Author's Warning: This chapter contains pre-slash, offensive language, violence, hints of incest and references to dub-con and non-con man-on-man rape. Do not read if you cannot stomach it.

Chapter 6: Gone Courting

CJ's POV:

"…following a shootout between Grove Street and Ballas street gangs. Johnson is facing charges of murder, racketeering, arson, assaulting a police officer, and unpaid parking tickets. Johnson's public defender, Eugene Vankurupt, had this to say:

"'My client is innocent, I tell you, innocent! He had four unregistered guns on him when he was arrested, but they were all self-defense weapons. Have you seen our streets lately? Everyone has a gun! If you don't have a gun, you need to buy one! What was I saying now….Oh yeah, the D.A. won't charge him with possession of an unregistered gun. Where's the gun possession charge? There's no justice in this town. Sean Johnson didn't murder anybody! He's innocent of all charges!'

"In other news, the D.A.'s office has launched an investigation against Attorney Eugene Vankurupt for drug possession, drug distribution, child pornography, racketeering, auto theft, and unpaid parking tickets. Vankurupt had no comments.

"Now that bridges have re-opened between Los Santos and San Fierro, it's time for the seasonal Beat the Cock Race! Beat the Cock fans from all over the state…"

With a frustrated snort, Carl turned off the radio and began to pace the living room of his newly acquired farmhouse. 'Man, I spent the last two weeks worrying about Cesar and his loco cousin, and I forgot all about Sweet!' the husky Black berated himself.

Two weeks earlier, Cesar had driven into Angel Pine, sweating feverishly and mumbling deliriously. CJ noticed his best friend's shoulder gunshot wound just before the Azteca warrior collapsed in his arms while exiting his car. The Black had rushed him to the Angel Pine Medical Center, where the doctor on call had seen enough hunting-related gunshot wounds in his careers to specialize in them. '"His tourniquet stopped the bleeding from the wound, but if you hadn't brought him here within a day or two, infection was going to set in. With infection comes blood poisoning and when blood poisoning sets in, we just let the patient die,"' the doctor had told him.

Cesar mumbled something inaudible in his sleep, and Carl heard the sound of the Latino's body moving on the bed. 'I could've lost you, Ceese. With all the medications they got you on and the bed I got so you wouldn't have to sleep on that pile of rags in your crib, you just need to rest.' Carl walked onto the front porch, determined to cease his interruptions of the Hispanic's much needed rest.

He sat heavily on the front stoop and clasped his hands over his head. The same day Cesar was put in the hospital, Carl had purchased the farmhouse with some of the money Kendl had recovered for him. The Grove Street gangsta still had plenty of funds. 'Sweet's about to go to jail and they tryin' to silence his attorney too. Shit! I gotta do something. Ain't no used sittin' around here feelin' sorry for myself.' His stomach rumbled. 'Might as well get some eats before I go crazy on an empty stomach.'

The buff gangsta pushed himself to his feet and started walking toward the lone gas station in Angel Pine, on the other side of town. His skin color alone drew the attention of other pedestrians, but his chiseled bulk attracted lingering, lustful looks. In the two weeks without access to a gym, Carl had maintained his physique with a daily regimen of push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, and boulder pushing at the foot of Mount Chiliad early every morning. The workouts were exhaustive but they were working.

At the gas station, Carl bought as much soda, chips, snack crackers, and candy as he could with $20, the only cash he had brought with him. 'Still tryin' to get my energy back from that pussy Catalina put on me last night! Ooowee! I'm not crazy about that rack shit, but it was worth that whippin'.'

Carl smiled to himself as he exited the gas station. His smile faded almost instantly when he spotted Jacob, the Cluckin' Bell employee from his first night in Angel Pine pumping gas into a blue Walton. The blond hadn't looked in CJ's direction. 'That's the last motherfucker I want to talk to right now.' With some difficulty, the husky gangsta concealed himself behind a propane tank outside the store and waited for Jacob to drive away.

