Josh and Grigori

You may have met picaresquely amoral Josh here. If not, doesn’t matter much to what follows. Ever perky Josh has made his peripatetic way into the clutches of a mad Russian in the Midwest. Thereby hangs this tale.

Before word got out, I slipped from Mr. Gunn’s house with all the money I could find. My phone call to older friend Ryan, who’d plied the flesh trade in the Orient when he worked for what was known as The Company, netted me an address in Chicago (South Shore) where certain papers could be obtained – for a price.

“If Grigori likes you, he’ll adjust his rate.”

About to knock for a third time on the address’ peeling-paint metal door, it opened. A bawling tyke with tear-streaked face stood there, then ran, his bare bottom red from handprints. Heavy footsteps later, a tall, gaunt and gangly, beak nosed, sallow-faced, bushy-eyebrowed older man lowered his face toward mine, “You must be Josh.”

“I am. Ryan told me you could help with my identity. I have some money.”

“It won’t be enough,” was his sepulchral comment. “What else have you to offer?”

“Me.”

“Enter.”

A shadowy place with small, framed icons and pseudo-religious ornaments crowding its walls, thick maroon velvet drapes covering its windows, shelves crammed with oddments I couldn’t recognize, and upholstered furniture the stuffing of which poked out like old straw, its air was close.

He led me to another room of comparable gloom where photographic equipment stood. We sat. Ryan had alerted him to my visit and spoken of my uniquenesses he said, so there was no need for small talk.

“You interest me,” his voice seemed to come from the bottom of a well. “Before I can create a new you with appropriate documentation, I must know your body.” The manner of his eyes’ bloodshot stare commanded me to strip.

He switched on a couple of stand lights, adjusted their intensity to glowing levels, and told me, “Stand there.”

There turned out to be a midnight blue cloth-draped, posing arrangement. An hour or more he devoted to taking of pictures of every inch of my body, some detailed, shot close-up, of areas as small as each ear, my nose, mouth and chin, my genitals, each nipple, my buttocks from behind, in profile, with legs spread, parted by my hands. Throughout the process, Grigori maintained himself aloofly, managing only to say, “Most photogenic.”

We were interrupted. A slender young man scarcely beyond his teens looked deferentially to Grigori. “Rudolf is secured, sir.” Grigori felt under the acolyte’s single garment, “You are, too, as you should be.”

His face paled at what had to be his bound balls being squeezed, but said nothing. Grigori sent him away.

“I’ve a flogging to attend to. Sit on this until I return.” A black dildo was handed to me. He left.

Un-phased, I inserted it and sat on the stand until Grigori returned, naked under a wrap-around robe of some kind, dark red. Accompanying him, the acolyte from earlier. “Lamont will take you to see my handiwork and to prepare you for me. I will work on your documents.” To Lamont, “Fasten that dildo in him.”

The acolyte’s fingertips pushed the dildo while we walked – me, with as much aplomb as I could muster. That did not make me anxious but Lamont clearly was. He confided, “Always do exactly as the master tells you. In this house, obedience nets you less unwanted pain than…” He discontinued his advice.

“You master finds pleasure through others’ pain?”

No answer. I asked differently, “How many of you live here with the master?”

“Dixon and I are consigned to him. Rudolf, who’s been flogged, is his – like the little boy who was spanked earlier – a gift given to him.”

We entered where Rudolf hung nakedly limp from the ceiling by his wrists, his feet resting each on an encyclopedia volume. Lamont pointed to Dixon, “My companion just added those to relieve the pull on Rudolf’s arms and shoulders. He was swinging when the master lashed him.”

Dixon, the other acolyte, spotted us. Black locks framed a tensely beautiful face. Clothed the same as Lamont, he rose, studying my naked self.

My eyes took in the red lines which striped Rudolf’’s entire torso, his stomach, his thighs. His shriveled cock and dangling balls were purplish from the way they had been tied together with rope. I looked to Lamont for explanation.

“He had to be flogged this way because… Dixon, you tell Josh. This is Josh, who arrived to be photographed.”

I waved, “Hi.”

“The master flogged his back yesterday,” Dixon said, dispassion in his soft speech. “In his – mmm – mercy, he did not flog there today, or there would have been blood.” He stopped, eyes on my diminutive form. “How old are you?”

“Old enough. I’m not as young as I look, maybe.”

When Lamont said, “We’re to prepare Josh for tonight with the master,” Dixon shuddered. His vision blurred with collecting tears.

“He looks barely pubescent. The master will rip him.”

I changed the subject, “Are you happy here? You look underfed, and browbeaten at least.” I went on, “Maybe I should ask, to what degree does being here make you happy?”

Thoughtful and emotional, Dixon was cryptic, “To be free from terror, even temporarily, is our happiness living here. Now,” he cleared his throat, “we must flush you and lubricate you as we do ourselves.”

