The Chosen One

THE CHOSEN ONE

By

JASON

They were all in some way chosen, of course. Chance may have provided them. Hitchhiking by the side of the road. Hanging out at the mall. Hustling on a well-known streetcorner. Getting off work at McDonalds. Carrying bags out into a reasonably empty supermarket parking lot. Stumbling alone and drunk out of one of the late-night nightspots popular with the young crowd. Or even--it had actually happened twice--knocking on the wrong door--AKA's--at just the right time. But there was always that moment of choice. For AKA, that is. Was this one okay? Would this one do? Because AKA had his standards. Both in terms of quality and in terms of safety.

Yes, the kid had to be good-looking enough to make the risk worthwhile. There was no question of that. What was the point of killing some pimply-faced pig? But the risk had to be as minimal as possible as well. The two went together. Because AKA had made up his mind early on that it was better to let some adorable young Adonis go free rather than get caught. There could be nothing worse than getting caught. And AKA had held to this resolution.

With one exception perhaps.

The one exception was THE CHOSEN ONE. The REALLY chosen one. Because what AKA meant by chance had played no real part in his selection. AKA had met him, wanted him, decided to get him, and made his plans accordingly. Despite the risks.

And there were risks. Lots of them.

To begin with, the kid knew who AKA was. He knew where AKA lived. He knew where AKA worked. To put it bluntly, he knew AKA. That was bad enough. Because AKA had no doubt that his success rate--his on-going triumph in what he thought of as THE GAME--was largely due to the fact that he and his victims had not known each other until chance--or fate, if one preferred--brought them together. On some lonely road. Outside a busy mall. In a parking lot. On that well-known (to those-in-the-know) streetcorner.

AKA had no complaints. Fate--or the Dark Gods, as he preferred to think of them--had been very generous. He was now up to--what?--30 and counting? Not quite John Wayne Gacy's number, but getting there.

So that the boy knew who AKA was, was a definite negative.

Worse, however, was the fact that the kid was also--in a manner of speaking--a relative. Because AKA's younger brother had suddenly up and remarried not five months after his world-class, knock-down, drag-out divorce became final. Why Phil would want to risk doing that to himself again, AKA didn't know. But Phil had met Carolyn, who was also on the rebound, and married her--snap!--like that! Which meant that Phil suddenly had extra family to deal with as well.

Specifically, Carolyn's kid by her own failed marriage: Donovan.

Donovan. THE CHOSEN ONE.

AKA first saw Donovan--not at the wedding, since Phil remarried with the minimum of fuss (which is to say, AKA wasn't even invited)--but the first time AKA was asked to come to dinner at the newlyweds' brand-new "let's-make-a-fresh-start" trophy house. By then, Phil and Carolyn had been married almost a year. AKA knew there was a boy who came with the package. He had heard the boy described as "nice" and "very good-looking," but the seventeen-year-old who greeted AKA at the door was way beyond good-looking.

It was the eyes that grabbed AKA first. The pupils, an unusual as well as unusually intense gray-green, seemed to pierce right through to the back of AKA's skull. Set in the whitest of whites under luxuriously long, black lashes, vitality as well as intelligence shot forth from them.

The rest of the face was nearly as striking. Rich, black, naturally wavy hair framed a broad, high, lightly tanned forehead. A slender, perfectly pitched nose perched above a wide, sensuously lipped mouth, a mouth that enclosed two rows of perfect teeth as perfectly white as the whites of the unusually piercing gray-green eyes. An equally perfect, lightly tanned complexion--the kid looked as if he had never had a zit in his life and probably hadn't--suffused the high, rounded cheekbones. A strong, smoothly tapered chin and a slender, straight, solidly set neck completed the picture.

What was below that neck AKA hardly even bothered to register at first, so compelling was the kid's face.

"Hi. You must be ."

Donovan sounded out AKA's real name in a smooth, clear, unusually polished voice for someone his age. AKA knew Carolyn was "a cut above"--as others in the family had put it. It was a judgment he had made for himself. Used to money. Well-educated. Fashion-conscious. Carolyn had that old-fashioned thing. Class. And she had clearly passed that class along to her son.

"Yes, hello. And you are Donovan, no doubt."

The boy smiled. The glow of the teeth seemed to increase the glow of the eyes.

"No doubt."

Coming from another kid, the hint of irony might have seemed snide, but coming from Donovan it only seemed winningly sophisticated.

I'm in love, thought AKA.

And each man kills the thing he loves .

The words popped into AKA's head uninvited.

First said by Oscar Wilde, if AKA weren't mistaken. Little did Wilde know how literal those words could be made.

Donovan backed away to let AKA enter the house, and AKA finally dropped his eyes--the kid was almost as tall as AKA--in order to assess the rest of his gorgeous new nephew-by-marriage.

The boy was dressed in an unremarkable short-sleeved, open-necked sports shirt and a pair of loose-fitting, light-brown chinos. Though unremarkable, the shirt--which featured tiny moss-green-and-white checks--fit very nicely, very nicely indeed. Donovan was clearly the possessor of impressively broad shoulders and an admirably flat stomach. The chinos might be loose-fitting, but they hugged a pair of attractively slim hips and--so far as AKA could tell--a more than acceptable butt. Worn loafers--no socks--completed the understated, vaguely preppy wardrobe.

"Mom and Phil aren't down yet. I guess you'll just have to deal with me until they arrive."

No problem, AKA thought. No problem at all.

Donovan closed the door and led AKA across the somewhat pretentious marble-and-chandeliered entrance hall to the expensively decorated living room. Which was almost, but not quite, the size of a tennis court.

Well, the house was a trophy house, right?

His first marriage aside, everything AKA's brother touched had always had a way of turning to gold. AKA had never been envious of Phil's success, however. But, then, AKA lusted for things other than money.

Yes, indeed, he thought as he followed along behind Donovan. The kid's butt was more than acceptable. With each step the boy took, firmly molded cheeks flexed invitingly beneath the smoothly combed cotton of the chinos.

"Something to drink?" Donovan called over his shoulder.

This is one seventeen-year-old who would know how to mix one, AKA deduced.

"I'll wait," AKA replied.

Once in the living room, Donovan gestured for AKA to sit, then sat down directly across from him.

Tall and slim, obviously fit and firm, with that beautiful face and those striking gray-green eyes, Donovan leaned back into the plush confines of the overstuffed couch facing AKA's equally overstuffed chair and promptly proceeded to be the perfect little host until his mother and new stepfather arrived.

To be honest, AKA hardly heard a word he said, so busy was he just taking the kid in. There was polite chatter about Donovan's boarding school (as upscale--and therefore expensive--a place as one would expect), about his hopes for the future (law school or medicine perhaps), about girlfriends (no one special at the moment), about sports (he played golf, soccer, liked to swim), etc., etc.

But it was all relatively meaningless so far as AKA was concerned.

Donovan's life--privileged though it was--was just one of many. If his life ended somewhat earlier than expected, so be it. The world would go on. It always did.

There was also the conviction on AKA's part--and he reviewed it as he listened to Donovan talk--that nothing the boy would ever do (even if given the chance) would be as exciting as what AKA could--indeed, had already decided he would--do to him.

The conversation was not all one-sided, of course. AKA was determined to charm in his own right. He wanted the boy to like and to trust him. If not absolutely, then--well--enough. Thus, AKA deftly psyched the boy out, encouraged topics he saw were meaningful to him, and more or less charged the air with his own (quite legitimate) pleasure at being in so fine a young man's company.

"So," AKA said when Phil and Carolyn finally appeared and the boy rose to leave for an evening out with friends, "we'll meet again."

"That would be great."

And he meant it.

But then AKA meant it as well.

* * *

AKA did not hurry. If anything, he took more time than he needed.

This was yet another risk, of course. Because the more time that passed, the more a relationship (of sorts) would develop, with all that that might mean in terms of emotional complications. For AKA, that is. He had never really known any of the boys the Dark Gods provided. With the exception, perhaps, of the neighbor kid he had strangled in his parents' house that time. But that kid had essentially been a familiar face attached to a seductive fifteen-year-old body AKA had lusted after for months, not someone he knew in any real sense of the word.

Donovan, however, would be known. And would know AKA in return.

That would be a new challenge for AKA, and, to be honest, he was not sure how he would feel about that part of it when the time came.

AKA learned that first night that Donovan would be living with his mother and Phil for most of the summer. A one-week stay with his father--a career-driven California corporate exec--was planned, but that was weeks off. The boy was scheduled to begin work at Phil's company--of which Phil was significantly the CEO--the next week, but that would be part-time, clearly something to give a veneer of purpose to what was otherwise intended to be a pretty relaxed, even self-indulgent summer.

