Selected Transcripts from the "Hard Time Chronicles" of "Billy Budz"
Section 9 (18Apr2034)
9.01 (From Billy's "blog")
Jacques spent the night here. He's somewhat too old for my taste, but José seemed very happy to see him. Robby was a little jealous, so I got a lot more attention from him than usual. You know, I still haven't fucked him, although I'm pretty sure José has been loosening him up a bit. There seemed to be a bit more elasticity in evidence when I was tonguing his cute little pucker after his bath last night. I'm sure he's been practicing his blowjob skills on José, because he gave me some truly superior head while I was rimming him. One really nice thing about the littler boys is that they're short enough so that you put your head up between their legs while they're sucking you and dive right in between those soft, delicious buns. At my age, of course, it's good to use a pillow to support your head so you don't get a crick in your neck.
Anyway, all four of us got in the Caddy first thing in the morning and drove down towards the Mexican border, such as it is. They built that dumbass wall down there thirty years ago, but there were so many tunnels under it that big earthquake in '21 pretty much knocked down the whole damned thing. I thought about stopping to pick up Stefan, but decided against it. An old man and a couple of boys aren't threatening, so I figured we'd be okay.
9.02 (From Drew's narrative)
I'm pretty sure Robby here is the kid brother my man Joe is looking for -- they sure look a lot alike. Truth be told, though, I'd hate to lose Joe. He's the cagiest little bastard we've had around here in a dog's age, and I don't think we could have penetrated The Glen at Millside without him. Did you hear about that raid? I didn't think so. They keep it pretty quiet when we get inside their bloody "gated communities." Threat to the whole social order, you know?
It was Joe who had the idea for the spray paint. Yes, I should have thought of it myself -- I studied history, and I knew about "tagging," but I just didn't see the utility until Joe pulled out that can of paint and dashed our Free Radicals logo on that wall right there in the middle of The Glen. Let the oppressors know they're vulnerable, get it? Very cool.
Have you seen our logo? Manuvic did it for us, pro bono. Almost a pentagon, but the top right line segment is a dick that points off to freedom. Just imagine those assholes at The Glen, waking up in the morning and seeing a dick pointing at freedom. Joe is just too cool.
Honestly, I thought they'd be back by now. I hope they're okay. We usually try to get out before sunrise, but sometimes there's traffic on the way back. You know how it is. And Asile Sûr is not your average gated community. I know. I know damned well. I grew up there.
I should have been there. Hell, I'm the fucking leader, fucking Stalin. Okay, the Stalin thing is mostly a joke, but, you know...
Really, I hope they're okay.
The house had an east wing, closed off behind that big oak door. When I was little, that big oak door was the biggest mystery I could imagine -- the ultimate puzzle. Once I got bigger, though, I knew enough to make an educated guess.
Dad, fucking Dad.
Mother liked to pretend the east wing didn't even exist, and Mother was quite expert at pretending. I was eight or nine when I got up the nerve to ask her what was on the other side of that big oak door. "Outside," she said.
I already could figure out that "outside" wasn't the same as "outdoors." I'd been out in the limo, and in the back yard, and I knew there was more to our house than I was allowed to see. "Outside" was a place Mother chose to ignore, and a place I wasn't allowed to go. Needless to say, the other side of that door was the place I wanted to go more than any other place in the world.
There was a party for my twelfth birthday. Some boys from my class were there, even a few of my friends. The thing was, their parents were invited too, and Dad only wanted the "right" parents. You know, living in Asile Sûr and going to Wallingham School, you'd figure the parents of any kid I knew would be right enough, but Dad was particular. Just the same, it wasn't a bad party. There was even a naked girl, pretty close to my age, who jumped out of the cake. Some of the boys lubed her with icing and fingered her. Maybe she liked it. Who knows?
You could tell who the "rightest" parents were by who left first. Once the cream of the crop were gone, Dad dipped into his stash and then mellowed out his high with booze. I was hanging out with Jeffrey, whose father was the CFO of Dad's company, but still a pretty cool kid. I'd noticed he wasn't one of the boys who'd fingered the cake girl, so I thought we might get to be friends, even though he was a grade ahead of me and my father was his father's boss.
