Fan Male

Chapter Four

In and Out of the Grasp

Kit was all done with asking why this thug was doing this. He’d asked so many times before and only been slapped around and told to “Shut the fuck up” when he’d tried to make sense out of this. The maniac kept asking where “blondie” was and trying to get Kit to say why he wrote himself as a blond in the stories he wrote. When Kit admitted he wrote the stories but they weren’t about him—just from his imagination—the guy got angry and hit Kit. He’d driven into an alley and moved Kit to the backseat of the truck’s cab, binding and gagging him and pushing him down on the floor in front of the bench seat. He’d driven for over half an hour, pulling in behind a small house surrounded by heavily foliage.

They’d made a stop at a store, but the truck had been parked well away from other parked cars and they’d only stopped for a few minutes. When they got to the house, Marcus pulled Kit out of the truck, hustled him into the house through the back door leading into the kitchen, and then down into the basement to the room Marcus had already prepared for his “blondie.”

Then, using the purchase he’d stopped for, he dragged Kit into the basement bathroom and over to the sink, and he peroxided Kit’s hair blond.

Now Kit was an approximation of what Marcus wanted to work his fantasies out with, although he still wanted to track down the small, platinum-blond honey he’d seen the redhead with—the one who drove the red Lexus coupe.

Marcus dragged Kit, bound at the wrists and ankles and gagged, over to a double bed and tossed him on the mattress. Then he went to a nearby desk with a laptop computer on it and brought up a Sandman story.

 

. . . they recuffed him, this time using the restraints Davey had seen the white cop come in with. One of the leather restraints locked his right wrist to his right ankle. The other did the left. The bar attached between them, spreading Davey’s legs. His cheek and chest were pressed into the thin mattress on the cot, with his tail raised high. He was effectively hogtied and immobile.

 

“Just checking how you described the hogtying,” he said to Kit, who couldn’t respond because he was gagged. Marcus came over to the bed, pulled Kit up and marched him into the bathroom. He untied Kit, who put up a little bit of a struggle then, but Marcus was nearly twice his size and had three time his strength and slapped him around until Kit realized he wasn’t going to break away. Marcus stripped them both and put them both under the shower, drying them off afterward. Marcus had an erection while they were in the shower, but he didn’t do anything about it there.

He brought Kit back to the bed, forcing a ball gag into his mouth, and hogtied him there, strapping wrist to ankle on each side, just as Kit’s story described and also elbow to knee for good measure. He attached the leg spreader to the ankle restraints, and then pushed Kit down on the bed, cheek and chest to the sheets and tail lifted in the air.

Marcus climbed up on the bed and crouched behind his captive, spending time eating Kit’s ass out and pulling on and sucking Kit’s cock until the young man came for him. Then he hovered over Kit’s back and tail, mounted and slid inside his passage, and fucked him and fucked him and fucked him.

Going rigid at first and objecting as he could through the gag in his mouth, Kit eventually melted to the hunk who, though a bruising thug, was muscular and hung and doing a very good job of fucking him. Marcus laughed when we felt Kit relax, start moaning and groaning deeply, and coordinating such rocking of his pelvis as he could do with the rhythm of the fuck.

When Marcus had come, he climbed off Kit and took the gag out.

“You liked that, baby, didn’t you?”

Kit didn’t answer.

“I know you did. You relaxed and went with it. I want to play with your friend Todd, though. The small, pretty blond you write about. Todd’s who you model those characters after, isn’t he? So often you write about the little whore who is taken is such demanding and arousing ways. You fantasize about this Todd yourself and you do him in your stories, don’t you? Where is he? Tell me where I can find him and I’ll bring him here and we can do him together.”

“I don’t know any Todd,” Kit said. But he did, and it was dawning on him what this monster wanted him to provide. He wanted Kit to lead him to Toby, Todd being his escort agency name. But he wouldn’t do it.

“Tell me now and you won’t have to be the only one I play with.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know any Todd.”

Angered, Marcus punched Kit in the face, forced the ball gag back into his mouth, turned him onto his back on the bed, and released the suspender bar. He moved between Kit’s bent and bound legs, thrust up inside him, and fucked him again, his hands clutching Kit’s throat, controlling his breathing to the rhythm of the fuck. This time the fuck was more brutal than the last time. Marcus wanted Kit to know what the progression would be if he didn’t start cooperating.

For Kit’s part, he was afraid if he told Marcus what he wanted to know, that would be the end of the game.

* * * *

Hardesty and Whitelaw got a bunch of dirty looks when they bailed out of the Hummer, parked very much illegally on the sidewalk outside the main National Art Gallery entrance doors—justified only by the blue revolving light on the Hummer’s roof—and burst into the gallery’s entrance hall. They didn’t have guns drawn, but they were at the ready. They were deflated a bit when a calm reception desk attendant made a call and reported that Kit Helms wasn’t on duty that afternoon.

“His supervisor, William Hopkins, would be pleased to talk to you about him, though, if you wish.”

They wished. The attendant left the desk to her colleague and guided them to the gallery offices.

