Chapter 8
It was early evening as Dean sped south toward San Diego and the refuge of Mexico beyond. He had stopped only long enough to eat a quick meal in Los Angeles with Mandy. The singer had invited him to stay on for awhile at her house, which she shared with several luscious young girl friends, but he had politely declined the invitation, promising to stop back the next time he was in Los Angeles. Dean was saddened by the realization that he might never really be able to return without fearing for his life or at least his freedom. He flipped on the headlights, wishing he had a radio to keep him company. It was the first time he had ever felt so alone.
He passed through Customs in the dead of night. The officials subjected him only to a routine search, and he was relieved that the delay with Mandy had apparently not mattered. The police obviously did not have a bulletin on him. He wondered if Eva's body had even been found yet.
In Tijuana, he found an all-night money-changing office where he converted his cash into Mexican currency. At the exchange rate of twelve pesos to the dollar, he left the office carrying more paper money than he had ever held in his life. The huge quantity of bills gave him a feeling of security and confidence, and he set out to look for a comfortable hotel.
The building he chose was on a side street near the center of town. He walked through the ornate, deserted lobby and found the clerk asleep in a wicker chair behind the desk. He succeeded in rousing the short, dark man only long enough to get a room key and a muttered explanation of the rates. Dean signed the register with a fictitious name and mounted the huge staircase to find his room, leaving the clerk to his rest.
The room was small, and had undoubtedly seen better days, but at least it was clean and boasted a double bed. Dean deposited his coat and satchel on a chair near the door. Too exhausted to bother cleaning himself up, he stripped off his clothes and surrendered gratefully to the bed's soft embrace. Within moments, he was sound asleep.
That night, Dean's body rested well, but his mind did not. He dreamed that he was lying on his back, spread-eagled on a cold stone slab. He tried to move his hands and feet, but found that his wrists and ankles were secured to the stone by steel bands. Looking around, he saw that he was on a beach near San Francisco, the very beach where he had left Eva to die the night before. The stone slab was actually the top of an altar-like platform, raised several feet above the sand. It was twilight, and a cold ocean wind played over his naked body, raising goose bumps on the exposed skin.
Suddenly, torches flared up all around him, and he found himself encircled by shadowy human forms, their faces barely discernible in the flickering light. One by one, the figures approached and stood beside him for a moment, as if to identify themselves. There were Sheila, Marty, John Thomas with his lover, Bruce, Angie, Mario, and most surprising of all, Dean's mother. There were others who remained in the circle without coming forward, and whose faces he could not see clearly. Those who did come near were silent, but their eyes glared accusingly into his. Finally, the circle was complete again, except for his mother. She stood there beside him, a lush-bodied woman with full, rounded curves and thick, dark hair. Then she addressed the people in the circle, slowly turning as she spoke in order to face them all.
"You know," she intoned in a steady, intense voice, "that my son has been a bad boy. Although I raised him with kindness, patience and love, he has grown to be not a man, but a monster. Yes," she hissed, regarding him with a hard glance, "a monster of selfishness. Each of you here has felt the cold touch of his greediness upon your lives. It is my unfortunate duty to decree that he should be summarily punished for his wrongdoings here, this very night." An ominous murmuring of approval welled up from those in the circle, as if issuing from one throat.
"But first," the woman continued, "it is only fair that each of you who so desires should take what gratuitous pleasure you can from him, as some compensation for that which was taken from you." The murmuring swelled again from the communal throat; this time it was louder and more frightening. With that, she melted back into the circle. Then, one by one, they began to come forward.
Sheila was the first. Standing beside the altar upon which Dean lay bound, she smoothly removed her clothing, apparently unabashed before the others. Then, as if by way of explanation, she spoke to those around her. "This man," she said bitterly, "used me, as he has used others. He courted my favor and affection only as a means to advance his career, without any thought of giving of himself." Here she began to massage Dean's cock, which was springing to erection despite his apprehension. "I shall," she continued, "ride him as one rides a horse, so that he shall know such indignity as he has caused others to suffer."
