Dirty Backroad

[asslikker]

You ever have an itch while you're sleeping that you try to ignore because if you scratch it you're not going to be asleep anymore, and all you want is desperately to stay asleep? Well, the itch on my neck made me lose that battle, and as I raised an arm, perfectly happy to remain sleeping on my side, my fingers reached up to appease the itch. My fingers instead hit a iron collar. Now I know why I wanted to remain asleep.

What day was this? Day six, or was it already a full week I'd been here? The drugs make it hard to keep track. I could hear rustling in the camp, the occupants stirring in their trailers. The worn planks that made up this shed throw slivers of early morning light through the cracks. I sensed Young John, several years younger than me, next to the door. His foot crunches are a lot lighter than Old John's who you could hear barreling at you a mile away. You could see a long stream of piss puddling by the door, see steam rising from it. A fist bangs on the planks. "Git up, fuckhole," he says sleepily. He's not without compassion, but every day I see less and less of it. "Daddy wants more wood split for the furnace.” He yawns then pounds again. “Git up, college. He wants it pronto."

I'm reluctant to climb down from the make-shift bunk above the stacked wood. Once my feet hit the dirt floor I'm back in this hell hole of a reality. I stall by examining my right arm. I'd been branded by Old John by the furnace, more out of clumsiness than intent—we were all high. After several days it's still blistered badly, yellowish scab bubbles on burnt purple skin. It's ugly, but what isn't at Camp Methlab. It's better than yesterday but that's not saying much. It still hurts like a motherfucker but I can move my arm without it stinging all to hell. I'm down off the stacked wood, and slipping on thin canvas shoes, the only shoes they left me. It's cold only wearing Young John's cast down Fruit of the Loom t-shirt and underwear. What at one time was white is now dirty and threadbare, hardly covering my ass but giving me a fig leaf of modesty among the clothed men in camp. It’s also tight since Young John is smaller than me. The crotch is permanently pee-stained and the butt had ingrained skid marks that, thankfully, have lost their smell. I think Young John is a bit embarrassed seeing me in them, especially because he's wearing my clothes.

When I come out of the shed, Young John has on my new red polo shirt over his mud-crusted camouflage pants. (Don’t wear red, pops in my brain.) I'm not really a big guy, but Young John's arms look like twigs coming out of my sleeves. He’s got all the collar buttons buttoned to the top and looks pretty geeky. I would have recommended a size smaller if he'd have asked me. Young John's just finishing his piss when he swings his impressive snake over my canvas shoes and pisses on them. "Sorry, college. Didn't see you standing there." I stare at him masking most of my anger. "What's that, face fuck? I didn't quite pick that up." He sees I'm not going to start something with him, but I don't forgive him either. "Yeah, I didn't think so. Well, what are you lookin' at? Nothin' you haven't been suckin’ on all week," meaning his long skinny tool. "Yonder’s the ax. Git busy. Chop chop."

The shoes squish in the mud on the way to the wood pile. You can imagine they were warm a second ago, now they’re getting cold. With a swing of the ax I use my anger to wheel the ax into a log, crack it in half, and then half it again. I picture Young John's little brown mop of a head in front of me and drive the blade through his imagined skull. First, though, there's the matter to settle with Old John. His is the head I'd most like to split open. Except then there's also goateed Gary, the bald bullet-headed chemist, probably the nastiest and scariest of this backwoods’ crew. Well, next to the disgusting cow, Dwayne, that is, their assault weapon specialist. Fat turd was the first to slam me and the first to get me to suck him off, which dominoed to, well, this neck collar. I wish I could just snap, run amok with the ax, splitting skulls right and left, running screaming down the mountainside, to the road, to civilization, but honestly I don't know if I could find my way back. Also, I'd never get to hack apart my first victim, not with how armed this camp is. You don't run a meth lab in the back woods and go light on firearms.

Goatee Gary, lanky in a baggy Black Sabbath shirt, boots and green army pants, comes out of his trailer smoking a Marlboro. He shifts his assault rifle higher on his shoulder, makes a kissy face at me. I bring down the ax on a log with his face on it. I line up another log and swing with all the frustration I have, cracking it in two. I right the half log and cut it open like I would his bullet-head. This focus lets me control my anger, zeroing in on the here and now, not feeling the burn on my arm, not feeling the heavy collar, not looking at any particular point in the future, which only leaves the past to contemplate. And I contemplate the shit out of it. But the past has no escape routes, no loopholes, only leads back to the iron loop around my neck. Only sockets and screws clamping together my collar for the time being. If I'm not careful, their next threat: the soldering gun. Permanence with no chance of ever coming off.

***

The GPS says there a short-cut to Route 7. I've never seen it on Google maps but the GPS lady is swearing that if I take the next right I'll cut straight through the Glastenbury Mountains rather than having to circumnavigate around them. That'll easily take an hour off the drive back to Rangeley College. From my parents' house in Salem Mass it's a four hour drive. Funny, that house; though I grew up in it, it no longer feel like home. My dorm feels like home now. I was actually bored over spring break and wanted to get back to my roommates, especially one in particular. Zack, our soccer team's hunky goalie. An hour sooner to see him—and "see" is definitely not the most accurate verb to use in conjunction with Zack. It's worth chancing what the GPS lady promises.

I pass a reservoir and spot an eagle nesting in a tree. It launches from its branch as the Miata rumbles past. It's huge; the wingspan’s enormous. I doubt I would have seen that on the main highway, I think to myself. The road turns to dirt, but it's hard-packed and the sports car has no trouble maneuvering over it. It takes the dips and turns in stride. In fact, it's a more enjoyable ride than whole first part of the trip. An hour of this, and then another hour on Route 7 and I'll be slipping Zack's knickers right off his dark, hairy legs before dinner.

