CUT: Part 8

Seb stirred awake, a dull throb pulsing through his skull like a distant drum. The first sensation was cold metal pressing against the back of his head, unyielding and alien. His vision blurred and swirled for several heart-pounding seconds, shapes bleeding into one another. Hard plastic encased his face, trapping the humid heat of his own breath as it rebounded back at him, thick and claustrophobic.

With a surge of panic, he clawed at the edges and ripped it off. He didn’t need to look to know what it was. But he turned it in his trembling hands anyway, and there it stared back: Sunny’s face.

He’d been wearing Hollowface’s mask. His own nightmare made real.

A gasp tore from his throat as he hurled it to the dirt, where it landed with a soft thud.

It took precious moments for the world to snap into focus. He was outside, slumped on the ground, back propped against the driver’s-side door of a car. A few feet away, a crumpled black cloak lay discarded in the mud, black gloves tossed atop it. Beneath, something silver glinted ominously—a hunting knife, its blade streaked with dark stains.

Seb scanned further, breath coming in shallow bursts. A small clearing in the woods surrounded him, night pressing in close—crickets chirping, leaves whispering in a cool breeze that carried the faint rot of damp earth.

What the hell happened? He groped at his memory, fragments surfacing. The water spout giving way. Plummeting into thorn bushes below the dorm. He glanced at his arms—scraped raw, crisscrossed with angry red welts and deeper cuts that stung like fire. That much was real, at least. But beyond? A foggy haze. A car seat. Someone beside him. The coppery reek of blood—thick, overwhelming, choking the air.

Bracing against the car’s cold metal, he hauled himself upright. His legs buckled at first, knees wobbling, head pounding with every shift. He touched his forehead gingerly—a swollen lump, split open in a gash that had wept blood down his temple. The impact from the wall, when the pipe had wrenched free in his hands. At least, he hoped it was his blood.

Where was he? Through the underbrush a short distance away, headlights sliced the darkness—a car passing on a nearby road. He turned back to the vehicle behind him: an old green Cadillac sedan, immaculately well kept, vaguely familiar, parked half-hidden in the foliage. He tried the doors—locked tight. He peered inside, but there was nothing unusual.

No keys. No phone. No clue how he’d gotten here.

Questions swirled: Had he been drugged? Kidnapped? Blacked out again? He stumbled forward a few steps, testing his balance on the uneven ground, mind racing through the fog.

Reaching the road’s edge, he emerged onto asphalt slick with moonlight and clinging mist. No traffic now, just eerie silence broken by the occasional rustle. In the distance, a well-lit house glowed warmly up a winding driveway—large, stately, like a farmhouse plucked from a postcard. Opposite, a worn trail cut into the shoulder beside a steep ravine.

Recognition flickered. This was the old backroad into Kellsbro—the one that wound past the Glory Howl’s hidden footpath. Head that way, and he’d hit the bar; the other direction led straight to Coxwell’s campus fringes.

He needed help. Now. 

He patted his pockets frantically—Kurt’s cellphone was gone. He grunted in frustration.

He looked up the road. The farmhouse—someone there had to have a landline. He could call the cops, explain… something.

Then it hit him: The farmhouse was Milton “Milt” Drabbs’ place. Lyle had pointed it out during their treks to the Glory Howl—the overweight athletic director’s rural spread, tucked just off campus.

Then the pieces slammed together like a trap springing shut. Cass and Sean, the football and swim captains, slaughtered. Talent show cancelled and replaced. Gunnar’s brutal end. Now Mason and Dean Himbro, presumably. Every killing circled the same poisoned core: the Falcons United bodybuilding team. Hollowface was setting them up and hunting them down, one by one.

Lyle Lilly, his photographer roommate. Channing Frost, his auburn haired bodybuilder crush. They were next—Milt’s photoshoot at the farmhouse tonight, the remaining bodybuilding team members posing like sitting ducks. The killer would be headed straight there.

Seb had to warn them. Save them. Even if it meant facing whatever monster lurked outside in the darkness.

But as he started limping toward the driveway, a chill spider-walked down his spine. He glanced back at the hidden Cadillac, the cloak, the knife. 

A question burbled up through the tendrils of fog in his head: 

What if I’m the killer? 

The thought gnawed like acid, a sore he couldn’t ignore. Blackouts. Murders. Waking up in masks and blood.

He stared at his hands—caked in dried crimson, flaking under his nails.

Seb gritted his teeth, jaw aching. Whatever the truth, he was neck-deep now. Even if he was the monster, he had to hold it together long enough to alert the others—tell them to call the cops, lock him away. Protect them at any cost.

