Raoul's First Murders Ch. 04

The first girl he visits is Diane. Her roommate Keiko runs off somewhere giggling to tell the gossip, and he gets into bed with her.

Despite what he told the girls, of course there's nothing random about this. Diane has been on his mind since the Raoul Roulette party.

She's wearing soft pink pajamas and no bra, so initially he sits behind her and wraps his arms around her, pressing her breasts with his forearms. But she's too short for that (he has to scrunch over to reach her), so he has her sit on one of his legs and holds her waist and hips, feeling her body submit to his touch.

"Diane," he whispers in her ear, "do you remember at the party when I wouldn't let you 'accidentally' put me inside you?"

"Yes," she pouts.

"I've been regretting that," he says, kissing her neck.

"Really?"

"So much. I was so happy when I saw your name come up first. I keep thinking how nice it would've been to be inside your tiny little body."

"Really?"

"I keep imagining how my cock would feel in your tight little pussy."

"Really?"

"It's almost the only thing I can think about," he lies.

Almost the only thing he can think about is murdering three men tonight. He's got to seduce Diane with three-quarters of his brain otherwise occupied.

Fortunately, this is not exactly his first time.

"Oh my god," she gasps, her breath taken by his kisses, by his thumb's slow approach to her pussy.

"But it's not the only thing."

"It's not?"

"No. I remember that you were the first girl to rub my crotch. Did you know that?"

"No."

"You were. It made me think, you're not just a hot girl that I'd like to fuck, you're a girl who'd do her best to make me feel good too."

"Oh, I definitely will," she quickly promises.

His thumb has reached her clit. He rubs it through her pajamas and panties. The contrast between the power of his massive body and the gentleness of his touch intoxicates her. Her body aches to fuck him.

"Can I get you pregnant," he asks, "or should I wear a condom?"

"Probably better wear a condom," she says apologetically. "Unless you really don't want to."

"That's okay. I'll wear one. But let me see you naked. I need to see your beautiful little tits."

"They're so small though. Barely more than nipples."

"I like them exactly that way. I love women with figures like yours."

"Really?" she almost jumps in excitement.

"Hell yeah. Let me see them."

"I thought guys like big boobs."

"Most guys do, but most guys don't get to see very many boobs. I've seen hundreds, so I've learned that the small ones are sometimes the sexiest."

"Really?" Her body, delighted by this reassurance, is melting into his.

"Absolutely. The shape matters more than the size."

"But mine are so small that they don't even have a shape."

"I've already seen them at the party and I know they're perfect, and if you don't let me see them again soon I'm going to begin to get frustrated. Take your shirt off for me now. No more talking. I need to see your tits."

During this conversation he's been softly rubbing her clit, and as her legs have instinctively spread, his thumb has very gently explored the whole area around her vagina through her pajamas, slowly moving up and down, taking her breath.

She pulls her pajama top over her head, and he immediately covers her breasts with his hand.

"Oh, fuck yes," he says, pressing one with his palm and the other with his fingertips. "God, I love your tits, Diane."

She gasps then, and completely spreads her legs for his fingers. He grabs her pajama bottoms by the crotch and pulls them and her panties off at the same time, raising her legs up in the air and shaking them off her ankles as she giggles.

"You're so fucking hot," he tells her, now directly rubbing her clit as he eases his middle finger into her wet pussy. "Look at those sexy little legs. I can't wait to fuck you. I can't wait to put my cock inside your tight little body."

As he continues to masturbate her, he feels her body building to its climax, arching her back and breathing in quick gasps.

"Turn around," he orders, "and climb on my cock. You're about to cum and I want you to do it on my cock."

"Me too," she says, "but are you sure it will fit?"

"I'm sure."

He kicks his pants off and tells her to lick his balls while he rolls the condom onto his shaft.

"That's good. Climb up here now and give me your virginity."

She straddles him, and he parts her pussy lips over the tip of his dick.

"Look in my eyes, Diane Lin, and slide yourself onto it."

She looks up at him coyly, chin down and eyes up.

"Good," he kisses her. "Let it go on in."

She gasps as it slides in, and then looks at Raoul, eyes wide.

"Oh, fuck, Diane, you are perfect," he whispers, kissing her neck, grabbing her little ass with one hand and the back of her head with the other. "Ride me, little girl. Ride me all the way home."

