Munequito and His Dark Angel

Author’s note: Google Translator and I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to any Spanish speakers for butchering your beautiful language. By the time I realized I didn’t have the chops to pull it off I was too far in to quit. :-)

Author’s second note: Breath play may be death play. Again, this is fantasy, remember? Don’t do it.

Da EOS-ed from prison on Monday and showed up, drunk, at the trailer on Tuesday afternoon. Early on Wednesday, around six, Ma fled with one suitcase in her hand and the food stamp card shoved in her shoe, screaming about how sick she was of putting up with his shit and his cock and his mother-fucking whelp and we better take a good look now because this was the last we'd see of her happy ass. I'd been up all night, unable to sleep for all the bitching, and at the grand finale I lay on my belly on the floor in the living room (I'd been trying to watch television), still wearing the tattered gym shorts I slept in, while Da stood above me, squat and powerful and hairy in his boxers. “I only wanted some head,” he told me, perplexed, before he scratched his balls and wandered away.

The next night, Thursday, Da called me as I prepared for bed. I'd already changed into my sleep shorts and didn't bother putting anything else on, just sighed and wondered if I could survive on my own (at my age and size, probably not) and trudged the length of the trailer. I heard the sounds of a porn playing on the television in his room, and gagged on the funk rolling down the short corridor. The sweat, the piss, the cum, the funk. My stomach clenched. Without being told, without any experience of sexual abuse and power, I intuited why he'd called me.

Sure enough, Da lay sprawled on the bed, his gaze fixed on the television. He wore not a stitch of clothing, just a thick coat of wiry red hair and a hard-on. I had to admit the time in prison had served him well, physically. He'd toned up his arms and his chest and legs, and though he still carried a paunch it seemed smaller, harder. Somehow he'd resisted the usual prison ink cliché, as his fair skin remained unmarked with tattoos. He had one hand behind his head, revealing a patch of pit-curls thicker than the mop on my head, while the other hand rested between his legs, caressing up and down his cock, fingers skittering across his balls at the bottom of every stroke. I stopped in the doorway, dreading to enter. On the tv a tired, middle-aged blond bimbo licked (without much enthusiasm) on a long, thick cock the color of smooth chocolate pudding. I couldn't help but notice how much smaller and paler Da's prick looked in contrast.

“Way I see it,” Da said, still watching the porn, still caressing his erection, “you got three choices. You can go hunt down your Ma and get her to take care of you. You can live on the streets, maybe sell that pert ass of your’n and eat steak every night.” Da chuckled, amused at his own wit. “Or you can suck on the dick that made you then sleep in your own bed.” His tone unruffled, impassive. Cold. Like my decision didn't really matter. A tone clearly conveying his sincerity. He meant every word.

“But . . . but . . . I’m not queer!” I protested, cringing at the whine I heard in my voice. “I’m not!”

And then he did turn to look, drilling those ice green eyes into me even while his hand kept working his cock. “Pobrecito.” An expression of surprise flickered across his face, as if he were as amazed as I to hear the Spanish diminutive come out of his mouth, and he flushed, the blood easily discernible under his fair skin despite the red stubble on his cheeks. “I don't care if’n you're queer or y’ain’t, boyo,” he said, his voice carefully redneck. Spreading his legs wider, he turned back to the television and said, “Make up your mind. Come in or get out.”

I stood there, paralyzed, for a long moment. His shrewd assessment of my options should I choose to deny him overwhelmed me with dismay. Ma might be anywhere by now, anywhere at all, and even if found I had no guarantee she'd take me in. She'd never liked me, and the feeling was mutual. I didn't like Da either, but at least he'd never smacked me around. And I suffered no illusions as to my fate should I take to the streets. No matter how many vows I swore, no matter times I promised myself I'd never stoop so low, at some point in the foreseeable future I'd find myself at a crossroads not so very different from this one.

I’m not queer, I said to myself as my bare feet trod from clammy linoleum to rough carpeting. I'm only doing what I have to do. I’m not queer. Then why did my dick twitch, grow harder with every step I took toward the bed? To distract myself I glanced at the television. The blond bimbo had the huge cock stuffed halfway down her gullet, and the black guy gripped her by the hair, fucking up into her face and moaning, “Thassit, thassit, suck my big ol' chocolate whopper, bitch!” Oh well, I thought as I climbed onto the mattress between Da's spread legs, at least I don't have to worry about trying to fit something that big in my mouth. True dat. Up close, I could see that Da's cock wanted quite a lot to be even close to the one on tv; if that black one was a whopper, Da's was a dollar menu special. Hell, it didn't appear to be much bigger than my own. I settled between Da's thighs, wincing at the funk of his crotch. I smelled sweat, buckets of it, and the sour tang of urine, and, underneath it all, the unmistakable salty musk of semen. As if sensing my attention had wandered, Da spread his hairy legs further apart and hunched his pelvis into the air, cradling his balls and pulling on them so his cock stood straight and true and aimed at my face. All traces of mirth faded from my mind. I had a job to do. I’m not queer. Before I lost my nerve, I reached out and wrapped my fingers around Da's cock.

Da cooed, positively cooed at my touch and, releasing his balls, his fingers drifted up to his chest and idly combed through the fur, rubbed at his nipples. I focused on the feel of him, the weight and the shape and the heat familiar yet alien. Yeah, not much longer than mine, maybe half an inch. Maybe a half inch thicker, as well. Shame, that, Da being a grown-ass man and having a pecker his teenage son could rival. An ugly cock, I decided; my own was much more attractive, sleeker, more aquiline than this angry stub poking out of a jungle of dark red pubes. Small balls, too, definitely smaller than mine, and smooth, which looked odd, given the fur that covered him from top to toe. Irritated by my inspection, Da growled and fucked his cock in my grip, his eyes never leaving the television. Taking the hint, I firmed my grasp and began jerking in earnest. The unfamiliar friction of his circumcised head felt rough and clumsy to my touch; I was used to the silky smooth whisper of foreskin across my knob, and I wondered how Da stood the burn. He seemed to like it, however; a couple of drops of pre dripped out the piss-slit, and on impulse I licked it from my fingers. Warm, salty, musky. Bitter. I wondered what my own tasted like, wondered why I had never wondered until now.

“Boyo,” Da rumbled, and I looked up, startled, to find him staring at me, his eyes narrow, “if’n I don't feel some lip in about two seconds I'm gonna forget how much I hate sticking my cock in ass.” That same impassive glare and tone, and my butthole clenched. In interest? Maybe. But not this cock, not this ugly stumpy thing inside me. Throwing all hesitation aside I opened wide and dropped my mouth onto him, wrapping my fingers around the base and squeezing, squeezing hard. Da hissed and cooed again, then either he or the black guy on the tv whispered, “That's it, yeah, suck me down, perrito.” Okay, yeah, probably Da. I allowed myself a split second to wonder again at his sudden fondness for Spanish endearments, then, figuring he picked it up in prison and further figuring I had more important things to worry about than his vocabulary, I forgot about it and concentrated on everything I knew about sucking dick.

Which wasn't much, I admitted to myself. Never imagined I'd need the knowledge. I'd seen it done, of course, in porn, and Inbred Wanda had once sucked on me, but not well. Cringing at the memory of her mouth of razors, I widened my own jaw and tucked my teeth under my lips. Da grunted in approval, and I slid further onto his shaft, until the head bumped the back of my throat and I needed to fight back a gag. Fully an inch of cock remained between my mouth and my fist, clutched around the base of his shaft. His curly, matted pubes, musky and musty and sour to my nose, prickled against my palm. His cock tasted of salt, the salt of sweat and piss and of semen, new and old. I slid back to the top until only the head remained between my lips, tickled my tongue around the ridge and across the piss slit; he moaned and a fresh spurt of precum smeared my upper lip. Getting a feel for the work, I swirled back down his shaft, taking more this time, letting it press against my throat. Up, down, growing comfortable enough to lap my tongue against the pebbled surface of his undershaft, dance it across the twist of skin that marked his circumcision scar. Letting my mouth water, letting the drool spill out to stream down his shaft and puddle in his pubes.

“Oh, si, good job, boyo,” Da moaned, reaching down to pat me clumsily on the head. “I figgered you was a natural, from the first time I saw those dicksucker lips mackin' on your mama's titty.” The praise warmed even as the words mortified. Something inside me died then, I’m not sure what. All I know is I felt it break. But something else grew back in its place, something which delighted in the words and made me rock hard. I shifted my posture, sliding my knees further apart and bracing myself with the hand not encircling Da's cock, and the pressure in my shorts eased. My cock throbbed in gratitude, spilling out moisture to stain the material. Eager to push all thoughts of my arousal at his words and my deeds to the back of my mind, I redoubled my efforts on the prick in my mouth, my lips loving on the shaft, the ring of my fingers lightly skating across the moistened skin my drooling mouth left behind. But my lapse in attention had allowed Da to cogitate again, and when next he spoke, it was of a subject very tender to me.

“Shame about your ass,” he mused, squirming as I bobbed on his shaft, “it’s too purty to go to waste. Maybe I can sell your cherry to the highest bidder. What d’ya think, boyo?” he rumbled down at me. “Think we can get a hundred bucks? Two? Gotta do something since your ma ran off with the food card!” He chuckled, but his amusement broke off quick as I deliberately scraped the sharp edges of my bottom teeth against the sensitive skin right below his knob which, as planned, switched his attention from my ass to something more immediate. “Watch the fuckin' teeth, putito, or I'll knock 'em down your throat.” He reached again, only this time instead of patting me on the head he placed his palm atop my skull and impaled me, driving me down until my mouth pressed into my fingers which, in turn, pressed into the wiry, musty mat of his pubes. “Move the hand,” Da growled. I didn't want to but I did, and I felt my cock throb when I obeyed, leaving my mouth and my throat alone to face the stubby battering ram determined to ravage me. I put both hands flat on the sheet between Da's legs, opened my mouth wide as ever I could, and waited.

Da didn't keep me hanging long. He wrapped both his fists in my curls, holding me in place while he fucked my mouth, at first at a slow but steady pace, plunging in far enough to tickle the back of my throat and no further, pulling out until only the very tip of his penis rested on my lip, back in again. I focused on the strokes, focused on my breathing, focused on the feel of his skin sliding between my lips. When Da was convinced I was comfortable with the rhythm he inched up the speed, my air intake suffering as I struggled to keep pace. The head stabbed further into my gullet, triggering my gag reflex, and he relented, but before I could thank God or anybody else for the relief he shoved my head back down, humped up into my mouth, and his ugly, bulbous cock popped into my throat, completely, so my nose was buried in his pubes. I couldn't breathe at all, his cock choking the life right out of me, and I gagged, almost vomited. He backed off, allowed me to gasp in another gulp of air, then shoved me back down, smashing my nostrils in his pubes, his glans swelling and leaking. He let up, I gasped, and he fucked my throat brutally, gagging me with his rough play. Tears streamed from my eyes; snot poured out my nose; bile rose and fell in my gullet but I refused to puke. A dull and dreamy euphoria closed in. Nothing existed except the cock in my mouth and the one in my shorts. I reached down to rub myself, and I didn't think about why I felt so aroused, so fully into this scene that it had become my entire existence, I simply let myself feel. I stroked myself, moaning around the dick that made me as it fucked my mouth, as it took control and used me for its own pleasure.

Suddenly it was gone; the fists in my hair had lifted me off. My mouth felt empty from lack of purpose, and I whined, tears and snot slopped all over my face. Da slapped my cheeks with his dick, hard, once on each side. Again. The black guy in the porn grunted, “Do it, bitch, roll them nuts around in your mouth!” and Da grunted, “You heard the man. Git on my balls!” I fell onto his small sack of veg, slavered my tongue over it, feeling it draw up under my wet heat. On impulse I sucked his balls into my mouth, sucked them in easily, and I felt a bitter amusement and scorn; no way anybody would be able to fit both my boys in that sweet. Da groaned as I suckled.

The next words the guy in the porn said reverberated through my ears, my mind, my entire body. “Now, bitch, eat my ass . . . yeah, stick your tongue right up in there, just like that!”

No, I thought. Please. No.

“Eat my ass, boyo!” Da demanded, the hands that had lately choked me down on his cock now wrapped around his own thighs, bringing them up and out, arching out his most private area. The funk I'd slowly grown used to intensified, added a new bitter tang to the mix. “Eat my asshole!” I tried to rebel, tried to pull away from him completely, but that new growth in me, whatever the hell it was, wouldn't let me. It held me hostage even as Da's hands had earlier, and it forced me to let his pitiful sack drop from my mouth, forced my tongue to flicker against the pebbled skin of his taint. Forced me into his crack, his anus a dark, swollen depression amidst a jungle of fetid red curls. Forced my tongue to ring the lips of his hole, to sample the bitter funkiness a couple of days without a shower had let grow. A nasty taste, sour but compelling, so putrid but just right to my mood. I pressed against the opening, probed it with the tip of my tongue, and Da gasped, pushed out so his hole widened, granting me entrance. I fell flat on the bed, shamelessly digging my rager into the mattress, and I spread his cheeks further, so I could dig deep, deeper still.

