A Dish Best Served Cold
BY: GERRY YOUNG
© 2011 anno Domini
With appreciation for assistance from Tickie and Dark Shadow
Author's Note: This prescribed incident took place in the late 1970s,
just prior to Atlanta's Center for Disease Control's first official announcement of the acronym, A.I.D.S., in 1981.
The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent.
This is a new type of story … a Reality story.
You're sitting in front of the monitor across from me, the author.
I can talk TO you while you read.
(You're quite capable of multi-tasking, are you not?
Reading and hearing and … stroking … perhaps?)
Occasionally will I do so—talk to you while you read, that is—but not often. I promise.
You're not here to chat; you're here to read.
And enjoy your…SELF.
Just know that I appreciate you for all that you are.
Ev'ry li'l ol' inch of ya!
This story was inspired by BILL DRAKE's Punisher Punished in his
HORNY DAD TALES
I bow on bended knee before BILL DRAKE, thanking him for his kind permission,
allowing me to springboard off his story
and end with an unexpected one-and-a-half backward twist before the big splash,
the meaning of which will eventually become known.
… And now …
From the opening scenes of 'Law and Order – Special Victims Unit' 1999-2011:
"In the criminal justice system,
sexually based offenses are considered especially heinous."
… Yet …
Whether or not you're old enough to remember JACK WEBB and 'Dragnet',
turn on your sound and please watch the following hilarious three-minute link,
with JOHNNY CARSON making a guest-appearance.
… is the city—Los Angeles, California
Friday … the same as my name.
Yeah, my name's 'Friday' … or 'Weekly' (with a second 'e' … instead of an 'a'), as everyone in the precinct lovingly calls me. Sergeant Avery 'Weekly' Friday, with LAPD's SVU, Division '24', working with TLC in tandem with NCIS-PDQ-24/7. Ya got all that? Well, read it again, mister. See what's there in plain sight, but at the same time, subliminal. Not to scare you, but I use the tactic of sublimation, sparsely, in most of my official reports—nothing mind-altering, controlling, or hypnotic about it—just writing in a way that you can read two or more different interpretations into it. Right. I'll make a detective out of you, yet.
I'm a cop. Badge Number 1469. Ya got that right, too—they're numbers; but I like to think of them as ordinary words as well … 'one FOR sixty-nine'. See the difference? That's my choice. As the self-proclaimed J.A.P. (Jewish-American-Princess) comedienne, Miss Belle Barth [1911-1971] used to say: "Keep your mouth busy, honey; you'll never get in any trouble." Oh, by the way, Miss Barth … Happy would-be-100th birthday, Darlin'!
I prefer cases where I can cuff the 'suspects-in-question' to the hard, cold bed frame—usually naked and ass-up—on the bare steel springs in the hoosegow cell, with their temporarily shriveled dicks dangling through, and then to use any means at hand to coax them into giving up their covert secrets. Some of them have DIED laughing; others, while ejacu… well, never mind about that … the stimulating interrogation's not always painful! It usually ends up being a sticky affair anyway, and I'm ever ready to shoot with my piece in-hand—but only when deemed absolutely necessary, or … confidentially … on those few occasions when I can't possibly hold back. Ordinarily, I can forge ahead (often with the help of a little blue pill) for three or four hours of constant deeper drilling to get the answers I want. Even at my age—thirty-nine—just like Jack Benny. And without an … official … out-of-the-room …piss-break, to boot. 'Nuff said about that! You've read plenty on similar pages, even if you haven't participated outright. Let your imagination fill in the details; then go out and try it … you might like it. Or not. I don't care either way. It's your life. Do what makes ya feel good.
FYI … Here's a bit about me to help you to know where I'm coming from so you'll more easily understand why I wrote-up this report the way I did. It won't take long; I promise. If you're determined NOT to read my little personal exposé, then just scroll down to the seven tildes (~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~).
You want to call me a bad American? All right; go ahead and call me a
bad American, but I seldom think of myself as an American any more. Why?
Because I finally came to realize that — like in Africa, Asia, and Europe, the
citizens of all the countries on those continents think of themselves as
Africans, Asians, and Europeans. All right, in thinking like that, I AM an
American, but so are all the citizens of all the countries in South America and
Central America, and here in North America, the citizens of Mexico and our
friend to the north, Canada — we're ALL Americans, and those who want to sneak
into America are quite mistaken! They're already IN America — wherever they
are. If they don't like what's in their own country, they should work to change
it, and remain an American where they are.
But back to me as a "bad American". First and foremost, I'm now thinking of myself as a Legal Citizen of The United States ... born and raised here ... of and by parents who were eighth-generation and legal citizens. (I say "were" because they're now deceased.) And I will gladly welcome any foreigner as a fellow brother or sister, but ONLY if they or their parents have legally applied for citizenship and successfully passed the requirements, and learned ENGLISH, our language, BEFORE entering within the sacred borders of The United States.
The one thing I do NOT believe in is Diplomatic Immunity; rather, I believe in the Golden Rule: 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.'
I believe in American products, and I believe the salary I draw belongs to me and my family, not some liberal governmental functionary be it (alphabetically put) Democrat or Republican!
I believe that—in THIS country—if you're selling me a Big Mac, or voting at the polls, you should do it in no other language than English, and if you are answering a telephone as a Customer Service Representative, you should do it only within our boundaries and, likewise, in no other language than UNDERSTANDABLE English.
I believe owning a gun doesn't make you a killer; it makes you a foregone protector of the innocent … human OR animal.
I believe "illegal" is "illegal" no matter what the lawyers think or argue for hours on end, drawing outlandish, unforgivable financial benefits and/or other asinine perks.
I believe in the one and only God who is the one and only God of each and every religious philosophy on the planet, and who is variously known by the name/s given to the Divinity by the different cultures residing on this most magnificent and glorious of orbs.
I believe everyone has a right to pray to God (by whatever name he or she chooses) when and whether in a classroom, sports field, or stadium. I also feel that the proposed location of a house of worship should be in agreement with the local and/or national MAJORITY.
I'm in touch with my feelings and I like it that way! When a loved one dies, whether it be a one-or-two-footed human friend (that'll take a bit o' thought, I know), or two-legged feathered friends, or four-legged furry friends, or no-legged aquatic friends, I can cry and not be ashamed, but I'm no less a man.
I think being in a minority makes you neither noble NOR victimized, and does not entitle you to anything except to be free to be who you are (IF it doesn't physically harm anyone or anyTHING else), and to be the very best and all that you can be. "Oorah!"
My heroes are John Wayne, Babe Ruth, Will Rogers, and Willie G. Davidson (who makes the awesome Harley Davidson® Motorcycle I ride when away from work).
I neither hate the rich nor pity the poor. I know TV wrestling is fake and I don't waste my time watching or arguing about it. My favorite sports are the International Winter Olympics, followed closely by the Summer and Paralympic Games. I've never owned a slave nor have I ever been a slave (at least not in this lifetime). Likewise, I've never burned any witches nor been persecuted with bodily harm by anyone. I believe if you're always complaining about how much more unpleasantly things are here in the good ol' U.S. of A. than it was in another country, that you should immediately pack your bags with nothing but the stuff you brought with you and return to where you can freely fly their flag upside down and disrespect their laws. See where it lands you! Chicken if you don't.
I also validate the police who have the right to pull us over if we're breaking the law, regardless of what color or creed we are. And, no, I don't mind having my face shown on my driver's license. If I haven't done something that I inherently know is wrong or illegal, why should I, or you, or ANYone, be afraid of verifying who we really are? Too many of you are freely walking around with illegal identification, anyway! If our faces were on ALL our ID cards, far fewer would be stolen (that's not saying that the unscrupulous would stop counterfeiting same).
I believe that it does NOT take a village to raise a child … it only takes parents—usually two; whether the grown-ups be opposite or same sex should make no difference at all, so long as love, not lust, is the motive for bringing the young ones into the family. Also, when one (known or presumed) heterosexual parent is taken away through war, accident, sickness, or divorce, I know that one parent is left to raise the little one/s—and it should NOT always be the mother! (I speak from personal experience on this matter. Just by giving birth to an infant does NOT make that female a Mother! Oh, no! NOT … AT … ALL! I could use another inflammatory word, but I shan't, and in no way am I inferring surrogate mothers, bless their souls.) Therefore, if a single person has the ways and means of adopting and adequately caring for a needy or unwanted child through nurturing, guiding, and loving, it should so be allowed.
I'm proud that "In God We Trust" is printed on my money. And I remember a kinder, gentler time when we pledged Allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America, and prayed aloud the Lord's Prayer, even in the non-parochial, public classrooms (that's going back a few years!), at the beginning of each school day. And when Old Glory passed in a parade, we stood, removed our hats or caps, and placed our right hands over our hearts. And I believe that once again, we should … "Make it so!"
And finally, I believe the American Flag should be the only NATIONAL flag allowed to be displayed publicly in America with one exception, and one exception only! And that is in public plazas (such as the United Nations) where ALL member nations of the world are represented equally. What you hang or display inside the privacy of your own dwelling or place of business (invisible to anyone outside) should matter to no one else, UNLESS you try to force the ideology of those symbols, standards, banners, or emblems on ANYONE else.
Now, with that prelude explaining exactly where I come from and where I stand, let's return to laying the groundwork for the story.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Listen. I always get my man … or men … as the case may be. Frequently by the huevos … the cojones. Ya know … balls, baby-makers, bollocks, eggs, junk, nads, nuts, testes … those things hanging between a man's upper thighs that immediately send him to his knees when they've been kicked, or punched, or bitten to the point of drawing blood, or even while being squeezed too tightly.
Contrarily and likewise, any female criminal suspects are usually handled by the dark-and-sinister Sergeant Pussy Gigantesca, formerly of Lago Titicaca on the Border of Peru and Bolivia, South America—the other 'down under'. As for her jurisprudence, she even has a tickler of a stiff upper lip, and it's well known she always gets her woman … or women … as the case may be. Most frequently by using various body appendages for diddling around a bit here and there and anywhere in-between.
