Read How to rape a straight guy Online

Authors: Sullivan, Kyle Michel

How to rape a straight guy (page 3)

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“Bullshit, bitch,” I whispered back.  “You like it.  I can feel how you like it.”

“No, man, it hurts,” he grunted.  “Please, just get it over with.”

So I laughed an’ began strokin’ into him slower an’ deeper, makin’ him really feel it.  Try an’ tell me what to fuckin’ do, the little bitch.  He almost sobbin’ as he kept beggin’ me to end it.  An’ I just kept on an’ on.  An’ his dick kept callin’ attention to itself.  I slapped it aside a couple of times but it kept poppin’ back, bigger than the time before.  So I did somethin’ I’d never done before -- I grabbed it.  Grabbed his fuckin’ dick.  Yanked it out of the way an’ kept pumpin’ into him.  An’ the way he moved around as I fucked him made it seem like his dick was fuckin’ my hand.  But I didn’t let go.

To this day, I dunno why I kept hold.  I’d never thought about hangin’ onto a man’s dick, before, but the way I could feel it bouncin’ around against my belly...feel his balls rubbin’ my pubes...feel his tits get as pointy as Connie’s, almost...it made me notice it more an’ more.  So I just put my free hand around it an’ held onto it like I owned it.  Like he was completely mine an’ that proved it.

He tried to stop me, but I smacked his face.  Then I grabbed even harder on him.  Crushed my hand around him, like I was gonna tear it off.  He sobbed even harder an’ begged me not to.  Begged me to leave him alone.  An’ then he started to struggle an’ I got even more into it.

I fuckin’ owned him, right then.  I was the boss, an’ nothin’ he did was gonna stop me or slow me down.  The more he fought, the more I felt in control.  An’ then he jolted.  He almost pulled himself off me, but I had too good of a hold on him...an’ then he bucked me, again.  Rammed himself harder onto my dick.  An’ he shot all over my hand.  All over himself.  An’ I felt his ass tighten around me in a way that made me want to stay inside for-fuckin’-ever, it felt so...fuckin’...good...an’ then I let loose inside of him.  Over an’ over an’ over.  It made me weak, almost black out.  I felt it on every square inch of my body, from my balls to my heart to straight down my legs, just like I had with Connie the first time.  An’ I didn’t want to move...even as I kept slippin’ in an’ out an’ in an’ out to extend the screamin’ goin’ on behind my eyes.

Holy fuckin’ shit.

This is gonna sound weird, I know, but that first time -- the first time I got off in a guy like that -- it was like the first time I did coke.  Swear to God, this sense of peace flooded over me an’ shoved aside everything -- everything that I had in my head.  I went blank.  Lost all control an’ loved lettin’ it go.  Felt every part of my body join in the joy of what I’d just done.  I didn’t get that even the first time I fucked Connie.  Hell, the first time I fucked a girl, period.  It was like my whole body started to float inside my skin.  Like my brain wasn’t attached to my mind, just to my flesh.  This guy I met outside once told me the French call it the little death, an’ now I knew what he meant.  An’ I already knew I’d have killed to get it, again.

I don’t remember stoppin’ or pullin’ out of him; I just remember floatin’ back to earth to find him lookin’ at me in shock.  I made damn sure all he saw was me smilin’ back at him.  But to be honest, now that I was comin’ down off that high, I was really shook up.  I’d enjoyed it too fuckin’ much.  First time I really fuck a guy an’ it makes me feel better than when I’m with my wife?  It fucked with my mind, I’m tellin’ you; but I didn’t want him to see that.  So I pulled back an’ used his shorts to wipe myself off.

“You were good,” I said, keepin’ my voice even an’ calm.  “You keep quiet about it an’ I’ll be the only one who gets you while you’re in.  You let anybody know I did it?  You’ll get ten guys a night up your ass, an’ one of ‘em’s sure to have AIDS.  So play it smart.”

Then I crawled back onto my bunk an’ faked like I was asleep.  I knew he wouldn’t pull nothin’ on me, but I played it safe, just in case...listenin’ for him to make any kind of a move.  But all he did was stay in his bunk, breathin’ hard, probably thinkin’ ‘bout that I’d said.  What he’d done.  There wasn’t another whimper out of him.  The next mornin’, he acted like it’d never happened.

So did I.  It was better’n thinkin’ ‘bout what I’d felt with him.  Better’n facin’ up to how great it’d been.  An’ what that’d mean to me.

I had him in my cell for the whole eight months he was in -- he got an early out -- an’ I fucked him every other night.  I made him shoot every time I wanted to, too.  Not every time; just every time I wanted to.  To show him who’s boss.  It was too fuckin’ cool.  Gave me this feelin’ of total control, decidin’ which night I’d get him off an’ which I wouldn’t; the nights I decided not to, I’d put him face down on his bunk to fuck him.  Messed with his mind, too, not knowin’ which night he’d wind up on his back or on his belly.  ‘Course, none of those fucks were as good as that first one, for me, but a couple got close.

