Scott Sherman: Third You Die

To transfer it to me.

The whole time I played my mental tricks on myself, I continued to moan and writhe. I let my body go on autopilot while I steeled my mind.

Whenever Kristen turned away, I’d try to free myself. Kristen had me bound with some high-quality S amp;M wrist cuffs. Thick, black leather bands that laced along the slides and locked together at the palms with a steel closure. There’d be no getting out of them.

They were hooked over a pipe that ran across the ceiling. I wrapped my fingers around it-it couldn’t have been more than two inches thick. On one of the occasions when Kristen’s back was toward me, I lifted my knees to see how much weight the pipe could bear. It bent a little. I put my feet back on the chair and downward with as much strength as I thought I could use without drawing Kristen’s attention. Again, there was some give in the pipe. I pulled harder. More movement this time, but not much.

So, I couldn’t get my hands free, but with enough force, I might be able to break the bar to which they were attached. I had no idea what that pipe was for-architecture wasn’t my strong suit-but it’d been put there for a practical purpose, not as part of a security system. It was the loose link in the chain binding me here.

The problem came to physics. I was strong for my size, but my size was still small. Even if I were free to pull or jerk with all my might, I doubted my 125 pounds would be enough to get the job done.

I was going to have to think my way out of this one.

What did I know about Kristen?

He was vain.

Full of himself.

He thought his work transcended mere pornography.

No, wait.

Not all of his work.

I remembered some of what he’d said when we first met.

He made a distinction between his commercial work for studios like SwordFight and his more personal “art” films.

He also lived at a level above what you’d imagine an adult film director could afford.

Had he been born rich? Probably not. Wealthy parents would have fixed his bad teeth and crossed eyes.

A second source of income, then? What?

Was it tied to his “art” films?

What could he be making that would generate so much money? There wasn’t much you couldn’t see in a typical porno these days.

What was Kristen selling?

When I thought I had it figured out, my stomach seized with a sudden stab of terror. No, it couldn’t be.

Except, it could.

I had to know.

My head was a lot clearer now. Funny how fast fear can sober you up.

I had a plan. Well, half a plan. A plan lite.

Lucas’s eyes were starting to flutter. He seemed minutes from regaining consciousness. I assumed he’d be as disoriented and dopey as I was when he first opened his eyes.

I was counting on it.

I was sorry, but the only way I could see my way out of this was going to involve hurting him. He was much too big and strong for me to do that when he was fully awake.

I had to work fast.

“Mmmmm…” I drawled, sounding a lot more stoned than I felt. “Are those things turned on?” I nodded toward the cameras.

“They are.” Kristen sounded amused. He was busy adjusting one of the lights that hung from the ceiling.

“Me too.” I giggled. “Are you going to make me a star?”

“Brighter than the sun,” he promised. He was only half-paying attention to me, which was good.

“I’m glad. I was going to call you about it, you know.”

“You were?”

“After we met. You told me you made art films. I asked a ground. A found. I mean, around.” I giggled again. I was faking the flubs.

“Really?” Having done whatever he needed to do with that light, he moved to the next. “And what did they say?” He didn’t appear particularly attentive to what I might say, probably having learned from experience that a stoner’s conversation is rarely of interest to anyone but himself.

I gave another moan. “Only one of my friends had any idea of what I was talking about. He’s a guy who’s into Sam.”

“Sam?”

“Sam.”

“I don’t know him.”

I laughed drunkenly. “Is not a him, silly. You know-chains and whips and stuff. S.A.M.”

“S amp;M?”

“Thash it!” I gyrated my hips. My still engorged member drew circles in the air. Nothing I could do about that. Whatever Kristen had injected me with down there was apparently impervious to the normally shank-shrinking effect of mortal terror. “Sounds hot.”

I was starting to get his attention. “You think so? Your friend, he knew my work?”

“He said there were rumors… that you were involved in some heavy stuff.”

“Huh.”

Why did Kristen seem surprised by that? If he was making films on the side, wouldn’t people know? Unless I was right about the nature of his films. In which case, he might be using a pseudonym. It started to come together.

“Just rumors. The movies are the stuff of legend. Secret.” I looked at him bug-eyed. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”

Thinking he was humoring me, Kristen ran his fingers over his chest. “Cross my heart. But tell me more about these films.”

“They’re real hardcore. The kind of things you can’t see in regular movies. They go all the way.” I rubbed my thighs together as if trying to get myself off with the friction.

“You can’t just get them anywhere.” I was making this up as I went along. “You have to know people. People who know people. They’re the luckiest people in the world, right?”

Kristen walked toward me. He was definitely intrigued now. I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist hearing more about himself. But I was starting to babble. He got closer to keep me focused.

“What else did he say?”

“I do’n ’member.” I let my head fall to my shoulder. “Sleepy now.”

Kristen shook my shoulders. “Not now, Kevin. Wake up, baby. Tell me what your friend said about those movies.”

I darted my eyes toward Lucas. He was blinking rapidly. Another few minutes and he’d back with us.

“Movies… oh, yeah. He said he’s dying to see them. But very expensive. Only a few people can. People who know people…”

“Yes, we covered that part.”

“So rare. But beautiful. Are you going to make me beautiful, Kristen?”

I tried to project vulnerability.

“You’ll be beautiful forever, Kevin. Preserved on celluloid forever. Just as you are now.” He ran a hand across my chest. “The height of youth and allure. Never aging. Cut at the prime of life, like a perfect rose is pruned at the moment of its greatest glory.”

He walked out of sight while I let his words sink in. He returned with a silver cart, the kind high-end hotels use for room service.

But the only person who’d be ordering this delivery would be Jack the Ripper. I recognized scalpels and speculums among other spotless, stainless-steel implements. I didn’t know what most of them did, but they all ended in sharpened points, viselike jaws, or curling blades.

A sadist’s smorgasbord.

Holy shit.

It was all I could do not to scream. I kept my face as blank as possible. A small sound escaped my lips, but I caught it in time to make it seem like a sexy sigh.

“Anyone can film two boys fucking,” Kristen said, his eyes alight with excitement. “It’s the easiest thing in the world to make that look good. But to show what lies beneath the skin. The muscle. The blood. That’s true art, Kevin.”

I nodded, but Kristen didn’t notice. He was lost in his own vile visions.

“To take what is considered ugly and make it beautiful. To turn pain into pleasure. Showing people what society says they’re not allowed to see… not even allowed to imagine… that’s the role of the true artist!