xxx
Slick's
 
            days in 
 
 
 
Total fucking coincidence. Tom and me weren't even on the prowl, weren't even thinking about looking. Saturday morning, and we're in the truck, headed into town to the supermarket. And up ahead there's this kid with his thumb out.

Cute kid, too. Floppy hair, blue check shirt open halfway down his chest, faded jeans ripped at the knees, nice bod.

"Asshole twelve-year-old," I say. "Should know thumbing's dangerous."

And as we whizz past him Tom says, "Eighteen."

Tom's like that. He's like the vet that just glances at your dog and says "Twenty-two and a half pounds."

I look at him and he looks at me, raises his eyebrows. We smile. Just like that.

Tom hits the brakes, rams her into reverse, and we pull up next to the kid.

Yeah, close up he is about eighteen. Lucky, though, looks a lot younger, smooth skin, fresh smile.

I call out the window, "Headin' downtown?"

He names an intersection.

"Hop in," I say as I jump out.

"No, after you."

Okay, so he's street-smart. Not as smart as us, though.

So we're driving along, me in the middle of the pickup cab, glancing down at this kid's legs, and no one's talking, and Tom lifts his hand off the wheel, looks at it, flexes it.

"Damn chocolate stuck all over the place still. Got any of that cleaning stuff left?"

"Think so." I lean over the kid's knees, get the rag and the bottle out of the glove box.

Chloroform. Easy as pie. The kid's still struggling when Tom pulls a U-ey and we head back to the farm.

****
***
**
*

He's awake now, tied to the post, arms behind him, shaking. He's hot, for sure. I've had long enough to check him out. That trendy haircut, long and floppy on top, parted just off-center, buzzed back and sides, full-bodied sun-lightened brown. Smooth, lightly tanned skin. Big dark eyebrows that nearly join in the middle. Dark eyes. Strong cheekbones and jawline. Full lips that probably make all the girls in his class drool and shiver. Not to mention a few of the boys. They make me drool anyway.

"Let me go," he's saying, over and over, calm, stating a fact.

I butt out my smoke, walk up to him. I'm bare-chested, just in black jeans and my boots.

"Why?"

"Let me go."

I look him up and down. "No can do."

"Just let me go."

He's not asking or begging, he's just saying it, like he's one of those cops in a movie: Just put down the gun, bud. Just step back from the edge, guy, everything'll be all right.

"I said, can't do that."

"Why?"

"Because," says Tom from the shadows, "we have a reputation to uphold."

"Yeah, that's it. A reputation. As sadistic serial killers."

Tom says, "What would our friends say if we let one go?"

"Uh-uh. No good. We'll just stick with the program here, if it's all the same to you."

"Let me go."

"Shut up!" I scream as I drive my fist into his stomach, pull back and punch again.

When he recovers he says, "What do you want?"

"I want to torture you." I start undoing the buttons of his check shirt.

He gives a little laugh, like he's trying to convince himself I'm joking.

I smile at him. "And when I'm finished with that, kill you."

He holds my gaze for a bit, then looks away quick, looks at Josh with the videocam, looks around for Tom, just leaning against the wall, one knee raised, naked except for his boots, smoking. Totally awesome, my Tom.

I've got all the buttons undone and I pull his shirt out of his jeans, spread it open, run my hand over his tanned chest. Nice, firm pumped-up boy pecs, hairless, even around his dark tits.

"Nice body," I tell him as I pull on his tight little tits. "Work out?"

"Yeah."

"Play ball?" I run my hand over his tight abs.

"Yeah. School team."

"Yeah?" I hold my hand flat against his abs, slide it down inside his jeans, feel the skin still smooth there, my fingers pushing down behind the waistband of his briefs. "My buddy over there used to play ball."

The kid says, "Oh yeah?"

He looks real uncomfortable, my hand there, fingertips just touching his bush. He shudders.

"What position?" I ask him.

"Center," the kid says, facing Tom, like if he doesn't look at me he won't feel my hand. "What about you?"

"Defensive back," Tom says. "Wasn't bulky enough for center."

I ram my knee up into his balls, hard as I can. Don't know why.

He grunts and bends over, his knees pressed together, he gags. He looks up at me.

"Fuck," he whispers.

"How old are you?"

He's still wincing, still trying to catch his breath. "Eighteen."

"Eighteen and how many months?"

Tom throws me the pack of smokes, and I light one up while I wait for him to answer.

"Seven."

"Not too swift at math, are you?"

That little laugh again, like we're buddies now. "No, guess not."

"You like your parents?"

He gives me a weird look. "Yeah."

"You like where you live? Your school?"

He straightens up now. "Yeah."

"You like your whole fucking life?"

He hesitates, frowning at me. "Yeah."

I blow out smoke, put my face right close to his so our noses are practically touching, he pulls back, pressing against the post, eyes darting everywhere, and I say, real slow, "Well, buster, it's all. Fucking. Over."

I stand back, look at him, smoke.

I say, "Teach you to fucking hitchhike, won't it."

He watches me, checks out Tom and Josh with quick sideways glances.

I drop my smoke to the floor, grind it out under my boot but keep my eyes on his. Still holding his look, I reach down and pull my knife out of my boot.

I step up to him, push his shirt back behind his big shoulders.

He starts shaking again.

"Cold?"

"No."

"What are you shaking for?"

"I dunno." He tries not to look at me for too long.

"Scared?"

"No."

"You don't get it, do you."

That stupid laugh, the kind of laugh that could make a guy lose his cool.

He says, "I don't know what you want."

"I just told you what I want."

He just looks at me. Tom lights another smoke.

"What did I say?"

He shakes real bad all over, tries to stop it, laughs.

"You said. Um, yeah, you said you wanted to ... torture me. Then kill me."

"That's right. So, what's the problem?"

He looks at the others. Like I can hear his brain screaming, Help me out! Help me out!

"It's what I like doing," I tell him. "I like making cute boys like you suffer. Long and slow. Until you die."

He studies me.

I shrug. "Pretty simple, huh?" I find this totally boring.

First he looks like he's going to burst into tears, but then he laughs again.

"This is a set-up, right?" He looks at all of us. "I get it. Yeah, yeah, I get it now. Davis is behind this, right? Wants to scare me, right?"

I just look at him.

"I don't wanna get mixed up, I told him that, I'll tell you too. I don't do drugs, I don't wanna sell them for Davis, I just wanna stay out of it. Nothing judgmental, don't get me wrong. I mean, if you guys like drugs, fine, no problem, go do it, deal it, enjoy, have fun. I just don't wanna get involved, that's all."

I keep looking, smoking.

He laughs. "Yeah, I get it. You grab me, rough me up, give me a black eye or something, scare me, I do what Davis wants."

I grind out my smoke.

He looks at Tom, Josh, me. "Yeah, okay, tell you what, do your job, I'm outta here, it's just between me and Davis."

I run my hand through my hair, slowly count to ten. "Who the fuck," I say, "is Davis?"

It's his turn to stare at me.

"And what the fuck is all this shit about drugs?" I step up to him. "All I want to do," I say, "is torture, rape and fucking murder the guy and I have to listen to all his fucking problems like I'm Ann fucking Landers." I realize I'm shouting.

I rip open his fly, push his jeans down a bit, and stare.

"What the fuck is that?"

He looks down at his cock, shivers.

He's too small. Okay, he's average. Well-built guy like this, I expected a bigger one.

He starts to cry.

I drive my fist up, a sharp uppercut to his jaw. He grunts as his head flies back, strikes the post, falls sideways. I grab his hair, pull his head forward, slam him again. And again. Hard. Real hard. And again and again. My fist with a life of its own.

Someone behind me, Tom, says, "Easy, Buzz."

I keep punching, enjoying the sound of his skull cracking back against the wooden post. I punch his fucking face until his panicky shouts turn to short little puppy whimpers with each blow, until my fist is slippery with blood, knuckles grazed on broken nose, cracked teeth. Until he pisses. Until he passes out.

But even then I can't stop.

An arm, Tom's arm, wraps round my chest.

"C'mon, Buzz, chill."

I let go of the boy, fall back against Tom, heaving. Spiderwebs of blood all over the boy's chest, all over mine.

Silence.

Sometimes there's so much rage.

And then it's my turn to cry. Just like that, I hang in Tom's arms and sob.

Josh goes upstairs to leave us alone.

When I stop bawling like a baby for whatever weird reason, Tom and me sit on the couch and figure out where to go from here. I don't want the boy anymore, I just want to take him somewhere and dump him.

"No," Tom says. "He knows what we look like."

"So? He thinks it's Davies or whatever and his gang, he's scared, he's a wuss, he'll keep quiet."

"Maybe, maybe not. Maybe his parents take him to the cops, he talks, he gives a description."

"So who fucking cares? No one knows us anyway."

"Buzz, think about it. Lots of people know us. We both work with people. Then there's the oil man. The guys who fix the truck. The girls at the supermarket. You're a hot little construction worker -- you think no one's ever noticed you, watched you, gone to bed and fantasized about you? They see something on TV, they think, Oh yeah, him."

He's right, of course. We can't let the boy go.

"So, beautiful." Tom kisses me, opens a beer and hands it to me. "You want to do it fast or you want to do it slow?"

"Eenie, meenie, miney, mo."

He smiles. "Bite a fuck-boy on the toe."

"If he hollers, let him blow. Eenie, meenie, slow, slow, slow."

I don't care that it rhymes. I hate doing it fast.

We smoke some local pot till he wakes up again, and Josh comes back downstairs and gets the camera rolling, but I tell him this is going to be pretty vanilla. Tom and me decided to see how long we can keep the kid going, so we don't want to start out too rough. I've already messed up his face bad, which is a shame, cute guy like that.

Anyway, while he's still out of it we untie him, pull all his clothes off, put a heavy metal collar round his neck chained to the wall. And we lay on the floor next to him till he wakes up.

So he wakes up with my hand stroking his muscled thigh, up top, my fingers just brushing his soft bag now and then, and I'm tonguing his tit, not hurting him, just keeping it warm and wet. Tom's sitting up on his elbow, watching the kid.

"Morning," Tom says, when the kid can keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds, and he's looked at the pair of us and tried to sit up and figured things out.

He doesn't say anything.

Tom leans down and kisses him.

The kid scowls and turns his face away.

I wrap my hand around his balls and squeeze gently, not hard but hard enough to make him suck in air.

"Hey, asshole. Don't know what you're missing." I nibble on his tit for a sec. "My recommendation to you is that you cooperate. Won't hurt so much."

I jiggle his balls with my fingertips, and Tom leans down again, holds the kid's bruised jaw in his big hand and kisses him, the kid still scowling, resisting, but Tom's mouth is right there, his tongue pushing between the kid's puffed, split lips.

I suck and nibble a little harder, gently pinch the other tit. Look down at his dick. Perfect, it's getting hard. As hard as his nipples. He can feel it, too, and his hand brushes over his dick, he raises his head to look at my teeth on his hard tit. His own excitement puzzles him. Pain and pleasure.

He has the tightest little tits I've ever seen, hard, sticking out, but tough to get a grip on. I'll leave that fun for later, I decide, and I lick down his body till I get to his stiff cock, lick it, suck it, suck on his balls, both at once while Tom sucks his mouth. Tom's huge hard-on is thumping against the kid's smooth thigh, and I suck him too, get him good and wet.

We roll the boy on his front and I pull his firm cheeks apart and get my face into his warm crack, force my tongue up his tight hole, definitely a virgin hole, and so fucking smooth, he doesn't shave, he's just blessed that way, guy could be a fucking porn star.

When his butt-hole's warm and slobbery with my spit, Tom mounts him, pushes his legs apart, and suddenly the kid clues in, he looks up and for the first time sees himself in the wall mirror, sees Tom above him, starts shouting "No! No!" while he tries to turn over, hits out with his arms, but I'm kneeling on him, my knees on his shoulders, I'm holding his wrists together and Tom slowly, carefully, eases into the kid, grins at the tightness, pushes a little deeper as the kid screams onto the floor, down under my ass.

I call to Josh to throw me the handcuffs, and he steps up with a stretch of my homemade barbed wire instead, which is even better. I make bundles of this stuff every winter, comes in handy all the time. It's basically plain old barbed wire, but the barbs, which I sometimes also file for extra sharpness, are about a half-inch apart. I slice up my fingers a bit wrapping it round the kid's wrists, and then I shuffle off his shoulders, pull up his head by the hair, and shove my boner between his bleeding lips.

From the feel of it, he's never sucked cock before -- or maybe it's just that he's never sucked cock while he's had a dong as big as Tom's rammed up his bum. He's got a fast gag reflex, and doesn't know what to do with his teeth and his tongue.

I yank his head off my dick. I actually like the scrape of teeth, but he doesn't need to know that.

"Never had a blow job?" I ask him.

He doesn't answer, he's too busy wailing while he gets raped.

I shove my cock to the back of his mouth, listen to him choke, and I say to Tom, "Can you believe it, poor fuck's never had a blow job."

He opens his eyes, shakes his head. "Kids these days." Closes his eyes, goes back to his slow fuck, all the way in, nearly all the way out, blood on his dick, then plunging fast in, makes the kid scream on my dick, makes his throat open up for more, he's gagging, spit from his gut backing up, sliding down my balls.

Blood drops spatter across the kid's back as he jerks his arms around, the barbs cutting in, the pain maybe less than the pain in his ass.

"Slow down," I say.

Tom's eyes flicker open, he watches my face. He slows to the slowest fuck imaginable.

"Gonna teach this kid a lesson." I don't take my dick out of his mouth. "Hey, asshole, hear me?" No signal, so I jerk my hips. "Can you hear me?" I'm reaching forward, pulling his arms up behind him, wrenching his shoulders. He squeals onto my cock. "Nobody ever tell you not to hitchhike? Didn't your mommy ever tell you it was dangerous? Like, there are fucking scary people out there. Huh?" I give his arms a good yank.

He's saying something, but he chokes on my dick.

"For your own safety, asshole, I just want to make sure you never hitchhike again."

I lean forward, bite down on one of his thumbs, bend it back between my teeth. He shouts, I feel his teeth scraping my cock, biting down, he chokes, snorts snot out of his nose. I bend his thumb right back like I'm cracking open a beer bottle with my teeth, and he shouts louder and higher till I hear the bone snap, he screams onto my cock, rises up under Tom, taking all of his dick too.

I bite down on the other thumb, bend it back, watch Tom starting to fuck faster, his beautiful dick in and out of that plump smooth white ass. This thumb isn't cracking, so I take the end of it in my fist, jerk it far back, and it snaps in the middle.

"That's no good," I mutter. "You can still hold it up."

So I take the whole thumb in my fist and push it back, and I feel the bone splinter more than I hear it, and I hear him shriek, and I let go of his hands, blood all down his arms below his cut-up wrists, and I pump hard into his mouth.

Tom's starting to yell. "Fuck!" Pump, pump, "Oh, fuck!"

I'd rather he was blowing his gallon of jizz into me, but hey, give the kid a thrill, and he drives into the kid's butt, looks at me and opens his mouth, and then he explodes, and the kid feels it, he whines on my dick, spit bubbling out his nose as I start to shoot too, me and Tom filling him at both ends.

