Tales from the Birchfield farm

Reader discretion is adviced, this story contain graphic content depicting violence and rape which may not be suitable to all readers. This is a fictional story and do not portray real events or real persons.

CRIME & PUNISHMENT

Anxiety high, Carlton Moseley O’Keefe drove the country road tensely. Torn between sacrificing his investment by turning back or facing paid-for multiple unknowns with chances for success only miles away, he slowed to consider, then sped with determination not to let himself down. I’ve wanted to know what it was like for so long. There was no way. Whom could I trust? Certainly none of my friends nor their friends. Not their contacts. Damn lucky I chanced to meet Duane. If word ever got out….

Behind him lay his career’s successes, an on-going blur of profitable business banalities. Knack for making money had taken over days, nights, weekends for years – and interrupted the few vacations he managed to have. Buried deep, memories of certain early experiences. His once-comely features had sagged sadly. Lack of time for sex sent him to porn where his desires caused no embarrassment. Movies with rape scenes had always provoked in him strange feelings – A Clockwork Orange, Straw Dogs, Quills, Dangerous Liaisons, The Girl with the Dragon Tattooin one direction and Lawrence of Arabia, Caligula, The Kite Runner, Goat,and The Mudge Boy in another.

Mmm, he mulled and drove.

*

A brown SUV appeared on the horizon – Range Rover from the look of it – and zoomed past, its driver accompanied by a boy who looked his way. O’Keefe’s cheap Toyota rental swayed in the vehicle’s wake. Wonder if they know where I’m going? Probably not.A smile crossed out the lines on his face. Better be looking forBirchfield. About on time, the clock says. Um, a mile to go. I’m sweating. What if they don’t get it right? Ecks said they would – and Duane assured me they would. He was certain. Duane’s an investor, so the place must be top-notch. Wish I’d gotten hold of that other guy – or even Mr. Duval – but he’s the opposite of me, I heard. Everybody’s so damn secretive. Oh! There’s the sign. Crappy road. Where’s the so-called town?

With suspicion as he turned in, O’Keefe eyed the scrub brush and spindly trees growing thicker and healthier with his advance; better in fact, as he took first one curve and another. The road turned less rutty. Gravel lessened dust. He spotted a small parking lot and some buildings through the greenery. Pulling in, he looked around. No one.

As he locked up and glanced about, wary, he saw a paved walk directly toward the buildings. The closer he got, a town square appeared. Looks like a movie set. Too perfect to be real.

From nowhere, a young policeman. “Hello. Just where do you think you’re going?”

The startled new arrival gaped at the blond-headed, light-skinned, obvious rookie whose eyes looked pink. Pink? An albino! What kind of freak show is this?

“I – uh – have an appointment.”

“Wait a minute,” the officer’s face reddened. “I think you’re…this guy.” From his pocket came a creased WANTED notice which was thrust in O’Keefe’s face.

Startled, he saw a smudgy photo of himself and the phrase, “…for sexual abuse of an underage boy” and “ARREST ON SIGHT.” Struck dumb with incomprehension, he couldn’t see more.

“You are under arrest…” – cuffs were roughly clipped to his wrists – “…for sexual abuse of a minor child. You have the right to….”

O’Keefe felt weirdly faint at the shock of being mirandized so vehemently. He had not touched a boy since his own childhood, when exploration naturally satisfied curiosity. Strong hands pushed him along. “I advise you to keep quiet.” The warning came in deep tones belying the young man’s curious appearance.

His brain locked his throat. This was not what he expected at all. So rushed were their steps to the Police Station that O’Keefe stumbled more than once – barely spotting signs for the quaint Hotel Shellman and Fifties-style Earl’s Diner – but was supported and propelled along by the very determined policeman. “I’ll get a bonus for nabbing you, you scum.”

“What have we here?” the desk officer glanced up from his newspaper.

O’Keefe was trembling, unable to notice the cream-colored walls above their four-foot stripe of hideous, institutional green gloss. If he had, his hope would have collapsed entirely. Such places were beneath his ability to cope, as well as his dignity.

For what I paid, there ought to be luxury. This is demeaning.

“That damned child molester. Look!” The WANTED notice was waved.

“It’s him, all right. Take him back for processing. I’ll call the Prosecutor.”

Cells with black iron bars, a crude shower, a toilet, and an odd, black, padded table greeted him. Manacles on the walls! A mirror!He spotted an orange jumpsuit on a sleeping prisoner. Good God!

“Strip. Now,” he was ordered. “Officer Stockton, get your ass in here.”

From a side door came another uniformed man, badge as brassy as the others O’Keefe had seen. “In-take, I presume?” he asked past the very uncomfortable man in custody.

“You’re damned right. Molested that boy and then some. It’s in the APB. Lemme get his cuffs off.”

The two stared at the accused, waiting. O’Keefe, mind in turmoil, nervously found the buttons of his shirt, the belt and zipper of his trousers, took off his shoes, and stood, unresisting.

“The rest of it,” a blunt finger pointed to his socks, underpants and t-shirt.

Naked and cold in the chill air, O’Keefe felt terror creeping over him.

“Hands on your head.”

“Spread your legs. Further than that.” He added, “Or we’ll put in a spreader bar.”

What the fuck!

They took turns, their hands over his prickling body.

Stockton (Nurse Rockwell’s alias) donned rubber gloves. “Cavity search. Open your mouth. Wider. Like that. Use your tongue. Wet my fingers. Better than that, or you’ll regret it.”

O’Keefe was pierced from behind in a single thrust. He almost peed.

“Filthy. He’s filthy. I can feel it.”

“Thought so. You,” he was shoved, “bend over that table. Don’t make me have to hold you down.”

