Raouls First Murders Ch 03

There's only a little sex in this one, but I hope there's enough plot to make up for it. Enjoy!

———————

For nearly three weeks after the brawl at Easy Riders, everything seems fine.

Most importantly, the police never show up. No one ever accuses Raoul of anything. The Khans apparently really have cleaned up that mess for him, and he begins to rest a little more easily at night, though he seems to hear police sirens far more frequently than he ever had before.

He drops in once to blow a couple hundred dollars, hoping to make sure that the Khans continue to think of him as a source of income, maybe even as a potential ally. He enjoys a nice, normal, uneventful night of dances in the VIP room with some girls. Of course he tips a couple of them a little extra for a handy, and afterwards he goes to Emma and Sophia in Little Saigon for some real "pole dancing."

He found their place in Little Saigon the very first weekend after the brawl thanks to Trang, the girl in Kappy (his cousin Yvonne's sorority) who grew up there. It's a cozy three-bedroom double-wide mobile home with a tiny yard with a white picket fence, comfortable walking distance from a Vietnamese grocery.

He'd expected he'd have to rent a place for them, but it's so cheap he's able to just make a downpayment and buy it. The important thing is that it's so much nicer than anywhere Emma, Sophia, or Sophia's mother (now known to him as Mrs. Nguyen) have ever lived, maybe than anywhere they've ever expected to live. One bedroom, he instructs them, is for Mrs. Nguyen, another is for Emma's baby Julia, and the third is for Raoul and the girls.

They have so few possessions, he is able to move them over in three trips with his van on Sunday the fourth. While the ladies give their new home a thorough cleaning, they happily admire him carrying their big appliances.

"Muscles!" Mrs. Nguyen gushes. "Very big man! Superman!"

When his part of the work is finished, he lets the girls give him a shower in their new home, and they put on another nice show for him, playfully washing each other's bodies, giving his cock and balls a tender and luxurious four-hand massage, finishing by rubbing his cum off each other's tits and faces and licking it off.

On his way out, he reminds them:

"Ladies, you're living in my house now. Don't forget that. This is your

home

, but it's

my

house. And as long as you live here, your tits, and your asses, and your pussies, and your mouths, and everything else that a man might want to play with, it's all mine and mine alone. You have any questions about that?"

"No," they coo, happy to be claimed.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Good. Don't fucking forget it. I'll take care of you, but not for nothing."

After they kneel at the door to tie his boots for him, he gives them each a hundred dollars to buy some nice stuff for the house, and they give him the breastiest hugs they can.

(Imagine their point of view. Four days earlier they'd essentially been sex slaves to a motorcycle gang, with no real hope of a way out. Suddenly they're free, with a beautiful home to live in, and head-over-heels in love with a man who is promising to provide for them and all he wants is for them to fuck him and him alone, which is what they would want anyway. He's telling them exactly what he wants and giving them more spending money than they've ever had. It's a fairy tale. There is nothing they wouldn't do for him.)

In the evening Raoul goes back to Kappy to pick up Trang and repay her for her help. He gets a room in a fairly nice hotel near Venice Beach and lets her leave her virginity on his cock.

In the shower beforehand, he praises her body.

"You're so beautiful," he tells her. "I love your tiny little waist and your dark passionate eyes and your big perky tits."

"They're not

big

," she objects.

"They're big on

you

," he teases. "Your tit-to-body ratio is absurd. You're like Betty Boop. I'm surprised they don't give you back aches."

"Imagine how big your thing would look if it were on a normal guy," she giggles.

"Do you know how to give a handjob?" he asks.

"Not really. Why?" she blinks at him with her fake innocence.

"Because I want to cum all over those tits."

"You're so bad!" she teases.

"You like it," he teases back. "Kiss it like you did at the party, and very gently fondle my balls."

Eager to please, she follows his instructions, and after he's shot his first load of jizz onto her round brown breasts, he takes her into the bed and lathers her pussy up with gentle tongue-circles on her clit and soft attention to her g-spot. Then, when the convulsions of her first orgasm — the first of her life, she claims — have subsided, he sits on the sofa, has her put a condom on his shaft, and tells her to straddle him, to lower herself onto his cock and make herself comfortable.

