Date: Mon, 20 Aug 2012 22:42:01 +0100 From: Davey R Subject: BlueShark-Video-14 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 found on late night TV. Any movies, actors, television shows, comic books, etc, named in this series are totally fictional. ------------------------------ BlueShark Video 14 Following Mortimer Cardinal's brutal bout in the ring with Ramon, the men sit themselves down to dine. Having changed from his boxing garb back into his now rather crumpled-looking suit, Mortimer goes at his food with gusto. "Worked up quite an appetite back there" he says with relish, still looking like he's buzzing from the rush of taking care of Ramon in the ring, mixed with tipsiness from the scotch. A starter of spicy shrimp with mango, followed by a main course of baked sea bass with lemongrass and ginger, are snubbed by Corin, who simply asks for two servings of dessert instead. Mortimer is feeling so pleased with himself, he doesn't even grumble as the ungracious lad slurps down his jumbo helpings of key lime cheesecake before taking out his bag of licorice and playing on his phone as the others dine. Mortimer declines dessert on the orders of his doctor, and Sharkey rarely touches the stuff anyway, so Corin volunteers for one more slab of the cheesecake to take care of what should have their portions (he says). "You're like your mother," Mortimer comments at one point. "She could eat any old garbage and never seemed to put on weight - ah, no offence meant over the fine fare you've provided, of course, Mr Sharkey." Sharkey smiles neutrally. Corin sucks on a strand of his licorice, hoping that that one mention of his mother is the end of the subject. There's a kind of family taboo between the Cardinals about discussing her. None of our business either, I guess, and sure enough, there is no followup from Mortimer. "I got a sweet tooth," Corin grins. Anyway, the real fuckin' SUPER-dessert is still to come, ain't it? When do we get to see him, mister? I'm really kinda salivating for an introduction now." "Patience, Corin" Mortimer says. "When we've had our coffees and cigars, then it will be time to complete our transaction." Corin returns to playing on his phone, not sure why the hell grown-ups - he's twenty now, he still thinks of them as 'grown-ups' - have to make everything so... drawn out and stately. You'd think with them being so old, they'd want to get stuff done quicker. -------------- While Mortimer is still on a high from his fight with Ramon, the young man himself is swiftly coming down from the adrenalin, from the dark, wrong thrill of pleasing his master by suffering for him. Now he's been left draped across a couch by Sharkey's little swarm of henchmen. He's in a small, indeterminate lounge room that Sharkey uses the way other people might use the spare kitchen drawer. It's scattered with a bunch of junk. Old VCRs, weirdly, and a bunch of stacked cassettes from the BlueShark movies range. Pieces of unidentifiable technology, and shoes. Now the action is over, Ramon is in a state of half-consciousness, slowly being overtaken by an all-over soreness and numerous spots of throbbing pain, especially on his face. Now the thrill of that moment in the ring is gone, his battered feels body heavy and unwilling to move, the couch seems to sway a little beneath him. He hurts. He hurts really bad. Now he just want to see his master. Wants Sharkey to come in and make him feel better. Of course, Zac Sharkey is not a man whose presence many people would pray for at a time like this. He's no angel of mercy, and you couldn't say much for his bedside manner. The man looks like a brute and, given the chance, acts like one. But he is Ramon's world, and the young man is certain his master truly loves him. Sharkey's cruel nature, his viciousness with his other slaves, just makes his kindness to Ramon all the more precious. It also gives Ramon a strange, proud sense of achievement. Now as he lies in pain, he longs for the touch of his master to relieve the hurt. To have Sharkey's strong arms around him may mean more pressure on his bruises, but it would soothe him nonetheless. To be able to smell his master, even, the mixed scents of his skin and his sweat and that cologne he put on tonight - Ramon holds on to this hope as he lies here alone. Having taken as much care of him as they could or were willing to, Sharkey's henchmen have kind of dumped him here until the guests leave, or until their boss gives them some instruction to have him make an appearance again. Gregory continued to make no effort to hide his glee as he scooped Ramon up in his arms and brought him in here. The other guy, Chet, was nicer to him; sympathetic even. But now they've gone off to attend to Sharkey and his guests once more. However, Ramon finds that he does not stay alone for too long. Presently he hears a bumping and a laughing from just outside the door, and quickly it slams open and two guys enter. Big dude and a little guy; the difference between their sizes is like that between that bastard Mortimer Cardinal and his tiny skinny son. That's not who these two are, though. It's Sharkey's henchman Rob, and with him, that effeminate little hairstylist guy who was here earlier today, getting Jordon Lunar looking his best. Cooper, that's the name of the kid. Unexpectedly, this odd couple are giggling and kind of playfully tickling each other. Rob has his hands around Cooper's slender waist as they enter the half-lit room, planting a series of brief but smacking kisses on each other's lips. Rob's shirt and tie are all loosened off, the shirt unbuttoned nearly down to the navel and half hanging out of his pants. Cooper is still wearing his skintight little powder blue vest, slender arms bare, but looks just about ready to do something about that as they stumble into the little lounge. And ain't that cute, they're so fixated on each other, they don't even notice Ramon as they first enter. Rob slams the door behind them and Cooper places his hands on the burly guy's chest, trying to push him against the wall. Rob makes a point of not moving, even though the push is offered more in the manner of suggestion than as a serious attempt at force. Cooper just giggles as Rob looks down at him smugly. "Oh, suit yourself, big guy!" Cooper says. "Anyone would think you didn't want that big horse cock of yours getting sucked off." With that he crosses his arms, reaching for the bottom of his vest. Pulls it off in a practised sort of way, like he's unveiling something. And I guess he is. His little twinky bod is pretty luscious in its sweet way. Both nipples are pierced with little shiny studs. Rob places his hands under the little dude's armpits, lifts him up and starts tonguing at one of them studded nipples with gusto like it's some fetish of his. Even though he's seeing this only blurrily through his one good, unswollen eye, Ramon finds this kind of sweet. He rarely sees this side of his master's henchmen - getting down to it with someone without it being some kind of brutal team sport shared with the other men. Indeed, when they fuck him it seems more like they're using sex as one more form of violence. It's a bullying kind of fucking, all the men ganging up on him. Oh, but don't feel sorry for Ramon about this, because he fucking loves it. The fact is, however, that Ramon thinks of these men all as being basically into girls when they're, so to speak, outside of work. Seeing the way Rob is with this Cooper guy puts another slant on it. Ramon has not really seen this Rob look so at ease, having fun, like he's a real guy when he's not being one of Sharkey's gang of B-movie heavies. Cooper rests his eyes on Rob's shoulders, closing his eyes in pleasure as Rob tongues at his nipples. When he comes up for air, the henchman says: "Oh man, I love it when you swing by. Can't wait for you to get your mouth around my cock, bitch..." Cooper feels at Rob's bunched biceps through his shirt as the guy holds him aloft. "Oh man, yeah! Let's not fucking wait, honey. I am sooo ready..." Rob eases him back down so his feet land on the floor. He whips off his own shirt and lets Cooper kiss at his torso. "Shame... mmm... don't.... mmmm... have more excuse to.... mmmm... come by here.." says Cooper's muffled voice as his mouth squashes itself over Rob's chiselled pectorals. "Yeah, Mr Sharkey don't exactly have a high-maintenance haircut!" Rob laughs gruntingly. "It's always the older guys who want the most doing with their hair" Cooper says, offering a petulant look that briefly sums up how bored he is with attending to these men. "Cover-up jobs mainly. That Jordy honey was a real treat actually..." "You gonna talk faggot to me, or you gonna suck my dick?" says Rob with a snarl. Cooper grins. "You know what you are, mister big guy? Cheeeeeky!" Then he sinks eagerly down to his knees. "Whoah! Shit" says Rob, only now, as Cooper sinks from his eyeline, noticing the battered Ramon laid out on the couch. The mangled appearance of the young man is not a surprise to him, he was there watching his bout with that Mortimer Cardinal guy. He just didn't realise that Ramon had been left in here afterwards. "You got that right" Cooper says, misunderstanding. "And I haven't even started yet, stud!" Rob shakes his head, gestures towards where Ramon is. Cooper looks over. He winces. "Ouuuuuuch. Oh, baby boy, those are some serious love taps. What happened to you, darling? Did that mean old guy Mister Sharkshit do that to you?" He gulps, turning back to Rob. "Oh baby, you won't tell your boss that's what I call him, will you?" Rob smirks wryly, probably slightly insulted that it's assumed he has kind of dronish loyalty to Sharkey beyond the stuff he gets paid for. "Not if you're good," he says. Cooper beams again, relieved. He looks for a second like he might go head over to Ramon to try help him out, but then shrugs, figures that he can't, and goes back to his work unleashing Rob's cock. "Thought we'd have some privacy in here, kid..." Rob says to Ramon, "Just for a quick one, you know. Don't you worry, we'll be out of here in a moment or two..." A light goes on above his head. "Unless... yeah... how's about you get over here and help Cooper out with my cock? I wouldn't mind at all, some extra attention... don't think Mr Sharkey would mind too much." Cooper scrunches his faces up for a second, looking back and forth between the beaten Ramon and Rob's erect dick. "Really? I don't mean to... um... he looks kind of gross, the way he is right now. No offence, honey, you're a gorgeous guy usually, could be a model, honestly." Rob has a wicked edge to his smile. "Yeah, but look at his swollen up lips. Fuck man, Ramon's lips are something else to start off with. Now they've been fucking plumped up by that old guy's fists, they it's like the most amazing fuckin' facecunt you've ever seen. Damn son, get over here. I know it hurts, but you can fuckin' make it, and it's gonna be so worth it for you" Ramon struggles, agonisingly, to push himself up from the couch. He feels a long tear dribbling from his eye and down his face, it's been trickling from his eye ever since the fight ended. He moans deeply in pain as he struggles to move his battered body where it ought to be. He manages a staggered tumble from the couch and crawls over slowly to the other two men, because it would be too much painful effort to drag himself upright and limp over, only to have to sink to his knees again just a few short steps later. "Yeah, you know what you like, doncha boy?" Rob goads. "Ramon here never feels so fuckin' out of it that he'd say no to a load of huge cock in his mouth, ain't that right, boy?" "Nuh...noooh..." Ramon agrees, faltering with the effort of shuffling over and speaking at the same time. Even bruised and bloodied as he is, his long hair dishevelled and matted in parts --- even crawling over like some wounded dog, Ramon is graceful and beautiful. Oh fuck, and he is so sexy. Even more so as he struggles against his pain to do what comes so damn naturally to him, to fulfil his role pleasuring men. The boyishly-featured Cooper recoils a little from Ramon's bruised and bloodied face as the pair meet over the bulging head of Rob's cock. The symmetrically-faced hairdresser's squeamishness seems a little excessive - he may be battered, but Ramon does not exactly look like Quasimodo or the Phantom of the Opera - but we can put this down to plain old-fashioned prissiness. "Damn, boy," says Rob, laying an appraising hand gently on one side of Ramon's face, causing him to flinch, "Look what that old fucker did to your face. Jealous old fucker, if you ask me. Real shame, spoiling something so freakin' pretty -" He strokes Ramon's hair aside. "You'll recover, though -- and we can still put those big lips