Water ran in the background. He suspected what was coming. It did. Forcibly filled with warm, soapy water, he moaned a protest and was immediately re-cuffed.

“Not one drop.”

A hand on each side pressed against his shoulders while the officers deliberately ignored his misery and embarrassed him further by reminiscing about interrogation methods as minutes – too many – passed.

“Please,” O’Keefe whined.

“When we say. Hold it or regret it.”

They moved him to the toilet. “Sit. Let go and be quick about it.”

Never in his life having such mortification, he blushed, demeaned, as they stood watching – for results.

Worse, the prisoner in the closest cell had wakened and was looking his way seriously.

Once voided – the noise adding to his shame – he was stood under lukewarm water in the shower and heard an instruction to let the spray wash him all over.

“Dry yourself and put this on.” A prison jumpsuit. A pink one about his size.

Appalled, he balked, and found his voice. “I can’t, I’m still handcuffed, you idiot.”

“Smartass, you’ll be arraigned as you are.”

The jumpsuit remained behind.

If O’Keefe had been mortified before, it was nothing compared to his being taken, dripping and naked, straightaway into a small, rather dark courtroom to face a hard-jowled, black-robed female judge. He could not miss the name: THE HON. MARIA CORTELINI.

Under a head of flame-red hair, her sagging, rouged face and mascaraed eyes studied his and his puddling predicament. “You’re as indecent now as your behavior in the past, sir. I advise your silence.” She lifted some papers and peered at them. “The charges against you are serious, the evidence overwhelming, and our justice will be carried out in due course.”

Before the accused – utterly undone by the quick events since his arrival and unable to think what this had to do with his expectations – could ask, “What evidence?” the judge called, “Mr. Prosecutor,” to an imposing man wearing a midnight black, sharply tailored suit and a silk tie, blood red.

To O’Keefe’s disbelieving eyes, he looked like some awful figure from the past. Who?

In such circumstances, no one could think clearly.

“If it please the court, evidence is incontrovertible.” The Russian-accented voice boomed as from a stage, “Your honor, I have irrefutable, first-hand testimony.” He pressed his remote and a grainy video displayed on the courtroom’s television monitor. Words appeared: INTERVIEW WITH HIRAM JONES CONDUCTED BY LICENSED NURSE BLAINE ROCKWELL UNDER AUTHORITY OF THE BIRCHFIELD COURT AND BY ITS ORDER.

The child, who could not have been more than twelve, appeared somewhat blurrily but his voice was clear, if hesitant.

“My Mom…she was…kinda crazy on drugs ’n’ stuff. Guys…she liked guys who’d screw her ’n’ drink ’n’ swear ’n’ give her more drugs…. They didn’t care if I was there or not. Sometimes I didn’t have any place else to go, so I’d hear ’em. Even with a pillow over my ears. But, like, the worse times were when that…guy….” The image flickered off when the audio track mentioned “Carlton-something, a mean white guy” and came on at “He was the worst. He showed me his dick. It was awful – big and hard. He made me play with it. He was laughin’ and smokin’ weed. He blew it in my face when I didn’t like to do it. It was hairy and all drippy….”

Off-camera, a man’s voice crooned, “It’s okay, Hiram. Please don’t be afraid to tell me everything the man did. I’ll help you. Let it out. Tell me, what happened next. Please. You’re safe with me here. He will never bother you again. Trust me. I can help.”

The boy tugged nervously at his blue pullover, lowered his eyelids, then raised them. “That time, that was all I had to do. But when Mom had him in again, he was worse. I hated him. She was so out of it, she didn’t care. She even watched….” Hiram covered his eyes and swallowed hard, trying not to cry.

“Yes? What did he do?”

The response was hard to hear, so the Prosecutor stopped, rewound, and raised the volume.

“He made me put it in my mouth. It tasted awful. I hated it more than him, but he kept makin’ me open up even if I was spittin’ out.” The boy clammed up.

“Hiram, what else?” asked the soothing voice.

“His dirty hands…. I couldn’t move my head…. He made me open real wide ’n’ he put it in ’n’ he cummed all in my mouth…’n’ he was all crazy when I was pukin’ ’n’ he got it all over my face.” The rushed words stopped. There was a long pause before, “Mom saw it ’n’ she laughed at me. Then they fucked ’n’ forgot me.”

Little Hiram crumpled, his tearless agony palpable.

“Here, here, Hiram. You’re being very brave. Here’s some fresh orange juice. See the straw? Sip while you catch your breath.”

It took a while before the boy abandoned the straw.

“There’s more you want to tell, isn’t there?”

He nodded vigorously but remained silent.

The gentle voice said softly, “It’s all right. Whenever you’re ready. It’s about that man, isn’t it? The bad one?”

Another nod, less convincing.

“Do I have to say it out loud?”

“I think you can. You’re being very grown-up. I’m so impressed.”

Hiram closed his eyes, found control, and spoke as fast as he could, “One time when he was makin’ me suck ’im, he put his hand down my pants ’n’ tried to push his finger in my butt but I bit him ’n’ he slapped me hard ’n’ grabbed my head ’n’ crammed his dick in my mouth ’n’ yelled he was gonna fuck me but he didn’t get to ’cause Mom told him she wouldn’t let me be any competition for her ’n’ he hadda fuck ’er right then.”

“Is that all?”

Hiram blinked, sucked his straw. “When Mom was asleep, he came in my room ’n’ said he’d be back when she wasn’t there ’n’ get me good ’cause I was sexy like Mom - only he didn’t, ’cause a day or two later he had her so messed up she died.” He swallowed a sob. “I hadda call 9-1-1.”

“How do you feel about the man now?”

The screen flickered again, its image grainy, but a childlike, anguished voice rasped, “I hope Carlton has to choke on a big dick and get fucked – hard.”

