Luis Adam Bree
Forum Regular
As AKA hauled the latest too-delicious-to-resist offering of the Dark
Gods from his quietly humming, night-shrouded automobile, his mind drifted back
to the previous two times he had come here for this purpose. He had always been
tempted to bury some of his victims in these dense, abandoned, moss-covered
woods. From one point of view, what could be safer? The property was isolated,
owned by his own parents, and eventually would be inherited by AKA himself. It
seemed like a slam-dunk proposition. What had made AKA hesitate was the very
same thing. If a body were ever discovered--having been dug up by a hungry
bobcat or a prowling bear and then stumbled upon by a couple of illegally
trespassing hunters, for example--the link to AKA would be much too direct for
comfort. That had actually happened to a guy in Minnesota. Herb
something-or-other. Good old Herb finally got so casual about his kills that he
simply dragged the bodies out into the woods behind his house and tossed a few
leaves over them. Nature did take its course. The bodies disintegrated just as
good old Herb had expected, but his own kid had come upon a telltale human femur
one day and the next thing poor old Herb knew his unsuspecting wife had called
the cops and dozens of police were scouring the property,
inch-by-incriminating-inch. Besides, the hack-and-pack method of disposal--once
AKA had steeled himself to it--was a much more trustworthy means to the same
end. You could dispose of a head here, a foot there, an arm or two someplace
else. All at your own leisure. You simply kept the carefully wrapped parts
nice and frozen until the spirit of dispersal moved you.
Then--abracadabra!--after a few quiet trips to this dump or that trash bin,
there was no more body to worry about. Partly because of the painters, but
mainly just because he just felt like getting it over with this time, AKA had
decided to get rid of hunky young Jorge all in one go, but that was the result
of a rare lack of patience.
Dismemberment was, however, the last of many possible solutions to the
"body problem" that AKA had experimented with. Early in his career, with all
the crazy over-confidence of youth, he had simply left the bodies where he
killed them--in a dusty mote-filled barn (his first kill), in their generally
untidy university dorm-rooms (where he had taken his next few victims), then,
after that, in various boyishly cluttered suburban latch-key-kid bedrooms, or in
any number of hustlers' or bar-pickups' ugly city apartments, or in the stall in
an unusually clean interstate restroom on one occasion, or beside a lonely New
England hiking trail on another, or in two big-city public parks at different
intervals, or, finally, along a fairly large number of well-traveled roadsides
(all totally successful "kill-them-in-the-car-then-dump-them-and-go"
operations). He had buried three guys--including that famous boyband
singer--whole and entire in the sandy Nevada desert. Four others he had gutted,
weighted, and sent to the bottom of a nearby lake or river--the gutting (it
encouraged the body not to float back to the surface) a trick he had learned
from reading Mark Twain, of all people.
As the years passed, however, AKA's pattern had been to do more and more
of his kills in the privacy of his own home. That way, he discovered, he could
really take his time and enjoy THE GAME for as long as his interest lasted. In
some cases, he had remained interested for several days running. A week was the
record, but that boy--an emerald-eyed, lithe-bodied bagboy at a local
supermarket--had been uniquely exciting, what with his absolutely
too-fucking-beautiful-to-believe face and a contrastingly combative "tough"
teen--"Don't fuck with me!"--spirit! Unlike John Wayne Gacy, however, AKA never
considered planting his corpses in the crawlspace. What a dumb idea that had
been!
But twice before AKA had in fact brought his kills here, to these
isolated woods, where--thanks be to the Dark Gods!--they still remained,
unearthed and thus undiscovered. The last time he had checked--it must be over
a year ago now--both hastily hollowed graves--Keith Landon's grave would, of
necessity, be hastily hollowed out as well--had so thoroughly returned to nature
that AKA had actually had trouble locating them. He was still unsure about the
one. The sailor's. What a ballbusting, smooth-skinned, twenty-year-old,
serial-killer's wetdream he had been! Hitchhiking back to quarters after his
buddies had left him stranded at some funky seaside nightclub or other.
Beer-soused and butt-friendly, he had been enjoyed to the hilt! Literally!
Until, that is, AKA put him down by means of his own military dogtags. Insert
one modest little steel-hard 12-inch tire-wrench and twist! It was as easy as
that! The kid had flipped and flopped about on the floor of the old van AKA had
at the time for a good fifteen minutes before "crossing the bar." But, then,
AKA had intentionally tried to see how long he could keep Sailor Boy kicking.
