Body Snatcher

"I agree that it sounds peculiar and there may have been some foul play involved, but I can't understand exactly why you have come to me, Mr. Reardon. Whatever it was, it's over and done with and no ransom was ever demanded—or at least you say none was demanded and paid that you know of. As you say the police told you when you went there, it would be very difficult to establish that a crime has been committed—especially as your son, Robert, won't cooperate."

"I want something done about it. My son hasn't been the same since he came home. He was missing for three days. There were rope burns on his wrists—and who knows what else? And he just drags around the house with a faraway look on his face."

"So, again, what can I do to help?"

"You're a private eye, aren't you, Mr. Gant? And I've been told you are good at it. I want to know what happened—who did something to my boy. He hasn't even shown any interest in returning to college. And he's stopped with his bodybuilding routine. He had been happy in college—and was very active. And bodybuilding was his passion. I want to know what happened. And if someone did this to him—did something to change him in those three days he was missing—I want to know who it was and how I can locate them."

"Yes, I can understand—but to what purpose? If your son won't—?"

"You need not be any part of what happens after that. I will take care of that part."

"I could look into it for you. It would be difficult to have any idea where to start, though, if your son won't help with the enquiry."

"I can give you a couple of places to start. First, you can talk with a family named Connaut. I can give you their address and telephone number. I've already talked to Harry Connaut, and although their son doesn't want to pursue this either and they don't have the money to, I do have the money to, and Harry is willing to help."

"Their son?"

"Yes. Their son and my Robert know each other—they work out at the same gym. And this is one reason I want to track down what's happening. The same thing happened to their son the week before my son went missing. He was at the regional bodybuilding competitions over in Boynton that week—and disappeared after leaving that. Again for three days, and his father says he has completely changed personality as well."

"And what does this young man have to say for himself?"

"Nothing more than my Robert does. He was missing for three days and then he reappeared and wouldn't say anything to account for his missing time. And Harry says his wrists have rope burns on them too. Mr. Gant, we think our sons have been held prisoner somewhere and have been molested."

"Molested?"

"Yes. In quizzing them, we pursued every angle of possibility. And they both closed right down and looked both embarrassed and guilty when we broached the questions of physical molestation."

"Yes, that gives me some place to start. You say they worked out at the same gym. Can you give me the information on that?"

"Yes. And there is another point of similarity. Robert was attending another regional body building competition—over in Rawley—when he went missing. And I have another name for you. Chet Tarbell, over at police headquarters. He wanted to help, but, as you said, he couldn't put the name of a crime to whatever happened to justify an investigation. But he's the one who gave me your name. And he said that you could contact him."

Chet Tarbell, I thought. I wondered when our paths were going to cross again. He'd been after me for months before I broke off any possibility of getting it on—although I was sorely tempted. He was a real hunk—and I was into handcuffs. But I'd been seeing someone else at the time.

I'd have to telephone him and see what he could add to this to get me started on unraveling what was both strange and intriguing at the same time.

* * * *

"Hello, Chet? It's me, Dale Gant. I understand—"

"Decided to take me on, have you?"

I ignored this. This wasn't about deciding to "take Chet" on, as he said. But I certainly wasn't ready to say "no" to that idea either. I hadn't made up my mind and I didn't want to be rushed into a decision on that.

"This is about the Reardon kid, Robert Reardon. His father said you put him on to me about this possible kidnapping, and he said you'd tell me what the police have on the case."

"Did he tell you that the kid won't cooperate and that we can't officially do anything about it until a claim or some physical evidence of a crime is lodged?"

"Yep. He told me that. But he also told me that you'd be anxious to help."

"Well, I am, but it's not a police matter, so I can't do it on department time. You'll have to meet me after work."

"OK, guess I can do that. You got a favorite tavern I can—?"

"How about my place? At 9:00 tonight? You game for that? Maybe you can provide some beer."

I hesitated. Suggesting his place rather than a public spot likely meant that he wanted to help himself as well as help me. But I had to start somewhere on this case. And Chet and I had been waltzing around each other for a couple of months now. I had to start somewhere with Chet too—or just walk away from what he was making clear he wanted.

