Harry Strickland sat in a comfortable bar in the airport at Omaha, half sloshed on expensive whisky, waiting contentedly for his flight. It had been a good week and, though he wouldn’t miss the monotonous landscape, the veteran scout could vouch for other charms evident along the back roads of Nebraska. His mind drifted to a dreamy replay of the recent hunt that had put a cool $60,000 (counting a $10,000 bonus for the alpha buck) in his bank account and, as always, he experienced a kind of wistful longing- nothing serious, just a tickle really- as he recalled the too-short hour and a half spent alone with the farm boys he had so easily taken down. The big one, what was his name? Ahhh, Todd Granger- what a catch! And the look on the stud’s face as Harry unzipped his pants and deftly pulled both trousers and briefs around the captive’s bound ankles, just priceless! He had then conducted a thorough exploration of the goods packed between the buck’s hairy legs, impressed by the big, presumably straight farmhand’s refusal to beg or threaten, taking it all in outraged silence; stoicism being the last refuge of his assaulted dignity. Harry could appreciate that. The buck was extraordinary, but that was more or less de rigueur , the company demanded top quality.
Harry knew that there were strict rules laid down by the higher ups at MOSLA regarding the treatment, by scouts or other agents assigned to the hunt, of recently snared merchandise; no penetration (and that meant every conceivable orifice), no body wounds (and that meant even something as inconsequential as a bruise, unless received in the process of being ‘taken out’), and no extensive chatter, banter or taunting regarding the fate or destination of the ‘freshman’ bucks who were categorized as ‘wild’ and would remain so for some time pending a long period of training at one of the many centers MOSLA operated. Even stripping the new meat was tacitly discouraged, though a quick, cursory examination was understandable and occasionally necessary. That being said, there was also some informal latitude regarding observance of the above mentioned rules and every scout knew it. Harry loved his job and so that ‘latitude’ regarding MOSLA regulations was often stretched to the limits. He leaned back in his padded leather booth and, glancing around, quietly adjusted suddenly tight trousers. Yeah, that guy was quite a sight! Given the smoothness of Todd’s torso, Harry had been surprised at the lushness of the bush sprouting below his belt; all soft and wiry, sandy brown just a shade darker than his crew cut. Scratching around lazily or stroking long naked muscle, watching the minutes tick by, he alternated by working the stud’s thick cock, first with thumb and forefinger and, finally, a slow, sensuous palm job. Of course, Todd resisted as he was duty bound to do, twitching tensely on the floor, flexing the massed muscles of chest, abs and upper thighs in a way that just drove Harry wild, punctuating the steamy stillness of the empty house with the occasional low, guttural groan and, sure enough, his young penis eventually began to respond to all of the unexpected attention. Harry shivered as he recalled the sight, doing a little shimmy of his own in the depths of the warm leather booth at the airport bar. Soon enough, Todd was bathed with sweat and blushing brighter than a virgin in a barnyard and, though Harry could understand and sympathize, part of him wondered what the kid had to be embarrassed about. Shit, the stud was hung like one of the prized bulls he had no doubt raised for 4H not so very long ago. ‘Boy, you got a pecker riding between those hairy thighs that would do your daddy proud!’ The compliment was sincere, but Todd didn’t seem to appreciate it much and Harry was suddenly distracted by the sound of Ricky DiCampo whimpering through his gag, all hogtied in the corner as he watched the proceedings through wide blue eyes. Harry suddenly felt inspired.
