A gay story: Orderly Manners From the outdoor cafe across the street, Malafacha watched in disgust as his henchmen turned a simple jewelry-store stickup into shambles. He saw a woman run from the tony shop only to be caught in the doorway by a burst of submachine gun fire; an almost-straight line of red holes popped across her waistline. Too bad: They ruined a beautiful yellow platilla suit, Malafacha thought. Screams began tearing apart the overcast afternoon, and Malafacha wondered in that moment if it might rain. His men ran from the store and jumped in Milo’s car, with Kanzur – the idiot – spraying one last burst across the building facade. Malafacha shook his head. He picked up his paper and headed off down the street as distant sirens spiraled through the air.
Then he saw him.
Youthful. Studious in those glasses. Slim and very graceful. Malafacha saw a glint of gold on his breeder finger and wasn’t surprised. Marriage probably suits him. Expensive haircut. Camel-hair sport coat, very nice grey and blue broad-stripe shirt and dark trousers. Stock broker? Apprentice attorney bossed around by the partners, maybe, but managing to keep his dignity with good nature? Perhaps.
Who cares about the bio, Malafacha thought, and slipped across the street to fall in step with him.
He liked his target’s swing when he walked; it bespoke confidence and some breeding. Horsey set – maybe he didn’t get pushed about after all. He bounded quickly up the steps of a hospital built before either of them were born, and disappeared in the door. Malafacha faded in with him.
Malafacha picked up an idle newspaper from a chair and feigned a crossword puzzle while sidling near the nurses station where his target had paused.
Blah, blah, minor surgery this afternoon, blah, blah, room 213, blah, blah, Dr. Wexler.
Malafacha had heard enough. He whisked out the door and around to the emergency entrance. Excellent! This nurses’ station was at a hub of hallways surrounding it like wheel spokes. Malafacha sat in a waiting room chair that afforded clear sightlines to three of the hallways, and his cell rang. Chewing out his crew captain with a few menacing words he thumbed the call off and wondered for a moment how he could manage to keep five of these gangs running like clockwork with leaders as stupid as Durazo. The robbery was far too bloody. Object of these exercises was to spread fear and terror, to be sure, but this one was sloppy and desperate. His men looked amateurish and nothing more irritated Malafacha.
Just then he saw an orderly emerge from a door down hall number one and approached the nurse on duty. Malafacha strode up to her when she was alone; he knew his lie was hopeless – that he’d forgotten his shades in a bathroom down that very hall… The nurse waved him an OK without looking up and he was off down the hall. Whipping through the door from which the orderly emerged, he saw to his delight it was as he suspected – filled with neatly shelved scrubs and even a few lab coats!
After putting on the green scubs over his street clothes, he was just donning a white coat he’d fished from the racks when the door suddenly opened and the orderly re-entered. A look of surprise, the beginning of a puzzled smile and then the deep thump of Malafacha’s eight-inch stiletto plunging into his belly. The orderly began to gasp and Malafacha whirled him inside and against a wall; he wailed softly at the rough treatment, the dagger still painfully buried in him. Malafacha pulled in out with a whispering hiss and held it up tight to the orderly’s face. Young himself and quite good-looking, his expression was still a little surprised, with terror of imminent death seeping in. And Malafacha stuck him deep in the abdomen again; he felt sticky blood on his clenched forefinger and thumb as the hilt stopped the thrust. The orderly gurgled a little, and when Malafacha yanked it out again, he gasped almost silently this time, and dropped.
As Malafacha wrapped his body in a cheap plastic tarp and dropped it in a laundry basket, he was reminded of how much he enjoyed stabbing people in the belly. The perky secretary a few nights ago made a strange cooing sound when he spindled her, naked and especially vulnerable.
After quickly washing off in the mop sink, he was down the hall to the wing that housed room 213. He knocked on the door and heard a quite friendly voice answer. Malafacha lied that he was an orderly come to prep him for Dr. Wexler and was allowed inside.
His target was tying his hospital gown and Malafacha swept over to help. Prepping a knot for easy loosening, Malafacha ran his eyes down a corridor of bare back to buttocks ripe and firm. It was all he could do to keep from biting them now.
“In the bed,” Malafacha said, patting the firm mattress. As the young man sat on it Malafacha went to a locked drawer and, clinking through the dead orderly’s key ring, found what was likely the right one. After a couple of tries, he got it open, bypassed milder drugs intended for his target and grabbed a vial of benzodiazepine. Filling a hypo with much, much more than a usual dose, he said cheerily over his shoulder, “Let me see your bottom.”
