I didn't know if it was the unseasonal heat or the heavy work we'd done that day or Jake's scary stories or Miguel's empty bed that kept me awake in the dormitory that night, but I had nervous energy to spare. I would doze, but I'd wake up with a start and look over at Miguel's bed, the emptiness of it now explained, and then I'd check all of the other beds to see in guys were there. And sometimes they weren't, and then I'd speculate. Did they get up to piss or get a smoke or just stand outside the Quonset hut dormitory that was like an oven in the October North Carolina heat? Or were they hunting or being hunted.
I had gravitated for the fall harvesting toward Lunsford Farm in Yanceyville, North Carolina, dead center in the east-west range of the state but just a few miles south of the Virginia border because of who I was and what I wanted and what Lunsford Farm tolerated. But it was because of what Lunsford Farm tolerated—encouraged even—that had me on edge and nervously watching the movements of those around me.
And maybe, just maybe, it was my own need that kept me awake. Miguel had been a relief valve for me. He and Raul. It was that college student—Frank Lunsford's young man—who I'd really like to get to. But thus far I had stayed with the other migrant workers—mostly with those from the south of the border, like me. In scratching my itch, I'd had to waltz around the big, black Cuban, Duardo, who was fucking the same young Mexicans I was, but thus far we'd managed.
There also was the American black, Rufe, a tall, gangly, rangy long-time worker here, who was only half here mentally, but whose snake-like dong went with his height and thinness and either was an object of fear or desire for those he sniffed after. Whether fear or desire depended on how masochistic the day worker poor-white-trash types were who came to work here straight out of high school because their prospects weren't any greater and because Lunsford Farm was a haven for young guys wanting to be dicked. Rufe stuck mostly with the white day worker twinks, like Matt and Shawn, because he had some sort of mad on about those of us coming up from south of the border for the farm work and, he said, taking work from real Americans. He'd go around muttering under his breath something about the only good "wetback" being a dead "wetback."
He didn't say that right to my face or Duardo's, and he was respectful enough to us—because if he wasn't either one of us was quite capable of kicking his ass up between his ears—but he steered clear of the Mexican boy pussy and, despite being black himself, strictly stuck to white meat. That was fine with Duardo and me; it meant more spicy meat for us. But with Miguel gone now, Duardo and I had to sift in some white meat from time to time ourselves. We both had to have it nearly daily. It wasn't all that hard, though. Although the white-trash day workers weren't bunked here in our dormitory, they wanted it so bad that they often were here at night.
Duardo usually kept to other Hispanics, but he was eying the young, white college student, Kyle, today, I had noticed. But Kyle was Frank Lunsford's. I didn't think either of us would get a piece of that plump, young tail. It was tantalizing, though—especially today, when we'd all been in the pumpkin patch pulling out pumpkins for the big sale at the farm's produce store out on highway 158. The apples, raspberries, tomatoes, and corn also needed to be harvested, but this was the big push weekend for those buying pumpkins for the Halloween season they marked here in the States. So we were all in the pumpkin patch, working double time. Even Lunsford's young man, Kyle, had been there—all of us stripped down to the waist, muscles straining, sweat pouring off our bodies in the unseasonable heat.
It wasn't until today that I saw how tantalizingly arousing Kyle's body was. I could see that he had as much affect that way with Duardo as with me. Duardo moved around all day, eyes glued to Kyle, with a raging hard on—and Duardo's hard ons definitely were raging. The white boy, Kyle, could hardly miss Duardo's interest—or mine, for that matter. And he was being a little tease with us.
Kyle usually worked in the produce store and only on weekends, as he was in school as some North Carolina university. I had no idea how cut and perfectly muscled his body was until today—and what sultry, sulky dark-haired, "come-and-get-me" luscious looks he had. He had bedroom eyes and thick lips that looked at a man in a knowing, interested way. I thought, but couldn't be totally sure, that he was doing this purposely to make men lust after him—which both Duardo and I, and even the overseer Jake, did that day—but I did know that Frank Lunsford was a lucky man to have Kyle in his bed, if only for the weekends.
