An arrogant straight over-achiever braves an infamous subway line known as the hunting ground of a pair of rapists in this hot throwback story by Jeff Kincaid with art by Etienne!

Subway Savages - Page 1
by Jeff Kincaid
Art by Etienne
Series: Subway Savages

By the time Mark Holton was 18, he wasn't much scared of anything; he was big, man. 204 pounds of rock-hard muscle beneath tanned, velvet-smooth skin, the body perfectly proportioned. Perfectly. We're talking about an unblemished square-jawed face surrounded by a mane of neatly designed hair, blue eyes; we're talking about a thick football player's neck curving out onto sculptured shoulders setting off a vee-shaped torso which tapered down to a wash-board waist. The fact is, Mark did play college football - he was also on the swimming team (diving) - and on top of all that, straight A's. God damn, straight A's.

Speaking of straight, the dude was A in that department, too, a real cunt-man from the time he was that big-for-his-age 14 and his sexy Aunt Maudie-

-But that's another story. Our story has to do with what happened to this fearless hunk a couple of weeks ago. I mean, man, the rumors are true. They are all fucking true. And in a way I can't say I'm real sorry, either- the prick was asking for it. Yeah, it's one thing to be Mr Big and Brave; it's another to go strutting into the ol' lion's den without taking a few elementary precautions.

But Mark Holton, he says, hey, feel my muscle, baby; this here bulge is all the "precaution" I need! Who cares how many dudes've had their assholes handed to 'em down there in the subway-if that's the quickest way to get home that's the way to go!

Mark's a big business guy these days, two years out of college, real gung-ho about sales. The way he hustled on the field, he'll tell you, that's the way you hustle in the real work. Go anywhere to get that contract signed, and "anywhere" means the dark, industrial section of town in the middle of the night sometimes. Usually he'll varoom over in his snazzy sports convertible but, as it happens, this particular night the damn thing was down for parts, one of those last-minute breakdowns. You and me, we would've taken a taxi if it was too late in the evening to check out a rental car, we'd have called for a second cab from the warehouse after we got the John Hancock on the dotted line.

Our boy? Big brave Mark who mowed them down the thirty yard line and fired those bullets into the end zone? You think he's going to wait for the fucking cab company to radio a taxi over? You know how much time that could be, just finding a driver with balls enough to head through these particular deserted streets?

Hey, the subway station's right there on the corner, baby. One token and in ten minutes he is on the express; before you know it he is two blocks away from his Park Avenue penthouse and sound asleep in his downy bed on the 38th floor, who knows how may hundreds of thousands of dollars further into the black!

Let those mysterious "subway savages" try fooling around with him, they'll get a knuckle sandwich in the teeth. A hard quarterback's knee in the groin. Shee-it, on top of closing the biggest deal of his company's lifetime Mark Holton could very possibly get himself the reward the city's posted, fifty G's for the apprehension and conviction of this two-man gang, this scourge that's emptied the subways from Dyre Avenue uptown to Coney Island down.

Wouldn't that be a kick in the nuts, huh?

Thoughts like those back a bull-headed vigilante take those steps into the bowels of the earth two at a time, shadow boxing all the way. Lookit that footwork, people. Look at that incredible footwork!

He slips his token into the slot and slams through the turnstyle, looking up the platform to the runnel from which the train will come. He's the only passenger waiting, which means he can relax. Like they say in Atlantic City, the odds are ass-tronomical.

A scraping sound makes Mark turn; he isn't alone on the platform, after all, he sees, there are two bruisers over there, lounging together at the newsstand, chuckling over some private little joke. The muscular young businessman knows the sound from his team days, it used to be heard in the locker room under the stadium after practice, when Stan the little water boy would stall by the door to the showers, getting himself a quick glimpse of linebacker ass. They'd let him, laughing that laugh; why the hell not? Give the little faggot a thrill.

Just don't ever let him close enough to do anything with that sharp little middle finger of his!

Distant thunder rumbled from the depths of the tunnel: the train, coming round the bend. Mark made a point of checking it out and then busied himself with the folded-up newspaper he'd unpremeditatedly brought under his arm. You know what the etiquette is on the subway. No eye contact. No peeking. You certainly don't want your fellow passengers thinking you're interested in them, no way.

