CUT: Part 5

The wall sconces of the seedy motel room cast a hazy amber light on the three men on the rumpled queen bed. The air smelled of cheap motel soap, sweat, and the sweet scent of marijuana.

Augusto "Gusto" Tormenta, the suave 26-year-old TV reporter, was on all fours in the center of the bed, his smooth tan skin glistening under the light. His 6'1 frame—235 pounds of pure, sculpted muscle—rippled with every movement. He balanced on his forearms, pecs on the bed, his back flexing, arched, his heavenly bubble butt high and inviting, like the globes of two basketballs. His golden brown eyes glanced behind him, a charming smirk playing on his full lips even through the sting of an angry red cut.

Behind him knelt Douglas, Kurt Stryberg’s 36-year-old office assistant, his gangly body contrasting sharply with Gusto's perfection. Mousey hair disheveled, features a bit too large for his narrow face, he gripped Gusto's hips with trembling hands, his 7-inch cut cock pressed up against Gusto’s tight hole, rubbing up between those globes. Douglas moaned. He pushed the head of his cock into Gusto’s tight entrance, feeling it sucked inside. He began to thrust steadily, lost in the overwhelming sensation of mounting this muscle god, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he drove in again and again.

"God, you're so fucking tight," Douglas muttered, his voice hoarse with awe, leaning forward to press his chest against Gusto's broad back.

Gusto chuckled low and throaty, pushing back against him. "Take what you need, guapo. Fill me up." 

At the edge of the bed stood Freddie, Augusto's burly 30-year-old cameraman—6'2 and 250 pounds of solid linebacker build, his wavy red hair peeking from under a blue ball cap. Green eyes burned with lust as he stroked his massive 11.5-inch uncut cock, the thick shaft veined and throbbing, foreskin pulled back to reveal the glistening head. A dusting of rusty red hair covered his hefty pecs, his body radiating raw power as he watched the scene unfold.

Freddie climbed onto the bed behind Douglas, his large hands spreading the gangly man's ass cheeks. "My turn to join the train," he growled in a deep, rumbling voice, lining up his monster cock with Douglas's entrance. Douglas froze for a moment, then moaned loudly as Freddie pushed in—slow at first, the uncut head breaching him, then inch after relentless inch stretching him wide.

"Fuck... oh fuck, it's huge," Douglas whimpered, his thrusts into Gusto faltering as Freddie bottomed out, balls deep.

Gusto reached back, grabbing Douglas's thigh to steady him. "Breathe, Doug. Let him in. Feels good, doesn't it?"

Freddie grinned, his hands clamping on Douglas's hips as he began to move—powerful, deep strokes that forced Douglas to rock forward into Gusto with every thrust. The chain reaction built quickly: Freddie pounding Douglas, Douglas slamming into Gusto, the bed creaking under their combined weight. Sweat slicked their bodies, the room filling with the wet sounds of skin slapping skin, grunts, and moans.

Gusto's thick 10-inch uncut cock swung heavy and untouched beneath him, leaking precum onto the sheets as Douglas's thrusts hit his prostate just right. His bubble butt clenched rhythmically, milking Douglas inside him. "Harder," Gusto demanded, voice suave even in ecstasy. "Both of you—fuck me harder through him."

Freddie obliged, his linebacker strength driving the pace faster, deeper. Douglas was a mess between them, overwhelmed, his narrow face flushed red as he took Freddie's girth while buried in Gusto's perfect ass.

The pressure built to a breaking point. Gusto's golden brown eyes rolled back, his muscular body tensing. "I'm... fuck, I'm close—"

Douglas cried out first, slamming in one final time as his cock pulsed, shooting thick ropes of cum deep inside Gusto's hole. The sensation pushed Gusto over the edge—his massive uncut dick erupted hands-free, spurting powerful jets of cum across the sheets, his bubble butt spasming around Douglas as waves of pleasure ripped through him.

Freddie felt Douglas clench around him from his orgasm and pulled out with a wet pop, his 11.5-inch cock slick and throbbing. "On your knees, both of you," he commanded, standing at the edge of the bed.

Gusto and Douglas obeyed eagerly, sliding off the bed to kneel before him. Gusto's tan, muscular form knelt tall and proud, cum still dripping from his spent cock; Douglas beside him, gangly and spent but hungry-eyed. They leaned in together, tongues lapping at Freddie's massive shaft—Gusto's mouth taking the head, Douglas licking the veiny length and balls.

Freddie groaned, hand tangling in Gusto's slicked-back hair and Douglas's mousey strands, guiding them. "That's it... worship it."

Their tongues swirled and sucked in tandem, messy and fervent, until Freddie's hips bucked. With a deep roar, he came—thick, heavy loads erupting across their faces and tongues, painting Gusto's chiseled jaw and Douglas's features as they licked him clean, swallowing every drop.