But it was more than the presence of Kyle in the pumpkin patch that set the tension of the day for the migrant workers. Miguel had been missing for two days. Jake, who slept in the dormitory with the migrant workers and who had worked at Lunsford Farm for a good many years, dismissed this as a concern for those two days, telling us that it was a normal occurrence for migrant workers to pick up stakes and just leave. I normally would have agreed with him, but today was payday for the past month's labor. No migrant worker I knew would take off two days before payday.
And then, while we were out in the pumpkin patch, near the main house, a police cruiser had driven up, two officers went into the house, and, after a while, Mr. Lunsford came out of the house with them and left with them in the cruiser. Jake had gone up to the house to see what was what, and when he came back, he told us that the police had found a body in the woods nearby and wanted to take Mr. Lunsford off to discuss the matter.
At dinner that night, eaten at picnic tables outside the dormitory building, and with several of the day workers hanging around for free food and maybe a roll in the hay later, Jake completely changed his tune. The body had been confirmed as that of Miguel. It had been found less than a mile away from the farm in woods that were part of a huge partial owned by a logging firm but nowhere near being ready to be logged again. Not only did Jake say it was Miguel, but he told us stories of other young migrant workers who had been found dead near here during previous harvest seasons. Duardo chimed in to confirm there had been two in the previous season when he'd worked here, and the other long-term worker, Rufe, nodded his head in agreement.
Jake proceeded to tell us of the circumstances of the deaths and it wasn't pretty, involving slashing with a large-blade knife. He went on to spin a horror tale for us as he'd been doing almost nightly in the weeks coming up to Halloween.
"Way back, nearly two hundred years ago," he said, "the farm house here was once the mansion house for a plantation that covered nearly this whole county. Some say I'm related to this here family, which would be something, wouldn't it?—under other circumstances me owning this whole kit and caboodle rather than just herding you lot around for Frank Lunsford."
After patting himself on his back with that claim, Jake continued. "Well, that didn't happen, because that there house over there was the scene of a mass murder of the entire family save my ancestor who was off studying. Some dozen darky slaves—young men all—rose up and slaughtered the family one night—close to Halloween, they say hereabouts—in their beds. Since then, legend has it that the house is haunted by the ghosts of the family, who won't rest until a dozen young men are sacrificed to make up for the slaves' crimes."
"Sound to me like that's been happening around here," Duardo spoke up and said. We all were thinking of Miguel's death. I, for one, though, just thought Jake was trying to scare us. The younger, more impressionable workers—Raul, Shawn, Matt, and Francisco—drank Jake's stories in, eyes wide with fear and interest.
"Yep," Jake answered. "Miguel this season, but there have been others before. All wetbacks, though, and we all know how flighty they can be and risk takers, anxious to get in with a dangerous crowd even though Mr. Lunsford provides them a place here, where they can get what they want without mixing with those rough homo bashers livin' hereabouts. Them wetbacks just want it rough and sometimes they sneak off from here and get it rougher than they were bargaining for."
All the young dick takers sitting around the picnic tables were squirming, the Mexicans—Raul and Francisco—more than the rest. Well I guessed they should be concerned, I thought, as they were ripe young bottoms like Miguel had been and as had been all of the young migrant workers Jake had said had been used and murdered in previous seasons. I assumed that Jake was exaggerating both the body count and the circumstances of the deaths and the connection to all of this to the claims of haunting of the farm house because this was the Gringos' season for such stories. But I couldn't discount Raul's and Francisco's concerns. They were ripe young bottoms, used by Duardo and me just as Miguel had been. And, who knows, maybe they snuck out some nights to have it from strangers outside the farm family.