‘Say, Ricky! How’d you like me to take that gag out of your pretty mouth?’ Ignoring the lack of positive response, the scout sauntered over and untied the spit soaked rag, tossing it on top of a nearby back pack. Having fun was all well and good but he remembered who he was and what he was up to. Leaving DNA soaked evidence around would have been sloppy and may have even cost him his bonus. Ricky seemed pathetically grateful, croaking a mumbled thanks and then beginning to babble the usual nonsense about not telling anyone if Harry would only let him go. Harry slapped the kid hard to shut him up, hoping his face wouldn’t show the mark when the movers arrived, and cut the rope binding hands to feet, jacking the lanky stud into a sitting position in the process. ‘Get yourself over by your friend, Ricky,’ Harry nodded to the alpha buck still prone on his back with trousers and shorts hiked down to his ankles and suddenly flaccid cock sprawling like a big pale sausage along the side of his leg. Ricky scooted across the floor taking up a position seated cross legged next to Todd, trying not to look at his naked buddy but doing it anyway from the corner of his eye. ‘You like what you see, Rick?’ The scout was all solicitous curiosity, grinning broadly. ‘Don’t know what you mean man,’ the mumbled reply sounded patently insincere and sincerely scared, shitless in fact, all at the same time. ‘Oh, I think maybe you do. You know, Rick, I got a feeling you might just have this sight memorized, yeah…it’s that interesting!’ And, hefting Todd’s balls roughly in one hand he held them up, forcing Ricky, the terrified sidekick, to take a good long look and adding, ‘You guys went to school together? Yeah? Hey…Todd, ever catch Rick giving these a hungry glance in the locker room? Or (he winked), maybe you let your best buddy soap ‘em up for you in the showers?’ ‘FUCK YOU!!! AWWWWWWW…shit…’ Todd finally lost his composure and began to sob; deep, wracking wet groans that in no way impugned his masculine charms. Ricky put on a face of studied disgust that quickly changed to terror as Harry pulled the gun out of his pocket and aimed it at the center of the boy’s chest. It was all an elaborate bluff, of course, but so far the two captives had no idea why they had been taken and the radical uncertainty left a lot of room in their collective imaginations for just this sort of scenario. Harry smiled and, all reasonable, drawled, ‘I reckon both of you can do one another a big favor while we kill some time here. Yep. See, Todd here just sprouted a hard on not more than five minutes ago that makes me think he might just be longing for some relief and you, Ricky, well, maybe you’ve been thinking about giving it to him for longer than five minutes, eh?’ He could tell by the horrified look on the guy’s face that this was far from true, but hey, that was all part of the fun.’ ‘Don’t know what you mean…’ Ricky, voice quavering, looked genuinely confused. ‘It’s simple, dude. Get down on your knees…that’s right…now, bend over and take your buddy’s big prick in your mouth and start sucking.’ A moment of awkward shuffling followed by mixed groans and a soft, liquid sound filled the silence of the room. Harry, beaming ear to ear, hunkered down to watch the show, waiting for the pickup.
The scout ordered another whisky and checked his watch. Damn still another hour before I can board the plane. Why the fuck do they always tell you to get here two hours early?? He stretched and, pulling a cell phone from his pocket, punched in a number. ‘Bobby?” Yeah, Harry here. I’m in Omaha…at the airport. Right, bagged two of them, piece of cake…’ A pause, and then, ‘No kidding, you too? How many? Ah, but you say he was top notch and worth another big bonus? Shit, man- congratulations! Listen, I got an hour, tell me what happened…’ and what follows is the story that Bobby told.
Jim Hooper wasn’t taken down by one of the scouts. Actually, what had happened to Todd and Ricky was relatively rare; scouts usually being just that- more often, they identified the catch and then called in a backup team or single agent to do the dirty work. Hooper had been identified by an urban scout on routine reconnaissance at a local construction site. The scout often visited that and other likely places, checking out the labor force for interesting prospects. The new Wal-Mart on 4th and Beecher turned out to be a gold mine…in more ways than one. The site was a sprawling mess of concrete, rebar, mounds of dirt, pine 2x4’s, and plywood, swarming with workers like a busy, well established ant hill. The scout tried to visit the place at least once a day as he made his rounds to various locations in the sweltering, medium sized city. Three weeks into the project he spotted his man and knew, with a certainty born of long experience, that the company would have him, hoping desperately that circumstances were stacked toward an easy capture. His mind raced into high gear, laying plans methodically, again; the fruit of long experience, but whatever the case- the big stud was marked and his fate all but sealed.
