Funny Bone

by Daniel W. Kelly

  A thick, gooey puddle was quickly growing on the blanket directly under Turvy’s cock.

  “How the fuck can that happen? He ain’t even touching it!” Justin said.

  “It’s…getting so…tight!” Aaron huffed.

  “He’s begging for it!” Rocky told Aaron, hearing guttural grunts coming from deep within Turvy’s chest. “Shoot it, man! Shoot it in his ass!”

  “I…can’t,” Aaron said without slowing down. “I want to, but I think I’m too nervous.”

  “Gimme another one of them gloves,” Rocky demanded, and Chul reached for the box. “This dick licker’s gotta cum to get the whole experience.”

  “What are you going to do?” Lonny asked, clearly concerned about what other atrocities he might have to witness.

  “I got an idea of what makes these faggots tick,” Rocky said as he snapped the glove snugly on. He quickly stuck two rubber-protected fingers into his mouth and salivated all over them, nauseated by the pasty rubber flavor. But he didn’t let that deter him.

  Aaron was feverishly thrusting into the hole; Turvy, defenseless, was quivering now that he had cum and his overworked nerve endings were still being assaulted; Lonny, Justin, and Chul watched their leader Rocky take matters into his own hands—or onto his own fingers.

  “I’m only doing this ’cause you’re my man,” Rocky said.

  Timing it perfectly, Rocky waited for an outward thrust, when Aaron’s ass crack was at its widest, his tiny pink pucker at its most open (which was barely). With no warning and no caution, he wrapped one arm around Aaron’s nearly nonexistent waist and rammed the index finger and middle finger of his gloved hand right up and into Aaron’s seal, just as he had into Turvy’s.

  “Fuuuuuccckkkk!” Aaron nearly shrieked at the brutal invasion, which caused his butt cheeks and asshole to clench tightly.

  “MotherFUCKER, you little bitch, you’re tight!” Rocky growled, putting his near three hundred pounds of muscle behind excavating Aaron’s area.

  “Rocky, it huuurrts!” Aaron cried just as Rocky’s fingers jammed into his prostate savagely, albeit unintentionally, considering Rocky had no idea what he was looking for in there. “What the fuhhhh—”

  Aaron never got to finish his expletive. His previously rhythmic and graceful thrusts fell out of time. Veins popped out on his legs, arms, and head as his entire existence was sucked toward his pelvis, dragging Rocky’s fingers along with it. He spastically bounced on Turvy and nearly slipped off the bed.

  His friends steadied him with hands on his back and ass.

  “We gotcha,” Rocky said as Aaron went with the orgasm, his pelvis investing in the explosion as the rest of his body dropped flaccidly into the arms of his muscular buddies. There was the sound of groans and grunts grating against his larynx as his rectum clenched Rocky’s fingers.

  “Fill the fucker,” Rocky said, carrying Aaron’s weight in his firm embrace.

  When Aaron was finished pumping into Turvy’s battered ass, his tension loosened and Rocky’s fingers slipped smoothly out of him. He was lowered carefully to the floor. His sticky, moist cock slowly shrank back to its inch-and-a-half form. Heavy hands pounded his back with aggressive vigor, knocking him off balance. He caught himself on one of the bunk posts and leaned there to catch his breath.

  Lonny actually grinned at the messy sight of smeared sex juice all up in the forest of Turvy’s ass. “Pervy’s shit ain’t never gonna be the same.”

  “Exactly how we wanted it,” Rocky said, removing his second glove of the day and throwing it at the damaged goods. It stuck for a moment before dropping into the puddle Turvy had spilled between his legs. Rocky examined his nearly crushed fingers as he turned to Aaron and said, “Dude, finish that shower you began and get dressed. We got skiing to do. AND celebrating for my man.”

  “But what about—?” Aaron pointed to Turvy, who was now struggling and panting anxiously, as if waiting to finally be untied to meet his master.

  “Heh.” Rocky placed one hand on the knob of the dorm room door, his buddies in line behind him. “He’ll be okay for a couple more hours. The geeks are coming back from holiday a few days early to get in some extra studying. I asked them to keep an eye on our rooms because we’d be away skiing. This mess is their problem now.”

