(If you're reading this section of Nifty, which consists entirely of fantasies spun by pervs for other pervs, you know what to expect -- so the whole idea of affixing a "warning notice" is totally absurd. This story is public domain -- not copyrighted -- and may be used however you want in addition to the way you usually use stories from Nifty. Fan mail and/or passwords to inspirational usenet groups may be sent to: firstname.lastname@example.org )
Randall and his Candle
I didn't see myself getting much sleep that night, partly from guilt, but maybe a bit more from arrant terror. I was totally sure I would be going to jail the next day -- an experience I'd always managed to avoid in the past. In the meanwhile, though, I thought I'd better try to apply some first aid to Jimmy John's ass.
In the bathroom, I had him bend over the edge of the tub so I could get a good look at what I'd done. He wasn't dripping blood or anything like that, but you didn't have to be a forensic scientist to figure out he'd been fucked hard. I cleaned it up with some warm water and a washcloth, and saw a little tear in his still distended rectum. I was pretty sure there would be bruising too.
"Don't worry, man," he said, "I won't get you in trouble. I just had to get you to do it, though, and Randall said you probably would be too afraid of hurting me, so we had to trick you."
"But, why?" I asked Jimmy John. "Why did you want it? I mean, Randall's the kind of kid who, well, just likes to put things up his ass, but you, well..."
"I just needed it," he replied, "and I won't tell. Just leave it like that, okay?"
Randall, still wearing Marcia's camisole, had a suggestion. "You should probably take a crap, JJ, so Billy's cum isn't up there for DNA."
"What the fuck is going on?" I demanded. "What do you two have cooked up?"
Randall grabbed my hand and started pulling me towards the kitchen. "Come on, Billy, it'll all be okay. You just need another drink."
He was right about that.
Later on, when the three of us were back in bed, Randall was ready for another round, but I was too drunk, too upset, and too overwhelmed to raise one. He sighed, and just cuddled up next to me -- but not before sticking that candle back up his chute. He didn't even work it in and out. I guess he just liked the feel of it up there. Jimmy John curled up on the other side of me, and I just lay there enjoying the feel of their bodies while I still could. I was sure it couldn't last.
Eventually I fell asleep, or maybe just passed out. When I woke up, it was with a raging headache and a raging thirst. I found Randall in the kitchen, eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I'd slept almost until noon. There was cold coffee left in the pot from the day before, so I poured it over some ice, swished it around, and drank it. It made my mouth feel much better, but not my head.
"Where's Jimmy John?" I asked.
"He had to go. He said I should say thanks to you for everything."
My stomach sank. "Well," I told Randall, "we'd better get dressed so I can get you home before the squad car arrives."
Randall shook his head at me. "We told you you wouldn't get in trouble. Is it okay if I come next weekend too? Maybe you'll relax a little, and we can have some real fun."
The following day was Monday, and I still wasn't in jail. I was getting a cup of coffee at the convenience store when a story on the front page of the local paper caught my eye.
Boy Shoots Local Cop
Parker Wills, a fourteen-year veteran of the Calhoun County
Police Department, was shot and killed yesterday. Police say
the shooter was an eleven-year-old boy, the son of Wills'
common law wife. Wills was shot twice in the chest with his
own service revolver, and may have been asleep when the
boy took the gun and used it. The boy's name has been
withheld because of his age.
Roy Burford, the boy's court appointed attorney, says he
believes the shooting was justified. "That boy's body was
just covered with marks and bruises. This was a case of
long-term physical abuse, which escalated to sexual abuse
in the form of violent anal rape." According to Burford, the
boy resolved not to let that happen again.
The District Attorney's office has yet to decide whether the
boy will be charged as an adult.
The following Friday, I picked up Randall again.
"Did you know he was going to do that?" I asked.
"Not exactly," he answered. "I thought maybe he was going to say Parker fucked him so they'd put Parker in jail. The cops didn't care if he was beating the shit out of Jimmy John, but they really hate kiddy fuckers."
"Kiddy fuckers like me," I thought, as Randall skipped ahead of me into my bedroom, shedding his clothes along the way.
Randall came over for three more weekends, and rode my rod like a champion -- although I never quite got past the suspicion that he'd knowingly used me to help his friend commit murder. Then he met Cole, a seventeen-year-old whose youthful stamina, hard body, and perpetually hard dick appealed to him more than my geriatric charms. Well, it was great while it lasted.
Jimmy John, it turned out, was not charged -- the District Attorney had won office on a platform of running all the deviants out of the county, and she apparently decided that charging a boy with killing one of those deviants would not be good for her political future. When the decision was made, Jimmy John and his mother moved out of state.
I still wonder where the kid learned to give such a professional blow job. Maybe Parker wasn't nearly as straight as I'd been led to believe. Well, I guess I'll never know.
(This is the final installment of Randall and his Candle. I hope you enjoyed it!)