CUT: Part 6

The rabbit-eared television flickered with a sickly blue glow in the dim dorm room, casting long shadows across the worn carpet. Someone had wheeled the ancient set in as a supposed distraction during Seb’s confinement. He wasn’t sure if it was a kindness or a cruelty. Either way, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the unfolding coverage.

On screen, Augusto “Gusto” Tormenta stood in the leafy heart of Coxwell’s quad, the stately brick buildings rising behind him like tombstones. His crisp white shirt strained against the swell of his thick pectorals, the fabric pulling taut with every practiced gesture. Seb leaned forward on the edge of his bed and twisted the volume knob higher.

“...Coxwell students and faculty remain on edge tonight as the killer dubbed ‘Hollowface’ is still at large,” Gusto said, his voice smooth and authoritative, golden brown eyes staring straight into the lens. “With classes scheduled to resume Monday, authorities appear no closer to making arrests for this brutal string of murders.

“In related developments, Kellsbro police are urging anyone with information on the whereabouts of Coxwell professor Kurt Stryberg to come forward immediately. Police say he might have important information related to these crimes. 

“While school officials insist the campus is safe, students and faculty wonder if these horrifying events will forever stain the legacy of this prestigious male prep-school.

"Reporting from Coxwell, this is Augusto Tormenta, Verdantia Channel Five News.”

Seb rose slowly and clicked the power button. The screen shrank to a single white dot before dying entirely.

Friday. Day four of house arrest.

Aside from the deputy’s gruff exchanges when sliding meal trays through the door, Seb had spoken to almost no one. Channing and Lyle had been allowed a brief visit—five tense minutes under the suspicious squint of the heavyset deputy stationed in the hall. Lyle had tried to hand over a few photos he’d snapped of Seb and Sunny performing at the Glory Howl on Monday night. Seb politely refused them. He hadn’t so much as unlatched Sunny’s case since that terrible evening.

News from outside trickled in sparingly. The deputy never volunteered anything. Deputy Dezzy’s single check-in had offered nothing new—just a tired assurance that the investigation was “ongoing.” Seb couldn’t shake the growing suspicion that “ongoing” meant they already believed they had their man: him, confined to this room like a suspect in all but name. 

Kurt’s cellphone remained hidden in the lining of his mattress. The guilt of concealing it had curdled into a frantic need to keep it secret. Part of him still nursed the irrational hope that he might somehow reach Kurt with it. But he knew the number was flagged; turning it on and making an outgoing call would bring deputies bursting through the door within minutes.

Seb drifted to the dormer window and sank onto the narrow sill. Through the bare branches of an old oak, the lighted windows of Dean Himbro’s sprawling modern mansion glowed warmly across the street—a view Seb knew intimately. The Dean never bothered with blinds or curtains, and the placement of the house directly opposite the boys’ dorm was no accident. It was the campus’s worst-kept secret.

Seb’s gaze settled habitually on the master bathroom’s wide window, its lower half frosted for a pretense of modesty. Even through the distortion, the black-tiled expanse beyond was visible enough: steam rising, the broad silhouette of the Dean moving beneath the shower’s spray, thick arms raising to lather the heavy slabs of his hairy chest and corrugated belly. Seb had long since trained himself not to linger on the sight, but tonight the distant ritual felt like the only moving thing in his frozen world.

Of course, no such frosting obscured the master bedroom window, bright bold and lit like a stage behind a tastefully furnished balcony on the second floor. Dean Himbro never bothered with blinds or curtains there—not fully, anyway. Some nights he’d leave them wide open, the warm amber glow from his bedside lamps spilling out like an invitation. Seb had seen it all, too many times to count.

The Dean slept naked on his sprawling king-sized bed, his massive 6'4, 290lbs frame sprawled without shame, sheets kicked to the footboard more often than not. Even in sleep, his thick, veiny cock rested heavy against one furry thigh—always half-hard, as if perpetually ready. Seb had watched it twitch and swell in the quiet hours, the Dean’s huge hand drifting down to give it a lazy squeeze before rolling over.

He knew exactly what the Dean wore beneath those impeccably tailored slacks during the day: a black jockstrap with a thick grey waistband, the straps framing the dense, hairy globes of his ass like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. Seb had seen him peel out of his clothes after late-night returns, turning slowly in front of the full-length mirror, flexing those tree-trunk quads and bouncing his glutes just to watch the straps dig in.

