How To Rape A Straight Guy, Part 4
We set it up for the next Saturday. I come over at six. We call our guy at seven. Have him there at eight. Done with him by eleven. Go out for a beer or two at midnight. I take the car home. All nice and neat and scheduled out like a battle plan.
Bill decided to use one of those "model/escort" characters who got ads in the back of th’ weekly fag-rags. I bet he spent hours lookin’ ‘em over, comparin’ "Scott" with "Rob" and "Midwest Stud" with "Italian Stallion" and on and on. Dreamin' of how it'd go. Jackin' off to it. You'd’ve thought he was plannin' his weddin', or somethin'. The guy he finally settled on was named "Jeremy."
I had to admit, Jeremy’s ad sounded right. "Straight stud loves to get serviced. Junior in college. 6-1, 185, 30" waist, swimmer’s body, 8 by 5 1/2 and cut. Your wet dream cum true." No picture, but Bill didn’t care. "He claims he’s straight," Bill said. "That makes it even more like the real thing, right?"
I snickered at it...snickered at any guy who says he’s straight but makes his livin' bein' sucked off by a man. "Gay for pay," my ass. When I get sucked off, it's ‘cause I got no other way to get some quick cash. And deep in the back of my mind, I know I’m thinkin’ of Connie the whole time, like it's her doin’ it.
‘Course, that's the only way I CAN do it with Connie. She hates suckin’ on my dick...on anybody’s dick. Her attitude is, why not just fuck? So that's what we’d usually do. Havin’ a guy suck me off was just a change of pace...and like I said, in prison you get to learn real quick -- a mouth’s a mouth. But puttin’ ads in some twinky West Hollywood piece of superficial shit newspaper? And makin’ a livin’ at it? What bullshit.
So I came over and Bill showed me the setup. He'd prepped a guest bedroom, downstairs, takin' out all the pictures and furniture, leavin' only a four-poster bed and its sheets. Lengths of rope were coiled at each corner of the bed. The walls were draped with thick black cloth to muffle any noises the guy might make. It looked...creepy.
I nodded to the ropes and asked, "What's that for?"
"See how things go," said Bill. "I might want to...make use of him, myself...when you're done. In an oral manner."
I just shook my head. Then Bill showed me the camera. It was set up on a tripod behind some plants -- ficus? rubber? I never can tell -- and covered the living room. You had to look hard to see it. It made me feel even creepier.
"Was that here the other night?" I asked him.
Bill shook his head maybe a little too fast and said, "No, of course not. Don’t you remember how dark it was? Not enough light to shoot by."
I didn't really believe him...but I wasn't gonna screw things up by bein' a dick about it...not now. I could always find out later.
Then Bill showed me a pair of handcuffs he'd bought at some leather shop. They weren't the best lookin' pair I'd ever seen; fact is I figure he got ripped off on 'em. Didn't matter; I wasn't plannin' on usin' handcuffs, anyway.
"What're you going to use?" he asked, after I told him.
"These." I showed him some thick plastic strips with a tiny loop on one end. The dykes I worked for used 'em to tie their oversized trash bags -- cops used somethin' like 'em, now, instead of handcuffs. "They work lots better."
He nodded, just like a monkey in heat. Freak.
Through all of this, Wayne'd only shown his head, once, and that was just to shake it at us, in disgust, and say, "This isn't right."
"Go back to your room, Wayne," said Bill, "and maybe I'll let you watch the video once we're done. Unless you'd care to join us once everything's...umm, underway? I have rope ready."
"Don't be disgusting," he snapped back as he glared at me. "You’re going to jail, you know. And I'll laugh at you the whole time you're in."
Man, talk about a pathetic line; Wayne was so full of shit with his "holier than thou" garbage. If somebody don’t want you to do something wrong, they stop you. Plain and simple. They don’t watch you make your plans to call up some guy and bullshit him into comin’ over to make a couple hundred and then just say, "But it's not right." Fuck that. He wants to do it as much as Bill does; he just ain’t got the balls to admit it, so he’s givin’ himself this weaselly little out, where he can honestly say, "I told ‘em not to." And since it ain’t a crime to prevent a crime or report one in California, he could probably’ve got off.