We've both been known to work secretly … on all fours—doggy-style, some would say—down and dirty; undercover; even on our bellies, or on our backs with our toes tickling the stars. Separately, of course. Never together. I wouldn't want her having MY back … not with that monster I've HEARD she straps on—a fake gigantic prick. But I've no real, up close and personal experience with that … thank the Powers that be. It's even been said that there's a battery-powered forked tongue (that can extend to depths untold) on the head-end of her artificial pink-and-purple monster.
This is my report regarding the disappearance of one, ELLIS PETROVITCH DICKINSON. All last family names. Strange. Why would a parent do that? Don't answer. Was just thinking aloud. Somehow, the case reminds me of the above-mentioned 1968 Clean Copper Clappers Caper—in a sick and rather perverted way. So what else is new?
It was at or about 8 P.M. seven days ago—just another Friday, as it geared-up to the climax before the coming weekend heralded by the stroking of the chimes of the ancient Grandfather's Clock in the terrazzo and marbled entry. After changing from my uniform into my leathers, I left the Handcock Precinct where I was stationed.
A few miles later, I stopped off at the 'Easy Rider', my usual watering hole, a leather-and-biker-beer-bar just off Hyperion Boulevard in the Silver Lake area of Los Angeles. If I couldn't find anything promising that piqued my interest, I'd soon head up to my home on Mulholland Drive on the ridge of the Hollywood Hills overlooking the entire megalopolis to the south, and the San Fernando Valley to the north. The view is fuckin' gorgeous, night OR day, either way. Unless it's smoggy … which is much too often these days.
Burton Lane and Alan Jay Lerner had been my first houseguests when they jointly composed and wrote the song, "On A Clear Day, You Can See Forever", that was inspired by the view from my house. Yeah, right! Don't I wish? Nice fantasy, but it sounds good; right? Right.
Anyway … after a hellacious week, I needed a little R&R and was hoping for at least one companion for the weekend. Note, "…at least…" I said. But then, two or three or more would've been perfect. However … my black and gold Harley and my black leather boots with steel toes, my tight black leather pants—going commando, of course, for that arousing, sensual feel, ya know—chaps, codpiece, harness, jacket and cap, a pair of shiny steel cuffs dangling mid-back from my steel-studded black leather belt, and a black leather bullwhip—just my every-day, usual, after-work attire … all these trappings didn't attract the hungry cocksuckers and willing assholes they usually do. Well … what little attraction I did receive, came only after that afternoon's clientele was reassured by the owner—whose name just happened to be Harley—that I wasn't with the Vice Squad. No, no. I could jump a Harley across parts of the Grand Canyon, or ride it over mountain or desert, or even wheelie it around my black-lacquered, twenty-body-capacity, four-poster Chinese-style Opium Bed, but I am NOT with the Vice Squad. I repeat. No how. No way. But I do love to ride a Harley of any color, power, or vintage. Just so long as it's male or mechanical. Varoom! Varoom! … Vroom vroom vroom!
Must have been something in the smog that evening. Most of the 'unlikely potentials' in the 'E.R.' (as we frequent patrons liked to refer to the bar) looked like they belonged in the show out at The Queen Mary anyway. (That's a drag bar in the San Fernando Valley—not the luxury cruise ship permanently berthed and retired in Long Beach Harbor.) Drag just ain't my style. I promised myself I'd take a ride out to The Black Pipe (a raunchy beer-bar popular with the rougher-looking guys [pussycats, though they be; they'd bend over backwards or any-whicha-way to help out a fella like me]) the next day on the way to the popular, boys-only, muscle beach south of Venice where I could let ol' Sol renew my 'all over' suntan … both, at the beach in the morning, and on the pool table in the outdoor patio behind the bar in the afternoon. Ohhhhhh, the memories I'd racked up! Loved rackin' them balls. Oh, yeah … they'd hurt so good. Ah, well … another time … another place … another story.
After just two boring beers at the 'E.R.', I said my g'byes to Harley and went up the hill to Mi Casa en el Cielo—my House in the Sky, as I called it—and let Rolf, my standard-sized red Doberman, out into the walled-in back yard (which actually extended DOWN the Hill). He did what he needed to do as I did the four S's (Shit, Showered, Shaved face, skull, and body, and Stroked-a-silky-one-off) in the sunken bathroom shower, and then I let Rolf back inside. We both had some scrambled eggs with Ketchup and Tabasco, some sourdough toast, and a half-pound of Canadian bacon; I had some hot cocoa; he lapped water like it was going out of style, and then we hit the sack—I, at the head of the black-lacquered bed; he, at the foot.
Saturday came and went. I ended up with a sunburned dick and a sore, puffy asshole (Oh, those Icebreaker® cues!). Oops! Did I forget to say that I've been known to be versatile at times? Not often, but it does happen. Depends on the complete package/s that's made available. It ain't 'how much' that counts, but 'how', in my book.
What happened Saturday night, I'm keeping to myself and not telling a soul, except to say: "Fan-fuckin'-tastic! Met a real man who made me feel brand-spankin' new, inside and out; he's totally reamed me a new one! I know we'll be seeing a helluva lot more of each other, but that, too, is another whole story.
Sunday morning, bright and early, I got a wake-up call; Rolf was on all fours over me and slobbering onto my face between barks. The call was from headquarters, regarding a missing person. Cathleen, the dispatcher, gave me the details of what was known, or rather, what was NOT known. Understandably, as I learned, the man's wife was frantic. Her husband had been missing—according to her—since shortly after suppertime, Friday night. Growing more and more worried about his unaccounted-for-absence, she'd waited till Sunday morning to call the station.
"Let's give it another twenty-four hours more," I said. "He's a legal adult. Maybe he's out fuckin' around with the boys, or maybe he's passed-out, drunk, somewhere up in Griffith Park or down in Palm Springs, pretending it's another White Party. I've got my weekend coming, and I'm taking it, 'me darlin'," I said with a wee bit of an Irish brogue. "Don't call me; I'll call you. And I'll be in on Monday morning, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, just for you; might even have a couple chocolate éclairs for ya," I promised her. She squealed in delight and then giggled as I was returning the receiver to its cradle.
I like to flirt with her. She knows my story and doesn't judge … since I'm her 'type of guy,' she teases me. One of her grandsons—Pierce is his name—follows me around like a little lost, huggable, puppy-dog in heat (if you get my meaning) whenever we're at the station at the same time. He's almost seventeen, but I won't touch him in that 'special' way … not yet anyway … not until he finishes high school and L.A.'s Police Training Academy, as he has stated his intention. Then—and ONLY then—I'll teach him everything I know; withhold the good stuff as a reward for his completing his training. Yeah; I'll teach him EVERYTHING. He'll make a fine cop, I know that for damn sure; he's got all the makin's and inclinations. At least, I HOPE I'll be a fine enough cop for him to make. Ummmmmmm. The thoughts of it all bring a tingle to my… nevermind. <Grin>
Now, back to the story.
Later—a week later, it was, I believe—no; make that a WORK-week later; five days later, it was—I finally pieced together all the details regarding the disappearance-call on that Sunday morning.
REPORT TO DEPTARTMENT CAPTAIN STEELY LUGGNUTZ:
A switch was flicked, and the soft hum and white noise of a small motor came to life.
One young man, still clothed, moved to sit on the cold, metal folding chair in the darkness at the edge of the room. Another young man quickly disrobed and moved to a particular spot and stood, silent as a church-mouse, looking down.
With a gradual waking awareness, stark-naked and sweaty ELLIS PETROVITCH DICKINSON became cognizant of the clammy coldness against his clear Caucasian backside and rump. From across the middle of his ass-cheeks to the top of his shoulders, he must have felt as if he were lying in rubbery dampness. A musty and pungent-uremic odor permeated the air he labored to breathe … air like that foul stench in the filthy black-, gray-, brown-, yellow-, and moldy-green-streaked Men's Room at the back of the old gas station out on Route 66 at the edge of town. You know the one I'm talking about … the one just beyond where that sweet li'l ol' lady from Pasadena resides.
Between her tawny (FYI, that's 'baby-shit-yellow') Victorian mansion and the old gas station, you can find some badly neglected Burma Shave® signs still standing, though leaning haphazardly this way or that. Ya can't miss'em.
You'll still get slapped
But not so hard.
Scales of aged paint are flaking from the walls of that smelly ol' pit-stop of a latrine. A number of inch-square black-or-white ceramic tiles are broken or missing from the checkerboard pattern on the floor, the same pattern that goes up just above piss-high on the walls … or at least they did, the last time I checked in the head and had to take matters into my own hands and ... well … never mind about that, either. Another time; another place. Another tale.
Maybe. But not likely.
Now back to DICKINSON's disappearance—it's so easy to become sidetracked. Mea culpa.
As his hearing became more acute, DICKINSON heard the slow but steady drip, drip, drip of…
'What tha fuck's that? … Water? … Urine? … GASOLINE? … ACID?' he fretted as each new thought of the liquid increased his bewildered anxiety. Hesitant and ever-cautious, he then sniffed for any telltale indication. 'No odor, thank God. Must be a dripping faucet. Somewhere. But where? A grimy sink? A piss-stained trough-type urinal? Or ???' he wondered with a nervous twitching of his aching head, moving it back and forth and from side to side. 'What's happened? Where am I? Why can't I … move my hands … or feet? My arms … or legs?' His thinking changed perspective as he tried to move the different parts of his body. Even his thoughts … were jerky and sper-mad-ick … 'sporadic' I mean, shaking my head. You can see where MY mind is! But there I go … talking to you again. "Shut up, Gerry!" I said as I slapped my own face … HARD! Now, back to Sergeant Friday's report.
