Message from John Carter

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Monday, February 18, 2013

Middleboro Part 7

Chris got home after dark.  He’d been on the phone all afternoon, checking with the missing wrestlers’ relatives, employers, boyfriends.   One of them, Skip Duncan, had left town after being fired. That was good news—of a sort.  At least nothing had happened to him.  Skip was a short, compact guy who liked to wrestle submission.  Mitchell, David, Foster, Carl.  Hell, even Chris had wrestled him.  He was popular.  


And he was alive.

But the others…nothing.  No one had seen them. No one had heard from them.  Chris had attempted to check their phone records, but not being in law enforcement, and not being a real reporter (that Nathan really pissed him off) Chris was not privy to that information.  Never the less, it was obvious that something had happened to the other guys.  But what?

Chris threw his keys into the candy dish by the front door and stripped off his shirt.  He had sweat stains under his arms.  He was nervous.  He needed to calm down, maybe get something to eat.  He opened the fridge.

There was a knock at the door, and Chris nearly jumped. 

“Okay,” he thought.  “I need to get a hold on myself.”  This whole wrestler thing was getting to him. 

He walked to the front door, almost opened it, and then thought better of it.  He peered through the peephole.

“Jesus Christ,” thought Chris.  “What the hell is Jack doing here?”

He opened the door and Jack was standing there in just a pair of red gym shorts—they were faded and said Middleboro Wrestling on one leg.  Chris swallowed hard, and ran a hand through his hair.

“Jack…?  What are you…?”

But before he could say more, Jack walked up to him and planted a kiss on him.  Chris pushed Jack back. 

“No…Jack…no.  Not…Not now.”

But Jack was running his hands over Chris’ naked torso and he caught Chris’ nips and pinched—something that always got Chris going.  He lurched backward, pulling loose.  

“Jack…Jesus, man, what the hell are you doing here?  I told you to stay home!’

Chris had backed inside the house, and Jack grinned and closed the door behind him.  Chris could see that Jack was hard, and in an instant, Jack had his gym shorts off and his cock was exposed.  Chris hadn’t seen it in a long time and it looked great.  Bigger than he’d remembered.  Jack’s shaft was thick and veined.  The head was full and red, and a little pre-cum dribbled from it.

“Man, you’re ready to go, aren’t ya stud…?”  Chris started taking off his shoes and socks, and then, hesitating for a moment, he un-did his pants.  “I’ve…I’ve really missed you, Jack.  I’ve been mad at you…but…now that you’re here…”  He let his pants fall to the floor and he stepped out of them.  He then let his briefs slide off, and in an instant, Jack was on him.

Chris hardly had time to brace himself before Jack caught hold of Chris in a bearhug and lifted him off the ground.  Jack grinned wildly, and Chris got even harder, looking into Jack’s fierce, blue eyes.  They struggled like that a moment, and then Chris broke free and they clasped hands and worked to force each other to submit.  Chris was laughing, in spite of himself.  Jack was so hard, and not just his cock.  Jack’s whole body was muscular and well-defined.  His abs were outstanding, and his chest, always one of his best features, was smooth and muscled. 

Chris worked as hard as he could to control Jack’s arms, but Jack was strong and he was forcing Chris’ arms back.   But, then Jack did a duck under and catching Chris around the hips, he took him down to the carpet where they wrestled back and forth, first Chris on top, and then Jack.

Chris was having such a great time.  Jack was so hot, and he’d missed him.  Missed him so horribly.  But then a thought crossed Chris’ mind.  Hadn’t Jack had short-cropped hair that afternoon?  Here, in Chris’ living room, Jack’s hair was longer, like it had been in high school.  In fact, Jack’s chest had been hairy that afternoon—Chris had seen a tuft of black hair poking out from his t-shirt, but here, Jack was smooth, again, like high school.

“Wait…wait a minute…” gasped Chris.  “C’mon, Jack…hold on a minute...”

But Jack didn’t hold up.  Instead he got Chris in a leg scissors, and grinning wildly, he leaned forward and caught hold of Chris’ cock.

Just then the phone rang.  Chris still had a land-line from when his parents had owned the house.

“Let go, Jack…I need to answer that…”

But Jack didn’t let go, and Chris had to roll over and force his way out of the hold.  Unfortunately, that allowed Jack to get Chris’ back, and Chris felt Jack’s muscular body as it caught hold of him from behind and clamped on a choke hold.  The phone was ringing…once…twice…three times.  Chris tried to break Jack’s hold but the phone was going to the answering machine. 

