Homeboys

by Shane Allison

  “Get yourself facedown on that bike,” Kev said. “Lay down over the fucking tank.”

  The seat’s black vinyl was cold against my hard dick. When I was sprawled over the tank, he used my belt to cinch my wrists to the front wheel, then ripped up my T-shirt and used it to blindfold me. I couldn’t see a fucking thing. I could feel the tip of the knife blade making its way down my naked back. “Don’t fucking move,” Kev hissed.

  The knife withdrew. I could hear the garage door creak open.

  “Look at that faggot ass.” Not Kev’s voice.

  Don’t kill me, I thought. You can fuck me but don’t kill me.

  “Don’t move, faggot.”

  I was deeply terrified. So why was my now-oozing dick gently humping the slick vinyl of the motorcycle seat?

  “I said don’t move!” a hand came down hard on my naked ass, right on the crack. A moan escaped from my throat.

  “Hey man, he likes it!” Again and again, an unseen hand came down on my butt, making it throb, turning it to fire. I’d been spanked before, a few times, but this was taking me beyond my limits, out beyond where pain and pleasure converge. I was cursing, semi-coherently, from between clenched teeth. I hated this. I needed this.

  The blows suddenly stopped. The cheeks of my ass were roughly yanked apart, and one of the intruders spit down the crack of my butt, the gob feeling soothingly cool against the pain of the bruised flesh. Something—a thumb?—rubbed the spit into my hole. I arched backward, up against whatever was making its way into me.

  Now, even at moments like this, I’m not exactly stupid, and an idea was forming in my disoriented brain. I gave it voice: “Hey, are you the guys I advertised for?”

  “Advertise? Advertise this, shithead.” A hand came down, hard, on my already-tender buttcheek. Tears rose to my blindfolded eyes. The thrusts into my ass became more brutal.

  The door creaked open again. A new voice, lower, more menacing. “And what the fuck have we got here?”

  “We got us a real cocksucker, Mario.”

  “Well then, let’s make him suck our fucking cocks.”

  I was untied, lifted off the bike, shoved to my knees on the greasy concrete floor. Two guys got behind me and pulled my arms back hard until I opened my mouth for the third assailant’s half-hard dick. Ordinarily I err way on the side of caution, and don’t even suck dick without a rubber. But these were not ordinary circumstances; absolved of the burden of responsibility, I could once again enjoy the taste of naked cock-flesh swelling against my tongue.

  “Hey, gimme a go, dude.” It was Kev’s voice. As one hard-on replaced another, plunging between my bruised lips, it became evident that there were at least four guys in the garage with me. And I became more and more convinced that this was in fact the scene that I’d prearranged, taken one brilliant step further by a creative band of coconspirators. But what if it wasn’t?

  Kev was shoving his dick so hard down my throat that I began to gag. He slapped my face. “Take it, bitch!” A shifting of grips on my arms and then a third man’s dick began to fuck my mouth. This one really smelled; the guy must not have showered in a week. I inhaled deeply….

  Just like the narrator in S—’s story had inhaled deeply. Yeah, I’d been wrong about that damned story. The hell with my smartass intellectualizing, clever plot twists, postmodern theories of power and submission. This was about hard dicks, brutal fingers and the vulnerable parts of my body. The only thing that mattered was who-put-what-into-where. Thrusts and spurts. If I wrote about this, it wouldn’t be some clever, distanced tale. It would be plain old smut. In whatever was left of my mind, I apologized to S—.

  I inhaled again. The smelly guy was still fucking my throat, pulling my hair hard as he slammed himself into me. His dick swelled, he moaned, then pulled out suddenly. Feed me, I thought, fucking feed me.

  “What’d you say?”

  I hadn’t just thought it, I’d begged him aloud.

  “Nothing, nothing.”

  “Hey, guys, he likes it.”

  “Yeah, well, let’s see if the faggot likes this.”

  Two rough hands grabbed my wrists and pulled my arms backward until I was leaning back on my haunches, knees scraping on the cold concrete floor. I felt what must have been the blade of the knife trace an edgy path from my Adam’s apple down my chest and over my belly, down to my still-hard dick. The cold metal hadn’t yet broken the skin. I held my breath as the blade made its way around the shaft of my cock, tracing the underside of my dick, then sliding against the tender skin of my ball sac. Somewhere, far, far off, young men were laughing, cruelly.

  If I survived this, it would make one hell of a story. If.

