Copyright© 2006 by Kien Reti
It was after midnight on a dark street in an unsafe neighborhood, but he felt perfectly safe. And, why not? After all, Macduff was a 6'-3" muscular male in the prime of life, and trained in the martial arts to boot.
There was no excuse for being taken by surprise. "Fucking careless!" was the last thought that flashed through his mind before his head exploded.
"Sir, can you hear me?" the distant voice asked.
His head hurt. He hurt all over. And there was a sharp, throbbing ache... down below.
Someone in medical whites was bending over him.
"I'll be all right," Macduff mumbled through swollen lips. He didn't feel all right, but he certainly didn't need to be fussed over and examined by doctors. By strangers who might find out about...
"... minor abrasions in the immediate area of the sphincter. However, DNA analysis of semen traces recovered from the rectum might be helpful in identifying the assailants."
Assailants! According to his private physician, he had been anally raped, and multiple times at that.
The good news was that he had tested negative for AIDS and Hep C. The bad news was that he was fucked. He had been fucked, and now he was well and truly fucked. Was he even a man any more? Had this turned him into a queer?
He had gotten together with Cheryl, trying to erase the shame of what had happened to him. It was no damn good. When he touched her, he felt somehow tainted, unclean, unworthy to press his lips against hers, to join with her in the flesh as he had so many times before. He just couldn't get aroused. Even holding her from behind, pressed close against the yielding bare cheeks of her sweet bottom, his member wouldn't rise. Useless!
Facedown on the ground, with his pants ripped down and his underwear slit open in the back. His buttocks were being pulled apart. Forcibly pried open. There was a gut-twisting sensation of something that felt like a burning-hot pipe being jammed into him, into... into his ass.
She had held him tight and tried to offer him comfort, but he had pushed her away, had told her to go away and leave him the hell alone. He was damaged goods, unfit for the company of a woman unless... unless and until he could somehow avenge himself and regain his manhood.
"By whatever means necessary and whatever it costs... find out who they are and get the bastards!"
The detective agency was damn expensive, but he had the money, and more important, the determination. In addition, he still had contacts in the local police and the FBI, contacts nurtured from his service in military intelligence and from old family connections.
A psychologist recommended by a friend tried to help him deal with his rage and depression.
"Male on male rape is more common than most people would believe. And, as you're unfortunately aware, it sometimes occurs in contexts outside of prison."
"Why, doctor? It's easy enough to get sex from consenting women, or even from men who are so inclined. Why rape?"
"My dear Macduff, It's about power. Not sex! Forcibly penetrating a man is gaining absolute power over him. It's a tradition, and a hoary old one at that. It's probably cropped up in one form or another in every tribe and culture since the dawn of history."
"Sure, Doc. I've read that certain Amerindian tribes would ritually rape captive warriors from enemy tribes as a way of depriving them of their manhood. And, I suppose that sort of thing happens in the modern era, too, but the victims might not be inclined to talk about it."
"Exactly. But, talking about it is the first step toward healing."
"Healing? There'll be time enough for that some other time. Right now, though: Let's make us medicine of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief."
The most shameful memory was that toward the end his body had betrayed him. He had come. The sensation of being raped -- of forcibly being ass-fucked -- had made him ejaculate. Did that mean he liked it? That he had been secretly gay all his life, and that this had tipped him over the edge? That he would be unfit to love a woman and forever doomed to the company of perverts?
"Well, the good news is that we have a suspect, or rather a number of suspects. It's group of neo-Nazi gangsters led by a fine fellow named Lazar. Their specialties are arson and extortion, but they'll dabble in a little recreational rape when the opportunity presents itself. It seems that they're equal opportunity rapists, doing both men and women, depending upon availability."
"What's the bad news?"
"That it's unlikely we'll ever have enough evidence for an arrest, much less a conviction. Cases of this type present special difficulties, as we've already explained to you."
"All right, then, give me all the pertinent information. I thank you kindly for all you've done on my behalf and please send an invoice for services rendered."
"Well, damn me! I've never actually met a real-live soldier of fortune, and a... woman is the very last thing I would have expected."
"Mr. Macduff, I presume. I come highly recommended, and, if anything I'm overqualified for this dirty little job you have in mind. Look, who led the team a couple of years back in Angola that took out the entire rebel leadership cadre? And, who organized the rescue of that group of mining engineers held hostage in Somalia? And disposed of the hostage takers in the process? Yes, you might say I've seen my share of wet work."
She had the iciest set of blue eyes he had ever seen. And, they seemed to be staring right through him, right past his defenses, right into his innermost soul.
"Very impressive, Miss... Ms... ?"
"Corliss. Named after a grade-B 1940s actress, as if you gave a damn."
"Just so the job gets done, uh, Corliss. There'll be no bloodletting, if it can be avoided. This is just a little smash and grab. Apprehension, and then temporary detention of a group of criminal types."
"Kidnapping, you mean. Could get messy. Considering the need for discretion and the risks involved, it'll cost you."
"Money is no object."
"Music to my ears. Lay on, Macduff."
"Right, Corliss. And... damnd be him that first cries, Hold, enough!"
"And, now that you have them, what do you figure to do with them?"
Lazar and his three "associates" lay propped up against the crumbling brick wall of the dank cellar. They slumped over unconscious and their hands were bound behind them with copper wire.
"That's not something you need concern yourself about. Here's the balance owed for your services. I have your card, and I'll call if I need any further assistance. And, by the way, thank you."
.... There is more of this story ...