Date: Fri, 6 Feb 2009 11:07:32 -0800
From: Michael Gleich <mgleich@earthlink.net>
Subject: Los Murcielagos

All copyrights belong to author, Michael Gleich


Los Murcielagos


My boss called me in. It didn't take long to get this job and now it looks
like it won't take long to lose it.
	"Matt! Good to see you, sit down." Mr. Stearns, usually somber as
the dead, now had a happy face stuck on.
	"Sir, what can I do for you?" I figured I was safe with this lead
question.
	"We have a story for you. A special story."
	I was worried about the last article I did on separate but equal
bathrooms for straights and gays.
	Mr. Stearns put his hand on my shoulder. "Remember that
psychological test you took about six months ago?"
	"Ah-so I like purses. I just like to collect old ladies handbags.
What's wrong with that? It's just a hobby for Christ's sake."
	"Huh... no...not that. You, my boy, are going to interview one of
the most demented murderers of this century. It was about two years ago,
that incident in the desert. The gay priest that murdered hundreds of
people."
	 "Sure. Who could forget it? A priest murdered an entire town.
Found having intercourse with the town sheriff while killing him. They had
the guy plastered on every Halloween costume last year. I thought the dildo
hanging from a rosary was a bit much."
	"We want you to interview him."
	"He's locked up. They threw the key away and salted the earth where
the town sat."
	"He is locked up, but we have a special court order to see him.
That article Rebecca did, about the right wing trying to suppress gay,
lesbian, transgender rights, because of this priest. Well, we showed in
court that there is reasonable doubt as to who committed the crime. We hope
with your interview, we can show he is not guilty-- crazy as hell, but not
guilty.
	"Why not Rebecca, then?"
	"She didn't pass the screening test. You're the only one who did."
	"I don't get it."
	"I was told that the reason he is kept in strict isolation is that
he can use mind control."
	"I get it. This is a 'Lambda News' joke, right? You get the new guy
in, get him to sniff the bait and then wham, I'm the office stooge."
	"No, this is for real."
	"Okay, go on. I can take a joke as well as the next guy." I somehow
liked the somber Mr. Stearns better.
	"You're going to a special prison for the insane. A unit built just
for him. You cannot take any recording device, nothing electrical. Pen and
pad is what they will give you. You'll interview for an hour a day, for one
week, or until... you break."
	"Break?"
	"You need to read this, and if you agree, sign it. It says you're
aware of the possibility of becoming insane by being in the presence of
Father O'Leary."
	"Okay, that's it. Party is over. Come out, come out, wherever you
are."
	"Matt, I'm serious. I know this all sounds crazy, but I'm serious.
Here are the papers for you to look over. Plane tickets, money, and letters
giving you the right to do the interview. This could be the chance of a
lifetime."
	Looking over the contents of the folder, I thought it was a lot of
work for a joke. The plane ticket looked real. Letters from the court with
official seals stamped on them, and a- 'I won't sue the hell out of you if
I should go insane' clause, written in legalese.  "I'll get my name on the
headline news section?"
	"Hell yeah."
	"I'll do it. Apparently, a man who enjoys the curve of a well-made
lady's handbag has the fortitude to go against
 mind-bending murderers." I knew there was a reason I was so fascinated by
them.
	"Do me a favor, Matt?
	"Yeah?"
	"Don't talk about the handbag thing. Okay? Let's keep that between
the two of us."
	"Sure."
	"On your way out, stop at Rebecca's desk. She'll go over on what
she has on this guy."
	"Will do." Pulling out a pen, I signed the agreement not to sue the
newspaper should I go postal.  "Here's the deed to my soul," I said when I
handed him the agreement.
	"Get out and get a story."
 I felt better, now that Mr. Stearns took the happy face off. Right after
that, I went to our News Vamp. People walked quickly passed Rebecca,
lingering to chat at her desk has caused some to faint.
	Rebecca, was our nightshade of the Lambda News Team-- if you had
any dirt under your fingernails, she was the one who knew where it came
from. Her desk, nearest the restroom, had piles of paper, books scattered,
and two computers-- one to watch what god was doing.
	"Mr. Stearns has me interviewing Father O'Leary. What can you tell
me?"
	"So, you're the one that passed the psycho test." I swear her eyes
narrowed to a laser bead, aimed dead center on my forehead.
	"Yeah, lucky me. So what do you have?"
