Date: Fri, 24 Jun 2022 01:00:00 -0700 From: John Henry Subject: Growing Up Charlie Chapter 71 (Gay/Incest) DONATION: Nifty is a not-for-profit organization that heavily relies on our donations to keep the site free and accessible. Your donations pay for web hosting fees and other day-to-day activities for the wonderful staff of editors/publishers. You can donate on the website at http://donate.nifty.org/ Every little bit counts. DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of fiction, and contains explicit, sexual content involving adults over the age of 21 and minors under the age of 16, and scenes of incest involving step-parents/step-children. If viewing this material is illegal where you live, OR you're a minor under the age of 18, please stop reading this. If you're not sure about this legatilty, please stop reading until you have looked into your own, local laws. Any likeness or similarity between persons, places, products or concepts are purely coincidental. If you would like to leave any positive feedback, please let me know. Thank you. Chapter 71 "You like that nigger dick don't you, boy?" Calvin growled as he fucked the little peckerwood surrounding his hard, thick cock. "Yes, Master," Timothy grunted. "I love that nigger dick." Calvin punched the peckerwood in the back of the head, causing his fuck toy to cry out. "Did I give you permission to say that word, boy?" "No Master." Calvin rammed his cock deeper in the peckerwood's pale white ass, till the piece of shit yelped in pain. Calvin smiled. Although the punk white supremasist had been getting dicked down for over a year now, Calvin's dick was still too long for the young man to fully take. For good measure, Calvin slapped the gang banger on the back of the head and said, "You're white privilege isn't going to save you in here, boy. You're my bitch, and my bitches don't say that word, especially my cracker bitches. You understand?" "Yes Master," Timothy moaned. A part of him, the irrational hate that all racists have, wanted to swing on the much larger black man nailing him from behind, but his need for a big, black cock was far greater. "Good," Calvin said, slapping the peckerwood's ass hard, making sure to leave marks. "What are you to me, boy?" "I'm your cracker bitch, Master." "Louder," Calvin demanded and slapped the boy's ass. "I'M YOUR CRACKER BITCH, MASTER!" "Fuck yeah, you are." He grabbed the peckerwood by the hips, making sure his dick was still buried deep, then flipped the racist bitch onto his back. Timothy cried out in pain. "Keep making noises, boy, and I'll whip you like your ancestors did to mine and give you something to cry about." "Sorry, Master," Timothy sniveled. He knew his ass was going to bleed again. He was running out of excuses to tell his girlfriend about why there was blood in his underwear. "You're not sorry yet, boy. Your ass has 600 years to make up for." And with that, Calvin grabbed the peckerwood by the ankles and drilled in deeper and harder, bringing tears (drool) to the bitch's face. "DADDY!" Cynthia cried out barging to the hotel room. Timothy screamed, "WHAT THE FUCK?!" He tried to push away from Calvin out of fear and instinct. Calvin, however, grabbed the peckerwood by the throat and snarled his disapproval, while doubling down on his fucking. To Cynthia he spat, "What did I fucking tell you, woman?" Cynthia took in the scene before here. She had seen it many times over the years. Some fucking Neo-Nazi, closeted motherfucker wanting that forbidden black rod. She loved the irony. However, she kept her mouth shut and took a seat on the other side of the room. The white boy made eye contact and scowled. She wasn't afraid of him. He was a bag bitch like she was, except if his homies ever found out how he got his dope, they'd kill him. Calvin turned his attention back to his client. He grabbed his whore by the hair and turned the young man's gaze back to his. "Don't mind her, boy. I'm the one you want, remember?" "Yes, Master. I want you so much." Calvin locked his deep, rich, brown eyes to the blue ones of the white boy on the bed. He pulled his blood and shit covered cock out and dragged the peckerwood's mouth towards it. Calvin shoved the junkie's mouth around the filth covered shaft and rammed it down the man's throat, not caring for a second if it hurt. Calvin grunted several times, as rope after rope of hot cum filled the racist's gullet. He pulled out, allowing the slut to breathe, before tossing him aside. Timothy gasped as he wiped his mouth clean. He could taste Calvin's cum mixed with his own, various bodily fluids. Shame filled him. He wasn't comfortable with his sexuality, nor was he keen on his attraction