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Beneath a Heart of Darkness	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 4657 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
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A narrow shaft of sunlight radiated through the awning window, the shimmering beam shining directly upon Booker’s upturned face. With a moan, the young officer fought his way back to consciousness, and opening his eyes, he squinted against the brightness of the luminous rays. A bone-shaking shiver immediately ran down the length of his body, and pushing himself to a sitting position, he drew up his knees and wrapped his arms tightly around his legs. The temperature in the room had dropped rapidly during the night, but he had remained blissfully unaware due in part to the head injury he had sustained the evening before. But the memory of the assault soon returned in vivid color and lifting his hand to his head, he gingerly explored the lump on his left temple. Dry blood caked the wound, the crusty layer crumbling beneath his probing fingers. After twelve hours, his head still throbbed from the force of the impact, and he briefly wondered if getting knocked out twice in ten days had, in fact, caused some damage. However, after careful consideration, he concluded that despite feeling mildly disoriented, he was not in any significant danger, and taking a deep breath, he fought through his confusion and attempted to pull himself together. It was important to keep his wits about him because if not, he ran the very real risk of suffering a permanent injury, or worse, he could wind up dead.
Using the wall for support, he slowly stood up. The room immediately began to spin, and closing his eyes, he drew in deep, calming breaths and waited for his equilibrium to stabilize. Several minutes passed before the rolling nausea in his stomach settled, and peeking cautiously through half-open lids, he reacquainted himself with the small room. The only difference he noticed was an upturned bucket at the bottom of the rickety stairs, and he deduced Holland must have thrown it down sometime during the night. He was surprised he hadn’t heard it, but after sobbing out his pain and frustration to an invisible Tom, he had fallen into a deep, almost coma-like sleep. But now the bucket was in view, he noticed the uncomfortable ache in his bladder, and lurching over to the staircase, he righted the pail and quickly relieved himself. Once finished, he moved the bucket under the stairs and gazed up at the wooden trap door at the top of the steps. He knew it was a pointless exercise to try to open it; Holland was methodical, and there was no way he would leave the hatch unlocked and risk losing one of his prized possessions. It was a realization that left him feeling frustrated and powerless. Whether he liked it or not, he remained a prisoner, and he had no choice but to sit and wait for his captor to release him.
A sudden wave of fatigue washed over him, and without warning, his legs gave way, and he collapsed to the floor. Emotion surged through him, and covering his face with his hands, his shoulders heaved, and he succumbed under the weight of his sorrow. All his pain and humiliation came out in loud, racking sobs, the intensity of his anguish sending tremors of remorse throughout his tired, aching body. Never before had he felt so wretched, so utterly worthless, and at that moment, he hated Tom with a fiery passion. Because of Hanson, he had willingly become Holland’s whore, and by doing so, he had degraded himself to the point where he no longer knew who he was or what he stood for. He was at Holland’s mercy, and every time the mogul fucked him, another piece of his soul died. Dennis Patrick Booker the man, the son, the friend, and the police officer were all gradually fading away, obliterated beneath the brutality and debauchery of the sexual acts he participated in, and in his place, a faceless automaton was slowly emerging. It was a rebirth of sorts, a metamorphosis from a living, breathing, feeling being, to a desensitized, emotionless robot. The change was an obvious transition, and Booker desperately wrestled with his psyche in an attempt to hang on to his identity, to maintain his sense of self. But each time he voluntarily submitted to Holland’s demands, another part of his essence ebbed away, leaving him bereft and numb. He was fighting a losing battle, and it was all Tom’s fault.
The irritating scrape of metal-on-metal halted Booker mid-sob, and heaving himself to his feet, he gazed upward through tear-filled eyes as the trap door above him slowly opened. Light flooded into the small dungeon, instantly blinding him, and shielding his eyes with his hand, he held his breath and squinted into the ethereal luminosity; watching, waiting, praying for his salvation. So when a celestial figure came into view, the glow of its silvery-gold halo hovering above its featureless face, his mind whirled in confusion and dropping to his knees, he raised his arms above his head in a gesture of supplication.
“Help me,” he sobbed. “Oh, God, please help me.”
A cruel laugh filtered down into the abyss. “I told you, boy, God won’t help you. Now stop your sniveling and get up here, I want to have some fun.”