The afternoon sun's getting lower and the shadows are long on the road. The woods are thick and the GPS lady now warns of a turn up ahead. As it comes into view I skid to a stop. It's a smaller road and I feel this can't be right. On the GPS it doesn't look like I'll be on this road for long. The map shows that after a few miles it opens back up to a larger road. I can't help frowning as I turn down this smaller lane having my doubts. It climbs for a stretch and then levels out next to a steep cliff to the right of the car. Trees scale dramatically down one side and on the other climb upward to a peak I can't see the top of. It's winding more and I slow my pace cautiously managing to stay straight in the center of the road.

Then there's the matter of the moose.

I hit the brakes and slide to a dusty stop. Jesus, fuck, it's big. Towers on the road. It's like if you took a horse and put another horse on top of it. Its antlers are as broad as my car is long. It's not moving and it looks angry. I've read that many of the moose in the area, because of the warmer than usual winters, are infested with ticks. Usually the snow and sub-zero temperatures kill the ticks off, but lately it hasn't been cold enough. Many of the moose population have been driven mad. They’re not like the deer population who groom one another. These are solitary creature, and solitary in their madness. If any moose looked crazy-mad, it's this one. I think its snorting nostrils are challenging the Miata. I don't know Moose-speak to demonstrate that the Miata is just a harmless little baby moose, and just wants to go on its merry way. The moose lowers its antlers. They're the frickin’ size of a picnic table and it’s aiming for my hood. Not ever having encountered this situation before, I honk my horn. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard a Miata’s horn, but if a baby moose had a cry the Miata’s horn would sound exactly like that. The mad moose shows no mercy and rams my hood with brutal force. The front end crumbles but is still running. Fight or flight, I think, and put the car in first, move forward, then shift immediately into second, and gun the car as fast as I can into the moose’s long knobby legs. I'm instantly caught in its antlers. It’s pushing me backwards while the car’s wheels spin in the dirt. The Miata juts backwards in fits and starts, and the moose pushes and crushes me and the Miata over the bank of the road. Dust is flying all over, which I’m sure is gratifying to the big bull. The animal’s snorts, bows his head once more and hooks the front end and lifts the engine into the air. I gun the motor again, and a sickly clanking, screeching and sputter comes from under the chassis. It's no contest. The moose easily takes the Miata off the road. I'm quickly traversing backward, then sliding sideways through the forest. If not for a line of birches, I'd be tumbling down the entire mountain. As it is I crunch to a sickening silent stop twenty yards down the mountain. I look up at the moose who's looking down the mountain at me. The moose appears satisfied that it’s cleared the road of its young challenger, and trots victorious down the lane.

Five minutes pass, then ten. Making certain the moose is not coming back—I'm literally shaking from the encounter—I quietly unlatch my seatbelt. I pop the door on the uphill side and carefully gets out of the damaged car. Once I scramble up to level ground I take out my phone and after checking for moose, check for signal bars. There are none. It's deadly quiet. If I strain I can hear the clomping of the moose far down the road but that's it. Eventually even the clopping goes away and it's only me and small whispering leaves through the trees. I hold the phone up in different directions, hoping for some other result but get the same reading. My backpack is in the car on the passenger seat. I scuttle down to the wreck, reach in and grab it. I check out the sun and figure I've still got a couple of hours of daylight. If I'm fast I might get to where the road branches out to the larger thoroughfare, maybe run across some people who can help.

I'm walking for about an hour on the road. It's very calm, a big contrast from the previous hour. Trees here are thin but the land is thickly populated with them. Tall hemlock, wide sugar maple, groves of golden and white birch, a random wild apple tree. I'm trying to distract myself with the forest surroundings so I don't think about a paper I'm in the middle of writing for contemporary history. It traces these Glastenbury Mountains. I'm a dual History/English major, in my junior year. I could never decide which I loved more so I chose both subjects, the interplay between New England history and its mystery writers: Steven King, sure, but way back to Edgar Allen Poe, Henry James, and my favorite, H.P. Lovecraft. He wrote one of the first science fiction stories, about an alien living in a farmhouse, even before there was a name for the genre. It wasn’t too far from here—the farmhouse. Except it was a made up story. There are no aliens as far as I know, but there are other things just as creepy. I guess being born in Salem my DNA has the witch trials carved into it, the fear of unbound nature and a natural fear of others seen from early settler's perspective. Puritans, the religiously persecuted, the sexually repressed. Then there are the generations that have come through these parts, built farms, abandoned them, assimilated farther and farther west. That mound of rocks right there could have been part of a stone fence separating two farms. Maybe the farmers didn’t like each other. Maybe their kids were in love and ran off in the dead of night. Maybe those kids were two boys. No way of telling two hundred years later. It looks like just a pile of white rocks.

No, while the shadows are growing very long now, I'm trying not to think of a paper I'm in the middle of writing about Middie Rivers, a very experienced hunter and trapper, who in the fall of 1945 was leading a hunting party through this same forest and disappeared. He was 74 and grew up in one of the old logging camps knowing every leaf and twig in this forest. And though his party made it back, he didn't. My unfinished paper tracks a spate of disappearances in the last mid-century: Paula Weldon, a freshman co-ed from Bennington College who disappeared on a walk on the Appalachian Trail in December of 1946; a small boy, Paul Jepson, all of 8, vanished from the back of his mother's pickup truck in October of 1950 on a road leading into the forest; also in 1950, Frieda Langer, fifty-three, separated from her cousin, never made it back to their camp. One weird thing they all had in common? They all wore red when they disappeared. Guess the color of the Izod shirt I’m wearing? And those disappearances are not even counting all the hunters from the nineteen-forties like Carl Herrick in 1943, right up to the trio that went missing in the nineteen-eighties. You wonder why hunters keep coming here. Yes, this is what I'm trying not to think about. I'm going to conclude the paper with the reason for the disappearances could be explained by wild animals—bear, catamount, wild boar—but that idea doesn't quite set me as ease as I scan between trees off the road. I really need to step up the pace if I want to be in a safe space by dark.

I've got another hour of daylight when I spot a chain between two trees. There's a logging road behind the chain and up the road there's a guy who looks about my age, in camouflage army shorts and a tank top, waving from a rock. He's young, dark mop in bowl cut, pretty skinny if I can judge accurately from this far away. He has a rifle slung over his shoulder, nothing alarming considering he quite likely a hunter, maybe from around here. "You looking' for someone?" he calls down to me. His voice sounds young even though it registers deep. It cracks a little like he still has one foot in puberty.

