|
Criminal Behavior by JH Suck
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
From kaiwan.kaiwan.com!rahul.net!a2i!bug.rahul.net!a2i!genmagic!sgigate.sgi.com!swrinde!cs.utexas.edhowland.reston.ans.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!uunet!in1.uu.net!prodigy.com!usenet Wed Aug 16 19:2:9 1995
Path: kaiwan.kaiwan.com!rahul.net!a2i!bug.rahul.net!a2i!genmagic!sgigate.sgi.com!swrinde!cs.utexas.e!howland.reston.ans.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!uunet!in1.uu.net!prodigy.com!usenet
From: [email protected] (J Hill)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: "Criminal Behavior Part 1" (m/m)
Date: 7 Aug 1995 23:38:31 GMT
Organization: Prodigy Services Company 1-800-PRODIGY
Lines: 200
Distribution: world
Message-ID: <[email protected]>
NNTP-Posting-Host: inugap2.news.prodigy.com
X-Newsreader: Version 1.2
Xref: kaiwan.kaiwan.com alt.sex.stories:83652
Criminal Behavior
by JH
Suck in your gut, I tell myself, and I inhale deeply, flexing my abs to
show a little definition. Jesus, I hope I'm doing this right. I shoot a
glance into the mirror above my dresser, and the guy that glares back,
lit up by the light of two amyl scented candles, looks bad enough. The
candle flames flicker, dancing off the metal studs in my body harness and
giving the black leather of my boots an evil sheen. Yeah, evil. That's
the word. I say it again, feeling my mouth stretch back for the "E", my
teeth bite into my lower lip for the "vil". I eye-fuck my reflection
with a new heat on, and for a moment there, a split second, the fantasy
doesn't seem so contrived. A whiff from the candles sets a pulse in my
head thumping, and my cock, which was sinking down to half-mast, rallies
into a new hardness.
I check out Roger, who is groveling at my feet, off in his own little
world of humiliation. He's got on a studded dog collar, handcuffs, and
leg irons. The dim light gleams off his double-ball tit clamps and the
chrome chain that links them; it makes an interesting play of shadows on
his back as he squirms on the patch of carpet in front of me.
"Interesting play of shadows". Hell! I sound like I'm looking at a
photo exhibit in the Museum of Modern Art. I've got to quit slipping out
of the fantasy. Okay...okay...Roger's hand inches forward and touches my
left boot. When I don't kick it away, he gets bolder and begins nuzzling
his face against the leather. Like Tiger, I think. When she wants to be
fed. He's acting just like my damn cat. I think of kitty B&D, and it
takes everything I've got to keep from snickering.
Roger looks up at me, an expression of exaggerated adoration on his face.
But when I just return his stare, doing nothing, his eyebrows pull down
in irritation. Damn it, I must have missed another cue. I jerk my foot
away.
"You putrid faggot," I growl. "Did I tell you that you could slobber
all over my boots?"
"Please, Sir," Roger whimpers, gratified. "let me clean them for you."
He begins licking my boots with quick, short jabs of his tongue, and
again I'm reminded of Tiger lapping up milk from her bowl. I clench my
teeth and try to will myself back into the mood. But the more I strain
for it, the more it slips through my fingers. Roger looks like such a
jerk down there. There's no way I can go through with this.
I clear my throat, wondering what the best way is to say what I'm about
to say. I know I'm on shaky legal ground here. I almost laugh at that
thought. Shaky, my ass. What I'm contemplating here is a possible
felony. And my record is bad enough as it is. All things considered,
it'd be better just to play this scene out to the end...
But I just can't. I'm so damned tired. The unfinished part of this
fantasy with Roger stretches out in front of me like the Mojave Desert.
It was a mistake for me to have set this in motion, but then, what choice
did I have? On my desk in the living room is a blue slip of paper with
the City of San Francisco letterhead on top. "Our records indicate that
you are two weeks behind in your fantasy quota. Won't you please correct
this oversight (with proper verification from your partners)? Thank you
for your prompt attention to this matter."
My only salvation from this mess depends upon my ability to win over
Roger's good will.
"Um, Roger," I say, my voice so full of false heartiness that I sound
like a snake-oil salesman. "Can we call time-out for a second?"