“And fit him with a collar, if we have one that small,” Lamont ran a hand around my neck.

During my processing – what’s a few enemas and a large squirt of lube among friends? – I learned Grigori’s sexual capacity was such that he required their asses twice a day – so, four tough fucks. Their longevity as bottoms for him lay in their ability to cum when told to. Rudolf could not. He came on insertion – slow or sudden – then couldn’t cum again. Grigori liked his cries but not his failure to learn how to control himself. That’s why he had been so cruelly dosed with discipline. Spoken of were their techniques for tricking him into slapping their faces when they wanted him to order them to cum, or using his belt on their butts before plunging in.

“Makes him less furious.”

“He stands to fuck me on my back, pulling my balls tight and rubbing them with the heel of his other hand until I scream – and that makes him cum. The master operates on meanness. We know it well, and we survive his brutality by measuring the looks on his cruel face and the ways he screws us.” After a second, “He leaves us barely able to perceive there’s anything more important than being his to fuck – on his terms.”

A new word came into my mind: psychopathetic. Simpler: pitifully insane. I rallied to the present situation. “Do you know how to take poor Rudolf down? I can help, say, with his feet if you guys will hold him by the arms.”

Strickened to realize there was no authorization, they hesitated.

I lowered my voice a notch, “The responsibility is mine. I’ll deal with Grigori.”

* * *

Once I saw Dixon smearing their therapeutic hydrocortisone cream gently over Rudolf’s now-recumbent body and his untied genitals, I told Lamont to return me to Grigori – and not to worry.

In so far as a face as ominous as Grigori’s could be said to light up, his did when I, dressed only in a collar of black leather, was deposited with him. He turned me this way and that, ran calloused fingers in my cleft but skirted the dildo my hole. My arms were examined, my stomach, nipples, navel, and crotch. My mouth was forced open for his view of my throat’s opening.

“You’ll never survive.”

I let myself seem puzzled, as though not understanding his intentions. A naïve adolescent.

His veins seemed noticeably to course.

In moments, he sneered, “You think you’re a walking vasodilator, don’t you, you shrimp?”

When I covered my mouth, his cock protruded from the folds of his robe. He toyed with my jaw, pinched it open, smirked with conviction as I shammed fear, put a hand on the back of my head, and enjoyed my shrinking from the inevitable.

I didn’t bite him. My tongue and the terrible noises I made (like those with Mr. Gunn) sufficed to thwart his oral attack. More of a startle was my abrupt screech of the word, “Pervert!”

Grigori recoiled. He would have slapped off my face had I not dodged his swing and grabbed his dick by banking to the side. That hurt – him.

His pained roar meant he was ready to tear into me. My presumptive seizure of his prized weapon had managed to detonate the man’s passion into exploding rage.

Good.

Ready to rape, he threw me on my stomach, jerked the dildo out, and climbed aboard. His cockhead geared up for the plunge. My puckered opening took the brunt. Held fast. Tight to the point Grigori stopped in place, pressing hard. I eased my closure to let the head widen my anal muscles and his next inch or so, to wrestle just inside. Then, expanded as that made me, I collared the cock’s neck and shoulders with strength he could never have encountered. He drew a dumbfounded breath about the time I relaxed so that his unusually expanded proportions passed through, in a veritable glide.

He bottomed out and came, bumping me against the floor with each exasperated gush.

Whereupon, I sobbed as agonizingly as my storehouse of reactions allowed. “Stop! Stop! Stop! – I cried until his output was in. He was pulling at my collar.

The boy who had opened the door for me looked in. About twelve, not as young as I thought during my previous brief glimpse. His eyes were glued on me, on my predicament. Probably thinking he could help someone near his age, he tapped my aggressor on the shoulder.

“Master, it’s in now, like you wanted.” With that, he showed his baby-curved butt’s cleavage, parted in its lower center by a plug of wood. Maple, if I’m not mistaken.

Grigori slid to unsheathe himself – posing possible danger to the kid. I whined, “Was that a fuck or a warm-up?”

He pistoned back, with a wham. Sluiced into his leavings, committing his heft to crushing me. I grunted discomfortably, “You like me don’t you? That’s why you want to damage me for anyone else, isn’t it? Think I’ll become bound to you?”

Before his open mouth’s yellowed teeth and foul-breathed tongue could form words, he saw the boy dart beyond his reach, stop, turn, and gape at where he had me jammed. I winked an ‘okay’ in that direction – then emitted moans as pitiful as I could.

Grigori took the cue, in his passion to destroy me. Blinded by my accessibility, a suitably submissive target for pelvic-driven assault, he angularly pile-drove my ass. Devastation was his ire’s intended result – with pleasure en route mounting thrust by thrust. He ranted, “You are nothing!”

