AKA story bounty

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I'm a huge fan of Jason's stories. (link) Even thinking about them makes my heart race. Some of them seem to imply that there are more entries, ("AKA and the Ice Skater", perhaps?) but I've never been able to find any. People have asked for them on this forum before with no results, but I wonder if I might be able to do better by offering something like a bounty.

Here's the deal: I write stories myself, and over the past two years have collected over a hundred in a private archive. If you can provide me with any additional Jason stories, or even any information that helps me track down more entries, I'll give you the URL and password. I'll post a sample or two below.

The fine print:

• You can reply to me in PM or on this thread, but please allow at least a week for me to get back to you.
• If I give you access, I don't mind if you copy/paste a small number of my stories elsewhere as long as you do NOT credit me. However, do NOT share the password or I'll change it/move the archive/block everyone. Do not ruin this for me.
• What if you can't find anything, but still want to see the stories? Please be patient. I might have a better public option in a few months.
• The posted samples are probably going to be some of my longest/highest quality work. Most of my stories are just a few paragraphs, sometimes just a sentence. (And a poorly-written sentence, at that.) Just FYI.

 

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TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:

If you are reading this then I am beyond all fear of earthly consequence, and it is only just that I try to make things right. While I’ve never deliberately harmed another, I have nevertheless allowed fear - and, in truth, selfish desire - to delay the revelation of secrets that were never mine to keep, and in so doing prevented many innocent souls from receiving their rightful lasting peace.

My fascination with the Coyote Point murders is common knowledge. I loved to visit those woods and take pictures of their natural beauty, and I often shared them with my friends, many of whom I know must have found them dull, weird, or even macabre. I eventually learned to keep the photographs to myself, but I know in some cases I learned too slowly, and for that I sincerely apologize.

There are, however, some pictures which I’ve never shared with anyone. Pictures with more than an artful arrangement of dead trees and dirt. Pictures like this one.

When he was caught, Daniel Pryor admitted that he’d often lure men out to the woods by claiming to work as a photographer for an erotic magazine that wanted to run a feature on bondage. But as soon as the subject was restrained he would immediately be raped and murdered, his defiled body left deep in the uncharted wilderness. The search had been thorough, discovering the shallow graves of nearly all eleven victims Pryor would eventually admit to. The jury, of course, rejected his plea of “insanity by possession,” and he died in prison more than two decades before I was born.

I don’t know what attracted me to his story. I’ve always had a hidden unhealthy interest in homosexual serial killers, but something about him in particular had always seemed… compelling. I could never learn enough. Eventually I just had to travel there, to see the site, to bask in its history. I wandered the woods aimlessly; even forgetting their dark aura, they’re beautiful. And in the fall they’re staggering - an explosion of color and fading beauty before the long slumber of winter.

On my first visit I found and carefully documented about half of the grave sites, my head pounding with the intensity of finally seeing them firsthand. On my second visit I’d nearly completed the set. On my third visit I finished early in the afternoon, and decided to explore and see if I could distract myself with the woods’ other interesting features - to see what Pryor might have seen, and know the area as he might have known it. So I wandered innocently, still heady with excitement. Some time passed. I eventually stumbled into a clearing and stopped to rest and wait for the dizziness to pass.

Distantly, as though through deep water, I heard him ask what to do first as he rose from the pile of discarded clothing. Another strangely muted voice - my voice - told him to stay just as he was. My fingers trembled with guilty excitement as I took shot after shot, capturing him - everything about him - forever in this moment. He shivered slightly in the chill, and I wondered where all the brilliant leaves had gone. Something was wrong. I could sense it, and from his eyes I think he could too, but neither of us could tell what.