With unsteady resolve, he pressed forward into the mist, toward the glowing lights down the road.

A short distance away, Milt Drabb’s steel garage was awash in light. The double-height structure had been completely transformed into a hyper-realistic locker room set. Harsh box lights flooded the space with stark white glare, rubber mats covered the concrete floor, and fake cinder-block walls lined with gleaming steel lockers created the perfect illusion. Scattered strategically on benches, dangling from hooks, and stuffed into open lockers was the full range of garish FUCK merchandise: branded water bottles, towels emblazoned with the logo in bold block letters, skimpy tank tops, whistles, trucker hats—every piece screaming the same crude school-spirit slogan.

Leo Russo let out a low, appreciative whistle as he stepped inside, his massive frame filling the doorway.

“Damn, this looks legit,” the 22-year-old Italian stud rumbled, voice thick with that natural South Philly accent. He was pure Mediterranean obscenity poured into 280 pounds of olive-skinned muscle—broad shoulders rolling like boulders, heavy pecs hanging thick and hairy, nipples dark against the golden tone. Jet-black curls fell loose around his chiseled face, framing full lips and a jaw that could cut glass. He wore nothing but a neon-green FUCK jockstrap, the thin fabric stretched obscenely over his soft, arching cock—a fat, uncut Italian sausage that swayed heavily with every step, the outline visible through the pouch. A dense treasure trail of silky black hair started just below his navel, arrowing down into the bulging mound where his hefty balls strained the straps. His tree-trunk thighs flexed powerfully as he shifted his weight, veins snaking across quads that looked carved from marble.

Nearby, Josh Slotter leaned against a locker, arms crossed over his monstrous chest, admiring the setup with a wicked smirk. At 6’5 and a shredded 310 pounds, he was a walking wet dream—buzz-cut blond hair, stormy gray eyes that promised trouble, and a physique so grotesquely huge it bordered on cartoonish. Delts like cannonballs,bulging traps, arms sleeved in intricate black tattoos that rippled over biceps bigger than most men’s heads. A neon-pink FUCK jockstrap barely contained him—the pouch stretched to near-transparency by a fat, veiny cock hanging soft and heavy over a pair of lemon-sized balls, the whole package shifting with lazy menace.

“Why the hell couldn’t we just shoot this in the actual locker room?” Josh asked, voice a deep, lazy drawl.

Milton “Milt” Drabbs snorted like a hog in slop, his bloated gut jiggling under a too-tight polo shirt as he fumbled with a box lamp. The overweight athletic director was a sweaty, red-faced slab of a man—triple chin quivering, piggy eyes narrowed, meaty hands slick with perspiration. “Because some of the prissy coaches threw a bitch fit,” he barked, spittle flying. “Said it’d be ‘disruptive.’ Fuck ’em. This way, I control everything—lighting, angles, all of it.”

Josh raised an eyebrow. “You and Lyle built this whole set yourselves?”

“Yeah, we did!” Lyle called cheerfully from the rear door, strolling in with his camera bag slung over one shoulder. He was the easygoing counterpoint to the tension—lean and wiry, messy brown hair falling into his eyes, a perpetual half-smile on his lips like he was permanently amused by the world. “Took us all last weekend to set up, but it’s gonna look sick.”

“About fuckin’ time you showed up, princess,” Milt snapped, glaring at Lyle with open contempt. “Channing and Mason are late—those lazy, entitled little shits. Probably off jerking each other somewhere.”

Leo scratched the back of his thick neck, concern creasing his handsome features. “Yo, Coach… I dunno, man. With Gunnar getting murdered and everything… maybe we shouldn’t even be doing this tonight?”

Milt turned slowly, face flushing an ugly purple, gut swinging as he stepped closer. “Fuck Gunnar,” he spat, voice dripping venom. “Dumb meathead deserved it—wandering into some filthy truck-stop bathroom like a cock-hungry slut. Couldn’t stop flexing in the mirrors long enough to watch his back. Useless, preening sack of shit.”

The garage went quiet for a beat. Lyle winced but kept his tone light. “Ah, shoot—I left half my lenses and the reflector back in the main house. Gotta run and grab ’em before we start.”

Milt waved a pudgy hand dismissively. “Fine. Then we’ll kick off with individual shots. Josh, get your tight ass over here and let’s set you up.”

Josh’s wicked smirk widened as he pushed off the locker, neon-pink pouch bouncing heavily. “Ready when you are, boss.”

Leo crossed his thick arms over his hairy chest, dark curls falling across his forehead. “What about me?”

