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You ride the waves and don’t ask where they go
You swim like lions through the crest
And bathe yourself in zebra flesh
—Primitive Radio Gods
The ’78 Camaro loaded with a 350-cubic inch V8, fender vents, dual exhaust and a full spoiler out back, roared down the LIE, west, toward Manhattan. Chris’ brain was slowly descending down to earth, back into his body. He had no idea where it’d been, all he knew is he hadn’t been in his head for a long time. Nothing seemed real. Manetti didn't seem real. The powerful purr of the black muscle car didn't seem real. He looked over at Manetti sitting there all smug, all teeth. Manetti glanced sideways at him every now and then. Suddenly, without warning, rage overtook him and he flew into a fury, walloping Manetti on his arm, ribs, thigh--anywhere he could land a punch.
“Ow!” Manetti laughed, his forearm up to block most of Chris’ jabs.
“It’s not...” Chris landed hard, deliberate strikes against Manetti’s shoulder, “funny!”
“Stop. Seriously." Manetti carved the road like he owned it, quickly jetting into the left lane with one hand on the wheel, zooming around a tan Buick, then swerving hard right, back into his lane. "You’re going to get us killed.”
“I thought you were dead, you shit pig fuck-face. Hate you!” Chris punched his arm as hard as he could.
“Ow!” Chris' blows barely registered on Manetti's sculpted frame, but since it allowed Chris to blow off steam he played up the injured act. “Seriously. Stop. Tell me, would you have gone with some escaped cons to do a job if I asked you? No, you would not. Your dumb ass had to be tricked.” Chris crossed his arms and said nothing. Manetti glanced sideways at him again. “Anyway, it was Master Drax’s idea, not mine.” He outstretched his hand and ran it down Chris' arm. Chris angrily brushed him off. Manetti eyed the gym bag; eyed Chris. “So--how much?”
Chris turned, shouting, “They were going to kill me!” He turned back again, eyes front, clamming up.
“Nah,” Manetti said with only a shade of doubt.
“Yes they were. This close, pig fuck.” Chris was stone faced.
Manetti let Chris’ accusation roll around in his mind. He, too, went silent for a while, but kept checking the bag Chris held so tightly. “Seriously,” he eventually said, “how much? Hundred K? That's what Drax thought.” Chris stared straight ahead. Manetti eyed him with raised eyebrows, impressed. “One fifty?”
“Polanski almost strangled me to death!” Chris spewed, eyes still locked forward. "Mac said he could snuff me if he wanted."
The earliest light of day was just starting to glow a ghostly blue in the rear view mirror. Manetti rocketed the car up to ninety. They sat next to each other in the Camaro’s bucket seats, the gearshift topped with a black eight ball separating them, yet they might as well have been on different planets. Chris started shaking. The harder he tried to stop the more he shook. As he was beginning to come down from the meth and the adrenaline, he was starting to hallucinate badly. Unintelligible symbols stood out on the sides of building, on traffic signs, and on the billboards they passed. Egyptian symbols from an eighth grade text book spun out ankhs and sunrays from his fevered brain, falcons and crocodiles, snakes eating their tails, stone etched waves of water. It was more pronounced if he closed his eyes, so he gave into the visions, eyes open with the tremors that accompanied them. Finally, breaking the silence as much to distract himself from what he was seeing as to confess to someone, anyone, even Manetti, the terror of his last twelve hours, culminating in one of the many images he couldn't shake. He muttered, “I shot a man in his eye and blew out his brains.”
Manetti returned, much too quickly, “Who hasn’t.” Chris immediately looked over at him, but it was Manetti’s turn to become a sphinx, steely-eyed, staring straight ahead.
The city glistened in the distance. Chris broke into tears, then immediately grew angry at himself, wiped his face, but the sudden convulsion had a calming effect. Admitting what he’d done, even to the stoic Manetti, eased his fever a bit. He stared into the green light of the dashboard. Watched the red needle twitch at eighty. Out of the blue, he volunteered, "Two."
Manetti, from his own mind’s dark place, recalled he’d asked the kid about the money. “Two hundred thousand?” He whistled.
The edges of Chris' lips curled with an undercurrent of unexpected pride. “Not two hundred,” he clarified softly. “Two million.” He knew he wasn’t imagining this fact. He closed his eyes and saw the five rows times four columns times packets ten deep. It was two million dollars he pressed into his lap.
Manetti inspected him and judged he wasn't joking. He pulled the Camaro to the side and skidded to a stop. Snatching up the bag, he unzipped it. Under damp t-shirts and jeans he found packet after packet of hundred dollar bills crammed inside. “Fuck. Dude.” He looked at Chris with his jaw open. It was the first time Chris had seen Manetti speechless.
