THE GAME

by

JASON

PART I: " AKA"

The boy was beautiful. There was no other word for it. Blond and broad-shouldered, he stood leaning over the sink in order to get a better look at his perfectly featured face, apparently concerned that the mirror might reveal a blemish on what appeared to be an otherwise totally clear chin. His back had gone taut, the skin flawlessly smooth across a flexible, stretching spine. Well-worn denim--he had on nothing but a pair of tight jeans--gripped his hips as he went up on tiptoe, the seam digging deep into the crack between his handsomely sculpted buttocks. A frayed slit near the left rear pocket revealed bright scarlet underpants. From the snug fit of his jeans, it would appear that his legs were going to be as terrific as the rest of him. Long. Lean. Muscular. A swimmer's legs. Or so AKA had decided.

The view from the toilet was surprisingly good. AKA had just taken his chances that he would a find a suitable spot from which to observe those freshmen unlucky enough to have late exams and thus still waiting to start their Christmas break. The stall had turned out to be the ideal place, for it was getting pretty late now and the few students who remained in the dorm had begun the day's final ablutions before heading off to bed with freshly scrubbed faces and vigorously brushed teeth.

Before coming in, AKA had determined that lights were on in only two rooms on this particular floor, each at opposite ends of the building. Over the last five minutes, AKA had been fortunate enough to get a look at both rooms' occupants. The first hadn't been bad at all. He was relatively short, but that didn't matter. Height was not one of AKA's requirements. The kid had a wrestler's body--stocky but nicely muscular, especially the arms and pecs. The face had been totally acceptable, especially his wide, sexy little cupid's bow of a mouth, but the rest was way above average, however you looked at. He would have done. Done very well, in fact. But then Swimmer Boy had appeared, and AKA knew that the game was on. That's how AKA always thought of it. As a game. Two players. The master and the mastered. This was the opening move: his eyes locked on the right guy, opportunity knocking, the fates in the process of bringing the prey and his pursuer into happy--at least for AKA--alignment.

The boy pulled away from the mirror and finished washing his hands. As he moved, his jeans, snug though they were, slipped to reveal the bony curves at the top of his hips. Just below, a bright red ridge of Calvins rose into view. AKA could read the name from where he sat.

How has he stayed so tan in December? AKA wondered as he admired the striking difference in skin color revealed by the suggestively sagging jeans. By lying in the sun over at the university's big indoor pool? AKA didn't recall ever seeing him there, but many guys did that. Took a swim, then stretched out on a towel beneath the pool's high, wide, sky-invoking windows, windows that made even the coldest, rainiest day blissfully irrelevant. This kid had to be one of them. There was no other way to explain the honey-brown glow suffusing the skin above the smooth, pale flesh of the hips.

AKA flushed at the thought that he would soon see it all, his pleasure unimpeded by jeans or jockeys. He patted the big pockets of his hefty winter coat. On the right he could feel the outlines of the knife. To be used only to threaten, of course. For AKA hated blood. He had had only one experience along those lines, but it was enough to last a lifetime. The mess had appalled him. No, the knife was just to get control, and it was amazing how easy that could be. People would think that an athletic young guy like the one on the other side of the stall door would put up a fight, resist, something. But AKA knew better. A couple had run. One had even gotten away. But nobody fought. Not once. Not even the strapping thirty-year-old truck driver AKA had met stranded by the side of the road one hot summer night, and he had more reason than most, given that AKA actually told him what he was going to do before getting the cuffs on him. No, Swimmer Boy wasn't going to fight either. AKA could tell. All it would take was a wave of the knife and the kid would cower, afraid that that flawless, golden brown skin of his might suffer a nasty nick or two.

AKA felt his left pocket. It was considerably bulkier. He traced the outlines of a pair of handcuffs, a roll of duct tape, and a small sponge. They were all he would need. The boy would provide the rest. AKA had already decided what. The underpants he was wearing at that very moment.

An excited smile creased AKA's face. They'd be perfect and--what's more--serve the kid right. Anyone who wore jockeys like that deserved to be killed with them. AKA saw it all. How, after he had done all the other stuff he had planned, he'd force the kid's perfectly shaped head through one of the leg openings, insert his hand in the other, and twist. Twist until the boy's handsome young face blushed as crimson as the tightening red cotton at his throat. Twist until the purpling young tongue poked through the gaping blue mouth. Twist until the last bit of oxygen burned out of the completely obliterated brain. Fini. Kaput. The final few jerks of the taut young legs--it was almost always the legs--the proverbial icing on the cake.

The boy dried his hands and turned to leave, casually tossing his hand towel over his shoulder as he did so. AKA finally got a good look at his pecs and stomach. They were, of course, as perfect as the rest of him. The pecs were beautifully flat and firm and cut in an almost straight line just below two brown, nickel-sized nipples. Especially attractive was the compellingly smooth, narrow vale of flesh that ran from the top of his breastbone all the way down to his navel. AKA had never seen anything quite like it. It divided his chest into two superbly matched, delectable halves.

Unlike the first kid, Swimmer Boy suddenly noticed that someone was in the stall. Sky-blue eyes glanced inquiringly at AKA's feet. But that was all. Then he wasn't given another thought. AKA could tell. But we'll soon change that, AKA said to himself. Anger flushed across the top of his cheeks. Yes, we'll soon change that.

