Chapter 2
"I guess you didn't hear me come in," the man at the door said, a cruel smile forming on his lips. "The last twenty minutes has been most entertaining."
Sheila instinctively reached for the bedspread to cover her nakedness. "Please, Charlie, I can explain," she began, her eyes a study in pure terror. "I didn't mean to...."
"Shut up!" Charlie roared, pointing the gun in her direction. "You shut your cum-sucking mouth, you fucking whore!"
She flinched as he spat out the words. Her eyes momentarily dropped from his murderous eyes to the white knuckles holding the pistol. Involuntarily, her body began to quiver and jerk. She tried to cry out, to beg, to plead, but her voice was paralyzed with horror.
Charlie turned his gaze and the pistol in one movement to Brad, still frozen in a comic gesture of defense. "And what's your name, little boy?"
Brad swallowed hard, opened his mouth to speak, but his voice cracked, and only a high-pitched sound came out.
"I said, what is your fucking name, boy!" Charlie roared. "I'm trying to picture what it's gonna look like on a tombstone."
"My...my name is Brad. Brad Johnson." His voice shook as he felt the muscles of his ass about to give way. The room seemed to whirl, and he felt he was in a nightmare. A dull roar was in his ears as he looked from the man's face and back to the gun. He began to mutter and stammer, not making any sense as words failed him. Beads of sweat popped out on his upper lip and forehead. His mind kept racing like a car out of control, and one thought kept screaming over and over throughout his brain: "Please, don't kill me!"
Charlie bellowed out a laugh. "You fucking punk," he said, his laughter dying down to a contemptuous grunt. "You should take a look at yourself now. He pointed the pistol to Brad's crotch. "That big dick Sheila was hugging and fucking looks like a peanut now."
Brad looked down at his wilted cock, a ridiculous tube of wrinkled, pussy-stained meat. He glanced back to Charlie's scowl, and felt his legs weaken. His entire body seemed to match the strength of his rubbery cock. He grabbed the bedside table for support.
"You scared?" Charlie asked sarcastically.
If Brad had an answer, it was frozen in his throat.
"Well," said Charlie, "you'd better be." He took a step toward the young man, waving the pistol like a conductor would a baton. "Who first?" he asked, looking to Sheila and back again to Brad. Sheila stared at her husband, her chest pounding. , Brad said quickly, his voice cracking, "Look, mister, I'm sorry. Please don't use that gun, please." His face took on the squinty, pleading quality of a child who's been caught with his in a cookie jar. His complexion changed from pale to an almost dead white as he began to realize the reality of the situation. "Please, mister," he stammered, "give me a chance. I'm sorry. Just let me-"
"Shut up," Charlie interrupted, his voice low and controlled.
"Charlie, I can explain," interjected Sheila, her voice sounding far away and hollow. "This isn't what it looks like, please put the gun down. I can explain...." Her voice drifted off as she realized she couldn't explain.
With slow and determined movement, Charlie raised his arm thirty degrees and pointed the pistol into Sheila's face. "Look, bitch," he began, "one more word out of you, and I ram this .45 up your cunt and blow this bastard's cum right through your brains." He paused, glaring at Sheila with sadistic hatred. "You don't believe me, just cough up one more word."
Charlie then directed his attention once again to Brad, and after a few moments of deathly silence, he said softly, almost politely, "You'd better get your pants on, boy."
Brad scampered after his clothes like a fireman. Holding his shirt and socks under one arm, he started slipping on his jeans. Still crippled with fear, his knees gave way. He hopped around on one leg, and finally fell down.
This comic gesture was met with a burst of laughter by Charlie. "You stupid little bastard. I ought to blow your brains out right now and give the cops a good laugh."
Brad got up, his heart about to pound out of his throat. Dancing around like a dog chasing his tail, he finally succeeded in getting his jeans on.
"That's real good," commented Charlie, "I just knew you could do it."
Brad zipped up his jeans, and then took a quick pleading look at Sheila, but all he saw was her eyes riveted on her husband. She was shaking with terror. He looked back at Charlie, and then to the pistol once again. "Please, mister, let me go. I'm sorry. I promise I'll never-"
Charlie interrupted quietly. "You damned right you're sorry, you fucking shithead." His calmness was almost like that of an executioner about to do a grim, but necessary duty. "Let me tell you something," he continued, his eyes squinting into beady, black marbles, "in this state, you fuck a man's wife, you're in big, big trouble. I could blow your brains out right now," he added, waving the gun back and forth between Sheila and Brad, "and I'd be doing the community a service."
Brad tried to speak, a new shock of fear pounding at his skull, but his mouth and throat felt as though they were filled with cotton.
"It's just that I'm now trying to decide whether to blow your brains out, or blow your balls off."
With this statement, Brad felt an aching sensation in his balls. His mind was a confused mass of gibbering thoughts and explanations as he felt a wave of nausea hit him.
There was another few moments of silence as Charlie seemed to measure up the situation, looking from Sheila to Brad. His expression was like one who was comparing cars or horses. Finally he said, "Put your hands in your front pockets, punk."
"Huh?" asked Brad, not understanding, not able to make his hands obey at that moment if he did.
"I said, fuck face, put your hands in your front pockets! And pronto!"
"Yessir," muttered Brad, thrusting his hands deep into the front pockets of his jeans.
"Now get on your knees and crawl over to me."
Brad fell to his knees, and began to walk on his knees to Charlie, his eyes not taking their gaze off the pistol for a moment.
"That's right. You re doing fine," said Charlie. "You come over here to Daddy. I got something to show you. Something big and hard."
Brad continued to move toward Charlie, his ass bumping from side to side. He felt himself stricken with terror. His entire body was a pulsating bundle of fear.
