The Dancer


Forum Regular
Jan 3, 2011
Haven't had a chance to write anything of my own for a long while, but this is an old story from another site that is really excellent. By an author named Jason. Searched but didn't find it posted here. Enjoy!


By Jason


He said his name was James and that he was a dancer. AKA was able to verify both facts later, but when they first met--around about midnight in the small triangular park near the old Greyhound Bus station--AKA had to take the young man's word for it. Not that AKA really gave a shit either way. James. Lonnie. Robert. J.R. It was all the same to AKA what handle they used when hustling. Nor did it much matter what they did when they weren't hovering under the dim city streetlights, their heads lowered, their eyes lifted, their legs spread, attempting to sell their bodies to whatever lusty john happened to be cruising by on a slow weekday midnight.

James was a bit different, though. That was clear from the start. To begin with, it was just that--a weeknight, not the far busier Friday or Saturday night hustling time when one expected to find any number of guys like James out on the sidewalk. Based on AKA's experience, that fact suggested that the kid--he turned out to be 23 actually--was either desperate for money and couldn't wait for the weekend or was lonely and looking as much for a bit of companionship as the dough. In James's case, it was definitely the latter AKA would soon learn. Which was another strange thing, given how good-looking the young man was.

Model-handsome, this one, AKA decided as he slowed and pulled over to the curb in order to get a closer look at the kid. Who, by then, was fully aware of both AKA and his interest in him.

The young man walked toward the car and stooped to look in.


"Hi yourself," AKA replied.

The window was only halfway down, the door locked. Both precautions. A lot of guys assumed they could just hop right in, but AKA liked to decide that important matter for himself.

"So what's up?" the young man asked in a surprisingly warm baritone.

"Nothing much. Just driving by. Saw you. That's all."

"Same here. I mean, I saw you too."

The kid's breath fogged with the cold.

He rubbed his hands together and cupped them to his mouth. He was wearing a fairly bulky-looking leather jacket. There was also a spiffy red scarf tucked in around his neck.

He's got a very nice face, AKA determined. A better than average smile. A strong, smooth chin. Deep, dark, intelligent eyes. He was neither diseased nor drugged out, if first impressions meant anything. As he came toward the car AKA had sized up his body as well. Even with the bulky jacket, it was clear that the young man was nicely built, broad-shouldered, trim-waisted, with lean legs encased in a pair of super-tight bluejeans. Those must take some effort getting into, AKA thought. And out of, he added for good measure.

Dropping his hands, the young man said, "You a cop? Not that I'm hustling even if you are. I just felt the need for some company. Maybe a place to stay the night. But not if that's no good for you. I have a place, but it just felt . . . well . . . empty tonight."

It actually sounded--could it be?--like the truth, pure and simple.

AKA smiled.

"No, I am not a cop. Are you?"

The young man's eyes actually twinkled in the dark.


"Then I guess you better get in."

AKA unlocked the door and the kid did.


He held out his hand.

AKA took it. It was as nice and firm and warm as the young man's voice.

"John. No joke," AKA assured him with a smile.

They shook.

"So, you only want some company, huh?"

"Sure. But if you want more, that's okay too. I mean, I'll do anything you want."

"Anything's a big word," AKA replied.

The young man laughed.

"I guess," he said. He eyed AKA. "I don't like getting hurt, but except for that, I'm pretty much game for anything." He shrugged. "But I meant what I said. Just some company would be fine. I understand you might want more, of course. That's cool too."

"You on the outs with your lover or something?"

James shook his head.

"I don't have anybody serious right now. Truth is, I haven't in a while. Which, I guess, is why the four walls up and got to me tonight. I could have gone to a club, but I'm turned off clubs at the moment. I dance at one, you see. The Merrimac. Do you know it?"

AKA had been there a couple of times. As gay clubs went, it was definitely high-end. There had been a pretty sophisticated "show" on both occasions. A series of nice-looking kids artfully leaping about the stage. Maybe James had been one of them?

"Yeah, I've been there. Not recently, though."

"Guys try to pick me up there, of course. Sometimes I let them, but mostly I just dance and go home. When I can I audition for a real gig, but so far, it's no go. It's hard to break in around here, I'm finding. In the meantime, I'm just trying to stay sane and healthy. Both pretty hard to do these days, don't you think?"

This last was accompanied by a winning, if slightly wistful smile.

"Well, I don't know about sane, but you certainly seem healthy enough."

James laughed, gave AKA another warm, attractively undefended look.

"Truth is I'm pretty vanilla. What sex I do, have, is pretty safe, even unimaginative I've been told. But I am negative, if that's what you want to know."

AKA ignored the health report.

"Plain vanilla, huh? So you're not into cuffs, bondage, anything like that?"

The young man's shoulders went up.

"Cuffs? Handcuffs? Bondage?" He shook his head, his shoulders still raised in surprise. "No. I know there's that scene, but I'm more the warm-and-cuddly type." He dropped his shoulders and turned to look at AKA. "Don't tell me that that's what you're into!"

"Sometimes. Don't knock it until you've tried it. But there's lots of other stuff I like to do too. I am sane and healthy as well," he said, aware that the first claim in particular might be a matter for debate in some circles.

James laughed.

"You asked about me," he said. "What about you? No lover or anything? A wife maybe?"

AKA smiled.

"No. I have been pretty unattached most of my life. Certainly not married. I have nothing against women, it's just that they don't turn me on. Same with you?"

"Yeah. Basically. I mean, I've made it with a few girls. It was fine. But there was something missing. That's just the way it is, right?"

"Right," AKA affirmed.

There was a brief silence. James the dancer dropped his head back against the headrest. He has a good profile, AKA noted. A nicely pitched nose. A square, solidly-shaped head. Tidily trimmed hair.

AKA put his hand on the young man's thigh.

"So you like to cuddle, huh?"

The handsome head tilted in AKA's direction.

"Yeah." There was a playful pause. "Or anything."

"Well, we will think about that last, but cuddling would be a nice enough way to begin."

Then, having given James' thigh a good hard squeeze, AKA pulled away from the curb, homeward bound.


"This is a really nice place," the young dancer said once they were inside. AKA had taken him in through the front in order to elicit just such a response. Experience had taught AKA that the more impressed his targets were with both AKA and his upscale home the easier THE GAME (as AKA always thought of it) tended to go. Besides, it was true. AKA's home might not be the most impressive on his block, but it was a cut-above how most Americans lived for sure.

The drive back had been both relaxed and relaxing. James was a nice guy, no question about it. Lonely too, though. That had become clearer with every passing mile. The drive was long enough that AKA heard it all. Not that the story was particularly sordid or anything.

The young man's life had actually been pretty uneventful if you didn't count the fairly aggressive queer-baiting he had had to put up with. Especially after he took up ballet at the age of 11.

"I just fell in love with it from the start," he explained to AKA. "I had never seen anything so beautiful as that. The guys who were dancing in particular. That's when I first started to know. About my basic orientation, I mean. I kept watching the guys, not the girls. I tried to convince myself for a long time that it was just because I wanted to look like them, dance like them, but I finally had to admit the truth."

One of his teachers had helped in that process.

"He felt sorry for me as much as anything, I think. He could see I wanted to know but was too shy to find out."

The downturn had come with the death of James' dad.

"He never accepted it, of course. The dancing or the orientation. When he died, deep in debt, we soon found ourselves out on the street. Literally. I'm the oldest of five. We were homeless for three months. About that time I learned about the clubs from an older friend I had, another ballet student. He was making some extra money by dancing in a club on weekends. He took me with him, tried to get me some work, but I was still too young. That's when I learned about hustling. The club owner took me into his office and offered me ten dollars if I would let him blow me. Said he had a list of guys who would pay even more for the same privilege. I was a chickenhawk's dream, I guess. Fifteen, but looking a good year or two younger at that point. Anyway, a couple of Sugar Daddys eventually took me up in turn, paid the bills, were nice older guys really. They encouraged me in my dancing too. I was able to get more lessons, more training. But I ended up in the clubs after all. The Merrimac isn't the first, but it's the nicest by far."

When asked about more serious relationships, James had said, "There's been just one. A guy about your age actually. A professor. I guess I like 'em a little older, to be honest. Guys like you are so much more mature. At least, that's been my experience on the whole. Anyway, Douglas--that's his name--seemed to really care about me. But then, out of the blue, he just up and dumped me. There was no warning or anything. I had gotten too old for him. That's what came out. I was all of twenty at that point. Go figure. He's recently taken up with a kid who's sixteen. More power to him."

"Here, let me take that scarf and jacket," AKA said.

James unwound the scarf, handed it to AKA, then worked the leather jacket off. The bulkiness was explained by the thick-ribbed winter sweater he had on underneath. It fit him very well.

AKA hung up the jacket but kept the scarf out.

"This is a nice one," he said, holding it up to examine it.

"A gift from Douglas," James explained. "He said he paid a lot for it."

"He did," AKA confirmed, knowing about such things himself. "Mind if I . . . ?"

AKA draped the scarf around his neck.

James laughed.

"Be my guest. As long as I get it back when I leave."

"So what about something to drink?"

"Sure. What you got?"

"Anything you want."

"That word again."

AKA pretended not to get it at first. Then he said, "Oh yeah! 'Anything.' Which is what you said you would do tonight. Maybe. After some good cuddling."

AKA smiled. The smile was largely fake, of course, but his young visitor didn't seem to know. Stupid kid. But then so many were stupid. Yet another reason to do them harm so far as AKA was concerned. Such stupidity deserved whatever it got. Always.

"In the meantime," AKA continued, taking hold of young James' arm, "put me to the test. What would you like to drink?"

"Hmmm. How about a . . . Rob Roy?"

AKA laughed.

"It's yours. Come on back."

He led the way through the house to the handsomely recessed bar in the den.

"Wow! I've always dreamed of having a room like this in my house," James crooned. "If and when I ever have a house. This is like something out of a magazine. Really."

"Thank you. Take a seat while I get that drink. That Rob Roy you asked for."

James settled into a beautifully upholstered leather chair, one of two.

The leather made a slight squeak as he settled in.

AKA took his own Scotch straight, but he whipped the Rob Roy up in jig time. He went light on the bitters, however. He went light because the finely ground valium he swirled into the drink would add a slightly bitter tang in its own right. The amount of the valium would do no real harm, but it would relax the already relaxed young dancer even more.

And why not? AKA asked himself as he walked forward with the drinks. The tone of this evening was quickly being set. Easy-does-it, no need to rush. THE GAME would eventually begin, of course, but James the dancer was worth taking one's time with, enjoying at his own pace. For now. Even for a while to come perhaps.