The man scanned the sparkling city beyond the toll booths ahead. His eyes darted back to the bag and then back at Chris. He weighed the likelihood that the crooks had planned to kill the kid, thought about Drax’s involvement, his own complicity.
The Camaro’s engine revved, then tore out, making a U across the traffic island downing some orange cones, and sped away from Manhattan into the first hint of sunrise, roaring along the LIE, east.
***
The 6:45 a.m. ferry from Sayville sputtered across the choppy bay. Small, wispy clouds shone pink and gold, while the ferry bobbed, rising and splashing over rough water. Manetti had done a line of coke back in the parking lot before they left the Camaro. He'd offered a line to Chris who looked at him like he had to be kidding. Atop the ferry his fingers flutter on his kneecap, lost deep in thought behind his shades.
Chris, both arms wrapped tightly around his gym bag, wearing sunglasses he'd found on the Camaro's dash, and Manetti staring off into the distance, were the only passengers sitting on the ferry’s upper deck. When they boarded, they made a strange looking pair to the crew. A kid in wraparound shades wearing a red track suit ten sizes too big for him; the other, a shirtless muscled leatherman in jeans, vest, boots, cap, and mirrored sunglasses. Since the boat was heading for the gay mecca known as The Pines, the man decked out in all black leather was hardly an unusual sight, but the young kid dressed like he was a ghetto rapper, now that was something the local Sayville teenage crew took notice of. All that was missing was big gold chains and a sideways cap. “Vanilla Ice in the house, yo,” one of them joked in the wheelhouse setting all the boys laughing.
A noisy flock of seagulls escorted them across the water. The landing was fast approaching. The store, the motel, the disco became distinct entities as the boat cruised into the harbor. Manetti scrutinized each boat they passed, his mind percolating with plans. A sea plane was getting ready to fly out, having disembarked two passengers who were making their way down the landing. The town was practically deserted except for the two guys pulling their suitcases. Chris thought he recognized the taller of the two--the distinctive mustache, the deep dimples in the ruggedly handsome face framed by curly auburn hair. It had to be--it was!--the action hero Chet Brunswick, star of his favorite TV show, “Stacks Lightning,” watched religiously when he lived at home. Wednesday nights, eight o’clock, every episode, including summer reruns. From age twelve when it first aired, he watched the show for all the fast paced action, the exotic locales, Hawaii, New York, Moscow, the Congo. By fourteen he became aware almost every episode featured Chet Brunswick finding a way to be shirtless. By fifteen, his interest in the car chases waned, as a new interest arose, watching each episode alone in his bedroom on Ben’s old black and white TV, a Kleenex box next to him and the door securely locked. He’d dozed off during some of the half-hour crossing but now he was wide awake, excited. Here, within shouting distance, was a real TV star. And not just any TV star. He nudged Manetti and pointed. Manetti lowered his sunglasses and gave Chris a blank look, then went back to examining the boats. As the ferry passed, Chris made out the famous tuft of dark chestnut hair sticking out the man’s teal blue polo shirt. The other guy was much, much younger, practically his age, and wore a tight pink muscle tee. He didn't know him. They were wheeling black suitcases both with lightning bolt decals, the show’s logo, on them.
The teenage crew cut the engines to prevent unnecessary wake that would disturb the harbor’s yachts. As they neared the dock, all but the captain scrambled downstairs. They threw open the side door and tossed a line to one of the crew members that jumped onto the dock. With the boat secured, they slid out a ramp. As the celebrity and his companion rounded the corner of the thumping disco, the teen that secured the boat pointed out the actor to his mates.
Chris flew down the boat’s steep stairs two at a time, Manetti barely keeping up. "That's Chet Brunswick up ahead," Chris said to Manetti as they disembarked. Even though he was still miffed with Manetti, seeing someone so famous he couldn't hold in his excitement.
"Who?" Manetti said.
"He does that show Stacks Lightning,” Chris explain. Still Manetti was clueless. “Where he's a spy? Always chasing bad guys in cars and boats, and sleeping with lots of babes?"
"Oh," Manetti said with distain. "An actor."
Chris gave Manetti a sour look. They trailed the TV star and his companion for several blocks. The disco discharged a few revelers coming out bleary-eyed, squinting and shading their eyes to adjust to the morning light. Chris speaking about Chet Brunswick was the first time in hours they’d exchanged any words. Right after they left the outer borough, when Chris asked where they were going, Manetti told him he'd made an executive decision. Drax could wait. He was enacting his own Plan B and that meant visiting a few old friends in The Pines.