And even as he said it, he stood and undid the bolt on the stall door. Swimmer Boy was retreating fast. AKA saw an elbow, a flash of pink heel, then nothing. He hurried after, but not too quickly. The point was to see which of the two occupied rooms the kid was heading toward, which isolated end of the building was his. Because AKA hadn't had a chance to determine with the wrestler.

The sound of the slapping bare feet told AKA all he really needed to know. The kid had gone left. So he would be in the third room from the end on the right. AKA had already figured that out. Even so, he wanted to get one more glimpse of his prey before the next part of the game began. Thus, he carefully peered around the door and watched as the boy made his way down the hall, his sleek, slim body retreating with a quick, easy grace.

AKA practically growled in anticipation.

From the opposite end of the hall came the muffled beat of a band, rock music being played by the wrestler. Great! thought AKA. Not that there there'll be much noise. Certainly not once Swimmer Boy gets securely gagged. Before that, one took one's chances. They might not fight and they might not run, but they sometimes yelled. Until they couldn't, that is.

AKA drew back as the kid reached his room, opened the door and went in.

He heard the door close. Every part of him was tingling now--his face, his hands, his legs, his stomach. He wet his lips and adjusted the slowly stirring flesh in his groin. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the hall and turned left. The ruse he had already decided on would work. He knew that as well.

"Hi! Sorry to bother you, but I need to leave a note for a guy down the hall. Do you mind if I come in and use a pen and a piece of paper? I didn't think to bring anything with me."

He had practiced the lines several times now. His tone would be one of friendly consternation. Just the right amount of each. He even knew who he was supposedly leaving the note for, just in case Swimmer Boy thought to ask. AKA had quickly memorized the name card

on the door of the room to the left of the stairs, the name of a kid who, given the darkened state of his room, had already left for the holidays.

AKA reached Swimmer Boy's door. 331. He wondered if the papers would mention it. They sometimes gave a surprising amount of detail. Although they had never mentioned the key fact. How AKA did it. Offed them. Always using a piece of their own clothing. Just as he was going to do tonight.

He smiled as the memories came. For the scruffy, dark-haired truck driver, his thick black bootlaces had served the purpose. For the lip-pierced Minnesota mallrat--lured into AKA's van by a promise of "some really great grass"--his faded Metallica T-shirt had done the trick, first pulled, then wrung around the whimpering teen's pretty young neck. A pair of smelly white socks had done in the long-legged jogger from Chicago. Too bad the boyish young newlywed--he had only been married a month, he said--had twisted his ankle just a few minutes before AKA drove by. Otherwise, he would never have been limping by the side of the road, never have had his thumb out, never have had his own sweaty socks forced down his violently gagging throat. Donnie, the cute Canadian cowboy who had been left oh-so-fortunately stranded at the Iron Bull Bar by a lousy, cunt-chasing rodeo pal, was sent packing with his own leather belt, the big brass buckle placed strategically over a furiously working Adam's apple. Sweet-faced, doe-eyed Donnie--possessor of the most beautifully proportioned body AKA had ever seen--had convulsed for well over twenty minutes--the record so far. AKA was still amazed at how long he had been able to keep the long, lissome twenty-one-year-old thrashing, but he had somehow managed to apply just the right amount of pressure to the wonderfully lithe, powerfully pulsating neck.

But the most entertaining offing by far--AKA chuckled as he remembered--involved the husky high school running back who had been making his way home after a late-afternoon football practice. It had been a hoot to take him back to the field later, by then wearing only his helmet, his piss-stained jockstrap lodged deep in his thoroughly ravaged throat. AKA had laughed out loud as he laid the brawny teenage hunk between the goal posts, his muscular thighs spread, his bruised mouth gaping, his gnawed cock flapping, a pair of ice-cold balls cupped in his lifeless young hands.

The official silence about how AKA did it was strategy, of course. AKA knew that. It was a vital fact the police were keeping to themselves in hopes of using the information to nail the culprit when the time came. Which would never happen. Or not tonight anyway. AKA was sure of it. Swimmer Boy was going to lose the game tonight. There was no question. AKA would once again emerge the victor. Without a doubt. The rest would take care of itself. Because by then AKA would be gone, safe and free, once again secure in the life he really lived, the life beyond the game, where he had a real name, the Also-Known-As the police in any number of states were Oh-So-Anxious to know.

AKA knocked, then stepped back. There was a short pause. Then the door opened. To reveal that Swimmer Boy had shucked his tight-fitting jeans. A slim brown hand was casually adjusting the sizeable lump of flesh trapped in the crotch of the scarlet jockeys.

AKA practically drooled.

The quizzical blond face said, "Can I help you?"

PART 2: ROOM 331

"Hi! Sorry to bother you, but I need to leave a note for a guy down the hall. Do you mind if I come in and use a pen and a piece of paper? I didn't think to bring anything with me."

There was a moment's hesitation, a moment's doubt. AKA could see it in the kid's eyes. But then Swimmer Boy shrugged his broad, bare, browned shoulders and said, "Okay, I guess."

He slowly turned and walked back into the room, leaving AKA to follow.

His legs are as good as the rest of him, AKA decided as the kid moved away. Just as AKA had imagined, they were long, lean, and muscular. They were also as gloriously tanned as the rest of the kid's body.

"There's a pen and paper here somewhere," the boy said as he reached his desk. The muscles in his handsomely sculpted butt flexed beneath the bright red cotton of his jockeys he bent and shuffled among the surprising large amount of debris scattered across the desktop.