“Kit is assigned to shepherd an important German artist around today,” Hopkins told them. The man obviously was independently wealthy. His office shrieked of décor that the gallery would not have paid for for one of his rank at the gallery. It also panted of effete and swishy. The man himself was saved disregard because he exhibited as highly intelligent and he was achingly handsome, tall, willowy, and with movie star looks. He was a bit younger than Hardesty in appearance, another sign that he was well-heeled. Curators at a major museum like this usually took longer to get to their position than to still be in their thirties. He had taken immediate interest in both Hardesty and Whitehall when they entered the office, but, from experience, he quickly turned that interest on Hardesty.

“The gallery tour is over,” he said, “so I assume they are seeing a bit of the city.” He checked his computer screen. “I have the hotel Mr. Stern is staying at on the record here. Would you like me to call the Alexander and ask if the artist is there and knows where Mr. Helms could be.”

Hardesty’s eyes rolled at the reference to the Alexander Hotel. He well knew what the clientele at the Alexander would be and he thought it a good possibility that both the German artist and Kit Helms might be there—in bed—now. “I’ll call them myself,” he said.

“You have the Alexander’s number in your system?” Hopkins asked, giving Hardesty a knowing smile.

“Yes,” was the terse answer, and Hopkins spent the time Hardesty devoted to speaking to the reception desk at the Alexander and getting the service that only an established contact of the hotel could get, speculating on who this hunk sitting across from him was and what he could do with a man. The upshot was that neither the German artist nor Kit were at the hotel.

Hardesty and Whitehall left to return to police headquarters to regroup after leaving contact information with Hopkins. “If Kit calls in, have him call me immediately and have him stay put. Tell him not to talk to any strangers or to be where there aren’t a lot of other people.”

“Is Kit in any danger?” Hopkins asked.

“He could be. We think he’s being stalked by someone dangerous.”

“Oh, my. You seem to be quite concerned. Do you know Kit personally?” With the way he said it and the knowing smile he gave Hardesty, he might as well have said “biblically” as “personally.”

“Yes,” Hardesty said, giving Hopkins an even stare and making Hopkins wonder how personally this magnificent hunk of a man knew Kit. He took a chance. “Kit comes to parties I have at my apartment—special parties. I have some young French artists coming to town and I’m having a party for them Saturday night. Perhaps you might join us.”

Hardesty, who had assessed Hopkins and his preferences as soon as they had entered his office, said, “I’m up to my neck in a case, but maybe—if it’s over by Saturday. I might want to unwind then.”

“Oh, I hope so,” Hopkins said, giving Hardesty his card and retaining the detectives hand in his a bit longer than necessary at the parting. While they were holding hands, Hopkins grasped Hardesty’s thumb, encasing it loosely and giving it a few strokes. In addition to that, he placed the tip of a finger against the nail of Hardesty’s index finger and pressed hard, which must have given him pain. That was the point, though. He was signaling not only that he was an interested bottom, but that he liked pain in sex.

Neither of these signals escaped Hardesty, who gave Hopkins a lingering look of interest. He didn’t normally do limp-wristed guys, but when he did, their wrists weren’t all that ended up going limp.

* * * *

They put me on the kneeling rail, with my neck and wrists in the stocks and my knees on the pad. The prince was in front of me, feeding me his cock, and one of the attendants was behind me working my ass open with a lubricated dildo. There would be no condoms.

When he felt prepared sufficiently, the prince came back around to behind me. He beat me, on the back and legs, mostly lightly, but with a few strokes of enthusiasm, with a wide leather belt. Tiring of this and as my cries of surprise and violation subsided into low moans and whimpering, he mounted my ass and fucked me to an ejaculation, edging me with his cock as he had done with his hand in the showers. The pain involved, of course, was all mine, and the dick work was the least of it. I had been opened up well, and, though he was thick, he wasn’t long, and his rhythm was very military—a steady beat without invention that would surprise and make me gasp at being off cadence or more cruel than anything else he had done to me.

 

Marcus moved the laptop screen around to where he could watch it while he worked. He had it set to one of Sandman’s stories—one about the use of stocks that were quite similar to what he’d set up for use with his blond prey but that he’d practice with for now with the redhead he’d turned blond. Marcus had bought a French prayer bench, a banc de prière, to modify for his needs and to replicate one of Marcus’s favorite Sandman stories. The story site had a feature that the stories were linked to videos show similar action. Marcus used this feature to bring up a porn video of a young blond guy bound in stocks and being fucked by a big black bruiser.

Kit, naked, was kneeling on pillows on the bench rail, the pillows being used to raise him up so that his chest was on the top rail of the bench and his arms dangled down the other side, held against the back of the bench, low, by restraints. The restraints held his legs, above the knee, against the back of the bench as well. Marcus had already knelt behind Kit and eaten his ass out and milked the young man’s cock. He also opened up Kit’s passage with a lathered dildo. Kit had screamed for him, as Marcus had wanted him to, but there was evidence that, through the pain and humiliation, he’d had pleasure too. He’d gotten his rocks off without a problem.

“Again, tell me who the blond with the red Lexus is. What’s his name? Where can I find him?”

Once again, a nearly exhausted Kit responded, “I don’t know who you’re talking about. Oh, Shit! FUCK!” Kit was really scared now. The man had mentioned a red Lexus. Toby drove a red Lexus. The man knew more about Toby than Kit had thought he did.