"Car got totaled by a moose," I call up the hill. I see a smile and sense he’s friendly. I start walking up toward him. "You don't have a phone, do you?"

"What, on me?" He laughs at the notion, padding down his many pants pockets. "Let me just check. Nope, must’ve forgotten my telephone in my other pants." I know he's making fun of me, but mischievously, not maliciously. He's smoking a cigarette trying to portray toughness, but his eyes sparkle in amusement and betray his good nature. His face alternates between puckishness and a leprechaun. Since I'm closer I see he's got a gap tooth smile, which he flashes easily. After the recent events it’s a sight I’m happy to see. "A moose? That's pretty fucked up, friend. Where'd it happen?"

"Maybe a couple of miles back. I'm trying to get back to the main road." I point the direction I'm heading. “Any idea how far it might be that way?"

"Ain't nothing that way. Dead ends at Deer Lick Creek. Good fishin' but cross it, it just cuts straight up some cliffs. Couple miles both direction."

I'm going over my options, steering my mind away from option 1-despair, option 2-panic, option 3-shit my pants. "Guess I should head back to my car and spend the night. Hike out in the morning. Don’t mean to sound all despondent. Just never been in this situation."

"Nah, man, you don't have to do that." He jumps off his rock. He's cute, shorter than I thought, and though he’s slim, his arms are sinewy, small ropes of muscle over milk white skin. Aside from his gap front teeth, he's got a firm, straight brow, keen brown eyes that droop a little in a sweet way. I like him, and if I can judge by his tooth-gapped grin, he likes me back. "You c'mon back with me to camp. Posse's out hunting. Back tomorrow most likely. You can head out in the morning and hike out of the forest by the afternoon.” He waves up the mountain side for me to follow, and turns quickly around. “Caught me this rabbit this morning. We can share it. You college?" I see the rabbit tied to his pants. My options, I'm thinking in my head, are limited. I nod that yes, I am college, grinning stupidly at him. "Hey, college, you ever drunk moonshine?" His thoughts are breezy and flutter continually across his face. I sense not having the "posse" around makes him happy. I’m thinking maybe he’s also a little touched.

"Nah, never. Moonshine? Seriously?" I pluck out a couple of opening bars on a pretend banjo, imitating the Deliverance song: "Bud-dah-bing-ga bing-ga bing-ga bing." I see he has no idea was I'm going on about, and I immediately abandon the hillbilly mockery. I suddenly feel protective of him. He seems more innocent than anything else, like maybe visitors are rare and he wants to impress me with his rabbit-catching skills. I don't know. I just don't want to spoil things being all jaded city-slicker and shit. I picture being home at my dorm, sitting on my bed telling my suite-mates about this adventure. The moose, this forest kid I met, the long arduous hike back to the main highway. I imagine Miles, our cynical queen of the suite, pressing me after I describe Young John, raising an eyebrow, if I got in the cute little Appalachian boy's pants. "And how!" I picture myself saying, sticking out my lascivious tongue to my friends, seeing that Zach’s jealous, and tackling him back on the bed.

I watch Young John’s cute little bubble butt scramble up the hill, looking back repeatedly to make sure I'm still following him.

***

Edited March 22, 2017 by asslikker

[SlampaBay]

Keep it cummin'

[TTFN]

Imagine where he is going there will be no shorTage of fun.

[asslikker]

If I could tell you exactly what moonshine tastes like I would: something like drinking turpentine mixed with the worst cough syrup you’ve ever had. They might be its two ingredients. I’m trying to turn down a refill but Young John’s not having it. The second one, he says, you stop tasting it. That might be, or it might be I’m blasted out of my mind by the first. As it is, I can’t help staring at him. It’s not that he’s just cute, but I don’t know if there’s a slyness or innocence that makes me keep darting glances his way in the light of the campfire. The rabbit he skinned and cooked was good. He liked grossing me out when he skinned and disemboweled it, but when it came to eating it off sticks, you could tell he knew what he was doing. And, yeah, it tasted like chicken.

After he won refilling our canning jars with more moonshine, he says, "Man, am I ever horny." Then, just as suddenly: “You a homo, college?” He asks this as matter of factly as if he’d just asked if I’d had enough to eat. He’s not looking at me but up at the stars, which number in the billions up here.

“Yepper,” I answer. “You?”

“Nothin’ I could do about it if I was,” he volunteers. He’s quiet for a real long time, before he adds two words that completely throws me: “I’m caged.”

I’d been slumping against a log, but I sat up at that. “What do you mean, ‘caged’?”

“Caged. Like I can’t get to my dick if I wanted to. Got a lock on it.”

“Wait, what?” The rabbit bone I was twirling I throw it in the fire and draw closer to him to see his eyes. His gaze come down from looking skyward, and rest on my face. He’s evaluating me, for what I don’t know. To see if I’m judging him? To see if he should go on more, if I can be trusted?

“We just decided it was better that way,” he says. Is he looking to see if I approve? Agree? The simply fact is I don’t understand.

“Who decided that? What would be 'better'?”

“Daddy. The posse. Me. We thought it was better. That way they don’t turn me queer. Want to see?”

“Wait,” I say, putting a hand on his bare shoulder. I feel how warm he is, feel his small, strong muscles of his shoulder. Feel the effects of the second jar of moonshine. “What exactly has your daddy and his friends done to you?”

He unbuttons his pants and shows me a homemade chastity cage scooped under his balls and covering his dick. A little bush of pubes poke above it. I’ve seen cages online but thought they were just a novelty, a joke. This one looks serious, heavy, permanent; although it has a screw underneath and not a lock, it doesn’t look like a joke. “Daddy says if I started enjoying my dick when they did things to my butt, I could turn homo and then they couldn’t have fun no more.”

“That’s crazy talk, guy.”

