TallBlond1
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- Cleveland, Ohio
(Author's Note: Here's one for those of you who have requested a strangling story. And I freely admit it--the dark humor in this short tale easily makes it one of my personal favorites.)
Number Thirteen
by Steve Geary
A voice came over the small speaker on the desk. “There's a young man here to see you, doctor.”
Dr. Solish looked at his calendar -- it was Friday, August 13, 2004. His finger quickly traveled down to the name of his thirteenth patient of the day. "Oh, no." He rolled his eyes -- how appropriate that this particular patient was number thirteen.
“Send him in,” he groaned. Had his sanity's instinct for self preservation purposely forgotten about this one? He braced himself as the door opened.
The young gentleman bounded in. “Hiya, doc,” he said with a cheerful smile. Dr. Solish sighed. “Hello, Michael. Sit down.”
Michael threw himself into the oversized chair. “So, what's up, doc?”
The doctor popped a pill. “Michael, nothing's up. If you're asking how I am, well, for the record, my mental health isn't the reason why you're here. We're here to chat about you. Have you thought about what we talked about last visit?”
“Not too seriously,” Michael said as he grinned, his arms behind his head and his feet upon the psychiatrist's desk.
“Michael -- your feet -- off my desk.” Dr. Solish had a hard look on his face.
“Whoops -- sorry, man,” Michael said. “What's the matter? Having a bad day?"
There was a gritting of teeth. "Michael, you must learn to take these sessions more seriously. If you don't, you're wasting my time -- and your money.”
“Wrong, doc. We're wasting my father's money. If he wants to blow a hundred and fifty bucks an hour to shrink my head, that's fine by me. As you can see, I'm perfectly normal.”
“Whatever you are, Michael, you're not normal. You are the most impudent, stubborn, insubordinate young man my practice has ever known. Quite frankly, I can't make head or tail of you.”
“Ah, but am I suffering from depression, doc? Am I insane? You tell me -- in your professional opinion, of course.” Michael laughed.
“How would I know?!” Dr. Solish yelled. “How can I help you if you won't open up?! You’ve given me nothing to go on, nothing at all.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Such a pity,” Michael said, shaking his head sadly. Softly, just loud enough for the doctor to hear, he mumbled, “Quack, quack, quack, quack, quack…”
In spite of the pill he’d swallowed, Dr. Solish felt his blood pressure rising. “Tell me, Michael -- do you still harbor ill feelings toward your father?”
“Of course I do. I always have. After what he's put me through, who wouldn't?”
“But are your reasons volatile enough that you might hurt him?”
“Doc, please. I can honestly tell you, I no longer wish to hurt him in the slightest. Besides -- why would I wish physical harm on anybody?” Michael winked at his doctor.
That wink! How many times had Dr. Solish put up with that wink?! He slammed his fist down on the table. “What does that wink mean?” he cried. “What are you trying to prove? Why are you here?”
“You're the shrink, doc. You tell me.”
Dr. Solish's face was red as a beet. “I have no idea. You've given me nothing. For months you've come here, and I haven't been able to make the slightest sense about you.”
“Ah, but would you say I need medication, doc? Should I be hospitalized? Put away somewhere?”
“No, I can't give any professional opinion about you whatsoever. I have no idea what makes you tick!”
“Then, doc, why don't we just skip these sessions? You said it yourself -- you can't help me, and you can't find a thing wrong. Now, my buddy Timmy is waiting for me. How about just admitting that I'm fine?”
“I'll admit nothing, Michael -- except that if I could, I'd admit you permanently to this hospital and perform a frontal lobotomy.” His face shook, it was so red. “Quite frankly -- I HATE you.”
The young man laughed as he stood up. “Ah, then I'm free to go.” Dr. Solish waved his hand. “Yes, Michael -- go. Don't come back. Tell your father I can't help you.”
Michael walked to the door and pulled out his dad's credit card to pay the receptionist. “I'll tell him, but I doubt if he'll listen.”
