41
Closed Set
From the darkness, light.
If I was dead, at least I’d made it to heaven.
It certainly looked like it. The first thing I was aware of was an infinite whiteness. A blindingly bright flood that filled my vision and obscured everything else. I blinked once, twice, a third time, then left my eyes closed for a bit, fighting off the sting.
I reopened them. Gradually, shapes and shadows formed. Across from me came the second evidence that I’d made it past the pearly gates: an angel. Blond, handsomely shaped, physical perfection. Floating above the ground as if on wings, although none were visible.
I sensed my feet weren’t quite planted on terra firma, either. A cloud.
The divine creature facing me appeared to be meditating or asleep. Like you’d imagine, he was beautiful. Pale, golden-haired, and nude, like a vision of God’s messenger from a Renaissance painting. His nakedness seemed natural and fitting. We leave the world as we enter it: unclothed.
The only incongruous detail was his impossible-to-ignore erection. It pointed at me accusingly, as if I were to blame for his current predicament. It was large, throbbing, and so red it looked like you could use it as a branding iron. I didn’t remember Michelangelo or da Vinci depicting their heavenly representatives as quite so . . . happy to be there.
Seeing the angel’s condition made me consider my own. Yup, pretty much like my cherubic companion’s. Hello, hard-on. Who invited you to this party?
But we weren’t floating. We are hanging.
I, too, was naked.
And, although I didn’t feel particularly happy, I was at full salute, too.
Unless rigor mortis started with your dick, I guessed I wasn’t dead after all.
I was dazed, though. My head felt like it was stuffed with mud. Not painful, but numb. My arms were extended above my head. Something that felt like leather looped around my wrists and held me to a beam or pipe I couldn’t see. I was standing on what felt like a chair. I moved my legs a little and it rocked under me. Careful. If it tipped over, I’d be hanging free, my full weight pulling on my arms. It wouldn’t be comfortable.
My memory of recent events slowly seeped back. I’d gone to see friends. Someone fell. Something sizzled.
Focus, Kevin, focus.
That was no angel.
Hi, Lucas.
Damn, he looked good.
Kristen.
He’d called me in because Lucas had fainted. But he hadn’t. I hadn’t seen it, but I bet Kristen zapped him like he’d done me.
I was still dizzy and thick-headed. Was I remembering this right? Why would Kristen have done that?
I should have been struggling to get out. Screaming at Lucas. But I couldn’t muster the will. All things considered, I was pretty calm. Actually, kind of . . . carefree. Maybe a little turned on, too. Lucas really was adorable hanging there. If I had a free hand, I’d take it and . . .
Wait. If I had a free hand, I should be thinking how it could help me get the hell out of here. Not using it to grope Lucas like he were a cantaloupe I was judging for ripeness.
What was wrong with me? How come I wasn’t more freaked out to be here?
Where was
here,
anyway?
I looked around as best I could. It wasn’t painful to turn my head, but it wasn’t easy, either. The slightest movement took great effort and came with a heaping side dish of nausea.
I hadn’t been wrong in my initial impression—it
was
awfully bright in here. But now I saw it came not from celestial grace but from six or seven heavy-duty light stands, like the kind you see on movie sets.
They went along with the cameras, monitors, and other video equipment I eventually discerned in the glare.
Let’s see, what did we have here?
Lights, cameras . . . what comes next?
Oh yeah.
Action.
“Well, look who’s an early riser.” I heard the smooth voice of Kristen LaNue before I saw him walk into the lights. He was dressed in the same jeans and tan, long-sleeved T-shirt I’d seen him in at his home. Could we still be there? No, this space was much too large. Kristen’s apartment probably cost well upward of two million dollars, but a setup like this would have been unaffordable by Donald Trump at El Santuario.
Which raised an interesting question: How did a porn director afford a place at El Santuario, anyway? I was sure he was well paid, but nowhere near the kind of money you needed to live there. Kristen must have had another source of income. It probably wasn’t selling Girl Scout cookies.
“What’s . . . ?” My mouth was dry. I swallowed a few times. “I don’t understand.”
