This story details explicit gay sex between men, teens and boys. If you find this kind of thing distasteful, or if you are underage wherever you live, then stop reading this now, and delete this file. The story is completely fictional; the author does not condone or encourage any of the acts contained herein.



Chapter 37

By: Tim Keppler

Roughly four months after Jason's performance of Stravinsky's Sacre, Barantschik, the first violinist, resigns from the San Francisco Symphony. He's been offered the same position with the Berlin Philharmonic, among the half-dozen best orchestra's in the world, and has accepted. He's going back to Europe, and is delighted. The question is, who will replace him? In the short term, it will be Jason, of course, the Associate Concert Master, but who will Tilson Thomas hire as the Senior Concert Master. It's a big job, a hugely important role. Jason is hoping that it's someone he can work with, but you never know with these kinds of appointments. Egos can run pretty large for musicians at this level. He's very nervous.

And then, two days after the announcement of Barantschik's departure, I get a call at about 3:20pm. I'm in the kitchen with Kenny and Kai. I'm helping Kenny chop veggies for a stir-fry, while Kai finger-paints. Kev is at a friend's house, being entertained by the mother of a girl he likes in his first grade class. Very sweet. A blossoming romance at six years old. It's Jason on the phone. "Tilson Thomas made the appointment," he tells me, "to replace Barantschik."

"And..." I wait. "Is it someone good? Is it someone you can work well with? Or do you know? Do you know him...err...or her?" I wait. "Umm...Jason?"

Finally, "It's me," he says softly.

Pause. "Who?" I ask, not really understand what he's just said.

"He appointed me," he says, quietly. "Nadya will replace me as first associate." It takes me a full ten seconds to absorb this.

"You?" Kenny is now watching me intently.

"Yeah. Umm...he appointed me," he chokes, starting to cry. But that's not something I really notice, because I'm also crying, and Kenny and Kai are looking really worried.

"Fuck!" I shriek, just beside myself with joy. "Really?"

"Yeah," Jason chokes. "He'll announce it at tomorrow's rehearsal. He's told me and Nadya."

"And how did Nadya take it?"

Pause. "I was really concerned about that. I mean, she was here before me. But when I talked to her after, she seemed delighted. She hugged me. I think we're okay."

"Oh, fuck! Jason, I'm so proud of you! Are you on your way home?" Kai has attached himself to my leg, and is looking distressed. Kenny knows this is something good, but has no idea what it is. He's stopped chopping, and is waiting for information.

"Yeah. I'm at the train station now. I should be there in an hour or so. I'm..."


"I'm really, really happy...but I'm really, really scared."

"Sometimes a little fear is good, baby. Don't let it overtake you. Come home, okay?"

"I'll be there soon," he says, and we end the call.

I'm in a total fucking daze. I caress Kai, ruffling his hair, and look right through Kenny. And then I whoop. "Tilson Thomas named Barantschik's replacement, and it's...Jason. It's fucking Jason," I scream.

The minute I say this, Kenny drops his knife, snatches Kai off my leg, and lifts him into the air, tossing him around, laughing. "Is that great, or what?" he screams. Kai, finally realizing that this is good news, starts to laugh. We begin to dance around the kitchen, hugging each other in a higher state of euphoria than I've been in for a very long time. Jason is twenty-fucking-seven years old. He'll be the youngest Concertmaster this Symphony has ever had...by a lot. He'll also be the first Asian Concertmaster for this Symphony. I am so goddamn proud of him!


Two weeks after the announcement, we throw a celebration party, inviting the entire orchestra. Tilson Thomas can't come because he's in Europe, but we have upwards of one hundred people, nearly the entire orchestra. Most of them I've met, but of course we have boyfriends, girlfriends, spouses, and just friends. We asked for RSVPs with the number of "others" each member would be bringing, and the total was huge, nearly 125. But, of course, shit happens, and what we get is around 100, which is more than enough. The party is a blast. We have a quartet – made up of orchestra members – and they play for most of the evening. And we have Jason, who joins the quartet on the piano for the Shostakovich Quintet, and who plays solo piano for some Grieg, Chopin and Janαček. I don't think many of them knew just how good he is on the piano. I think most assumed that his only concert-level experience was on the violin.