So I looked straight at him and told him flat out, "It don’t matter if you get the fuck out or you stay in your room, I’ll tell people you was in with us all the way t'night."
That way, if he pulled anything, if he told anybody, he’d go in with us. Then I’d make damn sure his balls got cut off and jammed up his ass by some big stinkin’ uncut Nazi fucker. That shut him the fuck up...but what's really important is, all he did was disappear back up the stairs.
Right at seven, Bill called the guy up and got his specs. Dark hair -- good. Blue eyes -- don't remember what color Anthony’s were. Frat boy -- right look. Lifts weights, but not too much ‘cause he don’t want his muscles to get too tight -- makes him easier to handle. His girlfriend’s out of town and that's why he’s horny -- total bullshit...but Bill swallowed it all and gave the stud his address.
"He’ll be here in an hour," he said as he hung up. He was almost gigglin', he was so into it.
"Get hold of it, Bill," I said, "or you’ll fuck it up. I’m doin’ the job; you’re doin’ the camera. Got it?"
He nodded like a monkey in heat, again. That made me feel weird, but it was too late, now -- the "stud" was on his way.
Thing is, I got to admit, I...shit, I started feeling...I dunno...ready for it. I got kind of hard just thinkin’ ‘bout what I was gonna do to this rich little college kid...like I missed doin’ what I did in prison. It was gonna be just like old times...but this time with somethin' to keep his hands out of the fuckin’ way...make it easier to take total control.
I only had that once, before...but it was, like, to the nine-hundredth power. It was when I got a guard at Mid-State. Man, that made me feel like I was king of the world.
It happened a week ‘fore I was set to go up for parole, when this overbuilt piece of raw beef in a blue uniform started givin’ me shit every time I turned around. His name was Carter and he was a ten-year military cop vet with this pug-Irish face that made you think of an IRA terrorist. He’d ignored me the two years he worked while I was in, but suddenly he was makin’ up for lost time. If my cell wasn’t in perfect order, he’d trash it and make me start over. If my shoes weren’t tied, he’d spit on ‘em and make me polish ‘em with my shirt, then bust my balls for wearin’ a dirty uniform. If I looked at him wrong, I had to stand at attention and listen to him bitch for half an hour, usin’ words I’d never even heard before. And his guard buddies’d help him when he needed it...or just wanted it.
‘Course, I got what was goin’ on -- he wanted me to make a move on him so he could fuck up my parole; I just didn’t get why. So I figured I’d find out.
I made arrangements with a couple of my pack to decoy him into the laundry room -- that's where I was workin’. He’d given them some shit, too, and they had a good idea what I was up to, so they were on board from the get-go. They waited till the machines were goin’ loud, then told him I was in the back, getting’ sucked off. He hustled back to catch me and do his number.
I was hidin’ in this corner, behind two of the machines. Lots of guys slip back there to take care of each other or themselves, but my pack made sure the place stayed clear for me. Soon as Carter rounded the corner, he was out of sight of the other guards, so I grabbed him, put my little shiv against his throat and made him come with me way behind the last machine. He was shittin’ bricks, I can tell you, whisperin’ the whole way, "C’mon, man, you don’t wanna fuck up your parole. You don’t wanna do that." What he didn’t get is, I didn’t care. No fuckin’ pig’s ever gonna pull shit on me and walk away from it.
I slammed his face into this corner and held him there. I already knew what I was gonna do -- I had a hard-on like you wouldn’t believe, and I was pushin’ it against his ass to let him know. He was freakin’, I can tell you.
"Why you fuckin’ with me, man?" I snarled into his ear.
"I ain’t," he said, whimperin’.
"Bullshit! You been on my ass for weeks. Who’s got you gunnin’ for me?"
I reached around and grabbed his crotch, squeezed it. He gasped, but I had him so tight, he couldn’t yell. "Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, cunt! I’ll ram this knife through your fuckin’ balls!"
He squirmed then finally told me, "Buddy of mine. He told me you...you got his nephew. When he was in your cell. Fucked the kid...fucked him up. He wants you to stay in."
"What d’you mean I fucked him up?"
"He...he tried to kill himself. He’s on tranq’s. Twenty-four-seven watch."
