EXPLICIT CHAPTER
Warning: Graphic depictions of violence, assault, and rape, as well as homophobia.

This chapter can be skipped. Or, if you would like to skip the worst of it, read until you see '~~~~~~' and go right to the next chapter, which has already been posted and contains the immediate aftermath.

Can I just say... I didn't want to write this, ok? I really didn't want to write this. But it's necessary to the story to know about it.

One cultural note- it was not uncommon for men to share a bed together, and it wasn't considered homosexual. Just in case anyone's confused by the opening.
Language note: puto is a slur for a male whore. Maricon is a slur for queer. Both are highly offensive.
Sorry in advance.

Chapter 4: Night in Mexico City part 1

December 1921

Héctor woke up in pain.

His head was throbbing as he peered around the dark room, confused until he saw the large figure on the bed he had fallen from. Seeing who it was, Héctor just sighed and let his head fall back as Ernesto snored on, oblivious to having shoved him out of the bed. Again.

With a faint groan he pulled himself to his feet and glared down at Ernesto, sprawled out wide in the single bed they were sharing that night, one of the many downsides to being poor traveling musicians. At the next place, he was going to insist on two beds, he thought peevishly, because this was getting ridiculous.

Héctor pressed a hand to his eye as he tried to remember where they were… must still be Mexico City, but he couldn't remember even the name of the inn. It didn't matter; it was all the same, night after night. He spotted a chair and desk by the window that would have to make do to sleep on, even if it meant an aching back in the morning. He yanked a pillow off the bed and staggered over, pulling out the rickety chair and plopping his head down on the lumpy pillow, sighing into it. If he was lucky he could still get a few hours of sleep before they had to get up.

Then he heard a noise that made his hair stand on end, like a muffled scream.

He lifted his head, wondering if he'd imagined it. The fear crossed his mind of banditos stalking through the night, but he reminded himself this was the city, not some little town or hacienda. No, it was likely something else. He pulled back the rough curtain and peered out into the street below. A sudden movement from the left caught his eye, little more than a shadow in the darkness. A person? Or maybe more? There was something ominous in the dark shapes.

There it was again! It definitely sounded like a woman screaming. Héctor jumped from his chair, his heart racing at the sound.

Without even pausing to put on his shoes he ran out, racing down the dark hallway, his bare feet almost silent on the cold wood floor. Coming to the narrow stairs, he leapt down two and three at a time before he burst out onto the street. He stopped, holding his breath and turning his head slowly. Where was it? His window had been overlooking a side street. It must have been to the left.

He took off, turning the corner onto a small dark alley that smelled of urine and filth, scattered with rubbish, and where he saw the same ominous figures from his window. Something felt wrong, like the crackle in the air before a storm. Gripping his hands into fists, aware of his heart thudding in his chest, he slowly approached. What were they doing? They spoke in quiet murmurs and seemed to be clustered around something on the ground. Something moving.

"Hey there," he called out, trying to sound casual, friendly, but couldn't quite hide the bite in his voice. "What's going on?"

They jumped up to face him, immediately hostile.

"Fuck off!"

"Mind your own damn business!"

Héctor stood for a moment, could feel the prickling on the back of his neck, warning that this was dangerous. Whatever was happening, he wasn't supposed to be there. Then a movement caught his eye, making him pause.

"H-help me!" a girl cried out breathlessly, then one man moved quickly upon her, and there was a stifled gasp.

"Shut up!" he hissed, bending low before turning to Héctor. "Keep walking, che! You didn't see anything, you get me?"

His body tensed, a dull red filling his mind.

"Let the girl go."

One man let out a bark of laughter. "Yeah? The hell you gonna do about it?"

Shit, there were a lot of them, Héctor realized, clenching his jaw harder. Too many to fight off. What could he do? Go back for help? One of the figures started advancing towards him, with an almost casual air, and Héctor thought he caught a flash of light in the darkness, like the glint off a blade. He took a shaky step backwards, breathing hard. If he went for help, would he make it back in time?

"Let the girl go and I won't say anything," Héctor said, yet already knowing it was useless.