All three men panted heavily, before Douglas broke the spell: “Wow fellas”, he said, a grin on his face, like a kid who just had his entire Christmas wish list filled. He wiped the thick streaks of cum from his forehead with the back of his hand, then fumbled across the tangled sheets for his glasses. He slipped them on, the lenses immediately fogging slightly from the heat still radiating off his pale, sweat-slicked skin. His narrow chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, gangly limbs trembling from the aftershocks. 

“That was hot, amigo,” Gusto purred, rising fluidly from the bed. The cheap amber motel lighting bathed his smooth tan skin in a warm glow, turning it an even richer golden bronze, every sculpted muscle gleaming as if oiled. He reached for the thin towel draped over the dresser—and froze.

Beneath it sat Freddie’s shoulder-mount camera, perfectly positioned on the low surface, its red recording light steady and persistent. The lens pointed directly at the bed, capturing the three of them in crisp, unforgiving frame.

“Ay, ay, ay, Freddie,” Gusto said slowly, a dangerous smile curling his lips as he straightened to his full 6'1 height. “You didn’t leave that thing running, did you?”

Freddie leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his hairy pecs, blue ball cap still crooked on his red hair. He shrugged, green eyes glinting with mischief. “Whoops. Must’ve forgotten to hit stop after the shoot earlier.” His deep voice was all mock innocence.

Both men turned their gazes to Douglas, still on his knees beside the bed, looking suddenly smaller and paler than ever.

Gusto’s voice dropped to a velvet tease. “Would be a shame if anyone important saw that footage.”

“Lucky for us,” Freddie added, pushing off the wall and stepping closer, “I’m pretty good in the editing suite. Faces can get blurred. Identities protected. Two of them, at least.” He let the silence hang heavy. 

The two bigger men loomed in front of Douglas now—Gusto’s chiseled perfection and Freddie’s linebacker bulk forming an intimidating wall of muscle. Douglas swallowed hard, eyes darting between them and the red light.

Gusto extended a hand downward, palm open. After a hesitant beat, Douglas took it, letting the reporter pull him to his feet.

“What… what is this?” Douglas stammered, voice cracking. “You wouldn’t actually—”

“I would, guapo,” Gusto cut in smoothly, all trace of playfulness gone, brown eyes hard. “Unless you feel like sharing some information.”

Douglas’s face crumpled—hurt, mortified, cornered. His nose twitched behind his glasses as he glanced once more at the camera’s unwavering red eye.

Silence stretched. Then, barely audible: “What do you want to know?”

Gusto’s charming grin returned. 

Jackpot. 

A few miles away, Sebastian Prescock sat huddled on the cold curb outside the Glory Howl, the world around him muffled and distant, as if submerged underwater. 

Sharp flashes of red, blue, and purple lights strobed across his blurred vision, overwhelming his senses. Only a small clearing in the center allowed him to focus: in the distance, between fire engines, two paramedics wheeling a gurney toward an ambulance, a black body bag strapped atop it, zipped shut, Gunnar Stokes — or what remained of him — inside.

His knobby knees were pulled tight to his chest. Channing and Lyle flanked him, their presence a faint comfort against the chaos. As his sight slowly sharpened, he made out Dean Himbro standing a few paces away—the thickly muscled older man wrapped in a loose velvet robe that hung open at the chest, revealing a dense mat of hair across his heavy pectorals. The fabric shifted with his movements, hinting at little beneath it; thick calves like footballs, and the barest glimpse of naked, bulging thighs. He was arguing heatedly with the handsome young Deputy Dezzy, who held a large plastic evidence bag in one hand. Every few seconds, their eyes flicked toward Seb: the Dean’s burning with rage and barely concealed fear, Dezzy’s struggling to hide sympathy behind professional steel.

The argument ceased abruptly. Both men turned and approached.

“Seb,” Dezzy said gently, crouching to eye level. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to add to your statement?” 

Seb felt the weight of the Motorola phone in his pocket—Kurt’s cellphone, heavy as lead. What could he possibly say? That he’d received a threatening call from his own ventriloquist doll? The voice had been unmistakable: Sunny’s voice. 

No, not Sunny's voice. 

His voice. 

He swallowed hard, doubt clawing at him. Had he imagined it all? Another heavy fog. More missing pieces. Just like the weekend.

“No,” Seb replied, voice steady and rehearsed. “I was outside, putting Sunny back in his case. I was heading back to campus when I saw the flames. I ran inside and told someone to call 911.”

Dezzy’s face tightened with quiet pain. He glanced at Channing and Lyle. “You two were inside the whole time?”

They nodded in unison.

“It was packed,” Channing added quickly. “We got separated in the crowd. I only found Lyle and Seb again once the sirens started.”

