This story contains scenes of rough sex with very, very bad men. If you do not like that, do not read it. If you do like it, please check out the stories I have for sale at:

This story copyright Thomas Carver 2015. You may copy this story and distribute it as you see fit, as long as you do not make any money off of it and as long as you include this preface and my name when you do so.

I may be reached at

[email protected]


Prisoners' Pit Stop

I had just a few more days of work to go into my dissertation. I was down to measuring margins and making sure the bibliography was complete. It was grunt-work, boring but necessary. I kept late nights. The sooner I could finish it, the sooner I could defend, and the sooner they'd put that hood on my shoulders and I could get a job.

I had a stack of books around me, some of them shoulder high. I was digging in one particular black behemoth when someone pounded on my door.

I checked the clock. After midnight. I didn't live in a ghetto, but it wasn't the fanciest part of town. I was a poor grad student, after all.

I peered through the peep hole. A young man, baby-faced, blue flannel shirt. He shrugged and grinned, looking hapless.

"Hey," he said, through the door. "Hey, man, can you give me a hand? My car broke down and when I went to call triple A would you believe it I dropped my goddamned phone right in a puddle."

It had been raining for two days. He pushed his face up to the peep hole, a great big sheepish smile in an aquarium, an arc of short, blond hair.

I opened the door.

He was in the room, fast, before I could do anything, and behind him came two other men -- big men, tattooed, not so friendly-looking.

They pushed me back, and the baby-faced one clamped his hand over my mouth.

"You Chad?" the one on the right asked. He was a moose of a man, solid muscle and a face more square than round, traced with racist tattoos.

I grunted, and baby-face let his hand down. Something pushed into my kidney. A gun, I thought. Or at least, they wanted me to think it was a gun. Not a gamble worth taking. "Yeah."

"See, man?" the other guy said. He was smaller, and like the moose had a shaved head. He seemed greasy, physically and metaphorically, slimed with sweat and con-man smarminess. "Boston said the fag lived here."

Oh. Shit.

I started writing to Boston shortly after I finished my master's degree. I found his name on a website, along with a mugshot and a lovingly shaded drawing of his cock. The website is long gone now, but all through my Ph.D., I wrote to him. He was in for a long haul, some three-strike thing involving a weapon, a robbery, and some bad judgment. We didn't talk much about his crime. I told him about my program, about my hopes for the future, and more and more we shared our fantasies. I wrote how I wanted to crawl between his legs and be his whore. He wrote how much he liked to fuck a guy's face until he choked.

None of it would ever come to fruition. He wouldn't get out until I was long gone and finished with my Ph.D., and that was fine, I think, with both of us. He seemed like a good enough guy, with some bad breaks. A safe walk on the wild side for me.

But apparently, he had friends.

"Listen," baby-face said. "We're just going to stay here tonight, and then we'll be gone in the morning. You got nothing to be afraid of. We ain't gonna hurt you unless you make us."

"Or unless it's fun," the greasy one said.

"Shut up, Phil."

The gun still pressed against my lower back. "Okay," I said. "Okay. Let's just -- calm down and be -- friendly."

"See? He's a gentleman and a scholar." The moose kicked a stack of books out of the way and plopped down in my chair. "Fuck. My feet are killing me."

"If you make our stay pleasant, be a good little host, nothing bad will happen, and we'll be gone early tomorrow morning, and you can get back to -- whatever the fuck you're doing."

"Okay," I repeated. My heart felt like it might burst, and I couldn't catch my breath. My knees buckled and I thought I might fall, but I somehow stayed up.

"I'm Nate," baby-face said. "This is Phil, and we just call this big motherfucker Tank."

"Sup?" Tank said.

My stomach churned. "Hey."

"We've all read the nice stuff you wrote to Boston. We sat around, laughing about it, joking about what a little punk you'd be in prison. So now, I think you should get us something to eat and then, maybe, rub Tank's feet for him. How does that sound?"

"I don't -- have much. To eat. In here."

"Yeah, I believe it," Phil said. "Shit, your apartment's smaller than my cell."

"Yeah, I always thought faggots were rich," Tank said.

"I've got cereal," I said.

"That'll be fine," Nate assured me. His voice was soothing, even friendly. He let me go and I walked, very slowly, into the kitchen, stepping over the toppled books. I glanced back. I couldn't help it.

Yeah, it was a gun.

