Mr Lucky 3

Copyright© 2014/22 by Millie Dynamite

A Dark Angel's violent encounter with a young white man.

Mr. Lucky

The town was far removed from the problems of the big city. What minor crime occurred in the sleepy hamlet was of the misdemeanor variety. Boys dreamed of running away from the community, while the girls dreamed of marrying the local boys and running off with them. That night did not differ from the tens of thousands of proceeding days. The local movie theater ran features on both screens, with two showings of each movie on weekends. After all, it was Saturday.

The young projectionist locked the doors once everyone left and surveyed the parking lot as the owner drove off, tossing him a wave. The projectionist turned into a janitor, and he cleaned up the mess.

Shortly after he began, the old clock in the town square started chiming out the hour. Twelve mournful clangs intoned the midnight hour. Despite the loud bells, he barely picked up the ringing as he swept up the last of the popcorn. Carefully, he placed the garbage in the dumpsters in the back and stared at the overcast clouds.

If he squinted his eyes, he could make out the dim glow through the dense cloud cover of the full yellow moon. Staring around, thin curls of fog rose from the lake and moved toward him. After a few moments, he reconnoitered the vacant lot behind the theater while the fresh fog blew over the parking lot. With haste, he rushed inside to mop quickly and head home. The painful truth be told, he hated walking through thick fog, and he had an idea this was a peasouper.

Tanking two steps at a time, he ran up the stairs to the booth and gathered his books, placing them in the leather satchel. The satchel was called a soft briefcase, but he thought the thing appeared to others like a purse—which he hated. However, being a gift from his mother, he always carried the thing. Moving from the booth, he caught his reflection in the office doors' glass windows.

"Shee-it fire. I look like some little fag carrying a purse. Note to self, I must figure out a way to lose the damn thing." The young man walked at a brisk pace down the stairs. Staring at the glass doors, he couldn't see across the street.

A thick fog hung over the streets like a blanket of white. Inserting his key into the lock, he locked the door behind him and walked toward home. A pair of almond-shaped, dark eyes followed him—hungry, lustful, and angry eyes. Softly, she moved from the recessed door of the jewelry store. Sneakers softly followed the boy. The tennis shoes squeaked, but the fog all but swallowed the soft sound.

The hairs on the back of his necked prickled. Something in the fog tried to warn him of some danger. However, the soft yelps of the new rubber soles were inseparable from his pounding heart.

With a queasy unease, the young man walked at a brisk pace. Anxious and unsettled, he wanted to make his home fast. He hated fog, vaporous air had an eerie effect on him. He cut through City Park, a play zone for children. If all went well, he'd cross the stream at the old bridge and be home by 1:00 am.

This route was the fastest way to his house. A creaking of old wood greeted his ears, familiar and comforting, as he walked on the boards of the old wooden covered bridge. The stream below babbled as the water rushed over rocks. Those faint squeaks disappeared, and he didn't notice 'her' footsteps as the water was too loud rushing over the rocks below, and she walked softly.

Blinding pain jumped from the back of his head as he walked from under the cover of the bridge. A sharp crack on the right side back of his head knocked him to the ground. Deep pain spread across his head, becoming foggy as the night air.

"Don't move your cracker ass, Mr. Lucky."

After a few agonizing slow moments, the young man realized the voice was that of a female. A furious female's voice had a harsh tone, which told him Lucky didn't mean good luck for him. Tensing up, he thought to roll over and spring on her. Then the sharp, triple clicks made him freeze.

"I'll blow you a new asshole if you try anything. Up, Mr. Lucky, come on, white boy, on your feet."

The pounding in his chest was almost to the point of pain. After a second, he pushed up and stood tense, not knowing what was coming. "Keep your eyeballs straight ahead. Don't turn around, or I'll blast your guts out with this," she jabbed him in the ribs with the barrel of a gun. "Turn to your right and go downhill under the bridge."

"Listen, I got some money; you can have it," his voice cracked as he spoke.

"Shut the fuck up, Mr. Lucky. Move your skinny white ass now," she poked him again. "Go on now, right up under the bridge." His heart leaped into his throat. There was something in her voice, anger, or perhaps something else, something darker. He was afraid for his life. Notwithstanding, he'd have to admit that this was the most excitement he'd ever had.

"Now, you might think you can just run away, but think again, mofo. Cause, I'll fucking blow your head off if you try." Again, she hit him in the ribs with the barrel of the gun. "You believe me, don't you, Mr. Lucky?"

Nodding his head, he moved in small, slow steps down the hill.

The couple walked carefully down the slick bank; he knew she would kill him if he tried to run. The water rushing over the rocks grew louder as they moved under the bridge, right down to the water's edge.