Some evenings were worse—or better, depending on the night. Seb had frozen at the window more than once as the Dean strapped on a black leather harness that crisscrossed his barrel chest, the silver rings glinting against dark hair. A matching leather cap perched on his head, and he’d stand there in the center of the room, licking slow trails up his own swollen biceps, grunting low as two vacant-eyed Coxwell jocks—freshmen or sophomores Seb vaguely recognized from classes—knelt at his feet. They took turns worshipping that monstrous cock, mouths stretched wide, drool shining on their chins while the Dean’s thick fingers tangled in their hair, guiding them deeper.

Mornings brought their own rituals. The Dean often shuffled into the kitchen naked except for a comically small apron that did nothing to hide the heavy sway of his dick beneath. He’d fry bacon or scramble eggs, humming to himself, occasionally reaching down to adjust himself with a casual tug, the apron tenting obscenely whenever he caught sight of the dorm windows across the street.

And then there were the deliberate shows.

Seb had lost track of how many times he’d watched the Dean plant himself directly in front of the bedroom window at dusk, fronting onto the master suite balcony, completely nude, sweat glistening on his huge pumped muscles from a late workout. He’d run those huge paws over his pecs, pinching his thick nipples until they stood dark and stiff, then wrap one meaty fist around his 11-inch cock—beer-can thick, foreskin sliding back to reveal a fat, leaking head. Slow, deliberate strokes, eyes locked on the dorm lights flickering on across the way. If he spotted movement at a window—any hint of a curious silhouette—he’d smirk, give a subtle nod, maybe even crook a finger in lazy invitation, as if to say, Come pay your respects, boy.

If anything, Seb’s stubborn refusal to play along—those charged moments when their eyes locked across the dark street, the Dean’s meaty fist gliding slow and deliberate along his throbbing 11-inch shaft, that arrogant nod daring Seb to acknowledge him—only fueled the older man’s public contempt. Seb never gave in. He never waved, never nodded back. He simply stared, unflinching, until the Dean’s smirk faltered and he turned away. That quiet defiance, that withheld worship, likely explained at least part of the venom the Dean aimed at him.

Seb saw through the performance for exactly what it was: calculated, shameless exhibitionism. The garish Falcons United at Coxwell, Kellsbro – FUCK – merchandise, the obscenity of the Coxwell bodybuilding team in barely-there jockstraps, all oiled muscle and bulging pouches—had absolutely been his brainchild. Seb could almost admire the brazen genius of it: turning a prestigious prep school’s athletic program into the Dean’s personal empire of perversion, all under the flimsy banner of school spirit and fundraising. Almost. 

But tonight, as steam fogged the bathroom window and the Dean’s broad back filled the frame of the shower —lathering those massive, hairy shoulders with slow, sensual circles of the sponge—Seb felt only a weary resignation. This was a man who didn’t just lack modesty, it was a man who built a kingdom on never having to pretend he had any.

Seb’s eyes stayed locked on the bathroom window as Dean Himbro twisted the faucet shut,  turned the shower off and snatched a towel from the rack. He knotted it low on his hips—the fabric straining against the swell of his ass and the obvious bulge in front—before padding barefoot into the master bedroom.

The overhead lights were dimmed to a warm amber glow, turning the room into a private stage. Seb’s breath fogged the dormer glass as the bedroom door swung open.

In strode Mason “the Ace” Mace, fresh from a late-night workout, still in his gym gear. Six-two, a shredded 250 pounds of teenage muscle, his bleached-blond waves damp with sweat and falling across his forehead. Golden skin gleamed under the lamps, every cut and striation highlighted like he’d been oiled for a contest. A smug, boyish grin played on his lips as he spotted the Dean lounging against the footboard, towel tenting noticeably.

Mason didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The Dean’s hungry stare said everything.

The young stud kicked the door shut behind him and stepped into the center of the room—directly in the wide, uncurtained window’s frame. He rolled his broad shoulders once, lats flaring, then reached for the hem of his sweat-soaked tank top. Slowly, deliberately, he peeled it upward, revealing inch after inch of carved golden abs—eight perfect ridges popping under taut skin. The shirt caught briefly on his shelf-like pecs before he tugged it free, the fabric snapping over his head. He let it drop to the rug, then flexed both arms in a casual double biceps, veins snaking across his peaks as his chest heaved.

