1.
John, Putter, and Hutch stood over the pink marble headstone. Fog rolled low over the dead leaves in the neglected corner of the cemetery. Hutch jabbed his elbow into John’s back—hard enough to earn a startled grunt. “Asshole,” John shot back, but they all snickered. No one wanted to show how on edge they when bro cred was at stake.
The headstone read simply:
MALCOLM WOODBURY
1660 - 1693
And beneath that, on the slab, a warning:
WHOSO THOU BE THAT PASSETH BY
SUCH AS THOU ART ONCE WAS I
AS I AM NOW, SO THOU SHALT BE
CALL ME THRICE TO BECKON ME
John and Hutch laughed it off, though not quite convincingly. Putter glanced at his watch. “Let’s get this over with.”
“It’s not even midnight yet,” Hutch replied.
“Close enough,” John muttered, digging his fists into his frat jacket pockets, his sturdy legs shifting in his sweats.
They exchanged a look, then took a breath and chanted together: “Midnight Malcolm. Midnight Malcolm.” It was stupid, how the words put a chill in the smalls of their backs. “Midnight… Malcolm.”
Their breath mingled in the cold air above the grave, white plumes fading into the fog. The only sound was the crunch of leaves under their feet. They lingered in that silence—one minute, then another.
“Well,” Hutch finally said. “Nothing.” He sounded disappointed.
“What, were you expecting a big pink ghost?” Putter shot back.
“Dunno,” Hutch said, bouncing on his toes. He’d been the one pushing for this—summoning a ghost in an old New England graveyard, with a history longer and more twisted than anything back in sunny LA.
Everyone knew the legend: Midnight Malcolm, “the notorious Sodomite witch,” hanged by Judge Thomas Putnam, said to come back if called three times. Every student had tried it at least once—initiation, prank, or—tonight—just a cheap Halloween thrill.
“Let’s go,” John said, already turning to bail. It was barely eleven—plenty of time to hit the parties on Greek Row.
He barely made it a step before Hutch inhaled sharply and froze in place, as if yanked back on an invisible leash. “Unf,” he grunted. Suddenly his hand shot out and grabbed a handful of John’s hard jock ass.
“Dude!” John yelped, voice cracking.
Hutch went stiff, blank-faced. “I desire your flesh,” he said in a deep, flat voice. Then he snapped back to life with a cackle. “Got you!”
“Very funny,” John said, rolling his eyes. He tried to play it off as irritation, but his heart was pounding, adrenaline buzzing in his veins like he’d just taken a hit on the field. He could even feel it in his crotch.
“That’s enough,” Putter declared, in that tone he sometimes had—the same one that nixed costumes, in favor of matching frat jackets.
They were all built like they could bench-press a crypt, but even Putter looked uneasy. The gnarled, twisted trees, the old family crypts, the stone angels with their cold, judging faces—none of it helped.
“Let’s just go,” he said, assuming his more good-natured affect.
2.
“Hold up,” Hutch said. “It’s not midnight yet.”
John groaned. “Dude, I am not wasting another hour out here. Tri Delt’s throwing a party. Sexy witch costumes, sexy kitten costumes, sexy—unf. You know how long it’s been since I had some Tri Delt pussy?”
“Come on,” Hutch pleaded. “At least tell the story.”
He turned to Putter, everyone knowing his family tree went all the way back to the Mayflower. Confident, athletic, and blond, Putter was the living definition of blue blood WASP.
“Don’t look at me,” Putter muttered, shrugging his broad shoulders. “I don’t know anything about it.”
Hutch cocked his head and flashed that coy look—the one that always worked on girls. Putter just rolled his eyes. That trick never worked on guys—well, not usually.
Hutch whipped out his phone. “Wiki says…”
“Fine, I’ll read it,” Putter said, snatching the phone.
He read aloud:
“Of those convicted during the latter-day witch trials, Malcolm Woodbury was among the most infamous. His family wealth, rumored homosexuality, and open contempt for the proceedings made him a scandal in Puritan New England.
“Before his accusation, Woodbury’s money gave him some license to flout the drab standards of his day. He wore black Puritan garb, but stitched with silver thread and lined with rich colors, tailored in Europe to flatter his build. He loved worldly music and had a reputation for wit—he was even charged with pride in his drollery. When pressed, he told the court, ‘Being a wit in a Puritan age is the smallest claim.’