  “Throw that rope over the beam.”

  I was dragged across the floor, yanked to my feet. My wrists were tied, the rope cinched tight. I was suspended from the ceiling beam, my feet just barely touching the floor.

  “Yeah, I’m gonna fuck that faggot pussy.” Kev again, sounding less than cute.

  Fingers pushed wet goo into my ass. Somebody grabbed my asscheeks, spread them roughly, positioned a dickhead up against my hole.

  I had to say it: “I hope you put a rubber on.”

  “What do you think, man?”

  What did I think? My god, what choice did I have?

  He rammed into me. I could hear the garage door opening again. Murmured conversation.

  “Okay, man, back off and give me a crack at him.”

  “C’mon, use a condom.” I hoped I sounded calm, reasonable.

  “Shut the fuck up, cunt.”

  Someone shoved a greasy rag into my mouth. I gagged so hard I could feel bile in my throat. Two guys grabbed my ankles, lifted them off the floor, so my full weight was hanging from the ropes, and spread me wide open. A dick entered my butt, slammed in and out, again and again. My stressed shoulders ached. My ass was on fire.

  Was this really what I’d wanted, being robbed of my will, being violated, used? This terror? And if it wasn’t what I’d wanted, why was my dick dripping wet? How the hell could I be eroticizing my own rape?

  “Cut him down. I wanna fuck his mouth.”

  They got me down on all fours, pulled the gag out. I could taste uncut dick. Somebody else was screwing me from the rear. What goes in which hole, what goes in which hole? A voice, Mario’s maybe, sneered, “So is this what you wanted, faggot? What you advertised for?”

  So this wasn’t all for real, then! I could relax and enjoy myself. Enjoy myself? What did that mean? What did that say about me?

  The uncut dick filled my mouth with salty-sour cum, was replaced by another hard cock. Give me your cum, I thought, feed me your cum. I would do anything for your cum.

  The pumping in my ass accelerated. The dick in my mouth pulled out, shot its wad all over my face. I stuck my tongue out, caught the warm load dripping from my nose, licked it—what the hell—from my lips. With a grunt, the man fucking me came, pulled out, pushed me facedown onto the filthy concrete floor. The rag went back into my mouth; my arms were pulled behind my back, bound together, tied to my ankles. Hog-tied. Somebody pushed a boot into my ribs.

  A hot stream hit my back, then another. Piss. Piss running over my battered body, down the bruised crack of my ass. At best, if things were in fact going as I’d planned, then an ad I’d placed on a gay website had led me here, led to me lying here, naked, shivering, in a pool of young guys’ piss.

  “That’s enough. Let's get the fuck out of here.”

  I could hear booted feet walking away. My motorcycle roared to life. Its familiar sound vanished into the night. Was I finally alone?

  Not yet.

  Hands grabbed my face, pulled my head back. The gag came out, the blindfold came off. Two beautiful faces, sneering punk-boy faces. One boy bent down, kissed me hard on the lips, shoved his tongue deep into me. Pulled back. Spit in my face. “Faggot.” Whispered the word. “Faggot.” Stood up, slowly, deliberately, pulled his big, pierced dick out of his jeans and pissed on my he
ad. The other punk just stood there grinning.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Pulling the garage door shut behind them, they left me alone with myself.

  There’s not much left to tell. The ropes were sloppily tied. I wriggled my way loose, jacked off while I lay on the piss-wet garage floor, came explosively. Dried myself off as best I could with my ruined T-shirt, made my way back to my apartment. Took a long, hot shower. Fixed myself a strong drink. A couple of strong drinks.

  The bike reappeared the next morning, parked outside the garage with a scrawled note that read, “Thanks for the ride.”

  And the following afternoon, I found a disturbing, possibly true message on my answering machine. “Sorry about not showing up last night,” a voice said, “but when we all got together, we kind of decided we weren’t really into the scene, so we didn’t go through with it. Sorry.”

  In the next few days, I went to work writing the story, this story. Night after night, I jacked off to the image of a snotty, tattooed punk boy whispering “faggot” into my spit-drenched face.

  But I hadn’t yet finished the story, hadn’t told anyone what had happened, when I was introduced to S— at a semi-literary party. “I hear you had yourself quite an adventure,” he said. And smiled. Smiled at me, my confusions, my obsessions. Enigmatically.