The other guy AKA had planted in these woods was a depressed,
middle-aged, former star college-football quarterback AKA had chatted up in a
gay bar. It was the guy's first visit to the big city AKA lived near, and he
didn't even know what kind of joint he was in. Well, it was one of the tonier,
less blatantly obvious gay bars in town. Of course, the guy's
depression--rooted in on-going wife-troubles, surprise, surprise!--had made him
rather oblivious to his surroundings as well. AKA had made sure Frank--his name
had been Frank--drank even more than he had intended to in an effort to drown
his woes, then AKA had literally drowned him--after an appropriately athletic
fuck--in a shallow, nearby creek-bed. Frank was the oldest guy AKA had ever
done, but far from the worst when it came to looks or talent.
Now, cute young Copper Keith Landon was going to join them. After
having been suitably "released from this life," of course. But that was only
one of three things AKA had said he was going to do to the young policeman.
There were two almost-as-exciting preliminary things to accomplish before they
reached that (always dramatic!) final event.
The first was the aforementioned fuck, the brief strangulation in the
car having aroused AKA all over again. For that reason alone, AKA wasted no
time in pulling his latest and most unexpected GAME victim out of the
car--impressed (and not for the first time) by how heavy a comatose male body
could be.
Catching the policeman under his hot, moist, virtually hairless armpits,
AKA hoisted him, with his heels haphazardly bouncing and dragging along the
ground, over to a flat, thickly needled area between two tall pine trees.
Despite the lateness of the hour, a full harvest moon was at last on the
rise. Long shivery slivers of slowly shifting light had begun to work their way
through the otherwise eerily empty surrounding forest.
A hoot owl hooted.
A dry twig snapped.
There was a hectic rustle in the nearby underbrush.
Otherwise nothing.
Except the barely audible hum of AKA's still running, now somewhat
distant automobile.
The pre-dawn air was decidedly cold, but refreshingly so. Particularly
after the virtual steam-bath AKA and his captive cop had generated in the car.
AKA let the young policeman down, then worked him over onto his stomach.
The legs crossed at the ankle as he did so.
AKA bent over, unhooked them, and then spread them a suitable distance
apart.
Jesus! Keith Landon was as beautiful from the rear as he was from the
front! Not that AKA had doubted it, but to actually see laid out before him
that perfectly molded milk-white butt, that darker, elegantly tapered
straight-spined back, those broad, flawlessly toned young shoulders and
beautifully muscled upper arms, and, last but not least, those smooth,
splendidly proportioned, athletic-looking legs was enough to justify all of the
risk AKA was taking.
So what would it be? A wet or dry fuck? There was a small jar of
Vaseline back at the car. Another item in AKA's ever-ready-for-action
serial-killer road-kit. So it could be wet.
The cop moaned through the sock-gag.
That determined the issue.
It would be dry, then, because AKA suddenly wanted to hear more moans
just like that one and a dry fuck would be much more likely to produce them.
AKA undid his pants and pushed them down below his knees.
He then knelt between the slim, neatly spread legs in what felt like an
act of worship. And in his own strange way he did worship this beautiful
nature-wrought male "divinity" lying prone before him, didn't he? Not the least
part of the thrill in fact was to kill the "deity" one adored.
Heaving an appreciative sigh, AKA parted the unexpectedly ice-cold
ass-cheeks, located the delicate, inviolate (but soon not to be) bud of an
asshole, and moved in for the actual penetration.
It took three fairly aggressive, punishing heaves to make it all the way
in. A deliciously protesting moan accompanied each hard, gut-piercing shove.
By the time AKA began to pump for real, Keith Landon was fully,
violently conscious of what was happening to him
The young cop immediately did all that he could to buck AKA off. They
actually moved six or seven feet across the forest floor during the struggle,
but AKA not only stayed atop, he stayed well inside for the full, almost-comic,
bronco-busting way!
Ride 'em, cowboy!!!
AKA had actually ridden a cowboy in just this way once. The
sun-bronzed, trail-toughened, twenty-something hitchhiker from big-sky Montana
named Rafe. Rafe was one of the three guys buried in the sandy Nevada desert.
This bucking, however, was even more vigorous than "Cowboy" Rafe's had
been. AKA was surprised. He had fully expected the policeman's return to
consciousness to come later and be a lot less action-filled, if the truth be
known. Once again, AKA learned the old lesson. Each guy was different and
different in totally unpredictable ways. The uncertainty added no little spice
to THE GAME, of course.
The moaning, however, was as satisfactory as AKA had hoped it would be.
His own excitement, in consequence, was soon high and mounting. No pun
intended! Thus it came as a serious shock when, as hard as it might be to
believe, young Landon did something no force-fucked guy in all of AKA's
considerable experience had ever done. The cop suddenly shoved his tightly
manacled hands down into AKA's groin in a determined effort to force AKA to
withdraw. His nails ripped along the sides of AKA's hard-pumping dick, his
fingers tore at AKA's wildly swinging balls.
