“What is it, Reynolds?”
“They found bones, Boss. While demolishing the foundations of The Sphynx. Definitely human, Doctor Gomez says.”
“A dead man under a Vegas casino? Not very original.”
The Sphynx was one of the original old casinos on The Strip, built during the Mob era. If you believe all the stories from that time, their foundations are a 50-50 mix of human bodies and concrete.
“Tell’m I’ll be there in 15 minutes”
“Any possible doubt they’re human, Doctor?” I am looking into a hole in a concrete pillar – a body shaped hole – with bones loosely strewn throughout. They look human enough to me, but what do I know?
“None whatsoever, Lieutenant. You can see part of the skull there on the right and there is absolutely no mistaking that it is human. Looking at the pelvis from here, I’d guess it is from a male, but I’d need to get my hands on it to be able to say that with greater certainty.”
“That would make sense, I’ve never heard about mobsters getting rid of a woman’s body like this. Although there is always a first time.”
“As you may already have noticed, the cavity is shaped like a person, suggesting the concrete was poured directly on and around the body. When it rotted away, a void remained in the solid concrete where it had lain. From the size of the void, I’d estimate he – or she – was 6 feet tall, give or take an inch or two/three.”
“Let’s assume for the time being that he was a man. Not many women that tall, certainly not when this went up in the twenties.”
“1932, to be precise, Boss,” Williams interrupts.
“Thank you,” I say with a look to shut him up. Something undefined about Williams always manages to annoy the hell out of me.
“It seems logical that the body was put into the foundation when the building went up, but let’s not make assumptions. Can you tell from the skeleton how long it has been here, Doctor?”
“Not here and now, but once I’ve got the bones in the morgue, we should be able to get you an estimated time of death.”
“Poor Bugger,” I say with another glance at the skeleton. “Let’s hope he was dead when he went in.”
The doctor looks at me pointedly. “Well, I have my doubts on that front. If you poke your head into the cavity … here take my torch. Now what do you see between the jaws of the skull?”
“A rod of some sort? What is it?”
“Follow me around”
On the other side of the pillar a one-inch metal pipe sticks out half an inch from the concrete. I shake my head that I am still not following her meaning.
“Breathing tube, I suspect … I think he might have gone in alive and with access to air to keep him going for a while.”
“Christ! The ruthless bastards … A punishment of some sort then, I suppose, otherwise why would they try to drag it out? How long could he have survived?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows. Not very long I would guess, but certainly for several hours, perhaps even days.”
“What a way to die. Okay, keep me informed, please Doctor,” I ask as I turn away abruptly towards my car. My thoughts are on the victim. Was he awake when they poured the cement? Did he feel it turn to stone all around him, until he was completely and irreversibly entombed? My movements become stilted as I try to walk despite the massive hard-on that has appeared in my shorts. Normally, I very much enjoy being hung like the proverbial horse, but there are times it can be an inconvenience.
“Our preliminary findings from the scene,” Doctor Gomez says as she puts a thin folder on my desk in the Situation Room.
I spent most of the day behind it, directing the team’s early efforts, thinking about the poor guy buried alive in solid concrete, and all the while trying to hide my raging erection below the desk top. I don’t think my manhood relented at any time in the past 6 hours.
“Would you summarize for us?”
“We found a complete skeleton, almost definitely of a man. Six foot one in height and with a slim posture. We should have found remains of clothing, so since there were none, he was probably naked when he went in. He seems to have lain spread-eagled, tied at the ankles and wrists. As I already told you at the scene, the cement was poured directly onto him forming in a perfectly tight-fitting space around him once it had become hard. Most interestingly, I think, the perpetrators made even more of an effort to keep him alive than I thought initially. Upon closer inspection, the metal pipe had had a mouthpiece attached, making it highly likely it was indeed a breathing tube. We also found a urinary catheter and the remains of what we believe was a gastro-nasal tube.”
“A tube that goes through the nose into the stomach,” she explains as we look at her blankly. “They are used by hospitals to provide food and drink to incapacitated patients. Presumably they fed, or at least intended to feed, John Doe after the concrete had solidified around him. They really made a serious attempt to keep him alive.”
“Could they have succeeded? Or rather, did they succeed?”
