The Bad Boys' Soft Boys' Lonely Hearts Club - The Full Package

The Bad Boy Gang Leader Is A Soft Boy!

If I had a nickel for each time I get bagged and kidnapped, I would be able to buy a can of coke. I know it's not much, but at least I won't be thirsty. Weird thing that it seems to happen often enough to buy something, but such is the life of a bad boy.

It happens so much that I have a few pointers to give you, were you ever to be kidnapped by a shadowy organization:

First, go limp. It's harder to move dead weight than to drag a wiggling body. If you can shit yourself, the better. Nobody wants to drag a human-sized diaper around. Do beware that some sick people are into that, and you're just making yourself more attractive to them. 

Second, do not yell. You need to cordially say, and with your best commanding voice, that they — the kidnappers — are giving you an erection, and that any further manhandling will only make you hornier. They will immediately drop you to the floor and wash away their sins in a shower while crying. 

If none of that works, kneel down and make a silent prayer, loud enough for your captors to listen to it, to Lord Nosferatu and thank him for the meal you are about to eat. Nobody has both a poop fetish and a vampire fetish. You are covering all your bases. 

Unfortunately for me, I'm not halfway through expressing the hard, throbbing erection this is giving me when I'm tossed on a chair. Roughly. Did you know underwear is the only thing preventing you from sitting on your giblets by making everything stay in place? Because I learned that just now. 

I open my eyes, but I see nothing, for the bag is still over my head. I dunno why I thought it was going to be different. 

"Fellas," I say, getting my bearings, "I keep telling you that blindfolding makes me wanna pre." 

Immediately after that, I feel the bag being pulled out of my head. And yet, I remain in darkness. Maybe I can open my eyes and let the light in. Much better. 

Or maybe not.

I'm in a warehouse of some sort. Big, tall, and empty. The only thing in the warehouse is one single dangling lamp over me — you know, mafia shit. 

What is not normal is the two beasts with human clothes standing in front of me. They have to be at least 6'9 on a bad day. They are all neck, no head, built like a bridge, and probably eat one every day. They look like Goombas from the failed Mario Bros Movie, and I'm sorry to have to remind you of that trash, but that's the only way to visualize it. 

One is clearly Asian, with porcelain white skin and thin lips, with a chunk of his upper lip cut off, and the other has Mediterranean skin, and a huge scar running from his balding head to the base of his chin, passing through his left eye. 

"What was that about an erection?" says the Asian fridge-man, with a voice that makes even the light tremble. 

"He said we make him horny," says the Mediterranean anvil made of other harder anvils. 

The Asian Hulk grabs me by both shoulders with one hand, pulling me closer to him. He smells of kimchi and mint. "That true, hotshot? I make your prick stiff?"

"Sir, no sir," I say. "No boners here."

The Mediterranean man grabs me by my other shoulder. He smells like cheap beer and soccer. "I thought I heard that you were gonna pre. I hate it when they tease me and don't deliver." 

I took a calculated risk, knowing full well I suck at math. 

"Come on and pre, pre-boy," says the Asian yokozuna. "You promised a pre."

"Yeah, pre-boy," says the Mediterranean beefcake. "Show us a good time. Doesn't my friend make you hard? Wanna give him a sucky-sucky?"

When everything else fails, go to the path of least resistance.