"Yeah. I knew him. He was a good kid, just a little fucked up from drugs. But now..."
"And it's me fucked him up, huh?"
He nodded. I fuckin’ loved it...really fuckin’ loved the idea that I’d messed up some rich-bitch little pansy’s life so much that mommy and daddy had to shell out some of their big bucks to put him back together. I mean, twenty-four-seven care ain’t cheap, even if you got insurance. And I bet I knew which punk it was, too -- that first one I hammered in the ass and got to shoot his wad. He was rostered out before Carter transferred in. I almost came in my pants thinkin’ ‘bout it.
Carter was shivering...so I smiled and pulled a towel out of my pocket and whispered to him, "Put your hands behind you."
I dug the shiv into his neck, just enough to cut him. He gasped then did as I said. I used the towel to tie his wrists together then spun him around to face me. I was smilin’...and that scared him more than anything. Then I pushed him back against the wall and whispered, "How 'bout I show ya what I did to your buddy’s nephew?"
He shook his head, choked out a, "No."
I pressed against him, held him hard against the wall, grindin’ my dick into his crotch...then I undid his belt. He jolted and tried to squirm away, so I slammed him to the floor. He landed hard, but he was still able to cry out. He started to scream loud enough he might've been heard over the noise of the machines...till I yanked off my tee-shirt and jammed it into his mouth. He tried to kick me, so I pulled his pants down to his ankles and tightened his belt. Now he was what you call hog-tied...sort of. He bucked and tried to yell, but the noise from the washers and dryers and the gag in his mouth kept anybody from hearing him, and he was too tied down to do me much damage. I just stood there, watchin’ the pig squirm, lovin’ it.
His Jockeys were still pretty much on, so I straddled his chest and ripped ‘em off him. He was uncut. That made me want to hurt him, even more.
I turned and now was straddling his belly, watchin’ him try to spit out my shirt and look around for help and shake his head, no. I pulled out my dick. I was hard as a rock. I rubbed it against his face. He shook his head like he was gonna go nuts. I almost laughed.
"This is goin’ up your ass, bitch," I said. "And you’re gonna love it. That's what fucked up your buddy’s punk nephew -- me showin’ him how much he liked havin’ my dick up his ass."
Carter tried to scream, so I slapped him. Hard. Twice. He started cryin’. I pulled my shirt out of his mouth and twisted it into a kind of rope and pulled it around his neck and twisted it tight. I held it there with my left hand as I unbuttoned his shirt with my right.
He had big pecs, hairless and smooth, and his abs were as soft and smooth as Connie’s. Surprised me. I figured he’d have something like the six-packs you see these iron-junkies always goin’ for. Not that I gave a shit about how he looked.
He just gasped and shook his head and muttered, "No, God, please," over and over. I twisted my shirt a little tighter to shut him up. Then I pulled his legs up and slipped between ‘em and lubed my dick with some spit and rammed it deep into him.
He tried to scream, but I had my shirt twisted too tight ‘round his throat, so he just choked. When I was all the way in him, I let it loose -- didn’t want him hurlin’ on me or drownin’ in his own puke -- then I pumped him, long and slow and hard...and I played with his ass...and I stroked his belly...and I sucked on his tits. And I told myself I was back with Connie, fuckin’ her and suckin’ on her tits and rubbin’ her belly like I always had...and then came the fun part -- he started gettin’ hard. Soon you couldn’t tell he wasn’t cut...and just to prove how much he was my bitch, I let go of my shirt...kept lickin’ his tits and stroking his abs...and made my other hand circle his dick...and I began pullin’ on it.
He froze, like he couldn’t believe what was happenin’, then he croaked, "What th’ fuck’re you doin’?"
I twisted the shirt tight, again, and kept pullin’ on his dick. He got harder and harder, and I sneered as he tried to squirm away from me. I was close to cumming, so I slowed down my action and pulled harder on his dick, even spit in my hand to make the pullin’ smoother. I wanted this fucker to taste his own shit.