of yours to good use while you've got 'em. I know they're probably really sore, boy, but I know you're gonna be a man about this." Ramon nods as the fingertips against his face give him comfort, even while causing a tingling pain on top of his bruises. And so the boys begin, sharing Rob's cock between their mouths. Cooper is irritatingly careful not to let his lips meet Ramon's too much, fearful of getting the taste of blood on his lips perhaps. Also maybe a little annoyed at suddenly having to share, especially with this wrecked Brazilian pussy guy here. Rob rests a hand atop each of their heads and gently guides them, allowing them to take turns on his cock. Cooper goes first, Rob withholding from himself a moment the unique pleasure of Ramon's swollen flesh around his dick. Then he gasps in delicious pleasure as those split and furiously reddened lips take hold of the head of his cock and slide down its length. "Ohhhhh fuckyeah boy! Just like I thought... ooooo....ohfuck... hope Mr Sharkey don't mind... me being the first guy to get to try this... man, I'm sure he'll want to get a load of this himself... ha... you'd better hope he don't get a taste for it, kid... he might start punching you in the mouth... when he feels like a special treat..." It appears for a moment that these words have upset Ramon, but then you realise that those tears have been streaming consistently from his eyes anyway, and that what sounds like sobbing is his well-controlled gagging as he takes the cock deep into the back of his throat. A suddenly moody-looking Cooper looks from side to side like he's wondering about simply getting away as Ramon takes over the job so expertly. Like a fucking professional - doesn't let being pulverized to a pulp get in the way of doing his cock-loving work. He'd probably have chowed down just as adeptly and lovingly on Mortimer Cardinal's old veiny fuckstalk right after the man had pounded him senseless, if only the grouchy old crime boss had told him to. Cooper reaches a hand around Ramon's back, digs a fingernail into one of his cuts, making him squeak and draw back for a moment. "Oops, sorry about that, honey" Cooper says blandly, taking his opportunity to slip Rob's massive erect cock into his own mouth. It's well lubricated with Ramon's slick saliva, wet and glistening like crystal. It slips easily into Cooper's own mouth with a healthy plop. Ramon doesn't take a back seat, though; he crouches lower, angles his head to suck gently on the heavy's hanging balls, arms wrapped greedily around Rob's legs to clutch onto his buttocks. He's good at this all right; makes the guy who's now actually got the cock in his throat look like a bit-part performer in this show. And soon enough Rob wants to feel Ramon's engorged mouth wrapped around his meat sword again, and so he is guided back by the man's hand clutching at the crown of his hair. -------------------------- We may rightly pity Ramon, who has been put through a cruel and unnecessary punishment tonight, and all on the whim of a dour old guy taking out his frustrations with the modern world on an easy and helpless target. Still, there is no doubt that Ramon accepts this as his lot, his destiny almost. Ramon sees this as his place in the world. He expects no apology from Sharkey, no sense of remorse, even. Sharkey need make no excuse for the way he exercises his power over the boy he owns; Ramon feels in his very soul the rightness of that. He may wish for his master to return and comfort him, but he would take that comfort as a kindness, a gift; something special given from Sharkey to him that is in excess of anything a slave should rightfully expect. Anguished and hurting though he may presently be, Ramon is in some deep down way content. The same cannot be said of Daniel Pilce. Left lying in the corner of the boxing room, to be attended to later, when the more important business is done with, Daniel Pilce is barely conscious and is, perhaps, going slowly mad. His dreams have become a recess into which he can burrow. But the torment of his life under Sharkey's foot is inescapable, and his nightmares merely describe it back to him in new forms. Dead images of hope fester within him, returning in ever more degraded scenes. Once, long ago it seems, he dreamt of a sunny courtroom, a scene from some legal drama on TV, where he would testify against the aberrant sadism of Sharkey. And a judge, a trustworthy old pillar of the community judge played by some wholesome and seasoned actor, would accept the overwhelming verdict of guilt from the non-speaking jury and deliver an apt sentence to the evil thug; the audience would sail into the closing credits and the sponsors' messages with a blissful sense of contentment that justice had been done; a knowledge would go unspoken in this primetime drama, but be tacitly accepted nonetheless, that Sharkey was now doomed to a life like the one he had inflicted on his innocent slaves; that he would be used as a bitch in prison just as men like Pilce had been used as bitches in Sharkey's home. We the audience would blissfully watch the commercials for cereals and motor oil safe in the certain knowledge that Sharkey's much-deserved future was one long morass of vicious rape. Now when Pilce has that dream, it takes on an aspect of demented sarcasm. It is no longer sunny; the trial only ever takes place at night, and in the crazy jagged shadows of lurid and clashing sources of light. The court becomes quite uninterested in what the evil Mr Sharkey has done to young men like Daniel Pilce. Instead it concerns itself with cross-examing Pilce over the question of why the cowering, pathetic little piece of shit considers himself a man at all. The wholesome actor who plays the judge, known best from a popular family sitcom a couple of decades before, regards Pilce with lustful bloodshot eyes as he demolishes Pilce's own sense of worth before the lawyers - Pilce's own, and Sharkey's too, hold him down and the judge tears off his robes, floats monstrously across the courtroom to land upon him and rape him most thoroughly. When the monstrous jizz eruption blasts into Pilce's dream-guts he tastes it, thick and choking, in the back of his throat, he feels it ooze out, bubbling, from beneath his fingertips. And now Sharkey is in the judge's seat, and he is applauding. A camera mounted on a tripod by his side captures the whole thing. Dreams are not simple and are rarely narrative; Pilce's are infested with other things; horror monsters from all the cheap movies he used to watch when he was unemployed, they are like the regular extras in his dreams; zombies as spectators, cannibal killers as his friends. Cartoon characters, bringing him his only bizarre crumbs of comfort; the Lunar Surf Guy somehow trapped with him in this nightmare gives him an immersive sense of cool, soothing relief by embracing him as they share a cell. This tremendous flood of relief and companionship is like nothing he has ever experienced in his waking life; its sheer beauty would be a cruel contrast to reality even if he were not imprisoned, even if he were at liberty and still going to his 9 to 5 office job each day. This cosmic, out-of this-world hug from Lunar Surf Guy flooded over him only once, in one dream, and Pilce wept as he woke up from it. Woke up from it, it bears pointing out, to find that he still had a pair of Sharkey's crumpled-up briefs stuffed in his mouth and kept there with a clumsily applied length of duct tape round his skull. And then, too, he remembered. That actor from the sitcom. The wholesome dad from that brightly lit living room set. He really did come here as a guest of Sharkey's one day. Stinking of booze, he really did savagely fuck Pilce, treating him like so much dirt. That's the kind of world Pilce wakes into when he emerges from these dreams. To have sweet dreams too often would be just one more torment. Pilce sees himself in a cartoon, sees himself in a video game. Losing his senses, regressing, He sees reality reduced to simplified constituent elements. That goddamn shark floating in the distance is a huge final-level boss in some grotesque video game whose rules he cannot grasp. Sharkey is as simply, cleanly malevolent as any brutish enemy in a beat-em-up platform game. This house, he believes, is made up of platforms and he is stuck on the very lowest one without any hope of ascendancy, without any means of gaining another life or a continue. Pilce is flattened beneath a giant flashing legend that tells him GAME OVER. Except the one he sees, strobing tortuously and burning him even though he is underwater, tells him GAME OVER, FAGGOT and is part of a network of machinery that somewhere, even in this dream state, Sharkey is operating. Nightmares, parts of movies and video games cut up and pasted together wrongly. A superhero adventure where a young hunky guy's head is pulled off and thrown away. A teen drama series with a crazy mad scientist. A Lunar Surf Guy cartoon where the loveable hero is carried off in chains by his nemesis, Narrly Emo Dude. Daniel Pilce is losing it. Yes, he is, sinking bit by bit into madness as into the vast blackness of the ocean. Sharkey is driving Daniel Pilce out of his own mind. Carving out of him his personality, his sanity, his sense of self. If the boy goes on this way, his mind will end up like a half-tuned television, flickering away in the middle of the night. Pilce will be left erased and defunct like an old videotape, and Sharkey will be the one who wiped him. And you know what? This means Sharkey shares something with Ramon. He, too, is content with what he is. And what he has done to his feeble, grovelling and quickly diminishing Pilce. ------------------------------------------------- Finally, not a moment too soon for Corin Cardinal's liking, he and his dad are taken to an elevator that carries them down to one of the subterranean levels of Sharkey's compound. As they step out, Corin admires the shiny futurism of the lower level. It's like a prison might like on a space station, or a real high-tech bank vault. So many doors, too - Sharkey's home has so much capacity for keeping captured dudes in. Seems kind of a shame that he has so few of them on site right now. Sharkey clicks a blue key into place on a small control panel by one of the doors, and it whooshes open with a heavy and satisfying CHUNK! sounds when the action completes. Jordon is unveiled. And unveiled really is the right word for it. He's hanging there like an amazing work of art. And, at the risk of repetition, hanging really is the right word for it too. His arms held up by manacles at the wrist, they are not stretched way out like Christ on the cross; rather, they are in what might be called a casual position of bondage, about a foot on each side away from his head, so that his arms hang in a way that makes his lovely thick biceps look all the more attractive. It's like he's a picture that's been perfectly framed. You know from earlier that Cooper spruced up his blonde hair, and it looks as artfully arranged now as it did then, buoyant and defined, and colored like spun gold. The contours of his bod, too, shine with a subtle and unsmeared gloss effect. It appears also, like the colors on his starry tattooes have been burnished to better effect, looking rich and bright like they have been in some way restored to their original condition. He is lit, too, to best effect, in a rich, warm orangey spotlight. But bright blue wavey patterns of light dance slowly across his muscular, waxed legs below the knees. With both him and his mounted surfboard illuminated by warm spotlights against the dark, it's evident that this gently bobbing pattern of light represents Jordon in his natural milieu - sun and sea. It's said that you don't sell the steak, you sell the sizzle - well, Sharkey is selling Jordon here as the archetypal airhead surfer boy, as straightforward and simply marketed as an action figure. There's even a subtle, low-volume audio track of the shimmering surf, the gentle lapping of tiny waves against soft, powdery sand. Like any product, Jordon comes with apt, attractive packaging. Tight blue speedos complete the deal. But we must remember that this is as much a scene of revelation for Jordon as for those who are here to check him out. When that door heaved open, the sexy surfer dude's likely new owners were unveiled to him, just as their new playtoy was unveiled to them. If this airhead slave cunt's anxieties mattered, we might consider that this is a far bigger deal to him than it is to them. Ever since he found out Sharkey's intention to sell him on, Jordon has quite naturally feared the worst. After months of raging against the cruelty of Sharkey, of despising the man who has robbed him of his life, Jordon