And then later that evening, as the men, groaning from the strain of the work of the day, were trying to settle in their beds, events became more ominous. The different-pitched contest of the snoring of Jake and of Duardo woke me after it seemed I had just gotten to sleep, and I instinctively looked over to Miguel's bed, still in shock about why it was empty. It was still empty. But so was Raul's bed, beyond Miguel's. Raul hadn't left the dormitory yet, although he was stealthily moving toward the door.
One of the day workers, the dirty-blond-headed scrawny boy pussy, Matt, was stretched out on Rufe's bed back in the corner of the dormitory. He was making purposely muffled moaning sounds as he grabbed the slats of the headboard and Rufe side-splitted him with the deep, snake-like exploration of that long shaft of his.
I already was hard, and listening to them fuck and watching the undulations of Rufe's hips, knowing how deep inside Matt's channel he was plumbing, wasn't helping. I hadn't had a fuck since the day Miguel had disappeared. I assumed Raul, who wasn't in his bed, was going to the port-o-john to take a leak. If I followed him and waylaid him on the way back to the dormitory, I knew he'd let me fuck him on a picnic table. And my need was great, so I quietly left my bed and followed him out into the night. I saw him stride right past the outhouse, though. He had a flash light. And when I looked off toward the farmhouse, I saw another light moving away from the house and toward the pumpkin patch.
All sorts of weird ideas floated through my brain, fueled by the ghost stories Jake had told at dinner. I didn't believe this had anything to do with a ghost, though. And I was right.
The pumpkin patch was surrounded on two sides by a wooded area, and, once I ascertained that the two points of light were headed for and converging on the pumpkin patch, I skirted around to the wooded fringe of the patch and positioned myself to where I could see into that field. The moon was full, which made the outline of everything clear in an eerie sort of way. Wisps of ground fog were floating around near the surface of the earth and swirled around the pumpkins not quite yet ready to be harvested. I could think of no better setting for one of Jake's Halloween stories.
At first I thought what I saw was a large dog—a wolf even—but my eyes adjusted fully to the dark and I realized that it was Frank Lunsford. For the first time it occurred to me how much like a hairy wolf the man was. Or one of the satyrs Jake told us about in his stories. Jake always included strange and rough gay sex in his stories—his favorites being werewolves or satyrs—because he liked to see us all get hard and start touching each other and leave the dinner tables in twos and threes, headed for the bushes.
Lunsford was broad chested and narrow hipped and had a swarthy, fox-like countenance. It was only now, when I saw him naked, though, that I realized how dark and hairy his body was.
He was already fucking Raul when I had taken up my position in the fringe of trees. He fucked Raul like a dog in the pumpkin patch, with Raul on all fours and Lunsford crouched over his back and hips, a hairy arm wrapped around the younger, smaller Mexican's belly, and a thick, curved dick—prominently displayed in the light of the full moon—pumping in and out of Raul's ass—a very sweet and accommodating ass channel, as I well knew. Lunsford was pulling the dick almost all the way out with each stroke and then cruelly thrusting up deep inside Raul's channel in slow, deliberate lunges. Raul cried out with each thrust and Lunsford huffed and puffed and snorted like the wild animal he was appearing to be.
I couldn't help myself. I was only wearing sleeping shorts, and my hard shaft had pushed its way out of the open fly of that without my willing it. My hand went to my club, and I was pulling on my meat as I watched.
It wasn't long, though, before heavy breathing from nearby made me turn my head in shock. There off to my left, also behind some trees on the verge of the pumpkin patch, was the sweet young Kyle. He was lying on his back in a mossy patch, naked, his legs bent and parted, and his hand encasing and stroking his dick. His bedroom eyes were on my, though. His smile was sensual, inviting. Entreating.