I’m sorry to say this, but I can’t help it. My own dick starts getting hard. I know, I know, you’d be all righteous and help the kid, but I’m telling you, coming across this kids with his pent up, twisted beliefs, or those guys that are keeping him this way, plus the second jar of moonshine, plus the bit of pubes above the cage, it’s twisting my head, making me think I want to take advantage of him in all his chastised horniness.

Okay, maybe I just needed to say that, because now I’m feeling indignant, protective again. “You got a screwdriver?” I demand.

“Yeah, but you can’t take it off,” he says.

“The shit I can’t. Get it.”

We go inside a trailer and he rifles through a kitchen drawer holding the gas lantern above his head. He’s holding his pants up with one hand and the lantern with the other. He finds a screwdriver and gives it to me. I tell him to drop his drawers. He reluctantly does, and I get to work unscrewing the bolt under his balls. Once that’s undone it’s like a puzzle that easily comes apart. He’s got a mighty erection from me fooling around with his balls and dick. I’m not surprised since he also couldn't touch himself for however the hell long it’s been. It’s a beautiful young cock, arching with a nice bend to it, thin and extremely hard. His knob’s swollen blue in the light. I can’t help it. I wrap my lips around it. Young John inhales hissing and then is almost crying out loud in arousal. I slurp up more of it. I mount on top of it and get most of it down my throat. “I’m going to cum,” he starts repeating. “You’re going to make me cum.” I stop sucking him. “Come back to my room,” he says. I leave the pieces of the cage on the countertop and follow Young John through the shadowy hallway to his room.

This room has the feel of a nursery. An old, ragged teddy bear sits on the dresser. One if its button eyes is missing. There’s a metal airplane with plastic propellers on a night table, next to it a couple of coloring books. “Wait. How old are you, John?”

He looks at me frightened. “Don’t call me that! You can never call me John. Daddy gets real mad. Almost took Dwayne out one time. Johnny’s okay, but Young John’s better.”

“Okay, Johnny,” I say, flipping through one of the coloring books, seeing his ‘coloring’ consists of running random-color crayons over outlines of cats and dog, trains and cows, three-story buildings and a cop blowing a whistle, holding up a gloved hand with a sign that says ‘Stop!’ Interestingly, the building has red crayon flames coming from the windows, the clouds are all black, and the sun shines blue. “Have you graduated from school yet?”

“Daddy says I don’t need it. He says I’m legally eighteen and that means I don’t have to if I don’t want to. Never went, never gonna.” He’s pulling me to his bed. “Do that thing you was doin’ before to my weenie.” He pushes the coloring book out of my hand and we fall on the bed. He’s unbuckling my pants and wants to get them off me as fast as he can. I kick off my shoes and our pants and shirts fly. He doesn’t like to kiss but he sure likes to suck. We’re in a sixty-nine position before too long, and I spread his legs and bend him so I can get to his butthole. I stick my tongue in him and he lets out a yell, “College! What are you doing?! Fuck, man!” I raise my head surprised. “College, you are nasty fuck turd, aren’t ya? Do that again.” I go down on him and can kind of see what he means. I’m drunk enough not to care that much, but he isn’t all that clean, but I’ve already been there once and don’t see the harm of continuing to eat his little nasty ass out. I feel his rock hard cock rubbing against my pecs. He’s humping like crazy and I don’t want him to cum yet, not at least till I get my dick in him. I spit in his ass and push the saliva into his crack. “Yeah, fuck my hole, college. Wreck it,” he cries, then pauses for a moment. He hesitates before he whispers, pulling at the sheets, “you can put your hand inside me if you want.”

“What, fist you?” I stop and look at him. “Do the guys here do that to you, Johnny?”

He puts his face in his pillow and nods. He’s talking into the pillow when he says that he likes it. Part of me doesn’t believe that he can take a fist, so I push two fingers in his butt. They slide in easily. I wet a three fingers and all three slide in without effort. He lifts his head and says there’s Vaseline in his drawer. I look and bring it out, pop off the lid, and grease my hand. “Oooh, yeah,” he says as my hand disappears up his slim ass. I got to admit it’s the first time I’ve ever done this, and it’s incredible. I feel like I’m wearing a warm, slimy glove, that he’s an extension of my hand. I get why some would call it making someone your hand puppet. I like that he is mine. “Go in more, man. I know how to take it deep,” he says. He’s wiggling on my wrist, pushing himself down on me. My hand slides in beyond my wrist. He flips on his back writhing, squirming, climbing down the bedsheets to get closer to me, to get more of my arm in him. He’s insatiable. I’ve got a major hardon going and really want to stick my dick in him and fuck the shit out of the kid. I start pulling out and he cries out, “Wait, wait!”

“Dude, I want to get my dick in you so bad. I’m going to bust a nut all over your sheets if I can’t fuck you this second.”

“You can stick your cock in, too. The guys do it all the time.”

With my left hand I grease my pole and add it to his crack. He’s right, he can take both. Easily. It’s incredible feeling my dick slide into my greased hand inside the kid’s ass. It’s not only mind-blowing, but the feeling! My dick and fist make for cramped quarters but that only makes the viscosity immensely pleasurable. I start humping his ass and my hand inside him with abandon. He’s enjoying it from the grunting and affirmative noises he’s making. I’m telling him how good he feels, and he reflecting back the same sentiments. He’s loving it, he tells me. How big I am, how much he wants me. I’m in a low, guttural mode now, pushing as much of my fist and cock into his slim hips as I can. I'm pretty big with large hands; it’s a wonder he can take so much and continue to want more. If it’s pleasuring him as much as it is me, I happy to give him more of my arm and cock. I’m up to my pubes pumping in him, well past my wrist, ripping his hole open with as much ferocity as I want. He seems to be able to take everything I give him and still begs for more. So I pile it on, starting to bring out some violence in me I don’t recognize. I leave my fist right at his opening, stretching it to the max and using it as my dick’s point of entry. He realizes what I’m doing and is totally into it. “Open my pussy, sir!” he pleads. “Destroy me. Make me a train wreck. Fuck open my cunt, man!” He’s wailing at the top of his lungs and I’m hammering him as hard as he wants me to. It’s incredible and I shoot a load into him that makes me quake several times. I feel him do the same. He erupts over his chest till it runs off his rib cage. The amount of cum that pumps out of his cock is astonishing, and makes me think it's been a least months since he's shot a load. He jacks and jacks, and cum thick and pure white spill off his body. He's shaking in waves. I think he's done, then he shakes and shoots some more. It makes me spasm watching him. My fist disappearing deep within him. His sphincter clamps hard on my wrist and my cock follows deep inside him. He shutters as I collapse on top of him. I feel his channel squeeze my hand several times. I flex my hand out a bit and he squeezes it tight. It’s us communicating to each other, discovering a rare depth of feeling.