As Chris pried Jack’s arm away from his neck, he felt Jack’s hard cock in the crack of his ass.  He took a deep breath.  It felt magnificent and he wanted…so desperately wanted…Jack to take him.  


“Chris? This is Jack.”  It was the voice on the phone.  Jack was leaving a message.  “Will you please call me when you get home?”

Wait…if that was Jack, who was on his back?  Chris turned his head and it wasn’t Jack.  It was…what?  He couldn’t really say.  It was naked, and extremely muscular.  Bald with red eyes and a mouth with no teeth.  Only thick red lips that seemed to beg to find Chris’ cock.  A little viscous fluid ran from the corner of its mouth.

Chris tried to get out from under it, but it had its hard cock in the crack of Chris’ ass and it plunged in.  Chris gasped…it felt fantastic…but this wasn’t Jack…this was something else…something horrible…

Chris was down on his belly, the thing across his back.  He felt the thing’s hips rise and fall and it plunged into Chris’ rectum again and again, finding that exact spot that made Chris want to come all over himself.  This thing…what was it?  Where had it come from?

And then it hit Chris.  This was a thing he’d invented.  A thing he’d dreamed up as a child.  An invincible wrestling machine with a huge cock and a sloppy red mouth that could clamp on your cock and work it like there was no tomorrow.  Lying in bed, as a fourteen-year-old, he’d tried to conceive of the perfect thing to wrestle, and this bald, muscular thing was what he’d thought up.  He’d thought about it through a lot of high school—until thoughts of Jack had driven it from his mind.  He’d sketched it numerous times—it peppered the margins of his school papers.  Yet, here it was, slick and muscled, working it sexually powered attack on a weakening Chris. 

But Chris was not out yet.

He gathered his strength and pushed up and over, falling onto his back, the thing beneath him.  Chris then turned, pulling the thing’s cock from his ass.  He was face to face with it, its bloated tongue licking its red lips.  Chris put a hand in the thing’s face and drove it back to the carpet and broke free of it.  They clasped hands and as Chris tried to pull away, he felt a tug at his groin.  He had both of the thing’s arms under control, so what the hell? 

The thing’s hard cock was gone, replaced by a third hand that firmly grasped Chris’ cock and pumped furiously.  Chris screamed with pleasure and tried to break free, but the thing just leaned over him grinning.   With its hands free now, it caught hold of Chris’ nipples and tweaked them, just the way Chris liked.  The way Chris tweaked them himself when he lay in bed and masturbated to thoughts of Jack.  

He was going to cum.  He didn’t want to, but this thing’s assault was so sexual, so perfectly geared to what Chris enjoyed.  Chris could feel himself weakening, giving in to its sexual assault.  He wanted to just let it win.  Wanted to experience what he knew would be a massive ejaculation.  But he couldn’t.  He couldn’t let this thing take him, do with him what it apparently had done—was doing?—to other guys in town.

This was his invention, wasn’t it?  He’d summoned it, somehow, through his own imagination.  His own teenaged lust.  And if his mind could summon it, perhaps his mind could send it away?

Chris closed his eyes and concentrated…not on the muscled hand that pumped his shaft or on the fingers that twisted his nipples, but on…Foster.  His pale, tumescent belly.  His thinning hair.  His under-sized arms.  The huge mole with the single hair growing out of it.  The thing was gone, he told himself.  It was Foster that pumped him.  Foster--that gross little guy.

Chris opened his eyes.

It was Foster that held his dick.

He punched Foster…or whatever it was…right in the face.  There was a horrid scream and Foster collapsed into a sort of black protoplasm that scuttled across the carpet and behind the coach. 

Chris stumbled to his feet, his cock throbbing, and lurched around the Henry-Don, ready to strike out again.  

It got to its feet, slowly, but it wasn’t Foster any more.  It was…Brad Pitt as he’d looked in Troy.  Chris almost burst out laughing.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!  Really?  That’s what I’m thinking?”

He swung a lamp and the thing seemed to recoil away from him into a black mass with spindly legs.  It ran across the carpet and hurriedly opened the front door.  Chris ran after it, out into the front yard, into the warm Spring night.

It took him a moment to realize that he was naked, holding a lamp, his cock still hard as a rock.

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