Kenny and I are busy, schlepping food from the kitchen to the dining room. Kenny has made a medley of Asian and Mexican dishes, all of which are wonderful, all of which are very to moderately spicy, and all of which disappear almost the instant we put them down. He's bought an ocean of ingredients, and just keeps cooking, just keeps churning them out. This is going to be noisy evening, and I have no faith that the boys are going to get much sleep, so I've notified their teachers that they'll probably not be in tomorrow, and they have the time of their lives hopping from lap to lap, entertaining the guests, who appear to be captivated by them. And, after all, they are pretty charming. At some point they'll pass out, and we'll tuck them in then. Like Thumper, the cat, they'll run out of energy eventually.


At about 10pm, as Kenny is making the third batch of Indonesian curry (evident from fragrance of coconut milk that now permeates the house), Kevin runs into the kitchen and I catch him in my arms. He looks beat. "You running out of steam, sweetie?" I ask.


"No," he says, softly, but he clearly is.


"Where's your brother, Kev? Where's Kai?"


He looks confused, and then looks behind us, then back at me. And then he looks a little...nervous, shaking his head. "I dunno," he says.


I look at Kenny, who's stirring the curry, with concern. These boys usually travel together – still. I set Kevin on the floor, and Kenny pats his leg, indicating that Kevin should come and hug him, which he does. I move back to the living room looking for Kai.


If this were a typical dinner party, I wouldn't worry about Kai. He'd be somewhere having fun – probably with that silly Thumper-cat – and we'd find him eventually, giggling furiously and giving himself away. But this is a big crowd, and a lot of these people are strangers to me. He's not in the living room, or the dining room. Checking the office, I don't find him there either, not even under my desk, one of his favorite hiding places. By now Kenny is worried, and joins me in the search, leaving the curry to Nathan, and Kevin to bounce on Gary's knee in the living room. We check my bedroom next, and he isn't there either, and the bathrooms are also clear. Then we move to the spare bedrooms, Ian's old bedroom first, and we find the door locked. Feeling along the molding above the door, I find the door key right where I've left it. It's one of those generic keys that opens every internal door known to man, and I insert it in the lock, opening the door. There, in the middle of the floor, is a tearful Kai, his pants around his ankles, with a guy I've never seen before in my life...fondling him while stroking himself off. The guy looks up, surprised, and I lunge forward, tackling him, knocking him to the ground. Kenny grabs Kai, whisking him away, as I pummel this guy, my adrenaline flowing. Fifteen seconds later Gary appears at the door, and together we move this guy, now subdued, through the house to the basement, making excuses for his "drunkenness" as we pass through the living room and dining room. Kenny has Kai in the kitchen. His pants are pulled back up, but he's sobbing, and Kenny is rocking him back and forth on one of the chairs at the kitchen table as he whispers in his ear. "It's okay, baby. You're okay. I've got you. You won't ever see that bad man again."


He's right about that. If I don't kill this guy outright, it'll be a miracle.


Gary and I carry him down the stairs, strip him, and hang him from the ceiling cables by cuffs that we attach to his wrists. We then attach ankle cuffs, and hook these to bolts in the floor. Just as he starts to struggle, we wind about four layers of duct tape around his head, over his mouth, and I return to the party, leaving Gary to watch this guy. "Don't touch him," I say. "He's mine." Gary nods.


After another hour, the party begins to wind down as one group after another leaves, but it's nearly midnight before everyone is gone.


When I get back to the basement, Kenny, Jason, Nathan and Gary are all there. And, of course, the molester. He has a wild look in his eyes – terror – and when he sees me, that look intensifies. I kiss both Gary and Nathan cordially. "Of course, we'll be your alibi, should you need one," Gary tells me, a foot away from the molester.


"It's very possible that I will," I respond. "I'm not sure I'm going to be able to restrain myself from killing this fucker. Thanks."


They leave. Now it's just the four of us – Jason, Kenny, the molester, and me.