Not my best line, but, like I said, I wasn’t feeling quite myself.
“Ah,” Kristen said, stepping up to me. He ran a finger from just under my chin down to just below my belly button. I wish I could tell you my cock didn’t give it an expectant little nod, but I’d be lying.
Listen, I’m the first to admit I’m probably oversexed, but this was ridiculous. I’d been accosted, kidnapped, restrained against my will, possibly by a killer, and judging by the red lights on the cameras that circled us, the whole thing was probably being filmed. How the hell could I be turned on at a time like this? Was I more of a freak than I knew?
Worse, Kristen noticed my reaction. “It looks like ‘Little Kevin’ wants to play-ay!” he singsonged. He gave Little Kevin a long stroke. I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning with pleasure.
I twisted away as best I could.
More,
I thought.
“Stop,” I said. “Don’t touch me, you sick bastard.”
Kristen’s smile was dazzling. Confident and cocky. “Your lips say stop—”
“Yeah, yeah.” I shut him up. “It’s an old line, Kristen. I had you pegged as a little hipper than that.”
Kristen’s smile didn’t waver. In fact, it might have widened. “Listen to you. Considering how high you’re flying, you shouldn’t be able to form a coherent sentence, let alone be so . . . what’s the word? . . . feisty.”
How high . . .
“You drugged me with something,” I said.
“Oh no.” Kristen grimaced with faked offense at my accusation. “I drugged you with a
lot
of things.”
A cocktail. I bet I knew what was in it.
“Valium,” I said. Which explained why I was feeling so calm under perilous circumstances.
“And Ecstasy,” I added, remembering the mild euphoria I’d experienced earlier. Not to mention the yearning to touch and be touched. I’d never used the drug, but I knew it had a reputation of earning its name on a number of levels.
Kristen clapped his hands together in polite golf applause. “Very good. Bunches and bunches of those two. But don’t forget ‘Little Kevin’ here.”
The other drug found in Brent’s system. “Viagra.”
“Impressive. You got three out of four. But the Viagra’s just to prime the pump, as it were. More effective is the phentolamine.”
“The feenty who now?”
“Phentolamine,” Kristen corrected me. “It’s a vasodilator. You should be glad I gave it to you while you were still unconscious. It’s an injection that goes right”—he put his index finger at the base of my cock—“here. Opens up the flow of blood so you can’t help but get hard.”
It sounded gross, but I was kind of glad. At least I knew I wasn’t to blame for Little Kevin’s embarrassing eagerness.
“The Ecstasy’s home-grown, too. A special blend that not only increases libido but also confuses the body’s nerve response. Everything is experienced as enjoyable. Watch.”
He reached out and squeezed one of my nipples. Gently at first, but with a quickly increasing intensity that seemed likely to draw blood. Now, I normally like a little chest play, but he could have cracked a walnut with that grip.
Damn if it didn’t feel good, though. My conscious mind registered pain, but somehow, the sensation was indistinguishable from pleasure. Little Kevin agreed, even tearing up a little, and not in sadness.
The whole thing was surreal. The disorienting lights, the physical restraints, the sense of losing all control. I felt apart from myself, detached from my own fate. I had no drive to fight back or resist. So much easier to submit . . .
Last year, when I was looking into the death of my friend Allen Harrington, I’d read a lot about how cults operate. In the first meetings they got you to attend, they’d keep you for longer than they’d promised, using peer and psychological pressure as the restraints. They’d deprive you of food and deny you use of the bathroom. They’d manipulate light and temperature to deny you a sense of physical comfort or any confidence that you’d know what was coming next. Sometimes, they’d even use mild hallucinogens to make you more malleable to their will.
Sound familiar?
These techniques were common because they were so successful. They were the same strategies used by cult leaders, deprogrammers, and Dick Cheney to wear a person down. They combined physical realities with psychological techniques to break the strongest will. Discomfort and relief, pressure and release, shunning and acceptance, each doled out in measured doses to elicit the desired responses.
