"I'm just using you"

II.

Yohji came to with that horrid feeling that told him he’d been knocked out the old fashioned way, not with drugs. Like all of Weiss, he knew how to fain still being out in order to gain as much information as he could. The situation was both bad and good.

Bad—he was naked, his wrists and ankles in what felt like leather bondage cuffs. He was spread out on a bed, face up. His glasses weren’t on his face. There were male voices talking—three of them—talking about fucking a tight, straight virgin ass that would scream and beg for mercy. Clearly, he was about to be raped.

But that was the good news too—this was just about rape, his body. They obviously thought him a rich party boy, a man that lived for the clubs. They didn’t seem to have a clue he was a professional killer. They didn’t intend to assassinate him or torture him for information. Well, he might be tortured, but only for the fun of it. From the conversation he was overhearing, it seemed that they wanted fear, tears, begging, and screams.

“Yeah, I’ve seen him leave that club with woman after woman. He’s one of those ones that the very idea of a man touching him will freak him—his life revolves around proving he can get pussy after pussy. Well, now he’ll find out what a pussy he is, as he cries and screams for us not to fuck him.”

There were lots of chuckles at that. Then some debate about if he would scream as much as the guy they’d raped last month.

“And that’s the best thing—they never even report it, they are so scared to admit someone reamed their little assholes.” More chuckles and the sound of bottles being opened—beer most likely.

Great, he was going to be raped by three drunk sadists. Well, they better enjoy his ass because it would be their last. Justifiable homicide, too—he wouldn’t even have to cover it up. Hmm, pussy this, pussy that—these pathetic fools no doubt couldn’t get men on their own. And really, Yohji, thought, they probably didn’t even know how good it could feel. A surge of gratitude to Schuldig washed over him. If this had happened two weeks ago—well, he might have acted just as they predicted. But now, he knew better.

Wouldn’t that piss off Schuldig if he knew? Yohji could almost smile at that—he knew what it felt like to fuck an ass that wanted you, that squeezed and contracted around you, that pushed back and welcomed you. He knew how if felt to get fucked by a skilled lover that could hit your prostrate and thrust deep as well, that knew how to fuck and jerk in a way that was—orgasmic, literally.

The plan formed in his mind so easily, so perfectly. He just had to be bi, like that Ochi he’d killed. He had to like gay sex, want gay sex, like it rough, want it bad. They would either relax and untie him and die, or they’d be disappointed and cut him loose and die. Ok, well, there were other likely results, but those were the ones he wanted.

He had to prove he wanted it, to show these sadists they weren’t going to get any screams of terror from him. And the image of Schuldig dancing popped into his mind—that gorgeous hair swaying to the music, those wicked teal eyes flirting with him, and that tall body with the long, long legs and what sure had felt like a long, hard cock against his ass. Too bad it wasn’t Schuldig there, playing a game with him, ready to fuck him and fill his mind with how good fucking him felt. There was something so god damn erotic knowing the hands on you were as bloody as your own, as skilled as your own. Knowing that here was someone you might not be able to kill, that you couldn’t just dump and run from, well, that was a fucking rush. An equal, someone that had to be respected, but somebody that understood that it was all about the fucking and the feeling good—god, he could use a man like that in his life!

He was hard, and it was easy to moan, to make that moan sound erotic, to start moving, rubbing his cock into the bedding, pulling on the bondage cuffs, testing them. Damn, they weren’t just for show; they would hold a terrified straight man struggling with all his might. And they had locks, padlocks; they were nothing easy to pick like a fucking pair of handcuffs. Yohji moaned and lifted his head, flipping his hair in the gayest way he could. “Oh my, who’s my daddy? Have I been a bad, bad boy? Ohhhhh, three daddies! No wonder my big boy is all excited!” And to top off that ridiculous, bad-porn movie dialogue, Yohji squealed.

Then he licked his lips and blew his captures a kiss, wiggling his ass. He’d played roles before as both detective and assassin—and playing a gay, horny man was surprisingly easy. He probably wouldn’t fool a true gay player, but these beer-guzzling sadists might fall for it.