After a couple of minutes, I was close to firing my load into him, and I was wonderin’ if he ever was gonna shoot. He was fightin’ me, like you wouldn’t believe -- shakin’ his head and tryin’ to twist away from my hand and kickin’. He even tried to squeeze me with his legs, but I was too built up for that to work. Finally, just as I was about to give up and just let go of my load, he began to buck and gasp...and he shot a wad so hard it hit the wall. His ass clenched tight around my dick as he went, and I didn’t have any choice, then -- I plowed into him and let loose.
It was scary how good it felt -- just like when I did it the first time to that rich pansy punk’s ass. He kept fightin’ me the whole time, even as he kept cumming and I kept plowing my load into him, and that made it even better. And when we were done and I pulled out, I smeared his face with his own cum. He gagged...and balled up into this little knot and started sobbin' as he tried to hide his face and his dick from me.
I untied his hands and stood up, even though I was weak in the knees. He whipped his arms around to cover himself, still sobbin’. I watched him...and felt a weird urge. This one’d been too fuckin’ good...I knew I could’ve done it, again, if I’d taken the time. I thought about it...but figured, naw, then it'd be too much like sex.
I still had the towel in my hand, so I used that to wipe off with. Then I tossed it into a washin’ machine, pulled on my t-shirt and walked away. Didn’t say a word, just left him there. I knew he wouldn’t tell anybody. He was too fuckin’ ashamed of what he’d done.
And sure enough, he left me alone after that...and I made parole a week later.
And here I was, about to do the same thing again. I was almost sick from excitement.
Bill must've checked that fuckin’ camera a hundred times before the doorbell rang. It was a neat little camera, put out a great picture so long as the lights were right. Oh, and he made sure every light in the room was on, this time, "just to be sure."
The plan was simple: Bill’d let the stud in, make sure the guy knew he was there for sex, then I’d pop out of the kitchen and grab him. The rest was up to me, but I didn’t expect too much trouble. Even if he knew karate or some shit, I could clamp on the straps before he knew what was happenin’. So when the bell rang, we were ready.
I slipped into the kitchen and got the straps ready and peeked out to watch. The front door was in plain sight. Bill hit the camera’s remote and "strolled" over to the door. He opened it and stepped back, breathing hard...whether it was from excitement or fear, I dunno. I heard the guy say, "Bill?" and Bill answered, "Jeremy? Yeah, come on in."
The guy that entered was probably one of Bill’s and Wayne’s wet dreams...and he looked familiar. He was taller than me and maybe older by a couple of years -- college stud, my ass -- with broad shoulders and solid muscles -- swimmer's build, my ass -- dark hair cut short and neat, wearing a white cotton shirt and tight Levi's with a black belt and black loafers, looking like the poster queen for Gay America. Hair on his arms and chest peeked out from under the shirt...not too much, but enough to show he was a guy. Probably a "gay for pay" closet case. Shit, how hard could it be? Pun intended.
He didn't look too much like Anthony. His face wasn't as long or as Italian. And his jaw was stronger...cleaner...and that's when it hit me -- "Jeremy" looked exactly like that guy in "Psycho," th’ one in the hotel room at the beginnin', who Janet Leigh steals the cash for. Connie took me to see it just after we met. It started out slow as shit, but things picked up in that motel, boy did they. Got me hot as shit for Janet, lemme tell ya. Anyhow, that character was so neat and clean and looked so much like a cop, all I could think about when he was on-screen was how much I’d like to smash his squeaky-pretty little face in...and now it looked like I was gonna get that chance.
Jeremy looked around and said, "Nice place."
Bill twittered, swear to God, as he said, "Thanks. You want something to drink? Beer, wine, Coke, whiskey?"
"Depends on what you’re after," Jeremy said, keeping just out of Bill’s reach. Something about that set off alarms in my brain. I don’t know shit about guys who always go to guys’ homes for sex, but I know enough to know he oughta be doin’ somethin' to get Bill all primed and ready to want more...and "Jeremy" wasn’t doin’ that. I put the straps in the "stuff" drawer and peeked back out.
"What do you think?" Bill asked.
"I’m not a mind reader."
"Well, I do need to know -- are you circumcised?"
"What difference does that make?" the stud asked.
"Well...all the difference," said Bill, glancing at the kitchen. Dumb fuck. He was probably shitty at poker, too.
The stud eyed him and said, "I am."
"Prove it," said Bill.
