Friday, August 28, 2009

Lucky Dog (20)

The kid sauntered carefree out of the bathroom, buck naked, except for a white towel over his head, as he vigorously dried his hair. He didn’t know what hit him. Couldn’t have. Geoff reached round from behind and poked the pressure points on his neck with his thumbs, and the kid went out like a switch had been flipped.

He laid the body flat on the rug at the foot of the bed. He placed the arms flat to the sides. He pushed the heels together. The kid looked Spanish, he thought. He knew about the kid, but he didn’t know anything about the kid. For Geoff, the kid was a part of the plan, nothing more. The boy’s body moved easily in his muscular arms. He had to act fast.

The eyelids fluttered. The kid had long tan legs, thick calves, shapely thighs pumped up like inner tubes, with light gray veins running up his inner thighs, barely visible about two inches above the knees, then disappearing altogether close to the crotch. The boy’s dick was half hard. His chest and stomach rose and fell as he breathed. His nipples were a pretty color, Geoff thought, sort of a grayish purple—there was perhaps a real word for that shade.

Geoff retrieved the long nylon cord from beside the bathroom door. He rolled the kid over on his stomach. He wrapped the cord around the kid’s neck, and then he wrapped the shoulders twice, once running the cord outside the arms, once running it between the arms and the ribs. He ran the cord up to the cord holding the neck and looped it through. He ran the cord back down and wrapped it three times round the kid’s hands, binding them securely. He raised the boy’s feet, tied the cord round the ankles, and made a taut line from the feet back to the part of the cord cinching his shoulders.

The kid was blinking—eyes struggling to land on something definite—as Geoff rolled him onto his side, rolled up a white tube sock, and stuffed it in the boy’s mouth.

The kid writhed. The cord held. The sock muffled his scream. The face contorted and broke an immediate sweat. The veins of his neck protruded. The veins of his chest. His abdominal muscles tightened. His elegant cock stiffened to wood. The clamor of mental terror burst upon the physical body.

Geoff knelt beside the boy, pressing his right knee against his left pectoral. He opened and clenched his right fist eleven times. He cocked his fist up close to his ribcage. Then he fired it like a piston to the boy’s mouth. The lower lip bloodied. Drops fell to the brown braided rug at the foot of the bed. Only one punch, just to feel the impact of the boy’s full lips against his knuckles.

The boy watched, terrified, as Geoff stood, backed away, and slowly drew his white sweatshirt up and over his shoulders. Geoff ran his fingers over his chest and firm, convex belly. “This is a bad thing I am doing,” he said.

(To be continued)

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