It was dark. Very dark. Uncomfortably dark. And dank. A somewhat damp cloth (that yet reeked of some pungent but nauseatingly sweet, fruity-smelling chemical) was wrapped around his head and made it impossible for him to open his eyes, even as much as he might have wanted to and tried. Beneath the binding, a coin, perhaps, weighted each of his closed eyelids. He tried to lick his dry lips, but something like his white-and-liver-colored Brittany Spaniel's hard rubber ball was lodged behind his teeth making it impossible for him to move his tongue at all, and he couldn't open his mouth any farther in order to expunge it … push it out, ya know? He discovered, however, that he could suck in or blow out a bit of rancid breath through what must have been a hole in the ball … he could just feel it with his tongue … that hole being similar to, but larger than, the cum-'n'-piss-slit in most adult 'joy sticks'. 'MOST', being the operative word here—except for the few REAL men who can shove the sharpened end of a #2 pencil into the urethra of their penises, whether flaccid or erect, and still get or keep a hardon during the experience. Unnnh! The thought of it! Yuck! Good, cruelly-exciting way to get lead-poisoning, though! Right? Just teasing. Or not; I don't know. Sounds right.
DICKINSON couldn't speak or yell. The only sound he could utter was a groan, summoned by the horror of those last mental pictures.
'How did I get here? Who did this to me? What the hell is going on?'
His neck ached. There was no support for his head, and he had little or no more strength to hold it up even if he'd wanted to. It just dangled off the slimy dampness and hung naturally in the direction to which gravity pulled it—DOWN—stretching his neck and esophagus without mercy—probably positioned that way on purpose by his tormentor. The pain grew with constancy. Any buildup of saliva (due to the anxious and rapid intake of air through the hole in the rubber ball) was difficult to … to swallow … UPWARD.
That's right. 'Upward' … but he managed to do just that with what little effort he could wield, having trained himself years earlier on a humid but breezy tropical moonlit night.
He was … then … a single, available, university freshman in Florida … hot-to-trot and game for any … well … almost any … non-damaging, man-to-man sensual-but-macho activity.
Without a care in the world—except for not falling on his head, of course—it was while performing mutual and simultaneous fellatio as he hung by the backs of his knees from the sturdy limb of a flaming red-blossomed Royal Poinciana tree in the private, open-air, back-patio of 'The Blast-Off', a gay-male-patrons-only beer-bar just south of Miami. About thirty hunks—or was it three hundred? Who knew? Who cared? What's another 'zero' added to the number? (Now, THAT's deep; try to figure that one out! HINT: Nothing is NOT nothing; it's ALWAYS something! I'll shut up talking, now.) The more, the merrier. Lots of horny, kissing, hugging, licking, groping, sucking, rimming, fucking, sweaty (some few, completely naked; most, nearly so), orgiastic revelers egged-on DICKINSON and his trick-of-the-evening in their unusual, pre-Cirque-du-Soleil® acrobatic, semi-public display.
The flaming tongues of the Tiki torches danced in contrepoint to the gyrations of the onlookers and the symbiotic thrumming rhythms of the bongo drums booming from the black-and-red jukebox blaring in the Palapa that was nestled on stilts in the mangroves. Abstracted faces of Greco-Roman gods in the silver-lined sunset-golden-hued clouds above, looked down on the sensual pleasures of their Dionysian / Bacchanalian adult boy-children. Lightning bolts of desire streaked across the sky as the rumbling thunder of the deities' passionate playtime pulsed and spewed forth their immortal semen onto their mortal sons below, bestowing a cooling but heated respite.
DICKINSON and his nameless paramour humped their eager prongs in and out of each other's mouth and throat, rushing faster and faster toward that FIRST hot and hurried seminal climax of the evening. Together as one, their delicious gifts of lust spurted into the eager depths of each other's hungry gullet, again and again.
For a moment or two, DICKINSON very nearly choked and a bit of the trick's juice exploded through his sinuses and nostrils and out the corners of his puckered lips, but DICKINSON recovered, concentrating, and forcing himself to swallow the remainder of the bittersweet bounty. He even felt the peristaltic muscles ripple within his chest … within his esophagus … as they pushed the thick, creamy, golden-white nectar … upward … ever onward … into the churning hydrochloric acid of his stomach, killing any virus or spermatozoa contained therein. Hopefully!
Forgive me, Cap'n, but I do ramble on; don't I? However, let us return to the scene of the heinous case—not "crime"—some twenty-something years later.
DICKINSON could scarcely move his aching wrists. Struggling to wriggle his fingers, he felt cold, metal … 'Chain links? Is that what they are?' he wondered.
Yes. Then he tried to move his feet and realized they, too, were secured to chains … other chains that brought about immediate stroboscopic scenes to his memory of similar restraints suspended from the ceiling of…???
Little sounds, little smells stirred in his growing awareness and gave reality to the recalled scenes within.
'OH … MY … GOD!!! WHO DID THIS TO ME?' his mind screamed in panic as each picture framed in memory appeared and quickly morphed into the next. 'HOW LONG HAVE I BEEN HERE? HOW DID ANYONE FIND THIS PLACE?' He was ninety-nine and forty-four-one-hundredths' percent certain he knew where he was.
His pitiful exertions at trying to twist out of his predicament by pulling on the different chains did nothing but cause the fucking sling (hmmmmm … so appropriately named) to swing back and forth and from side to side. His efforts to break free were fruitless. Spread above and behind his head, his outstretched arms ached from the lack of blood as gravity pulled the dark red sustainer of life through his veins. Stretched out and up, exposing his hairy groin and nervous puckering anus, his legs also felt the discomfort of less oxygen-giving humor from their having been raised, spread wide, and cuffed higher than his torso.
He heard something … and froze … moving not a muscle; his lungs even ceased their life-supplying function. 'What … was … that?' His silent question was as frightened whispers of words. Though unable to see, his Rapid Eye Movement helped focus his hearing-attention toward different areas around him.
Someone else … or some THING other than himself … was in the second basement's Boiler Room. It was below the subterranean parking level of the very apartment / condo building in which he lived with his wife and their only progeny, a son, the bio-genetic product of his one-and-only time of 'having been there and having done that.' He could hear the breathing of one … No! … Two … NO! … THREE! … or MORE people—or were they animals—moving about? Or even wraiths who'd come through a hypothetical inter-dimensional stargate?—moving around him. In other words … he was scared shitless and was envisioning the worst possible scenario.
With jangled nerves, he wriggled. He squirmed. He tried to talk … to ask who, what, when, and why, but all that could be heard were his unintelligible moans escaping through the hole in the ball-gag that was in his mouth.
As the sling slowed its swaying, it was then that DICKINSON's mind pictured the probable semblance of where he might be and under what conditions he was being restrained. If he could have opened his eyes, they would have seemed as saucers—huge in perceiving the images and forms that were dimly lit around him. Fiery with anger, he was, and at the same time, icy with fear and confusion … fire and ice … an explosive combination if ever there were one.
Suddenly, a small, directed warmth wafted across one nipple and drifted over to the other. He tensed in response, and two small, dark red erections began to stand tall and make their presence known. A muted moan emitted from his larynx at the sensation.
Then, the breath of moist air teased its way down his pecs and torso. The graying-and-golden carpet on his heavily furred chest was so thick it almost hid the ripples of his gym-toned abs. His hips swayed as if trying to escape the erotic stimuli coursing from his erect nubbins to his naked undulating scrotum and inflating penis. His throaty moans—or were they groans?—became more pronounced, and then they hesitated for but a moment as the backs of two coarse, hairy hands lifted from where they had been and began to rub and caress the cheeks of his face.
He heard an ominous laugh behind and above him when the hands turned and rubbed palm-to-cheek; he inhaled the familiar aroma of the once-popular, Old Spice, a 'butch', masculine after-shave lotion. It was not some fruity or floral scented facial astringent that cost five or fifteen or even fifty dollars per half-ounce. The hands withdrew, and one cheek was slapped none too gently; it was followed almost immediately by another on the other side. Care was taken not to damage his ears or his hearing. Then it commenced again. And yet a fourth time the cheeks felt the beginning heat of the token abasements that were to be administered. But he could not yet imagine what might lay in store for his … feared … enjoyment … that would definitely lead to his guilty conscience.
'For WHAT?' his unintelligible vocal attempt evoked through the gag.
Those unknown gentle-yet-rough hands gripped the bound cloth covering, untied it at the back of his head, and wrenched it loose. As it was yanked away, two metal disks slid across his eyelids and fell, clanking to the cold, bare concrete floor.
'Definitely silver or copper coins,' his analytical brain murmured within himself; 'not tin or nickel or aluminum slugs.' "Hummmm?" The inquiring tone sounded like another soft moan, further exciting his assailant.
He opened his eyes. His head, dangling once again from the edge of the contraption, was no more than a couple inches from a dwarfed but bouncing, uncut cock with a shiny bead of pre-cum ready to drop from the wrinkled inch-long foreskin that falsely appeared to lengthen the small appendage.
DICKINSON peered upward across the forest of black, thick, curly hair covering the pubic mound in front of his eyes. Up beyond the non-existent 'treasure trail' that nearly every male cherishes, he struggled to recognize the upside-down face of the Number One troublemaker at Public High School 900-286-103. Even from his cockeyed view, DICKINSON knew well his apparent threat—CHARLES EDWARD ODOM HAYWARD, whose aristocratic appellation was better known to his unscrupulous peers simply as 'CHARLIE'.
[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Whether for reason number ONE — a repeated grade or class (or 'form', for you Brits who might be reading this) — or number TWO — being held back from first grade by his parents — or number THREE — the lad whose birthday forced the child to begin school at the age of seven rather than the usual six — the several students mentioned herein were eighteen-year-old high school Seniors at the time of the tale's occurrence. Yet, they were considered to be adults by the State of California, irrespective of their prankish behavior. Because of being older than most of their classmates, AND due to the fact that their families happened to be more affluent than most, the boys had cliqued together since earliest years in damp and smelly diapers and playpens, supervised by their over-permissive and 'progressive' Nannies, and who had grown up thinking the school and the world were their oysters, fresh for the harvesting and plucking. Or perhaps the last word's first two letters could … excuse me … SHOULD … be simplified to only one. And now … as Paul Harvey would say, "Here's the rest of the story."]