The scout leaned against a makeshift rail, smoking a cigarette and every now and then glancing up the street as if waiting for an outdoor appointment. In a way he was, but the one he longed to meet wasn’t that far away. Jim Hooper, oblivious to the by now prolonged scrutiny of the scout, repeated the mistake that had contributed so much to the looming disaster coming his way, stripping off his dirty tee shirt and stuffing it, like the pert tail of a thoroughbred stallion, into the back pocket of faded levis. The scout, observing the buck’s moves through the corner of his eye, sighed with pleasure. The guy was pure perfection and the scout thought wistfully that there ought to be a law enabling men like this to strip off more than their shirts in the heat of a summer day. The targeted construction worker looked like he was maybe somewhere between 24 and 28 years old and was in perfect physical condition; around six feet tall, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist glistening in the sun with a smooth skin tone of toasted tan unique to men who labored stripped to the waist in the outdoors. The fluid movement of Hooper’s muscles as he worked hauling stacks of 2x4’s combined the easy grace of a big cat with a suggestion of raw power barely contained by flexing biceps, perfectly defined pecs, complex patterns of a smooth, broad and deeply ridged back, and rippling abs. His narrow, swiveling hips were circled by the bleached white band of cotton briefs riding high over the sky blue of faded denim jeans held up, not by a belt, but by the hard swell of his muscular ass. All of that would have been more than enough to attract an agent of MOSLA, but the quarry possessed other qualities that were equally striking, and the scout did a little jig as he watched and laid his plans, impatient to finally make the call that would signal the end of the construction worker’s life as he knew it. The scout drank in the sight of Jim Hooper’s handsome, boyish face, wide sensuous mouth and square jaw, with deep blue eyes under thick eyebrows and an unkempt thatch of short cropped hair the color of burnished gold. This was rare, but the frosting on the cake was the darker pelt lightly carpeting the broad sweep of his chest and running like a river down the slick expanse of his torso, swirling around the deep navel only to widen into a dark wiry patch on the stud’s flat belly before disappearing into the waistband of his sweat-stained briefs. The scout, dressed for the occasion in casual work wear, decided to make his first move.
‘Hey!!’ He yelled toward the target, attracting Hooper’s attention. Looking up from his work, the young laborer nodded and ambled over to the rail. The scout pretended to be interested in a job but didn’t ask where the supervisor’s trailer was; instead, quizzing the tall blond stud about job details, ingratiating himself, commiserating about the tough economy and, in the process, when the conversation was finally over, the MOSLA man walked away with quite a bit of useful information and the pungent spice smell of musky slave potential buzzing in his nostrils. The next day he was back, but in a far less obvious capacity, discreetly shadowing his quarry after work and gleefully scribbling notes in a spiral binder. By the end of the week the scout knew where Jim Hooper lived, the bars he frequented on Wednesday and Friday nights after leaving the site, the names and addresses of his best friends, the time he went to bed and got up in the morning, the fact that he wasn’t married and had broken up with his girlfriend three and a half months before and, thanks to a handy dandy telephoto lens and some other interesting gadgets; what Jim’s favorite television shows were, the fact that he owned no pets, and that his preferred time and place to jack off was in the shower twenty minutes or so before going to sleep at night… It was time to call in one of the agents responsible for capture referred to, in company parlance, as ‘snares’. The scout went to a pay booth and dialed a number. After a few rings the receiver on the other end was lifted and a voice crackled over the wire, ‘Bobby here. What’s up?’
