Fan Male Ch. 04

Kit was all done with asking why this thug was doing this. He'd asked so many times before and only been slapped around and told to "Shut the fuck up" when he'd tried to make sense out of this. The maniac kept asking where "blondie" was and trying to get Kit to say why he wrote himself as a blond in the stories he wrote. When Kit admitted he wrote the stories but they weren't about him--just from his imagination--the guy got angry and hit Kit. He'd driven into an alley and moved Kit to the backseat of the truck's cab, binding and gagging him and pushing him down on the floor in front of the bench seat. He'd driven for over half an hour, pulling in behind a small house surrounded by heavily foliage.

They'd made a stop at a store, but the truck had been parked well away from other parked cars and they'd only stopped for a few minutes. When they got to the house, Marcus pulled Kit out of the truck, hustled him into the house through the back door leading into the kitchen, and then down into the basement to the room Marcus had already prepared for his "blondie."

Then, using the purchase he'd stopped for, he dragged Kit into the basement bathroom and over to the sink, and he peroxided Kit's hair blond.

Now Kit was an approximation of what Marcus wanted to work his fantasies out with, although he still wanted to track down the small, platinum-blond honey he'd seen the redhead with--the one who drove the red Lexus coupe.

Marcus dragged Kit, bound at the wrists and ankles and gagged, over to a double bed and tossed him on the mattress. Then he went to a nearby desk with a laptop computer on it and brought up a Sandman story.

... they recuffed him, this time using the restraints Davey had seen the white cop come in with. One of the leather restraints locked his right wrist to his right ankle. The other did the left. The bar attached between them, spreading Davey's legs. His cheek and chest were pressed into the thin mattress on the cot, with his tail raised high. He was effectively hogtied and immobile.

"Just checking how you described the hogtying," he said to Kit, who couldn't respond because he was gagged. Marcus came over to the bed, pulled Kit up and marched him into the bathroom. He untied Kit, who put up a little bit of a struggle then, but Marcus was nearly twice his size and had three time his strength and slapped him around until Kit realized he wasn't going to break away. Marcus stripped them both and put them both under the shower, drying them off afterward. Marcus had an erection while they were in the shower, but he didn't do anything about it there.

He brought Kit back to the bed, forcing a ball gag into his mouth, and hogtied him there, strapping wrist to ankle on each side, just as Kit's story described and also elbow to knee for good measure. He attached the leg spreader to the ankle restraints, and then pushed Kit down on the bed, cheek and chest to the sheets and tail lifted in the air.

Marcus climbed up on the bed and crouched behind his captive, spending time eating Kit's ass out and pulling on and sucking Kit's cock until the young man came for him. Then he hovered over Kit's back and tail, mounted and slid inside his passage, and fucked him and fucked him and fucked him.

Going rigid at first and objecting as he could through the gag in his mouth, Kit eventually melted to the hunk who, though a bruising thug, was muscular and hung and doing a very good job of fucking him. Marcus laughed when we felt Kit relax, start moaning and groaning deeply, and coordinating such rocking of his pelvis as he could do with the rhythm of the fuck.

When Marcus had come, he climbed off Kit and took the gag out.

"You liked that, baby, didn't you?"

Kit didn't answer.

"I know you did. You relaxed and went with it. I want to play with your friend Todd, though. The small, pretty blond you write about. Todd's who you model those characters after, isn't he? So often you write about the little whore who is taken is such demanding and arousing ways. You fantasize about this Todd yourself and you do him in your stories, don't you? Where is he? Tell me where I can find him and I'll bring him here and we can do him together."

"I don't know any Todd," Kit said. But he did, and it was dawning on him what this monster wanted him to provide. He wanted Kit to lead him to Toby, Todd being his escort agency name. But he wouldn't do it.

"Tell me now and you won't have to be the only one I play with."

"I'm sorry. I don't know any Todd."

Angered, Marcus punched Kit in the face, forced the ball gag back into his mouth, turned him onto his back on the bed, and released the suspender bar. He moved between Kit's bent and bound legs, thrust up inside him, and fucked him again, his hands clutching Kit's throat, controlling his breathing to the rhythm of the fuck. This time the fuck was more brutal than the last time. Marcus wanted Kit to know what the progression would be if he didn't start cooperating.

For Kit's part, he was afraid if he told Marcus what he wanted to know, that would be the end of the game.