Without a second thought, I was on him, my knees pressing in between his, one of my hands clamping over his mouth, the fingers of the other entering him, brutally. He was moaning and whimpering through my thick, muffling fingers of the one hand and moving his pelvis in rhythmic thrusts against the invading fingers of my other hand. I removed my fingers and thrust inside him, smothering his mouth tightly against his scream. He arched his back and counterthrust against my stroking club with his straining hips. When we had established a rhythm of the fuck, I felt the heels of his feet rubbing against the top curve of my buttocks. I released the hand covering his mouth and exchanged it with my own lips. He opened his mouth to me and sucked on my tongue as I thrust, again and again, deep inside him, releasing all of the sexual tension I'd built up in the last two days. There was no question that he wanted me and was going with the fuck.
He broke away from the kiss and turned his head to the side, whispering, "Yes, yes" over and over again as I increased the pace of my pumping and worked hard to get as far up into him as I could, overwhelmed at my good fortune to have an angel under me, clutching my sides with his hands, rubbing my buttocks with the heels of his feet, and counterthrusting his hips up to meet my dives.
With a jerk he came up my heaving belly. I felt my own jism bunching and rising, I held in a withdrawal, only the bulb of my cock inside his entrance, ready for the killing thrust. Beyond the trees, from the pumpkin patch, a primeval wolf-like howl went up. Lunsford had climaxed.
Kyle dug his claws into my shoulder and cried out "Now, Now! Now, Javier!" I brutally dove down deep, releasing my load with a grunt. And then again . . . and again. I hadn't so much as taken the next breath when Kyle was pushing me off him, over on my side, scrambling up, and disappearing in the dark. I took a moment to catch my breath. When I raised myself up on my knees, I turned toward the opening through the trees to the pumpkin patch. Lunsford, loping along slowly, was already at the other end of the field, moving toward the dormitory. He had Raul slung at his side, draped over an enclosing arm, arms, legs, and head dangling at Lunsford's side. Their figures were caught squarely in the curve of the moon. I hadn't realized before, but part of the wolf-like aspect of Lunsford was that his arms were disproportionally long for his torso.
When I crept back into the dormitory, Raul already was there, belly down on his cot, his arms dangling on either side of the bed. His eyes were, open and glazed. I had to look closely at him as I got back into my own bed to be sure that he was breathing. He was, although shallowly. The hint of a smile on his lips told me that he had enjoyed the encounter with his employer.
I woke in the middle of the night to the sounds of heavy breathing and groaning. Duardo was doing the heavy breathing; Raul was doing the groaning. Raul hadn't changed position or expression, but now Duardo was stretched over and above the small Mexican's back, his fists stiff-armed into the mattress of the cot above Raul's head, his feet lifted on his toes, and his dick—the biggest and thickest of all the workers—pumping up and down between Raul's butt cheeks, as the big, black Cuban put on a pushup display.
I looked around the dormitory, in the just-before-dawn hazy light, and saw that nearly all of the other men, including the overseer, Jake, had they eyes plastered to Duardo's morning calisthenics.
I went to sleep with the thought that, with Miguel gone now, Raul would be taking the brunt of giving the men's men, like me and Duardo, their needed release. I hoped he was up to the challenge—or that someone else like him was hired to join the migrant workers soon. I was hard again just from watching Duardo fuck him; I planned to have my own session with Raul the next day.
* * * *
Raul didn't look too good the next morning. He hadn't changed position or expression. Still belly down on his cot with his arms dangling over the edges. He was breathing, though, and mouthing words. When I put my ear near his mouth, I found he was mumbling about glorious fucks, so I decided that he at least was happy.
No pumpkin harvesting today, Saturday. We were going to be in the trees in the orchard, picking apples. Farmer Lunsford had decided he had enough pumpkins in the produce store for this weekend, so he was sending the migrant workers to the orchards. Kyle would be working in the produce store. I was finding I wanted to know where Kyle was all the time—and whether I could isolate him and fuck him again. He'd left me in a hurry the night before, but I had every reason to believe that he'd appreciated the service.
