Daemon Way

The Cycle of Violence

Ebony-Ivory Special (boy=black) ToC

Slouching down in the front seat, George Macklin cautiously peered around the edge of the newspaper and watched and waited, just as he'd watched and waited for the past six months. He'd given the police a year to do something, and after a year what they did was claim though they knew who had killed his little girl they could not prove it and if they went to court they'd lose. It took him another six months to find out who the person was himself, and he'd been observing, waiting, and planning his vengeance for six months after that.

The dismissal buzzer rang and a minute later the first of the students began to stream out of the school. Four-sixteen eight-year-old Denzil Washington emerged from the large double doors, ran down the steps to the awaiting blue Mercedes, and got in and strapped on his seatbelt. As the Mercedes pulled out so did George, a discrete distance behind. It was Friday. Fridays they made four stops, always the same places, always at and for the same time, the last being at a Chinese take-out, where the man always came out with the same size bag and they headed home, always arriving at the same time, his wife always waiting there for them. After supper he played with his son and the three of them watched a family video he'd picked up before the Chinese take-out where he'd also made a drug exchange, the wife tucked the boy in bed, and then the two of them watched a second video, an adult one, and they'd engage in torrid sex there on the sofa, and again in their bedroom. Then they'd sleep in, the boy getting up and helping himself to sugar-loaded cereal and watching cartoons, his parents stirring out of bed just before noon. Sugar Washington was a man of habit. George Macklin knew Sugar Washington's habits better than Sugar Washington knew them.

Tonight, Sugar Washington's routine was going to be drastically changed and his life would never be the same. Once he'd confirmed Sugar was the man who'd killed his daughter, and he had several very reliable witnesses who said he had, George had begun planning his revenge, planning every minute detail, relishing every moment as he went over his plan over and over again in his mind. His first reaction had been to kill the man, to shoot him in the head and splatter his brains over the Balmoral Walmart parking lot just as Sugar had splattered the brains of his six-year-old daughter in the same lot. Let the man's wife and son know the pain and sorrow he'd felt with the death of his daughter. Better yet, gun the man down in front of his wife and son just as Sugar had gunned down his daughter in front of him, except Sugar wouldn't be the innocent victim caught in a crossfire between gangs fighting over turf as his daughter had been. His death would be deliberate. It would also be quick, and that George didn't want. He wanted Sugar to suffer like he had.

So he changed his plan. He wouldn't kill Sugar. He'd kill his wife. In front of him, and their son, after he'd humiliated the black son-of-a-bitch. He'd beat him to a bloody pulp in front of his wife and son, and put the fear in the three of them of him doing the same to the woman and child, which of course he had no intention of doing. His beef was with Sugar. Of course they wouldn't know he wouldn't. He'd let the bastard beg not to hurt them, make him crawl on his belly. Then he'd blow his wife's brains out. He'd let the boy watch. Let him see how powerless his father really is. Let him see the consequences of his father's cowardness in not coming forward and admitting his crime. Let his son hurt with the knowledge his father was the cause of his mother's death, and that his father had been powerless to protect her, just as his own son had to live with the knowledge that his father had been helpless in protecting his older sister, a sister he'd never know and be able to love, a sister who'd been gunned down when the boy was only a month old.

George had gone over the scenario a hundred times. No, a thousand times. It made his heart race and his blood boil each time. Each time he perfected what he'd do, adding a little detail here, another there. It would be magnificent, and a perfect crime. Sugar Washington would suffer just as he had, and like himself he'd know who had committed the crime, but he'd never be able to prove it. He'd leave no evidence, and he'd warn the son-of-a-bitch not to report it to the police, not if he valued the welfare of his son. There were men who took great delight in torturing young boys, doing things to them that would turn the stomach of decent men. Sugar Washington had enemies that would leap at the opportunity. George Macklin smiled. Unlike Sugar, he had thought of a way he'd protect himself and his family from any revenge Sugar Washington might think up. He'd thought of everything. He'd had six months to think, to plan. Now, tonight, was the time to put it into action.

He waited for forty-five minutes and then got out the car and headed up the walk.

They'd have finished supper. Sugar's wife would be putting the leftovers in the fridge. You always had leftovers with Chinese food. Sugar would have gone into the family room to play with his son.

Sugar's wife reacted just as he'd expected. Wide-eyed with terror she led the way to the family room. Sugar was caught by surprise and froze, just as he'd imagined. George ordered the boy to go to his mother and the boy hesitated, glancing at his father. George repeated the order, shouting angrily and pointing the gun. The boy scooted. Sugar immediately began to beg, saying whatever he wanted he'd give him, money, drugs, anything, just not to hurt his family. George took out the rope, the hangman's knot already tied, and swung it in front of them, telling Sugar what he wanted was to hang him, that's what they did to niggers in the old days, that's what they did to murderers. It was a nice touch. He could see the fear in the whites of their eyes, just as he'd imagined it, just as he'd planned.