There was
some
good news. It didn’t work on everyone. One of the best ways to fight off the mind control was to be familiar with the techniques. Like any magic trick, knowing how it was done made it harder to be taken in. I knew what Kristen was trying to do, and that helped.
After tasing and doping me, Kristen expected me to be unconscious longer. I assumed I wasn’t the first boy he’d done this to, so I had to assume my recovery was, indeed, faster than most. Why?
Maybe it was my ADHD. I was used to the effects of medication. In fact, I tended to need a pretty high dose, and one that was given more frequently than for most people. My doctor called me a “fast metabolizer.” In fact, due to the stress of the day, I’d taken an extra pill before heading over here. My medication was a stimulant—maybe it helped me shake off some of the drugs Kristen administered.
Lastly, Kristen was trying to manipulate me primarily through sex. Well, using my face and body to get guys to do what I wanted them to used to be how I made my living. I was good at it, too. Sure, Kristen had drugs and a physical advantage on me, but I used to be able to control guys
without
those crutches. He was playing on my turf, now. I had to find a way to use that to my benefit.
At the same time, I knew I was thinking best-case scenario. Cult leaders may use subtle mood enhancers, but Kristen had me more doped up than a crack whore. They used peer pressure to keep novitiates in their seats; I was literally all tied up.
It wasn’t exactly a fair fight.
But it wasn’t one I could walk away from or lose. I had a feeling my life depended on it.
42
Touch Me
“Do it again,” I begged.
“Please
.
”
I let my mouth fall slack, licking my lips. I writhed like a cat, arching my back, tightening my abdominal muscles for maximum display. “Touch me.”
“In time.” Kristen chuckled, fiddling with his cameras. “We have to wait for your co-star to wake up. Then, I promise, we’ll get started right away. There won’t be a part of you that goes ignored.”
I’d said it to make Kristen think I was more out of it than I felt. As long as he thought I was in a sex-crazed delirium, unable to think straight, I had a bit of an advantage.
Sad thing was, it was kind of true. There
was
a part of me on fire. An artificially fueled frenzy that had me
aching
to be touched. My every nerve ending screamed for release.
But I had to find a way past that.
When I worked as a hustler, not every one of my clients was someone I’d have gone home with if I weren’t getting good money for it.
Okay, that’s an understatement. Most of them weren’t particularly appealing at all.
Which isn’t to say I didn’t have my share of clients who were sevens and above. Good-looking, smooth-talking men too busy or bored or closeted to meet someone in a more traditional manner. Even though those guys could have gotten laid for free, it was easier for them to pay for it and get exactly what they wanted, where and when they wanted it.
They were the minority, however.
There was a trick, though, to appearing—not to mention getting—turned on with someone to whom you’re not attracted. You just had to find
something
about him that was appealing. Older men tended to have larger and more sensitive nipples—that was hot. Some guys had ugly mugs but sexy voices, or fat bellies but impressive appendages. Or, maybe they had a sense of humor that made sex fun, or the kind of desperate need that elicited a sympathetic response. Whatever it was, everyone had
something
. It made my job a lot more enjoyable if I could identify and focus on that particular trait.
Now, I had to do it in reverse. Ignore the fact that Kristen was devilishly good-looking. Disregard his deep green eyes and smooth, touch-me-now skin. Try not to think about how soft his trendy buzz cut would feel against my stomach, my thighs. Force myself not to notice his tightly muscled body that moved with a dancer’s strength and grace.
Instead, I ran through my head everything about him that was gross and off-putting. When he got close to me, I was struck by his breath, which was sour and yeasty. It matched the smell of his sweat. Not an earthy clean-but-just-worked-out sweat, but an acrid, anxious sweat. The vinegary stench that accompanies nervousness and bad intentions. He had pit stains, too. Ugh.
While he dressed well, it was all too young for him, the clothing of a man ten years his junior. Trendy in a way that just made him look older. I remembered being in his bathroom and seeing a ridiculously large assortment of anti-aging products. It all spoke to a vanity and lack of self-acceptance that went along with the other narcissistic traits he displayed. Not hot.