I finished the last knot and stepped back to admire my work. He looked incredible with his arms raised high and tied behind the tree. Every muscle in his taut body was in high relief. I half-heartedly took a few more pictures, then carefully set the camera down. I’d never felt more powerful, more aroused, more alive. He nervously asked me something, but I couldn’t hear what. A hand came up and gently massaged his nipple. Fingers slowly danced down his torso, lingering over each curve. Short, wiry hair brushed delicately beneath my fingernails, and his swelling manhood slipped into my grasp. Someone was shouting, but I was entranced. I slowly slid the skin back and forth, repeatedly exposing the purple mushroom head.

I growled and hauled again, tightening the rope around the tree as hard as I could. I was angry and impatient about something, and my cock was so hard it ached. A pair of hands just above the rope were struggling dangerously close to my face, but I was pleased to see their movements becoming less coordinated. The bindings had dug painfully into the wrists, turning the hands puffy and dark. The palms were bloody from scraping against the tree. I couldn’t hear choking anymore.

Oh god he was so tight and warm inside. I pounded frantically, making the forest echo with dull slaps. I tightened the rope around his neck to keep him just south of conscious. I avoided his now grotesque face but stared deeply into his dazed and bloodshot eyes, waiting for the light to go out. For the first time his voice was clear, but all I could hear was terrified weeping. He was long past the point of coherent speech.

His strong, sweaty chest was warm against my cheek as we lay together in the dying light. His legs rested complacently on my shoulders. No more struggles. He didn’t mind me anymore. I took my time to admire him - everything about his quiet form - in that perfect moment. My fingers danced slowly over the gentle curves of his abdomen, idly doodling with spots of thick white gel. Definitely his. Mine I could still feel around me, deep inside him. A clear drop dangling tenaciously from the tip of his softening manhood refracted the winter sunlight. I brought it up, paused to appreciate its colorful brilliance, and licked the salty treat from my finger.

I instantly regretted lifting my head, the throbbing was so intense. Even in late sunset the trees were like fireworks, and I had to clench my eyes while I regained my strength. I’d collapsed and several hours had passed, that much was obvious. But the vision…?

As soon as I could stand I fled. It was some distance, and night fell quickly. I was terrified. The woods didn’t seem nearly as beautiful and welcoming anymore. At the sound of the car door slamming shut I was overpowered by relief, and I just broke down. I sat there sobbing for probably half an hour, trying to understand what had happened… or even if something had happened.

Eventually I came to a conclusion. I’d had an aneurysm, or maybe a stroke. I needed to go to a hospital and get checked. The hallucination had been disturbing, but easily explained - merely a predictable result of spending too much time on an unhealthy obsession. I was so relieved. I buckled up and prepared to drive off when I noticed my camera sitting next to me.

I don’t know what compelled me to check it. Probably habit. But there he was - the man from my vision. One hundred colorful pictures of leaves, then a single, grainy, black and white image of a nude man in his last moments alive.

His name was Johnny Ward. The first missing-person advertisement appeared in a newspaper in a county more than 50 miles north and fifteen years before Pryor was known to have been active, so his disappearance had never been connected. He’d been real. I can’t explain it, and I know it sounds impossible, even supernatural. But I also know that I’d personally witnessed his death. It isn’t just the inexplicable pictures…

I didn’t stay away from the woods for long. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. It took a few trips, but I soon rediscovered the clearing. And again I murdered Ward. Except this time the vision was longer, clearer, more detailed… more intense… and the image I received was later in sequence.

On the back of the enclosed photo I’ve written the latitude and longitude of the specific spot where the visions of Ward were strongest. There you can find the other photos of him, and… well, the rest of what I found. One of the photos will be of a noticeably younger man, Jeremy McLain. On the back of that picture will be another set of coordinates, where - among other things - you can find another set of coordinates…

I’m not a monster, not like Pryor. At least, I don’t think I am. I never chose to be able to see things his way. But I suppose I did choose to see more. I even, eventually, allowed myself to enjoy it. I’ve never harmed anyone, never even wished harm on anyone. Can I still be guilty? I’ve never figured it out…

I guess I never will. But now, I no longer matter. Please: find Ward, and McLain, and the other men and boys. Return them to their families, and put their spirits to rest.