Late October
fog rolled in, heavy and thick, over the wooded reaches of Darkest Corners—but
not nearly as heavy and thick as what was about to come pouring out of Tucker
Leeds.
Nested
between the ancient pines, creaking at the end of a long, dirt road, Tucker’s
‘trailer of sin’ was far out of sight from the rest of the forested community. It
was an isolated and lonesome shack, to be sure. Still, compared to the rest of
the forested nightscape, Tuck’s bachelor pad—haloed in Christmas lights—was an
eerily welcoming and warm oasis. Not that the young man who lived there, he
himself the subject of many whispers and sideways glances from the townies, had
much company to offer these days.
Fact
was, there was just something spooky about Tucker Leeds and that hidden away
trailer at the end of the lane.
The
world outside Tuck’s trailer was gloomy and mysterious, but inside, the gentle
glow of a TV—and even more Christmas lights—illuminated the 23-year-old redneck
wunderkind’s realm of the disorganized. On this side of midnight, Tucker was just
about ready to settle in for a cozy, late October evening spent with his two
favorite pastimes: watching pro wrestling…and jacking off to the former.
Despite
the cramped confines of Tucker’s living room (which also doubled as his
bedroom) he never failed to lose track of the remote control. “Aw, dang, I
better record this shit,” he grumbled to himself, his fat, boxer-tight butt sticking
out from beneath the stained and lopsided sofa (which also doubled as his bed).
Tucker brushed aside a year’s worth of accumulated dust, power bars, crushed beer
cans, and too many condom wrappers to count (and an actual ‘used’ condom to
boot). He found the remote, but not before bumping his head on the way out.
“Motherfucker,”
he cursed, rubbing his mop of ‘ginger-adjacent’, sandy blonde hair beneath his
lucky trucker hat—an embroidered dog pawprint accompanied by the text ‘GOOD
BOY’. The statement wasn’t merely words Tucker liked being moaned breathlessly
into his ear, but the name of his small, moving company business; what kept the
lights on. Barely.
With
remote in one hand, a fresh beer in the other, and a bowl of Halloween candy
wedged between his crotch, Tucker spread wide his thick legs and leaned back
into the comfort of the couch. He hit the record button his cheap TV set and
waited for the magic to happen.
Tucker
was just in time to watch the camera zooming onto the arena’s entrance arch,
where purple, sparking pyrotechnics announced the arrival of Tucker’s wrestling
crush: Ricky Baron, the champ with the belt slung over his wide shoulders. The
lean, mean, yoked out stud with the buzz but and purple briefs exploded through
the flames. Baron, with all eight of his washboard abs, threw his hands out to
the audience with his patented ‘worship me’ pose.
Tucker
had no choice but to obey, especially with oiled up Ricky wearing his bulging
briefs and thigh-high, laced, black boots—perfect for stepping on nerds. “Fuck
yeah,” Tucker moaned, drooling. The candy bowl in his lap shifted forward with
the poke of Tuck’s hardon, so he took the hint, unwrapped a candy bar and
pushed it between his lips, imagining that it was the meat inside his TV
boyfriend’s packed trunks. Halloween was close at hand, but Tucker figured he
wasn’t going to get many trick-or-treaters anyway, so no harm opening up the
stash now.
Badboy
Baron, snug briefs riding up his crack, scowled at the audience and stepped
through the ring ropes. He climbed the turnbuckle and held up his belt—his
glory—for all the crowd to witness. Ricky Baron roared, a young lion hungry to
sink his claws and teeth into his challenger.
Mouth
full of corn-syrupy caramel, lovelorn Tucker sighed. “I wanna’ be the belt
around your waist, Ricky baby,” he said. The match hadn’t even begun yet, and
already Tucker was reaching beneath his candy stash, playing with the the sweet
spot beneath his sweets.
Next on screen came the big, bad contender
vying to take Ricky Baron down. With an entrance that was more menacing than
flashy and bombastic, the hulking shape in the black leather duster jacket
lumbered in on a wave of shadowy mist. With long, wet, jet-black hair dripping
down his hairy pecs, the handsome incarnation of death itself opened up his
robe to reveal an oiled, hirsute, hard body of muscle wrapped in black trunks
and boots. Looking like a cross between the leader of a biker gang and an evil
country singer, The Hunter signaled to the audience that he intended to make
muscle boy Baron his next trophy.
“And
here comes ‘Mr. Bigtime’ himself,” the announcer said in his thick twang, while
The Hunter stalked down the aisle towards his target.
Tucker
swallowed, out of fear and arousal. “Whew! He’s massive. Look at that
beard, too. C’mon, daddy!” This matchup was turning out to be both one for the
ages, and one for the tissue box on Tucker’s side table (a milk crate).
Tucker
reached over and grabbed the lube that was sitting next to one of the jack-o-lanterns
Tucker had carved out in his downtime. Tucker had bestowed the unlucky pumpkin with
a dopey, orgasmic ‘gooning’ face.
The
two wrestling heels—pretty boy and handsome beast—stared each other down in the
center of the ring, faces, bulges, and chests pressed together in quite
possibly the most homoerotic display to ever grace Tuck’s TV (that wasn’t
actual porn). At the same time, Tucker’s right hand grabbed onto its own
‘opponent’ lurking in Tucker’s underwear. It was shaping up to be a beatdown.
Just
as the action kicked off, both on screen and on Tucker’s couch, the tell-tale,
instantly recognizable sound of branches breaking underfoot outside ripped
Tucker’s attention towards the trailer window. He stopped, slowly pushing his hog
back into his boxer briefs, and looked out the window. But the black square of
night refused to give up its secrets. Tucker assumed the uncanny noise had come
from a raccoon or some other nocturnal animal scurrying about its business.
Then,
just as he was about to turn back to his fun, Tucker saw the shadow pass over
his window. Whatever had cast it was large, and definitely not shaped like a
bear.
The
hairs on Tucker’s neck stood on edge. His ears prickled.
A
thud from somewhere in the back of the trailer alerted him to the presence of something
that most definitely wasn’t a ‘little, forest critter’ skulking outside the
trailer.
With
his bodily priorities shifting towards ‘survival’, Tucker’s own ‘little
critter’ deflated into a sizable, but neutral state in his boxer briefs.
Quietly, Tucker picked up the remote and paused the broadcast stream. “Sorry,
boys,” he whispered to the men frozen mid-grapple on TV.
