Chapter C

 Secrets of Brain and Butt

Flint on the phone with Captain James, the morning of May 23rd

James: Case closed yet?

Flint: No, I am certain this editor knows more than he says and that Nels has acted well outside normal parameters. I spent yesterday researching leads I gathered on the 21st, but it is a brick wall. Circumstances all point to that Nels has disappeared either because he was taken against his will, or that he has undergone some radical change, either way, this merits additional investigative resources.

James: Are you approaching this dispassionately? There is a process we follow. Tried and tested. And that process will in 99% of cases find this guy happily behind a counter or service desk during the day, and happily on all fours during the night. As much as these types of guys try, normal boring life comes for them too. Trust me.

Flint: If only I could get expedited processing of the digital tablet I am sure I could gather additional facts, maybe even reach out directly to Nels. This is not about being dispassionate or passionate, I have a duty to act according to my best judgment. My best judgment tells me this young man is… well… that current uncertainty of his well-being is not an acceptable status quo.

James: *groan* This is what I get for hiring veterans of special ops… There is no great conspiracy at work. There is no big fight between good and evil raging here. Get it? Dumb, drunk and dick desires explain 99.9% of what we deal with. No great mysteries, and what we do is rule-bound. Follow the service manual.

Flint: I am not talking of good and evil. As a man, not a self-executing rule book, I am compelled to engage with events as unique things. Nels is more than just a demographic bracket with legs. He is a real and actual person. And I can tell that something is just out of sight, not quite ready to take form, something with this young man that I need to…

James: Are you about to burst out in song? Come on, Flint. I understand this Nels fellow is a hot piece of ass to a man like you, but…

Flint: Bureaucracy is in service of a goal, not a goal itself, and therefore…

James: Stop right now! You are embarrassing yourself. I will give you a clear command. Today you are handing out parking tickets. Congressman Hammering has his big event later today. We need to clear out some cars from midtown this afternoon and evening. All hands on deck. Yours too. Give it a few days and your forms will be processed. If the nerds at the lab can open the digital device of this guy of yours, they will extract its contents — from nude selfies to unfinished drafts of the next great American novel — and you’ll receive a report.

Flint: Parking tickets? What… I mean, come on!

James: You have been assigned a partner. Do what is expected of you. No more.

Flint’s journal, Entry, the Night Between 23rd and 24th of May

A man knows his craft. Through it, he is a source of worldly force. 

Paul’s force was above all else intellect. Those of us who knew him called him Doctor Paul. For reasons I do not know, he had elected to become a forensic investigator after his disputation. He specialized in digital devices. But the man was knowledgeable of all kinds of things of this world. He would muse about Shakespeare and the great Renaissance artists when the mood was right.

Doctor Paul’s refined craft and force were huge attractions to a certain kind of guy. I have seen first-hand boys spring boners from an erudite lecture on lighting in Renaissance paintings. Whisper chiaroscuro at the right moment and watch their dicks harden.

Doctor Paul liked to say he practiced the full-range, unvarnished Socratic method, top to bottom. The line of strong, handsome interns and fresh graduates eager to practice their craft at Doctor Paul’s lab was long.

I record these facts about a rare friend, a true man, as my visit to his lab early this morning reminded me of his attributes. I inspected the two interns. They were studiously engaged in their craft. Doctor Paul would undoubtedly reward such dedication — stimulate it one might say. 

I picture the butt on that slender South Asian guy spasming hard and seductively as Paul’s expert probing touch would find its way inside the smooth and tight warmth. And that pale Canadian guy in the big city on a friendly learning mission from some frozen town up north, his face would blush red and healthy as Paul’s warmth and firmness poked deeper. Brains and butt, thought and action — some guys had been endowed with the full range of manhood.

But I am indulging in my passions, dear journal. I paid this early visit to the lab because I decided that some rules had to be broken. I could not wait for review boards to wake up from their high fructose-induced slumber. Doctor Paul’s efforts with Nels’ tablet could not wait. Nels is a higher mission. Doctor Paul had not questioned my request. He knew.