I grab his ears and shove to the back, spill my cum right into his throat, pull back a bit so he gets a mouthful, he's choking, shouting, crying, Tom's still gushing up his ass, one great big choke and my cum sprays out his nose and then the fucker pukes, gags up my cum, and I keep his head pressed down on my dick, I can feel the hot wetness fill up his mouth as his whole body heaves. I put my hands behind his neck and pull him in tight as I can, wait till I feel him swallow, till I feel cum and puke and blood spray out his busted nose onto me as he snorts for air, hear him choke again on the taste of his own puke and my cum.

Tom's eased out of the boy and he's standing up, his cock still stiff, shiny with cum and ass-slime and streaks of blood. My tongue is out and he steps forward, straddling the boy, I keep the boy's head on my dick while I lick Tom's cock, let him bang it against my face, suck it in deep, suck him clean, his hands on his hips.

When he's half-stiff he starts to piss. I swallow at first -- Tom pissing in my mouth is pretty everyday -- and then I let my mouth fill up, let his hot piss spill out, splash down my chest to my crotch, splash onto the kid's face, make a big cold puddle for him to lay in.

Tom strokes my head while I keep his cock in my mouth, nursing it with my tongue while it goes soft, feeling my own cock softening in the kid's sticky mouth. He's quiet now.

I let go of the kid's head, bang my slimy dick on his cheek, smear my dick-head along his cum-wet lips.

Tom splashes chloroform on a rag, presses it to the kid's face, knocks him out for the night.

Josh pops the cartridge out of the videocam.

"Vanilla, my ass," he says with a smirk.

So that was Day One. I say Day One doesn't really count, but Tom says, yeah, blood was shed, it counts. But it was pretty low-volume blood compared to Days Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight and Nine. Especially Nine.
 
TWO
The guy wakes up to hear Tom slowly sharpening his knife. I wonder if it freaks him as much as it freaks me, that sound.

We've got the lights off, and Tom's sitting on the couch, naked, slowly running his switchblade up the sharpening steel, grate, grate, grate, you can just make him out in the glow from the candle on the wooden chair next to him.

I'm sitting on the floor, in the darkness, leaning against the couch, waiting for the guy to wake up.

I never sharpen my knife. Well, I guess once a year I start to. But that jeezly noise just gets to me, I don't know what it is. Besides, I like the damage a dull knife can do. And it makes for variety. Tom, me, his sharp shiny Sparkler, my dull Trusty Rusty, a guy never knows what's gonna happen.

When I hear the kid's breathing change, hear him moving, I light up a smoke, let him know the two of us are still here, in the darkness. In more ways than one.

He's tied spread-eagled, bolted to the rafters and the floor, the metal collar still around his neck but the chain's unhooked from the wall, and it hangs down his front, cold next to his dick.

"Morning again," Tom says, pleasant enough.

No response.

I go switch on some lights. When the kid's eyes adjust he focuses first on the wall mirror to his side, studies his bashed-up face, all lumpy and purple and gray and yellow. His tongue comes out to test his lips. He doesn't really react, just slowly looks away. Looks at the two-quart Coke bottle on the floor in front of him. It's three-quarters full of piss. Josh's, Tom's and mine.

I pick it up, press my dick onto the opening, look him in the eye while I empty my bladder. The bottle fills up fast but I keep pissing, let it spill over the top and splash onto the floor like I don't notice. The kid watches the bottle, watches the puddle, looks away.

I put the bottle back down where it was.

"Let me know if you get thirsty," I tell him as I walk back to the couch, light up another smoke.

"Let me down," he says. "I can't feel anything in my hands."

"Good," says Tom.

Him and me go stand in front of the kid.

I say, "Why do you think I should give a shit?"

He doesn't say anything, and Tom and me just stand there watching him, passing our smoke back and forth.

"Just let me down," he finally says.

"Why?" I blow smoke in his face.

"I need ... I'd like to use the toilet."

I laugh. "The toilet? You mean the can? You mean you wanna take a shit?"

He actually blushes.

Tom's stepping over to the workbench. He says, "If you need to piss, you piss on the floor. That's the rule around here. And here's your toilet." He puts a dinner plate on the floor between the kid's legs.

The kid looks confused.

"Crank him down," Tom says, and I let the chains down a few feet, so his arms are still stretched high but Tom can push him down into a squat over the plate.

"So take your shit," Tom says, and we stand there and smoke.

Kid just crouches there, looking everywhere but at our legs. Finally he says, "Do you have to watch?"

"Definitely," I say.

He hears me light a new smoke, and maybe figures he doesn't have any choice, so at last he looks down at the floor and pushes out a few hard little turds that roll around on the plate.

"That's it?" I say. "All that fuss and that's the best you can do?"

He looks at the wall.

"Jesus Christ." I take the plate away and set it down next to the Coke bottle. "Well, let me know if you get hungry."

We rig him upright again, and I push an inflatable dildo up his butt, and then pump the bulb enough to keep it in place inside him. I wrap the chain that hangs from his collar a few times around his dick and balls.

"Haven't heard you scream yet today," I say.

He squints at me.

"What are we going to do about that?"

His head drops down, and then he sees the pliers we're holding. "Oh God," he whispers. "Don't."

"Don't what?" I say. I yank up on the chain.

He winces, then stares at the floor. "Just don't."

I raise my pliers to his armpit, clamp down on a clump of his pit hair.

I kiss him. "When boys like you scream," I say, "I get a major fucking hard-on."

He sees my smile and he squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head.

"Please don't," he says, real quiet.

I pull. Not sudden, just slowly harder and harder until the skin stretches up like a tent and the hairs start pulling right out and he whines, high-pitched, grinding his teeth.

Tom yanks some hair out of the other pit, and then I pull on some more, and we take turns, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, and he pushes his head right back and sobs loud, we tear out all his pit hair until the skin is pretty much smooth, angry red, flecked with blood.

I lick his armpit. I close the pliers on a clump of his soft bush hair.

He jerks his head forward, takes a look at what he felt, sees the hard-on I promised him, and he wails "No!" long and loud. It gets louder at the end when I tear away the first bunch, and Tom jabs in, rips out a clump, we're going at it fast now, tearing away and chuckling while the kid bucks around screaming, begging, the skin where his cute bush was now looks like a grazed knee, pinpricks of blood oozing, joining together, little trails down over his ball-sac.

I suck his balls into my mouth, taste his blood, tongue them while he moans, pull hard on the heavy chain. And then Tom and me go to the couch and roll a joint, let Josh do his thing.

Josh positions the camera and walks up to the boy. He's got a box of salt with him.

Josh is weird, he likes this scene. Bile is his other trip. Go figure.

The kid's quiet now, it's that kind of pain that's over quick. Josh unwraps the chain and lets it drop down behind the boy. He pours a little pile of salt into his hand, stands close to the boy, quickly tips his hand up and presses the salt onto his bleeding crotch, rubs his hand in hard circles, and the kid shrieks.

"Ow!"

And Josh rubs in more salt, then presses a handful into the kid's armpit, but the kid's over it already, he's just twisting his head all around and holding his breath, his mouth shut tight, quick moans through his broken nose.

Until Josh gets the rubbing alcohol. Holds the jug up to the kid's mouth and pours, he chokes on the sting in his mouth, sprays it out with his scream as he feels it splash onto the raw skin where his bush was. He swallows some and gags, spits it out with an angry yell.

Josh pours some into his hand and splashes it up under each arm, and the kid howls. Tom's hand is on my dick, he passes the roach back to me and bends down to suck me.

Josh is screwing the cap back onto the jug of alcohol, and the kid is sobbing, big loud blubbery sobs. Josh looks at us and says, "Thanks, guys," and goes back to his camera.

Different strokes for different folks.

When the kid quiets down, which is soon, I put my hand under Tom's chin, lift his head away, we suck mouth for a bit. Then I get up, stretch, walk up to the boy.

He looks like he's sleeping.

"Hungry yet?" I ask.

He doesn't move. I slap where his bush was, slap hard, and he jerks upright, breath held, body tense.

"I said, hungry yet?"

"No."

"Thirsty?"

"No."

I think about that. Then I go to the toolbox, get some spring clips, clamp them onto his big purple nose. Right away his mouth pops open.

"Well, you will be soon. Just let me know."

He breathes noisily through his swollen lips. The skin around his mouth is all bruised, his left cheekbone is grazed raw and a beautiful blue color, and both eyes look blacker than before. Man, what got into me?

He moans, sounds like a little kid with a stomach ache maybe.

I reach between his legs and give the rubber bulb a few squeezes. Give him a sense of what's up there.

His eyes open.

"So tell me about playing football. You like it?"

"Yeah?" He says it almost like a question. Like he's real unsure. Unsure about me, maybe.

"Why do you like it?"

He's trying to see past me, to see where Tom is. Scared.

I pump on the bulb. "I said, why --"

"I dunno!"

I pump again. Just a little wince from him.

"What the fuck kind of answer is that? You try out, you make the team, you practice hard, you get sweaty and dirty, you get bashed around in games, and you don't know why?" I squeeze again.

"It's fun, I guess."

"You guess." Squeeze. Wince. "Fun like this?" Two squeezes.

He whines. "No," he says, like I'm stupid, so I squeeze again.

"Maybe it's fun cuz girls always like the football studs best. More than the sprinters or the track-and-field guys or the volleyball guys."

He just looks at me, and I squeeze the bulb. He flinches.

"Kinda prefer them myself, I'd have to admit. Hey, I'm in love with one, after all."

No response, and I squeeze.

"Or maybe it's fun cuz you get to be with all those big stud jocks in the locker-room, in the shower. Is that it?"

"No," he whimpers, and I squeeze.

"All those big hunky guys strutting around in their sweaty jockstraps, or better yet naked, all horned-up?"

"No," he says again.

Tom crouches down behind him, takes the bulb from me and gives it a squeeze. The kid whines.

"Feel good? Feel like a footballer's dick up your ass?"

He shakes his head, eyes shut.

"That's what you're really after, ain't it? A good look at dick. A good look at ass in the shower. A good whiff of some stud's sweaty jockstrap."

"Fuck off," he moans.

I hear Tom pump five times before the kid lets loose with a major shout.

Tom says, matter of fact, "Don't talk to my boyfriend like that."

"What you want," I say, "is to be spread out naked on the bench, butt stuck up in the air, and all your teammates lined up ready to fuck your boy cunt. Am I right?"

"No," he wails. Pump, pump.

I reach down, take the bulb from Tom.

"Or maybe on your knees in a corner of the shower room. Just have them come in and fuck your face before they take their shower. Cum dripping out of your mouth while the next stud steps up."

He sobs. I squeeze.

"You're just the team cum-pig, right?" Squeeze. "The team fuck-boy." Squeeze. "You can't play ball worth shit but they're happy to put up with that cuz man, is it ever a fucking orgy in the locker-room." Squeeze.

Kid's going to fucking break his jaw if he grinds his teeth any harder.

"That's how it is, right? Nice tight ass like yours, nice lips like yours, that's all they want."

I pump slowly, one after another, until he's shouting, wailing, sobbing, as the dildo fucking stretches his insides wide open.

"Tell me I'm right. Tell me you're just a locker-room slut. Tell me you can't suck enough cock, can't suck enough jock-cum up your cunt."

He's crying. I'm pumping.

"C'mon, boy, tell me."

"Go to hell!" he shouts, and Tom takes the bulb from me, and he must be pumping a whole bunch because the kid can't make words anymore, he just screams.

The dildo must be big as a fucking basketball by now. Judging by how much Tom and me have pumped the bulb. And judging from the kid's major screams. Like we're talking girl screams. We're talking animal howls.

I get down behind him and look. His butt-hole is stretched about as wide as a fist, it can't close, you can see the flesh-colored rubber inside him, his butt-muscle raw-looking and the skin torn in places. I lick it clean, lick his big hole all over, pump the bulb a couple times till more blood starts oozing as the splits get bigger.

Tom's standing in front of him, squeezing his tits, shoving his tongue into the kid's mouth.

"Like that, huh?" he says. "Just like the whole fuckin' team up your ass all at once."

The kid can't talk, he just rolls his head around and wails like he's having a fucking baby.

Tom looks down at me. "How much more?" he says.

"Don't know. Lost count."

We did this once, just to see. Thirty pumps gets one of these babies as big as my fist. Forty makes a softball. Eighty pumps and it's about six inches across. Get up to a hundred and thirty and it's as big as my head. At one hundred sixty-two, it burst like a fucking balloon, and the thing was huge, I sure wouldn't want anything like it up my ass. But like I say, I wasn't counting this time.

Tom taps his boot, where he keeps his switchblade.

"This'll maybe help if we get bored."

"I'm miles from bored."

Let it grow until it bursts on its own is what I say. I'm happy to give the bulb a good squeeze every now and then, or whenever the boy quiets down. All he does is moan like he's sick, or sob, whimper.

Until he says, slowly, "Oh please God ..."

I'm kneeling behind him, just watching his hole stretch wider, watching the skin split, the blood drops get larger, but when I hear that I move round front. I suck his dick, let it out again right away.

"Oh please God what?" I ask him. "You want to come? Then what you say is, please, Sir, make me come."

"No," he wails. "No, no."

I suck his dick, pump the bulb at the same time. But no way this one's going to blow.

"C'mon, say it. Please, Sir, make me come."

"Noooo!"

Tom takes the bulb from me, and I suck the kid while I use my hands on his dick and his balls, reach up and play with his tits, but it's useless, I know. Tom's pumping on the bulb and his dick's as limp as a dead fish.

I run my hands over his gut, rounded out by the dildo.

"Hey, cum-pig, you look like you're fucking pregnant."

"Maybe he is," Tom says. "I fucked him bare-back yesterday."

I punch the kid's gut. Man, you should hear him shriek.

I stand up, because this isn't going anywhere, and Tom gives the bulb a bunch more squeezes till the kid's writhing around all over the place and screaming and wailing, and I crouch next to Tom and look at the kid's stretched butt-hole.

I say to Tom, "Thing's so fucking wide I could stick my head up there."

"Hey," he says, "now there's an idea."

I just grin, wipe my fingers along the trails of bright blood down the kid's legs, wipe his blood on my hard-on.

"Mind if I get off?" I ask Tom.

"Not at all," he says. "Which end?"

But I'm already letting out some chain for one of the kid's arms, and Tom's doing the other arm, and I put my hands behind his neck and pull him forward, pull him right down, guide my dick right into his mouth, and as he bends over the pressure in his gut must be something else, all he can do is whine and pant.

It doesn't feel any good inside his mouth, and so I give up, shrug at Tom, give the bulb a few more squeezes, then grab a handful of the kid's hair and stand there and beat off right in front of his face, listen to him crying and moaning and breathing weird.

In like sixty seconds I'm blasting cum all over his face, into his eyes, into his open mouth, shooting onto his tongue while he screams louder because Tom's pumping up that dildo at the same time, and I wipe my dick all over his face, smear around my cum, push back into his mouth, pump slowly a few times, step back and lick my hand clean.

And Tom and me go sit on the couch. Josh joins us, and we smoke a toke and then doze off, listening to the boy quietly moaning, begging.

