Warning! sickness ahead.
1/14/05 12:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyThis popped into my head because nothing else did...my brain is flailing all over instead of helping me with Summer Story-- which I'll update today, because one more re-working and my eyes will bleed.
Thus, we have this--underage sex, murder and perversion. Ooo! It's an Alexei story! Mild by Fire Bird standards but I thought I should put a warning on it anyway. so, be warned.
It was cold and heading quickly towards dark, and he preferred not to be on the street this late, his family was surely waiting for him but he needed this one thing and it was here on these cramped dark streets he hoped to find it. He walked past the gray mouth of an alley and hesitated…was that a sound he heard, a voice perhaps?
“Hello?” Who’s there?” He pulled his heavy wool coat tighter about him; his breath puffed out in short bursts of steam. He heard the noise again and walked into the alley, his hand shaking slightly in the deep pockets of his coat. He fingered a slim item in his pocket, turning it between his fingers, caressing it.
He could make out a huddled shape against the wall, child—ah--a boy, in a coat several sizes to big for him and crusted with dirt. All he could see were his eyes over the edge of the coat, and his strangely bald head. He grimaced, disappointed and angry and made to move back—the boy obviously was afflicted with some illness, it was unnatural in one so young to be hairless.
He turned his back on the pitiful pile of child and coat and started to walk away when a small clear voice said, “Please sir…can you help me?”
It was like a siren song, like the faltering hop of a game hen protecting her nest of young, it was a rabbit frozen against the snow—it drew him closer. The sweet voice begged again for help, it pierced him like the sword of an angel. Ah-- he knew he’d found what he was searching for.
“What is it, little one—what brings you here on this cold, cold night, all alone. Where are your parents, little one? How could they let one as tender as you out of sight?”
The little boy shuddered and blinked tears from his long lashes, they left little damp tracks down his smooth cheeks and dripped from his round little chin, and he wanted to taste them…
“My mother is sick--the doctor won’t come without money, sir, and I do not know where my father is, sir. He’s not been with us for a very long time.” His tale fell from his lips in a shaky voice, his small rosy mouth trembling as he spoke. It was almost too delicious.
“Come here, my good fellow, come here to me, little one. It may be that I can help you.” He was nearly breathless with anticipation; his heart beat hard against his chest and the hand in his coat pocket shook. This was perfect—no one would miss one little dirty boy. Sick mother indeed—alcohol was her illness, no doubt, these peasants—these peasants—lost on their own in the cities—this was not the natural place for them, they cried out to be managed, governed as in the old days…the boy came slowly toward him, eyes large and hopeful and in the dim light they were shimmry and gray as black pearls. He looked at him with a heart breaking smile of hope… “You can help me sir?”
Closer he saw that for all the filth on his coat, he was surprisingly clean, face and hands—hands…that was a bit disappointing but he could live with that. He chuckled at his turn of phrase.
“Look you, little one.” He undid his trousers and pulled the boy closer by one thin wrist. “Touch me first, and I’ll help you.”
“Oh sir! I—why?” the boy looked confused and the first threads of fear wove it’s tendrils through his eyes.
“It won’t hurt you, little one, look,” he touched himself and his prick jerked into fullness, and he placed the little cool fingers around him… “Isn’t it nice, don’t you like it?” He asked and the boy bit his lip and nodded a little. His small fingers began to warm rapidly and he groaned, pushed into the loose grip—he’d need to show him how to do this—good.
“How old are you, dear one, have you done this before,” he gasped and smiled when the boy stuttered, searching for an answer. “The truth, my lovely, tell the truth, you don’t want to anger me—not when I can help your poor little mother?”
The boy shuddered and said, “Twelve sir, no sir, I’ve never tou—touch—done this before sir.” His eyes welled up with tears and again it made him smile, and made him groan. It was so sweet, so very sweet; this little boy was going to taste marvelous…
He opened his coat further and pulled a sheaf of bills from his trouser pocket. “All this can be yours, little one. Can you follow directions?” the boy nodded, his eyes on the money and his hand lying still and limp on his prick. Idiot. He shook the boy savagely until he remembered to be gentle again.