“You gonna punish my prostate, daddies? You gonna force me to take your big, sweet-tasting cocks up my tight, sexy ass? Oh, no! Noooooo!” moaned Yohji, his hips now rocking into the bed rhythmically. Fuck! He might just come from this whole thing. Damn, he was a sick adrenaline junky!

The look on their ugly faces was pathetic, truly pathetic. Fear, disgust, disappointment, and rage alternated and mixed on those truly unattractive faces. They were all overweight, brawny, plebian, and dressed like they bought their clothes from a seedy thrift store. Yohji wiggled and moaned, rubbing his cock on the cheap motel bedspread, even as his eyes took in everything about the room and memorized where all the things that could be used as weapons were.

“God damn it! He’s no good! He’s a fucking ass-slut!” said the one in the dirty plaid jacket.

“Idiot! Fucking idiot! The majority of men in the world are straight, and you pick out Mr. I-love-bondage-and-being-fucked-in-the-ass!” snarled the one in the wifebeater.

“Hey, we can sell him to that guy, you know, that guy, the one—“ suggested the shortest man of the three.

“Yeah, yeah, call him,” replied the one in plaid.

“God damn it! Stop fucking the bed, you homo whore!” yelled the man in the wifebeater, approaching the bed with his fist raised. Yohji could see the punch coming and dodged it. But a beefy hand settled in his honey-colored hair, and with the second punch, the darkness descended.

Waking up from being knocked out a second time is usually less fun that the first time. But for Yohji it was even worse as he was staring at an ugly beer belly looming over a naked and erect penis. He was still nude as well, but now on his knees, his wrists linked to his ankles, two belts buckled tight around his thighs and caves.

“Listen up, ho,” said the man in the plaid jacket, who had his pants down around his knees. “You give your daddies nice blow jobs, and we won’t hurt you. In fact we’ll arrange for you to get just what you want.”

“But, but—“

“You don’t wanna suck cock?” asked the man in the wifebeater eagerly. Yohji swallowed, remembering his role. Just this hint of resistance had the cock of the man in plaid dancing.

“I want cock in my ass,” wailed Yohji, “Please, daddies, fuck me!” he cried. “Fill my ass,” he begged, remembering that feeling of pleasure Schuldig had projected into his mind.

“You little ass slut,” said the guy in plaid, amused. “Ah, baby, we don’t have time. Now suck daddy like a good boy because he has places to go.”

That cock, not a very big one, maybe four and half inches, was rubbing on Yohji’s lips. He opened them, shutting his eyes, letting it slip into his mouth. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! He had only what he liked done to himself for guidance. He sucked, twirling his tongue, trying to remember just how he’d liked Asuka to blow him. When she’d take him in the back of his throat and hummed, that had been the best. He could do this, yes, he could do it. But damn, it would be easier if he could know what the man he was blowing was feeling, was wanting. Schuldig was one lucky fucker—god, to be able to know exactly what your lover wanted—harder, faster, slower, softer, deeper—that would be something. He listened for clues as to what the main in front of him liked, trying to act like he was enjoying himself.

It wasn’t that difficult to deep throat a four and half inch cock, and when he hummed and sucked as hard as he could, he had the satisfaction of hearing, “Ah, fuck, baby, yeah, yeah, so fucking good! That’s it, that’s it—“ and then his hair and head was seized, and his face was being fucked. He could hardly process the horror of this when with a little cry his mouth was full of cum. He choked and coughed, unable to swallow. He could feel the cum run down his chin. The three men laughed, and then the shorter man pushed aside the one in plaid, his cock out and ready. His was longer, but very thin. He thrust in wildly, slamming in hard, cursing and grunting.

Yohji wondered if this was how Schuldig face-fucked his lovers, driving into them, giving them no choice, no mercy. But surely even as he did so, he would project his own feelings, his own pleasure. He would know that Yohji wasn’t enjoy it—no doubt that would amuse him, make him laugh that annoying, infuriating laugh of his. No, Yohji would stop that laugh—he’d suck so hard, twirl his tongue just so, scrap lightly with his teeth. Yes, yes, he’d make that smug bastard moan, taking his dick in deep, humming around him, forcing him to come hard and fast, yes, yes, making him cry out in ecstasy.

