The Man Who Got What He Wanted

Bill hadn't sold himself to Big Jim, not exactly. Those familiar with the agreement said it was closer to the “rent-to-own” kind of arrangement with incremental payments made when demanded and Bill knew just when to demand them. To say he was avaricious is to state the obvious and you could toss in cupidity, stupidity and being just fucking hot. To some it was a beatable package but to Big Jim it seemed about right but then he had notoriously low taste in a certain kind of men though his friends knew him to be one of the kindest, most thoughtful guys around. You had a trouble, problem? Big Jim was probably slipping into his size twelve boots to come to your aid, your comfort or to bail you out: He was an equal opportunity friend. In short, he and Bill were Polar opposites and even those who knew them well just walked away, shaking their heads in confusion. They assumed he was getting what he was paying for even if what he was paying for could have, in other circumstances, been rented by the hour, the evening, the day or the weekend. Take your pick.

What only discriminating friends did know was that Big Jim, or BJ as he was usually called, liked his sex excessivly rough, could give as well as take and that's what was expected. He wanted you to fight him off, he wanted to thrash you, he wanted you to pummel him and, maybe if the cards fell a certain way, he'd get your ass or, alternatively, you'd get his. As close to forced rape as possible and still stay consenting. Either way was fine with him, it was the hyper-aggressive foreplay that he was after. The sex could be brutal but it was the natural  follow up to the fight before it. Then things changed, after the fucking was done then he was perfectly content to cuddle up, bruises and all, with his former combatant in a warm bed after a long, hot steam shower during which he'd probably sucked his play buddy off which made Bill custom tailored for this roll of play buddy. Indeed, few were as well equipped, a mean streak guaranteed a fight, fair or not, and his permanent sense of dominance would not let him lose other than to a superior fighter...which he wouldn’t acknowledge existed. As in all matters, he knew what he wanted, would get it and losing wasn’t on his ‘to do’ list.

A failed wannabe pro wrestler, his body was an explosion of muscles, ligaments, veins  and furrows that added up to a gym built body of the best possible sort, the kind that oozed strength but never got to the point of being a caricature in muscle. He knew what he looked like as it was what he wanted, had worked to have. Never one to let a set back stop him, he decided that since the chance of publicity died when the wrestling promoter, who knew a bad thing-his temperament was bigger than a full back tattoo-when he saw it, told him, “Hell, No”, he acted on several offers he'd had over time just to find what his going rate might be and, he was pleased to discover, it was high. Indeed some guys would pay just to kneel and pay homage to this muscled stud who was perfectly happy to be worshiped; It was what he did to himself so having a choir-so to speak-to back him up was first class to him. As was the money. You could not pay him too much money. Never, ever.

Mae West said, “When a woman goes bad, men go right after her” and the reverse is equally true; As soon as it was known that Bill had gone bad-some said he’d never been good so knowing he’d gone bad was a hard trick to play- men went right after him and, they soon found, that the keys to the castle were hundred dollar bills, wads of them. (One denied potential patron said that the arrogant ass wanted a C note just to drop into a Starbucks for a coffee. Clearly, there was no sale.) He never suggested a price list, although he thought about it, but he made in clear in very basic English that even to open negotiations you'd better be prepared to start in the low thousands and that might, just might, get you a picnic and a hand job. You gave him the hand job, brought the picnic and were to consider yourself lucky for the privilege.

Of course, not everyone was on the same path as Bill but at his prices, he could let the less expensive tricks have those not willing to pay his exorbitant rates. Somehow he'd figured out that the more you charged the more in demand you might be, sort of like two competing steaks, looked the same, tasted the same but you were buying the sizzle on one that the other didn't quite have. Particularly when the product was obvious and the few reports were glowing. So a few threw in the ante and then the towel depending on their level of desire plus showing their credit rating. Oh, and beyond the fees, gifts were cheerfully accepted and he had a list of things that, when given to him, got you preferential treatment although what that might have meant was anyone's guess. Whatever it was, the Corvette, the drawer full of very expensive watches, the diamond studs in his ears, the closets full of clothes (generally custom made, even if in questionable taste), the paid for town house, these were a testament to his ability to market what any male hooker had for sale. Just not to everyone. Oh, and for all the goodies he wanted, he knew in advance what their cash surrender value was which meant that he’d demand something for which he had no use but, in advance of receiving it, had a ready purchaser.