was even driven yesterday to beg the brute to let him stay. Sharkey is, if nothing else, the devil Jordon knows. He does not even struggle against the word now when he addresses Sharkey as 'master' -- it seems to come naturally. We cannot know for sure what our poor hunky Jordy bitch thinks when the two Cardinals are unveiled to him. We'll assume he believes it is the elder Mortimer who has come to claim him, as Jordon wouldn't have the imagination to think some creepy little emo-kinda boy would be a threat. We'll posit too that when he sees Corin, he takes him to be some existing concubine of the older man. A stranger looking at this pair would not take them for father and son. Jordon would be - and is - mistaken to go by appearances, but this pair, at least, do not match up with the worst of his nightmares about who might come here to claim him. No eyepatches, no hooks for hands, no bloodstained aprons. Perhaps these are stupid criteria, but a desperate Jordon welcomes the lack of overt threat. Neither do they look like the other vague 'type' of bad guy that he's picked up from half-watched television - nothing like Hussein or bin Laden. He can't say anything, a polished golden ball gag stuffs his mouth, but his eyes widen just a little when it is the small kohl-eyed Corin who takes an eager step foward to get a good look at him. "Oh boy" Corin says in amazement, "It was one thing to see it in pictures, but this is really something else..." He rests a hand on one of Jordon's pectorals, gives it a good squeeze like he's checking this is real and not some crazy hologram. He darts around behind the captured dude and does the same with one of his awesome phat butt cheeks. (Corin once spent a fun-filled two minutes trying to explain to him the difference between a phat ass and a fat ass. Never again) "... he looks so fucking like my Nate Lusher. It's like it's surfer-Nate or something. I tell ya what, too, I think his ass is even better than Nate's was. Do you mind if... ?" "Course not" says Sharkey, and Corin pulls down the speedo over the back of Jordon's butt to really admire them ass cheeks. Admire with two fucking cupped hands, that is. Then he snaps the speedo back up in place. "Sweet!" He moves back round the front, reaching out to have a feel of Jordy boy's hair. "Hmm, Nate never grew his hair like this. I quite like it -- couple a months though, I might trim it back to Nate's length just to see. Nate would never have gone for these cute tats either, he was kinda whitebread." Corin takes his place between Mortimer and Sharkey again, back in the optimal viewing position. "I gotta have him, that's for sure. Can we take him upstairs, give him a spin?" ---------- In the end it is Ramon's mouth and face that catch the cum and as it erupts from Rob's cock. Still sat there on his knees side by side with Ramon, Cooper is left feeling surplus to requirements. Rob barely notices, laying a hand on Ramon's swollen face and rubbing the jizz in all over as Ramon lets out a shivering gasp as his extremely tender wounds are fondled. "Might even make you feel better," Rob chuckles uneasily, "A big load of creamy ointment for your scars, huh?" His unease comes from the fact that, having now unleashed his load, he's belatedly worried that he may have overstepped the mark with Sharkey. Rob and the other guys have been so used to pretty much having free rein as far as Sharkey's trophies are concerned, it's a struggle to keep reminding himself that the boss has some kind of special affection for this one, is much more strict about what they can and can't do with him. It always amuses Rob how seethingly angry Gregory gets about that, when they're able to talk well outside of Sharkey's earshot - and outside of his domestic surveillance too. Rob knows Gregory was struggling to contain his blistering envy tonight, watching that old guy Mortimer Cardinal take Ramon down in the boxing ring. Rob himself can't really work out what it is with Gregory's burning desire to do Ramon some harm. Sure, Gregory's kind of a psycho, that's why Mr Sharkey has him on the payroll. Better working for him than anyone else. But Ramon himself is so unthreatening, so eager to please these men - and Rob has to admit, such a cute guy - that the obsession Gregory quietly nurses over not being able to do what he wants with the boy seems way overblown. He figures Gregory just doesn't like being told what to do. Plus, he can't imagine that Gregory ever feels any kind of sympathy for these guys. Whereas Rob now, looking at Ramon, the kid's battered face now slick with his own rubbed-in jizz, feels a trace of guilt at taking advantage. He can understand why it is that Sharkey concerns himself more with looking after this beautiful young man than enforcing his usual cruel rule over him. Cooper lips curls a little, contemptuously. It doesn't escape his notice that Rob is looking at this busted-up slaveboy slut with so much affection. As if it isn't bad enough that the punchbag fairy has just stolen his special moment with the guy. He volunteers: "You want to... go again, Robby baby? My mouth's still waiting for some of that good stuff, you know." But Rob is zipping up quite emphatically. "Sorry, Coop, I've shot my fuckin bolt now, and I gotta get back to work. Sorry, er, I guess things got a little carried away with themselves, huh? Next time, I guess." Cooper frowns childishly. It'll probably be months before they even meet again, it only ever happens occasionally. Meanwhile Rob is helping a shaky Ramon up from the floor, then lifts him up and carries him back to the long couch, setting him back down. Oh well. Sharkey will probably be okay with it, he thinks. Maybe not so much if it was Gregory who had taken advantage, but as it's Rob it'll be okay. "Maybe get some sleep, huh?" he says, even kissing Ramon on the forehead. "You'll be fine, kiddo. You'll heal fine." Ramon nods appreciatively, and dizzily, letting his heavy eyelids fall. Soon after that, he's dimly aware of the sound of Rob and Cooper leaving the room. He takes obscure comfort from the smell of cum soaked into his face. Rob thought he was joking about it being an ointment, and awkwardly at that, but in fact he was right - the smell and the feel of it is a balm to Ramon, a reminder of who he is. He welcomes its presence, the reminder that men want and desire him just as he needs to serve them. Just as this comforting scent has him drifting off almost contentedly, a smack to the side of his hurting face rudely reawakens him. He sees it is Cooper, who has apparently snuck back right back in here after he separated from Rob. " 'You'll be fine, you'll heal'," Cooper mimics with snarling sarcasm. "Don't you fucking believe that for one second, you dirty little slut." This guy has really dropped his cheery hairdresser chatter now. He grabs a hold of Ramon's hair for emphasis. "Listen to me: you think Mr Sharkey has some special feeling about you? What, you maybe think he's in love with you or something? That you're special and different and that he's going to take care of you? Sure, I heard the story of how he got hold of you. He was your big knight in shining armor wasn't he, rescuing you from Mr Alexander and his deal to sell you on to that creepy Bertoldt guy? So you probably think he's your big, strong saviour..." Like any hairdresser, though, Cooper appears to have free and easy access to every morsel of gossip there is going. And considering his client list, that's a whole FBI dossier worth of gossip just sitting under his tousled, somewhat overdone blond mop. "... well, he isn't. He's just another goddamn ogre that's caught you up in his clutches. You know how many guys like you I see day by day in my work? And do you know how many stay with their masters longer than a few years? Zero. I've seen 'em like you before, getting ideas above their station, like they're something special. And I've seen what happens to them in the end. Oh, maybe they don't end up on Bertoldt's operating table, or any of those fucking nightmare places a slut like you can finish up. Maybe they don't end up six feet under or helping prop up the foundations of some building. But sure enough, one by one, they end up moving on to an owner who doesn't think they're so fucking special. And that's what's gonna happen to you in the end, Ramon Reis, mark my words. Yeah, you can think you're real clever, stealing that fucking blowjob off Rob when he and I were meant to be alone together. Think you're so irresistible, shaking your hot little ass for him, even when it's a fucking bruised up ass and all. But don't imagine you're anything special to Mr Sharkey. I've lost count of the amount of oh-so-fuckin-sweet boys like you he's worked his way through. You'll disappoint him in the end, or he'll get tired of you. And then honey... you are doomed." Cooper lets go of Ramon's hair, gives his head a little shove aside. "Fuck you" he adds, before storming out. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Meanwhile Jordon is released from his bonds and led to the elevator, with Chet and Gregory taking an arm each. The ball gag stays in the ex surfer dude's mouth for now, due to Jordy's irritating habit of gabbling pleas for help to every complete stranger he meets in here, like he can't get it through his pretty but air-filled head that anyone he meets in Sharkey's house is almost certain to be fairly well appraised of his situation already, and unlikely to be of any great help to him. So in silence he rides the elevator with these other guys. Corin, leaning against one mirrored wall with his arms folded in front of him, checks Jordy up and down with an unrestrained, greedy expression. When Jordon catches his eye, perhaps hoping to shame him, it is Corin who holds a defiant, entitled stare the longest until Jordy is the one who blinks first and has to look away. Outside of the elevator, the heavies keep hold of Jordon for now. "So... er... maybe we should talk" Corin suggests, not having gone through this experience before in quite such a mercenary way. Generally speaking, he tends to already know dudes in some way before he begins the process of making them his. "Can I take out the gag?" he asks Sharkey. "Feel free" Sharkey smiles. "Hey, unless you find any problems with him here, he's already your property." Corin nods happily, reaching out to unfasten the gag at the back. He does this so often in his life that he's quick and accomplished at it, the way a real womanizer can reach round the back and get a bra off real easy. Corin likes to think his particular skill is more important than that. Certainly it's more useful to him. The gag comes out, and while Jordon releases a slurred protesting noise, a loud kind of sigh with a mix of vowels, this seems to be more the after-effect of some earlier attempt to protest against the gag - like the words got stuck to it and have oozed out in an indistinct jumble now the stopper has been released. After this mild exclamation, Jordon for a change says nothing. His O-shaped mouth takes a while to close - actually it doesn't close completely, lending him slack-jawed sort of look - and he appears puzzled and frustrated as he stares at Corin. Sometimes Jordon's face can look as dumb as a fucking stump. This is one of those times. It's like he's one of the jock guys at Corin's old school, the ones who didn't yet know who his dad was, didn't yet know to fear him, who would look in disbelief at his makeup like they simply couldn't add up the twin facts of a guy's face and the application of cosmetics. "You're cute," Corin offers, surprisingly plaintively. "Yeah? You look like a... like a lady!!" Jordon responds, adding some venom into the latter part of this rather poor attempt at an insult. Corin purses his lips, makes an amused "pffffft!" sound. "A 'lady'? Right, well I guess you better call me Madam-Ouch-That-Really-Hurt-My-Fucking-Nuts then" Jordon's brow furrows the more. Eventually he asks "Why?" Corin cackles. "Oh man, really? You can't work out what's coming next?" The loud "OOOOOOOF!" from Jordon is a kind of an answer. Pipsqueak though Corin is, he can put a lot of force into a kick, and he does wear some fucking heavy duty boots. Jordon's face flushes intensely pink as he struggles to double over and clutch his nuts while the goons hold him in place. Corin nods, smiling. "Okay guys, drop him on the floor, would ya?" He looks to Sharkey to check this is fine, and Sharkey agrees happily. "You'll be wanting this", he says to Corin while Jordon is released and collapses onto his knees. He hands him a remote for the slave collar, which Corin clutches eagerly, white-knuckled. Then again, the boney Corin is white knuckled at the best of times. "Oh boy, will I ever!" Corin laughs. "There's