RichEisbrouch
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As Billy pulled into his garage one night after work, the goon stepped out of the shadows and opened his car door. “Fifty,” he said, and Billy got out and complied. “Jacket,” the goon said, and Billy gave it to him. “Tie.” Billy handed it over. “Shirt.” Billy took it off. “Fob.” “In my right jacket pocket,” Billy said. “On my key ring. The goon nodded. He wasn’t masked, but in the dark garage, Billy couldn’t clearly see his face. “Flat on the back seat,” the goon
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Billy had a flat tire on the way home from the hospital after a long day at work. He was simply too beat to fix it in the dark on the isolated shortcut he drove, so he called Triple A. As soon as the tow truck pulled up, and he saw the driver, he asked, “How do you keep finding me?” And he dropped to the ground and started his fifty. “Hey, Buddy, I’m just here to fix your car, not work out,” the goon joked. “Sure you are,“ Billy was thinking. And he opened his shirt. His chest wa
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Billy was so busy loading his basement washing machine that he didn’t even hear the goon come down the stairs. Till the man grabbed his ass. “May as well wash what you’re wearing,” he ordered, and Billy stripped. The goon stayed dressed, of course, in his jeans, T, work boots, and usual ski mask. Then, instead of requiring additional push-ups, he walked Billy into the main room, to his weights. “Press,” he said, and Billy ran through a rep of twenty. “Again.” And Billy did a secon
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Billy had ducked into the hardware store, needing to buy a battery. He was still dressed from work. Leaning over the rack, he was suddenly humped. “Hey!” “Don’t turn,” the goon ordered. “I can’t strip here,” Billy protested. “Why not?” Billy started to turn, but the goon held his head forward. “Relax,” he said. “I’m a master, not a moron.” Billy calmed. “Now walk to the cash register. Left into the plumbing aisle. And go through the door on your right.” Billy
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There's the right one. Thanks.
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Whoops, posted the wrong chapter. Thanks. Fix that shortly.
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Billy was trying on a pair of jeans when the locked changing room door popped open, and a voice ordered, “Turn.” He did, but there wasn’t room to do “Fifty,” so he stayed on his feet. “Cameras?” he asked cautiously, as the door relocked. “Would you care?” came the answer. Then the goon stripped Billy and turned his head to see an overhead pipe. “Chins.” Like crunches, they weren’t Billy’s favorites, but he did twenty-five, with the goon’s licked thumb working deeper into him, eac
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Billy was in the supermarket when a voice behind him said, “Leave the cart and keep walking,” and he was close marched – the goon’s legs nearly against his rear – through the industrial swinging doors just ahead. That took them to a fluorescent lit gray utility hallway, then into a stinky sweet janitor’s closet – this market couldn’t have deserved the high rating on its window. The goon immediately flipped on the light and locked the door behind them. The room was maybe four by ten, with tal
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Billy was swinging in his back porch hammock, focused on work on his laptop, when the goon strolled up – wearing sunglasses, a baseball cap, a T-shirt, shorts, and running shoes. “Fifty,” he ordered, and Billy set aside his laptop and almost automatically rolled out of the hammock, dropped to the floor, and knocked off the first set. He was expecting another when the goon’s now bare foot pushed him flat to the floor. The goon easily slid Billy shorts past his own bare feet – he wasn’t we
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Billy was reading when there was a knock – three sharp raps, and his dick got hard, remembering the UPS guy. Out the window, a tall man in a dark suit faced away, and as Billy opened the door, the ski mask came down. “Strip.” The goon didn’t close the door or let Billy leave the entryway. If a neighbor walked or drove by and happened to glance in, he’d see all of Billy. The goon wore a sharp suit and slick tie, but his words were the same one syllables. “Floor.” And Billy dro
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Billy was out at a nice Italian restaurant with friends, and before their meal, he went to the bathroom to wash. As he let the door swing shut and reached behind him to the lock, the door flew open, and Billy was crushed between it and the wall. “Turn around,” a familiar voice ordered, and Billy complied. There was no point arguing with the goon. He never stayed long anyway, so Billy’s friends would never know. He’d just be a little sore at dinner. Then the door closed, and the lights
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Billy had just gotten home when there was a knock. “UPS!” He looked out the window, but the guy in uniform was facing away, as if double-checking the address. Billy opened the door, and as the guy turned, he pulled down his wool cap into a ski mask. He gestured Billy back and casually kicked closed the door. “Open your shirt.” “Yes, Sir.” “Did I say to call me ‘Sir?’” “No, Sir.” “Then don’t.” “OK.” Billy couldn’t figure the goon out – and this guy had to be th
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Billy woke up in the dark, but he knew the goon was in his bed. There was weight on him. A hand clamped quickly over his mouth. “You gonna yell?” Billy shook his head. “Didn’t think so,” the man said. “You seem too ready.” Billy was ready. He always kept lube beside his bed. Waiting for an opportunity. The goon pushed back the sheet and yanked off Billy’s sweatpants – that’s all Billy slept in. “Real gentleman,” he muttered. Then he bent back Billy’s legs, clamped
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Yep, "eerie's" a good word. And this is a short but weird ride, without any of that innocence of Camp Lore.