  *

  As Rocky sauntered out of the room, followed by Lonny, Chul, and Justin, Aaron could hear his commentary echoing through the hall. “My man’s ass nearly broke my fingers. That’s the other cherry we gotta get popped for him.”

  Aaron looked at the ass that had brought him so much ecstasy, then to the two gloves, one on the mattress, one on the floor. His conscience told him he had to clean up after this mess. He might even get a second date with Turvy if he revealed his identity to him. Perhaps Turvy could be the man who popped his ass cherry, so Rocky and pals wouldn’t feel obligated to find another candidate to get the job done.

  “Fuck him. Dick licker was just a piece of ass,” Aaron said out loud, smirking as the male ego of his straight buddies grabbed hold of his conscience. He lashed out and gave one of those gorgeous glutes a stinging spank, then headed for the showers.

  Till Death

  I was deep inside the hole.

  I lay there, dazed, staring blankly at the gray sky above. As my eyes contracted, adjusting to the changing light and shadows stretching across the pit, I saw them.

  The skeletons.

  All around me, skulls smiled hungrily, some even adorned by crossbones sprinkled generously about. There a rib cage, in another corner, a pelvic bone. His past victims. I shrieked until I was hoarse. Actually, I shrieked until one of the skulls started laughing at me maniacally, at which point I ran out of shriek because I’d worn down my vocal cords.

  Then the skull’s eyes blinked orange and the jaw began to chatter.

  “What the…?” I barely whispered, swallowing hard to lubricate my throat.

  I crawled to the skeleton. It was a cheap Halloween toy. They all were. None of them were real.

  I glanced around my prison.

  This wasn’t an ordinary animal trap. This was a luxury trap. I had landed on a soft cushiony mat with what had to be like a one thousand thread count covering. The walls surrounding me were of the same exact quality. Crunchy dead leaves that had camouflaged the trap doors were now scattered around my naked body, adding a finishing touch to the creepiness of the plastic skeletons.

  None of this comforted me or made me feel any less chilled. I was shivering with cold and terror. I had probably only been out in the fifty-degree temps of the forest for about a half hour (just enough time for him to toy with me as part of an unpredictable plan of sadism, I guessed). Despite running the fastest I ever had through the thick vegetation to escape the inevitability of being taken down by his hunting gun (which had previously been hanging proudly beneath a large deer’s head over his warm fireplace), my naked body, now hairless—except for ONE spot—hadn’t acclimated to the climate. Not to mention I hadn’t been fed in over twelve hours—and had been completely cleansed. The preparation had been almost the most humiliating experience of my life…

  After being picked up by limo at my apartment and driven to a private yacht, I was shipped off to his island for a one-on-one (me astonished by the royal treatment). As I’d stood on the deck looking out at the rough sea, I’d felt like I was heading to Skull Island. Suddenly, through the thick layers of fog, an enormous mountain loomed ominously ahead, and at its peak was a gothic building with few distinguishing characteristics. It reminded me of The House on Haunted Hill. The original house, not the house from the God-awful remake, which had potential (aka: Taye Diggs), but ended up sucking (aka: Taye Diggs never got naked).

  Once I was whisked into his home, our meeting had adjourned way too swiftly. My proposal was rejected with a laugh, and I was immediately taken away by his right-hand man, a towering, threatening-looking Asian man by the name of Dong…who had also been the mute captain of the yacht.

  Perh
aps if Dong would ever manage to crack a welcoming smile, he might be attractive. But with his permanent tight-lipped glare, his square-cut jaw and sharp cheekbones, as well as a severely blocky, spiked haircut, he looked like a human cyborg, ready to tear you apart limb by limb. Wearing simply a white T-shirt and black pleated pants, he had the beefy, almost fat physique of a wrestler.

  It was for that reason that I did everything he told me to, which he communicated with only his rough hands. Okay, so basically, he did everything for me. Once we were alone in his Eastern-themed spa room (bonsai trees, shoji screens, bamboo, Zen lamps, Asian music and all), he first tore off my clothes—literally tore them to shreds. Having sheared the shirt, he grabbed me by the neck and pinned my cowering form facedown onto a bulky massage table with one hand while yanking my pants and underwear off with the other.