Having read the passage in the Sandman story and now watching the black bull beat the bound small blond on the video, Marcus was standing behind Kit’s bound figure and was striking him again and again with a leather belt. When he was hard as a rock, Marcus saddled up behind Kit, put his erection in position, and thrust up. Kit cried out in surprise and pain. Holding Kit’s hips between his hands, Marcus set up the rhythm of the vigorous, deep fuck.

“Look at the screen. Watch what’s happening—what that blond cutie is getting that you’re getting too,” Marcus growled. He reached up with a hand, cupped the side of Kit’s head, and turned the young man’s face toward the screen. Both men watched the fucking in the stocks happening on the screen.

“Just like your story,” Marcus said. “His rhythm was very military—a steady beat without invention that would surprise and make me gasp at being off cadence or more cruel than anything else he had done to me.” Marcus had read Sandman’s stocks story so often he could quote the words verbatim.

As he fucked and they both watched the video, Kit relaxed and went with the fuck. He’d written the story because the image of it had excited and aroused him. He was in that situation now. Yes, he was helpless and this obviously was a mad man. But he also was hung and was sexy in his own way. And he could fuck. Kit settled down, going with the fuck, letting his buttocks go with the military rhythm Marcus had set up, rocking back on the cock as it thrust up inside him. He was going with the fuck.

Marcus laughed, muttered, “Taming you, ain’t I,” and fucked on.

He had no way of knowing that he was right. Pain, ecstasy, passion. This rough fucking was lifting Kit to dance on the clouds of arousal and sexual satisfaction. All that he’d longingly written about was what he now was living. He could use more comfort and freedom in his current condition—but he didn’t need any less rough fucking. This was nearly at the same glorious level as he had gotten from Toby’s magnificent boyfriend, the cop, Hardesty.

* * * *

Hardesty and Glen Whitelaw had returned to the vice unit bullpen from the National Art Gallery at a loss about what to do now beyond waiting for Kit Helms to surface. The one thing they could do immediately had already been done—a call had gone out across town on the white truck with the Maryland license plates.

As they sat, with Captain Crane and Maurice, one of the other detectives, and went over all they knew again, Larry, the unit’s research clerk came over.

“You have any ideas, Larry?” Hardesty asked, his voice hopeful. He had trouble not making fun of how effeminate and needy the young man was, but he respected the guy’s research capabilities, and, knowing the crush Larry had on him and the priority service he gave Hardesty’s requests, Hardesty regularly topped the young man in appreciation. Larry melted to him when he did.

“Well, looking at the perp’s last message on the story site, although he seems to be after this Kit Helms guy, he seems confused on who this Sandman writer is and who he’s stalking.”

“What do you mean?” Captain Crane asked.

“Look at the message,” Larry said, waving a print copy of it under their noses. “He’s referring to Sandman as a blond in the e-mail. Haven’t you guys said that this Kit Helms is a redhead.”

“So, he is,” Hardesty said, reaching out and touching Larry’s arm. The research clerk shuddered and preened a little bit. Touching like this from Hardesty was a “you done good” gesture and indicated that Larry was going to get a good fucking in reward. “So, does that give you any ideas what we can do?”

“We’ve got Sandman’s passwords, don’t we?”

“Yes,” Whitehall answered. “So?”

“So, maybe we could further confuse this guy and reel him in by answering his e-mails. He’s been wanting to meet with Sandman. Sandman could set up a date where we could snatch him.”

“Brilliant,” Hardesty said. “You done real good, Larry.”

Larry beamed, knowing he had a reward coming. As the meeting broke up to move to the computer at Larry’s desk to try to set up a fake Sandman meet with Marcus, Hardesty held Larry back for a moment and whispered, “Break room three, in an hour.”

Larry shivered his pleasure. The cops had break rooms, outfitted with cots, desks, and computers, where they could go to rest and research in private. Break room three, the most remote one, was rarely used. It was used most by Hardesty and Larry for Hardesty to give Larry his little rewards for good work.

In break room three, Hardesty draped Larry, naked, over the back of a desk chair, Larry’s knees planted in the seat of the chair and his arms dangling over the back. His wrists were bound to his knees through the back rungs of the chair. Larry liked to get it bound—he was into the date rape role-playing game. Hardesty, when he could, gave it to Larry as he wanted it.

Hardesty, minus his trousers and briefs, hopped up onto the chair seat, crouched down, put the bulb of the cock Larry had just sucked hard in position.

“Take it, bitch,” Hardesty growled to start the game. “Take my cock and love it.”

As Larry panted, groaned, and whispered, “Pleasure, sir. Be good to me. Don’t ruin me,” Hardesty thrust up to the tune of Larry’s yelp; placed his left hand on Larry’s hip; cupped Larry’s chin with the right, arching the research clerk’s head back into his chest, and did just that—fucked him hard and deep.

“Take it, bitch!” Hardesty growled again.

Panting hard, Larry called out, “Fuck, it’s so big! In so deep!”

Larry had done good in aiding the investigation and was getting his reward.