We get woken up by the camera beeping, warning that the tape's running out, and Josh hustles over to slot in a new one while Tom and me check up on the boy.

He's standing up again, figured out that was more comfortable, but he's breathing fast and shallow. His head is flopped back, he's grimacing. He's been tossing his head around so much that the metal collar has rubbed his skin raw.

I say, "Thirsty yet?"

He doesn't seem to hear me.

Tom says, "Answer when you're spoken to, or else," and he gives the bulb a squeeze.

The kid screams so sudden I actually jump, and he's glaring at me, wincing, the clamp still tight on his nose, his lips dry, split, plastered with dried blood and flaky with dried cum. His cute hair all stuck down on his sweaty forehead.

He tries to talk, licks his dry lips with his dry tongue, tries again. Can't make words.

So okay, now he doesn't have a choice. I pick up the Coke bottle, press it to his lips and tip it up. Cold piss splashes down his front and he twists his face away.

But I see him move his tongue around, appreciate a little moisture in his mouth.

He looks up at me.

I hold out the bottle. "More?"

He looks at me like he doesn't recognize me. Stares at me for a bit, and then he just breaks down, cries like a little boy.

The crying changes to a big scream when Tom gives the dildo a few more pumps, and then we leave him there crying, begging us to let him go as he watches the three of us go upstairs.
 
THREE
 On Day Three I finally get to use my fish hooks. This was another one of my winter projects. Tom working in landscaping and me being in construction, things kind of slow down for the winter, so we keep ourselves busy making up new instruments of torture. To put it bluntly.

So I bought all these fish hooks, about two hundred, and I nicked my fingers a whole bunch using needle-nose pliers to bend the

tie-end into a T shape. Then I got them all wet, left them to dry, wet them again and dried them again, and put them away in a jar to get all rusty until the time was right.

I don't know about the time, but the boy is right, and when he's strung up spread-eagled, it's too perfect.

But first I play with his tits, off-camera, suck them till they're hard and then pull and twist, try to pinch, but they slip out of my grip, it's like a game, a challenge, and I'm not winning, and a whole hour goes by and they're stiff and red and oozing blood and he's squirming and whimpering and sweating, which is good enough for me.

That's where I start with the fish hooks. His fat dark knobs can take four rusty hooks each, at least. I push them all the way through, breaking his flesh twice with each one. I sink about fifteen into his busted lips. And then for dessert I drop to my knees and start on his dick.

I start on his raw crotch skin, pushing a handful of hooks into where his bush was, and then start working down his dick, which is real easy cuz of course this whole thing isn't turning him on one bit, so there's lots of loose skin to dig into. Fact is, he's whining and gasping. Blood is already running down his dick. I sink hooks in all the way down, make a thick ring of them in the fold of skin near his dick-head, and then prick one right into the head.

He screams like a boy should. Fine with me. Had enough of those woman screams.

I keep sinking the rusty hooks in, all over his dick-head, and push six right inside his piss slit. He screams and cries and pulls around. Blood drips onto the floor, and I shuffle forward on my knees so it falls on me.

I take my time putting another sixty or so hooks into his bag. He reaches that point where the brain starts dulling the pain, and he quiets down, just breathes real hard, and sweats.

I stand up and put the lid on the jar.

"You're not finished, are you?" Tom says.

I look at him.

He tut-tuts. "Buzz, really, you're slipping."

He holds out his hand and I pass him the jar. He squats down behind the boy.

I smack my forehead. "Oh, man! What was I thinking?"

"You want to do it?" He holds out the jar.

"No, be my guest."

And my beautiful Tom sticks rusty fish hooks all around the kid's stretched-open butt-hole, and then down his crack to the back of his bag. Fresh whining, fresh blood.

I have this major hard-on because what's next is even better. We attach his collar chain to the wall and unstrap his arms. I turn him to face the mirror and push him down on his knees.

I open a beer, stand and look at him dripping blood.

"Take them all out," I tell him. "Starting with your nipples."

He looks at me like I'm a talking cat.

"Go on, what are you waiting for?"

He looks down at himself, looks up at me, suddenly kind of smiles, maybe as his brain reminds him that the easiest way to get a fish hook out is to push it all the way through, and he raises his hands to his right tit, studies the scene, looks in the mirror.

Then he realizes that with my T at the end of each hook he can't do that. He's got to drag them all back through the flesh, back the way they went in, painfully, every single son-of-a-bitch hook.

And somewhere along the way it probably clicks in that it's hard to get a grip on fish hooks -- or anything else -- when your thumbs are both busted and swollen.

I can hardly wait.

He can, though. His hands drops to his sides, he looks around the room like he's in a fucking museum or something.

"I told you to do something."

He looks at me, looks down at all those rusty fish hooks, looks at his blood trickling in patterns down his skin, looks aimlessly around the cellar.

"Let me go."

"Oh fuck, not this again."

Tom saves me the trouble, walks up and kicks the kid in the belly. Pretty hard. Real hard, in fact. Must hurt real bad with a balloon-size dildo up his ass.

Tom squats down, reaches between the kid's legs, pulls forward the bulb so the boy can see.

"You want it bigger up there?" he says.

"No," the kid whispers, scared.

Tom pumps twice anyway, and the kid lets out a quiet wail.

"Then do as you're told." Pump. Moan.

He sees himself grimacing in the mirror, looks down at the fish hooks, quietly says to Tom, "Please. Please let me go."

Tom says, "Fuck you," and keeps squeezing the bulb until the kid's howling, and he strikes out at Tom.

Tom jumps to his feet and kicks the kid in the head. He screams, raises his arms in front of his face.

Tom shouts, "You try to fuckin' hit me? Huh? You fuckin' hit me!" Kicks him again.

"No!" the kid wails, and he starts crying.

Tom kicks him again, kicks his arms, his hands, the kid's shouting and screaming. Tom bends down, pulls his hands away from his face, yells, "Take the fuckin' hooks out! Now!" He stands back.

The kid looks at the blood on his own hands. Big heavy sobs.

"NOW!"

He actually cowers, squints up at Tom towering above him, looks up at me, and finally starts, muttering over and over, "Oh God, oh God, oh God."

He cringes as I approach him, and I put the jar down in front of him.

"Put them back where they came from," I tell him.

He's got the first one out of his tit, holding it carefully between his index finger and his middle finger and dragging it back through the cut, whining, and he drops it into the jar, takes hold of another. "Oh God, oh God."

Tom kicks him in the face. Not too hard this time.

"Leave God out of it," he says. "It's just the three of us here."

"And the devil," I say.

The kid looks up at me fast. I can tell he doesn't like me, which is fine with me.

"Hey, bonehead," I tell him. "Just so's you know, I've got two weeks off work. So technically speaking and all, you've got two weeks to get those fucking fish hooks out. But I'll tell ya, there's lots more I want to do with your hot body before two weeks is up. And I'll tell ya this too, me and Tom get impatient real easy, and we're not nice when we're pissed off."

He looks right at me. "You're not nice anyway."

I grin at him. "You got that right, fucker."

Tom steps on the bulb, and the kid winces.

"Cut the chatter and do as you're told," he says.

"Don't," the kid pleads with Tom. "Don't, please. Just let me go, please let me go. I don't know where I am. I won't tell anyone."

Tom says kindly, "We've gotta make a movie here, as you can see. So you take all the hooks out and then you can go."

Mean son-of-a-bitch.

The kid's eyes widen, he stares at Tom.

Tom nods.

Feels like six hours is how long it takes for him to get through, with a lot of breaks while he bends right over, forehead on the floor, and howls or just moans. We do some speed, watch him, watch him cry as he pulls the fish hooks out of his tits first, his fingers slippery with blood, his swollen thumbs getting in the way, slowing him down.

Sometimes he just stops and looks down at his blood, gazes at himself in the mirror kind of absently, like he's day dreaming or something, and Tom will cough or I'll stand up, snap him back to the here and now, and he grimaces, or whines, or sobs, and goes back to work.

Then he pulls them out of his puffy lips, going by touch cuz he can't really see, but he tries to see, and then he looks all cross-eyed and makes me laugh, which makes him stare at me for a bit before I lean forward or Tom raises a hand and then he's all busy-busy again, flicking his fingers to get the blood off, worrying a whole bunch when he drops a hook one time, scrambling to get it off the floor and into the jar in case we get pissed off, I guess.

Time drifts by and then he's taking them out of his bush skin, then off his balls, the jerk leaving the worst for last.

He sobs and wails and wipes the blood off his fingers onto his thighs or his belly, which is a major turn-on for me. And sometimes he goes real quiet and forces himself to pull out several in a row, no sound, he holds his balls in place and with hand and grips a hook between his knuckles and yanks it out fast, ripping his skin, drops it in the jar, does another one fast, then another, his moan getting higher and louder, then he lets his breath go, pants hard, checks out Tom and me, sucks in air and takes hold of another hook.

I nearly blow my wad watching him pull the hooks out of his dick-head, especially the ones in his piss slit. He holds his dick in his blood-red hand and it's like he's looking at it for the first time, he kind of fondles it. Then he looks up at the ceiling and shuts his eyes tight and holds his breath and you can see all his muscles tensed up hard all over, and he pulls too slowly cuz he doesn't want to like injure himself, so of course it hurts ten thousand times more and he howls as loud as he can and Josh looks over at us and says, "Great stuff," which means lots of clients will buy just this one little scene.

When the last one's out of his dick he looks down at himself, like he's just making sure he didn't miss any, and then he cups his bleeding dick in his hands, protective like, and starts with this weird laughing, half sobbing at the same time. He looks up at us on the couch.

"I can go now," he laughs.

Tom takes a slow drag on his toke, holds it, lets it out, and then says, "No, you can't."

The kid looks confused, looks down, frowns at us.

"I took them all out. You said. You said I could go."

"You're not finished," Tom says.

I take the toke from him.

"Check out your pretty-boy cunt-hole," I say, and I stand up.

Right away he starts blubbering, scared when I come closer.

"Jesus Christ, kid, I mean, really, how can you not be aware of rusty fish hooks stuck in your own goddamn fuck-hole?"

He hates me, I can see it in the way he looks up at me. I'm standing over him now, and I grab a handful of hair and push his head back. He kind of whimpers, waiting for a punch or a kick or something. He actually fucking shakes. Jesus.

"Check it out back there, you stupid asswipe." I let go of him.

And then he sort of remembers, his face already crumpling in tears as he reaches back, winces as he feels the hooks in his huge hole.

"No ..."

"We had a deal," Tom tells him.

He feels back there with both hands now.

"I can't see. Don't make me. I can't do this anymore."

"I hate quitters," I say.

He looks at me like he wants to say something mean, but by now he's figuring out what's good for him.

Tom stretches his legs out in front of him, says, "Got two weeks, like the boss says."

The kid sort of considers his options, but the list isn't very long, I guess. He makes all kinds of faces and then watches himself in the mirror reach behind himself, feel for a hook, wince, whine as he pulls the first one out, puts it in the jar. Tom joins me for a closer look.

He looks at us in the mirror and says, "What did I ever do to you?"

Tom shrugs, keeps his eyes on the kid's butt.

"Why do you pick on me?"

I say, "What is this, Jeopardy?" I reach for the bulb and already he's sobbing, "Okay, I'm sorry," but I squeeze a couple times, make him whine, and we wait for him to reach for another hook.

Each one he pulls out leaves a few drops of blood, which run together down both sides of his hole, stretched wider than my fist, fresh blood coursing along the dried blood already there, and when a trail of blood runs down his crack and drips from the top of his hole onto the stretched pink of the dildo, I have to get down on the floor and slowly lick it, lick up to the top of his crack where I taste the salt of dried sweat, lick blood off the sides, feel it sticky on my mouth and chin, sit back and see it red on my nose.

It takes a while, and he makes plenty of noise, but finally they're all out, he's moving his fingertips tenderly up and down to make sure, afraid to find a new one, he's feeling how wide his hole is, his fingertips smearing the blood around.

"Now let me go."

Tom's kneeling in front of him. He takes the clips off his nose.

"Kiss me," he says.

The kid does, too, a little peck.

"No, better than that," Tom tells him. "Deep, with your tongue. Make out with me."

"And then can I go?"

"Sure."

He leans forward, kisses Tom, I see their tongues rubbing together. Fucking hot. Tom wraps a hand around the back of the boy's metal collar and pulls him in tight, they're really going at it. And I start pumping the bulb until the kid's screaming into Tom's mouth, pushing at him with his weak hands.

Tom stands up, his boner right in the kid's face.

"Suck it," he says, mean.

"You said."

Tom smacks the kid's head real hard, and I pump at the same time.

"And I said, suck my cock!"

The kid is starting to cry again, but he sucks, awkward, rough, Tom jamming his dick all the way in, his blond bush slamming into the kid's broken nose, the kid's grunting, choking, sobbing, and Tom smacks him again, pushes his head back.

"What kind of a fuckin' blow-job is that?"

"I want to go," the kid whines.

"I wanna come," Tom says. "Or maybe you wanna come. Yeah, that's it. You come and then you go." He looks at me, smiles. "Get him up."

He sobs, scared, while we haul him to his feet, shorten the chains so he's spread-eagled again. The movement hurts his full gut, and he squeals a lot. Tom puts the spring clips back on the kid's nose, and he's just hanging there wincing and moaning when I start wiping his sticky, drying blood around on his chest, all over his dick and balls, make him wince some more as I start milking his dick.

He opens his eyes, looks down at my blood-wet hand. He gives this big shiver all over.

I say to him, "Please, Sir, make me come. That's what you say." I pump his dick, fresh blood running from the cuts already. "Come on, say it."

He keeps quiet, and I jerk him faster, squeeze his balls gently with my other hand.

"C'mon, let me hear you."

No response, and Tom squeezes the dildo bulb until the kid yells out, "Make me -- come!"

"Please, Sir."

"Please, Sir, make me come!"

"Yeah, you fucking want it, fucking ready to blow your big load, huh?" But he's not hard, nowhere near it. "Say it again. C'mon, beg."

"Please, Sir, make me come."

Tom pumps.

The kid screams, "Stop! Please stop! I'm bleeding!"

"No," I say, "it's Please, Sir, make me come."

He shuts his eyes, won't even look at me.

"Go to hell, go to hell, go to hell," he says, and starts crying.

"Come first, then you go, then I go to hell."

"I can't."

"Can't what?"

"I can't come."

"Ever?"

"Now," he wails.

I look at Tom. "Cry-baby says he can't come."

"You mean he never jerks off?"

"Hey, kid. You never jerk off?"

"I mean now!"

"I don't know what the fuck he's talking about."

Tom's standing behind him, his fingers playing with the kid's bleeding tits. I crouch down and start sucking, but he stays limp, just keeps sobbing.

I hear him say, "You said I could go. You said."

"You," Tom says into his ear, "aren't going anywhere."

"You said!" the kid shouts. "It was a deal! If I took out the hooks, you said."

"Did I?"

"You said you'd let me go."

"Sorry, I don't remember that part."

"You SAID!"

I start chewing on the kid's dick, and he screams.

"Hey, Buzz, did I say that?"