“Hmmm, it is impossible to tell whether they did until I’ve examined the bones further. I suppose they might have: he had access to air and food, he had a way to get rid of urine, and if they gave him the right composition of food he would not have produced any solid excrement to get rid of … and that knowledge already existed in the medical literature from the 30s, I checked before I came up. Basically, he would have had everything he needed to survive. That said, I just find it very hard to imagine anyone could live like that for more than a few days, if that long.”
I know that I will spend the night doing exactly that: lie in bed, close my eyes and imagine very hard that John Doe could live like that for more than a few days. I’ll imagine him encased in that pillar for weeks or even months, kept alive against his will in a body-tight concrete tomb. And I’ll have a wank while doing it; at last a long slow wank, because I’ve been needing one all day.
“What a horrible thing to do a person; particularly vicious even by Mob standards,” Reynolds says, “I wonder what he did to deserve that.”
“There was one other thing we found in the cavity,” Gomez takes a photo from the folder and slides it towards me. A fat elongated shaft, wide at one end, narrowing a bit towards the other before ballooning to an unrealistically big mushroom-shaped head.
“What is it?”
I feign ignorance, despite recognizing it instantly. I’m not proud of remaining in the closet, but… well, the Police force is not as inclusive as they try to make out.
“A dildo, made from solid vulcanized rubber, very firm. It was found inside the ring of pelvic bones, so I hope I don’t need to explain where it very likely was inserted when John Doe was buried in concrete.”
She lifts her eyebrows at Williams’ sniggering.
“Most notable about it is its size: a staggering 25 inches in length, 15 inches circumference at the head, 10 inches around the narrowest part of the shaft – that is still about 3 inches across. It was not so big that it would have killed or badly injured him, assuming it was inserted with some care. But at that size it must have been extremely uncomfortable, especially as it was forced in, but also while in place. There were remains of canvas straps at the base, suggesting that it was secured around the waist to stop it being expelled by the victim.”
“You are sure that the thing was inside him?” I can barely stop my voice trembling as I hold my hands about two feet apart. “It seems, well, impossibly big to be honest. There was no sign of it in the shape of the concrete either on or next to the victim?”
“I agree it seems unlikely, Lieutenant, that something that large could be inserted there. But there’s absolutely no imprint of the dildo in the concrete, so it can only have been inside the guy when the concrete set, completely inside. I believe that whoever did this wanted the victim to suffer. Another element to his punishment, I expect.”
“Could it be that he was being punished for homosexuality, Boss? With that pushed up his backside? Something to remind him of whatever it is he did, while he was waiting to die.”
Suddenly it clicks.
“Of course! Well done Richards. It must be Tony Borachio!”
“The Mafia Don, Boss?”
“His son. Tony Borachio Sr was the Don; he ruled this area of the city from the mid-20s all the way to the late-50s. He had three sons. The eldest, Tony Jr, disappeared without a trace sometime around 1930, he would have been in his early 20s at the time, I guess. I flicked through the dossier on the case a couple of years ago. His disappearance was never reported to us, so we were not officially involved, but we followed the situation in case the incident started a Mob war.”
I racked my mind to bring up the details.
“There were several rumors about his disappearance, ranging from Tony running away with a waitress, to abduction and murder by the Carlucci family; they were the Borachio family’s main rivals then. One of the most persistent stories, though, was that old man Borachio found out that his eldest son liked getting fucked in the back passage – pardon my French, Doc – by a Black Jack dealer from one of the other Borachio casinos, I think it may have been the Riviera. According to the gossip, the old man made his son vanish – allegedly – to stop the scandal becoming public. But even the rumors didn’t say where the son had been taken to. Needless to say that the family strenuously denied anything like that happened. The facts fit neatly with what we know: the rumors of a gay scandal could explain the dildo, the body of the supposed lover was found heavily mutilated in a dumpster in the same week Tony disappeared. The Sphynx was being built by the Borachio family roughly around that time and Tony Jr was never heard of again. Williams, you check the timing of Tony’s disappearance against the timing of the Sphynx’s construction.”
“We must have the DNA profile of John Borachio on file, from the time of his arrest for drink driving. He’s the grandson of Gianluca Borachio, the son who took over from Tony Sr. I’ll ask the lab to check for a male familial match tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, Doctor, that should confirm or deny his identity. We’ll work on this hypothesis for now. Richards, you dug up the casino’s plans, right? What was on the side of the concrete pillar that Tony was buried in?”