	"You're in for a treat. The guy was the only one alive in a town of
five hundred souls. When the Federal Marshals arrived, he was in the
process of fucking the sheriff to death. The sheriff died from drowning.
His lungs filled with semen.
	"So the priest was a little sex kitten. What else?" I knew she
wanted to see me run to the toilet, hurling breakfast.
	"According to the government, the population of Bumfuck died from
loss of blood. Apparently, the priest was able to produce huge amounts of
semen by drinking huge amounts of human blood." I liked the way she did her
nails while talking of carnage.
	"How do they know he drank their blood?"
	"No blood anywhere. No blood on their clothes, or on the ground,
and two puncture wounds on the neck where the blood was sucked out."
	"He's a vampire?"
	"If he is, then he doesn't need a coffin. He's not afraid of the
sun, or a cross, and he hasn't left the asylum. He does have a few unusual
traits." The smirk on her face told me she was coming in for the kill. "He
can put thoughts into your head. Make you feel sensual... even lustful: for
him." She fluttered her mascara eyes like a moth beating its wings.
	"What about fangs?"
	"Nothing unusual in his dental makeup. X-rays showed he needs a
crown on his lower right molar."
	"How did he do it then?"
	"That's a question the government doesn't know. He had no blood in
his stomach, or on him. His version of what happened is this. Rebecca
looked up from putting the final polish to her nails. "A gypsy did it." She
then went back to polishing her stilettos.
	"It's always the gypsies isn't it?"
	"Not just a gypsy, but a gypsy god, a walking, breathing god, that
came here in search of human blood."
	"What's the town's name again?"
	"Los Murcielagos, New Mexico."
	"Gee, what a swell place that must be. Any gay bars there?"
	"Not a one. One more thing, hot stuff."
	"Yeah?"
	"The priest has a dick of death, literally, he killed the sheriff
with it; be very-very-careful." She smiled at me, and then turned to see
what god was doing.
	I left the office and headed for my apartment. The next question on
my mind was what to wear when interviewing a notorious killer. I needed to
call the boyfriend about the weekend. I knew he wasn't gonna like this.
	When I got to my apartment the computer was on and the coffee still
plugged in, giving the aroma of stale socks. It might be socks, for that
matter. The plane leaves in the morning for Billings. The wacko farm was
located in a berg not far from there. Where is that phone? Ah, beneath the
boxers.
	"Jim!"
	"Hey, Matt"
	"Listen, I have a real important assignment and I'll be gone for a
week, maybe more."
	"So you're not going to the concert with me?"
	"Huh, it looks that way, but I'll make it up to you when I get
back."
	"This is the second time you stood me up Matt."
	"Second?"
	"Maybe third, but I can tell you one thing for sure."
	"What's that?"
	"It's the last time."
	"Jim! Damn." I hung up the phone and sniffed the boxers to see if
they were good enough to pack. I had time for a quick trip to the
department store down the block. Why anyone would want to live more than a
block from a department store, or fast food chain, I had no idea.

	My boss, bless him, gave me first-class accommodations on a crop
duster. The aircraft came with a pilot and about twenty passengers. I sat
down next to a man who looked like a pig farmer. Turned out he was.  After
a very bumpy ride, we arrived in Billings where I grabbed what passed for
transportation. A magnetic sign stuck on the side of a Datsun, displayed
'TAXI.'  The driver was well-informed and drove me to a motel five miles
from the asylum. A greasy spoon named 'Vic's Diner' sat next door to the
motel. I checked in, and took my suitcase to the room. Opening the door, I
flipped the light switched and turned on the air-conditioner. The bed
seemed firm enough and the phone worked.
	I dialed the number for the asylum and asked for
Dr. Kresler. "Hello, Dr. Kresler?"
	"Yes, this is Dr. Kresler."
	"My name is Matt Stanton, from Lambda News. I'm scheduled to
interview a patient named Brady O'Leary."
	"Yes. Your boss, Mr. Stearns, called me. You have the court papers
with you, and identification?"
	"Yes."
	"Where are you staying?"
	"In a motel called, Roads End, next to, Vic's Diner, charming place
really."
	"I go by it everyday. Don't have the meatloaf if you value your
life.
	"I'll keep it in mind."
	"Do you have a car?"
	"That was my next question."
	"I'll have someone pick you up. Only one hour a day."
	"Yes sir."