Then he spotted a blue Voodoo pull into the pump beside Jacob's pickup. 'That's a Grove Street car right there.' A man dressed in a skin-tight black tank top, sagging green jeans, and brown boots stepped out the car, a green rag knotted about his mountain of curly hair. Carl couldn't see the man's face. 'That's Grove Street right there. Bet that motherfucker is lookin' for me and Ceese.'

Sweet's POV:

'Ninety-eight….Ninety-nine….One hundred!' Sweet Johnson panted as he concluded his morning workout in his prison cell. The Grove Street don wiped off the sweat from his face, neck, and chiseled torso with a white prison-issued tee.

With the workouts he performed in his cell and on the prison yard, Sweet's body had recovered a six-pack and his broad chest within days of his release from the prison hospital. His body hadn't undergone an amazing transformation like Carl's when he had returned to Los Santos, but he was slimmer and more chiseled than the gangsta had been in years. 'When I get out this bitch, hos gonna be on me like flies on shit.'

The sound of a buzzer filled the corridors of the maximum security facility, as the cells of Sweet's block simultaneously opened. The Grove Street don pulled on a clean white T-shirt and grabbed his shower toiletries. In a prison filled with Vagos, Ballas, San Fierro Rifa, and Russian mafia, the Grove Street king had few allies and even fewer people he trusted. Almost everyone in San Andreas' premier incarceration center knew he had been imprisoned without a sentencing hearing, so his status as a marked man was undisputed. In only seventeen days of confinement, Sweet had been involved in 31 fights. 'At least I ain't dead, or been raped yet, and I ain't gonna be as long as I'm breathing,' the Grove Street king thought as he joined the line to the shower.

Naked white, Black, and Latino men communed together in the small, steamy room. Their bodies were a spectrum of colors and sizes, from lean behemoths nearly seven feet tall with their manhood swinging proudly like clubs to short, squat Russians covered with body hair and a cloak of natural musk. Each man in the line had to disrobe in front of the guards. Some did so proudly with pointed looks at the men in uniform. Others, especially the younger man, tried to conceal their goods and still project an impenetrable air of defiant masculinity.

Sweet noticed his least favorite guard, a White man with the retired, thickening build of a football player, stood at the head of the line and used his club to force any shy prisoner's hands from his goods. 'These motherfuckers in here to get some ass. Just hungry for some dick. That ain't never gonna be me, bending over to be some nigga's shower bitch.'

He easily found an unoccupied shower. It was near the exit in case Sweet needed to escape, but far enough from the guards that Sweet's naked body wouldn't be visible. The Grove Street king turned on the hot water and let his length dangle freely between his legs as he began to lather up. He unconsciously always started with his sinewy arms, then worked his way in concentric circles to his shoulders and wide ebony chest. Sweet never closed his eyes in the shower, aware of certain men who roamed the showers for a shower daddy. 'That ain't gonna be me either, I love pussy too much.'

As his skilled digits worked their way down his sculpted stomach, Sweet heard a man's soft moan from somewhere behind him. It wasn't uncommon for the gangsta to hear a man's suppressed screams or the sounds of flesh smacking flesh in an aggressive act of sex or a violent fight, but the Grove Street had never heard a man moan like that. His member twitched.

A second, longer moan, filled with desire, pleasure, and intoxication hit Sweet's ears, and his shaft began to harden. A few men on the other side of the wall chuckled. The moans became more rhythmic.

'It's been a long time since I got some pussy or some head,' Sweet thought. 'Ain't jacked off in weeks. My dick needs this.' Sweet's hands languidly drifted around his Black manhood and began to stroke it to full hardness. Although the Grove Street don lacked the muscularity of his younger brother, Sweet had seen CJ's erection on a few unbidden occasions, when Carl was in the bathroom as a teen and didn't lock the door. Sweet chuckled to himself when he recalled his brother's terrified reactions. He knew that in a side-by-side comparison, the older Johnson surpassed the younger by inches in length but with similar girth.