some extra controls and instructions in a briefcase there" Sharkey says quietly to Mortimer. "So you won't be relying on just the one unit." "That's fortunate," Mortimer nods, "My son has a habit of losing these little gizmoes." He allows himself a little smirk. "He has a habit of losing these catamite boys, too, come to think of it." Sharkey grins easily. "Well, they're easily replaced. Perhaps I'll have some repeat customers in you two, huh?" "Hey, mister, if you're ever planning to ditch that cute Ramon guy, you just give me a call." Sharkey smiles darkly, doesn't answer. Meanwhile Mortimer shakes his head at Corin's remarkable lack of business nous. Corin sinks onto his haunches, yanks at Jordy's copious golden hair to hold his face aloft. There's all of Cooper's hard work earlier pretty much gone already. Corin's face snarls near Jordon's: "Sorry we had to get into the chore of nut-smashing so quickly, Nate --- Jordon --- hardly polite of me, I know, but you oughtta get used to the idea very quickly that this 'lady' here -- by the way, that's me I'm referring to, in case your short-term memory isn't so hot --- this 'lady' here fucking tells you what do now. And when I say now, I mean from here on in, and forever." Now he lets Jordon's hair go. "Oh, I'm Corin Cardinal, by the way." /Or Corinth Cardinal, if we're going with that version. /"Now get up, you big beefy lunk. I wanna see how effective this little gadget is at sending you back down to the floor." Corin wields the remote casually. Jordon looks at it, at Sharkey, then back to Corin. Corin snorts with laughter at the dopey expression on the hunk's broad face, "Jesus Christ, I can practically hear the two fucking cogs rubbing up against each other as he adds two and two together and waits for the result to come back to him by mail. That's right, dude - the conclusion that you're struggling to come to? That me holding this gizmo in my hand? That you're using to seeing in this hot older guy's hand? Means that I'm calling the shots for you now? Well, that's the right conclusion, so add another frickin' gold star to your chest, huh? What do those star tats mean anyway - one for each of your IQ points? Oh, and at the risk of repeating myself, dickwad, get the FUCK up off the floor now." A still bewildered Jordon struggles to his feet. Unencumbered for now by the restraining hands of Sharkey's minions, he struggles through the usual cursory impulse to attempt escape, to try fighting back in some way. But he's learnt by now - yeah, even this dumbass - that there will be no point, and that it will hurt. Especially with this nasty little makeup dude ready to push that fucking button. Jordy keeps his eyes focussed on that, jaw slack and brow furrowed fearfully. "You... you don't need to press that control, man," he offers, coughing a little as the heinous throbbing in his balls continues. "Look, I'm up. Okay? I'm up?" His eyes dart to Sharkey again, like he still can't believe this switch in the line of command. Sharkey at least looks like the kind of brutal nut you wouldn't want to mess with, even if you met and you weren't in situation where he'd loaded the decks beforehand with henchmen and plots and electric shock necklaces. But Corin looks like some dork he'd have made fun of at his old school. Not bullied - Jordon was never a bully - but made fun of for acting so frigging weird. Like one of those "little monsters", he figures. In this he's right, but not for the reasons he thinks. "I'm up" he repeats sullenly, tearing his eyes off his usual mas... off Sharkey and looking at Corin with a pout. "So you are" Corin smiles. "Nice to be able to talk in a civilised way, ain't it. Now excuse me for just one moment while I see you fucking collapse back to the floor again" He depresses the button gently, adding pressure bit by bit. Jordon shrieks out as the collar activate, He instinctively reaches for it by finds the pain increasing in throbbing waves as he does so. Then he loses control of his spasming arms altogether, is aware of sinking to his knees again though a miasma of agony. He sees stars spinning around him until finally the gushing torrent of shocks comes to an end, and slowly the stars clear, dance off into the distance. Jordon finds he has a forearm crushed beneath his chest, that he is drooling into a rapidly swelling puddle on the mat. Corin is behind him now; he seems to have twisted round in his jerking dance to the floor. "Fuck yeah!" Corin grins with relish. "Hold this one moment, dad." His father takes the control appreciatively, nodding as he handles it like a connoiseur of handy torture devices. "My pleasure, son. You won't mind, I'm sure, if I have a little try?" Mortimer presses the button a couple of times himself, causing Jordon a couple more bouts of limb-twisting suffering. The surfer thrashes about, making deep whooping cries as Mortimer experimentally pushes the control for different periods of times, and at different leves of intensity. "I should warn you," Sharkey mentions politely, between surfboy screams, "that at about three-quarters intensity, this meathead is liable to pass out, so if you'd rather he stayed with us for now, I'd be wary of pushing it that far." Mortimer nods, like he's considering trying this out regardless. "You know, Mr Sharkey, for the first time in my son's young life, I am extremely tempted to play with one of his toys..." Mortimer's pleasant demeanor quickly curdles when he notices what his son is doing. Corin is unbuttoning his flies and taking out his cock. It's about half-mast, but throbbing away like it intends to go a lot further, and so fucking huge even at this stage that you wonder how it ever packed away into his skintight black jeans at all. "Cool stuff ain't it, pop. All that punishment, and I hadn't even turned the dial up a third of the way!" "Son," Mortimer chides. "Son, must you?" Corin looks genuinely puzzled. "Huh?" Mortimer gestures towards Corin's frankly recalcitrant boner. "Your... ah... must you? Really?" Corin chuckles, rolls his eyes. "Haha! oh man, pop, don't be so uptight! I'm sure our host here don't mind, do you mister?" Sharkey shakes his head, still looking at Jordon's suffering with a joyful glint in his eye. He doesn't mind at all. "Go for it, kid. I'm tempted myself." Sharkey rests a hand on the inflating package of his own crotch. Mortimer makes a 'no no no' waving sort of gesture with one hand. He blusters: "Now, please. I'm used to my son's uncontrollable perversity, not happy with it, but used to it. But let's the rest of us please keep our pants on while we conclude this transaction. Yes?" Corin looks at Sharkey with a knowing grin, shakes his head. Sharkey allows himself a smile back. The oddly matched pair are becoming conspiratorial in the glare of Mortimer's uptight prissiness. Also, the sheer size of Corin's cock makes Sharkey, in some primal man way, respect him the more. No wonder this little guy has such confidence. Sharkey thinks suddenly of Pilce, because Pilce is about the same scrawny size as Corin. Thinks that Corin's huge dick must be about ten times the size of Pilce's minuscule rat cock. Almost worth waking the little shit from his forty winks to show him. Maybe not now, he thinks, watching as Mortimer continues to flush purple with social discomfort. "Hey, pop, if you can watch a hot dude like this fucking writhing around his sexy muscle body --- in nothing but a pair of little tiny speedos! -- and not get fucking turned on like craaaaaazy, the you're a better man than me - no, fuck that, you're a more fuckin' boring man than me!" Mortimer tsks. "As I say, perverse." The thing is, though, Mortimer is quite happy to enjoy Jordon's anguish along with the other guys, right up until the point where anyone points out the pleasure here is erotic. Then he digs in his heels, denies all knowledge. He's like that with his enemies back home too. Old guy just can't let go and enjoy himself. Well not himself. Enjoy Jordon, wriggling like the helpless boy toy he is. --------------- Now, Cooper may be pretty quick-tempered when unexpectedly thwarted in some short-term aim, but he's not by his nature a vicious or evil kind of guy. Okay, he's shallow and apathetic, and roused easily to dramatic anger, probably as a result of watching so many confrontational reality shows. But he isn't really a bad person. If he could help these poor guys like Ramon, sure, he would, but then again if he could end war or pay off the national debt, he would do that too. The point is that he can't, and so it isn't worth him worrying about. Having coveted Rob Garrett's cock, been all ready to take it into his mouth and swallow its load, and then having found said load diverted abruptly away from him --- well, Cooper got pretty steamed, pretty quickly. He lashed out at the helpless Ramon, and felt a lot better for it. But only for a couple of minutes. Then he realised how totally out of whack his vicious, murderous words were in comparison with the minor-league wrong Ramon had done him. Then he ran straight back in to where Ramon was resting to apologise. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart," he gabbled, "I didn't mean that at all. That was so fuckin' mean of me - I-I'm sure you're going to be okay. Maybe -- maybe I'm wrong about Mr Sharkey, he sure seems to like you. I don't blame him either, honey, you are gorgeous -- and you will be again, okay, once all this heals up. Right as rain. Sorry, sweetheart, I was just angry, that's all" Ramon accepted his apology and the penitent hairdresser smiled sympathetically and left, feeling the better for clearing his conscience. Unfortunately, this has not left Ramon feeling any better. Not at all. Cooper's stinging words earlier were far more convincing than the fumbled happy talk that accompanied his apology. That strange sense of contentment Ramon had found himself sinking into earlier seems to have been pulled away from beneath him like a rug. It still - even now, even now as he aches - turns Ramon on to think of the way his master simply allowed him to be used as that old bastard's punching bag. He revels in being powerless against Sharkey's whims, he loves -- love is too mild a word for it --- he passionately lusts for the opportunity to show his master how obedient he is, how he will do anything for him. But it turns the blood in his veins to ice each time he considers for a moment that his efforts may not finally be enough, that the final whim of Sharkey's he will have to endure, some time in the future, will be a devastating one. His brother. His brother Luis, who Sharkey sent off to his death in Ramon's place. Part of his deal with the sinister Bertoldt. Sharkey has never shown the slightest hint of regret at what he did. The truly twisted thing, perhaps, is that Ramon does not want him to. He'd lose his awe and respect for Sharkey if he showed a glimpse of that kind of compassion. He wants Sharkey to be unassailable, like granite. He wants the man to be power personified. It even arouses Ramon to think about his brother, to remember Luis's smile and cockiness, the happy days they shared together, and then his eventual cruelty. It arouses him to remember that, and the slightly older face so much like his, and then think of how casually Sharkey trampled that young man underfoot in pursuit of his wish to keep Ramon for himself. Yes, Cooper's words have left Ramon sick with terror. But still he holds on to this treacherous, throbbing boner of his, because the terror itself electrifies it rigid. ------------------------------------------- "I can see the differences now" muses Corin as a miserable pouting Jordon kneels on the floor and he circles slowly around him. "You look a lot like my Nate - near-identical, it's freaky. Near enough the same body too, except the tats, like I say. But the same body with some whole other guy living in it. Your voice, dude, that isn't the same as Nate's" "Who...who is this guy?" Jordon mutters irritably. "Who's Nate?" "Who indeed!" Mortimer snorts. "Some lunkheaded youngster with whom my son developed an infatuation. An infatuation he'd have long gotten out of his system if the juvenile in question hadn't got himself abruptly offed." Jordy doesn't find this particularly reassuring. Doesn't ask any more. "You like football, man?" Corin asks, standing in front of Jordy and continuing to stroke up and down his cock. "Hate it" Jordon mutters. He winces, wondering if that was the wrong answer. Cuz Corin has one set of fingers moving up and down his cock, but the others gently stroking the control pad, just with not quite enough pressure to activate. "Nate Lusher was a linebacker" Corin nods, to no-one in particular. Jordon can't help but perform a why-the-fuck-should-I-care kind of shrug. Corin