The blond choked hard on the first flood of Hutch's cum, gagging as it filled his mouth, throat and nose. But he diligently swallowed, taking in one wave, and then the next and the next.
Putter opened his mouth to release the still hard cock, taking in deep breaths as the cummy spit drooled from his lips to the stone below. He furiously pumped his own reddening cock in his fist, John's erection still clubbing his prostate, coaxing his own load, building its release.
"Yeah bro, that's it," Hutch urged, stroking his spit smeared cock, the last of his nut running down the shaft, dripping off his balls
Putter's body tensed as his cum erupted. The Monster was deep in him, fucking him, forcing his essence out, barreling through his erection in thick white jets. With each gush there was a deafening throb in his ears, one - two - three.
"That's it," John urged, with one last slow steady thrust before pulling back, drawing out of his bro.
With every pulse of pleasure and release there was another throb, six - seven - eight. It couldn't be church bells so late at night.
With John's thick weighty cock came a surge of the load he'd dumped deep in Putter, splattering the cold marble where it steamed.
Putter's skin tingled and his breath eased, pumping out the last of himself, the throbbing reaching its conclusion, ten - eleven - twelve. His cock let drop the last of his load onto the hanged witch's gravestone, mingling with John's and Hutch's. Male cum, male cum, male cum.
It was midnight.
"Fuh-uck," Hutch laughed, shaking the sweat off his tightly muscled body.
"Dude," John replied, deeply content. They'd done things like this before, but not quite this.
Putter dropped to his hands and knees, panting like a racehorse from being railed and from his own seismic cum. His body shuddered and he rolled onto his ass, seated against the pink headstone. His used hole pulsed, leaking John's load. His bros stood at his feet.
He chuckled, and put his hands up to his face. He continued that way, running his fingers over his features, alternating between laughter and deep sighs "Excuse me," he said in barely more than a whisper. "I've lost control of my senses."
Hutch and John looked on, puzzled by their bro's odd behavior. They joined his next guffaw, as if everything were okay. But when their laughter subsided his continued. It went on, longer and longer, not his usual easygoing chortle, but something deep and rumbling, broken by gleeful snorts and snickers.
"Let's get out of here," John said, feeling his skin prickle. With one wary eye on Putter he extended a hand. "Come on man..."
Putter rubbed his hands over his eyes and up into his scalp. As his long fingers ran through through his ashy hair, it seemed to lengthen, growing before their eyes. He shook it loose, and it settled around the nape of his neck. "I don't think so."
"Putter?" Hutch asked, his own concern rising as John pulled him to his feet.
"That's what you call him?" Putter asked, in a voice that was his but at the same time not. It was like the voice John heard earlier.
"That's enough, bro," Hutch said. This was getting to be too much even for him. "Putt -- "
"Putnam," the voice said. "His name is Putnam. An old family name. Very old." He laughed again and turned to point to the nearby family crypt with the stone angel standing vigil.
The trio looked up and in the moonlight could see the letters engraved over the crypt entry. PUTNAM.
"The judge?" John murmured.
"Dude, the hanging judge?" Hutch asked.
"The very one," answered the voice through Putter's lips. He held out a hand and Hutch's phone flew to it. "Your friend didn't read the whole story." He scrolled a finger over the phone screen, and read aloud.
"After his death, Malcolm's property and assets were seized and sold by the court. As was his practice after the executions of all he convicted, Judge Putnam sold the estate at a conveniently low price to his own son-in-law, the long-term value making Putnam's descendants among the most wealthy heirs of their day."
John gulped and Hutch stepped back nervously. They knew Putter was a nickname, but never wondered what for.
"Judge Putnam," the voice continued, tossing the phone aside. "The father of Mercy Putnam, who wed young and had a single son she named Putnam for her father. And so on in every generation since have their boys bore that name, to this very one, with such a fine... athletic form."
He ran his hands over his powerful arms. He examined his long, athletic legs and his flat abs, and even his large egg-sized balls. "This will do," he said admiringly. "This will do nicely."
John began to back away, nearly falling over his own feet, but Putter reached out to catch him in some invisible grip, the same way he'd taken the phone. With his outstretched arm and the occult power of his hand, he held John across the distance of the slab under him.
He gestured, and both Hutch and John's spent cocks throbbed to erection again, still oozing the last traces of their loads just minutes earlier.
"Oh my, yes," said the voice in Putter, admiring their stiff cocks and their athletic forms. His eyes narrowed as he studied their strapping physiques. "So much more fit than boys used to be."
Hutch noticed that Putter's eyes had changed. The cornflower blue irises were black and cunning. "Putter... bro... please," begged Hutch.
Sitting against his headstone, the body of Putter relaxed. "Good lord, I do hate a Puritan," he sighed.
He gestured with his hands and his bros froze in place, their muscles tensed in his supernaturally extended grip, feeling him distantly somehow touching their pecs, their thighs, their lips.
"Come now," he said to them, "I've been in your heads. What sordid little thoughts you've had."
"N-n-nooo," whimpered Hutch.
"Not enough horror for you?" the voice in Putter asked, smirking. "Maybe some Ringu?"
He twirled a finger and Hutch could feel his hole being pried open by a powerful force.
John didn't beg, simply covering his face with his hands. Even so, his club-sized cock stiffened, The Monster more alive than it had ever been before as he looked through spread fingers.
Malcolm breathed in the Halloween air through his new nostrils. It had been so long since he'd occupied a body he could call his own.
He snapped his fingers and the nearby car lit up, the radio blaring pop music, breaking the silence of the night. What's gonna be left of the world if you're not in it? He'd always loved music, and it was so much more interesting now.
He bit his lip in anticipation. "Another round... bros?"
This would be fun.
END