CUT: Part 2

Sebastian Prescott woke with a knife of pain behind his eyes. Morning light leaked through the gap in the dormer curtains, slicing a white-hot line across his gaunt face. The freshman blinked against it, the murk of sleep slowly peeling away. When his vision finally steadied, he found himself staring into the pin-striped suit and crooked grin of Splinter Sunny—his ventriloquist doll—perched primly on the nightstand like a smug little lord.

Seb groaned and forced his thin frame upright, pushing off tangled flannel sheets. The other bed in the cramped dorm room was neatly made and very empty. His roommate Lyle Lilly was either enjoying an earnest breakfast (unlikely) or still out at the after-party of the after-party (almost guaranteed).

His eyes fell to the clock. 8:57 A.M.

Then the calendar. Monday, September 16th, 1996.

A red circle around TALENT SHOW TALK @ 9AM —repeated several times, as though his past self knew exactly what would happen.

“Fuck.”

Head buzzing, he stumbled from the mattress and fished a wrinkled black hoodie off the floor, followed by jeans that had given up on holding shape. He paused before the warped mirror hanging crookedly on a thumbtack.

He looked… awful.

Too thin. Cheekbones jutting, skin pale and blotched. His dark hair stood in a wild thicket, the aesthetic of a grave digger who’d worked the night shift. His new drug prescription hadn’t helped; if anything, it had blurred the last two weeks into a medicated fog. He had only vague impressions of the weekend. 

He spat into his palm and tried to tame the mess on his head. It only matted into a darker, angrier nest. He sighed.

Another check of his watch—9:05.

Panic surged. He snatched Sunny, shoved the puppet into its scuffed case, limbs rattling like loose bones, and bolted from the room. His stomach growled as he jogged across campus toward the office of Kurt Stryberg, Coxwell’s Arts and Theatre director.

He barely registered the strange hush blanketing the school. A few boys loitered beneath the Doric-columned entryway, whispering, but the grounds were unusually still. A cluster of students crowded near the administration building, where police tape fluttered and uniformed officers blocked the doors. Seb slowed for half a second, curiosity pricking him—but the greater threat of being late shoved him onward toward the arts building, an uninspired concrete bunker cowering beside the school’s gleaming auditorium.

Inside, the halls were deserted. Seb’s sneakers squeaked across the linoleum as he found Stryberg’s office. Raised voices—agitated, sharp—filtered through the frosted glass.

He took a breath, lifted his hand, and knocked.

Silence dropped like a curtain.

“Yes,” came Kurt Stryberg’s polished, glassy lisp. “Come in.”

Seb opened the door. His heart kicked hard against his ribs as he stepped inside.

The office was small and low-ceilinged, its concrete walls softened only by the narrow slit-windows along the far side. But what the room lacked in architecture it made up for in spectacle: every inch of wall space was swallowed by posters—riotous explosions of color advertising decades of Coxwell Theatre productions. Almost every face on them was young, male, and unmistakably dramatic.

It was an oddity in an all-boys prep school, letting students play every role, including the ladies. But Stryberg had always insisted on authenticity of spirit rather than anatomy. For many closeted, repressed boys, being cast as Lady Macbeth or Blanche DuBois was a brief, shimmering kind of liberation. And over the years, Coxwell had turned out its fair share of Broadway talent—all shepherded by Kurt Stryberg, a man known for his velvet grace, sharp discipline, and a rotating collection of flamboyant blazers, each crowned with a fake flower on the lapel. He always smelled faintly of bitters and rosehip oil. He was a teacher who cultivated misfits and marvels with a guiding hand, never a commanding one.

But this morning his usual mirth was gone. His smile was gone. Even his posture was dimmed.

“Sebastian,” he said softly, gesturing for Seb to sit.

Beside him stood Milton “Milt” Drabbs—Coxwell’s athletic director—hands clamped on the back of a chair as though he might throttle it. He acknowledged Seb with a grunt, shifting his weight.

“Milt, this is Sebastian Prescock,” Stryberg said. “He’ll be one of the performers at this year’s talent show.”

Seb blinked. Performing? This entire meeting was supposed to be about asking for an audition. Something was off. When he opened his mouth to correct the professor, Stryberg shot him a single, silencing look. Seb swallowed the protest.