* * * *

Hardesty and Whitelaw got a bunch of dirty looks when they bailed out of the Hummer, parked very much illegally on the sidewalk outside the main National Art Gallery entrance doors--justified only by the blue revolving light on the Hummer's roof--and burst into the gallery's entrance hall. They didn't have guns drawn, but they were at the ready. They were deflated a bit when a calm reception desk attendant made a call and reported that Kit Helms wasn't on duty that afternoon.

"His supervisor, William Hopkins, would be pleased to talk to you about him, though, if you wish."

They wished. The attendant left the desk to her colleague and guided them to the gallery offices.

"Kit is assigned to shepherd an important German artist around today," Hopkins told them. The man obviously was independently wealthy. His office shrieked of décor that the gallery would not have paid for for one of his rank at the gallery. It also panted of effete and swishy. The man himself was saved disregard because he exhibited as highly intelligent and he was achingly handsome, tall, willowy, and with movie star looks. He was a bit younger than Hardesty in appearance, another sign that he was well-heeled. Curators at a major museum like this usually took longer to get to their position than to still be in their thirties. He had taken immediate interest in both Hardesty and Whitehall when they entered the office, but, from experience, he quickly turned that interest on Hardesty.

"The gallery tour is over," he said, "so I assume they are seeing a bit of the city." He checked his computer screen. "I have the hotel Mr. Stern is staying at on the record here. Would you like me to call the Alexander and ask if the artist is there and knows where Mr. Helms could be."

Hardesty's eyes rolled at the reference to the Alexander Hotel. He well knew what the clientele at the Alexander would be and he thought it a good possibility that both the German artist and Kit Helms might be there--in bed--now. "I'll call them myself," he said.

"You have the Alexander's number in your system?" Hopkins asked, giving Hardesty a knowing smile.

"Yes," was the terse answer, and Hopkins spent the time Hardesty devoted to speaking to the reception desk at the Alexander and getting the service that only an established contact of the hotel could get, speculating on who this hunk sitting across from him was and what he could do with a man. The upshot was that neither the German artist nor Kit were at the hotel.

Hardesty and Whitehall left to return to police headquarters to regroup after leaving contact information with Hopkins. "If Kit calls in, have him call me immediately and have him stay put. Tell him not to talk to any strangers or to be where there aren't a lot of other people."

"Is Kit in any danger?" Hopkins asked.

"He could be. We think he's being stalked by someone dangerous."

"Oh, my. You seem to be quite concerned. Do you know Kit personally?" With the way he said it and the knowing smile he gave Hardesty, he might as well have said "biblically" as "personally."

"Yes," Hardesty said, giving Hopkins an even stare and making Hopkins wonder how personally this magnificent hunk of a man knew Kit. He took a chance. "Kit comes to parties I have at my apartment--special parties. I have some young French artists coming to town and I'm having a party for them Saturday night. Perhaps you might join us."

Hardesty, who had assessed Hopkins and his preferences as soon as they had entered his office, said, "I'm up to my neck in a case, but maybe--if it's over by Saturday. I might want to unwind then."

"Oh, I hope so," Hopkins said, giving Hardesty his card and retaining the detectives hand in his a bit longer than necessary at the parting. While they were holding hands, Hopkins grasped Hardesty's thumb, encasing it loosely and giving it a few strokes. In addition to that, he placed the tip of a finger against the nail of Hardesty's index finger and pressed hard, which must have given him pain. That was the point, though. He was signaling not only that he was an interested bottom, but that he liked pain in sex.

Neither of these signals escaped Hardesty, who gave Hopkins a lingering look of interest. He didn't normally do limp-wristed guys, but when he did, their wrists weren't all that ended up going limp.

* * * *

They put me on the kneeling rail, with my neck and wrists in the stocks and my knees on the pad. The prince was in front of me, feeding me his cock, and one of the attendants was behind me working my ass open with a lubricated dildo. There would be no condoms.

When he felt prepared sufficiently, the prince came back around to behind me. He beat me, on the back and legs, mostly lightly, but with a few strokes of enthusiasm, with a wide leather belt. Tiring of this and as my cries of surprise and violation subsided into low moans and whimpering, he mounted my ass and fucked me to an ejaculation, edging me with his cock as he had done with his hand in the showers. The pain involved, of course, was all mine, and the dick work was the least of it. I had been opened up well, and, though he was thick, he wasn't long, and his rhythm was very military--a steady beat without invention that would surprise and make me gasp at being off cadence or more cruel than anything else he had done to me.

