It’s been well over ten years since Bobby sprang to fevered life on the screen of some long-forgotten laptop in a city where I no longer live. In Part Nine: (First) Epilogue the reader gets an idea of just how long ago that was- the bitter aftermath of the Iraq War was in full swing with the desolation of Fallujah only a recent (even ongoing) memory. It all seems like another world, now, but really- some things never change.
‘Bobby’ was the first of these sorts of stories that I had ever written, but the habit soon became addictive. Now, more than a thousand pages later, the well still isn’t entirely tapped. This story being the first, though, is fairly apparent- especially in the very first chapter, written as kind of a whimsical one-off for the now defunct ChainedMuscle site with no intention, at the time, to continue. As I re-read the prose of that first chapter it strikes me as a bit crude and the plot fairly simple…but the die was cast and things picked up some speed in the next chapter…and then the next, which was a real experiment in that it explored the theme of domination/submission in the context of compassion and healing. I had no idea what people would make of that, but it remains, all of these years later, as one of my personal favorites. The heart and soul of the story is found in the middle chapters dealing with the landscaper Ryan- kind of a proto-type, for me, of all of the many, many dumb blond jocks that would follow in his footsteps. And so it goes.
The illustrations have all been re-done and replaced the very crude originals and, here and there, the text has been altered only slightly to improve the flow.
Aquadude fooled me a while back by sending a snatch of prose from one of the last chapters dealing with the arrogant narcissist cop, Rusty Jameson, without telling me that I was the author. ‘Cool,’ I exclaimed, ‘where can I find the whole story?’ He wrote back, ‘On your own laptop!’ I think we both must have gotten a laugh out of that and that’s when the decision was made to re-post the whole epic over at the Bunker.
Jim was twenty two years old, a senior in college struggling for cash, and in between girl friends. He was a lanky 6 foot 3 and kept his dark brown hair cut short. His chest was smooth and well defined, torso long and lean with wash board abs that he figured just ‘came natural’. More than half of the girls on campus were drooling over him but in spite of his handsome ‘all-American’ good looks, he was painfully self-conscious, shy, and something of a loner. In other respects he was a pretty average guy who did just ok in his courses, but liked to go out running on the university track and work up a good sweat. He kept in shape because it made him feel good about himself. Even so, sometimes the physical exercise made him wonder…he hated it when he caught someone staring at his sweat-slicked chest and belly or long muscular legs or, worse, at the damp bulge in his running shorts. When that happened he would quickly look away, heart pounding and stammer some excuse about ‘having to be some where’. Jim had to work to pay his way through school and he managed to make ends meet by delivering fast food to folk’s houses during the night shift after classes…
It seemed like an odd delivery. The house was way out in the middle of nowhere, rambling and, well, spooky looking. Jim was a little nervous, kind of a tickling in the gut, then shrugged it off and rang the door bell. A skinny guy with a shark’s grin answered the door and invited Jim inside. He followed the guy into the living room where a red haired woman lounged on the couch and a fat dude only a little younger than Jim sat on the floor reading a comic book. The fat guy looked up and just stared at Jim in a way that made the blood rush to his face. He felt like he was standing there in his running shorts or, better yet, in the doctor’s office with shaking hands spreading the fly of his trousers. He wanted to get out, get in his car and drive away. Jim handed the skinny guy his order of food and was turning to leave when the guy said, ‘Today is Bobby’s birthday! A toast!’ He shoved a glass of luke warm soda pop in Jim’s hand and raised his own in the air. Jim figured he might as well play along, raised his glass and downed the oily brew in one swallow…
Something was wrong. He wanted to leave but couldn’t. Must have been something in the damn drink… He felt all right physically and could even think clearly, but there was a lassitude in his mind, a lack of will that kept him standing there staring stupidly at the others in the room even though all of his instincts were screaming in alarm. His host smiled and answered the question racing around Jim’s mind. ‘It’s a new drug we purchased on our last trip to Asia. Really, quite amazing. You can move ok, think pretty clearly (except maybe for just a little fuzziness, ha ha), but you have no will of your own. Don’t worry, though. It wears off in a couple of hours. In the meantime you will be staying here with us for a while. Today is, after all, Bobby’s birthday.’ Jim began to sweat. This couldn’t be fucking happening! He stood in the middle of the room like some kind of newly purchased pet while the others casually looked his long framed body up and down. The fat dude licked his lips and giggled.