"Far enough, Brady boy." Reaching around him, she grabbed his crotch.

"Figures, fucking, Brady boy special—mother fucking 5-inch cocktail wiener," she hissed at him. She pulled his briefcase from him and tossed the case higher on the bank.

"Fucking faggot, carrying a purse," she reached around again and squashed his package. "Fucking gonna rock my world. Your cracker fag's boner got hard from fear. So easy with losers like you. Pants off, boy."

"No," he barked out in defiance. The gun struck him across the back of his neck. With a spinning head, he dropped to his knees, sobbing as he held the back of his neck, rubbing both head and neck. Putting her mouth right up to his year, she shoved the gun into his back hard.

"Don't give me shit, you fucking sissy fag. You gonna be lucky, now," she whispered in his ear, but the words hissed in his ears similar to snake.

If Mr. Lucky would be honest, the danger of his predicament was not lost on him. His moment of bravado had brought an instant reaction from her. Her response caused one of his own. His cock stiffened. Emotions overwhelmed him; fear, excitement, and a sexual fire he'd only dreamed of consumed him. In a flash, he realized his life meant nothing to her, and the threat was to his life.

"I'm tempted to kill you right now. But I want something first. Now, whitey, get-da-fuck out of those pants and remove your shirt from your scrawny bod, boy."

Quickly, he stripped to his underwear. With relative ease, the young black woman forced him to roll over, growling in his ear the instructions.

"Dat's it, cracker boy, flat on your back. Now lose the tidy whities."

With a quick tug, he pulled them down, and the black woman unceremoniously snatched them from his hand and threw them into the water. In an odd teasing moment, the young woman whacked his ridge cock with the gun's barrel, playful and light. Trying to figure things out, he noted the weapon was an automatic. Besides this, he couldn't think of anything more.

The pain in his ears throbbed as his blood rushed through his veins, and his heart pumped harder than he remembered at any fearful point in his life. While terror clutched him, so his lust held him tight as well. Dread and yearning mixed. She was a desirable woman; he wanted this and yet feared what might come.

"I'm gonna rape you, boy, gonna ride you for all your itty-bitty-dick is worth," light from a poll on the shore behind them showed around her body like a halo. Angelic-like, her curly hair stood out from her head, and the lamplight shined through the outer parts of the curly hair like flames, forming a firing halo. The wet fog engulfed them, clutching their bodies.

Oddly excited, the young man stared as she undressed. Seductively, she peeled out of her clothing. She was short, almost tiny, but her breasts were ample and appeared—buoyant. In the dim light, he couldn't make out much, but could tell her skin was exceptionally dark. She had a slim waist and ample, but not fat, ass. He made out a thick, curly, triangle patch of pubic hair.

The young woman straddled the young man and leaned down with the gun pointing at him. The young woman's dark brown eyes were mere inches from his. Still, he couldn't tell you what she looked like. She was—sexy for sure, but individual features were lost in the darkness. The only thing he knew for certain was this woman had a gun. Pleasure remained despite his fear, and his heart pounded as she slid her slick pussy over his cock.

The intoxicating sensation of her hot, wet pussy spread into his hips, up his spine, and into his brain. Closing his eyes for a moment, he wanted, so much, to touch her. Sliding his hands to her thigh, the gun smacked him, a light and loving touch in his mind, and he stopped.

"You're a pathetic little cracker."

The woman smacked his face with the gun, keeping the fear inside him, mixing with his pleasure. The blows weren't hard, but enough, so he understood she was in control. The young man's cheek burned. Amazingly to him, his prick grew harder and longer.

"Damn boy, stick me deep with your dick, hard, or I fucking blow your brains out and fuck worthless little cock, anyway." He thrust up with his hips, sliding into her. With a deep, sexy groan, she bounced on him, straightened up, arched her back, and pounded her body on his hard cock.

"I don't want no cracker, baby, so you best not lose your load, or I'll put one right between your blue devil eyes." She struck the gun across his jaw, backhanded hitting the other side. Again, she only hit him enough to control him.

The black woman pounded up and down her body, weighing less than 100 pounds, filling him with a white-hot passion. The verbal abuse aroused his mind and body. As she belittled him, they fucked, their bodies moving in unison. Striking him several more times, once harder than she meant to, breaking his nose. The tiny woman continued to repeat her threats.

When he grew bold, he reached up and touched her breast, belly, legs, or back. She smacked him in a quick, rough fashion, and his hands retreated. Only his lust drove him to move his hands over her feverish body again.

"If ya pop your nut afore I gets off, I'm gonna shoot your ass, bitch." Mister Lucky didn't consider this a threat but a challenge to hold off as long as possible.