The kid seemed totally nonchalant about having on nothing but a pair of underpants. AKA took it as more proof that he was a swimmer. He was used to marching around in front of total strangers in a tiny little Speedo bathing suit, so it didn't feel odd to parade about in nothing but his Calvins. At least, not if his audience was another guy. Little did he know.

The moment had come. AKA's pulse was pounding as it always did at this point. Because there would be no going back once he began to act. The die would have been cast, the game begun for real.

AKA quietly closed and locked the door behind him. The lock made a dull click, but Swimmer Boy didn't appear to notice.

"Fuck," the kid said. He was having trouble locating a blank piece of paper, it seemed. Personally, he seemed as fresh and clean as if he had just emerged from doing a hundred laps, but his room was an exam-week mess. "So who you leavin' a note for? Almost everybody's gone home by now."

The voice was surprisingly low and mellow. A rich kid's voice. But then mostly rich kid's went to this school.

"Webber Lynch," AKA replied. He drew the knife out of his right pocket as he spoke.

"Webber?" the kid declared in surprise. He glanced back at AKA. AKA froze, but Swimmer Boy apparently didn't see the knife for he casually turned his attention back to the clutter on his desk and said, "Nobody calls Carl Webber ."

AKA remembered. The name card on the dorm door to the right by the stairs had listed a middle name as well. Carlyle. AKA had assumed the Lynch kid used his first name, but apparently not.

The boy stopped what he was doing, straightened his back, and tilted his head. An idea had suddenly come to him.

"Heh, I think you're wasting your time, man," he said. "I'm pretty sure Carl's gone home for Christmas."

AKA moved even as the kid started to turn around. He took three steps forward, clutched the back of the sun-browned neck, and pressed the knife against the slender, vulnerable throat.

To say the kid stiffened would be an understatement. Every muscle in his slim, sleek body appeared to have gone rigid.

"You say anything, do anything, and I'll shove this right through your fucking neck. You understand?"

There was the smallest of nods. Yeah, the kid was scared shitless he might get a nasty nick on that flawless skin of his. It was exactly what AKA had bet on.

"Over to the bed," AKA directed.

The two of them shuffled to the left, jerkily but together, AKA maintaining his grip on the boy's neck, the knife pressed hard--but not too hard--to the jugular.

The kid's breathing picked up, but he was otherwise stone silent, his body a rigid column of nicely obedient flesh and bone.

They quickly reached the bed, which was relatively low to the floor. The boy's shins bumped up against it.

"Face down," AKA ordered, his voice shaking with a combination of fear and excitement. "Lie face down."

Swimmer Boy obeyed, but it wasn't easy. The angle was awkward. He bent forward, tried to lower himself, then practically fell the rest of the way. AKA fell with him. He straddled the flying legs, shifted quickly up onto the thighs, then moved higher still--onto the boy's butt. Even through his pants, AKA could tell that the kid's buns were an exciting combination of cushion and steel, equal amounts of each.

The boy inhaled a deep, raspy breath. He had apparently been forgetting to breathe. A pair of bony shoulder blades stretched to accommodate the large volume of air.

"I don't want to hurt you, but I will if you make me, okay?"

The statement had recently become a part of AKA's routine. The promise not to hurt them if they cooperated made them much more tractable just when you wanted them to be. At the start. AKA had played the game a bit more dangerously in the past--with the scruffy, dark-haired truck driver, for example--but risk for its own sake was not really what turned AKA on. Results were what mattered, not the risky road to achieving them.

"What do you want?"

The kid had finally managed to speak. His voice was now breathy and shallow, a lot less mellow than it had been just a few moments before.

AKA released the kid's neck and fished for the handcuffs in his left coat pocket.

"I gotta have some money for drugs. I'm desperate, okay? But I don't wanna hurt you. I just gotta have some dough to buy some drugs."

AKA liked the idea of giving the kid something distracting to think about. While he was pondering AKA's totally fictional drug problem, his mind racing to think how he could give AKA the money he wanted and then get him the hell out of his room, AKA would have gotten him secured. Once the kid was secured, AKA could pop the little bubble of hope that only a little robbery was underway, a robbery that--scary though it was--would soon be over, right?

Wrong.

AKA dropped the cuffs onto Swimmer Boy's back.

The kid jerked and began to turn his head to glance behind him.

"Don't look at me," AKA commanded. "The less you see, the better, okay?" AKA pressed the kid's head into the mussed navy blue blanket on the poorly made bed. He held it there just long enough for the boy to experience a brief panic about being allowed to breathe, then he let go.

This time there was a second, even deeper and more ragged inhalation.

"Put your hands behind your back where I can see them."

Swimmer Boy immediately complied.

"What you gonna do, man?"

"I told you. Get me some dough. This is just to make sure you don't do anything foolish in the meantime."

AKA snapped the left cuff on, then the right. He then pressed down on each one to make sure they were tight. The kid flinched. Good. They were tight.