CHARLIE was a brawny weightlifter who — there was no doubt whatsoever, used enhancement drugs, steroids, in other words — towered at nearly six-and-a-half feet, and weighed in at close to three hundred naked pounds. As is common with many longtime bodybuilders, his manhood was miniscule in relation to the rest of his physique — nearly disappearing in the 'black forest' when flaccid, and no more than three-and-a-half slender linear inches when fully aroused. But those nads! He must have used separators and stretchers with ten-pound weights hanging from them for hours upon hours and for years upon years. Or else, he brought forth those bovine genes from a previous incarnation.
CHARLIE flipped his man-tool from the humid, sticky bag of goodies below, and then leaned forward and guided the juicy prepuce of that stiff little penis to the hole in the ball-gag in DICKINSON's mouth. With only the tips of his beefy thumb and index finger, CHARLIE delicately stroked the diminutive appendage until the bead of pre-cum slid down its spidery seminal thread into the opening of the gag and onward into DICKINSON's mouth. His steamy, sweaty nad-pack rested where the metallic 'coins' had been until they'd fallen away so recently.
DICKINSON was repulsed by the strong repugnant chemical flavor of that single oily drop of drug-infused germinal fluid as if it were from the very wastes of the depths on the floor of the Mexican Gulf.
Time and again during the past few high-school years — in fact, too many times to remember the exact number — DICKINSON had remanded CHARLIE to detention for his foul mouth and his roughing-up of underclassmen. He was a true bully to the 'little people' — the younger Freshmen and Sophomores — and a nuisance to many of the Juniors and to some of the Seniors as well. He'd coerced a 'cute-as-the-dickens' frosh-boy to orally copulate his pitiful Senior cock (in the Boys' Room of the woodworking shop, no less).
DICKINSON had put CHARLIE on two-week suspension, even after hearing the sobbing, apologizing plea from the adoring and noble kid, himself, that he hadn't minded and didn't want to press charges. (Note: No doubt, within a few months, the kid would become the Managing Ball-Boy and fuck-toy of the baseball, basketball, football, and men's gymnastics, swimming, and wrestling varsities; he seemed so hungry for the intimate attention of the larger guys!)
It was the principle of the thing. 'To Hell with Dr. Spock and his damned unconventional advice to parents and teachers never to discipline their spoiled and perverted, over-privileged little darlings,' DICKINSON had voiced at the time, in regarding CHARLIE's abuse of the kid.
"Well, well, well," CHARLIE growled as he smirked a self-satisfied smile, moving back a step. "Now this is where 'MISS ELLIE' belongs…" he parodied ELLIS DICKINSON's name, "… on her back, and with her mouth- and ass-cunts available to ALL her up-an'-cummin' … betters!" A wicked chuckle resounded from his monstrously muscled neck.
Unseen by DICKINSON, another boy laughed at CHARLIE's new nickname for the second-in-command at school. The short little chuckled-laugh sounded somewhat familiar to DICKINSON, but he couldn't quite recognize to whom the timbre belonged.
As seen from his spread-eagled but hammock-like position at CHARLIE's steaming crotch — oozing pheromones — DICKINSON had never realized just how big the boy really was — his body, not his genitalia — what there was of it, that is. Nor that voice! Not boyish at all, but manly and deep, in a lustful, heart-stopping baritone — to anyone thus affected by such a masculine quality.
"Umph!" Sensing a personally-familiar movement, DICKINSON groaned in disapproval as he raised his head, gazed down his restrained body, and viewed his own dreaded, rising erection. Then, with eyes closed for the moment, blood contrarily rushed even faster to DICKINSON's average six- or six-and-a-half-inch cut cock, causing it to jerk, but only once, and was joined by the sound of a strong suctioning of air through the hole in the ball-gag. He just couldn't help it; it … they — the jerk and the suctioning — both happened spontaneously. He couldn't stop it or cause IT to return again to its flaccid state if his life had depended upon it. Truth be known, he didn't want to stop it or alter its arousing course. But then … he was torn between exposing his hidden desires toward certain male students and the 'immorality' of being attracted to sexual encounters with ANY high school student —no matter at WHAT age — particularly of his own sex. On the other hand … he was well aware that ANY man, aroused or excited by some outside stimulus — whether, i.e., it be a woman, another man, or even an animal, by visual, auditory, olfactory, or tactile means — will, with no forethought at all, automatically become 'stirred up' or 'invigorated', shall we say? Impossible to negate or reject even under the right circumstances — whatever the right circumstances might be … for that individual.
Carefully lowering DICKINSON's head again to its dangling position, CHARLIE stepped back a bit, leaned forward, and ran his moist, serpentine tongue back and forth from one nipple to the other. "Lick my balls, MISS ELLIE," he ordered. "Oh! That's right; you can't," he said with foreboding disillusion, suddenly remembering the ball-gag. "Oh, well … next time, for sure," he promised with the subtle forecast of a threatened repeat.
Another pulse. Another jerk — uncontrolled but also unwanted for the moment — 'a world of contradictions,' he thought.
With some unknown inner power, DICKINSON summoned his strength and yanked his hands toward CHARLIE's head in anger — mock or otherwise, it mattered not. They rose merely an inch or two, but the only other thing that happened was that the struggle momentarily shortened the length of the arm-chains. In so doing, his face was pulled smack-dab into CHARLIE's pubic hair and erect, oozing little 'dickie', hard as a rock, which then slid across the tip of DICKINSON's nose, lips, and chin, leaving an acrid, slimy, snail-like trail behind. Once more, DICKINSON began shaking his head from side to side trying to avoid the little pre-cum-dripping penis that smelled of Limburger-fragranced cock-cheese.
CHARLIE jerked upright from his bent-forward posture, surprised at the movement. He spread his legs a little, and inched forward a half step. DICKINSON's head slid between CHARLIE's upper thighs, and DICKINSON's nose was precisely pressing against CHARLIE's sweaty perineum — his 'taint'.
"Ohhh, 'MISS ELLIE', that feels sooooo goooood. You keep movin' your whiskered cheeks like that, and I might just have to give ya whatcha really want." Before losing his own balance, he stepped back the half step, and his meager cock rubbed DICKINSON's face a couple of times. Again, he leaned over the older man and lightly nipped with his teeth, first, one of his nipples, then slid his tongue across the fur, and bit down on the other one, leaving reddish-purple bite marks.
DICKINSON moaned and squirmed. He loved the sensations, but — as already stated — hated the thought of … publicly … receiving them from any teen, and refused to show any enjoyment, but his damned fuck-stick continued to betray his desires by growing closer to its absolute maximum seven-inch length and six-inch circumference with nearly two-inch diameter. At the same time, he knew that whoever ELSE was in the Boiler Room … could see it!
"I see ya like that, bitch," CHARLIE remarked. "You're a real grower, ya know that? I'm surprised, 'cause ya don't got any balls worth shit. Hmmmmm … maybe we should arrange a trade, ya know? Your big cock over my sac of bull's balls, and my fuckin' little pricklet over your puny sac o' ol' withered peanuts." CHARLIE and the unknown voice in the darkness roared hysterically at the proposition. "And I know just the surgeon who could do it for us — a real good friend of mine who's taught me ever'thang I know 'bout all kinds o' different pussies — female AND male." He was, surprisingly enough, referring to his own father, the well-known and highly acclaimed genital reconstruction specialist, Ollie Everhard Clittox Hayward, M.D. (Some people have very strange names, indeed!)
DICKINSON's eyes bugged out of his skull in fright. His hands, cuffed to the chains, started shaking in panic. His labored breathing became erratic and jerky once more. And his cock had rather quickly nearly succumbed to being flaccid again.
"Your dick seemed to have liked it a lot, too, but you're afraid to really let yourself show it, ain'tcha, Sweet-Cheeks?" He then returned to his tantalizing torture by sucking slowly on one of DICKINSON's pert nips and bit down even harder; he then slid his tongue over to DICKINSON's armpit, ready to soak the entire area with his tongue and spit.
"Yuck!" he spluttered in disgust along with several other gross, vulgar, and profane out-pourings as he jumped back. "Tastes like alum combined with Lava Soap® … but at least it's a man's soap. Right, MISS ELLIE?" CHARLIE asked with a sneer, stepping back a bit more before spitting the foul remnants in DICKINSON's face. "You really are a cock-hungry cunt in a MAN's body, aren'tcha?" he asked, "…masking your desires with such manly — Oh, fuck! What's the word? — ACCOUTREMENTS! Yeah, that's it. See, Mister Vice-Principal … I DO pay attention in English!"
Another muffled sarcastic chuckle from the dark, invisible sidelines.
"I still enjoy a good day's sweat of a man's hairy pit, though," CHARLIE mumbled.
DICKINSON glared at his tormentor, and CHARLIE slapped each side of his face again before he slithered past, letting his huge fingers course through the fur on DICKINSON's chest and abs, lightly tickling as they journeyed farther south. Then, for just a wee fraction of a moment, CHARLIE withdrew his hand so that he could move around a leg-chain and stand between both raised and cuffed legs that exposed the puckered, flexing lips of the … apparently … horny asshole of his and his buddies' victim. It looked like a miniature version of the snapping, pink beak of the giant squid in the movie, "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea". Snap. Snap. Snap.
"Hungry for it, too, I see," CHARLIE jeered. Then, mimicking Dorothy Gale's 'Wicked Witch of the West', he added, "In time, my pretty; in time." An evil, robust laugh followed, then he went on. "Not so big and tough are ya, Mister Vice-Principal? Not now, anyway, are you, 'MISS ELLIE'? Gotta say, that's a perfect name for ya, pa'ticularly after we get through with ya tonight," the weightlifter hinted at the evening's planned activities. "Not able to play the rough and tough Marine Drill Sergeant, all tied up and unable to do anything but lay there and suck cock and get fucked up the ass for being the sonuvabitchin', domineerin' whore you've been for the past three years, are ya, bitch?" his soft, friendly voice rose to an angry roar as he thrust a … somehow … greased middle finger fully into DICKINSON's ass-cunt in a single movement. Thank God, the brawny weightlifter bit his nails 'way back to the cuticles. It was as smooth an unwanted, unbloodied entrance as could be hoped for under the present conditions.