“This pip-squeak?” Milt scoffed. His eyebrows lurched upward. “If this is your strategy to make me fold, Stryberg, you’ll have to try harder.”

Seb felt heat flood his cheeks. A bargaining chip? Great. Should’ve woken up on time.

“Milt,” Kurt sighed, “you know how important this show is to the student body.”

“Some of the student body,” Milt cut in. “Let’s not pretend your art boys represent the whole school.”

Stryberg ignored it. “There has to be a compromise. You can’t take the auditorium from us on that night—of all nights.”

“This isn’t a negotiation,” Milt said flatly. “I’m here as a courtesy.”

Seb felt a spike of anxiety. “Excuse me… what exactly is happening?”

For a moment neither man spoke. Stryberg exhaled, shoulders sagging. He shot a weary look at Milt.

“You didn’t hear?” the professor asked.

Seb shook his head. Stryberg rubbed his eyes.

“Cass Webber and Sean Campbell were murdered on Saturday night.”

The words hit like cold water.

“Wait—the captains of the swim team and the football team?” Seb whispered. “Both of them?”

Stryberg nodded. “The police are questioning anyone who knew them. Most of the students are gathered at the Administration building. It’s quite a scene.”

He shot Milt a glare. “And while that commotion is underway, some… administrative decisions have been made.”

Milt lifted a hand. “I met with the Dean yesterday. He thinks this is the best course.”

Seb’s headache flared. “What course? What decision?” He looked at both men, pleading.

“No more talent show,” Milt said simply. “The school lost its two biggest athletic draws. Swim and football are effectively shut down. No meets, no games. Nothing. Not this semester.”

Seb stared. “And you think canceling the talent show helps?”

“No,” Milt said, lips curling. “But freeing the auditorium does. The homecoming football game is cancelled. We need a replacement. That replacement is Golden King.”

“Golden King?” Seb repeated. “The bodybuilding club?”

“It’s a team now,” Milt corrected. “Part of Falcon United. It’s been gaining traction. We’re making it official this semester—just like the Stallions bodybuilding team over at Bullcock Academy.”

“What Milt means,” Kurt said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “is that they intend to hold the first Golden King competition in the auditorium. In October. In place of the football homecoming game.”

Milt grunted. “Usually you artsy types get your little talent show during the homecoming game while the real men handle the gridiron. But this year? We’re asking for some clemency, given… the circumstances.”

Seb felt tears prick his eyes. “But that’s not fair! You can run your stupid Golden King thing at any other time!”

Kurt’s expression softened. “Seb, if there were another option I would have taken it. The auditorium’s booked solid. Band recitals, choir practices, plays—”

“Wrestling matches,” Milt chimed in, grinning, his teeth the color of old ivory.

“Yes,” Kurt muttered tightly. “Those too. The talent show was the only one-time event we could cut without affecting academics.”

“Why though?” Seb asked, voice cracking. “Not all of us can do those things. Not all of us can be actors or swimmers or wrestlers.”

“Because this school demands to see its men perform!” Milt thundered. “If they can’t kill on the field, they’ll kill on the stage! Do you know how much press and funding we will lose without our swim and football teams competing this year? Without a replacement to draw in the crowds, this place collapses. And trust me—your little poetry recitals don’t bring in donors.”

He shoved the chair aside, fists bunching.

“Alright, Milt,” Kurt snapped. “Enough.”

Milt’s face was plum-red, his fat bulk heaving as he breathed. He glared down at Seb. “Them’s the breaks, kid. Toughen up. You can do your dainty ribbon twirling next year.”

Kurt’s jaw tightened. “Actually, Seb is a very talented ventriloquist. Aren’t you?”

Seb’s stomach twisted. But Kurt’s hopeful look nudged him forward.

“Yeah,” Seb murmured. “I—I can show you.”

“Oh, this’ll be rich,” Milt muttered, folding his arms.

Seb opened the case. Sunny clattered out onto his knee, limbs loose as bones. In an instant the puppet seemed alive, its glossy eyes swiveling over the posters with theatrical disdain.

“Who decorated this dump?” Sunny rasped. “Looks like Broadway vomited and someone decided to keep it.”

Despite himself, Milt barked a laugh. “Well, I’ll be damned. Kid, you might have a knack for this after all.”