"Fuck off, hombre," the man approaching said. That was definitely a knife in his hands.

Not taking his eyes off the man with the knife, Héctor stepped back, raising his hands high, showing he was no threat. This was far beyond him.

"Ok, ok… I'm going." He would get help, he decided. He could wake Ernesto, or find the hotel staff, or anyone. And then he would return, and maybe… maybe that'd be enough. There was a strange little sound from the girl, like a muffled sob. He stilled, hardly breathing. They'd probably be gone by the time he got back. And the girl… what would they do to her?

No. He couldn't leave her. Gritting his teeth, he lowered his hands to his side and pulled them into fists. It was too late to convince them otherwise, too late to get help. Before he could change his mind, he pulled his head low and charged at the closest man, the one with the knife, and then side-stepped before he was in range, and instead turned to the group of men who were jumping back in shock.

With a shout he slammed his shoulder into one man, throwing him hard to the ground and taking advantage of the little surprise he had. Then another man swung hard and he leapt back, just out of reach, He was quicker than them, the adrenaline pumping through him, but it was all happening so fast, a wild blur of shouts and limbs. He was no fighter, not in the least, but he curled his hands into tight fists and punched as hard as he could into the soft targets of stomachs and the space between the ribs. Wildly he tried to keep his senses about, hardly aware of the grunts of pain coming from himself. He was hit, but only distantly aware of them. On his shoulder, a glance off his ribs, a bad one in his gut, but he pushed on, staying on his feet and thinking of what to do.

He had to get out of there but… where was the girl? He had no idea in the dark chaos. There was no sight of her, no noise. If he could just grab her and run... if they could just run they could get away! Then his mind lit up in a blinding flash of pain, white and hot as he was struck hard on the side of his head. The next moment he was on the ground, everything lurching wildly like the earth had punched him.

With shaking limbs he tried to scramble to his feet, but a kick to his gut made him collapse again, shocking the breath out of him. There was another sharp kick to his ribs, and his limbs spasmed and he was on the ground again. No! He had to get up! He had to fight back! A strike to his back shot a jolt of pain down to his toes, but he could only open his mouth wordlessly, couldn't even scream. He couldn't breathe, couldn't stand.

Soon they were all around him, and all he could feel were hard boots striking him everywhere, and he could only curl up and cover his head. Only time and pain existed, and he found a strange detachment beneath the harsh blows, a numbness that should have scared him.

"Enough, enough!" one man called out in a low voice, making most of them pause, with just one more glancing kick to his forearm covering his head, and then it grew quiet.

"Pick him up," the guy said in an exasperated voice. "Keep the bastardo quiet."

Strong arms grabbed him under his armpits, forcing him to uncurl from where he lay as he was heaved up and then forced down to his knees. His hands were held behind his back, and there was a hand clenching his shoulder in warning. But he didn't speak, or shout, or struggle. He barely knew what was happening, and his head was spinning, filled with a high keening whine that made it hard to focus.

A sudden crash made him look up, and he saw a man, who he supposed was their leader, kicking at rubbish by the wall.

"Where the hell did that puta go?" he said furiously, keeping his voice low. "She was right here?"

"Ran off," one grunted in reply.

"¡Carajo! You idiots couldn't hang onto one little whore? The fuck is wrong with you!"

Héctor felt his lip twitch. At least he had gotten one thing right.

"We got him, though," one said, kicking Héctor in the arm, making him hiss air through his teeth, but kept his head down. If he kept quiet, maybe they'd let him go. He wasn't worth anything to them. Right?

"As if I give a damn!" the leader said, spitting on the ground in derision. "Just kill him and let's go."

"No!" he shouted, jerking his head up, his breath freezing in his lungs.

"Someone shut him up."

"No… No, please!" He twisted against the hands holding him down, suddenly shivering, freezing. "My wife, she… my daughter needs me! I can't..."

He couldn't die. He'd never see his family again. Imelda… he couldn't leave her. Coco…

"A wife, huh? As if I give a rat's ass about your fucking puta or your fucking little brat! Ponce, take care of him."