* * * *

In the story he worked me hard, but it was with his fingers, at first, and then his fingers up to his knuckles, and finally his whole fist. Fisting my hole, stretching my channel. My right leg was raised up his beefy chest, the ankle hooked on his shoulder. My left leg bent, my buttocks rolled up to give his fist fullest access. He was deep, kissing me on the mouth, sucking on my tongue, pressuring it with his teeth—bringing me to the edge of fearing he’d bite it off. Just like, now that I thought about it, what he’d done at the height of passion last night. And he had his fist up my hole. Holding me tight, preventing me from writhing beyond limited bounds, my huffing and deep moaning competing with the sound of the surf. The fist flexed inside me and I heard a scream, not realizing at first that it came from me.

“Breathe. Pant and breathe,” he whispered to me, and I did so as he flexed the fingers of the fist inside me and started moving the fist in and out, in and out, fucking me with it. The pain was lessening a bit, but I continued to groan and moan deeply at his total possession of me, his total using of me. I was his—totally.

Pain, ecstasy, passion.

My explosion in the story was gigantic, my cum arcing up high toward the sea in multiple spouts. Only then, me exhausted and trembling from the fist slowly moving inside me, did the Etienne of the story turn me on to my knees and forearms and fuck me like a dog to his own ejaculation.

 

Kit was panting hard, begging Marcus not to do it at first but surrendering to it. Kit would do anything Marcus wanted. He wanted Marcus now. Marcus could have him totally. Kit had written about doing it this way because he’d been curious and turned on about having it done to him. Well, now it was being done to him.

“I know I can,” Marcus said, and laughed. Kit’s arms were stretched over his head, his wrists restrained to the top rung of the bed. His right leg was raised up Marcus’s beefy chest, the ankle hooked on the man’s shoulder. Kit’s left leg was bent, his foot digging into the mattress. His buttocks were rolled up to give Marcus’s fist fullest access. He already was in up to the knuckles and had been so for several minutes, teasing the hole, coaxing it open for what he told Kit he would do if Kit didn’t tell him who the blond was, where the blond could be found, what his name was.

The computer screen was where they both could see it. Marcus had brought up one of his favorite fisting stories that Sandman—Kit—had written.

“Tell me, or I’ll fist you,” he growled.

Kit told him. He told him everything he knew about Toby Drake, his friend with the red Lexus, the friend who was a high-drawer escort with an agency under the name of Todd. The friend who would do almost anything for a man who paid for it. He told him how he knew Toby. He told him where Toby lived—what apartment house, what floor, what apartment number. He told him of Hardesty, the hard-assed cop, Toby’s boyfriend and roommate who Marcus would want to avoid.

Marcus smiled, clicked on the link in the story on the screen to a gay male porn fisting video, and, as Kit, exclaiming at the realization that Marcus was going to fist him anyway, arched his back and then his head, glaring at the ceiling as his passage and Marcus’s fist became one rocking machine, Marcus breached the young man’s sphincter muscle with the heel of his hand, buried the well-greased hand to the wrist in the passage that had been fully prepared, and fist-fucked Kit in the rhythm of the fisting transpiring on the screen.

Begging for mercy that made Marcus laugh and wasn’t granted—and that after a few minutes, as he accommodated the fist, Kit no longer wanted to avoid—the young man writhed and cried out in pain, ecstasy, and passion. “Oh, fuck. Oh, shit! FUUCCK!”

Marcus hadn’t gagged him this time, wanting to hear the young man’s response to the fist. But as the fuck extended, it not-so-subtly transitioned, with Marcus holding the fist steady in Kit’s throbbing but expanding passage and just flexing the knuckles of the fingers rhythmically as Kit took over moving on the hand, fucking himself on the fist. In awe himself now of Kit’s total surrender to the fist and to him, Marcus held steady, gazing down at the beautiful, lithe body under him languidly moving in the smooth undulation of a fist dancer as Kit rose and fell on the buried hand.

“Yes, YES! I never knew it could be like this. Yesss,” Kit now exclaimed, breaking the spell, and shot his load.

The scene was ending on the screen with far less sensual results than were being achieved in the room. Marcus slowly withdrew his hand, rolled over on top of Kit, and thrust his thick cock inside the now-gaping channel, now easily able to take his thickness. He pumped hard and fast and Kit went with him, wrapping his legs around Marcus’s buttocks to hold him in close, and meeting the thrusts of the cock with counterthrusts of his hips. Crying out, “Yes, yes, YES,” Kit moved his legs, hugging Marcus’s hips with his knees and rocking with the fuck. “Fuck me! Fuck me! Screw me!” he exclaimed.

Just to see what he would do, Marcus reached up and released Kit’s wrists from the headboard. He laughed, as Kit rolled them both, moving Marcus to his back and, saddled on Marcus’s pelvis, with the palms of his hands pressed into the man’s pecs and Marcus grasping the young man’s waist between his hands, Kit fucked himself on the buried cock in a voluntary cowboy position.

Marcus’s prodigious ejaculation was very satisfying to him, not the least because he had tamed the prisoner. Kit had surrendered to him. Game over, though. He had no interest in young men beyond having tamed them. In this case, he had also gotten the information he wanted out of this one.