Milt didn’t even glance at him. “I don’t give a flying fuck, Russo. Sit there and look pretty till I need you.”

Leo shot Lyle a look—eyebrows raised, lips twitching in mild annoyance. Lyle just shrugged, easy smile in place, like this was standard Milt bullshit.

“Whatever, man,” Leo muttered, slinging his backpack over one massive shoulder. He fished out a Walkman, slapped the headphones over his ears, and flipped the group a lazy middle finger as he sauntered toward the side door. “I’m hitting the hot tub till you assholes get your shit sorted.”

Lyle chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’ll be quick—don’t start without me. Josh, bro, we’re gonna make you look absolutely CUT.” His grin flashed wide and genuine before he turned and jogged out into the night.

Milt wiped sweat from his brow with a meaty forearm, scanning the set with piggy eyes narrowed in irritation. “Where the fuck is the mineral oil? We need that sheen—make you meatheads glisten like proper FUCK studs.”

Josh leaned against a fake locker, neon-pink jockstrap bulging obscenely, that wicked smirk curling his lips. “Relax, Coach. Who needs oil when I’m a walking faucet?” He gave his heavy pouch a lazy squeeze, the fabric creaking. “I’m a huge precummer. Give me two minutes and I’ll spurt enough to coat myself head to toe. Natural gloss, baby.”

Milt snorted, face flushing redder, but his gaze lingered hungrily on the towering 6’5 stud. “Big talk from a big boy. Prove it, Slotter.” He kicked over a metal bucket that had been sitting by the benches—empty, clanging loudly as it rolled to a stop between Josh’s massive feet. “Fill that. I want it sloshing.”

Josh’s stormy eyes flashed with cocky amusement. “Yes, sir.” He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the pink jock and peeled it down slowly, teasingly—the fabric dragging over the thick root of his cock before springing free. His monster swung heavy into view: even soft, it was a fat, veiny 10 inches hanging over those lemon-sized balls, foreskin puckered over the plump head. Tattoo sleeves rippled as he stepped out of the strap, kicking it aside, fully nude now—310 pounds of pure, obscene muscle on display, every inch pumped and veined, glutes like two striated boulders framing that deep, hairless cleft.

He wrapped one huge paw around the shaft, giving it a slow, practiced tug. The foreskin slid back with a wet sound, revealing a slick, shiny head already drooling a thick bead of precum. Josh groaned low, enormous quads flexing as he started stroking—long, lazy pulls that swelled him to full hardness in seconds. Sixteen and a half inches of wrist-thick cock rose proud, the slit of the massive apple-head winking as clear fluid oozed steadily.

“Watch this,” he rumbled, aiming the head over the bucket. A thick rope of precum spurted out, splattering loudly against the metal bottom. Another followed, then a steady stream—glistening, viscous strands coiling inside the bucket like liquid silk.

Milt folded his arms over his sagging gut, watching with a sneer. “That all you got, big man? Barely a puddle. Pathetic. Thought you were some kind of firehose.”

Josh’s smirk faltered for a split second, jaw tightening, but the challenge lit a fire in his eyes. He pumped faster, balls drawing up tight, another heavy spurt arcing into the bucket.

Still, Milt shook his head, waddling closer. “Fucking inadequate. All that size and you dribble like a virgin.” Without warning, the fat athletic director stepped behind Josh, meaty hands clamping onto those granite glutes—spreading them roughly, thumbs digging into the deep cleft. “Let’s see if we can prime this pump properly.”

Josh’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away—cock throbbing harder as Milt’s thick finger circled his tight, pink hole before pushing in to the knuckle. The fat lecherous fuck twisted it deeper, crooking to nudge Josh’s prostate with practiced cruelty.

“Fuck—Coach…” Josh growled, back arching, lats flaring wide as his massive frame shuddered. Precum gushed now—thick, nonstop ropes splattering into the bucket, the level rising visibly.

Milt's beady eyes narrowed further, sweat beading on his flushed, pockmarked forehead and trickling down his triple chin like greasy rivulets. He snorted again, a wet, phlegmy sound that echoed in the garage, his massive gut heaving under the stained polo shirt that clung to his flabby torso. “Still not enough, you oversized disappointment,” he barked, spittle flying from his thin lips as he jabbed a sausage-like finger at the bucket. “ We need more if we have to cover you and the other worthless musclefucks. Straddle that bench, cock pointed right at the bucket. Let’s see if you can actually perform, or if you’re all show and no flow.”