	"I'll need to talk with you before the first meeting. Has someone
told you about the patient?"
	"He can put thoughts in your head, and is dangerous."
	"Yes, well... we'll have a talk beforehand. See you tomorrow
then. Bye."
	I showered and thought about shaving, but didn't. Time to see what
god's little acre looked like. Walking out of my room, I strolled to the
road in front. The area was flat, dry and windy. A few trees grew around
the motel and diner with an asphalt road that went nowhere. The diner sat
in the middle of a dirt lot where big rigs and pick-ups parked at the
weather-beaten eatery. I walked to the entrance, opened the door and
stepped in. No one turned, but the ceiling fans. Country music spewed from
a radio in the kitchen. I walked to where a man sat at the counter, leaving
a seat between us. He wore dusty blue jeans that fit his stool-perched ass,
like frosted cupcakes at a bakery counter. Lean, lanky and very male; he
turned his head towards me, smiled a thin-lipped grin and with big brown
eyes looking me over, said, "Howdy."
	"Hi!" it sounded like someone squeezed my balls.
	He held out his tanned leathered hand. "Name's, Shane." They'll
never believe me at the Blue Dot Lounge back home.
	"Matt, Matt Stanton, reporter for Lambda News."
	"Reporter? Huh." He sounded like he just got word of locust headed
his way.
	"I'm interviewing a patient at the asylum up the road from here."
	"A patient at the asylum? Huh." I was losing him, I could tell.
	"Say, enough about me, what about you? You have a ranch around
here?" I'm picturing ponderosa pines, a chic but modest cabin with a
babbling brook running in a green pasture: and us.
	"What you want to know about me for?" oh-oh. This was somehow, not
working.
	A very large man in a white t-shirt, stretched to the maximum
cotton could go, who came out from the kitchen said, "You want something,
Bud?" while he stared at me from the other side of the counter.
	"Coffee laté, please."
	"Coffee whatie?" he said back.
	It was so quiet. I could hear flies trying to escape. "Huh. Just
coffee with cream or milk." He pulled a mug out from under the counter and
filled it with something black in a pot behind him.
	"Here's the coffee and this little metal container on the counter?
Is cream. Help yourself." His eyes never left me.
	"Thanks." My voice sang out.
	"That's a dollar."
	"Any specials?"
	"Meatloaf."
	"I'll have a burger, well done, no cheese, fries and cole slaw on
the side."
	"I don't have cole slaw."
	"Just the burger and fries, then."
	"That'll be five bucks, with the coffee."
	I sat in silence, hearing Jessie belt a mournful tune through a
blown-out speaker. Shane never came back, but stared straight ahead,
sipping hot coffee.

	Morning came not soon enough. I was dressed, modestly but well. I
got a quick coffee at the diner and what looked like a bagel, but sold as a
donut. I stood out front of the motel waiting for the car Dr. Kresler sent.
A black station wagon hit the dirt lot, slamming on the brakes next to
me. "You Matt Stanton?" I heard from the cloud of dust thrown up. The
driver's billed hat advertised chewing tobacco and his smile missed a front
tooth.
	"Yeah."
	"Hop in. I'll take ya to Doc's." I walked around the other side,
opened the door and sat down. Country blared from another blown
speaker. The inside smelled as if someone vomited in the air conditioner.
	"Leave your window down. The dog puked in the air conditioner. I'm
trying to blow it out."
	"I see. Do you work for Dr. Kresler?" The driver had bugged eyes,
his cheeks sunk in, and his ears were the size of dinner plates. I began to
worry about unusual experiments at the clinic.
	"Yes, Sir. Sure do." He did a U-turn, squealing the tires in the
curve, heading to the asylum. The wind, the air conditioner and the broken
speaker braying Tammy, prevented any conversation.
	We pulled up to what looked like a prison. Barbed wire strung like
a Slinky on top a twelve-foot-tall chain-linked fence, wrapped its way
around a gray building. Small black windows sat in its cement sides. The
driver put his thumb on a disk surface that came out from a pole by the
gate. The gate opened and we drove to the back of the asylum. An elderly
man in a suit and tie stood next to the entrance. The driver stopped and I
got out.
	"Dr.Kresler?" I asked, extending my hand.
	He took my hand in his and asked, "Did you bring the papers and
identification?"