The words cleared the confusion from Booker’s addled mind, leaving him embarrassed and vulnerable. Without pause, he scuttled stiffly up the wooden stairs, and emerging from the darkness of the oubliette, he drew comfort from the warmth of the sun’s rays streaming in through the French casement windows. As the life-giving beams heated his flesh, the rigidity in his body gradually eased, and a grateful sigh exhaled from between his parched lips. But his relief was short-lived, and without warning, a finger poked him sharply in the stomach, causing him to flinch.
“You stink,” Holland announced in a matter-of-fact tone.
Booker cast his eyes apologetically to the floor. “Sorry,” he mumbled, the odor of his stale sweat suddenly overpowering his senses. He longed to rid himself of the blood and semen coating his thighs, but he was having trouble gauging Holland’s mood. However, his need to get clean soon outweighed his fear of reprisal, and lifting his gaze, he spoke in a soft, deferential voice. “Please, may I shower?”
An excited glint flashed in Holland’s eyes. “I thought you’d never ask,” the mogul grinned, and grabbing hold of Booker’s wrist, he hauled him across the room and out into the wide foyer, where he proceeded up the winding staircase to the second floor. Booker kept up as best he could, but he was still feeling the aftereffects of his head injury, and he stumbled several times. But when they reached the master bedroom, he found his reserve, and pulling up abruptly, he wrenched his hand free from his captor’s hold and stared with wide, troubled eyes at the naked figure standing compliantly next to the bed. “Wh-what’s he doing here?” he stammered.
A slow, rakish smile lit up Holland’s face. “I thought that would be obvious, my dear Dennis. Jorge is here to partake in the fun.”
Despite his infirmity, Booker’s eyes roved hungrily over the Latino’s exposed flesh, taking in the length and thickness of his magnificent penis. The memory of the young man's soft lips moving over his shaft brought his limp cock to life, and he longed to hold the beautiful pool boy in his arms and love him in the way he deserved to be loved. He wanted to forget about the pain and degradation he had endured at the hands of a psychopath. He wanted to forget he had ever made the absurd promise to Holland in exchange for the tapes. He wanted to put the nightmare he was living behind him and escape to the freedom of the outside world. But most of all, he wanted to forget about Tom because whenever he thought about the man he had carried a torch for since the first day they met, his stomach knotted in anger. Rightly or wrongly, his distorted mind now believed Hanson was the reason he found himself in the predicament he was in. He honestly thought the young officer had managed to manipulate him by using his wily charms, and pretty boy looks to convince him he needed saving, and that the only way his life would ever have meaning again was to destroy the tapes. Although a cockeyed perspective of the truth, Booker’s ego firmly accepted it as fact, thereby protecting his morality. He did not want to admit he got off on the rough sex or that he had experienced some of the most mind-blowing orgasms he had ever had the pleasure to experience while writhing beneath Holland’s hot, sweaty body. To do so would reveal his darker side, the part of him he had not known existed until he met Ingram Holland. It was an aspect of his personality that concerned him, and he longed to re-bury it deep inside his psyche and forget it even existed. In essence, he wanted to be Dennis Booker again because the man he was becoming frightened him.
But as he drank in the splendor of Jorge’s heavenly body, he forgot all about fighting against the life of debauchery Holland was pulling him toward with each passing day. Instead, his reaction was to respond in a submissive, almost mechanical manner that mirrored the Latino’s calm acceptance of the situation. “What do you want us to do?”
Holland flashed a bright smile. “Today, my beautiful boys, is movie day. Today, I get to record you in all your glory.”
A shiver of unease ran down Booker’s spine, but when he flashed a worried look at Jorge, the young Latino exuded a serene aura of composure, and he drew strength from his unwavering calm. It was a scenario the pool boy had evidently participated in before, and when Booker saw a flicker of arousal in the young man’s dark eyes, his heart began to thud with excitement, and he found himself longing for the game to begin.
Channeling his inner director, Holland clapped his hands together several times. “Pay attention, boys. The scene will take place in the shower. You are to wash each other’s bodies in a slow, erotic manner, but there is to be no kissing. Understood?”
In a dreamlike state, Booker followed Jorge into the gleaming bathroom. Without waiting for direction, Jorge turned on the faucets and waited until a light mist of steam wafted throughout the elegantly tiled room. “C’mon,” he instructed softly, and taking the young officer by the hand, he led him into the spacious cubicle.