“He might have faded into obscurity, but Judge Thomas Putnam, the itinerant witch hunter, took an interest. After hearing rumors of Woodbury’s extravagant lifestyle and ‘unnatural lusts,’ Putnam brought charges of witchcraft.
“The Woodbury fortune afforded him privileges—house arrest, a real legal defense—most accused didn’t get. Maybe it made him cocky. Court records note that when asked if he’d meet the Black Man in the haunted woods, he replied, ‘Oh, I do hope so!’
“His wealth gave him comfort, but it couldn’t change the outcome. Judge Putnam had already condemned two dozen men and women. Malcolm was convicted, sentenced to hang. Putnam told him, ‘There is a natural order and you have violated it.’
“Woodbury scoffed, but on the scaffold he got serious, cursing Putnam: ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. As you take this body from me, so I will take one from you or yours.’ His last words: ‘I was already hung, now I’ll be hanged.’
“Most of the accused were interred in unmarked graves, but the Woodbury family arranged for Malcolm to be buried in the church cemetery. There is no written record of a quid pro quo, but the family did build the church a new rectory and bell tower the next year. Malcolm had already picked out the pink marble for his grave—flamboyant in death as in life.”
Putter paused, feeling the weight of John and Hutch’s eyes, then read on:
“Despite Malcolm’s curse, Judge Putnam lived to a ripe old age, dying of natural causes. His only child, Mercy, and her husband John remained in the area, where they lived and died with no scandal, fading into New England society.
“But Malcolm Woodbury became legend as Midnight Malcolm, thanks to that epitaph: CALL ME THRICE TO BECKON ME. The words, referencing both Puritan resurrection beliefs and the biblical story of Lazarus, came to be seen as a promise: call him three times at midnight, and he’ll return to claim what’s his.”
He shoved the phone back at Hutch. “Happy? Let’s go to the party.”
But Hutch was already grinning, mischief lighting his face. In a flash, he snatched Putter’s car key and jogged backward, waving it overhead.
“Hutch…” John warned, recognizing that look—the devil had gotten into him.
Putter and John lunged, tackling him into the leaves. Laughing, Hutch whipped the key into the air. It arced, caught the moonlight, and vanished into the dark.
Hutch cackled, rolling under their weight. He shivered with delight as their bodies pressed together, hips and thighs tangled, strong arms pinning him to the leafy ground.
“ASSHOLE!” Putter snapped, propped up on one elbow, his hand on Hutch’s ribs. “You know how long it’ll take to find my key in all… this?” He gestured at the sea of brown and orange leaves swirling in the thickening fog.
“Hopefully about an hour,” Hutch said slyly—their faces so close it was nothing to steal a quick kiss from Putter’s lips.
“Cut it out,” Putter muttered, eyes narrowing.
“We’ll find it. Then we can watch Uzumaki,” Hutch said, flopping back.
“Fuck that!” John grumbled, pulling himself up. “That movie’s just about… hair in a drain, man.”
“It’s a classic horror movie!” Hutch protested.
“Japanese classic crazy shit, Hachiro,” John replied, using Hutch’s real name for emphasis.
“Man, shut the fuck up,” Hutch shot back. “You’re just pissed there’s no black horror movies.”
“Black folk are too smart to mess with that shit,” John fired, winking as he hauled Hutch and Putter up.
He sounded like he was joking, but he meant every word. Growing up in Savannah, he’d heard enough ghost stories to know which things you didn’t mess with. The only reason he went along with Hutch’s bullshit was the Bro Code—if your bro does something dumbassed, you back him up.
Putter watched them banter as the fog thickened and the moon drifted across the sky. He glanced up at a family crypt on the hill, where a stone angel stood guard over the entrance, ready to open it at resurrection. Stern, masculine, chiseled muscle—thanks to the moonlight, it looked like it was watching, judging.
“All right, let’s start looking,” Putter said, steadying himself. “If we each go a different direction—”
“See?” John cut in. “The white guy always says ‘let’s split up.’”
“Just walk a loop and circle back,” Putter finished, undeterred.
His confidence was hard to resist when he went all-in. And no bro would admit to being scared of the dark.