"To your dancing!"

James actually stood up.

"To your continued success!" he replied, lifting his drink to indicate the handsomely decorated den.

AKA took a seat on the couch, which was as beautifully upholstered as the chair the kid now resumed.

"So, what do you do to afford all this?" the young man asked.

"It's family money mainly," AKA answered. "My brother's the rich one. Made a fortune on his own, that is. I do work occasionally, however. I'm a financial advisor. I use other people's money to make more money for myself. It's not a bad deal really."

"I guess not."

AKA had started the CD player before bringing the drinks over. A slow jazzy backbeat now thrummed its way through the room. A plumy-sounding piano was soon lathering a layer of melody across the top of it.

"So what about it?" AKA asked, cocking his head to indicate the music. "Are you in the mood for a dance?"

James took a long sip of his Rob Roy, swallowed it down, and said, "Sure."

Standing up again, he took another sip, then put the drink down on a coaster conveniently placed near him on the long mahogany coffee table.

He opened his arm in AKA's direction, inviting.

AKA shook his head.

"No. Just you. I want to watch."

The young man shrugged.

"Whatever you say," he said with a dimple-inducing grin.

He was one of those single-dimple guys, AKA noticed. He had always thought that was especially cute, just having the one as opposed to two.

James moved out into the open space beyond the coffee table, closed his eyes--his head up, his back straight, his arms relaxed at his side--and began to dance.

From the first moment, it was very pleasing to watch. Both artful and naturally flowing, highly skillful and yet seductively spontaneous in feeling as well. The training the kid had mentioned definitely showed.

The jazzy backbeat picked up, accelerated.

As did James' movements.

He was soon moving his feet in a quicker, more dramatic, more complicated pattern.

His body turned and twisted, elegantly bent and swirled.

That's a very fine pair of soft leather boots he has on, AKA observed. They must have cost a pretty penny too. Another gift from Douglas? Or perhaps a token of esteem from a more platonically interested admirer of his dancing talent?

Because there was talent. Considerable talent. That became clear with every passing minute.

Momentarily slowing the dance, James opened his eyes and engaged AKA's.

Reaching down, he fingered the close-woven hem of his sweater.

"May I?"

"By all means."

The sweater came off, but artfully, erotically, a striptease with a difference.

The young man wore a long-sleeved wool-plaid shirt.

He began to unbutton it.

Yet again artfully, erotically, without the least trace of vulgarity.

The shirt was soon deposited on the coffee table next to the abandoned sweater.

James had certainly prepared for the night's winter cold. Underneath everything else was a pair of old-fashioned one-piece Long Johns. Very sexy old-fashioned one-piece Long Johns at that.

The slow strip now proceeded without any further asking for permission.

Grace suffused every movement the young man made. It was a very masculine grace, AKA was glad to see. There wasn't the least thing faggy about the kid. That pleased AKA. He hated sissy-swish queers, but not this kind. No, he did not hate this kind.

The boots were removed without the least bit of clumsiness. The socks as well.

The super-tight jeans were going to be the real test. Or so AKA assumed. But maybe it was because the silky-smooth Long Johns were underneath them. Whatever the explanation, when the time actually came the jeans appeared to just melt away. It was amazing really. So gracefully done. And, once again, as erotic as hell!

The Long Johns, a sensuously body-hugging gray silk-cotton blend from the look of them, were all that was now left.

And they would remain on, it appeared. For the present, at least.

James spun as the music reached an unexpectedly vigorous crescendo and then dropped to the floor, going down on both knees, his head thrown back, his arms thrust out behind him, his long smooth neck theatrically arced toward the ceiling.

The line of black buttons on the form-fitting Long Johns plunged from the neck to the crotch, where, outlined against the provocatively stretched fabric, the kid's impressive equipment was revealed for all to see. Or for AKA to see anyway. An audience of one. And a very appreciative one at that.

He clapped.



James the dancer reared upright, said "Thank you!" and then bent dramatically forward, his forehead pressed to the floor.

It was an impressive display of flexibility.

Getting to his feet, James once again picked up his drink and joined AKA on the couch, crossing his legs underneath him as he settled himself down on the soft expensive receiving leather.



They drank.

AKA placed a hand on the nearest bony knee.

"You are really good."

James laughed.

"I try."

AKA stroked the knee, then the top of the young man's thigh, which was as hard as a rock. No surprise there, of course, given the super-conditioning a decade of dancing had produced.

James upended his drink. He had not broken a sweat really, but he did seem thirsty.

The valium was having its effect. Mainly a softening effect. AKA knew the signs. The muscles in the young dancer's face had relaxed. His eyelids had begun to sag. Only a little, but unmistakably a result of the slowly rising chemical tide.

He settled back into the corner of the couch, unselfconsciously calling attention to his adorably x-rated crotch as he did so.

"Kiss me," he said.

AKA finished his own drink and moved in.

AKA did not particularly care for kissing. It implied things he didn't like to feel. Affection. Intimacy. That kind of thing. But he did as he was told. Why not? That dance deserved some kind of reward.

James was a good kisser, AKA would give him that. It was all very tender, yet distinctly masculine at the same time. The tonguing was distinctly masculine too.

AKA rubbed a hand along the young man's cheek. It was admirably firm, marble-smooth, again attractively masculine.

The kissing went on for quite a while. It didn't take long for AKA to have set a personal record in fact. He could get into this, as it turned out. Indeed he could.

When they both finally came up for air, James was looking more peaceful than ever. Aroused, yes, but valium-calmed to the core, whatever the condition of his cock. Which was unquestionably rampant. Hard and long and tenting the crotch of the Long Johns in an almost comic fashion.

AKA fished it out.

"Nice," he said, encircling the long lean shaft with his hand.

"Thank you again," the young man replied.

"So what about it? Shall we go up?"

James tilted his head and smiled, dopily droopy-eyed.

"You're the boss."

AKA gripped the cock.

"Exactly," he said.

Letting go, he got to his feet.

He had to give the young dancer a hand up off the couch. He had trouble untangling his legs.

"That was . . . a strong drink."

"The best kind," AKA replied.

AKA refreshed both drinks. James' once again received a soothing swirl of valium.

Then, drink in hand, they left the room, AKA leading.

"So what do you like to do when you're not doing ropes and chains and whips . . . and stuff?"

AKA glanced back over his shoulder.

"I like it all," he said. "I have few limits anymore. I've learned to let the spirit guide. It's the best way."

"Sounds good," the young man replied, wiping a hand across his face. He sniffed, then burped a modest little burp. "Still, there's gotta be . . . favorite stuff, though. I mean, are you generally a top or a bottom?"

"You're right," AKA replied. "I do prefer certain things to other things. Fucking to being fucked, for one. You?"

"I can go either way," the slightly slurred answer came from behind. They had reached the stairs and started up. "That is, I don't mind being a bottom . . . if the other guy's considerate. One trick more or less raped me once. That . . . was no fun."


"No. Why are you laughing?"

If the kid only knew, AKA said to himself.

"I don't know," he replied. "Maybe it was your understatement."

"Yeah. Right. Understatement is . . . right."

They reached the second floor landing, but AKA continued to climb.

THE GAME ROOM was on the third floor. It always had been.

Young James stopped to yawn and stretch, his elbows back, his handsome torso taut.

"Not in there?" he said, his eye catching the spacious master bedroom through the half-open door at the other end of the hall.

"When I play I play up here."

AKA nodded to indicate the next floor.

James' eyebrows rose.

"You mean your dungeon's on the third floor? That's a . . . funny one."

"Who said anything about a dungeon?"

"Nobody, I guess."

"Exactly," AKA responded. "I actually hate the S&M scene. It's always seemed so staged, so phony to me." He reached out and took James by the hand. "Come on. Up we go. Let's do something more real, and thus more exciting, with our time."


AKA's GAME ROOM had always looked pretty much the way it looked now. Like a modestly decorated guestroom with a nearby--just a few feet across the landing--bath. Any number of interesting GAME toys were squirreled away out of sight in the room's one and only closet, that was true, but who needed a torture rack or wall-chains or other silly contraptions like that when a solidly built four-poster served the basic requirements quite well? Besides, torture for its own sake had never been AKA's thing. Sure, he enjoyed inflicting pain, even a lot of pain on occasion, but it truly was your basic sex-snuff combo that turned him on the most. To take a beautiful kid at his physical and sexual peak all the way, over the top, into the never-to-be-undone domain of death--that was the elixir of elixirs!

AKA switched on the light.

"Nice bed," the young dancer commented as he moved into the room.

His bare feet slapped across the shiny linoleum, which AKA preferred to carpeting for obvious reasons. There was always stuff to clean up, no matter how carefully one tried to limit the flow of bodily fluids to the bed.

"Thank you," AKA replied. "Hop in."

James put his drink on the bedside table and began to unbutton the Long Johns.

"No. Leave them on," AKA interrupted. "Those are the sexist things I've seen recently. I would like to enjoy them a little while longer."

James clearly relished the compliment. He shot AKA a charming smile.

"Sure. Whatever you say."

AKA put his own drink down, draped the red scarf over the back of a nearby chair, and proceeded to undress.

As he did so, James retrieved his drink, climbed up into the bed, flipped around (somewhat awkwardly for him), and began to adjust the pillows in order to lean up against the headboard. There were two sets of sheets on the bed, with a layer of protective plastic underneath. The plastic made a slight crinkling noise as James moved about, but the young man seemed not to notice. Most didn't.

"You really are a good-looking guy," AKA said as he watched him. "You could have done some modeling, I think. Made some real money that way."

The past tense just slipped out, but the young dancer was oblivious. Most were.

The young man took a big swig of his Rob Roy and settled down into the pillows.

"I did do one porno film once, if that counts. I was desperate. Never saw it. Hope I never do. Hope . . . no one ever does."

AKA continued to strip.

"What did you have to do in it?"

"Your basic . . . sucking and fucking. I was hating it the whole time. I didn't know either of the other two guys or . . . the 'director,' if you can call the slimy SOB that. I never felt so dirty in my life. I threw up twice during the shoot. In the bathroom fortunately. I never went back. Not that they came running after me either. Maybe I looked as miserable as I felt. Anyway, no . . . modeling other that that, assuming that counts."

He sipped his drink. It had clearly slowed his responses, as well as his speech, but he was otherwise quite aware, still in control of himself. Just as AKA had hoped he would be.

AKA was down to his underpants now. He picked up his own drink, took a swig, and moved over to the bed.

"So you like to cuddle, huh," he said as he got in.


"Finish your drink."

James did.

AKA once again admired the young man's dramatically arced neck. It was slender but impressively strong-looking. In keeping with the rest of his body. It was slender and impressively strong-looking as well underneath those Long Johns.