I took him to my hideout under the stairs. Mother called it a closet, but it was under the grand stairs, so it was bigger than most people's bedrooms. Not my bedroom, of course, but my bedroom had the damned video surveillance. Mother was genuinely impossible. But there we were, under the stairs, with the mops and buckets and extra maid's uniforms, and I was wondering if trying on one of the maid's uniforms might improve my chances with Jeffrey when he said, "Hey, Drew, y'know I heard your father's got some pretty extreme shit going on over in the east wing. Will you take me to check it out?"
Of course, I hadn't heard anything. If Dad and Mother agreed on anything, it was that I wasn't to know what went on behind the oak door. I wouldn't admit that to Jeffrey, but I did tell him there was no way to get over there. Well, I remember his exact words: "There's always a way."
All the grownups who were still there were thoroughly trashed, so nobody noticed when we went up to the third floor, where Jeffrey found the way up to the attic. I'd peeked up there when I was six or seven, but I guess it was just too spooky for me at that age, so I'd never gone back. Frankly, I still wasn't that enthusiastic at twelve, but Jeffrey took my hand and led me up the stairs. And then he led me all across the attic to the east wing, and then he found a stairway leading down.
9.03 (Robby comments on Drew's narrative)
That Stalin guy Drew, he ain't nothing but a dumb fag. Yack, yack, yack, and all he says is bullshit. Why don't Joe come back?
9.04 (From Drew's narrative)
We got down to the door that led onto the third floor, a big, metal door. Locked. I was ready to turn around and go back, but Jeffrey felt around up on the lintel and, sure enough, there was a key up there. He eased it into the lock and turned it, trying to keep it quiet, then opened the door a crack, peeked out, and then opened it the rest of the way. We walked out into a gang bathroom, like you might find at a boarding school or a lower class gym, with four sinks, four shower heads sticking out of the wall, and a row of four toilets, right out in the open, without even a partition. I imagined a row of guys sitting on them, all shitting together, while other guys were showering and brushing their teeth. It was a really disgusting thought, but just then nobody was there.
Outside the bathroom was a dormitory with a dozen single beds, and nobody was there either. That was the third floor, all of it. I told Jeffrey I didn't get it. Where was the "extreme shit" he'd heard about? He just shrugged, and pointed to the stairs going down.
On the second floor, we came out into a long hallway. The walls were black enamel, there was dark red carpet on the floor, and there were three carved, gilded doors on each side. Totally tasteless. I knew instantly that Mother had no hand in the decorating, and I also knew that I was much too frightened to open any of those tastelessly ornate doors. Not so Jeffrey. He put his ear against the first door and listened, then turned the knob. The room behind the door was even more tasteless than the hallway. There was a marble fountain at one end, with a badly proportioned Cupid spitting water out of his mouth. There was a four-poster bed with a cerise spread and canopy that really didn't work at all with the purple carpet. And then there was the mural, featuring the Roman god Priapus. Dreadful. Jeffrey, of course, thought the mural, with its giant erection, was immensely funny, and he had to cover his mouth with his hand to stifle his laughter.
So that was the room with the Roman theme. Then there were China and India, ancient Egypt, and someplace in Africa, I guess, all unoccupied. The last room was Aztec Mexico, and that's where we found the boy. He was younger than us, about ten, and he was strapped down on what I guess was supposed to be an altar -- a big, flat table of carved stone. He turned his head and looked at us when we came in, and he was one of the most beautiful boys I've ever seen. The first thing that struck me were his eyes, which were an amazing shade of green, with long, long lashes. He had soft, rounded cheeks, a straight nose, and a mass of golden curls.
He was naked, and his body was perfect. I noticed that when I'd been staring at his eyes, Jeffrey was staring at his dick. If you like circumcised dicks, his dick was perfect too, laying there soft on his belly, with his round little scrotum tucked up underneath. We stared at him, and he stared back, and then Jeffrey said, "Oh shit, Drew, I think I'm going to have to do him."
Well, that was it. Giant tears started rolling out of those gorgeous green eyes and down into those perfectly shaped pink ears. For a few seconds, there, I didn't know what to make of it, but then I figured it out. "Jeffrey," I said, "the kid's strapped down on a fucking Aztec altar. He thinks you're going to cut out his heart."
That, too, got Jeffrey in the funnybone, and he started laughing. "Cut out his heart? Hell, I was just going to suck his dick."