Josh’s stormy gray eyes darkened with a mix of defiance and arousal, but that wicked smirk never faltered. He swung one colossal thigh—thick as an oak trunk—over the narrow bench, planting his feet wide for balance. His godlike physique flexed involuntarily: 6’5 and 310 pounds of pure, vein-popping muscle. His tattoo-sleeved arms hung heavy, ink rippling over the peaks as he adjusted, his rounded pecs bouncing slightly. Below, that 16.5-inch monster cock jutted forward like a weapon—wrist-thick, the fat head weeping a steady stream of crystal-clear precum that dangled in long, viscous threads before snapping into the bucket.

Milt licked his chapped lips with a slimy tongue, his piggy gaze devouring the sight as he shuffled behind Josh. With a grunt, he shoved his grubby sweatpants down his doughy thighs, freeing his own beer-can-thick cock—stubby but brutally wide, flushed an ugly purple and slick with the sweat from his unwashed crotch, pubes matted and dank. He pressed the blunt head against Josh’s heavenly ass—two perfect, striated globes that dimpled under the pressure, the cleft deep and inviting, hairless and smooth as polished marble.

Josh moaned low and throaty, a rumble from deep in his massive chest, and instinctively pushed back—his glutes flexing hard, that virgin-tight hole winking as it kissed the invading tip.

“You call that effort?” Milt sneered, his voice a guttural rasp laced with contempt. He clamped his pudgy hands on Josh’s narrow hips—fingers sinking into the rock-hard obliques—and rammed forward roughly, burying his girth in one savage, unlubed thrust. Josh’s roar filled the space, back arching, lats exploding outward like wings as his incredible body shuddered, every muscle fiber popping in high relief—abs contracting into an eight-pack armor, pecs heaving with each labored breath.

Milt pounded without mercy, his sagging belly slapping wetly against Josh’s lower back, sweat flying from his flabby frame with every sloppy drive. “Pathetic—can’t even milk a real load out of that prostate. All that muscle, and you’re squeezing like a loose whore. Inadequate as fuck, Slotter. Thought you were a stud? Prove it, or I’ll pull out and leave you dripping dry.”

Josh’s pride ignited. He clenched his heavenly ass with brutal force—glutes locking down, rippling with power as he milked Milt’s invading cock in rhythmic pulses. His own monster throbbed in response, the slit gaping as jets of precum erupted in heavy, arcing spurts—thick, glistening ropes splattering loudly into the bucket below, the level rising visibly now, foaming slightly from the sheer volume. Josh’s balls churned, hanging low and full, swinging with each clench, his quads trembling from the effort, every inch of his achingly hot physique gleaming with fresh sweat that highlighted the deep cuts and vascularity.

But Milt just laughed, a phlegmy, mocking wheeze, thrusting harder as his own orgasm built. “Still not impressed, you worthless meat-puppet. All show, no substance.” With a sudden, piggish grunt, he slammed deep and unloaded—hot, sticky ropes flooding Josh’s perfect ass in messy bursts, the fat coach’s body shuddering against the stud’s back. He popped out unceremoniously, cock deflating with a wet slap against his thigh, a thick dribble of cum leaking from Josh’s stretched hole and trailing down those golden hamstrings.

“Pretty worthless fuck,” Milt sneered, hitching up his sweatpants with a disgusting squelch. “Could’ve done better with my hand.”

Josh stayed straddled, his incredible frame quaking—pecs bouncing with each ragged breath, abs flexing involuntarily, that 16.5-inch behemoth cock angry-red and bobbing wildly, spurting jet after jet of precum in uncontrollable pulses, the bucket now half-full and sloshing with his essence. He was teetering on the brink, balls aching, a desperate growl building. “Coach—fuck, I’m right there… gotta cum…”

Milt’s eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction. “You blow that load and you’re done, Slotter—off the team, out of the shoot, no glory, no sponsorships, nothing. I need you edged out, horned-up and desperate for these pics—veins exploding, cock leaking like a faucet, looking like the ultimate fuck-machine. Hold it, or kiss your future goodbye.”

Josh’s whole body tensed, a vein throbbing in his temple, his godlike physique straining with the effort—glutes clenching around the fresh cum inside him, quads locking rigid, pecs heaving as he forced the orgasm back down. His massive cock twitched violently, still spurting thick jets of precum in frustrated bursts—splattering into the bucket—but he held the edge, panting and denied, every fiber of his achingly hot, muscular perfection radiating unquenched need.

“Good enough,” Milt muttered, wiping his hands on his shirt. “Stay like that till Lyle’s back. We’re gonna capture every leaking inch.”