His target rolled over on his stomach and Malafacha calmed swabbed his smooth butt skin before plunging the needle deep. “Ahhh!” the young man cried. “Oh… sorry,” Malafacha said soothingly, and squirted in the full load.
“We’re going need that temperature,” he said, stepping again to the drawer. Malafacha returned to the bed with a thermometer and some KY; the young man peeked nervously over his shoulder.
“Don’t worry, haven’t lost one yet,” Malafacha said, and without a pause, poked the business end of the thermometer in his target’s asshole. The young man jerked and groaned again, and Malafacha had a hard time letting go of the digital probe, working it in and out a little.
“I’m going to rub the drug in with massage,” he said. The young man gasped again as Malafacha gripped and twisted his butt cheeks with growing ferocity. Each time he squeezed, the young man’s moan sounded a little higher, a little more faint.
Malafacha finally released the buttcheeks and gave one a sharp slap. The young man growled something and so Malafacha thumped the thermometer still sticking in him. He grunted again in groggy distress.
“What are you doing?” the young man demanded – but in a very drowsy, very halting voice. At that, Malafacha pulled out the probe and poked his finger deep inside the young man.
“Ah, no!” his target squealed, unable to achieve much volume. Malafacha worked it up the to knuckle and began stroking it in and out.
“Stop! What are you doing?” his target repeated, breathing heavily in time to each thrust.
“Well, I’m going to do this a little – until you’re broken in,” Malafacha replied. “Then I’m going to fuck you the way you need to be fucked.”
The young man made a little, soft yelp of fear. Malafacha knelt on the bed, unzipping his pants. “Here we go,” he said, softly, easing the tip of his huge dick, now hard as an I-beam, into the young man.
“Oooo, no, please…!” Malafacha’s target pleaded. Instead of obeying, Malafacha began pushing a little deeper. He’d bring it back a few inches and then send it back into the gradually yielding channel. It’s good to take it a little easy with straight men, Malafacha had learned; they’re not accustomed to spreading this tissue from outside in.
After he got it a full two-thirds in, he fucked the young man a little while, as his victim sobbed and moaned. Finally, Malafacha pulled it out with another thump of his victim’s anal opening that brought another gasp. Then he pulled over the young man’s leg and rolled him onto his back.
“Why… you can’t breathe in this rag,” Malafacha said, ripping off the thin patient’s gown. He stared awhile at the young man’s nakedness, enjoying the rippling of his chest and belly as he gasped for air. Then Malafacha leaned over him and began kissing his mouth. As he ran his tongue inside and sucked at his victim’s neck, he enjoyed the moaning and squirming responses.
He kissed his way down to his target’s chest and brutally sucked each nipple, releasing them with a pop and lurch from the young man under him. He took a long time licking and sucking at his belly before suddenly swallowing the young man’s very hard dick.
Malafacha’s victim arched his body in surprise, and, Malafacha thought, some pleasure. Expertly, Malafacha deep-throated the dick until it was at its peak erection, and the young man was deeply moaning with each stroke – no longer in fear, but irresistable arousal.
Then Malafacha knelt between the young man’s thighs and, swabbing his dick with more jelly, he laid it up his victim’s midsection. “It stretches all the way to the small your stomach. Feel it?” Malafacha asked in mock-amazment before plunging it in his wiggling victim. Malafacha’s target made a deep, breathy moan and rocked his head slightly as Malafacha penetrated to the end of him in one, long thrust. bursting all the way to the young man’s very root. He began fucking him, stroking his dick deep in and then out.
The young man sobbed a little, then began moving with Malafacha. He began lifting his hips from the bed to enhance penetration. A sheet of sweat covered his naked body and a deep-red rash was swiped across his chest. With his forefinger, Malafacha deeply, exactingly probed his victim’s navel and plucked it insolently; the youth moaned in surprise and surrender with each jarring thump.
Malafacha heard a clamor from the hallway, and knew the staff must have found the orderly. He began fucking the young man even deeper, driving him over the edge. After several deep-strokes, the boy’s belly jerked and he squirted a spray of come in the air with a groan. Then Malafacha held him up by the knees as he skewered him as deeply as he could and exploded into the young man’s guts. As he withdrew, his victim made one last broken moan.
Malafacha looked at the young man on the bed just before he left, still moaning and squirming only slightly. He made a smooth getaway, sucking the young man’s come from his fingers, disguised by the hideous confusion in the ward.