* * * *

The Washington, D.C., vice unit called out all hands to set up at Freddie’s Beach Bar in Crystal City, where the false e-mail Larry had sent to Ian Marcus’s “Danny” account told him to meet Sandman in an hour. No sighting of the white Dodge Ram double-cab truck with the Maryland plates had been made, but everyone sitting in the bar they had closed down or out on the street, stationed in all directions three blocks out from the bar were alerted to the truck and to the description of Marcus himself.

All they had to do now was sit tight and wait for the fly to enter the web. Hardesty had called Toby, finding him at Paul’s apartment, where he, Paul, and Angelique were watching dirty movies and fucking, Toby and Angelique making the most of Paul’s ever-ready ten-inch pole. Hardesty told Toby to stay put there until told otherwise. He sent a photo of Ian Marcus to Toby’s cellphone as a guy to watch out for and stay away from. Angelique looked at the photo and confirmed it was the guy who she’d had an encounter with.

Meanwhile, across the river, a blue Camry rolled up to the front of the National Gallery of Art on the Washington Mall. Marcus had found the keys to the car the owners of the house had left there and was driving that on this particular trip rather than his truck. It wasn’t that he had a premonition that the truck had been made and was being sought. For the second half of his outing, he had the need for a closed trunk.

“You can get out here,” Marcus growled.

“Here? You’re letting me free?” Kit asked. The young man was flabbergasted. “So, what was that all about? You just wanted to break me, to make me want what you were doing to me?”

“You do want it, don’t you?”

Kit paused, but it let the truth emerge from him. “Yes.”

“And you want it from me.”

“Yes.”

“I’m done with you. You’ve given me what I want. You can get out of the car now. I have more important fish to fry.”

“I didn’t do good? You don’t want it from me.”

“You did fine. That’s why I’ve brought you back and am letting you off.” He didn’t go so far as saying “letting you live,” but that’s essentially what he meant.

“I can give you more of what you want,” Kit said. “I’ve written about other kinky sex stuff. You can do it all to me.”

The two weren’t on the same wavelength of what Marcus wanted. Kit assumed it was kinky sex keyed to the stories he wrote. Marcus, while not rejecting kinky sex to the stories Kit wrote, was talking about information. Kit had told him who Toby was. He’d told him where Toby could be found. That’s what he mostly had wanted from Kit. The kinky sex was a means to get there.

“I told you, I’m done with you. You can get out of the car, Sandman. I want you to write more stories. I want to continue to read your stories.”

Kit didn’t understand what a reprieve this was and how sincerely Marcus wanted him to continue writing the Sandman stories. Kit had no idea what Marcus had done to Jason Jarvis and had almost done to Ted Franklin to get at the small, platinum blond his was pursuing. Kit was being given a reprieve to live when others Marcus had tortured for information hadn’t been.

“Get out of the car, Sandman.”

Confused and in a daze, Kit opened the car door and got out. Marcus drove off. Kit stood there for a moment, looking around. The area was almost deserted. There’s no reason why it wouldn’t be. All of the government buildings were closed down for the night. Marcus hadn’t left him with his cellphone or even any money. The only means Kit had of getting home was walking.

He had started to walk when a BMW coupe pulled over beside him.

“Can I give you a lift?” a man, maybe in his forties, but expensively dressed and good looking said, leaning over and looking out of the passenger door. “Where you headed?”

“You going in the direction of Dupont Circle?” Kit asked.

“I can be. Get in.”

When Kit had gotten into the car, the car sat there, idling. “What were you really doing just standing out here on the Mall after everything was closing down?” the man asked. “Didn’t I see you at a party up on the Potomac Palisades a week or so ago—at Jason Jarvis’s place? But I thought you were a redhead then. Maybe I was thinking of another guy. But I do remember seeing you at that party.”

“Maybe. I’ve been there,” Kit said. And he’d been a party boy there, going up to the bedrooms when a guest asked him to—that being what he’d been paid to do at the party. So, this guy knew he gave blow jobs and probably that he took cock too. He didn’t have a ready answer, though. “Just walking around,” he said. He knew that was lame. Then he added, “I’m not dealing drugs or anything.”

“It’s not drugs I’m interested in,” the man said. He put a hand on Kit’s leg, just above the knee, and squeezed. “I think you’re in some other kind of business, blondie, and I’m a buyer. I can drive you over to Dupont Circle if you want—and if you give me something first. You aren’t in a hurry to get over there, are you? You’re going over to earn some money on your back, aren’t you? You can do that with me for the ride over there.”

Kit touched his hair. He’d forgotten that Marcus had dyed his hair peroxide blond. He had to admit that it made him look like a street hooker.

The man fucked him on the bed in Room 226 of the Alexander Hotel. He lay on top of Kit, his knees between Kit’s spread thighs and one arm under Kit’s waist, holding the young man’s pelvis up for a “best” thrust angle and with Kit’s torso streaming down to the sheets. Kit stretched his arms out in a sacrificial pose and let the man penetrate and stroke him with a reasonable-sized cock. There was nothing sensational about the man’s fucking. But after what the guy who’d kidnapped him had done, everything else would seem a little dull. The man had a dick, though, he could get it hard, and he had it inside Kit.