	"Yes, I did." I showed him my I.D. from the Lambda News Association
and the papers. He asked if he could photo copy them and I said sure. He
walked me into the building to the security counter where I was fitted with
an I.D. badge that had a bar code. It hung around my neck on a nylon cord
by a clip. The security man told me that when I came to a door I was to
stand in front of the camera and show my I.D. before the door would open.
	"First, I need to talk with you. My office is right over here." We
walked to a door and he opened it with his badge. Inside the office sat a
desk near the small window with two leather chairs. The walls held books
and placards, the usual affair for shrinks.
	"Sit down, will you? First, you need know that if we see any
unusual signs, such as you being influenced by Mr. O'Leary, we will abort
the interview."
	"What signs?"
	"If you should try to get near him. Try to take your jacket
off. Plead with the guard to let you see him."
	"Why the jacket?"
	"You will be wearing a restraining jacket. It will have a cord
attached at the back that you will not be able to reach, in case we have to
pull you back to the room's security door." For the first time I started to
worry.
	"We'll monitor you at all times. Four people will watch you from
cameras and speakers. You will wear a heart monitor, to measure your pulse
and blood pressure. The room is very cold. That's how he likes it. There
will be a chair for you where you are to sit. If you move it, we'll pull
you out."
	"What about the mind bending?" I began to think there was a reason
for all this protection.
	"He can and he will definitely try to put thoughts in your
head. That test you took and passed. That was to see how prone you are to
persuasion. It's the best we can do for now. He affects some people less
than he affects others, but he affects all people to a degree. It depends
on whether or not you can resist him."
	"I didn't know psychiatry believed in mind bending."
	"Officially, no. Far as I know, this is the only case and it's only
of a seductive nature. We never tested a gay man with him, thinking he
would have no problem seducing another gay male. That's why we want to
monitor you. In a way, you're a guinea pig for us." I wasn't sure if I
wanted to thank him or run.
	"Well, ready? Mr. Scott outside will fit you up and take you to the
holding area we have for him. Good luck!" He stood up and escorted me to
the door shaking my hand again.
	Mr. Scott's paunch hung out and over his belt. Pasty-white with
jowls and rimmed glasses, he stood with a bent back and a canvas strapped
jacket held out in his hands. "I'm pretty sure this will fit. Try it on and
I'll cinch up the straps."
	The jacket was sail canvas, fastened with leather straps in back
and one up the crotch. Kinky yes, but nothing I would wear to The Cellar on
a Saturday night. I thought Mr. Scott was taking his sweet time with that
crotch strap. With the last strap buckled, I felt like one of the patients.
	"Here you are, pen and pad." Moving my arms was difficult but I
tried out the pen and I could write okay.
	"The room is not far. Follow me." We walked down a short corridor
where a guard sat at a desk at the side of a door. A monitor was on the
desk with two phones. The guard asked me to sign my name and time to a note
board. Mine was the only name on the list. He then stood in front of the
door and showed his I.D. The door buzzed and he opened it asking me to step
in. We entered a hall with a glass door on the end and a trap door on the
side. He told me to open the door at the end, and stand with my back to the
left side of the door. I opened the door and stood where he wanted me. I
heard the trap open and something hitched to the back of my jacket. The
guard said that when ready, to walk through the curtain in front. I stepped
forward and pulled the middle of the curtain. They were heavy and made from
a kind of metal weave. The room was dark, cold and empty except for a chair
in front of me, with bars beyond that. A light in the ceiling illuminated
the room. Someone sat on a cot inside the cell.  I walked towards the
chair; the smell of lavender and roses rushed my senses. It reminded me of
my grandmother's garden on a cool summer day. I could see my breath with
each exhale as I moved to the chair and sat down.
	"The Irish have a saying, that you're blest by angels when visitors
call."  A voice, gilded like an Irish tenor, spoke from the cell. A man,
who looked no more than a teenager, wearing a black shirt, dark jacket and
slacks, like a priest, but without a collar, sat on a cot. Thick waves of
brown hair cascaded from his head. A single curl danced on his brow. The
bluest eyes shined from a radiant face that glowed with purity. A blush
from his cheeks gave an almost make-up appearance. He looked about six
feet. Sitting down, it was hard to tell. Lean, maybe weighing hundred and
fifty. The smile, as if he knew you like an old friend, beamed with perfect
white teeth and red hued lips.
	"Good day to you, sir." I had my pen and pad on the ready.
	"Good day to you, Matt. May I call you Matt? They told me that you
wanted an interview."