He couldn't breathe, couldn'st stop shaking as he saw one man pull out a knife. No… no, he couldn't die there. He had to be there for Imelda. For Coco. He made a promise.

"Someone- I… people will notice I'm gone! My friend, he'll—"

"No one's gonna give a damn about you. And no one's gonna come, muchacho," the leader said. "If they did, they'd already be here."

His neck prickled. Why didn't he wake Ernesto when he ran out? Maybe someone might have heard something and ran to the police. Maybe, maybe Ernesto would wake up and see he was gone and go looking for him. Maybe… he was on his own.

"Please…" he said through clenched teeth. "Just let me go. I'll give you anything. I... I'm begging you. Please."

There was a ripple of laughter from the surrounding men, and Héctor felt hot shame creep up his face. As long as he survived, it didn't matter what they thought. He couldn't die, not yet.

"Heh. You know, on second thought…" the man crouched down before him, then gripped his chin, turning his head left and right. "Damn ugly bastard, eh?"

Héctor grit his teeth, glaring hard at him. He was being toyed with. Maybe he could use that time to think of a plan to escape, but he couldn't think far past his terror, edged by a growing fury. He had to survive. Imelda and Coco were waiting for him.

"Please…" he said through clenched teeth. "I'll do anything. My family needs me."

"Ahh, don't worry muchacho," the man said cheerfully, patting his cheek before standing up again, towering over him. "I ain't gonna kill ya. A good padre like you? Nah. I've got something better in mind. Something to make sure you never speak of this night for the rest of your life."

He nodded to the man at his back.

"Tie his hands."

Fear shuddered through him. What were they… what were they going to do? He had an idea, too terrible to consider.

"What, no… no! Help! Socor—"

A hard boot slammed into his stomach, making him double over, gasping for air.

"Shut up," someone sneered, while rough hands worked away at his wrists, binding them tight, so tight he thought something might snap.

This wasn't happening. It… it had to be a dream. A nightmare.

"Watch the alley, I'll take care of this guy."

The other men left with quiet murmurs, leaving Héctor alone with the leader, and his terror only grew. He couldn't get enough air, strangely light-headed. His fingers were going numb as he strained against the fabric around his wrists. He felt trapped. Except, no… his legs were free.

He pushed off the ground, charging forward, head bent low, only thinking about getting as far away as he could, praying he might run into someone. But the man seemed to anticipate it, because as he bolted forward he was suddenly, violently stopped by a fist plunging into his gut. He fell hard to his side, gaping for air, his lungs not working.

No. No this couldn't be happening.

A hand grabbed his hair, digging into his skull as he was yanked to his knees, as a strangled hiss made it through his clenched teeth. Then his head was released and it fall forward, hanging as he continued to gasp.

From behind him, there was the sound of a belt coming unbuckled, and his body went suddenly cold. Frozen. No...

Suddenly his head was yanked back, hard, and he was staring straight up and all he could see was a narrow strip of black sky between the buildings, scattered with bursts of stars.

Desperately, he thought of home. Of Imelda. Of Coco. Of the calm, peaceful nights and the wide open skies full of familiar stars. He wanted to go home.

Then came a soft whisper against his ear, bringing him back to the cold hard street, the gravel digging into his knees, the strange man looming over him, the reek of tobacco, sweat and stagnant breath.

"Don't worry, muchacho... we're just going to have a little fun."

All the air left his lungs, eyes staring wide up at the dark sky, praying he had misheard, misunderstood. Then, without pause, his undershirt was hoisted up around his hips, and then rough hands were groping at his pants, tugging at the laces. He lunged forward, head low and legs scrambling against the rough road.

"Stop! Don't, don't! Get off—"

His words were choked off as an arm pressed tight against his throat, pulling him upwards, almost off his knees.

"Best keep quiet," the man said, his face very close. "Just keep still and let it happen, eh?"

"Nn… no, augh!"

