Jeffrey Spender sat in front of the bank of monitors and stared with dreamy
horror at the black and white, off-angle images running in jumpy double time
before his eyes. Still sleep-fuddled, fuzzy in his suit and tie. The
urgent call from his—father—had come just after eleven pm; dragging
him from vaguely awful nightmares—weirdly erotic dreams with aliens and
Nazis and exploding heads and he had woken to find himself disturbingly hard
and sweaty and shivering with self-disgust.
"Go to Room G1-1013 and play the tapes you find there," the smarmy voice had
insinuated on the phone, as he wiped the sheen of nightsweat off his face.
"There are things I want you to learn." and before he could ask how or why,
the line disconnected. Already creeping doubt and he didn't want to go, but
God knew he wasn't getting back to sleep tonight and anyway, he was in this
as deep as he could go. So, out of bed, splashed water on his face and
dressed.
And now here he was, at the command of a man he could neither love nor trust
and what was he watching...? The tapes had started harmlessly enough, three
monitors—familiar subjects: Mulder on one; Skinner on another and on
the third some other guy he didn't know, doing stakeout or suveillance on a
dark, deserted street. He sipped at the scalding coffee in his cardboard
cup, opened the package of Fig Newtons he'd got from the machine, leaned
back in his chair. And nearly fallen on the floor as one by one the tapes
turned into hard core porn. Spender's mouth had fallen open; short, sharp
shocks to his system as he watched Skinner's perfect, heavy-muscled form;
naked to the world and pulling hard and fast on a tool like the proverbial
baby's fist; and Mulder, Jesus, Mulder you sick sick fuck—and if he
weren't alone he would have blushed at the deep and twisting ache he felt at
the sight of that slim form, chained and bedangled and impaling himself on—on, whatever the hell that was sticking out of his dresser drawer. But
it was the third guy, the stranger, who really got under his skin. The
beauty of that face; the horror of that stiff prosthetic arm braced against
the wheel—the abandoned bucking of his hips. And Skinner on his knees;
and Mulder on his couch; and pretty boy still behind the wheel, beating and
panting and howling at the moon and Spender found the creepy arousal of his
nightmares rising up in him again like fog—hard bulge in his pants... Is
this what he was supposed to learn? Or was there something else?
Breathing hard he stopped the tapes rewound and played again, looking for
other clues. Finding only that the ache in his groin intensified, pulled
tighter. And watched to the end then back to the beginning and again, and
then again.. And after a while, not even looking for anything else but,
pulling his own pale length from his fly, he stroked with trembling hands as
Skinner came and pretty boy came and Mulder came and came and came and
finally, slow and cold and panting, Jeffrey Spender's turn to spend.
Strange, harsh orgasm and jerks and spurts and creamy stripes laid across
the shiny conference table in the dark. Abruptly ashamed, disgusted he
slapped the monitors off, wiped himself on a napkin, tucked himself away.
Smearing the napkin over the table, he moved his cup to find come dripping
down the cardboard side; a blob like icing on the half-eaten cookie just beyond.
And weird frisson of disgust at the strange compulsion that drew his hand—creepy rightness to top a creepy night, like somehow obligation must be met—he picked the soggy biscuit up and popped it in his mouth.
Is 'soggy biscuit' common knowledge? If not, it's just a version of the
circle jerk, a bunch of guys stand around jerking off onto a cookie or
biscuit and the last one to come has to eat the soggy biscuit. Probly more
than you wanted to know, right?
Spike
Soggy Biscuit Boy
by The Spike
(with apologies to Barry Lowe and just about everbody else on the planet)
Hoover Building,
Washington, DC
12:02 am