Turning around, she returned to him; he felt the gun. God, where she shoved the thing. "I'm not kidding, bitch. Lose your nut juice, and I'll blow you a new asshole."

"Oh, God, oh, fuck, baby, you're so good to me," he said.

With the gun in his anus, intense pain, she fucked him and fucked his ass with the gun thrust in and out of him. She gazed over her shoulder, with her white teeth bright in the dark, an evil grin on her face.

"I don't think you can hold it, boy. Think you gonna blow, then my gun gonna get a nut off, too."

The young man tried to stop it. In fact, he tried very hard not to lose his cum. After all, he didn't want to piss her off. On the verge of losing control, he tried to pull out of her, but she forced her body down on him. The worst thing happened. His cock twitched, spitting cum out in a heavy stream. Like a flash, she jumped off, and his cock fell limp over his balls. The woman straddled his face; she pushed her cum soaked pussy on his face.

"I told you not to do that, boy." Clutching his hair and pushing him to her tight. "Eat that fucking cum out of me, you worthless cracker fag."

The man did as instructed in fear and lust until he felt her hips bucking into his face, and a flood of vaginal fluid and his cum gushed across his face. She held his face to her pussy for some time before he let go. Banging his head against the ground several times, she again hit his face with the gun.

Standing over him, she pointed the gun down at him.

"Told you, motherfucker, don't blow your nut." The gun barked, and a white flash jumped from the barrel as pain tore through his shoulder. A plinking echoed off the bridgeworks and rocks as the spent shell ejected on a rock. Darkness covered him.

He heard three more shots, followed by nothing.

Thick cotton covered the inside of his mouth. Smacking his lips, he tried to open his eyelids, but they refused to move.

"Come on, cracker..." his head ached from the beatings. "Wake up, you fucking worthless, Brady boy."

Returning to reality, his mouth, dry and cottony, tasted foul. The light burned his eyes as his lids finally fluttered open. He tried to lift his arms, but something tight on his wrist kept him from moving it. The arm refused to move as he pushed it. He blinked his eyes, trying to adjust to the abundant light in the room.

Restraints held his arms and legs in place.

"Too much light, sugar?"

Turning his head, he saw the nurse move to turn the wand, and the blinds rolled shut. The light level in the room dropped. She moved away from the window. The nurse was a small, shapely woman. Her hips were wide, and her ass was ample, but not fat. As she turned to her side at the foot of the bed and adjusted his bed, he noticed she had substantial breasts. Her hair was long and quite curly, rather dark. In a blinding flash, the fact dawned on him: she was black, quite swarthy.

She sauntered up to him, her hips swaying seductively. Her full, firm lips bore a sweet, sexy smile, and her almond eyes were dark brown.

"Open wide, baby," the woman spoke with a silken, sweet voice. He opened his mouth as her hand moved to his mouth. She shoved something small and blue into his mouth. "Swallow, baby."

Doing what he was told, he struggled to look around and remembered his ankles fastened by restraints on the bed. A straight-edge razor sat on the tray beside his bed. With urgency, the young man shook his head no and tried to speak.

With a quick movement, she slapped his face and moved away from him. Grabbing the metal chair, she dragged it, scraping the legs across the floor to the door, and shoved the back of it under the knob. Pushing the make shit lock in position.

"We don't want no one interrupting your ball shaving, now, do we, sweetie?" she moved like a cat toward him. A vicious black cat. She pulled down his hospital gown a little and ripped the bandage from his shoulder.

"Don't look to me like those stitches are right," she balled up a fist and slammed down on the wound. "We had so much fun last night, figgered you'd want more today. The dumb-assed cops and doctors think you were trying to kill yourself."

In terror, agony, and lust, the man cried while the woman stuffed her thong as a gag into his mouth. With her fist again balled up, she repeated the punch.

"What's the pill?" he gasped through the pain.

"Your dose of Viagra, cracker, boy."

"Now see all that screaming and hollering, and you have torn them loose. Take this second pill, baby boy," stuffing the blue pill in his mouth, she forced him to swallow. We gonna do some serious fucking now.

Mr. Lucky loved her. How might he let her know? Somehow, through the pain and gag, he managed a smile.

"There my baby white boy is." Being perceptive, she said, "Love you too, cracker."

Moving the gown from over his privates, she stroked his hard dick. Spat on it and pumped fast and rough.

"Figured you'll last better if I get you off afore I make you get me off, wonder bread!"

Unable to take his eyes from her, he hoped she was right because the fucking razor was there if he didn't last long enough. He didn't think his Dark Angel would use the thing, but she might.