Kit was all done with asking why this thug was doing this. He'd asked so many times before and only been slapped around and told to "Shut the fuck up" when he'd tried to make sense out of this. The maniac kept asking where "blondie" was and trying to get Kit to say why he wrote himself as a blond in the stories he wrote. When Kit admitted he wrote the stories but they weren't about him--just from his imagination--the guy got angry and hit Kit. He'd driven into an alley and moved Kit to the backseat of the truck's cab, binding and gagging him and pushing him down on the floor in front of the bench seat. He'd driven for over half an hour, pulling in behind a small house surrounded by heavily foliage.
They'd made a stop at a store, but the truck had been parked well away from other parked cars and they'd only stopped for a few minutes. When they got to the house, Marcus pulled Kit out of the truck, hustled him into the house through the back door leading into the kitchen, and then down into the basement to the room Marcus had already prepared for his "blondie."
Then, using the purchase he'd stopped for, he dragged Kit into the basement bathroom and over to the sink, and he peroxided Kit's hair blond.
Now Kit was an approximation of what Marcus wanted to work his fantasies out with, although he still wanted to track down the small, platinum-blond honey he'd seen the redhead with--the one who drove the red Lexus coupe.
Marcus dragged Kit, bound at the wrists and ankles and gagged, over to a double bed and tossed him on the mattress. Then he went to a nearby desk with a laptop computer on it and brought up a Sandman story.
... they recuffed him, this time using the restraints Davey had seen the white cop come in with. One of the leather restraints locked his right wrist to his right ankle. The other did the left. The bar attached between them, spreading Davey's legs. His cheek and chest were pressed into the thin mattress on the cot, with his tail raised high. He was effectively hogtied and immobile.
"Just checking how you described the hogtying," he said to Kit, who couldn't respond because he was gagged. Marcus came over to the bed, pulled Kit up and marched him into the bathroom. He untied Kit, who put up a little bit of a struggle then, but Marcus was nearly twice his size and had three time his strength and slapped him around until Kit realized he wasn't going to break away. Marcus stripped them both and put them both under the shower, drying them off afterward. Marcus had an erection while they were in the shower, but he didn't do anything about it there.
He brought Kit back to the bed, forcing a ball gag into his mouth, and hogtied him there, strapping wrist to ankle on each side, just as Kit's story described and also elbow to knee for good measure. He attached the leg spreader to the ankle restraints, and then pushed Kit down on the bed, cheek and chest to the sheets and tail lifted in the air.
Marcus climbed up on the bed and crouched behind his captive, spending time eating Kit's ass out and pulling on and sucking Kit's cock until the young man came for him. Then he hovered over Kit's back and tail, mounted and slid inside his passage, and fucked him and fucked him and fucked him.
Going rigid at first and objecting as he could through the gag in his mouth, Kit eventually melted to the hunk who, though a bruising thug, was muscular and hung and doing a very good job of fucking him. Marcus laughed when we felt Kit relax, start moaning and groaning deeply, and coordinating such rocking of his pelvis as he could do with the rhythm of the fuck.
When Marcus had come, he climbed off Kit and took the gag out.
"You liked that, baby, didn't you?"
Kit didn't answer.
"I know you did. You relaxed and went with it. I want to play with your friend Todd, though. The small, pretty blond you write about. Todd's who you model those characters after, isn't he? So often you write about the little whore who is taken is such demanding and arousing ways. You fantasize about this Todd yourself and you do him in your stories, don't you? Where is he? Tell me where I can find him and I'll bring him here and we can do him together."
"I don't know any Todd," Kit said. But he did, and it was dawning on him what this monster wanted him to provide. He wanted Kit to lead him to Toby, Todd being his escort agency name. But he wouldn't do it.
"Tell me now and you won't have to be the only one I play with."
"I'm sorry. I don't know any Todd."
Angered, Marcus punched Kit in the face, forced the ball gag back into his mouth, turned him onto his back on the bed, and released the suspender bar. He moved between Kit's bent and bound legs, thrust up inside him, and fucked him again, his hands clutching Kit's throat, controlling his breathing to the rhythm of the fuck. This time the fuck was more brutal than the last time. Marcus wanted Kit to know what the progression would be if he didn't start cooperating.
For Kit's part, he was afraid if he told Marcus what he wanted to know, that would be the end of the game.
* * * *
Hardesty and Whitelaw got a bunch of dirty looks when they bailed out of the Hummer, parked very much illegally on the sidewalk outside the main National Art Gallery entrance doors--justified only by the blue revolving light on the Hummer's roof--and burst into the gallery's entrance hall. They didn't have guns drawn, but they were at the ready. They were deflated a bit when a calm reception desk attendant made a call and reported that Kit Helms wasn't on duty that afternoon.
"His supervisor, William Hopkins, would be pleased to talk to you about him, though, if you wish."
They wished. The attendant left the desk to her colleague and guided them to the gallery offices.
"Kit is assigned to shepherd an important German artist around today," Hopkins told them. The man obviously was independently wealthy. His office shrieked of décor that the gallery would not have paid for for one of his rank at the gallery. It also panted of effete and swishy. The man himself was saved disregard because he exhibited as highly intelligent and he was achingly handsome, tall, willowy, and with movie star looks. He was a bit younger than Hardesty in appearance, another sign that he was well-heeled. Curators at a major museum like this usually took longer to get to their position than to still be in their thirties. He had taken immediate interest in both Hardesty and Whitehall when they entered the office, but, from experience, he quickly turned that interest on Hardesty.
"The gallery tour is over," he said, "so I assume they are seeing a bit of the city." He checked his computer screen. "I have the hotel Mr. Stern is staying at on the record here. Would you like me to call the Alexander and ask if the artist is there and knows where Mr. Helms could be."
Hardesty's eyes rolled at the reference to the Alexander Hotel. He well knew what the clientele at the Alexander would be and he thought it a good possibility that both the German artist and Kit Helms might be there--in bed--now. "I'll call them myself," he said.