We were ready to go and Raul was still in bed—or at least he was until Jake stood over him and barked, "Raul. Up. Mr. Lunsford wants to see you up at the house."
With a groan, Raul rolled out of bed and stumbled off in Jake's wake.
It was the last time I saw Raul.
We were in the trees, picking apples, when I realized that not only hadn't Raul returned to the field, which didn't surprise me all that much; I assumed he was up at the house being humped again by Lunsford—but also that Duardo wasn't there anymore, down on the ground under the trees, taking filled bushel baskets that the rest of us were handing down. He was too big to go into the trees himself without breaking the branches. So, he and Jake were supposed to be on the ground, under the trees, Now neither one of them were down there.
I figured that left me as the next one in line to call the shots, since Rufe was only half here mentally, so I told the rest to take turns trading off being in the trees and on the ground, and I took off, looking for Jake and Duardo.
I found them both, over by the produce store—or rather behind it—but managed to maneuver to where I could see them. That took a bit of positioning, because Jake was positioned to see Duardo without being seen, just as I was doing. Jake was in the shadows of the building, behind some barrels, his dong out of his pants and in his hand. Duardo was leaning against the back of the produce sales building, his hips and legs jutting out from the wall, a look of sheer pleasure on his face, and his hands cupping Kyle's head. Kyle was kneeling in front of him, a hand wrapped around the base of Duardo' dick, and his mouth, jaw unhinged, working hard to get all of Duardo's shaft inside his mouth cavity. That wasn't going to be possible, but I had to admit that the young white guy was giving it a good try.
As both Jake and I watched, Kyle gave a low, guttural laugh, and suddenly stood, slapped Duardo's dick with this fingers, pulled away from him, and started to stride off. Duardo was too quick for him, though. He launched his large, supple, powerful body off the wall, lunged at Kyle, and caught him in his arms. He pulled Kyle into his body, turned him to the wall, and slammed his back against that. With one hand, he stripped down Kyle's shorts and briefs while holding the young man against the wall with the other.
Kyle was laughing—just like this was what he wanted. So, I didn't move to do anything. Jake was too engrossed in the entertainment to do anything but stroke his cock. It wasn't long before Duardo's cock was inside Kyle's channel, Kyle's knees were hooked on Duardo's hips, and the big, black Cuban was pushing Kyle's back up and down the wall with the strength of his dick.
Just when I thought Kyle was lost to the big black, though, I saw the young man's hands go to the Cuban's neck and his fingers apply pressure to strategic points of Duardo's throat, causing the Cuban's eyes to roll up into his head and his body to slowly sink to the ground.
With a laugh, Kyle pulled up his shorts and walked slowly around the side of the building toward the front. I looked over to where Jake had been hiding, but he was gone.
The big black isn't going to like this, I thought. There wasn't a bit of humor in the man. He was at least twice as big as Kyle and built like a brick wall. I feared that he'd beat the young man senseless the next time they met.
I couldn't have been more wrong about that, though.
When I woke in the middle of the night on Saturday, I found the dormitory nearly empty. Not only hadn't Raul come back from the farm house that day, but now Duardo was missing too. So was Rufe. But that wasn't a big surprise. Since he concentrated on the white boy local workers, he often was roaming away from the farm at night. Jake was on his back on this bed, mouth open, snoring up a storm. I rose from my bed and went to the door of the dormitory. Off across the field, beyond the pumpkin patch, I saw the glimmer of a light. There also, though, was an apparition in white.
One of Jake's ghosts, I wondered. It was only a week from Halloween, well into the time period that Jake had told the men that the murdered plantation family rose from their graves and roamed the property, looking for the murderers who had fled the plantation and never been caught.
Then I saw another light, moving from a closer location toward an intersection with the ghostly visage. I waited for a few minutes after both lights faded into the trees beyond the pumpkin patch, and then I moved toward where they intersected.
