Gone Fishing

It never occurred to me to find out his name. It was Thursday, and I was down at the Good Times Saloon on Driggs Street, nursing a beer and dicking around on the internet, wasting away the afternoon. I suppose I should have been doing something productive: writing, or researching AIDS drugs, or memorizing the periodic table or something, but I wasn’t. I hadn’t even been actively fishing. He was playing guitar all by himself on a stool in the corner, with an upside-down hat placed optimistically in front of him. He didn’t play badly; nor did he play especially well. He was cute, in an obviously heterosexual kind of way. I put a dollar into his hat. We got to talking. He needed a place to crash, so I invited him over to the apartment.

When we walked in the door of our place on Havemeyer, a rent-stabilized second floor two-bedroom, Re:Becca looked up from the sink full of dishes she’d been doing and beamed at me, a big fat hungry smile full of lust and gluttony.

There hadn’t been any action around the apartment in days, and the sexual frustration was getting heavy, as evidenced by Re:Becca doing chores. She must be horny if she’s voluntarily doing housework. Cassandra was taking her nth bath of the week. The weird sisters, Deidre and Desdemona, were on the couch, skimpily dressed in more or less matching nighties, painting each other’s nails man-killer pink. We all knew where that was going to lead; things would quickly progress from manicure on to hotter and sweatier activities, and before long they would end up a twisted, knotted, slurping, moaning and nibbling mass of intertwined blue flesh, like the reproductive coupling of some weird deep-sea fish. Not that I’d pass up the show. I may be gay, but I’m not above watching a couple hot incestuous hipster chicks going at it on the couch; it’s a guilty pleasure, like watching pro wrestling, old Stallone movies.

My boy was corn-fed and cherubic, a genuine farm kid straight out of the Midwest, complete with faded dungarees, a greasy trucker’s baseball hat, and shit-kicking old work boots. He was a big fellow, six feet tall easy, plump and beefy; he looked like he belonged behind a plow. He had an adorable little beer belly, curly light-brown hair, and a wisp of a goatee. He had a duffel in one hand, his guitar case in the other. I almost felt sorry for him. The girls were already gleefully gloating. In the bathtub, Cassandra flapped her tail excitedly, sloshing warm tub water onto the linoleum of the bathroom floor. Re:Becca was preening and toweling off her hands. She looked like she’d lost twenty pounds already.

He plopped down heavily on the couch, and the girls swarmed all over him, like a cloud of thirsty mosquitoes. Cassandra had pulled on an oversized t-shirt, and was slithering eagerly toward him, leaving a wet trail of bathwater behind her. Deidre and Desdemona were already wrapping their long, clingy limbs around him, like sea anemones ensnaring a passing fish. The two of them are tall and rangy and gaunt, like a pair of ill-proportioned, underfed, blue-skinned supermodels. Of the four girls, Re:Becca is the one who looks closest to normal. She kind of reminds me of Velma from Scooby Doo: short and chunky and kind of schlubby, with big, horn-rimmed glasses, and a shaggy mop of dark hair that mostly covers up the pointy ears. Her skin has a bluish tinge to it that you probably wouldn’t even notice in most light. If one of them has to go out: fishing, or down to the bodega to fetch beer or chips, she’s the one who usually gets sent.

They found me over the internet, through craigslist. None of the girls have jobs, and besides what they pillage from the boys they prey on, they don’t have any income to speak of. Not that they have a lot of expenses either, but they do have to cover rent and utilities, so they needed a roommate. I’ve never had any problem living with them. Re:Becca says it’s not cool to prey on roomies; more to the point I suspect, I’m HIV+, and I’m sure none of the girls want anything to do with the virus floating around in my bloodstream, to say nothing of the pharmaceutical smorgasbord of drugs I ingest every day to keep the HIV under control and my T-count up. Anyway, we all get along ok: I tolerate their eccentricities and they tolerate mine.