  I nearly pissed my pants—which would have been messy, considering they had just been ripped off my body.

  Every part of me shrank at my unsolicited exposure, from my nipples to my penis. But Dong seemed as uninterested in my humiliation as a doctor. He carried me over to a steaming tub in one corner of the room (surrounded by meditation candles), configured me on all fours, slipped on yellow dishwashing gloves, and took to bathing me—like a dog. My arms and legs were rattling with fear (like a dog being bathed), and I could barely keep myself up as he used a potent herbal-scented lather on me. He began with my back and head, lifted my arms one at a time to scrub my pits (scared as I was, I fought not to laugh. What can I say? It tickled!), moved to my legs, my underbelly, and then went for the intimate areas. I was frozen with embarrassment as his fingers flowed delicately (shocker) over my balls, around my dick (even stretching it out so he could cover every inch of the shaft), and then up and into my crack, going as far as probing gently at the edges of my anus while holding my cheeks apart.

  When he’d rinsed me clean with a hose that retracted back into the wall, he lifted me up by my armpits, stood me on the floor outside the tub, and took to my body with a thick plush towel, once again covering every inch of me.

  I was feeling pampered. I could get used to this.

  I didn’t anticipate the whole strapped-down-on-the-massage-table thing coming: over the throat, around the wrists, around the ankles. A piece of cloth was inserted in my mouth and secured at the back of my head.

  To stifle the screaming.

  Hot wax, thick wads of tape. He systematically began to rip all the hair from my body. I shrieked. Tears poured from my eyes. He attacked my torso, my arms, my legs, my toes, and my knuckles—then yanked away all my pubic hairs. I began to wait with belated anticipation for the cream treatment that would follow each area, penetrating my freshly opened (and sore) pores, bringing a bizarre tingling relief. It was a miracle ointment.

  Modesty never grows old. When I was finally hairless up front, Dong did some quick modifications on my still body. He put some sort of wedge under my back, then attached my ankles to small adjustable nooses that dangled from the rafters of the room. There I was with my legs apart, up in the air, and my genitals and anus completely vulnerable. With great precision, Dong waxed my ass, first one cheek, then the other. Oddly, he artfully formed some sort of pattern on my butt. He left my crack hair alone and carefully sculpted around my perineum, leaving the center untouched. After slathering on more miracle cream, he did the back of my legs.

  Seemingly finished at last, he undid my bonds (leaving the gag in), bent me over the table, and then restrapped my hands and ankles (just exactly how many friggin’ straps were there on this damn massage table?).

  A minimal waxing of my back (hadn’t really begun growing any hair there yet, so it wasn’t all that uncomfortable), and I thought we were done.

  But, oh no, it was time for the biggie. A cold application of a slippery lubricant, a big tube inserted in my rectum…

  And a high colonic that sucked the energy out of me.

  *

  Dong practically had to carry me back to him: Peterson. The man I’d met with earlier, who was holding me captive, in an extreme—and highly unprofessional—reaction to my proposal, was my assumption. I had just had all the nutrients flushed from my system (fill…release…fill…release…until I was nothing more than a fresh spring water spout), and as a result, I was starving. Which was probably part of Peterson’s plan, to weaken me for the hunt. I was in fear for my life.

  Entering Peterson’s cushy office would be PETA’s worst nightmare. As well as the deer over the fireplace and a snarling bearskin rug in front of it, there were specimens of taxidermy haunting shelves and walls, from green-eyed raccoons to evil owls.

  Peterson, a burly man with deep, glassy blue eyes and thick white hair and mustache, greeted me with that plastered-on smile that could convince any crowd of high-profile businessmen that he was sincere. His slightly overweight, husky form, which commanded a room, was no longer flattering the designer business suit it had been earlier; it was now putting the butch in khakis, thick boots, a red flannel shirt, and a hunting vest. He was leaning against a fireplace mantel covered in hunting trophies, his gun being used like a sort of cane as he sipped a martini.

