The Game

PART 3: Klein Kill

The walk back to room 331 was a risk, of course. Despite AKA's warning, and despite his fierce double grip on the kid's neck and arm, Swimmer Boy might still try to pull something else. It was also possible that that unexpected visitor AKA had worried about might step out of the elevator or emerge from the stairwell just as AKA and his re-caught boycatch were hoofing their way down the hall. But none of that happened. Swimmer Boy moved forward like a lamb to the slaughter, and no third party showed up to disturb their progress. Before re-entering 331, AKA glanced back to see that the unlucky Wrestler Boy had left the door to his own room open. You could still hear the beat of the music, but thanks to the lowered volume, it was much fainter now.

AKA shoved Swimmer Boy into his room, then turned and once again closed and locked the door.

AKA was surprised he didn't feel exhausted--if not by all the recent physical exertion, then by the anxiety he had felt when it looked like he might lose this particular game--but he seemed to have entered some strange mental zone he had never been in before. Early in his career as a player of the game, he would have been freaked by all the stuff that had just gone down. Freaked enough to abandon the whole business probably. But the game had become so familiar a part of his life by now that it took more than the recent frenzied turn of events to send him running. Even so, AKA was still surprised at how cool, calm, and collected he felt once the door to room 331 was safely closed and locked again. The worst was over. He knew it. The rest of the game would now go however he wanted it to go. He knew that as well.

He turned and faced Swimmer Boy.

"Sit on the bed," he ordered.

The kid immediately obeyed.

As soon as his butt met the blue blanket, Swimmer Boy's shoulders slumped. His head dropped. But AKA was glad to see that he wasn't trying to hide his genitals, at least. Some did in a situation like this. But Swimmer Boy's knees were spread in a normal way, revealing that impressive hunk of sausage he packed. Even flaccid, as it now was, it was an eye-catching tube of manflesh.

He might be a bit battered, but he still ranks up there, AKA decided. Cowboy Donnie had a more perfectly proportioned body (even the kid's feet had been beautiful), but Swimmer Boy ranked right up there with him. Especially his face. It was GQ handsome and then some.

"Where's your wallet?"

The head lifted. What was in those sky-blue eyes now? Misery. Fear. Defeat. All of the above. No surprise there. But there was an undoubted flicker of hope-against-hope in the boy's bright blue pupils as well. The question about the wallet had reminded the kid that AKA had originally claimed he was there because he needed money for dope. AKA could see that the hope had been reborn, despite AKA's later denial of that claim, that that might somehow really be the case. Yes, it was too bad that Wrestler Boy had made the mistake of pursuing them all the way to the shower room, but good old Jeff--if Swimmer Boy was Jeff--might still be allowed to live after all, right?

Wrong.

The kid nodded toward his desk.

AKA walked over.

He had to shift a few things, given how messy the desk was, but the wallet finally came into view.

He picked it up, then with a quick flip, flung it open. The kid's driver's licence stared up at him.

"Jeffrey Allan Marshall."

So Jeff was Swimmer Boy's name.

AKA examined the birthdate.

The kid was a Libra. A balanced kind of guy, then. Liking peace? Harmony? He was also 18. Well, AKA had thought as much.

And, last but not least, he was from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

It felt sort of nice, having the information.

AKA walked to the pile of his own clothes he had made, squatted and slipped the wallet into an inside coat pocket. He'd never much been one for trophies or pictures or things like that, but something made him want to have this. It felt a little like he was going to steal the kid's soul by taking his wallet. It was a good feeling.

Swimmer Boy had watched him the whole time.

They now looked at each other, the kid seated, AKA standing. It was a long, assessing look on both sides.

AKA took a deep breath, then went and sat down by the kid.

Their knees met. Interestingly enough, Swimmer Boy did nothing to break the contact.

AKA slipped his hand onto the boy's firm thigh. Again Swimmer Boy did nothing to resist the contact.