"Donovan's handled everything so well," Carolyn asserted over the main course--turbot in a champagne cream sauce--"but Phil and Frank--that's Donovan's dad--and I thought he could be allowed a bit of 'down' time, if you know what I mean. His school's rather intense. That's one thing. Then there was my own divorce. Then our marriage." Carolyn smiled at Phil. "Well, Donovan's remarkably mature for his age, but even so."

Phil concurred.

"The boy deserves some time off. He's one of a kind. As bright as he is good-looking. We're well on our way to being friends."

So AKA did not hurry. Nor did he hang about exactly. True, he accepted more invitations to events at his brother's new home than he otherwise might have. True, he went out of his way to talk to Donovan as often as he could if the boy were there. True, he actually managed to take Donovan to dinner early on--a seemingly spontaneous affair at one of the nicer local restaurants, a restaurant that had the distinction of providing AKA with one of his more memorable (and longest-kept) victims. But even that first dinner, in terms of intimacy, was no more than one would expect of a precociously suave seventeen-year-old and his new stepfather's intelligent, if far less affluent older brother.

Three weeks passed. Four weeks. Five.

Phil and Donovan may or may not have been well on their way to being friends, but Donovan and AKA became at least openly, genuinely friendly. They developed an easy rapport. An uncomplicated acceptance of the other's presence. A happy, casual bridging of the generations.

That, at least, is what AKA wished to and actually succeeded in making Donovan feel.

Vanity, AKA determined, would be the door through which Donovan would walk into AKA's other life, into his second world, the wonderful, dangerous, unforgiving abode of the Dark Gods.

Their second dinner together--also seemingly spontaneous, but at a different and somewhat more downscale restaurant where no busboy had yet appeared to tempt the Dark Gods--produced the key, revealed the vulnerable Achilles' heel.

"I think I'd like modeling, but Mom won't hear of it. Too de classe , I guess."

AKA smiled at the classy phrase-dropping.

"I mean, you can earn good money modeling," Donovan continued. "There are two guys at school who've done a little, so I know. But it's not the money really. I just think it would be fun."

This had all been prompted by AKA's voicing the opinion--in what was admittedly a fishing expedition--that Donovan, given his "good looks," should consider the movies or modeling or something like that. At least, on the side.

"That's amazing," AKA replied, seizing on the boy's statement like a lion on an unwary lamb. "I have a related, secret passion that not even Phil knows about. Promise not to tell? I would really be too embarrassed."

"Sure," Donovan replied, clearly intrigued.

"Well, I'm something of an amateur photographer," AKA lied, inwardly astonished at the wild possibilities of this sudden inspiration. Would Donovan really fall for it? "I've actually done a few fashion shoots for a friend involved in advertising," he continued, expanding on the lie. "Some of my stuff has even appeared. Under a pseudonym, you understand." More lies. "As I said, I'd be too embarrassed to have the family know. They are a bit like your mother. But I'd love to shoot you. Do a portfolio, as they call it. Then see if my friend could get you some work. On the sly, of course. I couldn't promise anything, but . . . ." AKA smiled inquiringly. "Would you be interested?"

"I would," Donovan shot back. "But we couldn't tell. Not unless something came of it. Maybe not even then. Gee, do you really think?"

The boy's to-die-for face blushed an engaging shade of pink. For the first time in their acquaintance, he looked younger than his seventeen years.

AKA nodded.

"Yes. I do. I really do."

* * *

Vanity? Maybe that was too harsh a word. But the kid's self-image was clearly spiced with a healthy dash of narcissism.

As well it might be, AKA admitted.

If there had been any doubts on that score, they were completely erased a few days after the second, far more friendly dinner-for-two when AKA dropped by his brother's house unannounced and found Donovan tanning himself poolside.

It was one of the boy's "days off."

As AKA knew.

Thus, his unannounced visit.

Until AKA walked out onto the poolside patio he had been forced to speculate about just how good a body was hidden underneath those understated preppy clothes Donovan tended to wear.

Well, one glance told the story.

The kid was sensuously lean from top to bottom. The muscles of his torso--front and back--seamlessly smooth across a marvelously flexible ribcage. His long legs lightly haired with perfectly proportioned thighs and calves. His butt was also perfectly proportioned, beautifully rounded beneath a pair of tight bikini Speedos. Then, last but not least, that amazing face with its amazing gray-green eyes topping it all off.

Words failed one. Or they failed AKA anyway.

For a minute, he actually felt breathless.

"Hi!" Donovan called out, getting to his feet.

Sun flashed off his well-oiled body.

"You come by for a swim?"

AKA had been invited more than once now.

AKA shook his head, needing the additional time to steady his voice.

Donovan stretched, oblivious to what the motion did to further outline his already tightly cupped, brazenly outlined genitals.

"I'm being pretty lazy, I guess."

"No. Not at all," AKA finally managed to say. "But," he took a deep breath and went on, "I can put you to work if you're really worried about it."

Donovan dropped his arms, shook his hands to the side, kicked out with one foot, then the other. A swimmer's routine.

"Sure. You mean"--he lowered his voice, although it was clear that he was home alone--"the photo shoot?"

"That's exactly what I mean," AKA answered, lowering his own voice as well.

Donovan smiled. The glow of the teeth was almost blinding.

"When?"

"When's the next time you're going to be here by yourself?"

"Mom's away every morning pretty much. A lot of the afternoons too. About Phil, you know. Gone all day every day. There are the servants." Yes, the servants, thought AKA. How many did Phil and Carolyn have? Three, he thought. But none was a live-in, fortunately. "They're often around," said Donovan. "But you don't mean to do it here, do you?"

"No. But I thought it would help preserve the secrecy we'd like to keep if you could get away unseen. Even by the servants. What about tomorrow?"

Donovan nodded.

"Fine as far as I know. I even think the servants have the afternoon off."

Yes, AKA silently replied, I know that.

"So, tomorrow it is, then. Don't forget to pack a suitcase."

This was a crucial--if not the most crucial--part of AKA's scheme, the all-important misleading clue that would direct everyone away from Donovan's real whereabouts once he went missing. If everything worked as well as AKA hoped it would, this one detail would lead everyone away from a more accurate speculation about the boy's true fate.

"Pack a suitcase?" Donovan asked, clearly perplexed.

"Filled with the clothes you want to model, right?"

The boy's momentary confusion lifted.

"Of course. Right."

"Pack a full range of things. Sportswear. Underwear. Dressy stuff. Shoes. Even a few toiletries. We might use them as props. Basically everything you might take on a long trip."

From which you will never return, AKA said to himself.

"Okay. Great. So what time do you want me to be at your place?"

Donovan had a car, of course, a sporty little navy-blue MG.

The car would end up in an unmonitored parking lot near a small local airport, AKA had decided. Sans Donovan. Sans suitcase.

AKA appeared to think, although he had already planned this part as well.

"Let's say one o'clock. This will probably take an hour or two. Three at most. That way you can be back home before anyone's the wiser."

"Sounds good. I'll be there."

AKA scanned the boy from head to toe, a photographer clinically assessing a promising subject.

"Bring the swimsuit as well," he said in an offhand tone. "We might even start with it."

And end with it, he speculated to himself. At least, so far as modeling clothes is concerned.

* * *

AKA actually managed to turn the third floor of his house--the floor where any number of his victims had met their fate--into a fairly convincing studio.

Rent-A-Thon, the local anything-you-want-we-have-it rental company, had on hand a wide range of photographic equipment. They even had a fold-up backdrop perfect for lighting just the kind of shots AKA was supposedly going to take.

I may take a few pictures at that, AKA decided. "Before" and "After" ones maybe. Like you see in those weight-loss ads. Except, in this case, the more accurate way to put it would be . . . what? . . . "Alive" and "Dead"?

AKA had never been one for trophies. Trophies were high on the list of risks one should avoid. But maybe I will make an exception on this occasion, he now thought. Pictures of this kid could be fun to have. Depending on how good a model--or was it victim?--Donovan turned out to be, of course.

When he first started on his second life, his Dark Gods career, AKA had liked to use some article of the victim's own clothing to do him in. T-shirts. Socks. Underwear. Jockstraps. Speedos. Shorts. Cut-offs. Shoelaces. Necklaces. Leather neck-thongs. Even a set of dogtags. AKA had used them all. But the routine had staled after a while, and AKA had since run the gamut from smothering by pillow to drowning in the third-floor tub to asphyxiating with a clear plastic bag. Those done in his death-on-wheels van were still dispatched by and large with a piece of their own clothing, but AKA's home-kills could be far more inventive.

