The Game

THE GAME

by

JASON

PART I: " AKA"

The boy was beautiful. There was no other word for it. Blond and broad-shouldered, he stood leaning over the sink in order to get a better look at his perfectly featured face, apparently concerned that the mirror might reveal a blemish on what appeared to be an otherwise totally clear chin. His back had gone taut, the skin flawlessly smooth across a flexible, stretching spine. Well-worn denim--he had on nothing but a pair of tight jeans--gripped his hips as he went up on tiptoe, the seam digging deep into the crack between his handsomely sculpted buttocks. A frayed slit near the left rear pocket revealed bright scarlet underpants. From the snug fit of his jeans, it would appear that his legs were going to be as terrific as the rest of him. Long. Lean. Muscular. A swimmer's legs. Or so AKA had decided.

The view from the toilet was surprisingly good. AKA had just taken his chances that he would a find a suitable spot from which to observe those freshmen unlucky enough to have late exams and thus still waiting to start their Christmas break. The stall had turned out to be the ideal place, for it was getting pretty late now and the few students who remained in the dorm had begun the day's final ablutions before heading off to bed with freshly scrubbed faces and vigorously brushed teeth.

Before coming in, AKA had determined that lights were on in only two rooms on this particular floor, each at opposite ends of the building. Over the last five minutes, AKA had been fortunate enough to get a look at both rooms' occupants. The first hadn't been bad at all. He was relatively short, but that didn't matter. Height was not one of AKA's requirements. The kid had a wrestler's body--stocky but nicely muscular, especially the arms and pecs. The face had been totally acceptable, especially his wide, sexy little cupid's bow of a mouth, but the rest was way above average, however you looked at. He would have done. Done very well, in fact. But then Swimmer Boy had appeared, and AKA knew that the game was on. That's how AKA always thought of it. As a game. Two players. The master and the mastered. This was the opening move: his eyes locked on the right guy, opportunity knocking, the fates in the process of bringing the prey and his pursuer into happy--at least for AKA--alignment.

The boy pulled away from the mirror and finished washing his hands. As he moved, his jeans, snug though they were, slipped to reveal the bony curves at the top of his hips. Just below, a bright red ridge of Calvins rose into view. AKA could read the name from where he sat.

How has he stayed so tan in December? AKA wondered as he admired the striking difference in skin color revealed by the suggestively sagging jeans. By lying in the sun over at the university's big indoor pool? AKA didn't recall ever seeing him there, but many guys did that. Took a swim, then stretched out on a towel beneath the pool's high, wide, sky-invoking windows, windows that made even the coldest, rainiest day blissfully irrelevant. This kid had to be one of them. There was no other way to explain the honey-brown glow suffusing the skin above the smooth, pale flesh of the hips.

AKA flushed at the thought that he would soon see it all, his pleasure unimpeded by jeans or jockeys. He patted the big pockets of his hefty winter coat. On the right he could feel the outlines of the knife. To be used only to threaten, of course. For AKA hated blood. He had had only one experience along those lines, but it was enough to last a lifetime. The mess had appalled him. No, the knife was just to get control, and it was amazing how easy that could be. People would think that an athletic young guy like the one on the other side of the stall door would put up a fight, resist, something. But AKA knew better. A couple had run. One had even gotten away. But nobody fought. Not once. Not even the strapping thirty-year-old truck driver AKA had met stranded by the side of the road one hot summer night, and he had more reason than most, given that AKA actually told him what he was going to do before getting the cuffs on him. No, Swimmer Boy wasn't going to fight either. AKA could tell. All it would take was a wave of the knife and the kid would cower, afraid that that flawless, golden brown skin of his might suffer a nasty nick or two.

AKA felt his left pocket. It was considerably bulkier. He traced the outlines of a pair of handcuffs, a roll of duct tape, and a small sponge. They were all he would need. The boy would provide the rest. AKA had already decided what. The underpants he was wearing at that very moment.

An excited smile creased AKA's face. They'd be perfect and--what's more--serve the kid right. Anyone who wore jockeys like that deserved to be killed with them. AKA saw it all. How, after he had done all the other stuff he had planned, he'd force the kid's perfectly shaped head through one of the leg openings, insert his hand in the other, and twist. Twist until the boy's handsome young face blushed as crimson as the tightening red cotton at his throat. Twist until the purpling young tongue poked through the gaping blue mouth. Twist until the last bit of oxygen burned out of the completely obliterated brain. Fini. Kaput. The final few jerks of the taut young legs--it was almost always the legs--the proverbial icing on the cake.

The boy dried his hands and turned to leave, casually tossing his hand towel over his shoulder as he did so. AKA finally got a good look at his pecs and stomach. They were, of course, as perfect as the rest of him. The pecs were beautifully flat and firm and cut in an almost straight line just below two brown, nickel-sized nipples. Especially attractive was the compellingly smooth, narrow vale of flesh that ran from the top of his breastbone all the way down to his navel. AKA had never seen anything quite like it. It divided his chest into two superbly matched, delectable halves.