Eyeing the tall, broad-shouldered actor ahead on the boardwalk, Chris ventured, "So everybody here’s queer?" Manetti confirmed with a nod. Chris contemplated that. The boardwalk was uneven and Manetti in boots was trying to take it slow and not trip. After several more blocks, seeing they were falling further behind the actor, Chris groaned, “How much farther is your friend’s house?" Manetti told him it was at the end of the boardwalk. Chris frowned, and gave into Manetti slower pace. "How far is the beach then," Chris asked. Manetti nodded at an approaching perpendicular walkway. Chris peered down the path and saw shimmering waves. "If we’re not going to catch him, I want to walk on the beach," he said, turning down the walkway without waiting for Manetti.
Manetti huffed. Boots in sand would be a harder slog even than the boardwalk, but he followed the kid anyway. Specifically, he followed the green gym bag.
On the beach Chris' mood brightened considerably. He was almost his old self. He’d pulled off his sneakers and socks, and wiggled his toes in the cold sand and trotted next to the crashing waves. The sound of the sea, the salt spray, early morning sand--it was a reminder of home. It cleared his senses. For a while he walked in the low surf, letting the small wavelets wet his toes and ankles, leaving behind red footprints, washing away vestiges of his basement-stained soles. He picked up a driftwood stick and drew a line in the sand in front of him, jumped over it, then flung the stick with all his might far out into the foam.
The houses that lined the beach were grand. Rich in wood and glass, they were tributes to wealth--earned honestly or otherwise. Large two story structures, all with decks and pools, all stacked alongside each other. One, he observed, had sliding windows who's four large glass panes folded right into the walls, leaving the living room’s fourth wall completely open to the ocean. Another one had a pool whose beach-front side was a giant pane of glass. Two young joggers in knee-length swim trunks, a sandy blond and a fiery redhead, passed him. They turned their heads back to get a look at the kid in the hip hop gear. When they saw it was a young white kid they laughed hysterically. To Chris they looked like models out of a magazine--flawless, tanned, manikin smooth, air-brushed generic.
Manetti tromped behind trying to catch up. The joggers had passed him too. He gave the sandy blond a snarly smile. The blond looked at his running mate, said something inaudible over the surf, and they both laughed again. Manetti glowered, but once he caught up to Chris, he draped his arm comfortably across his shoulder and told him to take it easy on an old man.
Chris smiled to himself. "This is just like Long Beach," he said.
"This is just like Long Beach?" Manetti questioned.
"See." He stopped and turned to the ocean. "This beach is like facing south. Right? Most everything on the west coast faces west, and on the east coast faces east. But here, the beach faces south. In California, Long Beach is the only place that faces south, like here, see?"
"Well, I did not know that," Manetti responded. Chris had lost the Prior Puss, and he had to admit, with the kid beaming like he was, he could do him right out here in the open. "Y'know,” Manetti said, “I'm from Long Beach, too. Long Beach, New York."
"Well, I did not know that," Chris mocked Manetti with his own words. They exchanged a smile, the first in a very long time. Genuinely interested, Chris asked, "Where's your Long Beach?" They started walking again.
"It's about forty miles ‘at-a-way." Manetti pointed straight ahead. Chris wanted to know if they could walk there from here. "Only if you're Jesus," Manetti replied, and they laughed. A couple of waves crashed to shore as they padded through the sand. For a few minutes they were silent, just listening to the sea’s rhythm, a set of waves, a pause, then another set, on and on. Manetti cocked his head to one side saying wistfully, "It's one of the first things Ben and I found out we had in common. Long Beach was." Manetti questioned why he volunteered that. Immediately he was irritated with himself.
Chris looked over at Manetti. Was he sad? Sad didn’t fit his image. He tried to read Manetti, but behind the mirrored sunglasses, staring down the beach, he was impenetrable. "Do you think he's all right?” Chris wondered aloud. “Ben is?”
"Like I said, he's changed a lot." It was Manetti's turn to clam up as he picked up their pace. They trooped through the sand wordless. There weren't many more houses left before the town ended and the empty dunes and forest began.
“So what’s Plan B,” Chris asked.
“Hmm.” Manetti took his time. He looked out to sea, then back down the beach. “We’re dropping in on a former client of mine, and his lover, who’s an old family friend. The client’s name’s Tobias Glass. Real rich. Real pig when you get him going. He was this child actor way before my time, now he has a Village cabaret act. Show tunes and shit. He’s gonna take one look at you and will want to eat you up. Don’t let ‘em unless I get a cut.” Chris laughed nervously. “He’s got connections. If anyone can find us a boat, he can. Then we’re off to the Caribbean or South America--Belize maybe. Your choice.”