What he had planned for Donovan was, he felt, particularly imaginative.

* * *

The boy arrived just when AKA told him to.

"Be sure to drive straight into the garage," AKA had instructed. "That way you want have to lug the suitcase all the way up from the street."

That this would also lower the chance of Donovan's snazzy little car being seen at AKA's house, was, of course, an idea left unsaid.

Donovan lifted himself out of his sporty MG even as the garage doors started their cranky way down.

"Any trouble finding the place?"

"No. You gave good directions."

Another plus. Because so far as anyone knew, Donovan had never been to AKA's, had no idea where his new stepfather's brother even lived.

Donovan walked around and hefted his suitcase from the passenger side of the car. It was clearly heavy.

"Good," AKA commended. "You brought a lot. I can tell."

"I didn't know for sure," Donovan said a bit breathlessly as headed for the door into the house AKA was holding open for him. "What would be best, that is. So I thought, better be safe than sorry, right?"

"Yes," AKA replied. "It's always better to be safe than sorry. It's even a motto of mine."

He closed and locked the door behind them.

"The studio's on the third floor, I'm afraid."

Donovan had stopped and put the suitcase down in order to mop at a line of sweat that had popped up on his smooth high forehead.

"No problem." He smiled, lifting the suitcase back up. "It might even be good to look a little sweaty for the first shots. You know, like I've been swimming or sunning. You did say you wanted to do the swimsuit first, right?"

"Yes. That's what I said."

AKA gestured Donovan forward.

They traversed the back hall, the kitchen, the dining room, and came to the front hall stairs.

"Up you go, then. All the way to the top."

"This is going to be fun," Donovan said as he shifted his grip on the suitcase. "Just like I thought."

"Well, there might be a little blood, sweat, and tears along the way," AKA advised. "Modeling can be hard work." Excitement--mixed with a natural enough anxiety--swirled in the pit of his stomach. "But then, no pain, no gain, right?"

"Right," Donovan answered, smiled, and, newly balanced for the climb, ascended.

* * *

The blush in the restaurant was the only time AKA had seen anything like adolescent shyness come from Donovan. Until then, the boy had conveyed an easy aplomb many an older (and supposedly wiser) man might have envied. Donovan's remarkable savoir-faire --AKA could phrase-drop himself if called upon--was once again the order of the day when they reached the third floor. Stripping before a relative stranger--and AKA was surely not much more than that--apparently posed no problem at all.

"Where shall I put these?" Donovan asked of the clothes he immediately began removing.

He had come over dressed his most casual yet--stone-washed jeans and a T-shirt, sneakers, no socks.

Donovan's question was an honest one, given that AKA had pretty much emptied the room. Yes, the bed was still there, but transformed into one of the upcoming photo ops (or so AKA was pleased to see Donovan assume) by a set of expensive smoky-green sheets purchased just for this occasion. The kid would, after all, be spending some time in the bed. He might as well be made to look as pretty as possible in it. The sheets were meant to match his eyes after all.

"I'll take them," said AKA, holding his hands out.

So, first the T-shirt, then the jeans, then the Hilfiger briefs were dropped into AKA's hands, the sneakers having been removed first thing. AKA bent and collected them as well, then took the small trove across the hall to the third-floor bathroom as a splendidly, unselfconsciously nude Donovan turned to fish the revealing bikini Speedos out of the suitcase, which--AKA having anticipated the need--was supported on an old-fashioned fold-up suitcase rack.

Donovan was still at it when AKA returned, having temporarily placed the clothes on a bathroom shelf. They, along with everything else the kid had brought, would eventually find their way into a Goodwill clothes bin AKA had used in the past for the very same purpose, but, for now, the pretense could continue that Donovan would be wearing them again.

"I know I packed them," Donovan complained, his back still turned to AKA.

The sight of the boy's ass--which was on full display--made AKA feel faint.

A pure, unblemished vanilla-white, it was a perfectly molded, adorably dimpled two-part masterpiece of a piece with the rest of the kid's fabulous body.

Hasn't this kid ever heard of perverts? AKA wondered as he came up behind him. Hasn't some teacher, some geek, some jock, some priest--hell, even his father!--ever tried to put the make on him? He's as smart as a whip, no question about it. So how did he get to be seventeen and this good-looking and not realize that the world is a dangerous place to strip butt-fucking-naked in?

AKA could only marvel at the kid's trust.

Yes, he thought, I've done a good job making myself believable, but even so!

"Damn! No, wait! Here they are!"

Donovan turned and held up the Speedos.

AKA did manage to look at the Speedos, but the boy's genitals received a couple of quick, assessing glances as well.

AKA was not disappointed by what he saw.

It was sometimes hard to tell, but AKA had no doubt that the boy would sport a very impressive rod when aroused. Even limp, as it now was, the penis--crowned with a halo of curly jet-black hair--was an elegantly long four inches. At full erection, it would surely be seven. Maybe more. A pair of large, glossy, perfectly balanced testicles were tucked tidily underneath.

Hopping from one foot to the other, Donovan adroitly legged his way into the Speedos and pulled them up.

A little adjusting of his lovely, dark-haired, roses-and-cream-colored genitals and he was ready.

"So, where do you want me?"

AKA proceeded to turn on the rented spotlights, adjust the rented reflectors, slightly move the rented backscreen.

"In front of the screen," he said. "I know it looks plain, but what with computers being what they are these days we can later put anything from a virtual beach to an Olympic-size swimming pool behind you if we want to."

"Neat!" Donovan allowed.

AKA picked up one of the cameras he had actually managed to master and began to shoot.

Donovan was a natural. He neither stupidly froze nor awkwardly slouched before the camera. He neither puffed his chest out in some silly cock-of-the-walk pose nor wilted self-consciously between shots, clumsily at a loss about what to do next.

A happy look over the shoulder. A serene, full frontal, into-the-camera stare. An inquiring glance skyward. A thoughtful staring down. Hands-on-hips. Hands on knees. Head up. Head to the side. Eyes closed. Eyes open. Smiling. Not smiling. Laughing. Looking tragic. In a diving stance. With a towel. Without a towel. Holding a bottle of suntan lotion. Holding nothing. It was all great!

"I think you've done this before," AKA finally said, believing it really might be the case.

"No. I promise. You really think I'm good?"

"Better than good. Excellent."

Donovan broke into a broad, warm, white-toothed smile.

AKA focused and clicked.

"We should have some music," Donovan suggested, obviously eager to intensify the pleasure of the situation. "Isn't that one of the things a fashion photographer does to create a mood?"

"I have used music on occasion," AKA lied as he took yet another picture, "but I generally like to shoot without any distractions the first time around. You really get to know the subject that way. Test his limits. I might not see all there is to see--challenge the model in the way he needs to be challenged--if music is playing."

AKA wondered if Donovan would be troubled by such phrases as "test the limits" and "challenge the model," but he didn't appear to be.

"I see that," the boy finally said. "Yeah, that sounds right."

"What I most like to do is create scenes," AKA continued. "Little dramas, I guess you might call them."

Click, click.

Donovan was silent, intent on a particularly serious facial expression.

Click. Click.

"They make for much better mood-setting than music, I've found."

Click. Click.

Donovan finally relaxed his expression.

"You mean act things out?"

"Exactly. Modeling, in its own way, is theater, you know. It's just theater without the words."

"Wow! That's a neat way to put it. I've never thought of it like that."

Click. Click.

"It makes for much better results, I've found."

"So what's the drama right now?"

"This is just a warm-up. A relax and settle-into-your-body time." Which you clearly have no problem doing, thought AKA, you confident little cocksucker! "I have several things in mind for later on, though." Indeed, I do, thought AKA. "Some are rather whacky actually, but you just do what you feel comfortable with. If something doesn't suit, we simply go on to the next idea."

"Great. I like it."

That smile again.

Click. Click.

The smile would soon be gone forever, so AKA wanted as many shots of it as possible before the last smile was smiled. That would be--AKA glanced at his watch--in about ten, maybe fifteen, minutes from now.

If all went well.

He finally called a halt.

"Great! So how do you feel? Warmed up and ready to begin?"

Donovan flapped his hands, rolled his shoulders, did a quick little loosening-up dance. A boxer's routine.

"I'm ready. So what scene do we start with?"

"Well," AKA replied, "I thought I would direct you to make a tape, an audio tape."

"An audio tape?"

AKA went to the corner where he had stowed the rented cameras, cords, and other pieces of equipment he had no idea in the world how to use, and picked up a small, easy-to-manage tape recorder, one he actually owned.

