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|The police were less enthused than John. None of them orgasmed on Lamont's body. They seemed to think something very serious had happened. Todd and Gary proudly admitted what they had done and were carried away in handcuffs.
John was questioned by a police detective, a Det. Frayne. He was an older man, careworn and stoop-shouldered with silver hair and a bald pate. He wore a cheap suit and shoes. John stared at him with curiosity. He was an oddity in John's world, a visitor from a place where people were ugly and grew old and things decayed. Det. Frayne smelled of cigarettes and Old Spice. John found him fascinating, in a disgusting sort of way.
John was, as usual, naked. He saw no reason to cover himself. If his endowment intimidated the police, so it should. He sat on the couch and the detective sat opposite him. Zombies proffered drinks and pastries, both waved way by Det. Frayne.
"These people," he looked suspiciously at the fuck zombies, "they're your... friends? Employees?"
"My slaves," John said matter-of-factly.
The detective stared at him for a moment.
John shrugged. "Willing slaves."
The detective took a note. "I see. Was anyone here aware of what the suspects were doing with the victim?"
"We all knew they were experimenting with sado-eroticism. Certainly we never expected anything like this."
"This had been going on for a while."
"On a smaller scale. Whips and chains. Spankings. Nothing grievous."
"I see. Until tonight. When did the household become aware of what had happened?"
"Lamont screamed. Rather loudly. We all came in and found him dead with Gary and Todd standing next to him."
The detective thanked him wearily and rejoined his colleagues who were bagging the remains. He clearly suspected John of something-or-other, but since Gary and Todd had confessed so forthrightly, he had no case to pursue.
"The Little People," John said to Best, sotto voce. "Always keep out of their way. They can be annoying with their laws and restrictions." He sighed and helped himself to a cream puff. One of John's favorite benefits from his transformation was that he could eat absolutely anything and still look fabulous.
Best stared at his calm demeanor in disbelief. "Damn shame about Lamont," he said pointedly.
John met his eyes. His casual air did not ripple. "You think I don't care about Lamont?"
"Orgasming on his dismembered corpse did give that impression."
"You listen to me. Lamont was the only person here who knew who I am, who really saw me. He knew my power, my superiority. He worshipped me as a worshipper should, with his whole heart, with his soul, with his life. He was my high priest. I'll have to look hard to find another. Certainly none of these empty-headed queens."
"These empty-headed queens include physicists, musicians, sculptors, business executives, lawyers. They weren't empty-headed until you got ahold of them."
John's eyes narrowed. "I definitely do not like the way you're speaking to me."
Callen walked up. "I'll go downtown with the cops and see about bail. It'll probably have to wait until tomorrow, though. They'll be a hearing."
John continued to stared menacingly into Best's eyes. After a moment, he turned his gaze to Callen. "Bail? What's bail got to do with us?"
Callen blinked. "Well, you want me to defend them, don't you?"
Callen looked at Best, looked at John. "But John, they're family."
"What they are is a couple of homicidal maniacs who butchered someone who was playing a sex game with them. And they are unrepentant. They can rot in hell." He allowed Arnold to pour him a glass of champagne.
Callen looked at Best in astonishment.
"What did you expect?" Best said. "A retirement package?"
Callen shook his head and walked away.
"That was a little disingenuous, wasn't it?" Best said. "Unrepentant?" His anger made him careless.
John smirked. "Would you have disemboweled someone, no matter how hot you got? I don't believe you would."
Best wondered if there was anything a man wouldn't do if his sex drives were jacked up high enough.
John tipped his champagne glass in a silent toast as the police walked by with the shapeless body bag.
The bodybuilding regionals came around and several of the fuck zombies attended. They were always scouting out new ass for John. Anyone who found a viable candidate was deliciously rewarded. Best accompanied them. He liked the beefcake, and he was anxious to see how Kenny Lindisfarne fared.
The zombies fidgeted and talked through the bantamweight and lightweight division, though one lightweight caught their eye as a possibility. There was always one in the lightweight division. The larger boys, the light-heavies and the heavyweights, drove them into raptures. They masturbated freely on their seats, regardless of the reaction of the people around them and emitted erotic squeals. They were like a pack of horny zoo monkeys throwing shit at the spectators. Best was embarrassed to be seen with them.
Kenny was impressive. But he was nowhere near the winner. He came in sixth. Numbers one through five were Grecian in their magnificent proportions. Lithe and massive, sleekly lined and powerful. Next to them, Kenny looked like a troll. Lumpy and misshapen by colossal steroid use, scorched by the sun to a painful-looking rust color, frighteningly desiccated by extreme dieting, he won his place due to his sheer size; he certainly wasn't pretty to look at.
They went backstage after the show. The zombies wanted to make contact with the ones they thought John would like. Kenny sat in a corner, staring at the floor. He looked like he didn't have a friend in the world. Best regarded him, remembering the golden boy of earlier years, the guy everybody wanted to know. This musclebound gnome was unrecognizable. He stood over him and said nothing.
In a moment, Kenny spoke: "He'll never take me back, will he?"
"No, Kenny. Not ever. Over is over."
"Nobody loved him like I did, Best."
"I know that's true."
Best expected him to begin weeping, but he didn't. He simply sat and stared at some unseen darkness ahead that no one else could see.
John was getting sucked off by a young Asian zombie while Andrew reported. Andrew simply continued cheerily as if his audience was sitting politely around a conference table in gray suits.
