The frantic voice shrieked, “Levon! Wake up! He’s fucking roofied you!”
Deloy! The sound of my friend’s voice forced me up from a bottomless pit of murky grogginess. It seemed to take half an hour to force my eyes open. It was probably only seconds during which unseen hands roamed my body. I felt I was wearing a shirt, but my cock was definitely out and in the breeze. Even before I opened my eyes, my numbed senses felt a warm mouth nibbling away at my dick.
In between sucks, the voice said strange things. “Thus shall all feel my wrath. For your murder of unborn children. For your Sodom and licentious corrupt way of destroying innocence, virtue, the very spring of life in unborn children—an evil practice.”
What was this guy yammering on about? For long moments I thought I was back in the streets of my youth, sitting in some smelly gutter where an older man sucked me for the price of a lunch. Deloy’s voice was my anchor, the guidepost that urged me upward out of the foggy mud.
I remembered about Ladell Pratt the second my eyes opened. Simultaneously, my hips bucked violently, throwing the creeper off me. Deloy was now sitting in a chair, although his poor arms were still lashed to an overhead pulley.
“Levon!” he cried happily. “You’re awake! Now we can take out this whackamole together.”
From the grimy tiles, Pratt said, “Who’s the whackamole? You’re the ones who ran a house of ill repute. I’m clothed in the right mind. I know your whole lives in the secret of thought, desire, intent.” Pratt was drooling. Drool actually dripped off the bottom of his chin and he spoke to my dick, not our faces. “Nothing can stop me from gathering the elect from all nations. New Jerusalem—a holy city of my making!”
Deloy said, “He’s been talking like this all day. I left the commercial shoot to stop him. He told me to come here and he’d give me your business license and delete the videos of us. Instead he roofied me.” Deloy sounded about to say more, but stopped. I saw that his chest and shoulders were red from some kind of beating.
Pratt was struggling to his feet. He was still dressed as though for work, with his stupid bowtie all askew. “I’m your master, that’s why! I am teaching you to love my attentions.”
“Batshit,” Deloy said, exhaustion coloring his voice.
“Slave!” Pratt grabbed something long and fluorescent orange. When he whipped Deloy’s chest with it, sending the poor kid leaping and jumping like a marionette, my drugged brain sent enough adrenaline into my limbs to spur me to leap up.
Only, my ankles were zip tied to the chair. I didn’t expect that, and I fell back down, my ass hitting the elementary school chair with a loud slap. Now both Pratt and Deloy stared at me, openmouthed. With more energy, again I leaped to my feet, this time bringing the entire chair and little desk with me.
I lumbered like a captive elephant with a howdah on its back. Three or four times I almost crashed to my knees, bringing the kid’s desk down on my back.
Pratt must have been too shocked to move. By thrashing like the elephant, I was able to bash Pratt with the attached desk. A satisfied rush surged through me when he fell onto his side, rolling like a seal in the sand. To bash him again, I had to basically fall on top of him, but I was pretty sure I nailed him in the skull with the lid of the desk.
“Don’t bother, Levon!” called Deloy. “He’s got a fucking gun! You’re just wasting your energy!”
From somewhere under the tangle of metal and plywood, Pratt managed to press a gun barrel to my temple.
“I will teach you to love it,” he said through gnashed teeth.
I stopped moving.
I didn’t put anything past Pratt. That, and I was laboring under a shot of heavy sedation. I wouldn’t have been able to get off him if he wasn’t pushing and shoving the desk with what was probably all his might.
“Pretend you love it,” advised Deloy pathetically. “I hope he lets us out if we pretend we love it.”
“You will see I’m your master!” trilled Pratt, going to the other side of the room.
I was on the ground facing Deloy, my fucking pants down around my knees. “I’ve got a secret weapon,” I whispered.
Despite the rising bruises on his face, Deloy managed a grim smile. “You are a secret weapon, Levon.”
Pratt had some ropes. “Sit up straight!” he commanded, and between us both we managed to get me back to my student’s sitting position. Now he was tying the whole desk to some built-in cabinets behind me. “This is small town America, buddy. You are my star quarterback. It’s a wonderful opportunity for young people here. Outsiders don’t understand our lifestyle, but we don’t care, do we?”
“We don’t care,” Deloy repeated dully.
He kept on. “The important thing is that we’re left alone to do what we feel is right. We live according to our own guidance.”