Securing the handcuffs was a very important matter. That's how the one kid--a slim, freckled-faced fifteen-year-old AKA had seen get off a school bus in a Denver suburb all by his lonesome little latchkey self--almost got away. AKA hadn't made sure the boy's wrists were safely secured. Five minutes later, the frisky little shit had freed himself and was up and running for his life. AKA had only managed to catch him at the front door. The boy's neighborhood had seemed about as sleepy as one could be and still be called a neighborhood (a major factor in AKA's daring to go after the kid at all), but AKA still felt damned lucky he had caught the boy before he made it outside. Frisky Shit had paid dearly for the escapade, of course. Before smothering him with his own baseball glove, AKA had smashed his tight teen balls with his own Jurassic Park paperweight. The baseball glove was perhaps stretching the point about offing them a piece of their own clothing, but it had been so soft and flexible and had fit so perfectly over the pesky cocksucker's runny nose and mouth that AKA had felt compelled to use it.

Swimmer Boy might now decide to resist, but, what with the cuffs on, it was too late. The kid looked to be almost six feet, but he weighed only about 160, AKA guessed. At 200, AKA had a good 40 additional pounds of pretty solid muscle on him, as well as the even greater advantage the handcuffs now gave.

Of course, there was the danger that Swimmer Boy might soon begin to yell and shout. Which was why AKA now proceeded to remove what he needed from his other pocket. The duct tape and the small sponge. AKA leaned forward, grabbed a fistful of silky blond hair, and pulled the boy's head back.

There was a brief gasp, then mumbled protest as AKA forced the sponge into the open mouth. He quickly pulled a long strip from the roll of tape, being careful to lay it flat when he tore it off, then reinserted the sponge the boy had halfway tongued back out and taped his mouth shut by winding the strip of tape twice around his head.

The feeling that now flooded AKA was unlike any other. The beautiful young hunk now trapped between his thighs was his, his completely, his until the end, the end that AKA and AKA alone would decree. There was no other sensation in the world like it, the feeling that he could now play god, could now control fate, could now call down death on the spoiled little rich-kid who lay oh-so-sweetly cuffed and gagged below him.

AKA was hard as a rock, his breathing deep with excitement, his cock straining at the front of his jeans.

He slipped off the boy and got to his feet.

Despite the order not to look back, the boy turned his head. Their eyes met. There was nothing quite like this moment either. The fear in Swimmer Boy's eyes was like a kind of liquor. AKA drank it in. For a moment, he actually swayed with the intoxication of it.

Then, steadying himself, he began to undress.

First he bent and removed his boots.

Then he took off his coat.

His shirt went next.

He dropped both of them on the floor behind him.

Understanding dawned when AKA began to unbuckle his belt. AKA saw it happen in the boy's eyes.

"I lied," he said. The eyes widened. "I don't do drugs. I don't need your money. It's you I want."

The hands trapped in the cuffs immediately began to pull. The nicely developed triceps immediately began to flex. To no avail. Thrashing to free himself, the boy turned onto his side. His perfectly cut pecs bulged with the effort his arms were making. His spruce abs pulsed with the strain.

AKA removed his jeans and socks, then stood and massaged his cock through his underpants. Not Calvins. Nothing so preppy as Calvins. J. C. Penny's best. Plain white jockeys. Basic.

The boy had now flipped onto his back. His pecs continued to bulge, his abs strain. His face had gone red from the effort.

AKA moved forward, stroking himself.

The kid tried to back away. His heels pushed against the blanket, slipped, tried again, succeeded, sort of. Enough anyway that his head bumped back against the wall on the far side of the bed.

AKA reached down and seized the boy's ankles.

"Relax. Relax or I'll cut your throat and fuck your dead body."

The kid tried to pull away, failed.

"I mean it, Swimmer Boy. It's your choice. You cooperate or I'll kill you and then fuck your fucking dead body."

AKA did mean it. It wasn't his favorite way, but fucking a fresh kill provided its own kind of pleasure. As the long-haired fifteen-year-old neighbor boy back in AKA's hometown had good reason to know. It was just too bad that Neighbor Boy had gone and lost the key to his house on a night his parents were away. It was just too bad that his older sister wasn't yet home from her "hot date" to let him in. It was just too bad that Neighbor Boy thought that AKA's own parents had been given a spare key he could use to get in. AKA's parents did in fact have a key to the boy's house, thanks to the fact that the two families were Such Good Neighbors. AKA, who was home house-sitting while his own parents were off on a two-week vacation, had led the boy back to the kitchen to get the key. Where, of course, there was a handy steak knife available as well. It was just too bad the stupid little cock-tease wouldn't just shut the fuck up and take it. And Neighbor Boy was a cock-tease, having jerked off when he had to know AKA could see him the previous two nights running--both times in his brightly lit bedroom, a bedroom he knew damned well faced directly across from the one AKA always used when he was home for some reason. Fortunately, Neighbor Boy sported one of those thick leather neck thongs so many teens liked to wear. It had served the purpose quite nicely after he managed to knock the knife from AKA's hand. Later, washed and cleaned--the boy being one of the few to shit himself--AKA had fucked the kid's dead body. Twice. At first AKA had missed the squirming and struggling of his earlier kills (Neighbor Boy was his ninth and counting at that point), but there was something about the total surrender of the fifteen-year-old's fresh young corpse that made AKA feel as if he had downed a whole bottle of champagne. It hadn't hurt, of course, that he had fantasized about doing the kid long before those two recent cock-tease jerk-off sessions, but he never imagined that the fates would actually make it possible for him to grab the boy and get away with it. But AKA had. Nothing in AKA's past gave him away, and he later handled the two brief police interviews like a charm. It helped that the body was never found, of course. That way, Neighbor Boy remained a possible runaway, the best of all possible scenarios, and, as it turned out, one that was reinforced by the fact that the kid had a reputation at school as a first-class dope-crazed bad-ass.