The tragic and untimely demise of Jim Hooper, as the newspaper obituary reported it, went off without a hitch. A month before the sad event Bobby had begun frequenting one of the bars that Jim favored on Wednesday nights and, fully aware that his target played a mean game of pool and also which football team he supported, quickly ingratiated himself with the handsome blond stud. Jim, therefore, was only mildly surprised when he answered the doorbell on a fateful Thursday evening and saw Bobby standing on the porch looking sheepish. ‘Girlfriend just tossed me out of our place, man, and I’m kind of busted up…’ he trailed off as if unsure how to continue, but did anyway, ‘Dunno, hey sorry…I just needed someone to talk to.’ Hooper was a little uncomfortable; the guy seemed ok but they were hardly close friends. Still, he knew what it was like- damn, Melissa was still fresh in his mind and, how did that song go? Yeah- breaking up was hard to do… ‘Sure, man, come on in,’ and stepping aside he shook his head as the MOSLA snare crossed the threshold and entered the old house. A half an hour later Jim Hooper was feeling very strange. Bobby had brought some bottles of beer with him and together they quickly downed a few, commiserating as guys will do about the wiles of women and their perfidious ways. Maybe it was something in the damn brew? Jim pawed at his suddenly clammy brow and tried to get up from the sofa. It took a while, but eventually he succeeded and, staggering a little, looked toward the MOSLA agent. ‘I’m not feeling so good, Bobby. You sure that beer you brought was ok?’ Bobby tried to look concerned…and failed. He stood up, spry and alert, and walked over to the swaying construction worker. ‘You do look kind of strange all of a sudden. Feeling queasy, man?’ Jim shook his head, swallowed convulsively and mumbled, ‘No…not that… Just weird, kind of lightheaded, weak all over…hard to move.’ He raised a massively muscled arm with difficulty and ran a tanned, calloused hand through his blond hair. Bobby smiled brightly and said, ‘Well, dude, there wasn’t anything wrong with the beer. In fact, I’d say it worked damn well.’ ‘Don’t understand,’ Jim staggered forward a few steps, breathing hard, ‘I’m kind of scared, man. Maybe I’d better call the doctor.’ Bobby licked his lips and decided to break some inscrutable news, ‘No, my friend. You won’t be making any phone calls…ever again.’
Steadying the big buck with one hand firmly planted on a broad shoulder, Bobby used the other to unfasten the top button of Jim’s flannel shirt. ‘What you doing, man?’ The question held a potent mixture of barely suppressed panic and deepening suspicion. ‘Got to call the doctor…’ Jim trailed off as Bobby gripped his shoulder harder, holding him stationary, and finished unbuttoning the shirt. ‘You’ll be fine,’ he paused and laughed appreciatively, ‘I almost said ‘keep your shirt on’…but that, obviously, isn’t in the cards.’ He peeled off the warm flannel and tossed it into a corner of the room, leaving Jim swaying on booted feet staring stupidly at the floor, broad chest heaving his anxiety under the tight tee, which Bobby gripped at the collar and, with a satisfying rip, stripped it off, barring the tall stud’s hairy chest and belly. Tossing the remnants of the tee shirt aside, he stepped back to survey his work. ‘What the fuck?’ Jim’s torso was shiny with sweat as if the mere act of standing in his own living room was a major act of exertion. He tried to put one foot in front of the other and failed. ‘OK, buddy…’ the snare sighed, ‘let me explain a few things. Right! Where to begin? Well, first the good news…and listen up sucker; this is going to be the last good news you hear for quite a while. You’re not sick, dude, and you don’t need a doctor. In fact, by tomorrow morning you’ll be just fine. That make you feel just a tad better?’ Jim remained silent, blue eyes narrowed with concentration, jaw working furiously with fear or anger, Bobby couldn’t tell and didn’t really care. He continued, ‘I put a little something in your beer to ease things along. It’s state of the art, really, and you should be honored- that stuff doesn’t come cheap. Anyway, just to put your mind at ease (he winked), it’s a very specific and actually quite sophisticated muscle relaxant. Nothing more and nothing less. Doesn’t affect your thinking, well you might feel just a little fuzzy, and I guess it may be just slightly difficult to swallow so if you feel a little tongue tied I won’t chalk it up to the fact you’re a dumb ass. Tell you what, though- if I got the dose right, it won’t stop your heart or anything drastic…’ Bobby paused and giggled. Sometimes he just cracked himself up. ‘So, as I was saying; you should be feeling the full rush right around now, my friend, and what that means is that you can move a little, but not much…’ Once again, he paused and took a deep breath, ‘And what THAT means, is I can do whatever I damn want to you and there’s nothing you can do about. Everything clear now?’ Jim Hooper just stood there, absorbing the news, a stunned look of utter shock on his handsome face. That suited Bobby fine. Walking around the tall, half-naked stud, he took stock of the goods and let loose with a low whistle. Finally, hooking his arm around Jim’s- for all the world like two lovers strolling on the local boardwalk- the agent guided him, one halting step after another, toward the back door.
