Ken James Fiction

 

Kings Ransom 1 - Kidnapped

Friday, July 21

2:00 p.m.

Alex King parked his silver late-model Mustang GT in front of the tiny frame house. The neighborhood had been built for returning GIs after World War II. Now, it served as relatively cheap housing for Austin's musicians and other artists, although rapidly-rising prices and encroaching condos were pushing them out.

The little house baked in the middle of a small rectangle of dead sun-roasted brown grass. The loud metallic rattle from an overworked window air conditioner filled the air.

He unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The living room held a few pieces of cheap furniture, a bass guitar and amp, and his gold-topped Les Paul guitar beside a Fender Twin Reverb amp.

Nobody was in sight, but the soft sound of a man snoring drifted through the open bedroom door. Alex tiptoed across the living room floor. A naked Hispanic man Alex's age was sprawled on the double bed that almost filled the small room. His long thick uncut cock, growing from his hairy crotch, pointed toward his beard-stubbled face. The sight gave Alex an instant boner.

Alex's painfully-hard dick was trapped in his pants. He moved to the foot of the bed and pushed his blue jeans and briefs down around his ankles, freeing his rigid pole. It wasn't nearly as big as Manuel's massive rod, but still attracted lots of guys at the gay baths.

Manuel stopped snoring, his head lifted slightly, and his eyes snapped open when Alex climbed onto the bed. He smiled and closed his eyes again, then lay back, breathing heavily.

"Well," Alex whispered. "Still asleep?" Manuel smiled and his deep breaths grew louder. There was a big bubble of precum at the tip of his dick. Alex kissed it off, then wrapped his lips around Manuel's cock-head.

Manuel tensed and caught his breath, then relaxed and resumed his regular breathing while his oversized tool swelled to full hardness. He moaned and rocked his hips, still pretending to be asleep, while Alex kneaded his balls, stroked his shaft, and sucked his swollen cock-head.

2:10 p.m.

Bob Darney drove slowly, scanning the street. There were only a handful of parked cars and nobody was outside on this hot summer day.

He parked the van behind Alex's Mustang and turned to the nervous-looking young man in the passenger seat. "Okay, Son."

Vince Darney looked at his father glumly for a moment, then climbed into the back and put his ski mask on.

Bob put his skin-tight leather gloves on and took the Glock 19 out of the glove compartment. He slipped the gun into a canvas gym bag and got out.

The van was windowless and plain white. Magnetic signs on the sides read "Central A/C." He'd bought it with cash from a guy on craigslist and stolen the license plates from the Austin International Airport's long-term parking an hour earlier. He wore khaki coveralls, like an air-conditioning technician.

Bob walked rapidly along the twin ruts beside the house. He slipped past the faded gray Kia parked in the carport, stopped at the kitchen door, and put his own ski mask on.

He covered the bottom glass pane with a heavy towel. One sharp blow with the hammer and the glass crashed to the linoleum floor. He broke the stray shards out, then reached inside and unfastened the lock. With the Glock at the ready, he opened the door and stepped inside.

The kitchen was empty. He stood still, listening carefully. The racket from the air conditioner seemed to have masked the noise he'd made breaking in.

He put the hammer and towel back in the gym bag and went down the hall, past the open bathroom door, and into the living room. It was empty, but he could hear soft sounds coming from the bedroom. He checked the gun again, then dropped the gym bag and stepped to the door.

A naked Mexican guy lay on the bed with his eyes closed. An Anglo man knelt between the Mexican's spread legs, sucking his dick.

"How sweet." The Anglo jumped to his feet at the sound of Bob's voice. His eyes widened when he saw the gun. "Putos, getting down in the barrio."

The Mexican sat up and glared at Bob. "What the fuck?" he growled.

"Just do what I say." Bob aimed the gun between the two men. "You'll be all right."

"What do you want?" The Mexican asked. "We don't have any money. Or drugs."

"I want your boyfriend." The Anglo college kid looked like a young version of his father. "Pull your pants up." Alex did. "Turn around." He pulled the handcuffs out of his hip pocket. "Hands behind your back."

Bob snapped the steel cuffs around Alex's wrists, then turned to the Mexican and fired the Glock twice. The bullets punched giant red holes in the young man's hairy chest. He fell back on the bed, staring sightlessly at the dingy ceiling.

Alex started to twist around and Bob brought the Glock's butt down on his head. He staggered, but didn't fall. Bob grabbed his arms and guided him toward the front door, grabbing the gym bag on the way out.

Bob rapped on the van's door. Vince opened it and pulled Alex inside. Bob jumped into the driver's seat, tore his ski mask off, and drove away at a leisurely pace, like a technician finishing a regular service call.

Vince chained Alex to the steel ring welded to the floor, put the canvas bag over his head, and tightened the string around his neck, then removed his ski mask and climbed into the passenger seat. "Well, that's—"

Bob silenced him with a glare. "What happened?" Vince whispered.

"Tell you later." Bob glanced at their prisoner. "When he's locked up."

They drove to the warehouse in silence. It was an old brick building near the railroad tracks in East Austin. It'd been abandoned for three years, waiting to be replaced with another five-story condo.

The building still had electricity for the security lights. Vince jumped out and opened the gate. By the time he'd closed and relocked it, Bob had parked the van in the sheet metal garage at the back of the structure.

Vince closed and locked the garage door while Bob got Alex out of the van. They guided him up the short flight of stairs to the first floor, across the warehouse floor, and down to the basement, then put Alex in the steel cell they'd built around the sink and toilet in the corner.

Bob locked the cell door. "Back up to the bars." Alex did and Bob removed the handcuffs. "Just behave. You'll be all right."