Michael's Dad was named John O'Connor. He was a big, burly 250-lb Irishman, a slow-witted mass of brawn and hair. As he'd gotten older, the hair had traveled from the top of his head down his back. Everyone called him Big Jack.
For years, Jack had threatened to beat Michael to a pulp -- “I'll tear off your arm and beat you over the head with it,” he'd say with the slightest provocation. The old man ranted and raved, fumed day in and day out as to what a good-for-nothing son he had.
When Michael came of age, however, Big Jack knew why he'd had the boy in the first place. He'd matured quite nicely -- must have been those good genes -- yeah, that was it. Time to make Michael Jack's sex slave.
Invariably, Dad was on top. Big Jack would clasp restraints around his son's wrists, throw the boy's legs up in the air and royally screw his boy's young jock ass.
He wasn't called Big Jack for nothing. To get fucked by so huge a cock hurt like hell! Michael would wince and scream. “OW, Dad! Oh, Father! It hurts, Father, it hurts!”
Jack didn't care -- he was too busy reveling in those juicy fuck noises. “Take it, pussyboy. Gimme that hot ass. Take your old man's fat cock up your tight twat.” By the time Dad would finish, Michael's butt hole was considerably looser -- with puddles of daddy jizz dripping out of it. God, the pain! -- he had to hide the butt bruises and the abrasions around his wrists.
Jack would gnash his teeth each time and give his boy nasty grins as he used the bitch. “Yeah! Take the dick that made you, slut -- make your pussy ass squeeze my fuckrod with all the love you've got!”
Each session left Michael gasping, grateful to even be alive. He would lie there, staring into space as his father snored, and he'd walk with a limp for days afterward. It was no fun being the son of Big Jack.
He realized, finally, that he had no choice -- it was time to work out with weights. If this came to a kick-ass fight, he knew he'd better be ready for it.
In time, Michael became a well-chiseled muscle machine. And how did Dad take to his son getting stronger? Not kindly at all -- he clenched his fists and felt his temper boiling over as the boy's muscles grew. “What are you doing, boy?!” he would scream. And Michael would just smile. This would be a battle of wills -- the underdog refusing to give in to his potential conqueror, almost daring the more powerful one to make the first move.
Shortly before Christmas 2003, Big Jack informed Michael that he was scheduling the boy for psychiatric sessions. “You're lazy, boy, and you don't appreciate what all I do for you,” he said. “You're to go every week 'til the doctor gets a call from me telling him I think you're cured.” His face suddenly went mean. “But don't you dare tell him everything about us -- or pal, you are dead meat.” He pounded his finger into his son's firm chest.
And so, it came to pass -- Michael and Dr. Solish met up. Lo, just before Christmas, the heavens parted and the angels sang on high as Michael and the doc began their beautiful friendship.
Within a week, Michael informed his dad that for Christmas, the old man would be getting a number of gifts. Jack was pleased. That first session with the doctor must have worked.
On Christmas Day, Big Jack gleefully opened up his presents, and indeed, each of them was chosen with care. Individually wrapped, Michael’s old man found a tie, a belt, and a watch. There were fine shoes and socks, rings for his fingers -- even a gold-studded tie clip and a beautiful handkerchief. The twelfth gift was an expensive, double-breasted suit. If Big Jack ever wanted to go back to church, he was all set.
Finally, along came the thirteenth gift. It was a very heavy package. Michael struggled to carry it into the room. He dropped it at his father's feet.
Excitedly, Jack peeled away the wrapper and stared inside. “What's the meaning of this?!” he cried. “That, Pop,” Michael smiled with satisfaction, “is the last gift I'll ever need to give you.”
Pop clenched his fist and threw it at his son's face. Michael was ready. The long, drawn out fight went through the entire house -- dishes and lamps were broken, as well as large pieces of furniture. Both men tore at each other's clothes. It was as heated a brawl as Big Jack had ever had, and -- miracle of miracles -- when it was over, Michael was the victor.
