Milton, this loser I met three years ago off one of the phone sex lines, called me last Saturday night and said, "Man, you got to get over here. I got a hot one for you."

"What's he like?" I asked.

"A hot little bottom. Picked him up last night at the Cove. We've been doing it all last night and into today. I don't think he'll last much longer. But he's hot."

"Any party favors?" I asked.

"Coke, crystal," Milton said. "Whatever you want."

"How about the bottom?" I said. "What's he been partying with?"

"All the above!" Milton laughed. "He was pretty out of it when I picked him up."

"No shit," I said.

"Get over here," Milton said, and then he hung up the phone.

Milton had the apartment of a drug addict: dirty dishes, fast food wrappers, dirty laundry, old newspapers, old magazines, dirt and grime, and the faint smells of sweat and urine. Dried cat turds collected dust in one corner of the living room, next to the television and a stack of pirated porno tapes. His cat was killed two weeks ago, but the turds still gathered dust. One of the pornos played in the VCR: two football jocks fucked like rabbits on the TV screen. Milton sat naked on the couch, chopping out lines of coke on the glass-top coffee table.

"Where's the boy?" I asked.

"Back there," Milton said, "resting." Milton grinned like a Cheshire cat, a real shit-eating grin. "He needs the rest."

"How many guys have fucked him so far?"

A straw in one nostril, Milton put his face to the mirror and snorted a fat white line fast as lightening—a nose like an Electrolux. "Twelve," he said. "You're lucky thirteen."

"Cool," I said.

Milton handed me the straw and I took in two lines. The coke burned sweet. That was one of the few things I liked about Milton, always plenty of free party favors.

"Let's check him out," I said.

"Let's go," Milton said.

The bedroom smelled like a man sex, the raunchy smell of sweat, lube, and hole. Stretched across the sheetless mattress was the boy, spread-eagled on his stomach. Milton had tied him up nicely to the four-post bed. The boy's skin was beautifully white and smooth, except where the rope had broken the skin around his ankles and wrists. He had obviously been tied down a long time.

"Not a problem," Milton said. "I got a hole in the mattress and a catheter running from his penis to this bag." Milton lifted a plastic bag next to the bed; a long rubber tube ran from the bag and disappeared somewhere under the bed. "Here, feel it."

Milton handed me the golden bag. It felt warm.

"Fresh," Milton said.

The boy's mouth was covered with strips of duct tape that stretched around his head, matting down his curly blond hair in back. His eyes were closed and he looked angelic and peaceful. I brought my face down close to his. His long lashes fluttered lightly in this REM state—what was he dreaming? His breath, softly through his nostrils, felt like butterfly wings against my skin.

"How young is this kid?" I asked. "Sixteen?"

"Fuck," Milton said. "What do you think I am? A pervert? Here, look—" Milton picked up an Eagle wallet on the nightstand, peeled back its Velcro lip, and retrieved the kid's driver's license. He stared at it a moment, then handed it to me. "See?" Milton said.

The kid looked even more angelic in his license photo: a blond, sweet-faced, curly-headed, Boticelli angel. The birthdate on the license confirmed his age, eighteen—but barely. Friday night had been his birthday celebration. No doubt he still lives at home with one or both of his parents; no doubt they were worried. I looked at the name on his license: Jeffrey Niles Scoggins.

I handed the driver's license back to Milton. "You're right," I said. "Eighteen."

"I'm no fucking pervert," Milton said.

The coke now drained from my nasal cavity and trickled down the back of my throat. I loved that feeling, how it felt when I swallowed.

"I need some more coke," Milton said. "You want some?"

"No," I said. "I'm fine. In a little bit."

"I need some more coke," Milton repeated, and he went back into the living room.

I sat on the edge of the bed. The boy looked so beautiful sleeping that I didn't want to wake him, but I couldn't help myself. I brushed his blond locks back with my hand, and his eyes opened. Blue. His license had noted BL but failed to describe this shade, a blend of sky and ice, fear and wonder. His eyes widened as they adjusted to the room and focused on my face. He pulled on his restraints, but only perfunctorily, and his jaw clinched underneath the tape that hid the lower third of his angelic face.

"Happy birthday, Jeffrey," I said. I gently brushed his hair back again and let the palm of my hand rest on his forehead. He seemed to appreciate my gentle touch and his eyes closed momentarily. Then they opened wide when he fully realized that I wasn't Milton.

"Do you want to talk?" I whispered.

He nodded.

"You'll have to be quiet," I said. "Will you be quiet?"

The boy nodded again.

"Because he'll kill us both if he knows I removed the tape." A stupid lie that almost made me smile.

The boy's eyes closed tight. Then opened. He nodded again.

"O.K.," I said. On the nightstand Milton had placed several assorted surgical instruments, including a pair of scissors. I cut the tape widthwise just behind his right ear and peeled it away. His hair stuck to the tape's adhesive backing, but I freed it gently so that he wouldn't feel any unnecessary pain.