“Your finger!” Da groaned, breathing heavy, straining to hold his meaty thighs up and open. “Put a finger in me!”

Obediently I brought a finger into the arena, teasing it around the edges of his hole, but the lips pursed too tight and dry for entrance. Following an instinct I didn't know I possessed, I put the finger in my mouth, soaking it with snot and saliva, before bringing it back to the adit begging to be breached. I didn't tease at all this time, only poked at his back door, tickling the top of his hole with my tongue like I imagined a clit to be there, and my finger sank into his heat. Da gasped again as I wiggled and jiggled my finger just inside. The fit wasn't as terrible as I'd feared, and his asslips gripped me much less tightly than I'd expected. Without waiting to be told I slid a second finger in, making Da gasp again, and, when my knuckles grazed across a spongy mass I assumed to be his prostate, he groaned, deep in his belly, a long, satiated sound that struck a chord somewhere in me. My own asshole clenched. I wanted to feel this. I wanted someone to stick his fingers or his cock up inside me like that, invade my most personal spaces. But not this man. Not my father. As if denying Da something he wanted (despite his own indication that he didn't like to fuck ass) I brutalized with the thrust of my fingers, nipped at the lips of his hole with my teeth. He moaned in pain and arousal, wriggling on my bang. The spit and snot had begun to dry, the skin of my knuckles rubbing painfully back and forth on his asslips, and, feeling sadistic, I threw a third digit in, stretching him further. He yelped and twisted his hips and suddenly my fingers were free of him. “Just a minute,” he panted, “just a sec.” He leaned away, searching for something in the bedside table drawer, and, while his head was turned, I snuck at a glance at the tv. The thug lay on his back, knees up and out much as Da's had been. The blond knelt between his legs, a huge purple dildo hanging from a strap around her waist. Her fingers, wet with some kind of grease, slid in and out of his ass, but instead of begging her to stop the guy growled, “Hurry up, bitch, fuck me, stick that big thing up my black ass!” I gasped, sure the dildo wouldn't fit.

“Oh, it'll fit, don't worry.” Da's voice, dry with amusement, jerked me back to our own obscene reality. “Given enough slick, just about anything will fit.” He bounced a tube off my nose to hit the sheet underneath his balls. “Spread some of that shit on your fingers and put 'em back up in me then get your mouth back on my cock. The better you move and the quicker you make me shoot, the sooner you can get back to your room and whack out your own nut.” I felt yet another blush flaming on my cheeks. Da snickered. “Yar, I seen the way you hunch into the mattress, like if you dig hard enough you can sink into it like a cunt. But you wanna be careful, boyo. Don't spooge on my sheets, save it for your own. Only penis nuttin’ in this bed will be mine, and it'll be spent down your throat. Si?”

I nodded, unable to look up at him. To make sure I didn't spooge on his sheets (though I didn't think he'd be able to pick my fluid out of the yellowing stains already there), and to give myself a better angle of attack for my assigned duty, I clambered back up onto my knees, pausing to arrange my rager as comfortably as possible in my precum drenched shorts. Then I took the tube in my right hand and smeared a big blob of clear gel onto the three middle fingers of my left. “Now my hole,” Da instructed me, his tone thick and lusty. He raised and spread his legs again, arching to give me easier access, and I squeezed out another large dollop of the gel directly on his quivering anus. Figuring I had enough of the slippery stuff to slide my whole arm inside if necessary, I capped the tube and dropped it to the side, then reached over and grabbed Da's rock-hard rager, bent it back towards me, stroked up and down, leaning forward to lap the tip with my tongue. I folded my grease-slick fingers into a spear and tickled them up against the lips of his hole, and he gasped and murmured unintelligibly. “Now who's the bitch, boy?” the porn bimbo demanded. “Whose cock is riding your black ass?” If the black guy answered I didn't hear him, because at that moment I locked my lips over Da’s glans, slid down the shaft as far as I could at that awkward angle, and rammed my fingers up into him. Da yelped, coming up off the mattress, stabbing his cock into my throat as his hole tried to simultaneously suck more of me in and push all of me out. He wriggled around on my fingers like a cunt on a cock, thrusting his spooge-spilling dick in and out of my mouth while both hands clawed at the sheets. I dared a glance up, watched him watch the blond fuck the black guy with her strap-on, and realized I was nothing more than a masturbatory tool for him. Though his body convulsed in my hands and mouth, his mind and sexual power were elsewhere; I'd bet a mint he fantasized himself into the thug's role, imagined himself on the thrusting end of the blond's purple dildo. Although something about being just a hole for him filled a savage, bitter place inside me, it ticked me off enough that I folded my pinky finger into my thrusting spear, spreading him out even more. Da hardly seemed to notice. Frustrated, determined to make him yelp again, I folded my thumb in too, punched and jabbed at him with fury, at the same time sucking harder and tighter on his cock. Da moaned and writhed around on the mattress, a slave to my touch. Emboldened, I increased the pressure of my fuckfist, increased the speed, punched stronger and deeper into him, the knuckles at the base of my fingers only barely restrained from slipping completely inside.

Until they did.

One second my arrowed fingers dandled at the edge of the gaping wound his asshole had become, and the next, as I rammed into him perhaps a touch stronger than I'd done previously, his asslips opened enough for my entire fist to slip inside, close over my knuckles, and, as I proved unable to slow my momentum, around my wrist too.

Suddenly, my left hand rested in Da's ass.

I got my wish. He yelped, several times in fact. His green eyes, usually so cold, smoldered with heat and shock. His sphincter tightened around me. Our gazes locked; our chests heaved in unison, shallow panting breaths that defined this strange passion between us. Da opened his mouth, I assumed to curse me or to order me to remove my fist from his rectum, but what came out instead was spoken in a low, guttural voice strained with lust and need. “Do it, boyo,” he breathed. “Suck my cock and fuck me. You hear me?” I nodded but he roared at me anyhow. “FUCK ME!”

I didn't bother nodding again, just angled my mouth back down on his rigid cock, sinking almost to the pubes. At the same time I rocked my fist back and forth, afraid to make any sudden movements, afraid to jab further up into him. For lack of any other options, I rotated my hand, my knuckles scraping across the spongy lump of his sweet spot. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . and yeah, there it is, five. Da hissed, in approval, I suppose, as he didn't order me to stop. I rotated back the other way, faster this time, upping the action on his cock, squeezing the base with my free hand and sucking on the shaft and head like a demon-possessed vacuum cleaner. His cock spilled out jizz constantly now, all of it forced from his prostate by the relentless rotation of my fist. Da grunted and squealed and screamed at my touch, his breath labored, his speech impaired, and I knew he approached his climax, I read it in every movement of his heaving, squirming body. Fine with me. It's not that I felt fatigue at the extreme hard work of servicing my Da, or that I wished for it to be over so as to pound an orgasm from my own aching rager. No, it’s that all of my existence had narrowed down to focus on this task; to bring my Da to bliss had become my life. Neither a good thing nor a bad thing. Just a thing. I worked him with my mouth and my hand, driving him higher, hotter. On the seventh rotation, he gasped and whimpered, signaling he lay poised on the edge of release; the next screw of my fist would be the one that pushed him over. I paused at the bottom of my move and the top of his cock while he waited, tense and breathless.  When neither of us could bear the suspense any longer, I lowered my lips slowly down his shaft, at the same time savagely twisting my fist, razing my knuckles over his prostate, onetwothreefourfive.

Da howled.

And blew.

His sphincter gripped my wrist painfully, threatening to snap it, then loosened, tightened, loosened again, each spasm marking a burst of cum in my mouth. Salty, thick, heavy, and bitter, bitter, bitter, the semen boiled out of him like floodwaters through a broken dyke, pumping into my gagging throat with such force that I must either swallow or drown. He held me there forever, it seemed, spilling what felt like years of nut into my mouth, until at last the spurts and the howls dwindled into memory.

We sat there in ringing silence or a few seconds, me and my Da, until he hissed and said, “Your hand, boyo . . . get it . . . pull it . .. be easy!” I came up off him, waggling my sore jaw from side to side, and, when I could focus, I settled back on my heels and began the awkward process of extricating my fist from my Da's innards. Working together, we managed to pull off the tricky maneuver, and I don't know who was more relieved when I finally pulled free. I winced at the sight of Da's shiny, abused hole stretched all to hell and back, like he'd just birthed a baby from there, winced again at the greasy, pink-tinged smear of lube and . . . other stuff . . . all over my knuckles and fingers. I looked up Da's body to find him staring at me, anger and fear and something else, shame maybe, all burning in his once-again cold green eyes. Unable to meet his gaze, I glanced at the television, where the scene had changed; now a statuesque Asian woman stuffed a young blond man's mouth with a huge dildo, but Da's voice, all gruff and mean and utterly furious, snapped my attention back. “Go to bed,” he growled, and I backed away from him, my rager still painfully hard, my foreskin chafed from the tortuous rubbing it had suffered from my precum soaked shorts, my balls tight and swollen, surely the dark blue of the sky before a cleansing rain. “GO TO BED,” Da roared, and, my feet finally finding the floor, I fled, slamming the door shut behind me. Too filthy to go to my room, too soiled to drag my humiliation into my personal space, I darted into the bathroom instead. Grabbing my brush, I scrubbed my teeth hard, over and over and over again, but Da’s taste refused to melt away, and at last I gave up. While I waited for the shower to heat, I tried to ignore the heaviness of my balls, the angry ache of my cock, but the weight proved difficult to manage. Desperate to divert myself, I stared down at the greasy, pink tinged smear of juice on my hand. Blood, I thought, gotta be blood. And, yeah, shit too. Judging the water to be just right (ie, scalding), I skinned out of my jizz soaked shorts, and the brush of soiled fingers against my cock proved one sensation too many. I howled too, I know I did, howled like my Da as I spilled out all the juice, all the fire I’d been denied. My climax was not joyful, though; instead, each spurt of jizz burned like molten magma erupting from a fissure in the lowlands, and my howls were agony, not ecstasy. My knees buckled and I fell to the floor, spasming at the foot of the toilet, smearing my own jizz around on the linoleum. I wanted to lay there forever, wallow in my own filth, but at the same time I needed to be clean. The trailer's tiny-ass water heater wouldn't produce its holy product for long, so I forced myself up and into the shower. I howled again as the scalding water sluiced down my body, but then I lost myself, thankfully, in the cleansing rain.

I didn't think about anything. I didn't wonder at my Da's strange choice of porn, or his acceptance, even encouragement, at the manner in which I served him. I didn't ponder my own depraved delight in doing so. I only stood there, not thinking, not wondering, not pondering. Just being. When the water ran cold, I shut it off and stepped from the shower, toweled myself off absently but methodically. Mind still carefully blank, I used my tattered sleep shorts to mop the tainted jizz from the linoleum where I'd spilled it, and after I cleaned up every last splatter, I dropped the shorts into the trash instead of the laundry basket with nary a regret. I peed, washed my hands. Brushed my teeth once fucking more. Walked naked with my towel to my bedroom, all without a thought in my head.

But I couldn't hold my thoughts and my wounds and my introspection off forever. As I flipped off the overhead light, I felt nibbling bites at the edges of my composure. I slipped beneath the covers, still naked, and buried my face in the pillow, hoping to drift immediately to sleep which, of course, didn't happen. Too exhausted, too disgusted, to hold the barrier erect any longer, I was forced to confront what had just happened with Da. To confront myself.

Did I feel no shock, no surprise at the aptitude for submission I'd discovered hidden inside? No, it seemed, I did not. It felt natural; the concept of facilitating another person's ecstasy, even at the possible cost of a brief loss of oneself, swung my magnet true north. But how could it feel so right and so wrong at the same time? After some rumination, I decided the truth of the matter to be that although I had been turned on by the submission, by the service I'd provided, I hadn't enjoyed my efforts. And why, pray tell, had I not?

Easy.

My da. I wanted to submit, but not to him. I knew him too well. I didn't hate him, but I didn't like him either. I suppose I loved him, the helpless kind a child feels for his parent, but I didn't revel in it.

A weight relaxed from me. Tension eased from my sore jaw, my aching wrist. As the first tendrils of sleep reached out to claim me, I wondered how I might feel serving someone I desired. Male? Female? I didn't care, I found, my drowsiness dampening my surprise. I'd never considered myself bisexual, but I reached the conclusion that, deep down, I just wanted to serve someone worthy, someone I could love, even, and their sex mattered not. Wondering how it would feel to submit with joy instead of fear and disgust, I drifted off into darkness, and if I dreamed, I never knew it after.

Next morning dawned bright and clear, a lovely sunrise, and one I failed to see. I slept like a dead man until almost noon, and I would've slept longer if I'd had the choice. I didn't.