Funny thing is, it got me to wonderin’ if it was just him who got off on bein’ fucked, so once he was gone, I tried it out on any other guy who crossed my cell or I took a likin’ to.  Didn’t matter if he was spendin’ his first night in or was a third-striker, if I wanted him, I took him the way I took that kid -- legs in the air.  An’ lemme tell you, most of th’ little fuckers did the exact same thing while I was fuckin’ ‘em.  All but a few, an’ all but one or two of them still got wood; but for some reason, the non-woodie guys got me to fire faster than the others so I guess I didn’t have the time to make my stuff work on them.

Anyway, that’s how I knew the skinny-assed faggot’s line wasn’t exactly bullshit.  I knew exactly how to rape a straight guy.  An’ I was findin’ I kind of missed it.  An’ that thought really spooked me.  I mean, I’m straight, y’know.  Only time I ever fucked guys was in Mid-State, so that don’t count.  Not really.  It’s prison an’ you do what you gotta to fill the need.  But to miss it?  To wish you were still doin’ it?  That...that was freaky.  Stopped me cold.  Made me wonder if I oughta just drop the brew an’ walk.  To get away before I started thinkin’ too much an’ got myself back in prison.  But the brew was a cold one an’ the faggots weren’t ready to reel in, yet.  An’ I wasn’t really set to face Connie.  So I blew it off, smirked at Wayne an’ sneered, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”

Wayne looked at me like I was scum an’ nodded his thick faggot head an’ sneered, “An’ just who’re you -- ‘Masters an’ Johnson’?”

I thought about punchin’ his faggot teeth down his faggot throat, for a second, but I knew that’d kill the beer run an’ probably land me back in jail since I was still on probation.  So I just got real close to him an’ whispered, “I don’t know fuck about this ‘Bastards an’ Johnston’ shit, but I do know what happens to a guy when I fuck him -- he gets hard an’ he cums.  Every time.”  Yeah, I know, I know -- it was bullshit.  But hey -- it never hurts to build up what you can do, not when you’re advertisin’.

I must of said it meaner than I meant to ‘cause Wayne got too quiet.  Like I’d just told him I was gonna cut off his balls, or somethin’.  He wasn’t so gung ho on gettin’ hold of my dick, anymore -- but Lenny-boy, his eyes were on fire.  He leaned over an’ said, “How do you know?  Have you done time?”

I took this long dramatic pause then nodded an’ said, “Twice.  Once in a county jail.  Once at Mid-State.”

“Were you raped in prison?” he asked.

“Do I fuckin’ look like some faggot could fuck me if I didn’t want him to?” I sneered, then I winked at him.  He was hooked.  He’d pay me three hundred easy to hold him down an’ tear off his undies an’ ram my dick up his ass.  Little pussy.

Wayne had to sneak over to the other side of the bar to get his voice back.  “Okay, so you had a few experiences in prison. It’s different, in there.  Men don’t have any other outlet.”

I laughed.  “You been watchin’ that piece of shit “Days of our prison lives” on fuckin’ HBO, ain’t ya?  Connie used to watch it to try an’ figure out what I was goin’ through.  It’s so fuckin’ pathetic.  Like some cornball out-of-touch ‘artiste’ knows the first fuckin’ thing ‘bout how life really is inside.”

“Connie?” Lenny asked.

Oops!  Shouldn’t of dragged her into it.  So I smiled an’ said, “My ex.  Dumped me when she found out I’d...oh, done it with somebody besides her.  An’ my right hand.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Wayne.  “Maybe you forced yourself on a couple of fresh kids, but that doesn’t mean anything in the realm of empirical research.”

“Speak English, you fuck,” I said.

“He said your experiences don’t count -- .”

“I know what he fuckin’ means,” I snapped.  “I ain’t a retard.  But he’s usin’ fancy words to hide the fact that he’s full of shit.  All of it’s full of shit.  ‘Empirical’ research. That’s some computer wuss goin’ out an’ askin’ questions of all these guys an’ decidin’ he knows what the fuck he’s talkin’ about, even when another wuss’d ask the same questions of a bunch of different guys an’ come up with a different answer.  You wanna know what my ‘research’ told me?  When I fuck a guy -- don’t matter if he’s queer or straight or old or young, don’t matter if I grab him at night or in the day, don’t matter if he knows me or never seen me before, don’t matter if he trusts me or tries to keep away from me -- when I get my dick up his ass, I can make him hard, an’ I can get him off.  An’ I do it just to fuck him up.”

“Pun intended?” Lenny snickered.

Well...no, but I had to give him props for noticin’ it.  An’ a chuckle.  Guess I can be funny even when I don’t mean to be.  But ol’ Wayne, he wasn’t done, yet.

“Oh, please,” he said. “It’s impossible.  Some men would be too afraid to experience even an erection, let alone an ejaculation.”

“An’ just who told you that?” I asked. “Newsweek?”