"Like this?" she asks, beginning to wiggle her hips.

"Like that and like any other way you want," he says. "Move any way that feels good to you."

"It all feels good," she gasps, her voice an octave higher.

"Good, good. Ride it, you sexy thing." He puts his hands around her tiny waist, helping her move. "Tell me if it hurts," he says, "we can stop if it hurts."

"No, please! It doesn't hurt! Go, go!" She begins to buck, and he matches her rhythm, moving with her. "Oh, god!" she squeals.

"Yes," he encourages, feeling her pussy grip his cock.

When he feels her orgasm about to hit, he kisses her roughly, pushing his tongue through her lips. She surrenders to it, squealing as her body shakes. He pushes her down onto his cock, cuming as deep inside her as he can reach, while she cums so hard that she nearly pulls the condom off his cock.

He cuddles her a while, and she seems to fall asleep there, straddling him with her head on his shoulder.

But he's in a hurry, so eventually he tucks her in and kisses her goodnight.

Next on his list is Yuuko, the tallest girl in the sorority. He loves fucking tall girls — as tall as he can find. They fit together better.

It's the same routine: I was so happy to see that your card came up, he tells her. You were the first girl to lick my dick at the party, and you looked so pretty doing it, and I love your long, thin body....

He needs a while to recover from his fun with Diane, so Yuuko gets a little more foreplay, and she seems more like a virgin than Diane did, but she too eventually straddles him and they cum together.

He'd planned to fuck four of the Kappy girls, but he realizes that three is going to be his limit. He's exhausted already, and sick of the goddamn condoms. If he didn't need to murder three men, he could be out at Little Saigon barebacking his "concubines."

He'd like Mi-Young next, but she's Yvonne's roommate, and he doesn't want to take the chance that Yvonne will foul up his plans.

He goes down to the living room and then the TV room, but Keiko is nowhere to be found. So she's gone off to someone else's room.

Does he have to fuck three of them?

Then he thinks: yes, exactly three. One for each man I'm about to murder.

Saving Maricel for later, that leaves Trang. He'd prefer Amy Wu, but she's Trang's roommate — and then he remembers: Amy was not particularly upset about his lesbian "sixty-nine" joke at the party. It was Jenny who was upset.

So Trang and Amy might be up for a threesome.

Symbolism be damned.

———————

Exhausting Trang and Amy right before leaving was probably a good plan, he reflects, sneaking out the back door. They're two of the ones mostly likely to have been spying on him.

Checking to be sure he has Yvonne's key, so that he can let himself back in later, he jogs through the darkness of Kappy's back yard, hops over their fence, and then walks (as fast as he dares) to the Ihaul in the parking lot a few blocks away.

It's still there, of course, but even so he's relieved to find it.

It's a little after 4 AM when he pulls into the parking spot in the alley. Later than he'd hoped, but the house is dark. The boys are asleep.

It's not a plan anymore. Now he's doing it. Now he has to do it.

Okay, he breathes. Let's remember this. I have to do this to protect my family. These guys are real threats. They've been threatening my family. Who knows what they might do? And if I do this, the worst case is they kill me. That probably protects my family too. Good enough. Not great, but good enough.

Best case, I bury their bodies in the mountains tomorrow afternoon. Problem solved forever. I go back to my normal life, everyone I love is safe.

The guilt, if I feel any, however bad it is, I have to live with. That's the price of protecting my family.

He breathes again, looking into the house, imagining the men inside it. Where would the bedrooms be? Where would they be sleeping? If they're not sleeping, where will they be? Where would they have their guns? What if they wake up, how does he run?

If they don't shoot him, they'll never catch him. That's for sure. But then what?

That's a problem I'll deal with at that time.

For now, well, if it's to be done, it's best to be done quickly. Nothing good will come of waiting.

Mom, Dad, Amy, God, wherever you are. Stay out of this. I'm doing what I think is best.

And really, I've been preparing for this my whole life.

———————

Taking the bag with the ropes and duct tape and garbage bags, he gets out of the truck, closing the door softly.

His heart pounds so loudly, he can hardly hear the world.

Three quick steps across the alley and he hops the fence into their yard, crouching in the shadows on the other side.

Listening.

Nothing interesting. His ears ring, his heart pounds.

