Chapter A: A Subtle Scent
“So in short, this guy — Nels, you said his name was — has disappeared. At least that’s what his boss claims, who is far from an honourable character. Now I am required to do the due diligence to see if this is — against all expectation — more than just a guy who got fed up with his low-wage existence and flipped off his boss and left,” said Detective Flint of the New York City Police Department with a tired voice.
“Pretty much sums it up. You have his social media handles. No shortage of images, so you should have a good idea of who to contact so we can close this case quickly,” said Captain James from behind his desk. He had called up Detective Flint on the morning of May 20th and given him a routine task that had come in the day before.
Flint opened Nels’ profiles on his phone and quickly scrolled through. Only a few scrolls down and he felt something stir inside.
No doubt, part of that effect could be explained by that this Nels was a good-looking guy. The kind of guy that should be stripped butt-naked and whose sweet ass would feel so good after a tough day at work. Detective work took its toll — there were days when Flint thought back fondly to his days of dodging Taliban bullets. Yet another stack of mandated paperwork after the most minor act of law enforcement could make any real man wish for battle with a murderous enemy. Or better yet, battle an ugly enemy in the day, and enjoy a sweet boy in the night. This Nels looked more than able to play the latter role, Flint thought.
Still, there was something more to this guy than a delicious ass, pretty face and all-round nice body. But what, Flint wondered? Was there something with that innocent gaze projected by those clear blue eyes that spoke at some other wavelength? Maybe this actually was a real disappearance? Maybe Nels needed rescue? Protect the precious.
“Oh yeah, and hear this. The boss, this Ernie fellow, further claimed in vague terms that there was something sexual in the disappearance. He even said he was willing to pay for any evidence photographs we collected. Not sure what he is up to, but he filed the paperwork and we need to look into it,” said James.
“Well, that is interesting. Merits attention. Time to act. I partner with another detective and we start immediately. Time is of the essence in these types of cases. Two days of hard work and some overtime and we should be able to find a lead from Nels’ social circle and work colleagues, so…”
“Hold your horses there, Flint, who said anything about a partner? This is your task. I don’t have people to spare. If your preliminary work uncovers anything noteworthy within a week, then, and only then, do you file form G32A-2 to request resources, and after the requisite review, assuming approval by the investigative resource board, you are assigned appropriate additional resources,” said James as he was waving at Flint to calm himself.
Bureaucracy at work. If only it could sleep, not only make others fall asleep, then maybe the rare action item of high importance and urgency could be dealt with, thought Flint. Such as Nels’ strange disappearance. But Flint had been around long enough to know not to argue. At least not when all he had was suppositions.
And honestly speaking, this guy, Nels, was most likely at work in some franchise coffee shop in Middle America. A betting man should expect the foam patterns of Starbucks drive-through in Nebraska to have never been better thanks to this guy’s artistic drive desperately looking for a medium to take form. Or a somewhat less likely scenario involves Nels dressed in a skimpy speedo at some Caribbean poolside as a closeted finance guy gets himself some hot steamy sex on the down-low before returning to the daily grind. These were normally safe bets.
Flint stood up resigned to his fate and the most probable truth a dispassionate view of the facts and common patterns pointed to. Still, he could not let go of the intuition that there was more to this, something just below the horizon, something in the gaze of Nels that had to be figured out.
Detective Flint decided that his thoughts and actions during this investigation were to be recorded in his journal. That was an old and proven habit he had adopted while in the special forces. Self-command of body and mind was necessary, a duty even. At least I need it to be, Flint thought as he began his pursuit of Nels.
Flint's Journal, Entry, the Morning of May 21st
Jealousy is a terrible thing. It fills the minds of people with reasons to resent and sabotage those whom we could build with. When all we are bound to are our own narrow needs and desires, when we neglect the citizen fabric we are part of, then jealousy will stomp men into low and feeble creatures.
Dear journal, I have many shortcomings. Your pages are filled with them along with my halting attempts to improve. It has been a slow journey. The vice of jealousy, however, has never burdened me. When I fought with my childhood friends, it was for show, it was to test my mettle, and out of animal anger. But never out of jealousy.
Maybe that is why it bothers me so much. And this last night, in my acts to find the disappeared Nels, I was greatly bothered.
The first place I looked for clues about Nels was among his friends. I should call them ‘so-called friends’ really because they seemed utterly unaware of the man who had walked among them. His so-called friends were mostly the run-of-the-mill pseudo-political preachers, their pitch screechy, their words shallow utterances ripped from the pages of overpriced course literature, sanctimony oozing from their every sphincter.
