Street Kid

by Ned Williams

  “Just let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone about this!” Did I really believe that this pathetic attempt at reasoning with them and making an appeal to their better nature would make them stop? Fool!

  From nowhere, the other two assailants produced more rope. By thrashing around and yelling a great deal, I tried to make it as difficult as my limited mobility would allow; to prevent them from binding me securely. It was to no avail. I was on to a loser. When I was prone and helpless, they stepped back to survey their handiwork. Why hadn’t they gagged me?

  One of my attackers said, “Well done, lads.” I let out a frustrated bellow of rage. If they weren’t going to stop my mouth, I might as well use it and hope that a passer–by might hear and come to my rescue. For my pains, I received an expert punch in the solar plexus. I choked in agony.

  Whilst I tried to recover from the blow, the fateful words came out, “Right. Who’s going to have him first?”

  At this, my gasping became coherent. My vulnerable condition gave me some uncharacteristic Dutch courage. “If you fucking touch me, I’ll rip your fucking balls off when I find you! And I have friends.” My threats sounded hollow as all three laughed and began to undo my jeans and open my shirt. They were definitely ignoring my threat about not touching me.

  As they began to manipulate my limp organ, I snarled and protested. “Anybody got anything we can use to shut this little ass–fucker up?”

  “Sure,” came a response, “I’ll stick my arse hole over his face – let him shout his complaints through that.” I continued to roar out more threats, bombarding them with every image my mind could summon. I was trying to frighten them into releasing me. I must have known it was a forlorn hope. Fear and temper made the volume of my accusations and the consequences they would suffer grow louder and ever more desperate. Bravery didn’t come into it; it was sheer panic and terror which gave me the courage. The young man who had threatened to sit on my face was beginning to drop his trousers. “Did you bring the camera? I want a photo of this!” I could see a camera case being produced. This renewed my fury. By now I was looking at a bare arse that was starting its descent onto my face. I turned my head away but the other two forced me to meet the unwashed hole. I shut my eyes and prepared to throw up. A taste entered my mouth which smelt like a cross between a used car and a petrol pump. I opened my eyes and saw that the owner of the backside had stood up over me and that an unpleasant rag of some kind had been shoved in my mouth. At least I had been spared the indignity of rimming an unwanted and unattractive bum hole. The three must have seen my expression for they burst out laughing. I had the feeling that they were not through with me. They were playing some sort of sick game.

  “Turn him over!” This came from my initial contact. As I was pinned, spread–eagled on the bed – face up – this made his request a little ridiculous. They attempted to spin me over onto my stomach. It was a hopeless task.

  “All right, forget it. Just loosen the rope enough to get his legs in the air. We’ll have him that way” Two of them set about untying the ropes from the bed so they could lengthen the rope, thereby making it easier for them to shove me around. As they did this, the third started work on my dick to get it excited. The taste of the rag was making me feel nauseous. I continued with my muffled protestations but they had become too incoherent to have any effect. Although I was still tied up – the loosening of the ropes gave me quite a bit more freedom. Before they could begin the rape – for that’s what it was – I used the extra liberty which my limbs enjoyed to knee the balls of my first attacker as he straddled me. He let out a yelp and yanked down my jeans to my ankles.

  “Right, you bastard – we’re going to fuck you so hard; you won’t be able to shit for a month.” He licked three of his fingers and without any form of preparation, rammed them up my backside. Although my mouth was stopped, I gave a scream. As this was virgin territory, and unused to being invaded either gently or violently, the pain was so great that I began to cry. From outside there came a sudden noise. A crash followed by a strange, shrieked cry. One of the bastards looked at the door.

  “Wait a sec,” he hissed. They all strained to listen. Was this my saviour? Just in case, I gave a muffled cry for help. One of the group grabbed my testicles. “And you can keep your mouth shut or we take these as a trophy,” was insinuated in my ear. To hammer home his point, he gave my balls a sharp twist. The pain seared through my body. I prayed that those probing fingers were soon to be removed from my backside. The noises from outside came closer.

