There were occasional rustling noises all about and over the distant rumble of traffic, he heard a floorboard squeak somewhere behind him. He was not alone, but that was more or less all he knew. Everything else was a mystery, a terrible, unbelievable nightmare. Beckett had no idea how long he had been lying there, but it must have been over an hour. There was still that thing covering his face, but he could hear and smell, and sense when they came close, whoever ‘they’ were. He had no idea. Nor why they had taken him. Yet again he tried to make sense of what had happened earlier that morning. At first, he thought it was his stupid brother and his geeky friends, playing an injudicious trick on him but now Beckett knew different.
It had been an ordinary, sunny, morning and he was just walking to the other side of the road to wait in line for the school bus. Two more minutes and he would have met his fellow fifth-graders to join in the banter as they climbed on the yellow bus for a typical day at elementary school.
All at once there had been a sort of rushing sound, and suddenly something had been pulled over his head, and powerful hands gripped him under his arms and lifted him right off the ground. He tried to shout, but it had all taken place so fast he could hardly suck in enough breath to make much of a noise at all and then he was dumped inside some box, and it banged around a lot. Every time the vehicle went over a bump or around a corner, the box banged about, and he slid around inside it and banged his bare knees and elbows and the top of his head. When the box stopped knocking about, nobody came for him, and he was confused and frantic, absolutely terrified. His throat hurt from his yelling and crying. He could not work out where he was.
The people who had done this, ‘they’ were men, grown-ups. He had heard their muffled voices when they put the box thing into the vehicle. He heard the voices again when the box was lifted, and he tried to bang on the sides and shout but nobody paid any attention, and he rolled and thumped around in the dark as the box was carried to wherever he was right now.
Beckett wanted his mommy. He had cried and called out, but the box stayed shut, and he was left in the dark. Then the noises outside had stopped, and it was so quiet that all he could hear was the sound of his sobbing and breathing. His legs and arms hurt too, bruised from hitting the sides of the box and even his skin felt sore where it had rubbed against the smooth plastic.
He worried about silly things. He did not know where his backpack was so his teacher would be cross if he had lost her new atlas. He had promised to let Cole have the words to the new Green Day single that morning: he had written them out the night before, and the piece of paper was in his bag as well. So was his lunch box and he wanted a drink. It was better than thinking about what was really happening. That was too scary. He had heard bad things about boys who went missing, and he tried not to recall them.
Best to keep still and hope that Mommy or Papa would find him soon. Beckett prayed his parents were already looking for him. And he hoped no one would hurt him in the meantime. Each time Beckett learned a little more about the men, he wished he had not for they were not benevolent men. He was sure of that.
When at last the hot, stuffy air inside the box suddenly became cooler and fresher, and he realized that it had been opened, he had called out. He had tried to be polite. His shaky, little boy voice had asked nicely if he could please go home, but the man had smacked his leg and shouted at him, and he started crying again.
One of them had spoken to him a while ago after they had pulled him out of the box and angrily told him to “shut the fuck up,” as he slapped Becket’s face. Beckett decided that he had better do as he was told and kept quiet after that.
He was flat on his back now, on some hard surface, exactly where they had left him when he had been pulled roughly from the box. Beckett felt another hot tear escape from the corner of his eye, trickle down the side of his forehead, and hide in his hair. What had happened to him still made no sense. He remained still and waited for whatever was going to happen next.
He was still hot, even though he was not in the box anymore. The place he was in was hot and the air still, and inside his school polo shirt, he felt sticky and dirty. Someone had pulled off his shoes, but his feet were roasting inside his socks.
He lay still, deciding it was best not to move. Just in case. Better not make the man cross again.
It was hottest inside the sack thing over his head. His hair was damp with sweat. The cloth was soft like velvet but thick, and he could not see anything at all. He had to twitch his face to make it loose over his mouth and nose so that he could breathe properly. The sack thing smelt old and a bit moldy. He wished the men would take it off his head.
A board creaked again, and the fine blonde hair down on the top of his tanned forearm tingled as he sensed someone right beside him. He wanted to say something to the person, to ask again if he could go home, but he was too scared. A harsh, deep voice was talking to him. Not the same man as before but he had no intention of disobeying this man either.
“You just lie there and don’t move a muscle.”
Then the hood was being pulled off at last, and he raised his head to make it easier. For a puerile second, he thought he was being set free. It had all been a terrible mistake. He could go to school, and it would all be okay.
The light was blinding, and he quickly shut them because it hurt. Even so, it was so good not to have the hot, irritating cloth against his face anymore. He gulped in the cooler air, braced himself and carefully cracked his eyelids open.