“Turn that off,” said the judge whose eyes glared at O’Keefe, “and, officer, produce the accuser.” Her right arm pointed across the room.

The door opened and the Prosecutor spoke out, “Come in, please, Hiram.”

A boy in the same blue shirt, looking slightly larger than he had appeared on-screen, took tentative steps, stopped dead when he saw the naked man, screamed in panic – “That’s him!” – and ran hysterically back through the door.

A few dazzling, disorienting seconds for the accused, standing naked, defenseless.

Gaveled into silence, the room’s occupants – the accused particularly – stood frozen.

“Carlton Moseley O’Keefe,” the judge intoned with clenched jaw, pointing her gavel at him, “your guilt has been established beyond doubt. You compromised the safety and well-being of a child by your threats and actions. You endangered and, we do not doubt, traumatized said child. Upon at least two occasions, you grossly forced him to commit oral sodomy upon your person and intended to rape his immature anus. You may have contributed to his Mother’s death, but that is not the heinous issue before this court. You are forthwith sentenced to twenty-four hours of our severest custodial treatment for your inexcusably self-centered violations of a boy’s virginity and the maiming of his undeveloped emotions.”

The gavel crashed.

Within seconds, O’Keefe found himself facing himself in the examination room mirror, face masked by confusion, arms manacled tightly – widely to either side – and felt something invidious at his ass. Whatever it was being crammed through his sphincter, he cursed in pain so loudly that the locked-up man – hideously orange jumpsuit visible via the mirror – woke up.

“What the fuck’s going on? I can’t sleep if he’s yelling like that.”

“Mind your own goddam business. This guy’s a rapist.”

“I want out of here. I’m sobered up.”

As the spiral-form dildo made unlubricated mayhem inside O’Keefe’s resisting ass, the man heard the exchange between one of the officers and the orange-clad prisoner take a rapid twist.

“You ever seen a guy get fucked?

Shock raised the response level: “That’s not what you’re doing to him. That’s torture. I want out. Out of here!”

The two policemen conferred beyond earshot. One spoke crudely, “You want out early? Show us your hard-on.” He walked over, reached through the bars, and grabbed what he knew was there. “Yeah, that’ll do. I’ll gitcha some grease. You fuck him and we’ll let you go early for good behavior.”

The one screwing the dildo into O’Keefe observed the deal being made, let go, stood in place, glanced at the cell being unlocked and at the cock jutting from the jumpsuit’s fly, smiled as his colleague Officer Stockton brought the tough-looking, apparently bruised Asian across the room. Quite a thug he seemed, despite overall slimness.

“He’s a Chink!” the new prisoner revealed his racism.

Once behind the bound man, prisoner Ting growled. “I’ll take that grease,” he said as ominously as he could.

“Pull the dildo out and give him a jab.”

Ting ripped away the black rubber object, smiled crookedly at the loud vocal protest, and guided his slicked six inches directly into the vacancy, throwing back his head as he began to thrust. The faster he went, the closer drew the two officers to O’Keefe’s tense, crazed body. One’s hand circled its testicles, the other’s seized its penis; both pulled.

“You’re liking this, you pervert.”

Ting, pumping wildly, spewed out, “I’m gonna cum!”

“Not in him, you’re not. Pull out. Pull out! Pull out now!”

Ting’s squirts splashed heartily to O’Keefe’s naked back and dribbled down.

“Put that thing back in him. Yeah. Like that. Now get cleaned up and claim your clothes from the Warden. Tell him to meet us in Interrogation. He’ll sign your release. And don’t you be drinking like that again or you might find out what this feels like.”

To uneasy silence, the manacles were unlocked and O’Keefe forced to don the pink jumpsuit he regrettably had rejected. At least I’ll be warmer.His arms were taken firmly before he was whisked through another door, cracking a toe sharply on its jamb. In pain, he encountered an older, Jewish-looking man near the room’s simple oak table – He’s rubbing himself! – and the stern Prosecutor.

“Officers, fasten the convict’s wrists to his legs at the knees with these.” The Jew gave them some leather objects linked by short chains. Wrists received the smaller bands which buckled securely, knee areas the larger bands in similar fashion. Clasps did the rest.

Thus bent, the hapless man was compelled awkwardly to an oak stool facing the table’s narrow end, but a few feet away, and seated roughly on his dildo.

He clenched his teeth at the burn inside as the other men angled chairs at the table to take their places. The damned Jew’s still feeling himself.

The Prosecutor adjusted his silk tie, eyeing the naked anger before him. “Our Court heard testimony that you forced oral sodomy on unwilling male child. Little boy. Do…you…admit to that?”

Heissome kind of Russian. “No, I did not. This whole thing is a travesty. I insist….”

“You insist nothing. Shut up. Mr. Cohen here to help you remember. Mr. Cohen, is for you.”

Cohen rose, unzipped his pants, and effortfully extracted his engorging, circumcised penis. He stepped around to sit back on the end of the table, and, working one hand up and down, beckoned, smiling, to the trussed man in pink before him.

“You like size?” the Prosecutor asked. “Is same as yours in proportion to boy’s mouth. Suck.”

Indignant, Carlton started, “I’m not going to suck that Jew’s….”

Strong hands took hold and shoved the furious, bent-over man to his feet, his face directly against the beer-can-thick, purple-tipped, awful looking, Semite’s pride. “Open or else we’ll do it for you,” he was threatened.

The dreadful organ nearly poked one of Carlton’s eyes and did push abruptly at his desperate nostrils. He tightened his jaw muscles and his lips when the glans tried to get in. Through his jumpsuit, an officer twisted the spiral dildo causing an outburst. That noise was instantly replaced by choking sounds as the man’s tongue was depressed, the roof of his mouth raked, his uvula tested, his air cut off….

