BDSM Library - Story: AKA and the Dancer, Chapter: Part 9

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!

Fuck!

Oh Jesus! What a ride!

Fuck!

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

Fuck!

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.

Yes!

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!

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.

"Okay."

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.

Higher.

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.

Yes!

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.

Once.

Twice.

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.

"Uhhhhhhhhhhh!"

AKA never ceased to marvel at it.

He marveled at it now.

The bellow repeated.

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Again.

And then again.

It extended.

Grew longer.

Grew louder.

Then louder and longer again.

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!"

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.

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!"

Again.

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.

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

Softer.

"Uhhhhhhhhhh."

Slower.

"Uhhhhhh."

Softer again.

"Uhhh."

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.