The kid could have killed me with his thighs, thought AKA. He shouldn't have been so anxious to escape. Otherwise, he wouldn't be back in this room now, still handcuffed, still waiting to die.

"I'm sorry about all this," AKA said, half meaning it. He rubbed the thigh in a distinctly affectionate manner. It was a manly, almost brotherly kind of rubbing, hardly sexual at all. "Were you great friends of whatever his name was?"

The blond head shook. No.

AKA raised his hand to Swimmer Boy's shoulder. He squeezed it, then slipped the hand behind the boy's neck and squeezed there.

The head bent forward.

AKA moved his hand down the boy's back as far as the cuffed wrists. Then up again.

"Lean back, okay?"

It sounded as gentle as AKA meant it to sound.

The boy did as he was asked.

AKA wrapped his fingers around the still flaccid cock. There were two rather livid scratches along the top, but otherwise no real harm appeared to have been done.

AKA squeezed, then pumped, but softly, tenderly.

The boy closed his eyes. Tears slipped from the corners, then coursed down the handsome temples.

AKA bent and licked a tear from the left eye.

His hand continued to pump. Softly. Tenderly.

The cock began to rise. The two scratches expanded as well, growing even more livid as they did so. But the cock filled, expanded, and thickened just as it had before.

Ahhh . . .18, AKA thought. What an age!

Once again AKA bent forward and went down on it. For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt no disgust at all. As if that weren't interesting enough, he was suddenly very good at it, much better than he had ever been before. The salty, spermy taste of the boy's dick was delicious. Even the considerable size of the kid's cock felt right. AKA's mouth was filled to capacity, his throat challenged to take it all down, but he did. Easily, happily.

While he sucked, he cupped the kid's balls with his left hand and stroked the boy's chest with his right.

In less than a minute--it was that quick--the kid's butt flexed, his body arced, and he shot his load for the second time that night. AKA didn't pull away this time. On the contrary, he took it all in and swallowed it all down. It was, of course, not so mighty a flood as the earlier cum, but it was nonetheless a satisfyingly rich, fresh-tasting mouthful.

The boy's body shuddered as the last heaves of release came and went. Then his butt relaxed, his legs sprawled.

AKA sat up and wiped at his mouth.

The kid seemed to have stopped crying, although his temples still glistened from the tears he had shed shortly before.

AKA stroked the flat, hard stomach. Then he reached up and squeezed the pecs.

"My turn now," he said.

The kid began to turn onto his side, but AKA stopped him.

"No. Not on your stomach. On your back. The way I was going to do it before."

AKA moved back and arranged the kid's body on the bed.

"Look at me," he said.

The kid did. It was as if there was an invisible wall in front of his eyes, but he did look.

"You try anything this time and I'll cut your balls off and make you eat them. Understood?"

The boy didn't nod. He didn't have to.

In no time at all, AKA had the kid's legs in the air and his cock at the anus. Perhaps because it had already been breached earlier, there was practically no sphincter resistance at all this time. AKA immediately sank to the hilt.

"Look at me," AKA again ordered.

Once again the kid stared through the invisible wall. He barely even blinked as AKA began to pump his gorgeous, gripping, cushion-and-steel swimmer's ass.

AKA's heart began to race, his chest to rise and fall, his cock to swell with cum.

Then . . . .

AKA's cock exploded!

AKA abruptly halted, buried to the hilt in the still tight but no-longer-virgin ass-walls, as three huge convulsive spasms rocked him.

The legs on his shoulders lay limp, unprotesting, as his jism flooded the boy's butt.

Then . . . .

It was over.

AKA slumped back onto his haunches.

Swimmer Boy's eyes had closed again, but it didn't matter. He knew what had happened to him.

For a long minute AKA sat as he was, savoring the release, getting his breath back.

The boy seemed empty now. Except for the slight rise and fall of the swimmer-perfect chest and the visible pulsing of the veins in the smooth young column of neck, he might as well have been dead.

Well, why not? The time had come.