Kyle, naked, was spread-eagled, his wrists tied to the branch crotches of two trees that stretched his body out. Duardo, also naked, was crouched, facing Kyle, his hands fisting Kyle's ankles and raising and spreading wide Kyle's legs. Duardo already had his dick inside Kyle and was pumping him.
Kyle's head was flopped back, his face facing the full moon. He was crying out, "Yes, yes, Duardo. Harder. Deeper."
At his feet was the white sheeting he'd covered himself with to pad out to the grove to meet Duardo. He obviously was getting the punishment he wanted from Duardo, so I turned and walked away.
What a crazy kid, I thought. What a tease. I couldn't wait for my next chance at him.
But the next morning, in spite of Sunday supposedly being the migrant workers' rest day, I was told that I was needed to sell pumpkins and other harvested items at the produce store because Kyle apparently had gone back to college early.
That didn't worry me until I saw the police cruiser drive up to the front the farmhouse. Then it worried the hell out of me. Had Kyle suffered the same fate as Miguel had? And where was Raul?
It was Raul. The police had come because of Raul. His body had been found in the woods at the edge of the farm.
Once again, Frank Lunsford was being placed in a police cruiser and driven away.
* * * *
I fretted through the week about Kyle. I asked Jake about him—I could not have gone to Frank Lunsford himself, who had been returned by police car some four hours after having been taken away on Sunday. Jake insisted the Kyle was back at his college and would appear again on the coming Friday evening. The next Saturday was Halloween. That afternoon would be a major sales day at the produce building. Kyle would surely be returning at the weekend to help with that.
On Wednesday a new worker appeared. His name was Hosea, and, like Raul and Miguel, he was young, good-looking, small of stature, and accommodating, ready to lie down and open his legs on request. Duardo fucked him, standing over the jackknifed figure of the Mexican and pile driving down into him, on Wednesday afternoon between two rows of tomato plants while the rest of us split our time between picking tomatoes and watching the action. Jake made clear that he had been hired to keep the tops among us happy and productive in the waning days of the harvest. Another hand wouldn't have been hired otherwise. As an aside Jake had said Frank Lunsford wanted another like Raul and Miguel here as well for something planned on Halloween. I almost thought of warning Hosea of that, but I didn't. Jake said my turn with the little piece would be Thursday.
Indeed, on Thursday afternoon, it was so hot out that we went back to the dormitory at the height of the day for a siesta—and Hosea rode my dick cowboy style while I lay on my back and the others watched. He seemed to be well versed in the extra services he rendered. I still wondered if anyone told him what had been the fate of some of those who had preceded him. I didn't see it as my duty to tell him, however.
On Friday afternoon, my concerns for Kyle were relieved. I was in the field of raspberry bushes when I looked up and there he was, smiling at me—and looking oh so sexy.
"Miss me?" he asked.
"I was worried about you," I answered. "You heard about Raul?"
"Sure, I heard about Raul. That's so touching that you worried about me. Jake said you asked for me every half hour or so."
"Yes, I did," I answered. "You take too many chances, I think."
"Like this? Here, now. With you?" he asked as he stripped off his shorts, briefs, and T.
"Oh, god," I whispered, feeling myself go hard at the beauty of his body.
"Lay on your back," he commanded.
I did so, and he pulled my shorts off my legs. I wasn't wearing a shirt.
"Oh, god; oh, god," I whimpered with a groan, as he took my shaft in his mouth, gripped my balls in his hand, and tugged on them while he sucked.
"I hear the new punch rode you cowboy style yesterday," he said when he had come up for air. And when I could do no more than groan at the way he was rolling my balls in his hand, he continued. "I wonder if you think he can do that better than I can."
He straddled my hips, facing me, and moved his channel down my shaft. I was breathing heavily and moaning as he raised and lowered himself on the shaft. "You do it," he whispered, and as he lowered his face to mine for a kiss, I gripped his waist on both sides and raised and lowered him on the hard, throbbing dick.