doesn't notice. "Oh well, fuck Nate. I never liked football either. Not a sexy hobby like your surfing, is it" "Surfing's not a hobby" Jordon insists with sudden forcefulness. "It's a way of life." He sets his jaw, and it trembles with feeling. "Hah! Maybe so, prettyboy. But it ain't your way of life any more. We've given you quite a different one, Mr Sharkey here, and now me and my pop. You see this big fucking monster dick waving around in your face? Not that you can really miss it. Well that's your way of life now. That's the fuckin' board you're gonna be riding from now on!" Jordy's jaw continues to tremble, and his eyes sparkle with tears. "P.. please..." he mewls quietly, "I-I just want to stay here with Mr Sharkey..." Sharkey lets out what sounds like a purr, rumbling from deep within his chest, beneath his folded muscular arms. Corin raises an eyebrow. "I kind of had the impression he wasn't so happy about being here with you, mister. Seems pretty keen on it now." "Oh, that" Sharkey says proudly. "Don't worry about it. I just broke him. That's all." Corin likes the sound of this. "Oh yeah?" Sharkey shrugs off his glorious accomplishment. "I think they call it Stockholm Syndrome. Smartarses do anyway. Me, I call it a little asshole knowing his place. He's been here a while now, the dumb fucker's got used to this as his home. Sure, he thinks he resents me, but I'm what he's accustomed to now. "But now there's you, lad - a whole new master to get used to - getting trained up to fit in with what you want, finding out what floats your boat, what he can best do to avoid you getting angry at him -- it's a whole new set of rules for him to learn... "Plus," Sharkey can't help adding. "He looks at me, he sees a natural master. He won't admit it, but he knows a guy like him belongs to a man like me. I deserve to own him, and it is his place to be owned. "You, kid... well, I don't think he looks at you and thinks this a guy who should be lording it over him." "Yeah?" Corin hisses at this challenge, "Well, we're gonna get that fixed pretty fucking quickly, ain't we!" At this, he jams the control down - Sharkey expected as much, it's always so easy to push these adolescents' buttons - and Jordon cries out and is sent wriggling to the floor again. "I'm fuckin Corin Cardinal, bitch - and if you think that's nothing to be scared of, try hitting up that lookalike of yours and asking how getting in my way worked out for him!" Even if the details of this Corin's life are different from the those of the villainous Corinth in the superhero movie, I think we can take it as read, in any version, that this is a mean-spirited interpretation of the innocent Nate Lusher's demise. Still. It seems to do the trick with Jordon. Or that might just be the sheer voltage coursing through the squirming faggot. Either way. Mortimer, meanwhile, is glad to see that this replacement plan of his seems to have done the trick - instead of his lamentable girlish pining the for the lost Nate, Corin seems to have taken all that obsession out of its itchy, futile limbo and directed it at this new hunky homo instead. Shouldn't be long before he's got the whole thing out of his system. Mind you, Mortimer has been reassuring himself with variations on this idea since Corin was about eleven. --------------------- Corin announces that he and his dad have brought a little something along for Sharkey - "Nothing big" he assures, "Just a little something to show our appreciation for services rendered and such. Kind of a novelty really -- a little variation on the usual hardware. Dad, would you get the box out of your briefcase?" Mortimer agrees, grumbling. Such an oversight not to bring one of his henchmen along - he's not used to doing these menial tasks himself. When he mutters as much to his son, Corin giggles: "Jeez pop, look at this place - don't ya think it's fuckin' rife enough with henchmen as it is? Any more and I think we'd be over the goddamn henching limit. We might explode the fucking henchiverse." "Don't give me that nonsensical sass" Mortimer snorts as he rummages around in his case. "Ah, here it is." He takes out a red metal box, about the size of a watch container, hands it over to Corin. "Politeness costs nothing" he grunts when Corin fails to offer any noticeable gratitude. "Oh, now there's a gem," Corin tuts, "Where'd you get that one? Your hours of reading Nietzsche? That seance you did with Aleister Crowley? Or did you read it in Ann Landers?" "Again, Corin. Sass." "Don't mind my pop" Corin says to Sharkey as he pops the lid off the box. "I guess he just forgets sometimes that he didn't get where he is by observing prop-ah etiquette" It's unclear with the accent Corin's attempting here is upper class British or Confederate Southern, and no-one in the scene is inclined to ask. Corin takes out the contents of the box. "Here we go, a little something we been working on as a hobby - ohhh, so sorry dude, not a hobby -- a way of freakin' life, right? Haha!" He lifts up a pair of gloves, made of some very fine material, like lace. They sparkle, being studded liberally with what look like dozens of tiny teardrop rubies. Sharkey raises an eyebrow. "Hmm. I appreciate the sentiment, sunshine, but they don't exactly look like they'd suit me." "Or anyone who's not a drag queen" Mortimer adds sharply. He thinks back to that Ramon fruit, tottering around in those high heels. Disgraceful. Corin shrugs. "Yah, but you know, perfect for a 'lady' like me. Huh, Jordy bitch?" Poor Jordon. It seems Corin is not going to let that one go for a very long time. Goes to prove something about first impressions. "Anyway, if we can't persuade you they're, um, your color, Mr Sharkey," says Corin, slipping them on to his hands carefully, "We can at least give you a little entertainment of our own with them. Whaddya say we head back to that boxing ring of yours?" ---------------------------------------------------------------------- And so begins another scene in Sharkey's boxing ring. The third you've seen now in these movies. Just as you're noticing the recurrence of this setting - it's becoming something a homotif, I agree - a red blocky graphic starts flashing and bleeping in the bottom corner of the screen. An alert of some kind. You should probably use the remote to click on it. It'll get rid of the distraction, if nothing else. A message comes up. Same lo-fi graphics and script you've become acccustomed to on this unique technology. 'It Appears you have an interest in events in M. SHARKEY'S boxing ring. Would You like to be updated on news and offers concerning This setting?' Flashing below is the legend: 'THIS Will be at NO COST to your credit' You shrug, click 'Yes'. No reason why not. Plus I am still sitting here with you, and for what it's worth, I assure that this will be a pretty good choice. Thus selected, the box fades away. Sure enough, your purple credit bar sits there at the bottom of the screen, still fully intact. We head back into the scene. Jordon has been herded back into the ring. Under his own steam or forced by the men? We don't know, but the net result is the same. Hot ass surfer dude, stood there stupidly in that ring in his tight blue speedo. As he often does when not sure what's going to happen or what he can do about it, he reaches across his stomach, holds onto one forearm with his hand. That's his bare hand. No gloves, no boxing gear of any kind. Facing him, the tiny Corin is still fully dressed in his normal clothes. This ring makes a nice arena for display, but he's not into observing any of the rules of the sport - not even in that parodic, wilfully unfair way Sharkey does. Corin still has his cock unleashed. He's not holding it anymore, too difficult with the gloves, but its way too massive once erect to tuck away in the kind of clothes Corinth wears - and with Jordon stood there in them trunks there's no way it's becoming un-erect any time soon. So he just lets it stand there in front of him, like a branch. Hey, he's happy for everyone to see this fucking log he wields. Corin nods at his dad, who watches from just outside the ring with the collar's remote control in his hand. "Now, you see, my dad's there with the control for your little slut necklace, right? And I think he's kind of itching to see what it's full capacity is. So I wouldn't try anything -- um, well, I was gonna say smart! But I really kind of doubt that's gonna happen. Let's just say I wouldn't try anything if I were you. Period. Just you remember, boy, it's us you're going home with tonight. And we have ways of dealing with naughty, naughty boys. "So... you just be a good boy, and everything'll be fine. I mean, not fine, you're gonna get a taste of belonging to Corin Cardinal here. I gotta imprint on you the situation you're in. Ohhh boy... you're not gonna be fine at all. But just remember that all this is is playtime. Detention - that'd be something else entirely." "I'm not sure this convoluted strain of schoolyard metaphor is getting through to him" Mortimer chips in mildly. "Nor, having seen your attendance records, am I convinced you're the right person to adopt such a line of simile." "You didn't look once at may attendance records, pop." "Drat, you know me too well, son." The Cardinals enjoy a rare simultaneous grin. They're unified in their purpose here. Course, Mortimer's hard-on is largely conceptual whereas Corin's is ragingly present. But you know, there is a lust of some kind sparkling in Mortimer's eyes too. For power, for domination. He's down for that in his way. "Move that arm out of the way, boy" Corin tells Jordon. "Why?" asks the anxious hunk. "Because I'm about to punch you in the stomach. Now move it outta the way, show me what a good boy you can be" "But I.... b-but..." Jordon stutters, starting to move his arm, then stopping to replace it, then moving it away again. He continues this indecision and the arm stays hovering at some bizarre halfway point, held out slightly in front of him in an unnatural sort of position. "no" Jordon says in a small voice. "I mean... please. Please don't." He looks over to Mortimer, all ready with the remote, daring the surfer dude to give him a reason to use it. "please?" Jordon begs again. "Nice," Corin says. "Nice begging work. It'd melt my heart - if I wasn't a grade-A totally mean son of a bitch, that is. Move the arm now, you sexy whore." Jordon's face crumples a little and he bites his bottom lip as he struggles to keep tears from his eyes. "That's a good boy" Corin nods, "I like it when a nice big, strapping boy like you does just as he's told. I think they call it... hey dad, what's that word? When someone does something, like, makes an offering, and it makes the other guy less angry and vengeful?" "I think you mean 'placates', son," Mortimer says. "And once again those school fees pay dividends." "That's it. I like it when a nice big boy like you does as he's told. Tries to placate me. Really it should stop me wanting to do this to you, and yet-" He takes a step forward. He reaches out to lay a gloved hand in the centre of Jordon's pectorals, supporting Corin's weight. Jordon flinches but doesn't feel anything out of the ordinary when the weird glinting glove presses against his buff chest cleavage. He lets out a pussy kind of nervous sigh. "... well, the thing is, I still just can't wait to land this punch on you. Weird, huh? I mean look at my boner. It's practically fucking leaking just in anticipation. So, you ready, boy? Cuz here we go-" Jordon has only just started tentative efforts to convince himself that, vicious though this little weakling might be, he does not have the physical strength of Sharkey, can't pound him the way that man does. Did. Yeah, he can use this hateful collar to hurt Jordon, do any number of other cheating, cowardly things to keep him under control, but for this moment, here in the ring, Corin is not the threat Sharkey was. Idiot. Corin throws his balled fist into Jordon's abs. The little ruby-looking studs in the glove light up on impact and the glove roars with a huge electronic beeping sort of roar - like a noise from an old 8-bit videogame. Of course, this BRRROOOP!!!! noise combined with a bass fuzz is merely illustrative - albeit it does create a resounding impression that poor Jordon is the unfortunate starring character in some arcade beat-em-up where the only "em" is him. What the glove actually does is deliver a stunning shock to Jordon's midriff, but clutching his body in every direction outwards from there, very much like the shock from the slave collar from around his neck. An adaptation of the same technology, in a pleasingly visceral form that suits Corin's delight in loud noises and flashing lights. "See that, Mr Sharkey?" Corin asks, and from outside