	"Yes, sir. I would. Matt is fine, and how would you like me to
address you?"
	"Well, twould be wrong to call me Father now, wouldn't it. Shame
too, but the Holy Father himself defrocked me. Why not call me Brady,
then." He seemed nonchalant about getting kicked out of his religious
order.
	"Brady it is. I want to hear your side of the story, if you would
like to tell me."
	"I will, Matt, but could you come a bit closer? I feel like a
banshee, yelling in the wee hours."
	His gaze met mine with the most beautiful smile I have ever
seen. He was stunning, absolutely striking, with pouted lips, and a laugh
in the gleam of his eye. My cock began to harden, pressing against my
pants.
	"No, sir. They told me I cannot move the chair, or they would stop
the interview."
	"Tis a pity, it is. Where would you like me to start?"
	"Well, sir, in the court records, you said a gypsy was the cause of
what happened in your community back in New Mexico. Is that true?"
	"More than a gypsy. Oh yes. If you saw him yourself, you would
worship him. Glorious he is. I crave him like a miser craves gold."
	"You said he came with a carnival. Is that right? What happened the
day he arrived? Where did the carnival come from and go?"
	"Twas a witches' moon. The second full moon in the month came up
from the mountains, cold and blue it was in the night sky. I heard wolves
howl all through the night. Lonely they were, with hunger in their
voice. The whole town heard them crying. I was next to my bed saying a
rosary when the candles blew out. I looked out my window and saw lights
winding down the mountain pass. Someone was watching me. Someone outside
could see my very soul, they could. There was a stirring in my loins. A
yearning to pleasure myself stronger than I ever felt in all my days. I
went back to my prayers, but the Hail Mary's wouldn't come. I kept saying
other things. Filthy words about how I would suck cock. Get on my knees and
be a cocksucker for any prick put in front of me, then I had an orgasm in
my cassock. I ripped opened my pants and gathered the jism in my hand
licking it, wondering how to get more, where could I suck a dick. I looked
at the crucifix at the head of my bed. The Christi on my crucifix had a
large hard cock sticking out as if it wanted me to suck it."
 	Brady began to pant and then suddenly stood up, pulled out a cock
that must have been eleven or twelve inches and masturbated. Cum shot from
his cock in an arch. It hit the floor in front of my feet making a puddle
that trailed back to his cell. He stood there with his erection in his hand
smiling at me.
	"Tis an Irish mischief." An eerie laugh erupted from him, like a
hyena that made the hairs on my neck stand up. Jizm dripped from his prick
coating down the sides and onto his hand holding the cock. He brought the
hand to his mouth and licked cum from his fingers, sucking each digit. His
dick stood out slightly limp, hanging down, dripping more semen on the
floor.
	I tried to sound as nonchalant as possible when I said, "Does this
happen often?"
	"Well, laddie, I'm afraid it does. I hope I didn't offend you." He
winked at me and gave that grin again, as if it was all a big joke.
	"No offense taken. I guess we all have certain peculiarities."
Actually, I was impressed and mesmerized.
	He sat back down on the cot, but left his prick hanging out of his
pants between his legs. He picked the story up where he left off, as if
nothing happened.
	"I fell asleep or passed out. I don't know which. When I woke there
were strange sounds coming from the parking lot of the church. I got off
the floor and went to the window. There in the lot, men were putting up a
tent, lights and all kinds of fanfare. One man stood out among the
others. He was wearing pants, no shirt, and black boots. I couldn't turn
away. He seemed to direct the others as he stood there below my
window. Then he turned and looked straight at me. Twas the most beautiful
man I have ever seen. His hair matched his coal black eyes and every muscle
glistened in the moonlight. Like a Greek god, perfect in every way, with
rivulets of hair outlining each muscle on his torso. I could see in his
pants a cock that hung half way to his knees. The great head outlined
through the fabric as it snaked down. He squeezed the cudgel in his pants
while he looked at me. I went weak and another orgasm washed over me more
intense than the last. He didn't say anything, but I knew he wanted me to
come down to the parking lot where he was. I drifted, as in a dream to the
vacant lot, taking my clothes off until I was stark naked. When I got
outside, I fell to my knees and crawled to him, lying at his feet. I
watched the men put the carnival up. So fast, they were and strong, they
lifted huge poles into place and hammered the stakes in seconds. Suddenly
Master grabbed my hair and dragged me to a trailer parked nearby."