Chet lived in a trailer out Canyon Road. There were other trailers around his, but what once had been a bustling park was less than half occupied now, and the trailers were set around almost haphazardly. His trailer wasn't too close to anyone else's and I would have missed finding it except for the weak-wattage yellow light he had on beside his front door. His Mustang and motorcycle were sitting next to his single wide, and he was standing in the door when I drove up—just in gym shorts and flip-flops. And from the backlighting from the trailer's interior, he was looking really good—all muscled up in chest and arms and a slim waist and tight abs.

I was wearing just jeans and a tight T-shirt and loafers myself, and he whistled at me when I walked between his Mustang and the cycle and into the light from his doorway.

I held up the six pack of Bud I was carrying, and said, with a chuckle, "I assume you're showing approval of the beer."

"That too," he said. Then he withdrew into the trailer and motioned for me to sit across from him in a dining alcove that had a small table surrounded on three sides with benches.

When we sat down, he raised his feet, without the flip-flops, on either side of my thighs, which might have given me a trapped feeling, but instead sent a shiver of sensuality up my spine. His toes were long and fat, which set off my imagination about how other appendages were built.

"About the Reardon case," I opened with, as I handed him a beer and flipped the top off one for myself too. "Do you believe something happened to these young guys?"

"I do. Did Reardon tell you about the Connaut kid too?"

"Yep. Think their experiences are related?"

"I do. These aren't the only similar cases that have been reported. The department is interested, but neither of these young guys will interview, so our own department has nothing going to take on the pursuit."

"But something similar happened before—in another jurisdiction?"

"Yep. Up in Springfield. A young guy was snatched during a regional bodybuilding competition there—he was a spectator, not a participant, although he was into bodybuilding."

"Like the two cases here?"

"Yep."

"And he talked?"

"Bingo. He has held for two nights and a day. Bound."

"And?"

"Fucked repeatedly by a masked man in total darkness. He didn't like it much. After the second night, he woke up unbound and in a room of a shut-down motel not more than a couple of miles from the competition venue. And he just hobbled out of the motel and headed straight for the police."

"So, what are you thinking about these two guys? That they were snatched from other regional competition events and molested too?"

"Yep. And either enjoyed it or were made too scared to talk—or don't want anyone to know their cherries were popped."

I was breathing a little heavy now. It was partly because of the image of the case that was forming up—and it was partly because Chet now had his feet between my thighs, and I had unconsciously opened to him. One foot was rubbing on my crotch, and my cock was appreciating that—and Chet could feel that it was. He pushed the toes of his other foot under the hem of my T and had the sole of his bare foot on my belly.

"Uh, those are some talented feet you have there, Chet," I said, with it coming out as sort of a croak. I took the top of the foot at my crotch in a hand and massaged his toes and the sole of one foot as his heel continued rubbing on my cock through the material of the worn jeans.

"You haven't seen nothin' yet, unless you stop me. You're not going to stop me, Dale, are you? I haven't read you wrong, have I?"

"About the Reardon case. So, there's nothing official you can do yet, but if I do some stakeout—like at the regional competitions being held where they've gone from here and come up with something you can use, you'd be happy to hear about it?"

"I'm always happy to hear from you, Dale."

And what he heard right then was a moan, because when I'd removed my hand from his foot, he was managing to pop the button of my jeans open. He was massaging my belly with his other foot.

"Reardon said, though, that you seemed to be particularly interested in this case." I'd said it as a statement, trying my best not to whimper at what he was doing with his feet, but it was really a question. And Chet took it as such.

"Whoever this guy is, he's crimping my style."

"Crimping your style?"

"Yes. What the guy who would talk had to say was that the guy who fucked him repeatedly was muscle bound, had one monster of a cock, and great stamina. And he was rough."

This wasn't helping me ignore what Chet was doing to me with his feet. "And this crimps your style because—?" I asked.