Roger jerks his head up in surprise, and there's nothing submissive in
the glare he gives me. "Look," I continue, making my voice reasonable.
"Why don't we skip all this and just have some nice, uncomplicated sex
instead?" I watch nervously as the expression on Roger's face shifts
from shock to outrage, and I hurriedly add, "Baby, I'll make sure you
have a good time."
"What the fuck is this?" Roger snarls, and I know I'm in for it now.
"Get back on your belly, you worthless whore," I rap out.
But the damage is done. Roger struggles to his feet and confronts me
with murder in his eyes. "Unlock me!"
"Roger..."
"Unlock me, you son of a bitch!"
What else can I do? I walk over to where my pants lie on the floor, and
fish my key ring out of the back pocket. I open my mouth to say something,
but the look on Roger's face shuts me up. I meekly bend over and unlock
Roger's handcuffs and leg irons.
"Everything was going great," Roger sputters. "And you had to screw
things up." He almost chokes on his rage. When he gets like this, he
starts spraying little flecks of saliva with every word. "You killed the
fantasy!" he screams.
I wipe his spit from my face. "Everything wasn't going great. It was
all wrong. In fact, it sucked."
Roger's face turns dark red and a vein in his left temple begins to
throb. He looks like he's about to have a stroke. I should be so lucky.
"You're going to pay," he gasps. "You're going to suffer for this."
I think dispassionately of taking one of the steel based lamps from the
table and beating his brains out. Then I think about this with somewhat
less dispassion. Actually, it would be a very easy thing to do. It's
late at night, and I stand a good chance of sneaking Roger's body down to
the garage below without being seen. A twenty minute car ride to the
Golden Gate Bridge and Roger will have been swept out by the tide before
anyone even notices he's missing.
But before I can do anything more than briefly entertain this thought,
offer it a beer, so to speak, Roger has stormed out of the apartment,
slamming the door behind him.
Next morning, routine makes its presence felt. It speaks time,
reminding me that this is the time I get up and dress myself for work. I
give in to it. I stagger over to the closet, grab whatever my hand first
touches, and put it on. I know I'm mixing my fantasies badly: a
football jersey combined with fringed, buckskin breeches and the steel-
toed shoes of a construction worker. I don't have it in me to care. Ten
minutes later I'm out the door and in another five minutes I'm on the
street corner, waiting for my bus.
It arrives. I climb aboard and push through the rush-hour crowd of
passengers: the leather boys, the lumber jacks, the varsity jocks, the
gold lame, sequined queens. I can feel the hands grope my ass, but I
ignore them and plow through to the relative openness of the rear.
Two blocks later, a cowboy gets on, wearing a ten gallon hat with enough
feathers on it to have plucked naked at least a dozen pheasants. He
moves to the rear too, and it's just a matter of minutes before he's
going through the whole eye-fucking bit with me. I make a conscious
effort to appear unconscious of him, but this only piques his need for a
response. With the inevitability of a law of nature, I soon feel his
hand rubbing my crotch.
If he expects to find a nine inch rod of steel, he's in for a
disappointment. I'm as far from getting a hard-on as I've ever been. I
keep on looking at a point six inches to the left of his head, hoping
he'll go off and search for other little dogies to rope. But damn if he
doesn't begin to unzip my fly with one hand and fumble with my belt
buckle with the other. Either he can't resist a challenge or he's a
closet necrophiliac.
I seize his wrists and shove his hands away. "Look," I say, "I'm not
interested." The cowboy glares at me and moves on, his body bristling
with righteous indignation. The other passengers around me regard me with
curdled expressions, as if I had just puked on a salad bar. I know I'm
guilty of atrocious manners, but I couldn't give a damn. I'm now the
leper of the bus, and nobody else bothers me for the rest of the ride to
work.
I walk into the building lobby, past the concession stand where Eddie,
the blind war veteran, sells his stock of dildos, French ticklers, and
other rubber goods. I catch the elevator just as the doors are closing,
and get off at the seventeenth floor, where I work. Janet, the
receptionist, quickly takes in my mismatched outfit and greets me with a
disapproving nod of her head. Her own fantasy today is a little hard to
attach a label to, all metal and colored plastic, with blinking lights
threaded through her hair. "Intergalactic Space Slut" most closely
describes it.
