Date: Sat, 28 Jul 2012 21:50:49 +0100
From: Davey R <lsgoodb@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: BlueShark Video 13

Author's note: This is sheer dumb fantasy, with sex and violence and dark
elements. Not cool in real life, and not to be taken seriously. Just
something you've channel surfed onto on late night TV. Any movies, actors,
television shows, comic books, etc, named in this series are totally
fictional.

----------------------------------------------------------------


Previously, in BlueShark Video 7...

"Okay, guys. Plan for today - we need to get this prick here some
exercise. I've got plans for him tonight. He's gonna help entertain our
special guests. You'll see how later - it's kind of a surprise for you
too. But we have the rest of today to build up his stamina. Kind of a boot
camp - or a butthead camp!"

"Playing with Pilce, huh?" Gregory grins, looking down at the hateful piece
of human refuse. "Sounds like it's gonna be a fun day!"

"Hell, yeah" Sharkey nods, swigging what's left of his coffee. "So
... first activity, guys. Any suggestions?"

---

Previously, in BlueShark Video 12...

: "See that basket symbol pulsing in the corner of the screen, son?"
Mortimus goads. "You just press that, just stroke it with your thumb,
that's all it'll take -- and your all-new Nate Lusher is as good as yours"

Corinth looks at the slow throb of the icon.

"What is his name?"

"Whatever you like, son. Call him 'Nate' if you wish"

"Yeah, but what is it really?"

"He's called Jordon Lunar. Apparently."

"Jordon Lunar?" Corinth thinks. "I like that. Oh sure then, I'll take him."

He presses the button.

------------------------------------------



BlueShark Video 13

RAMON'S BEATING

The action movie lustre has gone as we move into a whole new scene. The
look of the footage here is somehow more raw, homemade. It appears to be
have been recorded digitally, not on the lush film stock of the Mighty Sun
Surfer sequel we've been seeing.

This is a real world, not a world of supheroes. And yet even "real" is just
one more category of movie.

Here, anyway, is something real: maybe too damn real for the young man
involved.

Daniel Pilce has spent so long in the dark, the sun seems miraculous. Its
glare nearly blinds him. About an hour he's been out here now, and still
his eyes haven't quite accustomed to the blazing light, the luminous green
of the lawn stretching off into an unimaginable distance all around him.

So much wider and brighter than the boxed off, trampled existence Sharkey
allows the little dickhead.

Even prior to his present degradation, the days before he was scooped up
and carried away from home by the fearsome Mr Sharkey, the puny Pilce spent
a lot of his time out of the light. His existence had been almost a
nocturnal one, all his fun enjoyed after dark - whether at raves in clubs
and muddy fields, or those fetish joints he'd so loved in Berlin. And even
when he'd been unemployed, all his daytime hours free, he'd spent nearly
all of them in a room with the curtains shut. All those hours watching
horror movies and that Lunar Surf Guy cartoon through a soothing haze of
various drugs. He was never, even in his liberty, an outdoors kind of guy.

Now, being out in the open air feels like some sacred reprieve. He can't
believe he never enjoyed the sunshine and the fresh air when he had the
chance, when he had his freedom. And it's only as that air fills his lungs
now that he realises how totally accustomed he's become to the stink of his
dungeon, at the lowest level of Sharkey's vast home. Being outside, being
above ground, he's disoriented but amazed. He feels like he's been allowed
some sojourn into heaven, some entirely other state of being.

"Okay, now fetch again, cunt!" Sharkey growls as he takes the dildo
proferred from between Pilce's teeth, and gives it another long throw into
the shining, blinding distance.

Once again, Pilce turns around and scampers after the toy. It's tough on
his weak little body to give chase on his hands and knees. Those knees hurt
as they thud against the lawn, and after so much inactivity, often
literally bound in chains down in his pit, his limbs aren't up to the
challenge. They ache with exertion already. But he's driven on by
adrenalin, and fear of his master. The monster Sharkey, plus his vicious
cohorts, show no signs of wanting to stop this game. And so on he must
crawl.

"Faster, you piece of shit!" Sharkey calls after him, delighted to see the
little puke's pace falter. "Rob, give him some encouragement."

Rob puts his glass of tequila down on the table, and picks up the paddle
next to it. In no particular hurry - since Pilce's anguished crawl is not
much different from walking pace - he strides over and gives the dickhead a
smack on the butt with it. It does nothing for his speed, but it amuses
Sharkey.

Pilce looks exhausted by the time he has struggled off across the lawn,
picked the dildo up in his mouth, brought it all the way back to his
master's feet once again. His limbs tremble like they might buckle, and
saliva spills heavily from his mouth.

"Useless maggot" Sharkey snarls. "Look at you. We let you come all the way
out here to get some exercise, build up your stamina, and look. Barely
begun and you're just about ready to fucking collapse."

Lounging on a recliner, unclothed but wearing a pair of shades, Ramon
giggles and takes another sip of his fruity cocktail. He's finding that he
now enjoys watching his master playing with this pitiful creature, that
he's less jealous than when he sees Sharkey's lust for the gorgeous surfer
hunk Jordon Lunar. With Jordon, the soon to be departing Jordon, Sharkey is
covetous and greedy. He is cruel to him, but his cruelty expresses his
raging desire.

Sometimes, when Ramon thinks about it, he finds he is a little envious of
Jordon's capacity to arouse such violent passion. He thinks of that night
Sharkey dominated the surfer in the boxing ring, and hopes that Sharkey
might treat him a little more roughly too, just sometimes.

With Pilce, though, it is different. Sharkey doesn't punish him out of lust
and greed, but out of contempt. And Ramon loves to see Sharkey express his
power, even on so pathetic a target.

"What do you think, babe?" Sharkey asks Ramon. "One more throw of this
thing, see if he can do any better?"

Ramon looks at the trembling Pilce, pale skin slick with his vile cold
sweat.

"Ugh, he's so gross, master" Ramon winces. "Throw him in the pool again"

Sharkey does an uncharacteristic bow, like he's the genie from the lamp
doing Ramon's bidding. Scooping up the little shit in his strong arms, he
carries Pilce across the lawn. A few feet from the pool he lays him down,
straightens him out like he nothing more than a blanket or a towel or
something. Then, taking him by a wrist and an ankle, he runs round in small
circles, getting enough momentum to wrench the cunt up from the grass,
whirl him around in the air a few times and then let go. Pilce is sent
flying into the pool with a heavy splash. The noise melds in with Gregory's
hard clapping.

Pilce surfaces, splashing about ineptly and coughing, and Sharkey orders
him to return to his master immediately. Pilce manoeuvres through the water
as best he can, a form of swimming that no involves no particular stroke or
any kind of grace. He clambers out at the side, pale and scrawny limbs
sparkling wet, a little bony leg gripping the tiles by the side of the pool
as he heaves himself up from the water.

"Like watching some fucking insect trying to climb its way up outta the
bathtub" snarls Sharkey.

"If I found that in my bathroom I'd flush the fucking thing!" Rob adds.

"Not me. I'd stomp it!" Gregory laughs without humor.

Pilce does not rise to his feet, because the fact is he has been stomped
already, and repeatedly, by Sharkey and his pack of thugs. Standing upright
is something he has forcibly unlearned, something he barely even thinks of
doing any more. No, as he makes his way back to his feared master he stays
on all fours, knees grinding painfully into the grass, already grazed from
all the crawling at speed he has been forced to perform today.


--------

This day has been different from the norm for Pilce, all starting with last
night. It had been one of those rare, much-welcomed nights when Sharkey had
allowed Pilce to sleep in his own bed.

Literally his own bed - or rather, an exact recreation of it. His own bed
in his own room back in London, perfectly recreated by Sharkey,
underground, all as part of Pilce's punishment. He was allowed to lie in
his own bed, in his own room, with all his familiar things around. Even
Pilce isn't sure whether these items have been ransacked from his real
home, or meticulously bought in and recreated. In a way it doesn't matter:
both explanations stem equally well from the dark, obsessive depths of
Sharkey's hatred for him. The cruelty of this torment is a subtle one -
often when Pilce wakes here he will think, if only for a moment, that he
really is back home, in his own bed, and with his own stuff all around
him. Maybe after a few moments his alarm clock will go off and he'll have
to go get the bus to that dull office job of his... and then it will all
come back to him that that life no longer exists ... and that the guy who
lives in America, who's the big boss at that office ... now totally owns
him.

Pilce resisted his fate at first, at least inside his own mind. Physically,
no, he could not fight back against Sharkey and his minions, and had to do
as he was told to avoid more pain, even more punishment than they inflicted
upon him already. But inside he burned with fury at the unfairness of what
he was undergoing. Sure, he had taken some money from this cockney brute's
business accounts - but a ridiculously tiny sum compared to the amounts
that office dealt with, and he had repaid every penny long before the man
caught up with him and took it upon himself to make him pay up in a
different way.

After the first month as Sharkey's plaything, at the mercy of that brute's
whims, he had thought surely this must end soon, had clenched his jaw to
stop tears and made himself sick with anger at the thought that the bastard
could get away with this. He visualised a day when Sharkey would be brought
to justice, saw it like a scene in a courtroom drama. Saw a day when he was
freed of this chained, animal-like existence, and sat in a suit in a
courtroom - he pictured that as slightly too big for him, because that was
the way he remembered the one suit he ever owned - recovering his wounded
dignity as the list of charges was read out. And all of it ending in a
reassuring verdict; the villain locked away. End credits rolling
happily. Normality restored.

But after another month of torment - as much as he could even tell what a
month was any more - that rage had gone. Or at least been buried somewhere
deep inside him. Hope of escape was something from his old life, before the
rule of Sharkey. Now all there was in his life was whatever that man wanted
to happen to him. And so Pilce began to live permanently in the present, a
present where he was either being punished or was waiting for the next
punishment. Suffering such an existence, he no longer had the luxury of
thinking back to the past, or any ability to visualise a future. There was
only his master - a man whose fury at him remained totally undiminished
even after so much torture.

Even in his dreams, there is no comfort, no avenue of escape. The man seems
to have infiltrated and flattened them, as if his powers extend beyond the
merely physical domain. There is a recurring nightmare, one Pilce suffered
frequently in his old life and which now seems to have been a terrible
augur of this one: he floats helpless in endlessly black depths in a
night-time ocean; an enormous glowing blue shark comes at him from those
depths. But even in this dream he has given in to despair - the shark no
longer comes at him, it merely floats around him, hemming him in. He
doesn't even see the shark in the dream most times now - he simply knows it
is there, and that he cannot escape it. Just a mass of dread that circles
him forever.

And then he finds himself in that courtroom; another dark, underwater
place. But the judge is a giant, and he is Sharkey's minion Gregory. And as
he reads out the charges, the list of degradations and humiliations doled
out by Sharkey, his laughter increases, his malicious scorn oozes through
the depths and seems to stroke Pilce's skin. Square-jawed cartoon hero
Lunar Surf Guy is called as a character witness and is fucking useless,
departing carelessly on a surfboard halfway through. And it is Pilce who is
finally convicted and punished, Pilce who is locked away in the same
dungeon where he spends his waking hours. Sometimes the transition from his
nightmare to his reality becomes seamless.

And so with no escape in sleep, the only glimmer of hope left to him comes
when he wakes in his 'own' bed, those times when he is not quite conscious
enough to realise where he truly is, and what has changed.  Yes, Sharkey
has found a way of giving him back this moment of hope even when all else
is gone --- and Sharkey has done it so that Pilce can feel his flicker of
hope die all over again.

Last night, as he slept, the television activated. It often does this,
seemingly at random but he assumes at Sharkey's instigation. Often what is
screened on it is there to torment him further: visions of himself being
fucked brutally by Sharkey and many others, unearthing specific memories
from the nightmare fugue of his recent past. Or other times it is footage
of Sharkey himself, from the world above. Whether that is broadcast to him
live or recorded he can never know for sure, because time has no meaning
where he is kept: it always night is his dungeon. But the visions of
Sharkey are always of a boastful type, Sharkey showing off; they are
visions of Sharkey having his way with young men, or punishing them; or
they are of Sharkey working out in his private gym.