I spit the limp dick out of my mouth and stand up. "Beats me, wasn't listening."

The kid's crying. "You said if I took out the hooks ..."

"Yeah, yeah," Tom says, "we heard all that. But like I say, I have no recollection."

"You fucking said!"

I slap him hard. "Watch your tongue."

He finally looks at me, sees his blood all over my face. He shivers again.

"You said ..." It's a whimper now.

I just shrug. "In your dreams, kid."

He lets out a long, wordless wail.

Tom tells him, "What I do remember saying is, you aren't going anywhere."

"You made a deal."

I slap his face hard again. "Yeah, we made a deal. Deal is, we torture, then we kill. Remember that?"

"Said you'd let me go."

I lick blood off his mouth.

"Only place you're going is into a hole in the ground in my barn. Along with a bunch other dead boys. But I want to see a lot more blood first. Wanna hear you scream a lot more before then."

I step back, look at Tom. "Suppertime?"

Josh slots in a new cassette, leaves the camera on the tripod, and we head up the stairs, leave the kid howling "Let me go! Let me go!" over and over, twisting around, yanking on his chains, until the sound-proofed door slides shut.

I throw together some supper and we drain some beer, and we're just lounging around when the motion sensor out in the lane buzzes. I'm the one all covered with blood, so I race back to the guest room as Tom and Josh pull on some jeans. I slide open the secret door, hear the kid still screaming, push the panel shut, stand at the top of the stairs and calm down.

The motion sensor was Josh's idea, and he rigged everything up. At first I said it was just a gadget we didn't need, but times like this it sure pays for itself. Can't have cops coming to the door looking for a lost dog and finding three naked guys soaked in blood.

Josh also rigged up a couple surveillance cameras, so if we're all down here and the sensor goes, we can flick on a screen and see what's up, indoors and out. Guess that could be useful if some SWAT team ever storms the place.

So the kid's looking up at me, he's quiet now, and I figure there's no point wasting time, so I walk down the stairs, walk up to him, wrap a hand around his dick.

I kiss him lightly on the lips.

"Alone at last," I say. "Care to dance?"

"Let me go," he whispers.

"Don't give up, do you?"

"I don't know why you're doing this."

"You don't have to know." I push my hard-on against him, reach round and squeeze his butt-cheeks.

"Where's the others?"

"We have company."

His eyes flicker around. "Who?"

"Dunno." I kiss him again. "A neighbor." Kiss. "The FBI." I squeeze his ass, pull him against me, make the chains jangle, push my tongue into his mouth. "Your mom, maybe, come to pick you up."

He twists his head away and starts screaming, screaming for help at the top of his lungs, non-stop.

I just stay where I am, smiling, feeling his ass, pushing my boner against his blood-sticky skin.

I let him shriek for a bit and then, when he's sucking in air, I tell him, "The place is sound-proofed, dummy. You can yell a hundred times louder than that and no one'll hear you. You could rev up a fucking Harrier down here and upstairs they'd never know."

He squints at me, heaving, red in the face. Where he's not cut or bruised, anyway.

I say, "Don't believe me, do you?"

"Why should I believe you? You said you'd let me go." Then he starts yelling and screaming again.

So I join in, the two of us like in some porn-flick pose, but shouting as loud as we can, "Help! Help me! Down here! Somebody!" Pretty funny, really. Guess Josh will have some editing to do.

He goes quiet and watches me yell. Figures out maybe I'm telling the truth.

"How's that beach ball doing back there?" And I slap it hard, slap the rubber where his hole won't close.

He yelps.

"I said, how's it doing?"

"Fine."

"Want it larger?"

"No."

"Tut-tut, wrong word." I reach down for the bulb.

"Yes!" he says. "Make it bigger."

"Okay." I squeeze the bulb "You're such a fucking loser," I say, and I squeeze until he's whining loud, and then wailing, and then shouting and sweating, and he's screaming when the door slides open and Tom and Josh come downstairs.

"Who was it?" I ask.

"Some politician," says Tom. "Campaigning on lowering the crime rate of all things." He smiles at the boy.

I say, "Should have invited him down, let him witness the crime rate first-hand."

Josh says, "Thought of that, but he was ugly and fat."

"Well, we could work that in. Make a fuck film with a fat old troll raping this hot boy."

The boy's listening to it all, whining quietly.

Tom runs his hand over the kid's big round gut. "Talking about fat," he says, and lightly punches the kid.

"Oh!" he squeals. Really.

Tom punches again.

"Oh-oh-ohhh!" Like in a cartoon.

He punches harder, one after another.

"Stop!" the boy's yelling, bending away from the blows. Josh gets behind him with the camera. I kneel down, watching the dildo jump with the punches.

"You trying to fucking kill me?" the boy yells.

"That's what we said, kid." Tom steps back, then drives a karate kick right into the boy's gut. The kid screams something awful, and his butt-hole's twitching, bleeding again, tearing even wider as Tom again kicks the dildo from the other side, kicks it down, the kid screaming, he pukes spit and bile that hangs off his chin, splashes on the floor, smears on Tom's boot, his arms pulling on the chain, practically wrenching out of their sockets.

Tom keeps kicking, and the kid doesn't scream now, just lets out high-pitched little grunts with each kick, and I put my hands on his ass, his smooth white ass, pull his cheeks apart, though they won't stretch much more, and he lets out this big wail now, starting low inside him and getting louder, higher, Tom kicking.

And with the last kick the dildo jumps out, hits my chest all warm and slimy, a slurp noise, a long, loud fart, the kid swings forward with a scream, pulls on the chains the other way, trying to close his butt, but Tom pushes him back, back toward me.

And my hand is going up his ass, that wet, loose, bleeding hole, easy as pie like it's going into my jacket pocket, and the kid screams, and Tom's there, his hand sliding in with mine, and the kid tries to pull forward but I push my fist up inside him, Tom and me shuffle forward on our knees as the kid tries to lift off our fists, but with his ankles shackled to the floor he can only go so high, he can just twitch there, yelling, arching his back. Screaming. I soak up his screams like a drug.

I slide up my other hand, slide it around Tom's fist, more bubbly farts, make a fist with it as Tom's other hand goes up between my wrists. Fuck, both our fists up the boy's ass, he's howling like a dying animal, bouncing around, his head flying back and forth, side to side, sweat spraying down on us, Tom's fists rubbing against mine, blood trailing down our forearms, he grins at me. I'd like to sit on his dick right now, ride him while we both fist the boy with both arms, maybe let Josh get his fists up there too, wouldn't that make a movie worth seeing, six big arms fucking this boy.

But Tom pulls a fist out fast, loud slurps as his other fist leaves, he stands up, wipes his bloodied hands all over my face, through my hair, then pushes his boner inside the boy, I slide my arms down a bit so my hands can grab him in the warm darkness, wrap around him, and he pumps, in and out, hard, deep, while the kid screams and while his blood paints lines on my arms like veins, Tom's cock thick in my wet hands, his own hands on the boy's hips, holding him still, the kid now grunting with each thrust, like Tom's pushing the air out of him, and he pulls out, fast, right away his blood-covered dick is pumping into my mouth, I'm gulping it in, opening my throat, tasting the boy's ass, his blood, seeing his blood smeared all sparkly through Tom's bush, feeling Tom's hand on my head.

My own hand is out of the boy and on Tom's hard ass, pulling him in, sucking him in down my throat, I feel him blow, choking hot down my throat, I ease back so he can fill my mouth, my other hand is out of the boy and milking Tom's big dick, pumping his cum into my mouth, onto my tongue, I'm choking on it, feeling it spray out my nose, and he pulls my head down again, my nose pressed hard against him, smelling sweat, cum, blood, smelling Tom, he holds me there until I choke because I can't breathe, and he lets me go, lets me lick and kiss his dick, squats down in front of me and kisses me, licks his own cum out of my mouth, his fingers light on the back of my neck like drops of sweat.

We stand up, and he takes my hand. He gives the dildo a nudge with his boot.

"Had a fucking bowling ball up your ass, boy," he says.

It's warm, quiet. Josh goes upstairs to bed. Tom and me lay down on the couch, hot against each other, sticky with sweat and blood, lay there until we fall asleep, the boy quiet, waiting in the dark.
 
FOUR
Day Four starts out with me and Tom and Josh lounging on the couch eating big bowls of cereal and drinking o.j. from the carton. When we're through I pick up the plate of turds, hold them in front of the boy.

"Hungry yet?"

"No."

"You're a liar. And I hate fucking liars." I put down the plate and burp. "You gotta be hungry, right? You fucking crave cheeseburgers, bacon and eggs, a big juicy steak, ham and cheese sub, fried chicken, what'll it be, a chocolate milkshake? A jumbo Coke? Maybe a big glass of cold milk? Fries with that, sir? Potato salad? Macaroni salad? Onion rings? And then apple pie, or banana cream pie, or I know, yeah, big slab of moist chocolate cake with chocolate icing. That's what you fucking want, right? Cuz you haven't eaten for four fucking days, you're fucking starving, you're fucking drooling for food."

He just looks at me. "I'm not hungry."

I laugh. "Want some cereal at least?"

But he's actually thinking about it.

"And juice?" I call over my shoulder, "Any juice left there, Tom?"

You can hear it splashing in the carton. "Sure, lots," he says.

"Want some, kid?"

He swallows. Looks past me to Tom.

"Cereal, milk, sugar? Go upstairs and get you some toast if you don't like cereal. Hey, not everyone does. Peanut butter? Jam?"

"Sure," he says then, hesitant. "Please."

I look at him, smile. Real quiet I say, "Tough shit." And as I walk away to the couch I point at the plate of turds and laugh. "Tough shit, all right."

Josh starts the camera rolling and Tom brings over a paint brush and two jars. One's full of paint stripper, the other's two long strips of rawhide soaking in water. I plug in the extension cord and Josh's blow-drier.

The boy's still strung up spread-eagled, hanging from a beam about a yard out from the wall. Tom flicks a finger against one of the kid's hands, and the kid doesn't notice. We smile at each other.

We get down in front of the boy and Tom lifts his soft dick up with one hand and pulls down on his scabbed bag with the other. The kid winces, I hear him suck in air and his thighs twitch. I pull out one strip of rawhide and loop it round the top of his ball-sac, knot it as tight as I can, then loop it down round and round till there's about an inch of rawhide tying off his bag.

Then Tom lets go of his dick and I start wrapping the other strip all down it, in a criss-cross pattern.

The kid looks down, frowns. He doesn't understand.

"Your cock looks just like a Christmas present," Tom says to him. "Maybe later we'll cut it off and mail it to someone."

I look up and watch the kid's frown turn to a look of shock, his eyes wide, his mouth open, and just this little breathy noise pushes out of his throat, like he's dreaming.

"Or hang it from the rearview," I say. "Like one of them shrunken heads." I pick up the blow-drier, aim it at the kid's crotch, and turn it on high. The boy watches his dick, looks at me, at Tom, at Josh with the videocam, looks into the mirror, looks down again, slowly starts to feel what's happening.

What's totally cool is if you let the rawhide dry naturally, in the sun maybe, or turn on the fan in the corner and go away for a day, and as it dries out the leather shrinks, tightens, hardens, the same thing happens in a couple days what's going to happen in about twenty minutes here.

The kid's feeling it, wincing, his breathing's changing. His bag turns kind of blue-gray, then dark blue, swells a bit, and his dick turns the same color, the veins bulging purple, the flesh pushing out all lumpy between the strips of rawhide, his dick-head swollen and dark, little fish-hook scabs bursting open, tiny drops of dark blood just sitting there quivering under the blast of hot air.

I bring the blow-drier in close, let him feel the burning on his skin until he throws his head back and moans.

I keep it on maybe ten minutes past when the leather is all dried out, the blood all brown and scabby already, and when I finally turn it off his face is all screwed up, his forehead sweaty. Josh is taking a bunch of close-ups.

Tom and me flick our fingers against the kid's balls. They're all puffed, the skin almost black behind the dried blood, and I flick against his dick-head, make him squeal, his purple dick pushing out around the rawhide.

"Gonna fucking explode," I say, flicking hard, and he cries out.

Tom kneels down beside me with the jar of fish hooks, and we chuckle, and I pull one out, show it to the boy.

"Gonna pop your dink like a balloon."

He moans, "No, no."

"Yes, yes," I say, and I press the rusty hook against the big bulging vein along the top of his cock.

"No!" he cries, watching, watches the hook sink in, the little squirt of blood right up onto his gut, further than I would have thought, it scares him, he throws his head back and shrieks, I hold his dick down so when I prick another part of choked-off vein the little spray hits my face, and he looks down and sees it and wails again, wails for God.

He screams when he feels Tom push a fish hook up inside his swollen, dark-blue dick-head, right up into the piss-slit, we're flicking his dick with our fingers while the kid screams, it's a couple minutes before blood starts oozing out the end of his cock, big thick drops, and we shuffle aside so Josh can get some more close-ups, a few stills with the camera for the customers who like photo sets.

The kid looks down, looks at his cock and balls he can hardly recognize, tears running down his face.

Tom opens the second jar. "You're not noisy enough," he says. "A movie has to have a dramatic soundtrack, you know?"

He dips the brush in the jar, dabs the thick liquid all over the guy's balls. I hear him push out air, but it's probably just from the feeling of cold. It won't hurt yet, not for a few minutes. I know from personal experience. Another of my dad's tricks.

We get behind him and Tom pulls apart the kid's beautiful white cheeks, lets me brush paint stripper up his ass crack, and I do it slow and careful, like I'm painting a portrait, a portrait of Tom, and I lay the paint stripper on thick, all down his hairless crack to his balls, and then I dip the brush in the jar again and dab it on his torn-up butt-hole, shove the brush up inside him and turn it around, paint the inside of his ripped hole.

And now he's starting to feel the burning bad, he's twisting on the restraints, whining, grinding his teeth, his eyes shut tight.

I stand up. He must know I'm there but he won't look at me. I brush paint stripper into his scarred armpits.

"Anyone ready for lunch?" I ask?

"Lunch!" Tom says. "You just finished breakfast."

"Oh, okay. A beer."

"Sure," he says.

"I'll stay here, if you don't mind," Josh says, keeping the camera trained on the squirming kid.

Fucking weirdo.

I hold the jar under the boy's nose, let him get a few whiffs of paint stripper.

I say, "Try it. Get high for once in your life. Loosen up, for christ's sake, you square."

"Take it off," he wails. "Please, it hurts."

"It's torture. Remember? Torture and kill? It's supposed to fucking hurt."

He starts crying like a kid again, big loud shouting sobs.

"Aw, hell," Josh says. "Let's get that beer."

He pops in a new cartridge and leaves the camera running.

So we have a case of beer and split some speed, Josh fucks me while I blow Tom, I don't come, the three of us have a nap all tangled up together, then we shower and dress and Tom and me head into town to do some errands. We pick up some fried chicken on the way home, and the three of us eat it out on the dark back porch before we strip down to our boots and head back downstairs.

The kid is quietly moaning, kind of rocking on the end of his chains, his eyes shut. I light a smoke, go up and look him over. His skin is dry, his lips are so dry they're split again, shiny here and there with blood and raw skin. His crotch is a major mess, swollen, blood supply choked off, blistered, leathery-looking and flaking.