John just sighed and nodded. What else could he do?
3.
It wouldn’t be the first time Hutch’s antics had thrown them off course.
John figured it all went back to that Spring Break gangbang two years ago. Two guys and a girl was called the Devil’s Threeway—but three guys and a girl? The Devil’s Floodgate, maybe.
He’d tried not to look at his bros that night—definitely, absolutely no eye contact. Just focus on the girl, pretend nobody else is there. But that was impossible. The bed was too small, and the girl in the middle was just a flicker—some convenient flesh bringing them together, quickly forgotten as soon as they finished, lost in the sight and feel of each other.
They’d noticed each other before. How could they not, looking the way they did?
John’s dick had been called The Monster since freshman year showers. Supposedly, you weren’t supposed to look, but his cock couldn’t be ignored—monstrous in size, perfectly formed, just like the rest of him: handsome, thick-necked, beefy-assed. Awe-inspiring, honestly.
Then there was Putter. Nobody missed Putter. That mop of blond hair, the clean white smile, boyish face on a sinful body. Years of crew and gifted genes had given him wide shoulders and a trim waist. If the light hit just right, you’d catch the downy hair splitting his abs and cleaving his ass.
And Hutch. Out drinking, John would sling a heavy arm around Hutch’s shoulders, his big hand drifting across the wrestler’s chest, grazing a nipple. Squeeze a pec, get a laugh—just bros being bros, supposedly. Still, it sent a jolt straight to John’s crotch.
He felt that jolt now just thinking about them. The Monster stirring.
He’d had plenty of girls since puberty—never went a week without a good fuck. But lately, thoughts of his bros kept worming into his head. They were easy to be with, and damn, they felt so fucking good. The chemistry was real.
He shifted his hips, trying to relieve the pressure in his briefs. Make good choices, he told himself in Coach’s voice. Stay focused.
He turned back to the leaves, hunting for the key, and crashed into something—some one—even bigger and harder than himself. He gasped, breathless, fumbling with his phone’s flashlight. The beam found only the flat, cold face of a statue. Another grave marker.
This one: a young man’s body, athletic, naked except for a burial sheet carved to barely cover the generous mound of cock and balls beneath. He reclined in the skeletal arms of a robed, hooded figure—Death itself, face lost in the deep shadow of its stone cowl. The young man’s legs were parted, knees drawn up, the shroud pulled taut across his hips as if he’d been arranged for display, helpless and exposed.
John let his fingers drift over the marble—across the sculpted pecs, the ridged abs, down to the bold curve of cock and balls beneath the thin sheet. He could see his bros in the statue’s place: Hutch, sprawled back in Putter’s lap, Putter’s strong arms locked around Hutch’s thighs, pulling them wide, open, inviting, ready for John. Hutch’s fat cock dripped precum, the slick running down over his balls, damping his sweats.
His gaze slid up to the hooded figure, raising his phone. The beam crawled from the statue’s feet, up the parted legs, the stone belly and chest, inching toward the hidden face, where he’d imagined Putter’s would be, shadowed, in command. His heart hammered in his chest, sweat prickling under his arms. Then a voice.
“What is he hiding?”
He heard Hutch’s laugh and spun, catching the wrestler in his beam as he sprinted by, kicking up leaves, disappearing into the fog.
Man, fuck this. John turned away from the hooded statue—he didn’t need, didn’t want, to see the face under there. He went back to shifting leaves, searching for the key.
“Gonna kill you, Hachiro,” John called out. “Right after I get a piece of Tri Delt ass.”
“‘Oh John, fuuuck me,’” Hutch sang out, squealing like a sorority girl from somewhere out in the dark.
“How about we find the key?” Putter’s voice came from another direction.
They sounded distant, voices bouncing and echoing off the stones.
John tried to focus, but thoughts of his bros had taken root. Did anything feel as good as Hutch’s firm pecs in his hands, the clutch of his hole on John’s thick cock? The trickster was practically sculpted, blue veins marbling his smooth skin. And Putter—those blue eyes, those tawny ribs against John’s dark skin, the taste on his tongue… Putter had a way.
John slipped a hand down his sweats, gripping the base of his cock. It took no coaxing to reach full erection. It felt good, so he stroked it, milking out a surge of clear precum. He smeared it down the thick shaft, savoring the relief.
