Strip Poker

Jorge Chavez was forty-eight his last birthday. When he married his wife, Rosa, he was seventeen; she-fifteen. The had seven children-all girls. The three older ones were married with children of their own, but Maria, Rosita, Helena, and Teresa were still at home. Maria, seventeen, and Rosita, fifteen, helped out in the little grocery store that Jorge owned about fifteen miles north of Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico.

Jorge’s store was doing OK. Most of his sales were to the teenage gringos that came down to Baja to surf. There was a constant stream of them coming into buy food and beer, mostly beer. They were supposed to be eighteen to purchase beer, but Jorge never bothered to check.

Although he made most of his money from the gringos, he didn’t like them. They were always making comments about spics and beaners or insulting Maria or Rosita.

”Hey, Babe. How about you and me doing the dirty deed?”

“That’s one’s hot. I’d fuck her.”

The Norte Americanos acted like Jorge and his family were all dumb Mexicans who couldn’t understand English. Hell, he and the girls talked to them in English when they filled their orders, didn’t they? What really pissed off Jorge was that they stole from him. Just last week some of them had grabbed some beer-run out the store-sped off in their van. Jorge couldn’t afford such a van, but they stole from him!

He told his cousin, Carlos Vasquez, who was the local cop, “I’m going to shoot the next pinche gringo that runs out of my store with some beer.”

“Call me. I’ll help you shoot them,” replied Carlos.

Carlos hated the little rich bastards. They were always speeding. A few weeks ago one of them had run him off the road, putting his squad car out of action. They shot him the finger as they sped away.

Shawn, Rick, Mike, Kevin, and Justin were all seniors in High School in La Jolla, which is on the north side of San Diego. Shawn and Rick were eighteen. The other three were seventeen. Their favorite pastimes were surfing, beer and girls, though not necessarily in that order. At least in Baja, they could get plenty of the first two.

They looked like surfers-lean, athletic bodies, browned by the sun. Four were blondes, either natural, bleached by the sun, or out of a bottle. Mike’s hair was almost black. With his tan, he was dark enough to pass for a Mexican, but he had the look of a Californian.

After a week of surfing at San Miguel, they were out of beer and low on money. They wanted to stay one more night so they could surf early the next morning-the waves had been bitchin- but, if they spent their money on beer, they wouldn’t have enough for gas.

They had come to Baja in Shawn’s van. It was a couple of years old, but was still a good sufer’s ride. It was bright red. The back was covered with surfer decals.

“Hey, dudes,” said Rick. “Let’s go down to the store and rip off some beer.”

“How’re we gonna walk out with beer?” replied Kevin. “It’s easy to sneak out chips and stuff, but beer-no way.”

“Simple,” said Rick. Shawn will stay in the van with the motor running. The rest of us will each grab a couple of six packs, run out, jump in the van. We’ll be gone before they know what’s happening.”

Hell, what could the fuckin spics do to them, anyway? They were Americans, after all. “Let’s do it,” they agreed.

The boys packed up their tent-couldn’t leave anything for the Mexicans to steal-drove south on the highway to Jorge’s Mercado.

When they walked into the store, Jorge was in the house which was located in the rear of the store. Maria was working out front. As the boys entered, she was the only one in the store.

Rick nudged Kevin, “Shit, man. This is gonna be easy.”

Mike grabbed some chips, walked up to Maria.

“Hey, mama. You’re hot. How about you and me doing it?”

Blushing from the shame of having him talk to her in such a manner, Maria turned away. When she heard the door open, she turned to see the three boys leaving with a six pack of Corona in each hand. Mike, chips in each hand, ran after them.

“Stop...come back,” she yelled. “Papa...Papa, they’re stealing beer!”

She ran to the door to see the boys jump in the van.

Jorge, upon hearing Maria, ran into the store. He didn’t have time to grab the shotgun under the counter. By the time he got out the front door, the van was already speeding north on the highway. It was too far away for him to see the license plate, but the bright red color-the surfing decals-would make it easy to find. He called his cousin, Carlos.

