Amalaric gives us a peek into the future lives of the characters from the first eight chapters including Bobby's unfortunate incarceration which sets up his next conquest....a chiseled blond prison guard named Rusty Jameson.
Bobby - Chapter 9: (First) Epilogue
by Amalaric
Series: Bobby
The events described in the ‘Bobby’ story happened in the mid 1990’s. Ten years have passed since those memorable days when Bobby, so to speak, ‘came of age’. The ensuing years were not uneventful. As an aristocratic, post-existentialist sage from the Czech Republic succinctly put it, ‘the whole world is a fantasy...’ Or, to situate it in an older context extracted from the timeless (rapidly running out) wisdom of the subcontinent, ‘we are all figments of the god’s imagination.’ Whatever the case may be, no one could have anticipated the strange turn of events that animated Bobby’s life ten years ago, least of all his victims. Subsequent events have proven to be stranger still, though, perhaps, a little less dramatic. If the reader has gotten this far in the story, then Bobby must seem, by now, like an old friend (or particularly nasty acquaintance). Curiosity, like desire, once whetted should be satisfied and so, my friends, we come to the epilogue. What has happened to all of the characters in this story during the last decade?
Shortly after Bobby’s nineteenth birthday his parents were divorced. I am sure the reader will not be surprised and, probably, actually saw it coming. Bobby, an only child, seemed to have an exceptional amount of freedom to pursue his ‘interests’. This was mainly due to his parents’ liberality and the type of child rearing books that they had read, but it was also a result of their mutual estrangement. They were rarely at home to supervise him. Bobby’s father initiated the proceedings explaining that he had taken a lover. He left in a hurry and has since benefited by the liberalized marriage laws in the state of Massachusetts. He and his husband, a notable Episcopalian minister, live happily in an upscale neighborhood on the outskirts of Boston. Bobby’s mother was understandably bitter. She was left with the old house, lots of debts...and Bobby. As the only heterosexual in the family, she had always felt slightly bemused, if not marginalized, and rapidly grew despondent under the burden of single motherhood. She and Bobby ‘got by’ for a few years but, really, seemed to have less and less in common. Financial pressures mounted and Bobby’s mother eventually sold the old house and moved to a trailer park in an unsavory part of town. She spent her last days in a filthy, sweltering air stream propped up on a sweat soaked mattress drinking Jameson’s whisky and watching soap operas. Downing roughly a bottle a day, her few acquaintances challenged both her self-destructive behavior and profligate choice of Jameson’s (a rather expensive whisky). The tired old hag responded to both challenges with a single litany: ‘It’s all I have, it’s all I have.’ And that was certainly true. The Jameson’s drank her meager resources and she drank the Jameson’s. She died alone at the age of fifty six. Bobby rarely visited and, in fact, she hadn’t seen him in over eight months at the time of her death.
Bobby’s two friends, Larry and Will, were tight with him for a while, but eventually drifted away. Considering what ultimately became of Bobby, it was probably fortunate for them that this was the case. Of the two, Larry was the most affected by the torture and degradation of the hapless Ryan. In the year after Ryan’s capture, the gangly accomplice was inspired to join a gym and turned himself into quite the young stud. Being somewhat more intelligent, however, than Ryan, he didn’t follow the muscular young jock into the gardening profession. Larry, possessing a more reflective temperament, figured that he would like his work to resemble (as close as possible) his favorite kind of play. He joined the army and excelled and was set for a distinguished career. Unfortunately, he was captured and then killed in Afghanistan. Apparently, though, Larry had had a kind of epiphany in the days of his own captivity before death claimed him. His body was discovered a month after his abduction and, by all accounts, the tortures that he suffered during that time were horrific. Still, there is little doubt that the lengthy interrogation was a source of great frustration for the responsible Taliban operatives (the video tape was discovered, but had never been posted by them on the internet). Though the state of Larry’s decomposition was rather extreme (given the hot climate...), it was nevertheless apparent that he had died with a serene grin on his ravaged face. Apparently Larry, always the ‘top’, had managed to embrace his shadow in the end.
Will, affectionately known to his many friends as the ‘Weasel’ or ‘Wanker’, chose a much more prosaic path. He attended university, majoring in philosophy, and presently tends a leather bar in San Francisco’s Castro district.
