The Telemachus Story Archive

Children Of The Sun
Part 3
By Wolfpek
Email: Wolfpek

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Peek a boo!!!!

Do you know this game? It is actually a cognitive exercise. At the earliest stages of life, humans do not connect that something they do not see can still exist.

But you are not a child, and you are not human.

I fear you have been on this small blue rock so long you do not know your natural senses, and to wield your power without understanding of it, can only invite disaster.

Or do you taunt me, by attempting to hide the alluring Joe from my acquisitive eye?You warn me of danger, and I caution you to stop, absorb your environment and listen. If you do not it will over take you, and you may vanish as well.


Dis- appear. Interesting word, is it not? To un appear.

Apart from the enticing male of the human species, I believe my favorite earth creature must be the giraffe. Truly one of the most bizarre creatures to inhabit the universe, and yet, within it's habitat, unless one learns how to see it, this creature also will dis-appear simply by standing still, becoming one with the mottled green-golds of the savanna.

If you do not see the giraffe under the baobob, is it not there? Or is there something within your own perception that has vanished?I know the secret of the giraffe, and if you have the courage to open yourself to the knowledge within you, you will as well.

Then perhaps you will find your missing bath toys.

Focus, with our fraternal senses, do you see? Do you hear the thoughts of my latest conquest? I have chosen my method of approach to help you to understand.

Breathe deeply with me,. Fill your lungs with the opiate of his musky, dangerous rage.

This is the rage that beat Pvt. Lonagan into a coma on the mere suspicion of homosexuality. The charge which later had him discharged without honor.

This rage does not ask, or tell. It simply reacts. It is irresistible to meNot sated with this destruction, he roams tonight. He thirsts to destroy what he hates. He hunts. He does not hunt alone.

I hunt as well. I hitch a ride on his rage. I am the echo of his footsteps, the glint of streetlight glinting sharply off of his spit-shined boots, the dark reflection of his hate .

His name, if it matters, is Chodacki. Sgt. David Chodacki. He is 26 years old, and what you have learned to expect from my prey.

Golden boy quarterback of his Chicago area high school, and locker room nemesis of all smaller, smarter boys, nerds, and sissies, before foregoing college to enlist.

A proletariat hero, an early twentieth century fascistic propaganda poster come to life, he stands proudly at 6' 1", with a Slavic face as broad as his shoulders which belies his sculpted form. His olive T-shirt, as a tunic from the Elgin marbles, glued by sweat and the dark humidity of the night to the slabs of pectoral muscle. The street lamp highlights the vast muscles of the upper back, and the tight muscles of the ass that rub and strain against the fabric of his pants, but the curved lower back is cast into dark shadow.

His blonde buzz-cut, and china blue eyes are obscured by his lucky Cubs cap accessorized by the bat in his hand.

He does not intend to play ball tonight.

A neon glow indicates that his destination is near. The alley behind the gay bar, where he will find the deviant, the weak.

It is weakness that he hates. He will beat it out of these perverts, the way his coaches, priests, and father beat the weakness out of him.

His voluptuous upper lip curves in disgust at the furtive couple he finds trysting against the brick. They look fairly tough, but older, and with leather pants around their ankles in no position to fend off a surprise attack.

The bat smashes a garbage bin just to get their attention.

"Die faggots"There is no time to zip up before the bat finds it's more damaging target.

Our hearts, already joined, quicken with bloodlust as the first doubles over, and the second falls to the ground.

I will not allow this.

The three visible men freeze at the pulse of blue siren's wail, and my brave hero decides to retreat.

"You got lucky this time, faggots" He backs into miasmic shadow, and finds himself in another alley he does not

recognize. Not the type to panic, he retraces several times only to find a series of dead ends.

Out of siren earshot, he pauses to asses. A visceral shadow brushes the taut muscles of his chest, so real he nearly jumps.

The barest echo of a laugh teases his ear. The situation is not that funny to me, but the cat-like reflex to danger entices.

A gentle hand cups his right buttock, hard and firm as I had hoped.

The bat slices the air in direction of the advance, but I am the shadow. I am the muscle that wields the bat.

The same bat falls to the ground as I squeeze hard on his low hanging balls. He is fast. He kicks away from the attack. I feel this one. Even I must be careful.

I press up behind him, so that he can feel the steel of my cock against his ass. Yes Sergeant, there is no question your assailant is male…. and hard.

He growls with rage. He moves to attack, but his arms, as if of their own volition slam above his head against the brick wall. His wrists slams together, and he feels tight, invisible bonds render his massive arms useless.

His legs are pulled wide by the same phantom bonds.

See the beautiful striations of muscle, as this stud struggles against his bonds? Few things are more beautiful.

He is not frightened. He is angry. Do you smell the anger? Sulfur. It burns the nose.

He roars threats and expletives. It makes me hard. I dwell in his rage. I feed my lust with it.

His howling is cut short by a ghostly tongue flickering against his tonsils, and sinewy body pressing insistently against his own. Both vanish like smoke before he can bite the invader from his mouth, leaving him gagging and sputtering at something that could not have ever been there.

His eyes widen as the neck of his T-shirt pulls out all on it's own and violently rends itself in two. His pants fly apart in similar fashion, leaving only a jockstrap to protect his modesty, or from my view, enhance his vulnerable nudity.