I could make a run for the door, I thought. But -- what if I didn't make it? Shit, what if I did? There were three of them, one of me. They were built. I wasn't terribly out of shape -- I used the gym to blow off stress from my studies -- but I didn't spend every single free moment lifting weights, as they apparently did. Especially Tank. If he didn't have ARYAN tattooed across his forehead, and a swastika on each cheek, he might be a professional body builder.

I couldn't pull anything fancy in the kitchen. It was a studio apartment, open plan. Basically a box, futon on one side, computer on another, kitchen counter running along one end. Only the bathroom could be called another room. I poured out four bowls of generic wheat o's. I shook so bad pouring the milk, I sloshed it all over my hands. I brought them the bowls, one at a time. I gave Nate his bowl last. He thanked me.

He sat on my bed, Phil beside him, the gun between them, and ate his cereal. Tank kicked off his shoes.

"Make yourself useful, faggot," he said. "Rub my fucking feet."

I sat on the ground, and actually felt a little better. More stable. He plopped one socked foot in my lap, hard, practically kicking me. It stank of sweat. I rubbed it, massaging the muscles on the side, the tendon that runs from the big toe to the heel, the swollen achilles tendon. He slurped the last of the milk from his cereal and belched.

I heard a clatter. Phil had tossed his empty bowl and spoon on the floor. He was peeling off his t-shirt, baring his chest. While he didn't have the facial tattoos, his chest made his political affiliation obvious: swastika, SS symbol, two guns crossed at his navel, a word, maybe a girl's name -- RAHOWA -- between his nipples.

I wondered if the police would ask me to describe them. And then I wondered if these three thought the same thing, and a spike of ice ran down my bowels.

"I want a blowjob," Phil said.

"Let him finish with my feet, and then you can skullfuck him."

"Naw, man, I can't sleep unless I get my nut."

"Then stay the fuck awake, asshole."

My ribs were shaking with my heartbeat. Again, I couldn't catch my breath. Every time I inhaled, I smelled his feet. I couldn't get good air.

Nate spoke up. "Dude, we're here so we can get some food, fuel up, and sleep. We're not here to fuck."

"Shut up, or I'll turn you out too."

"Yeah, right. You could try, you stupid fuck."

"I'll do you like Boston."

Tank laughed. "Shit, Boston's such a punk. He tossed my salad once."

"Just once? He licked my ass on the daily. I had his tongue so far up my shitter he was licking the inside of my teeth."

They laughed.

It's weird. Adrenaline doesn't last. It fades after a few moments, and the fight or flight instinct turns off. I knew what was going to happen to me, sitting there, rubbing Tank's other foot. I knew, and the thought should have scared me. And it did. At first.

"I don't get you guys," Nate said. "Here we are, free and clear, women all over. And you want to fuck the faggot. Hell, we fucked Boston because there wasn't nothing else to stick our dicks in."

"Faggots got to be useful for something," Tank rumbled above me. "Fucking race traitors. Hey, faggot, look at me."

I did. He snorted, hard, then rattled up a chunk of something against his teeth. He parted his lips, launched a glob of white slime at my face. It splatted over one eye. "White boy like you, should be fucking some girl, make more white people. Not sucking cock."

"Oh, now, I don't know," Phil said. "I think sucking cock is a pretty good use for him. That stuff he wrote to Boston about how he wants to crawl up between his legs and suck his nuts -- sounds good to me."

Tank shoved me away with his foot. "Then make some use of him, if you think he's got any use."

"Faggot, you know what to do," Phil said.

I kneeled between his legs. He spread them wide. He wore ill-fitting shorts, and one leg was covered in tattoos, vines and whorls and weapons, branches and skulls and symbols. He pulled the blue nylon shorts down and pulled his cock out.

"Suck me."

I could reach up, grab the gun. I could try to fight them off. But Nate must have seen the flicker of my eyes, or maybe just wasn't as stupid as the other two. He took up the gun and held it, relaxed, at his side.

I wanted to hesitate, but Phil twined his hands in my hair and pulled me forward. His balls stank of sweat and oily skin. He pushed my nose into them. "Lick 'em," he said. "Like you said you wanted to do with Boston. I'm ten times the man that punk is. So you should want to lick 'em ten times more."

I ran my tongue over them. Wiry twists of thick, reddish-brown hair covered his balls. I got some in my mouth, stuck to my tongue. But I didn't stop licking.