Wayne gave me this look back -- swear t’ God, if we’d been in prison, I’d of punched him.  It was sort of an “I know what the fuck you’re up to” look that gets guys knifed.  It must of popped out without him meanin’ it to, ‘cause a second later it was gone an’ this “Whatever you say” kind of manner took over with him.  But it set off this bell in my head, not loud but there.  An’ all of a sudden I’m wonderin’ if these guys think they can get me drunked up an’ back to their place an’ used like some piece of shit whore they’d conned into comin’ home with ‘em.  Maybe they’d even grabbed a guy off Santa Monica an’ used him.  Maybe that’s what all this bullshit chit-chat was really about -- checkin’ to see just what they might be able to get away with, or not.  I mean, I know it’s happened.

I met this one guy at Mid-State, he did it to a few fags over in Houston.  Grabbed ‘em off the street in the queer district, tied ‘em down in the back of his van an’ fucked ‘em, then dumped ‘em out a few blocks away.  They never got a good look at him; all they usually had was the color of the van.  An’ even when one or two of ‘em told the cops, they never really came lookin’ for him.  Typical.  If you ain’t part of middle America or rich out the ass, cops don’t give a shit about what kind of shit happens to you.  It means too much trouble for ‘em an’ they got troubles enough to deal with.  Just ask a cop; he’ll whine for hours ‘bout how much crap he’s gotta put up with, like nobody’s got it worse than him.  Selfish fuckin’ babies.

Anyhow, the guy didn’t get caught till he pulled it on some fag while he was in San Francisco.  He was seen kickin’ this beat-up half-naked guy out the back door of his van an’ was chased down by a bunch of pissed off queens.  In drag!  Even then, he figured the only reason he got put away was ‘cause the guy he fucked’s dad was one of those “I’m proud of my gay son” types an’ was a judge.  No cop or D.A.’s gonna piss off the man who might handle their next case.  So he got “two to five” an’ has to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life.

“Like that means shit,” he told me.  “If this’d been Texas, I’d have got off with probation, at worst.  An’ you think when I go back they’re gonna give a shit what I do to a bunch of queers?  Shit, no.  Not with Republicans runnin’ the fuckin’ state.”

I hear he got out six months ago.  Wonder if he’s back in Houston?

But knowin’ that guy -- an’ keepin’ my distance from him; not so much ‘cause I was afraid but more ‘cause I just didn’t want the trouble his kind of shit brings -- it got me to thinkin’, “Maybe they really think they’re gonna pull this crap with me.  Maybe that’s really what this is all leadin’ up to.”  If not that, somethin’ like it.  It’d be funny to see what’d happen if these two middle-aged faggots tried that shit.  An’ maybe a little fun.  See who’s really in control here.  See what happens when they find out I’m on to their crap.  Okay, fuckers, I figure that’s a game I can play.  Shit, I know it is.

That’s when I smiled an’ looked at Lenny an’ said, “Fuck, ol’ Wayne ain’t much fun, is he?”

“It’s been a rough year for him,” said Lenny.  “He’ll loosen up with a couple more screwdrivers.”  Then he gave me a look an’ added, “Of course, we have the makings for all kinds of drinks, at home.  It certainly wouldn’t take up so much of our ready cash.”

I got the hint.  “We’ll buy you drinks as long as you want, but if you want some money from us, there won’t be as much left.”  So I smiled an’ gave off a good long stretch that showed off my pecs an’ shoulders an’ said, “I don’t like silly drinks.  All it takes is a decent beer in the fridge to make me happy.”

“You like an ice cold Beck’s?” he said.  An’ that was the magic word -- Beck’s.  Ol’ Lenny went in for the kill an’ got lucky.  That’s when I decided for sure, “Let’s see what happens with these two fucks.”  So I smiled at him...an’ then at Wayne.  An’ he sort of smiled at me, an’ all three of us left.

Lookin’ back -- I could tell, even then, I wasn’t all that up on joinin’ ‘em.  The little bells were still chimin’ in my brain, givin’ off the idea that I was makin’ a mistake.  That I oughta go home to my wife, get a good rag goin’ an’ wind up fuckin’ her.  An’ Connie, she had a lot of good things about her.  I mean, it ain’t many chicks’ll stick by you through six years in prison.  She even got me some jobs on sets -- carpenter an’ crap like that -- but then things’d quieted down an’ she had to fight to get jobs for herself.  Oh, she could’ve made it okay if she hadn’t had this big dick of a husband draggin’ her down, but she never said nothin’ ‘bout me gettin’ lost.  Except when she was pissed, an’ even then it was more like, “pull your own weight, asswipe.”  So I had an idea, even then, I was tossin’ aside somethin’ I really needed -- no, wanted.  But like the big dumb log-headed idiot I am, I just sort of drifted along with ol’ Lenny an’ Wayne, sniffin’ after a brewski an’ a couple of bills.  Driftin’ just like I had my whole life.  Driftin’ straight into hell.

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