I pause. He takes my breath away. Great marbled slabs of raw meat curving in and out of the shadows, the sweat of the hunt gleaming in the streetlightHe is my prey. I fall on him. I devour him with my eyes, my hands, my teeth and tongue. Nothing in boot camp, or combat experience could prepare him for this sort of attack, bound by unseen chains, and molested by what seems a thousand unseen hands, and mouths. Scratches appear, randomly over the classic torso. Perfection made sublime by imperfection.

I lick the shimmering rivers of sweat from heroic pecs, and quivering abdominals. I torture, and nibble at the sensitive nipples, working my way down the downy treasure trail eager for what rubs up against the bulging cup.

He is hard

The unseeing eye at the tip peeks blindly just out from the waist band. Does it already begin to already to weep? I look forward to hearing sobs.

It shadow salamander tongue swabs away the tear, and his breathing becomes labored and intense. I fear I will lose him to asphyxiation, I rip away the last impediment to his destruction. The empty cup falls to the ground. I will retain this for my trophy case.

The murky shadows of the alley, torment every inch of exposed skin, as I descent on his cock. Like him, it is stocky, thick, and angry. I am the blood that fills the thick vein along the shaft. I am the hand that strangles the round thick balls.

He gasps for air. He is close, so close.

I pull away.

Tears well up in his eyes yearning for satisfaction.

I lose his bounds and he falls heavily to the ground to find his hands once again shackles behind his back. This is decorative, he is not going anywhere.

An exposed steel girder shall act as pedestal for this work of art.

He still struggles, faintly, as I toss him, waist bent, along the steel beam. His legs so thick with muscle that they are somewhat out of proportion with his beautifully formed upper torso, hang limply to the ground. I pull the raging beer can of a cock out behind. I want to see everything. The rusty steel digs into the tender flesh of his groin, hurting him. I like this. Humans are easy to repair.

His ass, like his legs, is heavily over-muscled, and seems large in comparison to his slender waist. In the local dialect, I believe, the word is "booty".. There is no fat, just steely round muscle.

I begin slowly by kissing the center of each bubble round check. I spend time exploring with lips and tongue, circumnavigating each globe, driving myself into predatory frenzy . I dive, face first into the valley between fleshy worlds. Tasting the murky, dark, shadows. His moan touches, what might be called, my heart, as my tongue enters his hole far in to introduce myself to his prostate, clawing his rippling ass apart.

He struggles widely, whether to receive or escape me I cannot tell from the in articulate grunts, in-between desperate gasps for air. He no longer knows himself.

It is time. I enter to the first circle of his fleshy inferno. And for the first time, I sense fear.

I am gentle. I tease. Enjoying the dread and confusion of his spinning mind.

He wants to kill me. How can you kill a ghost?What must this look like to an onlooker? A bound muscle man, naked save storm trooper boots, bent over a steel girder, his hole stretched wide by some un-seen force? He growls, and whimpers. A wild dog in the embrace of a python. I cup each rounded pec in my animal claws and I slam through the ring with the force of our combined anger.

I feed on the screams as I fuck into him, his head bouncing on the beam. My invisible body constricts around his undulating form. His groin digs into the rusty girderI fuck himI fuck him off the beam and onto the ground. I pull him on top of me. He rides an invisible bronco. Back again onto his side, twisting his legs into the air. I pound him, face down, rubbing is dick into the cobbles. I am now, irrevocably, in possession of his mind. We explode together. He swoons, a puddle in the dark alley.

The shadows swirl over him into me, a caped dark figure who pulls out of him, and kicks the ruined hunk face up. I collect the discarded jockstrap, inhale it deeply, and pocket it.

I bend. Grab his veined forearm, and toss him, a sack of Idaho russets, over my shoulder.

His meaty ass rides, helpless and high the apex of his limp extremities, and swaying head. The hard streetlight illuminating the thick ass muscles, safe in my avaricious grasp.

I collect the bat, and find my way back to the scene of the incomplete crime.

The thunder clap, and gust of wind that blows open the door of the gay bar is probably too operatic, as is the caped figure, whose face never comes into complete focus, but I can't resist.

They stare open mouthed, at the luscious ass on obscene display over my shoulder.

I spy his recovering victims tended by their friends at the fare end of the bar.

"Gentlemen, I have a present for you. Surely you remember our friend here"

I carry my swaying burden to those he considered "weak perverts" Glasses shatter as I clear a space, and drop him heavily along the bar, and slap the handsome face awake.

I cup his square jaw in one hand, and allow the paintbox blue eyes to focus on my face.

"Y..You….?"He knew me. I was on his faggot list. He was right.

"You call me master now"He spits in my face, but has no choice but to say it.


"Good. Now you owe these gentlemen an apology. You will give it to them in any way that they want. Then you will report back to me, you will find you know the way.""yes….. m.. master"I kiss him deeply, and slap him hard.

I hand the bat to the leather man who took it's first blow.

I stride out, to the unmistakable music of the bat finding it's new home. I will have to spend time repairing this one before he joins my forces. It will be fun.

Look in your own shadows for your friends yourself, brother. What is unseen is never gone.

Good luck on your journey.