His cock stiffened against my cheek. He pulled me up over it. The foreskin had started to retreat. His head was wet, angry red, the piss-slit a threatening gash. White-grey crumbs speckled it. I opened and he pushed it in.

"He knows how to keep his teeth out of the way," he said.

Tank snorted a laugh. "Good. I had to threaten to knock Boston's out."

He pumped his hips. I didn't even realized I was running my hands over his muscular thighs until Nate pointed it out: "I think the fag's in love, man."

"Fuck that shit."

His abs, tattooed with racist slogans, flexed under my hands. He pushed my head down and I gagged, nearly threw up. "If you puke on me, I will fucking kill you. Don't think I won't."

"I want my asshole licked," Tank said. "Lay him back on the bed."

"Fucker, don't you see that I'm balls deep in his face?"

"I said, I want my asshole licked. Lay him on the fucking bed."

Phil grumbled, but pulled me off. He and Tank lifted me, like a sack of flour, and tossed me on the bed. Nate got up and took my work chair.

They started pulling at my clothes. The pants came off easy. It's harder to get someone else's shirt off, and they tore it. It was one of my good shirts, too. I didn't have that many.

I was naked, stretched out on my bed, held down by ankles and wrists. Tank wrapped both of my wrists in one of his meaty hands, and kneeled over my face. He worked his pants down with his other hand, and then his torn and dirty underwear.

A line of tangled black hair glistened damp between two globes of muscle. Here, at least, he had no tattoos. The darkness descended.

"Suck my shithole, cocksucker."

I didn't want to do this. I never wanted to do this, not with anyone. But they had me, and Tank's hard body put its full weight on my face, and I couldn't breathe unless I stuck out my tongue and pleased him enough to give me air. I licked the salty, bitter crevice.

"I didn't really wipe too well last time, so there's probably some chunks back there," he said. "Get your tongue right up there."

Phil let go of my legs. He knew I wasn't going to fight anymore. His fingers, cool and rough, slid up my leg to my balls. He cupped them, then encircled them and pulled. Hard. Harder.

I tried to yell, but Tank just clamped down on my face. They were laughing, all three of them.

Phil slapped my cock. "He's fucking hard."

"What a faggot."

"He likes it. Shit, he'd be a fucking superstar on the inside."

"No shit. Knows how to work his tongue, too."

"I think he just likes what you had for breakfast, Tank."

"Yeah, eat up, faggot. Getting my ass licked makes me horny, but no woman ever does it. Wouldn't ask any good white woman to do it. But a faggot -- that's what they're made for."

"Hell, yeah. That, and getting fucked."

"And sucking cock," Nate added, mildly.

"I'm going to fuck him," Phil said.

"Go for it."

He spat, once, twice. And then he lifted my legs. One hand was damp. He pushed up against me. "He's tight."

"Well, he's fucking dry."

"Yeah, well, I like it dry."

He pushed harder. It burned. I cried out, but again, I was muffled by Tank's asshole. It was all darkness, stink, pain.

"Tank, get off his face," I heard Nate say. "Just for a minute."

"He'll fucking scream."

"Then he'll fucking die," Nate said, very calmly. Tank lifted off of me and sat up by the head of the bed, his cock resting on my forehead.

"I won't scream, I won't scream," I said, whimpered really. "There's lube in the nightstand, God, please use it, please."

"See? He's a good little fag. Well-prepared."

Nate opened up the nightstand and found my tube of KY. Phil was already in me, just the head of his cock, but couldn't get any further. Not without ripping me open. But then, I didn't know if that would stop him. I kept thinking about things I'd read, about stuff that happens in prison.

He started working lube around his cock and into my ass, little by little, thrusting and pulling back. It still hurt, still burned. But now I wasn't dying from it. "Thank you," I said, "please, don't hurt me."

"Oh, I'm gonna hurt you, bitch. But you'll love it. It's what you're made for." And he pushed into me, hard. I tried to relax, knowing I had to, but I couldn't, not enough.

He pulled out, pushed deeper, again and again, relentless. He was seeking his pleasure, and his pleasure was in my pain. Tank stroked his cock over my face, running the foreskin up and down the shaft. Precum drooled onto my forehead.

And then Phil was in me, all the way. His hard pelvis pressed again my ass. He held himself there for a moment, and finally I relaxed. Too late, I thought.

He started to thrust, very slowly, very smoothly. "Oh, fuck, this feels so fucking good, guys, you got to try it once I nut."