AKA turned about, located the red Calvins, and then lowered himself down on top of the drained and unresisting body below him. The skin was tacky to the touch as a result of the earlier flood of boycum. He wedged the kid's legs between his own, settled his own crotch against the kid's crotch, then reached up and pulled one leg of the jockeys over the kid's head. It took a bit of doing, but the leg opening finally stretched to accommodate the hard blond skull.

"I'm going to kill you now," AKA whispered as he inserted his right hand through the other leg of the jockeys. He twisted his hand. Again. Then again. He twisted until the cotton was tight, but not too tight on the kid's sweat-soaked throat. "Nothing you have ever done is going to be as intense, as powerful as this is going to be. Believe me, it's true."

The boy moaned through the gag. Don't. Please don't. AKA could tell that's what it was.

"Everything in you is soon going to shut down, stop, cease, but not before everything in you screams for life, for air, for blood."

AKA once again tightened the underpants.

The kid's body straightened out underneath him.

"Yeah, feel it. Take it. Accept it. Begin to die. Now."

AKA placed his left hand on the boy's damp forehead and pressed the head back into the

mattress. He tightened the jockeys yet again as he did so.

Above the bright red cotton, AKA could see the neck had begun to swell, the veins thicken, the flesh redden.

He tightened the jockeys once more.

The boy began to wheeze, then snort, as he tried to get more oxygen in.

AKA wanted him to breathe. For now anyway. It was stopping the blood flow he was interested in at the moment.

He loosened the jockeys slightly.

The wheezing continued, but not so dramatically.

Just as AKA hoped, however, the neck and face continued to redden. The veins began to bulge as well.

The boy didn't so much thrash as jerk, chest against chest, belly against belly, groin against groin. His body was now fired like a kiln. Soon drenched in perspiration, his flawless young skin was hot to the touch, his forehead flaming.

The boy's legs had started to thrash restlessly between AKA's own. AKA used his own legs to force, then press them together.

He was hard again and maneuvered his bone against the boy's limp cock.

Lines had now appeared in the handsome face that weren't there before. The trapped blood was webbing the cheeks with a skein of dark scarlet.

The eyes were half-open, but the whites were no longer so perfectly white. A delicate patchwork of veins had begun to appear. The pupils appeared stunned, violated. Then, just like that, they filmed over and rolled up. Swimmer Boy was no longer conscious.

His brain might have switched off, but Swimmer Boy was suddenly jerking more violently than he had before. At the height of the most violent throe, his bladder released, but perhaps because of the big pee the kid had had earlier in the evening, there was relatively little volume. AKA's own groin got rather wet, but most of the rest quickly drained away onto the bed. The heat of the boy's body made the smell momentarily more intense than it otherwise might have been, but AKA didn't mind. Piss wasn't as good a smell as cum, but it had its own attractions in a situation like this. He just hoped the kid wouldn't shit as well.

The wheezing deepened even as the jerking began to subside. Swimmer Boy's sinuses--at least, that's what it sounded like--strained and rattled as if they were struggling to clear themselves of a deep, slow-moving river of snot.

A long low moan rose from the depths of the gagged throat.

Keeping the pressure on the neck, AKA used his left hand to get at the tape. He found the end of it, lifted and pulled. Stands of blond hair clung to it. The boy's head slowly rotated as AKA unwound the length of tape that encircled it.

The lips came into view. They had been perfectly shaped and naturally rosy before, but now they were slightly bluish and puckered. The underlip especially looked as if it might soon be in danger of splitting. AKA fished the sponge out and tossed it onto the floor by the bed. The tongue was swollen, just like you'd expect, but AKA was glad to see it wasn't going to inflate in a grotesque way. A few did that. It was a phenomenon that always turned AKA off.

There was no jerking at all now. Everything seemed concentrated in the boy's face and upper neck, which were darkening by the second. What had been gloriously tan before was now an unearthly dusky bluish scarlet. The eye sockets were the darkest area of all.

AKA licked the hot, puckered lips. He licked them again.

