Perfectly Wicked By Jason D. Karl, Chapter 1
Perfectly Wicked
By Jason D. Karl
JasonDKarl@proton.me
Author's Note:
This is dark, twisted, erotic fantasy fiction about a gay serial killer with paranormal abilities. This is the product of the author's imagination and should not be construed as real in any way. This should be read only by adults of legal age who are able to distinguish fantasy from reality. The story contains graphic violence (similar to that found in some vampire/werewolf stories) and explicit gay sex. While there may be references to incest and/or rape, they will not occur on-page.
Remember that Nifty.org is a free site supported by user donations. The author's only payment is feedback from readers.
That said, I hope you enjoy my twisted story.
-- Jason D. Karl (JasonDKarl@proton.me)
Chapter 1
Kyle Truhan was being followed. It was after midnight and this 22-year-old rent boy was walking in the less-than-safe part of the city. It might have been any large city in the world. This particular city was reeling from the news of a serial killer who had, only last week, left his eleventh known victim. They had all been exsanguinated and most of them had organs missing. Social media had dubbed him "The Bleeder." The name, pretentious as it was, had stuck.
What the news outlets said or didn't say about the serial killings was of no interest to Kyle. No, tonight, he was paying attention to the three punks who were following him: David Jackson, Jr. and two of his cronies. Jackson was a bit of a thug with a perpetual scowl. He had the looks--but not a surname--stereotypically associated with Italians. There were even whispers that maybe he wasn't actually the son of Reverend David Jackson, Sr. of the Family Values Tabernacle and Worship Center, a megachurch which catered to every bigotry white protestants might care to indulge in. The Reverend (currently on his fourth wife) would address such rumors with proclamations of the sin of speaking against the anointed of God. Junior met such comments with his fists or a baseball bat or just whatever was handy.
But questions of his parentage were not why Jackson and his gang were following Kyle. They planned "to show a queer a thing or two," as they put it. Had they picked anyone else, anyone at all, this would have been just another statistic the police didn't care about. Just another gay-bashing. But they had picked the wrong man. Kyle Truhan wasn't just anyone.
Kyle slipped through the broken fence that led into Tugurio Park. Rumor had it that this had once been a nice park, set up by some Latina in memory of someone; but the money had run out years ago. Nowadays, it was the kind of run-down place where vices of every sort were to be had, for a price. Only, not this late at night. Bad things happened here all the time and very bad things happened here this late. Unless they were there to actually do those very bad things, no one, absolutely no one, would be here after midnight.
Kyle heard some cursing and thrashing about. Apparently, one of Jackson's buddies (Bill or Will or Phil or something like that) had gotten his pants caught in the fence. Kyle did a mental eye-roll. Jackson and his buddies had actually followed him into Tugurio Park, of all places. He waited.
Even though there were no streetlights nearby, the city sported too much light pollution for there to ever be true darkness. The moon, one day shy of being full, further brightened the night. Still, Kyle stood where he could be certain they would see him. He tried to effect a frightened look, but knew he'd failed, not that Jackson was bright enough to notice.
Soon enough, the trio arrived, spouting threats and homophobic epithets. They surrounded Kyle. Jackson had a crowbar, how clichéd. Bill/Gill/whatever had a pistol. The other crony, Kyle didn't know his name, had a knife.
Jackson taunted, "If the homo sucks our cocks real good, we might let it live. Ain't that right?" His buddies grabbed their crotches.
Kyle didn't flinch. "For being so straight and against queers, you do spend a lot of time talking about gay sex, same as your dad. I wonder why. Do you suck your daddy's dick? I bet you do."
"Fuck you, bitch." Jackson swung the crowbar with both hands. That was exactly what Kyle wanted him to do. He yanked the bar out of Jackson's hands, absorbing the impact as if it were nothing, and shoved the sharp end through Jackson's crotch. Jackson went down instantly, screaming.
Kyle spun around, inhumanly fast, grabbed Bill/Milo/whatever by his gun hand, twisted it around, and shot him through the eye. The third guy dropped his knife and fled. Kyle didn't pursue.
Maybe ten seconds had passed.
Kyle watched as Jackson writhed, but for some odd reason didn't try to pull the crowbar out of his manly bits. Hmm. Interesting.
Kyle stooped down and moved Jackson's face so they looked at each other. "Haven't you heard? There's a serial killer on the loose. They're calling him 'The Bleeder.' Now, personally, I don't like that name, but I can hardly leave my name and address behind."
Jackson gasped out, "You?"
"Yes, me. The little queer. Now, shush." Kyle concentrated as he stared at Jackson, eye-to-eye. With a snap, Jackson's body stiffened as if he had been strapped to a gurney, leaving him immobilized.