Yes, as Sharkey pumps iron impressively, and in the nude, we seem him with
a huge erection --- and perhaps, yes it appears so, his dirty arousal comes
from knowing that the worthless Pilce can see him; yeah, Sharkey winking
leeringly to the camera as he grits his teeth and strains with an imposing
barbell. Sharkey showing Pilce in the most basic and primal way what a
fucking MAN he is compared to the wretched creature he chooses to keep as
his pet. And showing off his hard upright cock to the little puke,
brandishing the cock that can drive its way into Pilce's guts at any time
he chooses.

Sharkey's hatred of Pilce, even his sense of revulsion towards him, is no
barrier to him fucking the weakling prick often and aggressively. He has a
passion for totally, fully dominating this useless specimen. Sharkey's
recreational fucking sessions with the stupid runt can last for hours - the
helpless Pilce is malleable as putty in his strong hands. He can twist the
boyish body of the prick-faced little loser into any position he wants, tie
the scrawny fucker in knots, hang him upside down; anything. It is sport to
Sharkey, and good practice for him. And it is his right too - a stunted
creature like Pilce exists to serve the needs of a man like him, begs out
crisply to be put in its place.

Yes, Sharkey puts a lot of time into teaching Pilce how to be good at being
fucked. It is his particular pleasure to lift the little wretch off the
ground, legs placed over Sharkey's shoulders, and cock him in the arse,
forcing the little scumbag to wrap his arms, or at the very least his
interlocked fingers, around the back of Sharkey's neck for dear life. Thus
he is forced into intimacy with his cruel owner as he is pounded, hanging
on like a little boy slut hungry for the cock that pierces him. Pilce's
head will bob and thrash about in front of Sharkey's, sometime close
enought to kiss.

Sharkey has no desire to kiss that little rodent face. He'll fuckin' spit
into it now and then, though.

And when he is done, and he throws the boy back down to the floor,
sometimes already filled with jizz, sometimes with a cascade of it to rain
down upon him, Sharkey will finish up with a sweet piss all over the
cowering piece of crap.

"Really picked the wrong boss to steal from, didn't you, asswipe? Or maybe
the right one, since it's landed you right where you belong ... right here,
taking a bath in a better man's piss. Course, it wouldn't take much to find
a better man than you, would it ... but I'm glad I was the one to take you
in hand ... the thought of you running around free ... thinking you can do
what you like ... without a man to put you in your place? Fucking
unthinkable. In fact, get your pissy little cunt body tucked away into that
cage there right now - before I get angry thinking about it!"

We know well that Pilce's crime was never to steal Sharkey's money. The
brute may enjoy wielding this excuse, clobbering his slave with it, but it
is a pose - a form of sarcasm. No, Pilce's punishment is for the crime of
existing. His only real mistake was to cross Sharkey's path...

That, and to be a creepy, weird-looking little shit who fucking deserves to
be ground down.


Last night, I repeat, his television switched itself on.

He only caught snatches of what was shown on it. The sound was not
blaringly loud and he drifted in and out of consciousness as the movie
played.


He remembers that it was a superhero movie. But some kind of extended
version - it felt, as he drifted in and out of sleep, as if it might have
been on for hours and hours. But it was unusual; it had lengthy digressions
involving peripheral characters, particularly the son of a major crime
boss.  There was an unusually horrific scene, for a movie of that type. He
certainly didn't remember it from when he saw the movie in his crummy local
cinema as a kid. A shlocky moment, but disconcerting, where one of the
supervillain characters yanked this young teen idol-type guy's head right
off his shoulders. It was just the kind of thing that would happen often in
the shitty horror movies Pilce used to entertain himself with, but not what
you'd expect from a kid-friendly superhero movie. He figures ... maybe he
dreamt that part after all. Or somehow Sharkey had created some alternate
version, all on computers.

No time to give it any thought, though, after he woke today to find Sharkey
in the bed with him, overwhelming him with his big man's body, the smell of
his sweat, the tightness of Sharkey's big strong arms around him. From
there he was taken upstairs, forced to suck off a bunch of men's cocks,
only to be fed a breakfast of toast covered in a thick spread of their cum.

Pilce knew then how tiny he was. It wasn't just that these men ruled him -
it felt like they were the rulers of the world itself. He could only submit
to their power.

This has all become more and more overwhelmingly clear today: as part of
the supposed 'exercise' session, alleged to be carried out for the purpose
of building up his strength, Pilce has found his weakling body literally
thrown from one man to another in a perverse game of catch. Truly, he is
their toy.


-----------------------------------


There are two others here who are just as much the playthings of Sharkey as
the puny Pilce: they are, relatively, far more favored than
him. Particularly Ramon; this beautiful youth is in essence, just as much
Sharkey's property as Daniel Pilce is. He too has no freedom to leave this
house without his master's say-so; he too is a slave, wearing the same
threadbare but unbreakable necklace-collar as the little fuck who dined on
jizztoast and spent part of his afternoon being hurled around like a
volleyball.

The only difference is Ramon's loving obedience to Sharkey. Ramon worships
his master without prompting, offers up his lustrous body to Sharkey and
his associates with sweet, submissive delight. If Sharkey is capable of
love, or at least something like it, then it is Ramon who is the recipient
of that love - he is a slave still, but a spoiled one, and Sharkey delights
in spoiling him.

So happy is Sharkey with Ramon's place in his home - sometimes even sharing
his bed with him, something that would be out of the question with any of
his previous conquests - that he barely thinks anymore about the last
beautiful young man he'd been willing to give that amount of affection to,
and who had stupidly spurned him. And when he does think of that lover, it
is with satisfaction, in the knowledge that things worked out for the best
after all, and that he had made them work out that way.

He did this, firstly, by saving Ramon's life itself - albeit at a price to
others who Sharkey calmly, callously dismisses from his thoughts.

Then, after finding it difficult at first to open Ramon up to fuckings from
other men, easing him in with the help of the usefully pliant local kid
Justin Benchley and the multi-talented rentboy Darkel. It wasn't too long
after that when Sharkey started sharing Ramon around all the guys, albeit
cautioning them to show restraint or else answer to him.

Today, he's ready to give Ramon another treat, elevating him far and away
above any slave he's ever owned before. Ramon is becoming more and more
Sharkey's partner - not an equal partner, of course, as Sharkey will not
countenance the thought of an equal. But a partner, yes: Sharkey's pretty
little partner in crime. Like a gangster's moll.


---

The other slave is the captured surfer dude Jordon Lunar. Soon to become
the property of another man entirely, as Sharkey has arranged to sell him
on, and he is to meet his likely new owners today. There is something kind
of adorable about this buff, dumb blond hunk --- and yet there is also
something irresistible about smacking him around now and then. In some
ways, Sharkey is sorry to see him go. But he is clearing the decks a
little: a new houseguest is on his way to Sharkey's, not that he knows it
yet, and Sharkey intends to devote a lot of time to giving the arrogant
beefcake Mr Roman Decker the full extent of his hospitality.

Thus, Jordon is given some spit and shine to make sure he looks his best
today: showered and scrubbed by Sharkey's henchmen Chet and Kai, neither of
whom can resist porking him against the slippery tiled wall as part of the
procedure. Sharkey even drafts in a hairdresser, the little enthusiastic
Cooper, who acts like doing a slave boy's hair so that he can look nice for
the appraisal of a new master is pretty much the same as getting some
starlet ready for Oscar night. He tousles, shines and volumises Jordon's
pretty locks as cheerily as if the cowed hunk didn't have that golden,
star-decorated ball gag in his mouth - as if the dude were not literally
strapped into the chair as Cooper goes about his work. Sharkey and his
minions have found that Jordon's constant protestations and pleas for
liberation whenever he comes across a new face can become boring
quickly. It's not like he'd get any help from Cooper anyway - this is a guy
who weekly dyes the temples of eight mafia and yakuza bosses.

"Oh my God, you have really awesome hair, honey," he compliments, "It's a
real treat to work with a head of hair like this. You could totally be a
model, a guy like you"

"He's already got a job - our own private pornstar" Chet laughs gruntingly.

"Yeah. He's kind of like a fleshjack with tats!" Kai adds. "Plus his
part-time job of course - as a punching bag"

"Awwww, you guys are so mean" Cooper cooes, about as forcefully as he might
tell off two playful kittens.

He thinks for a second. "Besides, you missed out his other job"

"Oh yeah?" Kai challenges, humoring the effeminate stylist.

"Yeah - his job as a little fuckin' sex cushion. Baby, I could sit on that
face for hoooooours. If I hadn't just done his hair anyway!" He works in
some last dabs of gum around the roots, spritzes a little spray around the
sides.

"Hey, you're right," Kai agrees. "Guess our Jordy girl here has a lotta
skills really - for a poser dumbass!"

"Fuckin' mussing his hair's the least of our priorities, though" Chet
points out.

"Handy thing to grab, though, them goldilocks of his" Kai considers.

"True, man, true" Chet muses appraisingly. "Like when you give him a solid
punch to the stomach? And over he goes?"

"Exactly, buddy. A good yank on that hair and you have him right back up
again, ready for more"

The guys high five lazily. "Yeah, we're gonna miss you around here,
goldilocks" Chet nods.

"Plenty more where that came from, though" Kai says.

"Too right, buddy. One of the perks of working for Mr Sharkey, ain't it"

"You know it"

Cooper shrugs lightly, smirks at the gagged, wide-eyed Jordon in the
mirror: "Oh dear. Boys will be boys"


------

While Jordon is prepared for inspection, Sharkey and his men take an
already dazed Daniel Pilce into Sharkey's own gym on the ground floor.

"You can count yourself extremely privileged to be allowed in here,"
Sharkey barks at Pilce as he holds him by wrist and the scruff of the
neck. "There's a gym for my slaves downstairs, that's the one I let Jordon
use -"

Pilce doesn't actually even know who Jordon is.

" - and you're less than a goddamn slave to me, you disgusting little
parasite. You're a fucking bug I've caught under a glass, and damned if I
know why I'm not just smashing you underfoot. You should be grovelling with
gratitude every fucking moment you look up at me from the goddamn floor for
the sheer unnecessary kindness I show you, letting you exist in my house,
wriggling around inside your bug glass, making the place look fucking
grubby. You dirty little infestation..."

Working himself up into genuine anger, he hurls Pilce down to the
floor. When Pilce collapses there, he knows better than to get up.

"Too damn kind, Mr Sharkey, if you'll forgive me saying," Gregory offers,
"More than this runt deserves."

Sharkey nods, not really listening. What he is doing is slipping off his
sneakers, then untying the cord around the waist of his summery shorts and
stripping bare. He hands the shorts to Ramon to put to one side - a
wordless action; Ramon's response is fluid and immediate.

Sharkey clicks his fingers at the cowering Pilce. "Scuttle over here,
bug. Come kiss at your master's feet. I'll suffer your filthy little mouth
while you show your absolute gratitude with it"

For all that Sharkey claims to be repelled by Pilce, he could not have
developed a faster and more fierce boner than the one we see throbbing
upright as he delivers the instructions, as the pucker-faced little loser
crawls over on his slender and silky white limbs. There is something soft
and girlish about Pilce's pallid skin - something irresistibly touchable
despite the strangeness of his general appearance.

Ramon looks at Sharkey's boner almost in envy, wondering what his beloved
master could possibly see in this ugly British boy. Some special peccadillo
for his own countrymen, maybe. A little piece of home, no matter how
wretched.