On closer inspection, I noticed his pretty eyes were a little crossed, making him look kind of dumb. He had crooked teeth with an overbite. His short haircut was contrived to hide early balding. While his hair fled his head, it grew overlong from his nostrils and ears. I was surprised his obsessive self-care regime hadn’t caught that. Someone needed to introduce this man to some tweezers, stat.
Oh yeah, and he had no ass. None. Flat as an ironing board back there. Even his too-tight jeans hung where they should have hugged. Coming at him from behind would be like humping a wall.
Plus, he was a sadistic psycho. You had to deduct points for that.
I continued to look for flaws, exaggerating them to the point of ridicule. I did whatever I could to diminish his presence in my mind. To steal his power.
To transfer it to me.
The whole time I played my mental tricks on myself, I continued to moan and writhe. I let my body go on autopilot while I steeled my mind.
Whenever Kristen turned away, I’d try to free myself. Kristen had me bound with some high-quality S&M wrist cuffs. Thick, black leather bands that laced along the slides and locked together at the palms with a steel closure. There’d be no getting out of them.
They were hooked over a pipe that ran across the ceiling. I wrapped my fingers around it—it couldn’t have been more than two inches thick. On one of the occasions when Kristen’s back was toward me, I lifted my knees to see how much weight the pipe could bear. It bent a little. I put my feet back on the chair and downward with as much strength as I thought I could use without drawing Kristen’s attention. Again, there was some give in the pipe. I pulled harder. More movement this time, but not much.
So, I couldn’t get my hands free, but with enough force, I might be able to break the bar to which they were attached. I had no idea what that pipe was for—architecture wasn’t my strong suit—but it’d been put there for a practical purpose, not as part of a security system. It was the loose link in the chain binding me here.
The problem came to physics. I was strong for my size, but my size was still small. Even if I were free to pull or jerk with all my might, I doubted my 125 pounds would be enough to get the job done.
I was going to have to think my way out of this one.
What did I know about Kristen?
He was vain.
Full of himself.
He thought his work transcended mere pornography.
No, wait.
Not
all
of his work.
I remembered some of what he’d said when we first met.
He made a distinction between his commercial work for studios like SwordFight and his more personal “art” films.
He also lived at a level above what you’d imagine an adult film director could afford.
Had he been born rich? Probably not. Wealthy parents would have fixed his bad teeth and crossed eyes.
A second source of income, then? What?
Was it tied to his “art” films?
What could he be making that would generate so much money? There wasn’t much you couldn’t see in a typical porno these days.
What was Kristen selling?
When I thought I had it figured out, my stomach seized with a sudden stab of terror. No, it couldn’t be.
Except, it could.
I had to know.
My head was a lot clearer now. Funny how fast fear can sober you up.
I had a plan. Well, half a plan. A plan lite.
Lucas’s eyes were starting to flutter. He seemed minutes from regaining consciousness. I assumed he’d be as disoriented and dopey as I was when he first opened his eyes.
I was counting on it.
I was sorry, but the only way I could see my way out of this was going to involve hurting him. He was much too big and strong for me to do that when he was fully awake.
I had to work fast.
“Mmmmm . . .” I drawled, sounding a lot more stoned than I felt. “Are those things turned on?” I nodded toward the cameras.
“They are.” Kristen sounded amused. He was busy adjusting one of the lights that hung from the ceiling.
“Me too.” I giggled. “Are you going to make me a star?”
“Brighter than the sun,” he promised. He was only half-paying attention to me, which was good.
“I’m glad. I was going to call you about it, you know.”
“You were?”
“After we met. You told me you made art films. I asked a ground. A found. I mean,
around
.” I giggled again. I was faking the flubs.
“Really?” Having done whatever he needed to do with that light, he moved to the next. “And what did they say?” He didn’t appear particularly attentive to what I might say, probably having learned from experience that a stoner’s conversation is rarely of interest to anyone but himself.
I gave another moan. “Only one of my friends had any idea of what I was talking about. He’s a guy who’s into Sam.”