“Get the fuck up.” My bed shook as a foot connected, and I opened one bleary eye to see Da looming over me, clad only in the same boxers he'd been wearing when Ma left. “I said get the fuck up, come make breakfast for me.” He kicked the bed again, coughed without covering his mouth so the germs rained down. “Now.”

I nodded and threw back the covers and slid out of bed. He snickered when he noticed my usual piss hard waving around in front of me, but I felt no shame or embarrassment, felt nothing at all but a grim determination to go through the motions until I could figure out my next move. I didn't even bother to put on any clothes, just followed. He pulled a beer from the fridge and plopped down at the bar that separated the living room from the kitchen and lit a cigarette, while I, still naked, still bloated with piss, pulled out makings for breakfast. I lost my hard-on pretty quickly after that; I wouldn't advise frying bacon while you're naked. At last I slid a plate in front of him, and he grunted and dug in. I turned away, intent on finally getting to the bathroom (and mildly amazed that I'd held it this long) when his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist.

“You ain't eatin’, boyo?”

I shook my head. I felt like I might never eat again. The hole in my middle wasn't hunger.

“You got a big day ahead,” Da said, and his eyes glittered in a way I did not like. “You really oughta eat somethin'.”

I knew what he meant about having a big day. I read it in his tone. It didn't scare me like it probably should have. It didn't. But my much-denied bladder chose that exact moment to overflow, and piss dribbled to the kitchen floor before I could clamp back down. Da's expression softened, lost the glitter which so unsettled me.

“It's ain't so bad,” he said in a tone I'd not heard since childhood, if then. “Once you get used to it, I mean. It ain't so bad.” He didn't say anything else for a second, just tightened his grip on my wrist, then let go, and when he spoke, his voice and his eyes both glittered. “Now go on, hit the john, take a dump while you're in there, empty out that cunt of yours. Shave that freaky 'stache thing you got going on. Your pubes too.”

Great. I already looked two years younger than my age. Knowing better than to protest I turned to go, but he grabbed my wrist again.

“I mean it, boy. Clean house. I'm gonna use one of my, er, one of your Ma's vibrators on you, open your cunt up a smidge. When I stick it up there and it comes out shitty, you're gonna clean it off. With your fuckin' tongue. Understood?”

I nodded fervently, and more piss dribbled out onto the floor. This time Da failed to look compassionate, only disgusted. He shoved me away. “Take a shower too. And you better be done by the time I finish my breakfast. Now go on.”

I fled. I made it to the john without exploding, which I considered a minor, oh hell, a major miracle.

You know how a good piss can feel almost better than an orgasm? How you get that warmth of release flowing through you, so sweet you close your eyes and throw your head back and wallow in the sensation?

Nope, not this time.

Like everything else in the last twelve or so hours, it was bitter, and burned. Not in a need-to-head-to-the-free-clinic kind of way. More like an oh-fuck-you're-in-the-fire-now-boyo kind of way. And when I sat down and strained my bowels to make sure and void all, yeah, that burned too.

I followed Da’s instructions to the letter. The razor and cream I kept more for hope than anything actually got some use. I shaved off the freaky 'stache thing I'd been working on for six weeks, mowed down the already sparse hairs in my crotch. When I looked in the mirror I wanted to cry. With my height and weight, I looked like a kid. Even my penis matched the illusion. Only my dropped balls hinted I'd ever hit puberty.

“Get a fuckin' move on, boyo!” Da hollered. “You want a ass-whoopin' on top of everythin’ else?”

Suddenly my penis didn't look a kid’s anymore. I ignored it just as I ignored the tiny shudder tickling through me. “Not from him,” I reminded myself. “Not from Da.” And because I knew it to be true, I obeyed and took a quick shower, washing everything extra well, and my cunt extra extra well. I toweled down and hurried back out to the front room, still dripping water.

Da sat on the couch, butt naked. Color me surprised. His stubby cock, already leaking in anticipation, poked like a dead tree out of the forest of his pubes. In one hand he held the lube from last night; in the other he clutched a vibrator maybe an inch or two bigger than his own rager, and my cunt quivered. In dread? In anticipation? Yes. And yes. I hated him. I hated my suddenly engorged cock. I hated the shudders of want flooding through me. I hated.

Da whistled as I approached. “Why ain't you purty, all bare and nekkid like a good boyo should be.” I drank in the words like he drank his beer. Guzzled 'em. Hating. Hating. “Now get down and blow your Da again, like you did last night, but only for a minute.” Da waggled the lube and dildo at me as I sank to my knees. “Wanna loosen ya up some, then we can go to this bar I know. Them queens'll suck you down like cheap gin.” Please stop, I prayed. Please stop. I didn't know if I prayed for him or for me. Da spread his knees and I crawled between. His funk, the piss and cum, the sweat and old lube, welcomed me to hell. “I'm tellin' ya, boyo, we'll make a mint off them fairies. You keep ‘em all happy and I'll buy you a steak dinner.” I opened my mouth, closed my eyes, inched closer. “And keep your digits outta my hole, hurts like hell this --”

BAM. BAM. A pause, then, BAM BAM BAM. The whole trailer shook with the blows, and it took a sec for me to process that someone was pounding on the front door. Da and I stared at each other, at the door.

BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM. Da opened his mouth to inquire who was there but before a single word exited his mouth our visitor hollered, “C'mon, mi dulce perrito, open the fucking door.” Male, with a distinct Latino twang to his speech. Commanding and demanding and god, the timbre made me squirm.

Da whimpered. No other word for it. Whimpered like a boyo whose da visited in the night. Pale, as pale as a ghost, as sin.

“I know you're inside,” the stranger called, “you're making your cute bitch noises.” I started to stand, to go open the door because I needed to see who belonged to that voice, but Da shot his hand out and pushed me back down and then all hell broke loose.

The doorknob rattled, twisted, but refused to turn. “Pinche bruto, you always do things the hard way.” One more BAM rocked the trailer and the door exploded outward with enough force to tear the top hinge free. Daylight poured inside, blinded me so all I saw was a large shadow stepping through the doorway, and before I could make out any details Da's grip on my shoulder tightened before he shoved me away, knocked me ass over elbows up against the wall, and he almost tripped over my leg as he lunged up to run. I have no idea where he planned to go in our snack-sized trailer, but he never made it there. Somebody grunted, and somebody cursed, and Da tumbled down on the floor beside me. I skittered into the corner, giving myself a fine case of carpet burn on my backside. Unable to look away, I watched (in horror? in glee?) as the giant shadow launched a very corporeal foot and kicked Da in the stomach. Da grunted, grunted again at a second blow, and curled in on himself, worm-like. We braced for another attack, but instead of lashing out the shadow knelt beside my Da's quivering body. “Did you think your papi forget about you?” Oh, his voice, silk on steel. “Perrito, Papi won't ever forget about you.”

At last my eyes adjusted enough to the intrusion of daylight for me to make out the features of the shadow which blew in and destroyed the landscape. I studied him while he continued to berate my father with words of sweet malice, while Da continued to whimper like the aforementioned boyo. The stranger was Latino, as I'd figured, with a sugar-burnt caramel complexion and black, piercing eyes; he had a couple inches and several pounds and at least a decade on my da. He wore jeans and a button-snap plaid shirt, a baseball cap on his graying head and biker boots on his feet. “Did you truly think to hide from me, putito? I talk to tu ruca and she sell you out for a gram of cocaine. Maybe next time you cover the buttons when you call home.” He tapped the side of his head. “I got a good memory.” A chuckle, low and deep and evil. I drooled both above and below.

A second, smaller shadow fell on the day-lit carpet and I looked to see who or what entered now.

And my heart exploded. Or stopped. Or flamed. Or something. Because a dark angel had just stepped through my door.

Another Latino, a teen this time, my age, maybe a little older. He was dressed much as the other, except he wore a blue Foo Fighters t-shirt instead of the button-snap, cowboy boots instead of biker, and the baseball cap askew on his head. Taller than me, fleshy but not pudgy, built like a football player. He had wavy shoulder-length midnight black hair and creamy shadow-gold skin. Steely black eyes, somehow warm and sparkling like silver in the smooth planes of his face. He saw me huddled in the corner and started over, holding out his hand, but before he moved a single step the older Latino rolled Da onto his back, right into the space between the boy and me. The man grabbed Da by the hair on his head and yanked him up onto his knees, all the while muttering in Spanish under his breath like a Mexican Popeye. He turned and barked something I presumed to be instructions to close the door as the boy jumped and did just that, although, because of the broken hinge, he had to jiggle and lift to do so. The loss of daylight dimmed the room again, but not enough for me to miss what happened next.

“I can't believe you didn't want to see me. Tsk tsk tsk.” The older Latino switched out hands in Da's hair and reached down, tugging at the fly of his jeans. “And here I brought you something special, una gran sorpresa. Been saving it for you all morning.”

Uh-oh.

The sound of his zipper opening echoed through the room like rolling thunder, louder even than Da's mewling. Da jerked his head, trying to get loose, but the Latino yanked him back. “Don't fight me, you know you like.” He reached into his fly and pulled out his dick. I couldn't see much of it from my angle, but Da saw nothing else, I'm sure. The Latino jerked Da even closer, crooning, “Take this, perrito. Abrir. Open up. Te gusta. You know you like.”

Da liked, sure enough. His stumpy cock drooled like a cracked fire hydrant. Despite his crystal clear tell, he opened his mouth to beg for mercy, only to have the words cut off by a rapid influx of penis. The Latino threw his head back, closed his eyes, and let go. For a minute the only sound in the room was Da’s gulping.

“¡Mierda santa!” the boy exclaimed, his eyes wide and jaw dropped in disbelief.

“He say 'holy shit',” the older Latino said, and it took a moment to realize he spoke to me. He grinned. “My grandson Rafael, he say 'holy shit!' I taught him that.” Before I could panic because I had no reply, he swung his attention back to Da. “You're leaking, perrito. Don't spill none, make Papi angry.” Da's gulping intensified, and the Latino closed his eyes and sighed.

He got the piss orgasm denied me earlier, damn him.

I again looked over at the boy, who still wore a stupefied expression, and while the distraction continued I ran my eyes over and up and down his hefty body. Gorgeous. I ached for him in a way I’d never imagined possible, despite his incontrovertible masculinity. I was straight yesterday, wasn’t I? “Rafael,” I whispered to myself, tasting the name and finding it sweet. “Rafael.”

Maybe I whispered too loud, because he glanced my way. Before I could break off, embarrassed, he gifted me a crooked grin. Warmth flooded through me, and I smiled back, shy and shotgun quick, then forced myself to look away before he blinded me. Yes, like a star.

The older Latino had finished spurting into Da’s mouth and now gently tapped the head of his uncircumcised cock against Da’s lips, shaking the last drops free. “Bueno, mamón, you swallow all. Papi might just give you a reward.” Bending over, he stage-whispered, “I take a blue diamond for you too, but we talk about that later, hey?”

Da groaned. Kneeling there broken at the Latino’s feet, with all the attitude gone from his eyes and posture, no trace remained of the evil, abusive man who’d used me sexually and planned to sell my cherry to the highest bidder. I might have felt sorry for him, if not for the whole using me sexually and planning to sell my cherry thing. As I watched, he used his lips to push the Latino’s cock back into his pants and his teeth to close the zip, the quick ease bespeaking much practice. The Latino looked over at me huddling in the corner and smiled. Polite, gentle, it never touched the danger in his eyes.

“You must forgive us, manito, for breaking in on you like this. We try to be nice, si, we knock like civilized people, but tu padre cerdo wanted to be a little bitch, a putito, and not open the door to an old friend.” Da whined at the insults, but his pecker jerked and drooled anyway. “In prison, we share a cell. We have very many nice times together, eh, perrito? So I thought I’d come visit, how you say, renew our acquaintance.”

Somehow I found my voice and blurted, “Are you going to kill, uh, him?” Changing the last word at the last second.

He gawped at me in consternation for a moment, then threw back his head and guffawed. The dark angel glanced between his grandfather and me, obviously wondering what I’d said. The older Latino translated, and Rafael roared laughter too while I shivered in the corner and even let loose a few drops of terrified pee. The teen immediately stopped laughing, spoke sharply to the older man, who also dropped his amusement. “No, no, manito, we’re not here for anything nasty like that. I have a . . . business proposition for tu padre. You already know my grandson is Rafael, and I myself am called Diego. There, would someone who planned to murder you say his name?” Diego laughed as if the notion were preposterous. “Now, you be polite in return, and tell us how you are called?” I told him, and he frowned. “Like him?” he asked, nodding at Da. I hung my head, abashed. “Pobrecito. You think of something better for the future, si?”

“Si,” I managed to say.

He smiled, a real one this time reaching all the way up to his eyes, and I found myself relaxing. Then tensing right back up when, after a sharp warning glance at Da, Diego stepped towards me, cocking his head. Looking me up and down. I would have felt naked in his regard if I weren't already naked, and I drew my knees closer to my chest. “Tu padre, he say he have a son, but he never say your name, not at all. He call you other things, like sissy-boy and maricón, you know, faggot.” I glared at Da and he flinched. “You’re small, si, but I don’t think you’re weak so much. I think you’re a fighter when you want to be. And a giver when you want to be too, hey?” Without waiting for an answer, he reached out as if to stroke my head.