I
locked the door, right? Was Tucker’s first thought. He
waited. He listened. He cast a glance at the 12-gauge racked over of his many
vintage slasher movie posters. Tucker hadn’t yet touched his pa’s ‘security’
gift, loaded with rock salt, in some time. He hoped he wouldn’t have to break
that streak tonight.
Tucker
swallowed, channeling his wrestling crush’s courage by cracking his neck to the
side, just like Baron always did before he laid into some jobber. Tucker knew
shit-all about hand-to-hand combat, but he did know a thing or two about
shootin’…
The
cheerful lights wrapped around Tucker’s trailer offered only a small circle of
vision outside the window, and the fog that had rolled in diminished visibility
further. All Tucker could make out were the dark, gangly shapes of the forest
trees, swaying eerily in the Autumn breeze.
Tucker
whistled to himself, satisfied that his nerves had spooked him, and nothing
more. “Guess it ain’t nothin’ but jump scare weather out there tonight, huh,
Tuck?”
The
creature lunged at the trailer window, filling it with its ghoulish visage—that
of a sickly tinted cross-breed of a horned goat and horse’s head, elongated and
full of teeth. The hideous beast pressed its terrible claws to the glass and
opened its mouth, licking the window with its serpentine, black tongue and
extending its leathery, black wings towards the abyssal sky.
Tucker
frowned. “Oh, it’s just you.” With an eye roll and an irritated snort, Tucker
unlatched the window and opened it up, letting in the fresh, pine-scented air. “Damn
it, JD,” he sighed. He looked at the trail of drool running down the glass. “I
just cleaned that!”
The
voice that came out of the demon’s mouth sounded more suited to a face behind
the counter of a deli or gym desk in Hackensack, rather than a denizen of hell.
“What’s doin’, little ‘cuz!”
The
monstrous entity held up a dainty, white box tied with red and white
string—dwarfed by JD’s sharp claws. “I just flew in—can’t see shit out there
tonight with the damn fog. But I picked you up a little somethin’ somethin’
from Vitello’s on the way over. I know, I know, I’m your favorite devil in the
whole damn world.”
“You’re
also my only devil.” If there was one thing Tucker’s best friend, human or
otherwise, was always going to bring to the trailer, it was food. Being ‘raised
right’ Tucker graciously accepted it. “Well, bless your black heart,” he said
genuinely, sticking his neck out the window to survey the balmy night air and
the impenetrable fog. “Hmm. Soupier than an Irish out-house out there tonight,
huh, big fella’?”
The
demon shook its goat-like head in agreement. “Clammier than chowda’, brother.
To be real with you, I mostly came by just to use your shower. But…I also
wanted to check up and make sure my little ‘cuz was alright. Because…you know
what a fog like this usually brings out to these, don’t ya?”
Tucker
winced. I just wanted to blast rope and go to bed, not deal with dog-gone Hidden
shit. “Trouble,” he groaned. “I reckon you ain’t the only Hidden
motherfucker raisin’ hell—literal or otherwise—the next few nights, so close to
the ‘All Hallows’ as it were.”
“Best
night of the fuckin’ year,” JD said, fist pumping the night air. When he saw
that Tucker did not share in his hellish enthusiasm, the Jersey Devil
folded his wings taught against his back and cleared his throat. “Well, you
know the drill. We may be blood bros, but I can’t just let myself in.”
“Because
you’re a demon?”
“No,
because I was raised with some fuckin’ manners—wise guy!” The
fearsome behemoth scowled, crossing his veiny arms across his hairy chest.
Tucker
smirked. Truth be told, he was glad for a little company tonight. “Well, y’aint
gonna fit inside lookin’ like that. You’re gonna need to Shift, sugar.”
JD’s
glowing, red eyes narrowed, even as his sharp teeth fixed into a grin. “And
who’s gonna help with that, you sexy little’ stinker? I need some aether
boost if you want me to put on my ol’ monkey suit.”
Tucker
rolled his eyes and stuck his face forward. “Okay, but no tongue this time, you
hear? Mister?”
The
snaky appendage in question slithered around the demon’s lips, jokingly, before
he obeyed. “Alright! Pucker up, sweet cheeks.”
Just
like when you used to practice on your teddy bear, Tucker
reminded himself, squinting and pressing his lips to JD’s muzzle. Thankfully,
it was the first part of the beast to ‘turn’, becoming a far more a manageable,
pleasurable ‘human’ mouth.
Admittedly,
the guido from Gehenna was a pretty damn good kisser. As both summoner
and summoned locked lips, the brand on Tucker’s bicep—an abstract, goat-horned
sygil in the crude shape of a heart—glowed electric violet, matching the same
luminescent tattoo engraved on the demon’s right pectoral.
JD
‘Shifted’ slow, a reverse ‘werewolf transformation’ that saw his gray flesh become
‘tanning salon’ bronze, and his coarse, capric hair replaced by smooth,
moisturized skin. Cloven hooves turned into white, gym pumps stuffed with sport
socks, and the demon’s uncanny, equine flanks were replaced by a snug, denim
fit over a thick pair of legs that seldom skipped their designated gym day.
The
leathery, bat wings that had shepherded JD from the East Coast folded in on
themselves and flattened against a broad, muscular back. They shrunk and seeped
into his flesh and transfigured themselves into very ‘tribal’ inspired tattoos
that framed JD’s wide backside from collar to slender waist. A tight, white
tank top threaded itself from fibers spun of aether, clothing the Hidden One
further.
Tucker
took his mouth back, sizing up JD’s transformation from winged hellion to the
type of guy who would probably text ‘u up?’ to Tucker at 3 AM. Unfortunately,
Tucker loved the look.
Collard
with a gold ‘fuckboy’ chain, and topped with a backwards, red baseball cap
fitted specially to allow JD’s horns to poke through, the gym rat cryptid rolled
his thick neck side to side in adjustment. “That’s better,” he sighed.
Tucker
had known JD since his eighteenth birthday, the first time he’d summoned—or
rather, inherited—the supernatural stud with the motor-mouth and
muscles. Still, Tucker found his heart skipping a beat whenever JD Shifted into
‘hunk mode’. “You dyed your hair,” Tucker said, trying very hard not to make it
sound like a compliment.
JD
lifted his cap off his horns and ran his hands over his buzzed, bottle-blonde
hair. It would have looked terrible on anybody else, but with JD’s copper
complexion, muscles, chin strap beard, and ‘wise guy’ persona, it just worked.
“Fresh cut. You like?”
“Get
inside,” Tucker commanded.
“Sweet!”
Neary
tipping the trailer over, JD boosted himself up the window, knocking Tucker
over as he pushed himself rather gracelessly inside. JD landed flat onto the
floor with an ‘oof!’.
Tucker
looked down, getting an eye full of JD’s muscle butt and devilish bulge busting
out of his tight jeans. It was only by the grace of magic that JD’s thread didn’t
rip off his hard, shapely body.
While
JD got his act together, Tucker opened the fridge, ignoring the month-old pizza
boxes and Tupperware teaming with new ecosystems. “Can’t you use the front door
like a normal person?” Tucker said, stuffing the pastry box into the fridge.
Tucker shouldered the fridge shut.
JD
stood up, his horns just barely grazing the ceiling. He sniffed, eyeballing the
chaotic trailer. “Er…you been good, ‘cuz?”
Tucker,
who was not in any way related to JD, shrugged. “Hornier than a rat in a brothel
pantry, JD,” he said, glancing at the wrestlers and their glistening muscles on
the TV screen.
JD’s
otherworldly green eyes (no longer otherworldly red) fell upon the brawny
brawlers. “Aw, freakin’ sweet—is the fight on?”
JD
shoulder-checked Tucker onto the couch and picked up the remote, taking control
of the entertainment. He knocked the bowl aside, scattering bite-sized candy
bars over an already dirty carpet. “Ah, and it’s my boy, randy Ricky!” JD
winked at Tucker. “He’s a mean one. Scoot your boot, bro, there’s enough room
for both of us!”
As
if Tucker had a choice. JD’s bulk dominated the couch, squeezing Tucker into
the corner. Trapped between sofa and demon, Tucker had little say in the
matter. JD unfroze the action, just as The Hunter Irish-whipped Baron into the
ropes.
JD
played with the gold loop in his ear—which, Tucker was intimately aware, was
not his only piercing. Grinning at the action on set, Tucker’s devil was still
able to make conversation. “So…how’s your mother? Did you tell her ‘hi’ for
me?”
“She
says you’re a bad influence,” Tucker mumbled.
“That’s
a fuckin’ lie!”
Tucker
smirked. It was. On screen, Ricky Baron turned his bounce from the ropes into a
deadly drop kick to the Hunter’s hairy, hard gut. “Fair ‘nuff.” Truth was,
JD—despite his demonic nature—was a ‘nice boy from up the block’ when it came
to charming moms, especially Tucker’s. Which made sense, of course, as JD had
been a longtime ‘family friend’ for generations.
Because:
while Tucker’s Pa coached Gridiron, Tuck’s mama, on the other hand, was known
to be a real witch. Albeit a perfectly charming one. Tucker’s ma, you see,
taught a much more obscure ‘sport than her ex-husband’—the occult. While Tucker’s
brothers were becoming state football champs, Tucker learned the dark arts from
his beloved mother.
Which
is why Tucker had moved to Darkest Corners, one of the most active communities
of ‘Hidden’ kind, i.e. cryptids, unknown beasts, entities, and so-called
‘fearsome critters’. While JD wasn’t a ‘local’ character, beings just like him
made their homes all over the country in ‘thin places’ like Darkest Corners—for
better or worse. Hardly foreign or even alien, Hidden were native to the
wildernesses and woodlands, but they straddled the planes of existence for both
the sake of their own survival, territory, and for sustenance. Hence, their
often-invisible nature, and their propensity for inspiring clueless humans
across the ages, huddled around campfires, to whisper ‘frightening’ encounters
with Hidden kind.
For
the Hidden were everywhere and nowhere. From the diminutive and charming, to
the monstrous and flat-out bizarre, the Hidden were as diverse and numerous as
the stars in the night skies they hunted. Still, a few rare, everyday ‘losers’
like Tucker—blessed with unusual gifts—could not only ‘see’ them but also facilitate
their manifestation on the earthly plane, via pacts signed in blood and spirit.
Though the nature of the agreement and manner and frequency of ‘summoning’
varied from summoner to summoner, the symbiotic relationship between human and
Hidden was precious and rare.
Tonight,
Tucker found it mostly annoying. He nudged JD in the ribs. “Scootch your big
ass over, I’m smushed here!”
JD
reacted to The Hunter slamming Ricky Baron’s vulnerable back into his spine in
a vertebrae-crunching backbreaker. “AW YEAH!” JD shouted sadistically. “Pretty
boy’s gonna get cracked open like an egg.”
Tucker
pushed JD harder this time. “I’m gonna crack you like a damn egg if you
don’t give me room.”
JD
stiffened his back and turned his head menacingly towards his blood-bonded
human. “Oh, yeah?” he said, with a wicked grin, showing off his mostly human
teeth—save for his demonic, fang incisors. He took Tucker’s challenge and
hooked his massive arms around the smaller man’s neck, pulling Tucker into his
body and shoving his poor, pretty face into JD’s hairy, ‘off-tanned’ armpit.
That’s
how Tucker learned that JD had not applied deodorant that day. His moans
muffled by JD’s pits, and neck buckling under the pressure of a demonic bicep,
Tucker squirmed, and his nostrils filled with sweet, infernal musk. “Mmmmff!”
“Talk
shit and get put in the pit!” JD laughed. Fortunately, he let go, leaving
Tusker gasping and desperately trying to claw ‘demon jock’ stench off his face.
This
moment was a perfect encapsulation of their relationship, ever since Tucker’s
first summoning had blood-bonded him JD, branding them both with their mutual
tattoo. Despite their pact, JD was still technically a demon—a variant of
Hidden—who by nature enjoyed torturing, teasing, and making mischief for
humanity. Thankfully, JD’s antics were on the less deadly side, more frat boy
than infernal. JD, who had grown bored of scaring hunters witless in the Pine
Barrens of New Jersey (for fear was but one way certain Hidden ‘fed’) found his
arrangement with Tucker and his family a whole lot cushier. For Tucker, he was
both bully and protector, somewhere between longtime friend and frequent fuck-buddy.
Tucker had grown used to JD offering him a cannolo in one hand, and ‘noogie’ or
‘five-for-flinching’ with the other.
Rubbing
phantom pain from his shoulder in remembering the last time JD had playfully
decked him, Tucker almost envied the wrestler on screen pounding the canvas,
while The Hunter put him in a twisted, tendon-ripping Boston crab. “You gonna’
stay for Halloween, demon-breath? It’s a big ‘feasting’ night for you, right?
Scare some trick-or-treaters?”
The
hunky demon demurred, shrugging his boulder shoulders, and helping himself to a
beer from the cooler next to the sofa. “Just thought I’d swing by to check up
on yous,” he said, biting the cap and twisting it off with his teeth. He spat
it in Tucker’s face.
Tucker
flicked the cap away. He turned his eyes away from the violent action on screen.
Ricky’s beautiful face contorted into a rictus of pain as The Hunter attempted
to snap his spine off as easily as JD had twisted the cap.
“Something
tells me you knew it was gonna’ be a foggy one tonight,” Tucker said, not
bothering to mask his suspicion.
Subtext:
fog usually heralded the arrival of a new cryptid in town; something about the
way displaced aether from tears, or ‘portals’, burned up the atmosphere,
creating condensation. Or so Tucker’s ma had told him. Fog brought in the ‘Drifters’,
as other Hidden Ones sometimes called them. Usually, they were a harmless
breed—‘just passin’ through’.
But
not always.
Hidden
Ones like JD were territorial breeds on their own home-turf, and so the demonic
lunkhead rarely shared the spotlight with others like him. But Darkest Corners
was a special place. The town upheld a longstanding ‘truce’, an agreement
between Hidden and humankind that stretched as far back as the tribes who still
watched over the land. The Darkest Woods were a designated safe haven, a
neutral mingling grown where a Nightcrawler could kick up its weary legs and
shoot the shit with a Skunk Ape.
But,
just like any good ‘roadhouse’, Darkest Corner needed its bouncers to keep away
the riff-raff, and this is why partnerships such as JD’s and Tucker’s were
paramount. Tucker was certainly not the only ‘gifted’ human in Darkest Corners,
but he still had a duty to perform. Typically, Tucker preferred staying as uninvolved
as possible. Usually for good reason.
Well,
one good reason anyway, as JD was about to rudely remind his buddy.
“Well, it’s no big deal,” the demon jock sniffed, deliberately extending his
arms, resting them atop the couch to take up even more space. “I’m sure we can
leave it to our favorite golden boy to break in the new blood, right?”
Tucker
groaned. He knew for whom JD was referring. “Whatever.”
“You
see much of him lately?” JD asked, arching a shapely eyebrow. “Or…anybody?”
Tucker
answered by gesturing broadly to the trail of potato chip bags and soda cans
littering the trailer.
“Sheesh,”
JD said, biting his lip. “Not even a little sloppy hookup?”
The
dating apps around Darkest Corners offered the slimmest of pickings. They also did
not guarantee a late-night Romeo who still had all of his teeth intact.
“I
mean, it’s pretty damn obvious you’re not dressing to impress,” JD said,
tugging at Tucker’s boxer briefs. “These are cute, but like, where’s the sexy
underwear?”
“I
didn’t know you were coming,” Tucker shot back, defensively. “It’s not like I’m
always wearing a cute, little jockstrap like you.”
JD
gesticulated wildly. “Bro, I literally gave you that plump, juicy
ass only for you to do nothing with it!?”
As
much as Tucker was loathe to admit it, the devil wasn’t exaggerating. As a
wide-eyed, fresh-faced lad with a brand new, demon pact, Tucker’s first (and
last) magical request from JD was to ‘make him thick as fuck’. Tucker had meant
his whole body.
That’s
when Tucker learned that devils took advantage of the details. JD ‘twisted’
Tucker’s desire, planting a smooch on Tuck’s butt (now forever marked with an
embarrassing ‘kiss’ tattoo in the shape of JD’s lips), making his ass the
thickest part about him. Tucker’s ‘wagon’, never failed to snatch the attention
of would-be suitors, but it also usually grabbed unwanted stares from everybody
else, every time Tucker went out in public.
Tucker
had been spending the last few years of his life trying to play catch up, pumping
up the rest of his body. The free weights doubling as trip hazard in the center
of the trailer walkway were testament to this endless endeavor; Tucker’s
attempts to ‘untwink’ himself. Despite a cornfed upbringing, Tucker never
managed to follow in the footsteps of his three brothers (all of them burly football
players) which is probably why his mama took him under her dark wings instead.
At
twenty-three, Tucker had consumed enough protein to give him a somewhat thick
build that was more baseball player than Gridiron beefcake, but his six feet, several
tattoos, and demonically endowed dumptruck made up for it.
There
was nothing doing about the face, however. Tucker unconsciously glanced at
himself in the mirror hanging off the bathroom door. “I’ve just had a bit of a
dry spell,” Tucker lamented. Far from the grizzled, quad-driving ‘good ol’ boy’
neighbors he’d grown up alongside, Tucker never lost his babyface. With his gauge
earrings, a beauty park on his chin, and pair of great, big doe eyes, Tucker
had the look of twunk starring in a porno about truck drivers. Incidentally,
trucking was not far removed from Tucker’s actual profession.
While
JD acted like a big, dumb guido jock, he was still several hundred years old
and keenly observant. He drew an invisible line between the lube tube on
Tucker’s nightstand, the tissues, the sweaty men grinding against each other on
the TV, and the tent in Tucker’s pants. “Not dry,” he said, “but solo.
Hey, ain’t nothing wrong with that. Especially with these two sexy fuckers
tearing each up on TV. Hell, I’d touch myself too.”
Tucker
took the hint. He watched JD slowly move his hands to the bulge of his jeans
and rest it there. Tucker looked up to see JD smiling knowingly at him. “You
‘hungry’, big guy?”
JD
responded by slipping his other hand beneath his belt, down to his crotch.
“Starving, ‘cuz,” he said. He focused back on TV. “And horny for some violence.”
“Fuck
yeah,” Tucker growled in agreement. Given the green light, so-to-speak, he
resumed rubbing himself. Though his attention was now squarely focused on the
two beefcakes attempting to break each other in the sweaty ring, Tucker leaned
in slightly towards his big friend. “This one’s a ‘Death by Piledriver’ match,”
he said, pointing out the open casket resting on a platform outside the ring.
“You know, for Halloween. The winner becomes the new champ.”
“Oh
yeah?” JD said, slowly rubbing his crotch. “What happens to the loser?”
“He
goes in the coffin,” Tucker said, nonchalantly.
The
demon was aghast. “He dies!?”
Tucker
rolled his eyes. “No, JD, it’s staged.” He paused. “At least, I hope it’s
staged.”
Ricky
Baron probably hoped the same, as—on screen—The vicious Hunter squeezed the
sweaty man’s head between his pillar quads in a humiliating position that left
the champion with his butt sticking out in front of the camera, and his trunks
riding up into his shapely ass.
With
matted, tangled hair covering most of the heel’s bearded face, turning him into
something not unlike JD’s true form, The Hunter glided his thumb across his neck
in a ‘slitting’ motion, signaling Baron’s doom. He grabbed Baron by the waist
and inverted him, so that handsome Ricky’s terrified face and desperate shouts
of ‘no, God no!’ could be viewed and heard by the horrified crowd.
The
Hunter bounced once, playing with his prey, then bounced again, before finally
leaping into the air. It would have been an almost beautiful spot of
choreography, if not for the brutal outcome that followed. The Hunter brought
all 300 pounds of muscle down onto the mat, with Ricky Baron’s head aimed at
the canvas.
WHAM!
“OHHHH!”
Tucker and JD both reacted at the same time—but, far from horrified, the
vicious move on screen only fueled their mutual sadism. JD was the first to
glance sideways at the wet spot forming on Tucker’s obvious erection, pushing
out his tight boxer briefs so hard that the hem line no longer sat across
Tucker’s slim waist.
JD
kept his eyes hungrily on screen, watching as a snarling, animalistic Hunter
shoved away the ref from checking Ricky Baron’s twitching, unconscious body.
The Hunter cupped his claws under Baron’s chin and lifted his drooling,
eye-swirling face off the mat. The Hunter propped it up for the camera to zoom
in on. The beast pointed to the folks at home—almost directly JD and Tucker—and
then at Ricky, whose eyes fluttered. “Behold my dark work,” The Hunter
annunciated with every bestial growl.
“Fucking
brutal,” JD said, licking his licking his lips, stroking himself with one hand
and Tucker with the other.
Tucker’s
eyes matched his half-conscious crush’s on screen. They fluttered at the
devil’s slow, deliberate touch. “Fuck yeah it is,” Tucker said, with a playful
laugh that concealed his sadism-derived arousal. There were different methods
of whetting JD’s appetite—and sustaining his ability to manifest/keep form on
‘top side’. While scaring the shit out of unsuspecting humans fed JD well
enough, there were more effective methods.
The
nice, and most unlikely method was what Tucker’s church-goin’ Pa called simple
‘good works’. That was, helping out folks in need, be they human or Hidden;
assisting little, old ladies across the street, or chasing away foul-tempered
Hiddens from the holler. JD genuinely enjoyed those. Being born ‘top side’ to
old Mother Leeds (Tucker’s ancestor) some hundreds of years ago, JD did not share
the malicious nature of his hellish brethren. He could be mean. He could sure
as hell be scary. But he was hardly evil.
But
he wasn’t exactly ‘pure’ either. The other method of ‘feeding, a guilty
pleasure that he and Tucker both shared, was pure ‘sin’. Specifically, it was
engaging in deviant, freaky (consensual) sexual activities. For that reason, the
beefy demon never turned down a good ol’ bating session with his buddy. In
fact, JD and Tucker could hardly keep track of so many long, wasted hours into
the night simply putting on a good old-fashioned porno, or a wrestling match,
or just ‘gooning’ out with each other; legs wrapped around the other, stroking
mindlessly away. These marathon sessions tended to leave Tucker spent, JD full,
and both of them satisfied.
“Wait
a second,” JD said, while on screen the ref failed to pull The Hunter from
putting his opponent in a limp camel clutch. The demon unbuckled his belt and
tugged off his jeans.
The
cherry red pouch of a jock strap burst out of JD’s jeans like a bat out of
hell. Thick, dick root fully visible, JD’s tool rivaled the beer bottle right
next to him on the crate. Tipped with a dark, wet, gooey spot, JD’s demonic
cock bobbed and pulsed up and down, like its own separate entity.
JD
caught Tucker’s hungry eyes attaching to themselves to it. The horned and horny
devil smiled and grabbed it, wiggling it up and down. “You like?” He asked.
Then, he held up his massive arms and flexed his biceps, grunting as he flexed
hard. His cock responded by bouncing up and down.
Tucker’s
own cock answered with a spurt of precum so thick that it leaked through his
bulge and dripped right onto the dirty carpet. He pushed his face into JD’s
pits, willingly this time, and gave them a quick sniff.
“The
hats and socks stay on,” JD said. He slid his palms slowly, erotically, down
the curves of his pierced pecs, down across the ridges of his abs, and into the
valley of his jock strap. “Got it?”
Tucker
agreeably adjusted his cap. “Yeah.”
Grinning
wickedly, JD pushed his face over towards Tucker, demanding another kiss. “Then
give me another wet one, cuz.”
Tucker
laughed with mischief. He willingly obeyed. The playfulness ended when their
lips met. The first kiss was soft, but the next one was hungry. Forceful. JD
dug his nails into the back of Tucker’s neck and forced him forward. The demon
licked and lapped his buddy’s mouth, and Tucker did his best just to keep up, breathing.
Without
warning, JD reached into Tucker’s underwear and yanked his uncut, wet, hog out
into0 the fresh air. JD stroked it while he forced his tongue inside Tucker’s
mouth.
Finally,
he pulled away in rapture. JD sighed, nodding to the TV. “Let’s edge ourselves stupid to this pretty
boy getting cracked open.”
Tucker
agreed. He didn’t even need lube. He happily stroked his glistening clock,
biting his lip as he heard the sound of wet skin rubbing together.
In
the ring, The Hunter resumed his violent assault, turning the wrestling match
into something more like the horror movies memorialized in poster form on
Tucker’s trailer walls. The beast was so brawny that he had no trouble lifting
Ricky up by both boot ankles. The champion swayed like a weakening pendulum,
back and forth above the mat. A long strand of drool escaped his open mouth,
while the commentators and audience members all screamed in terror.
“I
dunno’ man,” Tucker said, smiling as he stroked away, “I’m not sure I like
seeing Ricky’s neck at that angle.”
“Yeah
you do,” JD growled back. “We all know that ‘Good Boy’ stitched onto
your hat is just a cover, brother. Let the darkness in,” JD said, as he pulled
down his jock to free his beast. It flopped out, rude and veiny, between JD’s
huge thighs. The metal on the piercing threaded through JD’s slit glinted light
back from the TV screen.
Despite
seeing JD’s impressive cock many times before, Tucker couldn’t help but drool
at its release. JD caught Tucker’s neck in a gentle headlock, pulling him into
his chest and forcing him to take in the unfolding violence.
JD
whispered evilly. “Watch your crush get his head popped off like a fucking
daisy.”
This
time, the Hunter added insult into deadly injury by stuffing his victim’s head
into his trunks. JD made a crass remark about it being ‘the last thing Baron
would ever get a whiff of’ before The Hunter jumped up and SLAMMED Baron’s skull
into the canvas again.
Baron
was a good seller. His body buckled backwards, convulsing. His legs played open
for Tucker and JD to ogle his bulge and taint.
Despite
himself, Tucker felt his cock twitch. He grimaced.
“Look,
look!” JD said, tugging on Tucker’s neck to steer his attention back to the TV.
“He’s gonna fuckin’ waste him. Don’t blow your load, now.”
While
JD started giving his cock long, deep strokes, The Hunter grabbed Ricky Baron
by the boot and dragged his useless body towards the ropes. This time, the
monster slung the handsome wrestler over his shoulder and climbed the
turnbuckle, while security scrambled to the side of the ring and the medical
team looked on, all of them knowing this was either going to be a very long
night for them…or a very short one.
Seized
by an evil fury, The Hunter threw back his long hair and rolled his eyes into his
skull, turning them white. “WITNESS IT,” he roared, spraying spittle. He tucked
Ricky Baron into his legs again and jumped off the ropes, straight into the
open casket.
The
coffin collapsed shut, breaking the table, and falling to the cement.
Everything was bedlam. The crowd freaked out, and The Hunter sat on the ground,
emotionlessly…until Rick’ limp hand dangled from the half-opened coffin lid. A
slow smile crossed The Hunter’s lips. While the EMTs rushed to the casket,
terrified of what they might see when they opened it, The Hunter snatched the
belt from the ref and walked over to the site of his fallen foe.
The
evil heel placed his hand on the coffin lid, almost affectionately. Then, like
a bouquet of mourning flowers, he laid the belt atop the lid and simply walked
away, while the ambulance sirens blared. It hadn’t even been about the belt, or
the victory. The Hunter had just wanted to break something beautiful.
Tucker
did everything he could to delay his orgasm. “Fuck yeah,” he said, his soul
blackening to match that of the evil, victorious heel.
JD
sneered cruelly, playing with his cock. “Rest in peace, Ricky Baron. Loser.”
“He’ll
be back in like a month wearing a neck brace,” Tucker assured his friend. He
sighed, looking down at his dripping member.
“Looks
like we have unfinished business,” JD said, planting a quick kiss on Tucker’s
lips. He sat up, cock bouncing in the breeze. He turned and gave Tucker a
fantastic look at his bubble butt. “Let’s make some more room.”
Tucker
happily switched off the set and adjusted the sofa, converting it into the
mattress he slept on every night. Eagerly, Tucker got on his knees and looked
up, affectionately, into his demon friend’s green eyes. Tucker masturbated, and
let his tongue hang out of his mouth like an eager puppy waiting to be fed.
JD
didn’t exactly take the hint, but he offered pleasure just the same, crawling
on the mattress and getting onto his knees. “You wanna’ wrestle too?” JD asked,
pressing his knuckles to the mattress like a gorilla prostrating. He stuck out
his butt and assumed the position.
Tucker
smiled, even though he knew JD would crush him in a fight (again). “Well, I do
love wrestling my demons.”
JD
sat upright, with all his pretty muscles and handsome face for Tucker to
admire. “How’s about we wrestle with our cocks?” He said, tugging on his
nine-inch monster.
Tucker
answered the challenge by shifting forward on his knees and playfully batting
his hog against JD’s club, causing both of their veiny tools to leak onto the
bed, just like poor Ricky Baron had drooled on the canvas.
JD
grabbed Tucker around the shoulders and pulled him into a soft, gentle frot,
with JD’s cock dominating Tucker with firm brushes and prods, back and forth,
sending pleasure through each of their them. He paused only to tongue Tucker’s
mouth and lips.
Tucker’s
body and soul replied with sound. “Mmmm.”
“You’re
close,” JD said with a squint, laughing boyishly. An idea crossed his mind. He
tapped his horn, adjusted his fitted lid, and leaned over the bed towards the
nightstand, giving Tucker a good look at his massive quads, and spread cheeks. Either
unintentional or deliberate, JD’s leathery, lack tail lifted itself up,
unveiling JD’s smooth, pink hole.
JD
looked like a bodybuilder porn star, with his beefy, tattooed back arched and
his calves hugged by sport socks and sneakers. With his muscle ass puffed out
in front of his buddy’s face, it took everything in Tucker’s power to keep
himself from burying his nose in JD’s tight, puckering hole and letting that
demon beefcake’s wicked tail wrap itself around his neck to keep his face
fastened tight. Tucker knew JD’s unusual properties intimately, and one whiff
of demonic pheromones would probably tip Tucker over the edge and cause him to
burst. He didn’t want that, especially because JD would not only tease him
relentlessly for his pre-ejaculation, but he’d also press Tucker’s face into
the spent puddle, making him lick the whole thing up as ‘punishment’.
JD
grabbed the carved pumpkin on the nightstand. He looked into its dopey,
‘orgasming’ expression, and then turned his mischievous gaze onto Tucker, who
kept on playing with himself, content to ‘ride the wave’.
“Let’s
keep things on theme,” JD suggested.
Tucker
closed his eyes. “Whatever,” he replied, not really in the headspace to puzzle
out JD’s esoteric rambling. “I’m harder than a damn oak tree here, JD.”
The
buff demon pressed his fingers into the bottom of the pumpkin, tearing open a
gash. He flipped the desecrated jack-o-lantern upside down and, like so many
bottoms that Tucker had watched JD viciously gape open before, rammed the lube
into its cavity, squeezing viscous fluid into the pumpkin’s mushy base.
“Hey,”
Tucker cried out, with a sad whine. “That’s my jack-o-lantern!”
“Not
anymore,” JD sneered. He spread his legs across the bed, turned the imperiled
pumpkin’s face towards its creator. With a grunt, JD and shoved his demonic
cock into the gourd’s gooey depths.
Wet,
slick, sucking sounds accompanied the buff gym bro’s thrusting. “Now it’s a
jack-off lantern!” He proudly declared, eyes swiveling and mouth agape in
masturbatory glee as he fucked the pumpkin raw.
Tucker’s
arousal turned into rage. His mouth gaped just as widely as the hole in his
poor pumpkin creation. “You…YOU dick!”
JD
stuck out his tongue. “You love my dick,” he said, thoughtlessly pounding away.
Tucker watched the demonic jock thrust in and out of the gourd, trailing cumm
and orange, stringy innards and—somewhat disgustingly—a pumpkin seed now glued
to JD’s tree-trunk dick root.
“Ffffuck,”
JD growled, shivering, while all of his muscles contracted involuntarily with
raw lust. He moved the pumpkin and his body towards Tucker. He looked like a
frat boy lost in the sauce. “Come on, little ‘cuz, don’t you wanna’ give it
some rough, wet love?”
Tucker
looked down. Behind the carved smile, JD’s wet, cock throbbed an invitation for
his ‘buddy’ to join on in the fun.
“Man,
that’s so weird.” Tucker sighed. He shrugged. “Okay, I’ll try—OH FUUUCK.”
JD
wasted no time sliding the wet gourd onto his buddy’s erection. Tucker found it
to be strangely, instantaneously satisfying, like an organic flesh light or
masturbatory tool.
“Yeah?”
JD asked, cockily, going to pound-town on the gourd. “Come on, buddy, wrap your
legs around my thighs and let’s fuckin’ goon out together.”
The
remaining shreds of Tucker’s dignity forced him to say, “This is so nasty.” But
the pleasurable, wet, warm sensation around his cock didn’t lie. Tucker’s face
broke into a stupefied, dopey-eyed trance. “But…it feels so good.”
Tucker’s
initially cautious thrusts in and out increased rapidly. He bounced his butt up
and down on the mattress, pushing his pelvis forward and back. He attempted to
match the rhythm of JD’s long, deep, strokes, but he was much more eager. JD
had always been the more virile, controlled one.
“Stay
with me, little ‘cuz,” JD whispered. He embraced Tucker’s moaning, groaning,
slim body, bringing him forward. “Big bro’s got you. I’m gonna hold you in my
muscles. Look into my eyes.”
Tucker
felt his sanity and spiritual wholeness slipping away with every wet thrust as
he and JD violated the gourd together. “You should never…look into a devil eyes,”
Tucker said, weakly, his vision starting to blur and his prostate beginning to
tighten.
JD
smiled. “MMmmmm. This devil thinks you should.”
His
emerald eyes took hold of Tucker, putting him in a state of sexual catatonia, a
waking wet dream. Tucker lost control of his sensed. His body, on autopilot,
did the work. The animalistic thrusting in and out with JD, filled the
apartment full of wet, squelching echoes.
It
would have been absolutely vile…if it didn’t feel so damn hot.
Completely
helpless, just like his defeated wrestling hunk, Tucker couldn’t see that JD’s demon
tail had slipped from behind his back and curled itself around Tucker. With the
smaller man wedged between JD’s monstrous biceps, he couldn’t wriggle free from
the devil’s grip if he tried.
Tipped
like the head of a spear, JD’s naughty, ribbed, fully lubricated tail tickled
and prodded Tucker’s winking hole.
Lost
in ecstasy, Tucker barely noticed. “Oh fuck,” he said, breathless, bouncing and
thrusting deeper into the gourd. “What…what are you doing?”
JD
leered sadistically down at Tucker. “Putting my tail in your tail,” he said.
Tucker’s
eyes widened in worry…and his hole followed. Like a rubber sex toy, JD’s devil
tail forced open Tuck’s cheeks and anus, burying itself a few inches deep.
Tucker
moaned so loudly that his voice cracked. “GAHHHH!”
“All nice and plugged up,” JD said, panting in
his rut. “You know I love your creamy, fat ass, Tuck. There’s a reason I gave
it to you.” JD’s pecs shimmered with sweat. The cheap, plastic lights hanging
overhead turned his fake tanned muscles into polished bronze. “How does that
feel?” He grunted, forcefully. “Tell me.”
As
much as Tucker wanted to look upon his beautiful monster man, all he could see
was the dark insides of his own skull. JD’s prehensile tail pushed smoothly
into Tucker’s prostate, while the jock’s tool forced its fat head tip—and
piercing—against Tucker’s cock. Rubbed in, and rubbed out, JD was working
Tucker to the brink.
“It…feels
so fucking good!” Tucker cried out. Captured by sexual madness, the human
became the demon. Tucker thrusted deeper, tearing up the pumpkin from the
inside and madly frotting against JD’s thick cock.
JD
released the tight grip on Tucker’s back, allowing him to lean back and allow
his buddy to take a good look at them both in the mirror.
Tucker
barely recognized himself. He watched, his own voyeur, while he and JD
absolutely tore into their new toy.
Tucker
felt it coming on fast and hard. His hole gripped down on JD’s tail. “I’m
gonna…”
JD
clawed down on the pumpkin, burying his nails into its skin and pulp. His fuck
rhythm increased, tearing chunks out of the gourds innards, and rubbing up
against his friend’s cock. “Let’s give this jack-o-lantern a nice, gooey grin.”
Tucker’s
eyes rolled out of his head long enough to latch onto JD’s hungry, predatory
stare. As the mutual, masturbatory pleasure took hold of them both, JD’s
intense face softened, becoming a mindless, open-mouthed smile. Tucker joined
him, tongue hanging out. This is what he imagined Ricky must have felt getting
his skull rocked and brains scrambled by The Hunter.
All
of JD’s muscles contracted and expanded, just as his tail bullied Tucker’s
swollen prostate into bursting its reservoirs. Human and hellion gripped each
other, cheek to cheek and cock to cock, holding on and riding an almost painful
wave of pleasure together. Their faces matched that of the hapless
jack-o-lantern they tore apart from within.