A wad of hundred-dollar bills on the dresser in the room gave the man all of the missionary-position access he wanted—or any other position he might want too. Kit rather hoped for something exotic he could include in a story. He’d already filed away the approach scenario to include in one. The Alexander was close to his apartment. He could walk home from here easily.

Feeling his sap rise, Kit clutched the man’s shoulder blades with his fingernails, set his hips into a rocking motion, going with the rhythm of the fuck. He cried out, “Fuck, yes. Fuck me. Give it to me! I’m gonna come. Now. Now. NOW!” and the two came nearly together.

“Knew it, the man growled. Knew you were a street whore.”

It was only after that, after they’d climaxed for the first time and the man continued to hold him in position, both of them concentrating on the man going flaccid and then, as Kit moved a hand between them and rolled the man’s balls in his hand, eliciting a moan from the man and the start of a story in Sandman’s brain, that something Marcus had said registered in his brain.

Marcus had said he had the information he needed now. What information was that? Kit shuddered and when stiff. He’d told Marcus what he wanted to hear about Toby before Marcus fisted him. The fisting had put that out of Kit’s mind. He’d told Marcus everything, including where Toby lived—what apartment house he lived in, what floor, what apartment number. Kit pushed at the man on top of him. He needed to get to a phone and warn Toby that this crazy Marcus guy might be coming for him. But his body wasn’t the only thing that had stiffened. The man on top of him was hard again and had started taking seconds.

“So, you want to play hard to get now, do you?” he growled.

He’d fucked conventionally—at least so far. He also was a lot stronger than Kit. He took Kit’s pushing at him as sex play, as wanting it rougher, and he tightened his hold on Kit. Kit tried to roll out from underneath him and the man backhanded him across the mouth, snapping Kit’s head back in surprise. Kit’s eyes widened and he whimpered, thought of anything else forced out of his mind. The man slapped him again.

“Lay there and take it, whore boy,” the man muttered, and, with a moan, Kit lay back on the bed and took it. The man fucked him harder and deeper this time.

God, he was good, Kit admitted to himself—better now that he was being rough. He was going deep, pounding, pounding, pounding. Kit grabbed the man’s biceps. He was muscular. He was hung. He was a thug. He was fucking Kit good.

“Yes!” Kit cried out. “Fuckin A Yes!”

The man laughed. He turned Kit on the cock, Kit cheek and chest to sheets. He encircled Kit’s waist with an arm, pulled the young man up on his knees, crouched over him, and rode him high like he was riding a horse.

“Yes, like that. Fuck me hard,” Kit called out as he fell into the rhythm of the second coupling. He was such a slut for it. Toby floated up into his mind again. He’d just have to call his friend when this was finished. He no longer was anxious for it to finish. Kit clutched the man’s undulating buttocks in his hands, holding him close in to Kit’s pelvis and churned with his own hips. Riding, riding, riding.

* * * *

He was frotting our cocks again, and I was rising to the occasion, as was he. I anticipated another fucking, but here he began to surprise—and slightly concern me.

I watched our joined cocks as he fiddled with the head of his, changing the gold bead for something, still gold, but elongated, more of a probe, thin and some six inches long. I gulped and almost hyperventilated as he pressed some three inches of it into his urethra—his piss slit—leaving three inches extending from the head of his cock. When he was done, he allowed the foreskin to cover his glans again, with the end of the rod poking out and concentrated on mine. He moved his index finger around on the cock head, causing me to tremble and groan at the feel of the skin of his finger on the sensitive skin of my glans. I instinctively moved my rump back, trying to escape his grasp, but, muttering, “Trust me. Relax. You know you like this,” he placed the palm of his other hand on the small of my back and held me there.

With a moan, I felt the sap rising in me and produced a film of precum, which he slathered around my cock head. He moved his free hand to the back of my head, dug his fingers into my blond curls, and pulled me in for a possessing kiss. Soon after the kisses started, I lurched and moaned as I felt his fingers performing rhythmic squeezing and releasing pulses on my cock bulb, causing my piss slit to open and burble precum. Still holding me captive, his pinky finger began to worry the slit, pressing it, digging inside it, flicking back inside it. I shot off a partial load.

I pulled away from the kiss and whimpered, “Oh, god, what—?”

“Shh, shh, little one. Trust me. Relax. Give yourself fully to me. You aren’t fully surrendering yet.”

What more could I do, I wondered.

I moaned as he pulled me back into the kiss and continued to pinky fuck my piss slit, bringing up more cum, which he slathered around on my cock head with the other fingers.

“Oh, shit. Oh, fuck!” I cried out to the empty landscape, as, pulling in closer to in front of me, his knees pressing between my thighs, pushing under my buttocks, bringing our groins together, mine rolled up, I felt him move the bulb of his cock to kiss the edge of mine. He initially didn’t bring the cock heads head on because of that three inches of rod extending from his piss slit. Sensing what he intended to do, I tried to move, but he had me immobilized, my arms bound to the chair back and my ankles to the chair legs.

I moaned and whispered, “Don’t to this.”