“¡Abuelo!” Rafael snarled and, surprised, Diego jerked his hand back, glared at his grandson. Rafael glared right back and launched into a stream of Spanish so fast and dense I couldn’t even pick out the few basic words I knew.

Diego listened for a moment, a grin forming on his lips, and he raised the hand he’d been about to use to stroke my head and held it up to his grandson, spoke to him in a smooth, clearly placating voice. After a moment he looked back to me and said, “Rafael, he tell me don’t touch. He say he kick my ass I hurt you.” A fond gleam in Diego’s eye as he repeated the threat.

Rafael nodded and gave me a tiny smile. “Gracias,” I whispered, and he winked.

“He call you muñequito, he say you look like a tiny doll, and he’s right. I could never hurt you, chavo, I think you been hurt enough already. How many years do you have, ¿once? ¿Doce? Eleven or twelve?” he clarified.

Squirming in embarrassment, I blurted out my real age.

“No,” Diego said, running his gaze over my naked form again. “Truly?”

“He, he made me shave,” I managed to grunt out, nodding at Da. “Made me shave all over.” I let my legs fall apart for a brief instant, proving it.

Diego sighed, and sympathy flared in his eyes. “He make you do other things too, si?”

Shame washed through me. I wanted to deny the words but the set of this man’s face told me he didn’t tolerate liars. “Yes,” I whispered.

“Ay-yai-yai,” he muttered, his voice thick with pained disgust, “¡nombre de Dios!” A fresh wave of humiliation pooled in my belly. “No no no, chavo, not you. Never you. But tu padre . . .” His lip curled.

“D-Diego, please, it’s not what --” Naked fear in Da’s whine.

Without glancing over his shoulder Diego spat out, “¡Cierra tu boca de puta, bruto!” Back to me, in a soft and soothing tone, “I need you to be strong for me now, chavo. Can you do that?” I swallowed, nodded. Rafael watched closely, vibrating with tension and curiosity. “Tell Diego what he do to you, this, this, piece of shit.”

The words burned in my throat, but I pushed them out anyway. “Da . . . he . . . put it in my mouth.”

“He put what in your mouth? His, ah, his penis?”

I gave Diego the most minute nod I could manage.

“Did he put it anywhere else?”

“No! Diego, please! I never --”

Moving lightning fast, Rafael smacked Da hard across the face, and my father subsided with yet another whimper. I noticed he’d lost the erection drinking Diego’s piss had given him; now limp, his prick huddled like a harmless rodent inside the red jungle of pubes. The man was terrified.

Good.

Ignoring the exchange and with the utmost patience, Diego repeated his question. “Did he put it anywhere else?”

“Nuh, no,” I stammered, happy to be able to deny at least one humiliation. “He said he didn’t like doing . . . doing. . . that.”

Diego laughed, a hard sound with no amusement. “There, I believe. He’s more puta than puto, tu padre cerdo.”

Rafael burst into another staccato round of Spanish, and I needed no translator to tell me his concerns: he wanted to know what I’d said. Diego held up a finger, and the teen subsided with an annoyed glare. Still looking at me with that steady, compassionate but not pitying gaze, Diego said, “What else, then?” Prying the truth out of me.

I took a breath. “He, he made me use my tongue on his . . . in his . . .” I couldn’t say the word, but Diego’s eyes understood. “Then, then he told me to put . . .” I held up my hand “. . . in there.”

Da groaned, but when Rafael snarled at him, he stifled pretty damn quick.

Diego snickered. “¿Cuántos? How many? Fingers,” he clarified at my frown of confusion.

“Oh!” I considered a moment, said, “All of them?” I speared my fingers, willing him to understand. “It, uh, sort of slipped in by accident?”

Diego’s jaw dropped, then he broke loose into a guffaw. Rafael raised his eyebrows, glanced at my hand, frowned in confusion. When Diego regained control, he again held up a finger to his grandson. Rafael huffed in annoyance, shot a hard sneer at my da as if contemplating a convenient target for his frustration. Da wanted to whimper, but knew better.

“Forgive me, muñequito, I’m not laughing at you, but at your pathetic, what did you call him? Your da. I am often amazed at how the greatest of evils jump from the heart of the most pitiful and ridiculous of worms. But wait.” He studied me carefully, looking deeper inside than I’d ever managed myself. “I think you know I do not laugh at you. But your red face, your wide eyes . . . ¿por que?” He sank down in front of me, reached one hand slowly towards me while holding the other up in a placating gesture to the instantly wary Rafael. Diego gently touched my knee; though I gave token resistance he easily parted my legs, and a slight smile turned up one corner of his lips. Glancing down to see what he’d found so amusing, I was horrified to discover my cock quivering against my belly, obscenely prominent against my smooth pubis. Telling Diego of the abuse my da inflicted had somehow turned me on, and another cold explosion of self-loathing shattered through me.

“No, no, it’s not . . .” I choked out, trying to hold back the tears welling in my eyes. “Not, uh, I hated it!”

A sudden flutter of cloth broke Diego’s intense study of my face, and the torn tiger-striped afghan throw which usually lay crumpled on the back of the couch settled across my knees, covering my abasement. Rafael stood over me, gazing at me with such a protective compassion it warmed and gutted me at the same time. How can he, I thought brokenly, if he only knew –

“Talk to me, muñequito,” Diego said, the command in his tone irresistible. Saying nothing about how Rafael had covered my nudity, he continued, “Tell the truth, you like what your Da do to you? Is no shame here, understand?” Not a lick of judgment in his expression, his words.

“No!” I spat. “I hated it, hated him.”

“Then why . . .?” he nodded at my cloaked crotch.

“That’s the reason I hate it!” I sobbed. Rafael tensed, glared at his grandfather. “The reason I hate him! That fucking smelly bastard motherfucker told me to do it or he’d kick me to the streets! I fucking hate him!”

Diego’s features tightened, and he reached out to touch me again, but Rafael smacked his hand away and laid his own on my shoulder, squeezed reassuringly. The intensity of his regard stilled the sobs wracking my body. Unable to help myself I leaned my head against his wrist, taking his heat for strength. Enjoy it while you can, I thought, because as soon as Diego translates your story the kindness and compassion in Rafael’s gaze will give way to scorn and he’ll want to never touch you again.

“Tranquillo, chavo. I understand. You want to give, not to be taken, si?” I nodded, relieved to have it put so clearly. “And not with tu padre, but maybe with somebody else?” Involuntarily my gaze flickered towards Rafael, and of course Diego noticed, and again that one-corner smile played on his lips. Thankfully, he said nothing about it. “Is no shame,” he repeated. “Some people are sumiso, how you say, submissive, some are dominante. Is the way of the world.” Comfort flooded through me. If Diego said something was so, then it was. “But we talk about that later, hey? Right now we must finish discussing el gusano.” I steeled myself, and Rafael’s hand on my shoulder tightened. “He has made you do these things many times? Perhaps before he went to prison, when you were only a bambino?”

“No,” I answered instantly, and some of the fierceness went out of Diego’s posture. Something told me my Da had just narrowly escaped a truly awful end. I felt a tiny trickle of relief; I didn’t care overmuch if the bastard suffered, but death seemed a trifle outrageous. “No,” I said again, “never until last night.”

Diego nodded encouragingly. “Then what happen today? You two don’t look like you’re enjoying the afternoon soaps on tv when we come in, eh?”

Almost over, I thought, almost done telling. “Da, he uh, he wanted to use a, you know, thing on me.” Diego raised an eyebrow. Glancing around the room, I spotted the greasy vibrator next to the recliner, where it had rolled when Da threw it aside. “There.”

Rafael followed my gaze, and when he spotted the toy pure loathing stiffened his entire body. He’d still not heard the translation of Da’s abuse, but with our nudity and posture when they entered and the unmistakable nature of the vibrator in plain sight now, only an idiot could fail to read the signs of what they’d interrupted. His hand tightened on my shoulder before he walked away, taking his heat with him. Stopping at the recliner, he prodded the vibrator with the toe of his boot then kicked it across the carpet to bounce off Da’s knee. “Abrir,” Rafael said, his voice cold, and Da’s mouth obediently dropped open, spilling a whine and a few terrified drops of drool. Rafael nodded at the greasy, carpet fiber-decorated dildo. “Ponlo en tu boca.” When Da hesitated, not understanding, Rafael opened his mouth wide. “¡En tu pinche boca!” Da jumped, and a few drops of piss dribbled to the carpet, but as he obediently bent and took the toy between his teeth longways his prick stretched and began to grow. “¡No!” Da jumped again, his erection wilting before it even got good and started. “¡Así!” Rafael ovaled his lips, and, getting the hint, Da used his trembling fingers to insert the vibrator head first. Rafael smirked, reached out to twist the dildo’s base and, as the humming chatter of plastic on bone filled the room, my dark angel drew back and landed an open-handed slap across Da’s face, so hard the toy’s casing broke with a loud crack and the motor sputtered to a halt. Letting out an agonized, whining grunt Da collapsed to the floor, somehow managing to keep the destroyed vibrator between his teeth.

“Con calma, Raffi,” Diego said absently. “No quiero sangre de gusano en la verga.” Breathing hard, Rafael backed off, though he still shot the occasional glare at Da huddled on the carpet. To me, Diego said, “And did he have any special reason to use such a nasty thing on you?” Regret in his question, as he already surmised the answer.

I confirmed it. “He wanted to open me up then take me to a bar and let people . . . you know. For money.” I hesitated. “Now you know everything.”

“Everything,” he repeated. “Si.” He sat back on his heels. “You are a strong young man, muñequito, and I truly have sadness in my heart for what you’ve suffered. Tu padre gusano will pay.”

I nodded, unable to speak, unsure if I felt gratitude or nausea at the idea of Da “paying” for his abuse. Perhaps a bit of both.

Diego said, “I must tell Rafael what the worm did to you. Si, chavo, I must, or he will kill me and your father both.” I nodded again, miserable but accepting. Diego gave a small, reassuring smile, put his hands on his knees, and straightened, groaning at the crackled protests of his back. He stretched, shaking off the discomfort, then explained the situation to his grandson. Rafael listened closely, his face growing ever more grim as each detail spilled out. When Diego held up a meaty hand and told how I accidentally shoved my much smaller one in Da’s ass, Rafael failed to find the situation as humorous as his grandfather, instead tightening his lips and clenching his fingers to his palm as he sneered at my father. Diego finally finished spilling the sordid tale, and Rafael glanced over at me, the cold anger in his eyes softening for a moment, then he looked back to Diego.

“¿Ahora, jefe? ¿Porfa, ahora?”

Diego smirked. “Ahora, Raffi. Pero solo un poco.”

Rafael shot one last, tender glance to me, then set his jaw and bent over Da’s trembling body. He wrapped dark fingers into red hair and dragged my father up to his knees. Da sniveled and almost dropped the mangled vibrator, only catching it at the last minute. His prick hung half hard between his legs, likely confused as to whether to erect or not. Rafael spotted it too, and he sneered, brought up his booted foot and crushed Da’s hairless balls into his crotch. Da whimpered, and his cock hardened to full. Disgusted, Rafael shoved Da head first to the floor, raising his ass in the air, then stepped around behind and kicked his legs apart. He raised his foot again, presumably to kick Da in the nuts again, but instead he ran the toe up Da’s crack and, upon reaching the dark, swollen ring I’d fisted last night, Rafael snarled and shoved the pointed end of his boot right up my father’s chute. Da shrieked and tried to scramble away, but Rafael laughed and followed, twisting the toe, reaming the first two to three inches of scuffed leather around Da’s already wounded hole. Rafael relented, pulled his boot out of Da’s ass, kicked him onto his back. Da groaned around the vibrator he still held clutched between his teeth. Muttering furiously in Spanish, Rafael fumbled at the zipper of his jeans, reached inside. Although I again couldn’t see much due to my angle, I had a clear view of his fingers pinching back foreskin. With a sneered groan, Rafael let loose, spraying his piss right in Da’s face.

While I watched, wide-eyed and goose-bumped and hard as a fucking rock. For me, I kept thinking in awe, all this splendid violence for me! Witnessing this kid piss on a da twice his age or more gave me savage satisfaction and only made Rafael more beatific in my eyes.

“You like my grandson, si?” Diego suddenly asked, his sympathetic gaze demanding truth.

“He’s beautiful,” I confessed. “He’s like an angel.”

Diego snorted. “Rafael, he’s no angel. With Diego for abuelo he never will be an angel.” Sadness in his tone, yes, but underlaced with pride.

“He is to me,” I insisted, watching Rafael shake the last few drops off, then put his cock away before I could study it closer. “He’s a dark angel.”