As a trembling Pilce arrives and begins the worship of his master's feet -
starting humbly, as he has been taught before, with tiny kisses at the nail
of the big toe, Sharkey resumes his train of thought: "'Yeah, you should be
exceptionally grateful today, you little turd. I'm going to let you work
out a little in my own gym, see if we can build up them stringy little
spider limbs of yours for tonight's show. That's one big fucking favor I'm
doing you right there - just think, these benches of mine are gonna be left
streaked with your stinking faggot sweat, like the fuckin' slime off a
snail. Have to get them scrubbed clean after we're done, wipe off every
trace of your rotten little carcass."

Sharkey shakes his head in what looks like genuine exasperation at the
little puke for his impertinence. "You foul, squirming little FUCK!"

After a sustained period of abject grovelling, Sharkey pushes the little
maggot aside with the sole of his foot and says he'll demonstrate a few
simple weight exercises with dumbells. He does this still naked, and still
erect, with Ramon almost panting in admiration at this display by the
strong and virile man who owns him.

Then Sharkey tells Pilce it is his turn, handing him the same imposing
weight that he has just been using, which, of course, once in Pilce's bony
grip, plunges to the floor with a crashing thud. Sharkey smirks in simple,
bullying contentment, and of course this act of weakling slapstick amuses
Gregory greatly - the more so when Pilce attempts to lift the dumbell from
the floor, first using one hand, then two, and managing to heave it little
more than a shuddering inch before it crunches to the floor again.

Satisfied, Sharkey hands Pilce a starter weight, the kind you might give an
old lady or an elder child, makes him do some reps with this. Pilce manages
more than it looks like he might - he's actually gained some strength in
his arms and shoulders from crawling about on all fours so much.

"Hey look, he's managed about thirty now" Gregory points out, "I guess ants
do have more strength than you'd think. Well done, you little creep!"

And he slaps Pilce on the back with a thudding 'congratulation' that right
away causes him to lose his slippery grip and drop the dinky weight on the
floor.

"Fuck's sake. The little loser dropped it" Sharkey tuts. "Get on your back
on that bench, you shitty little freak. Let's see you going at it with
this"

He wields a barbell, holding it out with one arm. It looks like it will
give Pilce some trouble, since he's never once worked out with weights in
this way, and is allowed little scope for athleticism under Sharkey's roof.

"Bench press" Sharkey grunts, handing the barbell to the prone Pilce.

Daniel Pilce takes the weight in each hand hesitantly, and controls it
enough to ease it down until it's close to his skinny sunken
chest. Clenching his hateful little jaw and gritting his teeth, he trembles
as gives it an initial push back upwards, and away from his chest.

"Ten of them, to start off" Sharkey says, as Pilce manages the first push
without too much difficulty. The strain shows almost immediately, though,
as he struggles to control the weight in bringing the bar back down. Still,
he manages another push, though he strains his way through it and his
slender legs, braced as they are, begin to tremble. The barbell falls more
abruptly than before as he brings it down again.

Sharkey laughs, looking at each of the other guys here as they join in with
his sneering.

"Fucking hell, fellas," he snorts, "What's the betting on him making this
next one? Come on then, Charles Twatlas, let's see them little shrimpy
muscles in action. Think you might impress Ramon here if you keep it up -
he loves a real big man, maybe you can really turn him on, huh?"

His already naturally pinched face puckering and squeezing into ugly
contortions as he grits and grinds his teeth and tightly shuts his eyes,
Pilce forces against the bar again. A mousey squeak can be heard squealing
softly from his throat. His bare foot loses its grip against the floor and
causes him to falter. Then he budges it a couple of inches, pushing with
all his shitty might. Another... inch... just...

Sharkey reaches out with one hand to grasp the bar at the centre, putting a
gentle downward pressure on it. Of course, Pilce doesn't stand a chance
against this.

Sharkey smiles as the bar goes down, leaning in over his pet. "Nope, not
even gunna make it to a third, are you, boy? Didn't think so... and here we
go..."

He shoves the barbell down against Pilce's chest by leaning on it. It's
quite a grotesque sight, as we track back to take it in - the athletic and
muscular Sharkey hulking over the pitiful and diminutive Pilce. One of
Sharkey's hands on the weight, the other softly stroking up and down his
massive erection. The big, tattooed man of about forty trapping the soft
and underdeveloped lad in his mid-twenties down beneath this weight that
the boy couldn't hope to lift more than a couple of time anyway. The sheer
crassness of Sharkey's action, his lack of the most basic decency as he
asserts his strength over this weakling waif... it is disgusting.
Yet... what relish there is in Sharkey's grin as he allows himself this
pleasure. And all of it because there is so clearly no need for him to
assert his self-evident physical superiority over the tiny wuss. Truly it
is the sheer gratuitousness, the absolute self indulgence of this act that
makes it so pleasurable - Sharkey revels in his superiority over the
pathetic boy, squeezes every orgasmic moment of animal delight from
crushing an inferior beneath his own tremendous power. It is his right to
humiliate this little dickhead as much as he likes, because there is
nothing the dickhead can do about it and no man in the world that can stop
him.

One day, one normal day, he spotted this sullen boy across the floor of his
London office and took an instant dislike to him. Not just that, he had an
instant conviction that he was rightful owner of the little prick, a
certainty that this moodily pouting asswipe existed to be his plaything.

And because he is Sharkey, because no-one can stop him, he followed through
on that impulse. Continues to follow through on it, endlessly. This is his
way of life.

After a few moments of holding the bar against Pilce's chest, it seems he
has had his fill for the moment. The stroking of his own cock slows and
stops, and he eases the weight away from Pilce's prone torso. He unleashes
a fat wad of spit of the little cocksucker's face, but from Sharkey to
Pilce, that's almost affectionate.

"We'll give you some time to recover now, you piece of shit. I can see all
the physical exertion is just too much for a little sluggy thing like
you. You already look like you're gonna fuckin' pass out. Not that I'd give
a shit if you did, except we'd just have the pain in the arse of bringing
you round again. Don't think you get to wriggle outta this one by escaping
into the land of nod. I've got plans for you tonight. You fucking get down
on the floor there, spend a little while sucking on these guys' cocks -" he
gestures to Rob and Gregory - "A nice long suckle on their fucking protein
pumps should bring you back to life a bit, huh? In fact, once they chuck
their fucking loads down your throat you'll even have a few shots of real
man juice flowing around inside your body"

He turns to Ramon. "C'mon, babe. I'm gonna give you a little boxing
training here"

And so Pilce does what he does best: what he's fucking told to by his
superiors. Meanwhile Ramon and Sharkey get some gloves on and start
training on the gym's hanging leather punch bag. Ramon has never done this
before, but Sharkey is suddenly keen to instruct him, and very hands on
with his protege. After a while he starts encouraging Ramon to take some
swings at him. Ramon is scared to aim punches at his beloved - and
sometimes terribly vengeful - master, but obeys; Sharkey always avoids the
blows, except those that he wants to hit. Ramon is allowed to punch him
solidly in the pecs and shoulders a few times, and it must be said, even
the submissive and feminine slaveboy feels an abrupt and unexpected thrill
at being allowed to land his blows upon Sharkey at all - being intimate
enough with the often vicious brute to be allowed to hit him.

Their eyes meet as one punch lands on Sharkey's chest with a thud and
Sharkey lets out a controlled expression of pain. Sharkey looks really
fucking proud of his lover, and Ramon really proud to please him.

"Yeah, that's it, babe. Feels good when a blow hits its target, doesn't it?
Satisfying. We just need to give you a target that ain't so fucking shit
hot as me at getting out the way. Need to match you with less of a
heavyweight opponent. Think of how satisfying that's gonna be. Over and
over and over, more and more satisfying each time. I want to see you let
rip, son. You deserve a fucking chance to cut loose!"


-----------------------------------

After Sharkey and his lover have finished their session, and the brutally
well trained cocksucker Pilce has drained four loads of jizz from Sharkey's
minions, everyone's pretty greasy and sweaty. It's late afternoon now, and
with the guests due to arrive at seven, seems like a good point for
everyone to start cleaning themselves up and preparing for the evening's
entertainment. Sharkey and Ramon depart the gym to shower together, while
Rob and Gregory are tasked with tidying up and hosing off Pilce before
smartening themselves up too. There's no way the weird-looking Pilce can be
buffed and scrubbed up for display the way Jordon Lunar can, but might as
well get the sickly sweet stink of his sweat and the sour odour of spilled
piss off him before the visitors get here.

The preparations after that are oddly normal and domestic, given the nature
of what goes on in Sharkey's home. With the slave boys tucked away below,
some hired caterers and cleaners come in, and everyone gets ready like it's
any middle class dinner party. Only difference is, this one's being held
with the aim of selling on a human being.


---------------


It's a strange moment when the father and son you recognise as Mortimus and
Corinth Cardinal step down from the helicopter after it touches down in
Sharkey's grounds, and are led into his home by one of his heavies. Rob has
been selected for this task, as he's the one most capable of acting polite
and manservant-like.

Yes, they're familiar, the father and son we see here are definitely the
same people from the Mighty Sun Surfer movie. Yet out of the context of the
superhero flick, without the shine and motion of film, and the opulence of
extravagant production design, they seem diminished somehow. It's more like
seeing the actors who play the characters on a behind the scenes
documentary on TV or DVD, with everything shot in a flatter, brighter light
that shows up the flaws and makes it all look faker and crummier.

Rendered on handheld-looking digital camera too, these are "real" people,
or so it seems - not the larger than life supervillains from the Mighty Sun
Surfer movies. It's as if they've somehow crossed over into Sharkey's
world, but had to fundamentally alter to do it. Because certainly Sharkey
does not exist in a world of superheroes and villains, a world of
moon-enchanted harnesses, Egyptian goddesses and magical scrolls.

The moment of disbelief, the sensation of disconnect, is similar to the one
you experience when a new actor starts playing a familiar character in a TV
show. But when you think back on it later you'll realise what you're seeing
here is the inverse - the characters stay just the same, but the entire
world around them has been recast: yes, it is being played by a different
world.

But then, you do remember that the gentlemanly 'Mr Suave' character in
Revenge on Roman was somehow a version of Sharkey, despite a lack of
similarity in appearance or mannerisms. He was, as they say, 'reimagined'.

And now you think about, you've been happy enough to watch the view beyond
Sharkey's windows reimagined as you've sat here viewing these movies. His
house seemed to be in Hawaii at one point, the place where Mr Suave and
Maitland Storr closed their trap around Roman Decker. It was somewhere
close to the sea too, in Ambush at Blood Bay, the merely glimpsed TV movie
in which Jordon Lunar and his surf buddies attempted pitifully to put one
over on Sharkey - or what appeared in the clip to be another avatar of him.

Sharkey has seemed, contradictorily, to also live in a house amid some
inland hills and woodland. That was next to the small town into which he
drives to pick up Justin Benchley, the straight boy happy to act as a
prostitute for a wealthy man.

Boy, that Justin Benchley. Why did he have to disappear from the movie so
quick, you wonder. You were looking forward to seeing more of him. He
reminded you of someone.

Instinctively you grasp at what is permenent across these movies -
Sharkey. Sharkey remains a fixture, in one guise or another. The cockney
hardman with the shaved head and the tattooes endures as the most
consistent version, what you can only conclude is the 'true' Sharkey. And
his home. His cool, modern metal-and-glassy home stays the same in
appearance, even when the views outside its windows change. The house seems
to expand as you see more and more of it - the futuristic prison of the
sublevel where Jordon Lunar is kept and where Roman Decker will soon be
housed; and the level below that, the dungeon-like environment where Pilce
must languish. But this additional information doesn't fundamentally change
the place. All these movies appear to use that same set.

And yet, of course, you also know that it is no movie set. It's a real
house. You know, because you recognise it from when you arrived here
today. When I greeted you as you arrived here, the way I'm greeting the
Cardinals on screen now.

And this house was not to be found in Hawaii, or on the coast, or by an
American small town. It was only a couple of hours' drive from your own
home in

\\\///interference patterns\\\\////\\\

Sharkey greets the Cardinals as they arrive. You notice quickly that the
father is here called Mortimer, seemingly already known to Sharkey as a
business associate. And he introduces his son, the familiar Corinth, as
'Corin'. Thus you decide they both are and aren't the characters from the
superhero adventure we just watched.