the ring Sharkey nods. "Not bad, kid, not bad." "I think it's awesome, now we've got it working properly. At one point all it did was give the subject a particularly stimulating massage, huh pop?" Mortimer shakes his head. "Must you keep mentioning that confounded prototype?" Corin turns his attentions back to the doubled over and wobbling Jordon. "But this, man -- every fucking hit you make, it feels like you just won the jackpot. Watch this..." He takes a few steps around the unsteady Jordon, aims a fist again. "Here we go, dude, big fucking punch in the asshole!" Corin delivers exactly what he promises, sending a blow into the centre of Jordon' amazing ass cheeks that resounds with the same satisfying electronic crunch. Jordon screams, a real high-pitch girl's scream as his body goes bolt upright again, before catapulting forward, landing on all fours. He spasms a couple more times, sobbing. "Whoah man, looks like I might've caught you on the prostate there, huh? You sure are sensssistive!" "Uhhhh.... ohh...please man... no more" Jordon whimpers as he struggles to rise a couple of times, finds his limbs sinking under him like he's in quicksand. "Hey, you're just lucky I ain't lettin' my pop there loose on you," Corin chuckles, "He's already smashed up one hot guy in this ring tonight. Think he might be getting his old mojo back!" "It never deserted me, son" says Mortimer, forgetting for once to claim ignorance of Corin's 'modern' phrases. He pats his stomach. "But after that meal, I think not." Jordon curls slowly but surely into a pitiful ball. Corin observes this in satisfaction. "Don't be a wuss about this, dude. I ain't about to turn you into ground meat like that fucker over there -" He points over to the far side of the room, where Daniel Pilce is lying in a heap like something that's simply been swept into the corner. It's a pointless gesture so far as illustrating a point to Jordon goes, because from where he is, he can't see the pulped Pilce anyway. "- I'm just having a little fun with my new toy." Whether Corin is referring to the electrode gloves or Jordon himself... ? "C'mon, dude, get up for another. Take your medicine." Jordon, clutching variously at his stomach and his ass, shakes his head slowly, but it's more an expression of disbelief than defiance, and he gradually makes moves to get back to his feet. "Please man... please stop now..." He shuffles himself over to the ropes so he has something to grasp to pull himself up. He finds it difficult to clutch at them, his hands becoming vague to him somehow, but struggles on. "Come on, man, Iet's get this show on the road," Corin goads, "I think this time I'm gonna get couple of jabs in at them pecs of yours. See how you like that, huh?" The tormented Jordon lets out a long and anguished whine. "Uhhh...huuuu... oh shit dude... c'mon pleah... please..." "Lean against them ropes if you need to, sweetheart" Corin says generously, "I only need you propped up long enough to send you down again" "uuuhhh...fuckinbastard..." Jordon sobs. "You got that right. Guess it's sinking in. Nearly there, babe, nearly there. Get them nice tits of yours all flexed for me... sooner you do it, the sooner it's over" A moaning Jordon does as he is told, eyes on Corin's evil little red gloves. Definitely not a good idea to mention that they, too, look like something a lady would wear. His hands reach automatically for his chest to protect it, but he forces them away with a gulping sob, reaching out to grab loosely onto the ropes. Corin approaches, stroking the dangling blond hair away from Jordon's handsome face. "Oohhhh man, you're a real fuckin' prize all right," Corin snarls, taking a hold of the hunk's face in his hands. There are no studs on the palm sides of the gloves, so no punishing shock comes from this. Plus they're fine enough that he can totally feel Jordon's majestic jawline on either side through them. "You know, it's been bothering me for so long that I never got to give Nate some of this... you ready, dude? Huh? You ready?" Pitifully, Jordon nods. Corin reaches back with both hands, then savagely sends his fists flying into Jordon's bunched pectorals. A double BBBRRRA-DUNCH!!!!! from the electro-gloves and Jordy cries out, his neck snapping back and then forward. He flings his flailing arms towards his chest and sinks down to the mat again. Corin holds his hands up in front of him, flexing his fingers. "Boy, this is tough on the knuckles. I don't think could manage being a tough guy." "No" Mortimer deadpans. As Jordon's gorgeous hunk body continues to squirm and shudder at his feet, Corin enjoys another benefit of the gloves - they allow him to stroke safely up and down the shaft of his cock. "Fuck..." Corin gasps, getting kind of dizzy with lust, "Fuck yeah... tell you what, stud... you peel off them speedos for me now, huh? And make... kind of a show of it, won't ya?" A defeated Jordon obeys. There's really need for Corin's last instruction - there's no way that this writhing hunk struggling to pull down and remove his trunks as he lays down there on his side could fail to be an awesome display. Corin licks his lips as that beautiful ass loses its last fig leaf of protection. Jordy's dick flops out, nice and chubby. He's been cleanly shaved down there earlier today. Waxed anus and all. He scrunches into a fetal position as he drags the little trunks down his legs, off his surprisingly small-looking feet. "Unnnngh... fuck man, I am gonna plow that ass over and over and over" hisses Corin. He's up on his tiptoes as he continues to stroke his mighty and rock hard cock. "Just have to make sure I don't blow my load every time... softening you up... Mr Sharkey was right... there's something about you... makes you really fun to smack around... think it's the way that big dumb face of yours... always looks so surprised... ooohhhh fuck dude, but you are soooooo gorgeous... ahhhh... fuckyeahhh...." Corin plants one of his boots heavily on Jordy's ribs, aiming his cum-chucking cock as best he can over Jordy's shoulders and his face. Ribbons of Corin's jizz rain down on the chunky beauty's prone and shivering bod, splashing over his arms and shoulders and chest - oh yeah, and there goes a good blob hitting his eyelid like a bullseye. Corin grinds his boot over Jordon as the cum continues to squirt outta him. One jet misses its target wildly, shooting right outta the ring. But its sequel splats happily against Jordon's mouth and chin. "Phewwwww!" Corin sighs, gratified as the jizz ebbs away from his still convulsing cock head. He peels off the gloves - "Let's not get these things all sploogey, they're a nightmare to dry clean" - and drops them aside for now, so he can enjoy stroking his slick afterglow cock. "Now let's see you get a good tongueful of that cream all swallowed down," he tells Jordon. "Kind of a big deal, really - that's what your future tastes like!" Jordon hesitates just long enough for Corin to get impatient and stomp his ribs a couple of times, then, coughing, he gulps that splooge down like milkshake. "That's it, babe." Corin looks up at his dad and Sharkey. "Well, I guess that pretty much seals the deal, huh? I'll take one to go!" ---------------------- Daniel Pilce, beaten senseless by Ramon Reis - who'd have thought Ramon would have that cruel streak in him? I guess we've seen hints; that look that flares in his eyes, just now and then, at the vicarious enjoyment of his masters' power - that of Sharkey, yes, but even that of the horrible Mr Alexander before him. Ramon had been glad, thrilled even, to see his brother Luis brought under Alexander's control. So long ago now, it seems. Anyway, it is Ramon who is responsible for Pilce's current fugue - the maelstrom of nightmares and the long, strained and ultimately botched attempts at returning to consciousness. There are scattered moments when Pilce's eyes manage to open - his one good eye, anyway, for like Ramon himself he has been left with the other swollen shut. In these moments the world seems too bright - not like the underground darkness to which he has become accustomed. The world above seems crazy and hallucinatory, he longs in his bones to be taken back where he belongs. Back where he belongs. Without putting it into so many words in his head, this is how he thinks of his subterranean prison. Another one Sharkey has managed to cast in the role of his choosing. In one of the moments when his eye flickers open, he is unsurprised to see another collision of his wretched dreams with his reality. Leaving this baleful room with the boxing ring, clear as crystal, sharp for a moment as high-def; there goes cartoon hero Lunar Surf Guy, and he is in handcuffs, led away by his triumphant anime-style enemy Narrly Emo Dude. Lunar Surf Guy leaves Pilce's dreams permanently after that night. And Pilce sinks, further and deeper. ------------ Oh, you want to know what becomes of Jordon? Well, he doesn't fare so badly in the end. /Particularly - let's choose this one - in the Sol Casali version of events. Here we see the chattel Jordon migrate over into the larger than life world of Mortimus and Corinth Cardinal. Into the lush hugeness of a big-budget movie, and all its fanciful vistas of magic and color. Led into Corinth's familiar penthouse where we've seen the little fiend toying with Dean Demeter, Chase Phaeder, Brett Dillinger, Devin Trasseno, Chuck Felix... just add Jordon Lunar to that list. The waxing of his anus is much appreciated by Corinth that first night. It's a long while before Corinth Cardinal tires of his new toy, so for a good few months getting those gloves out and using them on Jordon replaces playing videogames as his favorite thing to do when he's doing nothing. Pow! Zapppp! Man, it's satisfying. And naturally Jordon has his asshole stuffed full of Corinth's cock over and over during those months. That's just irresistible. Corinth is soon inspired by Jordon's cute tats to get his body cluttered with a whole load more of them. On his stomach, he ends up bearing a reproduction of the yearbook picture of the deceased Nate Lusher. It ends up looking like Jordon has some weird parody picture of himself on his own stomach, which perhaps is what Corinth wants. Certainly he treats this as some obscure joke. Jordon is also branded with Corinth's name on his shoulder, written on a scroll around a cutesy plump pink cartoon love heart. Then a life-size tattoo of Corinth's erect cock and balls is inked from the small of Jordon's back upwards. That tickles Corinth no end. Mortimus is right that Corinth will eventually tire of his plaything, as he does with them all in the end. But he likes Jordon, the way he likes Chase Phaeder, so what ultimately happens is a loosening of the leash. Jordon is not sold on again, or locked away like wine in a cellar to mature and be admired without being touched. He's too dumbly lovable to be abandoned in that way. What happens is that Corinth sets him up as a surf instructor on Sol Casali's famed Platinum Coast. For a few weeks he lives under a kind of casual house arrest, but his 'bodyguards' are eventually called away and he is left to his own devices. The collar is not removed from Jordon's neck - it never will be - and it acts as a restraint. If he tries to leave the proscribed area where Corinth decrees his life must be lived, then the shock collar activates and he is crippled by pain until he shuffles back to where he ought to be. Ditto if he tries in any way to approach the center of the city, hundreds if not thousands of miles away, where the Cardinals live. He's always available for use, sexually, but lives so far off at this point that he's rarely troubled. By this time there are fresher and more conveniently available specimens about. The big tattoo of a cock on his back is hard to explain to his surf clients, as is the Corinth love heart, but many take this as some oblique joke. In this they are essentially correct, if for the wrong reasons. If we skip further on here --- way further, but you can do that with movies; only thing to bear in mind is that a sequel, made later, can often contradict a flash-forward - so nothing about this is set in stone, or celluloid: About thirteen years after Corinth Cardinal first takes receipt of Jordon Lunar, the surfer - imprisoned by this point in what he once boasted was a way of life - is attacked by a shark. This is either very ironic, or simply highly apt. He loses a good chunk of his upper leg in the attack. Corinth feels bad for the dude, has him fitted with a state-of-the-art prosthetic limb - what amounts to a slickly-functioning robot leg. So accustomed does he become to this miracle - and to the fact that it is actually more responsive and resilient than a real limb - that Jordon pleads his now