Marc Jesmond - 11. Chapter 11 'The Ordeal'

Friday.

Marc woke, feeling more optimistic than he had in ages. And he couldn’t account for it; maybe it was because the sun was shining! There seemed little else to account for it. As he stood by the toilet examining the stream of his urine, it looked like he was passing a respectable rosé. The medic had been right, there was blood present. So it was anybody’s guess how his semen would look; that would come later.

Showering and dressing done, he walked out onto the balcony. The leaves on the trees, planted along the once heavily-polluted river bank, were now turning pale yellow, and looked astonishing against the blue sky. On a day like today, Marc reflected, even run-down Deadlock must look presentable. Marc shrugged to himself; he must accept that a dilapidated shop premise would be his home for the next twelve months. But it didn’t have to be dirty as well! Rummaging around the garage, he packed cleaning materials and tool kit, ready to make another, this time more productive visit to the shop.

Sadly, even the sunshine could do little to improve the bleakness of Deadlock’s Main Street, as forlorn of people in fine weather as in foul. Making the best of things Marc parked up in the back lane, and walked around to the shop front, hoping things indoors might look better in broad daylight.

Marc studied the dimensions of the space. The long, narrow shop funnelled into a central passage; leading to a door, and the back yard. On either side of this passage was a kitchen and washroom. Marc felt both areas could be made serviceable with a good clean, and the shop area itself could be partitioned to provide a brutally basic but tolerable living area.

As the power had been left on, Marc set about boiling some water for cleaning. He became aware of a voice, coming from the floor above. It was Alma Robson’s, and she didn’t appear to be alone.

‘Daisy, come here!’

Maybe she had a friend around. The tone of voice was brusque and commanding, but perhaps her friend valued that in Alma? There was no accounting for the company that people kept.

Opting to rid Miss Robson and all other unpleasant thoughts from his mind, Marc switched on the radio he’d brought and got on with the cleaning.

There are times when chores like this are unbearable; and other times when they seem almost therapeutic. Marc was experiencing the positive side of work, and relishing so much the palpable results of it that when he checked his watch, and got ready to wrap up, it was nearly four in the afternoon.

The drive back to town was unremarkable, and, if you had asked Marc later how he’d felt, he’d have had little recollection.

Once he was home, his thoughts turned to Leon. He hoped his young lover was doing well, and that he’d opted to swap college for the sauna. He would not have been disappointed, for that was exactly how the youngster had spent his Friday. Marc desperately wanted to nurture their young relationship and he ached to call, but, given the way things had been left, he felt the first move should come from Leon. He’d said he needed time.

Wasps have it, ants even; that awareness when a fellow creature is in peril; but we humans seem to have lost it. And so, as the time passed and evening drew on, Marc’s concerns drifted on to nothing more consequential than what he’d eat that night, or watch on TV. And in the coming days he’d look back on the way he’d chosen to spend his Friday evening, and detest himself.

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The knock that came to the door wasn’t loud or violent, but it was ominous and foreboding. Leon felt a shiver run down his back.

Glen Roberts went directly to the door, like he was expecting callers. Leon followed, standing in the kitchen, watching. The door to the balcony was now open and, one by one six men filed silently in. They were all middle aged or older, well dressed, in dark but stylish, expensive clothes. The look on their faces made the boy tremble. There was an incongruity about the situation that confused and terrified him.

Who were these men? Why were they here?

Parnaby, the barrister was precedent; tall, slim and elegant, he was wearing a business suit and overcoat, and carrying a case. He looked coldly at Glen Roberts, as would at hawk at prey,

‘Lock the door’

Roberts did as he was bidden. Parnaby turned to his accomplices,

‘We’re only moments away from our evening’s entertainment, and it will be everything I promised you; the delicious juxtaposition of youthful sexuality, pushed to the limit, in a setting of cramped and filthy squalor’

He looked about the flat as though nosing a bad odour; and then gestured towards Leon,

‘There’s the boy, gentlemen. Study him well; he has everything you don’t, youth, physique, endowment, and potency. But shortly none of that will matter, for you will have control, and he will have none’

Leon was white and shaking. Awkwardly, he backed into the living room, bumping against the sofa, and coffee table. Parnaby followed, leading the ghoulish bunch,

‘There’s no need to cringe, boy. I bring you a new experience, a chance to rise above the dreary ranks of your peers. Tonight, you will sample what few men have. You will revel in a heightened, sexual experience most of us have too little courage to discover. There’s no need to be afraid’

But Leon was afraid. His guts were churching, and he felt that he’d piss himself at any moment. He sensed the presence of the other men, but it was Parnaby’s eyes that fixed him. He was the nemesis. The barrister turned, and snapped his fingers at Glen Roberts,

‘Bring a kitchen chair, and clear a space; here, where the coffee table is’

Leon could feel tears welling in his eyes, his voice cracked,

‘What are you going to do? Please don’t hurt me, please’

Roberts felt sick as he grabbed the chair, and rearranged the furniture. He lowered his eyes lest they meet those of the terrified boy, the one he’d betrayed. Gerald Campfire moved the sofa back, and signalled to the men to be seated. The four complied, wedging themselves tightly on the cushions, and looking like four doleful ravens awaiting a ghastly event,

Roberts set down the chair.