Diego snorted again, light, amused, neither condescending nor contemptuous. “Si, that I can maybe see.”

Rafael finishing buttoning his jeans and drew back his foot, kicked Da in the side again. Da whimpered and quivered but didn’t move, didn’t drop the mangled vibrator. Rafael drew back his foot for another go and Diego halted him with a softly spoken word.

“Suficiente, Raffi.” Rafael nodded, spat in Da’s face one final time, and turned away. To me, Diego said, “I tell my grandson ‘enough’, but is not enough, I know. El gusano will pay more, and I myself will see to it. Trust Diego.”

I trusted him, and was sure my da would pay to the last whimpered penny how much Diego figured was owed, but I couldn’t answer because my gaze had locked to my dark angel’s. I flinched at the coldness I found there and, seeing it, Rafael rekindled the warmth. Murmuring, “No, muñequito, no tú,” he again sank down beside me and reached out a hand, the one only so recently in Da’s hair and then on his own cock, he reached it out and wrapped it around my arm, still murmuring in Spanish, reassuring me. I wanted to weep at his gentleness. So sure, I’d been so sure he’d never want to touch me again after he found out the things I’d done, and the relief I felt at his compassion threatened to drown me.

“¡Mierda santa, gusanito!” Diego said, looking down at Da, who’d curled in on himself again like a true worm, “you must surely have no soul. Is one thing to take what you want in prison, where everyone is corrupt already, but is another to rape innocent child. You are more filthy than I ever dreamed. ¡Sucio por dentro y por fuera! You stink like piss and old milk. Let’s get you cleaned up, hey?” One biker boot jabbed Da’s side, and, still clutching the mangled vibrator between his teeth, my father clambered to his knees. “Not like that,” Diego growled, kicking him back to the carpet, “slither on your belly like the rest of your people.” Using steel-toes and menacing Spanish endearments to prod Da along, the two of them disappeared down the hall.

Leaving me alone with Rafael. He was so close his body heat seared my naked skin, but I’d sizzle to death before pushing him away. I reveled in his vicious aura and his unique scent: part perspiration, part knock-off bodywash, part something almost familiar, wood-smoke and flowers maybe. Whatever it was, it made my heart pound, my mouth dry, my boner rage. He tilted his head, his grip tightening on my shoulder, and his silver-black eyes shimmered like new moons in the shadow-gold sky of his complexion. Right as I no longer had the strength to bear it he broke our link, his gaze wandering south, to my narrow, shivering shoulders, my skinny, sweat-streaked chest, my smooth, quivering belly, and I’m not sure if I was relieved or disappointed the afghan camouflaged my intense arousal. Returning his scorching regard to my face, he secured his grip on my arm and raised the other hand to trace a thumb across my cheekbone, along the line of my jaw.

“Muñequito,” Rafael murmured. He released my arm and drifted his touch higher, until his fingers combed through the tangled curls of my hair, effectively cradling my skull in both gentle hands, currents of obscene electricity zapping between them to fry my brain. “Muñequito.”

A grunt and a crash broke whatever quickened between us, and at the ensuing sound of the shower blasting on and a mournful yip, Rafael snatched his hands back, almost overbalancing in his haste to get away. I took a moment to mourn the loss of my dark angel’s touch, then a burst of staccato Spanish and a yelp from the bathroom brought me firmly back to earth. Another yelp, the crotchety slide of curtain rings and a sliding thunk as the rod, a flimsy retractable job with rubber bumpers on both ends, twisted free of its grip. Rafael tensed and stood, gazing down the hall with wary confusion.

“It’s okay,” I said, and he swiveled back to me. “It’s okay. It’s just . . .” I trailed off, not having the words to communicate what had happened: Diego shoved Da into the tub and turned on the shower, Da yipped at the sudden blast of cold water, Diego smacked him, then Da somehow managed to pull the curtain rod loose. A simple enough process, but being unable to explain I simply repeated, “It’s okay.”

As if disputing my words another yelp echoed down the hall, but thankfully Rafael ignored the objection. He nodded, repeated, “Okay,” and smiled, so impersonal it made me wonder if the earlier more intimate one had only been in my dreams. He put out a hand, offering to help me rise, and his touch was impersonal too. As I stood the tiger-striped throw slid off, revealing my still eager erection. Rafael’s eyes widened and snatched themselves away, and I fumbled to re-cover myself, not because I was embarrassed, but because he was. He stared off down the hall with a troubled expression until I managed to get the afghan wrapped around my narrow hips. Belatedly remembering my manners after an awkward silence, I asked, “Would you like something to drink?” He cocked his head, not understanding. I tilted back my head and mimed chugging from a glass.

He brightened. “Dr Pepper?” he asked hopefully.

I shook my head in genuine regret, heartbroken to have failed him. “Probably not.”

Rafael smiled to cover his disappointment. “Is cool,” he said with careful enunciation. “El agua está bien, gracias.”

Agua. I knew that one; it meant ‘water’. I nodded and, walking away, felt his gaze on the back of my neck. Or, possibly, further down. I hitched the afghan higher on my skinny torso, guiltily enjoying the feel of the rough material on my boner, then busied myself fetching Rafael’s beverage. I frowned when I found the water jug in the fridge empty, but upon pushing it aside I spotted a single can of Dr Thunder, the cheap Dr Pepper ripoff, sitting behind Da’s beer, and my heart soared; it wasn’t exactly what Rafael had asked for, but close enough. I hoped.

As I cracked ice from the metal tray, the shower shut off, and Diego’s rumbling voice echoed from the bathroom. “There we go, gusanito, your outside is clean, you no longer make me want to vomit. Now we get you dirty again, hey?” The cheerful menace in his tone made me shiver. I quickly poured the soda and carried it over to Rafael, hitching up the sagging afghan on the way. My dark angel still stood in the middle of the room, staring off down the hall with an indecipherable blankness on his face. Only when I stopped in front of him and held out the glass did he blink.

“Gracias,” he said, taking a sip, and broke into a blinding smile, his approval shattering me with pleasure. “Dr Thunder! Is good!” He lifted the glass to his full lips again for a long drink.

Mesmerized, I watched his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow, ogled the way his shaggy black hair tickled his shoulders and neck, and my boner sent my brain a long, plaintive plea for relief. Desperate for distraction my gaze roamed the living room and came to rest on the tube of lube, sitting by the front door where Da had thrown it during Diego’s invasion. I went to retrieve it, and as I knelt Da started blubbering in the bathroom.

“No, puh-please, Diego, don’t make me --”

“¡Cállate, gusanito!” Diego barked. “Chúpame la verga.”

Didn’t need Google Translate to understand that particular order. Snorting in amusement at Da’s suddenly muted mewling, I grabbed the lube and stood, and of course the tiger-striped throw slid off. A prickling sensation on my backside and a hiss of whispered Spanish made me spin, and Rafael found himself ogling my crotch instead of my ass. His eyes traveled from my boner to the lube then up to my face, and he licked away a few stray drops of soda from his lips as he gazed at me with undeniable heat. Da yelped again, Diego growled, and Rafael’s glance flickered down the hall then back to my rager. My dark angel seemed indecisive. Frustrated.

It took me a moment to figure out what bothered him. “Rafael,” I said, and his gaze snapped back to my face. Dropping the lube tube on the coffee table, I tried to think of how to explain. “Your grandfather, your --” pronouncing the word carefully “-- ab-way-low, no, not for me! I want you!” How could I make him understand? Pointing at my erection, I continued, “For Diego, no! For you, for Rafael, si!” Remembering an old fast food slogan, I blurted, “Yo quiero tu!"

He gave a half-grin at my mangled Spanish and corrected, “Te quiero.” Then lost the grin as my meaning settled in.

“Te quiero,” I repeated firmly. For a moment only the sound of my father gagging on cock filled the air while Rafael regarded at me much like he had when asking for Dr Pepper. “Te quiero.” Kicking the afghan away, I dropped and crawled across the carpet towards him. Not on my belly, like a worm. On my hands and knees, as a supplicant. He drew in a ragged breath when I halted bare inches from his feet, blew it back out in a rush as I bent to kiss the toe of his right cowboy boot.

He stepped back.

Shit! Had I misread his desire? Was he disgusted at my blatant self-abasement? Dreading to look, I steeled myself for his scorn and raised my gaze.

No disgust on his face. No scorn. Instead, a scalding heat and a smirk that rattled every bone in my body. Especially the bone poking from my crotch. “Te quiero también, muñequito,” he crooned, raising his left boot. The one he’d not crammed up Da’s ass.

Oh.

“Besarlo.” Rafael’s voice a growl, hints of Diego in the velvet harshness.

I kissed the scuffed, dirty leather, not licking or anything gross like that, but letting my lips linger to show him the depth of my commitment; I would’ve kissed the other one as well, smeared with Da’s waste or no. Thankfully, Rafael didn’t require it.

“Arrodillate,” he said, motioning me to kneel up. He stepped back again, holding up one hand to prevent me from following, and finished the last sip of Dr Thunder, rattling the ice against his teeth. Setting the glass aside, he gestured to his body, from the baseball cap askew on his head to the cowboy boots I’d just kissed, and asked, “¿Te gusta? You like?” Teasing me.

I nodded frantically, and my boner and balls wobbled in unanimous agreement.

“’Me gusta’,” he said, pronouncing the words slowly. “Ahora tú. ‘Me gusta.’”

“Me goose-ta,” I repeated. “Me gusta.”

Rafael nodded in approval, and I inched forward, needing to be near him, but he held up a hand and smirked when I whimpered.

“¿Qué tal esto?” he asked, lifting the hem of his Foo Fighters t-shirt to reveal a solid ridge in the worn denim of his jeans. “¿Te gusto esta también?”

“¡Me gusta, me gusta!” I babbled, unable to look away.

“¿Lo quieres?” At my blank stare, he repeated, slowly, “¿Lo quieres?” Which sounded like –

I grinned, catching on. “Te quiero,” I said, looking him up and down. Pointing at the ridge in his jeans, I continued, “So . . . ¿lo quiero?” He nodded. “Si, Rafael, ¡lo quiero! ¡Te quiero!” On my own initiative, I added, “¡Por favor! Please!”

“Bueno, muñequito.” His silver-black eyes glinting in approval, he pulsed his boner and lifted the tail of his shirt higher, giving me a flash of smooth shadow-gold skin and an outie bellybutton. “Ven a buscar.”

And just like that, language lesson over. No complaints here, I needed to do other things with my mouth. I scooted closer and kissed the ridge of bone, suckled it through his jeans. My dark angel drew a ragged breath, and his hands came down to tangle in my curls, hold me against him. Reveling in his touch, I sucked and licked hard, his erection flexing and throbbing, separated from my frantic mouth only by drool-darkened denim. I reached for my own throbbing boner and he growled, shaking his head, so I reached for his crotch, his zipper, and he growled again. Desperate, I slid my hands around his hips, grabbing a meaty chunk of cheek in each. This he allowed, and as I clutched at his considerable backside he used his grip on my curls to move me as he liked, to rub the ridge of his bone against my lips, my cheeks, my nose and across my eyes, pressing it into my face, the heavy weight of his balls on my jaw, only inches away from my mouth. All the time he kept up a steady stream of Spanish, using words I’d no hope of translating, but I didn't mind because I understood the one which counted. “Muñequito.” I moaned and clutched, rubbing and patting. Wallet in one pocket, the unmistakable outline of a heavy knife in the other. I moved one hand down, my fingers probing into the crack at the top of his legs, the other hand sliding higher, underneath the hem of his shirt, coming to rest against a lump of something shoved down the back of his pants, also unmistakable. A gun.

Both of us froze. He let go my hair, pulled my hands from his backside. Down the hall, Da stumbling into his bedroom, Diego haranguing him. Rafael gazed at me, the silver-black of his eyes unrepentant but anxious, while I processed. A kid not too much older than me carrying both a knife and a gun, in the company of his grandfather, a man who’d been to prison, who exuded violence and menace like shed sweat and not only probably possessed a gun himself but also apparently enough cocaine to throw away a gram on mere information.

I fucking drooled, above and below.

“It’s okay,” I said, holding my hands up, imploring. “It’s okay, te quiero, te gusta, I like, I want!”

And my dark angel smirked, his posture loosening in barely concealed relief. I reached for him again, but he shook his head and took another step back, almost to the tv hutch, where he couldn’t run from me anymore. “Manos atrás,” he said, placing his hands behind his back to illustrate his meaning. I followed orders, clutching my sweaty palms together and squeezing hard. “Muy bien.” I glowed. His fingers settled at his crotch, but rather than cup the soaked ridge in his jeans he slowly pulled down the zip, spreading the placket to exhibit not underwear but a thick thatch of black pubes. Still smirking, he reached inside and finally, finally pulled out his bone.

My viewing angle was perfect.

He fisted it, smirking. Not the longest, but thick, traced with veins I longed to follow with my tongue. Loose foreskin embracing a fat purple knob. Bigger than me, bigger than Da, but not so large as to be scary. “La verga,” he instructed.