He fought. He lost. The detestable, laughing Jew had his head and was moving it back and forth hardly allowing any gasp for breath. The dildo was being twisted contrarily. O’Keefe felt crazy – because the scene was beginning to make his kind of sense. They’re raping me.He was getting turned on…when his oral attack stopped.

“You admit now?”

Confusion wracked his brain. Only a headshake in denial.

To his horror, the jumpsuit was ripped apart at the seams and torn away, exposing his body again.

“Okay. You get more. This time we mean it.”

The goddam Russian. Why’s this happening to me? I paid for….

Convulsions in his helpless throat and fierce action in his burning ass matched what was building in his groin. Someone’s finger snapped his balls on Cohen’s signal that his to be fun-filled, nasty moment had come. Pain arrested Carlton’s excitement. Ejaculate coated his throat, all over his mouth, then his face where it was rubbed. Where the dildo had been – he hadn’t realized its removal – yearned. It wanted more. Craved! Out of his control.

His Damn! was silent.

That instant of reverie cost him a slap. A hard one.

“Pay attention, stupid fool,” the Prosecutor leveled. “Mouth need learn lesson. Stay open.”

Attention was impossible, Carlton’s leg muscles were hurting from their enforced bent stance. “Please,” he plead, “let me….”

“Let you nothing. Open, then you find out what happen.”

A different, stubby, wide dildo almost dislocated his tongue when it was strapped to his head, stopping all speech. He could breathe at least. But his legs….

An officer’s voice – he no longer could tell them apart – told him to make it to the table, to place his chest as far forward as his fastenings would allow. In this new position, Carlton’s toes barely touched the floor. Remaining rags were pulled through his bindings. His stuffed mouth secreted saliva alarmingly but at least his leg muscles twitched in some relief.

A door opened. The Jew must be leaving. Others, too. He dared a swiveled look. He could only see the first of two men – young men. One, lank-limbed and lean with brown hair; the other, solidly-built with kinky black hair and dark chocolate skin. Both dirty. They entered, the first with an industrial broom, his follower with a feather duster. They nearly collided with the departing three.

A lank-limbed, lean man dressed as a janitor swept his way in with an industrial broom, nearly running into the other men. “Sorry,” the taller said, with no notice of Carlton’s compromised position, “I thought the room was empty.”

“No problem. We’re taking a break. You guys want to stick your tools’ handles up that guy’s ass?’ he pointed. “He ain’t going nowhere.”

Lon craned his neck. Félix, a smile on his thick lips, stared. For fun, he pretended to dust Lon’s backside.

The police walked out.

O’Keefe made efforts with his toes. No purchase. His heart pounded as the janitor unscrewed the broom handle and approached with it, limping slightly.

“Look at you,” his husky voice rose. “Trussed like a turkey. Your hole been stuffed yet? This…” – he tested with a finger – “…looks buttered.” Several times, he prodded the area.

Impotent with rage at being pierced, thoroughly humiliated, O’Keefe noised incoherently. Reality hit him. He could sigh to himself, It’s not the wood pole. It’s his dick.Smooth fucking soothed him. Not bad. Oh, God. I’m getting hard.

For his personal pleasure, Lon rode the man steadily. Comments such as “lousy, rich ass” and “worthless shit” needled O’Keefe. Minutes passed before Lon raised his rate and spasmed quickly. The abrupt incident caught his victim off-guard.

Muffled protests…of frustrated desire.

Out of sight behind the action, Félix spoke, alarming the prisoner. “When’s my turn.”

“Sorry, buddy. I’ll pull this out so you can get his butt.”

Stepping forward, the young black spat at the reddened target and pushed – not the frankfurter-shaped handle he held but his personal, throbbing tool, exclaiming in excitement, “This honkey’s butt’s hot!” Speech pattern, low-life and crude.

O’Keefe nearly threw his neck out of joint trying to get a confirming glance. “Enough!” he yelled, “You’re a Nigger!”

“Yeah, and you’re fuckin’ white trash to me.” He plowed as hard as he might a cotton field. “Trash, jes’ common trash,” he said over and over.

That fuck, followed by the duster’s handle being thrust deep, left O’Keefe seething in outraged fury, his fast grunts of pain renting the air. Feathers sprouting from his butt. Lon laughed, “Like a damn turkey. Told ya he was ready for stuffing!”

At that moment, both police officers reentered.

“He deserved it,” one said emphatically.

The other, “Good job. You two can go. Put your broom back together. Hey, and take this stinky tailpiece.” He added, seeing Lon’s limp, “And mind your ankle.”

Officer “Stockton” noted the boys’ departure. Swiftly, he made a complete circuit of the table, passing the prey’s line of sight, checking its body and its sweat, the remnants of sperm on the man’s nearly dry back, the pooling spittle under his mouth, the restraints around his head, to his legs and wrists. He stared at O’Keefe’s twitchy face to demand, “Confess now to your crime. The Prosecutor’s waiting.”

The gargles had to be taken as Carlton’s refusal. Something resembling, “I…didn’t…do…it,” came out indistinctly but stubbornly.

*

What he saw on the surveillance screen impressed The Birchfield Farm’s usually impassive CEO, Alan Ecks. This is really good. Worth driving down for.He blinked, his thoughts turning analytical. Impressive how they used Randy-James’ kid’s counseling session with Cosmo’s impersonation of the boy. Mike must have spliced in the part accusing O’Keefe by name. That was when the film jumped. And when Cosmo popped in to yell, that was brilliant.

Ecks leaned forward to peer at the surveillance feed as another camera’s view appeared. Let’s see how completely O’Keefe gets what the next surprises bring – and his money’s worth. A phrase he had recently written came to him – “Our eco-system front provides delusive semblances of desired realities.” He inclined toward the monitor.