"You look like a chicken with a broken leg," laughed Charlie.
As Brad stopped in front of Charlie, his pleading eyes only inches away from the gun, he wailed a whimpering sound.
Charlie thrust the barrel of the pistol into Brad's face, the end slightly touching Brad's nose. "You feel this, boy? This just might be your trip to heaven. Just one teeny pull of my finger and you know what?" Charlie said quietly, and after a pause shouted, "Boom!"
Brad's body convulsed with terror. "Please, mister," he stammered, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please, mister, please don't...."
"You know what you did, punk?"
Brad could only nod his head. "You pissed me off. You pissed me off real bad."
With his free hand, Charlie unzipped his pants and pulled out his cock. "Put your head down on the floor, shit face," Charlie ordered. "What you're going to feel next is the sound of someone being real pissed off."
After a few seconds, with his nose in the carpet and his ass in the air, Brad felt the shock of warm, vile-smelling piss falling on his head, his neck. It dripped around and into his eyes and mouth. He didn't know it was possible to be so afraid and humiliated.
Shaking his cock, and putting it back into his pants, Charlie said, "Now that I'm finished being pissed off, I'm gonna settle some debts." He pulled his right leg back and, like kicking a football, slammed his foot into Brad's neck with full force. The blow sent Brad sprawling halfway across the room. There was a gasp from the bed, but the murderous glance at Sheila from Charlie cut off any further outburst.
"Now get back on your knees, you slimy little bastard," Charlie said. Brad was moaning, lying on his back, blood coining from his nose. He was sobbing quietly.
"Now!" shouted Charlie.
Brad got to his knees with some effort and crawled over to Charlie. His mind had practically snapped as he faced the gun once more. His sobbing grew louder, and he muttered over and over, "Please, please don't, please...."
"Now look up at me and open that cunt-sucking mouth," ordered Charlie. "But this time you're gonna suck something else." With that, he pulled his cock out again. "Open up wide, you cocksucker!"
Brad looked at the purplish, veined cock with total disgust, and then to the pistol. He opened his mouth, feeling the first rumblings of vomit in his throat.
"Wider, asshole!" screamed Charlie.
As Brad opened his mouth wider, Charlie rammed the barrel of the .45 into Brad's mouth. There was a gagging sound as the shock of the metal chipped against Brad's teeth.
"Now you suck on the barrel of this gun. And the better you suck, dickhead, the longer you live."
Paralyzed, the young man began to suck on the barrel of the pistol, like a small child licking a lollipop. Charlie laughed low as he watched Brad. At last he said, "This, little boy, is for fucking my wife."
Brad, frozen in terror, his eyes crossed looking at the man's hand as he began to squeeze the trigger, felt every muscle in his body tense to the breaking point. He felt the movement of the index ringer as it pressed gently on the tiny piece of metal that would blow his head off. After what seemed hours, the room began to darken and he began to taste the hot, acidic vomit in the back of his throat. Charlie then pulled the trigger.
Several things happened in that split second when the hammer slammed forward. Brad vomited, shit and pissed all over himself, and fell in a heap. Sheila screamed like a wounded panther, Charlie laughed loud and hard, and the gun went, "Snap."
Sheila continued screaming hysterically in a high-pitched, raspy voice. Charlie looked at the pathetic figure of Brad and continued to laugh.
Finally, he glanced over to Sheila, watching her contorted face, the face of a tortured animal. He walked slowly over to her, relishing the fear in her eyes, and stopped in front of her. He pulled his right hand, still holding the pistol, to his body, and then slammed her hard in the face with it. The force of the blow knocked her off the bed and against the wall. Although not unconscious, her eyes were closed, and she began weeping softly. There was a gash just above her right eye, oozing blood.
"I'll take care of you in a few minutes, whore," Charlie muttered. "You can count on that."
He walked over to the bedside table and picked up the drinks Sheila had made just a short while ago. He downed one of the drinks in a single gulp and took the other one over to the young man sprawled on the floor. With considerable force, he threw the contents into Brad's face. As Brad began to moan and turn to one side, Charlie bent down and slapped him on both cheeks. "Hey, boy," he said, "better get your ass out of here before I put some bullets in this gun."
Confused and stricken with panic, but some relief, Brad scrambled toward the door, trying to stand and run, but only succeeding in slamming into the wall. This comic action caused another burst of laughter from Charlie.
"I'm gonna count to three, punk, and you'd better be out of my house, and if I ever see you again...." Charlie paused. "...You're going to be-now listen real careful-you're going to be a dead man."
Brad bolted through the door. There was a loud crash in the living room as he ran into a chair, recovered and bolted for the front door. He opened the door and took the porch steps three at a time. With a quick, but unwise glance over his shoulder toward the house, he managed to broadside a huge oak tree in the front yard. He bounced up, stunned, but kept running. He fell and crawled and ran, the cool wind hitting his face, the cold wet piss running down his neck, the smell of vomit on his chin.
Charlie stood on the porch watching the fleeting figure disappear into the early-morning darkness. He walked back into the house, and into the bedroom. He looked at his wife, still lying in the corner of the room, her face now swollen and bruised. "Well, whore bitch, you're next," he said.
"Wha-what are you going to do?" she whispered.
"Why, sweetheart," he began as he unbuckled his trousers, "I'm gonna fuck you. And when I say I'm going to fuck you, I mean I'm going to fuck you until you stay fucked." , He placed the .45 on the nightstand and shucked off his clothes,, his eyes never straying from hers. She felt the air thick with sadistic hatred as his cock-already growing hard-bobbed out of his pants.
"Yes ma'am," he said, pulling her onto the bed, "this is going to be a fuck you'll never forget."