What a difference a day makes. After that, Pop said nothing; conversations were entirely one-sided. At dinner, he'd sit in his chair, not eat a thing. They sat on the sofa -- Pop quiet as Michael watched his favorite TV shows. If Michael wanted to leave at any hour of the night, Big Jack never put up a fuss. Suddenly, it was Michael calling the shots.
And Michael quickly became the cocky son-of-a-bitch that Dr. Solish, by August 13, had learned to so completely despise.
“When are you going to introduce me to your Dad, Michael?” Timmy asked.
Michael looked at his friend. Other than Big Jack, he'd never had feelings so intense toward any other human being, and it wasn't the first time Timmy had asked.
He supposed it was appropriate that the two most important men in his life should meet up. “How about tonight?” Michael replied. “Sweet,” Timmy smiled.
“In the meantime, Timmy, you ready to do that thing we talked about?” Timmy's eyes lit up. “HELL, yeah!” Timmy had an innocent face, and not much experience with twisted gay sex, but he knew exactly as to what Michael was referring.
They climbed the stairs to Michael’s bedroom and helped each other out of their clothes. In moments, both were naked. Timmy had the most beautiful cock Michael had ever seen.
Michael admired Timmy's penis, knelt in front of it and gave it a few quick sucks as Timmy grinned down at him. Soon the cock was pulsing in front of Timmy's lean torso. It was a raging hard-on that would’ve made any owner proud. The head loomed a solid eight inches away from Timmy’s firm body, a thick stalk of hot meat attaching the head to Timmy’s light-brown pubic bush.
Michael brought out the rope to tighten around Timmy's neck.
“OK, Timmy, now here's the important thing to remember -- you're going to get more and more lightheaded. It's gonna be an INCREDIBLE high -- better than pot, better than poppers! The best orgasm you've ever had. Don't cum 'til what feels like the very last moment -- then go for it, dude! If you can't cum, just tap my leg. Either way, I'll have my signal to let loose with the rope.”
Timmy loved trying anything new and appreciated the slight aura of danger in this act. He nodded his head up and down excitedly, reaching for his dick. Pre-cum had already started to drip from it. He grinned. “Yeah, Michael -- I can't wait, pal!”
Michael grinned. “I'll be right here with you, buddy.” He again swallowed his friend's dick down to the base, washed it for half a minute with mouth juices, then pulled off. “There's your lube, stud,” he smiled.
Timmy smiled, gave Michael the ‘OK,’ and let Michael start pulling on the rope. It squeezed gently into Timmy’s neck muscles. “How does that feel?” Michael asked.
“Good,” Timmy nodded, his voice just a little raspy.
“Great!” Michael replied. “Ready or not, here we go.” Timmy started to massage his dick gently. Michael looked into his buddy's eyes, then bit his lip and intently pulled on the rope. Indentations were gradually pressing into Timmy's neck muscles.
Timmy started to jack more furiously. The cock was rock-hard, the helmet-shaped head shiny with saliva, completely dilated with blood. It was so exciting -- he felt his heart racing as it pounded inside his chest, working harder to send oxygen to the brain. Michael knew the pressure was having the desired effect when Timmy’s face started turning red.
A minute passed. As Michael studied his Timmy’s expressions, his arms pulled the rope tighter and tighter around his friend’s neck. Timmy's head started to tremble. His face contorted from lack of air, and still Timmy stared, wide-eyed, as his cock built up to orgasm. What a hot feeling! The handsome vein on the cock's underside was very erotically sticking outward. It was a hot picture.
Two minutes passed since the beginning of the exercise. Timmy’s face had developed a near-insane expression. His balls were starting to tighten. The tongue was starting to hang out of his mouth. Deep in his throat, Timmy couldn't even moan because the rope had dug so deeply into his larynx. Michael pulled tighter still.
Timmy’s innocent face took on the color of ketchup. The beautiful blue eyes rolled in circles, going cross-eyed as Timmy approached his orgasm. Michael could sense that the boy was getting ready to tap his leg.
Soon Timmy’s face was turning purple. The veins stuck out on his forehead. Timmy suddenly looked strange; his face went bug-eyed. His arms flailed. His feet kicked violently at nothing. The cockhead spurted a rope of jizz halfway across the room. There was another squirt, then another even bigger. Timmy’s eyes were ecstatic and frightened to death at the same time.