"Feels good not to have to hurry, yeah?" Tank said. He crawled over me to straddle my chest. He didn't put his full weight on it. If he did, I thought he might kill me. But he pushed his cock up against my lips, held himself up with his legs and his hands against the wall above my headboard. I sucked his cock into my mouth. His tasted better than Phil's had, was a little cleaner, but then, that might just be because the taste of his asshole was still in my mouth.

Phil gasped. "Oh, fuck, guys, I'm busting."

"Do it. Bust in his guts," Tank said.

Phil pushed up against me. He swelled inside me, thrust hard, too hard, twice. Then he shuddered up against me, his skin clammy with sweat. He pulled out. My asshole felt warm, wet. I hoped with lube and cum and nothing else. But what did it matter now? I had no way of stopping it.

Tank didn't waste any time. Once Phil pulled out, he was between my legs, holding up my ankles, pushing into my hole. Now, at least, it was relaxed and lubed. And his cock was wet with my spit.

I turned my head. Nate watched, that smile on his face that seemed so friendly before. He held the gun loosely, lazily, in one hand, balanced on his knee.

Tank invaded me like his namesake, with even less mercy than Phil. His body slapped wetly against mine with each grunting thrust. I bit my lip, trying to keep the moans inside. Because now, and maybe it was just the size of his cock or the way it bent, but he was hitting something inside me that sent arcs of shameful pleasure through my balls. I was getting hard, despite the pain, the humiliation, and the fear. Maybe because of it.

Tank pulled one leg to his face, latched his teeth onto the meat of my calf, and gnawed. I thought he might break the skin, but I didn't even care.

Each thrust pushed me up higher on the bed. I just wanted him to keep pounding me like that, keeping hitting my prostate or whatever it was that he was hitting. I didn't even care how ugly those tattoos made him, how disgusting the taste of his ass still was in my mouth. I licked my lips, gathering up more of his musky sweat.

And then he let go of my legs and slammed up against me, hard enough to smack my head against the headboard. He reached out, slapped me, hard. My head rocked, and I yelped. My ears rang.

He pulled out.

"I love doing that when I come," he said. "Makes the bitch tighten up. Another thing you wouldn't do to a good white woman."

My spit tasted coppery. My jaw ached, and my face stung.

"My turn," Nate said, mildly. He set down the gun and stripped off his clothes. He didn't have tattoos. Maybe he wasn't part of that particular gang. I got the impression he was smarter than them. More reasonable.

"Please," I said, "let me suck you instead. I'll do a really good job."

"Okay," Nate said. "I'll fuck you, while you suck me."

I didn't know what the hell that meant. He fisted his cock, long and slender, and squirted lube on it. It glistened between his legs. His pubic hair was blond, darker than that on his head. He pushed the head of his cock into me, and then the shaft, in one slow and continuous movement.

"How does that feel?" he said.

"It's fine."

"Good. Now, open your mouth."

I did. He showed me the gun. "This is my other cock," he said. He put the barrel to my lips.

Tears sprang to my eyes. I shook my head.

"Hold his head," he said. Tank clamped onto my temples.

"Open." He knocked the barrel against my teeth. His cock rested in my asshole. "Open. It won't make any fucking difference if your mouth is open or not when I pull this trigger. It's just if you don't do it, you'll piss me off."

I opened my mouth, shaking. He put the barrel in. It clattered on my teeth. I closed my eyes. Tears burned and overflowed.

He started thrusting, slow and steady. "I always wondered," he said, in that reasonable voice, "what would happen if you blew someone's head off just as you came."

"You are one crazy fucker," Tank said, admiringly, I thought, and maybe a little afraid.

"Hey," Phil said, from the foot of the bed where he had stretched out on the floor. "Hey. No killing."

"The French call it the little death," Nate said. "The French are pussies. Let's make it a big one, huh? Oh, fuck, yeah, tighten that ass. Get me close. The closer you get me, the closer my other cock gets to coming. You're gonna swallow, right? Oh, I bet you are."

"Okay," Tank said. He let go of my head. "Too far."

"No, not quite yet," Nate panted. His breath was rough, his voice tinny. All their voices were tinny. They were talking about shooting someone. They were talking about some plan. I vaguely wondered who they were, and who they were talking about. Someone was getting fucked. Someone far away. Someone else. An argument was happening.

I came to tied up spread eagle. It took me a moment, not only to remember where I was, but who I was. Who these guys were.