"That you were going to be bringing a suitcase put me in mind of this," AKA said. It happened to be true. "Here." He handed the machine across to Donovan. He then tossed the boy a still wrapped cassette tape. Donovan could unwrap it. Donovan could put it in the machine. Later, AKA would extract the tape, careful not to smudge Donovan's fingerprints or, even more important, leave any of his own on it.

"Pop the cassette in," AKA directed.

Donovan did as ordered.

"Now, you see how it works, right?" AKA asked, meaning the machine. Donovan nodded. "When I tell you to, I want you press 'record' and then make up a short message. Here's the scenario. You're a spoiled little rich kid, okay?" Donovan laughed. "But you are also a pretty unhappy one at the moment. Your parents' divorce. Pressure at school. No girlfriend. It's all gotten to you. You want to tell the world to fuck off! You want to tell Phil and your mother in particular that you've had it! You're going off on your own for a while! Maybe California. Maybe Mexico. Maybe the South Pacific. Who knows? You'll be in touch when you feel like it. So, how about it? Can you get into that?"

Donovan had widened his eyes, clearly startled by the idea.

He seemed at a loss for a moment, then said, "They'd never believe it. I mean, Mom wouldn't. I'm not unhappy. Really."

We will soon do something about that, AKA thought, but what he said was, "Of course you aren't. That's why the scenario. As I said, modeling is acting, and acting stretches you emotionally. It challenges you. Tests your limits. I want the next set of shots to capture two very different things as once, if possible: your delight at setting off, footloose and fancy free, but also the unhappiness you want to leave behind, the anger at the world you've been hiding from everyone. I know it's a challenge, but I also know you can do it."

Come on! AKA silently ordered. Fall for it the way you've fallen for everything else, kid!

Finally Donovan said, "Okay. But what do I wear?"

It took all of AKA's control not to burst into laughter. What does one wear indeed?

He gave Donovan a huge grin.

"Well, let's imagine it this way. You're back home having decided to leave, right? You've had a final soul-searching swim." AKA gestured to the Speedos the young man was wearing. "Now you want to make the fuck-you-I'm-off tape, dress in whatever you'd be likely to travel in, pack, and then get the hell away. How does that sound?"

Donovan pondered.

"I brought a new red-and-white-striped Ralph Lauren shirt Mom recently gave me and a pair of Banana Republic chinos." He pointed toward the suitcase. "And some neat Gucci loafers I bought in Rome last summer. How about that?"

"Terrific. But first the tape."

Donovan smiled.

"Yeah. First the tape." He carefully placed the machine on the bed and began to unwrap the cassette. "Hey, maybe this isn't such a stretch. I suddenly feel like traveling. How about that?"

"What can I say? Except that being footloose and fancy free does have its attractions."

AKA lifted the camera, poised to shoot.

"Is that why you never married?" Donovan asked. "I asked Phil about it and he just said you weren't the marrying type. I thought he might mean you were gay, if you wanna know"--a guilty smile graced the admission--"but Phil seemed to see what I was thinking and said, 'Now don't go and get the wrong idea. There's never been a man in my big brother's life either.'"

Good old Phil, AKA thought, momentarily lowering the camera. He's never considered that there might be other ways to have a man in one's life.

"No. No man. No woman," said AKA, meeting the boy's gaze. "Not on a permanent basis anyway. If you really want to know, Donovan, I'm pretty picky when it comes right down to it. Not many measure up. Sorry to seem like a snob, but there we are."

Donovan took the declaration very seriously.

"I understand completely," he said. "That's why I said what I said when we talked about girls at the restaurant that first time. There is no special one because that's just it. She has to be pretty special, and I haven't met her yet. When I have a relationship I want it to be permanent. Anyway," he continued as he popped the tape into the machine, "there's no rush. I've got plenty of time, right?"

"Right," AKA lied.

AKA was suddenly curious.

"I know guys don't ask normally each other this kind of thing, Donovan, but, given that I'm old enough to be your father but, instead, am just a well-wishing, if rather unlooked-for new older friend who thinks you are a pretty amazing young man, are you a virgin?"

Donovan glanced up, amusement filling his wonderful gray-green eyes.

"I didn't say that !" He laughed. "But I called a halt about year ago. Because just having sex for the sake of the sex finally didn't feel right. Not once I decided I really wanted that SPECIAL ONE. I know. It sounds corny. Old-fashioned. All that crap. But that's how I feel."

He straightened up. The tape was ready to go.

"So I've had my soul-searching swim. I've decided I need to be on my own for a while. Sort things out. Escape all the pressure. Maybe find that SPECIAL ONE. How long will I be gone? Who knows, right?"

I know, thought AKA.

"Right," he said, and once again raised the camera.

* * *

"Mom, Phil, Dad, this is going to take you by surprise, I know, but I can't help it." Click. "I've just got to go away for a while. How long? I don't know. Just don't come looking for me, okay? Respect my privacy the way I've respected yours." Click. Click. "What can I say? The world just isn't right for me at the moment. I need to sort things out. Be alone. I've got some money. I've got fake ID. I've even got a fake passport a kid from school got for me." Click. "I know I haven't seemed it, but I'm really unhappy, okay? Trust me. Just trust me and wait. When I come back, I'll be happy again. I promise. Goodbye." Click.

Donovan pressed the stop button--clack!--and stood up.

"So what do you think? How did that sound?"

AKA lowered the camera.

"That"--he said through his amazement--"was perfect."

You don't know HOW perfect! he silently amended.

* * *

AKA waited until Donovan bent over to step into a fresh new pair of boxer briefs before using the stun-gun.

A few minutes before, AKA had removed the tape recorder from the bed, then--while the boy stripped off his swimsuit and began to gather the clothes he wanted for the next sequence--he had dutifully carried the swimsuit to the bathroom and tossed it on top of the discarded jeans and T-shirt.

Once he was back in the bedroom, AKA had quietly pulled the stun-gun out of his back pocket and waited.

AKA had considered just asking Donovan to put on the handcuffs, of course. As part of a second "whacky little drama." And the kid might well have done it, given how gullible he had been about everything else. But AKA decided not to risk it. Donovan was clearly very naïve but not totally stupid. The kid might have suddenly put two and two together and made things difficult--or worse.

Thus, stun-gun in hand, AKA assessed his moment, moved forward, clutched the back of Donovan's neck with one hand, then pressed and fired into the middle of Donovan's exposed lower back with the other.

AKA knew from experience that it was easy to break the contact. The target could jerk. AKA could slip. At which point the stun-gun would crackle and flash like a dozen tiny firecrackers, and all could be lost. The target might still be able to resist, fight, flee. Thus, AKA leaned into Donovan, effectively shoving the already bent boy over onto the bed, falling with him as he fell.

Donovan didn't make a sound, of course. Which was one of the nicer features of the stun-gun. It somehow seemed to freeze the vocal cords along with most of the rest of the target's body.

So it was a totally silent Donovan who dropped forward, his body stiffening . . . stiffening, then sagging . . . sagging, in a matter of seconds turned into a noiseless, unresisting sack of human potatoes.

Nonetheless, AKA kept the gun pressed into the back even then. Experience had taught him that the longer the charge was delivered, the longer the target would be putty in his hands. Not that AKA needed a lot of time to do the next thing--cuff Donovan's hands behind his back--but it was always better to take no chances when unnecessary risks could so easily be avoided.

Only when AKA was certain--he waited for what was probably two full minutes--he jumped off and got the cuffs, which had been tucked out of sight amid the jumble of phony props and photo equipment in the corner.

Another nice thing about the stun-gun--which AKA had used a total of--what?--four times now--was that the target didn't lose consciousness. Not really. He might be as limp as a rag doll--as Donovan now was--but he was at least partly aware (however zapped his mind might be) that something badly, painfully paralyzing had occurred and that someone was responsible and that that wasn't good, that wasn't good at all.

Cuffs in hand, AKA turned back to the bed and saw just such an awareness in Donovan's wide, voltage-dazed eyes. Even so, the searing mind-fog the stun-gun had unleashed did not lift for another two minutes.

Even then, as it turned out, Donovan had trouble being coherent.

"Ahhhhh. Mmmmm," he protested.

Not that it really mattered, because by then AKA had begun to fuck him.

AKA had not intended to actually--not so soon, that is--but a lust as intense as any he had ever had swept through him as soon as he stood up to survey his newly cuffed captive. Blame it on the boy's great butt. Blame on his wonderful legs. Blame on the whole gorgeous seventeen-year-old package. Whatever the case, AKA was out of his clothes and into Donovan's ass--having sufficiently lathered his cock with the handy, nearby bottle of suntan lotion--before the kid even realized what was happening.