"That's better. Now, word to the wise: never attack a serial killer. Right, I know." Kyle faked a childish giggle. "I guess that means you'll have to be number 12--or is it 13? The cops give me credit for so very few of my many, many artworks, it's hard to keep track of how many are 'officially' mine. Whatever. You know what you all had in common?"
Jackson whimpered, but said nothing.
"You were all, every last one of you, bigots. So, let this be the final lesson you ever learn: homophobes are edible."
Kyle stripped naked, bit into Jackson's left arm, and began to feed. He didn't drink enough blood to allow Jackson to pass out. That's why he'd bitten the bicep rather than the neck. Bite somebody's neck in the wrong spot and it's a geyser. It's quite impossible to gulp down blood that fast. Then arterial spray gets everywhere. No, much better to bite an arm or nipple, so the blood can flow slowly enough to leisurely drink one's fill and yet keep the meal alive.
He pulled off and rubbed his thumb over the spot he'd been feeding from. It stopped bleeding. He licked the blood from his fingers and smacked his lips in satisfaction. Jackson didn't seem to appreciate that particular courtesy detail.
For just an instant, Kyle felt a mental prick. It was like glimpsing a spider out of the corner of his eye. He glanced in that direction. Nothing was there but a perfectly-routine murder victim.
He put his mind back on task. "You know, killing really gets me off. I would usually have cum by now, but you're so gross you've got my dick all soft." Kyle wiggled around his flaccid cock. "Now, that's the real crime here. Do you wanna kiss it better? You know, like you do when you beg to suck your daddy's teeny little dick?"
Jackson growled but was unable to speak or move, so great was Kyle's hold over him. The fury and terror pouring off Jackson were chocolate-flavored heroin.
"You know, some people have called me the f-word. That's a really shitty thing to do. I really hate that word. I can't even bring myself to utter it. So, you know what I did do? I killed every fucking one of them. You're the last. But don't worry, I'm sure someone else will call me that; I'll wait a while and murder them. Fuck them and fuck you. Not literally though." While saying this, Kyle gave Jackson the finger and then twisted the crowbar that was still lodged in his crotch, making the hole wider, and then yanked the metal bar out.
He pulled down Jackson's pants. "Oh, what do we have in here?" He stuck his hand inside the hole in Jackson's crotch and lifted out an organ. "No, that's not it. Let's try again." He stuck the organ back inside Jackson, felt around, and pulled out another.
"Ah, yes, here's one. You know how guys sometimes talk about having their balls full of cum? That's complete nonsense. Cum comes from these, the seminal vesicles." Kyle bit into the organ and, while still chewing, continued his lesson. "Well, um, mostly it's these. The prostate makes most of the rest. Your balls do make baby sperms--well, not yours in particular, not anymore--but even then, the little spermies have to stay awhile in the epididymis, growing their little tails. Class, can you say 'epididymis'?"
By now, Jackson was constantly groaning in agony, but was still unable to move beyond a few tremors.
"Remember, when we started class, I said the last lesson you would ever learn was that homophobes are edible. Well, time to learn it." He bit into Jackson's belly, gulping down the blood pouring out and eating chunks of his flesh. But his fun was soon over: Jackson was dead.
Kyle wanted Jackson's body to be found. He'd been such an asshole with his little posse of thugs that it was a wonder one of the gangs hadn't taken them out for operating on their territory. So, yeah, let the news report that local hoodlum, David Jackson, Jr., son of the megachurch preacher, was the latest of the serial killer's victims. Though, in his head, Kyle liked to call them "pupils" rather than "victims."
Kyle had drunk all of the blood that he could get to pump into his mouth. But there was more to be had. Some had spilled, but quite a bit of it was still in the body. Kyle closed his eyes and concentrated. He didn't know how the magic worked or how he came to have such powers. He only knew, instinctively, what to do. The blood, whether on the ground or still in the body itself, flowed over Kyle's body. He absorbed it. Holy fucking shit! The power rush it gave him. And the hard-on!
When he opened his eyes, not a single drop of blood was left to go to waste. Not on or in Jackson's body or the body of Bill/Pill/Mitty or whatever the fuck his name was. Kyle took what cash they had on them. Damn, it was enough for rent for at least three months. He'd give some of it to Señora Navarro.
He decided to stage the bodies a bit. Like he always did, he cut off the parts he'd bitten, clawed, or chewed on. He didn't want to make the job too easy for the cops and the forensics people. Just to fuck with the profiler's mind, he cut the dick off of Bill/Arlo/Cletus/whatever and shoved it into the empty eye socket from where he'd been shot.
Before he left, he magically scrubbed the area. The only evidence that remained was what he wanted the police to find.