It hurt!
And AKA did not like being hurt!
Gods from his quietly humming, night-shrouded automobile, his mind drifted back
to the previous two times he had come here for this purpose. He had always been
tempted to bury some of his victims in these dense, abandoned, moss-covered
woods. From one point of view, what could be safer? The property was isolated,
owned by his own parents, and eventually would be inherited by AKA himself. It
seemed like a slam-dunk proposition. What had made AKA hesitate was the very
same thing. If a body were ever discovered--having been dug up by a hungry
bobcat or a prowling bear and then stumbled upon by a couple of illegally
trespassing hunters, for example--the link to AKA would be much too direct for
comfort. That had actually happened to a guy in Minnesota. Herb
something-or-other. Good old Herb finally got so casual about his kills that he
simply dragged the bodies out into the woods behind his house and tossed a few
leaves over them. Nature did take its course. The bodies disintegrated just as
good old Herb had expected, but his own kid had come upon a telltale human femur
one day and the next thing poor old Herb knew his unsuspecting wife had called
the cops and dozens of police were scouring the property,
inch-by-incriminating-inch. Besides, the hack-and-pack method of disposal--once
AKA had steeled himself to it--was a much more trustworthy means to the same
end. You could dispose of a head here, a foot there, an arm or two someplace
else. All at your own leisure. You simply kept the carefully wrapped parts
nice and frozen until the spirit of dispersal moved you.
Then--abracadabra!--after a few quiet trips to this dump or that trash bin,
there was no more body to worry about. Partly because of the painters, but
mainly just because he just felt like getting it over with this time, AKA had
decided to get rid of hunky young Jorge all in one go, but that was the result
of a rare lack of patience.
Dismemberment was, however, the last of many possible solutions to the
"body problem" that AKA had experimented with. Early in his career, with all
the crazy over-confidence of youth, he had simply left the bodies where he
killed them--in a dusty mote-filled barn (his first kill), in their generally
untidy university dorm-rooms (where he had taken his next few victims), then,
after that, in various boyishly cluttered suburban latch-key-kid bedrooms, or in
any number of hustlers' or bar-pickups' ugly city apartments, or in the stall in
an unusually clean interstate restroom on one occasion, or beside a lonely New
England hiking trail on another, or in two big-city public parks at different
intervals, or, finally, along a fairly large number of well-traveled roadsides
(all totally successful "kill-them-in-the-car-then-dump-them-and-go"
operations). He had buried three guys--including that famous boyband
singer--whole and entire in the sandy Nevada desert. Four others he had gutted,
weighted, and sent to the bottom of a nearby lake or river--the gutting (it
encouraged the body not to float back to the surface) a trick he had learned
from reading Mark Twain, of all people.
As the years passed, however, AKA's pattern had been to do more and more
of his kills in the privacy of his own home. That way, he discovered, he could
really take his time and enjoy THE GAME for as long as his interest lasted. In
some cases, he had remained interested for several days running. A week was the
record, but that boy--an emerald-eyed, lithe-bodied bagboy at a local
supermarket--had been uniquely exciting, what with his absolutely
too-fucking-beautiful-to-believe face and a contrastingly combative "tough"
teen--"Don't fuck with me!"--spirit! Unlike John Wayne Gacy, however, AKA never
considered planting his corpses in the crawlspace. What a dumb idea that had
been!
But twice before AKA had in fact brought his kills here, to these
isolated woods, where--thanks be to the Dark Gods!--they still remained,
unearthed and thus undiscovered. The last time he had checked--it must be over
a year ago now--both hastily hollowed graves--Keith Landon's grave would, of
necessity, be hastily hollowed out as well--had so thoroughly returned to nature
that AKA had actually had trouble locating them. He was still unsure about the
one. The sailor's. What a ballbusting, smooth-skinned, twenty-year-old,
serial-killer's wetdream he had been! Hitchhiking back to quarters after his
buddies had left him stranded at some funky seaside nightclub or other.
Beer-soused and butt-friendly, he had been enjoyed to the hilt! Literally!
Until, that is, AKA put him down by means of his own military dogtags. Insert
one modest little steel-hard 12-inch tire-wrench and twist! It was as easy as
that! The kid had flipped and flopped about on the floor of the old van AKA had
at the time for a good fifteen minutes before "crossing the bar." But, then,
AKA had intentionally tried to see how long he could keep Sailor Boy kicking.