His answering, “You will love it. We will become as one,” didn’t assuage me, but what could I do? I was his lover, the count’s paid-for boy toy. I was his prisoner of love. I had pledged to trust him. I had agreed to let him do whatever he wanted with me in exchange for his patronage. I shuddered as he slowly pressed the three inches of rod extending from his piss slit inside my urethra canal, our cocks now docked to each other and joined by the probe inside my canal as well as his, invading and possessing me even more intimately than filling my ass with his cock. I felt his foreskin close over my glans. Grasping the two cocks together in one of his hands and gliding his other over my cheek, capturing and brushing away my leaking tears, the count began to stroke the two cocks together.

I felt the sap rising from deep in my balls. The count must have too, as he murmured, “Let us try to come together.”

I was being fucked in a more intimate way that I ever had been before. We indeed had become one, in the most intimate way possible. I moaned and groaned—and shimmered—as he continued moving our docked cocks together, the rod sliding inside both of us, fucking us both as intimately as was possible.

 

Ian Marcus licked his lips in anticipation. He had brought up the Sandman stories on the laptop he’d found on the dining table in Hardesty and Toby’s apartment. The laptop had been on and unlocked and he hauled it and a stool from the kitchen island over to beside the large ottoman in the living room where he had Toby trussed up on his back, naked, a ball gag in his mouth, and his wrists restrained to the bottom corners of one side and his wrists to the bottom corners of the other side. He’d been delighted to find that the ottoman was one of Toby’s pieces of play equipment for when he entertained clients at the apartment.

This act of special sounding was what he’d been saving to try out with the small, platinum cutie when he tracked Toby down. He’d been equally delighted to find the box of sounding rods in Toby’s bedroom.

Having reviewed the Sandman story he brought up, he clicked on the video that was linked with it. Toby stirred and tried to say something through the ball gag, but Marcus just laughed, selected and eight-inch-long thin wand and settled himself on the ottoman, running his legs under Toby’s thighs. He was able to hold his and Toby’s cock together in this position.

“Now, you’ll want to hold real still for this,” he said to Toby. “The last time I sounded a guy it didn’t go very well. Of course it was dark and in the back of my truck. But he squirmed too much. For your own good, don’t squirm too much. We want to have lots of play time here. There are lots of rods we want to try out.”

Toby was moaning through the ball gag, but he knew as well as Marcus did that he would want to hold still for this. He knew that Marcus had botched the dancer from Freddie’s Beach Bar, Ron Dunne, and sent him to the hospital. And, in contrast to the dancer, Toby had had this done to him before. As long as this maniac remained steady, Toby could handle this.

He groaned as he alternated watching Marcus pull the foreskin back on his cock head and slowly skewer his own piss slit with four inches of the thin rod. Marcus was panting. After he’d sounded his own cock, he turned his attention to the laptop screen to see that the big guy on the screen had done the same. Toby looked at the screen and groaned, seeing what came next. But he held still, as Marcus grasped his cock and held it with one hand as he put his own cockhead into position and slowly inserted the free end of the rod into Toby’s urethra and moved the cockheads together, slowly skewering Toby’s cock on the four inches of the rod that hadn’t gone down Marcus’s urethra.

The two cockheads kissing now, the two men joined by four inches of the same rod in each of their piss canals, Marcus loosely gripped the underside of the connected cocks and slowly masturbated them together, causing the eight-inch wand to slide back and forth in the two canals. Marcus panted and hummed as he worked. Toby moaned and did what he could to hold perfectly still.

“This is nice. This is the first time I’ve done this,” Marcus murmured. “This is sexy. We have to try to come together I wonder how many ever-thicker rods we’ll need before we come. You need to try to come with me.” He parted the cockheads and pulled the thin rod out. He reached into the box and brought out the next thickest wand. Toby panted hard and groaned as this rod was buried in both cocks, they were brought together in a kiss, Marcus moved his foreskin to cover Toby’s cut bulb as well as his own, and then slowly masturbated the two joined cocks, causing the thicker wand to slide back and forth in the channels of the two cocks, fucking them together. Toby moaned through the ball gag and tried not to shudder—tried to hold as steady as possible. Still, the mad man was right; this was sexy. Toby hadn’t done this with a client before. Under other circumstances Toby would have enjoyed exploring this fetish sex act. This was probably as intimate as two men could get. If only this lunatic can do it right—doesn’t mess us both up.

Marcus had gotten Toby in this position through the small blond prostitute’s inattention.

Toby, Paul, and Angelique had been in Paul’s apartment, watching porn DVDs. Angelique was sitting in Paul’s lap, sheathing his cock, and Paul was fingering Angelique’s new cunt, while Toby watched the DVD and the fucking. The video concluded.

“That’s the last one I have,” Paul said. “We’ll have to cruise the Internet for something new and different. Maybe that Web site the Sandman stories and the connected videos are on.”

“I have a new video I haven’t watched over in the apartment,” Toby said. “I think I left my laptop on anyway. I’ll go over and get it. Won’t be long.”

Paul was revving up his laptop and seeking out the Sandman stories site as Toby left Paul’s apartment. He didn’t comprehend what Toby had said or that he had left the apartment.

When Toby opened the door to his own apartment, Marcus rushed around the corner from the elevator foyer and pushed him inside. Marcus’s thumbs went to the soft tissue under Toby’s jaw, and the small blond was out like a light. When he came to, he was naked, on his back on the big ottoman in his living room, and restrained at the four corners of the hassock.