The farm boy was telling his story, as best he could, blushing and stuttering a little under the cloying, groping, touchy-feely attentions of four hornily flirtatious girls. Or at least three-and-a-half girls; Cassandra’s lower half is long and cold and twisty, and covered in slick green scales.

He was from Wisconsin, and had the accent to prove it. Two years into college, he’d left school, dropped out or flunked out, or just drifted away, he wasn’t real specific on the why and wherefore. He’d moved to New York with his girlfriend to try and make it in the music scene. Surprise surprise, things hadn’t worked out with the girl. Turns out she was boinking their bandmate, while all the while she’d been telling him she was saving herself for marriage. Now he was sleeping on a friend’s couch and trying to raise money by playing guitar at open mikes in bars, and his friend was showing distinct signs of getting sick of him.

The girls tisked and tut-tutted sadly. Deidre and Desdemona sympathetically rubbed his shoulders, long, hot-pink-nailed fingers kneading into his knotted Midwestern muscles; Cassandra was coiled up around his feet and already had his clunky boots off. Re:Becca, always one to go straight to the point, had pulled her oversized purple sweatshirt off over her head and was going to work on his zipper.

My cute little redneck was goggling. He couldn’t believe his luck. Re:Becca has a really enormous pair of boobs that were tightly constrained under a monstrous white bra that resembled a straightjacket. He boldly busied himself feeling up those titties through the heavy-duty fabric of the brassiere while she deftly extracted his cock from the confines of his blue denim dungarees and white jockey shorts.

He was hung. Ex-girlfriend was definitely missing out. His dick stood up, proud and thick and erect, and circumcised, the purple crown bulbous and swollen. I wouldn’t have minded having a suck off that thing myself. Re:Becca opened her mouth wide and swallowed him whole while he fumbled with the clasp of her bra. She made sexy little slurping noises as she gobbled him, bouncing her head up and down in his lap as her now naked tits shook. I’m not sure whether she was hungrier or hornier. Either way, she was devouring him with gusto.

He was a hairy fellow, which I don’t necessarily mind. Deidre had managed to unbutton the top of his coveralls and remove his undershirt, and was now quite happily running her fingers through his chest hair and toying with his tiny pink nipples, while Desdemona set up an IV. His legs were splayed wide, and he had a plump and furry set of balls, which Re:Becca occasionally paused in her cock-sucking to lavish affection on, licking his wrinkled scrotum and sucking each tender testicle while his wet cock strained eagerly up.

Cassandra had pulled off her damp t-shirt and was playing with her own nipples. She has a pair of beautiful big tits, the size and shape of a pair of ripe cantaloupes, the kind that occasionally make me wish I had breasts of my own. Her nipples were eagerly erect, swollen and pink like a pair of gumdrops. In my own pants, I had developed quite the erection, and despite myself I had to slide a hand down my jeans and give my own cock a squeeze. It wasn’t just been the girls who’d been short on action lately.

Deidre and Desdemona had gotten naked. They looked like a pair of lizards; there isn’t one single strand of body hair between any of my four roommates; and they were taking turns drinking thirstily from the surgical tube protruding from the needle they’d inserted in his left arm, just below the elbow. They were making out with each other and him as they drank, and blood was getting everywhere. He didn’t seem weirded out by the situation at all; he was simply too turned on, and I had to admit the scene was pretty hot.

Re:Becca stood up, stepped out of her dark blue sweat pants, pulled her panties aside, and sat down on his big, hard, All-American erection, engulfing him in her sopping wet pussy with an audible slurp. Cassandra reached up from where she was sprawled on the floor, and carefully inserted one wet finger up into his tiny brown asshole. He moaned deliriously, and started bucking his hips up and down, splashing blood out of the IV onto the long-suffering couch. Re:Becca, glasses askew, eyes clenched tight in ecstasy, bounced along in time with him, her tits shaking violently with every thrust. She was making a fuckload of noise, I pitied our neighbors, and the pitch of her cries was rising and increasing in tempo. Cassandra, with an intently evil grin, slapped Re:Becca’s pale ass, leaving a blue handprint, and twisted the forefinger that was jammed up farm boy’s butt. They both came together, gasping and panting and howling and growling.