Yes, Mortimer Cardinal is still a crime boss of some sort, and apparently
remains a former bodybuilding champ. And his son is still a spoilt brat in
mascara, lace and leather. This much seems to transfer over, easily
accommodated by Sharkey's narrative. To what extent the more extravagant
details of Corin/th's adventures marry up with what we see here - well,
that seems to be left for you to decide.


----------

"Cool pad you have here, man" says Corin, as Sharkey and Mortimer conclude
some light business talk and sit down with their drinks. Mortimer has
elected for a scotch and soda, while Corin chooses what his father quietly
deems one of the silliest drinks on offer - some kind of raspberry liqueur.

Corin's words are also spoken through a long string of licorice that he has
taken from a classic candy store paper bag full of them. He chews
langorously and lazily on this confection, sometimes letting the shiny,
nibbled wet cord dangle as he takes an occasional sip of his drink.

"Thanks. Yes it is," Sharkey says matter of factly, looking bemused by the
youth, who is also sitting wirh both his bony legs drawn up on the sofa,
chunky black boots happily digging into the cushions.

"For Christs' sake, son," Mortimer chides from his position of stately
recline. "Stop making such a mess of eating that stuff."

"Jeez dad, I'm a grown man" Corin huffs quietly, while looking wholly like
a bratty scowling teenager.

"And get your feet off the sofa!"

"It's really no problem," Sharkey assures, more in the manner of someone
making quite clear that the impertinence of some kid is of no consequence
to him than in the spirit of hospitality.

"See," Corin says sourly to his dad, missing this.

Mortimer shakes his head in tired frustration, too used to this kind of
behavior from his son to be made all that angry.

Sharkey sits down opposite them with his own scotch and takes a sip.

"So, mister," says Corin, "This Jordon dude looks majorly hot. I have to
ask, why you are you selling him on?"

"Straight to the point, huh?" Sharkey smiles, looking happy enough to cut
to the chase.

"Yes, as I think I mentioned when we first communicated, I am buying this
youth mainly - in fact, entirely - for the use of my son"

"Lucky kid," Sharkey notes, nodding towards Corin. "I didn't get fuck all
from my parents, and here you are getting a whole human being, just for
your use. What is it, your birthday or something?"

Corin looks confused. Like any kid accustomed to being spoilt, he takes it
totally for granted. "No, mister. Just cuz I want him. Back where we come
from, we Cardinals get what we want, you know?"

Sharkey grins at some private joke. "Oh, I know. And believe me, I know the
feeling. I get what I want too - because I fucking know how to take
it. Like your dad does. You planning to get the boy here into the family
business then, Mortimer?"

Mortimer shrugs his big shoulders. "Well, that is a bone of contention for
the moment, Mr Sharkey. I'm waiting for him to show rather more discipline
and responsibility than he does at the moment. Frankly, I'm making this
purchase mainly to give him something to occupy his time and keep him out
of trouble"

"Yeah" Corin says, blithely ignoring the criticism, "But we don't buy up
damaged goods or nothin'. This Jordon dude, is he like top of the line?"

He looks about the room. "When do we get to see him anyway?"

"After dinner," Mortimer sighs, like it should be obvious. An etiquette has
developed around these transactions, about which Corin knows nothing.

"Top of the line?" Sharkey repeats. "Yeah, I suppose you could say
that. I've driven him round the block a few times, but I've still managed
to keep him in pretty excellent condition. It's always been important to me
to keep him at his best."

"Really?" Corin queries, "Cos... uh... well, my dad did mention that you do
like to get kind of rough with your property. He told me a couple of
stories on the way here... about stuff you've done to these guys of yours
in the past? Sounded really fuckin' mean. Not that I'm complaining about
that. In fact, I gotta say it made me really admire you, dude. But we are
getting this Jordon dude in one piece, aren't we? He's not, like, damaged
goods?"

"There's no problems with him," Sharkey says easily, "You'll see that
yourselves."

He leans forward in the chair, balancing the hand holding his scotch glass
on a knee. "But you're right, I haven't exactly gone easy on Jordy boy
while I've had him.To be honest, I've had a fucking great time beating the
crap outta him every so often. That's his major selling point, son, and I
think that's what you want him for too - it's really fucking fun to smack
him about. He's dumb as a fucking dog and he needs treating like one. I
mean, I say dog - there's his tight little boy-arse pussy too. That's still
as sweet as it was the day I first fucked him, despite the efforts of me
and all my guys here. Thing about Jordy boy is, whatever way it is you're
pounding him, whether it's with your fists or with your cock, he always
bounces back from it good as new in the end. And then you get to do it all
again Man, that tight arsehole of his."

"What is his background?" Mortimer asks, businesslike and keen to change
the subject from these allusions to sodomy.

"Background?" Sharkey considers. "He's a dumbass, from solid dumbass
stock. I'm sure I mentioned in his bio that he's a surfer boy. That's how I
first saw him, coming running outta the sea with that board under his
arm. I've got the board here still. It's not part of the deal, I'm going to
hang on to that. Little trophy of my time with him. Man, I'm sure he
thought he was going to coast through his whole life with that easy smile
and his sexy little body. Streaking that golden wet hair off his face..."

Sharkey snaps himself back from this memory. "Then he and his airhead
buddies got greedy, tried to make some easy money off someone they
shouldn't have - Jordy boy thought he could rely on that big sunny smile of
his to pull this halfwit scheme off. Coming to my house wiggling his ass
around in that wetsuit. Serving me in that beach bar wearing his little
threadbare vest... you should've seen him in that vest, son..."

Corin shifts around to let his stirring dick get more comfortable inside
his incredibly skinny jeans. "Oh boy, I know just what you mean,
though. Nate Lusher used to work out in this litte white vest that was
always like totally fucking immaculate. Um, your Jordon looks a lot like
Nate, is why I mention that"

"I see. So you're looking for sort of a stand-in, huh?" Sharkey asks.

"Well. Nate is kind of unavailable now." Corin says with a trace of
regret. But only at what he's missing out on; that way fit dude he's
picturing right now, working out in that tiny white vest. The fucking
twitch of the muscles in them shoulders, man. Always made Corin want to
frickin' bite them.

"Anyway," Sharkey says, snapping Corin back to the moment, "Point is, Jordy
boy really thought he was something. And I've showed him what that
something is: he is my fucking pet. You ever look at a dude and know for a
fact that he is yours to own?"

"Yeah, dude, yeah," Corin says, eagerly nodding his head and putting his
licorice away. "Like, loads!"

"Yeah, well I've never fought that feeling. I've always followed it
through. And I knew that piece of faggot meat was just made to be my toy."

Sharkey sits back in satisfaction, then nods. "And now he can be
yours. Just promise me you'll never do anything silly like free him. I
would hate for anything to undo my hard work."

"Not a fucking chance, guy!" Corin laughs.

"That's good. Because when I look at that fucking surfboard of his down
there I want to know, every time I see it that he is a slave, and that he
remains a slave, because of me"

"We can guarantee you that", Mortimer says. "I didn't found my empire on
benevolence."

"Man, I'm really looking forward to meeting this dude!" Corin giggles,
swigging back some of his liqueur. "Still though, you've not told us why
you're offloading him at all"

"Pastures new, son. I've got a big appetite for putting these guys in their
place - and I've got a whole new target in my sights"

Mortimer nods. "I'm sure Mr Sharkey won't mind me telling you, son, that he
is renowned among my colleaues for the number of young men he, ah,
introduces to this way of life. He has a voracious appetite for such
enslavement."

"So you're basically just done with Nate- er, with Jordon then? I guess
that's okay."

"Oh well, that's a relief" Morimer grunts witheringly. "But as I understand
it we're also getting a certain... what is the modern parlance?
... 'freebie' thrown in."

"Oh yeah, I heard about this. It's the collar, right?"

Sharkey nods, impassive.

Mortimer goes on: "I understand you've managed to have the technology
streamlined further than ever before? I'm sure it'll please you to hear
that the last time I spoke to our mutual colleague, Mr Alexander, he was
positively green with envy about what you'd managed to achieve."

Indeed Sharkey does look pleased about this. Alexander is as much a rival
as a business associate. That was why he'd expected difficulty in wresting
Ramon away from his control, and was relieved when he had instead only had
to deal with the sinister Bertoldt. The organ-harvesting scientist was at
least was cold and objective enough not to withhold Sharkey's prize out of
sheer truculence.

"As you know, it's always been my aim to get the collar down to the
smallest possible size, if not replace it altogether," Sharkey says, "I was
never into bondage gear, all those stupid outfits. When I own a man I want
to be able to fully appreciate what it is I possess, not have some chunky
piece of crap technology getting in the way. You remember how big the
collars were when we first started using them?"

"Tell me about it, man" Corin agrees, "We've been having to work with this
harness deal lately. Really fucking cumbersome."

"Well, what I use now is down to the size of a piece of thread. It's very
fine, looks sort of like some kind of little prettyboy necklace on them
actually, but almost completely unbreakable. If the cunts try to tamper
with it, if they even try to grasp it between their fingertips, they get
the biggest fucking shock from it they've ever known, and they never
fucking try it again. And it all works very effectively by remote control,
at long range."

"Sounds sweet, dude" says Corin.

"Hmm, but why are you giving this innovation away?" Mortimer wonders.

"Just getting it out there onto the shop floor," Sharkey says. "You'd be
wasting your time trying to copy the technology. I plan to make it freely
available among our colleagues in a matter of months anyway, and there's
better to come"

"Cool!" Corin says. "You're a real philanthropist, man!"

"Anything that makes the enslavement of men more easy and convenient. I'm
all for it"

Sharkey isn't joking. There's a tyrannical gleam in his eye as he says
these words. "For the benefit of the select few" he adds.

"I'll drink to that!" Corin chuckles, raising his glass before downing the
last of the contents.


----------------------------------

There's time for entertainment before dinner. The men head for Sharkey's
private gym, which has been cleaned up and made spotless since the
activities this afternoon - the man smell of Sharkey's sweat, the musky
aroma of Ramon's, the sour and sickly odour of Pilce, all gone. Then they
head on through to the boxing room. The ring stands waiting, empty for now

"Bring them up," says Sharkey to Gregory, as he has Rob get his guest a
couple more drinks.

"Sure" says Gregory as he heads off.

"You gonna make Jordy boy have a fight?" Corin aks, eyes lighting up
wickedly.

"Not this time, son. Mind you, the amount of times I've owned his ass in
that ring - maybe I should do, just for old times' sake. No, I've got
another little show cooked up for you here."

Gregory returns, with Ramon following.

It's Ramon who is dressed for a fight, but in some majorly femme gear. It's
like he's a model dressed up for some magazine shoot. His shorts are a rich
silky purple with lilac trim, and the wrapping around his hands are a pale
petal pink. The colors totally fucking suit him actually, and he looks
beautiful. Strong, too; Ramon's not a big beefy guy but he is leanly
muscular and hard bodied. His biceps are like iron bars and his neat abs
look great. He seems to have got wider in the shoulders since he first came
here. It shows most from behind.

Corin checks him out, wondering what the deal is here. Sexy as he is, Ramon
does not look like the kind of guy who's necessarily going to climb up into
that boxing ring and KO someone. Neither does he look the kind of badass
who'll wear those colors just to anatagonise an opponent because he knows
how fuckin tough he really is.

"So, in the pink corner" Gregory anounces, leading him up to the ring, "We
have Rampaging Ramon, and if there's one thing this dude can boast it's
stamina. Man, this sweetass little bitttttch is always ready to get his
butthole pounded, always ready to get his lips around a guy's cock like
some juicy friggin' clamp and suck the splooge out til there's nothin' left
Whether he can dish out the punches as good as he takes the pricks up
'im... well,I guess we're gonna see!"