I realize the boy is softly saying, "Mom ... Mommy ... Mom ..."

"Ain't that sweet," Tom says. He's come up next to me. "Cry me a river."

The boy snaps his head up, squints at us like we just woke him up.

"Let me go," he whispers.

"Hungry yet?" I ask him.

"Let me go." His eyes drift shut.

"Looks like your mouth is kind of dry."

"Let me go."

"Well, it's there when you want it."

"I'll never want it."

"We'll see." I hold his head still, hold the jar of paint stripper under his nose again. He chokes, tries to pull away, but he's too weak, he breathes in, chokes, sobs, hangs there limp on his numb arms.

I take a look at his ass. Raw red, waxy-looking, the paint stripper dried and flaking, or is it skin. I slap his cheek, sharp, and he yelps.

"Too bad, kid, you had one hot little fuckable butt. All ruined now. Too ugly even for a whoreboy."

He looks sideways into the mirror, tries to see, but it looks normal from there. He can feel it, though, can feel the deep chemical burn.

Tom takes the jar from me. He's wearing a thick work glove. He's got this wicked smirk, and we crouch down in front of the boy.

"No more," the kid whispers.

Tom looks up. "No more! Oh c'mon, kid, the fun has just begun."

The kid gives him this blank look, and Tom slowly raises the jar to his balls, slowly dunks them in, raises the rim of the jar right up between the kid's legs, his balls submerged in paint stripper.

His dark balls look ten times bigger in the jar, it's kind of weird. I get close, the sight of balls that big turns me on.

"Sea monkeys!" Tom says.

The kid breathes weird, like he's about to come.

"What, are you blind? They're fucking blue whales," I say.

Tom holds the jar there, and we wait. I light a smoke.

"Shouldn't put open flame near this stuff," Tom says. "I think it's flammable."

"So what's a little fire?" I grin. He grins back.

I move close and we neck, right there in front of the kid, while Tom holds the jar up under his balls, the kid starting to jerk around, the paint stripper splashing out onto his thighs, onto the floor, the kid starting to whine louder. I take a look, dried blood peeling away into the stinging liquid. I touch Tom's arm, lower the jar a bit.

"Let's sink the Titanic here," I say, and with my finger I push the kid's tied-up dark purple dick into the jar. Tom raises it again. The kid howls. He doesn't have to look, he can feel what's happening.

He howls, wails, calls to his mom, to God, begs, fucking begs us to stop, lets out a long shrill angry scream, "please, please, please," and blubbers again like a baby.

"Tell Davis I'll do it," he wails. "Tell him, oh God, tell him, please."

Sure hangs on to that fantasy. "Keep believing it, kid, if it makes this any easier." I almost have to shout, he won't stop wailing.

Tom says, "That's enough. My arm's getting tired."

"No. Stay there."

I run over to the workbench, grab a ball of twine, hurry back. I tie the twine tight around the neck of the jar, then run it up the kid's front, once around his neck, down his back, through his crack, and knot it behind the jar. Tom lets go. The jar hangs there, the kid's balls and half his dick swimming in paint stripper.

Tom chuckles, pulls off the glove. "You're great," he says.

I'm standing now, looking into the boy's face. His eyes are still shut, he's still moaning, won't shut up, like some victim at a car accident.

"Scream for me," I tell him.

He moans the same as before, his head rolling around like he's drunk.

"Scream."

He won't look at me.

I tongue his soft tit, flaked with tiny scabs from the fish hooks. I start sucking it, fingering the other one to get it hard, I suck it hard between my teeth, I'm not trying to be erotic here, I just want something worth biting.

I wave to Josh, and he comes in for a zoom shot, my mouth on the boy's tit, his pecs hard with fear, the skin shiny with cold sweat. He's all taut with terror, he smells of terror, the slightest touch makes him shiver all over. I can see his heart racing.

Tom's crouched behind me, rimming me.

I pull back my lips, let our viewers at home see my strong teeth, and I bite down, once, twice, snap snap like a dog, clamp down hard and grind, even snarl like a dog, the dog my dad always said I was, the kid tense all over, then screaming, loud, high like a little boy, scared, hurting, a thin ribbon of blood spilling down from his tit, I lick at it, smear it over the wound, close my lips over his tit and suck like a baby, grind my teeth down on it, Tom's tongue deep and warm and wet in my ass, I keep sucking while the kid screams, muscles hard, head back, my teeth pull his nipple right off while I suck, my mouth full of hot blood, the rusty taste of it.

I ease back, let the camera study the bleeding wound, study the blood oozing off my tongue, I purse my red lips and spray his blood up across him, across his chest, along his metal collar, into the air over his screaming face like a halo.

I start sucking hard on the other tit, already pulled stiff in my fingers. I bite firm and pull back, stretch the skin away from his muscle, hear his shriek, his tit pops out of my mouth and I bite again, pull again, see how far I can pull, his tit like a tent, he's screaming, stretching toward me but I only pull back further, half laughing, half snarling, get tired of it and press my teeth together, grind and chew and shake my head and the skin tears, slaps back into place, beautiful little blood drops jump out into the space between us.

Josh says, "Neat."

I'm licking, sucking, sucking his blood like mother's milk from his tit, my fingers wet on the other one, feeling into the warm holes with a finger, with my tongue, when my mouth is half full I stand up, let the blood spill hot into my hand, he sees me, squinting, crying, I spill his blood onto my stiff cock, over my balls, hear it splash on the floor, I jerk off with his blood, Tom's tongue fucking me, the boy watching.

He sees his blood on me, on my tongue, in my hand, on my cock, hot red blood, I lean in to lick, blood sticky on my face, Tom's tongue alive inside me, and I step back and shoot, strings of thick white hitting him, his firm, tan flesh, splatting right onto the blood that runs from his tits, slapping onto his hard abs, to trail down into the jar of paint stripper, and mixing thick with his blood in my hand.

He watches me lick my hand, our eyes on each other, Tom standing up.

"Go to fucking hell," he moans.

"You're there, kid." I lean forward, kiss him, slow, deep, wet, his blood on my lips with my cum.

Tom says, "It doesn't get any worse than this."

Before we go upstairs Tom takes the jar off the kid's nuts, but he doesn't wipe them dry.

FIVE
Josh leaves early the next morning, in a suit, before Tom and me even have breakfast. He has meetings all day. Which is lucky for the kid, cuz Tom and me aren't good filmmakers, so we'll have to go easy on him. Not that he needs to know that.

We skip breakfast, finish our coffee and go downstairs. We shoot three whole cartridges of Polaroids, take shots of his whole body strung up, move in for close-ups of his bruised, bloodied,

puffed-up face, face and chest shots, bloody scars where his tits were, shots of his scarred, hairless crotch, his ass with dried blood trailing out of it. Then we lower him so he's sitting on the concrete floor, legs straight out in front of him and ankles bolted to the ground, arms pulled up tight with chains from the ceiling.

We sit around with some beers laughing over the pictures, selecting the best ones, and we narrow it down to four.

I hold them up in front of the kid, two in each hand.

"Which one's best?" I ask him. "Which one do I send your mom?"

Tom laughs.

"Don't," the kid says.

"C'mon," I say, "give her a thrill."

"You're sick."

"Yeah, we've been through that. Pick a pic."

He looks away. "No."

Tom grabs his head from behind, makes him face the photos. "Choose one," he says.

The kid just says, "No way."

Tom says, mean, "You've got five seconds. Five. Four. Three."

The kid's eyes dart across the pictures, like maybe he's trying to make the connection with his own body.

"Two. One."

I stand up, push the Polaroid camera under his balls, nudge his dick out of the way with my boot, and step on his balls.

He winces.

"Lost your chance, boyo. Now I'll have to pick one. And my taste is probably a lot sicker than yours." I'm slowly shifting my weight to that one foot, and he's starting to whine. "Tell you what, though. I'll let you lick the envelope."

I put all my weight on that foot, lift my other foot right off the ground, and he screams.

"A scream a day," I tell him, "keeps the sickos happy."

I go over to the workbench, pull on latex gloves, look over at him. "Fingerprints." I let him watch me put all four Polaroids in the envelope. I smile at him. "That's my choice. Fill up a page in the family album, huh?"

"You don't know where I live," he says.

"And you're pretty fucking stupid," I say. "Shouldn't walk around with a wallet in your back pocket with a card that says 'Property of.' " I pull out the card, slowly read out his address while I write it on the envelope.

"Shouldn't walk around with a wallet in your back pocket, period," Tom says. "Big unsightly bulge ruins a cute tush like yours."

"He wouldn't worry about that, he's not a fag. Oh yeah, that reminds me." I go back to the pile of photos, pick out a good mangled-face shot, show it to him. "We should send one to the girlfriend, too."

"Oh, jesus," the kid moans.

"Don't suppose you're gonna give me her address, are you?"

He keeps his mouth shut.

"I can get it out of you, you know that. I could slowly smash every one of your fingers flat with a hammer until you told me. Or I could very, very slowly cut your balls off. With a razor blade."

He's glaring at me, his mouth pressed shut.

I pick up an empty beer bottle, smash the neck off on the edge of the workbench, take a step toward him.

"Or I could fuck you with this."

"Sixteen," he stammers, and I pick up the pen, write while he tells me the address, her name. I put down the bottle.

"That was easy," I say.

"You're gonna burn in hell."

"Sounds like fun. You know what they do in heaven is just sit around and play harps." I carry both envelopes over to him, crouch down, hold up the flaps. "Lick."

He does. He's got tears in his eyes.

"Mmm, hot licker. Wouldn't mind having that tongue in my ass."

He looks straight at me. I swear his top lip curls up.

"And now I've got a little treat for you. Keep you occupied while me and my buddy go buy some stamps."

We get him strung up spread-eagled again. I go to the couch with our shoe box of assorted drugs, and I make a little pile of pills next to me. I hold up a syringe.

"This is old. I haven't done this shit for years."

"I did last month," Tom says.

I don't look at him. "Never told me that."

"Would have if it was any good. But it's pretty weak. Which come to think of it actually makes it ideal for a first-timer, if that's what you're thinking."

"Mix with the bottle?"

"Wouldn't kill him," he says. "Just give him some entertaining psychotic episodes, you might say."

I dump the pills back in the shoe box, hand Tom the needle and the little foil packet. "Set 'er up, then."

I get the tequila bottle from the little selection we keep beside the couch, go stand beside the boy.

"It's a shame, really," I tell him, "getting to your age and never trying any of this shit."

"Don't," he says.

"Don't like it? But you don't know that, do you. No, you're just fucking righteous about it." I'm slowly rubbing the neck of the tequila bottle up and down his crack. "Suppose you don't drink either."

"Beer. Sometimes."

"After a game?"

"Maybe."

"So you can get blitzed before the team gang-bangs your cunt?"

He glares at me. Tom is here now, smiling at him. The kid looks at the needle, scared.

"Please don't."

Tom crouches behind him, tightens some twine around his thigh. Like a pro he injects in behind the kid's knee.

"No, no," the boy quietly begs. "I don't want it."

"A present from Davis," I say. The kid shoots me a look. I laugh. "Whoever the fuck he is."

I reach up, unhook his wrist shackle from the chain. Tom does the other side and we bend him over.

I say to the kid, "Actually you were right the first time. Davis did ask us to teach you a lesson. Tom and me were just gonna maybe threaten you, push you around, bust your arm at the most. But then fuck, we saw you hitchhiking."

"The worst," Tom says.

"Man oh man, I said to my buddy, this kid needs a real lesson."

He gives a little gasp when he feels the cold neck of the bottle slide into him, and I push it up a few inches and then tip it up.

"Guzzle it down, boy. Let me see your thirsty cunt drink it all up."

Nothing's happening, so I reach under him, give his belly a little thump. It loosens his ass muscles, and a big air bubble shoots into the bottle. I punch, real light, and there's another one. Punch, bubble, fart.

"Gulp, gulp, gulp," says Tom, and then, to me, "That's enough."

I've watched him do this to himself, and it's been done to me, and the booze says, "Do not pass Go, go straight to the brain." You can actually kill a guy this way, but there's no sound and no blood, which makes it no fun either.

I slide the bottle out and push my fist in. The boy screams, but I don't want him spraying out all that expensive booze.

"So that's your lesson," I say. "But it's kind of pointless, since you won't ever be hitchhiking again. You know why? Cuz you're fucking ugly now, no one would want to pick you up. Except maybe someone else who's fucking ugly. But also cuz your thumbs are busted, and you can't hitch with no thumbs. And also, silly me, how could I forget, because you're never fucking leaving this room."

We just stay like that for a few minutes, the kid bent right over between us with his arms pulled back behind him, like he's about to dive, Tom's big thigh over the back of his neck.

Then Tom says to him, "Sing me a song."

"Can't sing," the kid says, happy like it's the punchline.

"Sing a song for Jesus," Tom says.

"Christ my Savior shows me " he begins, and then he laughs. "I can see my knees!"

"So can I," says Tom, and rolls his eyes.

I slurp out my fist and the kid goes, "Whoop!" and laughs. We tie him up the way he was, sitting on the floor, and go sit on the couch, and we smoke a couple joints while we watch his first trip, which is kind of boring, really, his shift from laughing to blabbering total shit to crying and then falling asleep, his mouth open, booze sometimes spraying, sometimes leaking out of his ass.

Upstairs, Tom and me have three bowls of cereal each. It's only ten-thirty in the morning.

He nods at the two envelopes on the table. "You really sending those?"

"Now what do you think?"

"I think it's too bad you said we had to buy stamps. I think now we have to bring stamps back to him, get him to lick them, so there's none of your saliva with your DNA, then leave again so we can mail them. All rather convoluted."

"But not impossible."

"No, not impossible." He refills my coffee mug.

"It is supposed to be a slow one, after all."

"That's the plan."

"Drag it out. Make him suffer."

"Exactly as intended."

"But it is pretty con -- that word you said."

"Convoluted."

"Whatever. And anyway, I'm shocked."

He raises his eyebrows.

"You don't think I'm that sick, do you?" I tear open the envelopes, pull out the Polaroids, crumple up the envelopes and toss them in the garbage.

"No," my sweetheart says. "I was just being theoretical."

"Good. Let's get outside, catch some rays."

So we laze around naked out back for a few hours, and Tom's finger gentle in my sweaty ass wakes me up.

"Ready for more?" he says.

I stretch under the hot sun. "Aw, leave him till Josh gets back. He's probably still stoned. And this is too nice."

"Hey, like I said, you're slipping. Gotta shed some blood. Otherwise today doesn't count."

"You're a pretty hard boss."

He looks down at his dick, swings over on top of me, rubs it against my ass. Lowers his head next to mine and whispers, "What do you want to do to him?"

I chuckle. "Gee, I dunno. Kind of fresh out of ideas, honey."

He laughs, jumps up, pulls up the blanket and rolls me onto the grass. "Come on, I've got a magic potion will fuckin' fill you with ideas."

In the house we down some pills he bought, he rams me up against the kitchen counter and we neck for two seconds or two days, can't tell, and when our dicks are so hard they ache and our heads are buzzing we go downstairs.