	"Mr. Stanton, your time is up for today. Please walk back to the
curtain behind you." A voice announced on a loud speaker.
	I looked at the ex-priest. His eyes glazed, staring out while
masturbating again. This might be a good time to go before the next
volley. He didn't seem aware that I was leaving as I walked back to the
curtain. I looked in time to see another load shoot in the air, probably a
pint of semen, and heard the noise it made when it hit the cement floor.
	The guard helped me with the jacket, then showed where the exit
was, reminding me to bring my badge for future visits. I was thinking
perhaps an umbrella as well.

	The next day, Goofy did another donut in the parking lot to pick me
up. Apparently, the dog had barfed again. I had on two t-shirts under my
long-sleeved shirt and coat. Rain was falling and when we arrived at the
fortress, it looked more foreboding than the first day.
	No one was there to greet me. I used my badge to open the door and
entered. The hallway to Brady's cell was close by and I could see the guard
ready with my rescue coat. He had me buckled in short order, no lingering
at the crotch strap for him. Handing my pen and pad, I signed the sheet
under my name from the day before.
	After having the cord attached, I walked to my chair and noticed
there was no longer the smell of a garden. Rather it smelled like a seedy
bathhouse, something between locker room and whorehouse permeated the
air. Someone had cleaned the floor from the day before, but the cold still
penetrated my layers of clothing.
	Brady sat on his cot stark naked. He had his knees up exposing not
only his genitals, but his asshole as well. I swear the pucker winked at
me. I had to admit that he had a great body. Pale white with perfect skin,
he was hairless except for the thatch on his head and a small delicate bush
on his groin. He looked like a hundred dollar hustler, unless he sold it by
the inch, then he would definitely get more.
	"Good day to you, Matt," he said in that wonderful lyrical Irish
accent.
	"You're looking quite well, Brady. Most people look better in
clothes, but you're not one of them." My erection was digging a hole in the
right hand pocket of my pants.
	He stood up, walked to the bars of the cell, poked his cock through
and waved it side to side. His eyes drilled through me. The voice changed
to a deeper, darker tone. "Twould be a pleasure indeed to have you ride my
pony."  I felt sweat on my forehead, yet I could see my breath. No longer
was I cold. I tried not to look at the swaying python in front of me, or
the incredible body Brady flagrantly showed. "I'll pass for now. Yesterday
this gypsy boss you referred to as, Master was dragging you by the hair to
a trailer. What happened?"
	He nonchalantly walked back to his cot and sat down, put his knees
up to his chest and held them together with his arms, like a pouting
youth. His cock and balls hung down beyond the rail of the cot where they
swayed with every movement.
	"I was powerless. Like a fly in a spider's web, I could do
nothing. Inside the trailer, it was pitch black. The windows were
sealed. Master threw me on a bare mattress. He lit a candle on each side of
a black leather chair and sat down facing me with his legs spread, staring
at me. Saliva drooled out of my mouth looking at the cock in his pants."
Brady's cock went hard and beat the air; pre-cum dripped and glistened on
his cock's head. He reached down and pulled on his balls before he stood
and walked toward the bars.
	"Master finally spoke. He asked me if I remembered when my uncle
Sean would come home from the mines with my father. They would stop at a
pub on the way and have a few pints. I would wait at the gate; my prick
hard in my pants because I wanted to play horsy with Daddy and Uncle
Sean. Daddy would lift me up with his hand pressed on my crotch. His thumb
would find my hole and he would stick it in while pressing my on my cock
with his fingers. Then toss me into Uncle Sean's arms. I would smell his
ripe armpit. He would look down at me sniffing and feeling his hard pecs
with my little hand. He would say what a little bugger I was, and then
stick his middle finger in my mouth to suck. They would go in the house and
sit with a pint. That's when I would ride their leg like a dog. They would
take turns bouncing me on their thigh. My legs spread over their hard
muscled leg, feeling the wool of their trousers grind into my crotch and
asshole while they bounced me up and down. Oh, what fun to smash my
butt-hole against their leg and grip on to their pants feeling their big
cocks caught in their trousers. I would hold their pricks feeling them get
bigger and harder. My arse flying in the air with my legs spread wide
coming down grinding my butt-hole into their muscled thigh. Oh, god, I
loved it."