"Remember, quiet," I whispered.

Milton had stuffed cotton balls into the boy's mouth, which now the boy pushed into my palm with his tongue. The cotton was saturated with his saliva. I placed the wet cotton into the swatch of tape, wadded it all up, and I tossed it under the bed.

"Please help me," the boy whispered.

"You'll be O.K.," I said. "It's just a game. It won't last much longer."

"Please," he said. "I need to get home."

His breath smelled stale but sweet, like moldy bread. "What's your name?" I asked. I wanted to hear him say it, his name on his lips.

"Jeffrey," he said sweetly.

"I'm Milton," I lied. "How old are you?"

"Seven--," he said. "I mean eighteen. Eighteen. Today."

Not today, I almost corrected; but I didn't want to upset him further by letting him know how long he'd been here.

"Eighteen," I said. "Do you live with your folks?"

"My uncle," he said.

About now I wondered where Milton was. The dumb shit was supposed to have come in by now. That was the drill, to discover the boy's tape removed, to catch us talking. Where was he?

"Do you remember how you got here?" I asked.

The boy's eyes closed again. "I remember dancing," he said.

"Partying?" I asked.

"Not really," he said. "A few drinks."

Milton must have drugged this one.

"Do you remember someone buying you a drink?" I asked.

"No."

"What do you remember?"

"Fuck," the boy said, "oh fuck, oh fuck," and he started crying.

"Shh," I said, "shh." I lightly stroked his back with my left hand. His skin felt so soft and smooth. I scratched his skin with my fingernails and brought my fingertips up my nostrils. He smelled sweet, cologne and oil. I wanted inside him.

"Don't cry," I said. "He'll hear you." I caressed his back some more and he settled down. I knew he trusted me, and his trust made me love him. I tingled knowing how much he trusted me. "Good boy," I said. "Sweet, sweet boy."

"Listen," I whispered, "this will all be over soon, but I have to re-tape you or the other guy will go ballistic, and neither of us wants that, right?"

The boy nodded.

"But," I continued, "I don't see any tape in here. I think it's in the kitchen. I'm going to go get it, re-tape your mouth, and then it will soon be over, and then we'll get out of here. O.K.?"

The boy nodded again, he trusted me so much.

"So you've got to be extremely quiet while I'm gone," I said. "You don't want him to catch you like this."

"No," he whispered.

"So you'll be quiet?"

The boy nodded.

God, how he trusted me! God, how I loved him! I wanted inside him so bad I could barely contain myself.

"The ropes hurt," the boy said.

"Shh," I said.

Milton was passed out on the couch. Only an old-time, fucked-up addict like Milton could fall asleep after doing lines and lines of coke. I sat on the edge of the couch next to him and proceeded to lay out a couple of hefty lines for myself. I chopped patiently with the razor, lined up the lines, and snorted. Ah, sweet tasty sting! Then I stood up and kicked Milton squarely in the stomach. "You dumb fuck," I said under my breath, just low enough so the boy wouldn't hear.

That got Milton's attention—"What!"—and he sat straight up.

"I got his tape off," I said.

"How long have I been out?" he asked.

"Long enough for us to have escaped several times," I said.

"Shit."

I took the roll of tape from my pocket and dangled it in front of Milton's face; he looked stupid as his eyes tried to focus on it. "I'm going back in there," I said, "and I'm going to start replacing the tape around his mouth. You count slowly to thirty and then you come in. And you better not go back to sleep."

"No, no," Milton said. "Thirty seconds, I'll be in."

In the bedroom, I found the boy sleeping again. I placed my hand lightly on the small of his back, and his eyes opened immediately. My sweet awakening angel.

"Where's the guy?" he whispered.

"He was asleep on the couch," I said. "I found the tape. We don't have much time."

"Untie me," the boy said.

"I've got to replace your tape before he wakes up," I told him.

"Untie me, please," the boy pleaded. "Let's get out of here. Please. Now!"

"Shh," I said, "he'll hear…."

Just then the bedroom door swung open. "What the fuck is going on in here?" Milton bellowed, the door slamming behind him.

"Oh shit," I said.

Milton came over to the edge of the bed. He held a black toy gun in his hand, which he put to the boy's head. "The first one of you who makes a sound, dies," he said dramatically. I almost laughed—Milton's such a bad actor. "Do you understand?"

The boy nodded—he believed Milton.

"You," Milton said, pointing the gun at me, "take off your clothes."

I stripped quickly: shoes, socks, shirt, undershirt, pants. I faced Milton as I slid my underwear off. Milton loved my cock—he's said it's the biggest, most perfect cock he's ever seen, and I loved to tease him with it.

"Sit," Milton commanded, stuttering ever so slightly.

I sat on the edge of the bed, enjoying the feeling of being naked with the boy, reveling in it. He smelled so good, he looked so good. I could hardly wait to be on top of him, inside him. My dick was already rock hard.