*

Vasily Naplekov straightened his shoulders and buttoned his suit in readiness. His swept-back, graying hair and combed moustache gave him a vaguely Stalinesque appearance. Arms crossed, a scowl on his brow, he held his ground as the prisoner, naked, unbound, was shuffled in. Eyeing the bewildered man, who tried to stand still, he said, “No cooperation. No confession. Comes first, both. Maybe mercy later, you show remorse.”

O’Keefe caught the sinister undertone and tried a hoarse protest, “I’m not into little boys. You have me confused….”

A slap stopped him in mid-sentence.

“You like to fuck woman, only you go for boy, too. Evidence in courtroom and child know you.”

Stymied, O’Keefe watched as a burly, unshaven man, the size of a footballer, entered. He wore a uniform unlike the officers’. A military-style khaki shirt closely fitted his upper body bulges; pants, moss green, strained over thick thighs. On his shirt, a label: WARDEN.

What now?

Eyed unsympathetically by the silent Warden, O’Keefe’s uneasiness crept higher. Cock and scrotum shrank. He shivered.

“That’s a rapist?” Bass voice, as if from a dark, empty hall.

“Tried and convicted. No confession – yet.”

“You, come with me.” Deeper still. Worse, “Degenerate.”

Baffled by the Warden’s tattooed, beefy arm pointing to the door and that no one had seized him, O’Keefe took a tentative step in that direction. The Prosecutor moved back. Clearly, the expectation was for unforced cooperation.

Maybe….

The darkened space offered a small lamp-table beside a padded armchair and, hard to make out, a sort of sofa in leather opposite. A single, unidentifiable picture on the gun-metal gray wall. Perhaps a reception area for the office door beyond. A door painted black.

From nowhere, a glass of orange juice was offered by the Warden along with, “You look like you could use this. Here, sit.”

O’Keefe did, relieved – until the Warden’s eyes told him in mid-swig that something was going to happen.

“Finish it off, while you can.”

“It’s enough, I think.” He tried to return the remainder.

The subterranean voice carried menace, “When you’re finished, it will be.”

He drank, his vision adjusting to the gloom. The framed thing on the wall was a scene from Dante’s Inferno, an uncolored engraving of tortured bodies writhing.

“Turn on the lamp,” the Warden directed.

Such light as the low-watt bulb emitted was red. It cast the big man in an absurd, eerie, hot glow. O’Keefe might have laughed had the Warden not begun to stroke himself – personally, seriously.

“What are you looking around for? You want to suck my dick.”

Shock opened O’Keefe’s eyes and mouth. He gaped at the coming threat, a weeping red eye emerging from its cowl of wrinkly flesh. At its smell, he recoiled only to cry with pain as powerful fingers clasped his ears and pulled.

His gagging could be heard in the adjoining room. “He hasn’t thrown up the orange juice,” Rockwell, ear against the door, murmured to Vas. “Tempest’s dying down.” Then, “Maybe our Warden is taming him.”

O’Keefe could neither protest nor throw up. The pressure holding him in place was too great. Movement was impossible. He had been petrified by words that reached no ears other than his own: “Your throat’s better than pussy. I could fuck it all day, sweetie. You give in now – you hear me – and give it up to me. You do, and I’ll go easy on you. See? Like that. That’s the way. I’ll let you rest. Just keep your mouth open. Let your tongue be flat. Breathe. Yeah. We are going to be good together. Out there,” he kinked his head, “they won’t know. You and me. Here I come. No, don’t do that or I’ll have to hurt you. My thumbs are going to let you swallow some. See? Be good to me, I’m good to you. Breathe.”

Flattened from being pushed into unmercifully, O’Keefe’s uvula had continued its secretions but abandoned its role in triggering the gag reflex. The back of his throat was now numb home to the Warden’s flared cockhead. Resistance, gone. The only part of O’Keefe to be active – with a mind of its own – stood between his legs. His penis. Hard, it searched, strained for contact with anything but found nothing. Below, trapped between the victim’s legs, his balls remained blocked. Manic desire to come spasmed O’Keefe’s head, tongue, throat and esophagus all at once bringing on the Warden’s fierce explosions of bitter ejaculate and a loud curse.

“You bitch!"

*

The shouted expletive sounded several doors away. Heads came to attention as far as Mike Manleigh’s improvised makeup and costume room. Nearly ready, swishy Sam, jewels fixed to his ear lobes, stepped aside for Ahmed, who slipped into place before the lighted mirror to accept Mike’s cosmetic work on his face. The three smirked their understanding as Sam donned the rest of his slave outfit and Uldis looked in quizzically from the hall, “What was that?” In his hands and fresh from Mama back in the costume room, a long, white silk garment and a handful of colorful necklaces.

“Our Warden, Belamy, at his boomiest,” Sam answered.

Mike grinned, “Remember how he did King Henry’s St. Crispin’s Day speech?”

Ahmed, a puff dusting his chest with gold powder, recalled, “A whole army could have heard that. Didn’t X say he heard it in Chicago?”

“All right boys,” Mike called order, “back to business. Schedule’s running close.”

*

Ecks’ vision focused on O’Keefe being thrown akimbo across the Chesterfield and attacked, one leg on the floor, the other bent at the knee. The nameless Warden’s broad back, aglow with red, blocked anything but the view of his muscled buttocks cycling back and forth with dynamo efficiency. O’Keefe’s rhythmic “I’m-sorry-I’m sorry-I’m sor…” sounded miserable.

Good thing Belamy hadn’t had a client the last couple of days. He recovered quick enough to overwhelm this one.Ecks shuffled through Trainer Randy-James’ event outline to make certain the next move.