to black men. His daddy had taught him that any non-white was inferior and gays were just as bad, if not worst. Of course, his daddy said all these things while fucking him. Not wanting to think about it too much, Timothy got up and began to gather his things. It was dark in the room and the contents of his pants spilled onto the floor. "Fuck," he muttered, hastily grabbing what he could see, hoping he didn't drop the little backs of crystal he just worked so very hard for. Timothy looked over and saw Cynthia smiling at him. He hated that smile. It was a knowing, taunting smile. He got up, walked over to the bitch and backhanded her. "Stop looking at me," he ordered. Cynthia cried out in pain but kept her stair in defiance. She had been hit by many men during her time on the streets, especially by Calvin, and she wasn't about to show any weakness to the little faggot peckerwood before her. Timothy wanted to strike her again, but decided it wasn't worth his time. As he turned away, Calvin punched him hard in the face, just above his left eye. Timothy dropped to his knees, dropping his belongings once more. "Don't you ever lay a hand on my woman again," He snarled. "Do you understand me, boy?" Typically, the boy/Master play was strictly for sex, but Timothy understood what kind of danger he was in and said, "Yes, Master. I'm sorry." "Get out of here, now," Calvin ordered. Without putting on a stitch of clothing, Timothy ran, naked, from the hotel room to his pickup truck in the parking lot. Calvin walked over to Cynthia and backhanded her. "Bitch, what the fuck have I told you about interrupting me when I'm working?" "I'm sorry, Daddy, but--" Another slap across the face silenced the woman. "Don't sass me, woman. Now clean that shit up, while I take a shower," Calvin ordered, pointing at the items the peckerwood dropped before running from the room. "Your first dick is coming in an hour, and I want this place ready." "Yes, Daddy," Cynthia said, as she scrambled to the floor. Despite how hard Calvin hit her, Cynthia did shed a tear. She had been used to it after nearly two decades hookin'. Calvin was the least violent of all her pimps, but he didn't put up with shit. She quickly hid the cash the piece of shit had dropped. She saw at least a few hundreds among the smaller bills and folded pieces of paper. Cynthia put the larger bills on Calvin's side of the bed and the rest in her bag. As long as he got the larger share, she knew she could keep the "change." Her last pimp would've demanded every penny. Not Calvin, though. He was tough but relatively fair. Cynthia climbed on the bed and started rummaging through the papers Timothy left behind. A lot of it was receipts, so she threw them away. She laughed as she found a girl's name and number, wondering if that pussy would want the peckerwood if she knew what had been in his mouth and ass. She then unfolded a sheet of paper and looked concerned. On it were pictures of two boys. One was an older boy named Justin Roberts. He was about 18, tall and good looking. The other boy was named Charlie Barton. He was a cute, chubby faced boy with red hair and an infectious smile. Cynthia almost discarded the paper, assuming it was just another missing child poster; however, the $100,000 reward made her take a better look. According to the poster, this Justin kid kidnapped little Charlie months ago. There was a 1-800 number to call, but there wasn't a reason given for the kidnapping, though Justin may have been armed and dangerous. Cynthia's heart broke. She was reminded of her only child, DJ, who was taken from her when the boy was about five. She had gotten heavy into H and was caught by the cops with her rig in her arm. Apparently, she had stopped breathing and DJ had gone to a neighbor crying. CPS was brutal and took her baby away. Afterwards the ordeal, Cynthia became a regular at the abortion clinic. "What's gotten into you?" Calvin said, toweling off. "Just stupid memories," She said, putting the poster in her bag. "The peckerwood dropped his cash." "How much did you keep?" Calvin said, giving Cynthia a stern look. "I don't know," She said. "I didn't count it, but I gave you all the large bills." Calvin looked satisfied and ordered his trick to take a shower. It was about two in the morning when her last john left. Calvin was very hands off and was on his phone most of the time, unless he found a guy attractive, then he'd jerk off. About halfway through the last session, Calvin passed out, which was fine with Cynthia. Her client was a gentle man, who was more interested in cuddling and masturbating than fucking. He was one of her favorites, since he paid double and gave her a sizable tip