So was Swimmer Boy going to try to kick, try to use his legs as weapons? Some had, of course. AKA saw Swimmer Boy try to decide. He waited, his eyes locked on the kid's.

He felt the legs surrender before the boy's eyes had even betrayed the fact. The calves went limp, the feet too. AKA swung the legs slightly, just enough to work the surrender all the way up the boy's body. He didn't stop until he saw Swimmer Boy's shoulders go slack.

"Good. Good. That's good," AKA commended, once again amazed at how quickly such virile young studs tended to give in. People wouldn't believe it. They really wouldn't.

The boy dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling even as AKA pulled him lengthwise onto the bed and let go of the ankles. The tanned feet stuck out over the bottom of the bed, looking both forlorn and useless. Leaning forward, AKA squeezed the lax, lightly haired calves. He reached higher and kneaded the knobby, motionless knees. He reached higher still and stroked the surface of the smooth, muscular thighs.

For the first time the boy tensed. AKA smiled and slowly wedged his hand between the thighs, deliberately grazing the base of the cotton jockeys as he did so. He brushed the base of the jockeys once, twice, three times, doing a bit more each time to make contact with the inviting bulge of balls outlined beneath. The boy was still staring at the ceiling, but there was no question. He was getting hard. Despite himself, despite his own fear, his own consternation, his own astonishment at the betrayal his own body was now in the process of committing.

AKA rose onto the bed and settled himself on the kid's sexy lower legs.

His hands returned to the firm thighs, to the boy's crotch, to the bulging balls beneath the jockeys.

There was no question now. The boy's dick was responding. It began to tunnel its way up through the Calvins. More. Then more still. AKA paused, then used his index finger to trace the shape of it.

The boy tensed again.

"That's okay, buddy," AKA murmured. "It's a guy thing. You can't help it. Just relax. Enjoy it. You've had your cock sucked before, right? There's no crime in that."

Another little bubble of hope, AKA thought to himself. Now the kid will think I'm just a uniquely aggressive cocksucker, so starved to go down on tasty teenage boycock that I'm willing to commit a crime to do it. So I blow him. So I give studly young Swimmer Boy a little unlooked-for head. Then I'll go away. Because that's all I'm here for, right?

Wrong.

AKA reached up and grasped the top of the Calvins. He teasingly fingered the elastic waistband for a moment. Then he pulled. It was a long, slow, determined pull. Determined, because by sheer force of will Swimmer Boy tried his best to keep the Calvins on. But he failed. His cock emerged, flipped up, then tottered to the left, where it lay thick and waiting. It was a good seven inches, and, given the boy's own basic slimness, much fatter than AKA had imagined. There was no question. The kid sported one healthy hunk of sausage.

AKA continued to draw the jockeys down.

The balls came into view. Plump. Tight. Wreathed in dark golden hair.

The kid squeezed his ass, hoping at least to keep his rear covered, but AKA persisted, prevailed. The Calvins slowly slid down the thighs. AKA went with them. He drew them down the legs, then free of the feet. Lifting them to his face, he inhaled. They were acrid with the smell of recent boypiss. The kid had in fact taken a long, forceful leak just before walking over to examine his face in the bathroom mirror. AKA inhaled again, then lay the jockeys on the floor. Carefully. Close by. Ready to be used, just as he had planned, later.

But first.

The boy was once again staring at the ceiling. He had also gone a bit soft. Not much, but enough to suggest that his fear was rising up to drive out all other sensation. AKA couldn't let that happen. Not yet anyway. It only seemed fair that Swimmer Boy should enjoy one last orgasm. There was even something pleasing in the idea that he would be drained dry to begin with, then filled up (his tight young butt anyway), and finally taken out altogether. And with his own jockeys at that.

AKA crawled back onto the bed. This time he didn't straddle the boy. Instead, he spread his legs and moved between them, feasting his eyes as he did so.

"How long did it take you to get like this?" he asked. He drew his index finger down the long, lovely trough of flesh running from the neck to the navel. "I mean, you've obviously got some good genes to begin with, but you've turned yourself into your own fucking masterpiece. But you know that, don't you? I saw it in your eyes when you were studying you face in the bathroom. 'What a handsome hunk I am.' That's what you were thinking, wasn't it?" The boy lifted his head. Just enough to make eye contact. "Yes, that's right. That was me in the stall. Watching you. Planning this."

AKA's hands returned to the boy's thighs. He raked his crotch. He hefted the golden-haired balls.

The cock jerked. Stiffened. Regained its former hardness.

"I bet you could come all night, couldn't you? What are you, 18? That's the peak. You know that, right? 18 is the sexual peak. It's all downhill from here. Your body will never again feel, do the kinds of things it can feel and do now. Did you know that?"

The boy tried to say something, speak.

AKA listened, did not understand, attempted to read the frightened eyes.

The boy struggled to repeat himself. Trying to look, sound convincing. But, because of the gag, it was impossible to understand him.

AKA was fascinated. He returned his hands to the balls, cupped, then lightly squeezed them.

The boy went on. More intensely still. Trying to say . . . what?

Then AKA understood.

"You want me to let you loose so we can both do this? Is that what you're saying?"

The boy's head nodded. Desperate. Hoping. Trying his best to seem convincing.