Oblivious to the hand-held video camera Holland was now using to record their every move, Booker drew in short, shallow breaths as Jorge liberally lathered his hands with a bar of scented soap. As the warm water cascaded over the young officer’s battered body, his flesh tingled with anticipation for the thrill he knew was but moments away. The wait was brief, and when Jorge’s soft, soapy hands made contact with his torso, a deep moan resonated in his chest.
“That’s it,” Holland directed from behind the camera, his voice a heavy pant of arousal. “Make the dirty whore nice and clean.”
Jorge’s hands moved slowly over Booker’s upper body, purging him of the stale stench of sweat and fear that clung to his skin. Once satisfied with the young Latino’s efforts, Holland issued a new directive. “Now, move your hands down and touch his cock.”
“Oh, God,” Booker exulted, his eyelids fluttering closed as he allowed his body to react to the titillating sensation of warm, soapy fingers stroking his semi-erect penis. “Oh, God.”
Pleased with the reaction, Holland spoke in a fatherly tone to the young officer. “Pick up the soap, Dennis; there’s a good boy. Jorge wants you to play with him.”
In a daze, Booker picked up the soap and rolled it in his hands. When his gaze met Jorge's, he saw a look of complete trust laced with deep, sexual longing shining from the soft, brown eyes, and his heart skipped a beat. He started slow, and as his hands caressed the young Latino's broad chest, he found himself falling into a powerful, hypnotic state. Time stood still; the sensation of Jorge’s smooth, flawless flesh beneath his fingers the only thought occupying his mind, and when his thumb grazed the raised nub of his lover’s nipple, he took an almost hedonistic delight in the gasp of pleasure that resonated around the room.
“Good, good,” Holland praised softly, his free hand massaging his own growing member through the material of his light brown chinos. “But Jorge wants more, Dennis. He wants you to jerk him off. Don’t you, my sweet chico?”
“Yesss,” Jorge breathed, his voice barely audible above the thrum of water cascading from the shower head. But the fiery spark in his dark, expressive eyes conveyed the fervor of his passion, and Booker took no time granting him his wish. His right hand traveled slowly down Jorge’s lathered torso before his fingers stroked along the length of his lover’s erect shaft. In response, Jorge’s long, talented fingers moved slowly up and down Booker’s erection, teasing it to hardness with each measured stroke. Their eyes locked; the profound intensity of their gaze blocking out the sights and sounds surrounding them, and with silent consent, their hands soon fell into a jerky rhythm of lust and selfish need. The blood pulsating rapidly through their cocks engorged their dorsal veins and arteries, lengthening and thickening their shafts to a state of full arousal, and concerned they would peak before he had a chance to video the main event, Holland addressed his protégé in a loud, authoritative tone. “Enough, Jorge. Turn around.”
The young pool boy immediately obeyed his master’s command. Releasing Booker’s cock, he turned and faced the wall, and bracing his hands against the condensation-slicked tiles, he leaned forward and spread his legs in invitation.
“There’s lube on the shelf,” Holland advised Booker in a soft, lilting voice. “Take your time. I want to watch you touch yourself.
With the warm stream of water continuing to flow over his shoulders, Booker reached out and retrieved the tube hidden next to an assortment of shampoos. In a trance, he squirted a generous amount of the scented oil onto his hand and slowly lubricated his cock, exacting pleasure from each gentle caress. Closing his eyes, he lost himself in the narcissistic pleasure until Holland’s voice pulled him from his self-gratification. “That’s enough.”
Booker paused mid-stroke, and opening his eyes, he gazed with a mixture of lascivious adoration and wide-eyed wonderment at Jorge’s quivering buttocks. He stood in silent awe, the pellucid teardrops of water lacquering his naked flesh creating an ethereal shimmer under the effulgence of the overhead light, and after so much attention, his erection jutted outward, curving upward toward his belly, a crimson blush staining the smooth cockhead. The effect was breathtaking in its simplicity, and for a second, Holland was spellbound by the magnitude of Booker’s beauty. At that precise moment, the young officer was a vision of pure, unadulterated masculinity, a glorious depiction of the perfect male form, and Holland knew he had captured on film a transcendent point in time that would be difficult to replicate.