Yessss, the wind hissed in the leaves, swirling into a little eddy at his feet.
He glanced at the words etched on the statue’s base:
"HE WILL KEEP YOU FIRM TO THE END."
1ST CORINTHIANS 1:8
He stopped his stroke and tucked The Monster awkwardly back into his briefs—for now. The night wasn’t done yet.
4.
Hutch trotted through the graveyard, slowing to his bandy-legged wrestler’s strut, grinning to himself. He was in no hurry to end this game—not with midnight creeping closer. Putter could find his own damn key. The guy could be a stiff, all that uptight Mayflower blood knotted up in him. But he knew how to have fun when it suited him.
Hutch had seen it firsthand—Putter charming girls at parties, flattering just enough to hook them, holding his favor at bay to keep them wanting more—taunting them, letting them taste it so sparingly.
Even with a honey skinned blonde between them, choking down John’s meat in her throat while Hutch railed her ass, Putter’s wood buried in her snatch, he’d hear Putter giving faint praise. That’s okay baby, you’re doing good… just a little more. And , of course, he always got it.
Hutch vaulted onto an old headstone, perching on top, feline. He shucked off his frat jacket, sweaty from running circles in the fog, and tossed it toward the car. The triple Alpha insignia disappeared into the mist and he looked around for amusement. The headstones jutted out like crooked teeth.
He bent at the waist, cocking his head around to read the epitaph beneath him:
“THE SHELL IS HERE BUT THE NUT IS GONE.”
He giggled, then snorted, then cackled out loud, the sound echoing in the night. He licked both palms, and with his spit and sweat slicked his hair up on either side, lacquered into makeshift devil horns or maybe cat ears.
He extended a leg, deftly swirling up a little spiral in the fog with his sneaker. Fuck John—Uzumaki was a great movie. John and Putter didn’t know a damn thing.
It made sense he’d been the first to sense the unspoken desire running between his bros—John with his footballer’s brawn, Putter with his preppy crew-and-lacrosse polish. Hutch was a wrestler. He’d trained for years to read bodies—the subtle tension before a move, the split-second tremor of hesitation, the little tells that gave away everything. He could feel it in his bros: casual gropes and touches that lingered too long, the almost-innocent grind. There were so many ways a body could betray its owner by revealing too much, and he was an expert at reading them, a seismograph for desire.
It wasn’t far from the first stolen kiss to the next, and from there to John’s big hands roaming Hutch’s body, and to Putter’s hard cock pressed between them. His mind raced at the thought of all their exchanges and touches, their groaning cum shots and the panting recoveries in between. The girls whose bodies they used were so interchangeable, just vehicles for them to touch each other. Life wasn’t always fair, but it sure could be interesting.
He dropped a hand down his sweats into his jock, tightening up as his cock swelled.
A breathy whisper behind him made him spin—ready to laugh at his bro. But there was no one there. “John?” he called, then, grinning, “Putter?” He smirked. “Malcolm?”
Nothing answered but the rustle of leaves and the hush of fog rolling through the stones.
Someone was playing with him, and he liked it.
Balanced on the headstone he slid his sweats off, over his chunky sneakers, and his tight tee, tossing them into the mist. The night air felt good on his taut muscles.
In just his jock and sneakers, hair sticking up in horns, he bounded off the headstone with a little leap, prowling the graveyard.
It was time to find his bros. There was trouble to be had.
5.
Asshole Hutch, Putter thought, kicking through the cemetery debris as the fog swirled thick around him. He’d come full circle, back to where he started, with nothing to show for it.
Still, an asshole could be fun—especially when it was Hutch’s or John’s. He’d been surprised at how willing, how eager, his bros were to explore his body and let their own be touched in return—licked, pressed, eaten. They’d had some wild times, especially with the feigned excuse of drunkenness or the absence of pussy—as if that had ever been a problem for any of them.
He wondered what his dour-faced ancestors would think of him, with his vigorous body, his fleshy desires and indulgences. He pictured their gray, tight-lipped faces, as stern as the stone angel standing guard over their family crypt nearby, watching him in silent judgment. He chuckled at the thought.