“We have not unlocked the device yet. In these last few hours, we’ve managed to collect a few more of the truncated notifications. I share your assessment that Nels is writing in a professional capacity, recording events, beginning on May 3rd and continuing until very recently, possibly ongoing. The notifications contain mentions of BART — whatever that is — a man named Buck, and the New York City gay scene. These are the only mentions of any specificity,” Doctor Paul summarized the outcome of his efforts.

Again, that bar — BART — the gateway. But sadly the messages retrieved so far shed no further light on the matter.

I felt despair. It was as if by every precious minute, Nels was drifting away from me. New York City was a big place. I needed more clarity to aim my force in his direction.

“Patience Flint, there is more, Nels is not beyond your reach — not yet,” Paul said as he noted my concern. 

“Nels has been in regular contact with his editor, including mere days ago, even after the editor by your account had reported Nels missing. We see that from the metadata. We cannot read the content because the chat app uses end-to-end encryption. But due to a mistake or bug, some messages written by the editor are visible.”

Paul turned a laptop to show me.

On the screen were the messages by editor Ernie on May 19th, so after he had reported Nels missing and before I interviewed him.

The messages included: Your butt-fuck bend-over adventure on company dime is over; The legal bills alone will bankrupt your sorry ass; and general threats that Ernie would point the police to Nels and when the police found Nels in a sex dungeon or an upstate mansion, Nels would be exposed and shamed in a salacious article.

I am not a complex man. I think the record I have accumulated in this journal is clear. My actions are in accordance with a simple and minimal set of deep moral rules. But those rules are to be followed and enforced — sternly when needed. That is an aesthetic judgment as much as a moral one.

And the abuse this editor had hurled at Nels was ugly. Extortion, threats, degrading words meant to reach and savage the precious soul. The fact that the editor had used the police force, and by extension, my force, as a threat against sweet Nels, angered me greatly. If that editor had been in the lab at that moment…

Never act in anger. It blurs the ethical vision. It renders men ineffective and ugly.

My raw anger, though, made me feel stronger than ever that Nels had to be cared for — pulled away from the ugly and strengthened. I pledged then that this pursuit had to challenge my physical and mental limits, any less would be dishonourable. So how would I make Ernie talk? Which bones to crack and joints to twist?

As I write these notes, my urge to act has found a better target. Thank God. Because as much as a man can alter by will and exertion, a man must also be humble, since far greater change than he ever can hope to make, is made on a whim by fate. Or coincidence. Or divine providence. Or quantum fluctuations. Who knows really? The point is, that some large shifts and fruitful turns on the course we walk are gifts, not creations by our hand. 

Handing out parking tickets to any and every minor violator of the rules of Midtown parking proved to be just that — a fateful intervention from a source unknown. Mere hours ago I learnt where BART is.

My assigned partner was George — a recent recruit whom I had seen a few times around the precinct but knew no more of than what his well-honed male form could tell. He proved to be a cheerful and charming guy, eager to chat and learn as some guys are in their twenties before the weight of the world ages them. Or whatever that brew consists of that darkens the mood and greys the hair of men above a certain age. 

I learnt that he was an endurance runner and a mixed martial arts master. If someone in the past had invented a way to bend, punch, throw and kick a man for show or the defence of the village and farm, George knew how to put it into practice. Consequently, he was fit and confident. Barbarians beware. 

It was refreshing, frankly. I needed a reminder of what a happy man in his prime looked and sounded like. A bit naive maybe. But is that so bad? At least it gave me better things to think about than what dark alleyway confessions I would extract from Ernie.

After George had made sure I knew of his physical prowess with stories about sweaty battles in tight shorts in the ring or octagon, he turned the conversation to my record. He had done his due diligence. He knew the declassified parts of my resume. I suppose I was mildly impressed, both by his ability to wrestle men into submission, and that he had bothered to learn about me for this one day of shared work.

“So like you like really kicked some ass. With high stakes too. I mean, it’s pretty awesome what you did over there. And I also heard some time ago you took part in that raid where the human traffickers had their operations. I wish I could have been there. You ended up in hand-to-hand combat with four of those shits, right? Must have felt good to hand out some primal justice. I mean of course within the limits of the service manual. I bet you are more of a judo kind of guy — hard to beat, really, let the opponent apply blunt force, while you just pivot and twist it to serve your ends. I can genuinely say, speaking professionally here, that you would be a big swinging dick in mixed-martial arts. It is not just about speed or stamina, but also about killer instinct, the warrior mind. Because I think many of us younger guys perhaps fall short on that. Grizzled manly force is not simply measured in Newtons or pounds per square inch. What do you think? Would you want to try it? We are some guys who would be happy to have you come over.”