“Carlos, a bunch of pinche gringos just stole some beer from me.”

“Did you get their license number?”

“No, but they’re driving a red van with a bunch of surfing stickers on the back.”

“Si, I’ve seen it. I think they’re staying up at San Miguel. Let me get a few of mi hombres. Bring your shotgun. We’ll drive up to see if they’re still there.”

It took Carlos about an hour to round up three of his men and drive to Jorge’s store.

“It took you long enough, Carlos, “ said Jorge.

“I had to round up the men. If they went back to the States, we’re too late, anyway. If they went to San Miguel, it’ll give them time to get settled in. They won’t be expecting us.”

Jorge got into the car with the other four. Carlos and his men all carried pistols. Two of them, as well as Jorge, had shotguns.

They found them at the second place they tried up at San Miguel. The boys had set their tent up next to the van. Jorge and Carlos could see their shadows, elongated by the lantern on the floor, on the walls of the tent. When Carlos and Jorge pulled back the flap on the tent, the boys were sitting on the floor playing poker-drinking Corona.

Seeing them sitting there drinking his beer, really pissed off Jorge. He hit Rick, the closest one to him in the mouth with the shotgun barrel, busting open his lip and knocking out two front teeth. When he cocked the shotgun, Carlos grabbed the barrel, lifting it toward the ceiling of the tent.

“No, not here, primo. We’ll take them out to a place I know.”

Carlos had an old house set aside for giving certain prisoners “special treatment.”

They paid no attention to the boy’s protests. Every time one opened his mouth, he was hit with a shotgun or pistol barrel. They handcuffed each with his hands behind his back. Kevin and Mike were put into the car with Jorge and Carlos. Ramon, one of Carlos’ men drove the van with the two other men and the other three boys inside. Carlos brought along the deck of cards.

They left the highway, drove several miles down a dirt road to stop at a locked gate. Carlos got out to unlock the gate. It was about another mile to the house. The adobe house was all that was left of a failed ranch. It belonged to Carlos’ brother.

The men dragged the boys from the car and van-took them into the house.

“Vamos a matarlos, aqui?” (Are we going to kill them here?) asked Jorge.

“Tengo una idea, mejor, “ (I have a better idea) replied Carlos.

The boys were all sitting on the floor where they had been shoved, handcuffed behind their backs.

“You boys play poker, no?” asked Carlos. “That’s what you were playing, yes?”

“Yeah, we were playing poker,” said Mike. “What are you guys gonna do? We didn’t do nothin.”

Carlos slapped him across the face with his pistol. “Don’t lie to me, cabron. You stole beer from Jorge. You insulted his daughter.”

Mike didn’t want to get hit again. He kept his mouth shut.

“Besides, we’re just going to play a little poker, or... you guys are going to play a little poker-strip poker.

“Shit,” Rick thought. “They’re a bunch of queers. I hope they aren’t gonna fuck us.”

Being naked wouldn’t bother these boys. They often changed clothes on the beach. They didn’t care who was watching. They all had virgin assholes, though.

All the boys were wearing T-shirts, shorts, and sandals.

“Stand up, mother-fuckers,” said Carlos.

After the boys stood up, Carlos walked around to each of them-pulled down their shorts. We he got to Mike, he exclaimed, “Madre Mia, look at this melon.”

Although flaccid, Mikes cock still hung about eight inches down his leg. It was proportionally thick. He could wrap both hands around it when he peed.

Rick’s fears were realized. The men took turns fucking the boys. There wasn’t a virgin ass left in the bunch. Carlos used Mike’s ass.

“He has a big dick, but he has a tight ass,” said Carlos.

When they were through, Carlos had the boys sit in a circle on the floor. They sat there, most on one cheek to take the pressure off their sore assholes, their shorts down around their knees. He went around to each-removed their handcuffs.