“Not half as much as you have a knack for hamburgers, porky,” Sunny shot back.

Seb winced. “He—he does that sometimes—”

Milt’s face purpled. “Listen, you little shit, I swear to—”

A sharp knock rattled the door, the sound cutting through the room like a whipcrack.

“Come in,” Kurt said, his voice thick with anticipation, grateful for anything to pull him out of the spiraling awkwardness.

The frosted glass darkened as a massive silhouette loomed behind it. Seb’s chest clenched hard, breath catching as he turned. Sunny let out a low, filthy whistle. “Hello, nurse,” the puppet rasped, voice dripping with lust.

Milt’s weathered face split into a wolfish grin the instant the door swung open. “Well hey there, Gunnar.”

Gunnar Stokes stepped inside and the air in the office seemed to shrink around him. The nineteen-year-old was pure masculine perfection poured into human shape: six-foot-four, easily three hundred pounds of bulging muscle that flexed and shifted with every breath. A white mesh football jersey—cut brutally short—clung to his shelf-like pecs, the hem riding high enough to expose the deep, carved ridges of his cobblestone abs. Sweat still glistened in the valleys between them, catching the light like oil. Dirty-blond hair spilled in thick waves from beneath a backwards red ballcap, framing bright green eyes that sparkled with cocky amusement.

Below the waist he was sin itself. Threadbare jeans hung so low they barely clung to the dramatic curve of his ass, twin globes of muscle so round and hard they strained the denim with every step. A thin yellow waistband circled his narrow hips—the unmistakable band of a jockstrap—teasing just above the root of something truly monstrous.

“Sorry I’m late, Coach,” Gunnar said in his easy going way, his voice low and lazy, the kind of bedroom baritone that made knees weak. “Had three cheerleaders begging for encores this morning. Took a while to peel them off my dick.” He winked.

Milt chuckled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he could already taste the kid. “Gunnar, perfect timing. Boys, meet one of the five beasts representing Falcon United at the Golden King in October. We’re gonna wipe the floor with those Bullcock Academy pricks.”

Seb couldn’t speak. Sunny squirmed in his lap like a horny gremlin.

“But more importantly,” Milt continued, eyes gleaming, “Gunnar’s gonna model our secret weapon for the season.”

“What’s that?” Sunny piped up, “A brain?” The remark was met by a slap to the puppet’s head by Seb.

Gunnar ignored the remark. His lips curved into a smug, filthy smirk. “You want the big reveal, Coach?”

“Show ‘em what you’re packing, son.”

Gunnar didn’t rush. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of those precarious jeans and popped the button with deliberate slowness. The zipper rasped down, tooth by tooth. He peeled the denim over the swell of his ass, letting it drop in a heap around his ankles. The yellow jockstrap came into full view—stretched to its absolute limit by the heaviest, longest cock Seb had ever seen. Even soft, the thing was obscene: a thick, wrist-fat tube of meat that hung nearly halfway to Gunnar’s knees, the bloated head pushing against the bright yellow pouch like it was desperate to escape. Veins snaked along its impossible length, pulsing faintly beneath the thin fabric. Stamped in bold black letters down the side of the pouch: FUCK.

Gunnar rolled his hips once, slow and lewd, making the fat bulge sway heavily between his thighs. A wet spot bloomed at the tip as a thick bead of precum oozed out, stretching in a glistening string before it broke and spattered onto the carpet.

Then, because he knew exactly what he was doing, Gunnar hit a double biceps pose. His twenty-three-inch arms exploded upward; the sleeves of the mesh jersey shredded like tissue, threads snapping as boulder-sized peaks ripped free. His abs crunched into a brutal eight-pack, every ridge casting sharp shadows. The jockstrap groaning audibly as his cock gave a thick, eager throb, another fat drop of precum surging out to darken the yellow fabric even more.

“Whaddya think, Coach?” Gunnar rumbled, voice husky now, green eyes half-lidded with pure alpha arrogance. He reached down and palmed the monstrous bulge, fingers barely able to wrap halfway around its girth. He squeezed, and the fat head flared, another slow rivulet of clear fluid dripping steadily from the tip. “Think the crowd’ll like the new team gear?”

“Better hope not butcher gets a hold of that hog,” Sunny said, eyes twirling in his head. Seb elbowed the puppet hard enough to rattle its teeth.

