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Coming Clean	By : piechi Category: +S through Z > South Park > Slash - Male/Male Views: 6681 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own South Park, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Coming Clean
- 1
So, wow, I’ve never posted smut before, and I’m blushing like hell. Let me know if this is okay.
* * * *
Coming Clean
* * * *
The text message from Cartman had arrived three minutes ago, as Stan was carefully penning out the last few lines of a poem for Kyle. The day of their six-month anniversary was getting closer--a not inconsiderable fact, given Kyle’s principles about pacing their physical activity. “Hand-holding for the first few weeks, kissing after the third,” he’d said, drafting the list on the back of Stan’s geography homework. “We can make out in theatres after two months. Tongue, no hands. And I’m always game for romantic dinners…I’ll even let you cop a feel if you pay.”
“How big a feel are we talking about?” Stan demanded. “I’m not dishing out a hundred bucks just to brush against your ass a little when I pull out your chair.”
Kyle grinned. “There’s direct correlation, see. Feel-size versus meal-size.”
Fucking Jew. Stan just shook his head and leaned forward to kiss him softly on the lips, already violating their newly established timeline. Kyle surprised him by kissing back. His pen clattered to the floor as they gently tried to find a rhythm, awkward and tender. Their breathing was ragged by the time they broke apart. Stan let his mouth linger a moment longer, sucking at the smooth skin below Kyle’s jawline and eliciting a tiny shiver from his friend. “You’re trying to kill me,” he mumbled. “What are you looking for? A signed contract?”
“We need to take it slow,” Kyle whispered back. “Please…this is too important to fuck up.”
Stan thumbed the button on his jeans. Kyle immediately grabbed his wrist and disentangled it from his clothing, bringing it up to his mouth to place a few clumsy kisses on the knuckles. Even that small, platonic contact made Stan’s stomach knot. His entire body felt too warm. “Is six months long enough for you?” he asked, his voice unsteady. “I--I think I love you. I don’t know how long I can…”
“Six months,” Kyle agreed quietly. “Six months.”
The way the list had been going, sex was probably scheduled sometime in the next decade. The fact that Kyle would move it so much closer made Stan’s throat tighten with emotion. “Thank you,” he said. He pulled away, into his own personal space. “I swear, I’ll honor your boundaries until then. I mean…I can make it that long.”
Kyle’s eyes were still half-lidded. “Oh, but Stan?”
“What?”
He broke into a sly, sunny smile. “It had better be an amazing six months.”
And god, it had been. They’d spent nearly every day together for the last half a year, laughing, arguing, testing themselves against the weight of their obvious sexual tension. They hadn’t been entirely true to the timeline--Kyle gave him tongue exactly four days after they started dating, and Stan had managed quite a few gropes, dinner or not--but they both honored the strict clothes-on policy. Neither of them wanted to violate such a heartfelt agreement.
So, needless to say, twenty-four hours shy of the big day, Stan was more than grateful for a little diversion.

Come over, Cartman’s message read. Want to show you something.

Whatever. Kyle was studying; it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. Stan tucked the poem into his shirt pocket, slipped on his sneakers, and headed down the street to Cartman’s house. The whole block was strangely quiet; must’ve been some charity function going on at the church. He stepped onto Cartman’s porch and knocked. No answer. Stan sighed and dug his cellphone out to type a quick response. I’m here, fatass. Answer your door.
The reply buzzed its arrival thirty seconds later. Come to the basement.
Stan shrugged and let himself in, kicking his shoes off on the welcome mat. Liane clearly wasn’t home--the ever-present smell of fresh baking was absent from the kitchen. He hopped down the basement stairs, taking them two at a time. “Cartman?” he called. The room was dark. He fumbled along the wall for a light switch, his fingernails scraping lightly against the concrete. “Cartman, you here? What did you want?”
Above him, near the top of the stairs, the door suddenly creaked shut. Stan jumped as the last stream of light disappeared, plunging the basement into complete darkness.
“Cartman, is that you?”
There was a long moment of silence, punctuated only by a minute squeaking as someone moved down the stairs. Stan drew instinctively closer to the wall, his hands knotting into fists. What the hell was going on? He was just shuffling back towards the door when the overhead lights flickered on, briefly blinding him. When his eyes adjusted, he let out a strangled gasp and recoiled. Cartman had materialized not five inches to his left, dangling a pair of handcuffs from one chubby finger.