AKA took the empty glass and put it on the bedside table, next to his own.

"I feel so smoooooth," James murmured as he sank further down into the pillows.

He closed his eyes and extended his legs.

His bare feet flexed. They were attractively strong and slender as well.

A dancer's feet. A dancer's body. A dancer's face. This kid was all of a piece. He was not the handsomest guy who had ever come AKA's way, but he was certainly no slouch when it came to looks either. But it was the personality that made the difference. Despite some rough life-experiences, young James the dancer was basically as uncorrupted, as genuine, as attractively undefended as AKA had sensed at the start. It was a type that always excited AKA. "Bad boys" could be fun to play with too, of course. No question. But there was something about Boy Scouts--AKA had even got his hands on a pair of real ones on one memorable occasion--that made their fate that much more thrilling to execute. Not that this kid--your basic porn-fodder hustler, to be honest--was any kind of Boy Scout. Still, there was something essentially uncorrupted about him. AKA liked that. Showing even a relative innocent like this just how bad life could REALLY get satisfied some gut-deep desire in AKA. Good, looked at from the right point of view, deserved whatever fucking evil came its way. It was practically a law of nature.

AKA moved in alongside the young man.

James turned to face him.

They were soon chest-to-chest, cock-to-cock, their lips locking, their legs linking, their feet sensuously footing it.

It was downright romantic, unlike anything AKA had ever experienced before. Yes, he had pretended to enjoy a bit of lovey-dovey foreplay on occasion, but the truth was he never really had. With this young man, however, he succumbed. Not entirely, but enough to know what a loving sexual relationship might actually feel like. It was nice. Very nice. It could never be enough, of course, but it was nice to feel this way for a change.

The effect of the valium could be felt in the increasingly slow, loose-jointed movements of the young man's arms and legs and shoulders. He radiated the kind of puppy warmth that one often woke up with as a kid. The Rob Roy tasted great on the kid's seductively scouring tongue too. His hard white dentals felt as clean and wholesome as the rest of him. AKA's own teeth tapped against them. His own tongue scoured in turn. The puppy warmth was flavored with a lightly lime-scented cologne of some kind. That was nice too. It was all so nice, nice, nice.

AKA pulled back.

He was really getting carried away. He needed to take a break, breathe.

Young James moved toward him, trying to maintain contact. His long, slender cock was once again free of the Long Johns. AKA's had slipped through the slit in his boxers.

Gently but firmly AKA held the young man off the few necessary inches. He needed to let his emotions subside, then he would see. He liked feeling in control--that, after all, was one of the more important goals of THE GAME--and AKA was feeling anything but at the moment.

"You can cuff me if you want to. I don't mind."

It was said very quietly, almost tenderly.

AKA swallowed, very much surprised. He had not expected this.

"You sure?"

James did not open his eyes. He just nodded.

AKA felt strangely divided all of a sudden--pleased with the invitation, an invitation which would make the rest so easy, yet oddly unwilling to proceed at the same time, not sure when it came to it that he actually wanted to go there. Do that. This soon anyway.

Over the years, there were a few guys AKA had hesitated to go all the way with when the moment of truth came. There were even a couple he had actually let go. The reasons had been different each time.

One had been young. Really young. With an innocence AKA had, finally, not been able to violate. AKA liked to think there were no barriers he couldn't break, but there had turned out to be one. At least on that occasion.

The other kid AKA had let go convinced AKA that he was not only turned on by what AKA was threatening to do to him but would honestly love to partner him in just such a crime. AKA had never really considered having a partner before. He knew some serial killers had. William Bonin, the California Freeway Killer, for example. But AKA had always enjoyed playing THE GAME solo. Even so, this one kid--a rather tasty, lip-pierced nineteen-year-old AKA had picked up in a mall men's room--had persuaded AKA that he was serious. And he was serious. AKA put him to the test, and he actually turned up two nights after being set free with an even more tasty-looking seventeen-year-old in tow, a butt buddy "no one will miss" as the nineteen-year-old quietly informed AKA. It was apparently true. As far as AKA knew, no one ever did miss the seventeen-year-old. But there had been only that one shared kill. Because a week later the nineteen-year-old died in a car crash. The Dark Gods clearly intended that AKA should work alone.

AKA slowly turned away from James, rolled over, and reached for the drawer of the bedside table. He always kept several pairs of handcuffs there, ready and waiting.

He opened the drawer, fished out two pairs--sorry for the rattling metallic noise they made--and sat up.

James was still on his side, but his eyes were open now.

AKA held the cuffs up.

"Last chance," he said.

The young dancer just smiled.

"On your back, then."

James did as he was told.

AKA drew the young man's left arm up, secured the first pair of cuffs to the wrist, then locked the free end around the bedpost. There was noticeable scuffing on the bedpost, unevenly carved grooves produced by the struggles of previously handcuffed occupants of the bed. AKA had lost track of exactly how many such struggles there had been in this bed. Two dozen, easy. Enough, anyway, that it was getting hard now to keep them all straight. Which was not how AKA liked it. He liked to think that each kill was special, unique, worth remembering for its own sake. And they were. Thus, AKA's frustration when one face started to morph into another face, when one capture started to merge into another capture, when one dying seemed like any other dying.

AKA straddled the young dancer's chest and lifted his other arm up toward the other bedpost. James was forced to shift up in the bed so that AKA could secure him on that side as well. It was soon done.

AKA pulled the pillows away and tossed them onto the floor on the far side of the bed. Pillows were only in the way at a time like this.

James finally spoke.

"I can't believe I've really let you do this."

He laughed, but it was a light, unperturbed, valium-relaxed laugh.

AKA settled his butt back on the young man's crotch, adjusting his position until the kid's rock-candy-hard cock was wedged in AKA's ass-crack.


"Yeahhhh!" the young man moaned.

AKA worked the muscles in his ass.

James slowly flexed, his cock gingerly probing the vale between AKA's still covered buttocks. AKA rarely let himself be fucked, but he knew he was going to make an exception this time.

"Let me get these off," he said.

Moving to the side, he soon dispensed with his boxers. He tossed them away, reached back over to the still open drawer in the bedside table, and pulled out a tube of Vaseline.

Pushing James' legs together, he straddled the thighs and proceeded to lube the kid's cock.

It really was a very nice one, totally in keeping with the rest of the trim, well-toned, strongly-built body.

AKA laid the tube aside, rose up, positioned the young man's dick, and sank down.

He grunted as the cock went in. He was not used to this. It hurt some. To be honest, it hurt rather a lot. But AKA persevered. Ordered himself to relax. To open. To receive.

He did.

Soon he was letting James set the pace. It was, not surprisingly, a very considerate one--easy, steady, gentle almost to the point of timidity. Far from being grateful, however, the kid's consideration actually irritated AKA. It was the first thing that seemed pansy about him.

So you're a wimpy little fag after all, he thought.

AKA leaned forward and began to undo the buttons down the front of the sexy Long Johns.

James' chest was as smooth as glass, with a pair of buff muscle-tight pecs toned to perfection. The stomach was flat, firm, and as tight as a drum as well. There wasn't much of a tan--which was not surprising, given the time of the year--but it didn't matter. Not when skin looked this fresh, this glowing, this translucent.

AKA began to ride the dick up his ass.

James increased his humping to match the new, slightly more aggressive rhythm AKA set.

AKA spread his hands out across the young man's hard, muscle-tensed belly.







James was getting close.

Very close.

AKA could feel the cum coming.






The young man shot his load.

AKA could feel it flood his ass.

Leaning forward, he launched himself at the young dancer's throat--so exposed, so beautiful, so impressively arced and vulnerable. It was just too great a temptation to resist. AKA couldn't have stopped himself if he had tried.

James' eyes shot open. His face immediately flushed a deeper, darker red, far deeper and darker than the sex itself had caused. His quickly thickening lips moved as he tried to speak, to protest.

AKA continued to bear down as the last of the kid's jism pumped up his ass.

They stared at one another--James clearly frightened, shocked, disbelieving--AKA trembling, desiring, unable to control himself.

AKA proceeded to hump the boy's hard belly.





AKA came even as James' consciousness wavered, even as his sexily thickening lips blued in that uniquely wonderful way manual strangulation almost always caused.

Gasping, AKA released his grip, fell back, re-impaling himself on the kid's still throbbing cock.

Jesus! That felt good! That always felt so damned fucking unbelievably good!!!

And AKA wasn't thinking about the dick up his ass either.


There was a long silence, if you didn't count the labored breathing coming from both sets of lungs.

For the first time, James' eyes were hard to read. There was fear, yes. Understandably. But there were other things as well. Things AKA couldn't quite interpret.

James continued to gulp, to get his breath back.

His face was still stressed, blood-darkened, especially about the eyes.

He opened his mouth and worked it so as to free up the congestion in his nose.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"I thought you were going . . . to kill me."

It sounded less panicked than AKA thought it would.

"Would that have been so bad?"

The question just came out. AKA had not planned to ask it.

"No," the young dancer said after a moment's hesitation. "Do it if you want to."

AKA was sure he had not heard properly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, do it . . . if you want to."

Guys in this position had said many things over the years, most of them boringly predictable--"Don't kill me! Please don't kill me! I'm too young to die!" Shit like that. But no one had ever said what this young man had just said.

"You don't care if I kill you?"

James sniffed, gulped, inhaled, sniffed again.

The directness of the kid's gaze once again impressed AKA.

"No. I . . . want you to."

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Now wasn't this interesting!

"You can't mean that."

There was more sniffing, more working of the mouth, the throat.

AKA wiped at the tacky pool of cum on the young man's chest. AKA's cum. He spread it about, like a boy smudging a splat of wet paint.

"I . . . ."

There was a dry sob. No tears, but definitely a sob.

"I don't care."

AKA shook his head.

"You can't be that depressed. Why should you be that depressed? You're young, good-looking, talented." He paused. "Or are you sick or something after all? Do you have AIDS?"

"No, it's not that. I don't have AIDS."

"Then what?"

AKA was feeling as if he had suddenly been dropped into the middle of a very weird movie.

"When you grabbed my neck I thought . . . he's going to kill me." Sniff. "I was afraid. Then . . . I wasn't. I thought, why not?" Sniff. "Why . . . why shouldn't he?"

AKA wiped his cum-wet fingers on the sheet.

He also extricated his ass from the young man's slowly shrinking dick.

"Well, that's a new one," he said. "Nobody's ever said that before."

He settled himself on the side of the bed, placing a hand on James' thigh. Intense body-heat was radiating all through the thin gray Long Johns.