I don't want to rush this, both because I don't know what I'm going to do, yet, and because I'd like to prolong the time this guy has to wait and wonder what his fate will be. I sit down in one of the chairs along the back wall, in full view of the molester, next to Jason, who's glaring at him. Kenny is circling him, pacing around and around him like an angry tiger. "Don't touch him, Kenny. We'll deal with him soon." He nods, but continues to circle.


This guy is seriously cute, with curly blond hair and piercing green eyes. He's in his early- to mid-thirties, I'd guess, slim, and not too tall. Despite that, though, I want him dead. But I'm not going to kill him. Death would be too easy a fate. I stare at him pensively, and as I do, you can see the fear grow; you can see it in his eyes. This is the kind of "focus" that makes Kenny and Jason intensely nervous when they see it in me. This guy is not going to die, but I really want him to wish he would.


The recidivism rate for pedophiles is huge. 80% or more recommit. But, personally, I think that`s because their punishments don't fit their crimes. Perpetrators sit in prison for years and years, and eventually forget what their crimes were. Their punishments aren't "memorable," and they're protracted, which doesn't help. In Arab countries, punishments are often what Westerners consider barbaric, but they achieve two things. First, they give the victim or the victim's family a sense of retribution, and, second, they leave a lasting impression on the perpetrator. I'm not saying that we should cut off body parts, but I do wonder whether we wouldn't achieve better results in terms of modifying dangerous behaviors we were a little more...direct in the kinds of punishments we mete out. The minute you ask this question, of course, everyone starts thinking of scenes like those in A Clockwork Orange, Anthony Burgess' parable of actions and consequences. But in Alex's case (the protagonist of A Clockwork Orange), the consequence was psychological re-programming. That's not what I'm thinking of here, exactly. I'm wondering whether an hour of intense pain wouldn't do more to reduce recidivism than thirty years of incarceration. Arab countries believe this to be true, and use public whippings extensively as a way to dissuade criminals. We in the west don't like to do this because we're, frankly, squeamish. But, I don't recall that Michael Fey spray-painted any more cars after having been caned in Singapore in 1994 for that offense. His punishment seems to have left an impression, a lasting impression – both on his psyche, and on his ass.


Finally, I know what we're going to do, and move to the cupboards to collect what I need to make it happen.


First, I take out the largest dildo I have, a seven-inch-long monster with a full four-inch diameter at its base. Only guys into serious fisting are going to enjoy this. But, its girth is only half the fun. It has a 1/8 inch hole running down the middle of the dildo, allowing it to serve as a pretty-nasty enema nozzle as well. I mount this dildo on a vertical stand, the height of which is adjustable, and coat it with Tiger Balm, a liniment popular in Asia for sore muscles. Next, I retrieve a parachute ball-stretcher and attach it to the molester's scrotum. This I attach to a bungee cord, and the bungee cord to a cable that runs from the ceiling to an eye-hook in the floor. Releasing his ankles, I attach his ankle cuffs to two other cables running from the ceiling. I maneuver the dildo so that it's just below his ass, and adjust the height so that it's just insinuating itself into his anus. Then, I fill a one-gallon enema bag with ice-cold soda water, and suspend that from yet another cable running from the ceiling. Finally, I tear off the duct tape, and a lot of hair along with it. I want to hear him scream.


Here's what's going to happen: the ceiling cables are attached to a motorized winch that's set to winch-up automatically at about 6 inches per hour. That means that in the next hour, the bungee cord attached to his balls will be pulling him downward onto the dildo while his feet are being lifted six inches off the ground, placing his body weight entirely on his arms and reducing his ability to control the penetration of that dildo. And, as the dildo is driven up his ass, the enema bag will rise, starting and steadily increasing the flow of liquid into him – a carbonated liquid that will produce horrendous cramps. The Tiger Balm coating the dildo is sort of a kicker that will sear his asshole like nothing he's ever felt, I think. He's unlikely to enjoy this, but just in case I'm wrong, I shake several squirts of Tabasco sauce from the kitchen into a non-lubricated condom, and roll that onto his dick, something that has him screaming almost at once.