“Hello, Stan,” he said calmly.
Stan clutched at his chest, willing his heart to stop pounding. “Christ, you scared me! What the fuck is going on?” he demanded. He looked around the room. Nothing appeared to be out of ordinary--the unfinished floor, a washer-dryer set in the corner, Christmas lights curled around the metal support pillars. His eyes froze again on the cuffs. Cartman twirled them casually, slowly advancing on him.
“I just wanted to have a little chat,” Cartman said. His smile was smooth, predatory. “You’ve been pretty busy with the Jew, haven’t you? A certain special day coming up?”
Stan’s mouth was dry. “What the hell do you know about that?”
“Calm down, Stanley. We’re just having a mature, adult discussion here.”
“We’re only sixteen.”
“Sixteen is old enough. Did you know that this is the age most teenagers have sex for the first time? What a world, huh. Kids grow up so fast nowadays.”
In two rapid steps, Cartman was suddenly right in front of him. Stan stumbled backwards with a startled cry. Cartman grabbed his forearm and squeezed, keeping him from retreating any further, his fingers grinding viciously into Stan’s bicep.
“Have you fucked him yet?” Cartman demanded, shaking him hard. “You still feeding into that feelings-first abstinence bullshit, or does that dirty Jew rat let you fuck him?”
“What the fuck is your problem?” Stan yelled.
Cartman slammed him against the wall. His elbow cracked on the cement. “He does, doesn’t he! I knew it! I bet he does all sorts of filthy things to you! I bet he goes down on you every fucking night, that fucking slut, trying to please your sorry two-inch jock prick!”
“Don’t you dare talk about him like that!” Stan screamed. “He hasn’t! He’s not just some fucking whore!”
Cartman stilled abruptly. Something changed in his eyes. Then that strange, crazed smile spread across his face again, and he marginally loosened his grip on Stan’s arm. “Oh, thank God,” he said. He shot a look at Stan, cheerful and disgusted. “Thank God for fucking prudes, for these stupid shithole romantics.”
There was a faint clicking sound somewhere to Stan’s right. He looked down. Cartman had secured one of the cuffs around his wrist.
“The fuck do you think you’re--” Stan began, then Cartman hauled him off his feet by his half of the handcuffs. Stan hit the ground hard on his back, his breath whooshing completely out of his lungs. Pain screamed along his spine. Cartman just kept dragging his dead weight towards the center of the room, jittery with adrenaline and sadistic glee, unmindful of Stan’s thrashing and kicking. He pulled him against one of the support pillars and wrenched his other hand behind his back. Moments later, the other half of the cuffs clicked cheerfully into place. “Cartman,” Stan wheezed, still reeling. “C-Cartman…please…”
Cartman shuffled briefly along the shelves in the corner, then returned with a dirty rag. He squeezed Stan’s lips apart and forced the fabric inside. Stan choked for breath, his eyes stinging. It tasted like Turpentine. Cartman watched him impassively, then reached forward to pluck his phone from his front pocket.
“To…Kyle,” Cartman said. He was keying in a message. “Got…a…present…at Cartman’s. Come…over. Smiley-face. Send.”
Stan fought with the handcuffs, responding with something muffled and clearly less than complimentary.
Cartman looked at him disinterestedly. “What is it, Stanley? You think anything I do could actually harm your little relationship? Where’s your faith?” He dropped the phone back into Stan’s pocket, pausing when he saw the poem. Against Stan’s muffled protest, he removed the card and unfolded it, his grin widening without humor. He scanned it quickly. “What’s this? ‘Filter of the soul, effervescing purity, at last: coming clean.’” His eyes fluttered to dangerous slits. “Oh, Stan. He’ll love it.”
He didn’t even have time to roll with the blow. Cartman struck him backhand, hard enough that Stan tasted blood behind his teeth. His mind swam in pain.
“That the problem, isn’t it,” Cartman said. “He’s your best friend, so you think that you have the right to take him for yourself. That it’s some sort of diehard BFF guarantee.”
He knelt down and grabbed a handful of Stan’s hair, forcing his head up. Stan hissed in pain.
“Well, you’re wrong,” Cartman said, his breath hot on Stan’s face. “No one cares how long you spend on your fucking poetry; it doesn’t matter. I have devoted more time to him than anyone else in this world. I’m the one with his name pinned on my fucking wall, not you. Not some bleeding heart football fag. And unlike you, I don’t wait for the fucking nod. I take what I deserve.”