We lay for a white until my cock soften and slides out under the pressure. Then I slowly withdraw my hand from his ass. As my knuckles slide out he gives a gasp and I feel a long trail of slime flow out his ass and puddle on the sheets.

“Do you have something I can clean this up with?” I ask. He looks at me puzzled.

“Why? Just leave it,” he says casually. “Hand me my smokes. They’re in my pocket.” I reach in his pants and find them along with a plastic lighter. He lights up right away and leans on the trailer wall.

I look him over and want to capture that sly, contented look he has. “Can I take your picture?” I ask him as he’s puffing away. The smoke obscures him, which is I think what he’s after. I’m drunk enough to have had enjoyed myself like I’ve never done before. Guys I’ve had sex with were fun, but this kid took me to places I never contemplated. But I’m also not drunk enough to face the implications of what’s been done to this kid. Both his lack of inhibition tied up with, I’m sure, his utter isolation.

“You brought a camera?" He sounds a little alarmed. "What, outside in your backpack?”

I pick up my pants, and bring out my iPhone. "No, this has a camera in it. But it’s almost out of juice. I take it there’s no electricity up here.” He shakes his mop. I turn on the camera app and show him his image.

“Whoa! That’s me? How fuckin' hot am I?”

“Can I?” I sit next to him, put an arm around his shoulder, pull him next to me close. That makes him smile. We leaning our head against the trailer wall and I take a selfie of us. He rubs his eyes from the flash. We take a couple more. Serious. Me kissing his brow. Him licking my face. One of both of us pinching each other lips. In the photos you can see we’re both shirtless, but don’t show more than that.

“Where do they go?” he says of the images. I show him the collection, swiping through the one’s I just took. He’s delighted with the phone. I get the feeling he’s never seen one. He holds it tightly, looking up at me with his gap-toothed grin, putting his finger on the screen and flicking quickly to examine other photos. My old dog, Trixie, back in Salem. My sister. My family at dinner. I look bored. “What’s your name, college?” He’s not looking at me but at my life.

“Peyton. Peyton Grey.”

He laughs. “You sound like a paint color.” He straightens up in bed and puts on an aristocratic voice with a finger in the air. “Yes, yes, I think I shall paint my entire trailer Peyton Grey. It will be the most beautiful trailer in all of camp.” I pinch his tit and he falls back against the trailer giggling. He flicks across more of my collection. School campus. My soccer team. Dorm-mates. There’s one he comes across that makes him stop. It’s of me and Zach. We’re also shirtless, in bed, smiling. “Who’s that?” he asks.

“I guy I know at school.” The end of the charge powers down the phone. As much as I’m rubbing his shoulder, holding him close, the room feels much darker and colder, more shadows lean over us, like a black crayon coloring outside our tidy lines. “His name’s Zach,” I say to break the silence, trying to smooth over suddenly rough edges.

He gives me back the phone. Quietly he smokes the rest of his cigarette.

Finally, he asks the obvious, stubbing out his cigarette, “Once you leave, you gonna come back here, ever?” He looks up at me with his brown forest eyes. There’s a hard touch of green in them I also see. Even in this light.

***

 

[TTFN]

What makes Johnny think he is going to leave?

[asslikker]

Haha! Peyton thinks so. Don't you?

[AlwaysOpen]

I think I need another  chapter to this  story! And  quick- my balls have been  backed up for a while ! <g>

[pozpopperpig]

Great start!  Can't wait to read more!

[asslikker]

I don't want to lie to him but I feel I can't say that, no, I won't be coming back, and this was all a lark, an anecdote I'll tell a couple of times before I forget the details, but will have a bit of a recollection that there was this cute kid I fucked in the back woods of the Glastenbury Mountains. I just look at him. Cute, with a smooth, narrow chest, furry legs, sweet angelic face that can change in an instant. Before I can answer he's scrambling off the bed, going out the door. "Yeah, that's what I thought," he says going down the hall.

I follow him to the living room feeling like a douche bag. He plops on the couch and grabs a small glass pipe. He fills it with some white shards that's sitting in plastic zip bag on the coffee table. With a torch lighter he puts a flame to the bottom of the bowl, waits for some smoke to rise and then inhales the swirling smoke. I sit next to him and put a hand on his bare knee. He passes the pipe over to me.

I hold it for a second before I ask him what it is? "What do you think, college?" He's bitter and sarcastic. I know that's on me.

"Tina?" I hazard a guess.

"Give the man a diploma."

"I don't really do Tina, Johnny."

"Then give it back," he says scornfully. He reaches out his fingers like a little boy who wants a toy back.

I feel like I've dissed him and I don't mean to. There's still a little smoke swirling in the pipe and I inhale it. I hold it for just a second before I puff it out. He's looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He comments, "Fuck sake, college, smoke it if you're going to smoke it. Here." He lights the torch and holds it under the bowl. I see the bowl cloud up and I take a hit. "Now hold it. That's it. Keep holding it." I'm about to choke so I blow out the contents. "Well, that was a waste. Shotgun it to me. Do you know what that is?"

I feel defensive and not liking the note of condescension I'm hearing. "Yes, I've shotgunned before. Pot."