Chris listened to him. Then stopped dead in his tracks. “Wait. You want to leave the country with the two million? Without Ben? Screw over Master Drax? Are you out of your fuckin’ out mind?! Master Drax will skin you alive! Me too. Probably Ben just for being related to me. That’s your brilliant Plan B? Neg-a-tive!” he said, shaking his head. He spun around and started walking back to the ferry dock the way they came, when Manetti hooked him with two words.
“Ben’s here.”
Chris halted abruptly. He turned his head and glared at Manetti. “Where?”
“A couple possibilities.” He waited till Chris walked back to him. “I have other clients on the island. One of them had rented Big Ben, as he’s called in the trade. That was a week back. If you let me do a little digging, Chief, give me some time, I think I can find him, then the three of us can sail right off the map.” He approached Chris, closing in with the final pitch, “Do you know what kind of life we’d have, baby?” He reached under Chris’ baggy top and pinched his nipples.
“A life on the run, is my guess. Mac and Polanski said Master Drax literally cut the skin off a guy. Someone named Jackson.”
“I remember Jackson. But Jackson was stupid. We’re not stupid.” Chris was standing his ground in the sand even with Manetti playing with his nipples. “C’mon, will you at least give me twenty-four hours, let me ask around for Ben and a boat? See if that’s even a possibility?” Manetti cozied up intimately right in Chris’ face. He drew his hands down around Chris’ bubble butt, stroking it lovingly, pushing Chris’ crotch into his own. He felt Chris’ dick stir in the jogging suit.
Chris pushed his hands away and resumed their trek with a bit of a swinging stiffy. “Twenty-four hours--but you have to find Ben. And I’m not letting go of my bag.” Manetti saddled up next to Chris, draping his arm over his shoulder, pulling the kid up under his hairy armpit, assured his scent carried its own persuasion. They walked in step but Chris became increasingly conflicted. “So if you find Ben, then what? That’s going to be a whole other can of worms. You, me, Ben.”
“Are you shittin’ me?” Manetti erupted skyward in a wail of laughter. “Do you have any idea of the fucked up arrangements Ben and I have been in--on and off camera? Ask me about us and my step dad at that skanky Jersey motel shoot. Better yet, don’t. Talk about awkward--but even that turned out interesting once Drax got the cameraman naked. Family on family makes up half the porn industry, Chief.” Manetti pointed to the last staircase on the beach before the town turned to forest. They veered toward it.
At the top of the stairs, a large wooden fence extended from the beach back to the main boardwalk. Halfway along the fence they came across an archway with a large weathered door. "This is Glass' compound. He won't be up for hours, but I know where he keeps a spare." He reached up inside one of the sconces and produced a key. He opened the door and they entered a courtyard that could have been a garden anywhere in Japan.
The garden was lush in greenery and rich in detail--a Buddha serenely rested on a mound of green moss; an area of white sand raked with wave-like patterns surrounding an upright rock; trickling water flowed out a bamboo branch splashing onto a bowl of smooth, black stones. They crossed a red lacquered bridge that extended over a pond filled with lily pads. The light through the overhanging branches played on the water, and beneath the lily pads swam large fish, their scales luminous red and orange, sparked like underwater fire. Coy fish, Manetti told Chris. The pond was fed by a running stream that ran throughout the compound. If silence produced a sound, the serene hush surrounding them would be it. As the heavy weathered door closed softly behind them, Chris felt for the first time he might be safe.
They came to the compound’s central courtyard. Manetti stopped. He put a hand on Chris’ shoulder and pointed. At the far end of the property, through a broken slat in the wooden fence, a doe and her fawn stood at the forest’s edge, nibbling sprigs of grass they were barely able to reach. The fawn looked up at Chris, who couldn’t help himself and gasped just audible enough to prick up the doe’s ears. The two creatures eased back through the slat and disappeared into the dense forest.
A swimming pool, outlined with rough grey slate, laid in the center of the compound. Four structures surrounded it. The main house, closest to the beach, wasn't very big, but beyond the plate glass and sliding windows, Chris saw it was minimally but opulently furnished. Sleek black couches and chairs were in the living room, and a white grand piano stood in a corner with a large dining room standing in back in the cool, quiet shadows. The remaining three independent structures were individual free-standing cabanas. Each with a large picture window. Each with their curtains drawn. The sound of someone lightly snoring came out of the cabana on the far side of the pool. In the cabana to their right, male voices murmured inside. Two wheeled suitcases parked next to the door. Chris pulled excitedly on Manetti’s arm pointing to lightning bolt decals on the suitcases’ sides. Manetti shook him off and went into the last cabana. He came out motioning for Chris to come in.