Leon, crouching in terror fell into the corner, pushing against a wall he prayed would absorb him. Parnaby opened his case, then looked at Glen and Gerald,

‘Fetch him over, and tie him to the chair’

The boy let out a heart rending cry, and covered his eyes with his hands,

‘Please don’t hurt me, please, I’m begging you’

Parnaby stood totally unmoved as the two obeyed his orders and dragged the boy, screaming to the chair.

‘Leave his T-shirt on, and remove the other clothes. Tie him to the chair with this’

He handed Roberts three lengths of twine,

‘Tie each leg separately, then place his arms around the chair back and tie them at the wrists’

The men set about their devilish business, Leon’s struggles and cries appearing to have little impact on the cowardly audience. When the boy was secured, Parnaby approached him and looked into his eyes,

‘You’re the lucky one. You will soon be transported to another plane; and feel that exquisite level of pleasure denied to those of us who fear to surrender ourselves to it’

Leon thrashed as hard as he could, but his captors held him firmly. The barrister wrapped a gag around the boy’s mouth, leaving him no means of expression except agonised and imploring eyes.

The barrister delved into his case, withdrew rubber gloves and put them on. Then he took out a length of rope, looped to form not only a noose, but incorporating a hole in which he’d inserted a stick, a garrotte.

A slight murmur rose from the couch. Parnaby advanced, and laid the noose over the boy’s head; then swung around dramatically,

‘Behold the hero! The very bloom of youth; how fine he looks, the perfect musculature, the strong limbs, the magnificent genitalia’

Parnaby took a wooden rod from the case, and, prodding at Leon’s penis, held it aloft,

‘You shall all see this fine organ fill out, rise, moisten with promise, then finally crow like the harbinger of morning’

Glen Roberts shuffled uneasily, and squirmed towards the door, but the barrister spotted him,

‘Glen, my boy, come here, and fetch your mobile phone’

He turned to the men,

‘Just to show you all that there is nothing amiss here, my young colleague and friend will photograph the splendid sight of his flatmate’

Roberts was quivering and unable to do anything, so his superior in evil grabbed the phone, took a picture of the wretched boy, and clicked to save it to screen. One of the men spoke,

‘Now be careful Robin, we can all have some fun, but it doesn’t need to get out of hand’

Parnaby cast the man a hateful glance,

‘Get out of hand? This is all about control, and there’s none more in control than I. But leave now, those of you who have no stomach for this’

A moment’s uneasy silence was all that the sadist needed to validate his actions. Approaching the boy’s neck, he slid the stick through the hole of the noose and began to tighten it. Leon’s eyes screamed in terror as he realised the horrible truth. The barrister held onto the improvised garrotte with his left hand, and reached down to the boy’s penis with his right. Caressing it, he held the engorging phallus up for all to see.

‘Look gentlemen, soon this fine member will stand upright, proud, potent, it will not disappoint’

He returned to the hideous business of tightening the ligature. The boy’s colour drained, and his eyes filled with blood as the throttling continued. By degrees his penis filled and stood erect, in a way that Leon would not have recognised. As the noose grew ever tighter the erection stiffened till it was painfully hard. The barrister leant over and drew back the stretched foreskin. The glans, now free of prepuce, filled out in magnificence. Parnaby’s eyes were fixed, glassy, inscrutable, as he held on fast to the garrotte,

‘See exactly what control is, watch and learn’

He held the glans, and gently squeezed until a small stream of fluid seeped out,

‘Now, we shall see’

He resumed his grip on the noose, and twisted with such force that the chair rocked. Leon’s erection jerked in response to the savage action.

‘That’s enough Parnaby, for Christ’s sake, the boy’s suffering’

The barrister, enraged at this intervention sought out the culprit with his laser eyes.

‘Was that you, Milner? Is that your contribution? The best you can do? This boy shan’t live the life of comfortable mediocrity that suits feeble spirits like you’

And he resumed his throttling, from time to time squeezing the shaft of Leon’s penis,

‘I shall make this cannon fire, depend on it’

The maniac grabbed the garrotte with both hands and turned it with terrific force,

‘Damn you, climax, do you hear me? Make that monster explode over your admirers here,

But it was too much for at least one of the admirers who rose and, stumbling into the kitchen, excused himself. Gerald Campfire stepped forward, grabbing Parnaby’s hand,

‘Enough!’

Parnaby pushed him away with such violence that he fell backwards, but the lunatic also released his own grip on the torturous rope.

‘Faint hearts! Cowards! men seeking novelty and titillation, but with so little to offer in return.

The room fell eerily silent,

‘Get out, all of you!’

Parnaby’s partner silently shepherded the gutless spectators towards the door, and out, whispering to one of them,

‘We’re all booked into The Dolphin for dinner at eight. Just make your way there and we’ll catch up’

He returned indoors where the barrister was seated, gazing at the pathetic, broken body of the boy. The noose hung limply to one side, and Leon’s head sagged to the other. There was no movement, just eyes frozen in horror.

Campfire stood in front of his partner,

‘You’ve gone too far this time: I can’t help you now’

The fiendish barrister sat, immobile as his partner got to work, in his meticulous way, ensuring no evidence was left. Then Campfire walked over to him and struck him on the shoulder,

‘Come on, snap out of it. Let’s get out of here’