-------------------------------------------------------------------- STANDARD DISCLAIMER: The following is a work of fiction that includes forced sex between two males. If you're a minor, if such content offends you in any way, or if it's illegal to view this material in the dumbass backwater where you live: Stop reading this now. No actual straight guys were permanently scarred in the writing of this torrid tale. --------------------------------------------------------------------
The Mover and The Man in Black (M/M oral nc feet) --------------------------------------------------
"What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain,
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare it's deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?"
- from "Tyger" by William Blake, 1794
It was July and the summer was ridiculous. Africa hot. I was still workin' the rape unit and I wanted out. So did Larry, my partner. If we didn't embarrass this idiot politician at One Police Plaza, we'd be workin' homicide, where we belonged. But -- there were worse details and at least there were enough people around that respected us to keep us doing legitimate work for the department.
All of a sudden, Larry lets out a stifled laugh and walks past right behind my chair. "One of yours..." He whispers. I look up -- yep. He's one of mine.
Tough looking kid, about 25, brown hair, brown eyes, but nice, deep brown eyes that the people he hangs out with probably never noticed. He's got a lot of tattoos, and shows them off wearing a muscle shirt and jean shorts. Get your mind outta the gutter, not daisy duke slut shorts, knee length. He's got a lot of muscle, I note -- enough to be a little out of character for my mark, but enough gut over that for it not to be out of the question, about 5' 7", 280 pounds. Nice crop a curly chest hair poking outa the shirt. He's wearing construction boots, Timberlands, big feet, maybe size 13 or 14, and swaggers like a real man. And Larry's on the money, 'cause if this kid's not here to tattle on the Man in Black, I'm a power puff girl.
I glance over at Larry, who has suddenly become fascinated by a pile of paperwork. I notice however his ear is pointed right at my desk like a friggin' satellite dish.
The kid approaches me. "Detective -- Macaroni?" He says tentatively. "Yeah, that's my name. It's real, and I don't like to answer a lot of questions about it." The poor kid's nervous already, but I can't stand the standard line of questions about my last name.
"My name's Joe. Joe Favila. I guess I'm here to report a rape." The kid looked at his feet, and wouldn't look me in the eye.
"Sit down" I said, "And relax. You're not the only guy that's ever been though this. The easiest way is just to tell me the whole story from the beginning. That way, when the hard part comes, you'll already be in the flow of it."
"A couple of friends of mine sometimes get paid to move furniture for people, and if the job is big enough they cut me in on the deal. So I'm workin' on this job where the guy whose movin' out gave his apartment to the guy that's movin' in, so we're movin' both of 'em. We brought the truck out and moved all the stuff from the apartment into it, musta taken about half a day. While all this is goin' on this guy shows up - sittin' on the steps across from the apartment we're unloadin'. I'll never forget how he was dressed, all in black. Big black leather hat, long leather trench, almost down to his boots. The boots weren't construction boots, they were more like cowboy boots, but sorta like shoes..."
"Dress boots", I interjected. "Like a state trooper or a ranking officer in the military."
"Yeah!", The kid said, nodding.
I continued, "The guy was a fat fuck about five-ten-and-a- half, three hundred pounds, deep brown eyes, full head a jet black hair. Has a belt with strange carvings on it, astrological symbols, and a big buckle with a wizard on it. He smokes funny cigarettes, sometimes those Indian beadies, sometimes some crazy shit he rolls himself that smells like vanilla, but never weed. His breath always smells like Listerine and the rest of him smells like a doctor's office, like rubbing alcohol. Hat looks like this..." I showed him a picture that had been on my desk.
The kid's eyes were buggin' out. "How'd you know that?" He said.
"Apparently you're the sixth known victim of the Man in Black. You have the unfortunate honor to have met the only serial rapist in the history of the United States, or, as far as I can figure out, anyplace, that is a man preying on other adult men. Lotsa guys have done kids, and lots in prison, but this guy's cornered the market on ordinary Joes. Ah, no pun intended, kid."