“Cock,” I babbled. “Cock, dick, prick.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the magnificent flesh, and a button of pre pearled at his slit and vanished under the sliding hood.

“Ven aquí,” my dark angel crooned. I scooted closer, inches from his tugging fist and his gorgeous verga. I smelled him, his wood-smoke and flowers scent strong and rich here at his center, and another drop of pre pearled for me. He stopped wanking and held his glans to my lips, allowing me to snake out my tongue and lap it up. Sweet in zing. Savage in aftertaste. He sighed and spoke very clearly. “Suck my cock-dick-prick.”

I opened my mouth and drew him in. He tasted of salt and sweat and pee and, faintly, of semen. He was bigger than what I’d dealt with last night, and as I spread my jaws wider a tooth scraped along the side of his glans. I tensed, expecting a blow which never came, he simply placed a hand on either side of my head and adjusted as he pleased. I breathed around him as he hunched into my mouth, his fingers combing through my curls. His thrusts deepened until the knob pressed against the back of my throat. I gagged, tears dripped from eyes. His implacable grip kept me rooted, his cock probing. I swallowed, and he popped down my gullet. I gagged again, snot leaking from my nose, but he didn’t relent and I didn’t complain. He pressed me further, so the tip of my nose dug into his sweaty black pubes and the sides burned from the cold metal of his zip. He kept me there until my lungs screamed for mercy. Relenting, he let me come back up, tracing the seam of his undershaft with his tongue and gulping in air, then he shoved me back down, popping into my throat and holding. I gagged again but regained control as he eased out. Settling his grip more firmly into my hair, Rafael fucked my face, slow at first but gaining speed and depth as we moved along, and I was thankful for my experience with Da, believe it or not. If it weren’t for Da doing this last night, I wouldn’t have the slightest clue how to handle the grind; if not for Da trying this morning I wouldn’t be sitting here now, my hands behind my back and my mouth full of dark angel meat. Rafael’s movements were smooth and controlled for all their force, his glans popping into my throat and his pubes against my nose just long enough to restrict my breathing. He crooned to me in Spanish, but all I heard, over and over, was, “Muñequito. Muñequito.” My thoughts grew hazy, my head swimmy. I took in enough air to breathe, but just barely, snatching in quick gasps before his cock once again invaded and conquered. Glancing up, his silver-black gaze locked with mine, my vision spotty but helplessly drawn to him, adoring the way his shaggy hair framed his face, the way his sideways ball cap wobbled and shook on his head from the force of his thrusts, the way his full lips shaped my preferred name. “Muñequito.”

And then, abruptly, he was gone, my mouth empty. I took in great, heaving gasps of oxygen, my head clearing and my vision brightening, and waggled my jaw, easing the ache. I longed to rub it but hadn’t been given permission to move my hands, so I looked to Rafael, found him glaring into the kitchen. “¡Maldita sea, abuelo!!”

Diego stood by the counter, stark naked, his scarred, weathered body fleshy and powerful. Tattoos decorated his torso and arms, jail-house and professional alike, some faded into the caramel of his aged skin and others vibrant, alive, including one of a phoenix bursting into flame on his shoulder. An erection waved proud and thick from his ragged and graying pubes, his balls hung low, brushing his thighs. He was bigger all over than Rafael, although I conjectured the grandson might eventually overtake him. Rafael noticed my scrutiny, and growled, and I leaned into him, nuzzling his denim covered leg, his cock-dick-prick brushing my temple, trying to show him I knew where I belonged. Diego was akin to a demi-god, larger than life, too much for the likes of me. Rafael, my dark angel, was the perfect size, and if I only had the chance to grow with him, he always would be. His hand came down to play in my hair, as if he understood, and approved. The older man glanced from Rafael’s scowl to his quivering, unabashed erection and to my flushed face, my swollen lips. Diego evinced no censure, and we felt no shame.

“Perdóname, hijos míos,” Diego said, “forgive me for intruding.” Unlike when barged in on me and Da earlier, he sounded sincere. “I search for un poco de lubricante.” Needing no translation, I pointed at the coffee table, where I’d earlier deposited the tube. Diego smiled, gentle but with a hint of menace. “No, no, chavo, you misunderstand.” He held up a thick fist. “Have you Crisco, ¿quizás?” A strangled, suffering moan from down the hall.

“There’s, uh,” I hesitated, swallowed, clenched my butt cheeks in reluctant sympathy for Da. Given enough slick, he’d said, just about anything will fit. “There’s some store brand above the stove.”

“Gracias.” He smiled again, this time warm and amused, one corner turned up. Nodding at the tube of lube, he said, “I think you and Raffi might have your own plans for that, si?”

Rafael growled again, and, startling everyone, he bent over and grabbed my waist, hoisting me up to throw me across his shoulder. I “oof”-ed in surprise, digging my rager into the folds of his Foo Fighters t-shirt, my fingertips grazing the handle of the gun at his waist as I struggled to balance. He bent to snag the lube from the table, and Diego laughed, said something in Spanish, holding up one hand with pinky and thumb formed into a circle, using the index finger of the other to rub around the ring, instructing his grandson on the proper use.

“¡Se como funciona, jefito!” Rafael snapped. He smacked my bare ass, hard, barking, “¿Donde, muñequito?”

My ears ringing and cheek burning, I squirmed in his hold, loving the treatment. “Th-there,” I stammered, using my foot to point at the door beside the tv hutch. He grunted in acknowledgment, and Diego laughed again, watching us go with that one corner grin on his face. The last of I saw of him before Rafael closed the door, Diego’s expression had changed from amusement to malice as he reached into the cabinet above the stove, and the last thing I thought before my dark angel took over the world was how lovely it was to be on the opposite end of the trailer from Da.

Rafael stopped in the middle of my bedroom, his hand clutching, rubbing my ass-cheek with stinging and blatant ownership before he tossed me supine onto the bed, and I bounced from the force of his throw. The tube of lube landed beside me, and he stood over me, smirking, his hard verga quivering at his open fly. I leaned up on my elbows, watching him, my cock throbbing. He toed out of his boots, kicked them to one side. His baseball cap landed atop them, and he shook out his hair, combed the midnight-black bangs out of his silver-black eyes, then crossed his hands at the hem of his band shirt, pulling it up and over his head in a rapid movement which stole my breath, revealing miles and more of his smooth shadow-gold skin and thickly furred armpits. His torso was fleshy, his pecs capped with large nipples I longed to suckle, his belly bulged over his belt, not enough to droop but enough to pillow, and a small trail of hair trickled downward from his bellybutton into the waist of his jeans. A thin scar curved across his lower belly and around to his side, and I longed to kiss it, trace it with my tongue. Several tattoos enhanced his upper chest and muscular arms, most of them scrawls and scratches akin to the jailhouse etchings on his grandfather’s torso, likely attained in the same sort of institution, and I yearned to know the story behind each one. A single professional image adorned his right shoulder, the same phoenix bursting into flame his grandfather wore, but a grim certainty stole over me I’d never know the full tale behind those. Rafael reached into a pocket and pulled out a battered phone, used the other hand to draw the gun from his back waistline, handling each with the same gentle and reverent care. His sharp glance warning me to leave them alone, on pain of decisive penalty, he set them on the nightstand. He unsnapped his jeans and shoved them down, kicked them off, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the gun, seeing it not as a threat but as a scepter, not as a warning of danger but as a symbol of power. Rafael carried death, yet regarded me as if I were precious as life.

“Muñequito.” I cut my eyes back to my dark angel, who grinned as if he knew my thoughts and considered them extensions of his own. He towered over me, fisting his verga, his furry sack and balls bunched and bouncing from his exertions. Yet another crude tattoo adorned his lower belly, of a stick-figure pushing a lawnmower across the line of his pubes, and I simultaneously giggled and promised to claw the eyes from the bitch who’d dared get close to something I already considered mine. He smirked again, caressing his cock-dick-prick, well aware of the fire he sparked in me. I reached for my own rager but he growled and I cried out, pounding my hands on the mattress in frustration. He knelt between my spread legs, wrapping his fingers around my ankle and yanking me closer, so the glans of his verga prodded my taint. I gasped and hunched against it, impatiently trying to capture it with my crack. Rafael laid a palm to my chest. “Tranquillo, amorcito,” regarding me much as he had the phone and gun. When I stilled, bunching the sheet in my fists, his fingers caressed my torso, explored my armpits and belly, making me want to writhe from the ticklish contrails, but I was good and didn’t move (much), just sweated into the bed and begged with my eyes. Rafael ignored my pleas, his gaze traveling up and down my torso, his brow furrowed, his drooling knob knocking at my balls, my taint, almost absently, leaving dabs of pre to dry on my skin. He scrutinized my squirming body as if he’d never seen anything quite like it, quite like me, and I wondered if he’d ever been with a boy before. I hoped he hadn’t, I wanted that experience, all his sexual experiences right down to jerking off in the shower, to be with me. His silver-black eyes sought out mine, and he smirked again as his fingers found my nipples, pinched and rubbed them, spitting sizzles throughout my nerves and into my brain.

“You like?” he asked as I rolled my head and my rager dribbled. He asked it again as he increased the pressure, twisting cruelly until the nubs burst into flame. “You like?”

“¡Me gusta, me gusta!” I babbled. I hated it. I loved it. I’d gift him my nipples in a beribboned box, should he ask. I’d give him anything.

Rafael appeared properly gratified, and a split second before the pain in my nipples overloaded he released them, his left hand sliding up to close over my throat, barely tight enough to feel the wild throb of my jugular, while his right dropped down, across my heaving belly, his fingertips skimming through the dribbles of pre like galoshes through a puddle, getting dirty and wet but not caring, the knock of his knob against my taint an erratic heartbeat. He hesitated, then slowly, carefully, took me in his grip, down low at the base, and I prayed the stubble of my pubes didn’t rasp his skin. Tightening the circle of his fingers, he began a leisurely tug up and down my rager. I babbled and my legs quivered in the air, my hands slapped the sheet, my head rolled back and forth on the mattress, his fingers flexing against my throat. He tightened his grip both above and below, making me work to suck in enough air to breathe. His tongue poked out the corner of his mouth as he played, his midnight-black bangs falling into his silver-black eyes. His grip on my throat tightened again, cutting off my air completely, and he raised his gaze to meet mine, his grin mischievous as he rubbed dribs of pre into my glans with the hand there and slid his cock back and forth across my taint, the sensations competing with the urgency of my lungs to breathe. As black spots skittered across my vision and orgasm built in my balls he relented, and I sucked in a great gasp of air, trying to slake the emptiness yawning within. “Rafael,” I panted, “my angel, oh, my dark angel, if you don’t fuck me soon I’ll die!”

He may not have understood my words but he sure clocked the intention, and he stilled, his fingers loosening at my throat and around my rager, his shadow-gold face predatory. Da hollered at the other end of the trailer, his voice husky and thrilled, but I didn’t care. “Please, Rafael, ¡por favor! ¡Lo quiero, te quiero!”

My dark angel smiled grimly, promising, and stood, towering over me, the resemblance to his grandfather pronounced, striking and menacing and hot. Diego may have been bigger, Rafael filled my universe just fine. With the sudden burst of violence I’d begun to crave he grabbed my ankles and flipped me, then spun me to face the headboard. He climbed onto the bed to my rear, bulling his way between my spread knees. He grabbed my waist with one hand, hauling my middle up, and pressed the other against my upper spine, forcing my chest down into the mattress and arching my back, raising my ass and exposing my most intimate skin to his hunger, and as the cheap low thread-count sheets sandpapered my abused nipples I hoped my hole looked prettier than Da’s; at least it was hairless and virgin, a naked and helpless offering to my dark angel. Rafael kicked my knees further apart, muttering in Spanish, and shuffled forward, laid the great heat of his erection against my crack, hunched against me, a drip of his pre dribbling against my stretched hole, then grabbed my arms, folding them, joining my hands at the nape of my neck. “No muevas tus manos,” he warned.

“I won’t move,” I swore, clasping tight.

Satisfied, he sat back, and I suffered the heat of his scrutiny in my crack. He put a hand to each of my glutes, spreading me wider, allowing light into my secret place so he might examine. He leaned close enough for his breath to tickle my hole, and as I sighed a ringing pain on my right ass-cheek forced me to suck the air back in. Before I’d figured out the sting another landed, on my left cheek. Spanking me, Rafael was spanking me! I groaned and took another hit, the fire beginning to spread up my back and down my legs. Another. He set up a jagged rhythm, never striking the same area twice, his breath ragged in my crack, fanning the flames higher. I gasped and writhed and he upped his speed, his touch blistering and sending my head spinning with pain and pleasure. “Rafael, please, ¡por favor! I want, I need!” A sudden drop of cool in the midst of the heat, like a single raindrop sizzling in a conflagration, and the rasp of his tongue licking my abused skin. I shrieked, and shrieked again when he bit down, hard, the pointed pain a vicious accelerant to the flames, by now sizzling along every nerve in my body and radiating sensation down to my atomic base. He repeated the process on the other cheek, smack-lick-bite, and I shrieked again. “Rafael!” I longed to reach behind me, to pull him in or push him away, I was unsure which, but my hands refused, having been ordered not to move. “Rafael!”