Sugar of course said he didn't know what he was talking about, that he had the wrong person, that he'd never murdered anyone, as George knew he would. He reminded him of the shootout between gangs two years ago, in the Balmoral Walmart parking lot, of the six-year-old girl whose brains he'd splattered over the pavement, a girl who'd be eight now, just like his son. He could see in Sugar's eyes that he knew George knew. He didn't deny the shootout, but he denied being the killer. George could tell in his eyes he was lying, and that he knew George knew he was lying. The fucking bastard! The fucking black coward, denying it. George advanced, heart racing, blood boiling. How dare he deny it! The spineless black bastard! His anger, his pain, gave him more strength then he could have imagined. He pistol-whipped the son-of-a-bitch, leaving a gash across his forehead. He struck him with the rope, resulting in a red burn across his handsome face. He kicked him, cracking a rib. He was a madman. Sugar was twenty-six, six years younger than himself, and fit, but he was no match for a man driven by anger and hatred that had been festering for two years. Over and over George struck him until that handsome face was a bloody mush.

And then she struck him, pounding him on the back, knocking him off balance, demanding he leave her husband alone. He turned and she struck out at him, scratching his cheek, trying to gouge his eyes. Fearing for her man, and the life of her son and herself, she was a wildcat. She could have grabbed the boy and run. In his frenzy George probably would not have noticed until too late. But she attacked, defending her mate, defending the son-of-a-bitch that had killed his daughter. That was her mistake. Slipping the hangman's noose about her neck, George yanked it tight. Ceasing her attack, she tried to remove it but drawn off balance by the larger, older man she fell, tightening the rope instead, cutting off her air. George cursed her and jerked her around like a trout on the end of a fishing line. This had not been part of the plan. This had not been expected. The boy was sobbing hysterically, terrified out of his mind.

Managing to get the rope off her, he looped the noose about Sugar's feet and drawing it tight he brought it up behind him and tied his wrists and then sat him up against the sofa. Having regained her breath, Sugar's wife began to plead with him, begging him to leave her husband alone, to spare his life, to take whatever he wanted, just not harm her husband and son. This was wrong, all wrong. It was Sugar who was supposed to be begging him not to kill his wife, not to hurt his son. The bitch had ruined it. She'd ruined everything.

"Strip!"

She looked at him in shock. He picked up the gun and pointing it at the boy told her if she made him repeat an order again he'd kill the boy, so she'd fucking well better do as he told her. She told the boy to look away. He told the boy to watch. She begged him to lock the boy in his bedroom, or in a closet, anywhere. He stepped forward, put the end of the pistol in her mouth, said her husband had splattered the brains of his six-year-old girl in front of him, asked her if she wanted her son to see him do the same to her. Sugar was begging him to stop, begging her to do what the man wanted, confessing he'd done what George had claimed, begging him to blow his brains out and spare his family. His lips swollen, front teeth missing, the words were mumbled, but crystal clear to George, crystal clear to his wife, crystal clear to his eight-year-old son. Sugar confessing. Sugar begging him not to hurt his family. The plan was back on track. Time to pull the trigger.

But George wasn't satisfied. Not yet. Sugar had to suffer longer. And the bitch had to pay. Pay for scratching his cheek. Pay for disrupting his plans. She had to suffer too. He wouldn't kill her after all. No, something better came to his mind, and it was her own fucking fault. If she'd not gotten involved, it would be over for her now. But now she had to pay the consequences, and best of all it would make Sugar's punishment all the sweeter. He'd humiliate him by raping his woman, making her cry out with the pleasure of being fucked by a real man, a white man. And he'd let her live, live so that every time Sugar looked at her he'd remember seeing her on her back, legs spread for him, and each time Sugar touched her he'd remember a white man had had his dick in her. He slowly raised his eyebrow. She knew the choice he was offering her, and she knew he'd leave it up to her.

She slowly began to unbutton her blouse. Impatient, George took out the pocketknife and flicking it open, cut off her bra and sliced her belt. He'd forgotten he'd brought it. He'd planned on using it to threaten Sugar. This was better. She stepped out of her jeans and her panties. He had her turn and face her son, he had him look at her, directly at her, at her boobs, at her cunt. She was a good-looking woman for a nigger, smooth-skinned, a dark chocolate, with firm, pert tits, shapely thighs. Her cunt was thickly bushed. She was only twenty-four. She'd been sixteen when Sugar had knocked her up. That was no surprise. Everyone knows nigger women are hot for cock.