"I think we should go have some dessert, guys. Kenny has some casaba cake upstairs that looked really good." We all smile, and move to the stairs, even as the molester screams, begging us not to leave him like this – by which he means with a Tabasco condom on his dick. He has no idea yet just how bad this is going to get. In the kitchen, the basement door blocking out most of the molester's screams, Kenny cuts us slices of cake, and Jason gives each of us a generous portion of a jackfruit ice cream that he's made himself. Then we move to the living room where Jason plays a transcription of the first movement of Dvořαk's Ninth Symphony ("From the New World") on the piano, a portentous and, in some ways, frightening piece of music that moves between two themes, the first stentorian and rather scary, and the second lyrical and seductive. It seems appropriate for what's going on in the basement. After about an hour and a half, I click on the TV and set the input to the cameras downstairs, and we watch the scumbag writhe. The dildo has, by now, fully penetrated him, and he is shrieking – from the stretching (and, presumably, tearing) of his asshole, not to mention the searing coat of liniment that covers it. And, his balls are stretched down and out from his body, and appear to be purple. Amazingly, his dick is erect, encased in the Tabasco-filled condom. This may be because of the enema liquid pressing against his prostate. It has certainly bloated his belly, His face is flushed and teary, and while he's screaming, he's pretty much out of voice, so there's very little sound. He appears to be exhausted, and isn't even struggling much any more, although by the look of him, he has been struggling, struggling mightily.


"Wanna go wake him up, Kenny?"


"Absolutely," he grins, leaving the room. In about thirty seconds he enters the basement, and makes his way into the view we see on screen. Moving to one of the cabinets in front of our molester, Kenny takes out my favorite tawse, a truly evil instrument of punishment. Moving behind the fellow, he lays into him with a vengeance, working from his ass to his upper back, and then back again. Three times Kenny makes this circuit, delivering probably thirty-five blows in all, blows that are much worse than those of my razor strop because they leave thin, and in some cases bloody, wheals where the two tongues of the tawse come together. By the time Kenny is done, this guy's back and ass are a mess, he is completely without voice, and is sobbing, pleading, begging Kenny to stop.


"Please...please...stop. Please, let me go."


Kenny moves in front of him, and you can see the rage in his eyes. I don't know that I've ever seen him so angry. "Do you think you deserve mercy?" he asks through his teeth, barely restraining himself.


Realizing just how angry Kenny is, this slime backs away from the question. "No...no..." he sobs. "I...don't think I can...take any more...of this."


Kenny laughs. "Oh, you'll take it," he sneers. "We may keep you here for days," slapping the tawse viciously against the molesters right thigh, its two tongues wrapping themselves around him to intersect an existing wheal, causing a very nasty-looking blood blister. "That boy you molested is my son," he shouts, right in the guy's face. "He was one of the most happy-go-lucky little boys you could ever meet. I have no idea what damage you've done to him, but he sure wasn't happy-go-lucky after you'd finished with him. It took me over an hour just to get him to stop crying, and another hour to put him to bed. I had to leave the light on in his room. He's never been afraid of the dark. Now he is. You should be fucking happy to be alive," he shouts, lashing at him again with the tawse, this time across his belly, eliciting a silent shriek. Then he leaves, and the scumbag continues to sob. There is just nothing worse that injecting a gallon of ice-cold club soda up someone's ass, unless it's injecting a gallon of ice-cold club soda and then beating him nearly to death with a tawse, a tawse you aim at his bloated belly.


After another two hours, during which he continues to writhe, to cry, and to plead for mercy to an empty room, I descend to the basement. He's facing a flat-panel monitor on the wall in front of him, and I click the remote, which activates the central server in the attic. It begins to play back the scene of Kai's molestation in Ian's old bedroom. This is why there are cameras in every room, this and the possibility of burglaries. I want this guy to know what we have on him. Just before he pulls down Kai's pants, I stop the video. "While you were down here, I was upstairs checking out the national sex offender registry. And, what a surprise – you're in it. The name on your driver's license correlates with a guy who's had two prior conviction, one for the rape of a two-year-old girl, and one for molesting, and then beating, an eight-year-old girl. Convictions! You are the worst kind of filth. The registry lists you as living on Park Avenue in San Jose. Is that still where you live?"