Yes, he had secrets. Secrets from his family about his bros, and in turn secrets from his bros about his family. But what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
Soon he’d put this all behind him. After graduation, he’d take a senior position in his father’s business. Marry a girl from a good family—someone with a little experience but not too much. Definitely not like those Tri Delt skanks. He sighed, hoping good-girl sex wouldn’t be too bland, but figured that’s what a sidepiece was for.
It was a shame to close the chapter on the most pleasurable part of his life—the nights with his bros. His cock stiffened at the thought of their bodies—John’s handsome face when he came, Hutch’s gasps when Putter shot a load into him.
But their paths were diverging.
Hutch and John could afford a few years more partying after college, not having Putter’s prospects. He’d miss their antics, but he’d have to cut them off, for appearance’s sake.
Nothing personal, boys. There’s a natural order. There are consequences.
“Isn’t that right?” he muttered, shining his flashlight on the pink headstone and slab.
He felt a surge of antipathy for the long-dead Malcolm Woodbury. What a fool he’d been—to not play the game, to refuse the mask. Be a Puritan in the streets and a devil in the sheets. If he’d been smarter, he might have lived to a ripe old age instead of becoming a ghost story, dying a wealthy patriarch rather than hanged in a public spectacle.
The light from his phone glinted on something resting on the headstone. Something metallic.
Putter stepped up, standing on the pink slab. There, atop the headstone, was his car key.
He shook his head in disbelief. They’d been so sure the key had fallen deep in the leaves, but there it was—right on Midnight Malcolm’s ridiculous grave.
Stupid fucking Malcolm Woodbury. He’d plagued Putter long enough.
Feeling his bladder full, Putter smirked. He peeled the jacket from his broad shoulders, letting it fall to the side. He spread his long legs wide and unzipped his fly.
“Piss on you, Midnight Malcolm,” he muttered, pulling out his meaty cock.
Just as he was about to let loose, a sudden gust of wind wrapped around him. Blood surged through his fit body; his cheeks flushed, his cock stiffened, pink nipples hardened, and his hole clenched tight. Leaves spun around him in a rolling hiss.
It was stupid, but he felt he wasn’t alone.
He closed his eyes, as they couldn’t be trusted, and reached out a hand. Expecting flesh, his trembling fingers met only open air.
His eyes fluttered open, to see nothing but emptiness.
He looked down at his throbbing cock, a bead of clear precum pearling at the tip. That was fast.
Where had John and Hutch gotten off to? They had so few chances left before graduation, and then it would all end.
Something stirred inside him. Maybe the night wasn’t a loss after all.
6.
John was drawn back to Malcolm’s grave, his steps heavy but purposeful, as if some unseen force compelled him forward. His desire rose up in him—the swell in his sweats undeniable—The Monster was awake. Hungry.
Putter turned to face him from the pink marble slab, cock hard and upright like the hands of a clock striking midnight. He smiled, cocking his head, reading the intensity in John’s eyes. John caught the same fierce readiness in Putter’s gaze.
They spoke without words, bodies fluent in a language all their own.
John wound through the fog, stopping at the grave’s edge—halting instinctively at the slab. His heart thundered, refusing to pass. But Putter was there—warm, wicked, willing.
John forced one foot, then the other, to cross over. Crossing over—the term his family used for passing from life to death.
He buried the thought as his lips met Putter’s—fierce, hungry. John’s cock—The Monster—strained, desperate to break free of its confines, yearning to thrust into Putter’s body.
When Putter’s hands gripped John’s thick ass and pulled him close, John stopped caring about the cold stone beneath them. Nothing else mattered but entering Putter’s body—the feel of being in him.
Hutch appeared, clad only in his jock and devil horns, like a wild spirit summoned by their pact—the Devil’s Threeway. The girls between them had been only ghosts—insubstantial phantoms between the brawny flesh of their bodies, vanishing under their longing for each other. It was always, really, just the three of them.
Clothes were yanked off, hands and mouths tangled, tongues relentless and interchangeable. Putter latched onto John’s nipple, biting and sucking, as John’s hands roamed solid flesh. Hutch’s lips trailed down Putter’s back, tracing the pale blond fur at the small of his back, tracing a perfect spiral in it. He smiled—Uzumaki—before plunging into the crack of his ass, lapping at the pink hole.