There was little to learn from most of these characters. They shared opinions and sociological analyses about Nels. Facts or genuine insights were far fewer. No wonder Nels seemed to have carried an urge to escape.
Sadly, dear journal, I have a bad habit of taking a dislike to people. I wish I had attained the Stoic ideal such that the sentiments I confessed to above, were never felt in the first place because they do no good.
I must next confess another transgression where I acted less than virtuously, where instincts found release in ways they should not have.
One of the few so-called friends of Nels who had noticed the young man’s absence was Martin. A handsome guy, a delicate mixture of races and ethnicities. When I knocked on his door at night to ask about Nels, Martin was already drunk on cheap red wine. He spoke a great deal about Nels when I asked. His inhibitions dulled by the wine, Martin’s remarks were unvarnished. Martin said that Nels had been melancholy, a bit sad of late, and crestfallen. That was probably because of capitalism, or something, Martin reflexively added.
I asked the drunk undergraduate if Nels was involved with anyone. Many disappearances are voluntary and romantic, I explained. Of course, sometimes they are involuntary and about jealousy, conquest and sexual desires. Either way, recent matters of the heart (and butt) were of interest.
This simple question popped the lid off the petulant, primal mind of the drunk Martin. He had much to say about his so-called friend Nels.
“He is a full-blooded submissive bottom”, Martin blurted out. “They all wanted him. They all wanted to get to his ass. Lap it up. Feel the squeeze. When we went to parties I only got the leftovers. Like a month ago or so, an awkward guy from Engineering, a small-town kind-of guy, thick and solid, sexy as fuck without knowing it, bi-curious but mostly straight, he claimed. And of course, it is inside Nels pretty little ass this guy’s raw animal urges thrust and explode. I saw them. Not long after brushing up against Nels’ perky ass in tight shorts, Mister Small-Town guy plowed deep inside. He had lost it, he was pounding like farm equipment gone haywire."
“A solid cornfed guy thrusting at the brink of insanity is beautiful. I need that for my mental health! So it was supposed to be me! I was the one who should be on my back with big-dicked small-town bi-curious guy sweaty and hard on top of me. Not Nels. Not that egoistic petite bourgeoise cock-tease!”
So I asked, might big-dicked small-town bi-curious guy have left with Nels on a romantic trip somewhere? Could it be that somewhere in the cornfields of Iowa, Nels would be on all fours, submitting to hard American plus-sized sausage?
Martin rejected the suggestion. He at first refused to elaborate. But he seemed sure. I pressed harder. He was evasive. I gave him a menacing stare. Sadly, I tend to resort to threats of manly force too quickly. It is a bad habit.
But Martin relented at the implied threat. He took a big gulp of cheap red wine and confessed.
“Like, I know because I took it. Stole it, kind of. Still getting notifications and like…” the guy mumbled, his face flustered.
“Stole what?” I asked and moved closer to Martin.
“One night a while ago I used the spare key and took his tablet from his shitty apartment. I don’t know the PIN, but I can still see notifications and it is paired or something with his other devices so sometimes I see that Nels is writing on his other devices. Like, reporting. Work stuff. Weird stuff. See here, for example,” said the blushing guy and pulled out a digital tablet.
There were notifications visible, including one about a saved edit to a note. Martin showed how to reveal the first few words of the truncated edit:
The first said: The fabric that soothes my skin, my well-exercised, some might say sore, derriere to be precise, is the soft touch of velvet…
The second said: With my buttocks ready for action, akin to Orwell with his rifle in days of yore, I found myself compelled to cast aside the mere instrumentalities of reportage…
So read the two visible truncated text edits that some days ago presumably Nels had written late at night on a device logged in to the same accounts as the stolen tablet.
“This looks like Nels’ writing to you? Any idea what he is referring to?” I asked Martin.
“Oh, this is Nels’ writing alright. He likes to get all pompous and stuck-up. Like someone should tell him, bitch, you are writing stories about dildo-shopping habits of politicians and has-been actors, or whatever. But no, this perfumed princess is so special and better. He doesn’t just suck dick and drown in cum, he orally serves the engorged manhood and senses the manly juices enliven soul and body, or stuff like that. I hope that stuck-up bitch is locked inside a dreary sex dungeon never to see light again,” screeched Martin, drunk, angry and envious.
Dear journal, this level of jealousy, pettiness and pissy anger I cannot stomach. And even worse when a fine twenty-something man is acting like this. It is so very ugly. These creatures should be on the battlefield, real or figurative, to shake up stale designs, and charge the enemy, and with balls swinging heavy, they should invent and unleash their natural throbbing young-man fuck-all top-level crazy.
