By Chris Carr
Copyright © November, 2001
"'Sup?" he said, studying my face. It always started this way — cautious. Who was I, a cop, a potential client?
"Can you hook me up?" I said, hoping to draw him in.
"Wha' choo lookin' fo'?"
"Ain't seen you befo'," he said, still cautious, "You a police?"
"Naw man," I replied. "I used to get my shit from my homey C-lo, but he ain't 'round no mo'." Damn, I surprised even myself with that line!
"Oh yeah, I know C-lo. He locked up now, though," the boy said, warming to me.
"So what you want, a nickel or dime bag?"
"Dime," I said, looking around suspiciously, playing the part.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a cigar box. Opening it, he retrieved a bag filled with marijuana from the stash crammed in the box, then looked at me as he held it up.
Digging in my pocket, I pulled out a ten dollar bill and handed it to him. Casually, his smoky eyes still probing my face, he passed the bag to me, considering the transaction complete.
Grabbing his slender wrist, I slapped a pair of cuffs on it, flipping him around as I started my litany.
"You have the right to remain silent…."
"Aw shit, I thought you said you wasn't a police!" he complained.
I led him over to my car. His face was a conflict of practiced hardness laid over obvious fear, but he said nothing. Ushering him into the back seat, I got behind the wheel and drove off.
"What's your name?" I started, looking at him in the rear view mirror.
"Rakim," he said, trying to find a comfortable position for his hands handcuffed behind him.
"Well, sorry to tell you Rakim, it don't matter if you're a minor. You know they've started that new law where you can be tried as an adult now, right?" He didn't say anything, glancing down at the floor instead.
"You'll probably end up with the big boys up at Chapman," I continued, working him.
Driving nowhere in particular, I let him stew for a while. I had nothing but time.
"You ever been locked up before?" I finally queried. He shook his head no, then looked out the window, determined to not let me rattle him.
"Not gonna be pretty," I taunted, lighting up a cigarette.
Every once in a while he'd look at me in the mirror, then look away, his face set. He was so cute, I could hardly contain myself. Such sexy, smoldering eyes, piercingly erotic. Smooth sun-kissed/brown skin mixed with just the faintest hint of red, broad, shoe button nose, and lips that made your dick scream for attention.
"Where we goin'?" he asked, looking out the window.
"Taking you to the West Side station," I answered, watching for his reaction. His eyes widened at just the mention of the horrid station, known for its harsh treatment of suspects. Stressed, he insisted,
"Why we gotta go there?"
"Got to, that's my station," I lied.
Watching his face, I knew he was freaking out. The last thing he wanted was a trip to West Side, especially a fresh faced kid like himself. Still, he'd been caught, plain as day, selling drugs on the street. His pride wouldn't let him, but I knew he was begging me not to take him in. Turning down another block, I headed away from the station.
"Now, where we going?" Rakim petitioned, sitting forward...
Far away from the city, I pulled up to an old, isolated house, daylight swiftly fading about us. Opening the back door of the car, I told him to get out.
"Come with me," I instructed, heading for the house.
"Hey man! Wha' choo doin'!!" he yelped, looking over his shoulder at me. Ignoring his protests, I wrenched his handcuffed arms high behind his back, eliciting a cry of pain from him.
Directing him, kicking and yelling, around the vacant house, I took him to the basement entrance in the back. Unlocking the door, I scuffled with him down the stairs, finally slinging across the floor. He skidded about, scampering for balance as I locked the door behind us. Walking over to him, I snatched him erect again, uncuffing his hands long enough to secure him to a pair of rings hanging from two chains in the ceiling.
Seeing him dangling there like that, a patch of his taut, boy stomach peeking out from beneath his upraised shirt, I was ablaze with desire. It'd been so long. Too long. Walking around him, I drank in his beauty, my dick straining at my pants.
"The fuck you doin, man!" he demanded, watching me. Ignoring his protests, I stepped beside him, watching him hang, enjoying his agitation.
"This ain't no fuckin' police station, what choo doin!" he petitioned.
My dick tenting my pants, I reached my hand out toward his budding chest. Rubbing ever so slightly over his nipple area, I felt him tense up.
"HEY! HEY!" he squealed, terror in his eyes, "Get the fuck off me!"
Lifting his shirt, I exposed one of his dime sized, reddish-brown, nipples.
"What choo doin'?" he cowered, watching my mouth approach...