9.05 (Jacques comments on Drew's narrative)
You know, Billy is fucking amazing at getting people to talk. Especially about sex.
9.06 (From Drew's narrative)
So it turned out I was right about Jeffrey, and he did like boys -- although that particular boy was so beautiful, I suspect somebody totally straight would have wanted to eat that perfect three-incher. Well, as we found out less than a minute later, it was four when it got hard. Jeffrey sucked on that boy's dick like it was the last one he'd ever eat, making little groaning noises, and panting like he was about to have an asthma attack. The boy's nipples were free, though, so I decided to work on those. They were perfect too, just a little bit puffy, and they hardened right up just as easily as his dick. He just lay back and let us do him, with a little smile on his face. Of course, strapped down like that, there wasn't much else he could do.
And he never made a sound, not even when I asked him his name. I honestly believe he couldn't talk. For a while there, I was afraid that some prick like Dad -- most likely Dad -- had cut out his tongue, but when I moved from his nipples to his lips I found out that he had plenty of tongue, he just couldn't talk. And I wondered if that made him less perfect, or more perfect.
Then Jeffrey said we had to unstrap him. I asked if he was sure we should, and he said, "Of course I'm sure. How am I supposed to get at his ass if he's strapped down on his back?"
So we unstrapped him, and Jeffrey started leading him over to the bed, which actually was more like a litter -- you know, the kind of thing that slaves carry on their shoulders with the princess lounging around on top -- but he was really unsteady, and halfway there he collapsed on the floor. We had to help him up and support him the rest of the way to the bed. I guess he'd been strapped down for a long time, because the pattern of the stone altar was impressed in his back and his ass.
And I said, "Shit, look what they did to that beautiful ass," knowing that "they" was most likely my father.
So I went into the bathroom -- each of the second floor rooms had its own fancy private bathroom -- to find something we could rub on that would sooth him. There was a jar of some kind of salve in there. I didn't know exactly what it was, but it smelled good, and I thought it was worth a try. We put him on his stomach, and Jeffrey put a pillow under him so his ass poked up in a very cute way, and we started gently rubbing the salve onto his back. Well, maybe we rubbed a lot more on his ass than his back, but you could tell he was enjoying it by the way he closed his eyes and smiled and breathed long deep breaths.
Then I started working some of the stuff onto his hole, and he just opened it up for me so my finger slipped right in. Jeffrey had put his hand between the kid's legs to work some salve onto his cock and balls, and reported a hard one down there. I was delving pretty far into his hole, working my finger in and out, enjoying how hot and smooth it felt up there, and Jeffrey told me to get my hand out of the way because he just had to fuck the kid, right then and there.
That's when I got to see Jeffrey's dick -- which was bigger than mine, but not by much -- as he lined it up with Beauty Boy's hole. That's what Jeffrey and I always called him afterwards -- Beauty Boy. If he had a name, we never found out what it was. And Jeffrey slid his dick up Beauty Boy's ass and started fucking away like crazy, hard and fast. And that's how he came -- hard and fast. The whole thing couldn't have taken more than twenty seconds.
Then it was my turn. Me, I took it nice and slow, stripping down to bare skin and spreading my whole body over him and wrapping my arms around him and tracing those beautiful pink ears with my tongue. It wasn't at all like the only other boy I'd fucked before, this kid Jimmy who let everybody in our gym class take turns in his ass every time we went to shower. Jimmy just bent over and took it, but with Beauty Boy it felt like he was grabbing your dick with his ass and milking it. It felt like he wanted to hang onto it and never let go.
Then Jeffrey got my attention by sticking his finger into my ass -- something nobody ever had done before. It was distracting me from Beauty Boy, and I tried slapping his hand away, but he just stuck that finger in deeper -- and all of a sudden, I decided it wasn't so bad after all. I was even a little unhappy when he took it out, but then he replaced it with his dick, making me the filling of this wonderful sandwich. I think everybody came at the same time. Well, at least Jeffrey and I did. I really don't know about Beauty Boy.
Frankly, I would have been happy to stay there in the Aztec room for an even better birthday celebration, but Jeffrey was pulling me away to see what was on the first floor. We pulled our clothes back on, and I left a little kiss on Beauty Boy's delicious bottom, which was leaking a a drop of whatever watery boy jism I was able to produce back then. I knew I just had to have that ass again.