"Are you gay? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"Liar," said AKA. "You're a fucking little liar. You're as straight as they come. You love cunt. I know you do."

The boy shook his head. No.

AKA decided to play along. For now.

He pretended to look confused, open to the possibility the kid was telling the truth.

He reached up and took hold of the boy's hefty cock.

"Are you? Are you really? You mean you really like this? Doing this? With me?"

The boy nodded as unconvincingly as before.

"If I let you go, you'll do me too? Is that what you're saying? You'll suck me off too?"

The nod could not disguise the disgust that swept the boy's face. AKA took the occasion to free his own cock. It was not as fat as the boy's but about the same length. It was nowhere near so pretty as Swimmer Boy's either, which was pink and smooth from top to bottom, but it didn't need to be pretty to have the kind of fun it was going to have, as AKA well knew.

"You'll really suck on this if I take the cuffs off? You won't yell or shout or anything?"

The boy nodded for the third time. He gave it all he was worth, AKA allowed the kid that. But he was a lying little son-of-a-bitch from start to finish. Nonetheless, AKA had to hand it to him. He was using his wits. Hoping against hope that AKA would be stupid enough to believe him. Hoping that his own shocking erection would convince AKA that what he was struggling to say was true.

But there was no question what would happen. Once freed, once ungagged, the athletic young freshman would yell and fight for all he was worth. Even with his stereo blasting, the kid at the other end of the hall might hear and come running. That, or Swimmer Boy would break free and escape. It wouldn't be a nice scene, however it went.

AKA pretended to waver, to debate the issue. Then he announced his decision.

"We do it this way first, okay? You really come . . . I mean you really give me all you've got . . . then . . . maybe."

The boy attempted to hide his frustration, but again his eyes gave him away.

AKA lifted the cock and lowered his head. He kept his eyes on the boy's as he did so. They widened, then closed as the defeated blond head dropped back onto the bed.

AKA began to suck. Slowly. Carefully. It was, actually, not something AKA particularly liked to do. Give head. But the kid had made it exciting, different, worth the slight disgust AKA always felt.

The cock got fatter. It hardly seemed possible, but it did. AKA now had a mouthful and then some.

He fingered the balls as his mouth rose and fell further along the length of the boy's fat shaft.

The kid began to thrust. Not much. He was clearly trying not to respond to what was happening to him, but he couldn't help himself. AKA slipped his free hand between the taut young buttocks. The boy tensed, instantly frightened that AKA was going to do more. Perhaps--God forbid!--violate the sacrosanct and surely virginal heterosexual asshole. AKA smiled around the cock, withdrew his hand, and began to knead the fiercely flexed asscheeks instead. There would be plenty of time to focus on the kid's asshole later.

The kid began to thrust again. More violently this time. Trying to get it over with? Maybe.

AKA brought his lips to the top of the pumping shaft and gently bit down. Then it happened. The fiercest thrust. The startling gush.

AKA pulled away just in time.

When he looked up, he saw that a river of milky, gummy cum now ran all the way from Swimmer Boy's unexpectedly large navel up to his firm unblemished chin. Somebody who liked to cut, to slice might see the line of cum as a nice little pattern to work with, AKA thought to himself. He imagined the sharp knife staring at the chin, then coming down the body, digging deeper into the skin as it neared the large, inviting navel where it might just decide to plunge to the back of that long, flexible spine. Fortunately for Swimmer Boy, AKA only wanted to imagine it.

The smell that was now in the air was like no other. Nothing else smelled like fresh cum. Nothing.

AKA leaned down and took a deep breath. He filled his lungs. Nice. Oh, so nice.

Now it was his turn.

He stripped off his underpants and tossed them onto the pile of clothes he had already made.

Swimmer Boy had his eyes closed. His face was still a bright red, but his breathing had calmed somewhat.

AKA wasn't sure why, but he decided that he wanted to watch the kid's face as he fucked him. He usually fucked them on their stomachs, but not this time.

Gripping the boy's ankles, he lifted his legs.

Just as AKA hoped, the sky-blue eyes opened.

AKA moved in, shoving the boy's long, lean legs toward the ceiling as he did so.

The sky-blue eyes widened.

AKA lowered the legs onto his shoulders and then moved in closer still.

Reaching forward, he wiped his hand across the boy's stomach. His palm was instantly covered in sperm. He then took his hand and slowly lubricated his cock.

The sky-blue eyes watched him do it.

Reaching up again, higher onto the boy's chest this time, AKA re-wet his hand, making sure to dampen his fingers especially.

Ever so softly, ever so gently, he then slipped his hand between the boy's up-ended asscheeks and began to massage the new coat of sperm around and into the kid's tight, oh-so-tight rosebud of an asshole. The kid flexed his swim-toned buttcheeks as tight as he could, but AKA nonetheless managed to work his index finger into the hole. The kid arced. He arced again as AKA buried the finger up to the second knuckle. AKA then began to rotate his finger. Tight though the kid tried to make it, Swimmer Boy's rosy little sphincter began to loosen up quite nicely.

The sky-blue eyes filled with horror.

Withdrawing his finger, AKA shifted forward yet once more, braced the boy's legs on either side of his head, and positioned his cock for entry.

