From: "Martin of Holland" <>
Date: Wed Feb 09, 2005 09:37:17 AM US/Eastern
To: "william charles clark" <>
Subject: Slick 2
The Hustler - by Slick
Tom is one sick bastard. Beautiful but sick. Fucking feeds on poppers like vitamins. Sniffs deep practically first thing in the morning. Rest of the day it’s smokes, booze, drugs, down his throat, up his nose, in his ass even. I’ve watched him drain a bottle of rye into his ass, his butthole puckering round the bottle and guzzling like a baby boy’s mouth. Course he sprayed it back out again pretty quick. Didn’t want to do serious damage. Not like when you’re feeding a thirsty prisoner boy ass.
I say the kid Josh brought home is too young. Tom says no, he’s fucking perfect. These days I prefer them late twenties. Tom says this guy’s just started college--no family to start looking for him soon, and if anyone in the frat house sobers up long enough to notice he’s not around, they’ll just figure he’s dropped out. Tom thinks these things through. A wiz. Me, I’m a dummy. Get me a guy and I’ll fucking destroy him, but don’t bug me about covering tracks. Plus, Tom says, he’s a jock, built and healthy. Stamina, he says. A seven-dayer, at least.
The kid has black hair. I tell him I prefer blonds. Tom tugs on the big rings in his tits. “Buggerers can’t be choosers,” he says. “Let’s go play with what the cat dragged in.”
Josh and the boy are in the kitchen. The boy puts down his beer when we come in, reaches out to shake our hands. Nervous, you can tell. Probably needs the money.
“Everything settled?” I ask.
“No fucking without a condom,” Josh says. “And he doesn’t swallow.”
Tom opens a beer and turns to the boy. “Cool. Can you stay the night?” The boy is staring at the rings.
Josh says, “For an extra two. We’re already talking sixty per fuck, with the bondage. And his name’s Mitch.”
“Looks like he’s worth it,” Tom says, with that blend of come-on smile and icy menace that always makes my knees wobble. “Drink up, boy, and let’s go.”
The boy’s the only one wearing a shirt, a clean white T-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show off his muscles. His version of how a hustler should look. Cute ass too, in tight jeans. Josh leads the way into the guest room. Tom and me lean back against the wall and nurse our beers while Josh and the boy make out on the bed for a while. Josh is careful to keep him clothed, but tugs up his T-shirt to play with the boy’s hard brown tits. I’m shaking. I always shake in the beginning; I shake until Tom takes over and things click into place.
I climb on the bed and unbutton my fly, let the boy tug out my stiff dick. For a second or two he’s surprised by my hairlessness, by the tattoos on my dick, but then he starts sucking. He’s done it before but not much, and fakes throaty noises like boys in videos. Tom gets behind him with some rope, tells him to hold his elbows, and swiftly ties his forearms together while I push his head down on my cock. I want to hear some real gagging. Tom flips him onto his back, takes a mouthful of beer, sprays it out onto the boy’s face and chest.
“Hey, man!”
“Shut up, wuss,” Tom says, and I stop shaking. Josh is off the bed and going through the closet door, which isn’t the closet at all but the stairs down to our favorite room in the whole house.
I reach under the bed for my work gloves, slip them on and reach back down for the barbed wire--a custom style with shorter, thinner barbs and a ton of extra ones. Make it myself. I shove the boy’s T-shirt up as far as it’ll go and I tug his jeans and underpants down to his knees. Half-hard cock, uncut, good-size balls. I grip his cock and balls and pull them down a bit, then wrap a strand of wire tight around the base, twice, leaving a short tail. The boy can’t shout; Tom’s jammed a beer bottle right to the back of his mouth. He’s swallowing, choking, teeth scraping on glass, beer froth bubbling out his nose.
I run the wire up to nipple level, once around his chest, loop it under, and push the ball of wire up under his shirt so I can wrap it around his neck. I don’t care that I scrape his back meanwhile, or that I have to yank hard on the wire around his chest so I can secure the loops. He’s trying to shout and trying to kick, but he’s easy to handle. I turn him on his side, enjoy the sound of his gagging and choking while I run the wire down his back, along his ass crack, and secure it to the tail of wire just under his already bleeding balls, twisting it tight with pliers. The remaining foot I wind around his balls and up between his ass cheeks. Then I tug his jeans back up, zip shut his fly, pull his shirt down. Spots of red on the beer yellow. I slip the pliers into my back pocket.