Gunnar grinned. “I’d like to see them try.” He said, making his soft cock throb once more as he flexed.

Milt was openly drooling now, tongue dragging across his lower lip. “Every one of our Falcon United bodybuilding boys will be training and posing in the new FUCK line. Fitness mags, modeling agencies—they’re already jerking off to the previews we sent. By October the whole country’s gonna know the type of MEN that we make at Coxwell!”

Kurt finally found his voice, though it came out a strangled squeak. “You—you printed the word FUCK across their cups? In block letters?”

Gunnar chuckled, low and dirty. He dragged one thick thumb along the length of his trapped cock, tracing a vein that pulsed under his touch. “Stands for Falcon United at Coxwell, Kellsbro,” he said, voice dripping sex. “But yeah… also the other thing.” He flexed his hips again, making the colossal member bounce and slap heavily against his rippling thighs. “It’s what we do best.”

“It’s the only thing you do,” Sunny said. Seb shushed the puppet once more.

Kurt was dumbfounded. “I just – I don’t see how the Dean has endorsed this… I mean, Milt this is really beyond the pale–”

Before Kurt could stammer another protest, another knock—sharper this time—cut through the haze of testosterone.

Kurt rubbed both hands over his flushed face. “Yes—who is it?”

The door cracked open. His secretary, Douglas, stood there, doing his level best not to stare at the two perfect, marble-round globes of Gunnar’s exposed ass. The poor man’s gaze flicked down anyway, pupils blowing wide.

“Uh—Mr. Stryberg?” he managed, voice cracking. “The police are here. They… they need to speak with Sebastian.” He gulped, a flash of fear on his face as he saw Sunny on Sebastian’s lap, “They need to speak with him right now.”

Outside, Augusto “Gusto” Tormenta angled the van’s side-mirror and dragged his fingers through his thick, raven-black hair one last time, the pomade leaving it glossy and heavy. The Latino reporter flashed his teeth, then popped another button on his crisp shirt. The fabric parted wider, sliding down the deep valley between his heavy, bronze pecs until the silver cross nestled right in the sweat-slick crease. A faint sheen already gleamed there, the morning sun catching the slow slide of perspiration over smooth skin and dark hair.

He stepped onto the grass and rolled his broad shoulders back, shirt straining across the thick slabs of muscle. Behind him the crime scene buzzed: cops, tape, flashing lights, clusters of students stealing glances at the news crew.

Gusto gave a quick nod. Freddie, his cameraman, grunted and hoisted the heavy rig to his shoulder. The redhead was built like a brick wall – thick neck, veiny forearms flexing under the weight of the camera, his green tee riding up just enough to flash a strip of hard abs every time he adjusted the lens. Freddie’s biceps bunched as he zoomed in, framing Gusto tight: those dark, bedroom eyes, the cocky tilt of full lips, the way his open shirt gaped with every breath so the cross shifted against sweat-damp skin.

Freddie’s own breath fogged the viewfinder a little; he didn’t bother wiping it. He liked the shot.

“This is Augusto Tormenta for Verdantia Channel Five News,” Gusto started, voice low and rolling, that faint Spanish lilt curling around every word like smoke. “Reporting from Coxwell Collegiate, where the brutal double murder of two star athletes has left this campus reeling.”

He turned slightly, shirt pulling tighter across his chest, pecs shifting under the fabric. “Police are interviewing students and staff, trying to find who slaughtered the captains of the swim team and football team in cold blood.”

“Behind me,” he continued, sweeping one muscled arm back, “students are waiting for answers… hold on–” His eyes narrowed, then widened. “Freddie, that’s him. That’s Sebastian Prescock. Move!”

He broke into a run, thighs flexing under tailored slacks, shirt flapping open farther with every stride so the cross bounced against his sternum. Freddie followed, camera steady, quads pumping, the harness strap cutting across his broad chest and making his pecs jump with the impact of each step.

Sebastian barely registered the commotion. He walked in a daze behind a deputy, clutching Sunny’s black case so hard his knuckles went white. Despite the warmth of the sun, his entire body shivered under his black hoodie. He reeled from the news of the talent show cancellation, but the fact that the police wanted to interview him of all people? Was he a suspect? He tried to think of what he did over the weekend, but his mind was a stubborn fog. He cursed his new medication.