They went in and Chris immediately ran into his reflection in a tall full-length wooden mirror. Seeing himself in his baggy red track suit for the first time he understood the strange looks he’d received. He dropped his shoes and flopped backward on the feathery bed. Though the room was warm and stuffy, he melted into the cool white comforter.
Manetti opened a high window above the dresser and a skylight above the bed to get a bit of cross-breeze going. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled off his boots, poured sand on the bamboo floor, and ran a hand through his hair. In the full-length mirror he looked at his own reflection. Maybe he’d wait for the kid to fall asleep and just run off with the money. That would be the simplest plan. What kept him here? The Prior brothers? Talk about not simple. He knew he was a mass of contradictory impulses, unexamined urges, had known his dark nature for a long time, ever since he moved to New York, probably before if he let himself think about it. He refused to even take a stab at thinking about it. Familiar walls went up, and he was once again free to roam around in the limits of his compartmentalized life; a caged wolf on display that he told himself he was just fine with. He pushed off his jeans and underwear, and tossed off his cap. Down to just his skin and leather vest, he crawled over to Chris, who turned away from him, not mad but exhausted. Manetti scooched closer till he was spooning the boy.
Chris didn't protest, even when Manetti pressed his erection into the butt of his track suit. Earth quickly was falling away as he fell deeper into the soft bed, deeper down the rabbit hole of this strange, horrifying, beautiful new life. He felt the buckle unfasten on his belt, and Manetti pulling down his trousers. His butt exposed, he fell asleep dreaming he was on a train, then he became the train, then became the train coupler, that metal clasp that, like fingers who fold into one another, secured train cars together. Somewhere in the world he felt Manetti couple into him, acquire a hold, while he allowed the rod to enter, which he then gripped not wanting it to slip out of his body. Who held whom?
Manetti lifted Chris' top off and pulled his skin into him. Pelt on hairless boy, hairless boy melting into a bed of fur. Manetti entering him deeper made Chris moan in his sleep. His ass was still tender, he protested semi-conscious but didn't reject. Manetti went deeper still. Chris gasped louder, struggling to overcome the pain he still felt from the recent abuse. Manetti's ridged pole did not give nor forgive, it pushed in beyond the pain. Chris pushed back, impaling himself, deep, seizing on the pain to raise himself out of his hazy sleep, not ignoring the penetrating object but beginning to ride it, riding Manetti, forcing himself to feel the pain, want the pain, waking to the desire of pain. Manetti obliged. He was good at his craft. He was the best rough trade in town, wearing nothing but his leather vest and a hard on, sticking it to the boy. He would teach Chris to be rough, hardened like himself. It was the way he could survive.
He pushed the boy's pants off his ankles, pulled out of Chris’ hole, raised the boy’s leg, and was back on top penetrating him before Chris even realized how he’d accomplished the feat. He looked into Chris' face, pushed his massive erection further in, now that he could aim his crotch directly over Chris' open cavern. The added inch made Chris lurch in pain from the spot where Mac had fisted him too hard. Manetti waited right on that torturous spot, neither retreating nor pushing him beyond it. He waited, making only the slightest of movements, an itch to scratch, waiting and watching Chris’ face turn from pain to desire. He brushed away a lock of blond hair that had caught in an eyelash.
He kissed his mouth. Chris opened for him. Once Manetti saw lust in Chris’ open eyes he turned his attention to his bucking hole. He stayed in a holding pattern, enjoying the pleasuring of expanding Chris' hole with his growing shaft, feeling it surrender to him completely. The cabanas always had supplies of lube and poppers, among other pleasures, tucked away in the nightstands. Manetti reached in the drawer and withdrew some mentholated cream on his fingers. As he gently fucked Chris’ hole, sensually stimulated his opening with his massive bush, he added a finger, then two, to pull the boy’s hole wider. Chris objected, saying it hurt, but with some mentholated cream soothing his tender canal, Manetti convinced the boy with few words that this is what he wanted. With four fingers lathered he pulled his dripping cock out and replaced it with his large palm. He took all the time necessary for Chris to accept his hand, pulling out a bit when he reach his second knuckles. He could sense Chris wanting him to push in again. He did, sliding four fingers up to the third knuckle, then held there, looking for Chris’ eyes to say yes. He knew the boy was deciding and he’d abide by his decision. He felt the clenched muscles in Chris’ ass relax and he went in an inch more, up to the web of his thumb. He chanced a half rotation, another test to see where Chris’ mind and body were. After a second, he felt he boy bear down on his hand, a signal of his willingness to surrender his hole.