Rising up on his knees, using the kid's own legs as supports, he gripped the top of the boy's thighs and proceeded to force his way in. Despite the coating of sperm AKA had applied, there was some initial resistance, that uniquely rubbery friction that almost always had to be overcome, but AKA knew from experience that the ass of a kid who has just shot his wad was a lot less resistant to being fucked than it otherwise would be. Why that should be the case, AKA didn't know. It just was. Thus, one more push and AKA's dick popped the boy's anus and sank to the hilt. It was instantly encompassed by an unbelievably warm, virginal, throbbing, velvet, teenage asswall.

Good God! What a feeling!

AKA only had a moment to enjoy the sensation, however, because Swimmer Boy's wonderfully long, lean, muscular legs suddenly shot straight out, spread apart, and then slammed back into the sides of AKA's skull. AKA once had a teacher who had boxed his ears. That's exactly what this felt like.

"Fuck!" AKA exclaimed.

The legs spread for yet another slam. Instinctively, AKA ducked his head forward. Big mistake! The boy's thighs instantly locked on AKA's neck with a killer tightness. Hardly believing what was happening, AKA gasped, jerked, and lost his balance, his cock pulling from the boy's asshole as he did so.

The kid took immediate advantage of it. Twisting violently to the side, his strong young thighs clenched like steel clamps, he banged AKA's head against the wall.

AKA didn't so much see stars as an awful, hurtful blackness.

It hardly seemed possible, but the thighs contracted further still.

AKA struggled to free himself, but his right hand was trapped. Under what? The kid's left hip? AKA's other, free hand pulled at the boy's right thigh. At least, AKA thought it was the right thigh.

His head was banged against the wall a second time.

There was a new wave of painful, awful blackness.

Crush the kid's nuts! AKA managed to think. Crush the kid's nuts!

He tried to reach, find them, his free hand flailing, flapping along the boy's slippery bare skin.

The hard, unforgiving thigh bones continued to bear down on AKA's neck.

He's gonna kill me! AKA thought.

Despite the pain in his head, despite being unable to breathe, and despite the disorienting dizziness that now rose up to mix with everything else afflicting his body, AKA's fingers found what seemed to be the boy's cock dangling loose, limp, and vulnerable.

AKA immediately tore at it, clawed at it, made a fist and attempted to pound both it and the nearby balls, which had to be there . . . somewhere.

As he strained to find them, determined to pulverize them, AKA's consciousness began to totter, then slip.

Then, as quick as a light going off, it sank like a stone.

For a moment AKA was dreaming. There were vague forms, thoughts, sensations.

Then there was nothing. Nothing at all.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Then there was.

AKA was suddenly conscious again, gasping for air, and fighting the worst dizziness he had ever felt in his life.

He struggled to sit up, see, assess the situation.

How long had he been out? How long had he been unconscious?

Shit!

The dorm room door was wide open, gaping like the entrance to hell.

Marshaling all of his resources, AKA got to his feet, swayed, then righted himself.

Even as he did so, he heard a sound.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

He knew at once what it was. It was Swimmer Boy's bare feet. He was running down the hall.

AKA lurched out the door after him.

The kid was already halfway to Wrestler Boy's room.

Slap. Boom. Slap. Boom.

The beat of Wrestler Boy's music alternated with the slap of the bare and running feet.

AKA took off. He had to reach the kid before he reached the other boy's room!

But how could he? The kid was so far ahead!

Swimmer Boy then made his first mistake. He looked back.

Because he looked back, he lost his balance, spun to the side, and slammed into the thick jamb of a nearby doorway. He hit it hard. Very hard. He didn't fall down, but the collision clearly knocked some of the breath out of him.

AKA dashed forward.

The kid turned, righted himself, and resumed his race. But much more slowly this time. The pain of the collision was also causing him to wobble from side to side as he went.

They reached the door of the Wrestler Boy's room at exactly the same moment.

Just in time, AKA grappled the still handcuffed boy from behind and wrenched him to the floor in one fell swoop.

Success!

Yet even as the thought came, one of Swimmer Boy's flailing feet struck Wrestler Boy's door.

Bam!

Before AKA could react, the same foot struck the door a second time.

Bam!

The music inside Wrestler Boy's room didn't go off, but the volume was suddenly lowered.

"What?" a muffled voice called out.

AKA gripped Swimmer Boy under the armpits and began to haul him back down the hall.

Swimmer Boy now made his second mistake.

In an effort to resist, he continued to kick out with his legs. Far from hindering, the motion helped propel the two of them further along. If the kid had simply gone limp, if he had only made all of his 160 pounds a deadweight, AKA might not have made it as far as the communal bathroom so quickly. But he did.

Just as the door to the other boy's room opened and Wrestler Boy called out, "Who's there? Jeff?"

But by then AKA was on the other side of the swinging bathroom door, pulling Swimmer Boy--Jeff, was it?--in after him.

So they were back where they began, he had time to think.

He pulled the still squirming Swimmer Boy past the sinks and toilets, around the corner, and into the large communal shower room.

He had no sooner stopped than Swimmer Boy somehow managed to get to his feet.

He was now attempting to make as much noise as he could. Despite the gag, he was yelling for all he was worth. And yelling pretty loudly at that.

AKA wrestled with the boy's writhing, resisting body.

They struggled over to the tiled wall.

The boy twisted to face AKA and unsuccessfully tried to knee him in the groin.

He had now made his third mistake.

His back was to the wall.

"This is how it felt!" AKA hissed.

Then he grabbed the kid's face and banged the back of the blond head against the hard amber-colored tiles.