kindly master to 'level it up' by replacing the other flesh and bone limb. Out of love for his estranged slave, plus curiosity, Corinth obliges. Jordon's hips need to be replaced too as part of this procedure, but he becomes a greater surfer than ever before. Too good, in fact, to simply continue on as an instructor to bored rich kids. So when he gets the prototype hover-surfboard straight from the Cardinal laboratories, when Corinth encourages him into training to become an all-new supervillain; when Jordon Lunar is reborn as The Wave to take on the Mighty Sun Surfer himself... Well, that's a whole other movie. ---------------------------------------- Ramon switches the dumb superhero movie off, flips over to another channel. He's found that the mounted screen in this lounge shows only movies made by BlueShark. The Mighty Sun Surfer series, some weird old fantasy movie from the 70s dealing with a village under siege from stop-motion giant spiders, a biopic of rapper Layne Hussky. But he can't find anything to settle on. He's trying to distract himself from the icy cold anxiety that has gripped him since Cooper's outburst, and from his urgent, unanswered wish for his master to come make him feel better. Nothing he sees here is providing him with a disraction from that, and despite the leaden weight that his wounds have brought to his body, he can no longer lull himself anywhere close to sleep. The sight of his master, when he finally appears in the doorway, eases some of the weight. Having apparently seen off the guests, and completed the deal with Jordon Lunar, Sharkey has been as quick as usual to cast off his formal attire. As he enters the room, he is stripped to the waist, still in suit trousers and shoes, looking relaxed and pleased now that the work of entertaining is over. Ramon switches off the television set, in a kind of deference to his master. It's still important that Sharkey knows he has his undivided attention. Not knowing what to say - can he really aim some accusation at his master, no matter how mild? - Ramon simply looks up in humble expectation. There's nothing in Sharkey's stride or his bearing to suggest that he's carrying any kind of remorse over what he put Ramon through tonight. "Here's my little champ," he says fondly, and Ramon is pleased enough with that. But no mention of Ramon's wounds, his swollen and battered face, not even for reassurance. Sharkey scoops Ramon up roughly in his arms. "Come on sweetheart," he grunts, "Been a long night, I'm taking you to bed." Ramon clings on eagerly, his arms around his master's neck. In spite of the morbid and terrifying thoughts he has wrangled with tonight, he feels secure in his master's arms - as secure as he has ever felt anywhere. They do not always share a bed, Ramon and his master - though, unlike the other slaves, Ramon never has to sleep in discomfort. Tonight, however, it is Sharkey's own room to which he carries his lover, and Ramon is delighted to know he can sleep by his master's side. He hopes for the protection of his master's strong arms around him, wants to hibernate in a thick shell of Sharkey's strength all night long. One thing first, though. The heels. Sharkey has thrown onto the floor in his room those six-inch heels from earlier. "I couldn't get the thought of you in these things out of mind all night," Sharkey admits, shaking his head like he can't believe this is something that really turns him on. "Even seeing our old buddy Jordon getting zapped around the ring by that kid - that's a long story, babe - all I could think of was... c'mon, boy, get them fucking heels back on." Ramon obliges eagerly as Sharkey takes off his pants. Not a suggestion here that Ramon's messed-up face and torso are offputting to Sharkey. Sharkey's as turned on as hell as the naked Ramon sits on the edge of the bed to slip the heels back on. Ramon is turned on too, partly from the suddenly reawoken sense memory of shoving that spike heel into Pilce's mouth - yeah, right after he smashed the hell out of him! Ramon has almost forgotten that triumphant rush in the shock of what followed. "Turn round" Sharkey instructs, and Ramon does so. This ain't something Sharkey is going to take his time over - and he's not any less rough with his hurting boy than he might be usually. In fact, as he bends Ramon over the bedframe at the waist, he takes one of his arms and pins it brutally against the boy's back. "Fuck! Fuck!! Holy fucking shit, yeah that's it!" Sharkey growls as he enters Ramon, jams his way inside that asshole. Ramon gasps: "Uhhhhh... oh yes master... uhhhh... fuck me! Fuck me, master!" "Grruuuu-uuuh!! You fuckin sexy little bastard! Ohhhh...grrrrrr... man, I've been fuckin you for months and months you motherfucking hot cunt! ... fuck!.... fuck!!!!.... uuuuuhhhhyeah... you still turn me on like fuckin crazy... does that hurt, boy? Does that hurt?... fuckin LIKE it though, don't you!" "Oooooohhhhyeah... oh, fucking twist me like a fucking pretzel, master... I'm your fuckboy, I wanna always be your fuckboy... pound my fucking cunthole... uhh! argh! It's all yours, Mr Shar...uhhhhh... Mr Sharkey sir..." Sharkey takes a hold of both Ramon's arms at the wrists, lets his body fold right over as he holds his arms behind his back. Ramon's battered face falls into a crumple of sheets, thudding back and forth with the brutal rhythm of Sharkey's thrusts. Helpless and pionioned as he is fucked, his head throbbing, he thinks he might pass out - thinks he wants to pass out too, in the grips of his aggressively fucking master, his tunnel filled with furious, pumping cock. Sharkey finally lets go of Ramon's arms so that he can feel his way up and down the tautness of his legs in the heels, runs his hands up and down Ramon's sleekly hard but silky skinned thighs as his fucking of the boy gets faster and faster. As he feels his orgasm thundering up on him he reaches out to take hold of Ramon under the armpits, yank him up from the bed and against his chest. Ramon reaches out backwards with both arms, interlocks his fingers blissfully behind Sharkey's sweat-slicked neck as his master pumps hot jets of his seed into him. "Ahhhhh... ahhhhhgoddammit boy... you fucking love what you do to me, don't you... uuunnnggghh... you sexy fuckin slut... mmmm... oh yeah, fucking come here, babe..." Sharkey kisses carlessly at Ramon's bruised and cut face, reaches a hand between Ramon's fattened lips so he can suck on his fingers. They lay on the bed a while after that, kissing and fondling each other's bodies until Ramon comes. Then Sharkey wraps his arms around Ramon from behind, just as Ramon had hoped. He passes at last into a long-awaited sleep with his master still petting him gently and stroking at his hair. -------------------------------------------------- Oh, Ramon is so sore the next day. Aching everywhere, he can barely move, and his face is even more swollen and his eye blacker than it was last night. There is clotted blood on his lips, which at first he finds stuck together. Still there is not a word from his master about this appalling state in which he has been left. But Sharkey's actions seem to speak louder than any words, and for most of the day the pair huddle together naked on the sofa, watching a video of the recently departed Jordon's 'edited highlights'. There sure have been some great-quality fuckings of the hot surfer in this house over recent months - Sharkey says he may yet have this stuff edited into a commercial release. It's odd the fondness with which they regard Jordon now, considering the way he was treated while he was here. Sharkey seems to have satisifed himself that Jordon received everything that was coming to him - seems happy too, to think of him right now with that little gothic boy with the huge cock, cowering in fear of a dainty pair of lady-looking gloves. "Yeah, we had some great times" Sharkey says, like they're watching footage from a summer vacation. But there's something else to see too. Sharkey plays the footage recorded last night in the small lounge room - the one where Ramon was left after the fight with Mortimer Cardinal. We see the entry of Rob and Cooper, Ramon sucking off the bodyguard, Cooper's return to furiously castigate Ramon. Sharkey laughs at the lameness of it as Cooper refers to him as 'Mister Sharkshit'. It's obvious he doesn't care in the slightest what this person, this irrelevance, says about him. We wouldn't expect him to. With Sharkey ominously silent as they view the rest of it, Ramon fears he has done something wrong. He's sat curled in too awkward a position to glance at his master without it seeming a big deal. As he doesn't know what's coming, he doesn't want to prompt a moment of confrontation. Sharkey must be able to feel his heart thudding though. Sometimes he forgets his master sees everything that happens around here, in the end. After the moment of Cooper's garbled apology and the hairdresser's second exit from the room, Sharkey switches off. That's when he takes a hold of Ramon's chin, forces his boy to turn and face him. "Okay, babe. You want me to have him taken care of?" Ramon hesitates. "Master...?" "That little dipshit there. Cooper. You want me to make him pay? Anything you think the little prick deserves as a punishment, you just name it. Anything at all." Ramon gawps. He hadn't expected this. Nor does Sharkey acknowledge the content of Cooper's outburst. Ramon knows, somehow just knows, that isn't going to happen. Eventually Ramon shakes his head softly. "No, master. No, he's... not important." Sharkey stares a little longer with menace in his eyes - menace aimed elsewhere, at the absent Cooper himself. Then it clears and he smiles. "You're right, Ramon, he's not. You're, ah, very gracious." Sharkey looks amused by this notion of grace, a novel concept for him. "And Rob? You looked happy enough about sucking on Rob's cock there, didn't you babe? Because the offer's open for him too if you weren't." Ramon pauses. Thinks it could be a trick question. Would Sharkey really take action against Rob on his say-so? He's always thought of that man, all those men, as higher in the pecking order than him. "Only if... if you think he overstepped his... er..." Sharkey smiles again. "That's a no, then. No worries, babe. You're a good guy, aren't you." He holds Ramon closer to him. Then they watch the video of Ramon's one-armed fight with Pilce. With Sharkey's last words still making him tingle happily, the sight of his own viciousness here takes him totally by surprise. "Maybe we deserve each other" Sharkey says obliquely. -------- It is a matter of a few short weeks after this that Sharkey begins a process of grooming Ramon to help him in his business. This is an entirely unprecedented move for Sharkey, but the fact is that he is coming to consider Ramon more and more a partner. Not an equal partner, of course, more like some kind of intern - but even that elevation from mere 'slave' must count as a stunning act of kindness, given Sharkey's nature. Ramon's ordeal with Mortimer Cardinal, or else his cruel demolition of Daniel Pilce, appears to have become some rite of passage. He can't be sure, because his master never specifically speaks of it, but that seems to have been the turning point for him. Something in his master's attitude to him changes from then on. Sharkey has always been filled with lust for Ramon, but now there is an increased sense of respect for him too. Ramon is told that he can now consider Pilce his own slave as much as he is Sharkey's - the little rodent is there for his use any time he likes. As for his schooling in the business - well, Ramon is not allowed to delve too much into the specifics of Sharkey's work, but he is imbued with a surperficial knowledge, the stuff on paper, the facts and figures; he's given the know-how to speak to the man's colleagues and associates on his behalf when he's not around. It's like dealing with code, a form of algebra, but Ramon gathers all that he needs to know and doesn't worry about that which he doesn't. Ultimately Sharkey wants him fit to send on the lesser business missions, the ones where it's only important to show a face and exchange some pleasantries. Sharkey remarks that Ramon, beautiful Ramon, all healed now from his wounds, will be a little more appealing on the shop floor than himself. Ramon has his doubts - about his capability, not about his own beauty - but is buoyed by his master's confidence in him, and his own eagerness to please. Ramon's hair is cut back from its usual shoulder length, and, at twenty-four years old, it's like he's growing up. It's trimmed to a tousled mop - not really short, but contained in its wildness. Once he's put into one of the suits out of the whole new array Sharkey buys him, it's like