Putter gasped when John pried his cheeks apart, giving Hutch full access to penetrate him with a hot, probing tongue. He spread his legs, feeling the night air on the fine hairs of his body, almost laughing at the irreverence of doing this here, of all places. The silent, judging stone faces around them only made it better.
John slapped the meat of his erection in his hand. The Monster yearned—veined, ridged, thick enough to fill even his broad palm. He spat on it three times, smearing spit and precum along the shaft and head. That would have to do.
His hands on Putter’s hips, he lifted his pale ass, spit-spiked hairs around his hole standing like a crown.
John gasped as the head pressed in—slow, steady. He held it there, letting Putter adjust—stretching, opening, yielding to the trespass. Little by little, he pressed deeper, easing open the ring of muscle, stretching it, testing its limits, and at long last sinking to the root, embedding himself in some deep, hidden place.
Putter’s breath shallowed as his body strained to accept the stranger in it, a flicker of animal panic beneath the surface. But he spread wider, surrendering—his body a vessel opening to the invader. His eyes rolled back, nerves aflame as the throbbing in his core gave way to a fierce wave of pleasure in him. He bit into his forearm, sucking at his own muscle and flesh, even the little hairs on his skin. God, it felt so good to be alive.
John fucked him hard—taking him without apology, just powerful, relentless thrusts. Hutch slid between Putter and the headstone, slapping his cock against Putter’s handsome face. He pried the soft lips apart, pressing the head into Putter’s mouth, over his tongue, teasing tonsils, then plunging deep. Streams of precum slicked Putter’s mouth, lubricating the way for a deep, suffocating throat fuck.
Putter’s body trembled, convulsed, sweat tracing his flanks as his core was violated, his airway choked off. He choked and groaned, fight-flight-fuck flickering with every slam into his prostate and every cock thrust filling his throat. But the pleasure overrode the panic, and by force of will he surrendered, yielding fully to the presence filling him.
“Yeah, buddy,” John whispered, warm and thick, steadying him through the storm. “You can take it. You got this.”
John and Hutch leered at each other, pumping in rhythm. John cupped Hutch’s rock-hard pecs, thumbs twisting near-purple nipples. Hutch’s cock swelled, and he lifted John’s hands to his face, sucking the fingers one by one.
As his body rocked under John and Hutch, Putter’s cock oozed precum, an endless stream from his inflamed head to the marble below. Hutch laughed, watching it drip into the engraved letters.
John’s thrusts grew faster, breath ragged, muscles tensed and swollen. His thick neck bulged like The Monster inside Putter, slamming deep enough to lift him off his feet.
John gasped, “Fuck, bro! Yes! FUUUCK!”
He groaned as his cock swelled, cum flooding Putter’s guts in shuddering waves. His hips ground into Putter, The Monster pushing its hot load deep inside.
The sight of John’s O-shaped lips and tensing muscles, knowing his fat cock was spilling, pushed Hutch over the edge. His own load boiled over, geysering down Putter’s throat. The blond choked on the first flood, gagging as it filled his mouth, throat and nose, but diligently swallowing every wave.
Gasping for air, Putter opened his mouth, releasing Hutch’s still hard cock. The last of the cum drooled down Putter’s chin, into the letters engraved in the stone below.
With John’s erection still clubbing his prostate, Putter furiously pumped his own reddening cock in his fist.
“Yeah bro, that’s it,” Hutch urged, stroking his spit-smeared cock, the last nut dripping down the shaft and off his balls.
Putter’s body tensed—The Monster deep inside, fucking him, forcing his essence out in thick white jets. Each pulse throbbed in his ears—one, two, three.
“That’s it,” John urged, with one last slow steady thrust before pulling back, drawing out of his bro with a long wet smack.
With every pulse, the throb continued—six, seven, eight. Not church bells, but something else ringing in their ears.
The withdrawal of John’s weighty cock came a surge of the load he’d dumped deep in Putter, splattering the cold marble below where it steamed in the engraved letters of the gravestone.
The throbbing faded—ten, eleven, twelve. Putter’s breath caught as he pumped out the last of himself, his cum falling onto the hanged witch’s gravestone, mingling with John and Hutch’s, filling the letters:
CALL ME THRICE TO BECKON ME.
Male cum. Male cum. Male cum.