He tried to twist away but the man paid no mind as he began to fumble at the front of Héctor's pants. The strings quickly came loose and the rough material was yanked down to his knees, exposing him to the chill in the air. Héctor jerked against the sudden violation and again tried to dislodge him, gasping for air as the arm pressed tighter. Spots were appearing at the edges of his vision, popping black and white. Then suddenly the arm was gone, and he sank down, sucking in air. But where was-

The man's hand was violently thrust into his gaping mouth, and he felt his stomach heave at the pressure at the back of his throat. In his shock he didn't think to bite down, as filthy fingers ran over his tongue, swirling around the inside of his cheeks. His body lurched, sure he was going to be sick. Then the fingers pulled from his mouth, accompanied by the sound of his own retching.

He dry-heaved and then spat on the ground, wildly disoriented. His mouth was full of the rancid taste of dirt, filth, and tobacco. Behind him, he heard the man spit as well, followed by a wet, rhythmic sound, and Héctor felt his heart seize.

"No, no please! Please!"

A hand clapped over his mouth, fingernails digging into his cheeks even as he struggled to get away.

"You begging for this? Maybe you're a little puto in disguise, eh?"

Héctor strained forward as the man pulled him close, pressing their bodies together, then one hand grabbed him low, squeezing tight.

"Augh, get off me!" he said, having gotten his mouth free for one moment. "Get the fuck off—"

The hand clapped tight again, sharp nails digging into his cheeks.

"Ah-ah-ah, I wouldn't do that," he murmured, pressing closer.

The man positioned himself between his legs, bending him forward, and Héctor felt it, hard and hot and wrong. His whole body lurched to get away, but it wasn't enough. He was trapped. No, no… this wasn't happening.

He screamed into the hand, the sound muffled and strained.

There was a sickening pressure against him, pushing insistently, and he couldn't get away, he couldn't damn move!

A strangled, muffled noise escaped his throat as the man pressed harder, grunting, and he strained against the sickening weight upon his back. There was a growing, building tension, his whole body trembling, uselessly struggling against him. Then there was a sudden sharp break, a violent burst of pain as something seemed to tear within him. For a long moment the world stood still, his mouth and eyes wide open at the shock, at the tremendous pain, as he stared up at the dark sky, the stars smeared through his tears.

"Fuck that's good," the man groaned as he moved within him, and a new wave of pain tore through him. Once again Héctor tried to pull away, to make it stop, but he couldn't do a damn thing. His body wasn't working.

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening.

Another muffled scream tore through his throat, praying for it to end, for the pain to stop.

"Heh, keep screaming," the man said with a grunt, and Héctor could almost hear him smiling. "You really want someone to come and see you like this, eh fag?"

He froze at that, his voice dying in his throat.

No… no, God, no...

"That's what I thought," the man muttered, voice almost sweet, and then thrust deeper into him. "Don't, ah… don't want the world to know you're just a filthy maricón, eh?"

No. Damn it. Damn it! He didn't know what to do. He didn't want to be seen like that. Getting fucked by another man. God, if anyone saw him… he couldn't bear it. It felt like he would lose everything. His shame exposed to the world. No…

The hand left his mouth, the fingernails scraping along his cheeks, and he strove to bite back the scream in his chest, forcing down the rising bile clawing up his throat. If anyone found them, if anyone saw them…

"That's it, don't fight..."

He tasted blood on his tongue, and realized it was from biting his lip so hard. There was a sudden hard thrust and Héctor lurched forward, gritting his teeth hard as he struggled not to cry out. It was revolting, surrounded by the stench of the man, reeking of sweat and filth. There was a vivid awareness of the sting on his knees from the hard road, a sharp but familiar pain that grounded him against everything else.

"You want people to see you getting fucked in the ass like a sniveling little puto? You say you got a wife out there?" the man taunted as he continued to thrust with ugly, animal grunts. "Heh.. maybe she'll come see you like this. We can have fun with her too, eh?"

He shut his eyes at the thought, but no, that was wrong. Imelda was safe. She was safe, she was at home. For a moment he could see her in his mind, a soft smile on her face as she looked in on Coco sleeping. He missed her. His whole being ached to be with her again, to hold her in his arms, to make sure and Coco were safe, and together… why wasn't he home?