He gasps. "Yes." The bungee cord connected to his ball stretcher tightens another inch as the automatic winch kicks into gear. He shrieks soundlessly. "Please...please..."


"Please what?" I ask.


There's nothing he can ask for, nothing he deserves, and he knows it. "Please..."


"How long'd you spend in jail for those convictions?" No answer. I pluck the bungee cord like a guitar string, and it resonates, and so does he, in the most exquisite pain. "How long?" I ask again, quietly.


"Seven years," he pants.


"Wanna go back?"


He looks into my eyes, pausing for the first time, despite his agony. "No...please. They...kill child molesters in there. If they find out, they kill you."


"Oh, I know. And they will find out. I'll make sure of that. Wanna go back?"


"Please..." He begins to sob again, from pain and from terror.


"So, here's my deal, scumbag. My initial plan was to tell you to get the fuck out of San Jose. You live way too close to me...and my children. But, that would be passing you on to some other innocent kid. So, if you leave your current address, I'll present this recording to the cops and press charges for molestation. You will stay there and live there, so I can find you. You can count on the fact that I will check periodically to make sure that you still live there. I plan to establish a nice, friendly relationship with your landlord and neighbors within the week. Leave that apartment, and you'll have a new one – in prison. Next, you'll return here next week, one week from today, at 6pm. That's Pacific Standard Time. Sharp. We're going to do all this again. We're going to jam this dildo up your ass, fill you with club soda, and beat you black and blue. We're going to do it frequently. And, if you don't show at the stroke of 6, I'll present this recording to the cops and press charges for molestation. Try to abscond, and I will find you. I promise. I abso-fucking-lutely promise. Try to get out of this by going to the cops yourself and accusing me of battery, and I'll present them with this recording. Who do you think they'll believe, a two-time sex offender, or a fine, upstanding citizen like me with two sweet boys, one of them traumatized by your actions, actions this recording documents. Do you understand what we're going to do?"


He continues to sob. "This is retribution," he wails.


"You bet your sweet ass. I don't like cops. I don't like the criminal justice system. I don't think it's ever very just. But, if you like it, if you liked prison, then fuck with me. By the way, when you come back next week, I expect you to be shaved of all body hair except for what's on your head. If I find any other hair on you, I'll present this recording to the cops and press charges for molestation. So, you'd better find a friend to help you with your...backside." The bungee cord tightens another inch, and again he shrieks silently. "Are we clear?"


He nods.


"6pm one week from now, hairless, or you're going to prison. I guarantee it. Are we clear?"


He nods again.


I pluck the bungee cord again. "Are we fucking clear?" I scream.


"Yes," he shrieks, voicelessly.


"Good," I smile. "So, what I'm going to do now is release your balls, and then ratchet you off this fucking enormous dildo that you're impaled on, a dildo that, by the look of it, has caused you some considerable physical damage. When you come off that dildo, you're going to want to shit, but if you lose a drop of that liquid before you get to the toilet in the corner, I'm going to tie you back up and beat your balls until they're black and blue. You'll never have babies. Is that clear?"


He shrieks and nods as the bungee cord tightens once again.


"Great," I say, pleasantly. Moving to the wall, I reverse the automatic winches, and slowly the bungee cord slackens and his feet descend until he's finally able to stand on the ground. Then I hit another switch, and the cables holding his wrists pull him up and off the dildo. His asshole is an absolute mess. It's bloody and fiercely swollen, but he does manage to hold his water until I lower him onto his feet and release his wrist cuffs. He makes his way as quick-as-a-wink to the toilet in the corner, where he expels. His relief is palpable, and he stays on the toilet for over ten minutes, emptying in periodic gushes, as one does with enemas. When he's finally done, he packs his asshole with toilet tissue to absorb any blood, and dresses himself. He's clearly still in a fair amount of pain, and moves slowly, carefully, following me up the stairs and to the entryway.


"Remember. Be back here in one week, at precisely 6pm, because I'll be on the phone to the police at 6:01." He nods and leaves almost the moment I open the front door. As predicted, I don't think he enjoyed this much. He won't enjoy next week, either, I imagine.



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