  “There’s someone coming.” Finally, the fingers were withdrawn and my balls were released. I lay there, exhausted, not daring to move or speak. “Maybe someone was passing and heard something.” There was a note of panic in his voice.

  For some strange reason, they took fright, abandoned their designs and stumbled out of the derelict office in total confusion, leaving the door open. I lay there, in silence, straining to hear any sound. I could catch the noise of the receding footsteps of my potential abusers but nothing else. What had made the crash which had spooked them? A feint ‘meow’ came and a familiar shape strutted past the open door. It was a fucking cat! For the first time in my life, I actually liked a feline.

  For what seemed an eternity, I lay there panting with my exertions, wondering what to do. If and when I was discovered, how would I explain this one away? Whenever I found myself in a difficult position such as this, a mental picture of my mother’s face always dropped into my mind. I could almost hear her reaction. The thought of this just about made me raise a smile.

  There came another noise – this time it was accompanied by a very human cough. I made my usual animal baying in the hope of attracting some assistance. Into the room came the little sod who’d picked me up in the first place. I watched him with a mixture of trepidation and loathing. With great determination he came over to the bed. I braced myself. ‘So’, I thought, ‘it’s not over yet.’ Fear gripped me. ‘This is it.’ Again, I started to cry out, shaking my head at him in a vain attempt to plead for him to stop.

  He ignored my prone body and, instead, started to go through the pockets of my jeans. The bastard was going to rob me first. He removed and pocketed all my cash. When he was done, he moved away towards the door. So, physically, it looked like I was going to be spared. Just as he was about to leave, he turned back and looked at me. I tried to make him see in my eyes the pain and anxiety I was certainly suffering.

  He stood on the threshold, apparently undecided whether to leave or not. Again, he looked at me. I gave up the struggle and simply lay there, looking up at the damp and peeling ceiling.

  I closed my eyes and began sobbing again. I couldn’t help it. I heard him approach and I opened my eyes to look at him. For a while he stood there in silence and stared at my tear streaked face. Was he having a sudden pang of conscience? Whatever he was having, it caused him to loosen one of my bonds a little. It was just enough to let me free myself with difficulty but not enough to make the operation easy. I assumed he did this so he could make his getaway.

  Without a word, he quickly and quietly left – closing the door behind him. For fear that my attacker might return I busied myself with the ropes. The greatest relief I felt was in clawing that revolting rag from my mouth.

  I dressed and ran to ‘The Green Goddess’ and to find safety with Jacko and a couple of others.

  The first thing I did was buy a strong coffee to rid myself of the taste of oil.

  They spotted immediately that something was wrong. I needed no persuasion in telling them the whole story. Thankfully, they didn’t condemn or wag a ‘told you so’ finger at me for my foolishness. I don’t think my tear ducts would have coped with it.

  As soon as I had completed the recounting of my experience, Jacko placed an open warning in Renata’s box for the others.

  I was so shaken, I went straight home having borrowed my bus fare from Jacko – who never did want it back.

  Now I understood a little
of the ordeal Sandy went through with ‘The Evil’.

  All Change

  One Saturday morning, after my art school teacher had cancelled my private lesson, instead of returning home, I decided to go to the Centre to see who and what was about. It proved an oddly instructive excursion.

  A rather scruffy looking bloke propositioned me. He looked in his early thirties. I had decided to try ‘The Steps’. Plainly, it was a quiet morning for clients and practically every step was occupied by unemployed rents. Mr. Scruffy walked up and down the flights a number of times and seemed to be calculating something as if he were looking for the best value per pound on a bit of veal. He went up to Paolo and I watched him vigorously shake his head. As the potential client turned away, Paolo whispered to his companion what had transpired. They looked at the trick’s back and appeared to be enjoying a joke at his expense. ‘What’s his kink?’ I wondered. I was obviously well down his choice of the ideal for he turned and ascended the steps three or four times. As he passed me for the umpteenth time, he eyed me up and down and jerked his head for me to follow. Paolo saw this, pointed and mimed a stifled laugh. If this was designed to put me off, he didn’t succeed as it merely served to raise my curiosity.