"Oh shit, oh fuck," I murmured as he turned around on the dick, gripped the knees of my bent and raised legs and pumped himself vigorously on the shaft until I shot off my load—and then relaxed, prone, with a sigh.
Turning on the still-hard cock, he lowered his torso on mine, his cheek against a breast, and played with one of my nipples with his hand. "Was I as good as the new guy?" He asked. "Frank bought him from a male whore house. He apparently is meant for Frank's Halloween ritual."
Ritual? I asked myself. Too shocked by the possibilities to say anything out loud—especially as Kyle was talking about it so casually.
"Why do you ask? Are you jealous?" I asked.
"I don't like the competition, no. First Miguel and Raul this year—and now this professional male whore."
Shock again. A new possibility was entering my mind. What could Kyle's jealousy have led him to do? Was he involved in the deaths of Miguel and Raul? And what was this ritual he spoke of?
He was just a little bit crazy. I couldn't discount any erratic behavior on his part.
* * * *
I found out about the ritual the next night, Saturday, Halloween night.
It started after we were all supposed to have retired for the night. My bed was located so that, when I was turned toward the entry door, open because of the unseasonable heat, I could see out over the field—the pumpkin patch. I was only half awake when the dancing of the flames caught my attention. A bonfire was blazing just beyond the pumpkin patch.
I sat up in my bed. The new man, Hosea, who had been sleeping in Miguel's bed when he was sleeping in the dormitory at all, was gone. So were Duardo and Jake. Rufe wasn't there either. I got out of bed and padded over to the door.
I could see figures—covered in white—supposedly the ghosts of Jake's stories?—moving around the bonfire.
Of course I went to investigate. As I crept through the pumpkin patch, crawling so that I would not be detected, I soon discerned that there were four figures moving around the bonfire in a slow dance. They were covered in white cloaks—their heads hooded as well. Next to the fire stocks had been set up—a platform with a low wall of wood at one end, with a hole for the head and smaller ones set off to the side for the wrists. The stocks were occupied—by the new worker, Hosea. Another one of the young migrant workers, the thin young redhead day worker named Shawn was lying on his side, naked, wrists and ankles bound just inside the circle of fire. His mouth was encumbered by a ball gag.
As I watched, one of the figures tossed off his cloak. The wolf-like Frank Lunsford was accounted for. He loped over to the edge of the circle, pulled Shawn up on his hands and knees, crouched over the young man's hips, mounted him, and began fucking him like a dog. This must have been some sort of signal, because now the cloak came off Duardo, who saddled up behind the pilloried Hosea, grabbed the young man's hips with his hands, and thrust inside him. A third figure, not removing the cloak, moved to in front of Hosea, parted his robe to reveal a plump, hard cock, and presented it to Hosea for servicing with his mouth. Hosea complied, willingly, it seemed, although something about his expression gave me the impression he had been drugged. Looking over at Shawn, I saw that he had the same drugged expression on his face.
Chills ran down my spine. This were two willing bottoms. What might be in store for them that had meant that they should be drugged to take it?
The fourth figure was crouching at the edge of the circle of light, watching the ritualistic fucking. But not for long. Duardo pulled out Hosea's ass, only to be supplanted by the still-cloaked figure whose cock Hosea had been sucking. Duardo walked over to the fourth figure and pulled Kyle's cloak off him. Duardo pulled a naked Kyle up off the ground and slid the young man's belly up his black, powerfully built torso until he could position the bulb of his cock at Kyle's asshole. He then lowered Kyle on the shaft, while Kyle wrapped his legs around Duardo's waist and his arms around Duardo's neck. The big Cuban proceeded to walk around the circle of light, bouncing Kyle up and down on his cock. Kyle was groaning, but not objecting.
When Duardo was finished with Kyle, he let the young man slide down his legs and into a heap on the ground. By then Frank had moved to behind Hosea and was fucking him, and Duardo went over and took a crack as the trembling and moaning Shawn.