"Gimme, I'll show you." He lights it, holds in the smoke, then exhales it to me. I'm sucking it in and he surprises me by sticking his tongue in my mouth. I'm taken aback for about a second before I see he's conflicted, acting out petulantly, not knowing his endgame. He holds my head with his palm. He's mad, but horny.  I guess I am too. My analytical brain turns off, and the kiss suddenly turns passionate. It's incongruous because part of my brain is thinking he's being a little shit, but suddenly I'm really into this little shit, more than I thought. Part of me likes him being a little shit. I have to let out the cloud but right after we're back in a lip lock. I feel his lap and he's got a nice hard on. He's not big but it's harder than most other cocks I've gripped. It's solid, like I could literally pick him up by it. I can't help but smile at him, and for an honest second he smiles back. He puts out his hand and let's me know I got a big hard on too. If this is from the tina I think I want more. He puts down the pipe on the coffee table and we make out, jacking each other for a while. The trailer's dark with moonlight' spilling in through the screen door. It's casting the living room with a pale blue light. I like that we're half-lit, it makes my sense of touch more sensitive, both feeling him up, and his hand running up and down my ribs and over my pecs. I tweak his small nipples and start chewing on his smooth neck. He's responding in kind, pinching my tits, his hand running down, grabbing my balls and squeezing them hard. Then he runs some fingers between my legs but before he gets to my asshole I shut him down.

I tell him I don't really like my ass played with. It comes out a little more breathless than I had meant it to. I don't like being coy, but I get rattled if someone's playing with my ass when I want to play with his.

"Okay," he responds. He doesn't seem upset, just sits up and lights a candle on the table. "Want another hit?" he asks, knowing he's ensnared me. His smile looks calculated and not really friendly.

"Yeah. That was intense."

He scoffs. "Just wait," he says filling up the bowl again and handing it to me. "You shotgun me."

I do and we go another round, shotgunning each other, taking turns being the instigator, blowing into the other's lungs. I feel super horned up in a matter of minutes, and bend to suck his dick. He lets me but I feel his hand running down my back looking for my hole again. This time I'm thinking it isn't such a bad idea. I'm not hard core against getting my hole played with and I'm beginning to think I want him to touch my asshole. He's leaking precum and it's getting me even more aroused. He lifts one leg up and throws it over the back of the couch. "Eat my shit hole." I do and with my tongue feel how open his hole is. So young and so softly gaping. His asslips are extremely loose. I can stretch them about easily with two fingers, and do. He's straining, pushing open his hole even more for me, and it's spreading wide, showing a beautiful young pink rose in the candlelight. It looks so hot and I start playing within it, flicking what I know is his colon lining with my tongue, hearing him let out guttural moans. He's pushing out harder giving me more to eat, and it's turning me on enormously. I encourage him, "Open it, boy. Show me your cunt."

"You like that, college? You want me to open your hole like that?" I'm nodding, wanting him to find my hole. "Nah, you tell me out loud how much you want it."

"I want it. I want you to open my hole." I spread my legs to let him find me. He does.

"Let's go back to my room and I'll show you how daddy works on me." We both get up and I follow him down the hall, and for the second time tonight we flop on his bed. I jump on his cock and start sucking his slender dick. He's whispering how good it feels. We're in the dark and suddenly my mouth is flooded with piss. I back off him and he's now pissing all over me, aiming his hard dick over my body. The idea of what he's doing detaches itself from how good it feels. It's warm, the most intimate thing anyone's ever done to me. "You like that, don't you?" I agree by putting my mouth back on his dick while he's still pissing. It's running, spilling out over my teeth. It's like bending over a drinking fountain. "Swallow it, pig. Show me you like drinking my piss." I take a small swallow at first. It's salty and hot. I like the idea of drinking down this boy's piss and start taking larger and larger gulps. "Wrap your mouth around my cock, pig, and keep drinking it." I'd never done anything like this before but feel very susceptible to his suggestion, and let him drain himself in my mouth. I let it run freely down my gullet. I gulp loudly. "You know my piss is going straight to you stomach now, pig. You got my pee in you. Next time you piss that's going to be my piss coming out of your dick. Remember that." I start wanking myself, know he's right, enjoying his vulgarity. This little backwoods boy is turning me into a piss hound. He's finishes pissing and pushes me on my back. "Hold you legs, pisspig." He hovers his small body over mine and spit on my ass. He bends down and wets my hole with his tongue. He then puts his dick right on top of my hole and pushes his head into my sphincter until his dick pops in.

I'd been fuck only once before tonight, about a month ago by Zack. It was our first night together and we spent the entire night flipping back and forth. But now, with this nasty kid, he's taking a much more dominant approach. It doesn't feel like he wants to flip when we were done, that we're on a much different trajectory. I feel his extremely hard dick going in deep and doing it fast, much quicker than I'm able to take comfortably. I ask him to go slow, but he doesn't care if I'm liking it. This wasn't about us making love, but about him getting his rocks off. His dick's all the way in and he's humping me like an animal. I'll tell you the truth, I like it. I like that he doesn't give a shit if I'm enjoying it. He isn't even looking at me. He's staring straight ahead into space, just humping away inside my hole. His pace is slow until it isn't. He's going in for maximum stimulation of his dick however which way it strikes him at the moment. There's no looking to see how I'm doing. I have the sense this is how men fuck him. He slaps my ass hard, then switches up to rapidly drilling my hole. He slaps my ass again and slows to a hard, steady rutting, where he gets as deep inside me as his small body allows, pulls out almost all the way, then plunge back in again, hard. He's trying to hurt my fuckhole as others must hurt his. He's not big enough to really hurt, but the force makes me grunt, which brings a sneer to his face. He tucks my head under his arm wanting me to lick the sparse hair in his pit. I do with abandon. It's a small bush but I get off on his smell and the smoothness of his skin around the hair. He holds me in a headlock as he continues to fuck me until he locks into a steady rhythm for what seems like hours but is probably only a quarter of one. His grunting grows deeper and I feel his cockhead grow to a bulbous mushroom inside me, and then I feel him spill his seed with several deep thrusts. Without touching myself, only feeling his skinny six-pack abs slide over my wet cock, I feel his head swell as he's cumming, and with his last humps, I shoot between our chests. The slick juice lubricates our torsos and I slide a hand between us and caress the skin gliding over me. Inside I feel my prostate being ridden over and over as I erupt after he's cum. He's still pumping away, looking at me now, knowing that with each thrust, he's making me cum a little more. He's enjoying it in a torturous way, feeling in control of my orgasm, until he loses interest.