Manetti removed his hand, which prompted a disappointed moan from Chris. “Take one of the poppers, boy. That tall one.” Chris obeyed. It was one of Manetti’s favorite English poppers, much stronger than its American counterpart. He greased his whole hand with the mentholated cream to overcome the fear Manetti believed the convicts instilled. He pushed a wad of grease into the boy’s crack and smeared it around with three fingers, then pushed those three fingers back into his chute. They slid in easily. Manetti added a fourth and told Chris to take a hit. He waited till Chris recapped the bottle, then slid his thumb in, told Chris to look at him. Chris was trying to focus his gaze on Manetti, and Manetti saw and felt the moment the poppers kicked in. Chris hole grew relaxed as lust for Manetti compelled him to bare down over Manetti’s palm. In one constant movement the boy mounted Manetti’s whole hand and slid his entrails over the ridges down to the man’s furry wrists.
Chris felt each strand of hair slide through his loosened sphincter. Manetti slowly twisted his wrist tickling the cunt he was giving the boy. Knuckles ground against sensitive walls, the wrist’s black fur swayed over the exposed sphincter’s nerve endings, silent fingertips touched blind boundaries that yielded, surrendering Chris’ resistance to Manetti’s will. Manetti fisted Chris’ mind even more than his body. Chris’ synapses were firing and he was helpless to resist Manetti’s mastery, the sensations painful and inviting. The cold-hot feeling in his loins made his body undulated onto Manetti’s hand, like a snake swallowing a mouse. Manetti’s hand went further into his hole, further than it had ever been. “Take three more hits, boy,” instructed Manetti. Chris again obeyed. Manetti applied more salve over his wrist and this time over his forearm while Chris huffed and replaced the cap. His eyes were glued to Manetti. Manetti watched as lewdness sweep across the boy, not just his face but over his whole body, his mouth open just as his hole was opening. Of his own volition he crawled down further onto Manetti’s wrist and the boy began the journey of the man’s hirsute forearm. Manetti flexed his wrist twisting in exploration of where his hand was in the boy’s body, and where it should go next. He straightened his hand and slowly pulled the boy’s colon away from its mooring so that the passage extended along the length of his forearm. It was a long process, he knew, that would alter the boy’s anatomy.
Chris traveled halfway down Manetti’s forearm before he realized how deep Manetti was inside him. A world of pleasure exploded in his core, physically and mentally, when he looked in the full-length mirror and saw how much of Manetti’s forearm he’d taken. And still he slid ever deeper on the proffered arm. He inched serpent-like, feeling the ancient garden sin drawing him on, driving him deeper onto it, not able to get enough of the pleasure Manetti was offering. He saw Manetti had no boundaries either and wouldn’t stop until Chris satisfied the powerful lust he had for him. Yes, it meant physically Chris wanted the fucker’s whole arm up him, but the revelation, rational or not, was that he wanted to make his body an offering to the man. “I want,” Chris moaned as he agonized over ever scintilla he could take of Manetti, “all of you.” But he was fighting a two stage battle: for every millimeter he took of Manetti’s hand, he also had to accommodate the ever-widening girth of forearm. Manetti thick, muscular arm was as much of a challenge as taking his hand ever deeper. This is when Manetti took over.
“Take another hit, baby. Relax. Lay down. Daddy’s gonna drive.” While Chris prepared himself with a deep inhalation, Manetti’s other hand played with Chris’ cock. His greasy hand toyed with the boy’s balls and ran numbing fingers over the boy’s nub. The cooling sensation wasn’t lost on the boy. His groin joined the sensation of coolness his whole ass was feeling inside as well. Far from numb, his body was on fire and able to take more intense sensation, a deeper fisting, than when the convict were pummeling him. Now between the poppers and the looseness of his body, as well as the loosening of his inhibitions, he began writhing in pure sensuality when he felt Manetti curling his fingers inside him balling into a fist.
“Ah, God, Mike. Fuck yeah. Fist my hole,” Chris hoarsely cried.
Manetti’s balled fist slowly pulled out to the edge of Chris’ sphincter, giving it such an exquisite stretch, he could see the hairs on his wrist through the translucent taut pink skin of Chris’ ass lips. Chris’ gulped in air as Manetti encouraged him to take it, take it. He could see Chris couldn’t sustain such rapid breathing nor such an intense stretch. Manetti pushed back inside to the depth where he started. It was nautical miles of sensations traveled in two seconds. All the nerves stroked went straight to the boy’s brain--hole to brain skipping the rest of his body. His synapses could hardly keep up. Desire and sensation manifest in deranged calls to “fuck my hole, daddy, open my pussy, give me a sloppy cunt,” with Manetti responding, encouraging, validating everything Chris was saying. “You like daddy giving you a cunt.” “Yes, daddy, open my hole.” “You want daddy to fuck you like this.” Agreement. More aggression. The fist came out and immediately pushed back to try to get in. It took a moment, but both of them wanted it, so it slid in. Making the initial break and re-entry, triggered something in both of them. They wanted more just like that.