There was a bang in the distance as someone threw the front door open.
Cartman stood up. “Wow, so fast? Feel flattered. He must’ve run here.”
The voice was faint, barely audible through the floor. “Cartman!” Kyle shouted from upstairs. His footsteps traced patterns in the carpet above them, past the living room, through the kitchen and back out towards the patio. “Cartman, that was not a text message from Stan, what the fuck did you do to him?”
“Down here, Jewboy!” Cartman called merrily.
Stan screamed against his gag. Cartman kicked him casually in the stomach, cutting off any further warnings.
“Cartman?”
A second later, Kyle’s shadow appeared at the top of the stairs. It paused for a moment before toeing the first step, then another, with more conviction. Cartman moved silently to the base of the stairs, his lips moving faintly as he counted the steps. Stan rasped for air. Cartman lifted one finger, ticking it warningly. Twelve, he mouthed, a smirk tugging at his face. Thirteen. Fourteen.
At the fifteenth stair, Kyle reached the landing and stepped around the corner into the basement. He was clearly in study-mode--his hair was mussed, and he was dressed casually in an oversized button-up shirt and faded blue jeans. Still looked good. Cartman intercepted him before his left foot had even touched the ground, capturing him off balance and sending them both crashing into the wall. Kyle cried out in surprise and indignation, fighting to extricate himself from Cartman’s embrace. “Get off me, fatass!” he yelled. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Cartman struggled with him for a moment, holding him easily at bay, then tired of the pretense and heaved him across the room. Kyle landed heavily on his left arm, letting out a yelp of pain. Stan shouted his name through the gag.
His head jerked up. “Stan?” he gasped, his eyes wide with terror. “What’s going--”

Behind you! Stan tried, an instant too late. Cartman reached Kyle before he could turn around, hauling him up by his injured arm. Kyle screamed, lashing out at him with his hands, feet, teeth. He looked so small next to the bastard, so helpless, nearly staggering off his feet when Cartman hit him across the face. Kyle caught himself against a table. The wooden feet squealed along the concrete. Cartman pulled him upright again and ripped his shirt open in one smooth motion, then flung him back towards Stan, who tried to cushion his fall as best he could. Their bodies fit together well, even now. Kyle’s trembling hands touched his face as he struggled back up to his knees, sobbing for breath, a thin stream of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“What is this?” Kyle said, his voice cracking. “What do you want from us?”
“A little respect.” Cartman’s face twisted, and he suddenly drew back and kicked Stan hard in the ribs. Both he and Kyle screamed. “Just a little fucking respect!”
Kyle shouted and flung himself forward when Cartman moved to kick him again, catching his leg in mid-swing. Cartman looked down at him and paused. A strange, faraway look came across his eyes, cruel and impatient, and he unabashedly dropped one hand below his waistband and took half a step back. “Take off your pants,” he ordered Kyle, stroking himself lazily. “Then come here.”
“Cartman,” Kyle moaned, his eyes flickering towards Stan’s.
“Don’t look at him, Kahl. Look at me. You can do this now, or you can run for help and I can snap his neck. It’s all up to you.”

Go! Stan willed him silently. Damn it, just run!

Kyle squeezed his eyes shut. Tears beaded delicately on his lashes. Then, without making any noise, he sat back and slowly began wriggling out of his jeans.

“Good,” said Cartman.
Stan strained furiously against the cuffs, a sob escaping from his stifled mouth. How could this be happening? Kyle bared his legs with unintentional sensuousness, pausing briefly to toe off his shoes, showing off his calves and lush, well-shaped thighs. It was more skin than Stan had seen on him before, at least since they were kids. He kicked his pants away with his socked feet. Cartman admired him for a long moment, then reached out to wipe away the blood on his chin. Kyle flinched back. Cartman waited another beat before gently pulling him forward again, freeing his half-erect cock with his other hand. This time, Kyle did not recoil.
“You’ve given hand jobs before?” Cartman asked.
“No shit,” Kyle said dully. A lie. They’d only gone as far as awkward, reverent touching, never under the clothes, but Kyle wasn’t about to give him any sort of satisfaction. Something inside Stan reveled in pride, mixing nauseously with his helpless fury. A dizzying lightheadedness threatened his consciousness. He fought it back, clenching his teeth harder around the Turpentine-soaked rag.