The Dean’s towel twitched higher.

A sudden shift of shadow on the second-floor balcony snared Seb’s gaze. 

Something dark uncoiled from beneath a teak chaise lounge—a billowing black cloak rising like living smoke. 

Then the figure straightened.

Hollowface. 

The killer stood mere feet from the uncurtained master-bedroom doors, the white mask gleaming under the faint balcony light: Sunny’s painted grin, frozen in manic joy, staring out from beneath a deep hood of black fabric. In one gloved hand, a long hunting knife caught the glow—its wickedly curved blade serrated near the hilt, promising slow, ripping agony.

And the masked head was tilted directly toward Seb’s window. Those empty black eye sockets fixed on him across the street, unblinking.

Hollowface was looking right at him.

“Fuck,” Seb whispered, panic clawing up his throat. He bolted to the dorm door, fists pounding the wood. “HEY! HEY, OPEN UP! CALL THE COPS—THE KILLER’S AT THE DEAN’S HOUSE RIGHT NOW!” His screams echoed down the empty hall, raw and desperate.

Silence. No footsteps, no gruff reply. That lazy, overweight deputy—Seb had suspected the bastard would bail for a snack run or a nap, abandoning his post in the dead of night. He hammered harder, knuckles splitting against the unyielding door. “ARE YOU THERE? HELP—PLEASE!”

Nothing. Just the echo of his own voice. If there were any other students left in the dorm, they clearly weren’t paying attention either. 

Seb whirled back toward the room, lunging for the mattress. His fingers clawed out Kurt’s hidden cellphone and thumbed the power button. The screen flared to life just as the device buzzed in his hand:

UNKNOWN CALLER

He jerked his head to the window.

On the balcony, Hollowface stood motionless, a white cordless house phone pressed to the side of the mask. Slowly, deliberately, the killer cocked his head in exaggerated curiosity—then raised the hunting knife and pointed its gleaming tip straight at Seb.

Seb’s throat closed. With a trembling thumb, he hit the answer button.

“Hello, Sebby.”

Seb’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the masked figure. “What… what do you want?”

Hollowface turned leisurely toward the glass doors, gazing into the brightly lit bedroom beyond. Gazing directly at Dean Himbro and Mason Mace.

“You know the dangerous thing about being in a nice, warm, brightly lit bedroom at night, Sebby?” the voice purred through the phone, amused. “You can’t see out… but everyone else can see in.”

Seb’s hand shook on the phone, the plastic slick with sweat as he pressed it to his ear. Hollowface’s voice dripped through the line, laced with that mocking edge that made Seb’s skin crawl. It was Sunny’s voice, twisted into something sadistic, echoing the puppet’s flair: all wry sarcasm and gleeful cruelty, like this was just another performance on stage.

“There’s a deputy right outside my door,” Seb blurted, the lie scraping out desperate and thin. “He can hear everything you’re saying!”

Hollowface let out a long, languid laugh—low and rolling, pure evil delight echoing down the line.

“Oh, Sebby, Sebby, Sebby,” he crooned, voice pitching into that familiar, taunting lilt. “You really gotta work on your delivery. But hey, I love a good bluff. Tell you what—here’s a little riddle to warm you up.”

Seb’s jaw clenched, refusing to bite.

“What does a pig say right before it gets slaughtered?” Hollowface asked, the grin audible even through the phone.

Silence. Seb’s breath came shallow and fast.

A beat of theatrical pause, then the killer roared with laughter. “It says, ‘Please don’t! I have a family!’” 

Seb felt the blood drain from his face, his stomach plummeting as the implication sank in like a blade.

“What’s the matter, tough guy?” Hollowface purred, voice dipping back into menace. “Cat got your tongue? I thought you were the funny one—the big ventriloquist star. Or are you too busy playing Peeping Tom over there? Bet that dorm window’s all fogged up from your heavy breathing. Go on, take another look. The show’s just getting good.”