He withdraws immediately, which I take to mean he's done and would like if I left. Well, it's not like I have an alternative place to go, so I roll to my side. I feel him draw me back to him. We spoon in the dark for a while before I feel, again, what he was after and it's not cuddling. Between my crack, where his dick lays spent, not in me, just pressed up against my hole, I feel a flow of warmth. He's pissing over me again. "Hold on, let me get some of this inside you. It'd be better if you just let me slam you, dude, but a little chem piss should help." He's fiddling with his dick taking a thumb to press it in my hole. It's difficult since he's soft but I relax my hole. "C'mon, open up. Let me get my gooch in you. Promise you'll like it." I feel his limp dick head pop inside. I clamped down on it, which cut off his stream for a moment. Then, sitting there quiet for a while, I feel him start leaking inside me. Some piss is going in, which is another first, but some of it is also trickling down my butt.

"Your bed," I try to warn him. "It's sopping."

"I'm used to it. You'll get use to it too." We lie there while he drains into me. "Tell me if you have to whiz and then do it over me, or you can do it inside me too if you want. We don't like have nothin' go to waste." By we, I'm getting this is what they do in their camp.

I'm plenty high and the warm sensuality and feeling of normalizing this weird crap with him is going against every taboo I have, but also makes me ratchet up how much I like being with this little perv. I don't know if anyone else could have done what he's done, especially since it doesn't seem like it's a big deal, but I have to say that someone so much younger than me is pushing me like I'd never been pushed. I lay there feeling his piss filling me up and the trail that trickles down is growing cold. But his warm body holds me there with his small arms wrapped over my shoulders. With every passing second his piss is encouraging me to want to break whatever taboos are left. I'm coming to realize there might be a lot that I haven't even thought of. But I think he has. And not just thought of, but experienced.

"Now let's see," he says, lifting my top leg slightly to get his small fingers rubbing against my bunghole. "About getting you open. You're tight as hell, man. I recon Daddy and the boys would hurt you mighty bad if they were to try to git in you, but my hands are little. Ain't gonna be no trouble gittin' you to take a fist from me. I'll take you pretty deep too, I imagine. You ready?"

Knowing my ass is filled with his piss, feeling even hornier than I was two minutes ago, I recon I am. I pull up my leg thinking I might as well try something I'd never thought I'd do. In the distance, I think I hear the sputter of a far off engine as he slips his first finger in my cum-slick hole.

***

[TTFN]

Oh good the MEN are cumming home just in time.

[asslikker]

"Don't fight me," Young John says severely. "Relax. Dude, just relax." His second finger feels a lot like his first finger but he's twisting it around in my butt and it's making me tense. "Damn, college, you sure don't want me gittin' in you."

"Nah, it's just it feels weird." He pulls both fingers out.

"Reach in that drawer, right there. Take out that little bottle and take a big smell of it." I reach in the nightstand drawer and take out a small brown bottle. Unscrew the cap and take a sniff. I get a warm rush and I feel Young John push several fingers in my hole. "Take two more hits," he orders. I do and immediately feel a large object start pushing at my ass. It's growing bigger fast, and the poppers, which I'm not a big fan, but it's turning the corner on me wanting to take whatever Young John is pushing into me. In fact, I'm pushing down on whatever that object is that's spreading my hole. It gets to its widest point making me raise my hips until it's in, and then it narrows considerably, however, the large part he started with is now traveling within my hole. "That's it, college, take it all, suck me in."

"Ah, fuck, man! Is that you in me?" I cry, suddenly taking in what just happened. My sphincter is clamping Young John's thin wrist but the rest of his hand is in my hole. Not only in it but traveling swiftly up it. "Stop, wait!" I beg him, holding up my hands. "It's too much."

"I ain't doing nothin'," he says laughing. "You the one pullin' me in. You sure got one hungry hole. Tell me you ain't been fisted before. Look at you drippin' precum. You as hard as a choir boy in a porn shop." And I am as turned on as hell. Fuck, the more I try to stop his hand from going in deeper the deeper it goes. I'm clamping down hard but that only keeps pushes him in, so I force myself to relax. I just lay there, still, trying not to move, feeling how deep he already is in me, but then he starts twisting his wrist before I can absorb what's happening. "Don't push me out," he demands. "You trying to get me out and I won't have it." I feel him pushing in further the more I push my guts against him.

"Shit, man! Don't. Wait. Let me try to take it."

I open my eyes, the first time since I've take a hit of the poppers. Young John is leaning over me wild eyed. His crazed look is frightening. He looks half angry and half like a lunatic. It doesn't help there's so little light in the room. I feel my ass contracting around his hand, but now he's doing something internally. It's such a new sensation all I know is there's movement, not deeper penetration, not him pulling out, just something swelling where I think the end of his hand is. "You like that?" I ask what's he doing? "I'm making a fist and unmaking it. I'm doin' it right on your prostate glan. Feel that? I love when daddy does this. Feel that? I'm holding you like a hammock swing. Feel me holding you like that?"

"Ah, shit, yeah. That's incredible. Oh, fuck!" I inhale spasmodically, closing my eyes. The sensation's too intense. He's squeezing me then flipping his wrist so knuckles are flying across my prostate. He's merciless even though I'm begging him to stop. He hits my bladder when he rocks a little farther in. I can't help it and piss uncontrollably.

"Shit, yeah, that's what I'm talking. Just let it go. Make a pig of yourself. Let it go." It's not like I have a choice. I'm pissing wildly over my chest. He's dipping down occasionally, taking a gulp, then spitting it over me trying to hit my face. When I start petering out he bangs his fist in again searching for my piss "on" switch and I start pissing again. He holds his fist in that spot and I feel I'm never going to stop. I also feel I'm starting to get close to cumming. I tell him I think I'm about to nut and he pulls back.