My asshole tipped me off. It was sore and wet.

Someone was snoring by the side of my bed. Someone else was snoring, a little more high-pitched, from the floor by the window.

A naked man was sitting on the foot of my bed.

Memory rushed back, and with it the fear. Nate.

"Hey," he said, in a whisper. "Hey. Don't yell or anything. I took the gag off for a minute, okay?"

I nodded.

"I waited until they were asleep."

It was Tank who had pulled him back. The big bull of a racist asshole had stopped him from going too far. Stopped him from killing me for a sexual thrill. And he was asleep.

"I just -- " He ran his hand over his short hair. The streetlights through my sheer curtains gave him a sepia tint. In those cold yellow lights he didn't look so confident. He wasn't smiling. " -- I just owe you an apology. I went way too far there."

I swallowed. I didn't trust myself to speak.

"I get stupid sometimes. I wouldn't have really pulled the trigger. Shit, man, the gun isn't even loaded, okay? I just -- " He showed me his palm, as if it held some explanation, but it was empty.

"Yeah," I whispered. "I -- yeah."

"I'm going to make it up to you," he said. And then he leaned down and took my cock in his mouth.

I nearly yelped and woke everyone up. He couldn't have surprised me more.

My cock wasn't surprised, though. It leapt up and met his hot tongue. His lips slid, soft and smooth, down the shaft. He cupped my balls.

I closed my eyes. I couldn't do anything else. His hands ran over my body. I knew my body was softer than theirs. But his hands roamed, rough and gentle at the same time. He found my nipples. I thought he'd pull them, torture them, but he just rolled them gently between his hard fingertips. Then down my ribs, to cup my ass. No more pain. Just pleasure.

He pulled me in and took me deep. He let his teeth brush the base of my cock, just a gentle threat. His tongue undulated against me, and his throat pulled me down.

The skin on my balls crinkled. I thought about him fucking me, that gun in my mouth. If it hadn't been loaded, if he was serious, that could be hot. A hot scene from some edgy porn, I thought. I'd jerk off to that. But the reality --

There was no reality. This couldn't be real.

He held the head of my cock between his lips and sucked, and then flicked his tongue over my slit.

He started bobbing, a workmanlike approach to a blowjob, but just what I needed. I was close enough, this sent me over.

I couldn't help making a sound, a tiny mewl as I came. My cum ripped out of my cock, shooting like a bullet. He suckled it down. He didn't let up sucking, though, until I started to make too much noise, hissing and protesting. I'd never liked being touched right after I come.

He pulled away. "Shh," he said. He crawled up over me and lay his naked body lengthwise against mine. "I'm sorry I scared you," he said. He put his lips to mine, and his skilled tongue invaded my mouth. I sucked it in, sucked the taste of my own cum off it.

He broke the kiss. "I really am sorry."

"Yeah," I said. "Okay."

"I promise," he said. "You'll never see us again."

I closed my eyes, exhausted. I didn't think I'd sleep, maybe not ever again.

When I woke up in the morning, they were gone. One hand had been untied. I untied the rest of the t-shirts and rags they had used to bind me.

I cleaned myself up in the bathroom and checked for damage. It felt worse than it was. I had a bruise on my face. Another on my ankle where Tank had bitten me. My scalp hurt a little. They had pulled my hair, which I didn't really remember. I had a bit of a cut on my tongue, maybe from the slap or maybe the rough metal of the barrel of the gun. My asshole would recover, too.

They stole some of my cash and some clothes. They left nothing but three empty cereal bowls, a pair of Tank's dirty socks, and -- on the chair where I did my work, pointed at the bed -- the gun.

I checked it. It wasn't loaded. In fact, it wasn't even real. A toy. I licked the barrel. It had tasted real. I sniffed the socks and put the gun in my mouth, and jerked off.

After I came, I turned on the TV, to distract myself from the shame.

I knew what I'd see even before I saw it.

Two men, escaped prisoners, recaptured. A third still on the run. They had their faces covered, getting into the police car, but it was clear from their build: big, bullish Tank; slender and oily Phil.

He had promised I'd never see him again. Some nights, in the days that followed, before those socks lost their smell, I was afraid he wouldn't keep that promise. And many nights after that, I was afraid that he would.



[email protected]


Rate Story Choose rating between 1 (worst) and 10 (best).

Bookmark and Share

blog comments powered by Disqus