"Have you done something to deserve killing?" AKA asked.

"No. It's not that. It's just . . . I don't know. It's just that when it was happening, when I thought you were really going to do it, I thought, okay. Why the fuck not? You had seemed so nice. Like you liked me. Then you weren't. Didn't. It was there in your eyes. He wants to kill me. He's going to kill me. It was like something snapped and I thought, okay. Why not? Who the fuck cares?"

AKA really was intrigued.

"Fascinating," he replied. "But why do you feel that way? Is it because of that lover of yours? The one who dropped you for the sixteen-year-old?"

"No. I don't know. Maybe. Although that's a while back now." James closed his eyes and heaved a great sigh. "It's been coming on. The feeling that it's just not worth it. Living. My living." There was a depressed laugh. "So why bother? Why keep doing it? What's the fucking point after all?"

AKA cupped his chin. This was not some act. This was not some savvy reverse-psychology ploy suddenly cooked up to psyche AKA into not going through with it. He hadn't gone through with it. As far as this kid knew, he never had.

"Why not just do it yourself, then? Why use me? Because if I did it, I would be guilty of murder, right?"

AKA could hardly contain the surge of irony that rose up in him. How many had he done by now? Forty-eight? Forty-nine? He thought at last count that he might have reached that high a number. Eat your heart out, John Wayne Gacy!

James' eyes sobered.

"You're right. I'm sorry. I see I was wrong. That you couldn't do it. That you only meant to . . . scare me or something. I'm sorry."

AKA considered. How to play this? That was the question. Should he put the kid to the test? Uncuff him and then see if he could in fact do it himself? AKA could provide him with a variety of interesting means. All successfully tried and tested too. That would be a new twist on things. But if the young man decided not to or, which was more likely, couldn't go through with it, he would be free, un-manacled, able to resist any effort AKA might make to retake control. Assuming AKA even wanted to do that, that is. In some strange way, he really didn't.

Uncuff the kid, he thought. Let him kill himself or not, just as he chooses. If he doesn't, drive him back to the park near the bus station and call it a night. It was a possibility. That was one way to play it. But even as he imagined the scenario, AKA rejected it.

Instead, he said, "What if I told you that you weren't wrong? That I did want to do it. Have done it. Killed before. Guys like you."

James stared at him. The red webbing of the whites of his eyes--so typical of strangulation--seemed to intensify.

There was a brief, uncertain silence, then, "Have you?"

AKA nodded.

"Yes. Lots."

James worked his mouth once more, stretched his neck, swallowed.


"Does it matter?"

"I don't know."

AKA reached to the bedside table and picked up his drink. There was a little bit left. He downed it.

"I was hunting tonight the way I have hunted many times before," he said as he replaced the glass. "As soon as I saw you out there by yourself on the sidewalk I thought, I like his looks. I like his looks a lot. He's next. I will now do to him what I have done to all those others."

The young dancer's face paled, despite the lingering red in his eyes, despite the livid spots on either side of his throat.

"How many guys . . . have you killed then?"

It was AKA's turn to sniff.

"I was just trying to figure that one out. Forty-eight or forty-nine. Along in there anyway. I have been at it a while. Since college actually. I used to keep a list, record some of the details, but I decided it was too dangerous and gave it up."

"Jeeeesus!" James whispered.

"I haven't regretted a single one," AKA went on. "Which isn't to say I enjoyed them all equally. Some were real turkeys, to be honest. Hardly worth the trouble. But then there have been the good ones, the ones who make it count. There have been lots of those fortunately. Yes, lots."

"And you've never been caught? Never arrested?"

"I'm here, aren't I? No, I've never even been taken in for questioning. I have been lucky. More than once. But I have been careful too. Who I am and where I live and who I know have made me the last man alive anyone would suspect of something like that. At times it's been so easy I have actually felt bored. I even went through a pretty bad slump at one point. I felt a little that way tonight actually. Bored. Even after I picked you up I felt bored. Until you started to dance. Your dancing made me care about you. I like caring about you. It makes the idea of killing you more meaningful. Do you understand that?"

James' bloodshot eyes widened.

"But there had to be guys . . . who aren't like me . . . who didn't want it . . . who had a lot to live for."

"It's an argument," AKA allowed. "I've killed a couple of young rich kids attending a fancy private college. I've killed a young policeman who was only a few weeks away from getting married. I've killed a totally cute eleven-year-old hitching a ride home from the neighborhood pool. I've killed a gorgeous nephew-by-marriage who thought he was up here in this very room to do a secret fashion-photo shoot. I've killed a hunky middle-aged businessman who had been a star quarterback at a big university. I have even killed a promising young ice-skater who actually had something of a career underway. Sure, you could argue that they all had a lot to live for. Although the businessman was temporarily in the dumps about his life. Not as bad as you apparently, but he clearly felt his best days were behind him. As for the rest, they have mainly been tight-assed teens looking for trouble whose stupid little lives didn't amount to a hill of beans, never would have amounted to a hill of beans. They haven't been missed. Not really. I don't care how much their friends and families sobbed for a while. I've never cared about their friends or their families, if you want to know. If they had any. Any number didn't. None worth talking about anyway. So why shouldn't they give me the ultimate pleasure? Why shouldn't their stupid little lives at least mean that fucking much?"


AKA could see the shift take place in the young dancer's pupils. It was as if there was a slow turning of an interior kaleidoscope. First there was one pattern, seemingly stable; then suddenly there was another, totally different. The first pattern had presupposed that AKA was basically what he appeared to be. An attractive, well-educated (as well as admirably well-heeled) middle-aged man who lived in a nice part of town in an equally nice three-story house. Soft-spoken, essentially decent, even if he had a strange fetish for things like handcuffs. AKA had now erased that image completely. In its place was something entirely different. Here was not an essentially nice man with the odd quirk or two. Here was a monster in a "nice man" disguise. The change in how he was viewed affected AKA unpleasantly. He had liked being liked by this kid, however shallow the liking may have been. He did not like being disliked. In particular, he did not like the repugnance that James the dancer could not now keep out of his face.

"Now you know," AKA said. "You still want me to kill you?"

Logically speaking, AKA's revelation should have made no difference, but it clearly had.

James shook his head. No.

"When it was basically going to be suicide, that was fine? Is that what you're telling me? But now that you know I might actually enjoy killing you, it's no go?"

James swallowed. He dampened his lips--were they suddenly dry?--with his tongue. He shifted his legs on the bed, pulled at the cuffs but without any real force to speak of.

"It's not true," he said. "You're just trying to freak me out." There was another sad laugh. "As if I wasn't already freaked out enough by all this."

The cuffs clunked against the bedposts.

AKA shook his head, amused.

"I just told you the god's-own truth. You know I did."

They looked at one another.

"Okay, then. It's true. What you said. Still . . . ."

"Still what?"

"I don't know."

"Don't you think it's a little late to be changing your mind?" AKA asked. "I mean, how can I let you go after that sterling little confession I just made? Even if I wanted to? Which, I will admit, in some ways I do. I actually do. For some strange reason. But then again . . . I don't."

James suddenly looked younger. AKA had seen it before. One might think the opposite would happen, but more often than not, fear for one's life exposed the essential youthfulness of a victim. Even prolonged torture did not necessarily age a guy like this.

AKA cupped the kid's bony knee, then stroked the long hard shin just below it.

"The reason I asked to borrow your scarf, the reason I brought it up here"--AKA nodded toward the chair where the bright red length of cloth now lay--"is that I was planning to do it with that. Early on I used to use a piece of a guy's own clothing to take him out. It was a fetish I had. I still may do it that way, but you have really gotten me interested in all sorts of possibilities now. You wanted to die, you said. Well, there are so many ways to accomplish that. I have probably explored them all. I have beaten a guy to death. I have stabbed a guy to death. I have buried one guy alive. I have drowned more than one kid in the tub in there." AKA nodded in the direction of the bathroom. "A few have been smothered with a pillow right here in this bed. Or, in one interesting case, on the floor in my bedroom downstairs. Several more were poisoned with one thing or another. Arsenic. Cyanide. An excessive amount of valium, alcohol, cocaine. Plastic bags have done in a good round dozen, I think. Neckties, neck-thongs, neck-ropes, T-shirts, jockey shorts, belts, shoelaces, a tire-iron, a pair of military dog-tags, even a nice wool scarf rather like yours served the purpose on one occasion." AKA took a deep breath. "Thinking about it makes me get hard all over again."

It was true. AKA's cock was once more in the process of elongating.

He stroked it, playfully flipped it, and stood up.

"I haven't fucked you yet, have I?" he said. "That cum on your chest doesn't count. That was the purest accident, the rather embarrassing result of my unbridled enthusiasm. I want to feel myself deep inside you. Now. And I want to look into your eyes as I do it too."

James the dancer said nothing, just stared.

The scissors were in the bedside drawer as well.

AKA got them out.

Starting at the groin, he cut his way down the length of one leg, then up the length of the other. He then made his way up along the left arm, then up along the right. The scissors were sharp, the Long Johns sheer, eminently sliceable.

A few quick finishing snips across the shoulders, and the job was done.

AKA pulled the severed material out from under James, balled it up, and deposited it the nearby wastebasket.

" Sic transit ," he muttered. "They were very sexy, those things, but nothing last forever, right?"

He examined the nude figure now reclined on the bed. Young James really was a handsome, smooth-bodied specimen. So neatly proportioned. So attractively tight-waisted. So beautifully toned. Especially the legs. AKA had always had a thing for legs, and the young dancer's were decidedly above average.

"Cat got your tongue? You didn't say a word the whole time I did that."

"What's to say?"

It was despairing and combative, both at once.

"Well, that's one way to look at it," AKA responded. He stroked his now fully aroused cock.

There was a pause.

Then, "Do you have any Rush?" the young man asked.

AKA burst into laughter.

"You are full of surprises, I'll give you that. Why the hell Rush?"

"I don't get fucked often. It would help. Or is that too much to ask?"

"I spiked your drink with valium. That's why you were feeling so smooth a little while ago. Now you want to feel high as well?"

"Valium? So that's what it was." He seemed to think. Then said, "Yes, some Rush. If you have it."

"Sure, I have some Rush. Several bottles actually. Different varieties even. There used to be only one kind. Now they have varieties. That is all I can offer you, though. I mean, excepting more alcohol and valium. I've never been a big one for drugs, even if I have used them as bait or to kill with over the years."

"Rush will do."

AKA once again rifled through the handy bedside drawer.

He pulled out one of several small, unopened bottles there and twisted it open.

He took a sniff, let the rush of the very appropriately named fluid smack his brain, and then climbed back onto the bed.