Jim had a rough time of it for a couple of years after his unfortunate encounter with Bobby. His life had changed in fundamental ways. Jim quit his job as a fast food delivery boy and drifted through the rest of his college education. People noticed that he often seemed distracted and rarely laughed or smiled. His friendship with Tom in those first few months was crucial to his recovery. In case the reader is curious, they never slept with one another. For Tom it would have been a violation of his avocation and for Jim an adventure that, given the circumstances, was understandably out of bounds. Tom, by the way, seems to have disappeared. He was last seen heading off in his beat up vintage VW packed with his few possessions; a smile plastered on his boyish face. Rumor has it that he eventually wound up in Europe where he tried to make it as a painter. I do know for a fact that he and Jim still keep in touch, though Jim is cagey about Tom’s whereabouts. Jim eventually drifted west and settled in an aimless, but fortuitous, way out in Arizona. He found a decent job and was looking to settle down, but still suffered from lingering psychic wounds inflicted during the memorable night spent with Bobby. While working out in one of the local gyms he met a guy named Andyboy. One thing led to another and Jim shared his story with his new friend. Andyboy introduced Jim to another acquaintance who happened to be a shrink. The chemistry was amazing. The shrink’s empathy as Jim poured out his story was nothing if not uncanny. Guided, now, back to full health, Jim is a contented man. He laughs easily and his gray eyes reflect his changing moods, shadow to light, as fast as the weather in early spring. Now, however, he takes it all in stride. Even better looking today, in his early thirties, he is happily married to a sweet girl named Karen. They have two young daughters with another baby on the way. Hoping for a boy, they will probably name him Jimmy, after his dad.
Needless to say, Ryan never returned to work in Bobby’s garden. Bobby, for his part, casually tossed the incriminating photos in the trash the day after hosting the unwilling jock in his club house. It was a risky thing to do since it occurred to both Ryan and Bobby that one possible (and quite reasonable) outcome of their encounter was for Ryan to return and kill the little fucker for what he had done to him. On the other hand, Bobby never actually told Ryan that the photos were destroyed and so the fear of blackmail lurked in the background. Bobby also counted on Ryan’s easy going nature and it turned out to be a worthy gamble. Ryan moved on with his life and never saw Bobby (except for one memorable time) again. Ryan’s sojourn in the woods and, later, ordeal in Bobby’s club house had, however, been traumatic. He spent a week or two at home recovering, afterwards returning to his landscaping jobs. Though the weather was warm, it took Ryan a good five months before he could bring himself to strip off his shirt while he worked. Though Ryan suffered physically every bit as much, perhaps even more than, Jim, he bounced back from the experience in a remarkably short amount of time. They say that time heals all wounds and in Ryan’s case it worked a double shift. Sometimes, too, an uncomplicated mind can be an advantage. Now thirty seven, his landscaping business is doing fine and he is even able to contract some of the work out to younger guys. He enjoys drinking beer with his friends and has filled out slightly but still turns heads with effortless ease. He lives with his girlfriend and her young son in a mildly run down, but respectable part of town. The boy shows signs of growing up wild, but Ryan can’t bring himself to lay a hand on the kid.
And so we come, at last, to Bobby. Our faithful antagonist, deprived of the sight of the semi-nude Ryan working in the yard, dreamed of other prey. His parents never knew about what happened in the woods that memorable day, but worried about him nevertheless. Bobby became increasingly taciturn, sassing his mother and refusing to speak with his father (who rarely called anyway) after the divorce. Porno mags and videos just didn’t do it for him either; not after what he had tasted. He took up smoking, but still couldn’t lose weight, gaining, instead, until he peaked at around 240 pounds by the age of twenty. Though extremely intelligent, Bobby had unusual, exciting and specifically non-academic things on his mind and barely managed to finish with school. Because he was bright he had the sense to realize that abducting and torturing jocks in their prime could be dangerous. For this reason he cooled his jets for a while satisfying himself with good looking boys slightly younger than himself, using the utmost self-discipline to make sure that the scenarios of their unwilling participation were considerably milder (though, undoubtedly painful) than what had gone on with Jim and Ryan. Even so, rumor trickled out, in spite of the reticence of his victims to talk about their humiliating experiences, and Bobby became even more of a pariah.