My dark angel drove me higher, varying the pattern and the cheeks, sometimes lick-smack-bite, sometimes bite-lick-smack, sometimes here, sometimes there, occasionally stopping to blow another breath into my spasming hole. I swore in desperation, telling him I wanted, I liked, in English or Spanish or no language at all. My rager raged on, so hard a stiff wind might shatter me, the slit drooling all over my sheets. Rafael never touched my back or thighs or balls, he rained his blows and attention strictly on my glutes, but I felt him everywhere. With his usual uncanny timing he sensed when one more smack, one more bite or lick would send me over the edge, and he stopped, and for a long moment there was only the sound of his harsh breathing and my beggared vocabulary. I hunched my ass backwards and up, the sudden cessation of new sensation intolerable even as the old throbbed red.

Then his tongue settled, very lightly, dead center of my hole, flicked back and forth, the touch nowhere near enough and much too much. “Rafael!” He licked up my crack, he licked down, to the top of my balls, but he always returned to my entrance, digging deeper with every pass. The fingernails of either hand skimmed lazy patterns through the ruins of my ass-cheeks as he ate me out, the sweetness such a contrast to the radiating heat I began to float, higher and higher, murmuring his name while he murmured mine, directly into my body. “Muñequito,” he breathed into me, “mi dulce muñequito.”

Something cold and wet dripped between my flaming buttocks, oozing down the crack, bringing me back to consciousness. The lube, I figured out when his fingers scooped up the droplets and rubbed them in, teasing my ring with slick tickles. A finger invaded, to the first knuckle, and I groaned. The digit moved, in and out, side to side, opening me up. It slid deeper, and I grunted, tensed, but he didn’t remove his finger, he kept it right there, unmoving, until I sighed and relaxed. “Bueno, lo estás haciendo bien, mi amorcito chulo.” He rotated, jiggled, drew out partway to shove back in. Another kind of fire began to grow under the ashes of the first, tendrils of flame reigniting tender embers. Abruptly, he slid another finger inside me, and I grunted, tensed again, cursing myself for weakness, but he merely held still until I loosened. His fingers stroked me, becoming more sure of themselves, less gentle, with each stroke, while I bucked under his touch, unable to stop myself from writhing yet somehow keeping my hands upon the nape of my neck where he’d placed them. The pain and the pleasure kindled, like two sticks chafed together to spark a fire, until I blazed.

“Fuck me, Rafael!” I babbled. I needed him inside me, now. “Please, my dark angel, please!”

“Voy a follarte el culo, tan fuerte que tu cráneo va a explotar,” he promised, removing his fingers from me and placing the head of his verga at my entrance before I realized he’d gone. A split second after I caught on he pressed inside, the knob of his thick dick bragging as it breached me. I shrieked yet again, involuntarily scrabbling forward as if to escape, but Rafael must’ve been expecting it because he wrapped his fist into a hank of my hair, holding me still as he sank inside with no mercy, cracking me in two, until he was buried deep, the rough ends of his sweaty pubes prickling and poking and tormenting my still raw ass-cheeks and his balls slapping my taint. I breathed through the penetration, the dull tug of his hand in my curls, my neck stretched as if for sacrifice. I felt if I moved I’d split into distinct halves, I’d never imagined such all-consuming hurt, but I adored it, adored him, even as my nerves screamed for relief. I’d suffer agonies a million times sharper if it meant he’d look at me with his silver-black eyes, if he’d touch me with his cruel, attentive fingers, if he’d whisper, as he did now, “Muñequito, mi amorcito.” He loosed his hold and, my motor control gone, I fell forward, face-first into the pillow. He followed me down, locking his legs on the outside of mine and grinding into me. I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry, I wanted to cum, I wanted to give him all of me. He grabbed my hands, one in each of his, then knocked the pillow to the floor, folded his arms under my neck so my throat lay in the crook of his elbow, and settled his full weight atop me. Taller than me, bigger all over, he crushed me into the mattress, his cock-dick-prick rounding me out and his breath hot and ticklish in my ear. “Tan caliente, tan apretado, tan bueno.” Each word making me shudder. He tightened his elbow, cutting my breath down to a trickle, enough to sustain but not enough to fight. Not that I’d fight. I wanted to be here. I’d rather be nowhere else than here, under Rafael as he fucked me and controlled me, allowing me to breathe and move and moan only at his whim. The black motes swam in my vision, my lungs fought for air, my thoughts hazed into dreamy. I no longer knew pain from pleasure, up from down, right from wrong. I only knew my dark angel, and was content to know no other.

He raised off me, leaving me to take in a great draught of air and banishing some of the tingles. Muttering to himself, he pulled out, but he didn’t leave me empty for long, he rolled me onto my back, hiked my legs over his arms, and shoved back inside, digging deeper and hitting my prostate full-on from this new angle. Full, I was so full I screamed and wailed, my fingers scrabbling at the sheets, and he smiled, his silver-black eyes glowing with macho pride that he’d been the one to send me loco. “Manos detrás de tu cuello.” I groaned and locked my hands together behind my neck. “Muy bien.” He stopped fucking, much to my very vocal dismay, and sat back on his haunches, pulled me into his lap so his verga ground against my sweet spot. He throbbed in my tunnel, his midnight-black hair falling into his shadow-gold complexion as he watched himself play me, his fingers twisting my sore nipples so I shrieked and clamped down on him or crushing my balls so I groaned and wriggled, fucking myself on his appendage, or wrapping a hank of my curls and yanking so I hunched into the nest of his pubes and his furry, swollen sack bounced on my taint and against the creases of my cheeks. Using my body for his own amusement.

And I loved it, loved . . . dare I imagine? . . . loved him.

Rafael.

My dark angel.

Mine.

So I gave myself to him, for balance.

Tiring of the game, he slid my legs up his muscular arms until they rested on his shoulders and, clasping them to his chest, he leaned over, inches from my face, midnight-black bangs and silver-black eyes and shadow-gold sky all I could see, needed to see. I thought for a moment he was going to kiss me, and I think he thought so too, but he hesitated too long, and in the end simply touched our foreheads together. His breath smelled of wood-smoke and flowers and me, of my musk, as if he’d marked himself with my scent. He rocked inside me and I disobeyed and threw my arms around his neck, patting his back and his shoulders as he rolled with a fuck so slow and intense the universe might have imploded and we’d never notice, let alone care.

“Muñequito. Amorcito.”

“Rafael. My dark angel.” And, trying it out, “Papi.”

He stiffened, and I worried I’d said something wrong. His eyes probed behind mine, as if searching for sincerity, and after a short eternity a fierce and prideful grin lit up his face. “Dime de nuevo,” he demanded.

“Papi, my papi.”

“Mi muñequito.”

He began to move again, the short thrusts against my sweet spot making my battered, bent in half body sing. Moving up to his elbows, allowing my legs to slide down his arms, he lengthened and intensified his strokes, jabbing hard into me and reducing me to incoherent putty. He laughed, sighed, “Ay que rico, muñequito.”

“So good, papi, so good!”

“¿Está tu cráneo a punto de explotar?”

“Yes, papi, my dark angel, yes yes yes!”

“Solo espera, se pone mejor.” He pounded into me, his aim sloppy but precise, his knob popping out only to bully back inside before I closed. His sweat dripped into my face, and I lapped up the drops whenever one landed near enough. My body was afire with him, he was the fuel and I was his flame, I’d burn for him forever or as a simple and grand falling star, quickly extinguished. One of his hands clamped around my rager, the other slid home at my throat, tightened. “Dámelo, dame más, amorcito. ¿Estás a punto de venir?”

“Getting close, my dark angel, my papi,” I blabbered before his fingers squeezed, cutting off my air. He fucked me hard, his fingers around my dick harsh and demanding. Through the welling tears and the spots darting across my vision I watched his shadow-gold complexion darken, watched his brow furrow and his mouth tremble and draw in the oxygen he denied me. I spiraled into the clouds, and at the top of my glide he growled, “Ven por mí, ve por mí ahora, mi amorcito, mi . . . ¡muñequito!” He grunted, and his eyes rolled back in his head, and he loosened his grip on my throat, and . . .

And . . .

My skull exploded. Rafael pulled out, leaving me gaping and empty, and, placing his verga against my rager, he squeezed them together so we felt each other throb, felt each other’s orgasm racing through our shafts, and we spent as one, howling, our semen mixed and spattering our heaving bodies. He fell atop me, crushing me underneath his bulk, and he didn’t object when I entwined my arms around his neck and my fingers in his midnight-black hair, when I wrapped my legs around his waist, hunching our cocks-dicks-pricks into and around each other as they spilled the last juices between us.

I don’t know how long we lay there, plastered together, our bellies rising and falling as one, our calming breaths in each other’s ear. It might have been minutes or hours or lifetimes before his head lifted and his lips sought mine, gently, hesitantly, brushing against them with the lightest of caresses, then settling, a small sigh leaking through as if home had been found. His tongue traced my mouth, and I opened for him so he slipped inside. Where he’d fucked me like a rag doll, throwing and pawing me with necessary roughness, he kissed me as I were fragile, a delicate mist liable to disappate if stirred. I’d been enthralled with his violent retribution on my behalf, infatuated with his gun and bad boy style, enamored of his careful and measured cruelty, but his shy and gentle kiss was the catalyst to kick me into full-blown love. You can tell me I was too young, you can lecture about endorphins and oxytocin, you can explain until you’re blue in the face how I’d had my brains fucked out and hadn’t yet found them again, but you can’t tell me how I felt. I loved my dark angel, and the way he kissed hinted he loved me too.

When he finished, when we’d given each other so much we felt full and depleted at the same time, he lifted his head and said, very slowly and distinctly, “Where is the restroom, please?”

I couldn’t help it; I laughed. “I’ll show you,” I rasped, “but you’ll have to let me up.”

He groaned and rolled off, our bodies parting with a wet, suction-y fart, our bellies smeared with puddles of semen, his spray of pubic hair matted and damp, his verga still half-hard, shiny and seeping. Before I could move he leaned off the bed and brought back the towel from last night’s shower, still damp, which he used to dab me clean, his brow furrowed in concentration, his silver-black eyes adoring even as he wiped between my cheeks. I’d never felt so cherished.

When he’d finished cleaning his own torso he tossed the towel aside, and I decided to never wash it. Gross, maybe, but I didn’t care. He groaned again and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for his pants. I swung my own legs off, stood, wobbled for a minute before his hand shot out, wrapping around my wrist to steady me. My insides were hollow, my knees weak, my body achy and throbbing and my throat scratchy and sore. It was glorious. When I stabilized I took a step for the dresser, intending to pull a pair of shorts from the drawer, but he growled, his grasp around my arm tightening. “No,” he said firmly, and I shivered. He slid on his own jeans, almost falling over himself as he stood to pull them up, and only his grip on my arm prevented him overbalancing. He let me go to retrieve his phone and gun, handling them with the same gentle reverence he’d shown when we kissed, and after putting them away and without bothering to don anything else, he held out a hand. “Restroom?”

The living room and kitchen were empty, quiet as we padded through, me naked and he wearing only jeans, our hands clasped. Da’s door stood open at the end of the hall, but Diego had apparently finished with him, as the Latino’s voice rang dry and businesslike, although Da still sounded snuffly and miserable. Rafael and I closed ourselves into the bathroom, stepped up to the commode to pee together. He reached for his zip but I batted his hand away, and he allowed me to pull his dick out and pinch the foreskin back. I held both of us, one in either hand, my aim remarkably steady as I crossed our streams. His flow pulsed under my fingers, and I wondered how it might feel on my face and body, how it might taste on my tongue, but I put the thought away with a sheepish and hopeful maybe someday. When we’d finished, I shook the last drops from his glans and put him away, while he held up a tube of cream he’d noticed on the back of the toilet. “Déjame ponerte un poco.”

I obediently bent over the sink and he spread some of the cream on his fingers, began to gently rub it onto my abused cheeks, the salve cool and numbing. I wondered how my ass appeared, if it was splotched in reds and purples and finger- and bite-marks, and I hoped so. Making a mental note to check later, I examined my face in the mirror. Eyes bloodshot and shiny, cheeks rosy, mouth swollen. Fingertip-shaped bruises on my throat. My nipples puffy and red. I looked, and you’ll forgive the cliché, like I’d been rode hard and put up wet.

Rafael finished applying the cream, adding a dollop at my throbbing hole for good measure, and the fire on my backside began to settle to a comfortable simmer. His head appeared over my shoulder as I gazed at my reflection, still in awe of my appearance. My fingers traced the dark necklace of bruises on my throat, and he flushed, his eyes meeting mine. “Lo siento, muñequito, no quise lastimarte --”

“It’s okay, it’s fine,” I interrupted. “I wanted.  I liked.”