“Well, I’m not interested in Jockstrap’s sloppy seconds,” Cartman said. “Just get me ready. You have thirty seconds or I’m going in dry.”
Kyle looked at Cartman’s dick, thinly masking his confusion. It wasn’t huge, but it was thick--fuck, no way that was going to fit without lubrication. He spat tentatively on his hands, then took a deep breath and forced himself to wrap his fingers around Cartman’s arousal. It twitched faintly at the contact. Cartman let out a sigh as Kyle began slowly rubbing him down, thrusting lightly against his tempo.
“You’re gonna want to work faster than that, Jewboy. Twenty-five seconds.”
“Shit,” Kyle hissed, and moistened his palms again, this time working Cartman a little more quickly.
“Twenty,” Cartman said.
“Shut the fuck up!” He actually lost his grip on the next stroke. Swearing, he tried to make up for his precious wasted seconds. His hands were beginning to shake.
Cartman laughed loudly. “Fifteen. Jesus Christ, you want me to tear you apart?”
He was still too fucking dry. Kyle spat once more, but his saliva was scant, clinging to the roof of his mouth. And Cartman was actually becoming aroused by his desperation--his cock was growing appreciably, large and mercilessly unprepared. Frustrated tears stung in Kyle’s eyes. Drawing in a quick breath, he plunged forward without giving himself time to think about it, engulfing Cartman in his mouth before his mind had a chance to protest. Behind him, Stan let out a low moan. Something in Kyle shattered, but he didn’t pull back.
“Yeah, yeah,” Cartman grunted, pushing in further. He swept Kyle’s bangs out of his face, his fingers buried almost tenderly in his red curls. “Good Jew. That’s the way to do it.”
Tears dripped hotly down his face, mingling with the salty taste of sweat and precome. His jaw ached as he struggled to dampen as much of his length as he could, choking on the upstrokes. He’d only managed four inches or so before Cartman released his hair and pulled away. Kyle straightened, feeling his stomach lurch uneasily. Stan had dropped his head down and to the side, his shoulders trembling uncontrollably. He’d seen the whole thing.
“It’s about to get better,” Cartman called to him. He hooked his fingers around Kyle’s boxers and pulled them down, his eyes hungrily roaming his body. “Fuck, Marsh, I’m seriously. You have no idea what you’re missing.”
“Please don’t,” Kyle whispered.
Cartman snorted. “What is it with you guys and the word, ‘please?’ Do you think ‘please’ has ever made a difference to anyone?” He crawled on top of him unceremoniously, roughly forcing his knees apart. His fingers absently brushed Kyle’s shirt aside, teasing one nipple to a delicate pink peak. Kyle moaned. “I want you to look at me, Kahl,” he said softly, just out of Stan’s earshot. “I want you to think of me every time you spread your legs for that faggot. Okay?”
Kyle swore and tried to jerk away. Cartman forced him back into place, his eyes amused. Kyle finally met his gaze, stilling under his oppressive weight, his chest heaving with barely controlled emotion. “I love him, you sick fuck,” he said.
The laughter died from his expression. Cartman lifted him up by the hips, positioning himself at his entrance. “Yeah, we’ll take care of that next,” he growled, holding his cock steady, and thrust inside.
It hurt. It fucking hurt. Cartman would never admit to being a virgin himself, but there was no other explanation for his clumsiness, his complete lack of finesse. It took him three tries to get the head in. Kyle bit his tongue to keep from screaming, his fingernails scraping chalky lines in the cement as he struggled to accommodate Cartman’s poorly prepared length. Cartman fiercely shoved against him, squeezing the hell out of his shoulders. He pushed, shifted around, pushed again. When he finally found an accessible angle, Kyle let himself go slack against the cold floor, his eyes rolling back in his head. Pain. Pain.
Cartman began to thrust in and out, moving with excruciating slowness. Kyle felt a trickle of blood start between his legs. A soft mewling escaped his lips, and he cut himself off sharply, trying to place himself in someone else’s arms. A soft bed. The smell of roses and burning candles. Classical on the radio, gentler hands, a voice like a wave of poetry--
No, it wasn’t fucking working. Stan never would have let him bleed.
Above him, Cartman’s pace quickened slightly. The friction had become something warmer, less obtrusive. “Yes,” Cartman panted, his eyes dropping shut. He shoved forward too fast, and Kyle cried out before he could stop himself. A faint smile crossed Cartman’s face. He repeated the motion several times, eliciting a few more involuntary noises. Kyle clamped his hands over his mouth. Cartman wrenched them back down to his sides, leaning forward to bite at the curve of his neck.