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Billy came home from work and was surprised to find a a ski-masked stranger there, going through the bureau in his bedroom. Instinctively, he shouted. But the man was on him. Grabbing his neck. Pressing his throat. Billy struggled but soon passed out. He came to with his hands and ankles tied. Hands behind him with his tie. Ankles together with his belt. His bare chest was pressed flat against his mattress, and he was on his knees, bent over the end of the bed. His pants were around
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Again, Billy got a nice response, and he met and talked with or wrote to a smaller number of carefully selected guys. But some men he was interested in were put off by his English butler role-playing, so he tried a more down-home approach. Billy-Next-Door is well worked out, so my pecs are always pumped and primed. My shirt can be left open whenever I’m with a man who’s clearly my superior, so my pecs and abs can be readily assessed and admired. My shirts are often a size smaller than my
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Billy got a nice response, and he met some of the guys and wrote or talked to others. But none were what he wanted – too much grunting and drooling, some from guys who really wanted to hurt him. Not one elegant master – Daniel Craig as James Bond. So he added to his posting: Sir! I’ll be happy to do anything you imagine, any time it pleases you. I’ll remain stripped to the waist if you desire. Think of me as your bare-chested butler. You rang, Sir? Yes, Sir, I’m obliged to please you in
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Billy wants a relationship. Badly. And that's just what he gets. This is a darkly funny Roadrunner cartoon. No matter where it starts, the coyote gets it in the end. Be careful when you rub part of your body thinking it's a genie lamp. This was written for a friend of mine, who contributed the first three chapters.
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Billy posted on a dating site that wasn’t really a dating site: I’m 38, 5'-11", 190, with black hair and brown eyes. I enjoy playing the innocent, buttoned-up boy-next-door-type forced into unbuttoning my shirt and pants, no undershirt or underwear. Just a button-down dress shirt, open and exposing my bare chest and vulnerable nipples, and open, button-fly jeans exposing the top of my untrimmed pubic hair. My hands are tied behind me, torso exposed and oiled for anyone's pleasure. Wearing a
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Rob. Yeah, well. Read - or even wander - through some of my other lightweight novels, and you'll discover Rob's voice turns up in a lot of different forms. As both a writer and a designer, I'm very much a one-trick pony. But glad you enjoyed this story. As I said, it was great fun to tell. And thanks for the suggestion. I'll keep it in my file. But I'd really have to dig back to high school for that. And I was never the athlete Rob is.
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On Monday afternoon, Dan and Paul had rowed back to the island to look for the keys. It turned out they were practically where Brian had been standing. “They might even have been under his feet,” Dan reported. “They were kind of dug into the ground.” “Then I wouldn’t’ve been able to find them,” I said. “Probably not.” Almost a week later, on Sunday morning after breakfast, while waiting for all the kids and counselors to get organized, do final inspections of the bunks for almost
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The last week of camp was busy. There was the joint camp musical, performed in the larger girls’ Rec Hall, Tuesday through Thursday nights, Camper Recognition Night on Friday, again for both camps in the girls’ Rec Hall, and finally, the last Saturday Night Camp also performed for both camps, because Sunday night, when the show was usually performed at the girls’ camp, most of us would be home. Usually, Greg said, the last Saturday Night was a recap of the best skits of the summer, followed
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After we’d gotten through breakfast, and some of the guys headed off to catch up on sleep – some of us felt fine – as we were resetting our tables, I asked Brian, “You got anything planned? Or can we do a quick trip to Norwich?” He looked at me. “Now? Sure.” “I’d ask for later, but I need to work this afternoon.” Plus, I wanted to be with Andy. A quick smile during breakfast, with his kids around, wasn’t enough. “What do you need?” Brian asked. “Couple of things. They’ll wait
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Brian walked back into the bunk to a hero’s welcome. The guys were still playing cards as promised – except for Nate, who was dozing on Steve’s bed. But they all got to their feet and started whooping and clapping when Brian and I walked in. And they each wanted to shake his hand – none of our high school high fives would do. “Welcome to Camp Seneca,” Dan finally crowed. “You’re one of us now.” Brian laughed. “And what was I all summer?” “On approval.” “Borderline approval.”
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“The thing is,” Brian said, as we were paddling back to camp, “is that as bad as I messed up, I still didn’t mess up as bad as I could’ve.” “Is that like being a little pregnant?” I joked. “If Laura got pregnant from what we did tonight, you better keep me away from the Romans.” “I think you’re mixing your gods and saints.” “I’m drunk!” he hollered – so loudly it might have woken the camp. But we weren’t close enough. “Okay, so you only dropped your pants.” “Not even clos