“I checked earlier, Boss. The breathing tube and the gasto, garsto … the feeding tube came out in a room marked ‘janitor’s office’.”
“Mmm, I want you to find the oldest still living janitor from the Sphynx. I doubt we’ll find anyone old enough to know anything, but it’s worth a try.”
I lie naked on my sofa and think of Tony Borachio. I rechecked the dossier before I went home. He had only just turned nineteen a couple of weeks before his father allegedly discovered that he was a fag, a bum boy, a fairy, the lowest of the fucking low and a disgrace to the family name. According to rumor, Senior discovered it in the most dramatic way when he walked in on his teenage son naked in bed together with 24-year-old croupier Michael Patmore: Tony on all fours, Mike behind him repeatedly driving his gigantic cock ball-deep through the backdoor entrance of Don’s eldest boy. Tony was groaning loudly in a mix of agony and pleasure. It wasn’t the first time Mike fucked him like this, the teenager – a total bottom – allegedly had his ass wrecked by his hung lover two or three times a week for almost a year, but the deep hard thrusts with which Mike’s fat foot-long manhood penetrated his gut still managed to overwhelm his senses.
Most of those details aren’t in the dossier, admittedly, but that is exactly how I envisage what happened.
Envisaging the Mafia boss’s rage afterwards doesn’t take so much imagination. Perhaps if Tony had been on top emptying his nuts into Mike, they might have spun it as a one-off, a young man needing to satisfy his lust using whatever opportunity arose – perhaps. But when they found him at the bottom, getting bred, offering up his ass like a bitch-in-heat hoping for a fat rock-hard cock to ravage her, his life wasn’t worth a dime – and Mike’s was worth even less.
I picked up the school photo I copied from the report. Tony as an 18-year-old was undeniably gorgeous, black hair, as you would expect from a Borachio, and warm brown eyes with long lashes. No longer a boy, not yet fully a man. Beautifully fresh-faced, cute dimpled smile. He doesn’t look particularly effeminate, but there is something about him that makes my Gaydar blink. And there is a lot about him that makes my manhood stand to attention; I can totally see why Patmore risked his life for some private action with this teenager.
I had shed my clothes the moment I walked into my flat to give my cock the freedom it had craved all day. With one hand I knead my balls while the other slowly greases the thick 10-inch shaft, standing rigidly, high above my groin. I don’t want to cum now, not yet at least. I need to draw it out long enough to fantasize about Tony’s ordeal.
“What was it like, Tony?” I asked the picture. “Were you conscious when your father had you tied up inside the wooden mold that would form that pillar? I imagine your lips were clamped tight around the mouth piece as the thick wet cement was poured over your naked body. That monstrously large dildo that hurt so much when they forced it all the way up your ass still stretches your gut beyond the pain barrier, but now it seems a minor distraction from the real punishment. I imagine you can feel how the liquid concrete turns to stone, slowly getting thicker and harder. Your chest labors to keep a void open so you can continue breathing.”
My wanking hand has sped up without me noticing. I force myself to slow down, deep breaths, you don’t want to peak too soon.
“It takes several hours for the cement to harden, but when it finally has set, you are completely entombed in rock – a skin-tight stone prison that leaves you not an inch of movement – not even a fraction of an inch. It is so hard, so uncomfortable, but there is no way to avoid its touch. You cannot roll over or move to relieve the pressure. It is everywhere, over every inch of your body, holding you tightly, keeping you utterly motionless. You need to move, you have to, you struggle against the rigid stone, but the relentless unyielding embrace of the concrete tomb won’t let you move, will never ever let you move again. How long did it take, Tony, the denial phase? Finally you gave in, you accepted that you would suffer like this for the rest of your life.”
The youngster in the picture seems to smile directly at me; he knows that I can understand what he went through when his encasement became permanent.