A gag-muffled scream, nevertheless, escaped through the breathing-hole, piss-hole, cum-dripping-hole, whatever-ya-wanna-call-it-hole in the ball-gag as DICKINSON flinched upright as much as possible at the forced intrusion. The sling rocketed to and fro, side to side, forward and back, causing CHARLIE, again, almost to lose his balance.
Just then, another voice was heard.
"Hey, man! No fair!" ROD SMITH, a freckle-faced, grayish-white-skinned boy called as he rushed into the new playroom. "Already started havin' some fun 'afor we all git here, did ya?" He carried a pharmacy's plastic checkout bag and set it on the unkempt desk of Quasimodo Frolo, the Maintenance Guy … at least that's the name some of the younger residents of the building used to ridicule the poor, unfortunate, hard-working, ill-shapened man. Children can be so cruel. And mommy and daddy let their little darlings do and say whatever the hell they want. SHIT!
DICKINSON recognized ROD's higher-pitched voice as that student was another frequent visitor to after-hours detention. 'How many boys are there?' he wondered in silence. 'How many more are coming?' He dared not hazard a guess.
"He started comin' to," CHARLIE answered, referring to the ether-drenched cloth that had been bound around DICKINSON's head, "so I figured I'd get'im all loosened up before ever'body got here. Where's FRANK? We gotta hurry. Don't have all night. I gotta curfew since bitch, here, put me in detention again. My ol' man'll kill me this time if I'm just one fuckin' minute late, even if it IS a Friday night!"
"He's getting the other stuff," the miscreant answered, smirking, as he sidled up to DICKINSON and tweaked the prominent adult nipples of both tits with his three-quarter-inch-long, pointy, black-painted fingernails. Turning his head, ROD winked at CHARLIE, then turning again, he glared at DICKINSON, curled his lips back baring his teeth, and gave forth with a sharp hissing sound.
It was then that DICKINSON realized that ROD had had his canines filed down to real fangs. Each week recently, it seemed, ROD had done something else to add to the Gothic caricature he appeared to crave.
"Why not just use the fire hose over there?" CHARLIE asked of no one in particular as he jerked his shit-laced middle finger from DICKINSON's slimy hole and wiped it through the handy pubic hair to cleanse it … more or less.
DICKINSON squeezed his eyes shut in embarrassment and pain, sending a kaleidoscope of reds, blacks, golds, and silvers to his brain. The loudest of his … as yet … painful moans rushed from his throat and out through the hole in the ball-gag.
In seconds, it seemed, ROD had shed his dark, floor-length topcoat, as well as the rest of his weird outfit and was as naked as the day he was born, except for his long, straight, coal-black hair (obviously dyed) hanging down his back and over his shoulders, and his bush of flaming reddish-orange pubes. His finger then replaced CHARLIE's with the addition of a second. And soon thereafter, a third. DICKINSON responded with a flinch and a louder, prolonged groan. 'Those nails could puncture my insides,' he feared, as they twisted and turned, moved farther into and almost completely out of his violated, yet quivering, nether region.
To CHARLIE's last question, ROD answered, "The warm water'll make it a helluva lot easier at first, 'Dufus'. B'sides … usin' the fire hose would set off alarms."
CHARLIE pulled a fuckin' eighteen-inch-long pair of scissors out of the bag on the desk and held'em up, asking, "Think this'll cut it off?"
"That's why I got'em," ROD answered, jerking his three widespread fingers from DICKINSON's ass. He didn't even bother to wipe'em off; one by one, he seductively sucked them clean of the ass juices.
Had he seen that, DICKINSON probably would have puked, but he didn't react to ROD's fingers' rough exit from his asshole at all. His outrageously glaring eyes were glued in fear to the scissors CHARLIE was waving and clicking about.
"Here. You do it," he said, handing them to ROD. DICKINSON tensed, groaned, and wriggled, fearing the worst. Tears were dripping from his eyes.
"Oh, don't be such a big wuss, DICKSsss… uhhh … MISS ELLIE, I mean," ROD corrected himself. "We ain't gonna cutchur cock off … we got other things planned for that! SHOCKING things that'll ELECTRIFY you!" He grinned as he flexed his eyebrows a few times. "But what we're gonna do, startin' now, is cut all that purty golden fur off ya, from your delicious neck…" he bared his 'fangs' and hissed again, "… all the way down past your fuck-hole. And these…" he fondled DICKINSON's uptight little ball-sac, "…may end up with two little holes in them." Once more, he bared his teeth and hissed before saying in a well-articulated Transylvanian accent, "I vant … to suc … k'your blod."
DICKINSON went hysterical, wriggling, twisting, pulling, pushing, yanking, trying to loosen his bindings, trying to get away, sobbing between unintelligible profanities, and on and on and on.
"COOL IT, MAN! … or I should say … BITCH!" CHARLIE yelled. "We don't wanna hurtcha permanently, and we damn-sure don't wanna cutcha or draw any blood (ROD scowled at his big friend), so if you wanna leave here in one piece tonight after we get through with ya … just behave yourself and take whatever you have to, like the man ya think ya are, and like we have to do … excuse me … HAD to do! … when you put us in fuckin' detention — there won't be any more of THAT, I guaran-damn-tee ya! If ya can't do that …" he reached in the bag and brought out a Drop-Ether-Mask and a small bottle of Anesthetic Ether, "… we'll use these again." He turned back and held them up so DICKINSON could see. "Won't give ya enough to make ya lose total consciousness … again ... but it'll make it easier on ya, and who knows? You might even get to love the rest of what we're gonna do to ya…" he said with a shit-eatin' grin, "…whether you're conscious of it or not! And then we can ALL be friends … with you on your knees or on your back … at the bottom of our social totem-pole."
Then, turning back to ROD, CHARLIE ordered, "Start shearin', butcha don't have to be too neat."
Like a 'mad Gothic scientist,' ROD clicked the blades of the scissors together a couple of times in the air so that DICKINSON could see them. Unable to speak or wriggle his way out of the sling, he trembled at what was coming, again fearing the worst. He was scared — really scared for the first time in his life. He had never felt so threatened before. His breathing was quick and shallow. From his throat came sobbing moans; from his eyes, tears flooded his face.
Stroking DICKINSON's crew-cut, ROD cooed, "Be still, my golden-fleeced little sheepy-poo. This won't hurt … unless you move and I do an … OOPSie-daisy!" he taunted. Then, once more, he bared his 'fangs', gave forth a raspy hiss, and lowered his opened mouth to DICKINSON's neck, washed it with his spit-wet tongue, and then … surprisingly enough … gently kissed it. He purred like a kitten, and then, drawing back with an evil glare, he hungrily licked his lips. A few droplets of spittle dribbled from the corners of his mouth onto the corner of DICKINSON's lips.
DICKINSON squeezed his eyes shut and shed more tears.
Minutes passed. Returning the ether and mask to the desk, CHARLIE had pulled an electric hair clipper and an extension cord from the bag of goodies. Looking around, he plugged the cord into a nearby outlet and was connecting the clipper-cord into the extension cord as ROD said, "Shit! MISS ELLIE, here, is a fuckin' golden gorilla, ain't she, CHARLIE?"
"Yeah. You jus' keep shearin' an' I'll start clippin'," CHARLIE said, attaching the #3 Guide Comb, which would clip the chest and pubic hair to no more than 1/8 inch (3 mm).
Soon, the buzzing noise began and as ROD continued down toward DICKINSON's abs, CHARLIE began clipping around the diminished nipples centered on the reddish-brown, dime-sized areolas. "Awww. Poor widdle t'ings," CHARLIE whined like a four-year-old. "Dheir bot scared 'n' tryin' to hide or go bye-bye," he said in a babyish voice, finishing the upper chest. Wiping the loose hairs to the side, he momentarily turned off the clippers and leaned over, swabbed the little nubbins with his tongue until they stood tall once again; it didn't take long. DICKINSON's face seemed to relax and a soft moan was heard.
"A moan up there, and a jerk down here," ROD said. "Looks like he's enjoying it … or rather … looks like SHE's enjoying it." He chuckled.
The clipper's buzzing returned. The sheared and clipped hairs were brushed or wiped to DICKINSON's sides, falling between flesh and the rubbery, sweaty dampness of the sling. His sides began to itch, but there wasn't a fuckin' thing he could do about it except squirm, hoping for some relief, only to experience more itching.
Glancing back to DICKINSON's face, CHARLIE said, "RODDIE, here, is the genius behind tonight's little gathering, ya know. We've all been tryin' to think of how we could make you regret you ever sent us to detention. And how to do it in a way you'd be too embarrassed to mention to anyone about tonight. Truth is … you're not gonna want to remember this night at all. Isn't that right, RODDIE, baby?"
The eighteen-inch shears immediately quit their cutting, and ROD pointed them at — not DICKINSON, but at …CHARLIE — with lips curled back as a bloodthirsty hiss poured forth. "Don't call me 'baby'," he gruffly ordered after sucking in a breath.
"Awright, all right, already," the big guy responded with eyebrows arched and one hand raised in surrender as the other continued with the clipping.
"Wow! You guys started without me," FRANK HARDY observed as he entered the play area. He was carrying a galvanized bucket of comfortably hot water (95-110º F; 35-43º C) and a washcloth in one hand, with a can of Burma Shave® Lather and a package of disposable razors in the other.
"What took ya so long?" CHARLIE inquired at the same time as ROD exclaimed, "Burma Shave®!? Where'd ya find that?"