The kid needed a minute to take all that in. After a few seconds I added, "I imagine you have one hell of a wacky story for me. The guy would be playin' with a full deck, but he's got a whole suit just jokers."
The kid nodded. "Yeah. I met 'im alright. He was sittin' on the steps all of a sudden like he's been there all day. He's watchin' us, me especially, and when I finally look 'im in the eye he smiles at me, and it creeped me out big time. I said hi, but with the look that musta been on my face I felt like an idiot. At one point he disappeared for a little -- none of us saw 'im go or come back, and he brought us back big bottles of cold Gatorade. I was so nervous I checked ta make sure it wasn't already open, but it wasn't. We ended up standing there, the three of us, makin' small talk with him, him listening more than talkin'. He didn't say much about himself. Said something about how it was no trouble helpin' out a neighbor when we thanked him for the drinks, but when I asked the guys we were movin' later, they'd never seen him before."
"The guys had to go to the other place, and there was no room on the truck for me. They said since they were comin' right back with a load a stuff, I should just stick around and wait for 'em. I nearly freaked out. I really didn't want to be left alone with that guy. But soon enough, there I was, just him and me. Him sittin' there smokin' one a those funny cigarettes -- 'cloves' he called 'em -- and askin' me questions about myself.
I was startin' to feel a bit better about 'im. My dogs were killin' me. After movin' all that stuff, they felt like they were on fire. So, I happened to say that they hurt -- and that's when he asked me if I wanted him to rub 'em for me.
I still didn't trust him, especially the way he looked at me, like a mountain lion looks at it's dinner in one of those animal movies, ya know? But my dogs really hurt, and I figured, fuck it! What could it hurt. I said, "Are ya sure? I'm sure they must stink. I been working on the truck all day." He looks at me, and his smile begins to crawl up one side of his face like, and he says "Just one days sweat... no big deal."
We went inside the apartment. There were two chairs and a ratty couch that the one guy was leavin' for the other guy, so they were still there for us to sit in.
He pulled his chair close to mine so I could put my feet up on his lap. You were wrong about the alcohol though, he smelled like that old man's cologne."
"Old Spice?", I said.
"Yeah -- that's the one. I lifted my foot to take off my construction boot and he caught it half way up. He pulled it into his lap, and began to unlace it himself. He was real gentle, making sure all the laces were loose before pulling it off. He rubbed the foot a little, which felt great, but quickly bent over and grabbed my other foot. He took the boot off that one and did the same thing, but on this one, he pulled the sock off. Again, he rubbed my foot a little, then switched feet again, now pullin' the sock off the first foot.
The kid stopped his story and looked into my eyes for a moment, he blushed crimson, and I have to admit, his vulnerability was putting' steel in my shorts. He said, "I felt like a bitch, you know? Like he was takin' care of me -- him the gentleman and me the girl.
He let his fingers slide gently down the sole of my foot, an I didn't think I was ticklish, but I let out a giggle. I couldn't stop myself. "Ticklish?" he says with that smirk on his face again, but all of a sudden his face gets serious and he says, "I'll stop kidding around. Here, this will feel better."
He started to give me the massage of my life. It felt great! He did these little things, like massage each toe, and he found every sore spot on my whole foot and rubbed it. Sometimes his touches got lighter, like he was caressing me, and I knew he was into me, but at that point it all felt so good I didn't want to stop him. He switched feet again and rubbed the other one. And -- this is really fucked up -- I was hoping he wouldn't see that I had a raging boner."
The irony was that during this part of the story, the kid had been squirming in his chair, and I could see he had one now. Not one to be ashamed of, neither. "Go on, kid," I said. "That doesn't mean nothin'. Doesn't mean you let him, or gave permission."
The kid blushed deeper and sunk in his chair a little. "This is the part it gets hard to believe, officer. I've thought about it again and again, and I don't believe it myself."