“Do you know that I experienced something similar, Tony? As a 10-year-old boy I was hit by a car and broke my pelvis and legs in over a dozen places. The injuries were so bad that I was forced to spend 8 months in a huge plaster cast that stretched from my nipples all the way down to my toes. So you see, I can sympathize a little with what it is like to be immobilized in solid and completely rigid stone. For a 10-year-old, eight months is like eternity. At first, I didn’t think I could last for more than half a year, but against all the odds, I began to enjoy it. There was something about it, I couldn’t tell what, that meant that soon I relished every second of my involuntary encasement. I loved being unable to move most of my body, even though my legs were immobilized excessively wide-spread to take the pressure off my broken pelvis. About as widely spread as your legs were for punishment. It should have been uncomfortable, and it was, in fact much of the time. The cramp in my hips was almost unbearable. I’d cry and beg that I wanted the cast to be taken off, but deep down, subconsciously, I desired the complete opposite. The knowledge that my discomfort was inescapable, that the cast would not come off for ages and that I would have to endure it for all that time, gave me a deep primal thrill, an excitement in my gut like nothing I had ever felt before. Now I know it was my first sexual arousal, but to my 10-year-old self it was an unfathomable and incredible pleasure that I would never want to part with. I knew that as long as the cast remained, that pleasure would remain. Did you unexpectedly enjoy your confinement like that too? What did feel it like, Tony, the rough hard concrete surface against your bare skin? Were you aroused by the feeling of unyielding rock tightly surrounding your entire body: your arms and legs, your torso and head? Did you also enjoy the forced immobility? You did, didn’t you? I can sense you did. The uncompromising rigidity you experienced then must have been mind-blowing; I remember thinking as a child that the cast that immobilized my lower body was impossibly restrictive, but your life inside that solid block of cement must have been infinitely more constrained.”
My cock is throbbing so heavily I have to stop. For the first time in my life, I wonder what it would have been like if I had been a couple of years older when I broke my pelvis. Imagine if I had been, say, a 16-year-old: forced to spend 8 months flat on my back with my body tightly and rigidly contained from my armpits to my toes, my legs so wide apart it is almost impossible to tolerate. Unable to move from the bed, I cannot do anything other than service my horse cock, which stands rock-hard through the opening in the plaster over my groin. Non-stop heavy wanking would have been the only feasible way to deal with the overwhelming excitement I remember feeling as an encased, but regrettably immature, 10-year-old.
“Not for you, though - you couldn’t even have a nice wank, could you, Tony? While you were enjoying your encasement, you would have had no opportunity to stimulate yourself. Not with your arms stuck rigid and separated from your manhood by a couple of feet of rock-hard cement. I am sure your ass became accustomed to the monstrous dildo they had forced all the way into your gut and you started to love the sensation of over-fullness it gave you, just like you had enjoyed feeling Mike Patmore’s huge manhood thrusting into you violently. The big dildo just added to the overpowering arousal you were experiencing, helplessly and utterly contained in solid concrete. How long did you live after your encasement, Tony? I would like to imagine it was at least 8 months, just like the time I spent in my cast. Almost 40 weeks completely motionless, aroused by the hard rigidity that surrounded you over every inch of your body. More than half a year of utter frustration caused by the absolute inability to do anything to relieve yourself and consummate the lust that was gnawing away at your soul. I know what it feels like, man. My eight months’ ordeal sped by and yet it seemed to last forever.”
My hand is speeding up again and this time I let it go.
“It was bliss, wasn’t it, the total immobility they forced on you?” I ask the photo. “After eight months they removed my big cast and I lost that sensation, and I’ve only just realized that I have been yearning for it ever since. In a way you were lucky that they never freed you from your concrete tomb, because life is empty after such an experience.”
My cock erupts in the first of half a dozen shots of cum across my chest, face and the wall behind me. As the fireworks finally die down, I lie back and try to control my breathing. Ten minutes later, I reopen my eyes and I am staring straight into the face of the teenager who was buried alive in several feet of rock-hard concrete. Blood surges back into my rapidly swelling manhood …
“That was Dr Gomez on the phone, Boss. The lab tested the DNA first thing this morning. The body is confirmed to be a direct male relative of John Borachio. Tests on the age of the bones are still ongoing.”
“Thanks, Reynolds. So, listen up everyone. We have a member of the Borachio family buried in the foundations of the Sphynx. And Officer Williams established this morning that Tony Borachio Jr disappeared six weeks after the building works on the casino started. I think we can be confident that we know who our John Doe is. We can guess at the motive from the rumors about his relationship with Mike Patmore, from Patmore’s gruesome murder and from the presence of a brutally large dildo up Tony Jr’s backside, not that the motive matters much anymore. Tony Borachio Sr is long dead, as are the enforcers he employed in those days, so I don’t believe there is anyone to prosecute over this. Unless there is something else anyone wants to add, I suggest we it write up and close the case.”