"Boy, that does get one's motor running, doesn't it? It can be made stronger, you know. I've done that too. Doctored the contents here with a little Scotch Guard"--he held the bottle in James' direction--"and then used it to knock a guy out. I generally like getting control in as easy a way as possible. The blood, sweat, and tears can come later, when there's no danger of my getting the short end of the stick."

AKA held the bottle under James' nose, which was a very nice nose.

"Here you go."

The young man inhaled.

His face immediately flushed. His breathing deepened accordingly.


"You said it," AKA said.

More noisy breathing.

Then, "Again," the young man said.

AKA once again held the bottle under the kid's nose.

Repeat performance, but without the exclamatory "Whewww" this time.

"Okay. Do . . . whatever the hell . . . you want," James gasped.

AKA laughed and took a second sniff himself, then put the bottle aside and made his way between the young dancer's legs.

He slipped his hands under the knees and lifted.

"Up you go."

The legs obediently rose.

Moving forward, AKA gripped the ankles and pushed them up, higher, higher, and then back, toward the top of the headboard. Once they were where he wanted them, he settled himself against the backs of the strong young thighs and fingered James' asshole. It was nicely tight, invitingly rubbery, far from ruined by whatever fucking the kid had in fact done through the years. Apparently not that much, as he himself had claimed.

AKA angled his dick and pushed forward.


The sound of discomfort.

AKA pushed again.


The sound of discomfort increased.

Dry fucks could be hard for both guys. Especially when an asshole was as naturally tight as this asshole appeared to be.

Should he suspend activities and get a dab of the Vaseline? AKA wondered. The tube wasn't that far away.

No! What the hell! Rape the little bastard! Acting like Mr. Nice Guy had its points, but the time had come to move THE GAME forward, and this, after all, was one of the major reasons AKA played THE GAME at all.

Bracing his knees, locking his arms tight around the lifted legs, AKA rose up, bore down, and then shoved in with all the force he could muster. The gateway gave! AKA's cock plunged to the hilt up the violently breached ass-tunnel.

James the dancer yelled, "Shiiiiit!!!!"

Clearly the Rush had done very little to anesthetize the kid.

"Oh man! Oh man!" he sobbed.

AKA began to fuck.





"Oh man!" punctuated each and every heaving downward plunge.

Sliding his hands up the dancer's hard calves, AKA clutched the ankles and spread the legs even farther up, up, and away.





James' head was thrown back, his neck arched, his sweat-washed adam's apple throbbing to the beat of AKA's doggedly delving dick.








The young dancer's chest heaved. His arteries pulsed at the side of his neck. His hard-boned feet flexed. His tight calves tightened even more.

AKA came!!!





AKA was actually dizzy with it. His brain swirled. His eyes unfocused. His body disintegrated, dispersed, dissolved. Only his violently expending cock remained.

AKA swayed, then swayed again, then literally fell backwards onto the bed, dropping James' taut legs, which fell with him, coming to rest alongside AKA's flanks, the prominently veined dancer's feet bouncing to a stop on either side of AKA's head.

For the longest time, AKA simply lay there, enjoying the sense of completion, of an ecstasy achieved, of his own physicality made manifest in one of the two most intense ways possible.


There was no sound to speak of from up by the headboard. Some shallow breathing. A quiet, erratic sniffle of two. A soft clearing of the (Rush-clogged?) sinuses and throat. Otherwise, silence.

AKA finally, slowly roused himself.

"That was great," he said as he struggled his way over James' right leg, sat up, and then dropped his feet over the side of the bed.

The young man's eyes were closed--his face flushed--his forehead, cheeks, and nose glistening as a result of a papery thin layer of perspiration.

AKA reached over and pinched one of James' pointy, sweat-shiny nipples.

What a buff little alabaster hunk he is! AKA marveled.

AKA generally preferred his targets smooth like this. Bears, certainly, had never been his thing.

There had been that one kid, though. The painter Robert. He had been hairy all the way from his young bull's neck to his twink-tender toes. It was almost comic his hair was so like a body-carpet. Yet Robert had had a very good physique really. And he had been "hot-to-trot"--his own words--when it came to doing a bondage scene. He had gotten even hotter when AKA began to fashion the Gacy necklace about his throat. He was burning up bigtime by the time AKA began to tighten the necklace. He was practically melting away once the blood seriously ceased its flow to his brain. AKA had actually filmed that kill, setting up a bedside video-camera to do it with. Hairy Robert had thought that was a hot idea too. And it was. AKA must have watched that tape dozens of time before he finally, to be on the safe side, got rid of it.

By comparison, James the dancer was a Michelangelo wet-dream.

"I tell you what," AKA said as he tweaked the tit a second time. "I am going to sleep on this one. I mean it. I sometimes say that and don't. But this time I do mean it." He did too. There was something genuinely intriguing about this guy. Winning, even. "We will consult again in the morning," AKA continued. "See how we feel then. How's that?"

The young dancer looked at him.

"You mean you might not kill me?"

"That's exactly what I mean. But the stress should go on the 'might.' Keep that in mind."

"If you let me go, I promise . . . ."

"Stop!" AKA snapped. "I hate promises like that. If I let you go it will be because I decide to, pure and simple, for reasons of my own. Your promises won't matter a hill of beans one way or the other. Understand?"

The young man nodded.

AKA turned and went to the closet.

When he came back he had a light woolen blanket in one hand and a hospital-size piss-pad in the other.

He laid the blanket on the side of the bed and said, "Lift your ass."

James hesitated, but then complied.

"This is in case you have to pee. Or shit. I wouldn't recommend doing either, but it's up to you. Or Mother Nature. Whoever manages to call the shots. If Mother Nature wins, at least the sheets will be spared."

Picking up the blanket, AKA covered the young man's body with it.

"So you won't get too cold," he said.

James actually looked relatively comfortable.

They looked at one another.

James' gaze was no longer as sweetly undefended as it had been. Indeed, he seemed both older and, if not exactly wiser, certainly a whole lot more experienced about the surprises life could spring on you.

Turning away, AKA began to collect his discarded clothing.

Once he had everything, he walked to the door, placed his free hand on the light-switch, glanced back, and said, "I'll say goodnight then."

The young man on the bed remained motionless, silently gazing, isolated in his own unhappy thoughts.

AKA shrugged, and then turned off the light.


AKA did not sleep well. There were these dreams. Or maybe it is more exact to say he had wild, disorienting bits and pieces of dreams. Random, incoherent fragments filled with bizarre images and grotesque actions. To the extent there was a common thread, it was AKA's own anxiety about what was actually going on in the dreams. What was happening now? What was going to happen next? What did it all mean? Ironically, the central dream-fear was that AKA would find out. He might indeed discover what it was that lurked behind the seemingly unending nightmarish jumble. But he didn't. Thus he woke up feeling both relieved AND frustrated. He had escaped something. That was good. That was very good. But not knowing what it was that he had escaped left him feeling strangely unsatisfied. Even, in an odd way, angry.

His mood was not improved when he heard the young male voice call out from the third floor, "Are you there?! Can you hear me?! Are you down there?! Hey?! Hey?!"

I should have ball-gagged him or at least shut the door when I left last night, AKA thought as he willed himself to get out of bed. He had actually thought of doing both, but only when he was literally crawling into bed. What the fuck! he had decided. I'm tired. If he makes a racket, I'll deal with it then.

Then, apparently, had become now.

AKA was not that concerned really about the kid's being heard outside the house. The third floor was not soundproofed, but the GAME room was high enough up and solidly enough built that even the most intense screaming was only a distant, hard-to-pinpoint, almost unrecognizable noise. AKA had run tests. He knew.

Inside the house, it was different. Not that sound traveled all the way down to the first floor with any ease. It didn't. Experience had proved that as well. On the second floor, however, it was another matter. One could hear from there. Often quite well. The way young James could be heard at this very moment. The little fuck!

AKA stretched, looked at the clock--it was going on 9AM--and went into the bathroom. He pissed, flushed, pulled on a bathrobe and slippers, and then headed for the stairs, yawning as he went.

The calling out had ceased. Maybe the kid had heard him moving around? Knew AKA was coming?

AKA slowly made his way up the stairs and went in.

A brilliant shaft of early morning sunlight tore through the room's single gable window. The shiny linoleum on the floor caught and reflected the light, turning the center of the room into a veritable fishbowl of wavering, glowing, blinding rays.

Squinting, AKA made his way over to the window and drew the curtains. The glare instantly vanished.

AKA turned and looked over at the bed.

The blanket had been kicked off. The kid had gotten hot, then. He certainly looked hot. Perspiration glazed his smooth, unblemished, marbleized skin, especially the skin on his chest and neck and face.

"I gotta take a piss. Bad!" James announced, his desperate baritone no longer sounding quite so warm and friendly as it had the night before. "Don't make me do it in the bed, okay?"

"Mother Nature will have her way, won't she?" AKA replied.

The situation amused AKA. In fact, it gave him an idea. He went to the GAME closet and fished in a box for a suitable length of brown leather thong. He also got the ball-gag he liked to use. The one with the bright red mouthpiece.

Young James immediately seemed to understand what AKA had in mind. He wailed, "No, man! Just let me go the fucking bathroom, man! I won't try to run away, I swear."

AKA sat on the side of the bed and went to work on the kid's genitals.

AKA was pretty adept at this by now. He even had his own special way of looping and pulling and binding the thong in place. Under the balls, around the balls, over the balls, about the base of the penis--once, twice, three times--followed by a quick super-tight bladder-blocking hard-knot. It all looked rather artistic by the time AKA finished with it.

"Oh, man! Oh please, man! Don't do that, man! Just let me . . . ."

The ball-gag cut James off. AKA was pretty expert when it came to this as well. Popping the gag in. Securing it at the back of the skull.

"There," he said when he was done. "You should have let Mother Nature have her way, I guess. That's why I gave you the piss-pad. Now you'll just have to hold it, won't you?"

The young man's face had flamed. His eyes were filled with discomfort and dismay, not to mention two shallow pools of bitterly brimming tears.

His cock and balls had crimsoned as well.

He has a really nice pair of balls, AKA observed. They were Kiwi-fruit plump and nearly as hairless.

The balls would eventually turn a dusky bruised-looking rotten-plum blue. But that would take a while. Left on long enough, of course, the leather binding would kill the gonads outright, effectively emasculating the kid. AKA had done that a few times. It was a neat thing to do.