Seb’s eyes burned into the scene across the street. Inside the master suite, Mason “the Ace” Mace commanded the room like the cocky teenage bodybuilding stud he was: eighteen years of pure, hormone-fueled perfection, a 6’2, 250-pound musclehunk whose every inch screamed jock-god arrogance. Bleached-blond waves framed his baby-faced features—plump lips, high cheekbones, and those piercing blue eyes. His golden skin glowed under the amber lamps. 

Mason hooked his thumbs into the waistband and gave the Dean that cocky, shit-eating grin – the grin of a teenage stud who knows exactly how lethal his body is. Slowly, torturously, he peeled the shorts down. First the sharp V-lines of his Adonis belt appeared, then the top of his baby-blue FUCK jockstrap – a tiny scrap of fabric that looked painted on, stretched to breaking over the obscene bulge of his half-hard teenage monster cock. The shorts slid lower, revealing the full sweep of those golden thighs, quads flexing and bouncing with every tiny movement, hamstrings carved like steel cables. He let the shorts drop, kicked them away with a flex of his diamond-cut calves, and stood there in nothing but the FUCK jockstrap, hips rolling like he was already fucking the air.

“Ohhh, Sebby,” Hollowface purred into the phone, voice dripping with glee, “do you see this? The Dean’s personal teenage musclehunk stud is putting on the hottest little strip show just for him. Look at those ripe golden thighs – fuck, I bet they’d feel so smooth under my blade before I slice them like deli meat.”

Mason struck a double biceps pose, peaks exploding, veins snaking over every inch of his arms, then he grabbed his own massive pecs and tweaked the thick golden nipples hard – pinching and rolling them until they stood out like bullets. His pecs bounced, heavy and full. He flexed his abs into an armored eight-pack, every brick popping, the deep cuts running down to that tiny baby-blue jockstrap pouch, now soaking dark with his own teenage precum, the word FUCK distending as his cock hardened. 

“What a show this hot musclefuck is putting on. All that ripe, golden jock meat just begging for an audience… or a blade. You think he practices those flexes in the mirror, Sebby? Bet he’d scream real pretty if I snuck up and carved my initials right into those glutes of his.”

Seb’s stomach churned like he’d been punched, bile rising in his throat, but his eyes refused to budge from the golden spectacle across the street. Rage boiled over.

“FUCK YOU!” he snarled into the phone, voice cracking with fury. “I’m hanging up and calling the cops right now!”

The line exploded with Hollowface’s shriek—high-pitched, unhinged, the cheerful puppet tone shredded into raw venom. “DO THAT AND I GUT THEM BOTH RIGHT THIS SECOND, YOU LITTLE BITCH!”

Seb froze, the phone trembling against his ear.

Hollowface’s voice dropped back to that mocking, sing-song glee. “Heh. Easy there, pansy boy. Let’s not do anything rash. You call the cops and where do you think they’ll rush to first? Straight to your cozy little dorm room, Sebby. Funny thing about hiding the cellphone of their missing number-one suspect… makes you look awfully guilty when they trace its location back to you.”

Seb’s breath came in ragged gasps, his free hand pressing flat against the cold windowpane as if he could reach through it. Across the street, Mason continued his oblivious strip tease. The 18 year old bodybuilder turned, offering a side view that showcased his sweeping V-taper: lats flaring wide, narrowing to a muscular waist, the baby blue FUCK jockstrap stretched out, the elastic band straining across the mid-shaft of his swollen donkey dick. 

Mason Mace bent forward at the hips, glutes clenching into two striated, golden orbs—round and high, as he hooked his fingers into the jock’s thin straps. Inch by torturous inch, he peeled it down, the sheer blue fabric sliding over the perfect curve of his ass, revealing smooth, flawless cheeks that jiggled just enough to hypnotize. As the jockstrap cleared his glutes entirely, he let it drop free with a snap, straightening up to unleash his full glory: a 13-inch jaw-breaker cock springing forward, thick and throbbing, the head leaking a steady string of precum onto the floor below. His hefty, smooth balls hung low, swaying with the motion, the whole package framed by those massive muscle quads and a dusting of trimmed blond pubes. Fully fucking nude. 