It was midnight.
7.
“Fuh-uck,” Hutch laughed, shaking the sweat from his taut, muscled body.
“Dude,” John replied, deeply content. They’d flirted with the fullness of their desire before, but never indulged so plainly.
Putter slid down to his hands and knees, panting like a racehorse—spent from the pounding and his own seismic climax. His body shuddered and he rolled back against the pink headstone, slick and leaking, the remnants of John’s load running from his used hole. His bros stood at his feet.
He chuckled, running fingers over his face, alternating between laughter and deep sighs. “Excuse me,” he whispered. “I’ve lost control of my senses.”
Hutch and John exchanged puzzled glances but joined in his next guffaw, as if everything was still okay. But Putter’s laughter stretched and deepened, growing longer and stranger—rumbling, broken by gleeful snorts and snickers.
John’s skin pricked. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, glancing warily at Putter and extending a hand. “Come on, man…”
Putter ran long fingers through his ashy hair, three times. Each stroke seemed to stretch his hair longer, the strands growing before their eyes. He shook it loose, and it settled around his neck. “I don’t think so.”
“Putter?” Hutch asked, concern rising as John pulled him to his feet.
“That’s what you call him?” Putter asked, voice shifting—his own but not quite. It was the voice John had heard earlier.
“That’s enough, bro,” Hutch said. This was too much, even for him. “Putt—”
“Putnam,” the voice interrupted, smooth and cold. “His name was Putnam. An old family name. Very old.” He laughed and pointed to the nearby family crypt where the stone angel stood vigil.
In the moonlight, John and Hutch saw the letters carved over the crypt entrance: PUTNAM.
John swallowed hard. Hutch took a cautious step back. They knew Putter was a nickname, but never wondered what for.
“The judge?” John murmured.
“The hanging judge?” Hutch whispered.
“The very one,” the voice confirmed, coming through Putter’s lips. He extended a hand, and Hutch’s phone flew into it. “Your friend didn’t read you the whole story.” He scrolled the screen and read aloud:
“‘After his death, Malcolm’s property and assets were seized and sold by the court. As was his practice after executions over which he presided, Judge Putnam ordered the estate sold at a low price to his own son-in-law. The accumulated value made Putnam’s descendants among the most wealthy heirs of their day’.
“Judge Putnam,” the voice continued. “Father of Mercy Putnam, mother of a single son, named Putnam, for her father. And so the name carried on, one boy in each generation bearing the name, from the first to this very one with such a fine—athletic form.”
He ran hands over his powerful arms, long legs, flat abs, and hefty cock. “This will do. This will do nicely.”
John stumbled backward, almost falling over his own feet, but Putter’s outstretched hand caught him in place in some invisible grip , the same way he’d seized the phone. With his outstretched arm and the occult power of his hand, he held John firm across the distance of the slab under him.
He gestured, and both Hutch and John’s spent cocks stiffened again, still oozing traces of their recent release.
“Oh my, yes,” the voice purred, eyes narrowing as it appraised their bodies. “So much more fit than boys used to be.”
Hutch caught Putter’s eyes—the cornflower irises now black and cunning. “Putter… bro… please,” he begged.
The body resting against the headstone relaxed. “Good lord, I do hate a Puritan,” he sighed.
With a gesture, their muscles froze, tension straining every limb, as if invisible fingers reached into them, prodding at pecs, thighs, lips.
“Come now,” he said, voice low and amused. “I’ve been in your heads. What sordid little thoughts you harbor.”
“N-n-nooo,” Hutch whimpered.
“Not enough horror for you?” Putter’s lips curved. “Maybe some Ringu?”
He twirled a finger, and Hutch felt his hole being pried open by a powerful, unseen force.
John didn’t beg, only covered his face with his hands. But The Monster was alive, more than it had ever been before, throbbing as he looked through spread fingers.
Malcolm breathed in the Halloween air through his new nostrils. It had been so long since he’d inhabited a body he could call his own.
He snapped his fingers, and the nearby car lit up, radio blaring pop music, shattering the night’s silence: What’s gonna be left of the world if you’re not in it? He always loved music, and it was so much more interesting now.
He bit his lip in anticipation. “Fraternity… what a devilish idea.”
This was going to be fun.
END
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