Because you aren't interested in them! No more than they're interested in you. The idea that two hefty bucks like this husky pair would be the newspapers' subway savages" was laughable. Utterly laughable. In the first place, they didn't look anything like the artists' renderings recently printed on page one- those lowlifes were sleazy-faced, long-haired, pock-marked maniacs with slanted eyes and drooling mouths. Kind'a skinny and disgusting. While the muscle jocks back there at the stand did have some of the same stuff on as the crazies in the picture- the headband on the guy with the shaggy blond mane, the little earring in the right love of the dark one with the motorcycle cap- there was no way that the pictures matched. None.

Actually, the broad chiseled chest of the blond in the leather biker jacket reminded Mark of one of the receivers back in college, a heavyweight varsity wrestler named Pete who one, when they were alone and stoned in the frat house, tried to put the make on his dick. Mark couldn't believe it, he couldn't fucking believe it, his big buddy Pete a queer, a guy who was crazy to suck his pal's cunt-hungry pecker. To yank his cum-stained cup down and bury his goddamned nose in his smelly ol' balls!

He beat the shit out of the freak, straddling him and punching him and sticking his boner down that fucking throat so far it made the homo asshole choke.

No. Hey. That's not what happened. Oo-ee, no way, not that second part. The beating, yeah. The faggot deserved that and he got it, good. Good enough to make him check off of the team the next practice, him and that other "friend" of his, Lew. Yeah, right, Lew Adasani, the olive-skinned Italian with the hairy pecs and the big amber tits, too, it seemed, judging from the one visible through the rip in his sleeveless tee.

Shee-it, if these two were Pete and Lew grown up, let them be the big raping subway savages, man. Mark Holton could mop the floor up with the both of them with only one of his 17-inch arms in use. Come on, you bastards, try something. Jump me, come on, let's see you get near enough to even lay a hand on one inch of my 600-buck Yves, silk tie and all. Well?

Unable to help himself, the successful young entrepreneur flashed the lurking pair a look of outright contempt as the express pulled up and the doors opened with a hydraulic hiss, echoing off the beams. Like the station, the train was deserted, all five cars of it. operated only by the motorman in his cage up front and the conductor in his, all the way in the back. Mark stepped aboard.

The two roughnecks entered through the door adjacent, just before the conductor closed the sliders again and announced the next stop, a long run away beneath the river which, he added over the P.A., might unfortunately be made even longer this midnight due to track work ahead. Twenty to thirty minutes at the most, sorry folks, we do the best we can.

Twenty to thirty minutes might mean up to an hour, Mark thought grimly as he settled himself in a seat, back to his travelling "companions." Maybe he should've called himself a cab, after all!

At least he had the paper to read. All about the Subway Rapists and their fifth victim, some poor schmuck of a construction worker who was found stark naked on the floor of a B-train with an artificial prick imbedded ten inches up his ravaged ass and a set of clothespins clipped to his bloody tits.

"Awful," a low voice said in his ear as the train slowed deep in the tunnel under the river. "Can you imagine what kind'a scummy perverts these studs've got to be, doing stuff like that to an innocent guy? Against his fucking will, right out in the open on a goddamn subway train?"

It was the shaggy blond with the five o'clock shadow talking, groping his Levi'd crotch at the same time and learing, leaning in so that Mark couldn't help but get a good whiff of his beer-laden breath.

"Awful." Mark murmured, as though simple disinterested agreement would make the boy slink away and leave him be.

Griff-that, it was later revealed, was his moniker: Griff- didn't go nowhere, and he was joined by his pal Toby, the bodybuilder with the motorcycle cap and the earring. Who leaned over the back of the seat and took the lapel of Mark's 600-buck suit in his big hard fist, grinning funkily as he did. "Worse," he wanted the thick-bodied young tycoon to understand, "these newspapers don't print half the stuff that was done to the victim."

"Yeah," Griff nodded, closer to Mark still, "they leave out the yellow shower they made him take, the smelly armpits they made him lick; they don't tell the reader nothing about how he got a whole fist up his virgin ass, or how they sat on his face while he went, 'no, no, dont'y, puleese, ummfffhh, blaughh.'"

"You ever lick a stud's hot asshole, Mr. Businessman?" Toby was genuinely curious, stretching the collar of Mike's expensively woven garment to the tearing point. "You ever wrap those pretty young lips of yours around another hot stud's dork, run the point of your spitty tongue under his long, puckering foreskin, hmm?"

"Get away," Mark said, twisting in Toby's grip, the muscles of his arms bunching in his pin-striped sleeves. These jerks were putting him on, they had to be putting him on, but the former quarterback was pissed now, damned pissed, ready to teach them a lesson. "You fucking perverts."