It came. O’Keefe, stuck on the Warden’s cock, was lifted, supported in midair as his impaler turned around, and, facing the hidden camera, forced to sit hard. Red clarity emphasized his excitement, erection and scrotum tight. He wanted to come but strong arms restrained him as with chains. Motion was impossible.

In an instant, Officer Stockton walked in, took a sarcastic look at the hapless man, pulled from his pocket a black strap with a hard rubber boss on it, secured it under and around O’Keefe’s raging organs, and told the Warden, “You can come now. He can’t. Make him feel you.”

Rage coursed through O’Keefe’s whole body as it was bounced up and down, pummeling his rectum. With eyes rolled up and tongue lolling, he was raped to exhaustion of all but awareness of the cock in his ass firing its loads.

*

Next O’Keefe knew in his growing, desired shame, another face, inches away, was staring through his watery blinks.

“Coming around, are you?” a young man’s voice asked smoothly. “I’m here to prepare you for a dose of exquisite vengeance available only here in our setting. You deserve no less, a human of such low order. In your vileness, you’ve opened yourself to a judgement which nothing can prevent.”

The words being spoken hardly registered. He caught the gist and looked with effort at the mobile features of the beardless, curly-headed blond. He’s so handsome. What’s that around his neck? A leather band? Crystal jewels in his ear lobes!

The thoughts brought perception of his bound-up sex. A finger to his lips stifled effort to say something. “You mustn’t speak. I have barely enough time to cleanse your body. Lie back and let me work or His Excellency’s little whip will tear your flesh – and mine. See?” The beautiful young man drew back so that thin red lines in close stripes across his pectorals and their gold-ringed nipples came into O’Keefe’s brief, horrified view. The whisper, as he was laid out, came – a single, “Please.”

He closed his eyes for damp cloths to wipe his face and neck. Damper ones containing some delicate scent stroked shoulders, arms, hands, chest, stomach; others – Sponges? – were applied to his feet and legs before being lavished gently to his aroused, hypersensitive scrotum and penis. Something was spread over the tip. “Turn on your side, please…. Face down….” A hand prevented O’Keefe’s erection from being trapped uncomfortably. “My, you’re dirty and stinky. And this part’s all puffy. I’ll take care of that first. The salve needs a minute or two.”

A finger rubbed the area softly, something cool injected. He suspected another enema. An object followed, fitted right away. “Shhh…don’t dislodge it. And don’t mind the tassel hanging down. It’s gold thread and really shines. His Excellency requires slaves to wear them. A sign of status.”

Fear of what he had gotten himself into was allayed by the gentle sponging he received.

“Sit up now so I can attach this.” A fine gold chain with small clamps at each end.

He drew two sharp breaths, but managed to keep silent.

“Come with me and kneel on that cushion. I must light candles. Quickly. That way. Lower your head. Don’t look at His Excellency.”

Yellowish light glowed on satiny bed covers. Midnight blue, they looked nearly black.

Sounds of feet padded in and stopped.

“Is he marked?”

“No, Excellency.” The tone, extremely deferential.

“Is he plugged?”

“Yes, Excellency, as you like.”

“I will see. Bring a candle. Hold it close. Not much to look at, is he?”

“Alas, Excellency.”

“His servitude?”

“An hour, to be reckoned by the candle burning to here.”

“Allow a little tallow to fall on his shoulders. Careful! Don’t spill much or I’ll coat you later,” the voice threatened meaningfully.

The hot wax stung. O’Keefe jolted as two fingers lifted his chin. Before him a cruel countenance, exotic in color, almond-shaped eyes outlined for emphasis in black, cheekbones angled, nose high-bridged, chin sharp, nostrils in broad flair, mouth a sneer showing the upper row of teeth like an animal.

“I have come a long way for this.”

His Excellency, an olive-skinned young man of perfect proportions, wore a bounty of jeweled necklaces and a floor-length djeballah of white silk so sheer as to be virtually transparent. Without breaking his glare at O’Keefe, he ordered, “Bring my nails.”

As talons of gold were slipped like rings to every one of his ten fingertips, he observed the man’s jaw dropping, “That is right. Open. It is your mouth that will pay homage to me.” That uttered, the slave boy rushed to undo buttons and to part the garment’s seam to reveal, from its densely clustered pubic hair, his master’s hang and its relaxed genitals.

O’Keefe saw the golden tassel shaking between the slave’s buttocks and waist-string connected to the pouch cinching into a small package his sex – before gaping further at the sight he was to service. I can do this if I have to. As he contemplated the task, he considered, It might not be so bad after those others.

Heavily lidded eyes contracted with concentration. “Well?”

The flaccid sex was more than a foot from O’Keefe’s head. Behind him, the slave whispered, “Stay on the cushion. Lean forward. I’ll hold your wrists back here. You won’t fall. Put your tongue out.”

“You dare hesitate?”

A warning from the slave, “Do it or he’ll really hurt you.”

O’Keefe’s knees felt the pressure of his inclining body. Nose met hair, tongue lapped uncertainly.

“Suck it in, you fool.”

Cold metal points touched his face. He sucked. Soft inches filled his mouth without response. O’Keefe breathed in effort. Talons dragged at his jaw. Eyes tightly shut, brain aflame with anxiety, he tongued and sucked like a calf. The mass began to react, veins first. Secretions made him swallow. Expanding flesh followed. He choked. Saliva flowed. Soft palate recoiled against the invader with spasms which excited the organ and conjured something resembling a sigh of pleasure from above.

Throaty, it preceded the command, “Spread him. I will bestow my blessing.”

In total confusion, O’Keefe was pushed face to the carpet, pillow nudged beneath his heaving stomach, tasseled plug tugged roughly through his sphincter. Nipple clamps against the carpet’s weft brought instant awareness of forgotten pain. His nose and cheek felt rough, wooly nubs left by the weavers.