we're looking at Ramon mk II. He looks like some young go-getter - no-one would ever guess, to look at him, the kind of living arrangements he shares with Sharkey. Once in his fitted shirt and fine silk tie, only a very close observer would even see the slender wire collar around Ramon's neck. And even then, it would be taken only as a decorative item, perhaps something the stylish young men are wearing this season. Naturally, Ramon is taken for a stylish young man wherever he goes, simply because he is so fine. The 'stylishness' people sense about him is innate in his own skin. Under his suits, every time, Ramon will be wearing small and frilly panties. That is his and Sharkey's secret, the other thing that bonds him to his master. "Well, looks like my boy's a man now" Sharkey says as Ramon models one of his outfits for him. He has that tone of pride mixed with sadness we might expect of a parent watching their offspring graduate. Ramon shakes his head vehemently. The weight of the shorter haircut makes even this action look different from before. "I'll always be your boy, master" he insists. ------- It amuses Sharkey to make Ramon's first business trip a quick jaunt to a place he knows well - the home of his former owner Mr Alexander. The task at hand is simply a matter of demonstrating some products and collecting some signatures from some of the other men also down there for the weekend. It was at such a gathering that Sharkey first met Ramon, and it seems apt to send his reborn young man back. Let Alexander see how the kid had blossomed, months after he first blithely sentenced Ramon to death. Sending Ramon away also means Sharkey can devote his energies to to finalising a rather more important deal, a long time in the planning; as Ramon jets away in the private plane to South America, Sharkey and his associate Maitland Storr close their exquisite trap on the cocky action hero Roman Decker. The capture of a perfect adonis; Sharkey has been salivating for this piece of meat for a while now. The project has been on the backburner way too long. All the cruel impulses he would never enact upon Ramon --- oh man, he'll be only to happy to unleash them on Roman Decker, and so many more besides. Been a while since he had a real he-man to dethrone, and he's ready to let rip. So, that movie plays out. It is while events are unfolding as scripted, just as the cowed and defeated Roman is brought into his home, all ready for the beginning of his punishment, that Sharkey stops to listen to a message on his phone from Mr Alexander. He tells him neutrally that Ramon has arrived back safely at his old home, but adds with a hint of joking reprimand that he's now damaged goods: "I think you've spoilt him too much, Sharkey - he doesn't know his place anymore" Sharkey thinks about this a moment, shrugs it off and decides he'll give the silly jibe some thought later. Right now he's got more pressing things on his mind: Roman Decker has a date with his destiny... time for the fun to begin... (Please rewind to BlueShark Video 1-3 for a repeat viewing) ---------- Or perhaps you're in the market for something fresh. A blip at the base of the screen. A red square flashes urgently, increasing in size. In its center is an exclamation point. There's certainly no option to ignore this, so you click on it, hoping to get this irritating interruption out of the way as soon as possible. When you do so, a trailer begins, and though your first instinct is to just switch it off, the way you'd eliminate a pop-up window, the display itself seem to have stubborn ideas of its own. The trailer, as it unfolds, is a familiar one: We start with a montage of New York scenes and a voiceover: "When I was growing up," a voice informs us, slack New York kind of accent, "The best guy in the world to me was my uncle, Roman..." We see a handsome, well-built guy of about twenty, with dark hair and pale green eyes. He's got hard buff muscles you just want to reach out and squeeze. These are first glimpsed as he gets out of his bed in just a pair of shorts. We see him riding the subway in a scruffy tight-fitting T-shirt. Then scrubbing dishes in a diner. "He got me into sport, he got me working out ..." We see this guy in the gym, pumping iron. In the park, playing basketball. "He stopped me from being one of those wussy kids who got beat up ..." We see Dillon Decker, that's his name, defend his girl's honour in a fight in a bar. "Most of all, he gave me confidence." A close-up of Dillon's sultry, moody face. We pull slowly out to see a make-up lady fussing over him, lights blanching him, a guy taking his picture over and over as he poses in tighty whities, his torso glistening, his ass fucking spectacular. "If it wasn't for him, I would probably never have had it in me to quit my job at the diner. Now, can you believe it, I make my money from modelling full-time... and the perks... " We see him, shirtless again, in a bedroom. He's with a girl, unhooking her scarlet bra. We see it falling away from her elegant bare back, but we don't get a view of the front. Just Dillon Decker's cocky smile. "... the perks are spectacular." New York fades. Ominous bass drums and percussion. We see Hawaii. Aspirational scenes of the charmed life of Roman Decker. We see him eat, and flirt with the waitress in a seafood cafe. We see him jogging over the hot sands of an endless beach, torn denim shorts and nothing else. His hulking body is a wall of rippling muscles. His sweaty pectorals are mighty, his abs angular, his striding legs powerful and defined. Then in shorts and a vest he walks across a jetty with a purpose we never discover. Another clip, Roman drinks with his buddies and checks out the chicks in a bar alive with pulsing neon. He brushes off an argument with a one-night stand redhead, smirking as he leaves a motel room in the early hours. He drives his blue convertible sports car, battered and unreliable. "My uncle was my hero. He lived his life the way he wanted to. He had his share of adventures." Clips of Roman's escapades, some of them from the movie Revenge on Roman, some not. A chase on jetskis. Pulling an unconvincing prop shark from the water. A fistfight with swarthy pirates, for some reason in league with Russian spies. "And he had a way with the ladies. Hah! I guess that runs in the family!" Dillon kissing his salty New York girlfriend goodbye. Next, simple as that, stepping onto a jetty in Hawaii, shot heroically from below. Wearing shades. Holding implausibly small luggage. "But then I stopped hearing from uncle Roman. Totally. And I'm here to find out why!" But not before some gratuitous shots of him playing beach volleyball in little trunks. Plus riding in a speedboat with new friend and allies, that supple, muscular body of his soaking up the sun. Then, Dillon stepping in to his uncle Roman's gym, finding the place under new ownership. He's told by the manager, recognisable as the thug Gregory, that Roman Decker sold the premises to a new owner and left town. Unsatisfied, Dillon leaves, and Gregory stares menacingly after him. "I knew they were lying. And that meant they knew the truth about what really happened to my uncle." We see Dillon standing before a mirror. He's making a silent vow to himself, one which we can nonetheless hear in the voiceover. Close-up on his gorgeous face. His square jaw is set grimly. Pale green eyes piercing. "I'm not leaving town until I find Roman Decker. And God help anyone who gets in my way." Fade to black. But then, that bass roar goes on - the way they tell you in a trailer that something big and epic is about to happen. The muffled pounding of drums, and then, fade up again: There is Dillon. Looking mean and sweaty in harsh artifical light. No shirt on. Every inch the action hero. A wall of muscle, like his uncle. But not just that; his uncle is in fact there too. Roman Decker, the mighty fuckin' Roman, looking just as awesomely built as we remember him; and looking undefeated, ready for a fight - not like Roman as we last saw him, trapped by Mr Sharkey. To see this sight again - his awesome body, so stacked with muscle, and his face, so full of masculine defiance. It seems barely credible that you could have witnessed his defeat and humiliation earlier. Could this be his liberation? "We fuckin' take him together!" Dillon growls decisively, shoulder to massive shoulder wth his he-man uncle. The two Decker men wrap their hot bare arms loosely around other before charging at their unseen quarry, who can only be Sharkey, with a determined, primal roar. A testosterone assault. Fade out, the roar echoing and reverbing. "Playtime's over," says a voice, but so distorted by layers of sound effects, it's hard to tell whose. What is clear is the message that swoops up and fills the screen next: 'DECKER'S DESTINY: the SPECTACULAR sequel to REVENGE ON ROMAN' Then: 'ONE COPY ONLY has now come on the marketplace. TO BUY, click within TWENTY SECONDS Cost = 30% credit' The countdown begins, old-fashioned blocky digits again occupying the entire space of the screen, flashing urgently in different colors like a visual sugar rush: 20... 19... 18... That is one very rare movie, I comment. 17... The people who own a copy generally don't want to let it go. 16... It's a real exclusive. 15... At that price, I'd snap it up. 14... Up to you, of course. As the countdown reaches 10, the image of Dillon Decker reappears on the screen. A classical, monochrome godlike pose looking like it's from some majestic underwear ad. See DECKER'S DESTINY, the message prompts again. 10 SECONDS LEFT... 9 SECONDS LEFT... 8 SECONDS LEFT... 7 SECONDS LEFT... 6 SECONDS LEFT... Well, you click 'okay' of course. As greedily as Corinth Cardinal clicked 'okay' to take posession of Jordon Lunar. Some things are just impossible to pass up. You've definitely made the right choice, I assure you. Only one snag: as the movie was ordered from this machine, and on this site. That means it can only be delivered here. Sorry, but that's the protocols. And it can be sent only in the old-fashioned way, not digitally. Which means: well, our deal still goes ahead. Keep a hold of the blue key. That's yours until we're done. But - and I'm sorry for the inconvenience - we're going to have to continue this another day. How about you return here one week from now? The tape is certain to have arrived by then, and we can pick up where we left off. Reluctantly, you agree to this. There's something you want to check out online when you get home anyway, something that's been nagging at you ever since earlier in the movie - those scenes with Ramon and that sweet-looking young guy Justin Benchley. In a way, a break will give you the opportunity to gather your thoughts. And you do still have that key, comfortingly tucked in your pocket. I also hand you a parting gift. A USB device of some kind. It's like a bizarrely chunky version of a memory stick, just the way the VCR device on which we've been watching all this is like a deformed version of its familiar cousin, or the old tapes themselves are an unwieldy and asymmetric L-shape. The plug-in device, I call it the Dorsal adaptor, has the familiar BlueShark insignia on its side. This is a freebie. Might come in handy. You nod as I explain what it's for, popping it into the bag you brought. A guy leads you to your car outside. This guy is that same Rob Garrett, Sharkey's henchman from the movie. You note, in a weirdly distant kind of way, that you just saw this guy getting a blowjob from the beaten Ramon. Your stomach does a little somersault as it occurs to you that Ramon himself may be somewhere on these premises. Recovered from his battering, you'd imagine, restored to his usual perfection - a beauty that, while striking enough to watch on screen, but would be astonishing to see in real life, in true flesh, in the skin of a real person sharing space with you. This doesn't happen. Your guide sees you off politely enough, and before you know it you're on the road. As you drive, you're half-wondering what turn you could take to reach the little town where Justin Benchley lives - but you know instinctively that taking such a turn is something your vehicle alone cannot achieve. You can't just drive into that world from the screen. You're hurtling down the freeway, miles and miles away by now, before you even consider the near-third of your credit bar you spent on getting to see that movie. You go through the motions of negotiating the wisdom of this with your conscience. But it still seems like a good buy, and you can't imagine ever having chosen differently. After all, had you not okayed that option to see Dillon Decker taking on Zac Sharkey - well, you'd have been kicking yourself by now. So relax. Drive on. Put your foot down, man, here we go.