She's one of the shortest women he's ever fucked, but it's a beautiful show when she rides him. Even with her waist in the palm of his hand, he can press the pad of his thumb on her nipple; the other hand can squeeze an entire hip while his thumb rubs her clit.

When she cums, he explodes into her, enfolding her in his arms, pulling her soft, full tits tightly against his body.

Afterwards, they lie naked on the bed together, with her legs spread around his waist and her head on his chest. She tries to persuade him not to fuck any of her sorority sisters, but he rejects that idea, explaining that he's already promised to fuck several of them. Instead, he successfully persuades her to start taking birth control pills so that they can, in his words, "fuck for real."

"But the thing is," he tells her, "I fuck lots of girls, several every week, and you have to be okay with that. You have a lovely, tight little body and I want to fuck you a lot of times, but I won't fuck you at all if you start acting jealous. Are we clear?"

"Do you fuck Sophia?"

"All the time. And Emma too. They're going to try to have babies for me."

"Seriously?"

"Yup. You can too if you want, but I guess you probably want to finish college first."

"Of course!"

"And maybe marry a guy."

"Definitely."

"But you're so fucking hot, I'll keep fucking you as long as you want to fuck me."

"What about after I'm married?"

"It's not

my

job to be faithful to

your

husband."

"Oh my god," she giggles, "do you fuck married women?"

"If I want to fuck a woman and she wants to fuck me, we fuck."

"Wow, you're even worse than Yvonne says!"

"You have to be okay with that, or I'm not interested anymore. I want your pussy, not your drama."

"What if I'm married and we fuck and I wind up pregnant by you?"

"Fine with me."

"What about my husband?"

"What about him?"

"Would you tell him?"

"Not unless you ask me to."

"Wow. My god. I can't believe... I mean, how often do you fuck married women?"

"What difference does it make to you?"

"None, I guess. It's just kind of... Wow. We all thought you are this really nice guy..."

"I

am

a nice guy. Girls like to fuck me and as you now know I treat them right."

"But have you ever got caught with another man's wife?"

"Not yet."

"Not yet. So it'll happen someday."

"Probably."

"Have any of them had a baby with you without telling their husbands?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Oh Jesus. Oh my god. So you might have kids that you don't even know about?"

"Probably not. Maybe."

"Jesus, Raoul. Jesus."

"If you decide you're alright with all this, Trang, my dick's about ready to fuck you again. You'll like it even more this time. A girl's second time's always better."

"I'm okay with it, I guess."

"Don't guess. Think of it this way. All the girls at Kappy right now are jealous of you. Emma and Sophia are jealous of you. Thousands of girls who've only ever seen me in magazines or on television are jealous of you. So you might as well enjoy it."

"You think you're God's gift to women, don't you?"

"I don't believe in God," he deadpans. "You want my cock or what?"

He fucks her two more times that night and takes her back to Kappy, and within an hour this extremely juicy gossip — Emma and Sophia are going to have Raoul's babies — goes from Trang to the sorority to Yvonne to his family to the entire community of the Essex Academy for Boys and the neighboring Ridgway School for Girls and even County High. In about another hour the fact that Emma and probably Sophia too have been strippers gets back to Trang.

Presumably, whispers about the four orgasms Trang had with him make their way around Kappy as well.

He thought about trying to keep some of this secret, but decided that secrecy is suspicious, and at the moment he needs to be free of suspicion more than he needs to be free of scandal. If anything, it's a diversion.

His poor cousin Yvonne, with no idea how to react to all this, confronts him the next evening. She knocks timidly on his door, and when he finally tells her to come in, she finds him wearing nothing but "jams," laying with his head in Irene Jackson's lap.

In her senior year (and only year) at County High, Yvonne had been a cheerleader, and Irene had been her squad captain. To Yvonne, Irene is the most beautiful black girl she's ever seen. Such a petite little figure, with full hips and cute breasts that stand all the way up. Beautiful eyes and a huge happy smile. Perfect skin. And when they cheered, she danced like a goddess, full of life and joy.

"Hi, Yvonne!" Irene sings as if she were fully dressed, but apparently she's wearing nothing but one of Raoul's t-shirts. Her actual clothing is draped over a chair, topped by a lacy white bra-and-panties set.

Petting Raoul's black mane, she smiles up at Yvonne. Her dark curls cascade over her shoulders almost to her breasts, but the tips of her nipples poke through clearly.