“One moment, please, Boss.” I nod at Richards to continue. “I checked for former janitors from the Sphynx, as you suggested and found a Sean O’Dowd, 96-years-old, who worked there after the second world war. He’s willing to talk to us. Not sure whether there is anything he can tell us, but he’s in the old people’s home just two blocks down, so it shouldn’t take long.”
“Okay, I’ll come with you.”
“I started in the Sphynx immediately after I was demobbed from the army, January or February 1946 it would have been.”
O’Dowd is now a fragile bent old man, but you can still see that he was once a goliath, a bodybuilder or wrestler perhaps.
“I was told never to speak about what I am going to say now, and 20 years ago I would have denied any knowledge, but I’m 96 now, what is the worst they can do to me? Or you can do to me, for that matter? When I applied for the job, I knew what organization was behind the casino of course, everybody knew. But as a non-Italian, I didn’t expect to get involved in… let’s call it ‘problematic’ activities.”
I nod sympathetically to assure him he is not going to get into trouble.
“That expectation was proved wrong in 1948 when I was promoted from handyman to janitor. They showed me into my new office, a cubbyhole in the basement, and there they explained to me about my ‘extra’ duties. Basically, in one of the cupboards a short section of pipe stuck out from the wall and twice a day I would check that there was air flowing into and out of the pipe. They had hung a small fabric streamer in front of it, which would flutter back and forth in the moving air.”
My belly cramped and my cock jumped as I realized what he was telling us.
“You are sure this was in 1948?”
“That’s when I started, yes, fall of 1948. After I had confirmed the airflow, I would take a bottle of whitish fluid from the fridge, connect it up to a second narrower pipe, hang the bottle on a hook higher up the wall and leave that to drain. After 10 minutes or so the bottle would be empty, I’d disconnect it, put the cap back on the smaller pipe and close the cupboard. Twice a day, every day.”
That was 16 years after Tony was encased! Tony Borachio was still alive after 16 years entombed in solid concrete. I shift my body, painfully conscious that my hands, loosely lying in my lap, are unable to fully hide the vast bulge that has popped up again in my pants.
“I guessed what was going on, of course, and I felt guilty for being involved, but what could I do about it? I was genuinely sorry for the poor guy they had bricked up behind that wall and resolved to care for him as good as I could.”
Bricked up? If only it was as innocent as that. If he had been bricked up in a small room or even a broom closet, at least Tony would have been able to move around a bit.
“How – and when – did it end, Mr O’Dowd?” I say, trying to disguise the tension in my voice.
“August 1980”
“1980!?”
“Yes, the 15th of August to be precise, I’ve never forgotten it. He was fine in the morning, but by late afternoon, I found the streamer hanging still. I listened at the pipe whether I could hear anything and when I couldn’t, I informed the casino manager. He came down, checked the pipe and told me my extra duties were no longer required. Then he locked the cupboard and took the key with him. In a way it really affected me bad, losing the person I had looked after for over 32 years. I felt we had a relationship, even though I’d never seen him or spoken to him.”
For a moment we are still and I am about to thank him before he continues. “Do you know his identity? I’ve always wondered who he was and why they did that to him.”
I hesitate for a moment, but decide to tell him at least some of the truth. “We have reason to believe that it was a young man called Tony Borachio Jr behind that wall. He was one of the sons of your old employer. He disappeared as a teenager 16 years before you met him, so he spent almost his entire life locked up in that hidden space. As to why they did that to him, after all this time we cannot be sure. Knowing the Mafia, I guess he did something that displeased his family.”
I am lying on my bed, naked and aroused, trying to come to terms with the knowledge that once upon a time a gorgeous young man was buried in solid concrete and survived, rigidly entombed, for almost 50 years. Any doubts we had about O’Dowd’s story were overcome by Dr Gomez’s report that the bones, Tony Borachio’s bones, were those of an older man who died in the 1970s or 80s. Apparently, the state of the bones also indicated that Tony had moved little in the decades before he died. There of course the report was slightly wrong: we knew that he hadn’t ‘moved little’, he had not moved at all, not even an inch, in the last 48 years of his life.