The first thing I do is shove my cock in the kid's mouth, plow in hard, slam my hips into his face, hear and feel the back of his skull crunching against the rough wall, feel and hear him grunt and choke. He doesn't know how fucking good his mouth feels, warm, wet, soft, and I'm like three seconds from blowing my wad when I jump back, make fists, shut my eyes, hold my breath, tense up to keep the cum inside me.

And when I'm calm I punch his face.

And Tom kicks his face.

And he cries.

And I press my ass against his face, wet with tears and snot and blood, press him hard against the wall, shout, "Lick my ass, kid. Wanna feel your hot tongue in my butt, just like I said."

And he cries and licks.

"C'mon, cum-pig, use your whole tongue. Up and down."

Tom on his knees in front of me, licking me. My dick electric. The kid's tongue feels huge.

"Push it in. Fuck me with your tongue, boy. Fuck the football team."

He does it, too, sobbing, I can just imagine him holding his breath, squeezing his eyes shut, taking the plunge to keep me happy.

I start shooting into Tom's mouth, one, two, I spin around fast, still shooting jizz, and I kick the kid in the head.

He shouts, cries, cum splats across his face. I kick him again, aim for the mouth.

I stand back panting, a string of cum hanging from my stiff cock.

Tom on his knees wiping his big hand over the boy's face, wiping up blood, the kid squealing, split lips, busted nose, cracked cheek. He watches Tom's blood-wet hand scoop the strand of cum off my dick, watches Tom dribble my cum out of his mouth into his hand, watches Tom's hand get closer.

"Lick it up," Tom says to him, stern.

The kid sobs, but his tongue comes out, his bruised, puffy face moves toward Tom's hand. Breathing short and sharp.

Tom's hand tips up, presses over the boy's swollen lips, smashes his head back against the wall. The kid shouting on his hand, eyes shut tight.

"Lick!" Tom yells.

And you can see the boy's doing it, licking and swallowing.

I say, "Blood and cum. Nothing better."

The kid looks at me for a second, unfocused, shuts his eyes again.

Tom's hand kind of massaging the kid's mouth. He eases back on the pressure, spreads his fingers a bit, you can see the kid's smeared tongue working in between the fingers, licking it all up.

"Good dog." I didn't mean to say it.

Tom takes his hand away, holds it up to me. "That clean enough?"

I kneel, lick his hand. Lick it all over. Lick all along his arm and into his musky pit, lick across his shoulder, up his salty neck, along the stubble on his jaw, my tongue into his mouth.

I pull away, say, "Yeah, he did good. Want some more cum, boy? Hungry for it?" I grab his dick and balls, twist. "Wanna see you come too. Gonna shoot a load for me?"

He whines.

Tom stands, my mouth on his hard thick dick, and right there in front of the boy's face I suck him off, cup his big warm balls, we're so close to the boy I can hear him breathing. I shift back a few inches when Tom is close, and when his balls rise in my hand I open wide, stick out my tongue, let his hand take over, let the boy watch him blast right into my mouth, onto my tongue, hot cum shooting right in, splashing against the back of my throat, eight, nine, ten, eleven big spurts, Tom's hand squeezing his dick onto my tongue.

I turn to the boy, press my mouth onto his, push my tongue in, push Tom's sweet cum into his mouth, he doesn't pull away, he breathes hard, my tongue feels his, I tilt his head back, drain it all into him.

SIX
Josh gets back around eleven-thirty that night. He strips off his suit and I fix him a snack, and by the time we head back downstairs it's technically Day Six.

"Thirsty yet?"

The kid's hands look kind of gray. I pinch his skin and he doesn't seem to notice. I pinch him down near the elbow, and he looks

at my hand there, frowns. Tom and me look at each other.

"Thirsty yet?" I ask the kid.

"No."

Sure he is, he's all dried out, weak. Tom holds his head still and I wave my dick in his face.

"Be a good boy and drink up." My dick rests just inside his mouth, and I start pissing. Tom tilts his head up. He coughs, yells, splutters, sprays my hot piss back on me, but I've got a full load, I push my dick in further, he gulps and gags, sprays piss out his nose while he shouts, I keep blasting it into his mouth and he gulps more, wincing, coughing, spilling it all down his front onto the floor, a puddle he can sit in.

When I'm done I let my wet cock dangle dripping just in front of his face, where he has to look at it as he tastes my piss, licks his lips.

I step back. "Hungry?"

His eyes dart around, to the plate, to my boots, to my half-stiff cock. "No."

I pick up the plate of dried-up old turds, crouch down and hold it in front of him. I hold one in my fingers.

"Open wide, here comes the choo-choo."

His mouth is shut tight, he's straining against Tom's grip, trying to pull away, whining again.

I push it between my lips instead, chew slowly with my mouth open, real messy, bits dribbling down my chin, let him watch, disgusted, amazed. "Mmm, tasty. You want some?"

I push the hard turd in before he can answer and Tom clamps a hand under his jaw.

"Chew," Tom says in that way you don't argue with.

The kid gags, rolls the lump in his mouth, his gut heaves like he's going to puke. I put the plate down between his legs, walk over to the workbench, get the broken beer bottle, walk back as he watches me, big eyes on the bottle, my boots.

"My buddy said chew."

His gut heaves again, his eyes wider. I hold the bottle down on the ground between his legs, aim it toward his ass. "Or do I fuck you with this?" His eyes on the shit all over my teeth.

He's terrified of that bottle. Starts to chew. Gags and chokes, of course. Tom tilts his head back further and we wait for him to swallow. As soon as he does I push the last turd in. He's crying.

"Tell me it tastes good."

He coughs. I wipe wet shit off his lips, push it back into his mouth like baby food. "Tell me."

"It's gross."

I smack him hard. "No. You tell me it tastes good." I scrape the bottle on the concrete floor and he shudders all over, pulls back.

"It tastes good." He sobs, chews once, swallows, gags.

"Tell me you love eating shit."

"No "

He feels the sharp glass against his balls.

Real fast, his eyes shut tight, he says, "I love eating shit."

"And you want to eat my shit."

"I want to eat your shit," he says, like if he says it faster the whole thing will be over faster.

"What you say?"

He almost shouts it out. "I love eating shit I want to eat your shit."

"You do? Really? Wow, like, I'm honored. I thought you hated me."

"I do."

I push with the bottle.

He screams. "No! I want to eat your shit."

"You hear that?" I say to Tom.

"I hear him. Pig wants to eat your shit."

"Off a plate?" I ask the kid. "Or straight from my shit-hole?"

He breaks down in tears, shaking his head.

Tom tilts the kid's head back, holds the plate under his chin. I bend over in front of the boy, push back till I feel his nose in my crack. He's howling, his shouts warm on my butt-hole.

I take a dump. I like my shit, it's big, firm but moist, you can mash it around, play with it. The kid's mostly keeping his mouth shut, so my shit just slides down his face onto the plate, and when I'm done I slide my crack up and down against his nose, wipe myself clean on him.

Tom puts down the plate. It stinks. "We'll just leave that here for when you're hungry next time."

The kid sort of burps up air, spits out what's in his mouth.

I pick up the Coke bottle. "Here, wash it down."

He twists away, pushes his face hard against the wall, mouth shut tight. Tom yanks him around, and he's shouting, sometimes "Oh god" and sometimes just noises, when I start pouring the stale, cold piss into his mouth. Tom has his head yanked back, mouth pulled wide open and he's squeezing the kid's nose shut. I pour slowly, till the kid's mouth is full of piss and it's spilling out over his cheeks and chin, and I stop pouring. His eyes pop open, he needs air, and it's like a toilet unplugging, he makes this kind of sucking noise inside and the piss drains, half of it's gone down his throat and he coughs, swallows more as he sucks air, chokes.

I gulp some piss from the bottle, swish it around my mouth, bend over and spray it into his mouth, then tip the bottle up again.

We go slow, I want that piss inside him, not all over the floor. He gets better at drinking, and Tom lets go of his nose. He still gags and coughs but he takes most of it, and it must be half an hour before the bottle is finally empty, I'm shaking the last drops out over his mouth.

Tom and me go rest on the couch. I roll a joint and we wait for the kid's bladder to fill up. Josh takes a toke and hands me the blow-up dildo.

"Take this to completion," he says.

I'm surprised. Josh hardly ever makes suggestions. Just watches and films, joins in now and again.
 

The kid opens his eyes, focuses on my boots, looks up my legs, sees the rubber dildo, its tube and the bulb, sees my hard-on.

"No," he says, his voice quiet, hoarse from screaming. "Not again."

"Yeah, well, we didn't finish. It popped out of your tight little cunt too soon."

"Please don't."

"Please don't," Tom mimics as he hauls the kid up onto his feet. "Wouldn't be much fun for us, would it?" He bolts the kid's wrists to the rafters. "Kids these days, no sense of adventure."

"You've had fun." His eyes are closed.

"That's all relative." Tom just stands there in front of him, until the kid opens his eyes, looks at him. "Right?"

He closes his eyes again.

"Tired, guy?" I say. "All that food make you so sleepy you can't talk? Maybe this'll wake you up."

He shouts when he feels the cool rubber pressing against his hole. I push it in rough, splitting old scabs, he feels the sting, cries out. I squeeze the bulb, counting, to get it big enough to stay in by itself.

"Sixteen," I tell Tom, handing him the bulb. "Your turn."

I crouch in front of the boy, squeeze his wrecked dick in my hand. It's a weird color, kind of blood-gorged, blue gray, shriveled. Maybe useless from now on. Never did see the kid come.

"Say it. Please, Sir, make me come."

He whines, the pain of my hand, the pain of his swelling ass, the pain of his full bladder.

"Twenty-five," says Tom.

"Please, Sir " I say.

"Ohhhhh."

"Thirty-five."

I'm pumping on his dick, it's actually sort of swelling, but it's bound tight by the stiff, dry rawhide.

"Forty."

I tug on his balls. Dark blue, but they look like they've got a bit more life in them. Or maybe the skin is just raw-red from the paint stripper.

"Sixty."

"Please, Sir." I lick his cock.

He screams a wicked scream, the kind that sends shivers up your spine, that makes your cock tingle.

"Seventy."

He pisses, he can't help it, the ballooning dildo pushing against his bladder full of recycled piss. He screams more as he pisses, his dick tied up tight, his piss-hole scarred and stabbed. It comes out in a spray, not a stream, and I close my eyes and let the warm spray shower all over me.

"Ninety." It's bigger than six inches now. Better him than me.

"Please, Sir," I say.

"One hundred big ones!" Tom says.

"You come and it stops," I say. "Please, Sir." I suck his dick and balls into my mouth, taste piss, sweat.

"Hundred and ten."

He won't stop screaming now, hoarse, ragged screams. Piss dribbles from his dick. I taste blood too. I suck hard.

"Hundred and thirty."

"Please." He actually says it.

I take my mouth off him. "Say it all. Every word."

"Hundred and forty."

Josh nearby with the camera. Great soundtrack. The kid screaming himself raw.

"Hundred and fifty."

"Please!" He screams. He sobs. "Please, Sir! Make me COME!"

I suck, squeeze. He screams again.

"Hundred and sixty. Sixty-one. Sixty-two. Sixty-three --"

"MAKE ME --!"

"Sixty-six. Sixty-seven."

"SIR, MAKE ME COME!"

It's like a car backfires outside, or a bird hits the window, a dull thud, sudden, he shrieks, I hear a long, blubbery fart, the air whooshing out of him, he's moaning now, high-pitched like he's stoned or something, winces when Tom pulls on the rubber hose and slides out the burst dildo.

"You didn't come, boy," I say. "I'm very disappointed."

He's breathing hard, exhausted, whimpering. Tom wipes the blood-smeared shreds of rubber across the kid's mouth, pushes it inside.

"Taste your ass, cutie," he says.

"I'm very disappointed!" I shout.

Kid spits out the dildo. "Kill me," he says, quietly.

"Don't rush me."

We leave him hanging there in the dark, blood leaking from his exploded ass. 
SEVEN
"What are we going to do today?" I say.

It's actually late afternoon. We all slept in. But the kid doesn't have to know there's not a full day of demented meanness in front of him.

Tom and me are standing in front of him, arms around each other's shoulders. I'm swigging from the bottle of tequila.

"Make him come finally," Tom says.

"Yeah. Hey, boy, you ready to shoot cum all over my face?"

He ignores me.

"And then fuck him," Tom says.

"You want my buddy's monster dick up your ass again?"

He still ignores me.

"Hey, fuck-head! Your face hurt?"

No answer, doesn't even look at me, stares at the floor off beside Tom.

I slap his face, hard, across the mouth. He gasps, winces.

Quieter, I say, "I said, your face hurt?"

"Yeah," he whispers.

His face is ugly, purple, swollen.

"Well it's gonna hurt a lot more if you don't fucking answer me!"

He cringes, like he's waiting for me to hit him again.

I gulp some booze. "What do you want?"

"Go home. I'd like to go home now."

"What for? Time to lick your momma's cunt? Or push your tongue up inside your daddy's hairy butt crack? Or maybe you want to fuck your little brother? What do you want to go home for? What's fun there?"

"You're drunk," he says, not looking at me.

"Fucking right." I take three long swallows. "Something I guess you wouldn't know much about. Gonna get me fucking liquored to the tits, kid. Fuck, at least one of us still has tits!" I down some more, spit it in his face. "Now answer my fucking question. What do you want to go home for?"

His head rolls slow from side to side. "They love me."

I spit on the floor.

"Love! What good is love? You can't fucking eat love. Heck, you can't fuck love."

He looks at me at last, then looks at Tom. Already I know what he's going to say.

"You two love each other."

"Leave us out of it," I tell him.

He gives this half-laugh, the kind I totally hate, the kind Tom calls smug.

"What's so fuckin' funny?" Tom says.

"I can't leave you out of it, can I?"

That's enough for me. I grab his dick and balls, squeeze.

"Gonna make you come if it kills me, kid." I pull down and twist.

He barks out a shout.

"You ain't shot a load in more than a week. Got a big one all built up in your jockboy balls, and I bet it's super dee-lish to the last drop. And the whole thing's going right here." I point to my open mouth.

"Can't."

"Can't what?"

"Can't."

I slap him. "Can't what?" I shout.

"Come. I can't come."

Still squeezing, pulling, twisting, I turn to Tom. "Didn't we have this conversation?"

"Yeah. He said he couldn't come then. Or maybe he was lying -- maybe he can't come at all, ever. Wow."

"That true, kid? You, like, deformed or something?"

He starts to sob. "No. But it's It's not fun."

"I'm having fun." I look at Tom again. "You having fun, sweetheart?"

"Definitely."

"So what's the problem, kid? Everyone's having fun. 'Cept you, cuz you got all that cum bursting your balls and can't get it out. What hand do you jack off with?"

He doesn't answer, so I squeeze hard and pull down sharp.

"Right!" he yells.

I don't have to signal Tom, he's already releasing the catches around his wrist restraint. He pushes down the kid's stiff arm, and the boy screams, whines, as the blood pulses in for about the first time in a week.