“His Excellency will honor your ass. Be deserving,” he was alerted.

What have I gotten myself into? They rebooted Le Grand Guignol?

Nothing so shocking. Far from it. Force was not exerted. The phallus tip simply lodged at the site, wet and expectant.

“What? You do not welcome me? Were you not properly prepared?”

O’Keefe heard the slave shudder. His panicky thought – to aid the slave – was to lift his pelvis and its swollen tissue up and onto….

The thrust, a single penetrating slide that bottomed out to a whoosh of air, took away his own breath. Impact abraded his bone-hard penis against the carpet. Golden claws wrapped O’Keefe’s shoulders. The drives began. From depths, almost out, then back. Regular, like a piston, and as mechanically aloof.

Thrilled by his treatment as an object – a mere socket, perhaps – O’Keefe gloried in His Excellency’s impersonally perfect moves. Even his toes tingled. Flabby deltoids stung at the dig of claws.

Without intention, his body began to respond with slight counter motions.

A malevolent hiss – “You presume to influence me?” – canceled his joy. He gave way like warm jelly. Ridden as if by right, ground into, hammered, and heated by the bizarre event, he lost his previous train of rationality. A mental veil descended to obscure thought. The relentless fuck and personal frustration re-combined slowly in Carlton Moseley O’Keefe’s complicated mind to allow a new realization.

This is better! I can do nothing about it.

His emotionally abnormal lust soared, craving orgasm, but his groin’s strap prevented bodily release. Acutely aware then of the powerlessness of rape victims and reveling in being one, he lay inert, nerves on edge. Juddering, he shed all pretense under the repeated impact of His Excellency’s lynx-like, pelvic flexions. Such faculties of mind and sense as he regained in time he focused on their coition’s growing vibrancy. Earlier agitation gave place to enthrallment at the force he could absorb through total surrender. Marveled, too, at the unknown excitement coursing through his consciousness – until it was no longer there. Its light had gone out.

Dimly heard, a shrill pitch had rent the air. Something said about “my rose water.”

Shufflings.

I’m – what? Vacant.

*

O’Keefe came to in a white room. He had no idea the location was the basement of The BirchfieldFarm’s Police Station. Aware by stages of being tended to by a young man wearing a hospital attendant’s uniform, he glanced at, then studied features which seemed familiar. Before he could recognize Samuel’s distinctive features, he was told, “I’ve salved your anodermal junction, sir. A quick-acting medication. The tablet under your tongue? Ah, yes. Let it dissolve slowly. Don’t smack your lips together or you’ll mess up the treatment there. This…” – he held up the hated black leather tie and looked it over carefully – “…hasn’t suffered,” he said, articulating each syllable unduly, with a slight lisp. “Oh, I see it was buckled in the tightest position. Weren’t you the lucky one?”

What a goddam faggoty queen! Disgusting!

“Sir, don’t thrash around now. I just need to put this on and we’re almost done. That’s a sweetie.”

A blindfold? What the….

Shoes of some sort were slipped on his bare feet and he was stood, otherwise quite naked. His parts dangled free.

He heard, “Come in officers. I’ve got him all ready.”

*

Those same strong hands taking my elbows. Guess, by now, they know I’m obedient.

“No talking, remember? You can nod your head but no talking.”

He nodded.

They prodded. Down a hall and through a door that was quietly closed. Low-volume organ music made a curious background to O’Keefe’s being garbed in sort some of tight harness, he thought, about his chest and, it seemed, a floor-length, light-weight robe. A cap, he guessed, placed to cover his head. More damn tassels?The warmth was nice.

“Hold this in front of your outfit just like that and stand still.”

Someone arrived to stand beside him.

“Smile, you two.”

A camera clicked. “One more, as backup.”

Click.

“We’ll leave you two.” With some sarcasm, “Now have a good time, y’hear.”

The strongest, biggest arm of the day reached behind O’Keefe’s waist, pulled him into cocooned closeness; a matching arm clasped the back of his head, directed it against a massive chest, moved up to stroke his cap. Through the wig’s blonde tresses came a manly baritone voice, “Darling, I’ve waited so long for this sacred moment.”

In tandem with a rising thickness felt through the layers of cloth separating them, the sentence caught O’Keefe more off-guard than the janitor’s treatment of him. Blindfold in place, he could not see the man so firmly containing his struggle. But fight he did.

“What are you doing?” He snarled in disgust, “I’m not a woman!”

“I thought you’d be shy. A virgin and all. You….” The voice’s caressing tone broke off. Muscular lips crushed his own. A tongue forced its way through with the effect of an unwanted erection, one mobile and searching so snakily, deeply, he thought he would gag. Wild to escape, O’Keefe fought instinctively but ineffectively, hopelessly overpowered and overcome by the wily man.

Seconds later, hiked off the floor, he was told, “I’ll do everything;” thrown to a bed with, “Don’t worry;” and admonished sternly, “This is about love.” More panicky seconds – without contact. Rustlings of clothes being removed, enough time for him to rip away his blindfold and to stare.

The apparition, which loomed at bedside in the room’s available light, was of a champion, a bronzed man of athletic breadth, lean to the point that every muscle rose with the articulation of a medical chart, and in mid-center at the junction of mighty legs, a whopper of a cock standing proud as a trophy.

In disbelief, O’Keefe blinked to open his eyes upward. On the ceiling, a mirror! He saw himself – blonde hair, blushed cheeks, tomato-red lipstick – in a wedding dress of white satin and, on his feet, matching slippers. Stymied worse than during his frightful encounter with the Warden, he gaped, mortified.