Amused by Gregory's amateur commentary, Corin and Mortimer take their seats
to see where this is going. Sharkey sits down close by and Rob brings them
a fresh drink each.

"Is this guy your, like boyfriend?" Corin whispers to Sharkey, sensing
something between them.

"He's my property," Sharkey says tersely. He doesn't like to let his
business associates to see any signs of weakness - and too much affection
for some fag slut he owns definitely counts as that.

Gregory picks up a pair of purple gloves and helps Ramon put one of them
on, just one. He takes hold of one of Ramon's wrists after doing so and
lifts his gloved left arm in the air like he's already hailing a champ.

Mortimer looks on in wry, uncomfortable interest. He's a squarely
conservative old guy, Mortimer Cardinal, and he's not sure he cares for
this pansy take on such a traditional masculine sport. He awaits the
arrival of the opponent in this bout, hoping for a large he-man type -
someone of Sharkey's kind of stature, for example, to put this male-model
type youngster in his place. There are too many of these gym-sculpted but
effeminate youths in the culture these days, he thinks with contempt. You
see them all over the television, with big square chests and huge biceps
like real men, but combined with pouting, pretty faces and lady cheekbones
as seems to have been the fashion these past decades. Like in that
reprehensible teen-aged soap opera he caught a snatch of the other day,
that show Roper's Reach...

"What happened to when men were men" Mortimer grumbles sullenly as he
surveys Ramon. His lipsticked son, not for the first time, whirls his eyes
in boredom.

"And in the black corner," Gregory continues, "Introducing Ramon's opponent
for tonight... are you ready for the sheer, animal aggression of Powerhouse
Pilce!"

With these words, Chet brings Daniel Pilce into the room. He is not led in
like Ramon was - he is pushed forward, held by the scruff of the neck, his
little bare feet scuttling about and barely touching the floor as the
henchman propels him forward.  Hence we see Pilce in a blur as he is
bundled past the Cardinals. They definitely have time to register the the
sarcasm of the nickname - Gregory's malicious cackling as the puny asshole
is brought in is also a clue.

When Chet has escorted his delivery to the side of the ring, he simply
lifts Pilce up over the ropes and
 drops him on the mat. It's as Pilce climbs with effort onto his knees and
then struggles to get up that we see him in his full non-glory: his skinny
snow-white body, the boney knees and tiny waist, and slender chest. Some
bulk has developed, at least comparatively, in his shoulders and arms, and
again you have to presume that's down to all the crawling on all fours he
must do as Sharkey's most despised pet.

He's been outfitted in black shorts and leather gloves - in his case the
gloves are already on, which just makes his struggle for purchase so that
he can stand up all the more difficult. It also makes him almost wholly
colorless - with only a hint of yellow to his odd, brightly blonde hair
that is closer to white.

"Oh my fucking God, how scrawny is that fucker?" giggles Corin, who is of
almost exactly the same build. In fact, these guys could pretty easily have
played one another other's roles in the movie.

"Disgusting", Mortimer snorts, turning his attention more closely to his
drink than the spectacle in the ring.

"Loosen up, pop" Corin tuts.

Once Pilce has managed to rise to his full, unimpressive height, Gregory
gets a hand in the small of his back and shoves him towards the centre of
the ring to face Ramon. Gregory once laughed at the idea of Ramon looking
like some kind of he-man compared to Pilce, but we can see now how true it
is. Ramon's frame is broader with muscle, his bearing more proud than that
of the stooped Pilce. His bronze skin and rich dark hair glow with a life
and lustre that is absent from the bleached out-looking skin and hair of
Pilce. Ramon may be slender, but as we look down the plunging length of his
stomach and abdomen we see the contours of his muscles there. The nobbly
ribs and emaciated near-emaciated stomach of Pilce looks diseased.

This is not even a result of his time in Sharkey's care; Pilce pretty much
always looked this way.

Fuck, the polished Ramon looks like some superior species.

"Whoah, look at the meat on this fucking bruiser!" Gregory laughs, pinching
some of the soft skin on Pilce's bare arm. "Ramon, you better watch out - I
think this fuckin hulk might just pulverise you! Look at the guns on it!
Hell, don't hurt me, big guy!"

He ruffles Pilce's short bristley hair as if in affection. Pilce cringes
like a beaten dog as he does it.

"But rampaging Ramon here - well, he may not look like much, but he's got
the moves. What's it they say - he's got his feminine wiles! Ha! Plus he's
an experience boxer - been learning most of the afternoon. So we're gonna
level up the odds here -- a little idea Mr Sharkey came up with..."

Gregory takes a hold of Ramon's forearm on his ungloved right wrist. He
takes from his pocket something that looks like a single metal
handcuff. Tugs at Ramon's arm and something clicks...

Then Ramon finds his arm and trapped behind his back. The cuff has been
locked onto some metal loop he had not noticed on the back of his belt. He
looks over at Sharkey. He hasn't been told about this.

Sharkey just winks at him. He looks at him in a weird estranged kind of
way, as if he were one of the guys in this room seeing Ramon for the first
time. Like they were strangers. Like Sharkey's some cocky guy winking at a
cocktail waitress.

"There we go, man, a handicap. Now we'll see if you can really beat this
fucker with one hand tied behind your back!"

"Sweet, man" Corin cheers, "I think he can do it - man, look at the wimp!"

Sharkey folds his arms, watches with interest. Ramon looks hesitant, takes
a step forward experimentally just to test the difference in his
balance. The free arm is his left, his weakest.

Gregory pushes a mouth guard into each of the guy's jaws. Then he announces
"First round's about to start, champs. Get to your corners"

The 'fighters' do so, Ramon pouting as he edges backward, Pilce taking in
his audience for the first time, his gaze settling on Corin in a moment of
confused recognition before he turns his attention back to Ramon.

Pilce has not known a moment of self-assertion in months. The fight has
been painstakingly ground out of him by Sharkey and his men. But when he
looks at Ramon, still flexing his trapped arm irritably while testing his
balance the more, there's a spark of hope. With one arm trapped behind this
guy's back, maybe even he can fight back - or at least avoid the worst of
the blows. If Ramon struggles even momentarily, Pilce decides he can take
advantage. The gloves feel heavy on him already, but at least his arms are
free to swing them-

The bell sounds.

Ramon moves towards Pilce hesitantly, but with a gloved fist already
raised.

From nowhere, a spark of energy he didn't know he was still capable of,
Pilce pounces. He swings out at Ramon's unguarded right side. Ramon dances
out of the way of the swinging fist, but almost trips. He continues to hop
about defensively as Pilce raises both gloved fists and seems to decide his
best chance is to go for it. He reaches out with clumsy punches, left right
left right, and even as Ramon moves aside, Pilce manages to get a jab in at
the side of his midriff.

It's a tap really, not hard enought to count as discomfort, never mind
pain. But Ramon recoils like a bug had crawled on him and lashes out at
Pilce in disgust, like he's trying to swat the insect away.

His punch catches Pilce in the side of the skull, turning his head
sideways. Pilce staggers aside, then raises his fists defensively while
attempting to get another blow in. He only needs watch one of Ramon's
hands, so that is his single point of focus.

Ramon frowns as he studies the craven strategy of the little puke - for
there is something craven, something repulsive about Pilce in all his
actions, as far as Ramon is concerned. Look at him now, raising those black
gloves to the level of his face as if there were anything about it worth
the effort of protection.

Ramon's eyes meet Sharkey's for a second, and he sees they are united in a
single purpose - squashing the Pilce-bug.

"You wouldn't believe a little wuss like that would have the nerve,"
Sharkey explains to his guests, "But the little albino-looking dipshit
there actually tried to steal money from me, and then cover it up, like he
thought I'd never notice"

Mortimer shake his head. "Disgusting. You can't put up with even a hint of
that kind of behaviour in your underlings. Always take a firm hand"

"Hear that, Ramon?" Sharkey calls, "Firm hand. Let's see your firm hand in
action.Get your first good punch in on that little maggot"

Ramon nods. Pilce's hands are raised to his face, so his opponent goes in
with a punch to the stomach. Pilce manages to get his arms in the way just
inside, and it hits him on the side of the elbow instead.

"Whoah, he blocked ya!" Corin calls, "Kind of. Come on, princess of power,
show him how unstoppable you are!"

Feeling his cheeks burn because he managed not to hit his target, Ramon
reaches out with his gloved hand to take hold of one of Pilce's arms by the
wrist. He yanks it aside and, before it can move back into position,
reaches out to splut the heel of his glove into Pilce's confused vermin
face, pushing at it roughly so that his opponent totters back and nearly
loses his footing.

"Is that move allowed?" Mortimer queries.

"Sure, why not" Sharkey shrugs.

Pilce's arms reach out as he attempts to steady himself, and Ramon goes for
his exposed midsection - sending a heavy, hurtling jab right into his
stomach. Pilce lets out a "grumph!" and crumples onto his knees. Ramon
looks over in pleasure at his master as he watches the boy fall to the
mat. Sharkey nods encouragingly.

"That's it, babe. Gave him his first little taste of your power, and it
feels good, doesn't it? Get him again, champ -- go for it!"

Ramon's smile widens, his tongue held childishly between his teeth. He
steps over to the fallen Pilce, who has one hand to his scrawny stomach and
another braced against the mat. His face is unprotected, and Ramon swings
out with little effort to smash him across the cheekbone. Pilce is sent
spawling to one side, just reaching out in time to land with his gloved
hands against the mat, bracing himself against collapsing completely.

Ramon giggles, wielding his free arm. "Get up, you fucking asswipe" he
laughs. He wanders off to the side of the ring as he waits for Pilce to do
so. Already there is a little swagger in Ramon's walk.

"Your prettyboy there looks into this" Corin says to Sharkey.

"Yeah, I had a feeling he might be. You've got to let them off the leash
now and then, don't you"

"You think so?" Corin queries, "I gotta say, I never do."

Sharkey thinks for a second. "No, you're right. Me neither. Tell you what,
let's make this a little more interesting..." He reaches into his pocket
and takes out his phone. One eye on the action in the ring, he keys in a
code.

The hurting Pilce struggles to his feet, raising his gloves
half-heartedly. His legs tremble and he now looks scared of Ramon.

Ramon himself looks gratified by this fear. He feels kind of like he's
playing at being his beloved master Sharkey.

Pilce approaches Ramon gingerly, and Ramon keeps still, goading his
opponent on with his eyes. He's ready to lash out as soon as Pilce gets
close.

Pilce stumbles forward. He's so full of nervous energy that he botches the
move, stumbles. It makes him a wide open target for Ramon -

"Jesus. Pitiful amateurs" Mortimer scowls, glugging back his scotch.

- but as Ramon lunges forward to take advantage, a pleasantly smiling
Sharkey gently presses a key on his phone. Ramon shrieks in surprise as an
incapacitating blast surges through him from the wire collar around his
neck. His limbs spasm and he sinks on to one knee, shaking.

The room sways before his eyes in the aftermath of this brief but punishing
blast. He sees his master Sharkey looking on blandly. Ramon has not felt
the shock of the collar since Sharkey first put it on him. He had almost
forgotten it was there.

"Hey, dive in there, little fucking mouseboy, whatever your name is - this
is your chance!" says the fickle Corin.

And immediately after, Ramon sees a black ball hurtling through the
shimmering air at him. The shape, a gloved fist, hits him in the face,
right on the nose. He hears Corin let out a little cheer.

The shock of this spurs him on -- Pilce, that useless little waste of
stringy flesh, hitting him in the face? He rises quickly from the mat and
lunges at the shifting blur, which is quickly resolving into the familiar
hateful shape of the putrid whelp. Pilce's fists jab at his stomach - it
seems to be his intention to create a permanent back and forth of punches
to hold Roman off, but Ramon is so incensed that he hardens himself against
this and goes in to repay the little bastard with a blow square in the
nose. As Pilce reaches for his face, Ramon follows up with another jab to
the stomach.