I make a beeline to my desk, avoiding any encounters that could lead
into a conversation. I want to ask Rose, my secretary, if she's finished
with the letter I gave her to type yesterday afternoon. But today she's
a dominatrix, with a bull whip and a black hood with zippered slots for
her eyes and mouth. I give the idea up. She'd only make me beg and
grovel for my letter, and I just don't have the heart for that right now.
I sit down and numbly begin sorting through the papers on my desk.
At ten o'clock, Francine, the refreshment lady, comes into the office,
rolling in front of her the cart full of assorted aphrodisiacs, sexual
toys, lubricants, and fantasy costume props. This marks the beginning of
the morning break. The other office workers get up and crowd around the
cart. After they've made their purchases they head out, laughing and
chattering, to the office play pens and orgy rooms. I would like nothing
better than to just sit here at my desk and not be bothered, but fantasy
breaks are mandatory. I get up and shuffle towards the office john with
as much enthusiasm as a man on his way to get a root canal.
When the bell rings, signifying the end of the break, it takes all the
energy I can muster to rise and return to my desk.
I'm a few minutes late, but nobody notices. All eyes are turned to the
reception area, where two police officers are in quiet conference with
Janet. She nods and stares at them with wide eyes, the lights in her
hair now blinking like a computer console gone berserk. They all turn
their heads in unison and look at me. My heart is going bathump, bathump,
like a flat tire on a Chevy van, and my throat constricts to the point
that I can hardly breathe. That son-of-a-bitch Roger must have turned me
in. The cops start heading towards me now in a loose, casual stride,
their arms swinging easily at their sides. They are both wearing the
tender smile of a bridegroom approaching the marriage bed.
I back away slowly, my eyes darting over to the right, where the door to
the stairwell is. The shorter of the two cops sees this and his smile
widens into an pitiful grin. He nods his head gently and pats the handle
of his gun. I can feel my knees turn rubbery; my legs give out
completely. The cops continue approaching me with the easy inevitability
that a pet store boa shows towards a rat thrown into its cage at feeding
time.
"We have a warrant for your arrest, Larson," the tall cop says. He
reads me my rights, the words pouring out of his mouth in a fast, clipped
monotone. When he is done, he stares at me with eyes that show as much
emotion as two ball bearings.
"What are the charges?" I finally manage to ask. I see that my hands
are trembling, and put them down in my lap.
"Hands on the desk!" the shorter cop barks. I instantly obey. The
whole office is staring at the three of us, caught up in this exciting
drama. Janet watches from the reception room doorway, ignoring the
lights on the telephone switchboard, which are now blinking as furiously
as those on her head.
The shorter cop draws himself up theatrically and announces in a loud
voice, "You are being held in violation of penal code 5104c, willful and
malicious destruction of fantasy." The room fills with a mummer of
voices. The cop, in his element now, glares at me with contempt.
"Getup!" he snarls. Before I can obey, he yanks me out of my seat, whips
out a pair of handcuffs and shackles my hands behind my back. The metal
digs into my skin, and my fingers begin to turn numb from lack of blood.
"Uh, masochism isn't one of the fantasies I'm registered under at City
Hall," I say politely, and, after a surly pause, he reluctantly lets the
cuffs out a couple of notches. The other cop prods the small of my back
with his night stick, and the three of us march through the throng of
workers and out into he waiting elevator.
I think I've been here for about five or six hours. There are no windows,
and they've taken away my watch along with the rest of my valuables, so
there's no way I can tell for sure. One thing I do know is that this
sure doesn't crack up to the prison fantasies dreamed of outside. But
maybe I'm being denied that because of the nature of my crime. They
wouldn't want an old spoil sport around, ruining the fun and games of the
other prisoners.
??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
? Brought To You By: Head's Up BBS (909) 681-3721 (2400-19200) ?
? ?
? * Over 15,000 GIF Files * Over 2,000 Text Files * ?
? * Original Scans * HOT Message Areas * 7 Day Free Test Drive * ?
? ?
? All Interests: Straight, Oral, Anal, Bi-Sexual, Lesbian, ?
? Gay, Transexual, Bondage, Discipline, ?
? Toys, Odd Things, ORIGINAL SCANS!, MORE!!!! ?
? ?
? Come Join The Best BBS in Southern California! ?
??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
|
|