	Brady walked backed to his cot. He sat in a squat and fingered his
asshole with one hand while he held his dick in the other, so he could lick
the cock juice that dripped from its piss slit.
	After a while, he raised his head and said, "Master asked me if I
remembered me mum fucking the constable. Everyday Daddy and Uncle Sean went
to the mines; she would have a noon fuck. I would watch them. Mike, the
cop, knew I was watching. He made sure I could see him face-fuck mum. He
would wink at me while he held her head between his legs and rammed his
cock down her whore mouth. After he shot his load, she would suck his balls
while he smoked a fag. When he was through, he would go into the loo where
I would wait for him. He would let me clean his cock, licking it after he
fucked her."  "Mr. Stanton, your time is up. Please walk back to the door."
Damn, just as it was getting good.  "Sorry, Brady we'll have to pick this
up tomorrow." He was in another world. I could see him working another
load, so I high-tailed it to the door just as I heard a loud splat hit the
floor behind me.  When the guard unfastened the straps and I was ready to
go, I asked him who cleaned up Brady's cell.  "Bots." He stated.  "Bots?"
"Robots. They had them specially built in Japan. They're not affected by
Brady," he said with a grin.

At my third interview and I wondered if I could last. Brady was definitely
getting to me. He was so damned hot, with that dick and ass carved from
alabaster. If he wasn't such a damned whore and crazy as hell, I'd get
drunk enough to do it.  The guard had me cinched in. I had my pen and pad
at the ready, and was ready to see what was behind the steel curtain of
door number three.  The room smelled musty, like my aunt May's
cellar. Brady was naked, lying on his back with his legs bent back and his
knees on each side of his head. It looked like dried and wet cum was in his
hair, down his face and over his chest. The floor was wet around him. His
head was propped up against the cot, so that he could lick and suck his
dick. His ass-pucker had three of his fingers jammed in it, working back
and forth in a very slimy chute. He stopped when he saw me sit down.  "Top
of the day to you, Matt." He then went back to sucking his cock. In one
lunge, he took it to the root.  "I can see you're very limber. Yoga?"
"Master loved watching me perform for him. The boys did too. When I was
serviced them they would teach me tricks."  "Tell me about your
Master. Where is he now?"  "He's on the other side."  "The other side of
what?"  "In ancient time, the gypsies were a fierce warrior tribe. They
guarded the gate of the gods, where only the dead pass to the underworld
and gods come and go as they please. Somewhere in the Karakoram Mountains
is where Master is from. He was a great warrior who disobeyed the gods and
went through the gates as a living mortal, to become an immortal. The gods
cursed the gypsies for this. They were to forever roam, never to return to
their beloved mountains, or know of the passage. Master became an immortal
and can make others so, but they must pay a price, to return to our world
for human blood."
	"Are you immortal?"
	"Master wouldn't make me immortal, but he promised to come back for
me." Brady stopped playing with himself and sat still on his cot.
	"How did you get this power to put thoughts in people's heads?"
	"Back in the trailer, Master asked me if I wanted to suck his cock
and be a whore for him and his tribe. I said yes. Please! Make me your
whore; I'll be your slut. Anything! I said to him." Brady was getting
excited again, feeling his nipples as he pulled on his balls.
	"I crawled to him kissing and licking his booted feet. Master
pulled out his cock. He told me to suck it like the slut I was born to
be. I lifted my head and licked the piss slit, lapping the nectar that
flowed out of it. Some strange transformation occurred, as I gulped at his
cock, taking more and more until I was at the root of the great dick. I
could feel the head down my throat fucking my guts. I blacked out. When I
came to, he was fucking me in the arse. I screamed for him to keep fucking
me. The men that put up the carnival came into the trailer and began to
mount me as well, fucking my arse and throat. While they were gang-banging
me, they told me I was going to be the bait for their trap. My new powers
would draw the town to the carnival so that they could feed on them. That's
when they heard the sheriff outside looking for the owner of the
carnival. They dressed me like a gypsy fortuneteller. Put a wig and makeup
on me, with an old black dress and told me to go out and talk to the
sheriff.  I went out, it was about noon, and the sheriff asked where the
owner was. That's when I learned what I could do. I thought of enticing him
and getting him in the trailer. I could see it working. His cock became
hard and he began to lust for me. I told him we could go to my trailer and
he could fuck me. When he entered, Master and his tribe grabbed him and
made him a sex slave like me. They were fucking the both of us, shooting
immortal semen in our bodies. Our cocks began to grow and we began to shoot
enormous loads ourselves. All we could think of was having more sex, more
cocks to suck and fuck us. When night fell and the moon was full, we were
lead to a stage in front of the carnival. We were to entice everyone to
come to the carnival for the best show anyone ever saw. Oh, they came all
right. The whole town came; the sheriff and I were dressed in costumes that
showed everything. We lured them with sexual cravings they never felt
before. Men, women, boys, girls, none were able to escape the honey of our
thoughts.  The tent twas full of people so horny that they began to feel
each other up. Men and women groped each other, taking their clothes off
licking and sucking on each other; that's when the show began. Out came the
gypsy tribe with Master as the ringleader. Oh, what feats they
performed. They flew in the air, twirls and acrobatics never seen by
humans. Then, when the crowd was under their spell, they attacked. The
sheriff and I prevented anyone from fleeing. Master and his men gorged
themselves on the crowd until they were full and the people drained of
blood."  "Mr. Stanton your time is up."  "I'll see you tomorrow. That's
quite a story Brady." He was lost in another world staring out in space as
I left the room.