"Uh-uh, violence on the subway, that's against the law." The hand that wasn't filled with fabric was suddenly occupied by a switchblade, snicking and glinting, the tip honed sharp and aimed straight for Mark's jugular. "I'm beginning to think you might be one of the Subway Savages." What did Griff think: was Toby right to swing this heavily muscled dude into a neck lock from behind and hold him at knifepoint?

"The knife might not be enough to keep him cool," Griff suggested, showing his teeth. "I better get the club out too."

The "club" was attached to his crotch under a mess of sloppy blond pubes, revealed as Griff wrenched his jeans open. It was knobby and hard, vein-girded, with a shiny plum-shaped head leaking precum in long viscous webs, sticky and beading.

"He'll bop you with it if you don't stay still," Toby hissed viciously into Mark's ear, tightening his hold on the writhing, wide-eyed young body builder. "I swear."

"Especially if you're packing a rod of your own," Griff promised him, dropping down in front of the whimpering Mark to pop his belt and the hook behind it, to yank the trousers of the suit right off the quivering thighs, the spasming calves. The weave parted with an audible rip-two-three and even as the terrible sound reached their ears Griff's hand closed down again, shredding the Jockey's rubberized waistband and all.

"You bastards," the struggling stud rasped, the ineffectuality of the curse provoking laughter, sardonic, contemptuous laughter. Who was going to take care of whom, big boy? Who was so fucking arrogant he didn't think he'd have a problem going on the subway alone after midnight?

Who was going to teach a lesson to whom?

"Ahh!" Mark found himself grunting, choked a little as Toby spun him around by the 50 dollar silk necktie, yanking him forward by the tail as though it were a leash and the ex-All American were a disobedient puppy in need of discipline.

"Toby wasn't putting you on about getting his hairy ol' armpits slurped, faggot," Griff wanted the muscular youth to know as he twisted Mark's legs beneath him, forcing him into a kneeling position on the floor of the lurching car. "Stick that tongue out, c'mon. All the way."

"Noohh," the Rensselier scion moaned, recoiling against the pressure, and choking again as Toby tugged on the tie--as Griff, behind the downed athlete, wet a couple of his thick thug fingers with spit and uncrememoneously rammed them with no advance warning right up Mark's never before violated shit-chute.

"Suck that armpit, we said" he said, pretzelling the digits around each other in the hot rubbery hole, in and out, in and out. "Eat sweat, jerk."

The jerk would have screamed but whatever the undulating noise was that was coming out of his terrorized throat it was almost completely muffled by the hairy hollow clamped down over his nose and mouth, the brutal Toby revelling as he smeared the jungle of hair across Mark's muzzle. "More tongue, boy, c'mon. Swab it. Get in there good."

"MMMfffkk" came the reply, Griff shredding the suit jacket, leaving the dress shirt beneath in rags. Tantalizing glimpses of the Holton musculature stiffened, the cocks bobbing on either side of the groveling body helpless to stop the assault.

"I think we might just have us a live one this time" Griff said to his fellow savage over the broadly veeing back stretched between them. "Better even than that black boy who thought he was so smart out in Queens."

"Much better," Toby smirkingly agreed, pushing Mark's sweat-slock countenance into his other pit and making him partake of that side.

"You woke him up good, thought." As Griff remembered it (with great lip-smacking satisfaction), the big tee-shirted muscleman had flipped the bastard over on his back, grabbing himself a handful of wooly hair and raising the broad handsome face to dick level. the semisoft organ had pulsed and, from out of the hole in the flaring smooth-skinned head came of torrent of pee, geysering and splashing. The horrified and nauseated putters which immediately followed made the whole rape, to Griff's way of thinking, that open-mouthed expression of stunned disbelief that black beauty wore still imprinted on his mind, even more than the stunned expression of disbelief which came over him later, when that pair of steel-hard rapists' dicks hooked through his aching ass and plowed. Yeah.

Did Toby want to give this smart-assed white boy here a little taste of the same kind'a recycled beer?

"Maybe later," came the response, the torn-shirted brute hating to repeat himself in precisely the same way from rape to rape, swatting the back of his hand out to catch the dazed Holton's face across the cheek bone. The force of the blow sent Mark reeling 180 degrees and now, as Toby intended, he was facing Griff's groin, the upsweeping hardon bobbing out, wet and ready.

Page 2 available on May 9


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