It all started last Friday night when I decided to take a short cut through Basin Street to get home. I was smashed from the eight Vodka cranberries I had downed at this hole-in-the-wall club on the north side of town. I knew on a Friday night, with the college kids being back in town, the cops would be out like love bugs, patrolling the streets for shit-faced drunks like myself, stumbling out of bars and clubs. Being that I was driving on a suspended license, getting popped by po-po was the last thing I needed. Basin Street is notorious for its drug and gang activity, and when I caught a flat driving through the infamous neighborhood, I felt my heart drop into my ass. Please, God, no, I thought. This is not happening. I often hoped that I would never break down on some dark street or dirt road on my way home, but that’s exactly what happened that night.
I managed to pull into the parking lot of some old shut-down liquor store. These, along with fast-food grease pits, are all they’ll put on the south side of town while on the north side, they get high-rises, pricey, posh houses for the white elite, and cookie-cutter apartments for the college brats who descend upon Tallahassee every fall with silver spoons up their asses. So I get out and sure enough, the back tire on the driver’s side was flat. Why me? Why tonight? I kicked the tire, nearly breaking my toes in the process. I was too drunk for this shit. A flat was a problem since I didn’t know bupkus about changing a tire. My dad showed me once, but that was years ago, so I’d forgotten all the steps. I looked around and there wasn’t a car in sight, and all of the houses nearby were pitch dark. When I pulled out my cell phone to call my friend, Stevie, it turned out that I had zero juice left. Luck had taken a vacation tonight. I had no other choice but to change the tire myself, try to remember some of what my dad taught me. I got the jack and spare out of the back.
As I worked to figure out where under my SUV would be the best spot to place the jack, this huge red Hummer blasting rap music pulled alongside me. The windows were black as pitch on the gas-guzzling tank. Three twentysomething men got out. Each of the trio was the size of a refrigerator. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they were on steroids. The driver asked me what happened, as if it wasn’t obvious. I told him that I caught a flat on my way home, but I didn’t let him in on the fact that I didn’t know how to change a tire. One of them asked me if I was from the neighborhood. What did that have to do with anything? I told him I lived in the sticks, about half an hour away. My heart was racing like crazy and I was scared shitless. The driver of the Hummer informed me that he would change the tire for twenty dollars. I lied and told him that I didn’t have cash on me when really, I was carrying five hundred bucks that I had gotten from painting a couple of houses on Dupont Drive. I hadn’t gotten around to getting to the bank. I told them that all was cool, I had it handled. The three of them looked at me like I was a slab of beef. If a fight broke out, I figured I could take one of them, but taking on all three was doubtful. I was relieved when they got back into the Hummer and drove off. I could have used the help, yes, but these guys looked shiesty, crazy, and reeked of weed. They were football-player-build gorgeous, but they hardly looked trustworthy.
After they left, I continued trying to change the bum tire. My thighs scraped against the rough, graveled parking lot as I tried to figure out where to position the jack. Suddenly, I felt hands grope my ankles and pull. Before I could put up a fight, one of the men grabbed me under my arms; the two of them tossed me into the air. The three of them had circled back somehow. They hooped and hollered as I struggled to get loose. The driver kicked through the boarded-up door of the liquor store. I tried to get away, but they had a stern grip on my arms and legs. The driver’s two thuggish friends bent me over the counter. The store reeked of mold, dust and rot. The driver patted me down until he felt my wallet in my left front pocket. He threw the five hundred dollars in cash to one of his buddies. They laughed, happy to get the money. He went on about how he couldn’t stand liars, and that I needed to be punished. His buddies laughed sinisterly as if the leader of their pack spoke in street code that only they were privy to. I was sure I was about to get the shit kicked out of me, beaten within an inch of my life and left for dead—and wind up on the front page of some local rag or on the eleven o’ clock news.
I begged them to let me go, told them that I wouldn’t go to the cops. They grinned like they couldn’t hear what I was saying. I braced myself for an ass-whipping before leaving it in God’s hands. I awaited their brutal act of punishment until I felt my T-shirt being ripped from my body. It was the driver. His buddies called out his name as they cheered him on: Chico. Chico yanked at my shorts until the clasp popped free. I had an idea as to what was about to go down. These punks were going to take my ass. I watched them watch Chico. I heard the rustle of clothes, a zipper being undone and the sound of Chico spitting in his hand. Before I could utter a word of protest, I felt his dick being slipped inside me. The pain was slight, though it’s been a while since I last got fucked. I didn’t want to let on that I was secretly enjoying this, so I started yelling, begging Chico to stop, but he kept fucking me, laying some serious pipe. I could feel Chico’s balls slapping against my ass. I’ve had my share of experiences, but nothing this freak-nasty. To be fucked in a liquor store; a first time for everything.
Chico fucked me for almost half an hour before he spewed. I wanted more, and that’s exactly what I got when Chico traded places with one of his homies: “Dash,” I heard Chico call him. These guys didn’t know that I was a pornographer, a slut who passes his ass around like a bowl of stuffing at Thanksgiving. I grimaced at the thought of big-dick Dash working my ass over. Chico mentioned that my mouth was the only hole that wasn’t being used. As Dash fucked me, going on about how Chico had done a good job of loosening up my asshole, their buddy pulled down his shorts and allowed his dick to pop free. I pretended to object, yelling “No!” and “Help!”, but Chico said that no one could hear me and even if they could, no one would care, and even if they cared, they knew better than to come snooping around when they saw his red Hummer.
Chico’s buddy kissed my lips with the tip of his dick. It was a cock that had to be a good ten inches. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to take it, but it wasn’t like I had a choice. Although I secretly wanted to taste his meat, I had to play hard to get so I clenched my mouth shut. Chico demanded I open my mouth. Dash’s dick felt so good up my ass. Chico told me that I could make it easy or hard if I didn’t do what he wanted. When I pried my mouth open, the punk slid his sweat-salty dick in. I clamped my soft lips around the dark shaft. He rested his hand under my chin, causing my head to tip up just slightly. The odor of sweat emanated from his balls. Chico took his dick out and started jacking off as Dash fucked me from the back and their buddy face-fucked me from the front. This beat getting beat up, yet to be fucked to death…wouldn’t be so bad. Chico and Brick, as I heard Dash call him, took turns fucking my mouth as Dash pounded my ass. I think they used me for almost three hours because it was going on 4:00 a.m. when they spunked. Cum ran out of my mouth. I could feel it running down the back of my thighs, and out of my ass too.
Only then when they were done having their way with me did they let me up. What cum I didn’t spit out, I swallowed. I knew my butt would be sore for days after the hot, primo fucking I had gotten. Dash took my ID. Chico warned me that if I went to the cops and told them what happened, they would find me. “Snitches get stitches,” he said. The three punks had hauled ass, leaving me spent and used.
Ever since that night, I have frequented Basin Street as well as other rough hoods in search of the thugs, bad boys, rednecks and homeboys of my small town in hopes of being used for sex, of coming across that red hummer so Chico, Dash and Brick could give me another go. Until then, the cutting-edge stories that grace the pages of this anthology will have to tide me over and hopefully make you, the reader, seek out your own homeboy to tangle with under the sheets.
Shane Allison
Tallahassee, FL