Still zoning...

What can I say? Here's another snippet from RIHC6v2 that hints at why this picture is so SO true.

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I lay there about half an hour, maybe longer. I spent my time counting -- one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi -- to keep track of how long. I figured if it took longer than an hour, it hadn’t worked and I’d have to reconfigure. Besides, if they took longer than that, I’d have to demand the right to pee -- or else just work my way around to figure out how to unhook that bar and make my way over to the toilet to do it -- or I’d have to wet the bed, NONE of which appeal to me. But in came Mr. Muscles and his boys and they freed me from my chains and carried me out of the room back to the shower. A new stack of clothes and such were there, waiting. He held up his hand showing “five” and left, meaning a quickie in the water. I got it going as hot as I could stand it, just let the piss out to flow down the drain with the water and soaped myself up then rinsed off three times. I’d just started drying when they came back for me.

“Almost done,” I said, wrapping the towel around me like I had any reason to be modest, anymore.

Mr. Muscles didn’t wait. He grabbed the jeans and shirt and his buddies grabbed me and I was dragged back and tossed into the same room, wearing nothing but the towel. The rest of the clothing was tossed in after me.

The room had been cleaned out, the mattress vanished and all that was there were a small table and chair. A sleek man in a five-thousand-dollar suit sat in the chair, looking like something out of “Details Magazine.” I couldn’t tell his age, but his face was hard like carved granite so his features seemed unreal even though they were attractive in a Mediterranean sort of way -- meaning he could be Greek or Italian or Spanish or Romanian Gypsy or even Turkish, Lebanese, Israeli or Egyptian. The geeky guy stood behind the table, still dressed the same, looking nervous. I figured I couldn’t call this guy “geeky” anymore, not after what he’d done to me, so I asked, “Do either of you have a name?”

“This young man tells me you have offered to help him personalize his needs. Did you?” No question, this was Gentle Voice.

I almost snapped back with, You heard everything, you sick fuck, you tell me -- but the shower had awakened my brain up so I grabbed the jeans and as I pulled them on said, “If you’ll let Jake go.”

“How many are you willing to participate in?”

“He said one -- ,” but I noticed the big-eyed guy had raised his hand to show the “Peace” sign so I added, “ -- Two? Oh, both Chris AND John, right?” He nodded, a sweet slightly crooked smile on his face. I shifted my gaze back to Gentle Voice. “Fine -- both of ‘em.”

Gentle Voice nodded and barely shifted to speak to Big Eyes. “You say you have two cameras?”

“Yeah. High-Def. One’s a little better’n the other, but it gets just as good of shots in the right light and -- .”

“You will need two more,” said Gentle Voice, cutting him off in his low-key don’t-fuck-with-me tone. They both acted like they were discussing the latest porn shoot in the San Fernando Valley.

“Will that be enough settle things?” I asked. Then I grabbed the shirt off the floor and slipped it on.

Big Eyes looked at me, frowning, but Gentle Voice made no move. “For Mr. Blaine -- yes. Three, and your obligation will be complete.” Then he shifted his granite-stare straight at me. “Of course, this depends on the quality of the project.”

I made myself smile. “Understood.”

He offered me a card. All it had was the website for Greco’d. “You may upload the footage here. You will have forty-eight hours from your release for the first one.”

Big Eyes jumped. “Wait, we need to plan it out and -- .”

“Fine by me,” I said, slipping the card in my pocket.

Gentle Voice eyed me, probably suspecting I was up to something, but since I had no idea what I was up to there was no way he could figure it out, so he said, “If you do not meet your obligation at any point, Mr. Blaine will complete it for you. I have two bids for him, already.”

The cock-sucking-mother-fucking-needle-nosed-prick-son-of-a-bitching-asshole. Probably lying, but I smiled even wider and nodded my understanding.

After a moment, he returned the nod and Mr. Muscles came over with a vial holding two small pills.