Obscene wet farts emitted from Chris’ ass. Each fart increased the capacity to take Manetti’s fist deeper. They were in a cycle of passion--Chris wanting to give, Manetti wanting to take. Chris could see, and Manetti approved, that after several punches, Chris’ hole blossomed into a small rosebud. Manetti encouraged it, tended to his new flower, inserted a single finger to wiggle around in it, excite the bloom to display more of itself. “Look in the mirror,” Manetti said, pulling Chris’ ass lips apart, showing the boy what his opened hole looked like. “Push,” he ordered and Chris bore down, and a small mushroom sprouted from his hole. At the center, the beginning of his red inner flesh peeked through. Manetti resumed methodically fisting his hole. For the next hour he put Chris through practiced paces, training him to think about nothing but being a hole.
After crouching then kneeling off the bed, Manetti grew restless. Slowly he adjusted his position and slid up next to Chris parallel to his body, his head next to Chris’ open hole. The position also afforded Chris the ability to pleasure Manetti’s stiffened member sticking upright in front of him. With intense gratitude triggered by Manetti manipulating his hole, Chris sucked Manetti with an urgency of someone famished. His throat opened and the whole shaft went down till his face was smothered in thick, black bush. And now Manetti, lying next to the boy, with less force but deeper penetration, could maneuver his hand easily, pushing Chris to his limits. Chris handed him the opened popper bottle to share. After his first hit, the man felt the intensity of his lust boil over, let the chemicals overtake him and felt deeper inside the kid’s colon. He traced the boy’s resisting internal muscles, teased them relentlessly with his middle finger until they submitted and he won another quarter each of Chris’ body. Methodically, while Chris nursed his cock, he gained more territory that almost took Chris to the crook of his arm.
Chris ran his hand over Manetti’s arm to feel how far his forearm was inside. He felt how close he was to the man’s elbow. Carnal thoughts about Manetti raged inside. He lifted his leg like a submissive dog so Manetti had easier access, to take as much of him as he wanted. At the same time he lifted Manetti’s furry leg and went in search of the man’s nougaty center. It didn’t take him long to find Manetti’s spongy hole. Licking it only made it expand. The sixty-nining of pleasure drove them both to experiment.
With Chris’ leg in the air Manetti felt free to pull apart the kid’s pussy, grab hold of his leg and pull out and push back in. It made Chris crazy. Chris reciprocated by finding the nightstand lube and applying it to Manetti sprouting rectum. With a slippery hand he pressed into Manetti who readily gave way. Chris’ hand easily slipped into the man, and for the first time he felt what a real sloppy hole felt like. His hand balled into a fist as soon as he entered. He was spelunking deep inside a cavern that seemed endless. There was no resistance as he passed his wrist deep into what felt like a second opening. Manetti bore down on the kid’s fist, groaning loudly, and the kid’s forearm easily slid deep into Manetti’s hairy hole. As much as he thrilled at what Manetti was doing inside him, it was compounded by how he got off watching the hairs around Manetti’s hole slide in and out with each pump he pounded.
They glided into each other with gratifying moans each time they crossed a new boundary. With bodies pressed against one another, their free hands ran across skin, stroking cocks, squeezing balls, running a big hand over smooth skin, running a small hand over muscled fur. They couldn’t get enough of each other. When Chris passed his elbow through Manetti’s hole, the man cried out and told Chris to pull back. Chris stopped, followed through with how Manetti had been treating him, slowly rolled his fingers across the sealed chamber that then opened like a camera lens and he passed his small hand through. Manetti eased out of Chris and fell on his back. He put one leg over Chris’ torso so the boy was at an advantaged angle to penetrate him further. Chris rolled the poppers to him. Manetti wiped the grease off the bottle cap, unscrewed it and inhaled deeply. Chris quickly learned how easy it was to finger a body’s resisting wall, feel for the blood pumping through the thin, retreating membranes, and allow Manetti to internally guide him where his hand should travel. Working together, Chris found the small opening each hit of poppers revealed. He followed the opening that unveiled new chambers his hand could conquer. When he was up to the bottom of his bicep, Manetti was twitching in ecstasy to the point where he couldn’t take it. He signal for Chris to withdraw. Chris didn’t move but left his hand exactly where it was. Manetti pleaded for him to back off, but Chris laid there tranquilly, spread out on the cool white comforter like he was floating on a cloud. Manetti found he was starting to rut on Chris’ small arm despite himself, fighting within whether he want more or wanted to be released. In a fog, the man lifted his head to find Chris smiling ear to ear. “You little fucker,” he said to Chris, and started the long journey of extracting the kid’s arm from his body.
