Game, Set and Match for Stanley Freeze

part 1

Young feet darted lightly over orange powder. Once-white shoes and socks turned orange as the footsteps and slides disturbed the soil. Young, slender legs with clearly visible flexing muscles catching and reflecting the sunlight on sweaty skin lead up to very short white shorts of flimsy material, showing the very base of narrow, round buttocks. A sleeveless shirt fluttered loosely around flat stomachs and narrow chests while young eyes fixed on the ball the tanned arms tried to hit as hard as possible. A show of athletic prowess in young teen boys, the latter feature being the main selling point. The ball sped over the net causing the other player – clad in equally short but blue shorts – to scramble nearly on all fours to return it. Just before the racket hit, I had to turn off the TV.

The phone had been ringing for some time now, cutting through the excited commentary voice like a chainsaw through a box of pineapples. “Stanley Freeze investigations.... No..... What? No, I don't do tax returns..... Well, you heard wrong.” I looked at the shadow of my stooped figure cast on the grubby floor. Maybe I should be doing tax returns – if only for the money to pay my own taxes. My last case had been six months ago and the last case that actually paid more than petty cash – the Battista kid – had been almost ten years ago. Times as they say, change and they certainly had changed: private investigators were almost obsolete, whether they specialized in boys or not. New regulations demanded that PI's got degrees and shared information with the authorities, relegating old dogs who refused to do either to kidnapped parakeets and disputes between rich toddlers involving stuffed animals. It had been several years since I'd had a case – and a boy informant – that I could really dig into. Even if I had possessed the brains to get al those damn degrees, the police still hadn't forgiven me for upstaging them in the Battista case. All the protagonists of that case had steadily been making promotions and now formed the staggeringly inefficient leadership of the police and district attorney. They all still hated me, so sharing information with them was as likely as getting a good deal from an insurance agent.

I turned the TV back on, only to discover that the boy in the blue shorts – his name was Casper Derringer – had managed to hit the return, securing the match. Applause rained down onto the boy whose seductive face was almost split in half by his smile. His short, black hair glistened in the sun, dark, big eyes scanned the adoring crowd, his sensuously curved mouth occasionally yelling out a name before returning to the bright smile. Casper Derringer: brother of Anthony, who was third most successful player of the last decade and now organizer of one of the prestigious tournaments in the tennis championship. Casper: son of Carl Derringer, widely credited with coaching and nursing his sons into tennis stardom as well as with almost killing them in the process. The man was a maniac, obsessed with getting his kids onto the podia of international tennis tournaments. Anthony had broken off relations with his father at fourteen, after his first title. The story of his relationship with his new trainer and physical therapist was famous and written and published by Anthony himself. Casper had just turned fourteen and seemed well on his way to his second title, and a break with his father. Of course all rumors were vigorously denied but his father had been moved to the back farther from the court at every game, while Casper's new trainer Doug Calloway sat prominently on the front row. The boy disappeared into the training complex, followed by an entourage comprised of Doug, some security and a number of officials. It was the last anybody ever saw of Casper Derringer.

The news broke an hour later when I was returning a parrot to its owner who happened to have the radio on. As I drove home, old instincts kicked in, combined with a 'what else am I going to do' attitude and I decided I would give it a shot. To solve the case I mean. When I got home I walked straight to the book case and grabbed 'Anthony Derringer: winning with love or with hate?' (being a best selling book usually came at a price: quality). I skipped to the description of the run up to the break between Anthony and his father.