“Take these,” he said. “The clock begins at midnight, after you awaken -- and we will know when you awake.”

I popped the pill dry, without a thought. Big Eyes hesitated then took his, as well. He needed water to get it down. Maybe I would go back to referring to him as a geek. I sat on the floor, remembering how quickly the other one had slammed into me. Big Eyes came over and sat next to me, gripping my hand as if we were Butch and Sundance about to jump off that cliff. I let him, not from feelings of solidarity but because I wanted him to be as open as possible with me. It’s only by having access to lots of information that I knew I’d be able to figure out my next move. So I also made myself smile at him and lean over to kiss him -- and that’s when the narcotic hit me and I slumped to the floor and --

(snip so it's R rated)

I woke to darkness and a chilly breeze drifting in through a window. I was on a bed, lying atop the covers instead of under them, and I was still dressed in that set of t-shirt and jeans but I could feel myself with a piss hard-on and a hint of stickiness around my dick along with a satiated sense of wonder that didn’t connect right. Fuck, I hadn’t had a real wet-dream in years, and the fact that I could have one that included the scum who’d assaulted me made me a bit ill.

My head felt fuzzy but I could move around without much discomfort...just a hint of nausea that could also come from me being hungry as hell. I smelled food and rose to my feet, wobbly but sturdy enough. I crossed to the door, and realized people were talking on the other side of it. I stopped, but then the door opened and two amazingly gorgeous, dark-haired male models in the latest of sexy menswear saw me. One popped over his shoulder, “He’s up,” and his voice carried a strong accent that I couldn’t place. He and his buddy opened the door wider, obviously intending for me to pass through it, so I did.

Turned out we were in a massive suite of rooms on the top floor of a hotel that looked out over an elegant city that was surrounded by snow-capped mountains. The non-stop furnishings were ridiculously rich-looking, with flowers and magazines and crap all over the place to add to the comfort level. And seated on a couch across a glass-topped coffee table was Big Eyes, talking to a man who would be the perfect image of a 40-ish Air Force General on some TV show where they used nothing but the beautiful people from Central Casting. He looked at me with gray eyes that sparkled with intellect and were the perfect compliment to his gray-flecked hair and high-class mustache.

“Mr. St. Lazarre,” he said, his voice carrying the same accent, “how good of you to join us.”

I swallowed, suddenly thinking I may have gotten into something more than I expected...but then I saw the room service tray and smelled the food still steaming under a stainless steel lid and couldn’t help but say, “Is that for me?”

He nodded, so I jumped on it -- roast beef in wine sauce with buttery potatoes and asparagus -- and I didn’t say another word till I’d actually licked the plate clean and swilled it down with two St. Pauli Girls. They waited for me, patiently working on their iPhones and iPads and laptops and such.

When I’d finished the last of the second beer and given at least three solid burps, I smiled at the guy who’d spoken to me -- who was clearly the one in charge -- and asked, “Okay, so now what?”

He looked back at me, not smiling but not cold or wary. “Do you know where you were?”

“Guys, c’mon, I already told you I’d do what you wanted me to, so why the bullshit?”

Big Eyes rose, his whole demeanor suddenly different, more in control and self-assured, almost seeming military in his bearing. “Antony, we’re not with them, and their plans’re what we’re trying to figure out.”

I looked at him, wary. “So who are you?”

“I’m Matthew -- Matt -- and these guys -- .”

The lead guy -- Boss Man -- said something in what sounded a bit like German...and then I remembered this guy I’d met in Paris, an intern who let me get into some major trouble of the fun kind with him, who spoke not only French and English but Hebrew, him being Jewish. And suddenly I realized, “Aw, shit -- your tattoo! It’s not Japanese -- it’s the Hebrew sign for life!”

Boss Man blinked at that. “You think ‘la chaim’ looks Japanese?”

“I -- I wasn’t really thinking about it; I just -- just thought -- .” Oh, holy fuckin’ shit. “You guys’re Israeli. You’re Mossad!”