This collection of words is a fair approximation of what and how he spoke. He was verbose. I also realized then that he admired me and was nervous, almost giddy, as he did his utmost to impress me. I felt strange. Good in some ways.

So as we walked the streets, we talked. George was a proper man. However, I much rather observe him chase a no-good purse-snatcher and press them into the asphalt than see him perform an elaborate dance in the octagon — something more revealing that way.

Alas, such aesthetic joys were not afforded me that day. But as noted, there were other gifts.

I mentioned in passing to George that as part of an investigation, I was looking for a bar called Boy at the Round Table, or BART, but that the usual maps, databases or sources had not helped so far.

“Good Lord. I know a guy, who knows. He’s been there,” said George and looked stunned, then happy. 

“I see. You’ve been there?” I asked.

“No, but, like, stuff happens you know in the line of duty. And you meet someone, and, yeah, stuff, nice stuff, like action, good action, and then words, good words,” said George. What he uttered did not bring much clarity. Yet, he had that boyish look, a bit embarrassed while at the same time proud as if he had been caught jerking off his big country-boy dick at a remote scenic lakeside by some gasping tourist hiker from the city. Yes, this is the level of specificity that is visible to my eye.

“Someway I bet your fat dick put these precious facts in your possession. The good way, I call that. At times we must follow a higher-order service manual. Now tell me, man to man,” I said. For a brief moment, George blushed, then regained his composure, smiled a bit and nodded.

“I mean, duty above all, right, that’s our philosophy,” George said. “Some days duty is the doorway to some great immediate fun not just to a distant blessing. Like, two weeks ago, more or less, I responded to a report of a young man who was behaving erratically, sobbing in public, maybe suicidal they said. So I drove out. And there he was, walking at the docks. He looked sad, for sure. But it was weird. He was one of the most good-looking guys. A model it turns out. A butt and symmetric cheekbones worth top dollars, so to speak. A guy with those looks could easily find himself a sugar daddy, collect some sweet cash and haute couture, and probably even fuck himself into a trophy-boy marriage. But yeah, here he was sobbing hysterically as if the world was about to end. So I did my duty.”

“I asked him what was the matter and if he was a victim of a crime or something. The usual stuff. He was a bit evasive, but not too evasive, it was more like he wanted me to intervene, and take charge, but he was afraid to say so. I bet you’ve come across guys like that. Anyways, he was hot. So I put my arm around him and held him firmly. Not quite standard procedure, but it seemed to work because he sobbed some more and nuzzled himself in among my pecs. Proper nuzzle work! It would be strange not to get a boner, right.”

George stopped his story for a moment and looked at me with a smirk. He sure was eager to impress me with the abilities of his body.

“A firm grip, steady hands and a strong chest are the way most problems in the world should be solved,” I said and nodded to George to encourage him to continue.

“Exactly! I mean, that’s so true. And true here as well. I don’t know why precisely, but I drove him to his apartment—a pretty crummy place. The landlords of this city are not that nice. I had not even closed the door before he had stripped off into nothing but his snug jockstrap.”

“He jumped into bed and curled up and hugged a pillow for some rudimentary comfort. As a dutiful man, I could not leave him in such a sad mood. Besides, with his backside turned towards me, his perfect ass peeking out of those jockstraps, how could I. Flint, I bet you have seen more ass than me in your time on your missions, but for me, a simple man from the Appalachian, this ass… good Lord. Rounded, smooth, perky, squeezable, lightly reddened, tender, a hint of goosebumps, like a marble statue but throbbing with life.”

As George spoke the words I could hear how he was salivating. A really good ass is known to trigger such reflexes.

“I sat down on the bed next to him moved my hand along his back and said some comforting words. I am no poet. So understandably, it was not long until my hand was on his ass. So squeezable.”