AKA stifled a yawn, then declared, "I am going to get some coffee, do a little work, and then check back with you. In the meantime, keep thinking over what you said last night. About wanting to die. About not wanting to die. About whether I should or should not help you with that. We will have that talk I promised, don't worry. But I have to tell you I am leaning the other way this morning. Last night I was thinking maybe I wouldn't kill you, but now I'm not so sure. Maybe it's because I didn't sleep that well. To be honest, I feel pretty grumpy this morning." AKA thumped the kid's dick with his finger. "As you can probably tell."

A fresh layer of sweat had covered James' face. The cause was as much physiological as emotional, AKA decided. The kid's bladder must REALLY be protesting now. The pain would only get worse, alas.

AKA did as he said he would. He went downstairs, made some coffee, got online, answered and sent e-mail, made a few business transactions, a few phone calls, and then headed back up. A good hour had passed.

The kid was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling at a pretty speedy pace, but his limbs were board-stiff, his fingers flexed with stress, his feet too. His sweating had continued apace. His whole body was now awash in it. He really had had to go, it seemed.

Well, thought AKA, that's what he should have done then. Gone. Pissed. Wet the bed. But no, the little prick was too grown up for that. Well, this was the price he had to pay for being so macho.

AKA sat on the side of the bed.

James tried to speak, moaned.

"What did you say?" AKA asked.

More moaning, another effort to speak.

"I can't understand you," AKA mock-lamented.

The kid tried to speak again. Begging. No doubt about it.

AKA lifted his fist and brought it down hard on the tense lower abdomen, just about where the overfull bladder would be.

Not even the ball-gag muffled the screech.

The young man's eyes bulged as if they might leap from their sockets.

"I tell you what," AKA said. "I don't want to be too mean about this. I will let you piss depending on how good you are at giving head. If I like the way you suck dick, I will take you to the bathroom and unstop your plumbing myself. Is it a deal?"

The desperate head nodded.

The nasally hissing breath confirmed the agreement.

AKA reached around, undid the gag, and then jerked the red rubber ball out of the young man's mouth.

James gasped, gulped, tried to speak, failed.

"There's no need to talk," AKA said. "There will be plenty of time for that."

AKA maneuvered himself up, his knees burrowing into the kid's armpits, and lifted the stress-heavy head up to his crotch.

"Bite me, though," AKA warned, looking down, "and you're toast, dead meat, no further debate allowed. Got it?"

"Yeah," the young man managed to say.

"Show me what you can do then," AKA ordered.

And the kid did.

AKA had soon dropped the young man's head, grasped the top of the headboard, and, his dick well-embedded in James' furiously working mouth, let the kid do his worst. Which, as it turned out, was fucking damned good!

Not bad! Not bad at all! AKA thought. Especially when the guy's full-to-bursting bladder must be threatening to rupture at any moment.

"Suck it! Suck it!" AKA ordered, as much for the fun of it as anything. James really was using his tongue and teeth, his lips and gullet, to pretty spectacular effect without the encouragement.

Vanilla fag that he is, fellatio must be what he likes to do the most, AKA decided.




As AKA came, he buried his dick in the depths of the boy's throat. The throat locked, the young man's body heaved, the teeth came dangerously close to delivering a seriously damaging bite.

"Uh-uh!" AKA commanded. "Take it! Take it, you little shit!"

AKA would give it to him. James willed himself to an impressively passive acceptance of what had to feel like death-by-dick and then some.

"Yeah! That's right! Hold it! Hold it!"

Even so, the body finally had a mind of its own. Those teeth might close down whether the kid wanted them to or not. AKA shouldn't press his luck.

Thus, as the final cum-spurt spurted, AKA pulled out and tumbled over onto the side of the bed.

"Wow!" he breathed. "I have to give it to you! That was one of the best fucking blowjobs I've ever had. Not even your dancing that's damned good."

James was struggling to reestablish a breathing rhythm that would allow him to speak.

His face was beet-red, his chest heaving.

"The deal," he finally managed to gasp. "Please. Just let me . . . pee. Pleeease!"

AKA reached over and cupped the boy's swollen, blood-charged balls.

"I did say there was deal, didn't I? So a deal there is. But you try to run or attack me or anything like that and I'll cut these off. First one. Then the other. While you watch. Understand?"

AKA gripped the balls in his fist.

James winced, than said, "Yes. I won't. Just . . . please . . . let me pee!!!"

There was no doubt about the extent of the young man's agony or the corresponding depth of his sincerity. He meant what he said. Amazing what a simple overfull bladder could achieve! Who needed elaborate torture instruments when nature provided such highly effective devices as this?

AKA rifled the bedside-table drawer for the key to the cuffs. They had to be one here somewhere. A number actually. A pair of handcuffs always came with at least two keys.

AKA finally located one.

"Voila!" he said, lifting it out and holding it up.


James was as good as his word. Guys in this situation usually were. Such acquiescence had surprised AKA early in his career. Have I really established enough control, intimidated them enough that they will actually go like lambs to the slaughter? Astonishingly, most did just that. Tigers were few and far between. In fact, AKA could count the tigers on one hand.

The fiercest tiger by far had been Sweater Kid, as AKA had always thought of him. He, like James, had been in his early twenties. He, like James, had been picked up hustling on a cold dark winter night. He, like James, had worn an attractive thick-woven wool sweater. He, like James, had had a wonderfully fit, beautifully toned body. Unlike James, however, Sweater Kid had been as little inclined to die as AKA was to snuff a woman. He had refused to be cuffed or tied or to take a drink or even smoke a joint. Sucking, no fucking, was all he would go for. "Then I get paid and you take me back," he had rather rudely commanded.

AKA had no choice. He had to try to take him by force.

It had worked before. Like a dream even. Get them on their backs, relaxed and aroused, then flatten out on top them, body sexily sandwiched on top of body, then, while nibbling erotically at their left ear, slyly fish out the length of rope secretly squirreled away out of sight between the mattress and the headboard, then, quick as lightning, sit up, loop it around their necks before they realized what was happening, and pull back with all your might, the other end of the rope being securely attached to the bottom of the headboard. In under a minute, they were out, unconscious, putty in AKA's hands, ready to be played with in the ultimate of ultimate games.

On this particular occasion, however, the rope had not been securely attached. It came completely loose in fact.

AKA had gone flying.

Sweater Kid had gone berserk.

AKA was soon fending off a pretty serious assault of his own. He actually turned rather wimpy at the start of it, he was later ashamed to remember. As a result, Sweater Kid landed quite a number of bruising, skin-splitting blows. AKA begged him to stop, protested that he hadn't really meant to hurt him, do any thing bad. Really! Sweater Kid believed none of it. He proceeded to abuse AKA as violently verbally as he was abusing him physically. He was soon demanding money as well. Lots of money! And whatever he wanted to take from AKA's house too. "You understand? Anything! Booze! Your watch! Silver! Anything fucking thing I want!" He began to make quite a long list. "I'm gonna empty your fucking house and then I'm gonna empty your fucking ATM!" the kid had yelled.

Ironically, it was the kid's own sweater that finally allowed AKA to turn the tables on him. Having finally suspended his fisticuffs, the boy--still as naked as a jaybird--had stormed about the bedroom, calling AKA every name he could think of. At last, still in a rage, he began to pull his clothes back on. He naturally wanted to put his sweater back on as well, but in his anger and haste he suddenly got all entangled in it, with his arms up, his face momentarily buried in the wool. AKA hardly thought. He just acted. He bent down and grabbed the knife he always kept hidden under the mattress as extra insurance, just in case a situation like this ever arose. It never had, but AKA's forethought now paid off.

AKA managed to deliver three pretty centrally placed stabs to the gut before the kid could fling free of the sweater, react and fight back. Which the fucking little tiger did. Not only that, the little bastard actually succeeded in wresting the knife from AKA's hand. But not before AKA had delivered two more jabs, both pretty deep, to the base of the boy's neck. AKA missed both jugulars, unfortunately, but the kid was soon frothing blood from both his nose and his mouth. Even that didn't bring him down, however. He actually managed to slash AKA on his lower arm and force him back, away, literally into a corner. AKA once again turned wimp, held his hands up, pleaded, said he was sorry, would take the kid to the hospital, pay him whatever amount of money he wanted.

The boy would have none of it. He just wanted out of the house. NOW! AKA could not allow that, of course. But how to stop him? Because, badly stabbed though he was, Sweater Kid was soon making his way down the stairs at a pretty impressive pace. AKA lumbered along behind, begging him to stop, consider, let AKA help him. It was madness, of course. Both the kid and AKA knew that. But the pleading, placating words just kept tumbling out of AKA's mouth.

AKA finally charged the boy in the front hall just as they both cleared the stairs. It wasn't like in the movies, however. The kid didn't drop the knife as he was tackled. AKA didn't then struggle over to it first and finish the job in high dramatic fashion. No, the kid held onto the knife, slashed AKA a second painful time, then got to his feet and began to wrestle with the front door. Which, fortunately, was double-locked. Finally, swirling about in frustration, with blood dripping from his chin and oozing from his neck and soaking the front of his pants, the boy lurched left and into the living room, seeking for an easier outlet there.

It was, ironically, a heavy marble Adonis about twelve inches in height that eventually brought the young man down. AKA seized it from the table in the hall, followed Sweater Kid into the living room, and slammed the boy upside the head when he stopped to consider which direction to go in. The kid staggered and dropped onto one knee. AKA moved forward and brought the Adonis down a second time. Directly on the top of the skull. The lights finally went out. The boy fell forward, the knife still clutched in his bloody right hand. AKA quickly knelt, pried the knife loose, and finished the kid off. Up and down the young man's back AKA had gone, stabbing all the way. AKA never counted the number of those wounds, but there had to have been fifty at least. That's how angry AKA was.

James the dancer, on the other hand, was one of the sheep.

AKA unlocked both of the bed-cuffs, then made the kid sit up, put his arms behind his back, and let himself be re-cuffed with yet a third pair taken from the well-stocked bedside-table drawer.

"Up you go," AKA said, once that all-important step was achieved.

He had had to help the young man up off the couch the night before. He needed assistance this time as well, if for a different reason.

It clearly hurt the kid to walk, but the need to empty his bladder trumped all other pains, all other discomforts.

With AKA steadying him, they crossed the hall and entered the bathroom.

Naturally, the kid headed straight for the toilet.

"No," AKA said, clutching him by the elbow. "In here. You can pee while you shower. All that sweating's made you stink. I want to fuck you again, and I want you to smell sweet as sin when I do."

James was too desperate to quarrel.

AKA opened the frosted shower-stall door, guided the young man in, turned him around, knelt down, and began to work at the knot at the base of the violently constricted cock. Which was noticeably puffy and bluish. The bound balls even more so.

The knot was a real bitch as it turned out. Poor James the dancer was soon doing a new kind of dance, an involuntary, vaguely pagan pain-dance.