Outside, the Verdantia Channel Five news van sat parked on a gravel shoulder just off the long driveway to Milt Drabbs’ farmhouse, its satellite dish silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Within the van, the air was thick with the hum of equipment and the faint scent of coffee gone cold. Freddie adjusted the shoulder rig on his camera, checking the battery levels and focus for the third time, his burly frame crammed into the tight space behind the driver’s seat.

A sharp knock rattled the side door.

Augusto “Gusto” Tormenta slid it open with a smooth flick, his crisp linen shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the glint of his silver cross against tanned, thick pectorals. Deputy Dezzy stood outside, arms crossed, handsome face tight with irritation under the brim of his hat.

“You shouldn’t be here, Augusto,” Dezzy said, voice low and clipped. “This is private property, and with everything going on—”

Gusto flashed that trademark charming grin, golden brown eyes sparkling even in the dim light. “Relax, Deputy. Milt personally invited me. Said it’d be great publicity—get some shots of the Golden Kings in action. Bodybuilding team, school spirit, all that wholesome stuff.”

Before Dezzy could respond, rapid footsteps crunched on the gravel. Channing sprinted up, breathless and flushed, his big frame heaving as he doubled over for a second.

“Hey guys – what’s going on? I got here late,” he panted, straightening up. His eyes flicked between the deputy and the reporter. “Dezzy? What are you doing here?”

Dezzy’s stern expression softened instantly at the sight of his younger brother. He stepped forward, placing a protective hand on Channing’s broad shoulder. “There’s been another set of murders. Dean Himbro and Mason Mace. Found them an hour ago. Butchered.”

Channing’s face went pale. “Jesus… Mason too?”

“I came to make sure you’re safe,” Dezzy said firmly. “I’m not letting you out of my sight tonight.”

“I’m fine, bro. Really. It’s just a photoshoot with the other guys.” Channing managed a weak smile, but Dezzy wasn’t having it.

“Not taking chances. I’m escorting you in.”

Gusto exchanged a quick glance with Freddie, who was already hoisting the camera onto his shoulder. The two fell in step behind the brothers as they headed up the driveway towards the lights of the big garage.

As they walked, Gusto leaned closer to Dezzy. “Hollowface?”

Dezzy exhaled sharply. “We’re not sure yet. No mask, no cloak, no knife left at the scene. But the cuts… yeah, it looks like the same bastard. Brutal.”

Gusto’s suave expression hardened. “Then why aren’t you swarming this place? Mason was on the team—another Golden King down. This photoshoot’s the perfect bait.”

“That’s exactly why I’m here,” Dezzy shot back. “The rest of the campus is on lock down. Deputies at all the dorms. And why are you here? Shouldn’t you be on campus covering the crime scene for your big scoop?”

Gusto’s grin returned, sharper now. “Call it a reporter’s instinct, Deputy. Something told me tonight’s action would be here, not there. Mason being one of the victims only proves it.”

They passed Dezzy’s parked jeep on the driveway. A sudden burst of static crackled from the open window—the police radio.

“Unit Seven, this is dispatch. Report of a suspicious vehicle parked off the shoulder, approximately a half-mile east of your current location on Coxwell Heights Road. Older model sedan, partially concealed in the treeline.”

Dezzy froze, hand already reaching through the window to grab the mic. “Copy that, dispatch. I’m en route.”

“Half mile? That’s …not far away.” Freddie said, his voice catching on a moment of fear.

“Close enough to walk to,” Dezzy said, thinking.

Channing hesitated, glancing toward the brightly lit garage ahead. “I should—”

“Go,” Dezzy said, nodding toward the building. “But take these with you, just in case.” He threw the jeep keys to his younger brother. “Now get inside with the others. Lock the doors till I’m back.”

Channing nodded and jogged off toward the garage.

Gusto stepped forward immediately. “I’m coming with you.”

Dezzy raised an eyebrow. “The hell you are.”

“Safer in pairs, right?” Gusto said smoothly, giving Dezzy a back-slap, his hand drifting a little lower down Dezzy’s tight-fitted khaki shirt. “Public safety and all.”

“Fine. But keep your wits about you. Hopefully it’s just some drunk frat boy who ran off the road.” He clicked on his flashlight and gave it a few knocks on his palm to brighten the beam.

Freddie started to protest. “Gusto—”

“Stay here, Freddie,” Gusto said. “Keep the camera rolling in case anything goes down at the house. But stay in the van. Keep it locked.”

Freddie’s green eyes narrowed under his ball cap, but he nodded reluctantly. Soon, the deputy and the TV reporter were swallowed in darkness, save for the cut of Dezzy’s flashlight on the gravel drive in front of them.