"Detective," I corrected him. "I don't write speeding tickets, and I've heard a lot of crazy shit in my time, especially in the last three months."
I happened notice over the kid's shoulder that Larry was starin' at us like a couple a fucking bonobos at the Bronx Zoo givin' each other handjobs for the crowd. I quickly threw him the Sicilian evil eye while the kid was staring at his boots again. Breedin' cunt slavering fuckhead... He's my partner 'n' I love him 'n' all but I was really tired of him treating my preference like a freak show. And I knew he had already put the fag tag on the kid, which also pissed me off. I wondered what would Larry do if that fat creep was messin' around -his- privates makin' -him- play one of those little whack job game shows.
The kid took a deep breath and continued, "Well, at one point, he did something with my toe, the second one from the big toe, and I heard a crack, like he cracked a knuckle. I figured it was normal and all, but I felt this weird tingly rush all up my body that stopped at the back of my head. He kept goin' for a few minutes and then he says -- "Enjoying this, eh?" He looked dead into my eyes and down at my bulge. I was relaxed and all, but this was too much. This was real fruity. So I started to get up, but I couldn't move. I couldn't even pull my foot away. I started to shout, and he says, all soothing -- "Relax, let go... just let me make you feel better." Now he was doing things to my foot with his hands that were going straight to my dick. It felt so good, and I felt so tired. I just felt like listening to him, going with it. Then he lifted my foot and started to lick it. He sucked my toes one by one, and for a second I wondered what that mouth would feel like on my dick."
The kid wasn't looking at me at that point. He was telling the story while concentrating on a little spot on the wall. I had to hand it to the Man in Black, he achieved his objective once again. He took a perfectly straight macho stud, and bitched him. He made the kid like it. It was written all over the kid's face, he was describing the most intense sexual experience of his life, an experience he had with a fat guy.
And the thing that killed me about it was that I was really getting off on these fucking stories. I was going home at night, jerking off and thinking about what he was doing to these guys. I had all but copied the files and kept 'em by my pillow. Just like every straight guy wants to know he's the one that got a die hard lesbian to love gettin' porked, every gay man deep down wants to be the one to bring a guy out of the closet. Especially when it's a real man. All the flaming queers in the bar make you wonder sometimes why you signed up for this tour of duty. I mean, you're gay 'cause you like men, right? But you go out trying to find a man and half the tricks you drag home, once you get them there, even if they were Arnold Schwartzenegger in the friggin' bar, turn out to be Ru Paul under the fucking sheets.
I was gonna get this guy. For the main reason? I remember what it was like to be confused about my sexuality, and these guys would never have had to go through this if the goddamned prostate fairy didn't invade their lives and lift a gift under their pillow. They were honestly straight. Were. I fought hard for the right to express my own sexuality and I loathed all those chicks in college offering to 'straighten me out'. He was taking that right away from these guys.
Second, I didn't like the fact that he was out there doing this repugnant shit and making me drool over every fucking detail. I knew it was paranoid, but I felt like he knew about me and knew he was tormenting me just like his victims. Like he was out there and knew that my dick didn't want 'im caught. What he didn't count on was -- I once put a guy through a wall and got suspended 'cause he tried to bribe me. I hate being manipulated. I was gonna get this guy.
The kid had paused for a brief moment, letting out a sob, and continued, hard dick still straining to break free of his Levis.
"He was sucking my toes and started to tickle my feet. I went crazy. I couldn't get away and I felt like I was gonna burst. I never knew that could get you so horny, ya know?", he said in a low voice. "He must have done that for 10 minutes, but it felt like hours. Finally, he pulled off my shorts and slowly started squeezing my dick. I whimpered like a puppy. He looked me in the eye. That crazy smile came back on his face. I knew what he wanted, but I wouldn't give in. He looked me right in the eye and he said "Beg." -- just like that, like an order he knew I was gonna follow. I tried not to but suddenly I started begging. I told him I needed to get off, I would do anything he wanted, just let me get off. He leaned down and kissed me gently on the cheek, and then yanked down my briefs. He squeezed my dick again and I juiced his hand."
