The Pictures

Colby Charles began unraveling long before that day. It was just that on that peculiar day he was given a legitimate reason to continue to fall deeper into descent, making it entirely acceptable for him to become totally undone. Was it all a dream? If so, it was definitely a cruel and unusual nightmare.

Colby Charles started off his morning differently than normal. He did not wake up to the darkness of the room with his alarm clock blaring next to his dark head of hair. He woke up before then, well rested and surprisingly at ease, as he eventually reached over to turn off the alarm before its scheduled time. And unlike most mornings, Colby did not wake up alone, either. He awoke to the dark, handsome Austin lying beside him. The oddest thing was that his room wasn’t submerged in its typical dank darkness. It was lit from the window by a strong gash of sunlight that made its way through the curtain and on the adjacent wall by his dismal forty-two-inch plasma television playing a repeat of the homoerotic sex video he put in there the night before. He got up, turned off the scene featuring a hairy black bear with gobs of thick white stuff encrusted around the hairs around his mouth, and disrobed out of his short-sleeved shirt and boxers to jump into the shower.

He emerged from his rented townhouse dressed and well-fed, particularly favoring the warm sun and the crisp cold snap of a beautiful leaf-changing autumn day. If he could have walked to work, he would have. If it wasn’t for the threat of rain later that afternoon, given his earlier-than-usual head start, he would have biked to work. Rather, Colby simply did what he always did, stuck to his routine of driving the fifteen or so miles to the local community college, where he presided as an associate professor of American History.

His day was pretty much normal after that, after he arrived. He was anxious to get back home to start it all over again, hoping it brought him just a foot closer to the weekend. At least until Friday, often his weekday reprieve, unless the dean or his other superiors wanted to have some sort of frivolous time-consuming meeting, or some student needed to make up some test vital to his or her grade. But, in the moments of the day, he gave his lectures and argued with combative students, ranging from grades to curriculum structure. In between time, he also graded papers and conversed with fellow colleagues about the topics of the day.

When he felt he had done all he could have done that day, Colby returned home an inch closer to his beloved weekend.

As he parked his car on the side street like he usually did, approximately three doors down from his abode, he was overcome by an almost paralyzing fear. He was starkly afraid.  This is home, he reasoned with himself. He lived in a good, safe neighborhood. The last time a crime was committed within a ten-block radius of his home was three years ago, and even that was done by a bunch of adult kids locked out of their parent’s home. So there was nothing to be afraid of as far as crime or retaliation goes. He hardly had any enemies given he barely had a social life outside of work. Perhaps, some of the students not satisfied about their grades. Even that, he somehow managed to talk some sense into them, even giving those tied to a job and family responsibilities to make up the work elsewhere. Like an extra credit assignment that can go simply for basic credit or something else that showed that they were committed to their education. There was no threat there.

Colby got out of his car and walked towards his house. He thought of every possible scenario that could play out, from being attacked right there on the street to confronting robbers inside of his house. In part of his mind, he was plotting counter fighting techniques while the other part of his brain was desperately questioning why?

As he saw the front of his house hug the street, he saw his wooden porch before it. On the wooden porch as he approached the front door, he saw the large brown envelope at his feet. He wasn’t expecting anything from the parcel service, and if so, his mailbox was sufficiently large enough to hold it. Not leaving it on the ground.  He was even more distraught when he saw it had neither a name nor an address. He was tempted to leave it be, right where he saw it. Deep down however he was convinced it was meant for him. He knew if he left it, one of the runners that frequently passed by his house would alert him of it. If not, take a peak at its contents before he did.

He wasn’t sure what was in the envelope or on it, but he picked it up just the same as he saw the metal clasps kept the top of it closed.

He went inside, and for the oddest reason, he fantasized about Austin coming down the stairs looking nothing like Colby had ever seen him look before. He was wiry thin wearing a royal purple turtleneck and some black denim jeans. His face was thin, practically drowned out by uncurling locks that sat atop his head. His sideburns were also thick and long, but neat, much like his moustache and hairs that hung off his chin.

“Hey,” Austin smiled, making his way down the last two steps.

Colby knew this was a figment of his imagination.

He knew his imagination brought him Austin, but he also knew it wasn’t him either.

Colby didn’t respond. He was not about to let his mind go there, especially given what was in his hand. So out of pure reflex, Colby hid the envelope behind his back. He didn’t want this phantom to see it.

“What do you got there?” Austin, the specter, asked.

“Nothing,” Colby let slipped from his parted lips, subjecting himself to this awful game.

Austin came in closer, putting his hands around Colby’s waist and kissed him.  Colby knew wholeheartedly that this Austin wasn’t real even though he hailed from upstairs. However, that didn’t take away from his feeling Austin’s strong hands along his waist side or Austin’s full lips pressed against his. Colby was nearly lost in the moment until he felt the envelope slipping from his hands.