Marcus moved the laptop screen around to where he could watch it while he worked. He had it set to one of Sandman's stories--one about the use of stocks that were quite similar to what he'd set up for use with his blond prey but that he'd practice with for now with the redhead he'd turned blond. Marcus had bought a French prayer bench, a banc de prière, to modify for his needs and to replicate one of Marcus's favorite Sandman stories. The story site had a feature that the stories were linked to videos show similar action. Marcus used this feature to bring up a porn video of a young blond guy bound in stocks and being fucked by a big black bruiser.

Kit, naked, was kneeling on pillows on the bench rail, the pillows being used to raise him up so that his chest was on the top rail of the bench and his arms dangled down the other side, held against the back of the bench, low, by restraints. The restraints held his legs, above the knee, against the back of the bench as well. Marcus had already knelt behind Kit and eaten his ass out and milked the young man's cock. He also opened up Kit's passage with a lathered dildo. Kit had screamed for him, as Marcus had wanted him to, but there was evidence that, through the pain and humiliation, he'd had pleasure too. He'd gotten his rocks off without a problem.

"Again, tell me who the blond with the red Lexus is. What's his name? Where can I find him?"

Once again, a nearly exhausted Kit responded, "I don't know who you're talking about. Oh, Shit! FUCK!" Kit was really scared now. The man had mentioned a red Lexus. Toby drove a red Lexus. The man knew more about Toby than Kit had thought he did.

Having read the passage in the Sandman story and now watching the black bull beat the bound small blond on the video, Marcus was standing behind Kit's bound figure and was striking him again and again with a leather belt. When he was hard as a rock, Marcus saddled up behind Kit, put his erection in position, and thrust up. Kit cried out in surprise and pain. Holding Kit's hips between his hands, Marcus set up the rhythm of the vigorous, deep fuck.

"Look at the screen. Watch what's happening--what that blond cutie is getting that you're getting too," Marcus growled. He reached up with a hand, cupped the side of Kit's head, and turned the young man's face toward the screen. Both men watched the fucking in the stocks happening on the screen.

"Just like your story," Marcus said. "His rhythm was very military--a steady beat without invention that would surprise and make me gasp at being off cadence or more cruel than anything else he had done to me." Marcus had read Sandman's stocks story so often he could quote the words verbatim.

As he fucked and they both watched the video, Kit relaxed and went with the fuck. He'd written the story because the image of it had excited and aroused him. He was in that situation now. Yes, he was helpless and this obviously was a mad man. But he also was hung and was sexy in his own way. And he could fuck. Kit settled down, going with the fuck, letting his buttocks go with the military rhythm Marcus had set up, rocking back on the cock as it thrust up inside him. He was going with the fuck.

Marcus laughed, muttered, "Taming you, ain't I," and fucked on.

He had no way of knowing that he was right. Pain, ecstasy, passion. This rough fucking was lifting Kit to dance on the clouds of arousal and sexual satisfaction. All that he'd longingly written about was what he now was living. He could use more comfort and freedom in his current condition--but he didn't need any less rough fucking. This was nearly at the same glorious level as he had gotten from Toby's magnificent boyfriend, the cop, Hardesty.

* * * *

Hardesty and Glen Whitelaw had returned to the vice unit bullpen from the National Art Gallery at a loss about what to do now beyond waiting for Kit Helms to surface. The one thing they could do immediately had already been done--a call had gone out across town on the white truck with the Maryland license plates.

As they sat, with Captain Crane and Maurice, one of the other detectives, and went over all they knew again, Larry, the unit's research clerk came over.

"You have any ideas, Larry?" Hardesty asked, his voice hopeful. He had trouble not making fun of how effeminate and needy the young man was, but he respected the guy's research capabilities, and, knowing the crush Larry had on him and the priority service he gave Hardesty's requests, Hardesty regularly topped the young man in appreciation. Larry melted to him when he did.

"Well, looking at the perp's last message on the story site, although he seems to be after this Kit Helms guy, he seems confused on who this Sandman writer is and who he's stalking."

"What do you mean?" Captain Crane asked.