"Like Manuel?" Alex turned around and clawed at the string holding the canvas bag over his head closed.

"Don't do that," Bob said. "You don't want to see our faces."

Alex dropped his hands.

Bob shook the cell door to make sure it was securely locked, then walked across the room and punched the keypad beside the reinforced door. Even if Alex got out of the cell, he'd still be trapped in a room with concrete and brick walls.

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Vince turned to Bob. "What happened? Nobody was supposed to get hurt."

"Couldn't help it. Fuckin' spic went for a gun." He clapped his hand on Vince's shoulder. "Look. It's not what I wanted, but . . . Just follow the plan and we'll come out of this all right." He pointed to the stairs. "Go home. I'll finish up here."

After Vince was gone, Bob put his ski mask on and went back into the locked room.

Alex was sitting cross-legged on the mattress that occupied half the cell floor, still wearing the canvas bag over his head.

"You can take that off."

Alex did. "You gonna kill me now?"

"Not yet." Bob let the words hang in the air. "Not at all, if everything goes right." He pulled the handcuffs out of his pocket and held them out. "Cuff yourself to the bars."

"Why?"

"You'll find out soon enough. Just do it."

Alex snapped a cuff around his wrist, stuck his hands through the bars, and cuffed the other wrist.

"Good boy." Bob worked the keypad on the cell door and stepped inside. He moved behind Alex and yanked his jeans and briefs down. "You're a fag." He unfastened his own pants and his stiff cock snapped up. "You'll enjoy this."

"What are you going to do?"

Bob grinned. The boy knew damn well what was coming. He pulled the tube of KY out of his pocket and smeared the slick gel on his hard dick. He didn't mind hurting the kid, but wasn't going to injure himself. He pressed his cock-head between the boy's buttocks.

Alex screamed and tried to jerk away as Bob's stiff prick invaded his ass. His head struck the bars with a dull ringing sound. He staggered and Bob gripped his hips to hold him upright.

Bob pounded the kid's butt, coming after a few savage thrusts. "You like that . . . fag?" Alex whimpered softly in response. Bob pulled out and wiped his cock on the kid's tee-shirt. "I'll have more for you next time."

"No . . ." Alex crumpled to his knees and pressed his forehead against the bars, sobbing softly.

Bob left him like that. Too bad it hadn't lasted longer. He couldn't touch the boy's father, at least not yet, but this was a pretty good substitute.

5:30 p.m.

Vince went down the warehouse stairs carrying a fast food burger, fries, and a Coke in a paper bag.

He put a black ski mask on and then punched the code into the keypad beside the reinforced door. 0825—Mom's birthday. If she was here, this wouldn't be happening. Losing his business had been hard enough on Bob, but she could have pulled him through it. She could fix anything.

After the funeral, Bob just sat . . . and drank. Sometimes, Vince found him standing in front of the open gun safe, staring at the pistols and rifles inside. Then he got that phone call.

Vince stepped through the door and pushed it shut, then looked at the cell and almost dropped the bag.

Alex was kneeling on the cell floor in front of the bars with his head hanging down and his cuffed hands raised, held in place by the horizontal rod reinforcing the bars. He was naked from the waist down. There was a puddle of urine on the concrete floor in front of the cell.

Alex lifted his head. "Come to take your turn?" Almost involuntarily, Vince glanced at Alex's crotch. It was hard to take his eyes off the young man's flaccid penis.

"What did Da—" He caught himself. "What happened?"

"What does it look like?" Alex groaned and pulled himself to his feet.

"He wouldn't—" Vince's head was spinning. "It's not supposed—" It was all going wrong. He wanted to run, but only God knew how crazy Bob would get without him.

"He did," Alex said. "And he'll be back to rape me again." He studied Vince's face, seeming to see through the ski mask. "Eventually, he'll kill me."

"No. I won't let him."

Alex laughed bitterly. "You won't be able to stop him." He lowered his eyes to the piss on the floor. "This isn't about the ransom. There's something else. Something personal."

"Well." He looked back up at Vince. "Get on with it." He bent forward and thrust his ass out behind him suggestively. "I'm ready."

"What?" Despite himself, Vince's cock stiffened.

"Looking for lube?" Alex jerked his head toward the tube of KY on the cell floor. "It's right there."

"No." Vince took the handcuff key out of his pocket. "Hold out your hands." He unfastened the cuffs.

Alex stood up, slowly and unsteadily. "Jesus, that hurts!" He moaned and worked his arms. "It was hours."

"Sorry."

"You didn't do it."

"Yeah. But still—" Vince looked from Alex's face to his crotch. His cock had grown longer and thicker. "Pull your pants up."

"Thanks." Alex got dressed, then looked back down at the pee on the floor. "Sorry about that. Couldn't hold it any longer."

"I'll clean it up." He handed Alex the bag. "You should eat."

"Yeah." Alex sat cross-legged on the mattress and opened the bag. "Don't want to starve." He took a big bite of burger. "Gotta stay in good shape." He looked up at Vince. "Until your . . . fath—, uh, buddy . . . puts a bullet in my heart."

"He won't."

"Sure he will. Just like he did with Manuel."

"That wasn't supposed to happen. If your friend hadn't pulled a gun—"

"There was no gun. Manuel hated guns."

"No," Vince whispered. "You're lying."

"You know better." Alex set the half-eaten burger down, stretched out on the mattress, and closed his eyes. "He'll be back. He's going to keep raping me. Eventually, he'll kill me." He lay still for a long time, then lifted his head and looked at Vince. "And there's nothing you can do about it."

 

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Copyright © 2018 by Ken James