The other guy AKA had planted in these woods was a depressed,
middle-aged, former star college-football quarterback AKA had chatted up in a
gay bar. It was the guy's first visit to the big city AKA lived near, and he
didn't even know what kind of joint he was in. Well, it was one of the tonier,
less blatantly obvious gay bars in town. Of course, the guy's
depression--rooted in on-going wife-troubles, surprise, surprise!--had made him
rather oblivious to his surroundings as well. AKA had made sure Frank--his name
had been Frank--drank even more than he had intended to in an effort to drown
his woes, then AKA had literally drowned him--after an appropriately athletic
fuck--in a shallow, nearby creek-bed. Frank was the oldest guy AKA had ever
done, but far from the worst when it came to looks or talent.
Now, cute young Copper Keith Landon was going to join them. After
having been suitably "released from this life," of course. But that was only
one of three things AKA had said he was going to do to the young policeman.
There were two almost-as-exciting preliminary things to accomplish before they
reached that (always dramatic!) final event.
The first was the aforementioned fuck, the brief strangulation in the
car having aroused AKA all over again. For that reason alone, AKA wasted no
time in pulling his latest and most unexpected GAME victim out of the
car--impressed (and not for the first time) by how heavy a comatose male body
could be.
Catching the policeman under his hot, moist, virtually hairless armpits,
AKA hoisted him, with his heels haphazardly bouncing and dragging along the
ground, over to a flat, thickly needled area between two tall pine trees.
Despite the lateness of the hour, a full harvest moon was at last on the
rise. Long shivery slivers of slowly shifting light had begun to work their way
through the otherwise eerily empty surrounding forest.
A hoot owl hooted.
A dry twig snapped.
There was a hectic rustle in the nearby underbrush.
Otherwise nothing.
Except the barely audible hum of AKA's still running, now somewhat
distant automobile.
The pre-dawn air was decidedly cold, but refreshingly so. Particularly
after the virtual steam-bath AKA and his captive cop had generated in the car.
AKA let the young policeman down, then worked him over onto his stomach.
The legs crossed at the ankle as he did so.
AKA bent over, unhooked them, and then spread them a suitable distance
apart.
Jesus! Keith Landon was as beautiful from the rear as he was from the
front! Not that AKA had doubted it, but to actually see laid out before him
that perfectly molded milk-white butt, that darker, elegantly tapered
straight-spined back, those broad, flawlessly toned young shoulders and
beautifully muscled upper arms, and, last but not least, those smooth,
splendidly proportioned, athletic-looking legs was enough to justify all of the
risk AKA was taking.
So what would it be? A wet or dry fuck? There was a small jar of
Vaseline back at the car. Another item in AKA's ever-ready-for-action
serial-killer road-kit. So it could be wet.
The cop moaned through the sock-gag.
That determined the issue.
It would be dry, then, because AKA suddenly wanted to hear more moans
just like that one and a dry fuck would be much more likely to produce them.
AKA undid his pants and pushed them down below his knees.
He then knelt between the slim, neatly spread legs in what felt like an
act of worship. And in his own strange way he did worship this beautiful
nature-wrought male "divinity" lying prone before him, didn't he? Not the least
part of the thrill in fact was to kill the "deity" one adored.
Heaving an appreciative sigh, AKA parted the unexpectedly ice-cold
ass-cheeks, located the delicate, inviolate (but soon not to be) bud of an
asshole, and moved in for the actual penetration.
It took three fairly aggressive, punishing heaves to make it all the way
in. A deliciously protesting moan accompanied each hard, gut-piercing shove.
By the time AKA began to pump for real, Keith Landon was fully,
violently conscious of what was happening to him
The young cop immediately did all that he could to buck AKA off. They
actually moved six or seven feet across the forest floor during the struggle,
but AKA not only stayed atop, he stayed well inside for the full, almost-comic,
bronco-busting way!
Ride 'em, cowboy!!!
AKA had actually ridden a cowboy in just this way once. The
sun-bronzed, trail-toughened, twenty-something hitchhiker from big-sky Montana
named Rafe. Rafe was one of the three guys buried in the sandy Nevada desert.
This bucking, however, was even more vigorous than "Cowboy" Rafe's had
been. AKA was surprised. He had fully expected the policeman's return to
consciousness to come later and be a lot less action-filled, if the truth be
known. Once again, AKA learned the old lesson. Each guy was different and
different in totally unpredictable ways. The uncertainty added no little spice
to THE GAME, of course.
The moaning, however, was as satisfactory as AKA had hoped it would be.
His own excitement, in consequence, was soon high and mounting. No pun
intended! Thus it came as a serious shock when, as hard as it might be to
believe, young Landon did something no force-fucked guy in all of AKA's
considerable experience had ever done. The cop suddenly shoved his tightly
manacled hands down into AKA's groin in a determined effort to force AKA to
withdraw. His nails ripped along the sides of AKA's hard-pumping dick, his
fingers tore at AKA's wildly swinging balls.
It hurt!
And AKA did not like being hurt!