The young musclehunk twisted back toward the Dean with a triumphant grin, his freed cock slapping wetly against one golden quad before bobbing upright, demanding attention. He gave it a lazy stroke—fist barely wrapping the girth—blue eyes locked on the older man’s approving leer.

“Jesus, Sebby, you seeing this?” Hollowface’s laugh crackled low and gleeful, all taunting menace. “That baby-faced bodybuilder boy’s got an ass like a goddamn peach—firm, juicy, just ripe for the fucking. Bet the Dean’s drooling to pound it into oblivion… or maybe I’ll beat him to it. What do you say—should I ring the doorbell? Or you gonna come play hero first?”

The killer’s masked head tilted mockingly toward Seb’s window, knife glinting as he raised it in a lazy salute, the Sunny-grin leering eternal. 

“LEAVE THEM ALONE!” Seb screamed into the phone, voice raw and cracking.

A soft, amused chuckle slithered through the speaker. “Aww, listen to you, Sebby—all protective and heroic. Tell you what… why don’t we play a little game?” Hollowface’s tone dipped into that familiar, silky taunt. “You win, and I’ll slip away like a good boy. Leave your precious muscle pigs breathing. But if I win…” He turned the knife slowly, letting the blade flash under the light, examining its wicked curve with theatrical admiration. “Well… you already know how this movie ends.”

“Fuck you, asshole,” Seb spat, tears stinging his eyes.

Hollowface gasped in mock offense. “Language, Sebby! Fine, fine—we’ll warm up with a practice round. Super easy.”

Seb’s gaze darted helplessly back into the bedroom. Behind the killer’s cloaked silhouette, the Dean had risen from the bed, his beer-can-thick 11-incher standing proud and angry, veins pulsing along its length as it jutted from a wiry nest of dark pubes, the fat head already slick and dripping. The older man’s meaty hand clamped around the back of Mason’s thick bull neck like a vise, yanking the golden teenage stud forward. Their mouths collided in a brutal, open-mouthed kiss— the Dean dominating as Mason melted against him with a helpless, needy groan that Seb could practically feel through the glass.

“Here we go,” Hollowface sang, voice bubbling with excitement. “First question—what was the name of the other boy in the canoe? You remember him, don’t you, Sebby? Two summers ago. Two boys paddled out on that pretty little lake at summer camp… but only one paddled back. You.” 

Seb’s vision blurred with hot tears.

“Who the fuck are you?” he choked out, voice breaking.

“WHAT WAS HIS NAME?” Hollowface roared, the cheerful mask cracking into pure fury.

Seb’s shoulders sagged, defeat flooding him. “…Chuck,” he whispered. “Chuck Lee.”

“DING-DING-DING!” Hollowface crowed, instantly back to gleeful showman. “We have a winner! See? That wasn’t so bad. You’re a natural, Sebby.” The voice dropped, turning low and predatory, a growl that vibrated through the phone. “Now… the real question.”

A deliberate pause, savoring the silence.

“How did he die?”

Seb’s mouth open and closed, his voice catching in his throat. Behind Hollowface, the Dean and Mason were lewdly groping each other.Mason’s legendary 13-inch stud cock jutted straight up slapping heavily against his abs as he pressed closer to the furry muscledaddy. His hands roamed greedily over the Dean’s thicker, hairier frame, fingers digging into the dense fur on those massive pecs, then dropping lower to wrap around the Dean’s own 11-inch monster— thick, uncut, already slick with precum. The older man’s shaft throbbed in Mason’s grip, dwarfing the boy’s hand as it pulsed against his hip.

Himbro towered over him—two inches taller, forty pounds heavier, every ounce of it mature, brutal muscle. Mason’s contest-ready physique, for all its shredded perfection, suddenly looked almost delicate next to the Dean’s raw, bearish bulk. 

The kiss broke with a wet smack. The Dean’s meaty paw slid from Mason’s neck to the top of his blond head and pushed down—firm, unmistakable. Mason sank willingly, eagerly, to his knees on the plush bedroom rug, his golden thighs flexing as he settled back on his heels. Those pretty baby-faced features tilted up for a moment, blue eyes wide with hunger, lips already parted.