  When I arrived at the top of ‘The Steps’, the man was getting into a particularly filthy car. I wasn’t going anywhere without making sure that he knew the score. I leaned on the sill of the car’s open window and asked him what he wanted. He told me that he was searching for someone to screw his wife whilst he watched. Was I interested and would I be able to manage it? I was about to accept when he added, “I hope you’re rough. We like a bit of rough.”

  After my recent experiences with Zenda, I was a little worried. However, I thought that I would be able to cope so I took the hint and dropped my voice about an octave. I also struck the butchest pose I could muster. “No fuckin’ problem, mate,” I snarled. He looked happy.

  Knowing Paolo, even if the punter had offered him ten thousand pounds, he could never have turned this particular trick. After telling him that as far as I was concerned there was no problem, I made it plain that I wouldn’t accept anything less than twenty quid for it. The truth is that I didn’t especially want the job but business was obviously slow and if he was willing to pay all that then I would go along with it. If he didn’t, then it wouldn’t make any difference to me. He said, “Yes,” and, as an act of good faith, paid up–front. He also promised that, if they were satisfied, there could be another fiver in it. He gave me my fee and I got into his grubby little car. Luck was on my side because, just as we were pulling away, a Lilymobile came creeping around the corner and pulled up at the top of the steps. Looking through the rear window, I could see the lookout frantically giving a warning to the population on ‘The Steps’. I knew that they would be emptied in three seconds flat. I settled down to enjoy the ride, confident that all my friends would have safely escaped the law’s long arm.

  We drove in silence, which suited me as I was still recovering from a blasting party from the previous night and my body and brain felt as if they’d been through a mincer. The trick wanted rough? Okay. Lots of bad language!

  He lived quite a way out in the suburbs and I assumed it must be some sort of housing estate full of respectable couples who would be horrified if they knew what their neighbours were up to. I was wrong. We turned off the main road and, after a few more such turnings; we entered a private lane containing vast, detached piles in their own substantial grounds. He pulled up into a sweeping drive that led up to a sprawling Gothic Victorian mess. It was as impressive as it was ostentatious and hideous. He must have heard my involuntary, “Fuckin’ ‘ell!”

  “This old crock fooled you, eh?” he smiled.

  He drove into a massive garage and parked the heap between an immaculate Landrover and a gleaming Bentley.

  As I got out of the car, I indicated the other two occupants of the garage. “And what d‘you use those fuckin’ things for, getting’ in yer fuckin’ shoppin’, I s’pose?”

  The four letter words seemed to delight him. “No. They’re for everyday use. I use the banger for more private fetching and carrying. Less conspicuous.” He indicated for me to follow him through a side door from the garage and into the house. The place was a fucking great palace. Oak panels, original oil paintings, rugs on the walls – even a mounted antelope’s head and, at the turn of a never ending staircase, an actual suit of armour. Dressed in ripped jeans and tee shirt, I looked and felt like a street urchin.

  As we ascended the stairs, a voice came from above. “That you, darling?” The voice was light, sweet and happy.

  He cooed back in a similar vein, “Yes, darling. I’ve got a little present for you, my dear.” There was a strangely matter–of–fact, familiar quality to his voice as if he had brought home the weekly shopping – or, as in my case, a chicken take–away.

  “Ooh, goody, goody gumdrops,” came the silky response. I silently congratulated myself that I didn’t betray my amusement.

  After climbing a few more flights of stairs, we got to the very top of the house. We paused outside one of the two doors that confronted us.

  “Would you remove your footwear, please?” As I was used to strange requests, I didn’t bat an eyelid. Only after he was satisfied that I was ready did he let me into the room. Considering that it was at the very top of the house, it was large and contained nothing but a double bed in the middle of the floor, a small casket beside it and a comfortable lounger against one of the walls. The startling thing about the room was the fact that it was completely covered in mirrors. As well as the walls, the floor and ceiling had been furnished in the same way. Because of the strange angle of the roof, the walls followed various shapes and slopes. Naturally, the mirrors reflected all this and to stand in any part of the room made one feel disorientated and confused. I assumed that this room had been especially designed and executed for the purpose of ‘fun.’ It must have been because it would have been singularly impractical for use as a bedroom.