Beckett’s head smacked back against the hard surface, as he instinctively tried to shrink away from the monsters surrounding him. Horrible, terrifying monsters! When his head hit on the solid surface he lay on, he was too horrified to acknowledge the pain. His heart pounded, he blinked against the light, and as his blue eyes adjusted and focused, he found himself staring straight into the face of an angry green zombie with narrow eyes, flared nostrils and big teeth. And there was another monster next to the zombie, a long-faced devil with shiny, rough red skin and horns! He snapped his head away and on the other side of him was a ghost with an elongated, pale-grey head, a long jaw, and sunken dark eyes, its mouth twisted into a terrible shape. He could not stop himself from crying out an almost silent quivering squeak.
There was nowhere to go, and instinctively, he tried to shrink away, drawing his knees up but large, rough hands grabbed his ankles, another held his shoulders, and two more pulled his wrists down by his side. The monsters were holding him down. He struggled, but he could not move.
And they were laughing.
Beckett thrashed his head from side to side, from monster to monster and then as his ten-year-old brain, at last, began to make sense of what he was seeing and hearing, he shivered and gave a distressed moan. The monsters were just silicon masks, but behind the masks were three men, standing very close and pinning him down in the middle of a big, empty room. Though he had realized they weren’t actually monsters, it was no less scary knowing they were men.
There was something worse. Beckett froze in panic. His throat was tight with fear. This was unlike anything he had ever imagined or had nightmares about, for it was not just that he had been abducted or was being held down or was frightened half to death by monsters or nasty grown-ups. He had seen something else, something he knew only a little about, which added a sinister new dimension to what was happening to him and it made his stomach churn.
Below the masks, the men were entirely naked, and between their legs, each of them had a large pee-pee. Really big, not like the boys in his class or his baby cousin, Lee, whose little pee-pee he saw when his aunt changed his diaper. The pee-pees were bigger than his sixteen-year-old brother’s was. Last year, he had gone into his older brother’s room one morning to tell him breakfast was ready and his brother had been standing in front of the mirror and when he turned around, he was holding his pee-pee and it had been long and hard. He had gasped and gone red and run out while his brother had just laughed.
Wherever he looked, he just saw the huge cocks, dancing about in front of him. He thought he was about to be sick, but his fears were interrupted again. He was still held tight, but now something else was happening to add to his terror. His socks were peeled from his feet, and he glimpsed down and saw leather straps being buckled over his ankles. He winced as each strap was pulled tight, nipping the skin and pressing his heels to the hard wood. His arms were lifted and guided firmly above his head. He tried to wriggle, but it was too late. The hands pressed down on his shoulders, and the unmistakable tightness of more straps closing about his wrists stretched his slim body and held him down so that even when he tried to wrench his hips, his young backside hardly lifted from the tabletop.
The ghost was grunting with the effort of fixing the straps. Beckett could smell the musky heat of the tall, muscular and very dark-skinned man’s body right next to his head and he saw the coarse black hairs above a cock that looked like it was a foot long! Beckett did not want to look at the digesting cock, but the wobbling, leaking cock mesmerized him.
What were they doing? Why was he being tied down?
“Please, don’t hurt me,” was all he could plead, his eyes round in fear and filled with tears.
He turned his head and instantly his whole view was filled with the evil red face of the devil, its narrow eyes boring into him with unbridled malice.
“Shut the fuck up, you stupid little faggot,” the devil hissed, filling Beckett’s nostrils with its rank breath. “One more peep from you and I’ll slice out your tongue.”
Beckett felt tugging at his waist. Sniveling, he turned his face away as his lips trembled. Lifting his head as best he could, he looked down and saw two pairs of hands pulling his shirt out from the elastic waist of his school shorts. He could do nothing as hands pushed back down on his shoulders, holding him flat. Then everything seemed to stop as if the men had stood back. He lifted his head and quickly looked all around before someone held him down again. He could not quite see to the edges of the room, past the naked men around him, but something glinted and caught his attention. He saw a camera pointed towards him. And a fourth naked man!
The camera came closer, and he could see the man’s thumb working a control. The lens rotated, and he knew the camera was filming his face.
There was movement at his feet, and he saw the fat man in the disgusting green zombie mask was holding a pair of scissors. He saw that the camera was following where they were going, and some hands lifted the bottom of his polo shirt, and he could hear the crunching as the scissors closed and sliced his shirt apart. The other men were close again. Fingers steadied the two halves of the shirt as the scissors progressed up his tummy and over his chest. The cold, hard metal, brushed against the perspiration glistening on his skin, and a hand held his head back firmly so that the scissors could finish their work, crisply snapping as they dealt with the final few inches at the neck and split the shirt in two.