“My last game of the year played, I lay naked on Fidel's bench. He was giving me the usual mix of massage and erotic stimulation he'd used to seduce me six months ago. Suddenly the door opened and by straining my neck I could just see two men come in, being greeted enthusiastically by Fidel. I noticed that he'd stopped massaging me and was now holding me in place on the bench. The two newcomers wasted no time in throwing off their clothes and as the situation was becoming clear to me and I began to struggle, Fidel said: “the season is now over, Anthony, we don't have to be so careful with you anymore.: Roughly, the men groped my body and my butt in particular. I yelled, but the room was nearly sound-proof, so no-one would hear me. Because of all this, my penis – which had been hard and leaking a little pre cum from the moment Fidel placed me on the bench – had grown flaccid again. The men's members were, however, visibly stiffening when they gave me a choice: get raped without lubricants or use my mouth to lubricate their dicks and make things a little easier on myself. I chose the less painful route and Fidel released his grip. I immediately took the opportunity to dart towards the door, but I was caught before even reaching it. Fidel immediately unbuckled his narrow leather belt and the two men dragged me back to the bench. Face down, ass sticking up, I was held in place there. I yelled as the first strike hit. By the third hot tears were running down my cheeks and I only whimpered at the shame of feeling my penis rapidly grow erect. Fidel laughed a diabolical laugh I'd never heard from him before and struck twice across my buttocks, hitting the back of my ball sack. Despite the pain, the shame and the derisive laughter of three men bent on hurting me, I by now had a throbbing hard on. I was made to kneel before Fidel's two friends, one of whom had a significantly shorter but thicker piece than Fidel's. The other one was about the same girth but a little longer. One of the men grabbed my head and pushed his dick between my half-opened lips and kept pushing until my nose was touching his pubic hair and the cock-head was lodged deep in my throat. Although I had deep-throated Fidel many times during our relationship, the sheer surprise and force made me gag and cough, drawing yet more laughs from the cruel men. He held my head close until I started seeing red for lack of oxygen, then released me just long enough for me to take a gulp of air before plunging back in and fucking my throat vigorously for a little while. My persistent erection was noticed and commented upon by the men, who called me a little faggot slut and I knew they were right. The penis withdrew from my straining mouth and I was placed across the bench again. I was on my back this time with my knees close to my shoulders, providing the men full access to my little boy cunt. I felt the blunt tip of the penis that had been fucking my mouth press against my sphincter. Instinctively, I pushed out and the head pushed back, slowly inching its way in. Although it was covered in my saliva, the penis made my sphincter feel like it was on fire. Resistance whipped out of me, I could only whimper. Inch by inch, the thick member made its way into my body, filling me, tearing me apart and still giving me a – by now leaking – erection. When the man started to fuck me roughly, my shame and feelings peaked, I yelled and cried, and covered my belly with my cum. That earned me another round of laughs and insults from the three men. After fucking my smarting ass for a while, the man withdrew and his friend took his place, encouraged by Fidel. I was well lubricated by now, they reckoned and he thrust into me without mercy. The pain made me yell again. The other man had walked around the bench and grabbed my head, pulled it back and plunged his wet dick into my throat, muffling any further cries. As my ass was being raped and my throat forced open, I tasted the familiar blend of pre-cum and my own intestinal fluids I had come to know from my nights with Fidel. The man didn't take long to grunt and push himself all the way down my throat, flooding it with waves of hot semen as he came. Coughing, crying, gasping for air, I recovered slightly. The other man had witnessed my mouth's ordeal and – not having had the experience before – decided he fancied some of the same, so he retreated, walked around and unceremoniously thrust his dick in my mouth. Fidel now dropped his slacks and I felt the familiar sensation of his hard dick – harder than the others – invading me. His friend was fucking my mouth at a frantic pace, hardly giving me time to suck and use my tongue. Soon, he too grunted, hardened and shot a torrential load into my mouth. Cum was flowing from my mouth and nose, mixing with the tears on my cheeks. Fidel had established his usual pace and was fucking me with slow, deep strokes, bringing to life memories of happier fucks, and also my penis. Just as I was sinking into a pleasant dream of being used from behind by the hard dick of my lover, a jet of warm, salty liquid hit my face. One of the men was pissing all over me! He aimed at my mouth which was being pried open by his friend. I had not choice but to drink the piss as the men laughed once again. Despite this new humiliation, Fidel's expert fucks were causing my erection to reach full strength again. Incredibly, not even the humiliation of drinking the piss of the men who had just raped me stopped my body reacting to Fidel's dick. Soon my resistance had melted away and I drank the second load of piss without someone having to pry open my jaws. My slutty body just took it all in and it didn't take me long to reach a shattering orgasm again. Fidel continued fucking me until he started to grunt and I felt his member get even harder. As he plunged in all the way, I squeezed my sphincter as best I could and was rewarded by the feeling of Fidel filling my bowels with copious jets of hot semen. He pulled out and delivered the coup de grâce: he, too, proceeded to empty his bladder over my exhausted body.

The three men – and sometimes their friends – used me in the most humiliating ways all winter and I had more shameful orgasms than I care to remember. By the time the new season started, I was having trouble getting into shape. The experience also forever soured the relationship with my father, as I guess I somehow blamed him for my obvious masochistic streak. He had, after all given me an almost insanely strict upbringing.”

I gasped. Like so many people, I bought the book mainly for these passages. In this case there was another purpose however: after the events he described, Anthony and his trainer-therapist-lover – for all the things I liked to do to boys, I couldn't help but feel this was somehow sick – had disappeared for some time before resurfacing. The first order of business would be to find Doug, Caspers trainer. History might be repeating itself and finding Doug would almost certainly mean finding Casper and thus solving the case, socking it to the police in a royal way. In the back of my mind, a scenario formed that involved me walking in on Casper, Doug and some of Doug's friends, catching them in a similar situation. Before dragging them off to the authorities, I would use the opportunity to get a little action myself with the young maverick tennis player.