  “Want me to strip?” I made to remove my jeans. With a horrified squeak, he stopped me.

  “No. She’ll do that for you. Go and lie on the bed, I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He left, closing the door behind him. I couldn’t resist it. I wandered around the room in childish delight, looking into the mirrors. I was utterly fascinated at the weird reflections of myself. I held silly poses to see what I looked like. My eyes fell on the casket. I wondered what it contained. I attempted to open it, but the thing appeared to be locked. The door handle was grasped so I scrambled onto the bed and waited. The man was leading a woman, presumably his wife, into the room. She looked about twenty-five. The reason as to why he was leading her was the fact that all she was wearing was a white bikini and a blue blindfold. I nearly laughed but I managed to keep a straight face. He nodded his head to show me that he wanted me to lie down flat.

  “What’s he like? Describe him, there’s a darling?” She turned her head from side to side as if she were trying to catch some sound or other I might make.

  “Oh, your lips will vacuum his insides out. A lovely, innocent young thing, he is. Slim, dark hair and looks about fourteen.”

  “Where is he? Show me, show me.”

  “He’s prostrate on the bed, just waiting for you.”

  “What’s he doing now? Rubbing his crutch?”

  He nodded for me to perform whatever his wife prompted. I obeyed. “Yes. Goodness, he looks like he’s quite a big boy. Oh my goodness. Golly gosh. I do believe he’s starting to get hard.” And, I must confess, I was.

  “What’s he wearing? Tell me, quickly. Is he clean or dirty?” She was beginning to touch herself up.

  “Positively filthy, darling. Filthy jeans. They look like they’ve had all sorts of wicked and disgusting things sprayed over them,” and he wasn’t far wrong. “Stains all around the tops of his legs. He’s also wearing the most appallingly dirty tee shirt.” Why, if he thought I looked so unappealing,
did he say everything with a broad grin? “It’s ripped. You can actually see one of his nipples. Ugh!” The grin grew broader.

  As he imparted each and every piece of information, she greeted it with excited, mock disapproval. Hubby continued to elaborate what I was up to as I sprawled on a pink counterpane and took my cue from these instructions and performed on command. Finally, after she could stand her mental images no longer, she pleaded with him to remove her blindfold. He was teasing her unmercifully and she was loving every minute of it. I could see myself in the mirror on the ceiling and so I decided to use a little inspirational initiative of my own. I lifted up my tee–shirt and started to rub my chest. I looked across for approval but hubby was furiously shaking his head in an attempt to discourage me. I took the hint and stopped being creative and went back to performing on command.

  After about another ten minutes of this strange ritual, he removed her blindfold with a triumphant “Voila!” She had been getting herself worked up and when she saw me for the first time, she let out a wail that could have woken the dead, and launched herself at me. She forced me to keep perfectly still whilst she removed all my clothes using, mostly, her mouth and teeth. By now, her husband had draped himself on the lounger and, even over her ecstatic moans; I could hear his rasping breath.

  The wife was slim and very attractive. Even without her expert attentions on my body. I wouldn’t have had too much difficulty in responding.

  I lay, flat on my back, for about thirty minutes while she executed all sorts of gyrations on my prick. The woman was a marvel. She nearly deafened me with her rampant yelling and screeching. I wasn’t sure whether she was enjoying it as much as she sounded or whether it was for her husband’s benefit, but she sure did a hell of a lot for me. It all ended, doggy fashion, in an explosion of groans from me and a long, drawn out, high pitched, full blooded scream from her. I lay exhausted. She slowly licked all the excess cum off my body which I found almost unbearable and then she lay down beside me. We were both panting like a couple of Grand National winners.