Then hard, hot fingers descended on his chest. One, two, three, and then it seemed like a swarm of insects were dancing over his chest. He cried out. His nipples were being pinched hard and pulled away from his chest. It pain was terrible. Why were they doing this to him? What had he done?
Something tickled the side of his leg. Then the same metallic hardness pressed the outside of his thigh. The hands were still squeezing and pulling his tiny nipples, but his attention was directed further down his body where the telltale pulling off his shorts and the distinctive sound of cutting told him what was happening. The scissors moved to the other side, and another pair of hands completed slicing through the side of his shorts from leg to waist. Again he shuddered. They were cutting off his shorts. What that meant, he dared not speculate.
The light was bright again as the masks pulled away from him and now he could see the man with the camera, pointing it at his tummy, and the ghost had hold of the top of his shorts, and then the ghost was holding the material up triumphantly in front of him. Beckett was panting hard. His nipples stung from all the pinching and pulling. He saw the camera pointing between his legs and felt the heat and roughness of hands stroking his inner thighs.
The tears rolled silently down his cheeks. Why? What was going on? He tried to think of reasons but could not. He had always been such a good boy. Mommy and Papa said he was good. He worked hard at school, kept his bedroom tidy, and went to Bible class on Sunday mornings. He never got into fights at school and had plenty of friends. So why were these men doing this to him? What had he done wrong? What had he done to them? Nothing made sense. Why were they doing this to his clothes, touching him where they should not be touching him? They were such evil, nasty men.
Beckett was a pretty boy, pale-skinned with well-defined cheekbones and the clearest pale blue eyes that were set off magnificently by his long dark eyelashes and luxurious eyebrows, but his cute face was now twisted in helpless horror. As the countless fingers roamed over the crotch of his thin Underoos, touching his private place, he rocked his head miserably from side to side and mouthed a plea that went ignored by the men.
But the camera was diligently capturing his distraught and twisted face. It panned back, capturing the way his soft dark curls fell over his narrow white shoulders and tracked down over the reddened skin around his small, hard nipples.
Then the camera zoomed in to record the unveiling of the adorable young pricklet. Two snips of the scissors, along the seams of Beckett’s Underoos. The devil’s fingers expertly picked up the elastic waistband below his belly button and teasingly peeled the cotton slowly down, down until the hard two-inch pricklet was exposed to the bright light and the marble-sized balls were, at last, displayed to Beckett’s appreciative audience. His pricklet was the subtle shade of the palest pink against the ivory white of his hairless groin, and his ball sack was smooth and soft.
With a flourish, the devil snatched away the remains of his shorts and Underoos from under his buttocks. Beckett’s head lay to the side as he sobbed and sniffled quietly. Mommy and Papa would be cross with him for letting these men see his private bits.
Suddenly he was snapped from his misery and hopeless guilt. His head was lifted upwards, and he heard the men chuckle as the crotch of his Underoos was pushed roughly against his face mopping up the tears and snot.
“Gotta clean you up, faggot, for the souvenir photo!” cackled one of the masks.
He looked around, as the remnants of his Underoos were cast aside and the men stood away from the table. The man with the camera was standing to one side, watching intently with an excited smirk on his face as he put the video camera down. The man was wearing a black leather hood that covered the top of his head and his ears and came down to just below his nose in a sinister beak. There were two small slits for his eyes.
Beckett hated the way the man was looking at him as if the man was about to eat him as if the man was soaking up his terror. And his cock was massive, longer and thicker than any of the other men’s cocks were. It curved and reached his navel, and it was so hard that it was throbbing while burping pre-fuck from its crimson head.
Beckett’s head was swimming. He could not understand this. For a moment, his eyes rolled up into the lids, and the room went dark. There was simply too much going on, too much to think about, to fear. His brain was overwhelmed.
“Tell me, Beckett, what was the most painful thing that’s ever happened to you?”
The light returned when he opened his eyes and came out of his momentary blackout. His world shuddered, as he came face to face with the demon. The devil’s head was down beside him, and the devil was talking to him in a smooth and calm voice. Beckett was glad the man was not shouting at him. Coming from inside that hideous, frightening red mask, the man’s voice seemed so out of place.
Beckett swallowed and frowned as he tried to think. If he were a good boy, maybe the men would stop being mean. He realized that the man in the devil mask had asked him a question and he tried to stop his brain spinning and willed it to find an answer.