My hands found his old man’s chest, the hairs around his aureolae – which I pulled with near-rip-out force.

His turn to scream. No bellow that. My ass was torn into as if he thought he could rip it from me.

I held on. Twisted.

Earlier deposited plethora prevented Grigori’s corona from frictional purchase on my walls. His cock skidded. He began madly to fishtail my innards – working himself toward ignition, his head lit by a consuming bonfire to do damage. As he pulled and pushed, his pulse quickened. Lust’s flames took over his face. Thighs burning, his enormity suffered its second loss to me – of what remained in his lower apparatus.

That agonizing climax had stripped his balls. They had not banged against my perineum with the force of before. His lanky, aged, oversexed body grew still. I reveled in his deflating dick’s defeat.

Horrified faces – Lamont’s and Dixon’s – witnessed Grigori’s cock drag from my body and flop, useless, to one of his quivering thighs. What I did next they could not have imagined anyone doing.

With a spring, I sat, crouched over Grigori with my drippy ass in his face and my head situated to suck. The hand I wasn’t supporting myself with lifted his limp dick to my tongue, its head to my teeth – and I began delicately to chew. As I nibbled my way further (ignoring the taste), tongue swishing its surface, the thing began to re-bloat. By the time it met my gag spot and the action I incited there, the organ became again dense. I swallowed it – and heard Grigori croak my name in protest, “Josh.”

Used as he was to several hours between his launches into the butts around here, he was straining – but couldn’t resist the blandishments of a mouth and throat that he could not stop. My mouth masturbated him with alarming effect.

The protest he made was less because he was being coerced toward a third orgasm than for the sight of my tush in his face. That he was offended struck me as partial justice. Better justice would come when my rampant orality dragged his recalcitrant glands into yet another group paroxysm – the one gathering as I chugged.

It hit.

Just then, I farted. Directly into his nostrils. Rather wetly.

Choking impotently, he flailed – helpless, hateful but deserving. The acolytes snickered over his misfortune. The maple-plugged boy gaped, not daring to applaud although his hands came together. The three registered more astonishment when, before he went soft, I turned around and sat squarely down on the man’s cock. It slid up inside me like the wrong end of an oar. My choice, not his.

Think of it as a whopping dildo which, with gritted teeth, I rode with pleasure, pleasure in the knowledge my ass was going to kill him. Thus, I employed every resource of rippling muscles, of pelvic shifts, of strong ligaments permitting knee, hip, and ankle pivots, and of unwavering conviction that his tiny, dark, mean world – self-created, self-centered – must be extinguished.

Bouncing with broomstick posture, I lanced myself, redundant as a pogo stick. My chant, “Give it up! You can! Give it up! You can! C’mon, you man! Give it up!”

His last sign of life was the reflexive bodily response of pushing against my downward thuds in coital rhythm. A feeble orgasm occurred as several throes of sexual agony.

For a few moments, I sat. Spoke calmly, almost cooing, “I knew you could, Grigori. Catch your breath. You were working hard for a man your age. Now, you rest – take it easy, sleep a little – while I clean up.”

To the clueless onlookers, “You guys, don’t disturb the master. He needs this time unattended.”

I pooped and showered, collected my things while air-drying, donned clothes, slipped open a few drawers, located Grigori’s stash of currency, took enough to see me to my next adventure, grabbed my now-documented papers, loaded these possessions into my knapsack, and was on the verge of slipping away when my eyes caught sight of a pasteboard box not previously noticed.

Inside were three maple plugs of incrementally increased diameters and lengths. For the juvenile! Those I grabbed as I headed out. Sure enough, he poked his pert head around a corner. Saw me smile and extend my hand, “Grigori wants you to have these. Use them carefully and he’ll never spank you again.”

“He won’t?” In disbelief, he of beguiling curves wondered softly as he turned the pegs over in his hands, “Who will?”

He ran. To ask. To tell.

To judge from the laments I heard keening behind me, Lamont, Dixon, and near-flayed Rudolf had discovered Grigori was past the point called in extremis.

They were going to need to revise their dependent lives.

“Woe! Alas! Who will strap us? Fuck us?

A different voice strained, “The boy and me, are we..free?”

Rudolf.

Had to be. Beside him, the boy appeared, nervous.

I had whirled in mid-pace, “Grigori was a modern Rasputin, whose ambition-driven purpose was sexual power over others. You were his victims more than anyone else because he drilled himself into you as a strict, incestuous father-devil figure. He personified evil.”

Shock marked their faces.

“Make do as best you can for a few days. My friend Ryan and his assistant, Justin, will come to you to see that you are taken care of. They will assess your capacity for strong love meted out appropriately.”

The boy ran to me. Sobbed, “Thank you.”

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