He realized WHILE it was happening.

"No! Please! Please! Don't do this!"

It was rather faint, but reasonably clear.

"But I AM doing it!" AKA hissed into the boy's perfect, pink right ear.

"Please, . Stop! Stop NOW!"

Louder this time.

AKA shoved in that much harder.

"No," AKA whispered.

His penis bumped across the lump-hard teenage prostate.

Again.

And then again.

And then again.

The boy groaned.

Fuck!

Fuck!

Fuck!

AKA's dick delved the depths.

Fuck!

Fuck!

Fuck!

Donovan sobbed.

Fuck!

Fuck!

Fuck!

Donovan sobbed louder.

At least the pleading has stopped, thought AKA as he buried himself up to the hilt in the boy's lush, tropical, fragrantly oiled ass.

Again.

And then again.

And then again.

AKA could feel the boy's fists tightly bunched up against his own belly as he pumped his cock in and out, in and out, in and out. He was once again reminded that none of his handcuffed or handtied victims--not one--had ever tried to use his hands to block the violently violating cock in his ass. It baffled AKA a bit. Donovan could easily have pushed his handcuffed hands down, tried to grip or otherwise prevent AKA's cock from doing what it was now doing, but, like all the others, the boy simply didn't.

AKA came. Once. Twice. Three times.

Or so it seemed, given the awesome triple shudder of his ejaculating spasm.

AKA gasped.

Once. Twice.

And then collapsed onto the inert body beneath him.

* * *

Both fish and guests are supposed to stink after three days, but Donovan, thanks to a shower a day perhaps, didn't. Not at all. Yes, there had been a couple of unpleasant things to deal with. There was a bad spell of diarrhea on the morning of the second day, for example. Fortunately, the new sheets weren't involved. The runs actually served to clean the boy out, making him easier to deal with—both physically and mentally. On the afternoon of the third day, the kid suffered a rather dramatic fit of the shakes and shivers, caused by what AKA suspected was a low-grade fever, but the problem was soon remedied by a few leftover antibiotic tablets AKA happened to have on hand. AKA actually fucked Donovan at the height of the fever, enjoying the additional tremors rippling through the kid's svelte, smooth, fever-damp body. There was the emotional crap to confront as well, of course. Especially at the beginning. The crying, the sobbing, the pleading. Soon after the first fuck, Donovan had resumed all three. "Why are you doing this?!" Wasn't it obvious? "Please don't kill me!! Just don't kill me, okay?!" Why not? "Not again!! Please, not again!!" Yes, again, as AKA flipped the boy over onto his stomach for his next fuck.

Donovan's anger was much to be preferred. "You goddamned motherfucker!! When I get loose, I'm gonna kill you, you goddamned motherfucker!!" A nice thought, but I wouldn't count on it, kid. "You put that in my mouth and I'll bite it off! I swear I will!! I'll bite it off!!" The boy hadn't, of course, the knife at his throat apparently being a fairly convincing deterrent.

All things considered, then, things went well. Donovan wasn't going to win first prize--that still went to the quiet, long-haired, loose-limbed busboy from that upscale restaurant AKA had taken Donovan to that first time--but he was very far from being the worst. That "honor" went to the skinny, red-haired, whining little twerp of a hitchhiker who had so irritated AKA that he lasted only one hour on the third floor, one hour being all AKA could take before offing the kid with his own dirty white T-shirt.

By the fourth day, Donovan had more or less settled in. There was still the occasional sob. There had been one fairly dramatic outburst. "You're going to rot in hell for this!! You hear me!! You're going to rot in hell!!" Yeah, tell me another one, thought AKA. But the boy soon more or less settled into the routine. A fuck in the morning. A fuck at night. If AKA was feeling like it, a midday blowjob. That was the basic pattern.

What was there to complain about? AKA reciprocated. For the blowjobs anyway.

As AKA had suspected, Donovan sported a more than acceptable dick. Elegantly long and lean like the boy himself, it was indeed a solid seven inches at full mast. As for the kid's cum? Well, it was as thick and rich and white as the whites of the extraordinary gray-green eyes.

The eyes alone troubled AKA. They had seemed to pierce to the back of AKA's skull the very first time they looked at him. They were all daggers now--smoldering weapons aimed directly at AKA's heart.

If looks could kill, AKA would be dead for sure!

AKA hated to admit it, but the look hurt. Enough so that AKA actually blindfolded the boy at one point on the second day, just to get some relief. But he soon took the blindfold off. AKA preferred to see and be seen. It was the only way to really tell what was going on in the victim's head, and knowing that was half the fun, right?

The handcuffs never came off. Securely locked, tight but not too tight, they were the restraint of choice. The boy's wrists soon looked like chopped liver, of course, given his repeated efforts to pull free. AKA finally had to bandage them, but he did not take the cuffs off.

Donovan spent most of the time on his stomach, his feet spread and tied to the bottom of the bed. AKA did untie him, of course, when the boy needed to be on his back. During the knife-to-the-throat cocksucking interludes, for example. But for the most part Donovan remained flat on his belly, his tightly roped feet pulled far apart, his cutely dimpled, porcelain-white ass exposed and ready for action whenever AKA felt the desire to plug it.

The kid was also gagged any time AKA was going to be out of the room. No use risking that the boy's cries--and he would have cried out--might be heard, even from the heights of the third floor.

The boy's car had been dealt with the first day, driven and then abandoned in that conveniently unmonitored parking lot AKA knew about near one of small local airports. AKA had rather a hike getting back home, but he had waited until dark and no one saw him. He was sure of it.

The tape Donovan had so helpfully made had been dealt with earlier. Using gloves, AKA had ejected it from the machine, placed it in a ziplock bag, and then, before Phil or Carolyn returned home, carefully slid it from the bag onto Phil's desk in his study, the house having been accessed by means of Donovan's own set of keys. AKA had propped the tape right-side-up on the middle of the desk in order to call attention to it, assuming that Phil would have the wit at some point to pop it into a player and listen.

It was days before AKA knew whether he had or hadn't. To be precise, it was not until late in the afternoon of Day Three that Phil called to say that Donovan had taken off--"Just like that! Up and left!"--and that he and Carolyn were trying to respect the boy's wishes and give him some time, some space, to sort things out, but what did AKA think?

Well, AKA thought that they were doing the right thing. Of course, he didn't really know Donovan, AKA stressed, but from the little contact they had had AKA had been deeply impressed with how mature Donovan seemed. No, he hadn't detected any depression or anger. Quite the contrary. The boy seemed unusually well-adjusted. Yes, the whole thing was very surprising. But, then, young people in AKA's experience were often deep-running still waters.

Phil never mentioned the tape, and AKA didn't bother to ask how he knew Donovan had skedaddled.

* * *

Donovan seemed to know early on that he was not going to allowed to go free.

"That's why you made me make that tape, isn't it? So they wouldn't go looking for me. Or not right away. So you'd have time to do all the sick shit you're doing to me."

Donovan was a bit breathless, having just tried to kick the "sick shit," as he called it, out of AKA. AKA would later have two nasty bruises on his chest to show for it. But AKA--who was a good fifty pounds heavier and far more muscular than Donovan--had soon regained control.

"Yes," AKA said as he prepared to plug the boy's butt again.

He sank in, the kid's well-lubed sphincter once again giving way to the invasion with relatively little difficulty.

Donovan gave a sharp gasp.

"You're not going to let me go, are you?" the boy asked as AKA began to pump.

"That's right," AKA replied. "You'd tell."

Then he bit--but not too hard--the back of Donovan's neck.

"I'm not the first one either, am I?"

"No, you're not the first one."

AKA bit the neck again, savoring the salty, sweaty taste of it.

"How many"--ugh, ugh--"how many have there been?"

AKA pumped.

"You'll make it"--pump--"31."

"God!"--ugh, ugh--"Oh God!"

"God"--pump, pump--"has nothing to do with it. Now shut up"--pump, pump--"and let me fuck."

* * *

No, Donovan wasn't going to win first prize--Prince Valiant, the lithe, long-haired busboy (having had that mysterious extra "something" AKA found hard to name) still had the edge--but by the time the sixth day of his captivity dawned Donovan was running a very close second. The fucks went truly wonderfully now. The sucks too. All way, way above average.

"You're good at that," AKA said after a particularly satisfying post-lunch blowjob.

"Fuck you!" Donovan said. He had not even bothered to try to spit out the cum this time.