The mogul’s desirous gaze greedily fed on the steamy sight for a few seconds longer before returning to the business at hand. “Jorge’s waiting, Dennis,” he purred, his fingers expertly adjusting the camcorder’s focus to maximize the effect of the wide-angle shot. “He wants you to fuck him.”
Lost in the eroticism of the moment, Booker did not think through the consequences of his actions. He forgot about the camera, he forgot about Holland’s penchant for blackmail, and most tellingly, he forgot about Tom. His mind remained focused on one thing; restoring the dignity and self-respect Holland had so effectively stripped from him with each humiliating sex act. For the first time since entering the tycoon’s home, he had some semblance of control. He was no longer the submissive bitch, he was once again the alpha male, and he planned to demonstrate his dominance. While his affection for Jorge was genuine, his confidence over the last few days had taken a beating, and he still had another two weeks of abuse to endure until Holland freed him from his contractual obligations. He needed a boost, an emotional curative to assist him through the ordeal of the physical and psychological debasement he would continue to suffer over the coming weeks. Therefore, there were no regrets or feelings of guilt for what he was about to do to the emotionally damaged young man standing in front of him. In his delusional mind, it was his turn to shine, and by God, he would shimmer like a fucking diamond.
“Deeeniiis,” Holland crooned softly. “What are you waiting for, mon bien-aimé?”
Caught in the tangled web of a dream, Booker stepped forward and placed one hand on Jorge’s hip. He paused for a fraction of a second, savoring the feel of the quivering flesh beneath his hand before he pressed his burgeoning cockhead against the Latino’s anus and pushed his erection inside. Tight, rippling muscles contracted around his shaft in undulating waves, teasing him with the irregularity of their cadence. Immediately, a low moan spilled unchecked from between his lips, and closing his eyes, he pushed deeper inside the warmth of Jorge’s trembling body. His hips rocked slowly back and forth, each thrust sending powerful jolts of pleasure through the length of his cock, and down into his testicles. Opening his eyes, he watched his erection slide in and out of Jorge’s accommodating body, the visual stimulation heightening his arousal. Once again he was master of his domain. He knew how to pleasure a man, and he would show Holland how it was done.
Holland’s eyes sparkled with a lustful passion, and unzipping his chinos, he released his cock and began to masturbate. “Harder,” he rasped, his hand working faster over his erection. “Fuck him harder.”
The tip of Jorge’s cock glistened with pre-cum, and his enormous penis bounced freely from the impact of Booker’s cock ramming deep inside his anus. Although there was an urgency to the dark-haired officer’s lovemaking, there was also an air of altruism behind each measured thrust, unlike Holland’s brutish, self-gratifying style of fucking, and a shiver of adoration ran through the Latino’s body. He could not remember the last time he had felt truly loved by another human being; and the deep, emotional attachment he was beginning to feel for the man pleasuring him intensified. It was mystifying in its absurdity. He had only had contact with Dennis for a few short moments, and the only words spoken had been the officer’s heartfelt apology the night before. However, there was an undeniable connection between the two men, but whether it evolved from their shared circumstance or something much deeper was of little consequence to Jorge. He had finally found his kindred spirit, and he was determined never to let him go.
“Yes yes yes,” Holland gasped in a rush of excitement, his hand pumping over his cock in rhythm with his sexual mantra. “My boys, my gorgeous boys.”
Engulfed by a wave of pure emotion, Booker leaned forward and murmured in Jorge’s ear. “Come for me, beautiful.”
With a euphoric cry, Jorge ejaculated over the tiled wall, his juices mixing with the opaque drops of water clinging to the shiny surface. Within seconds, Booker’s soft grunts transformed into an ecstatic yell as he too shot forth his orgasm, followed moments later by Holland’s shout of pleasure. The smell of sex mingled with the steam from the shower, the heady aroma adding to the men’s sexual gratification, and pressing his body against Jorge, Booker whispered a furtive vow against the young Latino’s cheek. “I promise, when I leave, I’ll take you with me.”
A grateful smile relaxed Jorge’s facial muscles, and reclining against his lover, he closed his eyes and imagined a life safely sheltered in the protective arms of Dennis Booker.
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Beneath a Heart of Darkness