Jim could only stand there as Bobby’s dad walked slowly over to him and ran his hand roughly through his short dark hair. The guy’s hand then moved to the back of Jim’s neck, squeezed a little, and slid under the collar of his work shirt and then his white cotton tee exploring and kneading the taught muscles of his shoulders and upper back. ‘You seem really tense Jim, but that’s ok,’ he laughed, ‘I guess you have a reason.’ Jim wanted to scream. He wanted to put his strong hands around the guy’s neck and kill him. Instead he stood there, arms hanging at his sides, muscles tensed and then, to his utter humiliation, his eyes filled with tears and he stammered, ‘Please man, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone…’ His request was ignored. The man’s probing hands moved beneath the armpits of Jim’s shirt and pinched the sweaty fabric. He sighed and said, ‘Time to strip this shirt off boy’, as he methodically undid the buttons and pulled it off leaving Jim standing in his white tee shirt. The tee shirt was tucked into Jim’s faded levis. The guy pulled it out and slid his hands beneath it caressing the fine hairs that prickled to attention on Jim’s belly. After a minute or so he seemed to grow a little impatient and pulled the tee shirt up and over Jim’s head tossing it on the floor. Jim stood there like a slave brought to market, stripped to the waist, chest heaving and a look of desperation in his dark eyes. ‘Please…’ he gasped, but his tormentor, shark-smile replaced by a bloodless grimace, cut him off by roughly unfastening Jim’s belt buckle and yanking the belt through the loops of his jeans. Doubling up the belt in his hand he brought it down with stinging force on Jim’s broad muscular shoulders. The fat guy was crouched on the floor, comic book long forgotten, breathing hard. Jim was silent as the belt slashed across his taught back but hung his head in shame as a tear slid down his cheek. Without the belt, his trousers sagged around his narrow hips and when he looked up he was horrified to see his three captors staring at the revelation of his jockey shorts visible above his sagging levis.
‘I like a boy who wears plain white jockey shorts. Masculine, no nonsense. Not like those kind that some of them fucking fairy guys wear.’ Jim looked away in embarrassment then heaved a deep breath and said in a barely audible voice, ‘You’re going to strip me down aren’t you?’ The fat little shit piped up, ‘That’s right! Now, take your pants off!!’ Jim didn’t move. His three tormentors waited with tight grins and slowly Jim’s hands moved up to the fly button of his levis. He gazed down at his hands as if they belonged to another man spreading his jeans wide open and pulling them down over his muscular legs and around his ankles. He bent over to pull off his shoes and socks and the young guy threw down his comic book and ran up behind him tracing the crack of Jim’s ass with his pudgy finger through the stretched cotton fabric of his jockey shorts. The man and woman laughed at his antics and Jim quickly stood up straight. He figured they would make him take his shorts off next and he thought he might die of shame when that time came but, to his surprise, the three occupants of the house motioned him toward a door that opened onto a gloomy stairway. The shark-faced man guided Jim along by grasping his balls through the cotton of his briefs and they all passed through the door and descended the stairway.
Beneath the house was a spacious basement of moldy stone walls and sick, dusty light. In the center was a large stake, man height, with bolts at the top. Jim was led to the stake like a sacrificial victim and ordered to raise his arms above his head. He closed his eyes and obeyed. He only heard the clank of manacles and felt their cold embrace as they snapped around his wrists binding him to the stake but Jim’s eyes flew open as the woman’s palm slapped his face. Her sharp fingernail traced the contour of his pecs and lingered on his nipples and he instinctively tried to lower his shackled arms. She then moved beneath the waistband of his shorts and ran a fingernail teasingly around the shaft of his penis. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ he gasped. They all laughed and the fat fucker said, ‘You are my birthday present! I turned eighteen today!!’ At that, his parents caressed him with a tender look and his dad said, ‘OK Bobby, we’ll leave you to play with your birthday present now,’ and they both ascended the stairway and shut the door behind them. Jim was left alone with the fat guy. Bobby walked around his victim admiringly, giggled, and stopped in front of him. His eyes were fixed on the bulge in Jim’s jockey shorts and with trembling hands he slipped his fingers beneath the elastic waistband and pulled them slowly down. Jim’s naked muscular body was now on full display for Bobby’s pleasure. Speechless, Jim gazed in awful anticipation as he waited for his humiliation to proceed.
Bobby spent a lot of time exploring…hard muscles, soft skin, smooth places, hairy places… He lingered for what seemed forever over Jim’s magnificent cock. Grasping then stroking, Bobby was both tender and rough as he massaged Jim’s manhood and then inflicted pain. Jim’s great hanging balls, helpless to any and all exploration, were next. Bobby cupped each one, rolling them between his fingers, pinching the ball sack and delivering the occasional smack as he delighted in watching them swing back and forth between Jim’s spread legs. Finally, Bobby stepped back and reached for the paddle…