Tom pulls the bottle out and the boy angrily yells and yells, spitting beer onto the bed. Tom lies down next to him and kisses him, deep, tongues him. The boy goes still but whimpers.
“Hey, wuss,” Tom says gently. “The less you move, the less it hurts. Duh.” He tongues him again, puts a hand over the boy’s crotch, and presses hard until the boy shrieks into his mouth. Tom gets off the bed. “Stand up, wuss.”
The boy looks from him to me, a beautiful nervous twitch in both eyebrows. He lets out some guttural noise.
Tom says real quiet, real patient, “I said, stand up. I don’t have all night. I have all week.” That smile I love, that smile I want to see as I die.
The boy struggles for one second, feels the barbs dig in, stops.
“I said. Stand up. Now.”
Struggle, whimper, stop. Lines of blood on the T-shirt. Dark spots on his crotch. My cock twitching.
Tom’s hand goes to his pocket, pulls out his Sparkler. He leans over the boy, holds it over his face, flicks out the blade. “Now.”
The boy winces, pulls away from the knife, whimpers and struggles, gasps of pain as he edges off the bed, eyeing me, stands. Jewels of blood around his neck, in his crotch. Tom pockets his knife, runs a finger below the wire necklace. Smiles. Holds it out to me. I lick his finger, suck it into my mouth, suck it clean. Smile back. He wets the finger again. Holds it to the boy’s lips. “Taste.” The boy hesitates, but then his tongue touches his own blood. “Taste good?” The boy nods. Tom rolls his eyes. Shouts: “Taste good?”
“Yeah.” Trembling. Tears. Perfect.
“Yeah what?” Tom shouts.
The boy cringes. “Yes sir?”
“Seen too many fuckin’ movies,” Tom says. He nods toward the closet. “In there.”
The boy looks at me with a grimace of fear. I smile, shrug. Tom boots him in the ass and he stumbles forward with a shout of pain. Dark stains on the back of his tight jeans. “Gonna fuckin’ lose patience with you, wuss. Then what?”
I’m ready. As I walk past the boy I grab a fistful of his hair, drag him after me through the closet and calmly shove him down the steep wooden stairs. He doesn’t make a sound on the way down, but when he smashes against the stone wall at the bottom he starts shrieking like crazy. Josh lifts his feet, drags him away, the boy’s high-pitched screams as the barbed wire presses into him getting me hard.
Tom is behind me, a twelve-pack under his arm. He locks the closet door behind him. “Like I said, beautiful, let’s go.”
The boy has been on his knees for two hours, and the blood isn’t running anymore. First thing we did was take a few Polaroids, then we got him facing the wall mirror and shaved his head--not very carefully--with my trusty rusty hunting knife. That gave us a good laugh. We’ve been drinking our beer and grilling him the way we always do, I’m not sure why. I just want to get on with it. How old is he? Where’s he from? What does his dad do? Tell us about your girlfriend. Okay, then, the last one. Did she suck your cock? Did you eat her pussy? Did you ever fuck her in the ass? When did you first jerk off? Ever see your parents naked? Got any brothers? Ever want to suck them off? When did you last jerk off? Where? What did you think about? Be more explicit, wuss.
Josh puts down his beer and stands up. He walks up to the boy as he unzips his fly. “Well, that story kinda got me hard, Mitch. Why don’t you work on this.” Josh must have had a horse for a dad, with his nine-inch cock. His back is to us, but we hear lots of noisy gagging. Josh suddenly pulls away. “I don’t think he does that too well. One of you guys check him out.”
I feed him my cock. His neck is bleeding again. I guzzle some beer, drizzle it out of my mouth onto my abs, my cock, his face. I pull away. “Teeth, I think that’s the problem. Fag doesn’t know how to cover his teeth.” The boy looks down.
Tom’s next. He stands there with his hands on his hips, staring up at the ceiling, saying, “Hmm, I dunno,” and “Maybe,” stuff like that. Then he grabs the boy’s head and pushes it right down on his cock. The boy gags. Tom holds him there till the boy sounds about ready to puke, then he pulls out and steps away. “I think you’re right, Buzz,” he says. “Too many teeth.” The boy is gulping air.
“Only one solution to that, isn’t there,” I say.
Josh flicks on the camera lights while I flip a coin. “Heads. I hold first.” I get behind the boy, his head gripped in my hands against my crotch. Tom steps back and turns to face the boy. I feel the boy trembling. The first kick lands straight on, and I hear teeth break and air gush out of the boy at the same time.