“D-don’t--”
“C’mon,” Cartman hissed. His teeth raked along one shoulder, towards his chest. “Just let it happen.”
The fucker was trying to make him come. It wasn’t enough to steal his first time; he had to get him off in front of his fucking boyfriend, too. Kyle didn’t know if Stan was watching, but nothing could stop him from hearing--Cartman had slowed down a little, moving with deceptive gentility. One of his hands closed around Kyle’s unaroused length.
A note of desperation reached his voice. “No! Cartman--aah--!”
Cartman began to stroke him in time with his thrusts. Kyle writhed, unable to stop himself from moaning, acutely aware of Stan’s presence not even four feet away. His body was on fire, every nerve alight with pain or pleasure. Cartman’s dick inside him. Cartman tonguing his nipples, jerking him off. Everything about it was wrong, but his body wanted it, needed it, and his building orgasm was taking furious precedence over even his humiliation. He shoved futilely at Cartman, numb with disgust and heartache. This was what the fatass had always wanted. He wanted to break them.
“C’mon, kike,” Cartman demanded, pounding him harder. “You want it. You’re hard for me.”
Tears burned beneath his eyelids. Cartman was right--he couldn’t hold on much longer.
Stan’s face flickered across his mind.
“I-I don’t want--” Kyle gasped out, only dimly aware that he was speaking. “I’m sorry, aah, I--I can’t--”
Somewhere behind them, magically amplified in the sudden silence, Stan whispered his name. Gag or not, the syllables were unmistakable. Kyle. Like a prayer. Like an apology.
“Stan,” Kyle cried, and came hard in Cartman’s hand.
Cartman was too far gone to stop, but Kyle felt the mirth evaporate from his orgasm. He grunted his release, his fingers biting hard into Kyle’s wrists, flooding him with ejaculate that seemed to sear his entire body. They lay there for a long moment, shuddering in the aftermath. Their limbs curled together reflexively. But the adrenaline had waned, and without the security of an endorphin rush, the horror of what had happened finally had a chance to settle in. Kyle squirmed out from under Cartman and dry-heaved twice, clasping both hands over his stomach. His vision went white.
“Fine,” Cartman said, still gulping in deep, rasping breaths. “Fine.”
Kyle was seconds from fainting. He jerked back to consciousness when Cartman seized him by the elbow and began dragging him across the basement floor, towards Stan. His unsteady legs scraped uselessly against the concrete, kicking up dust. A second later, Cartman threw him at his boyfriend. Kyle clung to him without hesitation, unable to stop his tears, pulling the rag out of Stan’s mouth and kissing a feverish trail from his cheek to his collarbones. Stan gasped for fresh air. He looked at Kyle, his eyes filled with immeasurable grief.
“Oh god, Kyle,” he managed. “Oh, god.”
“Stan.” Kyle was searching the floor for a key to the cuffs when Cartman suddenly grabbed his hair and twisted, making him yelp. Stan screamed in protest.
“Leave him alone, you fat fuck! Haven’t you done enough?”
Cartman ignored him. He tugged Kyle closer, still holding onto his hair, forcing him onto his elbows near Stan’s feet. With his other hand, he reached into Stan’s lap and unzipped his fly.
“No,” Stan whispered, suddenly catching on. He began fighting harder to liberate his hands, the blood draining from his face. “Cartman, no, that’s fucking sick!”
“You want him, you have him,” Cartman said to Kyle. “Suck him off.”
“Fuck you!” Stan screamed. “Kyle, run! Just--”
Cartman’s arm lashed out. He caught Stan’s throat in a vice grip and squeezed gently, slowly choking off his air supply. Stan’s mouth opened and closed. A soft strangled sound issued from between his trembling lips, and Kyle tried to lift his head, whimpering. Cartman violently shoved him back down.
“What’s the problem, Jewboy, does this cheapen your ‘great romance?’ Destroy some of the magic?” He bore down on Kyle a little harder, grinding him into the floor, then released his hair and urged him forward between Stan’s legs. “Do it,” he ordered, his smile wide and frenetic. “Just pretend I’m not here, like you two are alone.”