And so lost was Yohji in his imaginary revenge on the orange-haired telepath, the sudden removal of the cock in his mouth and the shock of the warm cum spraying his face and hair, made him whimper. Once more the men laughed, and this time as one in the wifebeater pushed his cock into Youji’s mouth, he could hear the other two men praising his technique. Ah, almost done, almost done—and then they would free him and die. The thought of killing them all with their cum on his face, in his mouth, and down in his belly excited Yohji, and his own cock leaped and began leak as he sucked avidly, determined to make this bastard that punched him come embarrassingly fast and shockingly hard.

“Ah, fuck, you’re a good little cock-sucker, aren’t you? Shit, you love cock, you really love sucking dick!” exclaimed the man. “Fucking homo cock-sucker!” His was the biggest cock, wider than the others, and he grabbed Yohji’s head, driving in fiercely, hurting his throat. Schuldig was no doubt this big, and he certainly wouldn’t be shy—no, he’d fuck Yohji’s face like this, fuck him good and hard—but then he would take his cock, wet with Yohji’s saliva, and force it into his ass? Would Schuldig’s cock feel as good as that one fucking the man in the bathroom at Boyland? His body shuddered, and he felt his own cock twitch and move again.

“Look at him, his cock all wet from sucking dick! Look at that prejack leaking out of him! Yeah, he’s a fucking homo alright!”

“Shit! You dirty ass-lover! Fucking homo!” yelled the fucker in the wifebeater. “Here slut, drink this!” he barked out, thrusting his hips in, holding Yohji’s head tight, and shooting his load deep in the back of his throat. Oh, god, he was dying, drowning some sadist little shit’s cum. No, no, no—Yohji forced himself to swallow, to draw in air in his nose, to survive.

“Put him on the bed face down now.”

“Here’s the blindfold that he wants on him.”

He? Who was this he? His wrists were uncuffed from his ankles and restretched over his head. The cold barrel of a gun at his back, held by one of them—the plaid one, he thought—kept him from struggling. He was refastened as he was when he’d first come to, only face down and blindfolded. Damn it! Damn it! He would kill these guys slowly; the wire was too good for them!

“Now since you were such a good boy, we’ll reward you,” said the guy in plaid when he was completely secured. The gun barrel vanished—and then he let out a scream as something cold and hard was shoved deep in his ass. His back arched as much as possible, but even as he wanted to curse at the sudden pain, he remembered screaming turned these men on.

He quickly pushed back up his ass, saying, “Oh, daddy! Yes! Yes! Fuck me with that big toy!” In his mind he imagined shoving a big gun barrel up the man’s ass and shooting it, but he forced himself to keep pretending to like it. Some straps were fitted around his waist and legs that held the toy inside him tightly. He tried to squeeze it out, moaning, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” even as he was horrified by the pain. This was what he’d always expected anal sex to be like—why had it felt so good to that man at Boyland? Had Schuldig tricked him?

And then at last the men were gone, leaving him alone to curse and struggle, worrying at their parting words that someone was coming to give him the fucking he wanted. “Don’t worry, ass-slut,” the one in plaid had said, slapping his buttcheek, “This guy coming over will use that little hole of yours real good.” Great, just what he needed! But as time dragged on, the pain in Yohji’s ass lessened. He decided the best thing was to simply relax and conserve energy. Besides if he was indeed going to be raped, then it was probably good he let the vibrator stretch him out. That must be why it had hurt at first—no stretching. But he hadn’t torn because he was feeling fine now some fifteen, twenty minutes later—ok, more than fine. It wasn’t like what that slut in the bathroom at Boyland had felt, but it was pleasant, very pleasant.

It seemed an eternity later that the sensations in Yohji’s ass had gone from pleasant to arousing to over-arousing, making him feel desperation and some pain again—the pain of needing to come badly and not being able to. The vibrating in his ass was driving him mad, the sensation stimulating, wonderful, but not wonderful enough. No, no, he needed the thing in his ass to move, yes, move and hit his prostate, then pull out and drive in deep, just like what had happened to that uke in Boyland. Oh, god, please hurry up! Please! He couldn’t move enough to rub his cock hard enough on the bed to get off. Instead, here he was spread out, horny, aroused, on the edge of coming, needing to come so badly, so badly. Ah, god, just one good thrust of that vibrator, one tight stroke of a fist on his cock—oh, please god, both at once, yes, both, yes! Oh god, yes, a cock fucking him in and out, that would make those constant flutterings in his ass go away. Yes, he wanted a cock filling him solidly, a hand jerking on him, pulling his orgasm up from his balls—yes, god, yes, he needed that, needed it desperately!