“Sam?”
“Sam.”
“I don’t know him.”
I laughed drunkenly. “Is not a him, silly. You know—chains and whips and stuff. S.A.M.”
“S&M?”
“Thash it!” I gyrated my hips. My still engorged member drew circles in the air. Nothing I could do about that. Whatever Kristen had injected me with down there was apparently impervious to the normally shank-shrinking effect of mortal terror. “Sounds hot.”
I was starting to get his attention. “You think so? Your friend, he knew my work?”
“He said there were rumors . . . that you were involved in some heavy stuff.”
“Huh.”
Why did Kristen seem surprised by that? If he was making films on the side, wouldn’t people know? Unless I was right about the nature of his films. In which case, he might be using a pseudonym. It started to come together.
“Just rumors. The movies are the stuff of legend. Secret.” I looked at him bug-eyed. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
Thinking he was humoring me, Kristen ran his fingers over his chest. “Cross my heart. But tell me more about these films.”
“They’re real hardcore. The kind of things you can’t see in regular movies. They go all the way.” I rubbed my thighs together as if trying to get myself off with the friction.
“You can’t just get them anywhere.” I was making this up as I went along. “You have to know people. People who know people. They’re the luckiest people in the world, right?”
Kristen walked toward me. He was definitely intrigued now. I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist hearing more about himself. But I was starting to babble. He got closer to keep me focused.
“What else did he say?”
“I do’n ’member.” I let my head fall to my shoulder. “Sleepy now.”
Kristen shook my shoulders. “Not now, Kevin. Wake up, baby. Tell me what your friend said about those movies.”
I darted my eyes toward Lucas. He was blinking rapidly. Another few minutes and he’d back with us.
“Movies . . . oh, yeah. He said he’s dying to see them. But very expensive. Only a few people can. People who know people. . .”
“Yes, we covered that part.”
“So rare. But beautiful. Are you going to make me beautiful, Kristen?”
I tried to project vulnerability.
“You’ll be beautiful forever, Kevin. Preserved on celluloid forever. Just as you are now.” He ran a hand across my chest. “The height of youth and allure. Never aging. Cut at the prime of life, like a perfect rose is pruned at the moment of its greatest glory.”
He walked out of sight while I let his words sink in. He returned with a silver cart, the kind high-end hotels use for room service.
But the only person who’d be ordering this delivery would be Jack the Ripper. I recognized scalpels and speculums among other spotless, stainless-steel implements. I didn’t know what most of them did, but they all ended in sharpened points, viselike jaws, or curling blades.
A sadist’s smorgasbord.
Holy shit.
It was all I could do not to scream. I kept my face as blank as possible. A small sound escaped my lips, but I caught it in time to make it seem like a sexy sigh.
“Anyone can film two boys fucking,” Kristen said, his eyes alight with excitement. “It’s the easiest thing in the world to make that look good. But to show what lies
beneath
the skin. The muscle. The blood. That’s true art, Kevin.”
I nodded, but Kristen didn’t notice. He was lost in his own vile visions.
“To take what is considered ugly and make it beautiful. To turn pain into pleasure. Showing people what society says they’re not allowed to see . . . not even allowed to imagine . . . that’s the role of the true artist!
“You’ll be part of that, Kevin. Yes, there’s risk. Every artist on the cutting-edge faces persecution during his lifetime. That’s why I win awards for those insipid factory-made films I oversee but have to put my
real
art out under an assumed identity. Oh, it hurts not to be recognized for one’s work.
“But the money helps.” He looked at me just as I turned back to him. I was glad he hadn’t caught me watching for the first moment I was sure Lucas was awake.
“Your friend was right. My movies
are
expensive. There’s an underground network that will pay almost anything to see the forbidden. It’s made me quite rich.”
“And how do these movies end?” I asked.
“No spoilers,” Kristen teased, putting his finger over my lips. “Shhhh.”
Although I thought it might make me vomit, I had to be sure. I took his finger into my mouth and sucked, as if it were the most delicious thing in the world.