"Damn, you're huge," Milton said to me. Then to the boy he said, "You're going to get fucked with a really huge cock."

The boy didn't say a word, but I could tell he was scared. That made me sad. I wanted to be gentle with this angel, make it all painless.

"Get his ass ready," Milton said, handing me an open jar of Elbow Grease. I stuck my fingers into the greasy goo, scooping out a liberal amount, and coated the boy's asshole. "He's got a hot ass, hasn't he?" Milton said. I explored the hole with one finger, and my angel winced. His ass was raw, as raw as his wrists and ankles. There was no way he could take my cock without screaming bloody murder.

"Get your cock ready. Get on top of him," Milton commanded.

I lubed up my dick with more grease and lay on top of the boy, cradling my hard cock between his ass cheeks. I buried my nose into his curly hair and the nape of his neck, and I took in all the smells I could find there. I moved my hips down and positioned the head of my cock at the boy's hole. I had barely pressed the head in when the boy let out a blood-curdling scream.

"Shut the fuck up, you dumb fuck," Milton screamed. "This will shut you the fuck up."

From the nightstand, Milton retrieved a surgical towel. He soaked it with chloroform and held it to the boy's face. The boy fought this, turning his head and holding his breath. He jerked hard on his ropes.

"Stop it," I screamed at Milton. "Leave him alone!" I was genuinely pissed: Milton, in his incompetence, was about to screw up this perfect scenario for the both of us.

Milton pulled back, eyes wide.

"Just leave him the fuck alone," I said.

The room was suddenly quiet. Milton just stood there like a moron, the towel dangling like a severed limp dick in his hand. The boy, warm beneath me, was breathing deeply, heavily, the heaving of his ribcage matching the rhythm of my breaths falling gently on his ear.

"Listen," I whispered. "I want to help you, but we have to do this. You want me to help you, don't you?"

"Yes," said the boy.

"Then you have to trust me. We have to do this and the towel will help. You trust me, don't you?"

"Yes," said my angel, softly.

Milton handed me the towel.

"You want me inside you?" I asked.

"I do," the angel boy said.

"Tell me."

"I do."

"Tell me."

"I do want you inside me."

"Then breathe in deeply," I said, holding the chloroform-soaked rag to his lips.

He did as I told him, my perfect angel. I kissed him on the cheek as he gently lost consciousness, and—oh! I don't know if I was rushing with love or from the fumes of the chloroform, but I thrust him fully as soon as his eyes fluttered shut, rocked him in my arms as I pressed deep up inside his bowels. My sweet angel! On my mark, Milton handed me a razor-sharp scalpel. I cut the boy deep and wide just under his ribcage on his right side, all the while keeping rhythm with my hips, and into that virgin-fresh hole I thrust my fist, puncturing through his heaving diaphragm and up between his failing lungs to his throbbing heart. Between my fingers, his heart beat fast and strong, and I toyed with squeezing it but not too soon. From the angel's lips a gurgling sound erupted—the lungs filling with fluid—and I knew cardiac arrest would soon follow. Not that it mattered. The warmth and wetness of the boy, the aroma of his blood and sweat, was soon sending me to orgasm. I moaned from the build up.

Milton must have sensed my impending climax because he started whining, "No, no, don't cum, I want it, I want it. Let me have it."

But this orgasm didn't belong to Milton. It belonged to my angel, and I shot deep inside him as my right hand squeezed and collapsed the four ventricles of his heart. The muscle tissue jerked a few more times in my tight grasp, then subsided.

"I wanted it," Milton whined; but I wasn't finished. My dick was still fully hard when I pulled out of the dead boy. My forearm and hand exited the boy's side, glistened with his dark blood. Seeing my erection, Milton begged, "Let me suck your cock"; but I pushed him back and grabbed my dick with my bloody hand and began masterbating, bringing myself to a second orgasm. Milton positioned himself beneath me to catch my cum, but this second orgasm wasn't his either. As I shot, I kicked Milton in the chest, sending him backward against the dresser, where he curled up into a ball and cried while I finished.

Twenty minutes later I was showered and dressed, sitting on Milton's couch and doing another line. Milton sat across from me, still naked and still pouting. Forty-seven years old and still a baby.

"What's your problem, Milton?" I said.

"Why didn't you let me suck your dick?" Milton asked.

"It wasn't meant to be." I chopped out another line. "Not this time."

"Why—why did you kill my cat?" he asked.

"Goddamn it, Milton, I'll buy you another fucking cat." I snorted. The coke burned sweet.

"I love you," Milton said.

"Jesus, Milton," I said, "clean this mess up. You'll feel better about yourself."

"I love you," Milton repeated.

"I know you do, Milton," I said. I did another line, swallowed. God, how I loved that feeling.

 

©2002 Robert X Weaver - Contributor's Bio