The years passed in this fashion; Bobby lived by himself in a cheap two room apartment in one of the new developments on the edge of town, working as a gas station attendant for a crusty old man who smelled like week old laundry. His twenty first birthday rolled around and Bobby decided to celebrate in grand style. It turned out to be a big mistake. Having sound proofed one of the two rooms in his dingy apartment and outfitted it into a makeshift dungeon, Bobby lured another local jock into his lair after work one evening for ‘a couple of (drugged) beers’. Trouble was, the young jock, who pitied Bobby’s lonely existence, accepted the invitation but neglected to inform his host that he no longer drank, having already been an avid member of AA for a couple of years. Steve DiCipriano was too good to pass up, drugged beers or not. A twenty six year old of pure Italian descent, he stood six three and a half, with broad shoulders, deep chest, flat stomach and long, muscular legs. His jet black hair framed a perfectly proportioned face dominated by big, soft brown, slightly hooded eyes that managed, somehow, to convey a combined expression of submissive melancholy and dangerous good cheer, with a full lipped mouth usually cocked in a self-deprecating half smile. Bobby, out of practice and throbbing with anticipation, got down to business rather quickly. Steve, who wouldn’t drink the beer, had the bottle shattered on the back of his head instead. He woke up stripped naked and tied, face up, on a table in Bobby’s ‘special’ room. Bobby’s starving rod danced a jig at the sight. Steve’s long, spread eagled body rippled with well proportioned, flexed muscles under silky smooth pale skin lightly bronzed by the genetic memory of the distant Mediterranean sun. His panting chest was peppered with a wiry pelt of soft, black fur that narrowed below the cleft in his pecs to a straight highway, linking chest to equally hairy belly, which then merged, in an ecstasy of Latin masculinity, with the luxuriant dark bush framing his cock and balls. Bobby amused himself in the usual ways, warming up with a leisurely exploration of the helpless stud’s hairy young body, lingering over Steve’s thick, well proportioned dick and huge, sweaty balls. He did a little whip warm up on the whimpering jock’s luscious pecs and taut belly, then switched on his mini (what will the Japanese think of next??) cattle prod. Working DiCipriano’s erect brown nipples, navel and the head of his dick, Bobby got a thrill out of the way his captive’s back and ass arched off the table, the spasms in neck, thighs and diaphragm, muscles flared out in stark relief, with all of his ribs countable under the stretched white skin of his electro-stimulated, agonized torso and crotch. The sound proofed room came in handy as well. No one but Bobby could hear Steve’s hoarse, anguished screams...and those screams were music to his crazed captor’s ears, starved far too long for the sound of this sweet melody...
Ah...but I ramble! The big mistake occurred when Bobby decided to flip his victim over in order to do some work on his back side. The reader has to understand that Bobby was very excited and so, perhaps, not thinking as rationally as usual. It had been too long since he had had so much fun and he had already creamed his baggy boxers one and a half times in the short course of DiCipriano’s torture. That didn’t bother Bobby at all, he had plenty to spare. ‘Let the night come on!’ he laughed hysterically to himself and, thinking that the panting, glassy eyed jock was incapacitated by the strenuous workout, and forgetting that the drugged beer had spilled across the back of his victim’s head instead of going down his throat...Bobby got careless and untied his terrified (and also very pissed off) ‘guest’, whose mind was perfectly clear and whose muscles, though very sore, were also charged with healthy adrenaline. Things moved quickly as DiCipriano smoothly jacked his bruised torso to an upright position on the table, cocked his arm and slammed his balled fist, straight as a battering ram, into the center of Bobby’s face. Bobby saw it all happening in slow motion. His mouth a perfect ‘O’ of stunned surprise, eyes bulging, he gazed at Steve’s fist barreling toward his face like a stop action bullet in a movie. The last thing Bobby saw (in this phase of his illustrious career) was bright white light as Steve’s punch split his nose and knocked him out cold. Steve, far brighter than the unfortunate Ryan, did not make the mistake of underestimating Bobby. He rose from the table, nudging the prostrate form of his nemesis in order to make sure Bobby was really out. Flashing on a dozen horror movies and as many real life newspaper scenarios, Steve took a look around Bobby’s make shift dungeon, reflecting on what he had already been through, and figured (wrongly) that he had been minutes away from dismemberment and cannibalism. The thought freaked the macho young stud out and, acting on pure fear and impulse, he sprinted across the room to the door, out the front, into the foyer of the tacky apartment building and onto the street- stark naked.
DiCipriano went straight to the cops. On the way he turned quite a few heads; long hairy legs pumping his shapely ass, dick and balls flopping, and a look of terrified determination in his dark brown eyes. He was quite the hit with the cops lounging over their coffee at the station and supplied several of them with months’ worth of fantasies. They listened, eventually, to his frantic story and headed over to Bobby’s place. The cops found Bobby, semi-conscious, kneeling in a corner of his pathetic dungeon, puking on the floor. His nose was a swollen, bloody pulp and, to tell the truth, has never really looked the same since. Bobby felt the cold kiss of the metal cuffs snap on his wrists (for a change) and was hauled down to the station for questioning.