"How dare you, you little shit!" Ramon hisses at his quarry. His eyes
flicker to his master, but he dares not even question Sharkey's motives in
using the collar against him.

The truth is that his master's ruthlessness turns him on. This man Mortimer
and his spiteful goth son can see him right now as the slave he is, and he
wants them to see him that way. He is proud to be owned by the cruel and
powerful Sharkey.

Ramon would happily suffer before them for their entertainment.

But humiliation at the hands of the rotten little Pilce is something he
will not put up with.

Sharkey mulls for a second, shrugs, and presses the key again.

Ramon feels a more intense blast of pain throb through him. This time more
expected, he accepts it almost as an embrace from his master; feels it as a
raw, unfettered blast of Sharkey's innate power coursing through the core
of him, as much a penetration of Ramon by Sharkey as any wild session of
brutal fucking they have shared.

He is turned on even as anger rises in him at the thought that Pilce will
at any moment seize this second moment of advantage. The little piece of
scum probably can't believe his luck --

As Ramon's hands clutch inevitably but uselessly at his neck, he feels
Pilce's fist hitting him in the lower abdomen. That sensation is peripheral
to the zigzags of pain jigsawing out from the collar, but he is very soon
aware that he has been whacked in the side of the face again, and is
suprised to see the world upending and whizzing by; surprised, when the
stars have cleared and the agony has ebbed away, to find himself on his
back on the mat with a throbbing cheek.

"Well, this is a surprise" he hears Gregory chuckle, "Could it be that
Powerhouse Pilce has managed to put Rampaging Ramon out for the count so
quickly? Only one way to find out..."

In his role as referee, Gregory then begins the count. It seems to go by
too quickly as Ramon finds himself struggling to reinhabit his limbs. He
hears himself whispering "please master" as the count reaches six and he
fears Sharkey might suddenly send that shock through him again.

It is the sight of Pilce standing over him that gives him the strength to
push back up onto his feet before he even knows how he has done it. It's
like pushing upwards against a weight of rubbery blankets, but he is
determined he will not have that fucking creature standing over him. Pilce
deserves to stand over no-one, fucking no-one. It is Pilce who belongs on
the floor at men's feet, and now Ramon is even more determined to put him
there.

Even now, he thrills at the thought of Sharkey having found this new way to
humiliate him. Revels in his helplessness against his master's whims.

The clash of these forces cuts through the fug in his head, and he whirls
his free arm with fresh menace.

"Don't


 think you can get away with hitting out at your betters," he warns darkly,
"And sadly for you, that means EVERYONE -- because you are the lowest
fucking creature on earth!"

Sharkey is nodding, partly in sheer agreement at this assessment of Daniel
Pilce. Also because he hears his own words and thoughts coming from Ramon
and he thinks, my beautiful boy has learned.

Corin watches eagerly, thinking this might be a ripe opportunity for
another blast. "Sounding pretty cocky there, man, for a slave. Go on, cut
him down again!"

Sharkey, being a good host to this pair, decides to go with it. An
aggressive blast rips through Ramon's collar and this time he is virtually
hurled to the mat by it, collapsing like a sack of potatoes.

Corin sucks the air through his teeth to signal: 'fuck, that's harsh', as
if he hadn't been the one who suggested it.

Gregory looks at the felled Ramon, at Sharkey, back at Ramon then at
Sharkey again.

"Shall I count him out?" the referee mouths.

Sharkey shakes his head.

After barely a moment, Corin calls out: "Hey get up, princess! That's
enough fucking beauty sleep - you need to get some revenge on that skinny
little freak now!"

Sharkey tries hard not to let his eyes meet Mortimer's at this moment. He
knows they must both be thinking the same thing.

Sharkey whispers something to Kai. His henchman nods, goes to the bar to
fill a glass of water from a bottle, then heads over to the ring and throws
the water over Ramon's face as he grasps around struggling for focus. Ramon
blinks the water out of his eyes, shaking strands of his wet hair aside.

Pilce is hopping from foot to foot nervously, wondering when he dares hit
Ramon again. His eyes flit over to Sharkey, though he fears the man so much
he doesn't dare engage his sights. He is only too aware that he too is
wearing one of these collars. Even though he has seen Ramon shown much,
much more kindness and mercy by Sharkey than has been given to him, they
are both of them his puppets, his toys...

The train of thought is cut short, any thought of kinship with Ramon
severed, when a gloved fist impacts his jaw in a vicious uppercut. Ramon
has caught him while his head is turned aside.

"Fucking cunt" Ramon cries as Pilce is sent flailing into the
ropes. Ramon's vision has barely settled down, Pilce's bony limbs seem to
multiply like he really is some fucking big white spider, but he can see
enough to go charging at the wriggling little fucker. Ramon thuds into
Pilce's chest with the shoulder of his tied-back arm, then swings round at
the waist to punch him solidly in his fucking breadstick ribs.  Pilce
reaches out less in a form of attack than in entreaty, some wordless
plea. Looks like a fuckin mouse reaching out for some cheese, his little
rodent limbs pawing at the air. That's when Ramon swings back his free arm
again and this time brings it swinging round to wrap right around Pilce's
back, clutch his shoulder, and shove him hard, flinging him from the ropes
down to the mat.

Pilce lands flat on his front with a gasp.

"Nice one, babe!" Sharkey cheers. "Keep at it... show him who's boss!"

"You're the boss, master" Ramon offers, his mouthing curling upwards in a
angry smile that could as much be aimed at Sharkey as the hated
Pilce. Still trembling from the shock collar's blast, he feels a useful
surge of adrenalin at having managed to send the little cocksucker flying
to the floor with his weaker arm.

"Wow, nice slave boy you've got here" says Corin, "He fucking loves you
being the boss of him, don't he!"

"If only they were all so obedient... but then I guess there'd be no
challenge" Sharkey grins.

Ramon stands over Pilce - yes, now this is the way it should be - and waits
for him to get up. Ramon retains his upright posture, shoulders back, his
mane of mussed hair shook away from his face. He tugs suddenly at his
locked-back wrist, his eagerness to be free of restraint briefly
overwhelming the knowledge that it's pointless to struggle at the locked
metal there.

"Get the fuck up, asshole" Ramon says coldly. He fights against continuing
waves of nausea from the shock blasts, senses he is making his master proud
by fighting on.

He realises the shocks he has received are at the lesser end of what these
collars can deliver. He quietly dares his master to hurt him more.

Pilce climbs up to his hands and knees slowly. He has a cut lip and blotchy
chin.

Don't do it again, master. Let me get him.

That's what my Ramon thinks.

Sharkey keeps that phone in his hand, but Ramon knows he will never
needlessly interrupt Pilce's punishment. With the little puke on all fours
now, Ramon reaches down with his free arm and wraps it around the fuckboy's
neck. Gritting his teeth, finding his footing, he wrenches, heaves the
butthead up onto his feet.

"Great balance, huh?" Sharkey says, nudging Mortimer as the crime boss goes
to town on the scotch. "He's a great little dancer boy, Ramon. More useful
a skill than you'd think"

"Dancer." Mortimer repeats contemptuously. "I might've known. All of a
sudden these days it's 'cool' to be a sissy"

You can hear the inverted commas in his speech.

"Yeah, that's getting kind of boring now dad" Corin notes quietly.

With his only available arm wrapped tight around Pilce's neck, Ramon
doesn't quite know what to do now. Pilce starts to struggle and Ramon
settles for letting him go, then giving him a shove forward, letting him
turn around. Now Ramon tries to punch at his face again as he turns round,
but Pilce reaches up, wraps both his gloved hands awkwardly round his
opponent's wrist.

"Hey, you little..." Ramon gasps, struggling to tug arm out of Pilce's
grasping grip.

"Fuck you!" Ramon grunts when this fails, and raises a leg to deliver a
shoving kick right into Pilce's stomach. It sends him backwards onto the
mat, releasing his slippery leather grip instantly.

Gregory calls an eight-count as a gurgling Pilce clutches at his stomach on
the mat, curling into an anguished ball.

"So what do ya say, Mr Sharkey?" Gregory asks, "Just how flexible we making
the rules here?"

Sharkey takes a sip of his drink, looks at his phone and replaces it in his
pocket. "The bout's over when my boy Ramon there says it is" he says.Then
he addresses Ramon "You please your master now, son. Let's see you pound
that snivelling wanker into the ground."

Ramon's look here, we've seen it before. A malicious glee not normally
present in his humble, erotically imploring expression. Like he's cracked
open Pandora's Box and likes what he glimpses in there.

The permissison of his master gives him license to go on, and it seems to
fill him with strength just as surely as the zappings from the collar
drained it from him. No concern now for the rules, he shoves a foot in
Pilce's ribs and pushes him over onto his back with a further series of
shoves. Pilce reacts pitifully, making moves to protetct himself, and it
just makes Ramon want to show the little shit how useless he is. Now Ramon
crouches down over Pilce, knees resting to either side of the fucker's
prone torso. Now he delivers a hook to the turdboy's face, and it brings it
back for a backhanded smash to the other side. Now Ramon grins wickedly and
punches his prey several times in his chest and stomach, slamming the
wriggling asshole's fists away each time they grope out in some pathetic
attempt at self defence.

One-handed, Ramon sits on Pilce and pounds the cowering pussy like wet
toilet paper. Daniel Pilce reacts with animal yelps and moans as Ramon Reis
beats him up.

"Fucking vile... horrible... useless... little shit!" Ramon hisses as he
finds his victim less and less able to defend himself, "You should be glad
my master ever showed you such mercy...! I wouldn't tolerate a creature
like you in my home.... like a scratching rat in the walls..."

Ramon's furious left arm has really found its rhythm now, and it demolishes
Pilce with relish.

"You're lucky I can't get this other arm of mine free, you sewer worm... or
I might just pound at you... til there's nothing left but a fuckin' stain!
I'd love my master to let me... uhHHHH!... wipe you away with a fuckin' MOP
when I'm done with you... FUCK YEAH!"

A brief close-up of Ramon's face, half hidden by wildly dishevelled hair,
locked in a contorted grimace. You recognize it as the image from the menu
screen, and you realise that this is Ramon's Beating - his triumphant
beating of Daniel Pilce.

Sharkey looks extremely pleased with his lover as he lets this pounding
on. Neither he nor the other guys can even see the damage that is being
done to Pilce in the minute or two of frenzied thrashing before Sharkey
signals for Gregory to break it up. Gregory takes Ramon by the shoulders
and hauls him, still flailing his arm and kicking his legs, from his
battered opponent.

"Hey, the bell didn't ring..." Ramon protests petulantly as Gregory sits
him in his corner of the ring.

Gregory looks quizzical, shakes his head and takes a remote control from
his pocket. Ramon winces, expecting to be shocked for getting uppity, but
Gregory simply presses a button that rings a synthesized 'bell' sound.

"It's rang now" Gregory grunts, smacking Ramon on the cheek in mock
affection. Or maybe he too is pleased with Ramon's display of aggression.

There's nothing so ambiguous about his reaction when he turns round
 to check out Pilce. He's savagely delighted.

"Fuck, man. Who'd have thought five minutes of fag-on-fag violence could
end in such a mess? It looks we just about managed to yank this puke rat
outta the jaws of a meat grinder. And all with one hand too? I'll give you
yer due, cunt, that ain't bad work! Bitches and gentlemen -- well, I guess
the bitch is just you, cunt - Mr Sharkey invites you all to step up into
the ring to check out the next bout!"

"Jeez, Princess there isn't going to bash the crap out of all of us now, is
he?" Corin sniggers as they make a move towards the ring when Gregory parts
the ropes. Actually Corin looks genuinely nervous for a moment; having not
orchestrated any of this himself as he is used to doing, he wonders if he
might by some oversight end up getting battered to fuck. That Gregory dude
sure looks like he's trying to hold back his contempt every time he looks
Corin's way.