Chris helped him to withdraw but wasn’t completely complacent. After a number of inches of relief, Chris would go back into Manetti’s colon, which Manetti was not entirely opposed to. But soon it became a matter of will as opposed to sensation, and Manetti refused to let the young boy dominate. Manetti crab walked back the last of Chris’ forearm finally ordering him loudly to let him go. Like a lizard losing its tail, Manetti shot off the last foot of Chris’ arm. His cock dripped with pre-cum, and where he’d dragged his ass over the sheets, there was a trail of brown mucus.
“You little fuck. Get over here. Lick that up,” he said grabbing Chris' thin neck, pushing him into the slime. “Lick it up, I said.” Chris did. Much too eagerly. Manetti struggled to regain dominance after surrendering his hole so completely. He flipped the kid on his back. Chris’ chest and crotch were coated in the brown sludge. From the skylight the sun shown on the kid’s stained face. He glistened in contented, degraded radiance. Manetti slapped the smile off his face, pulled up his legs and stuck his cock all the way to the root in one surge. Chris grunted, but was so opened, he welcomed him inside. Manetti soon found a rhythm that included whipping the kid's ass. He soon found his breath accelerating. Chris was beneath him taking in all the pleasure of his pounded flesh. He reached up and twisted Manetti tits, which made Manetti hammer him faster and harder. The boy wrapped his legs around the man’s waist, bucked up his ass with equal fervor.
As the pulse of their fucking increased, their fierce pace drawing to an inevitability, Chris took one of Manetti’s curled fist next to his head, unfurled the hand and placed the palm on his neck. He took Manetti's other hand and placed that too on his neck. Manetti recognized what the boy was asking for. Like the rough trade he’d been trained to be, he obliged. He started squeezing his neck as Chris stroked his dick with increasing desperation. Manetti was good rough trade--fuck that!--he was great rough trade! He was all powerful, in control, scum fucking bad ass off-the-charts rough trade. He was back in the saddle, enjoying how he was abusing his compliant bottom boy. He watched Chris' face turn bright red, watched his eyes bulge, watched him struggle silently beneath his crushing hands. Chris’ hands clasped around Manetti’s wrist, feeling the strength, the girth, the fur. When Manetti erupted inside Chris, Chris exploded over him even harder. Beneath his easing palms, the unconscious kid flopped a few time like a landed fish. The little fuck even had a smile on his face while he rasped in a daze. Manetti’s pubes rested between Chris’ hairless cheeks. As he laid on top of him, his dick draining the remains of his wad, he felt small internal clutching like he was being milked by the boy. That, too, quieted after a moment. As his breathing returned to normal, he examined this blond hair kid’s young face beneath him. He pushed back some of his matted hair caked with brown slime. What exactly did he think he could teach this street urchin, this feral boy who lived in backs of cars, hiding in his room from his junky mom, this abused stray puppy? Who was he to coarsen him, teach him about being hardened? Jesus fuck, whatever his family had done to him was already hard-wired in his brain. It was too easy to see buried so near the surface what only a scratch revealed.
Passed out, Chris’ legs slid down Manetti’s thighs. Manetti rolled off him, still hard, his bristly chest covered in the kid’s spooge. On his back, he mindlessly traced a finger through a string of the kid’s translucent sperm that clung to him like spider webs on grass. He tasted its warm saltiness. He followed passing clouds through the skylight, heard Chris breathing beside him. He could see both Prior brothers were fucked up, out of control, but in opposite ways. Well, he was a fuck-up too, wasn’t he? Sure, he’d promised he would find Ben. He knew he could. But would bringing them together defuse Ben from his downward spiral or detonate Chris? Or maybe it’d be the other way around. Either way he’d be in the cross-hairs, suffer the collateral damage. It was stupid to care about either of these stupid brothers. It was stupid for a hustler to even care at all. He got up to take a shower, and spied the gym bag on the nightstand. The smartest thing to do would be to swipe the kid’s bag while he was out cold and roar off in the Camaro for parts unknown. He looked at the mess sprawled on the bed, this sprawled out filthy mess of a kid. Looking at himself in the mirror, he ran a hand through his mane and found some slime clotted his hair. Yeah, he’d swipe the money. That was the smart move. Uncomplicate things. Make a clean break with all the money he’d need to start a new life. Yeah, he convinced himself, right after a shower.