No one seems to have noticed. All the lights in the house are still off. There's no movement in the windows. No sounds in the alley. All the neighboring houses seem asleep.

He grabs one of the pipes from the pile next to their shed.

He holds it in his hand. This was the plan, he reminds himself. It's a good plan. I worked on it for days and days. No time to rethink it now. And this is a good pipe. A little more than three feet long. Nice and heavy. I can get a good swing.

Okay.

No use crouching here until someone does come along and see me.

Here we go.

He stands and walks quickly and directly up to the door, watching the windows for any sign of movement.

There's none.

He squats down at the mat, dropping the bag next to the door —

Jesus fuck! The key is gone!

The entire plan hinged on this goddamn key! Where the fuck is it?

He looks again, lifts the mat all the way.

No, it's really gone.

"Jesus fuck, Jesus, fuck, Jesus fuck," he thinks, "what the fucking fuck am I going to do?"

He looks around. Maybe they just kicked the key aside or something. Or —

Ah!

He spots a slice of vinyl siding there in the grass, left over from some half-assed project.

This has to work fast, or he has to just turn and run.

He slides it into the crack between the door and the jamb, wiggles it a little — it seems like the noisiest thing he's ever done — and then the door suddenly opens with the loudest pop and squeak a door ever made.

He stands to the side, listening with the pipe at his side. His whole chest shakes from the pounding of his heart.

Nothing. No sound. No lights go on, no one seems to move.

He steps inside, finds himself in a kitchen. There's a table with a pile of junk mail, advertisements, some dirty dishes. More dirty dishes on the counters. He can see into the living room, demarcated from the dining room just by a line where the linoleum meets brown carpet, and what he can see is empty. Just a big old TV, with more dirty dishes and mail on it.

He edges around, leaving the door open. If the wind blows it shut with a crash, well, shit happens, but that's the chance he's got to take because he's not pulling that squealer closed. It's not windy anyway.

In the living room, now, he can see several recliners. In one of them, there's J. B. sleeping, turned on his side, back to Raoul. There's a hall to the right, probably a couple bedrooms down it. That's where the others will be.

So it's to be J. B. first.

———————

Raoul was seven years old the first time he hit someone with a pipe.

He'd been kicked out of his kindergarten in Singapore for repeatedly getting caught playing doctor with the girls in his class. "They wanted to play," he protested each time, but the adults finally decided he simply had to be taken out of school.

On the other hand, he and his sisters had recently been the subjects of a study published in the Journal of Child Language led by Dr. Heike Schlesinger of the University of Chicago, an expert in prodigiously multilingual children. Granny Neila (their mother's mother) had every page of the article framed and hung on her bedroom wall.

That article declared Raoul in particular as "one of the most impressive prodigies we have studied." This was held up — with some bitterness — to Raoul as a standard throughout his early childhood: "Would the most impressive prodigy spill his milk?" If he asked a cousin to hurry up in the bathroom, she might respond, "The most impressive prodigy can hold it a while longer or go outside."

Raoul was not helpless, for as the article noted, "The male subject demonstrates a particular facility with profanity, even in languages he does not otherwise understand." (This of course was acquired in his grandfather's restaurant on Bugis Street, a favorite of sailors from around the world.)

Raoul's father had gone to King's School in Brooklyn, a fairly respectable working-class Catholic boy's school, and one of his old schoolmates had recently become the new headmaster there, so he pulled some strings, using this article to persuade them that Raoul might be a little misunderstood genius, and got Raoul admitted there. So off went little Raoul to live with his grandparents in New York City.

Far, far, far from the comfortable familiarity of Singapore.

He tested into 7th grade. Barely four feet tall — without being promoted, he would've been one of the tallest first graders in the entire world, but instead he found himself probably one of the shortest seventh graders.

The schoolwork was fine. No problem. The boys, though, were another matter.

Some of the boys at King's treated him like the child he was, much younger than them despite being in their grade and almost as big as them. Others didn't, picking on him now and then.

But one, whom we'll call "Pimple Face" to protect his identity (he will later, you may not be surprised to learn, become a registered sex offender), bullied him relentlessly.

Pimple Face wasn't the only bully, but he was the worst. He terrorized little Raoul from his very first morning at King's, spitting on him and, dissatisfied with Raoul's confused account of his racial descent, calling him a "mutt."