Sometime while I was watching these two with their changing conquests Kyle had picked himself up and left the circle. I probably wouldn't have notice that anything was wrong if I hadn't seen the fourth, still-cloaked figure walking deliberated out of the circle as well—with a long-bladed knife in his hand.
I looked at both Frank Lunsford and Duardo and saw that they didn't seem to notice that two of their ranks had left.
The sight of the knife sent off fireworks in my brain and a chill up my spine. I had asked around about the deaths of Miguel and Raul. Both men had been fucked, but what had killed them was multiple slashes of a long-bladed knife.
Instinctively, I frog-marched my way to the edge of the pumpkin patch and went after the cloaked figure with the knife.
* * * *
"How did you know it was Jake who had murdered those young men, Javier?" Kyle asked. We were laying, limbs entwined, fresh from sex, on Kyle's bed in the farmhouse.
"I didn't," I answered. "Not until I saw him with that knife—and even then I couldn't be sure it was Jake. He was still covered with the cloak. I should have considered in from that ghost story he told his. In hindsight, it was clear that he saw himself as responsible to fulfill the legend of who he believed was his family—to off a dozen young men to appease the ghosts of his past. I'll admit that I thought at one time that it was Rufe. I'd been suspicious of him all along, knowing what he felt about Hispanic workers coming in the States to work. But, really, I mostly thought that the murderer was your lover, Frank."
"Frank? Frank's not my lover. He's my uncle. We both like sex—but not with each other. I just work for him on and off to help with my college expenses. What made you think he killed those men?"
"You mean other than how kinky he is and how much he looks like a wolf?"
"Yes, besides that," Kyle answered, with a low laugh, obviously conceding both points.
"He hired those men—and said it was natural that they had disappeared; that they had just drifted on—and the police kept coming to pick him up for questioning."
Kyle laughed again. "He left the hiring to Jake, and it was Jake who was saying they probably just drifted on."
I let that sink in. I, of course, hadn't heard Frank Lunsford say any of that himself. I'd relied on Jake's word. Mistake. I had reached Jake on Halloween night before Jake had reached Kyle. When Kyle saw me struggling with Jake and that Jake had a nasty knife, he came back to help me. But he wasn't much help. He'd been drugged. Jake was drugged up too, or he surely wouldn't have been so bold as to try to make Kyle his next victim and to snatch him from the pumpkin patch right under the noses of Lunsford and Duardo. I had wanted Kyle to put Jake to sleep using the throat pressure points as he done with Duardo, but he couldn't manage it. I had to club the man senseless with a heavy branch.
I still hadn't accounted fully for my belief Lunsford was the murderer. I'd even considered Duardo and Rufe and, for a few brief moments, Kyle himself. "But the police cars showing up?" I asked.
"Frank isn't just a farmer—and a man willing to hire men who fucked men because he fucks men himself—he's also the county coroner. He reported those men missing promptly. And when their bodies were found, the police came and got him to examine the bodies. I don't think he ever was under suspicion as the murderer, although the police around here certainly don't like his willingness to let our kind work here."
"Oh." I chomped on that a bit as Kyle's hand moved back to my dick and he started to bring it to life once again. "So, Frank's not your lover. He doesn't have any sexual hold over you?"
"You should know by now that I fuck whoever I want, Javier. And right now I want you to fuck me again."
I complied—but on my terms. If the little piece was going to sleep around and tease his fuck partners, when he was with me I was going to be in charge as strongly as I'd seen Duardo handle him once he'd manhandled him. We struggled a bit on the bed, with him trying to maintain control, but when I'd gotten his wrists tied off on the rungs of the brass headboard with the leather ties Frank had used on Shawn and had him on his belly, and had mounted and skewered him and begun to pump, he settled down with a moan and a laugh and gave me a first-class ride.
Yes he was just a little bit crazy. But a little bit crazy turned me on.
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