"Look at the message," Larry said, waving a print copy of it under their noses. "He's referring to Sandman as a blond in the e-mail. Haven't you guys said that this Kit Helms is a redhead."

"So, he is," Hardesty said, reaching out and touching Larry's arm. The research clerk shuddered and preened a little bit. Touching like this from Hardesty was a "you done good" gesture and indicated that Larry was going to get a good fucking in reward. "So, does that give you any ideas what we can do?"

"We've got Sandman's passwords, don't we?"

"Yes," Whitehall answered. "So?"

"So, maybe we could further confuse this guy and reel him in by answering his e-mails. He's been wanting to meet with Sandman. Sandman could set up a date where we could snatch him."

"Brilliant," Hardesty said. "You done real good, Larry."

Larry beamed, knowing he had a reward coming. As the meeting broke up to move to the computer at Larry's desk to try to set up a fake Sandman meet with Marcus, Hardesty held Larry back for a moment and whispered, "Break room three, in an hour."

Larry shivered his pleasure. The cops had break rooms, outfitted with cots, desks, and computers, where they could go to rest and research in private. Break room three, the most remote one, was rarely used. It was used most by Hardesty and Larry for Hardesty to give Larry his little rewards for good work.

In break room three, Hardesty draped Larry, naked, over the back of a desk chair, Larry's knees planted in the seat of the chair and his arms dangling over the back. His wrists were bound to his knees through the back rungs of the chair. Larry liked to get it bound--he was into the date rape role-playing game. Hardesty, when he could, gave it to Larry as he wanted it.

Hardesty, minus his trousers and briefs, hopped up onto the chair seat, crouched down, put the bulb of the cock Larry had just sucked hard in position.

"Take it, bitch," Hardesty growled to start the game. "Take my cock and love it."

As Larry panted, groaned, and whispered, "Pleasure, sir. Be good to me. Don't ruin me," Hardesty thrust up to the tune of Larry's yelp; placed his left hand on Larry's hip; cupped Larry's chin with the right, arching the research clerk's head back into his chest, and did just that--fucked him hard and deep.

"Take it, bitch!" Hardesty growled again.

Panting hard, Larry called out, "Fuck, it's so big! In so deep!"

Larry had done good in aiding the investigation and was getting his reward.

* * * *

In the story he worked me hard, but it was with his fingers, at first, and then his fingers up to his knuckles, and finally his whole fist. Fisting my hole, stretching my channel. My right leg was raised up his beefy chest, the ankle hooked on his shoulder. My left leg bent, my buttocks rolled up to give his fist fullest access. He was deep, kissing me on the mouth, sucking on my tongue, pressuring it with his teeth--bringing me to the edge of fearing he'd bite it off. Just like, now that I thought about it, what he'd done at the height of passion last night. And he had his fist up my hole. Holding me tight, preventing me from writhing beyond limited bounds, my huffing and deep moaning competing with the sound of the surf. The fist flexed inside me and I heard a scream, not realizing at first that it came from me.

"Breathe. Pant and breathe," he whispered to me, and I did so as he flexed the fingers of the fist inside me and started moving the fist in and out, in and out, fucking me with it. The pain was lessening a bit, but I continued to groan and moan deeply at his total possession of me, his total using of me. I was his--totally.

Pain, ecstasy, passion.

My explosion in the story was gigantic, my cum arcing up high toward the sea in multiple spouts. Only then, me exhausted and trembling from the fist slowly moving inside me, did the Etienne of the story turn me on to my knees and forearms and fuck me like a dog to his own ejaculation.

Kit was panting hard, begging Marcus not to do it at first but surrendering to it. Kit would do anything Marcus wanted. He wanted Marcus now. Marcus could have him totally. Kit had written about doing it this way because he'd been curious and turned on about having it done to him. Well, now it was being done to him.

"I know I can," Marcus said, and laughed. Kit's arms were stretched over his head, his wrists restrained to the top rung of the bed. His right leg was raised up Marcus's beefy chest, the ankle hooked on the man's shoulder. Kit's left leg was bent, his foot digging into the mattress. His buttocks were rolled up to give Marcus's fist fullest access. He already was in up to the knuckles and had been so for several minutes, teasing the hole, coaxing it open for what he told Kit he would do if Kit didn't tell him who the blond was, where the blond could be found, what his name was.