Dean Himbro exhaled a frustrated huff, burly arms folding across his broad chest. Fuzzy slippers still on his feet, he looked absurdly out of place amid the emergency lights. “Then explain this, you little freak.” He snatched the evidence bag from Dezzy’s hand and thrust it inches from Seb’s face.

The clear plastic held another mask of a ventriloquist puppet —Sunny’s face, splattered with dark, drying blood. 

“Take a good look,” the Dean snarled, leaning in close, hot breath washing over Seb. He shoved the bag forward until it nearly touched Seb’s nose. “We have another student dead. A killer on the loose. Where the fuck were you really?”

“That’s enough!” Deputy Dezzy barked, seizing the Dean’s massive arm and hauling him back a step.

“This is bullshit, Dezzy,” Dean Himbro growled. “We need to track down this Hollowface psycho right now.”

“No,” came a smooth, familiar baritone from the shadows. “We need to find Kurt Stryberg.”

Augusto “Gusto” Tormenta stepped into the light, crisp white shirt unbuttoned halfway, silver cross glinting against the deep tan of his thick pectorals. His face still handsome and youthful, despite the swelling of his lower lip from Kurt's earlier assault. Freddie loomed behind him, shoulder-mounted camera rolling, red light steady.

“And we’re calling this hombre ‘Hollowface’?” Gusto said, smirking. “Sounds right out of a B-movie.”

"What are you doing here, Gusto?" The Dean sighed.

"Well, it was hard not to miss all the sirens rushing past my motel room," Gusto said, teeth white, perfect smile, "Where they go, I follow. It’s my job. But it’s funny that I'd find all of you here," he said, eyes drifting to Sebastian, who tried to avoid his gaze.

Lyle Lilly rose to his feet, brow creased with worry. “Why do we need to find Kurt Stryberg?” 

“He’s vanished,” Gusto replied, looking at the group. “According to his assistant, he never returned for his afternoon appointments. No one’s seen him since. Home phone isn’t being picked up, either. Dead silence.” He let the words hang, then turned to the Dean and Dezzy. “Suspicious timing, huh?”

The Dean and the deputy exchanged a loaded glance—heavy, knowing.

Sebastian caught it. His stomach dropped further. He stood slowly, Channing rising beside him.

“What is it?” Seb asked, voice tight. “What’s going on?”

Dezzy sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Phone records show calls made to Cass’s uncle’s house the night Cass and Sean were killed.” His grim gaze settled on Seb. “Those calls came from a cellphone registered to Kurt Stryberg.”

The phone in Seb’s pocket suddenly felt like an anchor chained to his waist, dragging him down into a cold abyss.

“Are you saying Kurt Stryberg is behind the killings?” Gusto pressed, his voice smooth and pointed as he gestured for Freddie to zoom in tighter. The cameraman obeyed, lens closing the distance. 

Deputy Dezzy’s eyes flicked to the camera, realization dawning. His mouth opened, then closed, cheeks flushing deep red under the strobing emergency lights. He’d let too much slip.

“Turn that fucking thing off!” Dean Himbro barked, lunging forward. His thick hand slammed over the lens, completely eclipsing the shot. Freddie the cameraman started to object, but the raw fury blazing in the Dean’s eyes silenced him instantly.

Dezzy cleared his throat, regaining composure. “What I’m saying, Augusto, is that I agree with you. We need to find Kurt Stryberg. Fast.”

“And until we do,” the Dean growled, jabbing a meaty finger toward Seb, “we need to lock that one up.”

“Wait—what?” Seb blurted, shrinking back.

“You can’t arrest him!” Channing protested, stepping protectively in front of his friend. “There’s zero evidence!” 

Dezzy shook his head firmly. “We’re not arresting him. But the Dean and I do agree—Seb, you should stay in your dorm room with a deputy posted outside. Just until we find Kurt.”

Lyle’s jaw dropped. “Uh—hello? What about me? I’m his roommate.”

Dean Himbro waved a dismissive hand, the velvet robe shifting dangerously across his broad chest. “Half the student body’s scattered now that classes are canceled. We’ll find you another bed, princess.”

Dezzy moved closer to Seb, resting a steady hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Listen to me, Seb,” he said gently, shooting a sharp, disapproving glance at the Dean. “We’re not accusing you of anything. But whatever’s happening… it’s circling back to you. For your own safety, we need you in one place until we figure this out.”

Seb’s gaze drifted to Channing and Lyle. Both looked helpless, worry etched across their faces. He turned the idea over in his mind: no family to run to, his mentor vanished, a masked killer wearing his puppet’s face slaughtering people, and his own grip on reality slipping. Staying put, guarded, suddenly felt like the only sane choice left.

“Alright,” Sebastian said quietly. “I’ll stay in the room.”

Gusto’s charming grin flashed white in the darkness as he turned back to the deputy. “Well then, Deputy,” he said, golden brown eyes gleaming with purpose. “Let’s go find Kurt Stryberg.”