Before you read this, please read the warning below.
Warning: For future chapters. This is a slash story dealing with ,angst, non-con, violence, reference to child abuse and dark subject matter. If any of the above offends you, please walk away now.
The Emancipation of Nick Stokes
The crime scene was like any other spectacle in the bustling city of Las Vegas, loud, noisy and surrounded by a multitude of curious onlookers. Some people came to Vegas to get married, some to gamble and some just came for the show.
Nobody came to die, but it happened anyway.
So here he is, squinting against the flashing blues and reds of the patrol cars, taking in the scene. His watchful eyes flicker over the people who jostle at the crime scene tape, vying for a better view of the body and snapping away with their cell phone cameras, looking for a macabre souvenir or a picture they can sell for a fast buck.
The local media had arrived on the scene quickly, most likely tipped off by one of the cops in return for a little something off the books. The glare of their lights stings his eyes, their contrived words of sorrow batter his ears, a litany of phoney rhetoric designed to sell nothing but airtime. They make him sick. They were nothing more than vultures, feeding on the misery of others, and sadly, he has seen it all before.
The feel of a hand on his arm, tugging insistently, reminds him of where he is and why and he turns to address the nondescript, middle-aged man behind him.
"You still want to do it in the alley, man? Or do you want to take this somewhere else? Somewhere a bit further away from the cops?"
"The alley, but just be quick about it."
So he turns and walks away, away from the bright lights and the beautiful people; the ones with real job, real lives, and families who love them. Into the darkness and the shadows he goes, head bowed, resigned, until the man stops beside a half empty dumpster and turns to face him. Without a word, he drops to his knees, large warm hands reaching out to release the already swollen cock from its confines. It smells faintly of piss and sweat, tastes that way too, but he takes it into his mouth anyway and goes to work.
In this seedy alley, amidst the cast-offs and the rubbish of the respectable world, it doesn't take him long to bring the guy off. He jacks him with one hand, while his talented, experienced tongue wraps itself around him, making him cum. When the cock in his mouth begins to go soft, he draws back to sit on his haunches. He spits, doesn't swallow, the guy didn't pay enough for that, but hey, he gives value for money, that's for sure.
The john is already tucking himself back into his pants, making ready his escape from the dirty alley and the whore before him. For him, the "real world" is only a few steps away. In less than an hour, he will be sitting in front of his fifty-two inch plasma T.V. screen, watching final Jeopardy with his middle-aged wife, in their middle class neighbourhood.
The boy before him will most likely be on his knees again or on his back, who the fuck knows. Who cares? Still as he watches him walk away, something prompts him to ask, "What's your name, boy?"
Not stopping or looking back, mind already on finding his next trick, a rich Texan drawl fills the night air, "Nicky. My name is Nicky."
And then he is gone, swallowed up by the night, and the indifferent beauty that is Sin City.