“Are you ready to follow my directions, boy?" At his nod, he pressed the bald head down, “Then kiss me, little one, kiss my prick and all this will be yours, all for your mother.”
He hissed and trembled when the rosy little lips closed over his prick “More,” he gasped and thrust deeper—he felt rather then heard the grunt of protest, and a clever soft tongue stroked over the head of his prick, stroked again and pressed into the slit and small teeth gently scrapped the head. He bucked into the boy’s mouth and looked down into cheerful gray eyes. He began to get angry—surely this was not his first—and the boy pressed his mouth over him, slid down the shaft, his throat muscles working, milking him—
“Whore!” he pushed the boy back hard, hard enough that he flew back and hit the wall, grunting in surprise and pain. He pulled his hand from his coat pocket and flicked free the slim sliver of steel from its mother of pearl sheath—“Whore –slut! I’ll kill you, make you feel—pain--”
The boy moved not at all, his face was calm, and he smiled and smiled. He stood tall and straight and it was impossible that the boy was as young as he claimed. Damn this fucking whore, he had no choice now—he had to dispense with the lovely game now--he would slit him open from neck to balls and he could still fuck him then…
“Oops, the boy said. “I believe there’s been a change of plan. Sir.” and brilliant scarlet drops spattered across the boy’s face. His little pink tongue licked the drops from his lips.
Odd, he could see the sky, and breath was—was hard to…he heard as from a distance a thick bubbly gurgle and it took a moment to work out it was his own.
The cold no longer bothered him.
“Does it hurt,” The boy asked, genuine curiosity in his eyes. His soft, blood flecked face floated strangely in front of his eyes. He knelt over him, leaning so close he could feel his breath sweep over his chin and now he could see how beautiful the boy’s eyes were, gray and blue and colder than the snow and ice he lay on. “What does it feel like, can you see anything? Are there angels—devils? Can you feel your soul coming loose?”
A heavy had pulled his pants down and ripped through his pockets.
“You did good, Lyoshah,” a harsher voice said. “He really has heavy pockets this one- we’ll be set for a while.”
An older boy grabbed the young one by the back of the neck and kissed him hard, the one—Lyoshah-- watched him dying as he kissed the other back, his hands crawling under his clothes, leg moving between the other boy’s, but his eyes were locked on his--darkness crawled in bits into his line of sight, narrowing, narrowing—the last thing he could hear grunting and the wet slap of flesh—They’re fucking over me--the last thing he felt was anger.
Alexei groaned as Viktor drove into him, watching the life ooze out of the mans face made him feel alive--full of life and hard… He grunted when Viktor thrust harder and shivered when he worked his cock. Viktor was always hot after the end of the game—he enjoyed watching Alexei draw in the prey, he enjoyed watching him suck the men, getting fucked—sometimes he waited until they’d come before he killed them. Alexei closed his eyes and felt Viktor flood him with spunk. He pushed Viktor’s hand away and stroked himself to climax.
He looked down on the dead man.
This one,” he kicked the corpse in the head, “Glad he’s dead.”
Viktor snorted and wiped his knife on the dead mans pants and took the coat off. “You’re always glad they’re dead,” he said and settled the coat on his shoulders.
Alexei bent and pried the slim blade out of the dead man’s hand, looked at it and smiled. He shoved it quickly in his pocket as Viktor counted bills.
“Any way—he’s meat for rats now,” he muttered and pulled a bill or two off the roll he held. “Here’s something for you, Lyoshah, you deserve a little treat. Don’t I always take care of you?”
Alexei pulled his pants back up and winced slightly at the burn from his ass, he grinned at Viktor and felt the weight of the blade slide against his thigh. “Thank you, Viktor,” he smiled. “You’re so good to me.” He fingered the slim item in his threadbare pants pocket, turning it between his fingers, caressing it.