The devil patiently watched Beckett’s childish lips as they trembled before he spoke. The man could see the brilliance of Becket’s new adult front teeth and the sweet little gaps on each side where he was still missing his incisors. It made Beckett lisp, and the sweetness of his cracked little voice stirred the man’s balls.
The man could hardly wait to hear the pale boy’s first proper scream when they started on him. He was so small and vulnerable. His pale skin would mark so beautifully and bruise easily. He would have to be careful to pace himself and stop the others getting carried away. The boy deserved to suffer slowly.
“Was it at the dentist, perhaps, or maybe the time you fell off your bike?” the man prompted gently. “Something nasty and hurt you a lot, can you remember?”
From somewhere in the back of his muddled mind, Beckett remembered.
“When I was six, I tripped and broke my front tooth,” he murmured.
“Oh, nasty,” said the man sympathetically, smoothing the boy’s hair from his forehead and resting his hand lightly on the boy’s head. “I bet that hurt and made you cry, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, I had to go to the hospital. It bled a lot…” Beckett stopped. The man had called him Beckett. How did the man know his name?
The man seemed not to notice that he had stopped. He caressed the boy’s hair affectionately and leaned closer.
“Poor little Beckett. How terrible. Can you remember how much it hurt? Was it really bad?”
Becket’s mind whirring, he just nodded. He hadn’t told them his name. How did the man know who he was? He had no idea who these terrible men were.
His voice low, almost kindly, the man purred, “But then the doctors made it better?”
Again Beckett nodded. He tried to look through the mask into the man’s eyes, trying to read them.
“They made the hurt go away?”
Another nod. Beckett swallowed. He did not want to remember.
“But imagine if they hadn’t been able to do that, and so the pain didn’t go away. Think what it would have been like if the pain just went on and on and wouldn’t stop.”
Beckett frowned. That would be awful. Why was the man saying these things?
Behind the mask, the man smiled at him. The man loved the way the boy’s brow creased, and how his big beautiful blue eyes had so many questions. The boy’s mouth was delicious, and the man wanted to press his lips over it and force his tongue deep into it, but that was for later.
“Do you want to know what’s going to happen next, Beckett?” the man asked pleasantly.
Beckett turned his head slightly and nodded. Would he find out at last what this ordeal was all about? Maybe then they would realize it was a mistake or something. He was a good boy.
“Well, Beckett. What happens next, today, tonight, tomorrow and for as long as it takes, you’re going to find out just what it is like when you hurt really bad—and I mean really bad—but the pain won’t stop, won’t go away. It just goes on and on and on. Even when it feels a little better, you know that more pain is going to replace it, even worse than before, no matter what you do. And if you thought it hurt badly that time when you were little, and you tripped and hurt your tooth, let me tell you that what we are going to do to you will be much, much worse. We know dozens of ways of hurting little boys, and we’re going to show you all of them.”
The man paused, to let the revelation sink in, to see those fabulous eyes widen as the boy’s jaw drop and his lips began to quiver and shake as the tears well up once more. The man cradled Becket’s jaw in his huge hand and studied the effect of his words on the terrified, uncomprehending child, and his cock swelled and ached with the power he had over him. Stroking the softness of the boy’s throat, his fingers slipped down, over the boy’s chest, pausing to tease a nipple, and then he ran his hand down over the boy’s soft taut tummy.
“We have all sorts of really great toys we’re going to play with. Oh, yes, and when we’ve played with you a while, we’re going to sodomize you. That means we’ll put our cocks up your ass, and we’ll show you how to suck our cocks too. You won’t believe how much cum we’re gonna place inside you. But all that’s for later.
“First, we want to take a photo before we start. While you still look nice and pretty, right boys?”
He turned, and the ghost and the zombie murmured their agreement. The demon stooped close again. His hand slid down and cradled Becket’s ball sack. He pressed against the soft, warm ball sack as his middle finger curled and pushed down between the boy’s buttocks and sought out his tiny asshole. His finger forced itself into the tight asshole to the first knuckle, and Beckett squealed.
“That sound’s exciting, doesn’t it, Beckett? Just imagine it. Soon we’re going to lie you down on a big mattress and each of us will put our big, hard cocks here and we’ll rip your sweet boy-cunt right open.”
The small boy’s face was totally drained of any color. He began to tremble and whimper.
“Please don’t hurt me, mister. Please. I—”
“Shhh, there, there,” he admonished, smoothing back the boy’s hair once more. “Just be a good little boy. Say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and enjoy the attention.”
“Here,” he said brightly, standing up straight, “while the nice gentleman is setting up his camera for the photo, let’s show you a few of the toys. You’ll like that. We’ll lay them out on top of you for the picture, shall we?”