As quietly as we could, Jeffrey and I went down the stairs to the first floor, and peeked around the edge of the landing into a big room that occupied the entire wing. It's hard to describe just what I saw there, and even harder to describe how it made me feel.
There were boys -- unimaginably beautiful little boys, the oldest just eight or nine, as best I could tell. All of them were naked. Some were just sitting there on velvet cushions, just kind of staring off into space. The cushions, by the way, were part of what looked like an Arabian Nights motif, with ornate carpets scattered across the floor, and yellow-gold silk curtains all around the walls except for one area where there were shelves with an incredible assortment of sex toys. Jeffrey and I ducked in behind the curtains, and peeked out between them to see what was going on.
In keeping with the Arabian Nights theme, there were two very fat men wearing turbans and floppy silk harem pants. Now, of course, I've got a pretty good idea they were eunuchs, but I didn't know about eunuchs back then. One of them was spooning slices of banana into the mouth of a boy who looked old enough to be feeding himself -- probably four-and-a-half or five. The other was working an electric dildo in and out of the ass of a boy who looked six or seven. I couldn't tell if the kid was enjoying it, but he clearly didn't mind. He had his eyes closed, and a faraway look on his face.
Two more boys were lying on one of the carpets, quietly sucking each other off, and another boy, who looked like the oldest there on the first floor, was sucking one of those "rightest" fathers I thought had left an hour earlier. It was all very calm, very quiet, and very weird.
At the far end of the room was the oak door I had seen so often from the other side. The silence was so profound, I didn't have any trouble hearing the key being pushed into the lock. Jeffrey heard it too, and we quickly retreated to the stairs. When the door opened, we caught a quick glimpse of three people coming through. Dad was in the lead, followed by an older woman who was the only one who arrived at my party without a child. Jeffrey's father brought up the rear.
Jeffrey and I moved quickly and quietly up the stairs. He was about to run down the second floor corridor to the stairs that led to the third floor and then the attic, but I held him back. "Just a minute," I said, "I have to get something." I ducked into the Aztec room, and came out with Beauty Boy, who had moved and stretched enough to be walking under his own power. I led him by his arm down the hallway, up the two flights of stairs, across the attic, and down to my video monitored bedroom.
I'd made up my mind, deciding I would help myself to a birthday present that would be much more fun than the new game console or the motorbike. Dad could have the rest of his harem, but Beauty Boy would be mine.
9.07 (From Billy's "blog")
Joe and the other Free Radicals should have been back from Asile Sûr four hours ago, according to Drew, and I'm afraid they ran into trouble. Asile Sûr is supposed to be the most secure of all the gated communities, considering how it's the home of the very richest plutocrats on the West Coast. As it happens, though, I know it's too large to be really secure. If it's security you want, you're better off in one of the condo clubs, like the one where the late Conrad lived.
Be that as it may, I'm still concerned for Joe. The homeowners at Asile Sûr are the richest plutocrats on the West Coast, and their security force isn't even remotely constrained by what little remains of the law. It's time to drop off the boys, then get over there and find out what's going on.
Along the way, though, I'll just summarize the rest of Drew's story, because he became kind of incoherent at about that point, and you may be interested to know how the son of a plutocrat became Stalin, a leader of the Free Radicals.
Jeffrey, wisely, made himself scarce, and Drew got to play with his new toy for about an hour before his father came storming into his room in a rage. "Dad" called his son a disgusting little fag. Son told father that the accusation sounded ridiculous coming from a man with a harem of boys in his east wing. Father informed son that it wasn't a harem at all -- it was a farm, a business, which produced perfect pleasure boys for the extremely affluent.
The oil business, it seems, isn't what it used to be. People scarcely travel anymore, given the sad state of affairs around the world, and the one thing the liberals did accomplish was improving energy efficiency. An oilman just couldn't rake in the loot the way he could back in the glory days. The pleasure boy Drew thought to keep for himself was ready for sale, and worth very nearly as much as six months of dividends from the elder Parks's oil business.
The following week, Drew Parks was shipped off to a second-tier boarding school for boys, one which followed the British model, where he was energetically bullied and buggered until he became large enough to bully and bugger younger boys. Later, at the University, he was recruited into the Free Radicals.
Yes, he would make his father pay for taking away his perfect, living sex toy!