It was all so unbelievable, no wonder they locked him up. Still, how did he
get this power to affect people? How could he produce vast amounts of semen
and the stamina for continuous sexual arousal?  My fourth interview and the
curtain seemed heavy as I pulled it open. My chair looked far away. Brady
wore his cassock, looking angelic, like an Irish priest ready to bless his
flock. The room smelled of disinfectant. I bet the bots were just here.
"Good day to you, Matt." Brady smiled so beautifully. He could sell milk to
cows with that smile.  "Brady, you look very much the priest."  "Old habits
are hard to break." He then let out one of his spine tingling inhuman
laughs. My blood turned cold and fear gripped me to see such an
innocent-looking person, yet to hear a voice from hell come from it.  "When
I was last here, you talked of how the town people were killed. Why did you
kill the sheriff?"  Brady pondered; a smile crossed his face as if he found
the right word for the morning crossword. "It was just the two of us
left. I wasn't thinking of killing him. There was no one left for us, but
each other. After Master and his tribe had their fill of blood, they fucked
us for a whole day. The next night, they packed everything and left. The
sheriff and I began having sex; it went on for three days before the
marshals arrived. I didn't know he was dead until they pulled me off him. I
had my cock down his throat for so long I forgot it was in him." He said
and stared into space for a moment.  Master said he was coming back for
me." Brady's stare went beyond me. I felt that Master was somewhere in the
room. He seemed distant, like he was listening to something.  "Brady, are
you all right?"  "Yes. He's coming tomorrow for me. If you're here you'll
meet him." Brady sat back down on the cot. Looking like a schoolboy waiting
for the bus.  "Ask him if I can have an interview." I thought, what the
hell, I'll play along.
 	"Brady?" He just sat there and stared out. After a while, I left. I
still had one day with him and I thought it might be interesting to see
what happened when Master was a no show.  My ride dropped me off in front
of the motel. I took a shower, typed up my notes and had a nap.  I decided
to go over to Vic's Diner and mingle. The parking lot was full of trucks
and I hoped to come across someone in need of a little manly relief.  The
evening was a dud, but I did hear a few interesting stories on road life. I
opened the door to my room and there on my bed was the most beautiful
ladies' handbag. No strap, but a clasp at the top that gathered the folds
of the softest black leather I have ever seen. I thought my boss, knowing
of my collection, sent it to me. I walked over to pick it up. Something was
strange about it, I wasn't sure what. It seemed to move, and as I reached
out to pick it up, the purse broke into flight. A terrible screech came
from it and what I thought was the clasp now looked like fangs. The
handbag, turned out to be a bat that flew around the room, and then out the
door, and screamed into the night.  I had a hard time sleeping that
night. Finally, in desperation, I took a sleep tablet and woke up with the
phone ringing.
	"Hello?"
	"Matt, you're okay?"
	"Yeah, sure I am. Mr.Searns, is that you?"
	"Yes, it's me. Haven't you heard?"
	"Heard what?"
	"That nut you're interviewing escaped last night. He killed
everyone at the asylum. They found the night crew drained of blood this
morning when the staff arrived. It just came over a police broadcast."
	"Mr. Stearns. Have I got a story for you."


If you enjoyed the story, I would very much like to hear from you.
mgleich@earthlink.net