“YEAH, TIMMY!” Michael yelled. Six more long globs of baby makers shot from the enormous, hairy dick, splattering all over the floor. Timmy's body shook. The remaining spurts dribbled down to a trickle. Having cum, Timmy’s face realized he was long past the point of needing air. He panicked. His foot desperately reached over, tapping furiously at Michael's leg to release his neck.
Instead, Michael winked at his friend. He stood up, pulled tighter on the rope, and used it to drag the boy across the room toward his father’s adjacent door. Timmy’s feet gave sporadic, useless kicks at the floor -- his eyes rolled back as he choked hard. With Michael's one free hand, he pulled on his father's bedroom door knob--the door flew open, crashing into the wall. Michael took Timmy's limp body and flung it across the room, where it lay on the floor, jerking involuntarily.
“There, asshole! You men are all alike! You want to meet the man who taught me not to trust anyone? Go for it, bitch!!”
The police entered the home with their weapons drawn. Not a sound anywhere. They went upstairs, their guns at the ready in front of them. The entire squad was tense as they rounded the corner and peered into the father's bedroom.
Instantly, they eyed a scene none of them would ever forget. Their jaws dropped.
Michael sat against a wall, happily gurgling as he chewed away on a razor blade.
Timmy was dead as a doornail, his beautiful nude body crumpled stomach-down on the floor, the eyes staring, horrified but unfocused, at Michael's father.
Sitting upright in a makeshift casket, wearing a beautiful, double-breasted suit, was Big Jack’s corpse. He had rings on his fingers, sported an expensive watch, and had a handkerchief perfectly folded into the breast pocket.
Leaning against the wall was his son's thirteenth gift to him from so many months before -- a homemade tombstone. It read:
The coroner roughly estimated that Jack had been dead since Christmas.
Number Thirteen
by Steve Geary
A voice came over the small speaker on the desk. “There's a young man here to see you, doctor.”
Dr. Solish looked at his calendar -- it was Friday, August 13, 2004. His finger quickly traveled down to the name of his thirteenth patient of the day. "Oh, no." He rolled his eyes -- how appropriate that this particular patient was number thirteen.
“Send him in,” he groaned. Had his sanity's instinct for self preservation purposely forgotten about this one? He braced himself as the door opened.
The young gentleman bounded in. “Hiya, doc,” he said with a cheerful smile. Dr. Solish sighed. “Hello, Michael. Sit down.”
Michael threw himself into the oversized chair. “So, what's up, doc?”
The doctor popped a pill. “Michael, nothing's up. If you're asking how I am, well, for the record, my mental health isn't the reason why you're here. We're here to chat about you. Have you thought about what we talked about last visit?”
“Not too seriously,” Michael said as he grinned, his arms behind his head and his feet upon the psychiatrist's desk.
“Michael -- your feet -- off my desk.” Dr. Solish had a hard look on his face.
“Whoops -- sorry, man,” Michael said. “What's the matter? Having a bad day?"
There was a gritting of teeth. "Michael, you must learn to take these sessions more seriously. If you don't, you're wasting my time -- and your money.”
“Wrong, doc. We're wasting my father's money. If he wants to blow a hundred and fifty bucks an hour to shrink my head, that's fine by me. As you can see, I'm perfectly normal.”
“Whatever you are, Michael, you're not normal. You are the most impudent, stubborn, insubordinate young man my practice has ever known. Quite frankly, I can't make head or tail of you.”
“Ah, but am I suffering from depression, doc? Am I insane? You tell me -- in your professional opinion, of course.” Michael laughed.
“How would I know?!” Dr. Solish yelled. “How can I help you if you won't open up?! You’ve given me nothing to go on, nothing at all.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Such a pity,” Michael said, shaking his head sadly. Softly, just loud enough for the doctor to hear, he mumbled, “Quack, quack, quack, quack, quack…”
In spite of the pill he’d swallowed, Dr. Solish felt his blood pressure rising. “Tell me, Michael -- do you still harbor ill feelings toward your father?”