George was hot too. His wife had been twenty-two and a virgin on their wedding night. She was thirty now. He'd played the field before he'd gotten married, but he hadn't had another woman since his wedding night. Hadn't wanted to. He didn't want this one. Not for lovemaking. Not for pleasure. He wanted to punish her. He wanted to humiliate her. He wanted to use her to humiliate Sugar. George pulled down his fly and extracted his cock. He was stiff. He had her kneel on the large wooden coffee table, one of those massive things with a glass top, facing her son. He knelt behind her and took her doggy style, ramming his stiff cock up her twat. But it wasn't his cock. In his mind it was his knife. He thrust it again and again and again, causing her pain, causing her the same pain as his cheek was feeling. He grasped her hips and fucked her like the animal she was, ramming her so hard she slid on her knees. He grabbed her thick, braided hair and drew her head back, forcing her to look at her son, forcing the two of them to look each other in the eye. He had the boy come forward and crawl under the table and look up, up at his cock ramming in and out of her cunt. He turned her around and had her stare at Sugar. He rammed her harder and harder and the boy lay there, hypnotized by his pistoning cock. Her cunt was wet and hot. She was a bitch. The whore loved sex. He grasped her tits and squeezed them, twisting her nipples, making her cry out, cry out with pleasure. She loved being fucked, the black slut, fucked in front of her husband and eight-year-old son, gasping like the pig she was. He grasped her tightly and filled her slut cunt with his juice. He purposefully pulled it out early, the boy still lying under the glass top, staring up at his spurting cock and at his slime oozing out of his mother's throbbing cunt, throbbing eagerly for his cock.

It had been good, but there was something missing. Something he'd forgotten. George reviewed his plan, the plan he'd carefully memorized. What had he left out? Killing her of course, but this had been better. There was nothing left out. It had been a thrill, but now that it was over it was a disappointment. Sort of the whoosh one feels after sex, relief, but wanting more. Nothing left now except to clean up all the evidence that he'd been there. Including his cum. Maybe he should have Sugar lick it off the table and suck it out of his wife. And of course the warning that if they went to the police he'd see that their sweet-faced little black boy got to meet some very interesting men. He looked down at the boy still staring up through the table top, afraid to move, tears rolling down his cheeks. George altered his plan. Why threaten them when abusing the boy himself would be so much better? His girl had died, Sugar's son had lived. All he had were memories. But what if Sugar's memory of his son was something so terrible he wouldn't be able to look at the boy again? So terrible the boy would draw away from the touch of a man, including his father? He motioned for the boy to get out from under the table.

"Strip."

"No! You bastard! I did as you asked. Leave him alone," the boy's mother cried out in despair, struggling to her feet. George cut the pillows on the sofa into strips and used them to tie her ankles and feet. He gagged her too, tired of hearing her bitch wining, using the slut's panties, which he thought a nice touch, and sat her up beside her husband.

"Remove your clothes," George demanded. "And if you ever again don't do what I tell you to do the first time, I'll bash your mouth in like your father's."

The boy looked over at his father, and his eyes widening, he began to unbutton his shirt.

"You fucking bastard," cursed Sugar. "You touch one hair on his head and you're a dead man."

"I'm already a dead man," George replied coldly. "I died the day you murdered my little girl. Actually, if you were to kill me, it would be a relief, but you won't. You won't do anything about this night. I'll make arrangements for your boy to be captured by some white supremacists who'd love to torture and abuse a cute little black boy should anything happen to me. And I'll leave enough clues for the police to track my murder to you and it would all come out, everything that happened two years ago, everything that happened here tonight. I'm sure you have many enemies who would take delight knowing your woman was raped and your son buggered by a white man. And what of your friends? How could you look any of them in the eye? And of course you'd be sent to jail for my murder, and we all know what happens to a pretty boy like you in jail. Actually, when you get out you and your son can compare what it's like to be a man's bitch." George looked at the boy who'd been standing there listening to him bugeyed with fear, fear for himself and fear for his father. "Damn it, I told you what would happen if you didn't do what I told you!"

As George raised his pistol, the boy, trembling and sobbing, quickly finished unbuttoning his shirt. His father and mother cursed and struggled with their bonds and threatened to no avail as their son pushed down his jeans and briefs and removed his slippers and socks. George stared at the cowering, naked boy, wondering what to do. He knew what men did to young boys. It was just that he'd never considered doing anything like that himself. Whatever he did, it had to be humiliating for Sugar. What would he have had Sugar do? The ideas came to him fast and furious, ideas he'd never thought of over the past six months.