  “I’m truly sorry things had to turn out this way, and that we couldn’t see eye to eye on this messy issue. But you must understand, I’m just exercising my religious freedom and that of my shareholders, as enforced by our state. If our benefits department were to recognize the marriages of your people, it could have devastating consequences on the moral standing of my company in our community and bring my dynasty crumbling down. And then you’d be out of a job, and you don’t want that, now do you? After all, you’re going to need a paycheck if you want to take me to court.” Peterson smirked arrogantly.

  “Moral standing? There isn’t a moral bone in your body!” I managed to spit out, despite the degradation of standing there naked in front of him, my hands over my freezing cold, hairless genitals.

  “On the contrary, my friend, I’m willing to negotiate—if you can prove how much it means to you.”

  I was listening, as he knew I would.

  “You prove to me that you’re a real man—not a big girlie girl—and I’ll extend those benefits to your people. All—what is it? Five of them at the office?”

  “There are more than that. They’re just terrified of being who they are because your company keeps them living in fear—”

  He cut me off with a wave of his martini. “Not interested. Now. Do we have a deal?”

  “How exactly do I prove that I’m a ‘real man’? Go shoot a deer?” I managed one of my snide remarks.

  Peterson’s smirk didn’t disappear. “You, my loyal employee, are the deer.”

  His words slapped the snide from my face. “What?”

  “You get a fifteen-minute head start. You survive out in the wilderness of my island for twenty-four hours, you get medical coverage for your imaginary girlie groom.”

  “You’re crazy,” I managed through a dehydrated throat, his mental state being the reason I let the crack about my single status slide.

  “Fourteen minutes, fifty-one seconds,” he said, looking at his wristwatch.

  Next to me, Dong opened a large mahogany door to the outside—to the jungle that was Peterson’s private island.

  “I’m…not going to do this,” I stammered.

  Peterson smiled mischievously and cocked his gun.

  *

  And that’s how I ended up in this hole.

  I tried to catch my breath and give my racing heart a chance to slow down. The silk under my equally smooth-as-silk ass felt so relaxing. I could just fall asleep and give up. I was about to die from terror anyway.

  There were noises out there. Animals. Footsteps. Were they real or imagined? I had been like Snow White running through the demonic forest. More like snow white ass. My pearly tush had been my slide when I’d gotten not more than ten feet away from Peterson’s office door. How the hell was I supposed to know I was at the edge of the House on Haunted Hill?
And how was I supposed to know that the chain link fence I came across, which I figured would gain me some getaway time, was really high voltage like the sign said? I always thought those things were just false alarms to scare people off. Now I know better. Let’s just say, if there had been any hair left on my body, I would have looked like a porcupine after my climbing attempt.

  Did I mention the booby traps? (This hole was the first one I’d fallen for…or rather, into.) There had been the gunfire, sometimes whizzing right by my head. I could never see Peterson, but he was obviously near, always watching me running in my nakedness, maybe through a scope (do hunting guns even have scopes? I’m a big opponent of the NRA, so I don’t know shit about them).

  “I have to get out,” I actually whispered out loud, to give myself some company.

  I pushed off my resting ground and steadied myself upright on its soft, sinking surface. How was I going to climb my way out of this one? I looked up.

  My heart leapt into my throat.

  There was Dong, massive arms on his hips, glaring down at me, still wearing just the T-shirt and pleated pants. The nipples on his monster pecs jutted through the tight material as a result of the cold.

  “Please…help me…please,” I begged, dry swallowing. “I’m weak. I’m cold. I need food. Clothing.”

  “Soooo!” A deep voice sank down into my pit. “It looks like we caught us some dinner!”

  That damn skull started laughing and getting that orange fire in its eyes as if it had actually heard the comment made by Peterson, who was indeed king of his island as he moved up beside his right-hand man, beaming with pride at having captured a big prize. “Dong. Hog-tie this one, and let’s bring it back to the mansion to be cleaned up.”

  *

  The hog-tying had been the topper as the worst experience up to that point—hands and feet bound to a long spit that was then hoisted over the shoulders of the two men, me dangling in between.