Beckett felt the vomit rise in his throat, and he fought it down. His whole body was shaking. He could concentrate on nothing, and his vision kept going blurry.
“Here, look at this, Beckett.”
The green zombie handed the demon a short-tailed flogger. He tickled the tips of the leather strands over the boy’s tummy, and as he lowered it carefully, to rest under his rib cage, he explained.
“We have several of these. We’re going to whip you all over to make you nice and sensitive. Oh, and then we have this, and this, and this as well. All these are to hit you with.”
As the man laid the instruments on Becket’s chest, he identified each, holding it briefly before the boy’s horrified face.
“This is a neat little cane. I’m going to use this on your ass. This is a paddle, it’s for the same thing when we want to spank you for a long, long time, and this is called a crop. People use it on horses, but it’s great for little boys too. Makes them do as they’re told. I especially like to use it here.”
He reached down and ran his fingers up the inside of the boy’s thigh, across his balls and down the other thigh. He leaned so close that Beckett could see nothing except the evil red grimace of his mask.
“That’s really going to sting,” he grinned.
Beckett felt his eyes close, and his mind went blank. He could not listen to anymore. He felt himself sinking into deep darkness, which sealed his ears from the words, so he did not have to think anymore.
Beckett drifted. He was flying. He could see his home, his Mommy and his Papa, and his German Shepard. He could smell a cake cooking, and the TV was showing an episode of The Simpsons. Mommy was hugging him, and his Papa was holding his hand. He could hear Papa’s soothing voice, and he was safe. He was so reassured that he smiled. He must have dreamed all this terrible stuff, and then he opened his eyes, and the demon was still grinning at him. He was holding some shiny metal clips with serrated jaws, and he heard the man say ‘nipple,’ and then he screamed out loud.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the tall, swarthy muscular ghost, and he was pointing and laughing at him. His cock was sticking up in the air and waving about as he laughed and Beckett noticed the huge crimson head was all wet and shiny and there was a drop of clear liquid oozing from the hole in the tip. He tried to shrink back into the dark where he was safe.
Boys do not look at other pee-pees. That’s bad.
Fingers were tapping his cheek, but it was okay because Papa had found him and was calling out to him, speaking his name. Beckett reached out to hold Papa’s hand but it was too far away, and his voice faded. It was light again, and he opened his eyes once more. Beckett blinked, and now the comfortable darkness seemed so far away that he could not see or hear his mommy or papa, or his dog.
He felt the things being placed on his body. Squinting down, he saw items had been laid all across his naked body, from his neck to his legs. They were dreadful, nasty things, just sitting there on his pale skin. He saw the whip thing with the tickly leather laces, the knobby cane, and the clips with teeth the demon had shown him. There were other things too, a big chrome medical instrument like giant scissors but with extra bits and a sort of screw piece to adjust the jaws, and between his nipples laid a disgusting black cylinder of plastic that was the same shape as the men’s cocks. It was shiny and was covered in little silver studs, and it had a wire coming out of the blunt end.
He didn’t want to play with any of these toys.
He looked to the side. All three men were standing beside him, facing the table, staring across his body and smiling. He could see their teeth through the holes in their masks. Worse was the sight of their three enormous erect penises, side by side, inches from his body, so close that he kept thinking about what the demon said they were going to do with them. They would not, would they, do that to him? He was so small down there!
He was just a little boy. In total, mindless despair, he turned his head to follow the men’s gaze. On the other side of him were a tripod and a light like a big silver umbrella on a pole. The man with the leather mask was fiddling with the lens of a big black SLR camera, which looked just like the fancy one his papa had bought a few weeks ago. The man looked up and smiled at Beckett. Becket studied the man’s face and the set of his mouth beneath the scary leather. Beckett had a new, weird feeling deep inside his tummy.
The man held a cord that worked the shutter, and as he pressed the plunger, he spoke, “Okay, guys, let’s make this a good one for the family album! Keep still, Beckett. Okay, everyone, smile for the camera!”
Beckett could not breathe. His incredulous eyes were fixed on the photographer’s face and physique, and the massive arc of his cock brushing up against his stomach. And in his ears, the sound of his voice was still ringing. Familiar. Unmistakable. His muscles turned to Jell-O. He seemed to be melting into the tabletop, and his bladder emptied itself into a gushing yellow fountain, spurting from his pricklet.
The last frail thread of hope snapped.
And just before the sick rushed up his throat and burned through his mouth and nostrils, and sprayed over his chest, he managed to croak one single word towards the man behind the camera.