He ordered the boy to kneel before him and lick his cum and his mother's cunt slime from his now limp dick. Aghast, the boy dropped to his knees and reluctantly but obediently stuck out his tongue and gagging with each swipe, began to lick up the slime. George's cock began to rise, not because he was enjoying the perverted act, but because he was enjoying the look of shame and revulsion in the boy's face, and the look of humiliation and rage in his father's. He had him suck up the gobs of slime from the glass table top and swallow the mixture of cunt juice and ball slime. Then he had the boy go down on him, all the while telling him what a good cock-sucker he was, that all niggers were good cock suckers, which was why God gave them such fat lips, and reminding him that everything that had happened and was happening was his father's fault, that if his father hadn't killed his little girl this would not be happening, if he'd confessed to the killing, he would not be doing this. It was all his useless, spineless father's fault.

He told the boy to jack himself off, and explained to the boy what that meant and how to do it. Despite his fear and his shame being forced to do such revolting things in front of his mother and father, the boy's dick responded to the boy's stroking. That did not surprise George. The boy was a sex-driven animal just like his parents, like all of his black race. George waited and watched, recognizing the changing look in the boy's eyes, the awe in his face as he experienced the pleasure of self arousal for the first time, the irregular squirming of his body as he approached his peak, and then the look of wonder as he reached his first orgasm, an orgasm in front of his mother and father and by his own hand.

The shame, humiliation and despair on the boy's face, and the knowledge that the boy knew who was really to blame, brought George over the top. With the first spurt of his hot slime the boy tried to draw his mouth off his cock but he held the little bugger's head down. The boy gagged and began making desperate choking sounds. Having nowhere else to go, George's hot, thick cum shot up the back of the boy's throat and gushed out his nose along with the boy's snot. Unable to catch his breath, the boy hacked, sending more of the thick, bitter slime that had filled his mouth and oozed down his throat back up and out his nose. George at last let him up and he smiled down at the gasping, snorting little black boy, cum and snot hanging in slimy globules out of his nose and dangling above his gaping mouth, thick cum mixed with his spit flooding out of his mouth and down over his chin where it hung in slimy pendants. George had him kneel there and suck it up and he made sure his parents watched as his tongue swiped over his upper lip and drew his salty snot and George's bitter slime back into his mouth. He had the boy wipe the cum from his chin with his hand and lick it off his fingers. The disgust and despair in the boy's eyes sent a surge of delight and power through George's veins. Greater still was the surge caused by the look in Sugar's eyes.

George was more ecstatic than he'd ever imagined he would be, his cock still stiff, still aching. He approached the bitch again and raped her a second time. She put up no resistance. He warmed up the leftover Chinese food and ate it. He had plenty of time. Sugar and his wife and son weren't going anywhere. Refreshed, he had the boy finger his mother, first with one finger and then two, and then insert his sticky fingers up his asshole, transferring her cunt slime and his spent cum to the boy's rectum. Sugar knew what was next and angrily screamed his protest, and then begged and then threatened, to George's delight. Having the boy kneel on the table where he'd taken the boy's mother doggy style, he ran the tip of his cock against the bitch's slick cunt, and then kneeling behind the boy, he grasped his smooth, compact buttocks and rammed his cock up the boy's ass. The boy shrieked with the pain. George's cock was lubed with his mother's cunt slime and the boy's asshole was lubed with his own mother's slime and his spent cum, but George was well hung and the eight-year-old boy a virgin. It was a tight fit. Entering the boy lustfully with a single, painful thrust, he sank his cock up the eight-year-old's black ass to his curly hairs.

He began to fuck him, concentrating on the pleasure the boy's tight, moist asshole brought his cock, a pleasure not unlike his mother's cunt had brought. He had the boy reach up and jerk himself off again, and this time the boy knew what the result would be and did so reluctantly and yet with a perverse anticipation, knowing despite the shame and filthiness of what he was doing pleasure awaited him at the end. George waited until the boy began to squirm and whimper with his orgasm, the second of the night, and then he filled the boy's ass with his slime. The boy was a little cock-loving slut, just like his mother, getting off getting his little ass savagely fucked in front of his mother and father.

Wiping his dick off with the boy's briefs and his mother's panties, George pocketed them, and searching out a camera, he took a few pictures of the crime scene and his victims. Smiling down at Sugar, he told him he'd make sure the evidence made its way to certain individuals if anything were to happen to himself or his family just in case Sugar was thinking of seeking revenge on his own or through his gang, or if he sought justice through the police. George knew from the look in Sugar's eyes that he believed him, and that he knew he had enemies who would take great delight in rubbing in his nose what had happened here. He knew also there were white men who would take great delight doing to his son what George had done and worse. Cutting Sugar's ropes, he turned and walked out of the house. Vengeance was sweet.

What George didn't know as he got in his car and drove away was that back in the house even as the three comforted each other, thoughts of revenge for what he'd done this night were already percolating. And so the cycle of violence continues to turn.

The End