The great figure’s handsome Tonto-like face smiled, “See how beautiful you are. And see my desire.” Honeyed tones and the heft in one hand of the astonishing erection accompanied a rapid move over O’Keefe’s satin-covered body. “First these, my dearest,” he said, ripping open the gown’s front. Revealed: a shapely pair of well-filled, pink brassiere cups, rising and falling with O’Keefe’s fevered breathing. “Ah,” he sighed, pressing them into O’Keefe’s sensitive chest.

Nipples, which had suffered His Excellency’s clamps, hurt worse under the new abrasion. O’Keefe’s mouth parted to begin a yell, only to invite more smothering kisses. Arms and legs tossed hands and feet in protest. Not for an instant could it register with him that this giant man was a Native-American. The gown’s slippery satin allowed the “husband” a dramatic opportunity to rise over and to descend, cock first, between his would-be bride’s thrashing knees. Shunted up, the satin skirt bared O’Keefe’s thighs but covered his flopping sex. There was no getting-away. He was…going…to…be…raped.

Sudden realization struck him as smartly as if he had been snapped by His Excellency’s whip. He’s raping me. Oh my God…. Adrenalin flushed his blood. Wondrous, his entire being throbbed with life. The vast cock bore in. Misaimed, it drove hard past O’Keefe’s prostate and wrought re-alignment by its sweep to all of his frenzied rectum. It brought unpredictable jerks, raised hairs on electrified skin, caused thrills of hurt, settled into an introductory pace that soothed its way, coerced from O’Keefe reactions of compliance, aroused his satin-draped sex. Between gasps and closed eyes, the ceiling’s mirror allowed glimpses of the primal beauty of a god-like back and buttocks cycling to bore emphatically.

Cringes became sighs.

“See?” the velvety voice questioned, as the fuck continued. “I’ve met the challenges of your virtue the way a man does with a desirable woman – by love.”

Captured as he was between the mounting pleasure derived from coupling with so incredible a specimen of manhood and awful thoughts about being taken for an example of womanhood, O’Keefe blurted, “I am not a woman!”

The background organ music faded imperceptibly. The room lay silent, its occupants unmoving.

Pinioned to the bed, skewered to his navel, his legs held high, O’Keefe opened his eyes at his “husband” – flame-faced – who shrank from him, frowned, pulled off the blond wig, smeared the lipstick, tore to shreds the brassiere, and spat. “Imposter,” he leveled through tight-stretched lips. Equally coldly, “I recognize you. You’re that boy’s molester.” A face in conflict with itself frightened the quaking former ‘bride.’ With no emotion, the man’s face stared down, hardened into a mask; his buried cock re-grew its surpassing might of width and length. What had been used as a tool for loving was processing to a weapon which promised real harm. Both seemed to know it at the same time.

Danger, now at its most intense, informed O’Keefe’s body. He croaked sadly, “I never did anything to that boy. It is must have….”

The roar did justice to some distant jungle, “You deserve no love! You…” – his legs were jack-knifed cruelly – “…deserve punishment!

Light in the room changed from benign softness to harsh orange. Transformed, the once-strikingly handsome, smiling man who had attempted to woo him with smiles and cajolery had turned contemptuous. By intent. O’Keefe was in for the rape of his life’s wildest fantasy.

Fresh spit fell on his brow and cheeks, was licked about, and followed by a barrage of more, and thwacks that brought embarrassing twists of protest; bites to his neck keyed violent stirrings deep below; crushing thrusts, surges of arousal. Nerves thrummed in conformity with ruthless brutality’s rhythmic waves. As he was being raked in and out, O’Keefe’s mental capacity steamed with bewilderment. His cries, somewhere between condemnation and celebration – impossible to tell exactly - kindled the flash-fire of his attacker’s desire to provide. Strokes, modified and timed judiciously over minutes, ferreted the most appreciative noises. So acute were the sensations of being sounded beyond any previous depth that O’Keefe lost grip of his consciousness on instrokes but regained it on outstrokes, lost himself between pendular swings of mind and body that burned not flesh but soul.

Climax came clamorously to both as attacker and attacked arrived together with quenchingly cathartic clarity at their ultimate moment – and managed to live through receding anguishes of squeezed and released muscles, half-strangled breaths, fading tumescence, ebbing heat.

*

O’Keefe woke exhausted in what appeared to be a hotel room. Before he could think of getting out of bed, his eyes drifted blearily around at the well-placed, spotless furnishings, saw the gleaming white bathroom, and eventually landed on a legal-size manilla envelope edged under the door. That looked curious enough to warrant bending over and reaching for it.

A Court Document. I’m declared a free man having served my sentence. Signed – illegibly – in maroon by the Prosecuter, and in black by the Judge. A smile crossed his lips. What’s this underneath? A menu. Ah, the Hotel Shellman – I’m in it. And where the fuck are my clothes?

Once up, he discovered the clothes, fresh, in a closet, assayed himself in the full-length mirror, showered, checked his body for tell-tale signs of talon points, saw none, dressed, found his way down the stairs, was greeted – “Good day, sir.” – by the desk man, Charles, and directed toward the restaurant where there waited a bright-faced young man wearing a uniform labeled: WADE - Let Me Serve You.

*

Coffee and food behind him and carrying both his court order and complimentary copy of theWall Street Journal, a glowing Carlton Moseley O’Keefe relocated his rented car, turned on the ignition, backed out, and started to exit.

Coming down the road in a cloud of dust was a brown Range Rover which slowed slightly as it passed. The passenger, a small boy looked his way then turned as the vehicle went by.

Was that? – what’s-his-name – Hiram!

Aware as never before of the celebrations in his mind and rectum, O’Keefe’s expression became smug as he headed to the highway.

I wonder what they’ll accuse me of doing to him next time.

Also on gaydemon: THE ALEXIA CHRONICLES

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