As the Grove Street don pumped his shaft in time with the moans, CJ's well-carved physique stayed in his mind. 'That's some sick shit, thinkin' about my little brother naked. Gotta have a bitch in there, come on Sweet. Don't let prison turn you into a faggot.' Sweet thought of the pop singer Rochell'le bent over before Carl, her juicy, hot mouth wrapped around the head of his little brother's shaft. 'The R&B singer pumped CJ's shaft with her eager mouth. Carl, his head thrown back against a wall in pleasure, wrapped his fingers in her blond pigtails and forced more of his Black dick in while Sweet watched from the sidelines. The room was thick with the smell of Rochell'le's bared, shaved pussy.'

"That's it, little bro. Represent for the Grove," Sweet mumbled as his eyes closed.

'The R&B singer hummed musically as saliva trailed from her mouth. She swiveled her hips erotically while drinking in the younger Johnson's naked body. CJ was close to cumming. Rochell'le's glasses slid off, and she looked up at Carl with her big blue eyes. "Drink my cum, bitch," Carl hissed.'

"Mira, what have we got here?"

Sweet's eyes shot open as a fist connected with his right cheek. He stumbled backwards, and before the Grove Street king could recover, fists were assailing his face and torso with abandon. When the blows ceased, Sweet was slumped against the floor of the shower, blood flowing from his face to the water. He assessed the scene before him.

Five Latino gangstas stood over him in a half-circle. Two were fully clothed, but the other three, the ones who had attacked him, were as nude as if they had just showered. All five were decorated with tattoos and shaved heads. Their lean but intimidating bodies barred any route of escape with folded arms and scowling faces. Sweet was determined to represent the Grove until the end. "What's it look like motherfucker? A tub of puddin'?"

"Nah," said the tall, naked Latino who had spoken before, "looks like a Grove Street pulvo."

Sweet watched in horror as the three naked Latinos began to stroke themselves to full hardness. Their thick brown uncut members were prime for pain if allowed inside an unwilling man. Sweet pushed himself to his feet and started to launch a final assault, but the two clothed Latinos rained more punches upon Sweet's face and torso before he could stand upright. They slammed the Grove Street don against the shower wall so hard, he saw stars before his eyes. His ears began to ring. The pressure of their arms restrained him from moving.

A tall man's naked body pressed against Sweet's bruised one. The Black flinched from the pressure of a man's erection against his virgin anus. "Relax, puto. It'll only hurt the first time."

Cesar's POV:

The slam of the front door startled Cesar into full consciousness. The Azteca warrior seized his Desert Eagle from beneath his pillow and aimed it at his bedroom door in one swift motion. Heavy footsteps resounded through the farmhouse from the living room. Cesar knew those footsteps too well for them to belong to an intruder. "Ay homes? Que pasa?" he called through the door.

Carl opened the bedroom door. Cesar noticed the husky black had soaked his Rockstar sweater with sweat, and the damp places clung to the gangsta's peaked nipples as he panted for air. Two sawn-off shotguns dangled from the Black's hands. "Were you followed from LS to Angel Pine, Ceese?"

"No, no one followed me here, homes." 'Not even Kendl,' Cesar thought. 'And now I'm staring at her brother with deseo.'

"Just spotted GSF at the gas station off the highway, Ceese." Carl clicked the chambers into place. "So you fucked up some kinda way."

Cesar's lustful thoughts were quickly replaced by indignation. The Latino launched himself from his bed in gray sweatpants and white socks. "Tonto del culo, I did not fuck up. I told you nobody followed me. Why I gotta lie? You think I'm estúpido or something?"

Someone knocked on the door before the Black could answer. Carl crept to the door with his shotguns raised to chest level by his beefy arms. Cesar followed him with the Desert Eagle still in his hand. The Latino cleared his throat, which had suddenly gone dry. "Who is it?"

"Pitbull. Kendl sent me here from Blueberry Acres," a baritone voice responded.

The Azteca warrior's heart plummeted to his stomach. 'Pitbull's the last pendejo I want to see right now. If he saw Kendl and she still sent him here, she really doesn't love me no more.' Carl jerked his head in the door's direction, indicating that it was Cesar's responsibility to open the door, while the Black gangsta stealthily walked to the right side of the door, guns still held at chest level.