They hadn’t even gone this far yet. Kyle was exhausted, desperate, reduced to begging. “Please don’t make me do this, Cartman! I--I don’t know how--”
“Just do what you did for me,” Cartman advised, reveling in the disgust that flickered across his face. “Get a move on. Your boyfriend seems to be having trouble breathing.”
He would do anything to protect Stan, and Cartman knew it. Kyle crawled forward, nudging Stan’s legs apart despite his feeble attempts to struggle away. He sat there like a sinner, a fucking five-dollar whore. The two of them could’ve been some back-alley Colfax hookup. Kyle gingerly unbuttoned Stan’s boxers, crying openly.
“Take it out with your mouth,” said Cartman.
Stan’s knees twitched as he leaned forward. Kyle brushed them aside and buried his face in Stan’s groin, tugging lightly with his teeth. It was hard to pull it through the hole in his jeans; Stan was completely flaccid. Cartman pushed Kyle aside to stroke him, patiently trying to work him up halfway. Either air-deprivation or revulsion was making it difficult to achieve his erection. Even as he faded in and out, Stan’s jaw was set in defiance. His eyes moved languidly around the room with no recognition, torpid and dull.
“I got off, you got off. It’s only fair that Stan gets off. Right, Marsh?” He said that last loudly. Stan gave no indication he heard. Cartman slapped him lightly on the cheek, watching his head loll a little to the left. “Oh oh. You better hurry, Kahl. He--”
“Move,” Kyle sobbed, pushing forward again. He seized Stan’s cock and began running his tongue up and down the length, kneading the underside as he worked. He never wanted Stan like this, half-conscious, being forced to take what he was forced to give. He lapped at the head, trying to urge up pre-ejaculate, any sign that he was actually alert enough to respond. “Stay with me,” he whispered, and slowly took Stan between his lips.
It was easier to do Stan. He didn’t thrust like Cartman, didn’t have the same unmanageable girth. Kyle lifted himself onto his knees and knelt, sucking gently, then lifted his head and tried again, this time going down a little further. He quickly found a rhythm. Thank God, Stan was starting to react in his mouth. His cock seemed to grow a little every time he bobbed down, and Kyle squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself not to choke as it stiffened near the back of his throat. Cartman made a soft sound of approval. He loosened his grip on Stan’s neck, letting him have another free breath. With his other hand, he considerately stroked Kyle’s hair out of his face.
Kyle was pretty sure Stan was crying, too. Every once in a while, there was a soft drop of moisture on his shoulder, warm and saline. He continued running his hands around Stan’s dick, rubbing cautiously, pausing every once in a while to cup his testicles in one palm. There had to be beauty in this somewhere. He had to at least try to make it good.
“Nnh,” Stan moaned urgently, his hips arching involuntarily off the ground. Kyle started to pull away.
“Swallow,” Cartman said, forcing him back down.
Stan’s eyes fluttered shut, and suddenly, unwillingly, he was coming down Kyle’s throat. God, there was a lot. Kyle drank as much as he could, sputtered once, lost half a mouthful. He managed to take the rest. He held Stan in his mouth until he had stopped spasming. Then he sucked a few more times, lapping up what remaining stickiness he could find, and slowly moved to sit up.
Cartman stared at him, watching the tears and come drip down his face. “Good boy,” he whispered, tenderly touching his cheek. He let go of Stan. “Good boys.”
Stan wheezed for breath. Air whistled asthmatically into his lungs, and Kyle leaned against his chest, struggling to get his breathing regular again. They collapsed into each other. Both of them were sobbing, nuzzling frantically, but neither seemed able to look the other in the eyes. Stan’s spend was drying in streaks across Kyle’s chest. Like brands. Like a scar.
Good.
Cartman stood up and walked across the room. He fished the handcuff key out of his pants pocket, tossing it towards his friends. Kyle stopped it before it skittered under the washing machine, his fingers shaking too badly to actually pick it up. He glanced up at Cartman as he passed. The unguarded fear in expression was beautiful, delicious.
“Be gone in five minutes,” Cartman said calmly. “And clean this mess up.”
He moved past them without a second glance, hopping up the stairs towards the shower. He turned the taps on full blast and stepped inside. The hot water destroyed all of evidence of the day’s events--his come, the dust in the basement, the Jew’s virgin blood, still dark and accusing against his skin.
And that, Cartman supposed, soaping off his body, was what really mattered. What washed off.
Coming clean.
* * * *
End
* * * *
Sorry for the abrupt end. Let me know what you think!
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Coming Clean