He whimpered and shook in his bonds, panting, gasping, anything but relaxed. He tried to force himself to lay still and calm, but his body was now spasming, shuddering, and quivering. The sound of the door opening made him give a little cry. “Please, please,” he said, his voice breaking as his body again went wild. He was so close, so close. In his mind, he tried to tell himself he was doing this to get the one who had just come into the room to relax and untie him, but another part knew that was a lie. “Please, touch me, touch my cock, fuck me,” he gasped. He felt weight moving on the bed, then the straps on his legs loosening, his hips and ass raised in the air, his weight now on his knees.

Now was the time to use the looseness in the bonds to take out the bastard behind him, a voice in his mind whispered, but he ignored it. The hands moved to the little straps that were keeping the vibrator deep in his ass. The straps loosened, the vibrator slide out a bit, and Youji cried out loudly as the sensation almost sent him into orgasm. But a hand, cruel and vicious, squeezed the base of his cock hard, even as the vibrator was jerked out. No! Oh, god, no! “Please, please, I need to come, please let me come, please,” he begged. His ass felt empty, so empty, so needy. He wanted the vibrator back in.

And then, as if the man behind him was reading his mind, that pulsing plastic dick thrust in and slammed into his prostate. He screamed and his body when wild, but the hand on his cock had once more tightened, holding back his orgasm. Then the vibrator was jerked out again, the hand fell away, and cloth was being shoved in his mouth. He remembered his fantasy of Schuldig gagging him with his headband, and he moaned and shuddered as the cloth was forced in, filling him. It gave him something to bite into, and as he thrashed his head about, a little part of him was relieved that he wouldn’t be able to beg. For he had the horrible feeling he would—he, Yohji, the stud who had fucked hundreds of women and never once considered a man, would have begged again and again for a strange man to shove his cock up his ass! Yes, yes, that was what he needed, wanted.

And then there it was: he felt warm, wet skin at his anus, and he whimpered suddenly terrified, panicked, worried about getting an STD, AIDs—but then that cock shoved in and hit his prostate, and a pleasure so intense swept over him, he began to sob. It’s in character, in character, he told himself, I need to do this to get this guy to release me. Then the cock pulled out and slammed in again, and the pleasure wracked him once more. His balls were tight, and he would last but one more stroke, yes, he was going to come, going to come in this helpless position, with the cum of some sickos crusted on his face and neck, being fucked by some freak that was just using him as a hole to stick his dick in. No!

But that cock slid back and thrust forward one more time, a fist tightened over his penis and stroked him just how he like it, and this time the pleasure overwhelmed him. He screamed into the gag as his dick ejaculated burst after burst of cum. His ass was vibrating like it was a pussy, clamping and pulsing around the cock inside it—a cock that suddenly began to fuck him wildly. The strokes were sure, hard, and shallow—they found his prostrate as if they were iron drawn to a magnet. Nothing, nothing had ever felt so fucking good—he was draining his balls dry, coming so hard and for so long, his hands and feet and legs and spine and neck and thighs—oh, everything, everything was quivering and contracting and shaking like his cock and ass. He was one huge sex organ, and the fingers and nails digging in his hips seemed to make the feelings spike almost as much as the cock that was drilling him.

The cock inside him, yes, deep in his heat, feeling him coming, feeling him orgasm, the pleasure so intense around it, as pleasurable as his ass felt contracting, responding to each now deep, deep stoke. Ah, the sight of him, bound and helpless, so beautiful—dear, dear, god, these weren’t his feelings, this wasn’t, no, no, no—but he could feel the mind in his now--no, no, no! But then the full force of Schuldig’s pleasure was pushed into him, and screaming and writhing, he felt the telepath climax inside him, making his aching balls and cock explode once more. Ahhhh!