Weakness might have had something to do with it, of course. Because the boy had not had any solid food since the first day. Plenty of fluids, yes. Water. Cokes. Milk. Regularly imbibed Slim-Fasts, lovingly held to the boy's mouth by AKA. But no solid food. As a result, Donovan's admirably tall, trim frame was thinner now. Not unpleasantly so. Yet. But definitely thinner.

AKA ran his hand down the cool, firm chest. Donovan was sitting up on the edge of the bed, his feet untied. He had no more energy for kicking. At the moment, anyway. Not that AKA was worried. He had managed the boy when he was stronger. There would be no trouble handling him now that he was weaker.

"You now hold the record," AKA said as reached and fondled the boy's genitals. Once again, the cock responded. Despite the boy's shame. Despite his on-going fear. Despite his deepening physical and emotional weakness.

AKA knelt and licked the top of the penis. The cock immediately jumped and elongated.

Amazing, just amazing! AKA thought, still surprised that a kid could get hard and cum--not once but any number of times--in such a situation. Only two had been completely unable to do so, but both had been borderline hysterics from the get-go. Disappointments in other ways as well.

"What record?" Donovan asked, his voice tired, flat, defeated.

AKA opened his mouth and went down on the cock.

The kid's thighs flexed, his legs straightened out from the bed.

AKA moved his hands down the legs, back up them to the boy's waist, around to his back as he engorged the seven long, lean satisfying inches to the hilt.

Donovan groaned in pleasure. It was not a pleasure he wanted, of course. There was no conversion to a new and exciting lifestyle in process here. AKA was no fool. The boy was being raped and he knew it, would never forgive it, and, if given the chance, would make sure AKA paid for it, but he responded to the pure physical pleasure of what was being done to him whether he wanted to or not.

Once again, the kid came rather quickly, another good, full, rich, savory mouthful.

AKA pulled free, licked his lips, and sat back, his hands on Donovan's knees.

Donovan had fallen back on the bed, his face toward the ceiling. He was breathing hard.

AKA said, "The record I was referring to was time kept. By me. Of somebody like you. Like this."

He stood up, looked down at the boy.

God! He was so beautiful! So fucking beautiful! Way too beautiful to live!

Which, of course, was how AKA explained his own behavior. Part of it anyway.

Donovan said nothing. It was not clear he had even heard.

"The record until now was five days. But I've now kept you for six."

Donovan still said nothing, although his breathing had eased, his face, relatively speaking, relaxed. His eyes were closed.

"You're not quite as good a fuck as that kid," AKA continued, "but you give better head, I'll say that for you."

"Fuck you," the boy more mouthed than said.

So he was listening.

"They're still not looking for you. Isn't that unbelievable?! I talked to Phil again yesterday, and he said they had decided to give you a week. Then they'd start looking. No police, though, you understand. Private detectives. That kind of thing. So I guess all that will get underway tomorrow. Your car's just where I left it, by the way. Like I said, unbelievable!"

A moment's silence.

"They never will find you, of course. Early on, I didn't care about that aspect of things one way or the other. I just left the boys where they fell, so to speak. Or dumped them wherever it happened to be convenient to dump them. Problem was, the police soon knew there was a serial killer on the loose. So I took advantage of some property on the river my parents bought. They left it to me. I still own it. I planted any number of kids out there for several years running. Not a one's ever been found. But there has been a lot of development out in that area in recent years, so, after moving here, I bit the bullet so far as disposal goes. That meant dismemberment. It wasn't easy, but I had it to do. You're going to be hotter than most. Rich and privileged. Family who will care. You really do have to vanish, and vanish completely."

Donovan's breathing had picked up again. His face was slowly reddening. He was certainly listening now.

"I hate blood. Guts. The whole messy inner-body business," AKA continued. "You have probably wondered why I haven't done anything to make you bleed in any way, right? Well, that's why. I hate that kind of thing. I really do. But like it or not, taking a kid apart is the only truly safe method of disposal. So, I'll fix myself a stiff drink or two and then cut you into pieces. Then gut what's left. The pieces will go into the bay on one of those solo late-night sails I told you I like to take. Your hands, your arms, your legs, your head, your torso--properly broken down, of course--they'll all end up fish-food. As for your innards--your heart, lungs, kidneys, liver, all that stuff--I'll wrap them up individually and put them out with the trash on alternate days. Keep them frozen until then. As for the guts themselves, I'll use them to fertilize the roses. I don't know if you noticed my roses when you drove up, but they have really taken off the last few years. I've already gotten rid of your clothes, by the way. I deposited them in a Goodwill bin on my way out to ditch your car. Some poor, no-account black kid's probably already wearing them by now. Oh, but I did keep that sexy swimsuit. And the pictures I took. Both those you posed for before I sprang my surprise and all those I've taken since. They're already on a disc. I'll be taking it out from time to time, popping it into the computer, and remembering. There will be the 'after' pictures too once the time comes, but they will be easy enough to add."

AKA was rather shocked at the ferocity of his own sadism. He had never let loose on a kid in quite this way before. "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." So the saying went.

Well, bullshit!

Because there was no question that AKA's words had hurt and hurt badly. Donovan's tightly closed eyes were streaming tears. His mouth was open, stretched wide, twisted in horror at the picture AKA had just painted. For the first time in his life perhaps, the boy actually looked ugly.

For one awful, black moment AKA felt guilt.

It loomed up, dark and menacing, like an almost palpable monster in the room.

No! AKA commanded.

He looked back down at Donovan's silently heaving body, at his tragically crumpled face and limp, provocatively exposed genitals, and repeated the command.

No!

The monster darkened, resisting the order.

AKA stepped forward, drew back his right fist, and then slammed it into the boy's groin, aiming directly for the plump pink balls.

"Aiiiiii!!!!" Donovan screamed, jerking his legs up.

AKA gripped him by the knee and flattened him back onto his back, then raised his fist and struck a second blow, directly on target again, but even harder this time.

Again and then again and then again AKA brought his fist down on the balls, on the cock, on the balls, on the cock, forced more than once to shove the boy's legs apart in order to land the fierce, hard-hitting blows.

By the time AKA finished, Donovan's groin was well on its way to being black and blue. His cock already looked bruised, and his balls were swelling fast, well on their way to becoming ugly, asymmetrical bags of crushed crimson tissue.

The monster had gone.

Donovan hiccupped, then convulsed. Blood suddenly oozed from his piss-hole.

"Shit!" said AKA and went to get piece of twine.

When he returned the boy was on his side, his knees drawn up foetal-fashion.

Once again AKA was forced to pry the legs apart and work the boy back onto his back. Mission accomplished, he got up on the bed and, facing the kid's feet, straddled Donovan's chest.

AKA wound the twine as tight as he could around the root of the genitals--once, twice--then up and around the cock alone for good measure, then, pulling for all the was worth, tied a knot at the base of the abused balls.

The oozing blood ceased as the constriction caused by the twine kicked in.

In less than a minute, Donovan's cock, filled with trapped blood, surged to its usual seven inches, then, the blood having nowhere else to go, bloated to twice its normal diameter as blue-black veins popped out along the congested shaft.

The battered balls continued to swell--they would soon be the size of small oranges if the process continued--but at least no more bloody emissions appeared.

AKA felt spent. He hated it when he lost control like that. Damn the boy!

He got off the bed, went to the foot, and once again spread and secured Donovan's long, lean, lightly haired legs.

He'd let the boy recover--as much as he could anyway--then prepare for the final event, the wonderfully inventive--at least, AKA thought so--offing of Donovan he had had planned from the start. That would require going to the basement, but it would clearly be a while before Donovan would be up to walking that far and AKA did not intend to carry him.

AKA didn't even bother to gag Donovan this time. He just left, needing some time to recuperate himself.

* * *

A good nap did the trick. AKA awoke feeling both refreshed and confident again. He turned over onto his side and looked at the bedside clock.

5 PM.

Okay.

Let the show begin.

Unlike AKA, Donovan appeared not to have slept at all. His eyes were wide open, his face full of strain and exhaustion.

"Well," said AKA, "the time has come, don't you think?"

Donovan tilted his head and looked directly at AKA. His wonderful eyes--slightly red from crying?--no longer pierced to the back of AKA's skull. Instead, they seemed to freeze to a halt as soon as they made contact with AKA's face.

Too bad, AKA thought. I had rather come to like the dagger-stare.

The sexily unshaved face had settled back into its handsome, high cheek-boned seventeen-year-old contours. There was no more ugliness now.

The body was still fabulous, the battered genitals alone marring the stunning perfection of shape and grace of form.

The bloated cock--now a red so red it was almost blue--pointed obscenely toward the ceiling. The swollen balls--now fat little blood-oranges, for sure--bulged out below it.