Subsequent days weren't much better, though Raoul did learn to stick up for himself. Raoul's interest in martial arts spiked during his year at King's, and he talked his grandparents into letting him take a judo class at the local YMCA, though to his bitter disappointment it turned out to be, in his opinion, a dance class. He needed to learn to beat a bully's ass into the ground, but he found himself basically doing slow-motion ballet with fat kids.

Anyway, he did get better at fighting, and he worked out with the wrestling team. The wrestling coach even taught him how to punch, how to work a heavy bag, and Raoul spent many afternoons wearing himself out beating the fuck out of that bag.

One of the boys on the wrestling team — Raoul could only ever remember his nickname, "Buttermilk," — was a great wrestler for his size. He even won the city championship. But that was for his size, and he was a really little guy, not much bigger than Raoul.

A really little guy. But no one picked on Buttermilk.

One day Raoul asked why not. Worked up his courage.

"Bullies," Buttermilk told him, "want soft targets. It's like how wolves usually don't attack strong animals. They don't want to fight a strong one. They want a sick one or an old one or a baby. They don't want to get hurt by a big bull or even an angry mother. They're looking for soft targets. So what you have to be is a hard target, and they'll leave you alone."

So Raoul set about making himself a hard target. He got in a lot of fights. Got in a lot of trouble. But the boys — with just a few exceptions, including Pimple Face — eventually backed off.

"Don't mess with Little Cock," they'd say. "He's crazy. He bites. He's crazy. He doesn't give a fuck. He's a crazy little fucker."

"That's right," Raoul would agree, thrilled to hear himself talked about that way. "I don't give a fuck. I'll tear your nuts off. I don't give a fuck. I'm crazy."

The Pimple Face drama reached its climax in the spring, when Raoul had grown several inches, so already the height difference wasn't as great as it had been.

The gym teacher was having the boys run around the block several times, supposedly meeting some kind of fitness standard for distance running. Pimple Face, a budding geometrician, had found a "shortcut" that consisted of running down an alley, then turning down another alley. Both alleys were parallel to the streets they were supposed to run, and all the angles were ninety degrees, so it was actually not a shortcut at all, but Pimple Face couldn't be persuaded, and eventually Raoul, for some reason, decided to take the shortcut as well.

At the intersection of the alleys, he saw something that changed him forever: a ray of sunshine sent by God to glint on a galvanized iron pipe about three feet long. It was laying on a pile of garbage next to someone's garage.

That sunlight touched Raoul's eyes with the realization that the way Pimple Face was sprinting down the alley, turning that corner just as fast and tight as he could, Raoul could stand right behind that garage and ambush him.

And that's what happened. Pimple Face came down that alley. Raoul picked up the pipe, fully intending to murder him. He calculated the angle the Pimple Face would take around the corner. He heard his steps smashing the gravel of the alley. He wound up like a home run slugger....

Pimple Face had no chance to see it coming. Raoul had intended to hit him in the balls, but missed, clipping his liver instead.

He spun halfway around and doubled over, howling in pain, but probably before he'd even realized what had happened Raoul had brought the pipe down hard on the back of his head, the way a man would hammer a railroad spike. The impact was so solid that it shocked Raoul's body as well, traveling through his arms and knocking him back a bit.

Pimple Face fell unconscious into the gravel, but Raoul hit him one more time just for vengeance, smashing that pipe into his forehead with all the strength he could put into that awkward "golf swing." Pimple Face's body just rolled with the impact, as if it had no life in it.

That scared Raoul for a moment, until he saw that Pimple Face was still breathing. Then he threw the pipe at him like a spear, cutting his ear, and took off sprinting away from the scene of his crime.

At the end of the alley, before turning back onto the sidewalk, he looked back and saw that he'd been caught: two of the King's boys were standing next to Pimple Face's body, looking down the alley at him.

He didn't even bother going back to school. He just walked home, crossing the Brooklyn Bridge on foot, walking all the way up Manhattan to his grandparents' home in Harlem.

It was actually a really good day, despite the beating he knew was waiting for him when he got home. He walked through Chinatown, past the hustlers in Washington Square Park, past the peep show places and prostitutes around Times Square, past the junkies in the park, into Harlem.