Billy and the Goon - 22. Chapter 22

Billy was watching his ten-year-old nephew play soccer when a voice behind him said, “Don’t turn around. Meet me under the stands – now. A door’s unlocked.”

Less than five minutes later, Billy was tied naked to a tractor while he could hear the crowd faintly cheering above him.

“Think you can outyell that?” the goon asked. “Don’t even try. This thing was built by the WPA. It’s three foot thick.”

Just for the heck of it, Billy yelled. There wasn’t even an echo in the maybe twenty foot square equipment room. The ceiling sloped like a triangle, and sound disappeared

“Scream, ‘Help me! Help me!’” the goon suggested, in that tiny voice that mimicked the actor in The Fly.

Billy imitated the goon, but only got a swat

“No asshole. Full voice. You’re not a eunuch yet.”

The goon was laughing, but Billy knew he’d never damage Billy’s balls. They were too much his toy. Still, he yelled again. Then they waited. And no cavalry appeared.

“Looks like no one cares,” the goon said, laughing again. And he set to work.

“Stand,” he ordered, and Billy did.

He’d been sitting on the tractor seat, his wrists tied to the steering wheel, his ankles to something below. The goon slipped behind and into Billy, and they rode the tractor together.

When the goon decided Billy was having too much fun, he bit hard into Billy’s bicep.

Billy screamed.

“Good thing that wasn’t your ear,” the goon joked. “I’d get a mouthful of lobe.”

Instead of waiting for an answer, he clamped Billy’s nipples between his nails and bit his bicep again.

Billy yelled and shot at the same time, and the goon rode all that to its first conclusion. Then he attacked Billy’s nipples again, bit his other bicep, and watched Billy stay hard.

“You’re like this twenty-year-old I saw online last week. Shoot and shoot and shoot, and he’s just grinning away, ready to shoot some more. Hairy, too, like you. I think Greek, though he spoke perfect English – I think with a Northeast accent. I’d like to get a hold of him, but it might make you jealous.”

All though that, he was edging Billy with a lubed hand. Till he let Billy shoot again.

“Three to go.”

Billy wasn’t twenty and didn’t think he had three in him just then. After maybe twenty minutes, the goon had to agree.

So he swung one leg over the tractor seat like a cowboy, pulled up his jeans, zipped in the rubber, and asked, “What am I bid to untie one of your wrists? It’s getting cooler, and you could spend the day working out of this.”

“A weekend going at me,” Billy offered. “Keeping me naked in a dark closet. Hands bound behind me. Fed from a bowl.”

“Go on,” the goon replied.

“With me tied upright on my feet, ropes under my arms, looped to the closet pole. And my balls tied tight to my toes.”

“Sounds cozy,” the goon said. “And how would you eat?”

“Maybe I wouldn’t – for three days. Friday evening till Sunday midnight. ‘Long as I get a good night’s sleep before work.”

“That’s not even two-and-a-half days.”

“I can’t take Friday off.”

The goon seemed amused, but not seriously considering it.

“You’ve been watching too much fake porn. After two hours, your balls’d fall off.”

Billy could think of several other torments, but the goon was right – they all sounded fake. And they were nothing he wanted to endure.

“Think you can shoot again?” the goon finally asked.

“Doubt it,” Billy admitted.

“Bet you a free wrist.”

Though it took a bit of Billy screaming for the goon to succeed.

“There you go – no disappointment there. If you were a fish, I’d get to eat you and not throw you back like a piker.”

“Thanks,” Billy said – though he’d enjoyed none of it.

“Scream, the goon ordered, and Billy did.

“Yell for help.”

“Help me!” Billy tried. “Help!”

The goon chuckled. “They don’t build stadiums like this anymore. Love that All-American concrete.”

Then he half lifted his mask, kissed Billy, untied his left wrist, and left whistling “The Star Spangled Banner.”