AKA untied the feet.

"Up you go," he commanded.

Donovan didn't move.

AKA was forced to go around, grip Donovan by the back of the neck, and hoist him into a sitting position. The kid was hot to the touch, fever once again having made an appearance, it seemed.

"Please," Donovan pleaded in a low, wracked voice. "One last time. Please, please don't do this. We can say I was kidnapped and you found me. Anything. Just . . . please don't kill me. I won't tell them you did it. I won't."

AKA ignored him.

"Up!"

AKA helped the boy swing his legs over the side of the bed.

Then he helped him stand.

For a moment, they stood leaning against each other. It felt almost brotherly, affectionate.

Then Donovan pulled away.

AKA felt a flash of anger, but pushed it down.

Donovan had to fight to keep his balance, but he managed, his blood-engorged cock bobbing absurdly in front of him. He took a deep breath, then a step forward, then another, the ridiculous cock dancing in the air each time.

AKA caught him by the arm, both to control and direct.

Donovan let him.

They slowly made their way out of the room and started down the stairs.

Each step seemed to cause Donovan pain, but he at least no longer seemed in danger of losing his balance.

He turned to look at AKA as they reached the second-floor landing.

"Why? You've at least got to tell me why!"

"Why you in particular or why this at all?"

They started down the next flight of stairs.

"Why this at all? I'm not gay, but a lot of young guys are. Why couldn't you just meet somebody and fall in love and have a relationship? I don't understand it."

"Neither do I," AKA replied.

"I don't believe you. You're an intelligent man. You're a handsome man. You have a career. People like you. Nobody would ever believe this, right?"

"Right."

"So why do it? Forget the risks. Why do it at all? What's the point?"

"The point," AKA answered, "is the pleasure of it. It's like no other in the world. At least, not for me."

"That's no answer," Donovan shot back. "You know that's no answer. Why should it give you such pleasure? That's what I don't understand."

AKA was silent.

"Is it the power trip? Having such power over life and death? That must be part of it."

"Yes," AKA replied. "That's part of it, I guess."

They reached the first floor.

The stairs faced the front door. Donovan eyed the door longingly, futilely.

AKA attempted to turn Donovan toward the back of the house, but Donovan resisted.

He continued to stare at the door.

"My whole life's on the other side of that door," he said. "Please. Let me go out and live it."

AKA kept a firm grip on the arm.

"No," he said.

"But"--the voice broke--"I'm only seventeen!"

"And too beautiful to live," AKA murmured.

"Too beautiful to live?"

AKA was silent.

"Is that it? You hate . . . hate . . . that I . . . that I'm good-looking?"

"I love how you look," AKA responded and tugged at the arm.

"But you're jealous? Are you jealous or something?"

"Or something," AKA agreed.

He pulled, and Donovan stumbled forward.

They resumed their progress.

"Did somebody do something like this to you? Is that it?"

"No. Never," AKA said. It was true.

"I just don't understand. I just don't understand."

They proceeded through the dining room and into the kitchen.

Donovan's bare feet squeaked on the recently waxed floor.

"Did guys tease you? You know, call you names? Stuff like that? When you were my age? Is that why you hate me? Us?"

"That's probably part of it too," AKA admitted, once again impressed by Donovan's insightfulness. "I was teased. I did hate it. Was hurt by it. But I also loved to look at the guys who did it. I loved to fantasize about them. Imagine doing things to them. Having them do things to me. Not bad things necessarily. But then something happened. I killed a kid my age. My only friend, actually."

They had reached the door to the basement. AKA opened it.

"But accidentally," Donovan offered, stiffening at the top of the stairs. "You didn't mean to, right?"

"Oh, but I did. I wanted to kill Derrick badly--I mean, really badly--and I did. I was lucky, though. Everybody thought it was a kinky autoerotic thing that Derrick had done to himself. No one ever dreamed it was murder. I didn't even understand that that's what they thought at the time, of course. I just knew they didn't suspect me. I was only fourteen."

AKA pushed Donovan forward, and he began to descend the stairs with AKA holding onto him from behind.

"God. Oh, god," Donovan murmured as they went down.

"There are only the Dark Gods," AKA said.

The basement of AKA's house was in three sections. The front two continued the usual stuff--a washing machine, dryer, water heater, furnace. The rear section, where AKA and Donovan were headed, was different.

Accessed by a narrow, cement-block passageway--the door to which was usually kept locked--it featured a big, badly stained, six-by-four-foot butcher's block at one end, and an equally big, and relatively new, storage freezer at the other.

What AKA did on the one, he housed (at least temporarily) in the other.

A locked metal cabinet to the right of the table contained the saws and knives AKA had bought once he decided he had to make at least some of the bodies disappear, whether he liked what that meant or not.

The room's hard concrete floor sloped toward a large floor-drain located in the very center. A length of hose hung nearby for washing down it whatever needed washing down.

"God. Oh, god," Donovan repeated as they made their way in.

AKA nodded toward the butcher's block. "That's where I'll take you apart." He nodded toward the freezer. "And that's where I'll temporarily store whatever needs storing."

"This can't be happening. This can't be happening."

AKA walked Donovan to the center of the room and stood him over the drain.

It was only then that Donovan seemed to notice the rope dangling from the solid steel hook in the ceiling.

He brushed against the rope as AKA positioned him above the drain.

"Rope?"

AKA reached up and seized the rope and began to loop it about Donovan's head.

"Yes, rope," AKA confirmed.

"You're going to hang me?"

AKA pulled the rope tight but not too tight, then tied a relatively simple noose knot.

"Well," he said, "not exactly."

Having finished the knot, AKA stepped back to admire his handiwork.

"This deserves a picture too, don't you think?"

Before Donovan could comment, AKA had left the room.

He was gone much longer than Donovan thought he would be. It was a good twenty minutes in fact before he reappeared--completely naked, carrying a stiff bourbon-and-water in one hand and an expensive, newly purchased camera in the other.

He held the camera up for Donovan to see.

"I tried a number of the cameras I rented for our first session and liked this kind the most. Digitalized and disc-ready and all that other the-latest-in-technology shit. No need to go anywhere to have anything incriminating developed, the biggest plus. The whole business can be taken care of right in the privacy of your own home. Neat, huh?"

"Neat" had been one of Donovan's favorite words, but it had been a while since he had used it. AKA now used it for him.

AKA took a big swallow of the drink and then placed in on the butcher's block.

Lifting the camera, he began to focus.

"I would have been back sooner, but the phone rang while I was upstairs. Phil again. Somebody finally took note of your abandoned car. The thinking now is that you arranged to fly out of the little airport that's nearby. Where to and with whom? they're now wondering, of course." Click. "Phil seemed almost relieved." AKA moved in order to get a different angle on Donovan. Click. "Says they've decided to put off even getting detectives at this point. Your father's idea apparently. He thinks you should be given another week. Then if they still haven't heard from you, they'll all confer again and decide what to do." Click. "They won't, of course. Hear from you, that is. By then, you'll be long gone. I should have the last pieces out of here by--what's today? Wednesday?--by Tuesday"--click--"at the latest." AKA focused the lens on Donovan's swollen genitals. Click. Click. "Those I'll just put down the garbage disposal later today. You'd be surprised how easily they slice off and grind up." He walked around behind Donovan, focused on the boy's beautiful back and butt, and clicked again. "But I think there is time for one last fuck, don't you?" Click. Click.

AKA returned to the butcher's block, put the camera down and picked the bourbon up. He took a swig. Then another swig. Then replaced the drink and walked back over to Donovan.

He had begun to massage his cock, which, despite the recent demands put on it, hardened soon enough.

"I'll do this slow and easy," he said as he came around behind Donovan. "You need to help, however, or that noose-knot will kill you. Too much moving around and you'll be dead. Understand?"

If Donovan did, he didn't say so, but he managed despite the unavoidable heft of AKA's initial penetration to maintain his stance pretty well. No serious stress was put on the noose at all.

AKA encircled the boy's body with his arms and, as he had promised, proceeded to enjoy as slow and as easy a fuck as he had perhaps ever had in his life.

"Oh baby!" he murmured into the back of the Donovan's head, inhaling the fresh natural male hair smell as he slowly heaved and withdrew, heaved and withdrew, heaved and withdrew.

He let his hands wander down Donovan's chest, across his now thinner, tightly flexed abdomen, to the outrageously enlarged cock and balls.

AKA gripped and squeezed the balls, but not too violently.

The slow easy pumping continued, built, and--at last--exquisitely, with a prolonged shuddering release of pleasure, climaxed.