"Hold still, dammit!" AKA had to order more than once.

Finally, just as he was about to give up, AKA succeeded in working the thong loose.

There was the briefest pause.

Then the piss gushed.

"Don't piss on me!" AKA shouted, grabbing James by the hip and shoving him around.

The pissing went on and on.

And on.

Jesus! AKA thought. This has to be some kind of record!

It certainly surpassed AKA's own personal best. That excruciating event had followed an appendectomy AKA had had to have when he was in this late 20s. After the operation, he had had to have a catheter. As if that wasn't bad enough, when the time came to remove it, AKA had not been able to pee on his own. Hours had passed. Then more hours had passed. His bladder had filled. And then filled some more. Become painfully uncomfortable. The nurses were soon worried. "You have to go," they had insisted, "or we will have to drain you ourselves!" Talk about sweating! AKA had good reason to know just what he had put young James through. Finally, at the last minute, while the nurses were out of the room in search of what they would need to do the job manually, AKA had finally managed to release the floodgates. And the piss had come and come and then kept on coming. AKA had been amazed at the amount. But young James now amazed him even more.

The pee was still flowing as AKA turned on the shower.

He got it too hot, of course.

James was soon leaping about for a whole new reason.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" the young man cried.

AKA laughed. What a hoot really. Here was a guy, a dancer by profession, wildly leaping about in a hot shower, his hands cuffed behind his back, his piss flowing, a serial killer preparing to wash him down so that he could have a reasonably hygienic second ass-fuck, and Jesus the fucking Christ gets pulled into it all as well. Life was funny. It really was.

The water temp was soon stabilized. The flow of piss diminished. Then, with a few final but fairly vigorous additional spurts, ceased altogether.

AKA stripped down, then entered the shower himself.

It was a fairly roomy shower. And thus held two. Easily.

"Well, I guess that feels better, huh," AKA said as he moved in behind the kid.

AKA looked down. At the boy's buns. It was the first time he had really taken them in, he realized. The legs-in-the-air bed-fuck of last night had not counted, James having been on his back at the time.

Aren't they a gorgeous sight! AKA thought.

Muscle-carved. Symmetrically dimpled. Smooth as glass. White as the proverbial driven snow.

They would win first place in any serious butt-show, no question about it.

"I will wash you down," AKA said.

Young James said nothing. Just bowed his head and sighed. From relief, if AKA was any judge. His bladder was finally empty, the water warm and comforting.

After a short minute, AKA's well-soaped hands were working their way over James' body.

As AKA made his way across the shoulders, under the armpits, down the spine, around the waist, over the hips, into the ass-crack, then, kneeling, onto the backs of the thighs, admiration mixed with envy. Because AKA had never had such a body as this. He had dreamed of it, of course. Madly desired it. Even off and on, at one or another point in his life, actually done things to improve his physique. But he would always be just okay. Nothing to be ashamed of. Now or earlier in his life. But beautiful like this? No. Never.

"Turn around," AKA said.

James did.

AKA then concentrated on the smooth dancer-veined feet, on the strong ankles, on the cutely clustered toes.

The young man moaned, sighed. A different kind of sigh this time. Not one of relief but of sheer, unadulterated pleasure.

Well, why not? AKA thought. So what if he feels good? I want him to feel good. For now.

By the time AKA worked his way up the front of the attractively lean, strongly-built legs, the kid's cock was hard as a rock.

Well, why not? AKA thought for a second time.

The genitals had survived their brief bondage in relatively good style, it seemed. The balls still looked a bit dark, a bit puffy. That was true. But the cock itself showed no signs of abuse at all. Far from it. It was, in its own right, a perfect little masterpiece. And not so little either. Long and lean, like the dancer's body as a whole, it was porcelain-smooth, delicately veined, with a lusciously full, rose-pink head. Yes, Mother Nature had certainly done herself proud when she fashioned this dick.

AKA immediately wanted to suck it. He immediately wanted to tear it off.

He fingered it instead. Massaged it slowly.

It visibly extended. Enlarged. Hardened.

James groaned and leaned back against the shower wall.

It wouldn't take long to make him cum. That was clear.

But that was not what AKA wanted.

AKA stood up. The rushing water splashed into his face, swept across his chest, down his belly, into his crotch.

"Stay right there," he said. "Don't move."

Young James looked at him. He was clearly confused, his pleasure suddenly riven by anxiety. What is this lunatic going to do now? That was the question AKA saw in the young man's newly anxious eyes.

"It's nothing bad," AKA assured him.

I'm becoming a sheep too, he thought as he opened the shower door and hopped out. But I want him to keep it up. Fear would pull the plug, deflate his dick. We can't have that, now can we?

Dripping water, AKA made his way to the GAME ROOM closet. With his feet wetly slapping, he grabbed what he wanted and quickly retraced his steps.

James had stayed put, just as ordered.

Yeah, a sheep for sure, AKA once again thought as he rejoined his captive guest in the shower.

"What? What are you going to do?" the young man asked.

He no longer sounds like himself, AKA observed.

Well, THE GAME had a way of doing that as well. Altering voices. Changing their tone. Making them higher pitched. Less steady. Fractured.

AKA knelt and began to work the cock-ring into place.

James' cock had not wilted--praise be!--but it was definitely looser, less rigid, in danger of going down.

"You know what this is," AKA said. "You've used these before. Don't tell me you haven't."

AKA had chosen one of his new adjustable rings. That way he could make sure the pressure was just right. Tight enough to pump up the cock while delaying a cum, yet loose enough to keep the erection going for a longer period of time.

The effect was pretty instantaneous.

Cock-rings added considerable length and width to some guy's erections. Young James was one of those. He was soon a fatter, rock-rigid seven-plus inches. Or so AKA guessed.

"Beautiful," AKA murmured.

He sucked the tip, tongued the pee-hole, licked the plump rounded ridge of the rose-pink cock-cap.

James slumped back against the shower tiles. The metal of the cuffs made a loud scraping noise as he did so.

The warm shower water continued to hiss, flow, drench them both.

AKA drew back and tightened the ring one more notch.

James flexed, grunted.

There, thought AKA. That should hold him.

AKA stood up, moved his head out of the line of water, and pulled James the dancer's more directly into it. Shampoo wasn't necessary. A good rinsing would do.

The rinse was soon achieved.

AKA then turned off the water and opened the door.

Grabbing James by his dick, AKA pulled him out.

The young man seemed weak in the knees, as if his knees might buckle in fact.

AKA quickly got him over to the toilet and sat him down.

"A quick dry, then we'll have that second fuck I have been wanting," AKA said as much to himself as to James.

The ring-constricted, ring-extended dick bobbed up between the kid's hard wet thighs. It was quite a little pole really.

Just for good measure, AKA sucked the cock. He even went down on it a few slurp-happy, shower-wet inches.

"I like to fuck a guy whose cock is up," AKA explained when he let go. "It always seems so much sexier that way. His hard-on matching my hard-on."

AKA pulled a towel off the nearby towel rack.

The rubdown began. First James, then himself.

"You've got me all confused," the young man said as AKA began to work on his legs. He really did sound confused too. "You like sex. It's clear you like sex. So why not just do it right, then? I was willing. I am willing. So why this stupid handcuffs crap? Why this fucking crazy story about killing people?" He jerked at the cuffs to make his point. "I mean, you can suck me, you can fuck me. Hell, I was even hoping last night you might even kinda like me. Pathetic but true. Why isn't all that enough, man?"

AKA turned the towel on himself.

"I've spent years answering that one," he said. "If I wanted to, I could even get pretty damned impressive with my analysis too. I am a very smart man. Summa cum laude and all that. The bottom line, though, is that it's what turns me on. It's the only thing finally that really does turn me on. Everything else is just foreplay. Normal kinds of sex-stuff, that is. Sucking and fucking, as you put it. That's all just foreplay. The real thing, the only thing that goes the distance with me, is the other thing. The killing thing." AKA flung the towel down and pulled James to his feet. "Some kills are better than others, of course, just as some orgasms are better than others. But when it goes right, when I really feel right about doing it, there's nothing to compare with it. You hear me? Nothing!"

It had taken AKA a number of years to get to this point. That is, to the point of being able to talk to a victim the way he was now talking to James. In the early days, talking to a victim was highly fraught, indeed nearly impossible. As a result, AKA had tended to kill fairly swiftly and silently and with as little human interaction as possible. Those first guys had not been totally unpersoned, however. Even then AKA had liked to get some feel for who the young men were--what, by killing them, he was taking from them. But conversation like this, with a guy knowing what was going to happen to him, had taken a while to accomplish. Ironically enough, the breakthrough had involved AKA's first hustler. Lonnie from West Virginia. Lonnie with the cute little gold-rimmed granny glasses. Lonnie in his tattered old Army jacket. Lonnie in his holes-in-the-knees, buns-hugging camouflage pants. Not that Lonnie was real Army, you understand. Army-Navy Store was more like it. But there had been something about Lonnie. Something this James the dancer also had. A kind of innocence, coupled with one of the sweetest bodies AKA had ever had at his command. That combination had made for the breakthrough. They had talked all night, AKA and Lonnie from West Virginia. By the time morning came, by the time AKA adjusted the Gacy necklace to killer-tightness one last time, he and the hustler had plumbed the depths. What a nice kid he had been really. AKA had truly wished he could have kept him alive for days, months, even years. He was that perfect a fit, both emotionally and physically. After Lonnie, AKA could look his victims in the eye without anxiety. He could say whatever he wanted to say to them. They were real. He was real. It was all real. And much better for being so.

AKA guided James back into the GAME ROOM bedroom.

He tossed the unused piss-pad away, sat the young man down on the bed, spread his legs, moved in, and went down on his dick.

The cock-ring was still working like a charm.

AKA sucked the head, then nibbled his way down the shaft, then back up again. First one side, then the other. The cock throbbed, strained, but did not, could not cum. Just the way AKA wanted it.

"On your stomach," AKA finally directed. "Get on your stomach, your feet toward the bottom of the bed."

Young James needed a bit of help, but he was soon positioned the way AKA directed.

"Spread your legs," was AKA's next command.

James the sheep obliged.

The ankle ropes--lengths of clothesline actually--were tucked under the mattress, out of sight. AKA now extracted them, pulled them up, and began to secure James' feet.

First one, then the other.

"You said we were going to talk. Are we going to talk?"

The voice had continued to change, lighten, sound younger, more and more fractured.

"We are going to talk, but I am going to fuck you first."

AKA decided to use Vaseline this time. Comfort was now the order of the day. His own comfort anyway.

