"Fuck my ass!" I brayed for all the world to hear. "I want it so bad!"
Putting a finger to his lips, Chinga snared a glob of spit and then ceremoniously wiped it on the head of his dick. "That's all the juices you're gonna get on this trip, honey," he cackled. "Your ass is gonna take my hard-on bone-dry. Anything wet you feel will be your own blood."
Behind my lumpy mask of bruises, I chuckled to myself. Big, bad Chinga just wasn't in full possession of the facts.
What he didn't know was that my shit-pit, had become saturated with goo the instant my cheeks were spilt and my anus flashed into the open. I was so aroused that I was creaming in my asshole the same as I normally did in my pussy.
His hard-on would slide through my asshole like a knife through warm butter. My second fuck-hole was ready for him.
"Do whatever you can to me," I prompted him. "Just be sure you stick your cock in my ass first."
"It's your funeral," he chuckled like that was a happy prospect. "But I guarantee you it's gonna be a screamer."
"Try me."
He sneered and struck. He had unerring accuracy with his prick, and proved it once again.
A perfect strike made the fun all the more intense. I laughed out loud as the sneer was wiped off Chinga's face. Six inches of dick on the first pop up my ass changed it to astonishment.
"Your ass is wet!" he blurted incredulously.
"That's what your cruelty does to me," I laid bare the bottom-line of my emotions. "I want it to hurt when you're fucking me, but I can't make the juices stop flowing."
He gritted his teeth and whammed away like he was going to show me, lubricated asshole or not. There was no further conversation – he'd started to do his talking with his dick.
And it was a jack-hammer. A bludgeon. A pile-driver.
In me to the hilt almost immediately because of the propelling grease of my anus, its head rammed into the pouch of my colon. My bowels were in an uproar – I could hear the shit gurgling inside me.
It was a lovely sound.
Through it all, Chinga kept grimacing. He seemed like an athlete with something to prove to his detractors.
My asshole became the symbol for all his frustrations as he banged away at it. In fucking my ass, Chinga seemed to be fucking the whole society from which he had rebelled.
"You're one of those brainless middle-class housewives, aren't you?" he confirmed my suspicion in a sneering aside. "I like to fuck you straight bitches in your lily-white asses so you can't ever sit down again without thinking about me. You're playing bridge, or some other Goddamn thing you people do, and you keep squirming in your chair. Everybody's looking at you, but you can't stop. It may be years later, but you just can't stop thinking about Chinga's cock all the way to the balls in your ass."
The way he was talking about me playing bridge, it sounded like he was conceding my eventual release. It was the ray of light at the end of the tunnel, but I looked the other way.
The only tunnel in which I was currently interested was the narrow tunnel of my ass. The one with the big, thick cock fucking it.
"Come in my ass!" I wailed. "Come in my lily-white ass!"
With his prick in to the hilt, the first shot of cum came pouring into my bowels. The shit was pushed to the intestinal walls as I bloated with thick male cream.
The hot splash of spunk in the tactile reservoir of my colon sent me over the orgasmic edge. I had felt ripples all along, but now they became spastic jerks.
As I violently came in tandem with the male explosion within me, the leather thong around my neck began to manifest itself. Strangling was added to my climax. Every drop of his jizz seemed to be tightening the noose.
"Your cum is so hot," I whimpered with shuddering delight. "So hot in my ass – what are you going to do to me next?"
Whatever it was, it didn't include his cock. To my dismay, when he'd finished coming, he let it get soft and stuffed it into his pants.
However, it was immediately replaced by several thrusting inches of another kind of shaft. He'd hauled out his switchblade and was suddenly wielding it like a surgeon with a scalpel.
I thought be was going to carve me up. Maybe slice off one of my tits. For the first time I wondered if I was in this too far.
As gentle as an enraged bull up until now, Chinga completely surprised me with a sudden display of sensitivity. "It's all over, baby," he said, touching my face with the flat edge of his knife. "There's nothing to be afraid of any more."
I couldn't believe the quirky turn of events. At first I was afraid his promised end to the cruelty was a sign I had exhausted my attractiveness to him. But then, when he started smothering my face with tender, nibbling kisses, I knew that everything was going to be all right.
As he bathed me with his lips, Chinga began cutting my bonds with his switchblade. My legs came down first, and then the thong around the tree began to unravel.
The trappings of violence faded as Chinga behaved as my savior rather than my defiler. When I was no longer plastered to the tree, he picked up my battered body like it was a toy and carried me into a clearing.
There, as I recuperated, he stroked my naked body with gentle, loving caresses. We were behaving like lovers in the afterglow of a perfect fuck.
And, strangely, I did feel as though I loved him. This brutal psychopath. This criminal. Sadist.
He was everything I had been conditioned to abhor in my middle-class existence. Yet, incredibly I couldn't get enough of his leather-clad body, sweaty odor, and blue-veined cock. His rough ways seemed to light up my life.
I actually told him after thinking about it for several minutes that I loved him. He didn't even blink – he must have been expecting it.
"Let's fuck," was his answer. This time we did it on a soft bed of pine needles, slow and easy and relaxed. I came harder than I ever had in my life.
CHAPTER SIX
Finally fucked into exhaustion, Chinga and I slept side-by-side in the forest. His hand was on my cunt, mine on his resting dick. Despite the bizarre nature of the circumstances, I'd never slept so restfully.
I guess that's why I didn't hear the shots until there were so many of them they could have awakened the dead. By that time, Chinga was up and around, having rushed to the edge of the trees so he could see what was going on back at the hideout.
"Jesus Christ," I heard him thunder, "the bastards are shooting the place to pieces."
"Who?" I called. "Who's shooting?"
"The cops," he replied. Then he paused and ominously added: "Or the mob."
I could see what he was getting at. It could easily be either shooting up the hideout. Each had the incentive and means to track us down.
Everything had gone wrong for Chinga and his gang. They were just too small-time to deal with the threats of Roy Parker and the police and organized crime simultaneously. When they'd messed up kidnapping the star of the force, bungllng a contract from the mob, they'd written their own death warrants.
Now the shots were trailing off. As I got up to go join Chinga at the edge of the trees, they were replaced by slamming doors and gunned motors. By the time I'd caught up with him the sound of tires squealing filled the night.
When I looked across the clearing I could see several dark cars speeding away. Even though the sky was moonless it was possible to see them because of another source of illumination. The hideout was blazing with fire – rapidly burning to the ground.
"Where are you going?" I asked Chinga when he moved from my side.
"To try and save the others. They're trapped inside."
I didn't want him to go. Not because I was afraid of being left alone, but because I was afraid for him.