“Of course I do. I always have. After what he's put me through, who wouldn't?”
“But are your reasons volatile enough that you might hurt him?”
“Doc, please. I can honestly tell you, I no longer wish to hurt him in the slightest. Besides -- why would I wish physical harm on anybody?” Michael winked at his doctor.
That wink! How many times had Dr. Solish put up with that wink?! He slammed his fist down on the table. “What does that wink mean?” he cried. “What are you trying to prove? Why are you here?”
“You're the shrink, doc. You tell me.”
Dr. Solish's face was red as a beet. “I have no idea. You've given me nothing. For months you've come here, and I haven't been able to make the slightest sense about you.”
“Ah, but would you say I need medication, doc? Should I be hospitalized? Put away somewhere?”
“No, I can't give any professional opinion about you whatsoever. I have no idea what makes you tick!”
“Then, doc, why don't we just skip these sessions? You said it yourself -- you can't help me, and you can't find a thing wrong. Now, my buddy Timmy is waiting for me. How about just admitting that I'm fine?”
“I'll admit nothing, Michael -- except that if I could, I'd admit you permanently to this hospital and perform a frontal lobotomy.” His face shook, it was so red. “Quite frankly -- I HATE you.”
The young man laughed as he stood up. “Ah, then I'm free to go.” Dr. Solish waved his hand. “Yes, Michael -- go. Don't come back. Tell your father I can't help you.”
Michael walked to the door and pulled out his dad's credit card to pay the receptionist. “I'll tell him, but I doubt if he'll listen.”
--------------------------------------------------
Michael's Dad was named John O'Connor. He was a big, burly 250-lb Irishman, a slow-witted mass of brawn and hair. As he'd gotten older, the hair had traveled from the top of his head down his back. Everyone called him Big Jack.
For years, Jack had threatened to beat Michael to a pulp -- “I'll tear off your arm and beat you over the head with it,” he'd say with the slightest provocation. The old man ranted and raved, fumed day in and day out as to what a good-for-nothing son he had.
When Michael came of age, however, Big Jack knew why he'd had the boy in the first place. He'd matured quite nicely -- must have been those good genes -- yeah, that was it. Time to make Michael Jack's sex slave.
Invariably, Dad was on top. Big Jack would clasp restraints around his son's wrists, throw the boy's legs up in the air and royally screw his boy's young jock ass.
He wasn't called Big Jack for nothing. To get fucked by so huge a cock hurt like hell! Michael would wince and scream. “OW, Dad! Oh, Father! It hurts, Father, it hurts!”
Jack didn't care -- he was too busy reveling in those juicy fuck noises. “Take it, pussyboy. Gimme that hot ass. Take your old man's fat cock up your tight twat.” By the time Dad would finish, Michael's butt hole was considerably looser -- with puddles of daddy jizz dripping out of it. God, the pain! -- he had to hide the butt bruises and the abrasions around his wrists.
Jack would gnash his teeth each time and give his boy nasty grins as he used the bitch. “Yeah! Take the dick that made you, slut -- make your pussy ass squeeze my fuckrod with all the love you've got!”
Each session left Michael gasping, grateful to even be alive. He would lie there, staring into space as his father snored, and he'd walk with a limp for days afterward. It was no fun being the son of Big Jack.
He realized, finally, that he had no choice -- it was time to work out with weights. If this came to a kick-ass fight, he knew he'd better be ready for it.
In time, Michael became a well-chiseled muscle machine. And how did Dad take to his son getting stronger? Not kindly at all -- he clenched his fists and felt his temper boiling over as the boy's muscles grew. “What are you doing, boy?!” he would scream. And Michael would just smile. This would be a battle of wills -- the underdog refusing to give in to his potential conqueror, almost daring the more powerful one to make the first move.