“No,” Colby said firmly, feeling it slipping from his hand (or being taken away from?) as he moved into the envelope into his living room.

Austin stopped at the threshold of the living room and the foyer. It was as if he couldn’t go any further, and because of this he simply disappeared into thin air.

Colby was glad of this. There was no doubt he was titillated by the image of this tall, strikingly handsome black man. If he wasn’t distracted by the envelope then, he might have tried to find out how far he could have gone with this spirit, purely out of curiosity. If not, go upstairs to find the real Austin, hoping he was still where he left him.

Colby tossed the envelope on the sofa, bringing his attention to it rather than the fact he was slowly losing his mind. First it was the paranoia, then finding the envelope, and lastly the sexy ghost. He knew without a doubt the last one wasn’t real, and the first one was on the fence. He would have easily questioned the envelope altogether as part of the bizarre scheme if he hadn’t touched it. Felt it heavy in his hand, making the paranoia almost real.

What was in the envelope?

Obviously, he wanted to know but refused to open Pandora’s Box in fear of what was inside. Something shook him out of his world home.

He paced the floor wondering if he should or if he shouldn’t. He then turned on the radio and then the television. The erratic noise of both brought sort of a soothing calm to his being, etching him closer to the picture with every passing quarter hour. Before long, he was sitting on the same sofa as the envelope, tempting to check its contents.

Totally unaware, Colby ultimately found his hand undoing the clasp holding the envelope together. He was snapped back into consciousness not to pull out the contents, but not fast enough to catch a glimpse of the stiff sheets that was its contents.

He immediately tossed the envelope towards the chair across from him, and it hit the chair arm, throwing out a sea of clipped images with one visibly clear picture being on top. Colby would have left the room just to avoid the temptation of looking at any of them, worrying about picking them up another day. He was doing just that when something caught the corner of his eye as he was making his way out of the room. But rather than look further away, looking ahead towards the foyer where he left the specter hours earlier, Colby looked at the picture on the ground. The white man with the thick ropy arms in the photograph looked vaguely familiar. As Colby got closer to it, he was almost certain he knew the man with the receding hairline and the wide aquiline nose looking dead at the camera with a sinister smile. Colby was tapping into his memory bank when he saw that beneath this man and his well-trimmed beard was a smaller man with his legs tightly wrapped around this other man’s waist. He too was attempting to look back at the camera but his face seemed preoccupied with something else. Breathing, perhaps? Colby became totally unnerved at the sight of this other man in the picture when he saw that underneath this vaguely familiar stranger was him.

Colby had no doubt the man in the picture was fucking him, or rather they had fucked. He was just startled at the revelation this picture sat in front of him like this given he hadn’t seen the nameless fuck a day before or after that image was captured. Of course, the man on top of him wasn’t the one that took the photo. Maybe it was the guy’s friend? Maybe it was Colby’s friend? Maybe it was a random voyeur? Colby didn’t remember this at all. Not even the gray slab that his back was on or the gray fixtures in the far background.

He might have consented to being filmed or photographed on this particular occasion. In fact, he was quite sure of it. He often consented, not taking into account that those images could come back to haunt him. Sure enough, there were also times when he was caught off-guard, and the flasher started flashing or the red eye firmly studied his powerless form.

Behind that, the second picture was more focus on Colby, naked, covered by arms and hands in a lost state of untainted euphoria. The pictures after that were a collage of images featuring Colby engaged in some sort of sexual act or sexual allusion, either on his knees in front of some random man or men or in a position having his asshole teased by some kind of phallic or imitation thereof, like a tongue or a butt plug or even a fist.

It was clear the common theme in each of these pictures was him. However, strangely enough, he didn’t remember any of them in detail though he was sure they happened. They were most likely from a day and a time when he damned the consequences. When he was a slut and a whore and a bitch and wasn’t above doing anything and everything to get next to a throbbing piece of meat that resided between the toned legs of every red-blooded man.

He was trying desperately to reconnect with one of these pictures. He was aware he got around like that, that neither cock nor face had a name or an importance, but something should have clicked. If not the place then the time, if not time certainly some other point of reference.

He was suddenly finding himself becoming mildly depressed shuffling through this stack of pictures. There wasn’t a repeat face or body part in the bunch other than his. Mentally, it was hard for him to digest this. That he shared his body with that many men. He wasn’t naïve he had. It was true. There were hundreds, if not thousands, but still. It was one thing to quote a number. It was another to look at the number, a fraction of it at least, and putting faces to the owners of such beautiful-looking penises. The most disturbing thing for him was that many of them were probably men he passed by everyday, at least one in any case.

Men, who were married or single, boyfriends with girlfriends or boyfriends with boyfriends, insane lovers, whatever; it didn’t matter as long as they delivered themselves to him.