"Fan clubs are up to 7,000 globally," he said. "There are articles in four major gay publications about the deterioration of the social contract within the gay community, the new isolationism. It is attributed to technological forms of entertainment that enable people to achieve fulfillment without human contact."
"They got that right," John murmured. The gathering chortled like old men after a dirty joke.
Best did not laugh. He looked around at the gathering -- Kevin, Carson, Callen, Tyrone (John's new publicist) and wondered if it were possible for them to be more dehumanized. Best was not sure he would be able to carry out his plan to steal what John had. He wasn't sure he could stand to be there much longer. With his increasingly bold criticisms of John, he wasn't sure he'd be allowed to stay; of course, John seemed to enjoy his temerity, rather like one might enjoy a cat's insistence on being the center of attention.
"Sales of John's Body are up to sixteen million. We're confident that eventually every faggot on earth will own a copy... "
John's power continued to envelope the world.
It was not long in coming. After the regionals, Kenny was like a man possessed, or more possessed than he'd already been anyway. Best watched him with a sense of dread as he brutalized his body at the gym, forcing it to new dimensions, making himself uglier with every pound he gained. He seemed to Best to be preparing for something, though there were no local contests upcoming.
Best and Callen came in to work out one afternoon and found a kind of silent hysteria had overtaken the gym. Employees were running around whispering, and a crowd of members was packed into the posing room. They walked over to see what was up.
Standing on the central platform was Kenny. He was contorted into a single biceps pose with the other arms flexed, fist to hip. He was utterly humongous. In the hand flexing the biceps, he held a revolver to his temple. No one was speaking.
Best pushed his way to the front. It wasn't hard, because the presence of the gun made everyone hesitant and tentative despite their morbid interest. "Kenny, what they heck are you doing, man?"
Best's appearance seemed to be what Kenny had been waiting for. He had been waiting for someone from John's household.
"I loved him better than anyone, Best! You tell him that! Nobody loved him like I did!"
"So, Kenny, just chill out, here, and let's... "
Best turned away as brains splattered against the unblemished mirrors.
Best and Callen returned to the residence to find John engaged in a four-way with Arnold and two others. He had them hanging upside down from rigs in the ceiling, blowing him in succession. This was one of John's favorite sexual acts.
"I'm afraid I'll have to interrupt you," Best said quietly.
John glared. This was unheard of. No one dared to interrupt his pleasures! "What he fuck do you think you're doing, little Best?" He spoke with soft menace. Best had been disrespectful in the extreme since Lamont's demise.
John's brow creased, a rare configuration. "Dead? Why?"
"He shot himself. At the gym. Hit a front biceps pose and ka-blam." John looked out into space as if constructing the image in his mind. He look of gravity broke into a tiny smile, then a huge grin, then a hearty laugh.
Could his power be any greater? Kenny had died rather than live without him? There could be no greater testament to his superiority! He was the king! He was a god! He would lay waste to the world!
The pleasure rumbled up out of his scrotum like an earthquake. It shook his body and made his bones rattle. It short-circuited his brain. He came sumptuously on his three corespondents, splattering them with cum as if he were hosing them down.
And deep within John's joy, under the massive weight of his ecstasy, and adding to the intensity of his ejaculation was the realization that Kenny would not be the last.
Best went over the accounts with John later that day. John seemed distracted, sighing and staring into long distances. He leaned on the balcony rail and looked out at the sea. His triceps bunched hugely. In front of their building was a veritable private park with circular drive, fountain and stone benches beneath the poplars and palm trees.
"You're restless today, John."
"Yes, I guess I am. It's an odd feeling. Do people feel that kind of thing often, I wonder? Restless?"
"My goodness, do I see a tremor of remorse?"
John looked at him serenely. "What Kenny did had nothing to do with me."
"What Kenny did had everything to do with you."
John sputtered. No one talked back to him like Best did.
"It was his own choice."
"Ably supported by your destructive treatment of him. Was he suicidal before you met him? I doubt it. He had a nice life."
"Excuse me, Best, are you suggesting that I'm guilty?"
"Radical concept, isn't it?"
"I'll show you guilty." He stalked into the living room and bellowed: "Fuck zombies! Attend me!" The nearest zombies appeared with the speed of a magician's act. "Adore me!"
They immediately set to work on his body, fondling him, stroking his muscles, licking his anus, sucking his cock. Several more zombies appeared and battened on to him like flies on manure. The rest of them, twenty in all, came into the room and obeyed. He was covered with a swarm of lovers, all doing their best to sexually excite him. From the groans emanating from the center of the pack, Best judged that they were succeeding.
John trembled under the waves of pleasure surging through him. Yeah, this was living! No one in the world could know what it was like to be him! No one experienced this kind of carnal exaltation without him! He throbbed with the joy of it. He was warm and safe under a blanket of hands and tongues. It was time for some fucking. He hadn't had an all-house orgy in months. This one would be historic. He would clear new ground in the realm of sex. He would discover new avenues of pleasure to bring to the world.
But already his enthusiasm was beginning to wane. He sensed that tonight would be a rather conventional orgy. No new insights. He was surrounded by unquestioning slaves, and so he would always be. Everyone in his life would exist only for his pleasure, would think no thought that he had not permitted, would pursue no interest whose final outcome was not his choice. Below the thrum of ecstasy that vibrated through him, below the serene knowledge of his own unstoppable superiority, below his power, he sensed a gaping chasm, a yawning darkness that threatened to swallow him, that even now was reaching out to throw his world into illimitable darkness.
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