He reminds himself his dad buys and sells jackass meatheads like
that. Anyway, they're here as clients. The irrational moment of fear stays
a moment longer than it should as he steps up into the ring - he's watched
the action in plenty of these things before, never actually been inside one
- then his attention is diverted by the wheezing, softly writhing form of
Daniel Pilce.

Fuck, either this wuss bruises easier than a fuckin peach, or Ramon throws
a more powerful punch than it looks like. The blotched-up bitch has been
pulverized.

"That's sure gotta hurt, huh, asshole? Must fuckin' suck ass to be you"
Corin sneers.

Sharkey prods at the ruined wimp with his foot. "Yup, Ramon's done a number
on you all right. Nice work."

Pilce's mouth guard has been knocked from his mouth and lies in a pool of
saliva some distance away.

"Not worth the effort to wreck a tiny pansy like this," Mortimer
gripes. But his words aren't born out of compassion - "I'd have just erased
him" he adds.

"It's not all bad news for this piece of mush" Sharkey says. "Christ knows
why I should show him any kindndess, but I've even got a treat for him,
something I know he really likes..."

Sharkey has Chet bring him something - it's a pair of lilac colored
stilettoes, the same shade as the boots Ramon is wearing.

"Before I had him under lock and key, our pulped prick here used to enjoy
little trips to Berlin - funded unknowingly by me, would you fucking
believe it - to have his foul, shrivelled carcass chained up and whipped. I
don't know if any of the ladies he paid to do this left him quite as much a
mess as Ramon has tonight... then again, I wouldn't be surprised if they
did, I can just see him getting the shit kicked out of him by a
girl. Anyway, a maggot like this oughtn't to get to decide who gives him
the pain he deserves --- get them high heels on, Ramon, do it now ---- but
I happen to know.... in fact, I have quite a lot of footage... that this
filth enjoys nothing more than having his back walked on by a bitch in high
heels. And I think the victor here has earned a little stroll on the
remains of the loser!"

And so Sharkey lifts Pilce up and turns him over as easily as if he's
making a bed. Pilce lands heavily on his front, letting out a wheezing moan
as the heavily bruised front of his body hits the map. His back is
virtually unmarked by comparison.

Ramon's arm is released from behind his back and he flexes and twirls it in
relief.

"Hit the runway, babe!" Sharkey winks at Ramon, who takes to walking in the
six-inch heels pretty gracefully. They make the beautiful young man's lithe
legs and ass look even more amazing. Sharkey rubs at his stubble as he
checks this out. He hadn't expected to be so turned on. He is so gonna bone
Ramon over the back of the bed while the slut wears these things tonight.

Ramon steps up onto Pilce's back, and the pounded cunt lets out a helpless
growl of pain. Maybe not used to taking a man's weight on him when this
usually happens. His exclamations of agony continue as Ramon performs
miniature struts up and down the length of his back - barely four small
steps each way before he turns around, of course. The heels dig in as he
go, leaving little imprints behind, trackmarks up and down the weasel
faggot's exposed back.

Mortimer Cardinal is not totally enjoying this pre-dinner entertainment. He
looks quietly incensed by the fagginess of this display. By contrast, Corin
is videoing it on his phone and sending a clip to, we'll assume, his
friends.

Ramon adds a flourish of his own when he digs a heel deep into one puny
shoulder and pokes the other shoe down in front of Pilce's face.

"Lick up and down that heel, you termite."

Pilce puckers his swollen and bloodied lips to hold the shoe's cold metal
strut between between them. He slowly sucks on and tongues at the heel.

"The fucking pussy has done this before, I think" Gregory snorts.

"He's in his bitchass comfort zone" Sharkey agrees. "Hey, Ramon, off for a
moment."

Ramon steps aside and Sharkey orders his slave to turn back over onto his
back. Pilce does so, hurting all the way, and then is made to suck on the
length of the heel. Ramon dangles his foot over Pilce's busted up face,
pushing the heel slowly between his lips. "Yeah, suck on that, fuckface,"
Sharkey growls. "I guess this fight's had a sweet fuckin' ending for
you..."

Casually, he reaches down and whips the shorts down from Pilce's waist.

"... look, I can see your tiny stump cock getting chubby. Freak."

"Hey mister, you're right" says Corin, pointing as Pilce's wormy bitch cock
twitches into a degraded semblance of life. "Boy, this has gotta be giving
you some serious mixed feelings down there, huh?"

"Down at heel" Mortimer notes with a fleeting smirk.

"Huh?" Corin grimaces.

"Oh, never mind" Mortimer snaps, returning to his grumpy funk.

"Go on then, fuckface" Mortimer sneers down at Pilce, "You need a little
something to soothe the pain, yeah? Jacking a little dribble of your
useless gnat spunk out of that fucking bitchboy knot of a dick might just
make your hurting little ragdoll body feel better for a moment or two. Go
on, you dirt, let's see you wank yourself off while you suck on Ramon's
high heel - or else I just might have to let his fists loose on you again,
and both of them this time."

Pilce obeys as he was fucking born to do, struggling against gagging as
Ramon edges the heel an inch further into his mouth, the remainder of the
shoe's sole hovering inches from his messed-up face. And the men are not
wrong - Pilce is definitely getting turned on by this whether he likes it
or not, his pathetic member swelling up as far as it goes until the rigid
twiglet is all ready for him to rub up and down vigorously as Ramon rests
one heel in the centre of his chest while jamming the other one in between
his lips.

"Would you fucking look at him go!" Sharkey laughs as Pilce's weedy arms
tug about at his reddened dick. "Sucking on the fuckin high heel of a guy
who just beat the crap out of him, and I don't think I've ever seen that
matchstick cock of his get so hard. Man, how badly wired is that stunted
little body down there that it gets so fucking turned on by being totally
pathetic!"

Pilce wanks furiously, tears streaming from his scrunched eyes as he gives
a fucking blowjob to a high heel, and his hips thrash arhythmically as much
as they can.

"Yeah, that's it, Piss, or whatever he said you were called," Corin jeers,
"Just a little more and you can show us just how much you fuckin' LOVE
being where you are now!"

"That's it... that's it, faggot," says Sharkey as cum stars to ooze at
length from Pilce's little cock, "Feel that fucking orgasm telling you how
much you love being the lowest of the low? Fuck yeah, there's your
worthless insides just squeezing out that curdled loser juice while you
wallow in what a piece of shit you are."

Pilce's teeth clamp around the metal heel as he jizzes on himself. The
pouring cum forms a thick puddle on his sunken and battered stomach - fuck
knows how long it's been since he last spunked up anything. There's more of
it than you'd imagine could cum from his shrivelled nutsack.

A satisfied Ramon steps off Pilce and gives him a kicking jab in the ribs
with the wet heel. Pilce breathes heavily in and out in ragged breaths.

Sharkey spits in disgust into Pilce's jizz puddle. "Well, I guess Ramon
wins. Gentleman, I'll have Chet drag this useless item away to hose it
off. In the meantime, what do you say we wash up for dinner?"

Mortimer clears his throat irritably, a chesty sort of cough. "One moment,
Mr Sharkey. If I may suggest a further entertainment here?"

Sharkey blinks. "Er. Yeah, of course, why not. What did you have in mind?"

Mortimer attempts to set down his repeatedly drained glass, finds nowhere
to put it but then has it helpfully removed by Kai.

He starts removing his blazer, loosening his tie.

"I would like one more bout to take place in this ring before we dine,"
Mortimer snorts.

"Oh jeez" Corin sighs, raising a long-suffering hand to his temple. "This
always happens when he starts mixing scotch with his heart medicine. I
should've known."

Mortimer drops his blazer, starts unbuttoning his shirt.

"I've watched this skinny latino fairy of yours have his fun here tonight"
Mortimer growls, pointing a big hand rudely at Ramon, "And frankly I think
you're in danger of letting him get ideas above himself."

Sharkey purses his lips in an exaggerated display of polite interest. He
doesn't let his amusement show through too much.

"I would like to take on your Ramon here, right now. Let's see what happens
when he takes on a real man. Goddamn pansy... needs putting in his place
just as much as that piece of offal down there."

Sharkey
 looks between his guest and his lover. Shows an amazing lack of loyalty to
his devoted and beautiful boy by agreeing almost instantly. "Okay, Mister
Cardinal. You're the guest here - knock yourself out. Or rather, well, you
know what I mean... hey, Gregory, get Mr Cardinal here kitted out."

------

As an unsteady-looking Mortimer is led out of the ring by a beaming Gregory
to find some shorts and gloves, a nervous Ramon approaches
Sharkey. "Master...?" he pleads vaguely.

Sharkey kisses him briefly. "You did nicely there, sunshine. I'm proud of
you."

"Are you going to let him..."

"You win some, you lose some, babe. You've had some fun taking down Pilce
there, but I think this has gotta be where you take a dive."

Corin, listening in, heads over and mutters quietly to the pair, out of his
dad's earshot. "Hey mister, I like your slave dude guy here, he's like
beyond cute, you know? But this won't be a matter of him just letting my
pop win to make him feel good. My dad may be staggering around over there
like he can't handle himself after a few scotches, but trust me, he's
trained for years, ever since he was one of them strongmen dudes back in
the day. He can take down a guy in his sleep. He's gonna have Ramon here
KOd before the dude knows what's hit him. Sorry, man, but just so you
know... sweet dreams, dude."

Sharkey nods. "You're not telling me anything I don't already know, kid,
but thanks." He looks to Ramon. "He's right, babe. You're going to have to
prepare yourself to get trashed."

Ramon looks gorgeously distraught, biting at his plump lower lip.

"You'll do it for me, though, won't you sweetheart" Sharkey says. It's more
of a command than a question. "For your master. Hey, don't worry, I'll be
fucking kissing you better later"

"Ooo fuck, can I help?" Corin volunteers lightly.

Sharkey smiles, accepting this freaky kid as simpatico. "You'll have your
hands full with Jordon, mate."

"Oh yeah! Sweet" Corin says, like he'd forgotten all about that.

"Oh, and Ramon, babe - best kick off those heels now, huh?" Sharkey adds.

-----------------------------

Ramon's fears are well grounded. Out of his formal attire and wearing some
hastily provided boxing gear, it's clear that while Mortimer is an old guy
now, he hasn't let himself go too much from the days when he took part in
bodybuilding contests and posed manfully for the pages of old muscle
magazines. His hulking and deeply tanned body is aged, yes, with sagging
and puckering around the edges, but the frame is sturdy enough. Next to the
sleek and bronzed musculature of Ramon, Mortimer's body is far more
utilitarian - built for purpose rather than for looking pretty. Mortimer
looks a little taken aback for a second by what he's volunteered himself
for, but another look at Ramon gives him focus. Mortimer Cardinal built his
criminal empire by always establishing himself as the tough guy - and God
knows that son of his always seems intent on making him look like a
joke. We'll see who's laughing in a few minutes, he thinks.

Gregory lays out the rules hastily, with the air of a guy who's had one of
his wishes unexpectedly granted and who doesn't want to do anything that
might disturb the gossamer process of it being brought true. He's been
longing to dish out a beating to the spoilt Ramon, and this is the next
best thing. Man, just look at Gregory's truculent glee - he's on the verge
of fucking giving Mortimer Cardinal a big kiss.

So keen is Gregory for Mortimer not to have second thoughts about his
intoxicated decision that he has simply brushed Pilce's puny form over into
a corner of the ring. The mangled slaveboy lays tucked beneath one of the
ropes.

Quicker than Ramon anticipates, the bell rings. And Mortimer's speed as he
leaps from his corner is terrifying. In no mood to dance around this,
Mortimer closes in on his target fast. Light on his feet, Ramon
instinctively searches for the best side to leap to, his right, and makes a
move - only to find the old guy has somehow tricked him about his
direction, reaches out with a weatherbeaten but thickly muscled arm to slam
a gloved fist right in Ramon's path. The effect is that Ramon appears to
leap right into a punch to his own stomach. Ramon lets out a heavy
'"ooooof!"