§§§
Later, intending to be seen, Kyle leaned outside The Nitery, the city's premier gay nightclub. So bountiful were the men who'd struck out for the night and would be willing to pay, that Kyle (whose street name was "Brujo") had no real competition from the other hustlers. Now that the city had legalized prostitution, they could openly ply their trade and their johns could just as brazenly partake of the rent-boy buffet. Besides, Kyle was usually so horny after killing someone that he didn't really care who he fucked. He might as well pick up some cash while establishing an alibi. Waste not, want not.
Kyle hadn't been there ten minutes and who should pull up in their squad car but his favorite cops: Detectives Skiderik and Klootzak. And, by "favorite," he meant they were asshole cops who were on the payroll of not one, but two of the city's cartels. The whole police department was on the take, but these two didn't even try to hide it. Everybody knew they weren't here to give out tickets for public indecency. No, they were here to get off and give the serial killer a perfect alibi--though, strictly speaking, Kyle was the only one who knew they were about to do the latter.
Kyle put on his 'Brujo' persona and sauntered over to them. He knew he needed not to just service them, but to make damn sure they remembered the who, what, when, and where of this particular fuck.
Klootzak, who was in the passenger's seat, already had the door open and his dick out. Brujo gave the universal give-me-money hand signal. Skiderik reached over his partner to offer a fifty. Brujo didn't take it. Instead, he motioned over to the other hustlers. "The 'rest' are over there. If you want 'the best' it's going to cost you. And, you just insulted me, so that's extra. 350." As he said this, he pushed his magic to double their level of lust.
Klootzak huffed but was clearly turned on. "We've heard about you, Brujo. They say you're something else. But there ain't no fuck worth 350."
"Then you've clearly not had 'the best'. And you just insulted me again. Now, it's 350, each." Brujo pumped even more magical lust into them as he took off his clothes, in public, and got in the squad car's backseat. By then, he'd enchanted them into a higher level of sexual need than they'd ever experienced before, all while using his magic to make sure they didn't spontaneously cum. He looked up front at them and saw that he was, in fact, being recorded. Good, so much the better. "What's it going to be, detectives, a blowjob you'll forget before dawn or the best fuck you will ever have?"
They chose him. He stuffed the 700 they counted out and lay down.
With the back doors of the squad car open, Klootzak shoved his cock in Brujo's mouth and proclaimed, "You have the right to remain silent, whore." He started face-fucking Brujo.
Skiderik cackled as he climbed into the back of the squad car and stroked his dick a couple of times. "You have a right to a real man's cock. If you cannot afford one, the Metropolitan Police will shove one up your ass free of charge." He missed when he tried to shove his dick in Brujo's ass with a single, wannabe-macho thrust. His cock glanced to the side. He finally got it in on the third try.
As they spit-roasted him, Brujo didn't know whether he was less impressed by their humor or by their sexual skills. As a hustler, he'd had geeky virgins who could top better than these two. He almost pitied their wives.
These cops were so lousy at sex that Brujo didn't bother putting forth his usual efforts to please a john. How would they know the difference? He didn't work his ass muscles. He didn't even apply suction to Klootzak's dick.
Though physically Brujo just lay there, he was far from being passive. Magically, he was dominating the fuck out of them, pumping them with sexual bliss far beyond what was biologically possible by natural means.
But he didn't let them cum. He gave his magic a real workout blocking their orgasms while giving them ever-increasing horniness. They fucked harder and faster but he still allowed them no release. A couple of times, he pulled away from them and spun around on the seat, so they could each fuck him at both ends. He was, after all, making damn sure they never forgot this fuck.
Finally, over the police dispatch, he heard mention of Tugurio Park. That's what he'd been waiting for. Even if they weren't assigned to the case, he had it on police video that he was getting fucked by two detectives right at the time of the crime (or close enough). Perfect alibi. Now was the time for the coup de grace: he made them climax at a quite literally supernatural level. He even kept their orgasms going after they'd run dry. Skiderik stumbled out of the car and sat down hard on the pavement, twitching. The other detective wasn't much better.
Brujo got dressed, got out of the squad car, and pulled his magic back into himself. It was not quite break-even: he'd expended a little more magic than the sex had fed him. The detectives really were that sexually inept. Then again, he had been paid for his own alibi, so that had to be worth something.
A little crowd had formed around them to watch the show. A few of the other hustlers actually applauded Brujo's performance. He gave them an overly theatrical stage bow.
As he was about to leave, he decided to tease the detectives a bit. "By the way, that was just the 350 level. A whole night is 5000. Just imagine what that would be like."
The truth was that he had thoroughly enjoyed himself. Not the sex, though. That had been mediocre. No, he was elated from committing a couple of murders and then fucking with the minds of two of the worst cops the city had to offer.
As he walked home, Kyle contemplated his life. He had Señora Navarro and she'd have to be enough. He knew there would be no Sugar Daddy. No one would come to save him. Truth be told, he didn't want to be saved.