He pressed his own chest into the rigid, hard-cut swimmer's chest. The lungs were still working. He could feel them. But they were working more slowly now, the rise no longer a real rise, the fall no longer a real fall.

It appeared there were going to be no convulsions to speak of. The jerking hardly counted. That suited AKA just fine. It was hard to explain, but he wanted this kid's death to be as peaceful as possible.

But they weren't there yet. No, they weren't there yet.

The wheezing picked up again.

It had begun to be irritating. It was time to stop it.

AKA tightened the Calvins as much as he could now. They bit hard into his own hand, soon numbing his palm and fingers.

In response, the boy's body arced, the sealed-off lungs making one last, desperate effort to get air. The rattled snoring sound the kid had been making rose in pitch. Then it rose again.

Then all sound ceased at once.

The body remained flexed beneath AKA's for a very long minute. Then it sank quietly back down into the mussed blue blanket.

AKA sat up as far as he could in order to examine the dark, swollen face. Yet it wasn't too badly swollen. The lower lip had not split. The cheeks were only slightly puffy. The eyes were the worst of it. They were ringed in dark circles now. It looked as if the kid had a couple of black eyes. Not quite that bad, but almost. The pupils had rolled up earlier. The whites had now nearly disappeared. A red much brighter than the red of the underpants had, for the most part, taken their place.

Even so, it wasn't over. The kid was still dying. Slowly, but surely. AKA had had enough experience to know. It wasn't like on TV at all. AKA was still amazed at how long it could take, especially when a kid had a body as fit as this kid's body.

Veins still pulsed below the jockeys at the base of Swimmer Boy's neck.

AKA's mind drifted to other times, other guys, other necks. There had been Cowboy Donnie's epic struggle, of course, but for some reason AKA's inner vision suddenly fixed on his first kill. Derrick Baxter. Cocky little "Bantam Rooster" Derrick. A farmer's boy, short, almost a runt, but tough and hard-bodied, even at fourteen. And randy as hell. Derrick had been AKA's junior-high-school jerk-off buddy for going on six months. "We ain't queers, though," Derrick had insisted every time they "did it."

It was Derrick who had actually heard about the reputed erotic effects of asphyxia. Derrick was like that, a sponge for anything perverse or kinky. But he was usually all talk, not action. Then that fateful Saturday afternoon in the Baxter barn loft, Derrick had said he wanted to try it. He and AKA could trust each other, he said. "You can kill yourself, you know, if you ain't careful," he had warned. "It's good to have a buddy watch to make sure you don't." So Derrick had tried it. He used a tube sock, one he wore when playing soccer. Then AKA tried it, using the other tube sock. They tried it again. Then again. Each time they brought themselves nearer and nearer to climax, releasing the sock just before they threatened to crest. AKA hardly spoke, he was so stunned by the way he felt. He didn't know what he wanted most--to go all the way himself or to watch Derrick go all the way. There was no question in his mind what "all the way" meant. Then fate decided for him. "Here," Derrick said. "You get behind me and pull. I wanna cum at the last, last, last minute. Just make sure to let go if I start to faint, okay?"

AKA had only been able to nod. He had shuffled around behind Derrick and, his cock raging with the hardest hard-on of his young life so far, he had gripped the two ends of the long sock. Derrick had reached back, tightened the sock snug to his neck himself, then said, "Ready." His hand immediately began to pump his dick. AKA pulled on the two ends of the sock. For about 30 seconds things went as Derrick had planned. Then the constriction of oxygen and bloodflow kicked in. He still hadn't shot his wad, but his hands flew up. "Too tight," he wheezed. He pulled at the sock. "Let go," he hissed. But AKA didn't. He was transfixed. Derrick began to kick, thrash. Strong and wiry as Derrick was, AKA was taller, bigger. He forced Derrick's head back onto the bed of straw and then stared down at his friend's upturned, panicked, and enflamed face. AKA would never forget the look of disbelieving terror in Derrick's eyes as he knotted the sock tight against Derrick's little bull neck and stood up. In less than a minute, Derrick was convulsing. Froth actually appeared at the corners of the mouth. The tip of the swollen tongue poked through the fast thickening, already full lips. Then Derrick went off like a fountain, a mix of cum and piss that rose a good three feet into the air, drenching his tough little farmer's kid body from his waist to his knees. AKA came at the height of the thrashing. He then collapsed to his knees, slumped back onto his haunches, and waited for the thrashing to stop. AKA still had no idea how long it took because time had stopped as well. He had then run home and locked himself in his bedroom. It was three days before he was told that Derrick had had "an unfortunate accident" while playing in his family's barn and was dead. Nothing else was ever said about Derrick in AKA's hearing.