"It crimps my style because I go to the same body shops these guys getting kidnapped do—and these sweet young things are what I like bringing home and fucking. He's taking my . . . gawd, Dale, you ain't wearin' nothin' underneath."

"No," I whispered. "I'm not."

He knew that because after popping the button open, he'd managed to get the zipper pull between his toes and pulled it down. My cock responded by springing out of the open fly and leaving no doubt that I wanted him.

He also knew something else, although he fished for confirmation.

"You came ready to play, didn't you?"

"If the mood strikes," I answered.

"I'm good at creating the mood," he said with a mischievous smile.

He got the base of my cock between his toes then, and I pushed my jeans down and off my legs. One of my own feet went to his crotch after I was free of my jeans. He pulled off his gym shorts as well, and I handled his nice-sized, engorged cock with my foot as best as I could. I wasn't anywhere as skilled as he was as he was now pulling on my cock at the base—but I didn't have any trouble getting him to engorge.

He leaned over the small table and I leaned in toward him as well. He lifted my T over my head and his hand went under my arms and held me at my side with his thumbs stretched around to thrum on my nipples. Our mouths met across the table.

He moved his face up into my right pit and snuffled and licked me there. When he was working on my left pit, I shot a load onto the top of his foot.

Chet laughed. "Come on into the bedroom with me, and we'll see if I can make you come again. Not with the dexterity of my feet but with the strength of my cock. I've wanted you for some time. I've been told you take cock and that you liked 'em my size. That's not wrong, is it?"

"No, that's not wrong," I said.

As we both stood up and I came around the table, I reached for a pair of handcuffs he had dangling over the chair that made up the fourth side of the table.

"Won't need those," he said. "I'm not into that bondage shit. A guy's gotta want it when I fuck him—and there's none of this 'he made me' shit when I fuck a guy. You do want it, don't cha?"

"Yes," I said, still in a small voice—a voice that I hoped didn't reveal the disappointment I felt. I like the bondage. I like being taken hard and made to feel it was being forcibly taken from me. I'll happily wrestle a guy and continue to writhe after he'd cuffed me—and then change on a dime and not get enough of him as soon as he got his cock bottomed in me. The guys I fucked always seemed to like that as well. That's why I hung around cops. That's what I thought I'd get from Chet.

I laid back on the bed, my rump at the edge and spread my legs for Chet, as he came in between my thighs and began feeding his cock into my hole as he took my ankles in his fists and opened me even wider to him. He had great technique and worked me well, with me coming a second time before he did his first—and then we managed to come nearly together yet another time after finishing off the six pack. And I knew I'd let him fuck me again if he wanted to—but the full satisfaction just wasn't there, and I knew I wouldn't be pursuing him.

* * * *

I didn't have to drive more than seventy miles to catch up with the next venue of the regionals for the national bodybuilding championships. They were being held in a pretty seedy part of the town in a boxing gym that must have been in continuous use since the 1930s and not cleaned very often or well since then. It had the heady smell of male musk—and I'll have to admit that it was a smell that aroused me. It had been the smell I was exuding when Chet couldn't get enough of me. He'd said my scent was driving him crazy.

The light was dim, except for a couple of portable spotlights that were hung from the ceiling and trained on a wooden stage, also apparently portable, that ran the length of one narrow side of the room. The boxing ring had been removed, but its footprint was clearly discernable, the square of dark-varnished floorboards under where the ring had stood standing out in stark contrast to the different kind of shine of the gym floor around it, which was stripped of color and polished by decades of male sweat and shuffling bare feet.

The stage was backdropped in black velvet, with large, false gilt frames lining the wall in which the bodybuilders posed for the judges and cameras, and the platform floor was covered in a red runner carpet. Rusty folding chairs must have initially been spaced in rows on the floor of the gym, facing the platform, but by the time I got there, they had been haphazardly pushed to the back and sides.

I quickly could see why. The guys—and a few gals—there to watch the parade of oiled, nearly naked, highly toned muscle preferred to move around the floor, eyeing the meat on display from every angle and forming tight little groups and commenting on whatever it was they liked to comment on at these homoerotic pretenses that the arrangement of muscles "just so" was what this was all about.