Setting the pail of water and everything else he'd brought with him onto the already-crowded desk, FRANK avoided CHARLIE's question but answered ROD's. "Dad's got a case of it along with a lot of other memorabilia from the '60s, so I just sorta … borrowed … a can," he said, wriggling his eyebrows.
"Oh, yeah. Didn't they go outta business?" ROD asked, and then added, “We weren't even born yet!" Then, with a diabolical glare at DICKINSON's scaredy-cat eyes, he added, "…but I DO pay attention in American Social Studies class, too, bitch!"
"You weren't even a little spermie in your daddy's hot 'n' horny balls, then," CHARLIE joked with ROD, "but I remember going with MY dad to his Senior Prom, then an exciting little submarine ride and over a waterfall…" (He hurriedly humped the air with his hips as his fist simulated the excitement.) "…and finally coming home with Mumsy. That's what I remember."
"You asshole," ROD said, rolling his eyes at the impossible fantasy. "Nobody can remember THAT far back."
"I can," CHARLIE replied as a matter of fact.
Giving him the 'finger', ROD shot back, "In your wet dreams, little-big-man. In your sick, DRIPPY, dreams."
While he was jumping from one foot to the other, removing his laced-up shoes, then his holey, faded Levis, and his sleeveless muscle-tee, FRANK said, "All right, guys; cut the fraternization…"
"Ooooo," both, CHARLIE and ROD exclaimed. "Such a big word!"
FRANK grinned with pride, then added, "Yeah; but getting back to what you asked me before … I think I heard Dad say Burma Shave® sold out in '63." Next, he stuck his thumbs inside the waistband of his pissy-yellow Joe Boxer's® with the big smiley-face grinning at the growing erection it barely hid. Down and off went the baggy underwear, and up popped his averaged-sized boner splattering a drop or two of pre-cum against his sparse but obvious, dark brown 'treasure trail'; he hefted his shaved ballsack with one hand and stroked his throbbing cock a couple of times with his other. It was difficult to tell whether he'd been circumcised or not since most of his slimy, glistening glans was uncovered by the tiny bit of foreskin, which barely concealed the flange of his helmet.
DICKINSON couldn't believe just how humiliated he was; never had he been so angry, yet so turned-on by high school students in all his life. True, they'd each one earned every moment of detention he'd made them serve, particularly CHARLIE. Oh, yeah, and they'd all come from the most affluent families in town — 'doctors, lawyers, Injun Chiefs', as the old saying goes. But spoiled rotten is what they were, being given any- and everything they wanted. What they truly lacked from their parents was love and discipline. Cars, clothes, credit lines, plastic cards, and long-range cordless phones would never take the place of good, ol' fashioned hickory sticks and webbed belts to mark their asses in response to their misbehavings.
In short order, the shearing and clipping had finished.
The somewhat familiar but unrecognized voice in the darkness gave a cough.
In response to the unspoken directive, FRANK reached for the can of shaving lather and began shaking it; ROD started dipping the washcloth in the bucket of hot water, and then washing off DICKINSON's chest, abs, groin, and on down to his perineum and finally his asshole. CHARLIE moved behind DICKINSON's head, retrieved the rag /slash/ blindfold, laid it back across DICKINSON's eyes, and once again tied it behind his head. Then, he untied the leather cord and eased the ball-gag from behind DICKINSON's teeth.
In the darkness at the edge of the basement, the fourth young man stood, quickly and quietly stripped out of his clothes, and, with a huge, evil grin, began stroking his already firm and throbbing, pre-cum oozing, teen cock.
Wetting his lips and gulping great gobs of fresh air, DICKINSON sobbed, "What're ya gonna d…?" before CHARLIE jabbed three fingers of one hand and the thumb of his other into the mouth, pushing both ways against the teeth, opening the oral tunnel farther, making it almost impossible for DICKINSON to mumble more than a moan or a groan.
"Just relax … MISS ELLIE," CHARLIE said in a soft, seductive voice. "We've got a warm, juicy present just for you."
DICKINSON could sense CHARLIE moving somewhat to the side, as another body moved in closer, directly above and behind his dangling head.
"Just relax, now," CHARLIE repeated himself. "I'm gonna take my fingers outta your mouth, but you keep it open … WIDE … and don't you DARE bite down … OR YOU'LL REGRET IT … IN THE WORST WAY POSSIBLE," he demanded.
As he grabbed DICKINSON's diminishing, but still firm, cock, ROD picked up and clicked the long shears several times as he pressed the outside edge of one of the blades to the shriveling, fleshy 'dip-stick'. Boy! It sure was getting its exercise! Growing up nice and thick and tall, then shrinking to almost nothing, again and again, up and down and up and down.
And suddenly, a soft, yet hard, spongy penile tube slid ever-so-gently into DICKINSON's mouth as CHARLIE's fingers were withdrawn. His mouth closed a bit, and his teeth pressed against the warm flesh. Immediately, both cheeks were slapped, and CHARLIE barked, "OPEN UP, BITCH! DON'T BITE!" The mouth obeyed; the teeth could not be felt; and a moan of pleasure was heard from above and behind DICKINSON's head.
Something there, was familiar, the older man blindly thought. Inch after comfortable-but-becoming-UNcomfortable inch of the thick seven-plus-inch circumcised cock slid rather pleasingly across DICKINSON's tongue until if began to enter his throat. 'Why fight it? I hate it, but I want it — it's been a couple months since the Cable Guy was where I am now — and besides … boys being boys — they're gonna do whatever they damn well please, anyway,' he silently convinced himself to go along with the course of events; it'd be easier in the scheme of things. 'But I've still gotta make them think I don't want to do it,' he reasoned. It was then that his nostrils sank into the forest of pubic hair and he suddenly recognized the odor — Brut® aftershave. It wasn't like he hadn't deep-throated a cock this size before — it had just been quite a while! But that fragrance, that aroma … it was so familiar. In his mind's eye, he could dimly see the easily recognizable dark green bottle sitting on a vanity … somewhere … but where? The faculty lounge at school? A hotel room down in La Jolla? Or up in gay ol' San Francisco? A suite during Mardi Gras in New Orleans when he'd snuck away from his wife for a couple hours? Or at the Hilton in Dallas when he'd gone to a high school administrators' conference with Principle Gerald A. Young? Or …???
Again and again, the pre-cum dripping cock withdrew almost completely, and then slid forward a quarter of an inch, a half an inch, three-quarters of an inch farther and farther each time. DICKINSON loved it, apparently, because he willingly gave himself over to the pleasure he was receiving. He started using his tongue to stimulate the (at the very least) eight-inch — or so he thought — shaft, the frenulum, the glans, and the cum-slit. Deeper and deeper it was thrust, causing a bit of gagging, which was soon over-come by past experience, and both, giver and receiver were groaning in pleasure. DICKINSON was no longer fighting his restraints.
Suddenly, something was squirting on his chest and his abdomen. Something cold. Then a slimy hand was holding … no! … stroking … his already hard and dripping cock. Two … three … four hands were rubbing the stuff everywhere on the front and sides of his torso as another hand seductively stroked and manipulated his prong up, down, left, right, every direction, as another covered his scrotum, his taint, and around his clenching asshole with the silky-smooth … whatever it was! And then DICKINSON remembered hearing something … 'Burma Shave®'. Good God! It still foamed and lathered after all those years!
The slow, deliberate, deep thrusting continued … not with malice or intended hurt, but with a gentleness that was unexpected. The pre-cum was the sweetest he could ever remember pleasing his taste buds.
The sound of a plastic package being ripped open was heard.
"Here ya go, guys," FRANK said, handing disposable razors to CHARLIE and to ROD, and taking one out of the package for himself. "Let's make him as smooth as a girl's hairless pussy."
DICKINSON jerked his head up, at FRANK's suggestion, not meaning to, but forcing himself to deep-throat the ever-hardening cock in his mouth. He choked, he gagged, he coughed, and a bit of sour vomit escaped his lips as the intruder was expelled.
CHARLIE, ROD, and FRANK quickly went to work shaving all the golden fur from DICKINSON's front. A little nick here, a little nick there, and a muffled "Ow!" or two from DICKINSON. No serious damage, though. The quick swipe of a warm washcloth, and the sting of what must have been a styptic pencil was all it took to stop the little droplets of blood.
His oral assailant grabbed his coughing, twisting, turning, jerking head by the ears, pulled it back and down, and with a bit of anger — or was it frustrated sexual need? — jabbed his leaking fuck-stick back into the tight, warm, moist throat he had so thoroughly been enjoying only a moment earlier. "Hold fuckin' still, DAD, and take it like the man ya THINK ya are!" he blurted out, in his deep, masculine voice, not immediately realizing what he had just said.
The other three suddenly froze and jerked their heads toward…
"Huhhhhhh?" DICKINSON managed to moan as he, too, froze from any movement, any fighting at all.
You could have heard a pin drop in the sudden, motionless, silence, except for the white noise of the soft hum in the background.
"Ya might as well remove the blindfold now, BIG DICK, an' let your ol' man get the full impact," CHARLIE said.
RICHARD "BIG DICK" DICKINSON was the son of Vice-Principle ELLIS PETROVITCH DICKINSON, and had been offered full scholarships to UCLA and USC because of his achievements in football as one of the high school's star "Tight Ends", and, quite incidentally, because of his academic records. At six-foot-four, and 225 pounds (102 Kg., or 16 stones), he withdrew his larger-than-normal dick from his father's throat until only the flared-mushroom-like head remained in his mouth. Carefully, he reached under his sperm-donor's head and untied the blindfold and then let it drop to the floor. The blindfold, that is; not the head. Duh.
DICKINSON glared at his son, opened his mouth and tried to exclaim, "DICKIE???", but the childish nickname was abruptly garbled and terminated as DICK rammed his fucker deeper into his sire's open mouth and throat.
"We'll have no more that that name-callin'! It'll be 'DICK' or 'RICHARD' from now on, ol' man! Ya hear?"
DICKINSON was near shock; with a good-sized cock thrust in his mouth, all he could barely do to answer was nod his head only enough for the front of his crew-cut to titillate the bottom of his son's well-hung, smooth, nearly hairless scrotum.