Somehow Yvonne senses that a moment before she knocked, Raoul's face had been under that shirt, doing something with those nipples.

"Um, hi, Irene," Yvonne says awkwardly. "Um, can I talk to my cousin alone for a moment?"

"Just talk," Raoul tells her in sharp Cantonese. They all know what she wants to talk about.

"Little brother," she replies in Hakka, the language his family uses for their most intimate, important conversations, "are you really going to have babies with those two sluts?"

"Why not?" he says in English. They go back and forth, Yvonne speaking shy, formal Hakka and Raoul speaking uncompromisingly casual English.

"Are you going to be their dad?"

"That's how it works."

"Are you going to care for them?"

"Sure," he shrugs.

They look at each other and she realizes she's not going to get through to him. He's been supporting all of them, and now he's supposedly starting a business where all of them will be able to work if they want, and it's all his money, and he can do anything he wants with it.

She looks at him differently, realizing that not only is he probably going to fuck all of her sorority sisters, he's going to be a dad. Her "little brother" thinks he's already a full-grown man.

He looks at her indifferently, wondering how she'd act if she knew he's killed six men.

"Is that all?" he asks after a moment, obviously impatient to get back to Irene's tits.

"Are you going to continue living with us?" Yvonne asks.

"Until I go to college."

"So not with them?"

"No."

"Are you going to marry them?"

"Of course not."

"Why not?"

"I'm too young to marry anyone," he says in Cantonese. "But I'll probably never get married. I'd be an awful husband."

Yvonne feels she's won a little victory. He doesn't want to talk about marriage in English while his head is in Irene's lap.

"Old enough to have babies, but not old enough to marry," she says, switching to Cantonese as a compromise.

"Our bodies decide when we're old enough to have babies," he tells her, "but we decide for ourselves when we're old enough to marry."

Yvonne has to think about that. She's not sure it's a good argument, but she doesn't know how to respond. So she settles for saying his name:

"Raoul."

"What?"

He sits up, which seems vaguely threatening to Yvonne, and Irene quickly pushes his shirt between her thighs to cover her nakedness.

"Raoul," Yvonne continues in English, "I just don't... Are you sure you're making good choices?"

He snorts.

Humiliated, Yvonne begins to cry.

"Oh, jeez, come here," he says, suddenly tender.

She obeys, reassured by his gentleness. He stands and embraces her, pulling her face into the hard muscles of his bare chest, and holds her while she weeps.

"Should I go?" Irene asks.

"You're fine," Raoul says. "This will just be over in a minute."

"It will?" Yvonne chokes on a sob.

Raoul looks down at her, softly holding her face in his huge hands.

"It better be," he teases.

She laughs despite herself. What a cheeky son of a bitch he is. She can't help liking him.

"Yvonne, I've always done my best to take care of you and the family, haven't I?"

She nods, sniffling.

"And I always will. I might make some mistakes, and maybe everything will go wrong, but I will always do my best to take care of all of you. Okay?"

She nods.

"Do you trust me?"

She nods.

"Good. Then stop questioning me. Go share your worries with your sisters and cousins, and stop bothering me with them. Understand?"

She nods.

"Good." He leans down to kiss her forehead. "Get out of here and lock the door behind you."

Yvonne, overwhelmed by his sheer physical power, the cavernous depth of his voice, his confident dominance, his surprising capacity for sudden gentleness, and perhaps above all by the knowledge of her complete dependence on him, silently obeys.

"Lock the door," he reminds her as she's closing it.

"Sorry," she says, locking it and disappearing.

She stands on the other side of the door trying to understand what has happened until the sound of Irene giggling startles her, and she flees to the other side of the house while Raoul, for all she knows, puts one of his babies in Irene.

———————

So Raoul had a hell of a winter break by anyone's standards, but once school starts again, other than some meek teasing from his friends about pole dances and diapers and so on, his life settles back to almost normal: working out in the mornings, then classes, basketball practice, returning home each evening to find, in addition to huge dinners prepared by his adoring family, various girls waiting there for him — radiantly beautiful girls like Irene and Shona and Janie and Hannah, with flawless skin and perfect bodies and helpless willingness to do anything for him: to help him with his homework, iron his clothing, massage his feet, scrub his back in the shower, put him to sleep comfortably, make sure he wakes up happily.