The trial was a sensation. Unlike Bobby’s other victims, humiliated by their experience and reticent to talk, DiCipriano had no such qualms. His experience in AA giving endless testimonials of a very personal nature (‘Hello, my name is Steve...’) prepared him well for the graphic rigors of court room testimony. The spectators blushed and quite a few salivated as the lurid details poured forth. Ryan, of course, read about it in the papers. So did Bobby’s younger victims from his high school days. Jim heard about it in Arizona. It was big, fucking news. Bobby was vilified (in some ways unjustly) in the press. A few of the high school victims came forward to testify. Ryan thought about it for a couple of days, shrugged, and decided to come forward as well. Jim considered the possibility, but ultimately decided not to. For him, the past had to be laid to rest and he still feared raking the embers of that terrible night in Bobby’s basement. This was a lucky thing for Bobby’s dad (his mom had already passed away), nervously wringing his hands in upscale Boston. The verdict was a foregone conclusion and Bobby was sentenced to twenty five years in the slammer for aggravated assault, rape, and attempted murder. He would have received more- there were some who called for the death penalty- but his tender age at the time that the majority of the crimes were committed was taken into account...
Prison hasn’t been easy for Bobby. Unable to achieve the psychological synthesis of his lamented friend Larry, Bobby does not find it pleasant being a ‘bottom’. Though never particularly attractive to anyone on the ‘outside’, there seems to be a certain clientele stalking the cell blocks that find Bobby’s smoldering ‘Jim Belushi’ looks irresistible. Though Bobby’s nimble fingers, bold tongue and stiff dick were no strangers to the levered cracks and jimmied sphincters of his victims’ asses, his own was delivered in a virginal state to the gates of the penitentiary. Once past the gates, Bobby joined the company of the deflowered within a matter of hours. Veterans of the cell block still reminisce with high humor, recounting the tale of Bobby’s first night in his new home; the soft thumping as his fat frame was bounced about, pleading with cracked voice and finally screaming in ever ascending octaves like a hysterical woman. Bobby submits with more dignity these days, but occasionally his handlers, bored or overly excited, indulge in some creative rough play, just for the kick of listening to Bobby’s trade mark scream. It’s all done in good fun, of course, and Bobby, if not exactly appreciating the attention, is slowly learning to be, at least, a good sport. Our boy is nothing, if not a survivor.
And so, my friends, this brings us to the end of the story, though, who can really say? Are there other adventures in store for our corpulent antagonist? Knowing Bobby as I do, I would be very surprised indeed if he actually spent the next twenty five years in prison with his big, moon-like ass slapped red and pointed skyward. Time will tell, of course, but whatever may happen...it’s been quite a ride!
Well, as they used to say in those old time cartoons, ‘That’s all folks!’
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Session3 - June 21, 2021, 8:45 am
Nobody, but nobody, has such breadth of imagination, such nuanced detail, and such writerly command of language as Amalaric.
When you reflect that his manip-art skill co-exists in that one man. Just born for this! I’m grateful.
Ps., I have NO knowledge of how his manipulations are executed (though, plainly, existing images of hot men are the starting point). So, not as an art critic but as a porn lover getting his rocks off, I do sometimes miss one thing. When the paragraphs really get me going describing specific binding set-ups or specific reactions of agony by the sub/victim, I crave visuals to lash my lust to frenzy. So many of the pix feature the victim more or less in repose, standing passively or, if they’re bound, still looking reflective or just slightly apprehensive. They’re incredibly hot…but let the suffering hit home and the writhing commence! Torque those gorgeous muscles!
Amalaric - June 24, 2021, 3:42 am
Been loving your comments, Session3, and- no worries- there is no danger of developing any kind of ego trip on my part; most of these stories are just JO fantasies from when I was a teenager.
Regarding your observations on the manips- good call! They are easy to make, lots of tricks of the trade (sort of like being a digital Dr Frankenstein), and, as with any medium, one works within certain limitations. The best case scenario is a series of photos of faces of the same guy, who must appeal to me, that show a multitude of perspectives and emotion. Usually porn photography is the best source (though, ironically, frustratingly difficult to obtain high res examples) since orgasms and agony seem to evoke the same facial expressions (!). The rest follows; like arranging the scenario, background, other characters etc. That, though, isn’t always possible and sometimes a face that really floats my boat is limited to a single shot. Very frustrating, but so it goes… Another aspect of the art, which is purely personal, is the context. What turns me on the most (you have noticed that ‘frontal’ is a preferred perspective…alas) is the anticipation of what is coming, thus the pensive, or resigned, or worried/scared, or whatever expressions (OK! It is also easier to find models with those expressions on their faces, haha!). Anyway, I thought you might get a kick out of a look ‘behind the curtains’.
Many thanks for all of your enthusiastic interest-
Amalaric
Session3 - June 26, 2021, 3:04 pm
Sure do! Fascinating! Appreciate the thoughtful response. DON’T CHANGE A THING, MAN! Just GO, and keep on goin’!