“All right!” Tom cries, and leers down at his handiwork. He takes a swallow of beer as if it’s a prize.
The boy has got his wind back, he’s spitting out blood, bits of broken teeth, swearing. A second swift bootkick. “Shut up, wuss.” A few more. I feel the blows thud through my thighs, watch the blood splatter in slow motion up on my skin and on the wall beside us, hear the cries. Then Tom is beside me, his hand on my shoulder. “Your turn, beautiful.”
The boy’s face is already a gorgeous mess of frothing bloody mouth and pulpy lips. One kick has skinned a cheek. I crouch down in front of him, hold up the hand mirror, smile. He looks absolutely fucking terrified, eyes wide and flickering from me to the mirror to the blood on the wall, back to the mirror to see the blood down his front. “Lookin’ good, huh?” I say, still smiling. I step back, take a breath, kick. Feel the crunch of my boot on his teeth. An animal moan from the boy. Blood sprayed on Tom. A kick to the side. “Good one,” Tom says. To the other side. One for the road. One for good measure. One for the Democrats. One for my dad’s grave.
“Okay, beautiful,” Tom says. I come back to Earth. Tom lets go of the boy’s head and he slumps down to the floor. He unties the boy’s arms, immediately shackles his left wrist into a metal cuff on the blood-spattered wall. We both crouch down in front of the boy.
I hold up the mirror. “There’s one hot boy,” I say. “Go on, look.” Love those eyes, cornered-dog eyes.
Tom says, “Any left? Open wide.” The boy just whimpers. A punch to the gut. “Open wide, wuss.” The boy opens his mouth like he’s at the dentist, looks in the mirror, gurgles in his throat, shuts his eyes. Tom reaches into the blood-filled mouth. “Yeah, there’s one. And a couple on the bottom right, at the back.” He wipes his hand on the boy’s T-shirt and reaches round to my back pocket to pull out the pliers. He lifts the boy’s hand and presses the pliers into it. He says gently, “Take them out, wuss.”
The boy stares at him, sort of stunned looking. He looks at me. I nod, smiling. I’m good at that.
Tom says, “Take out your teeth, wuss. I’m waiting.”
The boy looks back at me. “Fuck,” he says.
“He’s not gonna do it,” I say. “Your boots still in good shape?”
The boy knows what’s coming before it starts, already he’s raising the pliers to his mouth, but Tom and me are standing on either side of him, our eyes locked as we kick, blindly kick. We don’t know where our boots are landing. The pliers fly against the wall. Boots thud on flesh, on bones. Sweat sprays off us like boxers in the ring. We feed off the howls, the begging. We stop. We kiss, hungrily lick each other’s faces. I look down at my Docs.
“Hey, pretty boy,” I say quietly, “my boots are dirty.”
That’s all it takes. Too fast. Or maybe he thinks we’ve gotta wind down. He slithers forward as close as he can get with his wrist still shackled to the wall. It isn’t close enough, but his blood-wet tongue is out anyway, reaching for my boots. I slide my foot forward, not far enough. I like to see his tongue stretching, his neck straining, blood smeared on the floor. Tom lights a joint. I move my boot, let the boy lick his blood off. He licks and licks, to please, to end it. I give him the other one, press the sole down on his bleeding face so he can lick that too. I pull my rusty knife from its sheath on my belt, squat down.
That beautiful weird noise he makes. And then, “No. No, no. Please don’t, please.”
I slice his blood-soaked T-shirt open, bottom to top, slice the arms, tug it right off him. “Hey,” I say, “don’t be so jumpy.” I ball up the shirt, press it to my face, close my eyes, sniff deep. Hold my breath while my eyes follow the dark crimson lines cut by my wire. Boy smells, sweat, blood.
Tom is back. He puts a couple of fingers through the wire necklace and tugs the boy up onto his knees. More girl-like cries. Tom hands the boy the pliers, and I hold up the mirror. “Ready now?” Tom says.
The boy begins to cry, big frigging hysterical sobs like his dog just died, and he drops the pliers and covers his mouth with his hand.
“Jesus,” I say, “a fucking girl.” Whimpers, groans, man screams, yes, but not girl noises. I don’t like that. “Don’t cry, pretty boy, just do what you’re told. Just don’t fucking cry.”
“Do it,” Tom says. Josh is coming in for a close-up.
“Why?” the boy whimpers.
I shrug, wipe some blood off his chest and smear it onto mine. “Because we want to see it.”