TC-230 Satan’s Stud
Satan’s Stud
Trojan Classics
TC-230
Len Harrington
$1.95
Satan’s Stud
Trojan Classics
TC-230
Len Harrington
$1.95
Foreword
Dave was frantic by the time the sacrificial animal was brought out. Everyone else was picking up steam, too. He got on his hands and knees and dizzily crept toward the object of his yearning. By the time he reached the stranger, everyone was chanting and wildly moving about. Drunk with liquor and hellish longing, all grabbed for each other. The blond rose to his knees and attempted to lunge at a girl nearby, but Dave was too fast for him. Both ended up lying on the floor, the hustler on top, his mouth covering the other’s. At first, the blond struggled to free himself.
“STOP IT!” Dave screamed threateningly. “YOU’RE GONNA DO WHAT I SAY! HEAR?”
“No!” the handsome one protested. “NO!”
“Look,” Dave leered, “they’ve got ways of makin’ you do what anyone wants!”
“No, no!” the newcomer insisted.
“Okay,” Dave said, “you asked for it!” With this, he struggled to his feet and stormed toward the high priest who was busily sixty-nining with one of the naked altar boys.
“I demand,” the drunken one stated, “that you…”
“Shut the fuck up!” the homely male commanded as he pushed his companion away and lay on his back. “Suck my cock!”
“Huh?” Dave uttered, shocked at this turn of events and utterly appalled by this person. “I… uh…”
“Do it!”
In fast order, Dave had learned the demanding rules of this group as soon as Ray Larkin was told that he wanted to join them. This was one—the requirement to accommodate anyone who desired it!
Prologue
It was rumored that the studio had sent out extras, making David Hendricks’ funeral one of the most lavish in Hollywood history. A virtual caravan swept down the freeway toward Glendale. It was a solemn occasion and everyone played his part well. The minister had recited the service with mellifluous tenderness, his bell-like tones warning the congregation to return to the simplicity and peace of oneness with their maker. (There was an audible giggle in the background.)
What words were spoken were low and mumbled in the flowing cortege and surprisingly, even a few tears were shed—more by the watching crowd who mourned the loss of their idol. There were many who hung their heads in mock tribute and someone fainted on cue. Yet, for all the fake solemnity and sadness purchased to enhance the coming release of his last film, there was open malice evident—frightening in faces frozen with hatred, in eyes glittering with satisfaction!
It is a truism that those in highly coveted positions have many enemies—the higher the position, the more implacable the enemies. This young screen star whose final appearance had occasioned today’s show of real and pretended emotion, was no exception. In fact, had the crowd been polled, the consensus would have been that David Hendricks highly deserved every last one of them.
“Honey?” in sugared tones a young man in the crowd whispered to his lover while daubing a tear at the corner of his eye. “Is… is he really… ?”
“Right now he’s with his father,” came the tightlipped answer. “In hell!”
After it was over, all everyone could say was that… he was. He came without past; the prologue was never known. Without money, David Hendricks appeared. From a never-imagined nowhere.
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