They had gotten beyond the bantam weights and were into the light-heavy weights by the time I arrived, and nearly in total, those milling around on the gym floor—most of whom were in some stage of body development to dream of being on stage themselves—were giving their full attention to the guys mugging for the judges. This regional was male only, and I could tell from the stares the guys and gals around me were giving the contestants, the most important muscle to a good many of these gawkers was the one the contestant had between his thighs, which was the only covered part of his body.

I didn't give more than a glance to these watchers. What I was watching for was someone in the audience watching the other audience members rather than the stage.

I quickly saw two such guys. One was a young guy with a pretty good body, but with a couple of hard years of effort in front of him to make the competition stage. He was scrutinizing all those around him—and when he saw that I was doing the same, he gave me a hard look and turned his eyes a couple of times toward the shadows at the opposite end of the hall from the stage, where two other young guys were standing and making some effort not to show their faces. Because they obviously didn't want to be seen, I did what I could to see their faces and burn their images into my memory banks.

After running my eyes over the cruising young guy a couple of times, though, I started looking elsewhere. He was too young and trim to fit the bill for what I was looking for.

But then I saw him. Mr. Universe of body. I could tell, even though he was wearing street clothes, that he probably could have been a competitor—in the heavy weights—on the stage if he'd wanted. The only downside was that he was as ugly in the face as an ogre. It looked like someone had taken a hatchet to his face and tried to rearrange the important parts—and for all I knew that might have been what had happened to him.

I first noticed him, because he was looking at the young, trim guy who was looking at the audience members more than at those on stage himself.

And I thought maybe he was about to make a move toward the younger guy. But then he saw me. We played a game of furtive "I see you, but you don't think I do" with each other, but then I saw him break off and slowly move through the crowd—in an indirect path that I could tell was a direct move to the back of the gym. When he got to the back wall, I was startled by the sudden blast of light—coming evidently from a door he'd opened to the street. He turned and gave me a bold look, and I made it known I would follow. If this was my guy, he was getting increasingly bold—which means he was becoming increasingly dangerous.

I followed. When I reached the door, now closed again, I looked around for evidence of someone showing interest in my movements. But I saw nothing out of the ordinary. So, I slowly cracked open the door and slipped out of the gym—and into a back alley. It was a narrow, dirty space lined with trash barrels. I could see normal activity at the head of the alley on a street that would be outside the main entrance to the gym. The other end looked like a dead end in dark shadows, I turned and walked toward the street.

I'd gone no more than ten feet when I both sensed and heard a movement behind me, and had time only to turn half way toward the sound, when strong arms were wrapped around my neck, putting me in a choke hold that had me dead to the world within seconds—and without an opportunity to make a sound.

* * * *

When I came to again, it wasn't to a cheery good morning, or sunlight streaming through the windows as the butler put my morning coffee tray down and pulled the velvet draperies away from the French widows. It was with the pain of a monster cock forcing its way into my channel. And believe me, I knew the difference between the two sensations.

I was in pitch darkness and somehow had been bent belly over a padded saw horse type of contraption, with my wrists bound to my ankles as well as to the legs of the contraption, which had me spread-eagled. The heavy weight of a man was folded over me from behind. I felt hard, full-muscled chest muscles, expanding and contracting with heavy breathing on my shoulder blades, and heavy fingers with jagged nails were digging into my butt cheeks and pulling them apart, as, with much effort—surprising to me as often as I'd been fucked—my assailant was forcing a telephone pole of a cock inside me.

I felt the strain of my balls being distended toward the floor with heavy weights—at least that's what I guessed they were—not having ever had that done to me before. But it was so arousing and drove me to such distraction, that I was game for the experience.

I also was game for the rapid, deep, and full-stretched fucking this guy—whoever he was—was giving me. He no doubt would not have been as interested in the fuck if I let him know that I was having a ball—that this was the way I liked it and that he was giving it to me beyond my wildest dreams.