Jeremy reached down...and dug into his jeans...and pulled out a badge! He was a fuckin’ cop! I fuckin’ knew it!
"How ‘bout I show you this?" he said. "You’re under arrest for solicitation of prostitution."
"Oh, shit!" Bill squeaked -- swear to God, he squeaked!
That's when I took a chance and barged in with a bottle of beer.
"Hey, Wayne, what th’ fuck’s goin’ on?" I asked Bill, but I was lookin’ straight at the cop. "This better be somebody here for Billy-boy."
The pig jumped and backed to the door, badge up as he all but screamed, "Hold it, right there!"
I stopped and looked at him like he was nuts. "What th’ fuck’s your problem?" I asked, then I called down the hall, "Hey, Bill, you steppin’ out, tonight?"
Wayne came down the hall, shootin’ daggers at me with his eyes. But he got the message...and he handled it. Bill was all but pissin’ in his pants, but Wayne, fuckin' Wayne picked up the slack, beautifully. Right then I knew I’d misjudged him, big-time. "Okay, fine, let's get the jokes over with. So I called a fuckin’ escort service?! So fuckin’ what? I needed a date."
Jeremy was gettin’ real confused, so he opened the door and yelled for his back-up -- two uniforms lookin’ like they wanted to bust somebody’s balls. I stood stock still in my spot, eyein’ all three of the pigs like they were the scum they were, and I laughed. "Fuckin’ shit, Bill, you called a cop!"
"Bullshit!" said Wayne and he turned his glare on the stud. "Let me see your badge!"
"Stay where you are!" The stud was about to come unglued. And now his backup was more confused than ready to break bones.
"What's goin’ on, Shayes?" one of ‘em asked.
"I dunno," the stud said, "but all these guys’re under arrest for soliciting prostitution. And we're takin' 'em in -- !"
"You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?!" I snarled, and I made it a good one. Jeremy -- Shayes -- looked at me, and he kept his eyes on me from then on. "I come in th’ room after you’re already yellin’ at my buddy here…"
"Your buddy asked me for sex."
"My buddy ain’t asked you for shit, ass-wipe."
"I already got you! He made the request -- !"
"You got shit! I was in the kitchen, and I didn’t hear Wayne ask you for one fuckin’ thing. He told you to wait and Bill’d be right out, that's it."
"It doesn’t matter what you say, asshole. What matters is what goes in my report!" Then he motioned to the uniforms. "He's up for resisting arrest."
One of the uniforms started for me, but I didn’t budge. It was Wayne who stopped him, cold. He got real quiet and said, "All right; arrest us. I have an excellent attorney. I have friends at GLAAD and the ACLU. And we have the word of three men versus one. We’ll have your asses for lunch by this time Monday."
Shayes gave off just a hint of hesitation, but it was enough for me to pick up on. I smiled and turned and put my hands behind my head. The uniform pig went ahead and frisked me and was about to twist my hands around to cuff as he was mouthin’ off the Miranda crap, "You have the right to remain silent -- ," and that's as far as he got before I heard Shayes say, "Aw, fuck it! It ain’t worth the trouble."
I pulled my hand away from the pig and turned back around to look at Shayes. Bill got weak in the knees and sat against the arm of the couch. He was whiter than the stud’s shirt. And "the stud" was redder than my dick, he was so pissed.
"But I still wanna see your identification," he said, tryin’ hard to sound like he was still under control and not doin’ a real good job of it.
"No," I said.
"I can demand it," he said, gettin’ angrier.
"On the street," I said back. "This is a private home, and it ain’t in fuckin’ Georgia, so you wanna pull that shit, you take it outside. You wait till we leave, and you make up some excuse to stop us and see what it gets you, then, officer Shayes."
Shayes glared at me like he was tryin’ to print my face on his brain. Then he looked at Bill, who looked at me like he was about to puke. Then Shayes looked at Wayne, who just shook his head, stepped back and leaned against the doorframe. That's when he knew it was an all or nothin’ situation -- either he busted us and dealt with the uproar that'd follow...or he walked.
The smart fuck made what looked like the right decision to himself -- he walked. He had his uniforms head out, first, then he started after ‘em.