  Cyber Thugs

  Bob Vickery

  The suit is kept in its own private closet with a built-in humidifier and degaussing unit, to keep the suit’s thousands of tiny sensors free from excessive air moisture and static electricity (the little fuckers can short out at the slightest provocation). I strip naked, and as I pull the suit on, I marvel once more about how light it feels, no more than a couple of pounds, and yet woven within its metallic fabric are countless miles of circuitry. The suit immediately contracts to conform to the shape of my body. The greatest density of sensors can be found in the crotch area, but as I activate the suit, I can also feel my asshole, nipples, and lips tingle as a low-voltage charge courses through the fabric. I put on the goggles and olfactory plugs.

  I sit down in front of the computer console and flip the switch to activate it. The monitor screen, which takes up an entire wall of the room, lights up to a pearly gray. All the sensors in the suit terminate in one plug, which I now insert into an outlet in the side of the computer. A single word pulses on the screen: MENU, and below it, all the letters of the alphabet. I click the mouse on the letter T, and the screen fills with options: tank commander, taxi driver, telephone repairman, terrorist, thug, trailer trash, traffic cop, trapper, Trekkie, trick, trucker… I click on thug. The screen pulses blank, flickers, and suddenly a bar scene fills the screen. A nod of my head activates the program, giving me the illusion of walking into the bar.

  The place is a dump. The floorboards are warped, and the walls are coated with years’ worth of grime. What light there is comes from a string of incandescent bulbs dangling from the ceiling. There’s a scattering of beat-up tables and chairs, and one long bar that stretches across the length of the room. I take a deep breath and get a whiff of stale cigarette smoke and old piss. Some old Sinatra tune plays on the jukebox; Frankie’s voice sounds thin and tinny over the gimcrack speakers.

  About a dozen or so men lounge at the tables or lean against the walls, slugging away at their drinks. I eye them curiously. They’re a bunch of badass motherfuckers, all tattooed flesh, raw-chuck faces and hulking muscle (in reality, these are the computer-generated images of guys who, like me, are sitting in their homes in their sensor suits, plugged into this particular fantasy). I go over to the bar. The bartender is some trog with a sloping forehead and beady eyes that fix on me with weary disgust. The computer program informs me his name is Max.

  I order a whiskey, neat. There’s a mirror behind the bar, and I take in the reflection that looks back at me. It’s a face that could stop a clock: blunt features, thick lips, a squashed nose and cheekbones so high they push my eyes up into a permanent squint. A long, jagged scar, like frozen lightning, zigzags from my left ear to down below my jaw. I’m wearing a T-shirt, which stretches tightly over my body, revealing a heavily muscled torso. There’s a tattoo of a grinning skull on my left, hugely bulging bicep. I give a low laugh. I asked for thug and the program gave it to me in spades.

  “Something funny, Spike?” Max asks.

  “Naw, Max,” I say. “Nothing at all.” I lift my whiskey to him. “Cheers.”

  Max watches me, saying nothing, his face as expressive as a slab of beef. I down my drink and push the empty glass toward him. “Another,” I say.

  Max fills it again. He nods toward his left. “The boys are waiting for you, Spike,” he says. I look in the direction he’s indicated. There’s a heavy metal door, half open, leading into what looks like some kind of back alley.

  I quickly drain my glass. “Well, shit,” I grin. “Then I better get a move on.” I reach into my pocket, feel some paper and pull out a twenty-dollar bill. I drop it on the bar. “Keep the change,” I say. Max stuffs the bill in his back pocket as I slide off my stool and walk through the bar’s back door.

  I find myself in a narrow alley, lined with trash cans and ending in a blank brick wall. The alley is dark except for a pool of light at the far end, coming from a single shaded lamp mounted on the wall. Two men stand together under the light. The program informs me that the black dude with the shaved head and bull-muscled torso is Alfonzo, and the hawk-faced man with the greasy, combed back blonde hair and lean, hard body is Rocco. They’re facing each other with their jeans down around their ankles. Alfonzo has his huge hand wrapped around both their dicks and is jacking them slowly. Rocco pulls Alfonzo close and Frenches his mouth.

  Alfonzo is the first to notice me. He breaks his lip-lock with Rocco and grins, his teeth gleaming in his dark face. “Hey, Spike,” he says. “We’ve been waiting for you.” He keeps on lazily jacking the two cocks in his fist.

  “It sure doesn’t look that way,” I say, unbuckling my belt.