Following behind him, with a gentle hand on his shoulder, was professor Kurt Stryberg, his secretary Douglas in tow. Dawdling behind was Athletics Director Milton Drabbs, who had dismissed hunky Gunnar and decided he’d come along for the joyride to see what all the fuss was about. He’d already been interviewed by the police on Sunday but he was curious to see what possible reason they’d have to talk to the lanky, introverted puppeteer.

Seb was lost in his thoughts when he felt Stryberg’s hand clench on his shoulder.

“Oh no,” Kurt said, stopping. “Gusto Tormenta is here.”

Sebastian’s stomach dropped. He followed Kurt’s glare and there was Gusto, cutting straight across the quad like a shark through water, dark eyes locked on him, lips parted in that hungry half-smile. The open shirt fluttered with every long stride, bronze chest flashing, cross swinging against slick skin.

“SEB! SEBASTIAN! HEY, AMIGO!” Gusto’s voice carried, rich and teasing. Freddie jogged behind him, red hair bouncing, thick arms flexing under the camera’s weight, green tee soaked at the collar and clinging to the deep groove between his pecs.

Milt finally caught up, breathing hard, eyes immediately dropping to the reporter. The white dress shirt was plastered to Gusto’s torso now from the sprint. Lower, the tailored slacks did nothing to hide the heavy sway of his cock, thick even at rest, shifting with every step like it was looking for room. Milt swallowed as his eyes drank in the hunk. 

“Don’t be fooled by him,” Kurt snarled, as if reading Milt’s thoughts, “He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing”

Kurt Stryberg turned to the deputy. “Get Seb inside. Now.”

The deputy grabbed Sebastian’s arm and pulled. Sebastian threw one last desperate glance at Kurt, who answered with a tight, protective nod.

Gusto reached them just as Sebastian was dragged away, the reporter’s chest heaving, sweat running down the center of his abs and disappearing beneath his belt.

“Hey, amigos, I just need thirty seconds with the kid,” Gusto said, voice smooth, that faint accent curling around every syllable. He stepped closer, close enough that Kurt could smell the pomade and warm skin.

“He doesn’t want to talk to you,” Kurt said, crossing his arms. Despite the bright zest of his outfit and his loafers, the older flamboyant director knew how to be imposing when he had to. 

“Come on Mister Stryberg,” Gusto said teasingly. “I was your favorite student back in the day, right papito? Come on. You can do me a little favor.  Hell -- you OWE me. Remember I killed that story about boys playing women in your shows? I helped you with that one.” He looked over at Seb being dragged away and clucked his tongue: “Looks like you still need some help. What do you say guapo?”

“Get the fuck out of here. Now.” Kurt said, teeth clenched. His fine moustache was twitching.

“Come on, I drove all the way from Goldenwood.” Gusto’s grin widened, wolfish, white teeth flashing. “Seb? He’s legal now. Fair game for an interview.

“Haven’t you wrung enough blood from him you leech?” Kurt said, his voice darkening with anger. “I know what you put him through. What you put his family through. Two summers ago. Your reporting on what happened at Lake Adonis. The way you framed him –” he could feel his fists bunch.

“Hey, I just report what sells,” Gusto shrugged, pecs bouncing with the motion, shirt gaping wider. “I only write the stories. The truth is something else.” He grinned.

KER-WHACK.

Kurt’s fist snapped out, clean and hard, right into Gusto’s mouth. The reporter’s head rocked back, perfect hair flipping, a grunt ripping out of him as he stumbled. The silver cross whipped across his chest and stuck to damp skin.

Freddie barked a short laugh behind the lens, zooming in on Gusto’s stunned face, then lower to where the punch had made his cock jump visibly against the front of his slacks.

“You stay the FUCK away from that boy,” Kurt hissed, already turning. His secretary, Douglas, looked on helplessly.

“Hey—Kurt, wait— what about your ten o’clock?” Douglas started, but Kurt cut him off with a sharp wave.

“Stay put, Douglas. I need to find Seb.”

Douglas’s arms dropped like a kicked puppy. Milt stood there, half-hard in his khakis, piggish eyes flicking between Kurt’s retreating back and Gusto rubbing his jaw.