for pretty much doing nothing. Around three, Cynthia got up to get ice from the machine. Calvin had moved to the bed at that point and was sound asleep. Since looking at the poster, Cynthia hadn't gotten DJ out of her head. Normally, she focused on happy memories during her time with her clients, but her son was a heavy weight on her chest. DJ would've been in high school, and she wondered if he had been brought up right and to respect women. Cynthia was snapped out of her lucid trance by shouting coming from the room next door. "HELP! HELP! RAPE! RAPE!" She was torn between taking action and keeping her nose down. Having been raped countless times over the years, Cynthia never took such pleads lightly; however, she knew that Calvin would be pissed at her for sticking her nose where it didn't belong. Unable to stop herself, she went to the window. The curtain was closed except for a small part where the fabric didn't quite come together. She let out a small squeak as she saw two naked boys fighting. One was much older than the other. The smaller one had a rope around his ankle and seemed to be trying to get away. The older boy punched the smaller one then began to strangle him. The smaller boy stopped moving. The older boy checked the younger, and once satisfied, put the smaller boy on the bed. It was in the light from the bathroom that Cynthia was able to get a clear view of little Charlie Barton's face and hair. She then recognized Justin Roberts, as the older boy moved Charlie onto his back and pinned the unconscious boy's legs back, aiming his small hard-on at the little boy's bare ass. Unable to watch any further, Cynthia opened her own door and rushed to Calvin. "Daddy! Daddy! Wake up!!" She cried urgently in hushed tones. Calvin wasn't one who liked to be woken up. "Bitch, what the fuck?!" Calvin snarled and swung a wild fist, which Cynthia dodged. She knew better than to not get hit, but she needed Calvin awake. "Goddamnit woman, you fucking know better!" Calvin turned on the light and saw the look of fear and panic on his whore's face. "What is it? Is it the cops?" "No, Daddy! A boy is being raped next door!" It took a second of her words to register with Calvin. He shook his head and said, "So what? It's none of our fucking business." "But Daddy," She said, going to her bag. She pulled out the poster and handed it to her pimp. "The older boy is raping the little boy right next door!" She explained what she saw and begged, "Please, Daddy! We need to save him." Calvin didn't listen to a word Cynthia said. He only looked at the price tag. $100,000 was more money than they earned over months. Calvin looked at Cynthia and said, "Okay, Baby Girl, we'll do something." Calvin got dressed, grabbed his knife and told Cynthia to stay in the room. The large, muscular, bisexual, black man opened the hotel room door and looked around for witnesses. Once he was certain the coast was clear, he squared himself up with the door and kicked out towards the door. The door flew open and what he experienced nearly made him throw up. The room smelled of human waste and body odor. It looked like the drug dens he had frequented when he was a cop, before he got busted for various corruption charges. On the bed, were the boys from the poster, with the older boy fucking the little boy harder than Calvin let Cynthia's clients do to her. He yelled and pulled his knife. The lanky white boy pulled out his bloody cock and reached for the night stand. He widely aimed his gun and fired. Calvin dove out of the way, giving the quick freak time to run, naked, from the room. Calvin's training took over, and he ran after the baby rapist. Cynthia sneaked into the room and went to the bed. Charlie was breathing and was starting to come to. His brown eyes flew open. He looked at Cynthia and freaked out. "Baby, baby," she called out trying to soothe the boy. Years of experience dealing with junkies on bad trips gave her the reflexes to dodge Charlie's swinging fists. "Charlie, you're safe. You're safe, baby. That monster ain't comin' back. I gotchu, baby. I gotchu." Cynthia caressed Charlie's sallow face, and they both started to cry. Gone was the cherubic face. Instead was the face of a malnourished child. He was stick and bones. Cynthia untied Charlie's leg. She took him from the room, and brought him next door. She found some of Calvin's clothes and put them on the boy. A half-hour later, Calvin came back. He said the boy escaped, but managed to call the number on the poster. His heart broke as he approached Charlie. "Hey, Little Man," Calvin said, but those seemed to be the wrong words, as they sent Charlie into a screaming fit. ***Coming Soon, Chapter 72***