"Yeah, that's right … DAD! It's me … your one and only! But we're all damned sick and tired of you not letting us be the ruling upperclassmen that Seniors are supposed to be!" He looked across his dad's naked and restrained body to his three friends and ordered, "Hurry up over there! Finish up! I'm getting' close, an' I wanna fuck that ass good an' hard, an' while I'm rippin' him a new one, all three of ya can do the same thing to this cunt-hole that I'm doin' right now!"
"Yeah." "Right on!" "Let's have some fun!" they said simultaneously and with the biggest shit-eatin' grins anyone could imagine.
"In four more months, the four of us will be graduating, and you WILL see to it that each of us graduates with honors, won't you, DADDY?" DICK informed and asked, but not waiting for an answer, he went on to say: "Just so that you know, and so that you won't make it more difficult for yourself, I'll tell you what we're going to do. Or rather, what YOU are going to do. ONE: You will NOT be giving us any more detention — those days are over, forever, for reasons I'll tell you in a little bit. TWO: Any time any of us four wants a blowjob or an asshole to fuck — you'll immediately stop what you're doing and make yourself available — and you'll keep yourself cleaned out at all times. Remember to carry some one-time-use enemas in your briefcase. And THREE: You won't refuse us anything we ask until we go to university in September. Maybe longer. We'll see."
All the time DICK was making his demands, he was ever-so-slowly thrusting-holding-withdrawing-thrusting-holding-withdrawing. He didn't want to rush his climax because he had the OTHER depository / sperm bank in mind. In and out. In and out. Again. And again. Building. Building … closer to the edge.
CHARLIE was licking and chewing on his lips as he watched what was happening at the other end of the sling. ROD's leaking 'hot rod' was leaving an erratic, shining trail on DICKINSON's left hip and his black, pointy nails were tormenting his own protruding already-bruised-and scarred nipples. And horny ol' FRANK … well HE had already dropped a load all across DICKINSON's baby-ass-smooth belly, leaving a quivering lake of thick whipped cream in the man's belly-button.
"Now then … how do we know that you're going to agree to do all this?" Dicked asked; not expecting an answer, he continued. "Because you don't want to be embarrassed by any of this becoming public knowledge, now, do you, Daddy-o? No! Of course you don't want to. And just HOW might any of this become public knowledge? Well … if we'll all be quiet for just a moment…" he suggested with an all-knowing smile to his friends, and holding up both hands, silently signifying, 'Stop everything! No breathing, even!' He also stopped thrusting, but withdrew until nothing but his throbbing glans was still in the warm, moist, darkness of his dad's mouth.
After a few … ALMOST … silent seconds, DICK took a deep breath before continuing … speaking AND slowly thrusting. "…you may hear a very soft little hum somewhere up above your … reclining … naked … body with an … erection … the likes of which, I've never seen on you before. That's quite a daddy-cock you've got on you … for the submissive that you're gonna become … denying us nothing … because that soft little hum you hear is coming from one of those new camcorders that everyone's so excited about — the one you and Mumsy got me for Christmas, actually — RECORDING EVERYTHING THAT'S GOING ON HERE. And … your on-again, off-again hardon is certainly showing a throbbing interest … the kind that you certainly wouldn't want the School Board to learn about."
He shoved his cock in, balls deep, and to the hilt … and didn't move a muscle. After an agonizing moment, DICKINSON moaned again and again, his arms and legs shaking against the chains, trying to get loose. DICK's dick kept still, except for an exciting blood-thrusting surge now and then. "You sorry FUCK!" he said to the man in the sling, who had suddenly gone limp, no longer struggling. It became apparent that there was no more fight or stress in him.
"PULL OUT, DICK! PULL OUT!" yelled FRANK.
"We're finished with the shaving down here, BIG GUY. Come on. Fuck'im like you really want ta," CHARLIE encouraged.
"YOU'VE CHOKED HIM! YOU'VE CUT OFF HIS AIR!" echoed ROD.
All the while, DICK had been pummeling his victim's mouth, and then, at his friends' concerned excitement, he realized that something was wrong. Quickly he pulled out, perhaps fearing that he'd … no; not that! … that he'd cut off his father's oxygen. Holding DICKINSON's head up with his left hand, DICK used his right hand to slap the older man's face … first the right side, then the left, then right again, and once more, the left. He even leaned over, smothered his dad's lips with his own, and exhaled as hard as he could into his dad's mouth and lungs.
'This can't be happening!' he thought to himself.' "Come on, breathe, damn you;" he yelled, not in a loud voice, but in a harsh whisper. "BREATHE! Take your punishment like a man!" DICK was scared.
Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Again and again, just as the dilapidated sign (mentioned earlier) had foretold. Then a rapid, deep breath was gasped before ELLIS DICKINSON coughed.
With confirmed realization that the life had not slipped away, DICK released his hold of the unsupported head. Still coughing, it dropped to its previous dangling position.
DICK moved away and toward the outstretched legs, cuffed high on their separate chains. "One of you … use his mouth … I don't care which one of ya starts," he ordered, flipping his wrist and shaking his hand at his friends. "Just keep the fucker quiet … the others … start jackin' off on his chest and stomach. Take turns with his mouth. I'm gonna be a while … enjoying myself; I've wanted to do this for years."
DICKINSON was restrained, but he wasn't deaf; he heard his son saying things he never thought he'd hear. He closed his tearing eyes and prayed, "Lord … just let me die." He was beaten. Maybe he HAD been too severe with the foursome.
CHARLIE's massive hulk pushed FRANK aside as he rushed to take DICK's place.
DICKINSON tried once more to move his arms, his legs, his hips, but most of his strength had disappeared. Yes, he was on the verge of totally giving up.
With no lubrication to his much-fisted, glorious rod of hot, pulsing flesh, other than the slippery lather that could sting the delicate mucosal membranes, DICK's hard-as-a-rock glans hammered and attacked his dad's anal sphincter with a mighty steam-engine-like rush. His sweat-slippery feet were moving and sliding so fast that his hips were going nowhere, again and again, until finally, he slipped and fell face to neck on top of his father. His thick nine-inch manhood was completely buried as his baby-makers slapped his father's ass cheeks. The elder DICKINSON screamed in pain as the insertion pushed not only him, but the sling, too, back into CHARLIE's hips. It happened so quickly, CHARLIE lost his balance and fell forward with his chest on top of DICKINSON's head and face and on top of DICK's head and body that were on top of DICKINSON's chest. In shock, Rod and Frank shot their loads zigzagging across the three bodies on the sling, and while they were still shooting, CHARLIE and DICK jumped upright, cursing like drunken sailors.
DICK entered again but with a vengeance … and found no resistance at all. CHARLIE entered again and felt no suction, no stimulation, no movement whatsoever.
DICKINSON had lost consciousness.
It was after 2300 hours, that Friday night. After CHARLIE had spunked in DICKINSON's mouth, he left, not because he wanted to, but because he had to make HIS father's imposed curfew. There would be time to satisfy his many fantasies, later on, he was sure.
DICK pounded his dad's asshole until he shot his first load of the evening into the unconscious man. Then FRANK added his cum to the mixture of fluids and solids. DICK fucked a second load into his dad, after which ROD released HIS batter into the mixture, and DICK finished off the evening's ejaculations for a third time.
The three boys got dressed, uncuffed the still passed-out DICKINSON from his restraints, and attempted a shit-ass job of cleaning the man with the then-grown-cold water in the galvanized bucket.
DICK pulled the eight-foot A-frame ladder over to the sling, climbed it, and retrieved the camcorder with the damning and incontrovertible evidence of his father's homoerotic reactions to what had transpired.
The plastic pharmacy bag, electric razor, extension cord, disposable razors, and can of shaving lather were all tossed in the emptied bucket. They then dressed DICKINSON none too carefully, and with the mixture oozing from his anus, filling his tighty-whities, and dripping down his legs. They wrapped his arms around DICK's and FRANK's shoulders and basically carried him to the elevator and up to the second-floor apartment, his head hanging and his feet scuffing the tiled hallways; at that time of the evening there would be few if any tenants coming or going, and if any were met, the high school Seniors would treat their helpless 'buddy' as one who'd had a bit too much to drink.
Tiptoeing inside the DICKINSON apartment, they took him into the Guest Bedroom [which had become his own since he and his wife had stopped sleeping together several years earlier] and quietly plopped him on the bed, then turned off the light, exited the room, and closed the door. ROD had taken all the paraphernalia out to his black customized casket dragster [like this gold "Dragula" that was Herman Munster's in the 1960s TV show], and left for home, only some few blocks away.
After saying their g'nights, FRANK left, and 'innocent' little 'Dickie', big though he was, retired to his own bedroom, pleased with what he and his buds had done. He showered the sweat and other liquids off, in the two-doored bathroom he shared with his dad, not hesitating to whack another one off to the 'exciting', dominant memories of the evening. After drying off, and with his not quite flaccid joy stick bouncing from one thigh to the other and back while he walked about, the camcorder was put away on the shelf in his closet, and the VHS tape was hidden … where else? … under a loose floor-board beneath the throw-rug at the far side of his bed. A vindicated grin crossed his lips as he crawled into bed knowing there would be no more detention after school—the hallways, classrooms, and grounds of the school had just returned to the whims of his authoritative 'group or four'.
At about 0345 hours Saturday morning, sore and embarrassed DICKINSON awoke, aching in every joint and sphincter of his body. His briefs and the seat of his trousers were damp and cold. He rolled off the bed, turned on the bedside lamp, and then noticed the large damp spot on the cream-colored chenille bedspread on which he had been lying; at least it would dry invisibly during the next few hours before anyone could see it. He shook his head as he toed off his shoes. He knew he could never face his wife or son again, not after what had transpired just a few hours earlier. And he knew…
But suddenly there came a scene from the subterranean basement where the building's maintenance man, Mister Frolo, had his desk, and where he and Frolo had had many an equally satisfying romp. He, DICKINSON, knew, then, as if a flash of inspiration had suddenly exploded within his head, exactly what he had to do.
Quietly, he smoothed the spread and fluffed the pillows, as if he'd not mussed them up, and, making as little noise as possible, he completely undressed. After wiping his ass and derrière with his removed tee shirt — not bothering to run the water in the adjoining bath — he painstakingly stuffed a clean sock up his puffy, sore asshole, to absorb and prevent any of the spermy offerings from escaping. Then, he re-dressed in an A-shirt ('vest', for you ABCs — that's used affectionately for Aussies, Brits, and Canucks), a long-sleeved plaid flannel shirt, a pair of clean tighty-whities, worn and faded jeans, clean white socks, and the reddish-brown work-boots he used when occasionally hiking through the desert or mountains with his son. He grabbed the cap that kinda-sorta matched his shirt, threw it on top of his high-and-tight cut, with the bill covering his eyes, not the back of his neck. Next, he grabbed his checkbook and shoved it into the breast pocket of his shirt. Then … wallet with all of his I.D. went in his left rear pants pocket, and handkerchief in the right.
He retrieved his keys from the trousers he'd worn that day … well … the day before, actually … and then dug out the backpack he used when hiking, and emptied it on the floor of his closet. In went his portable typewriter and the new 'toy' he'd bought not more than a week before. In, too, went — let's see — four, five, six — yes, six — no, SEVEN — yes, seven blank VHS tapes and SEVEN cardboard envelopes specifically made for mailing them. And finally, the bundled-up, dirtied, soiled clothes he'd been wearing were also stuffed in.
Heaving the backpack over one shoulder, DICKINSON turned off the light in his room, stepped through the doorway, and then closed it. He slowly walked through the apartment with only the filtered light casting eerie shadows about from the street lamps below, and quietly left his home and his family. There would be no looking back. His life, as he knew it, had come to a screeching halt; it would be too embarrassing to try to continue — to try to right his hidden desires … his hidden passions. Better to…
He didn't want to think about it, not yet anyway … better, he reasoned, just to react to the impulses of the moment.
Seldom had he ever heard the drumming sound of his heartbeat, but as he neared the elevator, entered, and descended to the parking level, the pounding in his ears grew louder and louder. Forlorn because of his inner urgings and his unfulfilled yearnings … fragments of visions of possible actions over the next day or two began to meld and adhere together.
He approached his car, a four-wheel-drive, coppery-brown and white 1969 Jeepster Commando, and tossed the backpack onto the front passenger seat; then, with a heavy sigh, he took the stairway back down to the subterranean maintenance and boiler room. His gluteal muscles still ached from the abuse of only a few hours previous; he seemed to wobble left and then right as he descended the stairway. The flick of a switch brought a solitary bare light bulb to life — the same light that had shown himself, his son, and three other teens in all their tumescent, fucking glory! Well, considering CHARLIE's … 'lack of pride', shall we call it … 'glory' is a gradient degree of self-esteem, which the bodybuilder surely did not seem to lack! He must have felt that 'it didn't matter how MUCH you had, as it did with HOW you used it!'
The A-frame ladder was still where DICK had put it when he climbed to retrieve the camcorder. "That kid'll never learn to put things back to where he got'em from," DICKINSON mumbled aloud, believing full well that no one else was around — and he was correct in his assumption.
He went to one of Frolo's filing cabinets, opened the bottom of four drawers, withdrew a rectangular package 7½" X 4¼" X 1", and ripped off the cellophane wrapping. Then DICKINSON moved the ladder to a spot just beyond the 'head' of the sling, climbed up, and removed a grate from the ceiling. He lowered another camcorder, turned it off, unplugged, and removed the VHS tape from it. Inserting the new, un-used tape, he replaced the camcorder, plugged it back in, made sure the positioning was correct so that any movement in the room below would activate it to automatically turn on the videoing of the camera! He had climbed the ladder and changed many a tape, which had recorded the antics of Mister Frolo and himself. Of everyone in the building, only they knew of the new 'security' measure that the building's owners had purchased, which also had provided them with hours of eroticism and stroking material … watching themselves … after the fact.
Once more, with feet firmly on the floor, DICKINSON moved the ladder to its usual spot against the unpainted concrete-block wall. One last look-around, the flick of the switch to turn off the light, and he was trudging back up the stairs to the parking area.
Settling himself into the driver's seat of his Jeepster, hands placed at the two-o'clock and ten-o'clock on the steering wheel, head drooped as though he were either praying or narcissistically looking at his own crotch, his thoughts grew more erratic by the minute. He looked at his Marine wristwatch … 0445 hours. Shit! Only one hour had passed since he had awakened.
Not wanting to be seen by early-risers who might recognize his Commando, DICKINSON drove out of the subterranean garage and headed toward downtown Los Angeles. He parked beneath the tropical park-like setting of Pershing Square, walked up to ground level and across South Hill Street to a little hot dog stand with covered seating for four at the counter-bar. Open 24/7, it was known for the best Orange Julius drinks and foot-long Chili-Cheese-Dogs in all of L.A. He ordered two of each, and of course, with onions on the dogs. Payment was made upon receipt of the order.
At that time of the morning, the greater majority of the passersby were vagrants, transients, and what were coming to be known as 'street-people'. Few 'Suits' were to be seen anywhere near the Financial District's popular quick-lunch spot, and that seemed to calm DICKINSON's nerves, even though hands were held out as pathetic, often soused, voices pleaded or begged … "A dime for a cup of coffee, please, Sir?" or "Spare some change, mister?"
He gave what he could, between bites … between sips.
"Thank you, young Sir," replied an unshaven, uncombed, elderly gentleman in filthy, tattered clothes.
"God bless ya, kind sir," a rotund woman exclaimed with a couple of teeth missing in front. "Ya be a right kindly man, ya are." She could have been one of the Cockney street vendors right out of My Fair Lady, but Liza Doolittle, she was not; God bless her soul!
Word must have spread among the indigents; more and more were asking for his handouts. And soon, after leaving a generous tip for the hot dog merchant, there was no more to give. At least, not yet. Again, he looked at his watch. It was 0655 hours and the blazing arms of the sun were dancing over and between the towering buildings. Almost immediately, public busses were unloading their weekend hordes — not as many as during the weekdays, but 'many', nonetheless — of suited and properly dressed passengers who found it more convenient to use public transportation than drive their own vehicles, curse at the idiots ahead or in the lanes on either side, and pay the exorbitant parking fares. Even though it was Saturday morning! Indeed.
With the 'Walk' signal light, DICKINSON crossed back to the subterranean garage and, retrieving the backpack from the Jeepster, headed to one of the public restrooms. The sock was irritating to his abused rectum and the chili was beginning to have an effect on his insides, too.
Sorry, Chief, but to make this long report short, I'll cut to the chase, so to speak…
After walking around a bit, DICKINSON went to a downtown bank and cleared out an account that his wife knew nothing about. It totaled close to thirty thousand dollars … and he took it all in cash. He told his friend at the bank that he was driving cross-country, but when he finally hit the freeways again, he headed north up US Highway 5, and didn't stop until he got to Gorman. He checked into one of the three motels there. While making copies of the video of his rape, he used his portable typewriter to write notes to the following people: #1) CHARLIE's father, Dr. O. E. C. Hayward; #2) ROD's father, Joshua A. Smith, LLD; #3) FRANK's father, Peter B. Hardy, PhD, noted author and lecturer on the studies of abnormal behavior; #4) Gerald A. Young, Principal of the high school to which the boys attended, and of which DICKINSON, himself, was the Vice-Principal; #5) Dr. Raj Kumar Zoros, Los Angeles County Superintendent of Schools; and to #6) Mrs. Angelina Dickinson, his wife and the mother of his one and only son.
Oh, yes, of course … and the original tape to you, my boss, the Chief of Police of the Handcock Precinct, where my B.O. is located. NO! NOT 'BODY ODOR'! Base of Operations!!! Duh!
DICKINSON's individual notes were basically the same, explaining time, date, and place of the rape, the names and addresses of all four boys, including his own son, and their families. He denied any homosexual proclivities, explaining that his erections during the rape were because of the stimulation to his healthy prostate, and that such response could be verified by any medical student, proctologist, or from the genital reconstruction specialist, himself, Dr. Hayward, CHARLIE's own father, who, in CHARLIE's own recorded words, stated, "… a real good friend of mine who's taught me ever'thang I know 'bout all kinds o' different pussies — female AND male."
"I simply cannot face ANYONE after what has been done to me. Judge me and the four sadistic students as you will. They've already ruined my life. May God forgive them; I can't," he wrote, before signing his name.
DICKINSON then took the seven parcels to the small Post Office there in Gorman, paid the postage, and sent them on their way.
Being just past two o'clock, he grabbed a quick bite in the Hi-5 Gorman Café & Gas before continuing north until somewhere around Fresno, when he turned west and headed toward the coast, arriving at Big Sur just before dusk.
Alone, with no other hikers, sightseers, tourists, artists, poets, philosophers, or people quietly contemplating life, he sat … at peace … finally knowing what he would do, until the glorious golden sun sank beneath the waves on the western horizon. He rose, and returned to his car.
The next day, Sunday, a couple of seventeen-year-old surfers reported finding a brown and white, 1969 Jeepster Commando, totally demolished, on the craggy rocks at the base of the cliff in the state park. Forensic technicians were sent to the site and found no blood nor any indication that a human body had been in the vehicle at the time of the crash, but they did find a backpack with Video Copier, portable typewriter, a pair of men's trousers, a pair of men's white briefs, a man's T-shirt, and one sock, all the garments of which were heavily stained with semen and fecal matter.
Somewhere … DICKINSON laughed and spoke aloud to no one but the Nature Spirits around him: "Oh, how sweet it is. REVENGE IS A DISH BEST SERVED COLD. Too bad I won't see the results … at least, not with THESE eyes."