I've been unlacing the dry rawhide from his dick. I keep the other strand there, tight above his strangled balls.

"So masturbate," Tom tells him.

I gulp from the bottle, spill some down my front, watch him. He tries to flex his half-dead fingers, winces as the blood rushes into his broken thumbs, tries to grip his shriveled cock. He looks down at his hand, at his dick, maybe trying to force his hand to work, to save him. He sobs.

I laugh. I laugh so hard I get tears in my eyes. I put a finger under the guy's chin, raise his face, say to him, "I get it. You don't know how, do you? I can't believe it. You're fucking eighteen and you don't even know how to jack off. You stupid fucking weirdo."

"I do," he whispers.

"What you say?"

"I know how to do it."

"Do what?"

"Jack off." He mumbles it, and won't look at me.

"Then fucking show me. Stop wasting my time."

"I can't." He says it like a whine.

"Jesus fuck!" I exaggerate his whining. "I can't come. I can't jack off. I can't get it up." I bring my face right close to the kid's and say, real quiet, "What can you fucking do, asshole?"

"Lots," he says.

"Like what?"

It's like five minutes goes by, everyone's breathing slow and steady, the whir of the camera.

And then it's like something goes out of him, he almost slumps, he lets out this big sigh, eyes on the ground. "Nothing," he says.

There's this long pause, and then Tom lets his breath out in a whistle. "Picked a real loser, didn't we? A goddamn wimp."

"A wuss," I say. "A cry-baby."

"A pansy." He's behind the boy, unshackling his ankles, his other wrist. "But maybe you can fight back. Fight your way out of here."

"Fight for your life," I say. I take another swig and put the bottle out of the way.

His other arm is stiff up in the air.

Tom punches him in the gut. Nice and hard.

He gags, bends over, drops to his knees. I slam my boot into his shoulder and he crashes onto the floor, his head cracking on the concrete. Josh is here now, too, pulling on his beat-up old boxing gloves, the laces loose. I drag the boy up, hold him in front of me. Josh pounds his belly, his face. I feel warm sweat and blood spray onto me, and my dick grows hard against his ass. But he's quiet, just grunts of breath every few blows.

I wrap my arm around his chest, and with my other hand I slide my cock into him. Another grunt, that's all.

I say next to his ear, "You're not fighting very hard, kid. Go on, fight your way out."

He pukes bile onto my arm, and Josh is already there, holding him up, wiping his face in it, licking, then he pulls the kid's head down onto his hard-on. I put my hands on the kid's hips and pound into his ass. Got to admit the kid still has one hot ass, firm, white, round. I'm looking down, I can hear him choking on his vomit, on Josh's horse dick, I'm watching my cock drive in and out of his ripped-up hole and suddenly I realize I'm coming, I feel my cum hot on my dick inside him, didn't even feel it building up. Fucking tequila.

He's gagging, choking, sobbing, arms hanging limp down to the ground. I drop to a crouch behind him, hold his hips, tongue my cum as it leaks out of his hole, until Josh whams him in the face with a boxing glove and he spins down to the ground and lays there moaning.

I'm licking my cum on my lips when Tom is there, I'm still crouching so his hard-on is smack in front of my face, I'm hungry for it, but then I see he's holding an eight-inch nail and a blowtorch.

"Got an idea there, buddy?"

"Sure do, dude. You need a drink?"

Not really. But I crawl on all fours to the bottle anyway, sit back against the couch and down some, watch my lover and Josh play some games.

The kid is on his back, arranged sideways to the camera on the tripod, and Josh kneels near his head. Tom kneels across his thighs, and he holds the kid's dick, starts pushing the nail inside the piss-slit, past the fish-hook scabs, deeper, and the kid twists under him, whimpers at first, then whines, then starts to scream.

Josh thumps his head with the boxing glove, not too hard. Tom pushes deeper. He screams again and Josh thumps him, the blows muffled, they cut off his screams until he feels the pencil-thick metal inside his dick again.

I laugh. I don't know why. Tom looks up at me, grins.

"He can get it up for you now," Tom says, waving around the kid's dick stiff with the nail. There's about three inches of nail sticking out.

The kid squirms, whines as he maybe feels the end of the nail digging around inside him. Josh thumps him, one side, then the other.

Tom drops the kid's dick against his belly and picks up the blowtorch, the lighter.

I laugh again. "You've fucking been hanging around me too long," I tell him. I crawl over for a better view.

Tom adjusts the hissing blue flame. The kid hears it, looks toward us, gives a breathy, scared wail.

It makes my dick jump.

" 'Ten-TION!" I say. I hold the boy's cock at the base and slowly push the nail upright, making dumb trumpet noises through my lips.

The kid twists, squeals and gets hit.

Tom directs the flame onto the end of the nail and we wait for it to heat up, to turn orange at the end. Then the orange slowly flows down toward the kid's dick and the very end turns gray. And then the gray part gets lighter. I feel the heat on my hand.

The kid's breath gets faster, shallower, and suddenly -- the orange isn't even touching his skin yet -- he arches his back, the top of his head grates on the floor, he shrieks, loud, Josh could shove his nine-inch hard-on right into the kid's mouth, and I smell it before I look back, I see the faint smoke, smell the searing meat, hear him scream something awful.

I like this a lot. I hump my dick against the concrete floor, Tom's chuckling, the orange is right inside him now, how far I don't know, the gray-white following it in, his screams ragged, loud, fast, his arms trying to move, to push away the molten pain, he slams his ass down on the ground, arches up again.

Josh shuffles forward and this time he does push his dick in, he holds a glove under one arm and pulls his hand out, starts jerking off into the kid's screaming mouth, doesn't care when the glove slips out and bangs down right in the kid's bruised face.

Tom's watching the flame and the nail closely, frowning like he sometimes does when he's reading a book. I hate the smell actually, and you can see white, waxy blisters pulling away from the glowing nail all around the kid's piss-slit, it's like the metal is melting away his flesh.

Tom screws the blowtorch off and we just watch, watch the nail slowly turn a shiny gray, listen to the kid still howling and crying. Tom glances sideways, watches my ass slowly rise and fall as I rub my hard-on against the floor. We kind of ignore Josh coming, gasping as he squirts right into the kid's mouth, choking him. I push up on all fours, lean forward and suck just on the end of Tom's dripping dick. He sighs.

Josh wipes his dick clean all over the boy's face, and then we tie him up again, numb arms up in the air once more. The nail weighs his dick down. He whimpers, quietly, like a kid with a belly-ache.

I'm turning back to the couch when Tom stops me with a hand on my shoulder, spins me round, pulls me close to him, our chests sweaty and hard against each other. He licks my lips.

"Hey, handsome, where you goin'?"

"Oh, nowhere."

"I wanna fuck you." My hand already on his dick, pre-cum on my fingers. "But," he says, "I've never been able to fuck when someone in the room" -- this part he shouts -- "has a fuckin' nail stuck up his dick!"

Everyone's silent, even the kid, holding his breath, staring. We turn to him, and his eyes flicker onto our hard-ons. He looks away.

"Which only means one thing," Tom says.

"No," the boy says, his voice strained. "No more."

"You tellin' me I can't fuck my boyfriend?"

"No "

"That's good. Cuz that would get you in serious trouble."

We walk up to the boy. His eyes dart from Tom to me, and he shivers.

He looks away like into the distance and then says, in a quiet, different, shaky voice, "God never sends us more than we can bear."

"Bullshit," says Tom. Who believes in God.

The kid glares at Tom like he's about to launch into some religious argument. But he keeps his mouth shut.

"Bull," Tom says, "shit."

He puts his hand on my shoulder and we both go down onto our knees, the kid's nailed dick right in front of us. Tom takes hold of the end of it. Pulls slightly. The kid whines.

Tom keeps pulling, and the kid's bruised, shriveled dick sort of stretches along with the nail, like it's stuck to it. Which I guess it must be. Jesus.

The kid howls and cries and howls more. Tom smirks.

"You're getting as sick as me," I tell him.

He smiles wider, pulls harder. The kid's scream vanishes, and there's just this raspy breath pushing out of his throat.

The nail tears free all of a sudden and slides out smoothly, little bits of gray flesh clinging to it. The kid screams loud again, screams and choking sobs. I watch his dick bounce around as he twists and jerks, and I wait for the blood to show up at the end.

"What do we do with this?" Tom says about the nail.

I take it from him, suck the kid's dick into my mouth, tongue the end. I don't know why there's no blood. I let his dick go and I hold his ball-sac, a bruised gray color, and all dry and flaky. I wrap my fist around his balls, squeezing them tight at the end, and I press the point of the nail onto the biggest one.

"Watch you don't get a face full of cum," Tom says.

I push down, slow, slow enough to make the boy yell and cry some more, but hard enough that the nail breaks past the skin, digs into the kid's ball, sinks right inside. I push it all the way through, out the other side, down inside the hollow of my fist.

"No," Tom says, "don't worry. You're still way sicker than me."

The kid is still crying when he pushes me over to the couch, shoves me down, fucks me hard and rough the way we both like sometimes. I don't know -- I don't care -- if the boy watches. I just want to feel Tom's cock pounding into me while the boy cries.

EIGHT
He wakes me up with his talking. He's fucking telling me his life story.

I don't know what time it is. Feels like goddamn three in the morning. Down here in the dark, the cellar windows all covered over and sound-proofed, you don't see any light, you totally lose track of time, you're busy torturing a guy and you don't know if it's breakfast time or suppertime or midnight. There's a little

travel alarm on the workbench, but no one ever looks at it, maybe the battery's even dead by now, and I guess the camcorder has a digital clock. But who cares? It's not like anyone has a dentist appointment.

Tom shifts beside me on the couch, pushes himself up on his elbow and listens.

The kid's just talking into the darkness. Maybe he doesn't know we're awake. Maybe he knows he's doomed, he's just got to put these words out into the world. Maybe this is some slo-mo version of your life flashing before your eyes. Maybe he's just losing his mind. Or all of the above. I can relate.

Tom sits up and lights a smoke. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling. If I could see it.

The kid talks about when his baby brother was born, about how his mom used to melt chocolate onto graham crackers, it was his favorite snack, about when they vacationed in Maine in this house right on the beach and a crab bit his toe and the doctor froze his toe and had to pull the nail off. He talks about his first day in school, his mother wore a red coat, stayed with him awhile. He talks about his grandma, her green Camaro that all his friends think is real cool for an old lady.

He just talks and talks, and we listen.

He talks about how his dad never seems real happy with him, no matter how good his marks are, or when he gets a raise at the sporting-goods place he works at after school, or even when he made the team. He says his dad is sort of fundamentalist, real strict but in a good way. Tries to teach him about doing the right thing, which doesn't always make sense, he says. He says he knows his dad loves him, he just doesn't always feel it. Not like with his mother.

He talks about his girlfriend, how she didn't want sex for a long time and how he took three buses to get all the way across town to buy rubbers and was still shitting his pants thinking some friend of his mom's was going to walk into the drugstore and catch him.

Then he says he doesn't want to die. He says he's a nice person. He wants to go to college, get married and have kids. He says he'd be a good dad.

Silence.

I feel around on the couch for the pack of smokes, light one up, take a deep drag and stare at the ceiling.

Then I tell him my life story.

Silence again when I'm finished.

And then he says, "But why are you taking it out on me?"

Legit question, I guess, but I don't have the energy. "Just go to sleep," I tell him, and I roll over, close my eyes.

Tom lays down next to me.

But I can't sleep.

Tom's snoring real soft. I get up when I hear Josh come down. I switch on some lights, lower the boy to his knees, dangle my cock over his split, dry lips. He opens up for me, closes his eyes, waits.

I let go with my morning piss, and he drinks real good, hardly spills any now. Course he knows it's the only nutrition he's going to get offered.

When I'm done I let my dick drop into his wet, warm mouth, he closes his lips around me, and slowly I slide in and out, start getting hard, till I think maybe he thinks if he gets me off early I'll go easy on him.

Not likely.

I step away.

He says, in a hoarse voice, "I'm hungry."

The toe of my boot smashes onto his teeth, first the front, then the sides, whichever side he has turned to me. His grunts and sobs wake up Tom, and he joins in, our boots taking turns.

Sometimes we do this early in a scene, get a guy's jaws all soft for our dicks, specially if he's the fighting kind, maybe waiting to bite.

The kid's pretty quiet. His face already mashed up bad from fists and boots and boxing gloves, bruised, swollen, purple and gray and yellow and red, scraped and cut, pain on pain. He grunts, takes it, maybe can't scream anymore. Too bad. Josh already at it, filming the blood that sprays from his face onto the wall, onto his pale arms hauled up tight next to his head, drops trickling down into his pits, down his ribs, fucking turn-on.

He pukes. Bile, spit. Tom and me flop on the couch, share a joint while Josh puts the cam on the tripod, films himself wiping up bile, slathering it on his horse dick, smearing it up through his thick chest hair, fucking the boy's face, his foot-long prick jamming far down the kid's throat, he pukes again, Josh doesn't let up, kid choking on his own burning puke, you can see it hanging down off his chin, green streaked with red between Josh's hairy thighs.

Josh comes, long and loud, gagging the boy, maybe he can't breathe, Josh's thick black bush rammed right up against his busted nose. Josh stays there a while, till his dick goes soft in the boy's mouth.

Then he comes over to the couch, collapses, panting, next to me, blood, bile, cum on his dick. I take it in my hand, hold it up, bend over for a taste, suck the end, someone's fingers light on my spine. The boy is quiet. Blood seeps out between his lips, down onto his chest.

I sleep, six hours or maybe only a few minutes, and what wakes me is chains rattling. Tom's getting the boy standing up again. He looks weak, slumping on the chains, has trouble keeping his knees flexed. His head rolls forward. Josh is at the camera again.

Tom comes and sits next to me. There's a plate of leftover fried chicken and cookies on the couch, and we eat some while I think.

I get up and hold out the kid's favorite beer bottle, advance on him slow. His face screws up and he looks fast left and right, like for an escape, like somehow he clues in that this time it's not just a threat.

I stand so close to him my half-hard cock presses against his hip.

I hold up the bottle.

"Suck it," I say. "Real good like you suck cock."

He doesn't move, of course, so I put a hand behind his neck, squeeze tight, bring the smashed neck of the bottle close to his blood-wet lips as slow as I fucking can. Just to hear him sob again.

"You're such a good little cocksucker, so I hear. Show me how you do it in the locker room."

The sharp glass touches his lips, and he gasps, opens for it, a reflex. I slide the bottle in as he howls, feel it press apart his toothless gums.

"Suck it."

I jerk the bottle side to side and then twist it, push it in deep, pull his head onto it with my hand, his eyes shut tight, he's shrieking, blood already spraying out between his lips as the bottle slices up his tongue.

Blood spills off his chin, down my hand, bubbles out of his nose with snot, his bruised eyes wet with tears. The sharp glass slices through one cheek.

"Wow," whispers Josh.

"Suck," I say.

I move the bottle in and out, to the left, to the right, up, down, far back, my fingers, my whole hand soaked with his blood. He shouts, high-pitched, totally fucking freaked.