And then he was dumb shit enough to mutter, "Fuckin’ faggots," as he left.
The stupid fuck. If he hadn’t said that, I'd’ve let it drop. I been rousted by cops, before; it's no big deal. But let one call me a faggot -- I ain’t gonna let it go.
I watched him walk out the door and down the steps to the street, memorizin’ every movement of his body. Even in his jeans and shirt, in the barely lit darkness, you could tell he was built. Shit, his ass rocked as he walked, smooth and even, makin’ the jeans look like they were part of his skin. The rest of him fit it -- nice and trim yet solid. Could’ve been a model for some fag underwear catalog or somethin’. Guess that's why they used him for fag bait.
He got to the street, cast us back a dirty look and hopped into his unmarked car and drove away. Then his little piggies followed him in their cruiser. I turned to Billy-boy and said, "Man, that fucker would’ve been fun."
And that's when Bill bolted for the bathroom and began praisin’ the procelain god. It was funny, listenin’ to this guy who pushed and shoved for me to prove my shit, all but begged me to let him tape it and danced around like a kid under a Christmas tree on Christmas Eve when it was about to happen, suddenly hurling his dinner because he’d almost got busted for soliciting. Shit, hadn’t the fuck even considered that rape’s a felony? Don’t matter if you drag a straight guy in off the street or give a back-page guy an invite home and do more to him than he bargained for -- you’re makin’ ‘em do what they don’t want to do. Plain and simple. What would he've done if we’d got busted for that?
That's when I noticed Wayne had been watchin’ through the window as Shayes and his pigs left, and he had this look on his face -- swear to God, he had murder in his eyes.
"Fuckin’ pigs," he said. "They pulled this shit on me, before. When I was walking through that park between Robertson and San Vicente, in West Hollywood. A couple of sheriff’s boys, two racist skinhead punks, said I made a pass at them. Like I’d be interested in a pair of ugly homophobic little pricks like them. They arrested me. No citations; a full-scale arrest. Threatened me with prison. Tried to make me sign a confession. Like this was Iran or China. But I wouldn’t give it to them. I wouldn’t say a word. I waited till I hired an attorney and we fought it, in court. Hung the jury. And that's only because I’d never been arrested before in my life. Not even any outstanding parking tickets on my record. The D.A. had nothing but those two little pigs, and my lawyer got them to contradict each other, right and left...and three out of six people on that jury still believed them. They believed all a gay man wants is to seduce a straight man, turn him into another faggot, so there had to be some truth to what those fucking little pigs said. Motherfucking closet cases. I’ve hated breeders ever since."
He moved back, lettin’ the curtain drop, still not lookin’ at me and gettin’ more and more pissed. "My bet is, he gets off on it," he said. "Our Officer Shayes. He gets to wag his dick in our faces then toss us in jail for merely suggesting we want it, then go home to his wife and say, ‘Honey, I had three men come on to me, today. I could’ve gotten blowjobs right and left, so you’d better give me one. Right now. Careful with the teeth this time. Not that I know how a blowjob’s supposed to be given, seeing as how I’ve never been touched by another man.’ My bet is, that's how he gets himself up, that's how they all do, these plainclothes vice queens who see gay men as pathological criminals."
Fuckin’ Wayne, shit. He was shootin’ off lightnin’ bolts with his words. He was shakin’ from the piss rollin’ in his head. It changed him completely. Suddenly he wasn’t this skinny little faggot too scared to think about comin’ on to a guy like me without his buddy, Bill. Suddenly he was this bantam-weight fighter pumpin’ himself up for fifteen rounds. I couldn’t fuckin’ believe the change.
Then he turned to me with this little snarl of a grin...a grin that now looked about as mean as a man could get...and he said, "If I was going to fuck a straight man and make him like it -- our Officer Shayes, he’s the one I’d choose. Of course, that's probably what he really wants...so it would make the bet moot."
I didn’t know what the fuck that meant, exactly, but I knew what he was talkin’ ‘bout...and I smiled. Wayne looked at me, sort of stunned...and then he smiled. And then we started laughin', together, roarin' with laughter, all but rollin' on the floor, knowin’ full well what we were gonna do, next.
"Callin' Officer Sha-ayes."