His mind was violently forced back to the dark, empty street, to the gravel digging into his knees, as the man jerked against his hips and Héctor had to bite back a new scream, clenching his teeth tight, almost overcome with the pain of it. The shame. God, he wanted it over.

"Enjoying yourself?" the voice in his ear hissed before grunting again as he drove deeper into him. Then the man reached around, his hand crawling over his belly. Héctor twisted forward, his bare legs scrambling against the road as he tried to get away.

"Don't!" he hissed, fury building in him, beyond the pain and the terror. "Don't fucking touch me!"

But he couldn't use his hands or arms. He was trapped. The man's hand dove between his spread legs, grabbed his soft cock and squeezed. Héctor grimaced, hissing through his teeth and feeling he might be sick.

"Stop it!" he begged. "Please, please don't..."

"Begging again? Ha! Bet you like it, you filthy little puto!" the man said, and bent over him even further, pressing down upon his back, forcing Héctor to hunch forward over himself.

"No! No, stop, nnn..." He bit down hard, sure his teeth might crack from the pressure, despising his traitorous body, the storm of feelings quarreling inside him. Even as the man fucked him, he kept one hand on his dick, pulling and squeezing it painfully until it began to stiffen, and Héctor thought he might die of shame. A sob escaped his throat, forcing shaking breaths through gritted teeth. He wanted it to end. He wanted it to be over.

"Let go, please!"

"Oh, I know you're enjoying it. Little putos like yourself can't help it."

He kept his eyes shut tight, afraid to even look down, afraid to see himself growing hard under the man's hand. The man seemed everywhere: on him and in him and around him. A horrible, grotesque intimacy. Let it be over. Just make it stop…

Eventually the man's pace grew erratic, thrusting faster and deeper with every push. His hand clutched tight at his hips, a bruising pressure, while Héctor tried to focus on not screaming, to focus on anything but what was happening to his body, to be anywhere else but there.

Then came a deep, ugly groan against his neck, and a disgusting burst within him. Héctor pressed his head lower against his chest and felt a sob escape him, could hear himself choking on his own breath, tears running cold over his face.

Let it be done. Dear God, let it be over…

His body twisted instinctively as the man finished and pulled out of him with a lewd squelch. Then the man stood back and Héctor collapsed onto the road, curling up on his side.

"Now… that weren't so bad, right?"

Héctor didn't speak, didn't even open his eyes. He lay there and prayed no one would touch him.

Just go. Just go. Please, please…

There was the metallic rattle of a belt, of clothing being adjusted, and then the scuffling of a boot close to his face, and he flinched, jerking closer on himself.

Go away! Leave me alone…

"Heh. Pathetic little puto, eh? Good fuck, though. Your wife must be so proud. My thanks," he sneered, then spat on him, and Héctor flinched as the spittle landed on his cheek.

The footsteps moved away, and he heard the man calling out to his friends, and a new horror shot through him. He lifted his head an inch, looking to where he had gone and dimly saw the same shadowy figures in the distance.

Don't let them come, don't let them come… please…

He struggled to move, but couldn't. His hands were still tied, his pants bunched around his legs, and he couldn't move. He needed help. Biting his lip, he let his head fall back, felt repressed sobs shuddering in his chest.

Someone… someone help me…

But he didn't want anyone to see him. If anyone saw, if anyone found him… they would know what happened. They would see his shame. And if those men came back, if they wanted to do the same thing... He twisted his hands against their bindings, pain shooting up his arms, shooting past the growing numbness. He was trapped. And alone. And hurt.

Help. He needed help. Someone…

Socorro...

Author Notes:

"[…] simplistic activo-pasivo logic ("I'm a man; if I fuck you, you're not a man" continues to direct thought and behavior in Mexico, as elsewhere in Latin America."
The Politics of Sexuality in Latin America, By Javier Corrales, Mario Pecheny

'Socorro' means 'help me.' An urgent, desperate cry for help.

Chapter 5 has already been posted, and is intended to be read immediately after this chapter.