#{ threading.

were it colder, greyer, bleaker and more suffocating,  Lampkin Lane might have reminded him of Ormond. There is little of Ormond that Frank misses — though a 7/11 would not have gone amiss — and it’s a small blessing that the woods around the resort will never lead him back into town. It’s with the reassurance that the rest of Ormond  ( save for that which Legion have made their home )  has been discarded by the Entity that he wanders into the midst of the trees and into the thickening fog that swallows him within a minute’s foray into the woodland. When the fog at last parts, he’s greeted by a sign that welcomes him not to the town that houses Mount Ormond Resort, thankfully ...  but instead to Haddonfield. 

An unfamiliar name and an unfamiliar realm, filled with little houses lining narrow streets. It might have been comfortable. Peaceful, even ...  had he not been vaguely aware that it’s a mere recreation pieced haphazardly together by a creature with little understanding of the living world it attempts to reconstruct — had it not been so desolate. He shuffles through windows and through doors left adjacent, wandering until he finds himself a  pleasant perch: level roof outside a window that grants him a pretty view above the streets Lampkin Lane. And so he settles down  ( stretches himself flat on his stomach across dark roofing with veneer pliant enough to give way to the light scratching of a knife’s point )  and waits, all the while etching lines and vague semblances of pictures into the tiling.

Eventual shuffling draws curious eyes up from his scratches; sure enough, there lumbers the Shape in the distance, drifting between houses across the street and down the block. He doesn’t budge as Myers comes closer. No doubt that he’s already long been spotted, though hopefully his vandalising hasn’t. Frank lays his knife flat beside the mess he’s made, brushing the debris aside and off of the stark lettering he’s drawn into the roof. Well, if Myers hadn’t known that  ‘ Legion was here, ’  he certainly will now.

“ dope stuff. ”  the slaughter is sweet...  especially with the vantage point of a luxury seat. It's not so bad atop the walls drawn up by the Entity as it, too, watches the massacre it has so neatly framed for Frank to spectate. And what a show it is: the chosen survivors its players, the thick of the maize its stage. Like insects they cling to the corn as if it were a promise of life, every few moments or so daring again to shift, crawling along the ground and rustling the thicket in their boldness. Listless, yet painfully hesitant — until the caw of a crow, the distant crunch of dried twig beneath step, halts them once again in their step. It’s an excruciating song and dance. They must be new; their fear is tangible to the point of near-infuriation. 

Frank doesn’t think he would be so interested were it not for the new variable tossed into the midst of the trial. His eyes are not so much for trembling survivors. They’re searching, instead, for the trace of clever footstep and the glint of metal blade. In the murkiness, it is difficult to tell who is killer and who is the hunted — just as he suspects is how their newest intends to play it out...  until, there !  Frank catches it at last, looming in the corn behind a girl who’s made an unfortunate decision to hide, unawares that her trial was over from the moment it began. It already had its eyes on her.

The hunted scatter in all directions, frenzied panic palpable as their first falls with an ear-piercing scream. It's quickly muffled, thankfully, by the blood flooding her mouth. The hunt is over as soon as it began, though artfully prolonged  ( with the air of a cat tossing its food about )  by the hunter. It’s no less entertaining for Frank’s quick conclusion, though. It’s with mild intrigue that he watches, chin cradled in palms and elbows planted on crossed legs as one survivor after the other is felled.

The Ghost Face. A strange one, that’s for sure. Spectre, spotlight, and spectator all in one ...  an expert actor toting camera to his own enthused and bloody performance. 

Frank waits, silent, for the final click of the camera to seal the trial’s end. And like the scattering of roaches, the fog disperses. The darkness rises, and Frank leans forward on his brick pillar, the whiteness of his mask grinning chesire-like through the murk of night.  

“ Not bad, new guy. Though I expected a lil’ bit of buildup. Not even gonna ask them out before you give them the scare of their lives — you are the Ghost Face, ain’tcha? Y’know, like in the movie? I liked that one. ”  He would have ditched class to see it in cinema; unfortunate that school had permanently let him go long before then. Nothing is nearly so satisfying without the added sting of blatant defiance to authority.  

muse: santa claus seeking: tops or bottoms. totally open to sub tops and dominant bottoms. he's more of a loving dom, whether he's stern or not. older/hairy muses preferred! plot: you catch the big man himself on his off-season.