‘Where we going?’ The note of desperation was unmistakable as the shambling buck was gently manhandled into his own back yard. Bobby nodded toward a black van parked on the grass inside the open back gate. Jim had inherited the house from his deceased parents and the semi-rural location, as it was situated a mile or two out of town, was a stroke of pure luck. The lots were huge and the next store neighbors screened by tall stands of old magnolias, forsythia and rhododendron, all blazing glory in summer bloom. ‘No man, please, you can’t…’ the words were just slightly slurred, by the look on the big stud’s face was clear enough- stunned confusion, stark fear and rising rage. Bobby halted next to an old brick wall. A light breeze ruffled the discarded plastic tarp on the ground, shining in the setting sun of early evening. ‘OK, Jim, well, at least not yet.’ He maneuvered his strapping prize against the wall. ‘What are you gonna do to me?’ The rich tones of the plaintive remark set Bobby’s pecker on a burrowing quest for sweet release. ‘Hands behind your head, boy.’ Bobby lent a hand of his own, moving the panting stud’s massive arms into position and roping his wrists in place with some discarded hemp found lying on the path. Reaching out he ran a feather-light trail over the scandalized construction worker’s tan chest, tracing the outline of massed muscle with his forefinger, circling the rosy nipples then following the road map of short wiry hair down Jim’s jumping torso to the waistband of his jeans. ‘You’re going to make me some serious cash,’ Bobby was all eager admiration and lustful anticipation, ‘but not enough to afford you when you come to the block.’ Jim didn’t have a clue as to what the other man might be talking about, but he instinctively understood very well when Bobby casually unzipped his levis and spread the fly wide open. ‘Ah,’ he sighed, ‘you got no idea, Jimmy, how often I wanted to do this and get a first hand look at that denim clad package all those times we were carrying on and playing pool back at the bar. ‘Fuck, man..don’t…get away from me,’ Hooper shook his head like a dazed animal dimly aware of its impending slaughter, and Bobby decided not to disappoint. Sliding his hand into the front of the stud’s shorts, and easing them down at the same time, he hauled out his captive’s thick cock and balls. Jim submitted to a thorough and humiliating examination because he had to, hating the sensation of helplessness and the shame of watching as another man handled him like a prized head of livestock. He swore as Bobby jacked his legs wider and winced with pain as a finger slid up the warm chute of his clenched ass, muttering empty threats, wishing he could move or regain just enough strength to kill the bastard for what he was doing. ‘I know,’ Bobby said, seemingly out of the blue. He pulled his finger from Jim’s tight ass and stood up straight. ‘You think it’s strange to have a guy do this kind of stuff to you, right Jimmy?’ Hooper was near tears, which boiled in impotent rage just behind his sky blue eyes. ‘You…FUCKING prick! I’ll kill you, man…I’ll…’ he sputtered into mumbling animal sounds of pure desperation and Bobby noticed the first tear slide through the gold stubble of the buck’s jaw. ‘Company’d be really pissed off if they knew we were up to this kind of stuff, but what the hell.’ He cocked a lopsided grin and continued, ‘I reckon, though, that I’m doing you a favor, man.’ Before Jim could answer he added, ‘Where you’re going this sort of thing will seem like kid’s play- hell, where you’re going, for all I know, it might BE some lucky, bad-assed kid’s play. And so, bro, I’m actually doing you a favor…’ pausing at Hooper’s expression of complete, revolted incomprehension, ‘…breaking you in nice and easy, you know?’