Some of his routines do change, though. Increasingly often, he goes to bed with two girls, one in each arm, and they begin to ask if he wants them to have babies for him too.

"It's up to you," he shrugs. "I just want to keep fucking you."

They offer replies like, "That's all I want too," and, "Then I'll just keep being your sex toy."

He now rides out to Little Saigon two or three nights a week, and the night that he's there to celebrate the Kitchen God's Day with them, they happily show him the results of their STD tests: they're clean, they can start trying to have babies for him immediately, so that's what they do.

His Saturday routine now regularly includes "pilates" at Coach Roberta's house — she no longer comes to the gym, he just goes there after working out, parking his bike behind her house — followed by a tryst with Shirley ("Mrs. X") at Chateau Marmont.

Shirley has discovered that she loves stealing her husband's money, so rather than a grand a month, she's giving Raoul a grand a week, and he carries it all on him all the time, prepared at any time to flee to the far north. His Jeep is already packed.

And then of course poor Scarlett, the least welcome part of his week. She starts all kinds of crazy rumors about how in love with her he supposedly is, and sometimes he thinks she might actually believe them.

"Can I have a baby for you too?" she asks on their third Saturday afternoon together.

"Wouldn't your dad be disappointed?"

"I don't care what he thinks," she practically spits. "I can do whatever I want."

"I'll think about it," he tells her, intending to ask her mother about it. "If you get pregnant, I won't fuck you for months. You'd only be able to blow me."

"That's fine," she shrugs, and goes to work, determined to prove that she can suck his cock as well as anyone.

———————

But still his conscience lurks like a predator, stalking his nightmares and haunting the background of all his waking thoughts, ready to pounce, to devour him at any moment.

Each evening he pushes it aside with six symbolic shots of vodka.

He creates a comforting story for himself. The men he killed must've had it coming: what were they doing in that kind of club anyway? And on a major holiday, rather than with friends or family? They must not have been decent men. And why were they even participating in the fight, rather than just standing to the side, or trying to break it up, or trying to shield the women from the violence?

When he thinks on these things, he somehow forgets that he was there on the same day, which was his birthday and his twins' birthdays to boot, and that he went despite his family's pleas. He omits the fact that he's underage, that it was completely illegal for him to be there. He has almost completely forgotten that after laying on the propane tank, puking into the weeds, he intentionally went back inside the club looking for the fight.

But every Sunday morning, when he's boxing at Aztlán, he remembers — with some of that guilt but (in that setting) with even more pride — that his arms and fists are the arms and fists of a murderer. Every Monday and Wednesday morning, at Brazilian jiu-jitsu and Thai kickboxing, he considers himself not merely a competitor or an athlete but a warrior preparing for potentially deadly combat. It gives a fresh relevance, even urgency, to his training.

And every night before the alcohol puts him to sleep, with whichever woman or girl or girls or women he's allowed to spend the night next to him, the full knowledge that he is a murderer descends upon him.

Sometimes it gives him a sense of intensified legitimacy: he deserves these women not merely because they want him but because he has broken men who might have had them, men who (in his opinion) would not have treated them as well as he treats them.

Sometimes it stares at him in the dark with the stench of death on its hot breath. Trying to be brave, Raoul looks into the abyss of its maw.

"Alright," he tells it silently. "Alright. I'm a murderer. I took lives. Alright."

He tries to face the enormity of his guilt, as though it would go away if he could just grasp it.

He visualizes his victims' wives and children, their lovers, their brothers and sisters, anyone else who might be missing them. He remembers his grief for Amy, his grief for his parents and for his grandfathers, and he imagines all of them feeling that.

He imagines how his sisters and cousins and aunts and grandmothers would grieve him if things had turned out the other way.

And eventually he weeps, his body shaking like a frightened child's.

"Are you okay?" the girls with him that night whisper, and he lies that he's dreamed about Amy or his mother, and they press their bodies tightly against him, eager to soothe him, thrilled to share such a moment of vulnerability.

But usually he stays busy and far from such thoughts, and as the wound on his arm heals, he's increasingly confident that he's safe, that the Khans really have covered for him, that he'll be able to live out the rest of his life without suffering any consequences for his one night of reckless and lethal stupidity other than a guilty conscience — which, he reminds himself, many other men have found ways to live with.