  Alfonzo laughs. “Don’t start getting pissy, Spike. We were just warming up.”

  I unzip my jeans and let them drop to my ankles. I step out of them, kick them aside and pull off my T-shirt. I strut naked down the alley toward the waiting guys. The computer program has given me a hot body, muscular and beautifully proportioned, with a thick, meaty dick that swings heavily between my thighs as I approach the two men. My torso is covered with tattoos: bloody knives, demon heads, devil chicks with horns and big tits, that kind of shit. Alfonzo and Rocco drink me in, their eyes hard and bright, and my dick quickly stiffens under their collective lust. By the time I reach them, I’ve got a full boner on.

  Alfonzo wraps his hand around my dick and pulls me to him. We kiss, with heavy tongue action, and the two men press against me, their hands pulling and stroking my flesh. The three of us swap spit, rubbing our bodies together, hard dicks batting hard dicks. I lift Rocco’s arm and nuzzle into his armpit, savoring the sharp, acid taste of his sweat, then slide my tongue across his chest and around each nipple. Rocco’s fingers pry apart my asscrack and massage the pucker of my bunghole as Alfonzo jacks me off with a spit-slicked hand.

  I drop down to my knees and look up at the two cocks twitching in front of my face. I start with Alfonzo’s. His uncut dick arcs up, blue black, thick, roped with veins, ending in the rubbery dome of his cockhead. I skin the foreskin back and swirl my tongue around his cockhead, pushing into the piss-slit. The warm tube of flesh pulses in my hand; I squeeze it and lap up the little clear pearl of precome that oozes out. Alfonzo plants a hand on each side of my head and slides his dick deep down my throat. With an effort I manage to work it all down until my nose presses against his crinkly, black pubes. I hold that pose for a few seconds; I always fuckin’ love the sensation of a mouth full of cock. I give Alfonzo’s low-hangers a tug. “Baby, that feels so good,” he sighs.

  I look up, and my gaze locks with Alfonzo’s across the length of his muscled torso. I slide my hands ov
er his hard six-pack, across the mounds of his pecs and give both his nipples a good tweak. Alfonzo’s mouth curls up into a lazy smile, and he closes his eyes. “Yeah, baby,” he murmurs, pumping his hips. “That’s right, keep doing that.” The night is warm, and Alfonzo’s body gleams with a sheen of sweat, like polished wood. I take his dick out of my mouth and bury my face in his balls, breathing in the ripe, funky smell of a man in rut. I tongue one ball, and then the other, as Alfonzo rubs his dick all over my face, and then suck both balls into my mouth, rolling them around with my tongue. I go back to blowing him, Alfonzo fucking my face in long, slow strokes.

  I pull Alfonzo’s dick out of my mouth and starting working on Rocco’s. Rocco’s dick is cut and fat and candy pink, with a pair of plump balls hanging underneath, dusted with light-blond hairs. His cockhead is a cherry gumdrop on a shaft that widens as my lips slide down it. Rocco’s ready for bear; he doesn’t fuck my mouth slow and easy like Alfonzo did, but pumps it with fast piston thrusts.

  I work the two dicks in front of me, feeding off one and then the other, back and forth. Alfonzo and Rocco lean forward and kiss each other, stroke each other’s bodies, pull on flesh, squeeze ass, twist nipples, finger fuck assholes. This goes on for a long time, the still summer night punctuated by the slurping sounds of my cocksucking, and the grunts and groans of the two men standing over me. Alfonzo finally pulls his dick out of my mouth and pushes me on my back. “Enough with the cocksucking,” he growls. “I need to fuck some ass.” He pulls a small bottle of lube out of his jeans pocket and squirts a dollop on his hand. I lean back, propped on my elbows, and watch him grease up his dick. Alfonzo kneels down on the gritty pavement, grabs my ankles and spreads my legs wide apart. I feel his cockhead push against the pucker of my asshole, and I breathe out and relax as Alfonzo slides into me, inch by inch, his eyes fixed on mine. “You like that, baby?” he croons.

  “Fuckin’ A,” I gasp.

  Alfonzo slides in the last four inches with one quick thrust, and I arch my back and groan loudly. He wraps his arms around me and lies on top of me, churning his hips. It feels like I have a couple of feet of dick inside of me. Alfonzo pulls his dick out slowly, until just the tip of its head is in my asshole, holds that position for a couple of beats, and with one quick thrust, slides his whole cock full into me.