Jim Hooper was packed into the back of the van; gagged and tightly hog tied, he rested on the corrugated metal floor, tucked in (so to speak) for the ride to the holding facility en route to the nearest MOSLA warehouse. Bobby slammed and locked the door and briefly returned to the house. Bobby reckoned (rightly) that the downed buck wouldn’t cause any trouble and, besides, he would only be a few minutes, but there was something he had to do. The old typewriter in a spare bedroom had been noted by the scout weeks before and would do nicely. Bobby put on a pair of gloves and began to type. When he was finished he put the suicide note neatly on the kitchen counter. Gathering up the discarded bottles of beer and Jim’s shirt and tattered tee, he looked around. All was well and, without locking the doors or turning out a single light, the very self-satisfied MOSLA snare left the house. He knew perfectly well that the disappearance would look suspicious, but the note would cause, at least, a shadow of doubt in the cops’ minds and, soon enough, lack of any other evidence would close the case on Jim Hooper as surely as Bobby closed the garden gate behind the idling black van, moving his precious cargo down the road to a new and very different kind of life.
The stupid fuck ran the same route every morning and the two snares, perhaps unjustly, given their experience and line of work, joked in the early morning chill about bad habits and the many dangers of a known routine. The snares shuffled impatiently, waiting for Rudy Volger, a gay body builder and all around blade in the pink ghetto that was Venice Beach just west of LA. Rudy was tall and ripped- all lithe, well-sculpted muscle- with carefully cut medium brown hair, handsome features made even more so by minor plastic surgery, and a studied attitude of laid back Southern California charm that belied his origins in New York City. Being gay helped. Though Rudy wouldn’t readily admit it to anyone, the sight of his own reflection in the full length mirror gracing the master bedroom at home never failed to turn him on. He also knew that a god-like body and pretty face, though undoubtedly partly the result of a genetic toss of the dice, also needed cultivation and maintenance- thus, his morning run along the grassy parks bordering the beach. Rudy loved the party circuit and that’s where the MOSLA scout had spotted him. That had been almost a month ago and now two snares waited, shuffling in the beach fog and chain smoking cigarettes, to finish the job and bring Rudy down.
‘Here he comes, just like clock work!’ One of the snares moved into position on the pavement just as Rudy came around a grassy curve. What a fucking feast!! This guy’s just begging for a pick up… and it was true, though Rudy didn’t exactly have the variety MOSLA provided in mind. Stripped to nothing but form fitting gym shorts, he glistened with patchouli scented sweat, muscles working like well-oiled pistons, an even, all-body tan glowing a golden hue that made the stud look good enough to eat. Ten feet from the forward agent he was halted by a barked request, ‘Hey man, can I have a minute of your time?’ Rudy scowled, running in place, eager to finish his course but too polite to just ignore the ugly pedestrian. Too bad. ‘What do you need?’ he panted. ‘See, me and my partner are trying to get signatures on a local petition…to, ah, halt the export of endangered starfish to restaurants in Japan. You know?’ Rudy’s look of impatience was suddenly augmented by boredom. ‘Please, man! It will only take a minute of your time.’ Ahhhhh, what the hell… muttered under the jogger’s breath but, pausing, he walked with the agent over to the black van.
Ten minutes later Rudy was on the road. Bound hand and foot, he thrashed on the hard metal floor but was stilled when one of the snares, riding next to the cargo while the other drove, heading toward the freeway, grabbed one of his naked nipples and tweaked hard. Rudy groaned audibly and tried not to soil his fresh gym shorts as fear took over and edged him toward an abyss he had contemplated in his kinkier moments but never really entertained as a viable possibility. ‘You can’t do this! What’s going on??!’ Given the circumstances, Rudy could be forgiven the un-cool outburst. The agent shrugged and patting his cargo with a pudgy hand, marveled at the hard perfection of writhing muscle quivering at his touch. In a way he felt sorry for the guy and so, clearing his throat and stubbing the cigarette butt against the metal wall, he shook his head and in a voice that was as nearly gentle as a MOSLA snare’s could get, said, ‘Just some bad farking luck, Rudy- what can I say? Shit happens.’Next chapter