Deidre grinned. Both the sisters have scary smiles, dual rows of tiny, needle-sharp teeth like a baby shark, but they’re mostly just for show. “Now you’ve made him get all soft,” she complained languidly, “What about us?”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with his tongue,” Re:Becca responded, kicking off her ruined panties and giving our boy’s wet, wilted cock a final squeeze.

Farm Boy took the opportunity to divest himself of his crumpled dungarees and underpants, which the girls were more than happy to help him with, and obligingly sprawled out on the couch on his back. D&D took up their position, kneeling over his face, taking turns dragging their smooth, slippery-wet pussies across his outstretched tongue. They kissed and made out as he licked them, blackish-red blood smeared all across their lips and faces. They pressed their tits hard against each other, squeezing each other’s ass, the one being serviced groping her sister’s pussy as she ground her clit back and forth across his face.

Meanwhile, Re:Becca had found a razor blade somewhere (you never have to look far to find a razor blade in our apartment), and busied herself making an incision in Farm Boy’s inner thigh. She was an expert. She would just barely nick the femoral artery, enough so that he would spurt blood like a water fountain; not quite enough so that he’d bleed out and die right away. She slurped the arterial blood up thirstily, even as the Weird Sisters, backs arched, frizzy hair shaking, conical breasts bouncing and blushing lavender, traded orgasms, whining impatiently for more.

Farm Boy’s cock was slowly coming back to life, encouraged by occasional gentle petting from Re:Becca’s talented hand as she gorged  herself. I was almost painfully turned on. My dick was swollen, leaky and jutting in my jeans, and it was getting to the point where I was going to have to do something about it. Jerking off to methodical, premeditated murder ooks me out, even when it’s done real slow and sexy. So I kept it in my pants, and bailed on the whole scene. I went over to the Good Times and had a burger and a beer. I ordered the burger well-done. Extra well-done. I didn’t want to see one speck of pink meat.

By the time I got home, Farm Boy was looking pale and diminished, a shell of his former self. Cassandra had him to herself, on the living room floor. She had wrapped the serpentine lower half of her body around his torso, like a python throttling a deer, and with her impossibly strong hands clenched in his tousled brown hair, she was busy force-feeding him her breasts.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t ssstop…” she hissed, as if he had any choice. Cassandra is constantly bemoaning her lack of a pussy, and complaining that her clit aches like the absent limb of an amputee. She can orgasm through nipple stimulation, but it takes a LOT of stimulation to get her off. I went to bed.

I was the first one up the next morning. I could hear Re:Becca snoring away like an enormous, well-fed cat on her futon. I started the coffee and dry-swallowed my first batch of pills of the day on an empty and growling stomach.

The girls weren’t finished with him, not quite yet. He looked as if he’d physically shrunk, like he was wasted away and old. His skin was pale, almost translucent. His back was bent into an uncomfortable-looking ‘C’, his hands and wrists duct-taped together behind him, and somebody’s panties were wadded up and taped to the incision on his thigh, keeping pressure on that artery. He was naked and helpless, and I guess I felt a little bad for him, but I wouldn’t have done anything, except right then, as I was walking back to my room with my mug in hand, he opened his eyes and looked right up at me and said “help”.

There was something about that hoarse, forlorn voice that tugged at my heart strings. And certain other parts. I sighed, and swilled my coffee.

I untied him, massaged his ankles and feet until he could walk again. His dungarees were ruined, shredded and soaked in blood, so I dressed him in a pair of my black jeans that were way too small for him, and one of my old t-shirts. He leaned heavily on me for support. Together, we walked down the stairs and out onto the street, where he blinked stupidly in the morning sun.