“OK, boys, now you’re gonna play a little poker. Here’s the rules: It’s gonna be a game of five card no-peek. Five cards are dealt down to each player. The first guy will turn up a card. The next guy in turn has to turn up cards until he beats preceding player. Everyone, but the winner of the hand loses one item of clothes. The winner doesn’t win the other guy’s clothes. He just doesn’t lose his.”

He paused...”That doesn’t sound so bad, does it, boys? Just a little game of strip poker. We’ve already seen everything you’ve got, anyway,” he laughed.

“Oh...one thing I forgot to tell you. When you have no clothes left to lose...you lose your balls.”

Jorge and Carlos’ men loved it. It took all their restraint to keep from rolling on the floor with laughter.

The boys didn’t take so well to the idea. They paled, becoming pasty despite their tans.

“Except for melon there. He doesn’t lose his balls. He loses that melon. I’ll keep it for a souvenir.”

Mike’s cock shrank. It had probably never been so small-still huge, though.

“Oh...you do have one more shot,” Carlos said grinning. “If you spank your monkey-shoot your wad, you get to play another hand. You only get five minutes, though. If you can’t get off in five minutes, your balls come off, or, in your case,” looking at Mike, “your melon.”

He handed the deck of cards to Rick. “OK, deal everyone five cards face down.”

Rick dealt out the cards. Shawn, the first to play turned over a ten of diamonds.

It took Mike three cards to beat him with a jack of spades.

Kevin turned an ace of hearts over on his second card.

Justin made a pair of eights on his last card.

Rick couldn’t beat him.

Shawn paired his ten on the third card.

Mike turned over another jack.

No one could beat the jacks. Everyone, except Mike had to take off his sandals.

Mike also won the second hand. All the other boys took off their T-shirts. They were left with just their shorts-still around their knees.

Kevin won the next hand. Mike lost his sandals. Kevin still had his shorts down around his knees. The men wouldn’t let him pull them up. The other three sat there naked.

Justin yelled, “All right...yes!” when he won the fourth hand.

Mike lost his T-shirt. Kevin lost his shorts. Rick and Shawn had to go to work on their cocks. Rick didn’t have much trouble. He shot his wad before two minutes were up.

When Shawn lost the hand, he peed all over the floor where he was sitting. He was so scared that he had trouble getting his cock hard. The men were counting down...10...9...8...7...when cum started oozing from his cock. The men were notably disappointed.

Rick won the fifth hand. Mike lost his shorts-he was now naked. Kevin, Justin and Shawn had to save their balls with their cum.

Kevin and Justin had no problem, but Shawn couldn’t even get it hard. He frantically pulled on it, tears streaming from his face as he did, but it hung limply in his hand. After five minutes, it still wasn’t hard.

He screamed, “No...no...please don’t!” as Carlos and Ramon pulled him to his feet.

Carlos handcuffed him behind his back again. As Jorge held his shotgun on the others, Carlos and his three men dragged Shawn over to a corner of the room. One held his torso down. Two splayed his legs.

By this time, Shawn was blubbering incoherently. He pissed again, and, this time, shit all over himself. Carlos punched him when he did. “Pinche cabron,” he said.

The reached down, grabbed hold of Shawn’s scrotum, took both balls in his hand. He started to cut the whole sack off, but, being pissed because Shawn shit all over the floor, instead split it down the middle. Both Shawn’s balls dropped out-hung by their cords. He grabbed them, yanked, ripped them from Shawn’s body. Mercifully, Shawn fainted.

They moved Shawn out of the shit, half-heartedly washed him off with a bucket of water, dried him, and duct taped a dirty rag to his torn scrotum.

Except for Mike, all the other boys were crying. Shawn lay in the corner, unconscious, but moaning.

Mike won the sixth hand. Rick, Justin, and Kevin had to go to work on their cocks. This was the second time within a few minutes for each of them. They all made it well before the five minutes, but Rick was the only one who shot his cum any distance. It just oozed out of Justin’s and Kevin’s cocks.

Justin won the seventh hand. Mike started to work on his cock with both hands, on above the other on its shaft. It didn’t get a lot bigger, but was more than ten inches long. It was so thick that there was a large gap between his fingers and his thumb.