Shortly before Christmas 2003, Big Jack informed Michael that he was scheduling the boy for psychiatric sessions. “You're lazy, boy, and you don't appreciate what all I do for you,” he said. “You're to go every week 'til the doctor gets a call from me telling him I think you're cured.” His face suddenly went mean. “But don't you dare tell him everything about us -- or pal, you are dead meat.” He pounded his finger into his son's firm chest.
And so, it came to pass -- Michael and Dr. Solish met up. Lo, just before Christmas, the heavens parted and the angels sang on high as Michael and the doc began their beautiful friendship.
Within a week, Michael informed his dad that for Christmas, the old man would be getting a number of gifts. Jack was pleased. That first session with the doctor must have worked.
On Christmas Day, Big Jack gleefully opened up his presents, and indeed, each of them was chosen with care. Individually wrapped, Michael’s old man found a tie, a belt, and a watch. There were fine shoes and socks, rings for his fingers -- even a gold-studded tie clip and a beautiful handkerchief. The twelfth gift was an expensive, double-breasted suit. If Big Jack ever wanted to go back to church, he was all set.
Finally, along came the thirteenth gift. It was a very heavy package. Michael struggled to carry it into the room. He dropped it at his father's feet.
Excitedly, Jack peeled away the wrapper and stared inside. “What's the meaning of this?!” he cried. “That, Pop,” Michael smiled with satisfaction, “is the last gift I'll ever need to give you.”
Pop clenched his fist and threw it at his son's face. Michael was ready. The long, drawn out fight went through the entire house -- dishes and lamps were broken, as well as large pieces of furniture. Both men tore at each other's clothes. It was as heated a brawl as Big Jack had ever had, and -- miracle of miracles -- when it was over, Michael was the victor.
What a difference a day makes. After that, Pop said nothing; conversations were entirely one-sided. At dinner, he'd sit in his chair, not eat a thing. They sat on the sofa -- Pop quiet as Michael watched his favorite TV shows. If Michael wanted to leave at any hour of the night, Big Jack never put up a fuss. Suddenly, it was Michael calling the shots.
And Michael quickly became the cocky son-of-a-bitch that Dr. Solish, by August 13, had learned to so completely despise.
--------------------------------------------------
“When are you going to introduce me to your Dad, Michael?” Timmy asked.
Michael looked at his friend. Other than Big Jack, he'd never had feelings so intense toward any other human being, and it wasn't the first time Timmy had asked.
He supposed it was appropriate that the two most important men in his life should meet up. “How about tonight?” Michael replied. “Sweet,” Timmy smiled.
“In the meantime, Timmy, you ready to do that thing we talked about?” Timmy's eyes lit up. “HELL, yeah!” Timmy had an innocent face, and not much experience with twisted gay sex, but he knew exactly as to what Michael was referring.
They climbed the stairs to Michael’s bedroom and helped each other out of their clothes. In moments, both were naked. Timmy had the most beautiful cock Michael had ever seen.
Michael admired Timmy's penis, knelt in front of it and gave it a few quick sucks as Timmy grinned down at him. Soon the cock was pulsing in front of Timmy's lean torso. It was a raging hard-on that would’ve made any owner proud. The head loomed a solid eight inches away from Timmy’s firm body, a thick stalk of hot meat attaching the head to Timmy’s light-brown pubic bush.
Michael brought out the rope to tighten around Timmy's neck.
“OK, Timmy, now here's the important thing to remember -- you're going to get more and more lightheaded. It's gonna be an INCREDIBLE high -- better than pot, better than poppers! The best orgasm you've ever had. Don't cum 'til what feels like the very last moment -- then go for it, dude! If you can't cum, just tap my leg. Either way, I'll have my signal to let loose with the rope.”
Timmy loved trying anything new and appreciated the slight aura of danger in this act. He nodded his head up and down excitedly, reaching for his dick. Pre-cum had already started to drip from it. He grinned. “Yeah, Michael -- I can't wait, pal!”
Michael grinned. “I'll be right here with you, buddy.” He again swallowed his friend's dick down to the base, washed it for half a minute with mouth juices, then pulled off. “There's your lube, stud,” he smiled.