He couldn’t be sure what was his pleasure, what was Schuldig’s—he was fucking and being fucked, spraying and being sprayed in, piercing and pierced. Everything seemed to spin, to spiral out of control, and he was but a tiny thing tossed in a wild sea of feeling and emotion. Voices—hundreds, thousands of them--feelings, desires, pleasure, pain, sorrow, joy—raced through him, terrifying, dazzling, overwhelming. It was as if he had become god for a moment—but it was too much, too much sensation—the sun burning down on him, the thrill of skiing down a slope, the agony of childbirth, the sight of beautiful young bodies fucking wildly in an orgy that seemed endless, watching a school of dolphins leap, seeing fireworks explode in the night sky. He cried out, lost and lonely amid the overwhelming multitude, and there, there was Schuldig, a shining light in the whirling storm of voices, images, smells, and feelings. The essence of that orange-haired assassin was familiar, like home. Yes, there, there was the German’s mind, his body, his cock, his orgasm suddenly strong, there, and Yohji reached for him. He slid into that mind gratefully, seeing his body climaxing beneath him, seeing himself as one of the most beautiful things in this big huge world—more beautiful than all the thousands of beauties those thousands of voices has shown him—and the feeling that his sweat-slicked body was something wonderful, something rare, something precious shocked him, shocked him to the center of his being. No, no, no! Darkness, nothingness rose up over him, began to fill him. He felt cuffs on his hands and wrists, nails drawing blood on his hips, cloth filling his mouth, but even as he felt himself falling, falling, fading, he heard Schuldig’s voice murmuring in German, “Beautiful, my beautiful sweet Balanese, what a beautiful, beautiful fuck you are. Ah, a magnificent fuck!” That seemed wrong, troubling, worrisome; he had to stop, to wait—no, no, no . . .


Gasping, cursing in languages he didn’t even know the names of, Schuldig looked down at the sweaty back of the honey blonde passed out beneath him. Fuck! Kudoh Yohji of Weiss was a dangerous, dangerous man. He should just undo him and leave him now. If other minds tasted like honey, his was crack cocaine. But those three little fuckers he’d goaded into capturing his kitten had slid their cocks in his mouth. He had to experience that first hand, not filtered through their sick, sad minds. Damn, he shouldn’t have shot them! That one must have hit Kudoh too hard, twice too—why else would he pass out from an orgasm? No, he would wake up his little Balinese and make him blow him, make him forget those dead fucks, cover that pretty face of his with his own cum. No, no, he couldn’t stop this little game, now, no. He had hardly used Yohji at all, and how likely was he to have the Weiss kitten at his mercy again?

It’s only practical, he told himself. I deserve a little more pleasure, a little more fun. I can stop whenever. I’m not addicted, I’m just using him, it will be fine. And pulling out of Yohji’s virgin ass, he got distracted examining the curve of those asschecks, the way they rounded into shapely thighs, and then the cuteness of the back of Kudoh’s knees. Ah, he had to kiss there. Licking and nibbling down those long, long legs, Schuldig prodded the passed out man’s mind, waiting for it to stir to life. It didn’t occur to him that waiting was something he normally hated, nor did he recall that never before had he used the word “cute” to describe the back of someone’s knees.

No, no, he was still riding high, feeling floaty and fantastic from the way the pleasure between them had merged and magnified. The Weiss kitty knew his secrets—he hadn’t had to shield his mind from him. And god, that was fucking amazing! It was too bad he couldn’t fall for Crawford, Farfarello, or Nagi. Fucking without shields felt so much better than with them—sorta like the difference between using a condom and going in bareback. But no, no, it wouldn’t be the same with his partners, no, not at all. He didn’t want to merge with Farfarello’s madness, and Nagi was pathetically uninteresting. Crawford—no, damn him, he would never let Schuldig in his mind! No, Yohji was better, far better. Maybe the fucking was also so good because he’d plunged in bare, something he’d never done before either. But he’d been in Kudoh’s mind, knew him, knew he was clean. And making him come despite his fear of getting a disease—ah, yes, that had felt good! Hell, it had all been good, so good. And he was going to feel that again, soon, very soon. One time just wasn’t enough. No, no, he needed more of the mind of Kudoh Yohji, more. And until that mind awoke, well, he would settle for the body . . . a fine body . . . tasty . . .