He smiled, reached up to touch his own fingers to the marks, a predatory, prideful wonder on his face, and leaned in, putting his mouth to my neck, lightly tracing my skin with his tongue. I groaned, my cock stirring, and he bit down, suckled, adding a new mark, then switched to the other side, adding a hickey there as well, and his fingers dropped down to tweak my sore nipples before settling at my waist, gripping me tightly and surely giving me more bruises. I hardened to full, and he growled, hunched his crotch against me, his own verga filling, the denim-covered ridge harsh on my wounded skin.

Da stumbled down the hallway outside, his gait uneven, drunken, and a moment later there was a quiet tap at the bathroom door. “Disculpe, chicos,” came Diego’s apologetic voice, “but Rafael and I must soon depart.”

“We’ll, uh, we’ll be right out,” I called, and Diego murmured assent and walked away. I sagged against my dark angel, our gazes meeting in the mirror, and I wondered how I’d manage to live in a world without midnight-black and silver-black and shadow-gold.

“Volveré, no te preocupes,” he said softly, and I nodded, not understanding the words but clutching the intent to my heart. He kissed each of the hickies he’d just marked on me, kissed my hand when he clutched it in his own, and led me into the hall.

Diego stood at the bar separating the living room from the kitchen, Da kneeling at his feet. My father looked rough, his body bruised and shaking, his eyes unfocused, mouth slack and drooling. He appeared as well-fucked as me. Diego watched us enter, my erection wavering at my crotch, Rafael’s ridge obvious in his jeans, and the older Latino sighed, his mouth turning up in his trademark one-corner smile. “Oh, ser joven otra vez,” he murmured. “Ponte la camisa y las botas, Raffi, debemos irno. Dame un momento con muñequito.”

Rafael kissed my hand once more, reluctantly turned loose and padded to my room. I watched him go, his stride lean and leonine and self-assured, the gun butt shoved into his jeans rocking with each pump of his meaty ass. I watched him go, helplessly aroused.

Diego’s fingers, surprisingly gentle, took my jaw, drew my attention to him. He swiveled my head back and forth, examining the edemas on my throat, tsk-ing. His gaze wandered lower, to my puffy, angry nipples and the bruises forming even now on my hip. “Did Raffi, ah, did my grandson --”

Sensing his destination, I said, “He didn’t do anything to me I didn’t want.” My tone defiant, as if to say I’d kick his ass if he hurt Rafael. “I liked it.” I gazed at my open bedroom door. “I – I love him.”

Diego’s face softened. “Chavo --”

“I know what I feel!”

The older man said nothing.

“You’re not, you’re not taking him away for good, are you? Will you bring him back? Someday?” I thought maybe I could live if I had the hope of seeing my dark angel again.

Diego smiled. “Raffi . . . well, it’s best Raffi stay out Mexico for a little while, live with me instead.” I wondered what my dark angel had done. Found I didn’t care. “So yes, chavo, I’ll bring him to see you again, very soon.” Under his breath, he murmured again, “Ser joven otra vez.”

Rafael appeared again in my doorway, wearing his shirts and boots, his face sullen, and Diego dropped his concerned manner. Drawing my attention to a plastic bag on the counter, he said, “I am leaving these with tu padre gusano, and --”

“Abuelo.”

“-- and you must not --”

“Abuelo. Jefe.”

“No, Raffi.”

“Yo quiero --”

“No podemos. No debemos.  Chavo!” Diego raised his voice, drawing my attention from my dark angel’s pouty, stormy face. Looking closer at the plastic baggie on the counter, I found it to be stuffed with smaller baggies, and those stuffed with a white powder I’d never seen before but recognized instantly. “You must listen to me, chavo, are you listening?”

I nodded, unable to take my eyes off the cocaine.

“I am leaving these with your da, and you must not touch, not now, not ever. You stay away, si?”

“I will.”

“Swear to me, chavo.”

“I swear.” I wasn’t fascinated with the drugs, but with the power of their carrier.

“Bueno. I,” his lips turned up into the one corner smile I’d come to admire, “we will be back next week, to bring more and to pick up the money for these. I have said to your da, and I am saying to you, if he does not have my money, or if I find he’s tampered with the portions . . . pues, what happened today will feel like a game for children to him. And if you tell me el gusanito has touched you again, it will be worse.” Though the threat was in no way directed at me, I shivered, and apparently Da wasn’t as out of it as he appeared as he shivered too. “¿Comprendes?”

“Yes, Diego, I understand.”

“I mean what I say, you must not touch the drugs, now or ever, si?” He raised a brow, emphasizing his point, then relaxed, giving me his familiar one-corner grin. “Bueno.” He surprised me by pulling me in for a hug, and I huddled against him, his warm embrace nowhere near Rafael’s heat but comforting all the same, and way more paternal than any I’d ever gotten from Da. “Now, we must go, and will see you next week. This I promise.” Diego released me said to his grandson, “Di adiós, Raffi, debemos irnos.”

My dark angel tried one more time. “No podemos dejarlo aquí, jefe, con un gusano tan desagradable.” Diego didn’t so much as shake his head in denial, simply moved past his grandson out the front door. Rafael appeared crushed, but when his gaze met mine it was determinedly cheerful, and he repeated what he’d said in the bathroom. “Volveré, no te preocupes. Lo prometo.” He started towards me for one last embrace, but I shook my head. If he touched me I’d break, if he kissed me I’d shatter. Sensing it, he gave me a crooked grin, a half-wave, and one more murmured “Mi muñequito,” before he too was gone, gently swinging the door shut behind him.

I watched the space where my dark angel had stood for a long moment, feeling every cruel twist and slap of his fingers and hands, every greedy jab of his verga, every sweet touch of his lips reverberating throughout my entire well-used body, and I prayed the aches and pains and bruises lasted until I saw him next and he might mark me afresh. I shook my head at how sappy I’d become, hoping I looked nothing like Da, who knelt where Diego left him and stared at the door with a loopy, woozy grin on his face, the very model of an 80s movie heroine who’d just been kissed after prom by her dream date, the bad boy with the shy smile and reputation as a player. Telling myself I had no room to talk and should really stop watching 80s movies, I folded the torn tiger throw onto the back of the couch and retrieved Rafael’s beverage glass. The ice had melted to slivers, and I sucked them into my mouth, shivering at the cold on my swollen lips and sore throat but reveling in the memory at how they rattled against his teeth.

The door rattled in its frame, yawned open; Rafael hadn’t lifted and jiggled to compensate for the broken hinge. As I reached outside to close it I saw Diego and his grandson arguing in their vehicle, a battered and inconspicuous old pickup truck much like one any itinerant laborer might possess. The engine revved and fell away as Diego impatiently made his points and my dark angel watched and listened with implacable displeasure. He caught my eye, and his expression softened for a moment, then hardened again as he turned back to whatever intense discussion he held with his grandfather. I wanted to run to him but instead I closed the door, lifting and jiggling until the tongue snicked over.

I carried Rafael’s glass to the sink, noticing much of the daze had left Da’s face. He still knelt where Diego had left him, but he stared down at his battered body with disbelief and the beginnings of anger. He saw me looking and flushed, humiliated, then clambered to his feet, swearing vengeance under his breath, muttering about fucking ‘spics and how he’d shoot one someday, he’d been caught by surprise, but it wouldn’t happen again, no sir. I winced as I caught a glimpse of his greasy, ruined backside, the red hair matted and his hole swollen and beat to hell, and he flushed again. “Fetch me a beer, boyo,” he blustered, trying to regain his dignity and authority, but I ignored him. I felt nothing for the man but contempt. I brushed past him and headed for my bedroom, intending to pull on my clothes since I had no one left for whom I wished to be naked.

Rafael’s forgotten baseball cap sat on the bed. I snatched it up, held it to my chest. Considered keeping it, but no, that wouldn’t be right. I hurried to the front door and opened it, his name on my lips, but the truck was gone, my dark angel was gone. I jiggled and lifted, shutting out the sunlight, saddened but comforted by the feel of his cap in my twisting fingers. I lifted it to my nose for the faint scent of wood-smoke and flowers left behind, and I told myself for the first of what was sure to be millions of times he’d be back, he’d said so, and Mexico wasn’t safe, so he’d be with Diego next week and the week after and the week after that, gifting me his crooked grin and silver-black regard and loving, savage fingers. I’d wait for Rafael seven days at a time, or even more if need be, and count myself the luckiest tiny doll in the world.

Da stood at the bar, gazing down the cocaine left behind for him to sell. He’d pulled a baggie out, stared at it with the same greed my dark angel bestowed upon me. Remembering Diego’s warning, I said sharply, “Da! Leave it alone. He’ll hurt you, I mean really hurt you, not just in play, like today.”

“In play? In play?” he roared, but I didn’t even flinch. “You think what that nasty ‘spic did to me was play?”

“I think you don’t want to find out what happens when he’s not playing,” I snapped. “Deal the fucking cocaine like he told you, don’t stuff it up your nose.”

Something in my cold tone must have gotten through, for he left the baggie alone and stomped to the refrigerator, his gait clumsy and bow-legged, his ass-cheeks shiny and matted and bruised. The sight reminded me of my own marks, and I took a moment to savor the aches and pains gifted by my dark angel. Da swallowed a beer whole, crushed the can in his fist, tossed it towards the trash. He missed. Eyeing the cocaine as he passed, he staggered past me towards the couch.

“For shit’s sake, Da, take a shower, don’t stain and stink up the furniture!” He shot me the finger over his shoulder as he gingerly lay down and pulled the afghan from the back of the couch, spreading it over his shiny backside, muttering under his breath about how nobody told him what to do, and he’d snort as much cocaine as he damn well pleased, no matter what any damn boyo or nasty ‘spic might figure, and how he’d sure set straight anyone who said different. He settled on his belly, still murmuring, still humiliated, and I knew with a dreadful certainty he’d eventually snort what he was supposed to be selling, or he’d short the payment, he’d do something to provoke Diego. It fit his pattern. From his early teens onward Da had been in and out of penal institutions, and I’d be willing to bet Diego wasn’t the first cellmate to roll him over. Somewhere along the line he’d come to like the treatment, to crave it, maybe even to think it deserved. Though ignorant of his own motivations he put himself in situations where he’d fuck up, so he might be punished. Abused. And he hated it. Hated himself. Hated me enough to make me a part of it, make me feel the same hatred and despair, and if it weren’t for the timely intervention of an illegal immigrant gangster drug dealer and his dark angel grandson I might have fallen too. Diego and especially Rafael made me realize the difference between abuse and consent, between giving and taking, joy and suffering and suffering joy, and I was thankful.

A snick from behind me, the whine of unbroken hinges as the door swung open. “Muñequito?”

Hardly daring to hope, I spun around to see Rafael’s crooked grin. I started to jump into his arms then realized he’d just returned for his cap. Smiling sheepishly, I held it out, but he batted it away impatiently.

“You come with us?” my dark angel asked, the words distinct, clearly rehearsed. As my jaw dropped open, he shook his head and said, “You come with me.” His voice firm, brooking no argument.

I glanced out the door to see Diego sitting in the driver’s seat of his truck, a harried look on his face, his eyes raised to the heavens in a clear ay-yai-yai moment. Catching sight of me, he waved and rolled down the window. “¡Mierda santa, chavo!” he called. “You are waiting for an engraved invitation, ¿quizás?”

“What the fuck?” Da demanded, sitting up, wincing at the pressure on his destroyed backside. “You ain’t going nowhere, boyo, you --”

“Yes,” I told Rafael, who gazed at me greater hope than when he’d asked for the Dr Pepper. “Yes and yes and yes!” My dark angel broke into a blinding smile. Indicating my naked body and bare feet, I rushed, “Just let me go --”

Rafael grabbed my arm as I turned towards my bedroom. “No, amorcito.”

“But I need --”

He shrugged out of his blue Foo Fighters t-shirt and, before I could question him, slid it over my head. It smelled of wood-smoke and flowers and hung to my mid-thigh. Snatching the baseball cap from my hand, he smooshed it down over my eyes, laughed at my amazement. I started to laugh too and gasped when he swept me off my feet into his arms, solving my shoe problem. Looking deep into my eyes, he swore, “Te compraré zapatos, ropa y comida, mi muñequito, te proporcionaré todo lo que quieras o necesites. Me perteneces.”

I didn’t understand his words, but they weren’t important. I understood the promise, the ownership beneath. “Rafael, my dark angel, my papi, I belong to you.”

He must’ve understood my promise as well, for he gifted me his crooked grin again, a shy and delighted smile I swore he’d wear every single day for the rest of his life. As Da bitched and moaned and wondered who the hell would take care of him when I’d gone, as Diego revved the engine impatiently, ready to go, my dark angel kissed me and carried me across the threshold.

©2020 by Rusty Slocum