When she had finished speaking, Sheila mounted the pedestal and straddled Dean, moving up until her cunt was directly over his mouth. "Eat me!" she commanded. "Get me turned on and juicy, lover-boy!" Dean knew it was useless to think of not complying. Perhaps he might get off easily if he went along with this terrible joke, he thought. So he raised his mouth slightly to meet Sheila's descending cunt. The pungent odor washed over him as he began to lick the fleshy slit. Several times, he thrust his tongue deep into her hot hole, bringing it upward along the lips to her swelling clitoris. He sucked and nibbled at the sensitive protrusion until the juices ran freely into his mouth and over his chin. Finally, she seemed satisfied that she was sufficiently aroused, and she moved back until she was directly over his twitching member. She then impaled herself on it, but so slowly that Dean who, in spite of himself, was quite aroused shuddered with sensual delight at the tantalizing contact. He felt her lips pass tightly over the edge of the head and down the shaft until she was completely gorged' with his sex. Then she began to rock back and forth over him, supporting herself with her hands on his shoulders. Her motions gradually increased in tempo until Dean felt as if his whole body were ready to burst. Then they came together, but
Dean almost forgot his orgasm as he watched her face. The expression of pleasure she wore was strangely solitary; Sheila looked almost as if she were alone, masturbating herself to climax. Not once did she even glance directly into his eyes. It was as if he had not even participated in producing her pleasure. When she had finished, she slapped Dean hard across the face and disappeared into the circle, somewhere behind him. The shadowed spectators cheered.
Next to come forward was John Thomas and his leather-clad boyfriend. The gallery director, like Sheila, turned to address the crowd. "We, too," he intoned, "have been used by the man before you. He witnessed us performing a mutually agreeable act of love and employed his distaste for our ritual of hurting and being hurt to assure himself of his so-called normality. But he, in every act of his life, demonstrates a wanton sadism that far surpasses the cruelty of anything we do. It is only fitting that he now be chastised for his blind arrogance."
When he had finished speaking, Thomas and his friend Bruce proceeded to do things to Dean that he never would have allowed, had he not been so helpless. Thomas disrobed and climbed up to straddle Dean's chest as Sheila had done. But this time it was an engorged cock, rather than a cunt, that was being presented to his mouth. Dean knew what the slender gallery director wanted, and he kept his lips pressed tightly together and shook his head in refusal. He had always prided himself on his masculinity, and was not about to be violated in this way, especially in front of so many people. Then Bruce, who was standing in the sand at the foot of the altar, advised Dean in a menacing tone of voice. "Listen, Dean baby," he said, "here's what you're going to do. You're going to let Johnny fuck you in the mouth while I give him a few lashes with this." He held up a short, mean-looking whip for Dean to see. "Johnny," he continued, "always seems to come better when I lay a few stripes on his back." He took a firm stance with his feet set apart and made as if to begin.
But Dean pressed his lips even more tightly and glared defiantly at his tormentors. Suddenly there was a whistle and a sharp crack as Bruce suddenly lifted his arm and brought the whip down on Dean's thighs. Dean let out a scream and struggled against his bonds, but it was no use. Over Thomas's shoulder, he saw Bruce's arm going up again. He saw there was no way to avoid this indignity, and before Bruce could apply the lash to his smarting thighs for a second time, he lurched forward and took the head of Thomas's cock into his mouth. When Bruce's arm finally fell, the lash cut into Thomas's back instead of hitting Dean. The man above him groaned with pain and lust, thrusting his organ deeper into his mouth. "Now suck it!" he commanded. Dean, nearly petrified by fear and shame, pressed his mouth tightly around the man's member and began to apply suction. He had hardly begun when Thomas yelped in mock pain and pushed him away with a blow to his forehead, making him strike his skull painfully on the concrete slab. "I felt your teeth!" he screamed. "I don't want to feel them again, do you understand?"
Dean was sure that his tormentor was insane. There was no telling what worse torture might await him, if he failed to comply with their desires to the best of his ability. He lifted his aching head again to the task. The whip cracked again and again, and Thomas drove his cock in and out of the tight "O" of Dean's mouth. Dean was mortified to find his own organ rising stiffly in response to the strange excitement. But his renewed lust was not to be satisfied. He felt Thomas's wet, sliding cock begin to throb against his lips; then it pumped spurts of hot, thick come over his tongue and into his throat as Bruce's whip cracked steadily against his lover's back. Dean finally lowered his head to the cement and lay there, utterly humiliated.
Afterward, Dean was violated by so many other people that he began to lose count. When they had all had their way with him, his mother came again to stand beside him. In her hand was an ugly, curved knife which glinted menacingly in the torchlight. "Dean," she announced to both him and the audience, "you have all but repaid your debt. All that remains is for me to carry out the final judgment with this." Here she held up the knife, and Dean shuddered. "Why, Mother, why?" he cried. "Why are you trying to destroy me?"
"Did you say 'Mother,' Dean?" she asked mockingly. "Look again and see if my reason is not just." Dean blinked to clear his suddenly clouded eyes. When his vision returned, he saw standing before him not his mother, but Eva. Trails of dried blood marred her voluptuous face. "You have taken my life," she explained, "but I am going to take from you something you hold more dear than life itself. I am going to take your masculinity." With that, she bent forward and took his prick into her soft, warm mouth, resting her hand that held the knife against his thigh. Dean shuddered with fear as he felt himself growing to her practiced touch. Stars reeled madly far above his head, and everything began to go blank.