Timmy smiled, gave Michael the ‘OK,’ and let Michael start pulling on the rope. It squeezed gently into Timmy’s neck muscles. “How does that feel?” Michael asked.
“Good,” Timmy nodded, his voice just a little raspy.
“Great!” Michael replied. “Ready or not, here we go.” Timmy started to massage his dick gently. Michael looked into his buddy's eyes, then bit his lip and intently pulled on the rope. Indentations were gradually pressing into Timmy's neck muscles.
Timmy started to jack more furiously. The cock was rock-hard, the helmet-shaped head shiny with saliva, completely dilated with blood. It was so exciting -- he felt his heart racing as it pounded inside his chest, working harder to send oxygen to the brain. Michael knew the pressure was having the desired effect when Timmy’s face started turning red.
A minute passed. As Michael studied his Timmy’s expressions, his arms pulled the rope tighter and tighter around his friend’s neck. Timmy's head started to tremble. His face contorted from lack of air, and still Timmy stared, wide-eyed, as his cock built up to orgasm. What a hot feeling! The handsome vein on the cock's underside was very erotically sticking outward. It was a hot picture.
Two minutes passed since the beginning of the exercise. Timmy’s face had developed a near-insane expression. His balls were starting to tighten. The tongue was starting to hang out of his mouth. Deep in his throat, Timmy couldn't even moan because the rope had dug so deeply into his larynx. Michael pulled tighter still.
Timmy’s innocent face took on the color of ketchup. The beautiful blue eyes rolled in circles, going cross-eyed as Timmy approached his orgasm. Michael could sense that the boy was getting ready to tap his leg.
Soon Timmy’s face was turning purple. The veins stuck out on his forehead. Timmy suddenly looked strange; his face went bug-eyed. His arms flailed. His feet kicked violently at nothing. The cockhead spurted a rope of jizz halfway across the room. There was another squirt, then another even bigger. Timmy’s eyes were ecstatic and frightened to death at the same time.
“YEAH, TIMMY!” Michael yelled. Six more long globs of baby makers shot from the enormous, hairy dick, splattering all over the floor. Timmy's body shook. The remaining spurts dribbled down to a trickle. Having cum, Timmy’s face realized he was long past the point of needing air. He panicked. His foot desperately reached over, tapping furiously at Michael's leg to release his neck.
Instead, Michael winked at his friend. He stood up, pulled tighter on the rope, and used it to drag the boy across the room toward his father’s adjacent door. Timmy’s feet gave sporadic, useless kicks at the floor -- his eyes rolled back as he choked hard. With Michael's one free hand, he pulled on his father's bedroom door knob--the door flew open, crashing into the wall. Michael took Timmy's limp body and flung it across the room, where it lay on the floor, jerking involuntarily.
“There, asshole! You men are all alike! You want to meet the man who taught me not to trust anyone? Go for it, bitch!!”
--------------------------------------------------
The police entered the home with their weapons drawn. Not a sound anywhere. They went upstairs, their guns at the ready in front of them. The entire squad was tense as they rounded the corner and peered into the father's bedroom.
Instantly, they eyed a scene none of them would ever forget. Their jaws dropped.
Michael sat against a wall, happily gurgling as he chewed away on a razor blade.
Timmy was dead as a doornail, his beautiful nude body crumpled stomach-down on the floor, the eyes staring, horrified but unfocused, at Michael's father.
Sitting upright in a makeshift casket, wearing a beautiful, double-breasted suit, was Big Jack’s corpse. He had rings on his fingers, sported an expensive watch, and had a handkerchief perfectly folded into the breast pocket.
Leaning against the wall was his son's thirteenth gift to him from so many months before -- a homemade tombstone. It read:
Here lies
JACK O'CONNOR
(1959-2003)
His name was Jack.
His heart was black.
The Devil prob'ly missed him,
so I sent him back.
JACK O'CONNOR
(1959-2003)
His name was Jack.
His heart was black.
The Devil prob'ly missed him,
so I sent him back.
The coroner roughly estimated that Jack had been dead since Christmas.
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