"Gotcha, prettyboy" growls Mortimer, who has chosen not to go with a mouth
guard.

As Ramon lifts his head and turns to look at Mortimer, he is met with a
savage right hook that smashes across his cheekbone and nose.

"See if we can't make that goddamn sissy girl face of yours look more like
a man's, huh" Mortimer hisses, repeating the move before a fumbling Ramon
can even raise his hands in self defence.

As Ramon lifts his arms,he finds them bulldozered aside by Mortimer's left
fist, rising in an uppercut that glances off his solar plexus than hits him
in the jaw. Ramon lets out a whimper of panic as he finds himself hemmed
into his corner by the ancient slugger, so close he can smell the scotch
and old cigars on his breath. Desperately, he draws back his fist as much
as possible in the confined space Mortimer has created, and launches a
couple of jabs at his opponent. They hit Mortimer in his huge
ex-bodybuilder chest with little result, and a laughing Mortimer slams
another fist into Ramon's sleek wall of abs. Ramon doubles over, coughing
up saliva onto the thick grey hairs of Mortimer's meaty forearm. One hand
reaches out for support and finds only Mortimer's chest. Mortimer brushes
it off and Ramon slips down to the mat, on hands and knees, clutching his
stomach.

"Come on, Ramon dude" Corin encourages from behind the ropes, "Don't give
up so easy!"

"I can always count on you in my corner, can't I, lad?" Mortimer snorts,
but with little real displeasure. He's enjoying himself too much for that.

He strides casually away from Ramon, walking around the ring like he's just
taking the air as he waits for his opponent to get back on his feet.

Ramon gets up shakily, keeping his eyes on his fearsome opponent. Once up,
struggling to take his hand from his throbbing stomach, he raises his fists
defensively, starts trying to anticipate the old hulk's next move.

Mortimer turns to look at Ramon, shaking his head. "This is just what's
wrong with the youth of today. They want everything handed to them on a
plate. Never having to work for anything..."

He charges at Ramon like a bull, which totally panics the Brazilian boy,
and and as he reaches out instinctively to put his hands on the old
bastard's shoulders, try to stop him, Mortimer suddenly rears up with
another rising punch that cracks Ramon on the chin and sends him toppling
backwards.

It's Mortimer who stops his fall, rising to his full height and scooping an
arm around Ramon's back to support him.

"... always relying on handouts from others. Totally unable.... to stand on
your own two feet!" At this he gives Ramon a shove forward, sends him
sprawling down to the mat.

Neither Gregory nor Sharkey has anything to say about this. They aren't
much for rules.

"Sure, you can beat that piece of gristle down there, with help from your
owner..."

Ramon wants to protest that Sharkey didn't actually help him too
much. There seems little point as he feels Mortimer's warm, unpleasantly
furred arms reach around him in a kind of bear hug from behind, forcing him
back to his feet again.

"... but put you in a fight with a real man, and you're just about ready to
piss your pants"

In fact, Mortimer's assessment is not totally accurate. Take a look at
Ramon's pink shorts and you'll see they are not being stained with piss -
they're being tented by a quickly swelling, fierce erection. Mortimer only
notices this as he lets go and allows his opponent to turn around and face
him.

"Oh my fucking Lord," Mortimer gasps in disbelief, "Not only that, you're
fucking enjoying it!"

Arms folded, Gregory nods. "I knew it. I knew he was the kind of pussy
that'd get off on getting pounded. See that, Mr Sharkey?"

"Noted, Gregory" Sharkey says in a warning tone.

Trembling and breathing heavily, Ramon nonetheless looks at Mortimer
Cardinal with a strange defiance.

Then the bell rings. Gregory ushers the fighters to their corners.

Irritated, Mortimer waits to get going again. Staring at Ramon with a
disgust that also verges on some kind of fascination, he suggests: "Why
don't we take those shorts off him? If he's gonna get a sissy boner while I
demolish him, let's all see it"

"Fucking excellent idea, if you don't mind me saying, Mr Sharkey" Gregory
chimes in.

Sharkey, as it turns out, doesn't need much persuading. Protective as he
can be of Ramon, watching his sexy slut boy take a beating from a guy forty
years his senior is a real turn-on. He hadn't expected Ramon to be so into
it either.

It's Gregory who removes Ramon's pink shorts, and though the gorgeous boy
looks flushed and ashamed, his erection only strengthens as it exposed to
all the men here.

Corin whispers to Sharkey: "Hey, I don't think my pop there has figured out
how badly he wants to fuck your Ramon."

Sharkey smirks. "You find that a lot with these older guys."

"You should see him back home, man. He's got this one, like, mortal enemy,
who's always getting in ther way of his plans. He's this real hunky, hot
dude - my pop's always talking the talk, 'I'm gonna destroy him, he's stood
in my way for the last time', all this kind of thing. Never does anything
about it. He obsesses over this guy more than he ever has over any lady,
you know?"

(again, whether you accept as a viewer that the enemy in question is the
superhero the Mighty Sun Surfer is up to you. It could as easily, in this
movie, be some jackass do-gooder with a gym membership)

"Boy, they were naive about this stuff in my dad's day" Corin adds.

The bell sounds to start the second round. Ramon is up and moving about as
quickly as possible attempting to give himself a wide berth from the
vengefully conservative old bruiser. He is aided a little by a new
hesitancy in Mortimer as he is faced with Ramon's exposed cock pointing up
at him. This makes Corin giggle, but after a moment or two Ramon's homo
bitch excitement just gives Mortimer new impetus - this pansy needs showing
this is no queer sex game.

"Dance around all you like, you fucking ballerina," Mortimer snarls,
"You're just delying the inevitable"

He bashes his mitts together. "It's been a long time since I've been in the
ring like this. But I sure haven't lost my touch."

Ramon glances at his lover, Sharkey. There's a weird flash of steel in his
eye. Then he turns to Mortimer, aiming a slow kiss at him with those lips
of his that seem obscenely large when puckered up. "Come get me, big boy"
he whispers nervously, like he can't quite believe what he's saying.

Mortimer looks enraged. "Oh my God, he's got some balls, this guy" Corin
giggles.

"You... dirty faggot!!" Mortimer growls, going in for the kill. Ramon tries
to evade him, but is met with a hook out of nowhere that slams into his
ribs. As he reels from the blow, he's met with another one on the other
side. The giant Mortimer seems to be surrounding him already. Ramon manages
to aim a blow right into Mortimer's stomach, which makes a gurgling
sound. Then he lets out a wet fart.

Mortimer ignores this. Perhaps to be expected in a guy his age. "First time
you've managed to lay a fist on me, fairy" Mortimer snorts, "And maybe the
last!"

He aims a fist again and slams it direct into Ramon's nose and
mouth. "Teach you to pout with that slutty boy face of yours at me..." he
snarls... "I can feel your goddamn deviant erection against my leg, you
fucking FRUIT!"

Left-right hooks to Ramon's face as he is backed up against the
ropes. Ramon splutters, tasting blood at the back of his nose and mouth. He
clenches down on the mouth guard, a shuddering blow clangs against the side
of his head, making the world rock. Desperately, he sinks onto his haunches
- the only thing the elder Mortimer cannot do as quickly, and makes to
wriggle out between Mortimer's legs. Mortimer makes a move to stop him by
closing the gap, and Ramon finds himself squeezed between the old bastard's
thighs for a moment, is sure he can feel the fucker's bollocks against the
back of his neck, before he's released and topples forward, landing on all
fours and scuttling as far as he can.

Mortimer turns round. "Don't you try to crawl away from me, you craven
prettyboy asshole!" he calls out. He raises a leg and lands the heel of his
boot on Ramon's exquisitely pert butt to give it a shove. Ramon loses
balance on his back legs, crawls around so that his lower body is almost
fetal while his arms push the top half up off the matt.

Mortimer lands his boot between Ramon's shoulder to shove him back
down. Ramon's face hits the mat and he sees a smudge of blood left behind
as he lifts it up again.

"Get up, pansy" says Mortimer. "I'm not letting you get out of it that
easy."

Ramon struggles up, finds his face a mass of throbbing pain and his torso
aching everywhere. The world sways, and through the rapid pounding of his
heartbeat he hears Mortimer's rumbling footsteps all about him.

He gets up, slowly. Finds he can only see through one eye, can't open the
other properly. He sees the bizarre little Corin suck in air through his
cheeks as he catches sight of the damage. Sees his master Sharkey strangely
unconcerned.

The crime boss Mortimer Cardinal nods, pleased with himself, as he takes in
his work so far.

"Dinner's on it's way," he says, "But for starters... I think a little
mashed fruit!"

He starts pummeling Ramon in earnest, backing the helpless youth over to
the ropes again as he aims blow after blow. "I see someone gave your back
one hell of a whipping sometime in your past, boy.... but they left your
front unmarked... let's see if we can level it up a little, huh, fruit? At
least for tonight... unnngh..... unnnnghh.... fucking take those punches,
you gonsil slut!!!"

Ramon can only make feeble efforts to protect himself as the onslaught goes
on. As he takes his beating from the old brute, he ends up crushed against
the same ropes under which the passed-out Daniel Pilce has been
left. Mortimer pounds and pounds at Ramon's face and torso until he is
satisfied with his work, then flips him around and delivers a blow to the
small of his back. As Ramon flips over, his bloodied, swollen face, long
strands of hair stuck to it, looks out to where his master is standing. And
Ramon manages a lustful smile, an expression that asks if he has pleased
his master.

Okay, so maybe this is Ramon's Beating.

The bell sounds, at long last. Rather than stop completely, Mortimer
reaches his arms around Ramon's body again, twirls it aroud and flings him
back down to the mat. Ramon moans and wheezes down there, doesn't make a
move to get up.

Breathing heavily, Mortimer stands over his victim, wondering whether he
will last one more bout.

Finally, out of deference to his host, he decides not. Mortimer spits on
Ramon, declares the fight over. "I don't think the little pussy will forget
that in a hurry," he says. "Let's leave him here to think about it with his
fellow feeble slave while we dine."

Sharkey nods. He still doesn't look too troubled by what has happened to
Ramon, who he took months to even share sexually with other men, and whom
he has never allowed the vicious Gregory to hurt.

The men head off for their meal, and it is with Gregory and Chet that the
battered remains of Ramon Reis and Daniel Pilce are left. Chet takes out a
bottle of alcohol to dab at Ramon's wounds. "Gonna be all right, champ" he
mutters to Ramon sympathetically, Gregory doesn't do much of anything,
leaning against the ropes in satisfaction as he watches.

"I tell ya, Chet, that was a fucking cool show. Who'd have thought that old
guy would be so quick off the blocks?"

"Wouldn't like to get on his wrong side" Chet admits. "Not without my
fucking gat, at least."

"Yeah, I really enjoyed that," Gregory continues, "I'd like to see a repeat
performance kind of thing - 'cept I'd like the starring role next time!"

"Huh?" Chet queries, not so good with metaphors.

"Just saying, I wouldn't mind dishing out some of that to this sexy faggot
here. Turn him over, man, has he still got that boner?"

Ramon moans as Chet unfolds him from his crumples fetal position. "Whoah,
yeah. He looks like he's just about ready to blow his load. Jesus, kid,
what's with you?"

Ramon can't answer, shuts his eyes as Chet dabs his grazes with alcohol
again.

"Yeah, now Mr Sharkey has let it happen once -- maybe it ain't so
prosperous that it'll happen again!" Gregory grins menacingly.

"Preposterous." says Chet.

"Huh? Hey, shut up."

Pretending he has already passed out, Ramon curls up again, hiding his
boner with one glove. Even as pain courses through every part of him, and
as tears stream from his eyes; even as he fears what would happen without
the protection of his master --- the terrifying prospect that he could
become a ground-down animal like Daniel Pilce ----- Ramon releases a long,
hot jet out of cum, and it pools on the mat around the swollen head of his
cock.


---------------------------------

To be continued