Ask any of his henchmen and they’d tell you that Wulfgar did what he did because he had the soul of a beast - an alpha personality that commanded respect and reverence. More women, more booze. Sex every day, almost all day. A proud, hard dick and cut frame that oozed testosterone. Now, though? Wulfgar stared into the mirror, expressionless as he examined the pretty heart shape he’d shaved into his pubic hair. He thumbed over the cotton candy pink of the cage below, locking off his pride completely to the mercy of his captor. The material itself was segmented with some kind of runes etched into the side followed by a number eight that glowed dully. Lower still were a hefty set of balls, unemptied and in desperate need of attention, pushed out in front as if to show off the neglect like a trophy.

Before he’d finished inspecting it the cage began to rattle before one of the segments closed, forcefully pushing his cock closer to his body. There was a howl from the bathroom and Wulfgar padded out to meet Nathan clutching his crotch, almost forgetting to duck under the door frame, bulky as he was. He took his place at the side of a doughy and gruff middle aged man - his keeper. A glance downwards and the number etched into his cage had shifted - seven.

He thought about saying something, but the dull ache in the root of his balls made the message clear even through his thick skull. Instead he settled for a grimace and a murmur as he sunk to his knees and pulled off Nathan’s boots one by one. The smell of sweaty foot odor hit his nose immediately, sending Wulfgar back onto his feet and in the opposite direction, dropping the boots. “Oh, no. What the- fuck no. No way. Are you fuckin’ kidding- no.”

He looked back at Nathan reclining in the chair, pale chunky feet flexing and toes spreading and there was another click from below and pressure building against his humbled dick..

He'd been out of the game for over two decades. The wild life he lead in his 20's had been cut by a desire to settle down with his husband and raise a family. Seemed like he had only closed his eyes for a second and the world had passed him by - but the place he found himself in was warm, welcoming to an aging slut. The younger folks didn't mind the bristly, greying beard, or the unwaxed hole. They liked the dark circles of a tired dad, the drooping balls and wrinkled forehead. Mick was a DILF, and he'd be damned if he didn't take advantage of that by working his way through his son's college basketball team, through every teacher they met on parents' evenings and half of the neighborhood dads who popped in during lunch breaks for a quick fuck. The old whore had forgotten how happy he was on his knees. One particular encounter had him bound - chest, ankles, wrists, thighs and balls. His cock curved upwards from a dark bush, rock hard and tortuously untouched, unable to even give himself relief with his thighs, locked tight as they were. Nothing to do but focus on his duty, face first against a thick, vein-coated cock. Mick brushed his bristly chin over the pair of pungent balls in front of him, letting that fat shaft rest across his face before dragging kisses upward. He let his tongue dance across every vein, swirling over the foreskin-wrapped crown before pushing the tip in to taste. He took the loose skin between his teeth and grinned before making a show of plunging his tongue in and curling it upwards underneath the foreskin.

In almost humorous contrast to Merle's massive frame and etched, rugged features, he sported a tiny hot pink thong that was entirely ill-fitting for a man of his stature. The silver letters that spelled out 'PRINCESS' in block capitals across the crotch was warped by the package beneath it and did very little to keep most of Merle inside. Grey-white pubes spilled out of the tops and sides and both of Merle's gigantic brown balls popped out uncomfortably on either side. The thong sat awkwardly, straps stretched to capacity on Merle's wide frame, sunk into a dappled, marked old ass. The back had completely disappeared, no trace save for a small triangle on his lower back.

Master had been wearing sweaty socks for days, now balled up and shoved unceremoniously into his mouth. The taste was acrid and potent on his tongue, setting off a conditioned reaction to drool in long silvery, slobbery tracks that hung from the corner of his mouth and off his beard like a Saint Bernard. Inhaling sweaty feet were a punishment, and a heavenly reward. He'd often be made to stand and reflect like this, only the heady scent of musk to slowly rot his brain and strip away his inhibitions. No complaints, no whining.

This great, big ox of a man was being humbled.

Noa looked around, incredulous. He leaned in, trying to keep his voice low.

"This is one of the most expensive restaurants in the city. I'm in a fuckin' suit. You ate me out for two hours this morning."

He gave another look around. It was evening, waiters had begun passing from table to table lighting centerpieces. Dark enough, still, but once his partner got going it was hard for Noa to keep quiet. In all likelihood if they didn't have a mutual friend's birthday dinner to attend they'd still be at home fucking. The more he thought about it, the more he became aware of the bare, sensitive skin rubbing against the front of his suit pants every time he stood up to greet another party guest. How tight the fabric was around his thighs, or how his puffy pussy lips were pressing blatantly against his fly, outlined perfectly. He shifted in his seat then turned his head once more, glaring. "Alright, fine. Nothing crazy, okay? You know I'll soak the entire floor. Be. Discreet."