“He turns around and puts his hand on my crotch and says ‘I will become good when you command me’. It is pretty obvious what happens next, I suppose. Like the laws of gravity.”

“I pressed him back on the bed and folded his legs back, placed myself above him and yeah, those butt cheeks opened so nicely. He was just fuckable perfection. On his back, looking up at me, his whole body, especially the butthole, fully subject to my command. I gave his firm thighs a real good sucking kiss. It was that kind of loud, dripping, primal meat-sucking kiss, which could cause the neighbours to file a noise complaint. I mean, this guy even tasted good.  This boy was so good all my five senses — or are they six — were throbbing!”

It was clear to me that George had become fully engaged in his story-telling, his mind almost fully transported away from parking violators into a replay simulation of his lustful dominance unleashed on top of this model guy. Though he had failed to say anything about BART yet, it is simply rude to stop a man when his sexual force is stirred.

“He is a sexy guy. Even sexier because of how much he wanted me. He needed me to make him feel alive again. Too much virtual and visual for him. A known problem for models, I think. He needed something tangible. Some force from a man, and what I lack in brains and manicured looks I make up for in muscles and tangible power. Sorry, that’s how I was made, so bend over and get ready to get impaled, pretty boy.”

“I had only gotten half of the uniform off before I just had to shove my dick inside that sweet delicious ass. Damn, it was good. The grip, the slapping sounds, the firmness of it all. I kind of lost control. Maybe that’s not the manly thing to say, but it was true. He was mine to take and dominate and that ass, body and pretty face were just made to receive. I tell you, what I could give, this guy could take. I don’t know the proper words and all, but, yeah, gripping moaning ass, love it!”

“And so it went. For a while. Not that long, honestly. It was kind of primal, single-position sweet-ass pounding. Not the slow romantic fuck in multiple positions with flirty foreplay… that was for a few days later. Anyways, we felt it all so much.”

“He sobbed happily afterwards—our dick-in-butt action brought him such an enormous relief for some reason. I held him, and spooned him properly, his ass wiggled reflexively still, despite that he was sore and drained. That’s a sign of a nice bottom, if you ask me, the nicest I have ever been with. And that’s when he told me about what had led him to his sad walk along the docks.”

“He had been part of some kind of ritual examination and test along with three other guys like him. They had been probed, fondled and spanked in a backroom of a bar, he said. He described how some stern men had made the four handsome guys moan and squeal as their buttocks were given a good proper treatment. However, my guy, Travis is his name, had failed the test, or whatever it was. He was the only one who by some weird metric did not meet the mark. It had caused him to feel such immense loss and sorrow, and that was why he walked around sobbing.”

“I asked some more, thinking I might go over to that bar and rough up some people. I was all of a sudden feeling very protective of sweet Travis. Weird, I know. He had been wronged. But he said I shouldn’t. But at least he told me about the bar, it was indeed called BART, and he pointed it out to me a day or so later. Almost impossible to find unless you know exactly the door. No advertising or signage. Suspicious. But yeah, I let it be. Turns out Travis is a pretty convincing guy. So since then, I have made sure he is whole and happy by other means, if you get my drift. The uniform and handcuffs are good for many things.”

George had concluded his story. He looked proud. Sure, I did get his drift. A man like George was created to fight and fuck, to press men into gratifying submission in one arena or the other. How to turn that constitution into something constructive was the epic civilizational challenge. Too many of these guys end up in an autoerotic social media influencer death trap. All flex and fluff, veiled in a high saturation filter. At least it seemed George had been rerouted, as it were, thanks to this Travis and his butt.

All that George had been told was also consistent with the fragments of information that Charlie and Doctor Paul had gathered. Some kind of sexual ritual had taken place. Nels, along with presumably two other men of his calibre, had successfully submitted to the ritual. Though by all accounts this had been voluntary, things were still suspicious. Maybe the play became more real as the ritual moved to its next step, and that is why Nels has seemingly vanished. 

I remain determined to find him. Get my hands on him — rotten rule books be damned.

And by this unplanned encounter, caused by uninspired minds and bureaucratic back-scratching, I know exactly where to go to follow Nels’ footsteps. An unexpected gift. 

It is time to pay an undercover visit to BART.

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