Milt cleared his throat. “Uh, I gotta go too, fellas. But hey—” he flashed Gusto a grin, “—we’re putting on Coxwell’s first bodybuilding show at homecoming in the fall. I’m having the team over to my place on Friday for a photoshoot. You should come. You’ll get some great shots of the boys pumping up in their new gear.” His gaze lingered on the fat outline straining Gusto’s slacks

Gusto blinked, still dazed, tasting blood on his lip, and nodded half-heartedly. Freddie lowered the camera, slung a thick arm around Gusto’s waist to haul him upright, big hand splaying low on the reporter’s back, thumb brushing the waistband.

Milt gave them one last once-over and jogged after Kurt.

Douglas stayed rooted, looking lost, while Freddie’s palm slid a fraction lower, steadying—or maybe just enjoying—the heat radiating off Gusto’s skin.

Inside the administration building, Milt caught Kurt just inside the marble rotunda, hand clamping down on the man’s shoulder, thick fingers digging in.

“What the hell was all that back there?” Milt asked, voice low, belly pressing against his tucked polo.

Kurt glanced around. Only one deputy stood by the doors, thumbs hooked in his belt. They were alone enough.

“I’m only telling you this so you understand exactly what you’re doing with this ridiculous FUCK nonsense,” Kurt said. “That talent show was the one thing keeping Sebastian Prescock from falling apart. Cancel it for your sleazy merchandise money and you might as well push him the rest of the way into oblivion.”

Milt’s eyebrow went up, unimpressed. “Why should I care about some weak little arts boy?”

“Two summers ago,” Kurt went on, “Seb and another boy took a canoe out on Lake Adonis before dawn when they were at camp. Only Seb came back.”

Milt shifted his weight, arms folding over his heavy gut.

“Gusto Tormenta ran the story that Seb poisoned him, tied a cinder block to his ankle, and rolled him overboard. ‘Forbidden teenage love gone wrong.’ Sold papers, wrecked lives. Seb’s family turned their back on him. Milt – kids spat on him in the halls. My sister taught him art back in Kellsbro—she begged me to look out for him when he transferred here.”

Milt scratched his thick neck. “And now, with two dead jocks, Tormenta smells blood again.”

“Exactly. And we just marched the kid across the quad like a goddamn suspect.” Kurt’s jaw flexed. He looked up at the ceiling, choking back feelings he had always kept deep within himself. “That talent show was Seb’s lifeline. You and the Dean just yanked it away because you want to sell jockstraps and waterbottles off the back of half-naked young men. Congratulations.”

Milt snorted. “Kid needs to man up. World doesn’t hand out participation trophies for puppet shows.”

Kurt stepped in close, voice dropping to a growl. “Whatever happens next “ his voice was ice cold, “Whatever he does – that’s now on you, Milt.”

He walked off, loafers clicking across marble. Milt stood there, a weird chill crawling up his wide back despite the heat.

Outside, Gusto leaned against the van, tilting the side-mirror to inspect the damage. His bottom lip was already fat and shining, a thin line of blood at the corner.

“Fucker split me good,” he muttered, tongue flicking over the cut. The sting went straight to his dick; he was half-hard just from the ache. “Gonna have to do voice-over tonight. No close-ups.”

Freddie crouched by the open van doors, swapping a lens. The green tee had ridden up in back, exposing the deep dimples above his ass and the black waistband of his underwear peeking out. Every time he reached for a tool, the fabric stretched across his lats and the thick traps bunched at his neck.

Gusto’s cock thickened the rest of the way, pressing a heavy ridge down the left leg of his slacks.

“You owe me a blowjob for letting that happen, bro,” Gusto said, voice husky, adjusting himself without shame.

Freddie smirked, didn’t even look up. “Keep dreaming, pretty boy.”

Gusto turned back to the mirror—and caught a reflection twenty yards off. Douglas, Kurt’s mousy secretary, stood frozen on the grass, eyes locked on Gusto’s ass. The guy’s mouth was actually open, gaze tracing the way the tailored fabric cupped both round cheeks, seam disappearing between them.

Gusto grinned, slow and filthy, lip still bleeding.

“Yo, Freddie,” he said, rolling his hips just enough to make the muscle flex. “Change of plans. I just found our way back inside.”