Flat on my back and spread-eagled, I allow myself to imagine what it must be like to live perfectly encased like Tony Borachio. What it must have been like to be Tony Borachio.
I can breathe and I can think, but that is all that I have been able to do since they buried me last week, everything else I try is utterly futile. My limbs are useless, every inch of my body is held tight in this hard block of stone. With at least a foot of concrete all around me, there is no light or sound to distract my mind from the terrifying future. My entire existence has shrunk to just the air flowing into my lungs and the relentless touch of the solid concrete against my skin. That ruthless hold of rock-hard stone that has become my whole world. The stone, the concrete, it is always there, so tight around my body, all of my body: rough, cold and hard, so inconceivably hard, so unbearably hard. There are times I want to scream, times when I physically struggle trying to break out. I know my attempts will be fruitless of course, but I have to try anyway. There are times I feel like I will go mad if I don’t escape from this cruelly close-fitted space. Times when I have to get away from the never-ending pressure of the solid rock against my aching body. My mind knows it won’t happen, it knows that this is where I will live for the rest of my life, but my mind is also unwilling to accept that fact and keeps yearning to resist the inevitable. And yet, despite all that, despite the pain and the fear, despite my desperate circumstances, my cock permanently throbs heavy with arousal. Arousal from the fact that my new desperate situation is permanent, excitement that, however much I wish to, I will never escape this uncompromising immobility. If only my cock could get erect, if only I could cum, shoot a massive load and relax, perhaps then things would turn out to be okay. But it won’t get erect and I won’t be able to cum, because my tool too is completely encased in stone.
In real life, my cock, unconstrained by the concrete entombment of my imagination, stands painfully hard and pulsates with every excited heartbeat.
I think I’ve been here for almost a year; twice a day I can feel food filling up my stomach and I count the times I am fed. If my calculations are correct, it is my 20th birthday today. Happy Birthday to me. Almost a year without any movement. How long will he keep me like this? If I’m honest, I don’t think he will ever let me out, not Dad, he will never risk the dishonor to the family should it become common knowledge that his eldest son loves nothing better than a well-hung man violently fucking his ass. I cannot bear to think about what he may have done to Mike, my handsome, sparkling, caring Mike. He won’t be able to cope if he has to spend his life entombed like this. Myself, I don’t think I mind anymore, not really. In the beginning, I almost lost it with fear, with anxiety and especially with loneliness, but then I began to realize that I actually crave this life. The tight grip of the concrete no longer scares me. The rock-hard surface, painful as it still feels much of the time, has become like a friend, an ever-present embrace that securely holds my body. I don’t think I want to regain my freedom. I don’t want to be able to move anymore. Some days, like today, I do still wish desperately that I’d be able to give myself a hand job, though, because the permanent horniness is killing me. But I also know that that arousal is the source that continues to replenish the contentment I feel about my current situation. It is that unquenched lust that keeps me going. It is the feeling of that massive rubber dildo filling my gut and pushing against my prostate, the urgent but futile desire to move my limbs, to bend my back and twist my neck, but most of all, it is the desperate need to shoot a massive load, which I will never be able to do again. All those things make my new life a rollercoaster, a frustratingly slow rollercoaster of hormone-fueled lust. A constantly growing urge that will forever remain unfulfilled, building up to a mind-blowing arousal that will never come to an end and which can sustain me for the rest of my life – however long I may have to live in this hard, skin-tight tomb.
If only I could cum now, only once. Just one more giant eruption, and I could happily live like this forever. Oh God, I so need to cum. Please let me empty my balls, just to find peace for a while.
I can no longer restrain myself and, still flat on my back, grab my manhood with both hands. Bucking my hips and violently pumping with my hands, I shoot load after load across the room until my nuts are screaming in agony. Falling back, I relish in the feeling of release, the ability to move my arms and the freedom to thrust my pelvis that were denied to Tony Borachio. Yet… somehow, I am jealous of the beautiful teenager who was going to spend the last 48 years of his life helplessly encased in solid rock-hard concrete. I am grateful to him, though, that he has given me a real-life story to fantasize about and wank to for the rest of my life.
THE END