I slide the bottle out, and he jerks all around, shouts, hysterical, spraying blood into my face, it spills over his lips and splats all down his front. I hold the bottle upright, lick thick blood off my elbow, my forearm, my wrist, my fingers, the bottle. I put the bottle down in front of him.

I go get a bottle of poppers and hold it under his broken nose, push his mouth closed so he has to suck in hard. I keep the bottle there, give him a big hit. Then I put my hand on the boy's collar and pull him close.

"Fuck, you are one hot boy." I smash my mouth against his, my tongue roaming across his cut gums, his shredded tongue, blood dribbling out between our lips, onto my chest.

I pull on his dick, finger his ass, but even with the poppers he's not getting excited. I force him to suck in more amyl, and his heart's racing, blood still spilling. Gobs and gobs of blood, fucking unbelievable. He moans, long and low. He stares at me, at his blood all over me. He watches me walk back to the couch, sit next to Tom. He's rolling a joint.

"Kid's fucking hot," I say to Tom. "Did you know that? I just realized. Fucking blood coming out of his mouth, blows my mind."

Josh comes over to join us, to share the joint. He leaves the camera running till the tape runs out, just filming the kid hanging there bleeding, rolling his head around, moaning sometimes. Some guys will actually pay money to watch that for an hour or two.

It is kind of neat, the way he'll sort of come to and raise his head, look at us, open his mouth, and blood will come up like he's puking. And sometimes it just builds up in his mouth until he swallows, making a face because of the taste, or the thought. And sometimes he just lets his head hang there and he spits it out, sprays blood out over the floor, and man, I wish I was over there on my knees just waiting for it. Or there on my knees when a little piss came sprinkling out of his mangled dick. He didn't even seem to notice.

Tom's already asleep, and I lay down next to him, rest my head on his arm. It doesn't feel like we've been up that long, but this blood-lust thing, beating guys to a pulp, watching them gush blood all over the place, it can wear a guy out. Josh unrolls the slab of foam and we all spend the night in the cellar.
 
NINE
In what feels like the morning I go look at the boy. His knees have given out and he hangs there on his numb arms, dead white hands strapped into leather restraints. He feels me piss against his leg. His face slowly comes up, he looks at me, eyes only half open. He can't talk anymore, his teeth gone, his tongue all cut up, mouth clotted with blood.

"You guys want some breakfast?" Tom says.

I look into the boy's face. "My breakfast is right here."

I smear some acid under my tongue.

It's like nobody says anything for five minutes, Josh at the camera, Tom on the couch, me standing in front of the boy. Sometimes he looks up at me, then his head flops down again.

"Go for it," Tom says.

I unlatch the metal collar, pull it off him.

I play my fingers along the raw cuts gouged by the metal. I claw my hand across his neck, scratching.

He jerks his head up, wheezing.

I reach up, take one of the kid's fingers and bend it back, right back until it snaps. He doesn't move, doesn't make a sound.

I kneel in front of the boy, suck on his burned, shriveled-up dick. No response at all.

I look up at him. "You bored, kid?"

He looks at me like he's trying to figure out the question.

"Or just hung-over?" I wonder if he has one of those pounding poppers headaches.

I reach for the beer bottle and step round behind him. His head comes up again. Worried now, or curious. I lick the back of his neck. He shivers. I touch the cut glass lightly between his cheeks, gently scrape it up to the top of his crack. He shivers more. It's not deep, there's not even blood, just a few pink lines.

I hold the bottle down between his legs, press the jagged edge against the back of his ball-sac.

He jerks upright, a scared little whine, fights to straighten his knees and lean away from me.

I drag the bottle up his ass-crack. Deep this time. I turn it. I jerk my wrist. I push in. I'm terrible, I know it.

His head slams back onto my shoulder, his mouth open, a quiet, strangling, gagging noise.

Is what it probably is, but it's not what I hear. I hear a jackhammer, the whine of a fighter jet. That's what this acid does to me, sharpens all the senses, like mega-poppers. It doesn't make me psychedelic, not like it does for Tom. Tom would see the boy turn into a fish, would hear opera, would be wacko. But this acid is bad.

I hear the boy's heart booming like a pile-driver. I hear Tom on the couch, his heart pounding loud as a drum. I hear the videocam across the room like a ticker-tape. I can smell the difference between the sweat on the back of the boy's neck, the sweat under his arms, and the sweat trickling along the small of his back. I can smell the blood on his skin, on the bottle, I can tell what's old blood and what's fresh.

Tornado of air as I sink to my knees behind him. Tom walks over, boom, boom, boom, his hands pull apart the bleeding cheeks. Skin on skin like a sheet of paper ripping.

I press the bottle against his hole, turn it slowly, hear the glass cutting the flesh, like sawing wood, his sudden hoarse scream so loud in my head it makes me wince, my boner pounding, bang, bang, Tom jiggles it with his boot, laughs, a movie audience in hysterics.

The bottle sinks inside the boy, a rush of air, it's like he's sucking it up, wants to suck my hand inside, all of me, swallow me up so I can't hurt him anymore.

"He's eating my hand, man." Don't know who I'm talking to.

Tom drawing my arm back. There's my hand, shiny red but safe, and there's the bottle. I let the boy suck it back in. Tug-of-war.

I fuck him hard, I'm a monster, that's what they'd call me, the slurp of blood every time I pull my hand back, my hand slips on the wet bottle and I hold it at the bottom, push it in, lose my grip, lose the bottle inside him.

"Give it back, you fucker, give it back!"

Families watching the news. Mother says to the kids, "Look what that mean man Buzz did this time."

My dad in the room, dressed like a cop, he's watching me with binoculars, he says, "He won't last till supper anyway. Only one show."

And then bang! it's all over, everything so quiet now, the kid screaming like normal, the squish of my hand in and out, blood dripping off my elbow like rain.

I pull out the bottle, press my face against the kid's ass. Tom lets go of his cheeks and they press in against my nose and mouth, warm with blood. I lick, slow like it's an ice-cream.

Tom takes the bottle out of my hand, helps me up.

"Fucking weird acid, guy. Who'd you buy that off?"

He just laughs. We'll talk about it later. Sounds and smells normal now, though my dick is still pounding, blue balls, and I stroke it, the boy's blood sticky and hot.

I turn my head and Tom's watching me. I smile at him. He smiles back.

"Yes."

"Yes."

So it's time.

The kid sees the smiles and it's like he knows. His eyes close, his face screws up like he's about to start crying again, and he just stays like that, silent, and one quiet sob breaks out. That's all.

We untie him, lay him down on the floor. He's beyond crying and begging, far beyond struggling, can't use his arms anyway, too far gone to howl for his mother. I come back from the workbench carrying a saw and the little ax we take with us camping. These ideas that come from nowhere, that just slam into my brain.

I start sawing off his left leg halfway down his thigh, and suddenly the kid finds his vocal cords again and he's screaming sheer agonized music, he's trying to use his numb, dead arms to fight me off, and Tom's come back from whatever he was just doing, now he's muffling the guy's mouth with his asshole or his cock, and Josh is dancing around us with a dripping hard-on filming it all for some fucking weirdo in Germany probably.

I'm through the flesh but I have to hack with the ax on the bone, chop chop chop, little splinters flying out with blood spurts, it's hard work, my shoulder aches, and finally I get this kid's leg off, kick it aside, and I'm rubbing the squirting stump against my stiffie when Tom shows up beside me with the iron, plugged in.

"Here," he says. "To stop the bleeding." And I hold the screaming boy's thigh up while Tom presses the iron hard against the ragged wound, and there's spluttering and steam and smoke and a stench that's new to me, and the kid's shrill scream doesn't stop.

"And the other one," Tom says. Or shouts over the screams.

So I start sawing while the kid screams, howls, writhes on the ground, his neck strained right back so the top of his head scrapes raw on the concrete floor, I saw deep into his flesh, up at the top this time, there's no blood at first but christ does it ever gush when it starts.

I roll him onto his front, he's shrieking and howling like a little boy getting a whipping from his dad, and I start sawing from the back, just below his ass cheek, trying to make the two lines meet, and he's trying to kick but he kicks less and less as the muscle gets cut away. And I drop the saw and dig in with my hands, it's all warm and squishy, I feel for the bone, pick up the ax, stand up.

Tom lets go of the kid and moves out of the way. And I bring the ax down, beautiful aim, right into my cut, but it's weird, the kid's just laying there, he doesn't try to twist away or anything now, and I'm getting better, in three swings I'm through the bone, the ax blade zings against the concrete floor, and Tom's in there, rolling the leg out of the way, pressing the iron against the squirting stump, and I'm down on my knees next to him, laughing, trying to catch some of the blood spray before Tom stops the flow.

And the kid goes all quiet, totally silent, he's all tensed up, and then he makes this little breathy noise, like he's jacking off, and he goes limp, his eyes are closed. Blood is bubbling out his mouth again.

Tom finishes with the iron and sits back on his heels looking at the two charred stumps.

And then he says, "Wake him up."

So I pick up one of the kid's legs and stand over him, start slapping the kid's face with the bottom of his own fucking foot, it doesn't take long before his eyes are open, he gives a high-pitched scared moan, tries to bring up an arm to push me away.

"Hold up his leg," Tom says.

I lift the longer stump into the air and Tom brings the iron, its plate covered in patches of black, smoking flesh, slowly down onto the kid's balls and his cock, pushes it down hard and fucking holds it there cooking his meat, the rawhide scorching, and the boy screams, loud, loud, louder, then slumps again and goes quiet under me.

I kick him with his leg to wake him up again, and then I say I want to take his arms off. Josh laughs, and Tom says I'm crazy but he hands me the ax anyway, grinning, and kneels there with the iron.

I'm not tripping anymore but I feel weightless, like I'm a ballet dancer or something, the ax is so light in my hands I can hardly feel it, I hop on my toes, fucking blood sprayed all over the place, I'm standing over the boy with the ax over my shoulder and he's half watching me, half flinching, waiting for the blow, maybe he's happy cuz he thinks I'm going to crack his skull open.

I bend at the knees. Our eyes meet.

"No," I say, "I'm not that nice."

I straighten up and thwack, thwack, I bring the ax down, well-aimed swings that cut in just below his left shoulder, and blood's arcing and he's screaming, or trying to, it's just kind of this bubbly gasp now that goes on forever, and I swing again, suddenly I remember my dad watching me chop wood, standing there drinking moonshine and hitting me with a broomstick if the split wasn't good enough for him, I was cold, my shirt was off, I was scared, I'd never chopped wood before and he kept hitting me, hard.

And I keep hitting at the boy.

His arm is off and these awful noises come out of his mouth and immediately I'm hacking at the other arm, Tom's there with the iron, pressing it against the wound, the barbecue stink, the long sobbing cries from the boy, and I keep hitting, my dad hitting me, thwack on the back, on my legs, I swing thwack down on his arm, I'm soaring way over the top here, I know it, I don't care, Tom staying clear, pressing with the iron but keeping an eye on the ax.

I get down on my knees and chop, chop, what a fucking mess, deep hacks from shoulder to elbow, and I can't seem to hit the same place twice now, and finally it's off somehow and I pick up his arm by the wrist and get up and hit him with it, thump his wailing face, Tom trying to get to the new stump with the iron but I hit the kid, hit his chest, smash his roasted balls with his own fucking arm, blood everywhere, pooling, spraying, splattering, pumping. He's turned into a fucking fountain.

"Buzz! Buzz!"

It's Josh.

I drop the kid's arm to my side, sink to my knees again, sink into the blood, gasping for breath.

"It's okay, Buzz," Tom's saying as he presses the iron onto the stump. He's sprayed all over with blood.

The kid's passed out again, laying there fast asleep in a lake of his own blood. Too much blood.

Tom comes over to me, kneels down, pulls my head against his blood-splattered thigh and strokes my hair. "It's okay."

Tom lights a smoke, hands it to me, leaves me sitting there in the blood while he heats up the soldering gun, the beautiful fucking sicko, like we haven't done enough. Josh pisses on the boy's face to wake him up.

I hold the kid's head back, neck arched like for the kiss of life, while Tom drips hot lead up his broken nose, and the ragged screaming gets higher. Tom drips the liquid metal on one of the kid's eyelids, I pull the skin back and the drops sizzle on the wet eye, jumping and breaking apart like mercury, the kid staring straight ahead, this long thin whine coming from far down inside him.

I claw away the big scabs where I chewed his tits off, and we drip hot lead on those fresh wounds. And then without discussing it, like we can read each other's minds, we finish off with me squeezing his charred cock-head to open up the piss-slit while Tom holds the roll of lead wire real close, and drip, drip, drip, the kid's body doing these weird twitchings, trying to make his missing limbs fight us off, drip, drip, drip inside his dick, over his dick, till he passes out again.

We piss on him again, wake him up. Tom lays back on the floor, lays in all that sticky blood, his head close to the wall mirror, and I lift up the boy, or the boy's torso I should call it, lower the boy onto Tom's rock-hard cock, the boy's hole still leaking blood.

I shuffle in behind him on my knees and get my dick in there too, then work my hand in, start jerking off our cocks together in the boy's ass, but it cramps my wrist and anyway the kid's too weak, he keeps slumping down against my other arm, maybe so he doesn't have to see himself in the mirror, so I pull out my hand, cup his warm arm stumps, fondle them while I fuck him for a while. Then reach for my trusty rusty knife.

"Wait."

It's Josh, he's got the videocam on the tripod and he's standing there with the Polaroid, crouching down, and it flashes.

Tom and me slowly rub our dicks together while the pic develops, and Josh holds it down for Tom to see.

He smiles. "Better view from down here," he says.

Josh holds it up for the boy.

"Nice little postcard," I say into his ear. "I'll send it to your folks. Having a blast, wish you were here."

The boy shudders all over, and Josh goes back to the camera. The boy looks straight ahead, into the mirror.

I pick up my knife again.

"Yes," says Tom, breathy and quiet, watching me.

The boy sees it too, first in the mirror, then out of his good eye, and I'm pumping hard into his torn-up ass, my cock pressing against Tom's, and he whines this horrible fucking turn-on noise as I cover his mouth with one hand and with the other raise my rusty knife to his throat, let him feel the cold dull metal there while I feel for the right place, let him watch it in the big mirror.

"Gonna cut your throat." My tongue in his ear. "Gonna kill you now, just like I said."

He doesn't make a sound.

"Nine days. You've been the fucking best."

Tom closes his eyes but smiles wide as the arc of red-brown blood hits him, and I feel the warmth in the air, hear the second arc splash across my lover as the boy shudders, as I drop the knife and my hand slides from his mouth into the warm wound, his head flopping back onto my shoulder and buckets of blood gushing all over Tom and spilling down the kid's back against my chest, and I close my eyes and press my face to his neck, shudder in rhythm with him as I shoot, my cock feels like it's exploding into a million shreds inside him, I shoot and shoot, sucking in blood with air. Just before my head goes back in one last push, I glimpse Tom below me bathed in red.

And as I kneel there heaving, the dying boy heavy against my chest, Tom cries out, I feel his hot cum wash over my cock in wave after wave after wave. And then we stay like that, panting, shiny with sweat and blood, red as devils, grinning madly at each other