He now didn't care if he killed the little son of a bitch this way. To hell with the jockeys!

He banged the head a second, third, then a fourth time.

It was enough.

Swimmer Boy ceased to cry out. He ceased to struggle. He slid down the wall, all lights out.

"Jeff, are you in here? Is this another one of your jokes, man? It's Christmas, not Halloween, you know."

AKA sank into a crouch.

"Jeff?" the voice repeated, closer this time.

AKA silently moved to the opposite wall, the one nearest to the shower room entrance.

Suddenly Swimmer Boy moaned.

So the little fuck wasn't dead.

"Jeff? Is that you? Are you sick or something?"

AKA blindsided Wrestler Boy just as he stepped around the corner into the shower room. Using all of the extra height and weight he had on the kid--and it was a good deal more than he had in relation to Swimmer Boy--AKA clutched and then slammed the far smaller freshman directly into the wall, much the same way he had done his friend, only face-on and harder. Much harder. The kid's nose crunched. His teeth cracked. Or was it his jaw? AKA wasn't sure. The whole situation felt totally unreal, like something out of a movie, one AKA had seen but never thought he'd be acting in.

Wrestler Boy instantly went as limp as a dishrag, then slid down the wall just as Swimmer Boy had. A trail of blood marked the course of his decent.

AKA stepped back, stunned by the turn of events.

He was breathing as hard as if he had just finished running a quarter mile.

He bent over and thought, Now what?

Making a determined effort to clear his mind, as well as the churning in his stomach, he glanced up at Wrestler Boy.

The kid's neck and head were braced against the wall. The rest of him was splayed out on the floor.

Taking a deep breath, AKA straightened up, walked over to the kid, and pulled the head back. The boy's face was a wreck, especially the wide, sexy, cupid's-bow mouth. He wasn't dead, however. He was breathing as if he had the world's worst case of asthma. Blood bubbled up around his shattered nose and lips.

Shit! thought AKA.

Dropping the boy's head, he stepped back, gripped the body by the ankles, and pulled him away from the wall. The head thunked on the tiles.

Now what indeed?

First thing, AKA decided after a tense pause, was to silence Wrestler Boy. The shower room was as far away from things as one could get on this floor, but the kid was making too much noise even so. It might be the end of exam week, and most freshmen may have left for Christmas vacation, but from his earlier surveillance AKA knew there were still a number of boys in the building. Late as it was, any one of them might decide to drop in on Wrestler Boy. Not finding him in his room, the visitor might decide to check out the bathroom. It wasn't likely he'd come all the way back to the shower room. Unless he heard this shit, that is. Well, AKA couldn't allow that. It was also possible that a security guard might drop by as well, even though the odds were against it. How did AKA know? He knew because he knew one of the school's five--count 'em, five!--security guards. The guy AKA knew--his name was Max--had an apartment in the same complex where AKA lived. It was actually while talking to Max Saturday a week ago that AKA decided to play the game here. He'd never done a dorm scene before, but Max had said the end of the semester was the least busy time when it came to security. Fewer students, fewer problems to deal with. It was as simple as that. Which meant that the guards--especially the lazy two-man night-shift guys, according to Max--tended to sit back, put their feet up, and watch late-night TV. Especially on a weeknight. Which this was.

AKA crouched and tugged the blue boxers down Wrestler Boy's thickly muscled legs.

Once they were free, he flapped them in the air to straighten them out, then bent forward and pulled them over Wrestler Boy's head. He made sure the butt side covered the boy's wheezing, bloody face. Then he grasped and twisted the boxers at the back of the boy's head until they were tight against the skull.

"Nothing personal," AKA murmured.

Closing his eyes, he then gripped the boxers, lifted the kid's head, and slammed it face-down onto the tiles. Again. And then again. And then again.

He didn't stop until he felt the forehead crack. At which point, a massive tremor ran the length of Wrestler Boy's body. AKA could feel it. The tremor was immediately followed by a final, ghastly, wheezing gurgle. Then silence. Blessed, peaceful silence.

Except for the sounds coming from Swimmer Boy, that is.

AKA opened his eyes and looked over at him.

The kid had regained consciousness. He had even managed to sit up. From that position he had obviously seen what AKA had just done. The screams of protest coming from the still gagged mouth were the genuine male article. AKA knew because he had heard a fair number of guys scream by now.

"This wouldn't have happened but for you," AKA said as he stood up.

Swimmer Boy shook his head in violent negation of the charge.

"No, it's true. I could have had him, but then I saw you. He'd still be alive if you'd just relaxed and cooperated."

Swimmer Boy dropped his head and groaned a final protest.

"Up."

AKA went around behind the boy and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

The kid reluctantly struggled to his feet.

AKA was pleased to see that there was some swelling at the back of the boy's skull. It marred the perfection of the head a bit, but AKA didn't care. The kid deserved it. He was just lucky it wasn't worse. What happened to Wrestler Boy could have happened to him. AKA was also pleased to see a fairly serious-looking series of scratches on the boy's cock. So AKA had at least done some damage during their struggle on the bed. Thankfully, there was no blood to speak of. Enough blood already! Especially since AKA saw that a pool of the stuff had formed around Wrestler Boy's head and was even now streaming toward one of the nearby shower-room drains.

AKA gripped the back of Swimmer Boy's neck with one hand and his upper left arm with the other.

"You try anything else, you're as dead as he is. Understood? Now let's go back to your room."

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