Men that probably used his back or his butt cheeks or his ass crack or his pubes or his face or his hair as a good-enough cum wipe to go back home to all the above or alone. Men that didn’t even bother to acknowledge him after the fact, if he had seen them out or even knew who they were, or if they did, give a wink or made some lewd gesture he was unable to connect just then.

He was nearing the end of the thick pile of pictures when he finally came across a picture he could honestly connect with. The quality of this photo wasn’t nearly as polished as the others—in spite of someone’s great efforts to enhance it—still though, it offered more of a bond than any of the others.

He may not have remembered that particular moment in time. But certainly, he remembered that night by the men that littered the foreground and the background and the spaces they filled in between. Colby was barely visible, all but pasty white ass bent over an armless chair surrounded by a legion of well-sculpted black men anxiously waiting their turn to fuck him.

The other pictures that followed were also taken from that night, somewhat with that same grainy quality. To say he was simply engaged in sexual activity would have been an understatement. He was sucking dick and getting fucked, sure. But it had very little to do with what he was doing as it was how he was doing it and with the various black men he was doing it with. He just wasn’t sucking on one dick. He was sucking off five or six. And he was doing a diligent job of bobbing and weaving his head over here and over there getting them all nice and shiny with his spit. No. He was hoping that one of those chocolate hoses would take his place behind him.

Colby wasn’t just riding dick either. He was being body slammed into the lap of some random assailant as he squirmed hard just to get off him. One think that the brawnier or beefier the man the more violent they were. There were some musclemen that were quite gentle while leaner wirier men put a hurting to him. It was like expectation of one was replaced with the other, with very few exceptions. Bounce from lap to lap like a game of some kind of sexual musical chairs. Or he was put on his back to have his legs pried open like a two-cent whore for any greased black daddy dick to invade his weathered hole, a hole that managed to be stretched over and over again well beyond comprehendible reason.

He was forcibly riding the lap of one gorgeous hunk while another forcibly fed him his long cock. In one instance, a picture showed he was being doubled fucked in one hole. Another, triple penetrated in two. He was even brazenly totted around face first skewered by a powerful-looking top to show off his bravado and strength.

Aside from the action, the thing that made that night so memorable was that it was the most guys Colby had been with at one time. It was the last full night he was completely satisfied being on the other end of dick. Not including Austin, of course, he was happy with Austin, but obviously Austin came long after the series of events that in the end led to Colby’s rock bottom.

Well, not completely satisfied.

Completely satisfied would have been if Nico stuck to his world and made him the only star that weekend.  Seeing those two other cum-gulping white boy bottoms didn’t disrupt his flow. Colby sucked dick like only he could and threw his ass back just the same. It was just that instead of enjoying that long weekend like he should have he was gently reminded through the friendly competition he wasn’t the only act in town.

It probably worked out best that way, Colby reasoned, overcome with a painful twitch from his asshole, thinking about the limping he did for weeks afterwards.

Colby heard later that instead of being one of three white boys he was actually one of thirty-three white boy bottoms forced to service close to three hundred well-endowed men. Meaning roughly that for every bottom bitch there were ten tops. He didn’t see that many men. He was confident however he handled a mobile of twenty-five or thirty, if not more that weekend. That was not including the large number of men that rested and came back for seconds and thirds, more often than not showing off their stamina than achieving some kind of momentous orgasm.

Colby remembered that night very well.

Unlike the pictures he was skimming through before where he saw it was him, he felt it was him going through the action in these final pictures. He remembered distinctly if the man was long or thick between the legs, cut or uncut, simply by the way the men grabbed him and thrusts his way inside of him. Because the story that wasn’t being told in those pictures was that for the first few hours of that Thursday afternoon, that first day, was that his head was often covered in a breathable bag as men viciously seized his lubed backside.

It was when he still had on the bag that his hole was bred to capacity and rivulets of semen flowed down his leg for the rest of the weekend.

Colby was so enraptured by this trip down memory lane that the reality he had gone through all the pictures didn’t hit him until he got to the last page of the photo stack. It was there he came across this solid white page with red ink that said:

Beware and Be Warned, Faggot!

Colby looked at the page, but nothing had registered. He was still too gone in yesteryears to pay attention to exactly what was in front of him that day.

When he did come around, he dropped the stack of photos, looking at these words, wondering why was this sent and where did it all come from? Why him?

Without thinking about it a moment further, Colby knew he had to leave those pictures in that room until he could get rid of them. Rather than run upstairs, hoping to find Austin or the reappearance of the phantom Austin, Colby retreated outside for a fresh breath of air.

When he got his gasp of air, he got into his car and drove off.

He had no destination in mind. He just needed away from there.

He worried faintly Austin might have found the pictures in the living room scattered about. But knowing Austin like he did, rather than being appalled, Colby most likely would have returned home to find Austin riveted and inspired.