The Dean didn’t wait. He fed his cock forward, the fat head breaching Mason’s mouth in one slow thrust. Mason’s cheeks hollowed instantly, jaw stretching wide to take the girth, a muffled moan vibrating around the shaft as the Dean’s foreskin peeled back against his tongue. Saliva welled immediately, shining on Mason’s chin as he bobbed forward, taking more—six inches, seven—until his nose brushed the wiry hair at the base.

Himbro’s head tipped back, a low growl rumbling from his chest. His free hand roamed his own body, pinching a thick nipple while the other guided Mason’s head in a steady rhythm. The boy’s throat bulged visibly with each push, eyes watering but never breaking contact—adoring, submissive, exactly the worship the Dean demanded.

Mason’s own monstrous cock bobbed untouched beneath him, a thick string of precum dangling from the slit, swaying with every eager suck. His hands gripped the Dean’s tree-trunk thighs for balance, fingers sinking deep into the coarse hair as he worked—slurping noisily, tongue swirling around the head on every pull-back, cheeks flushed crimson with effort and lust.

Across the street, Seb stared transfixed, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his throat, body locked in place as if chained to the window. The uncurtained master bedroom framed the scene like a private porn set gone horribly wrong—Mason on his knees now, golden teenage musclehunk body bowed in worship, lips stretched wide around the Dean’s thick shaft, while the older man’s head lolled back in arrogant bliss. They had no clue death hovered just beyond the glass. His world spun.

"YOU HAVE TWO FUCKING SECONDS” Hollowface roared, the playful lilt shredded into pure screaming rage, “TO TELL ME EXACTLY HOW CHUCK LEE DIED OR I SLAUGHTER THEM BOTH!”

Seb’s knees buckled. A broken sob tore from his chest. “HE DIDN’T!” The words spilled out in a raw, desperate wail, the phone burning against his ear like a branding iron. “He didn’t die—please, he didn’t!”

A beat of dead silence. Then Hollowface’s voice dropped to a cold rasp.

A snort of breath: “Wrong answer, Sebby. You lose. Goodbye.”

Click.

The line went dead.

“NO!” Seb screamed, the sound ripping from his throat as he slammed his palm against the glass. His eyes snapped back to the mansion. Hollowface was already on the move. 

Seb looked around in despair. He had to get out and stop him. How?

The window. 

It was his only shot. 

He yanked the dormer sash wide, cool night air blasting his face like a slap. Seb eyed the drop: three stories straight down to thorny bushes. No easy landing. But to his right—yes, the old water spout, rusted and precarious, snaking down the brick wall like a fragile lifeline.

He swung a leg over the sill, perching precariously on the narrow ledge, heart slamming against his ribs. One hand stretched out, fingers straining—brushing metal—then gripping the spout with white-knuckled desperation.

A glance back at the mansion: Upstairs, the Dean’s back arched in savage pleasure, his 11-inch cock pistoning relentlessly into Mason’s throat. The older stud’s hands were stretched behind his head, flexing his biceps. He gave one a lewd lick with his tongue. Mason’s blue eyes had rolled back in bliss, gagging wetly as he took every inch, head bobbing frantically, saliva dripping down his chin onto his rippling abs. His big biceps flexing as his hands roamed up and down Dean Himbro’s thick, muscular torso.

Outside, in the shadows, Hollowface clutching the hunter’s knife. Slipping in through the patio doors, whispering along the wall of the room.

Panic surged through Seb like electricity. With a choked gasp, he swung his body fully onto the spout, spindly legs wrapping around the groaning metal pipe. Rust flaked off in gritty clouds, staining his jeans as he began his agonizing descent—inch by inch, muscles burning, the pipe vibrating under his weight like it might snap at any second. 

Another frantic look: Hollowface holding out the blade now, He twirled it once, almost playfully, before crouching behind an arm chair in the corner, the two hunks oblivious.

A sharp creak ripped through the night. The spout shuddered violently. Seb’s breath hitched—oh God, no—

It gave way in agonizing slow motion: a bracket popped free with a metallic ping, then another, the whole length of pipe wrenching loose from the wall. Seb clawed at the air, bricks scraping his palms raw as the spout swung wildly toward the opposite facade.

Impact. His skull cracked against unyielding masonry, stars exploding in his vision. The world spun into a nauseating blur—weightless freefall, wind whipping his hair, a scream lodged silent in his throat.

Then, nothing but darkness.