BJ came from a long line of gentlemen farmers who, some generations back, had the good fortune to have oil discovered in the North Forty, the South Forty, near the hay barn and adjacent to, but not in, the main cattle pond. He cultivated the hayseed culture and image as his father had which allowed the suckers to come to him assuming he was stump dumb and could be had in any business transaction. Few knew that he was a graduate of the Wharton School of Business (eschewing his father's Alma Mater, Stanford) and could figure the price of anything, down to the ounce of West Texas Sweet Crude, in his head so figuring out what Bill cost was a matter of one synapse and a good laugh.

In fact, BJ was the one client Bill had overtly solicited but, oddly, had never been able to entice. Not that BJ didn't have affairs, lots of them, but they always seldom lasted for more than one or two nights-and a visit to an emergency room to be checked over-but, improbably,  they all remained good friends. To the point that BJ had “tag team” nights with six or more guys per team on the mat in his private gym in his basement.

The gym was worth seeing; More like a private club, it featured Mahogany lockers, carpet, steam rooms, saunas and   a shower that included benches, places to lay down and a water proof sling for those who had a use for one. Some said that getting beaten up was worth just to get to use the sybaritic pleasures of the locker room. Most nights he even had a masseur or two on hand to work out banged up bodies or to bang them themselves. Winners got to do whatever to the losers, there being a  stocked toy chest, a wall with hanging whips, quirts, chains and other instruments of diversion to use, but that wasn't the main event. To be invited to one of these free for all evening was a signal honor and nothing was harder to get than an invitation. To do so, didn't just imply, it said you and BJ had gone a few rounds before and you'd either won your match or lost in a very credible way.

The guys chosen confused Bill, they were nothing, muscled up jocks for sure but beyond that almost geeks, some of them worked in offices for corporations. Couldn't wear a pair of couture jeans if they'd been forced into them, didn't know how to keep themselves pumped up, just, well, nobodies who had no reason to be with the highest roller and, this was the worst to Bill, they weren't paid. He knew that as he's talked to one or two of them about what happened and what they'd got. The answers confused him in that they all said they'd had a great time, one they wouldn't miss for the world, hoped to do it again. Oh, that the question of money? Never came up.

Oh, sure, on occasion BJ had taken everyone out to dinner, they all were given-and this was Oh So desirable to Bill-a special T-shirt that came from BJ and referenced an evening they'd all had and enjoyed. And that was it. The guys looked puzzled when he pressed them about payment for services, was surprised when he was told that there were no “services rendered” they'd all just pair off, if they wanted, then did to each other what they wanted to do with whatever they wanted to use, and, most importantly, they weren't hookers and resented being ask as that implied they were. BJ took one-or more-of them but not always and the best part, and this stupefied Bill, was they all slept together in his enormous bed, just piles of naked male bodies, spent and happy and enjoying the real companionship that often comes after competition and/or sex.

If Bill wandered around bumping into walls over this confusion there was Keith who did have all the answers. He and BJ had  been friends for a very long time, had no secrets from each other. Keith had a summer job as a roughneck on one of his father's wells where they met. BJ immediately liked the guy who, at nineteen, was already on his way to an important collection of tattoos, liked the fact that he was working to earn money to go to university and liked the cheery personality that came with the best smile he'd ever seen. There was, of course, the issue of sexual preference and BJ worried that this great guy might throw a punch if it was even suggested to him that, well, you know....but things don't always work out the way we concern ourselves they might. It was Keith who, in his forthright way said,”Uh, you know I'm gay so if that's a problem...”. Lucky they were in the cab of a Ford 150 as the speed with which BJ horse collared him and sucked his tongue out of his mouth was truly amazing and that, of course, answered the question.

BJ's father was a very wise man who suspected his son was keeping a secret from him to spare him what he thought would be a painful topic to a father who might conceivably want grandchildren. His father let the situation ride until Keith showed up then, he knew, it was time to have The Talk with his son. And so they did, one morning at breakfast when the coffee was freshly poured, they were still in their t shirts and boxers before showering and getting ready for the day. In some senses it's a vulnerable time but, at others, it's a time when there aren't many pretenses and so it was a good moment to chose. Slurping his coffee, his Dad said, “Keith's a fine boy, going to be a fine man and he's the one for you. Go get him and bring him home. You can do anything here you can do in a motel and I'd be proud to welcome him as your...whatever you want him to be to you. Just don't let this one get away”.

Had you let an oil well rocker arm pound BJ on the head for a few days he could not have been more taken aback, surprised, maybe, embarrassed. He couldn't quite look at his father but he knew a burden had just been taken from him. The rush of arms crushing his shoulders, the warm tears on his neck threw his Dad but happily so. He pounded his son's broad, hard back, hugged him back, happy that, for once in the life of a father, he'd done the right thing for the reward was instantaneous. Two hours later Keith was standing, hard hat in hand, with BJ in his father's office  being told that he was welcome, no ifs ands or buts. Just one codicil, “if either of you ever breaks the others heart, I'll shoot the son of a bitch who did it. Now get out and go fuck each other, I've got work to do. Scoot.” The two stumbled out of the door not to bed but to sit on the front porch then just looked at one another.

Since that day Keith and BJ were together a lot but also separated a lot. Keith went to work for the oil company after he finished university but officed elsewhere, as an employee, had to report to his boss quite often. It was not uncommon for Keith to be among the guys for the spur of the moment wrestling in the basement and, just like his boss, he played with whomever came along. For that, few of them knew that there was any connection beyond what they could see and that was by design. Keith knew that in certain areas he was more useful to the man he loved by being out of the way. There wasn't anything he wouldn't have done for him, any place he wouldn't have gone or any secret he wouldn't have kept; There was one he was keeping, one that even scared him on occasion.

He knew that BJ was as combative as they come and without some sort of restraints had the capacity to do real damage to someone. Part of the reason for the groups, even after a warm up session one on one, was to prevent this violent overload from getting loose; We all have a tendency to dial back our anger and temptations to lash out in company. Later on many evenings Keith had literally had to fight him down, handcuff and manacle him plus substantially chain him to the walls until the rage had subsided. Only Keith could admit to himself that the main reason he did not live with BJ was he knew, if he did, he'd be killed and then BJ would commit suicide in grief-Alexander the Great and Hephaestion It was a psychological tight wire that, to date, had held, hopefully would. Keith had the misfortune to fall more and more in love rather than plateau as many times happens. He would sit at his desk or in his truck going to a well and just the thought of BJ made him pop wood which he would attend to right then; Not for nothing did he have the floor under his desk well where his chair sat uncarpeted ass well as a roll of paper towels plus some wood cleaner at hand; his ejaculations were enormous, whiter than pearls. Even going down the expressway at 75 he could unbutton his 501s and haul out his dick and stroke it down, sometimes, depending on the trajectory, he could lick it off the wheel and  use his fingers to peel it off the center console. Such was his physical and emotional love for BJ.

Bill was going crazy, not so much with desire but the feeling that a mountain climber has when he can see the mountain but can't quite get to it. The ebb and flow of men who surrounded this particular mountain were of no help to him, he wasn't the sort who had friends since the day he started turning tricks, even the very, very expensive ones, guys shied away from him not wishing to give them impression that, if you couldn't get Bill, they were also available, cheaper also quite nearly as good.

In the whole group who surrounded the two men, there was perhaps only one other guy who stood at stud for money but it was widely known he did it for the money only which he needed to care for a child born with severe birth defects. Not surprisingly, BJ knew all about that and, via the good agency of Keith, handled the problem in a sensible way. Knowing the guy would never accept money outright, Keith would hire him at exorbitant rates and then, to make it seem as if he was pimping for his buddy, would take the guy to his boss for whatever. Which was usually a really fine meal, maybe a couple of rounds on the mat, the guy's favorite, some sucking in the steam room. Somehow he never walked away from this good man feeling cheap or demeaned. BJ just had the knack of scraping guilt away and making it seem as if his showing up-steered there by Keith-was just what he needed; he was tired, bored and, Hey, here was a good buddy to share a steak plus a half nelson then some steam. Downright grateful to him. And very well paid.

Knowing that this, this nobody could get to BJ drove Bill crazy. H e even caught him one night outside the gym and beat him badly up trying to get the “secret word” that got him entry. Word of that got back to BJ who was not happy. Said so to Keith who offered to think about it. In one respect, they both regarded the guy as sort of a little brother ergo you protect your little brothers from bullies even if they're in the same trade; However to Keith and BJ, Andy did not equal Bill in the trade business in that Andy did it because he had too, couldn’t find a way to make as much as quickly as he needed it, but BJ wasn’t even a paid stud, he was just a hole for sale, not quite worthy of a cheap motel, a fifty on the nightstand when you finished. That summed up Bill.

Keith had a lot on his mind about then and he had turned to Bob, BJ's Dad, for some advice also to tell him some things he may not have known. Such as the rages that BJ was prone to were getting more prevalent and stronger. Keith told him that all that had saved his life on two occasions was something in his friend that stopped him just before he went to far. He showed Bob where one tat had almost been clawed off and a welt on his back made with a razor strop. It was serious, bound to get worse. Bob even went so far as to suggest that if he were castrated....but it was a plan that neither of them could face. And they weren't even sure that it would work. They knew, it calmed animals but BJ was no animal and, generally when animals were cut it was to prevent them from mating, the calming part was just a side effect. But not always. They both thought of Steer Wrestling and BJ as a steer and wanting to wrestle wasn't a welcome idea. It fell to Keith to formulate a plan which he, finally, he did. True it would be very, very expensive but if it worked, they'd get BJ back to what was more or less normal and life could go on with one exception; Bob told him it was time to fuck propriety and he'd better move in with BJ on a full time basis even if he had to put a steel door on his bedroom for his own protection. He wasn't surprised when the young man teared up and quickly left the room. It's a wise father who knows his son and he knew part of the problem was that his son suffered when alone and these rodeos he occasionally staged in his basement, while diverting, weren't an answer.

Keith had the fragment of an idea but while he could rough in various bits and pieces, he couldn't find the edges or clarify the whole picture; It was there but just behind an opaque wall. Frustrating. He was lost in thought when Andy, the guy Bill beat up for information, came over to him in the booth and, out of real gratitude, asked if he could buy him a drink. Keith liked the guy, admired him for why he was working as a male stud if not really thinking it was a good idea. Purity of intention does not always square with being the best thing to do, particularly, as with the incident with Bill, there are consequences. Still, he was glad to see him and let him buy a round. As he stared into his Bourbon and branch Andy seemed to be the thing that cleared the fogged glass in his mind; He had his plan.

Keith drummed his fingers on the table...”Andy....” and then a pause while he determined whether to finish the sentence because if he did, the boat would be launched, impossible to bring back to the dock. “Andy...how much do you hate Bill?” Andy was quiet trying to think of words that weren't just curses but really suggested how deep and festering his anger was, just thinking about past events made him tear up. He also realized that he was at the horizon of something, something awful but something he wanted to be a part of. He would do anything. And said so to Keith who said, “I think you and I need to go see Josh, there's some special ink I want you to have but he's the only tat artist I'll let do it”. Andy looked at bit taken back; what did tattooing have to do with Bill and, besides, he was ink free, planned on staying that way. Keith flicked open his phone, got Josh  on the line then made an appointment for both of them some days later in the week. He looked at Andy...”and now I want you to go sell yourself, not for money but information and I'll tell you exactly what to say. First, let me make one more call, then we need to have a long talk.” Andy had a knee jerk reaction when he heard Keith say, “Bill, Keith, ya, BJ's good buddy. Hey you got some time to have a beer tomorrow?” quickly then set a time and a place. He turned to the man who was fascinated with the unfolding events. “And now my friend I'm going to fuck with your mind and make you a better man for it. Come on.”

He'd selected what was little more than a neighborhood bar, the sort where the TV was still on top of the shelves where the bottles were kept, the only change from the 1950's was that it was 63 inches wide and in color. It seemed a strange place to Bill but then he knew in all matters BJ liked to keep a low profile and, as he well knew, no one was closer to BJ than Keith. In other words, if Keith said it, BJ had probably already heard it or what Keith said was a quotation. Bill looked more than a little out of place with his diamonds, his custom clothes and his fuck you atmosphere. This was not a place that catered to the gay trade, only the fact that it was the middle of the afternoon prevented some very unhealthy stares that would have said, “Get out”.

Interestingly, Keith arrived just seconds later, was greeted by the bartender and some of the guys at the bar. Interesting. Bill wondered if maybe this was where BJ did his slumming when he wanted to be unnoticed. Keith snagged a bottle of beer, not offering one to Bill, and got right to the point. “I have a friend who has his eye on you. But...he's not sure you're what he wants on a permanent basis, you understand?” Bill almost fell over. Did this mean that BJ was looking for someone to move in, share his home, his life, his money? He nodded in a conspiratorial way. Keith looked right and left. “We know you have a big business going, lots of business so you don't need to get out of circulation unless the money's right. Correct?” Bill wasn't sure he knew how to answer so he just made a non-committal nod. “What's this friend of yours looking for?” The answer came quickly. “A Slave”. There was a silence while Keith wondered if he'd take the bait and Bill tried to fathom what was meant.

“A slave? You mean someone around the house to be there for whatever? Just have no reason to do anything except take care of this friend of yours? Sexually? What kind of kink does he want, 'cause there's got to be some kink for this kind of offer.”
Keith was only willing to give a partial answer. “Old fashioned slavery, you'd be collared, numbered, registered, beaten you know the drill...”

“Yeah but...that's a big deal he's looking for, if he wants to buy this, uh, slave, it's gonna cost a lot of bucks.”

“Easy into seven figures”.

Bill almost gasped. Millions, it had to be millions. Must be. BJ had it and would probably spend it to get what he wanted and, if he read this right, he was what he wanted. Fuck, for that kind of money, he'd do just about anything. Besides, there wasn't much he hadn't already done. “He wants me?”

“Maybe but there's another candidate, I don't know if you know him, name's Andy”.

That set Bill back, of course he knew him, the jerk he trashed one night and would welcome the opportunity to do it again. But what could he have to do with it? He was in the running, or so he thought, with that nothing?

“Yep, my buddy thinks highly of him but there's a problem and it's that he has a kid which complicates the matter, he doesn't want to lose the kid although he'd have enough money to support him the rest of his life he'd just never see him. I'm thinking after my friend finished with him, he wouldn't look much like his old self.”

“Heavy, huh?”

“Heavy, yeah and then some. How do you feel about radical body modifications?”

“Shit, I don't know....what if this 'job' didn't last and I'm out with God knows what done to me...?”

“There would be a clause for a final payout on a sliding scale depending on what you'd had done”.

Bill thought about this. Clearly this wasn't some trumped up idea to see if anyone could get a quicky from him. The details, meticulous thought out, the direct presentation with no fucking around about what might happen....and, he thought, something like this doesn't last. He'd seen guys who'd played master and slave for a while, they got bored, it ended. BJ was like that, he was sure of it. Some up front fun followed by some months, maybe a year of boredom eventually he's out the door, cash in hand. A lot of cash in hand.

Bill thought about that and the implications of what he was hearing. If someone would have to leave their home and family on what sounded like a forever basis...he wasn't sure. But there was the money, he didn't have any family so maybe he did have an inside shot. For that, a lot of guys wouldn’t miss him at all, not only his high rolling clients but just guys who knew off him and knew what a scum bag he really was.

“ Just think about it, there may be auditions....I don't know. I'll get back to you. Think about it” and he was out the door, gone.

Bill had a lot to think about but he wasn't sure just what. Everything the guy said was not firm, made no offers, just suggestions. But he thought. What he mainly thought was how long would he have to play the game to get the big bucks  but could he get out? If so, how? That part of modifying his body…..

Keith and Andy were at Josh's place  which was more a private home than a tattoo parlor. Keith guessed-rightly-that Josh's business was almost entirely by referral and to a limited, if well paying, clientele. Josh himself was not what you might have expected looking, as he did, like an ad for an old fashioned shaving mug. His carefully groomed handle bar mustache, waxed, perfectly turned up, the silk broadcloth shirt with pearl buttons, the detachable collar, the sleeve garters, he looked more like a bartender in a theme bar than a tat artist but he was affable, greeted Keith warmly and immediately had him slide out of his pants so he could check how some work he'd recently done on his leg had “cured out” as he put it.

Satisfied with his own handiwork he said, “Gentlemen, what can I do for, you? Or is it for just this gentleman, Keith?”

“Yep, just for Andy”,  and, almost as an after thought, introduced them.

“What's he getting I'm guessing our buddy has something special in mind....”

“He's joining the group so he gets the usual and the ring.”

“Fine, like to do that one, so simple which makes it an unusual piece, much admired in my book of works...so..Andy is it?...lets get you prepped. Lose the pants and what ever is under them, hop up here on the table and we'll be ready to go.”

Josh reached toward a drawer pull and the whole front rolled out then opened to display all the equipment needed for any sort of tat you might want. Andy knew nothing about skin art but he did recognize a consummate professional so he did as told. After all, it wasn't as if he hadn't taken his clothes of in front of strange men before. Josh was pulling on some latex gloves-having first asked if he was allergic to them-then opened a drawer, took something out and laid it on a shelf just out of sight.

“Okay, lets get you really cleaned up, shaved and then we'll be half done, you know, well begun is half done” and laughed to himself. Andy thought it was just a little creepy but Josh seemed to find nothing wrong, had gone to another drawer opened what proved to be a cabinet, opened it, and hooked out a bottle of Maker's Mark Bourbon. Found a glass, a couple of ice cubes and filled it just over half full. “Best sippin' whiskey around, want one? You Andy?”

Andy almost said no but then changed his mind and had the twin to Keith's but with a splash of water. In the mean time, Josh had put what amounted to a surgical drape around his genitals, pulled them through and then just lightly tied a ligature about his cock and balls. Already somewhat aroused, he stiffened up as the blood in his dick was refused the return trip so swelled and hardened the area.

“This'll be a snap,” said Josh, “he's hardening up nicely so won't have to bread board him like we've had to do with some others....” Andy almost lost it as well as his hard on. As he well knew, bread boarding was a practice of pulling the balls and cock through a hole in a piece of wood, then stretching them out and nailing them, usually with carpet tacks until there was a fan like design in flesh. Not infrequently the cock, too, as stuck down as a sort of handle. Indeed he was grateful that wouldn't be necessary.

Josh had a bowl of steaming water, some cloths and a container of liquid soap on his work space clearly ready to shave Andy down. He took out his cuff links, rolled up his sleeves which he then tightened down with his sleeve garters. Josh's arms were almost Cinemascope and vivid technicolor in their markings. The designs were so complicated that at first it was hard to determine just what was there though something clearly was. At first it was tempting to thing of them as typical, if exaggerated, Japanese sleeves but...they weren't. Among the writhing figures and designs he began to see men, men in pain, the screams on their faces. Men being racked, being hung, being garroted, being castrated...expertly done but grim, gruesome. And completely at odds for someone with the seemingly sunny personality of Josh.

Keith, too, was looking. “Awe inspiring, aren't they. You'll never see better work and the subject matter is over the top. Really bad ass.” Josh made a smile of appreciation. “You should see the rest of him, he's got a whole torture chamber, a gallows, a gibbet, just quality stuff. I wish I had the balls..”

“Well, when you do, come by and it's on the house for you, bro. On the house.” Josh turned his attention back to Andy who had horned up just looking at some of the devices on his artist's arms. Terrible and frightening and wonderful and arousing. As much as he'd been beaten, gang fucked, bruised, hit, he'd never had any experiences like the men almost mobile as the muscles under Josh's arms moved. During his examinations Josh had been preparing his nuts, cock as well as the bit of crotch on display by covering them with a warm towel which felt really good. The soap was worked into the moisture and worked into a lather which was quickly mowed through by a straight razor. Keith hadn't seen one of those cut throats in anything but the movies but, clearly, Josh knew what he was doing so it took very few strokes to leave hims smooth and clean as the proverbial baby's butt. “Okay, now for the ink.”

Josh picked up his tat gun, leaned over and, suddenly, Keith was holding Andy's shoulders. The first strike with the gun on the head of his cock was like being shot and he would have bucked had he not been held. But it didn't last long. Three, maybe four passes and that was that. He thought. On to his ball sack which received the same four or five strokes and then that, too, was seemingly done.

“Wanna see?” He pulled the cock back and all that was there was a line from just below the piss hole on down the length of his meat and onto his nut sack. Just one black line accompanied by three other lines almost arbitrarily placed. While he was wondering what that was all about, Keith peeled down his trousers and jock and showed Andy his lines. Same thing. Only his had some additional work on either side of the lines on his balls. Nothing he could figure out, just some swirly lines in red. Meant nothing, maybe, he figured, it wasn't supposed to.

“One more thing and then we're almost done. Hold him, Keith.” Josh picked up a long tube along with Andy's dick then inserted into his piss hole pushing it solidly against the wall on the inside. He made a mark on the outside, leaned back to check, redid it and the took a long, sharpened pointed instrument from a sealed case and put it in the tube.

Behind him he could here Keith say, “Okay buddy, I've got you, it's okay to scream but it won't hurt long, we have to make it bigger than usual...”  then the fire in his dick started. Through tears that suddenly shot from his eyes he could see the point of the stick push out the skin and then break through. Almost before he knew it, Josh had a large ring in the hole in the top of the stick and pulled it through.  When it came out, he removed the stick and pulled the ring a bit more, cleaned the area and screwed a bead on one end of the ring which joined the two ends . Andy noticed the other end already had a similar ball. “Okay, one Prince Albert and it's looks good.”

Keith said, my buddy wants it welded eventually like mine...show him yours. Ever accommodating, Josh shucked down his pants-revealing just how heavily inked he was- and hauled out his cock. On the end, just like Andy's was a ring but it looked it was the size of a rim on a car wheel. Must have weighed a pound, easy. He also noticed that Josh's cock was tattooed and, strangely, he had no sack so...no balls. “You'll like yours and someday we'll fit you for one like mine. Keith's getting up there, have him show you before he fucks you.”

The offer and the cordiality was wasted on Andy who still hurt like shit and now had a tatted dick and balls as well as a pierced cock. There had to be an explanation.

There was.

Josh picked up the conversation, mainly because it had been his idea. “You know our buddy BJ, this is his mark, this says, you’ve played with him at the highest echelon, most guys get the shirt, but only a very few get the ink mark. Thought it up myself. Simply but put on with a special ink, here, I’ll show you...” He flicked off the lights and touched a switch; Damn, the lines glowed in the dark. “Neat, huh? Whaddya think, Keith, the rest?”

Keith thought about it. To put this on Andy took him to the absolute top, only he and maybe three. Maybe five other guys had it…. “Yeah, but just the balls.”

“Good idea, first rate, balls it is. Get the board.”

Andy shuddered, they were going to bread board him at least his nuts. However, what Josh did was take some salve, rub it over this sack, then gently pull it onto the    board, taking some push pins, that had been sterilized, fan the flesh out take a fresh tattoo gun and made what seemed nonsensical passes. But the strange thing, there was no ink. He finished, turned out the lights, hit the ultraviolet and there on his ball bag in good sized letters, at least while stretched, was “Prop. BJ”.

“You’re in, man.” said Keith as Josh loosed the flesh. “All done in a new kind of ink, even if you fake the lines, you cannot fake this as each one is different, mine says ‘Horse’...it’s so that if anyone tries to get to Bill,  claims to have the mark, and its been tried, they can’t, they don’t glow in the dark in the right places. Course, only Josh puts them on so...even if his whole bulge glowed, couldn’t be right, aren’t many guys who even know what’s on each others.”

Between pain and confusion Andy wasn’t at all certain what this was about however, just then, he was almost beyond caring. Sensing that, Josh poured everyone another drink adding to Andy’s something for pain. Nothing that would knock him out, just calm him, let him see things in proportion. After a bit the atmosphere turned companionable, just three men sitting around, sipping excellent Bourbon, being buddies. Andy couldn’t help hefting his meat, looking at what hung from Josh and Keith then feeling, he couldn’t think why, not cheated but...somehow...unfinished. He mentioned that. Josh and Keith looked at each other, Keith shrugged, Josh pulled open another drawer in his portable tattoo studio, pulled out a page or two, handed them to Andy wondering if he liked what he saw or….what came into his mind?

Without knowing quite why, he seemed to look at the purgatory on Josh’s arm then looked at….nothing in particular. Keith had an inspiration. “Hey, your kid, you love him, that’s why you’re doing this, you’re his angel...” Andy teared up. “Yeah, sorta, I’m his...Keith, I’m a bad man, can’t be an angel….”

Keith put his arms around him, pushed his chin up so he could see into his eyes.

“Andy, you’re more man than most I know and, buddy, take it from me, you’re an angel.”

It took seven hours but when they left, Andy had a magnificent angel on his chest, the wings went onto his shoulders. But the angel was not alone, couldn’t see it but the bottom of one of the wings was protecting something..something not quite seen, something you could tell he loved. The angel itself didn’t look like Andy, quite, but subtly, you could sure see it was all man; There was just the hint of a cock from which was part of a gold ring…

As he put his things away, Josh thought what fine men BJ knew, Keith was one of the best. Today, he paused and smiled into the future, some day, on Andy’s back, a picture of a devil being punished, in pain, writhing from the fires of hell, no one gets just one tattoo but what better than the answer to an angel? The devil punished for what Andy protected..He’d start on the design later that evening after he finished the dregs of a drink which tasted like...a job well done. Looking into another cabinet drawer, he looked at two orbs in a crystal case. “We did a good job today, boys, yes we did.”

Among so many other unpleasant traits, one that plagued Bill was his impatience. It had been weeks since Keith did or did not make him maybe an offer which he didn’t understand plus he wasn’t sure who the fuck was behind this? When you’re a man who is accustomed to getting what he wants when he wants to get it, this casualness was driving him nuts. Worse, he really didn’t know how to get in touch with Keith other than calling the oil company for which he worked that BJ owned. What sort of message could he leave? Other than to say he was interested-fuck, he’d been that the day they met-but nothing since then. He had an idea, not a good one but….at least he might find out how to get in touch with Keith. He’d heard that Andy, that putz, hung with Keith now and then...simple, find Andy, beat the answer out of him and he’d know what he needed to know. Plus the pleasure of walloping one of his competitors.

Not only was it a lousy idea but it was one with consequences. Ever since the evening at Josh’s both Keith and BJ had put Andy in a sort of hammock, preserving him for what they now knew they wanted done….eventually. Needless to say, when Andy got a text from Bill pretty much ordering him to meet him where he specified, it was read by more than Andy’s eyes. Told to agree to the meeting but varying the time and, just slightly, the place plus the date-he put it back a week from what Bill wanted-he agreed. Almost like magic, Keith called, ‘happened’ to remember they’d had a conference and he wondered if there was still any interest? Bill almost screamed his answer but was foxed because, he noticed, the connection had been lost. He tried to call back but found it was not a working number….The next day he received a sort of apology from Keith plus the time, the date and the place. Coincidentally, exactly the time, the date but not quite the place, he’d told Andy to meet him. It was back at the bar where they’d first met and, this time, Keith added that being late wasn’t a good idea, if his future lay where it might, punctuality was always observed.

The bar seemed...odd. Bill stood in the door, bartender looked at him, looked away, looked up, jerked his thumb toward a door. “He’s waiting, in there.”

No clients, just the guy behind the bar who seemed to know who and where...there, behind the door. Bill walked to it...he heard a voice from behind him, “It’s open, walk in.” So he did.

Keith was there, small table, his chair leaned back, boots on the table, his shirt partially undone revealing a well crafted piece of ink, almost like a Yakuza but more American. “Sit down, want a drink? Right on time, that’ll be appreciated.” He reached in to scratch just below a very large bar that went through a nipple, squared pegs on either end. Bill sat in the other chair.

“Can’t tell you all the deal, not yet, but you gotta know your reputation for what you do….don’t have to tell you.” He abandoned his tit and thoughtlessly put the same hand over his crotch, one finger pushing in. “Guy I know, know real well, well enough to trust me to set this up, wants you to know it’s down to you and one other guy, just who isn’t important, maybe you know them, maybe you don’t right now what you need to know is that there’s just this one thing...for the money you’ll be offered, guess you know it’s a lot, my guy wants a fuck off between the two candidates, he’ll set the time, the rules, the place...you can agree or not. No? No hard feelings, you can walk out that door and get on with your life. Yes, and I gotta a partial contract, more of an understanding  between the man who would be your….well, boss seems a bit lose, lets just say the man who will control you. Here, read it.” The single sheet almost floated across the table turning as it came toward him so the writing could be read from top to bottom.

Bill took his time, he didn’t get what he wanted by rushing into things, read each point, thought it over, went back and read it again. Taken as a whole, whoever signed it, or, at this stage agreed they’d read it and there was nothing in it objectionable, it asked that the signee become the chattel property of a person to be named. Starting salary, one million base for the first year with ‘compensations’ for certain alterations that he might be asked to make. If you read it just right, it was almost like a contract for a player for some team; Guaranteed base plus increases if certain things, levels, were reached but no cap, indeed the last line said that the person offering the contract contemplated they’d both enjoy what lay ahead and so….however much was needed, was however much was paid.  Bingo.

Keith switched spots, scratched his unshaven chin, looked at Bill to see...what? “I guess you got questions, fuck, if I read that, I sure as hell would.”

Bill tried to pass off the most momentous, the most profitable offer he’d ever had or was likely to get as...almost a joke. “Guess death isn’t part of the deal.” Keith checked him for making that stupid statement.

“Could be...if you want wealthy heirs, yep, it sure could be. Just what did you have in mind? How’d you like to go? Pass it on, see the reaction.”

Boxed in, he had to provide an answer, he brought it up so now...the assumption was he had something in mind. “Always thought, wondered, how it would be if I were knelt in front of a chopping block, my cock and balls cut off then walked up those famous stairs to the gallows and hung...something like that. For money, it’d be sort of dealer’s choice.”

Improbably, Keith could still lean further back, seemed to look into the air, thought, put his hands behind his neck… “Yep, not bad, not at all.” He popped back up to vertical that Bill almost fell off his chair. Keith reached across the table, pulled the paper to him, found a pen in a pocket, held it over the bottom line...then paused. Almost wrote, looked at Bill, smiled slightly… “Yeah, he’d like that, surely would.” Quickly wrote something, pushed it back. In his scrawl he read, “Final Departure at owner’s pleasure: Cost to be negotiated.” Bill laughed, said, “What if I wanted a gas chamber?” Keith almost smiled back at him, “It says, ‘negotiable’ fuck if you wanta be drawn and quartered…..it’s negotiable.”

“One question...the other guy sign something like this?”

“Yep, funny thing, he wondered about what it’d pay to be offed….”

As Bill signed he said, “I’ll bet that’s negotiable.”

Keith took the paper, folded it, put it in his pocket, stood up, “I’ll be in touch about the fuck off, shouldn’t be too long, my guy is creaming in his pants waiting.”

Bill couldn’t get up quickly enough to delay Keith who was out the door. By the time Bill could follow the bar was empty, even the bartender was gone. The man who always got what he wanted had the eerie feeling that, yeah, he would get what he wanted but today, at least, it kinda felt like he’d already been fucked.

End Part One