AKA lightly lathered the young man's hole, dabbed a speck on the tip of his cock, and then moved up, in, and bore down.

He split the kid's buns, those gorgeous muscle-hard buns, at the first go.

"Uhhhh," James groaned.

As he began to hump, AKA felt around for the boy's dick.

Yes, there it was! Still up! Still hard! As much a joy to feel as it was to see!

Who invented the first cock-ring? AKA wondered as he picked up his pace. Give that man a prize!




Oh Jesus! What a ride!




James had buried his face in the sheets. He was breathing hard. So was AKA.




There it is!

There it is!!

There it is!!! AKA thought.

And then there it was!!!!

It was a deliciously prolonged explosion, a slow-motion tidal wave that engulfed AKA's whole being.





AKA collapsed, his head dropping between the young man's wide, bony shoulder-blades, his hand losing its grip on the pulsing, ring-hardened cock-shaft.

Oh man!

Oh man!

AKA didn't pull out for the longest time. In fact, he never did intentionally pull out. It was just that his dick finally shrank enough that it slipped free of its own accord, an expended sex-worm whose deeper delving was done. For now, at least.

"I can't let you go," AKA said after what seemed like a very long, contented, time-suspended eternity. "I don't want to let you go." He nuzzled his cheek into the smooth-skinned, hard-boned space between the shoulder-blades. "You know that, right? You see that, don't you?" James' manacled hands shifted against AKA's belly. AKA could feel them as they moved, twitched, attempted to adjust to the weight of AKA's body. "It has to be. My killing you. It really is what you want, whether you admit it now or not."

There was a silence, broken only by James' breathing, by AKA's breathing, by the sudden metallic ticking of the room's baseboard heat as the thermostat kicked in.


The answer had come.

AKA smiled into the young man's back.

"That's right," he said. "It is okay. It's better this way. You know it is."

The hands once again shifted against AKA's belly.

"Just do it fast. At least that."

"Sure," AKA replied. "No pain. Fast. There will be a little panic, for a couple of minutes maybe, but then it will be over. Just the way you wanted when you thought I was going to kill you last night. You really don't have a reason to live, but you do have a reason to die. My reason. For me."

AKA hoisted himself up.

James was weeping. Silently but unmistakably weeping.

AKA reached around and felt one cheek. Tears. Yes. He brought his fingers to his mouth, put them in, sucked. Tart. Salty. An essence. Next to cum, maybe the most intimate of all bodily essences.

AKA got up and went to the GAME closet one last time.

He emerged with a plastic bag. One of the smaller ones. A clear one. So he could see the face as the life left it.

James had turned his head to watch.

"That?" he murmured as AKA returned to the bed. "Oh god."

AKA climbed up, faced the foot of the bed, flicked the bag loose, open.

"I will hold it about your neck myself," he said. "That way I can feel when your heart stops, feel when your pulse goes. The pulse races to begin with. It races like you wouldn't believe. Then it staggers. Then it stumbles. Then it finally, completely just stops. The brain takes longer. You may know that. But then that makes sense in a way. Given that that's where we really exist, to the extent we do exist. I know it's all of a piece, the body and the mind, but it's the mind where the I is the I, the self the self. Not that you will be conscious at that point, you understand. You will not know that you are dying. You are not going to float up and see yourself looking back down at yourself either. That's all poppycock. But you do exist. You will have existed. Then you won't. It's that simple."

James had buried his face in the sheets but was otherwise silent, passive, defeated, waiting.

"Be a man, okay," AKA admonished. "Lift your head up. Watch me as I put this on you."

It took effort. AKA could see that. But the young dancer finally did just what he had been told. He raised his head, flexed his shoulders, and faced AKA.

The cheeks were tear-streaked, the eyes undone, but the lips were set, the mouth closed, the handsome chin admirably fixed and firm.

AKA slowly pulled the bag over the uplifted head.

He then drew it down onto the neck.

Once it was in place AKA did just what he said he would.

He encircled the throat with his hands, effectively locking the bag in around the neck, which was damp, whether from the residue of the shower water or from a new burst of perspiration, it was hard to tell.

James took a breath.

The bag crackled, crimped, flexed about the face.

A second breath and the bag crackled even more.

James' manacled hands stretched, clutched, stretched again.

The third breath pulled the bag toward the mouth.

The young man's tears caught it, glued it to his cheeks.

He exhaled.

The bag fogged.

He inhaled.

The bag clutched at his nose, his chin.

His face went red.

His whole body jerked.

His feet pulled in the ropes that bound them to the bottom of the bed.

His gorgeous butt flexed, dimpled, dilated, flexed again.

He arced up.

Then up again.


Trying to get away.

AKA moved with him, his hands locked in place, feeling, just as he said he would, the wildly beating pulse on both sides of the violently straining neck.

The bag crackled, shrank, drew further down on the face.

AKA watched the eyes, the pupils, saw the terror in them, the despair.

To the extent he could, James the dancer thrashed. His whole body thrashed. Awkwardly. The spine arcing, the legs locking, the bound arms straining, the cuffed upturned hands groping for what could not be reached.

Another intake of breath and the bag sucked in around the mouth.

James tried to twist, to find some angle in which life might give life, air air.

AKA held onto him.

He squeezed down on the neck, felt his cock rise between his legs.

Yes! he thought.




James' jaws worked.

Up, down, up, down, up, down.

His mouth gaped, inhaled, sucked in plastic, exhaled, puffed the plastic back out, more dramatically each and every time.

His face had turned the odd, dusky, sunset crimson that faces in a bag always turned to start with.

Finally, there was a spasm. It racked the young man's body, which shook, then vibrated, then convulsed.



Three times.

The veins in the neck were now off the Richter scale.

The heat-fogged bag drew completely down on the face.

Which remained uplifted.

All the features outlined.

The eyes.

The nose.

The lips.

The mouth.

Which gaped wide, the plastic now straining toward the back of the radically opened throat.

From which now emerged the final, unearthly, unrepeatable death-song.

AKA had heard the sound before, a number of times, but how to describe it?

It wasn't a groan.

It wasn't a gasp.

It was something deeper, stranger--a weirdly muffled, primal, chillingly animalistic deep-belly bellow. It seemed to emanate from the very core of the body, from the very roots of the stifled, desperate, violently straining lungs and guts.



AKA never ceased to marvel at it.

He marveled at it now.

The bellow repeated.



And then again.

It extended.

Grew longer.

Grew louder.

Then louder and longer again.


James' butt twitched. He farted. Once. Twice. A more earthly kind of music.

The shaking of his limbs briefly intensified, especially in the arms.

The pulses continued to surge on the sides of his neck.

The weird, low, loud, long bellowing continued.



And then again.

James was now unconscious. His eyes were open, but he had totally ceased to blink, to see, to feel anything. Of that, AKA was sure.

The plastic-encased face had gone ashen.

The plastic-wrapped nose had turned an even darker bluish gray.

The killing asphyxiation was clearly taking firmer, fatal hold.

AKA knew the signs.

He brought his cock up to the gaping, weirdly sounding mouth.

He slipped it in, careful not to break the bag.

He cautiously forced the asphyxiating plastic deeper down, back, further in.

The plastic adjusted, gave way, gently enclosed AKA's dick, clung.

The weird bellowing finally began to slow, weaken, grow softer.






Softer again.


Then, as quickly as it had begun, it ceased.

A dead silence fell.

AKA hardly had to move to cum.

Suddenly he just had.

He came even as the throbbing in the neck did just what he had said it would. Dramatically staggered. Stumbled. Then stopped altogether.

All that was left now was the brain.

Four minutes.

That's all it took.

In four minutes, there would be no more James the dancer.

In four minutes, his beautiful young body would have begun the slow, steady, irreversible process of decay.


Four minutes go by surprisingly quickly, even when, like AKA, one simply sits and waits.

As he had done so many times before, AKA let his mind empty, allowed his emotions to slow and fade. Even as all activity, once and for all, slowed and faded within the hot hard young skull he so carefully held in place, encased in its simple plastic bag.

What an unassuming little murder weapon a plastic bag was.

AKA recalled the last time he had used one. What was it? A year ago? Something like that. J.R. the kid had called himself. He had been a hustler just like James. Only younger. A sweet, if hardly innocent, sixteen. He had claimed to be two years older when he accosted AKA on the sidewalk, but the contents of his wallet, examined the morning after, told the real story. AKA had just emerged from a gay bar, having finally drawn a blank in his effort to pick up someone there. Out of nowhere it seemed, the bouncing, bopping, teen-idol-cute J.R. suddenly popped right up in front of him, full of reckless young animal energy, brazenly offering himself, ready, he mischievously claimed, to do "anything," just as James had eventually been. It was the kid's first--and last--bondage scene, if he was to be believed. He actually seemed to enjoy the modest S&M pain AKA inflicted, not to mention the blowjob AKA gave him, but he had wanted nothing to do with the plastic bag when the time came. He had in fact kicked like mad when AKA first attempted to pull the bag down over his head. He actually managed to knock AKA off the bed twice. But the pair of strong steel handcuffs that secured his taut young arms to the bed meant that his defeat, however much delayed, was inevitable. AKA finally managed to dodge the flailing feet, straddle his chest, get the bag in place, tie it around his neck, wait for him to go unconscious, and then lift his fabulously toned young teenage legs up into the air and fuck the proverbial shit out of him as he died.

Just as James had now died.

AKA needed no clock.

It was done.




No mistake about it.

The sightless, wide-staring pupils trapped beneath the plastic had finally and forever fixed on the absolute, uncaring nothingness that lay at the heart of the universe.

As AKA lowered the head, cum--his cum--spilled out of the dark, still-gaping, plastic-lined mouth. It slid down the firm, manly, plastic-wrapped chin and dropped onto the rumpled, damp, sweat-stained bedsheets.




The cum was a bit watery. This was, after all, AKA's fourth orgasm in less than twelve hours. But it was unmistakably AKA's cum. His essence. The most intimate of all of his bodily essences. The essence that demanded death. This young man's death. Other young men's deaths. More young men's deaths. As long as AKA could manage it. Escape capture. Not die himself. That time would eventually arrive, of course. But not yet. There was a lot more killing to do yet. That was, after all, why AKA had been born.

Agh I love Jason's stories so much... I'm trying to find more of them! I know about the ones on bdsmlibrary, do you know where any of the others are? Thanks so much in advance!
Agh I love Jason's stories so much... I'm trying to find more of them! I know about the ones on bdsmlibrary, do you know where any of the others are? Thanks so much in advance!

I love his stories too. An inspiration for my own. I've tried to find more, but haven't been able to so far.
I re-read this story from time to time. Always hot. :stroke: