Purposeful and Unfree

Chapter B: Instrument and Idol

Flint on the phone with Captain James on the morning of May 21st. 

Flint: I filed the forms. First, G32A-2 for additional resources. I require one good detective on this case to assist. Second, CL-1004T for the crime labs to help retrieve data from a recovered digital device. I suspect the disappearance of Nels is outside normal parameters and merits determined action.

James: Really? *groan* You know we have a busy schedule now with Congressman Hammering and his entourage coming to the city for an important speech. What concrete evidence do you have for your suspicion?

Flint: His behaviours do not make sense. Nels has taken acts before, even after, his reported disappearance that do not fit with the hypothesis that he is just another tired and penniless guy leaving his sad apartment and work behind.

James: What about the Caribbean? I bet soon you’ll see a selfie of him on a nice beach sipping expensive drinks on his sugar daddies account. That can explain any secrecy.

Flint: I doubt it. Nels has access to the internet by all accounts, yet there have been no social media posts. This is a radical departure from his normal routine. None of the usual poetic, flirty, earnest or angry posts since the first few days of May.

James: *groan* So you filed two forms you said… well, in time they will be reviewed. 

Flint: I have a friend in the crime labs, Doctor Paul, very capable. He could help to get things moving with the urgency deserved.

James: Do not ask for special treatment. Forms will be reviewed dispassionately and balanced against the priorities of the entire department. Do not expect any resources to be added yet. We are busy. I suggest you spend this day well and preferably close the case as soon as possible. 

Flint: I will go to his employer and see what I find there.

James: Well then, I want the case settled. The sooner we can establish that Nels is either riding dick in the Des Moines suburbs or riding dick at a Martinique resort, the better. Do not create trouble for me.

---

Flint’s Journal, Entry, the Evening of May 21st

Some men are weak, but not in brute physical terms. Their weakness lies in character — taking rather than making, complaining instead of commanding, kissing up and kicking down. The worst kind of weakness. Ernie, the editor who published Nels' pieces, was one such weak man. 

After he filed the initial missing person report with the NYPD, I went to his office for an interview.

I asked: “when did you last hear from Nels?” He replied: “Can’t remember. A while for sure. He did not write regularly, a bit forgettable honestly.”

I could smell the lie like a pile of sidewalk garbage in windless summer.

I asked: “what was his task when he disappeared, what was Nels investigating?” From Ernie’s face hole, the following words were excreted: “he is a freelance reporter, so I don’t dictate details, all I know is that he was doing some undercover work about powerful men and their lust for pert gay butt.”

I asked: “where might he go, either for comfort or safety, assuming his disappearance is voluntary?” He replied: “Don’t know, don’t care, Nels and I are in a professional transactional relation, and that’s it — I am not his daddy or buddy.”

I asked: “who on your staff had a closer relationship with Nels, and may have a better understanding of his habits, concerns, wishes?” The slob behind the desk spoke: “this is a competitive enterprise, anyone who has time for trivial gossip is weeded out fast, that is how we do things who are not on government payroll."

I tried to get Ernie to say more. Figure out his foul motives, and what he truly knew, and find that overlooked detail that pointed me to which turn to take in this labyrinth where Nels was lost. That’s when the editor began shrieking about his constitutional right to protect his sources and something about the Fourth Amendment, Bill of Rights and half-cooked legal verbiage. 

I am a patient man. The fact that Ernie’s jaw and nose were not broken when I left his office is proof thereof.

Why do some men take their God-given power and abilities and arrogantly use them for entirely self-serving ends? How can this guy look at Nels and his sweet face, and only see a means to ad revenue and click-through rates? What deficiency has made them not feel, deep within their core, that having balls comes with certain transcendent duties?

“When you find him, in whatever dungeon, we may be willing to buy some of the evidence photographs. A happy ending I say,” Ernie said as I left.

One day I hope I will come across Ernie in a dark alley. Some laws are primordial, unwritten and ratified in a time and place beyond ordinary human meddling. Certain men need to feel those laws enforced the way only high-testosterone knuckles can create.

I record these thoughts to reflect on my lack of virtue. I wish I did not carry such anger. As despicable as Ernie was, it was my choice to let it anger me. At this point, my mission was Nels. All else is a distraction. Weak and flaccid men especially.

The reason I am recording this reflection no more than three hours later was an encounter with a young man of promising strength. An encounter with a man who carries himself with dignity and command, despite his youth, that soothes the heart of men like nothing else. So the visit to the editor was not in vain. 

This young man, a top-notch boy, Charlie is his name I learnt later, stood in the halls outside the publication offices. He waited near the elevators, right at the entrance to the restrooms. He looked at me with those handsome brown eyes, and he motioned his head for me to join him. I did. Naturally.

“You are here for Nels, right? Are you looking for him, or? Is it, like, going ok? Do you have leads? Found something from the usual suspects? I mean, have you booked someone downtown or stuff,” he asked. 

“I am looking for Nels. No leads. Maybe you have something?” I answered. 

Of course, he had something. Any fool could tell that. It was merely a question of how much it would take to get it out of him. How much would he wiggle?

Charlie at that moment locked the entrance to the restroom. We were now alone in there and nobody would disturb us. Yes, dear journal, a naughty delicious thought went through my mind, but I did not act on it. My mission was Nels.

“So, I mean, can I speak off the record, or whatever?”

“If an honourable man has information that can help me find sweet Nels, then the man speaks the truth,” I replied. 

I saw the wheels turn. Charlie’s eyes were fixed on me. He tried to intuit the kind of man I was. Whatever subterranean message, man to man, my gaze and presence conveyed, it made Charlie’s honour overcome timidity and caution. Good instincts.

“I was asked to do some background research on Nels’ work. There was a guy, Doctor Matthew, I was supposed to find. No luck. No medical doctor fits the description Nels gave of that man he encountered, at least not currently practicing in New York City and the outer boroughs. Ernie was not happy.”

“I was never allowed to read all the text that Nels filed, but I could piece things together somewhat based on what I was allowed to read and the angry and outright mean remarks Ernie made. He was unhappy with the lack of names or political, clerical or other high-society involvement that Nels reported on. He pushed me to write some fake articles about rumours of Upper Eastside medical doctors jerking off the sons of politicians and bankers, or something. I refused of course! Real-world facts matter. That evening Ernie was so pissed off and said that maybe he should send off all his low-performers to BART so they got drilled, packaged and sold like the cheap meat they are.”

BART? It could not be that public transit over on the West Coast — the wrong kind of filth, so to speak. I asked Charlie to elaborate.

“So it is Boy At the Round Table. A bar. Hard to find, I am not entirely sure where it is, but somewhere in Chelsea, I gather. That was Nels’ lead and where he was seduced, kidnapped, transported, lots of moaning surrender, or something. I don’t know really. Honestly, I am not even sure what happened to Nels. He is amazingly good at deep undercover, good at reading situations and what people are thinking, so maybe… and he likes to get fucked… loves it. Like, you know, he sees a strong guy and that’s like a challenge for him, like some obsessive mountain climber. He is impressive. People miss that often, but I don’t. Anyways, I want to be sure he is in a good place.”

I noticed that Charlie’s eyes drifted down to my crotch. It is known to happen. With lips as plump and moist as his, cock-sucking is part of his natural design. Strong guy.

I asked further questions. Charlie had however shared all he knew and he had done so truthfully. He had given me a great lead to pursue. An honourable guy, simply put. No spanking was required. Alas, I thought briefly. But again, dear journal, I restrained my passions in service of the greater good and the efficient execution of the mission.

And yes, God, Nature, Fortune, whatever rules our fates, rewarded me for my virtue, because Charlie needed guidance from me of the manly variety.

“So, will you find him? I am only staying around here, writing stuff for Ernie because I want to help and join Nels again. Should I? Should I stay? I don’t know. I feel so unsure and maybe this is all I can do, write click-bait and…”

I interrupted Charlie and placed my hands firmly on his shoulders. 

“You should leave this place. You are far too good for that old goat and sack of bones in that office. You have backbone, honour and skills. It may not be easy, but you have character and heart. Commit to it, body and soul, dick and balls. And Nels is my mission. I will not rest until he is under my wings. That is my commitment.”

“You sure? I don’t need to be here? It is bad I know, grubby sort of. But I stayed because of Nels, he seemed like, you know, alive if you caught him off guard. I was hoping I could help. This last week or so has meant something for once, not just waiting or playacting.”

“Purposeful action,” I said.

“Yes, like you feel it, down there. I need it,” said Charlie and smiled. A good proper smile.

“Maybe you can help me somehow. But right now, get away from this place. Greatness will not come here. I will get my hands on Nels,” I said. Was it too preachy? Too earnest for a man pained and weary from war and bureaucracy? Well, it is what was said. Perhaps I am not as damned to anger as I thought. 

Charlie hugged me hard. He pressed his face into my chest. He pressed quite hard — he sure had a good natural physique, not just gym muscles. His breadth was deep, relieved, yet also determined. I like to believe I gave him the push he needed to take the next step on the journey he already knew he was destined to walk. This guy could become a contender for command. A bit of hard gruelling work, a bit of martial art, plus of course the intense feeling of pinning a pretty bottom boy down in bed while plowing him into total sobbing butt submission. Good things are possible for Charlie if he dares claim them.

With his fit body pressed against me, the thoughts of what honourable Charlie might become, and the certainty of my next target in the investigation, all added up to happiness within me. So my dick grew. It pressed against my pants and it pressed against the sweet boy. This too is known to happen. Charlie looked up with a smirk on his handsome face — that kind of smirk only a truly testosterone-craving guy can bring into this world.

He dropped to his knees without a word uttered. He unbuckled my belt and fumbled thrice with the zipper before he with a determined jerk downwards pulled my pants and underwear off. My already hard dick swung out and slapped Charlie in the face. He had earned this reward. And I too. Our eyes met briefly before the plump lips locked around my penis.

I was right in my assessment. This guy knew how to suck. It was a piece of art that any culture worth its salt would celebrate on stage and in sculpture. His aim was right, the pressure hit all the right spots, and the dedication to the craft was so true and wholesome that it would even have made Michelangelo sob with joy. I could not help but groan when he deep-throated me, as he took nearly all that meaty manhood and slurped eagerly on it.

What nutrients, energy or spirit he drew from my dick I do not know precisely, but Charlie absorbed them with greater skill than I had felt in a very long time… and as you know, dear journal, this was not the first time someone was choking happily on it. He moved up and down, he twirled his tongue around the head, and he moved clockwise as well as counterclockwise, while his hand rested on my balls. From his throat, the muffled sounds of appreciation and happiness were heard. 

So much natural talent within Charlie. And I filled a void inside him. Not since I rescued that wartime photographer from his Taliban captors has someone been sucking so joyfully, with such lust for comfort and closeness to manly fortitude. Those bearded dregs had done terrible things to that photographer. I had to nourish him for weeks, tend to his sweet ass, pretty face and firm manhood, and thus make his powers blossom again. When doubt clouds my mind, I think of him and his handsome pliable body and the strong man he became.

I wish in a few years, Charlie will command the awesome manhood I know is pushing to come out from within him. I need that to be true to rouse me from future moments of doubt.

At this point, nature had its way with Charlie and me. I felt a big load press forward. The teasing of Martin’s tender and spanked ass, the visions of Charlie’s future greatness, and above all, the troubled yet sweet face of Nels in the pictures I had of him, all added up to more than a mouthful. Charlie gurgled and gagged with joy.

What a boy. They are becoming rarer it seems. But there is hope for manhood if boys like Charlie can endure work in the presence of such flaccid and false places as this publication. I bet that as I write this, on this evening, that Charlie is enjoying the tight depths of a warm butt of some sweet boy — a great way to let one’s strength blossom.

Charlie stood up. No words were spoken, no idle chatter. There was only determination.

“Commit to it,” were my final words to him.

We unlocked the door and walked our separate ways. I had to prepare. I had to file a report. I had to find the path that would take me to Nels’ sweet butt.