“NNNNGGGGGAAAAAHHHHH!”
SPLAT!
The gooning jack-o-lantern face happily regurgitated a
creamy, viscous wave of intermingled cum. White fluid poured out of the
pumpkin’s mouth, leaving it dripping and desiccated. JD and Tucker’s cocks had
murdered and mangled the poor gourd to a pulp, slasher style.
JD’s
tail slid out of Tucker’s ass, making him yelp in a blink of pain. Still
connected by the mushy mass between their legs, Tucker, and JD both leaned
back, panting, bodies dripping sweat and secretion. When either man, satisfied,
had finally regained oxygen, they locked eyes and laughed.
“Fuck,”
Tucker said, giggling and wiping the sweat from beneath his cap. “Fuck, dude.”
“I
know,” JD playfully answered back, teasingly jiggling his cock inside the
collapsed gourd, making it wiggle and wobble. “Fucking nasty and fucking HOT!”
Despite
his better judgment, Tucker was inclined to agree. “That felt good,” he said.
He looked down, to find most of his pelvic area and inner thigh soiled wet with
orange chunks, milky-white good and pumpkin seeds. “But the clean-up…”
Said
cleanup (which will not be detailed here) took place in due course, jocks and
briefs refastened to their respective hunk.
“Let’s
take a shower,” Tucker said, falling back onto JD’s chest. He laid into his
body, using his tender muscles as a couch. “After a minute.”
Glowing,
JD inhaled and exhaled, watching his buddy’s head rise and fall. He reached
down and took off Tucker’s hat, all the better to affectionately ruffle his
friend’s matted hair. “In a minute,” he repeated. Suddenly, he pushed Tucker
off his body.
Tucker
landed, unceremoniously, onto the floor. Annoyed and sore, both inside and out,
Tucker looked up. “What the hell, J—”
The
muscle hunk pressed his finger to Tuckers lips, silencing him. The
lackadaisical demon’s expression became stark. Determined. Wordlessly, he
pointed to the trailer’s front door.
Something
was out there.
Knock.
Knock. Knock.
With
nearly cartoonish timing, Tucker and JD exchanged wary looks. “But what serial
killer is polite enough to knock?” Tucker whispered, rationally.
JD
threw his hands up. “Bro, I’m a literal monster and I’m polite.”
Debatable,
of course, but Tucker took JD’s point at face value. Slowly, Tucker got off the
floor and walked towards the door, with JD close behind him.
The
half-naked demon puffed out his chest. “At least I know how to piledrive a
motherfucker now.”
Tucker
placed his hand on the latch. He hesitated. He waited. Then, he opened the
door.
A
creature’s massive shape filled the doorway. Fortunately, it wasn’t a demon, or
some other aberration. In fact, the bear that stood upright on two legs was
very much at home in Darkest Corners.
“Evenin’
Tuck,” Briggs said, adjusting his overalls, the straps hanging tightly around
the furry beast’s chest. Like Tucker’s hat, Brigg’s denim overalls were branded
with the ‘Good Boy’ moving company log.
“See,
it’s just Briggs,” Tucker said, nudging an annoyed JD in the ribs.
The
curious and affable bear tilted his head in an attempt to look over Tucker and
JD’s shoulder. “Er…what you boys getting’ up to, tonight?” Briggs tilted his
muzzle up and sniffed.
“Nothing,”
Tucker—wearing only his boxer briefs—said, pulling the door closer to obscure
the messy, trailer interior. “JD’s in town for Halloween and we’re just
watchin’ a little wrasslin’ is all.”
Briggs
looked like he very much doubted that. But, being a gentleman and a native resident
of Darkest Corners, he didn’t push the point. “Sorry to bother you,” he said. “But
I was in the area, and I figured I should give you a heads up, on account of
safety and all.” The bear gestured down the lonesome road, towards the sound of
an idling truck—likely his own.
Tucker
already an inkling. He felt JD’s ‘I-told-you-so’ stare boring a hole into his
back. “Is this about the fog?” Tucker asked.
“It
most certainly is,” Briggs said. “Boy, something big and bad has come into town
and made short work of the Squonk Holler. Their burrows are completely
decimated. Even the Sheriff don’t know what to make of it.”
Confused,
Tucker raised his shoulders. “But who would bother with them little critters?
They don’t trouble no one.”
“That’s
not all,” Briggs said. He lowered his voice. “Whatever’s out there got the jump
on The Wild Hunt and roughed them up good!”
The
Wild Hunt tavern, named for the gang of otherworldly bikers that frequented the
seedy watering howl, was not the sort of place casual residents or
out-of-towners visited. Even JD looked taken aback by the statement.
“Sorta’
reminds me of how a new inmate jumps the biggest guy in the yard,” Briggs said,
before quickly adding, “Not that I’d know, o’course.”
Tucker
rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Here I was, hopin’ to have a quiet evening.
Well, Briggs, what did the Wild Hunt boys say to ya? Sure as hell had to be
some witnesses left to the tell the tale, right?”
For
a mercy, Briggs nodded. “Any guys not already taken to the ER at St. Solomon’s
say that whatever it was that done it, was big and very, very bad.”
“That…don’t
narrow it down none,” Tucker said.
Briggs
scratched his fuzzy neck with his paw. “Look, I’ll let you boy get back
to…whatever it was that you were doin’. But with it being almost Halloween and
all, when the weird shit comes out to play, I thought you two needed to know
about it.”
“Thanks,
Briggs.” Tucker, distracted, paused. “Hey, I’ll let you know when that new gig
comes in, okay?”
The
bear nodded and turned away. He got as far as the row of cheap, plastic ghost
decorations at the bottom of the trailer porch before he pivoted his big, bulky
body around.
“Oh
yeah, there’s already someone of your…gifted nature on the case.”
Tucker
grimaced. “Don’t tell me.” He refused to look at JD. He could practically hear
his shit-eating grin widening.
Briggs
smiled. “Yup. Our favorite daring, do-gooder. Warren Rising Sun himself.”
Without
hesitation, Tucker whipped around and grabbed onto JD’s thick forearms. “Shower
and get your clothes on,” Tucker said through his teeth, frightening even a
demon. “We’re investigatin’ this shit.”