Thus, we have this--underage sex, murder and perversion. Ooo! It's an Alexei story! Mild by Fire Bird standards but I thought I should put a warning on it anyway. so, be warned.
It was cold and heading quickly towards dark, and he preferred not to be on the street this late, his family was surely waiting for him but he needed this one thing and it was here on these cramped dark streets he hoped to find it. He walked past the gray mouth of an alley and hesitated…was that a sound he heard, a voice perhaps?
“Hello?” Who’s there?” He pulled his heavy wool coat tighter about him; his breath puffed out in short bursts of steam. He heard the noise again and walked into the alley, his hand shaking slightly in the deep pockets of his coat. He fingered a slim item in his pocket, turning it between his fingers, caressing it.
He could make out a huddled shape against the wall, child—ah--a boy, in a coat several sizes to big for him and crusted with dirt. All he could see were his eyes over the edge of the coat, and his strangely bald head. He grimaced, disappointed and angry and made to move back—the boy obviously was afflicted with some illness, it was unnatural in one so young to be hairless.
He turned his back on the pitiful pile of child and coat and started to walk away when a small clear voice said, “Please sir…can you help me?”
It was like a siren song, like the faltering hop of a game hen protecting her nest of young, it was a rabbit frozen against the snow—it drew him closer. The sweet voice begged again for help, it pierced him like the sword of an angel. Ah-- he knew he’d found what he was searching for.
“What is it, little one—what brings you here on this cold, cold night, all alone. Where are your parents, little one? How could they let one as tender as you out of sight?”
The little boy shuddered and blinked tears from his long lashes, they left little damp tracks down his smooth cheeks and dripped from his round little chin, and he wanted to taste them…
“My mother is sick--the doctor won’t come without money, sir, and I do not know where my father is, sir. He’s not been with us for a very long time.” His tale fell from his lips in a shaky voice, his small rosy mouth trembling as he spoke. It was almost too delicious.
“Come here, my good fellow, come here to me, little one. It may be that I can help you.” He was nearly breathless with anticipation; his heart beat hard against his chest and the hand in his coat pocket shook. This was perfect—no one would miss one little dirty boy. Sick mother indeed—alcohol was her illness, no doubt, these peasants—these peasants—lost on their own in the cities—this was not the natural place for them, they cried out to be managed, governed as in the old days…the boy came slowly toward him, eyes large and hopeful and in the dim light they were shimmry and gray as black pearls. He looked at him with a heart breaking smile of hope… “You can help me sir?”
Closer he saw that for all the filth on his coat, he was surprisingly clean, face and hands—hands…that was a bit disappointing but he could live with that. He chuckled at his turn of phrase.
“Look you, little one.” He undid his trousers and pulled the boy closer by one thin wrist. “Touch me first, and I’ll help you.”
“Oh sir! I—why?” the boy looked confused and the first threads of fear wove it’s tendrils through his eyes.
“It won’t hurt you, little one, look,” he touched himself and his prick jerked into fullness, and he placed the little cool fingers around him… “Isn’t it nice, don’t you like it?” He asked and the boy bit his lip and nodded a little. His small fingers began to warm rapidly and he groaned, pushed into the loose grip—he’d need to show him how to do this—good.
“How old are you, dear one, have you done this before,” he gasped and smiled when the boy stuttered, searching for an answer. “The truth, my lovely, tell the truth, you don’t want to anger me—not when I can help your poor little mother?”
The boy shuddered and said, “Twelve sir, no sir, I’ve never tou—touch—done this before sir.” His eyes welled up with tears and again it made him smile, and made him groan. It was so sweet, so very sweet; this little boy was going to taste marvelous…
He opened his coat further and pulled a sheaf of bills from his trouser pocket. “All this can be yours, little one. Can you follow directions?” the boy nodded, his eyes on the money and his hand lying still and limp on his prick. Idiot. He shook the boy savagely until he remembered to be gentle again.