“Hombre...that’s a donkey dick!” said Carlos.

Mike shot his wad quickly. His spunk shot clear up onto his chest-but coming out of his ten inch cock, it wasn’t that far.

Rick, again, had no problem. He had some respite from winning the last hand, but the men were counting down again, when a few drops of cum oozed out of Kevin’s cock. Fear is not a good aphrodisiac. They started to grab him, but Kevin yelled, “Look...look...I came. See, there’s the cum!” as he pointed to the cum oozing from his dick.

Justin won again. Mike, Rick and Kevin had to go to work again-and it was becoming work. It had been just a very few minutes since they had last cum. Mike had little trouble. This was only his second time.

Rick’s cock was now red-he had rubbed it raw. Cum oozed from his cock shortly before the five minutes was up.

Kevin pumped on his, to no avail. It wouldn’t even get hard. He pumped. He cried, “Come on...come on...please, “ but it was no use. The five minutes were up.

He tried running, naked, for the door, but Jorge hit him across the face with his shotgun. He dropped like a rock to the floor. Carlos and Ramon dragged him over to the side of the room. He was handcuffed, but was only half conscious when Carlos grabbed his sack, sliced it off, leaving the ends of the cords showing, blood seeping from them.

He regained full consciousness when Carlos cut him-began screaming. Carlos kicked him until he passed out-taped a dirty rag to his crotch.

The castration of Kevin had given the remaining three boys a much need break, but it was time for another hand of poker.

As they played, distracted by the moans of Shawn and Kevin, their cocks hung limply between their legs, Rick’s, red and raw from all the rubbing.

Mike won the hand with kings and threes. Although this was just the third time for Justin, and he’d won the last two hands, he still had trouble. He pumped like mad to manage a few drops of cum before the five minutes were up.

Rick didn’t have a shot. Maybe in another five or ten minutes he would have made it, but, in five minutes-no way. When they grabbed him, he was still pulling on his raw, half-hard cock, crying, “Wait...I can do it. Just give me a little longer.”

They dragged him over to one of the unoccupied corners, handcuffed him, splayed his legs. Carlos, always inventive, pinched the bottom of his sack, scooting his balls upward. Then he sliced off the bottom half of his scrotum. Rick’s balls dangled free, hanging by their cords, below the chopped off bag. All the men thought this hilarious, so they left Rick like that for the time being.

The two remaining boys played another hand. Despite, Justin’s prayer, “Please, God...please, God, let me win,” he lost. When it came to jacking off in time-he lost. His balls-he lost. After Carlos cut off Justin’s balls, sack and all-he was running out of new way to do it-he grabbed hold of Rick’s blue-white nuts. He pulled, stretching the cords almost to the breaking point, then sliced them with his knife. It was difficult to believe that Rick’s piercing scream came from a human throat.

Mike sat on the floor crying, both for his friends and in relief for having won.

Carlos walked over to him, patted him on the shoulder with a bloody hand.

“Hey, hombre...you won. Hey...I’m glad you did. The fucking blondes lost their nuts. Hell, you almost look Mexican with that brown skin and black hair.”

To his friends, Carlos said, “Let’s load these gringo into the van. We’ll drop them off on the street in Ensenada. He handcuffed Mike again.

They loaded the boys into the van. Mike, the only one with balls, was piled in the back with the ball-less ones.

In about forty minutes they were driving down a deserted street in Ensenada. The men pushed the boys out the back onto the street, after removing the handcuffs. Of the boys, only Mike was left.

Carlos looked down at Mike’s cock.

“That is some melon,” he said. “I sure did want that as a souvenir,” he said as he grabbed hold of it.”

Mike screamed, as Carlos cut off his cock, “But, I won...you said I wouldn’t lose it if I won.”

“Oh...sometimes I lie,” replied Carlos. Mike, bleeding profusely from the stump of what had been his cock-now it belonged to Carlos-was pushed from the van, onto the street with the other boys. The men slammed the door-drove off in Shawn’s van.