AKA now watched and waited, enjoying the final, few, surprisingly calm minutes of Swimmer Boy's life.

Then, at last, the pulsing at the neck ceased.

The kid had had a uniquely strong and healthy and beautiful body. It had not wanted to give up easily.

But now it had.

Only at this point did fatigue sweep over AKA. Not satisfaction or triumph. He would feel those in spades later on, but at the moment, there was only a quiet but deep fatigue. And a real, if slight regret. The beautiful physical machine below him was no longer functioning. It would never again stroke across a pool. It would never again arouse lust in man or woman. It would never again feel lust itself. It would be mourned, for however long or brief a time, and then it would be forgotten. It was sad. But only up to a point. It was better to think of all the hateful things beautiful young Jeffrey Allan Marshall was better off missing. The bad marriages. (AKA was sure there would have been several.) The rotten, spoiled, dysfunctional kids. Getting old. Getting seriously ill. Not once, but probably several times. Then finally, dying the stupid death of an old and ugly and ruined husk of a once handsome human being. To check out at one's physical and sexual peak. That was a much better way to go. AKA was convinced of it.

AKA freed his hand from the confines of the scarlet Calvins and tucked the end he had twisted about the neck back behind the now forever still blond head. He, AKA, had once again won the game. He, AKA, had once again defeated the more beautiful and therefore more privileged. The victory, once again, was his.

AKA got up and began to dress. He looked at the slim, still body on the bed as he did so. It seemed somehow both smaller and younger now, not so much diminished as strangely distanced in time and space. AKA supposed it was. He imagined the shock of the person who would find it. The nudity would be the first astonishment, of course. Swimmer Boy's fat cock, even when limp (as it was now), still had a way of calling attention to itself. But then the transformation of the face, the stillness of the chest, would cry out for attention. AKA imagined the reaction of the police who would eventually descend to deal with it all. He imagined the examination the coroner would give it and the efforts the mortician would make to restore the distorted face to its former GQ glory. It shouldn't be that hard, given what they could do these days.

Finally dressed, AKA took the key to the handcuffs and walked over to the corpse. He sat down on the bed and pushed Swimmer Boy up onto his left side in order to undo the cuffs. The movement forced a final spurt of piss from Swimmer Boy's cock.

The kid's hands had gone puffy and dark from the constriction. There was a garish red circle where the hard steel had dug down into the wrists. The fingers, which had been long and slim, were now swollen, the fingernails no longer a healthy pink, but an unnatural looking blue.

AKA braced the torso and undid the cuffs. He then rolled Swimmer Boy back onto his back, pulled the darkened hands to the front of the body and positioned them on either side of the scratched and flaccid genitals.

"You were good, guy," he said. He toyed with the head of the piss-wet penis for a moment, then flipped the cock a couple of times. Flecks of urine spun into the air. "You played the game really well." Dropping the cock, he once again drew his hand down the unusual smooth, tanned vale of flesh on the chest. The skin was still hot, but cooling, tacky to the touch with a potent mix of sweat and sperm. "Thanks for a very interesting evening!"

Careful to retrieve everything he had brought into the room, AKA then got up, took one last look, and left, seen by no one, in no way connected to the two dead boys he left behind.

The world could sometimes be a pretty perfect place.

THE END