The kid did a good impression of a fairly enunciated voice with no accent, and an arrogant stripe through the middle. "You have a very lovely cock, Mr. Favila. The doctor was most diligent in his work I see." This also fit perfectly. The victims always noted the way our Man in Black talked, like a nutjob movie villain. Also, he always seemed to like to look at cut dicks better, he commented on two of the three - now three of the four. The two poor schmucks who were left intact ended up having their extra sensitivity used to drive them up the tree. How did he know the kid's last name? I put that in the mental file for later.
"He started playin' with my dick in his hands, just softly caressing it. His hands were so soft, and it was driving me crazy. It was so slow and he was just gently sliding his fingers around the head and shaft. Then he kneeled in front of me and began giving me all these gentle kisses around the head of my dick. Jeez, I begged him to make me come. Finally he gave me the head of my life. He kept sucking on me and nibbling on me, licking my balls. Every time I felt like I was gonna come he backed off. I never had a girl do that to me. He started sucking on the sweet spot under my dick and I would have been bangin' my fist against the chair if I coulda moved my arms. It was too much. I wanted to come so bad. I begged and pleaded. Finally, he throated me until I came down his hatch. He sucked on it a little after, too, when I was too sensitive, but stopped when I yelled."
"And that was it." !!!!! That woke me up. That was IT?!?!?!
"What happened then?", I asked. "He dressed me, slowly and gently, like a mother would dress a baby. Very gentle. He told me that he was gonna leave me on the couch and that I should try to get some sleep. He said not to worry that I was paralyzed because it would wear off before the guys got back. Then he kissed me on the cheek again, winked at me, and left. He never took off that hat the whole time, ya know?"
No ANAL?!?! My mark had changed his routine. Why? I had to be sure.
I stared at him carefully, I wanted the truth and I made it crystal clear. "Okay, Mr. Favila. I need you to be perfectly honest. He never penetrated you?"
"No way man! I don't want to get fucked!"
I laughed to myself. A lawyer would have turned that statement right around to prove the he wanted the rest of it. And the jury would follow right along. The D.A. was gonna shit a pickle trying to win this case if we ever caught this guy.
"Not even with his finger while he was fell... blowing you? Not with any odd mechanical devices or contraptions?"
"What are you, sick?" The kid looked at me like I was crazy. He was telling the truth.
"Um, listen... Detective..."
Here it comes, I thought.
"If you catch him, can I um talk to him, I mean alone?"
I rolled my eyes. "Let me guess. You're not sure you want to press charges until you 'talk' to him. Listen kid, I don't think you wanna spend any more time with him. Yours is the first sundae he only licked the butterscotch and didn't take the cherry. Know what I mean?"
He didn't respond. The kid looked scared, but still seemed determined as he thanked me for my time and walked out. After he left, my mind wandered over the meaning of this latest fact. I noticed Larry seemed to be leaving me alone, actually getting some paperwork done for a change, realizing I needed some time to myself.
Then it hit me. Time. It was about time, and the Man in Black didn't have any that day. He also didn't have transportation, because he didn't take the victim away from the scene. No assplay, no strange devices, bizarre games or fixed wagers.
The Man in Black wasn't out hunting that day. He must have been there for a purpose, in the ordinary course of daily business, or whatever it is insane psychopaths do when the rest of us are out buying groceries. This could be my first real lead...
This is the first story I actually finished and had the balls to post, so let me know if you like it. All criticism is welcome... send replies to dnaglenNofuckingspam@earthlink.net - Obviously you must edit that address accordingly. Make sure the word "Story" is in the subject line...
The content remains the exclusive property of the writer who retains the right to force any and all to beg, carry or fetch, him or his, for tampering with this story or selling it in any way. It may be posted only with the authors permission, and never on any service requiring payment. -- The Man in Black.