Martin, in a different time, not that long ago, would have been the most highly prized boy in the saloon. Cowboys and ranchers, even randy lawmen, would come from Dodge City, Deadwood and Tombstone to be teased by the snug-fit jeans and promises of perky boy ass underneath. History would be made by what dick he chose to ride and in which canyon or by which creek his ass would grip and please the meanest men in the Wild West.
But here and now he is stuck inside a cramped apartment, lost in petty squabbles, shallow critiques and insignificant status games. What a loss for the world. What happened?
I paint this big picture to clarify my state of mind. I am not excusing myself. At best this is a partial explanation for why I grabbed the wayward Martin, placed him over my knee and pulled down his pants in one single forceful motion. Martin needed to be compelled and directed by manly discipline, and I had plenty of that to dish out.
And yes, I was horny as well. And the sweet buttocks that were bared in front of me, they sure made me even hornier. So soft, meaty, with that beautiful tan colour, perky and nice. A whiff of fresh boy butt reached my nostrils. And they filled up the palm in that good way only a firm fresh slice of ass can. No doubt, these belonged in a saloon, with horny men of the West fighting to be the one to sink his dick deep inside.
Judging from their smooth touch, no man had administered a proper spanking on them before. No wonder Martin had become such a petty, entitled little piss-ant.
So my thoughts went as my grabbing of Martin’s ass turned rougher and sterner. I was trying to justify what I had to do. Martin turned his head and looked up at me at that moment. He was really pretty. Confused, no doubt, but deep within him a sense of relief swelled. When he bit his lip and I felt his hard dick press again my thigh, the laws of nature could no longer be resisted.
My palm landed hard on Martin’s perky butt. That good blend of sounds followed: The smack of a big man's hand meeting a firm boy's buttocks. The yelp of a horny boy. The deep inhalation through my nose, like the wolf sniffing for subtle cues from the delicious meat of his prey. It was all too good not to repeat. So I swung again. The buttocks sang and Martin yelped.
He squirmed. He was not used to the sensation. But at some level, he knew he needed discipline. There was acquiescence.
And then he perked up his ass a bit more, such that his buttocks slightly parted to just about reveal that glorious fuck thing he had hidden in there. It is only natural. A good boy is compelled to show his tight and pretty hole to the man in command. It is a reflex, present in all of the Animal Kingdom. And Martin had a very fuck-friendly ass. I could almost see it: Martin with nothing but a cowboy hat, on all fours, butthole squeezing and pleasing a team of hardworking cowboys by a campfire as cattle were moved westward on the prairie.
Absent a time machine, however, the best available option — the necessary option — was for Martin to receive a steady spanking. He was not going to make me go limp that fast. The stern force had to be applied for many more minutes. Spanking this butt into sobbing submission was for the good of the world. So again the sound rang out, and the sensations in my palm, my nose, and on Martin’s sweet buttocks were refreshed. At that moment I wanted to spank the last drop of pissy, petty, stupidity out of the body and soul of this boy. He was destined for greater things. Boys are meant for greatness. If only he was not so dumb.
So I applied another good solid smack to the wiggling ass. Firm buttocks feel great in the palm.
I also spoke to him. I admonished him for his jealousy, his pettiness and the errors of his self-centred comforts. Between yelps and sobs, Martin confessed and agreed with what I had to say. He had been a naughty boy, he confessed. He had allowed textbook grievances to pollute his soul, he agreed. He had been a poor friend to Nels. He had not used his ass for good.
It was never that easy to right the way of fallen boys, but this was better than nothing.
Part of me wanted to get deep inside him. Listen to the sweet yelps and moans as I fucked him, then leave him sweaty and spoilt on the floor.
Another part of me wanted to bring this guy under my protection. Nourish him, command him, guide him into full bloom and potent manhood. Removed from the pages of false ideals and put inside the space of tangible force and manly action with real consequences, Martin might yet be saved. Maybe his destiny to be the best boy ass of the West was not entirely lost.
With shame, I commit to these pages my confession that I did neither. I left him sore, pants around his ankles, his confused gaze begging for more manly direction.
I preach and pursue virtue, but in that moment, I failed to act with virtue. We men, who could have put Martin on the good path in the past, had failed. I hope a better man than me will find the boy and nourish him towards goodness. But hope alone is shallow. Action is what counts.
At least I had Nels’ digital tablet now. I need to extract its secrets. I am more determined now than ever, that I need to find Nels and join him. He is the mission. I cannot fail him too. I have to be the man who rights the wrongs he has been thrown into.