I went to the corner bodega, and fed him a V-8, which seemed to perk him up a little, and then I walked him over to my friend Rachel’s place. Rachel is off on tour, and I had soft-heartedly agreed to feed her cat while she was gone. I stripped the clothes off him, and put him to bed, where he more or less instantly passed out, slipping into a deep peaceful-looking slumber. When he woke up, I fed him pierogies and chicken soup from the Polish diner up the street. I made him take a shower, and put a real bandage on his thigh. Then he slept again.

I undressed and climbed into Rachel’s Ikea bed with him, snuggling up against him like spoons in a drawer. His body was warm once again, his shoulders were broad, and his hair smelled nice. I reached around to his front, playing with his soft nest of chest hair, and then exploring further south.

His penis responded instantly to my touch, and he made a cute little mewing noise, wiggling his buns and pressing back against me as I caressed him into full-on hardness. His dick felt nice in my hand, big and thick, and soft and silky, and hot and pleasingly hard. My stroking became more purposeful, I squeezed his cock harder and pumped him faster and faster, until he was gasping and panting, and humping back against my own erection. I leaned forward and kissed him, an urgent, open-mouth kiss right on his chapped, Midwestern, heterosexual lips, and groaning into my mouth, he came, his cock pulsating in my hand, squirting sticky white semen all over Rachel’s bed. I’d have to remember to change her sheets.

After he was finished, after his body relaxed and his dick softened, after I had milked every last drop of come out of him, I tentatively began to rub my own needy meat between his ass cheeks. I was desperately horny at this point; I had been witness to all kinds of twisted, raunchy debauchery over the last twenty-four hours, but I had yet to get any release myself.

To my aching relief, he responded in kind, rubbing his ass up and down against my hard dick. I kissed and nibbled the back of his neck, squeezing him tight around the chest, grinding my cock between his taut buns.

When I couldn’t stand it any more, I pushed him away, fetched a condom out of Rachel’s bedside table (Good girl!), and rolled it down my quivering, over-excited shaft. Farm Boy assumed the position, down on all fours, ass thrust out, cock and balls hanging down, face pressed against the blanket.

Only it wasn’t happening. He was too tight, too nervous, too clenched. We didn’t have enough lubrication, and he wasn’t really into it, even after I had rimmed him a little. With a pang of regret, I rolled off the condom, and offered my dick up for him to suck on, which, to his credit, he willingly did.

That didn’t really work either. It felt nice, and he looked sexy as hell doing it, licking and kissing and doing his damnedest to swallow my hard-on, but he just didn’t have the knack. Every time he achieved a decent rhythm and I started to get close, he choked, or changed tempo, or let me flop wetly out of his mouth while he gasped for hair. My balls were starting to hurt.

I ended up helping him jerk me off, his fingers entwined with mine, our hands moving together up and down my cock until I finally came, squirting gobs and gobs of toxic, HIV+ semen all over his angelic face. It was pretty sweet, and it left me exhausted and glowing. We fell asleep together, holding hands, my come drying on his cheeks and in his goatee.

He was gone when I woke up the next morning. Not that I blame him. He was no more into dudes than he was into hipster vampire chicks. Re:Becca and the girls would be a little bit pissed, but they’d get over it. I have needs too, and they know it. And I had saved them a hassle: disposing of a body is always a pain in the ass. Anyway, there was plenty more where he’d come from

He’d make his way back to Wisconsin, which would be a headache for him without his wallet or any possessions, but he’d manage. He’d go back to Madison, finish school, get himself a BS degree and a pretty little Midwestern girl, and they’d move back to the farm together and slowly go to seed. He’d never visit New York again, and he’d warn all his friends to stay away. “You wouldn’t believe the shit that goes on in the big city,” he’d expound after a couple Bud Lights down at the local bar, “There’s some mighty fucked-up people in that town. And I ain’t fooling. You wanna take my advice, just stay away.”


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