“Are you ready to follow my directions, boy?" At his nod, he pressed the bald head down, “Then kiss me, little one, kiss my prick and all this will be yours, all for your mother.”
He hissed and trembled when the rosy little lips closed over his prick “More,” he gasped and thrust deeper—he felt rather then heard the grunt of protest, and a clever soft tongue stroked over the head of his prick, stroked again and pressed into the slit and small teeth gently scrapped the head. He bucked into the boy’s mouth and looked down into cheerful gray eyes. He began to get angry—surely this was not his first—and the boy pressed his mouth over him, slid down the shaft, his throat muscles working, milking him—
“Whore!” he pushed the boy back hard, hard enough that he flew back and hit the wall, grunting in surprise and pain. He pulled his hand from his coat pocket and flicked free the slim sliver of steel from its mother of pearl sheath—“Whore –slut! I’ll kill you, make you feel—pain--”
The boy moved not at all, his face was calm, and he smiled and smiled. He stood tall and straight and it was impossible that the boy was as young as he claimed. Damn this fucking whore, he had no choice now—he had to dispense with the lovely game now--he would slit him open from neck to balls and he could still fuck him then…
“Oops, the boy said. “I believe there’s been a change of plan. Sir.” and brilliant scarlet drops spattered across the boy’s face. His little pink tongue licked the drops from his lips.
Odd, he could see the sky, and breath was—was hard to…he heard as from a distance a thick bubbly gurgle and it took a moment to work out it was his own.
The cold no longer bothered him.
“Does it hurt,” The boy asked, genuine curiosity in his eyes. His soft, blood flecked face floated strangely in front of his eyes. He knelt over him, leaning so close he could feel his breath sweep over his chin and now he could see how beautiful the boy’s eyes were, gray and blue and colder than the snow and ice he lay on. “What does it feel like, can you see anything? Are there angels—devils? Can you feel your soul coming loose?”
A heavy had pulled his pants down and ripped through his pockets.
“You did good, Lyoshah,” a harsher voice said. “He really has heavy pockets this one- we’ll be set for a while.”
An older boy grabbed the young one by the back of the neck and kissed him hard, the one—Lyoshah-- watched him dying as he kissed the other back, his hands crawling under his clothes, leg moving between the other boy’s, but his eyes were locked on his--darkness crawled in bits into his line of sight, narrowing, narrowing—the last thing he could hear grunting and the wet slap of flesh—They’re fucking over me--the last thing he felt was anger.
Alexei groaned as Viktor drove into him, watching the life ooze out of the mans face made him feel alive--full of life and hard… He grunted when Viktor thrust harder and shivered when he worked his cock. Viktor was always hot after the end of the game—he enjoyed watching Alexei draw in the prey, he enjoyed watching him suck the men, getting fucked—sometimes he waited until they’d come before he killed them. Alexei closed his eyes and felt Viktor flood him with spunk. He pushed Viktor’s hand away and stroked himself to climax.
He looked down on the dead man.
This one,” he kicked the corpse in the head, “Glad he’s dead.”
Viktor snorted and wiped his knife on the dead mans pants and took the coat off. “You’re always glad they’re dead,” he said and settled the coat on his shoulders.
Alexei bent and pried the slim blade out of the dead man’s hand, looked at it and smiled. He shoved it quickly in his pocket as Viktor counted bills.
“Any way—he’s meat for rats now,” he muttered and pulled a bill or two off the roll he held. “Here’s something for you, Lyoshah, you deserve a little treat. Don’t I always take care of you?”
Alexei pulled his pants back up and winced slightly at the burn from his ass, he grinned at Viktor and felt the weight of the blade slide against his thigh. “Thank you, Viktor,” he smiled. “You’re so good to me.” He fingered the slim item in his threadbare pants pocket, turning it between his fingers, caressing it.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
1/14/05 08:05 pm (UTC)