"Ahhhhhh," AKA sighed as the last slippery, slavvery shudder subsided.

"You have been a fabulous fuck," he said as he pulled away. "A really unbelievably fabulous fuck. I'm very sorry to see it end. I really am."

Returning to the butcher's block, AKA took another big swig of his drink.

Leaning back, the glass in his hand, AKA looked at Donovan who, his face fixed stonily forward, did not return the look.

Time passed. AKA finished his drink. Neither spoke.

Inevitably, as the minutes ticked by, the boy was forced to move a bit, shift his feet, flex his legs, scrunch and stretch his shoulders and arms. They were all getting rather stiff, given how little exercise he had had the last few days, a problem now compounded by the highly limited range of movement the rope allowed him.

Finally, Donovan spoke.

"Just do it, okay. I don't give a fuck anymore. Just do it. Hang me if that's what you're going to do. Just get it over with, for God's sake!"

AKA tilted a piece of ice into his mouth and sucked on it.

After a minute, he spit it back into the glass and said, "I've done all I plan to do. That's it."

For the first time in a while, Donovan turned his head to look at him.

A fragile, disbelieving gleam of hope shone in the once again piercing gray-green eyes.

"You're not going to kill me?"

AKA shook his head.

"No. I'm not."

The boy could hardly take it in.

"You're not going to kill me?" he repeated, astounded now, although the look in his eyes remained warily fearful.

AKA shook his head again.

"No." He paused for effect. "You're going to kill yourself."

Confusion instantly replaced the flickering flare of hope in Donovan's eyes.

"Kill myself?"

"Right."

"But I would never . . . ."

AKA sniffed.

"But you will."

"I don't understand."

AKA smiled and stood up.

"You will." He looked down at the empty glass, then held it up for Donovan to see. "I think I need a refill, don't you?"

* * *

It took Donovan three hours to figure it out because that's how long it took for him to become so uncomfortable, so weary, so distressed by the position he was forced to maintain by virtue of the noose around his neck that the truth finally dawned.

The noose was plenty loose. There was no danger of it suddenly tightening and doing its job. Donovan would have to make an effort to hang himself. Or, more to the point, cease to make an effort. Because as long as he remained awake and standing, he was safe. As long as muscle cramps didn't cause him to fall or exhaustion make him lose consciousness, he would live. If he lost control of the muscles that kept him on his feet, however, he would die. If he fell asleep or fainted, he would also die.

It took him three hours to see it because it took three hours for the muscles in his legs, in his back, in his shoulders, in his arms, and in his neck to begin to ache, protest, and suffer bigtime.

AKA had wondered if it would be a tedious business. He was prepared, if necessary, to end the whole charade by simply kicking the boy's legs out from under him. But it was not tedious. It was not tedious in the least.

Nothing he had ever done was so brilliantly malicious, AKA decided.

Donovan had been weakened by his sickness and captivity, but he was, after all, a lean, superbly fit seventeen-year-old. He was also a boy with a fair amount of character. He marshaled every bit of it in an effort to stay awake and standing. It was an impressive performance, AKA had to admit.

In the end, six amazing hours passed before the first real stumble occurred.

Donovan and AKA had long ceased to talk. What else was there to say? Surely nothing.

AKA had come and gone, continuing to drink--but not so much as to befuddle his wits and so spoil his appreciation of what was happening. By the end of the fifth hour, however, AKA could see that the kid couldn't last much longer, so he stayed put, having brought down a comfortable chair so that he could sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. He had even popped some popcorn and eaten it.

"Like some?" he had asked Donovan, but the boy had ignored him.

It was the left leg that gave way.

Donovan dropped, the noose gripped his throat, his legs flailed in an effort to find solid ground, managed to do so, and he was back on his feet, shocked and gasping.

And still alive.

He looked straight at AKA, the look no longer daggers, but full of defiant rejection.

DESPITE WHAT YOU JUST SAW, I WILL NOT DO WHAT YOU WANT, the look said.

The boy was also hoping--AKA could tell he was--that some amazing, unexpected chance would save him yet. Some unexpected caller might arrive who would somehow become aware of his predicament and alert the authorities. Some suddenly discovered fact about AKA would arouse suspicion and bring the police running. Some accidental sighting of him, Donovan, as he drove to AKA's that very first day might finally cause Phil and his mother to realize where he really was.

Something!

But there was nothing.

Only a second stumble about twenty minutes later.

This one was more serious.

It seemed to take forever for the kid to get his feet back under him.

By the time he did, his face had gone scarlet, his eyes had become dazed, and his breathing had been reduced to a ragged, rasping rendition of its former self.

Donovan did not look at AKA this time. He had ceased, AKA was sure, to look at anything. Everything he was, was focused in on himself, on his will to live, on his desire to stay awake and on his feet, on his hope for some wild, unlikely rescue.

Three strikes and you're out? AKA wondered.

Which is what it turned out to be.

Even so, it took another thirty minutes for the final drop to occur.

This time, AKA could see, it was the boy's mind, not his body, that betrayed him. Yes, the legs had begun to tremble. The arms and torso, too. But there was no question that it was the mind that gave way the third and final time.

It shut down. Just for a moment. But that was all it took.

Donovan's legs immediately splayed, flailed, tried to right themselves, even as the rope dug irretrievably--deep--down--into his neck, stretching the head violently up and to the left in the process.

In seconds, the boy's tongue was poking through his perfect white teeth, but still he flailed, struggled, his breathing--if that's what it was--a garish, guttural, animalistic counterpoint to the disorganized, spastic motions of the desperately jerking legs.

The face darkened.

The distended tongue inflated.

The guttural gasping stopped.

But still Donovan strained to stand up.

Unbelievably, he finally managed to get his right foot in place and push up on it. Unfortunately, he was forced to use the tautness of the rope to do so. By the time his left foot found its parallel footing, his windpipe was completely closed.

Even so, for a moment, the boy stood there, as if survival, defiance, something might still be possible.

Then, as if he was going to kneel, Donovan's knees slowly sagged forward, and he sank down for the last time.

What with the rope, of course, he didn't drop far.

His knees splayed, thereby giving the grotesquely enlarged genitals even more prominence than they had had.

The slim neck stretched.

The tilted face darkened.

Whatever light was left in the no longer piercing gray-green eyes went out.

A big bubble of blood gathered in one nostril, popped, and was gone.

AKA came even as it happened.

* * *

The "after" pictures were soon added to the rest.

As AKA had promised, Donovan's genitals were severed and then ground down the kitchen garbage disposal later that same day. The roses were dutifully fertilized the next. The midnight sail served its important purpose the succeeding night. While the last of the inner-body parts did in fact go out with the trash by the following Tuesday.

There was finally a search, of course. Detectives were called in. As were the police eventually.

There was some confusion about the tape, AKA learned. "There's all this clicking on it," Phil reported. "While Donovan is talking. They say it sounds like a camera, but who would have been taking pictures while Donovan made the tape?"

AKA had felt a chill run down his spine. Had he done something that would put the authorities on the right track somehow?

But time passed, and nothing came of it.

By then, of course, Donovan was long gone. His disappearance was a mystery that would apparently never be solved. Just as AKA had intended.

Yes, the risks had been many, but AKA had triumphed over all of them.

As the succeeding weeks passed, AKA would occasionally get out the swimsuit and jack off in it. He would occasionally pop the disc into his computer and revisit the whole amazing episode.

But Donovan eventually receded as an object of interest.

After a few months, even Carolyn and Phil seemed to get bored with it all.

Carolyn was soon her former classy self again. Yes, she was sometimes haunted in the night, according to Phil. She would wake up crying, wondering yet again what had happened to her beautiful only son. But Phil would once again console her and she would once again go back to sleep, to awake more or less rested and ready for her next busy Rich Matron's day.

Finally, autumn having come and his interest having waned entirely, AKA drove to the same Goodwill Store he had used to get rid of Donovan's other clothes in order to dispose of the cum-stiffened swimsuit.

A fairly nice-looking black boy was skateboarding out front.

It took AKA a second to recognize the red-and-white-stripped Ralph Lauren shirt Donovan had planned to wear that fateful first and last afternoon of modeling, but there was no question that the black boy was wearing that very shirt--now a bit faded, of course, but unmistakably good goods still.

AKA deposited the swimsuit into the big outdoor bin, turned, smiled, and waved.

The black boy, a friendly kid--maybe fourteen, maybe fifteen, and rather tall for his age--smiled and waved back.

AKA walked over to speak to him.

After all, he had always wanted to know more about skateboarding, hadn't he?

THE END