Unlike the first kid, Swimmer Boy suddenly noticed that someone was in the stall. Sky-blue eyes glanced inquiringly at AKA's feet. But that was all. Then he wasn't given another thought. AKA could tell. But we'll soon change that, AKA said to himself. Anger flushed across the top of his cheeks. Yes, we'll soon change that.

And even as he said it, he stood and undid the bolt on the stall door. Swimmer Boy was retreating fast. AKA saw an elbow, a flash of pink heel, then nothing. He hurried after, but not too quickly. The point was to see which of the two occupied rooms the kid was heading toward, which isolated end of the building was his. Because AKA hadn't had a chance to determine with the wrestler.

The sound of the slapping bare feet told AKA all he really needed to know. The kid had gone left. So he would be in the third room from the end on the right. AKA had already figured that out. Even so, he wanted to get one more glimpse of his prey before the next part of the game began. Thus, he carefully peered around the door and watched as the boy made his way down the hall, his sleek, slim body retreating with a quick, easy grace.

AKA practically growled in anticipation.

From the opposite end of the hall came the muffled beat of a band, rock music being played by the wrestler. Great! thought AKA. Not that there there'll be much noise. Certainly not once Swimmer Boy gets securely gagged. Before that, one took one's chances. They might not fight and they might not run, but they sometimes yelled. Until they couldn't, that is.

AKA drew back as the kid reached his room, opened the door and went in.

He heard the door close. Every part of him was tingling now--his face, his hands, his legs, his stomach. He wet his lips and adjusted the slowly stirring flesh in his groin. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the hall and turned left. The ruse he had already decided on would work. He knew that as well.

"Hi! Sorry to bother you, but I need to leave a note for a guy down the hall. Do you mind if I come in and use a pen and a piece of paper? I didn't think to bring anything with me."

He had practiced the lines several times now. His tone would be one of friendly consternation. Just the right amount of each. He even knew who he was supposedly leaving the note for, just in case Swimmer Boy thought to ask. AKA had quickly memorized the name card

on the door of the room to the left of the stairs, the name of a kid who, given the darkened state of his room, had already left for the holidays.

AKA reached Swimmer Boy's door. 331. He wondered if the papers would mention it. They sometimes gave a surprising amount of detail. Although they had never mentioned the key fact. How AKA did it. Offed them. Always using a piece of their own clothing. Just as he was going to do tonight.

He smiled as the memories came. For the scruffy, dark-haired truck driver, his thick black bootlaces had served the purpose. For the lip-pierced Minnesota mallrat--lured into AKA's van by a promise of "some really great grass"--his faded Metallica T-shirt had done the trick, first pulled, then wrung around the whimpering teen's pretty young neck. A pair of smelly white socks had done in the long-legged jogger from Chicago. Too bad the boyish young newlywed--he had only been married a month, he said--had twisted his ankle just a few minutes before AKA drove by. Otherwise, he would never have been limping by the side of the road, never have had his thumb out, never have had his own sweaty socks forced down his violently gagging throat. Donnie, the cute Canadian cowboy who had been left oh-so-fortunately stranded at the Iron Bull Bar by a lousy, cunt-chasing rodeo pal, was sent packing with his own leather belt, the big brass buckle placed strategically over a furiously working Adam's apple. Sweet-faced, doe-eyed Donnie--possessor of the most beautifully proportioned body AKA had ever seen--had convulsed for well over twenty minutes--the record so far. AKA was still amazed at how long he had been able to keep the long, lissome twenty-one-year-old thrashing, but he had somehow managed to apply just the right amount of pressure to the wonderfully lithe, powerfully pulsating neck.

But the most entertaining offing by far--AKA chuckled as he remembered--involved the husky high school running back who had been making his way home after a late-afternoon football practice. It had been a hoot to take him back to the field later, by then wearing only his helmet, his piss-stained jockstrap lodged deep in his thoroughly ravaged throat. AKA had laughed out loud as he laid the brawny teenage hunk between the goal posts, his muscular thighs spread, his bruised mouth gaping, his gnawed cock flapping, a pair of ice-cold balls cupped in his lifeless young hands.

The official silence about how AKA did it was strategy, of course. AKA knew that. It was a vital fact the police were keeping to themselves in hopes of using the information to nail the culprit when the time came. Which would never happen. Or not tonight anyway. AKA was sure of it. Swimmer Boy was going to lose the game tonight. There was no question. AKA would once again emerge the victor. Without a doubt. The rest would take care of itself. Because by then AKA would be gone, safe and free, once again secure in the life he really lived, the life beyond the game, where he had a real name, the Also-Known-As the police in any number of states were Oh-So-Anxious to know.

AKA knocked, then stepped back. There was a short pause. Then the door opened. To reveal that Swimmer Boy had shucked his tight-fitting jeans. A slim brown hand was casually adjusting the sizeable lump of flesh trapped in the crotch of the scarlet jockeys.

AKA practically drooled.

The quizzical blond face said, "Can I help you?"