“Good. You’re back with us. Open up, and if you bite it, you’re a dead man.”

Toby believed him. This was the man in the photo Hardesty had sent him.

Marcus was at Toby’s head, which was arched over the end of the ottoman. Marcus was as naked as Toby was. He was holding a half erection—he had a massive, thick cock—in one hand and was cupping Toby’s cheek with the other. The uncut cockhead was pressed at Toby’s lips, and the foreskin was pulled back as Marcus forced it inside Toby’s mouth. He went deep, holding Toby’s head steady with both hands. Toby gagged, but he knew how to take cock in his throat, even one as thick and long as Marcus’s. Marcus face fucked him for several minutes, but he didn’t come.

Marcus pulled out when he was in full erection, plopped a ball gag into Toby’s mouth, came around to the other side of the ottoman, and released Toby’s ankles. He grasped the young man’s calves and raised and spread his legs. Going down on his knees at the end of the ottoman, Marcus buried his face in Toby’s crack and alternated between eating him out, preparing his hole, coaxing it to dilate, and sucking the young blond’s cock and balls. Toby moaned for him and rocked his buttocks against Marcus’s face.

Give him what he wants, Toby was thinking. Make him take his time. Treat him like a client. Paul will figure out something’s wrong. The guy didn’t get the door completely shut. Just give him what he wants. Go with the ride. Keep him occupied.

Rising from there and hovering over Toby’s bound body, Marcus dropped Toby’s leg to free his hand to stroke himself back to full erection. Grasping and spreading the young prostitute’s legs again, he came down on the ottoman on his knees, put his cockhead in position at Toby’s now-dilated hole, and thrust up inside Toby’s channel and fucked him.

Give him a good time. Keep his mind on the fuck, Toby thought. He rocked his hips and set the muscles of his channel undulating over the man’s cock. Give him a good time.

At some point, Marcus was gliding his hands over Toby’s body as he was fucking and a hand found the gecko tattoo on Toby’s body, which was Toby’s on switch. Toby hugged Marcus’s hips close with his knees and start bucking wildly against Marcus’s pelvis, fucking himself on the buried cock.

Marcus laughed at this sign of surrender, but he didn’t want to come yet. He pulled out, rebound Toby’s ankles at the corner of the ottoman’s base. This was when he went roaming in the apartment, not wanting to come yet because he had other plans for Toby. And this was when he found the box of sounding wands in Toby’s bedroom, which was exactly what he was looking for, and also when he found the unlocked and powered up laptop on the dining table.

He remembered the story he had read about sounding—not the one on the basic act he’d used with the dancer in the Turkey Run Park by the Potomac River. He remembered the one that had gotten him off twice while he was reading it—the one about two peckers sharing a sounding rod. He found a video to go with it on the Internet and settled down to party with this blond honey that same way.

Toby shuddered, but held still, as Marcus used his thumb and forefinger to squeeze the blond honey’s bulb, opening up the piss slit. Hovering over him and grasping his own cock, the end of next largest rod extending from it, he maneuvered his own bulb in place and pressed the exposed end of the rod into Toby’s piss slit he was pressing open. The rod disappeared down the urethra channel, the two bulbs kissed, Marcus pushed his foreskin over Toby’s glans, and he began gently masturbating the two kissing cocks. He hummed as he worked. Toby moaned a low, prolonged tone. Marcus felt Toby relaxing to the cock fuck.

The little whore likes this, he thought.

Twelve minutes later, the big dude still sounding the little dude and himself together on the computer screen, Marcus was up to the fourth progressively larger wand in the joining of his cock to Toby’s by buried steel.

“I think this is the one,” he said to Toby, who was laying very still, whimpering behind his ball gag. “I’m ready. Are you? If you come with me, we’ll stop this and move on to some other game. We’ll go back to my house where I’ve got some really intense games set up. We’re gonna have a load of fun, you and me. Ah, yes, I’m coming.” He quickly pulled the wand out of both cocks and shot his load. Toby joined him in a gush of cum.

The wand out now and with any danger of Marcus slipping and ruining Toby gone, Paul, who had crept into the apartment through the door Marcus hadn’t gotten shut, swung the bat he had poised in his hands and connected with Marcus’s head.

All hell broke out at the same moment. Angelique came into the room, holding Toby’s cellphone and saying, “It’s for you, Toby. From your friend, Kit Helms. He’s saying something about a guy coming to get you and knowing where to find you. Well, shit, what’s this all about? Hey, that’s the guy. Did you kill him?”

“Yes, I think I killed him,” Paul answered.

At nearly the same moment, Hardesty and Whitehall walked in. Marcus hadn’t made the play date stakeout they’d set up at Freddie’s Beach Bar. Indeed, Marcus hadn’t checked his Sandman account e-mails since Larry had sent him the fake invitation to meet.

When they released Toby’s ball gag, the first thing he said was, “Shit, that was a fuck.”

In the days to come, they’d have to replace the living room carpet and have the ottoman recovered to get rid of the sprayed blood and brain matter, but Ian Marcus wouldn’t be playing any games with small, blond cuties anymore.

To Be Continued.