Cesar unlocked the door.

CJ blinked coldly but his mouth twisted into a half-smile. "Anyone else out there with you?"

"Nah, playboy. I shook all them Ballas like we was on the court. Had to drive through half of Red County before I came to Whetstone."

"Come on in then." The lean Latino opened the door wide to let the other gangsta into the house.

Pitbull, birth name Rafael Freeman, matched CJ's 6'4" height. The former's muscle mass was formidable without the impressive biceps or the awe-inspiring span of the husky Black's body, the build of a man who could have been a star quarterback for the San Fierro Packers. His curly brown afro was restrained by a green rag, the hair color a gift of his Dominican father and its texture a gift of his Black mother. Pitbull's blue eyes, smooth face, square jaw and athletic body were worthy of supermodel status.

His blue eyes flickered up and down Cesar's shirtless frame. Pitbull grinned. Cesar maintained a dark glower.

Carl embraced Pitbull and shut the door behind the prettyboy gangsta. "Man, you've seen Kendl? How's she doing?"

"I saw her just last week," Cesar mumbled resentfully.

Neither CJ nor Pitbull seemed to have heard him. "Challe, she's buena. Said she's working for a radio station from her house in Blueberry."

"Working?" Carl's jaw dropped open.

"Yeah, and she's making good money from the sound of it. Totally legit."

"How'd you find us?" Cesar demanded while Carl struggled with the idea of Kendl working.

"Kendl told me the name of the town, and it wasn't hard to find where the Black guy and Latino guy live." Pitbull yawned. "Man! I've been on the road all night long to get here from Blueberry. I'm thirsty and tired, homes. You mind if I rest up real quick before we really talk?"

"No problem man. Matter of fact, you can sleep in my bedroom. Just let me clean it up real quick." CJ rose to his feet and exited the living room. "Ay Ceese? Hook our man up with some beer."

The Azteca warrior started to comply, but the prettyboy gangsta grabbed his arm. Brown eyes met blue. "This is a nice place you got here, Cesar."

Cesar snatched his arm free and continued his freezing glare. "Carl bought it. Don't touch me like that again," he hissed, low enough that no one outside the living room could hear.

"Perdón, I didn't know you were…"

"What did Kendl tell you?"

"Nothing I didn't know before I got to her. I'm still thirsty by the way."

Cesar went to the refrigerator in the kitchen, retrieved a beer, and brought it back to the prettyboy gangsta. Pitbull had kicked off his boots and reclined on the sofa, his feet resting on the arm of the sofa in clean white socks. "Gracias. You want to sit down?" Pitbull gestured with his head at a free space on the sofa.

"I'd rather stand. Por qué esta aquí?"

Pitbull opened the bottle with his bare fingers and took a long drink from the bottle. "Been looking for you, novio."

"Don't call me that." Cesar's anger was so intense, it made him tremble. He rarely wanted to kill anyone, even for Varrios Los Azteca, even for Kendl. Pitbull's cocky grin incited Cesar's blood to boil and a murder plot unfolded in his head. "Don't ever call me that."

"Why not?" Pitbull sat up, his blue gaze still seeking the Azteca's brown eyes. "Los Aztecas is no more. Grove Street Families is just more coked-up pendejos. Los Santos is behind us."

"I still got Kendl."

"She don't love you no more. She told me herself."

Cesar folded his arms across his chest to contain the emotions that threatened to break him into millions of pieces. Pitbull stood up, arms extended to embrace him, and the Azteca warrior backed away. "Even if I believed that, the whole east side of LS knows you got plenty of ninos and ninas. Last I heard, you got ten of them, Rafael."

Pitbull grinned enchantingly at Cesar's use of his name. Cesar knew he sounded like a woman complaining about an unfaithful lover, but he needed more obstacles between his lean body and Pitbull's large, protective one. "It's twelve, actually. And like I said, I came looking for you. Give me a shot, Vialpando."