"Oh, no. Not yet. We only got started." He's pulling back even more, and suddenly I'm regretting loosing him. His fist is at the entrance to my hole. I look up again at him and he's got this devilish look in his eyes. His small fist leaves my hole, but only for a second. I gasp as he leaves, and as he immediately pushes back in, I gasp harder. I swear I see his eyes turn red as he's now fixated on exactly that spot: taking his knuckles pushing in and out of my fully stretched hole. "Take another hit, quick!" he says. I do, and feel my resistance melting away. "You like it, don't you." I nod feeling him rock right at the point of my widest stretched. "Nah, tell me you like me doing this."

"I like you doing this," I respond.

"...doing this, Sir. Say it!"

"I like you doing this to me, Sir! Open me up, Sir!" With that he starts increasing the depth he's going into me. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want him doing this. I honestly don't know if it's him that I want punching my hole, or if I simply want my hole punched by anyone at this point. I feel my eyes roll back in my head and just wallow in enjoyment in how good it feels, how it hurts and feels intensely good at the same time, how I've never felt this sensation before, how I don't want it to stop. And he doesn't, but keeps increasing his depth and the force of his punch. He's trading hands, back and forth, right at the entrance to my hole. His frenzy becomes my frenzy. I'm sure I'm babbling something, how good it feels, how great he is, do it harder, how much I want him, more, deeper, harder, until I feel I'm about to explode, and then he pulls his fist out hard all the way. "Push," he says. I push my hole, and immediately he plunges his fist right back in when I've pushed it open as far as I can. Somehow we're in sync. He pulls out forcefully, yells Push, I open up, spreading my asshole wide, and he's back in with his fist. We're repeating this pattern even though I've lost track of how the pattern goes, but it's in my muscle memory without me having to think anymore, written by him or in coordination with him. But I give him credit for teaching me this dance. I would go all night, and maybe I have gone on for hours with him in this dance, but then abruptly I hear the screen door slam against the trailer, and hear men talking.

One yells above the others, "I'm hornier than six dick dawg in a kennel full 'o bitches! Young John, git your punk ass in here."

"You c'mere," Young John replies, still fist punching me only a little slower now. Before I have time to even try and make an effort to hide, or cover myself, or whatever it is I think I can do in the seconds after I heard the screen door bang, three men crowd into Young John's small bedroom. I sense them around me more than I can see them. There's nothing like introductions, just three men vying to get closer for a better look. There's nothing I can do but freeze, legs in the air, as Young John takes his fist out of me. There's nothing anyone says until the one who's bald head shines in the dark breaks the silence.

"He drink piss, Young John, cuz I have GOT to unload right now."

"Yes, Sir," responds Young John. "College, take a hit. It'll go down easier."

I must be insanely high, because after taking a hit of poppers, I open my mouth for a guy I can't even see. He unzips his fly while I roll over on my side to take his dick. But instead of slipping his dick into my mouth, he holds the back of my head with one hand, and takes his dick and presses his piss slit up against my nose with the other. He then lets go his spray up my nostril while I choke on the stinging stream flowing through my sinuses and down my throat. I can even feel his piss sting behind my eye.

 

[Dukewolfe]

13 hours ago, asslikker said:

 

Fuck I am rock hard, what a story

[teachme]

This is probably my favorite story on here now. I would love to get that piggy with someone. 

[asslikker]

It's the most painful minutes of my life! I coughed up the initial stream before the bullet-headed bastard smacks my head and tells me to take the rest in my mouth and warns me to not loose a drop. "You let any spill on the bed," he threatens, "the rest is going up your nose." I take him at his word, and lock my lips around his long uncut cock and just swallow and swallow and swallow and swallow. While I'm gulping I hear him say: "You know my piss is going straight to you stomach now, pig." I remember Young John's exact words as bullet-head is talking. This must be Young John's daily life, what he hears every day serving these men. "You got my piss in you. Next time you piss that's going to be my piss coming out of your dick. Just remember that." I almost feel sorry for Young John until:

"Can we keep him, daddy?" Young John asks, while bullet-head finishes peeing down my throat. "Can we, huh?"

"Did you show him the lab?" Johnny's father asks concerned, "Or talk to him about it?"

"No, sir," says Young John. "All we did was smoke a little bit. I didn't say we made it."

"Well, he knows now, don't he, Young John?" I see Young John's puzzled face nodding. He's not stupid but I wonder about his father. Did he mean to trip him up? Bullet-heads squeezing out a last few squirts. "So now we either have to put him down out yonder with the other, or you're gonna have to train him good. I mean real, real good, son."

"Wait!" I blurt out. Bullet-head smacks me again. The fat one leaps on my head and puts a rubber ball in my mouth, and then fits a muzzle under my chin and around my cheeks buckling it in the back. I'm trying to get out words, which is now impossible, so I resort to negative pleas. Mmm-mm, I'm getting out through the muzzle. Mmm-mm. Snots from the earlier piss irrigation is running down my face over the muzzle, and I feel tears welling up in my eyes. All I can see is Johnny looking scared, which fills me with terror.

"I'll train him, daddy," he pleads. "I'll train him real, real good. He ain't gonna be no problem. He can have table scraps and live in the wood shed and I'll train him to do all the things you like. Y'all can have a lot of fun with him. He likes tina, and he likes it dirty, and I bet if you slam him he'll do whatever else you can think of, like you do me."

"He sure looks purdy from what I can see, Old John," the fat one says. "If he can take my gooch meat maybe he might be worth keepin'. Least for a time." 

"We'll see," Old John says. "Put your collar on him, boy, and lead him into the living room. We got some relaxing to do, and we'll see if he can help you with your chores. Could be nice t'have another one of you around. That is, if he can be housebroke."

"Thank you, daddy!" he says excitedly, while the men pile out of his room. He holds a finger up to me. "Shush," he whispers. "You wanna stay alive to mornin' you'll do exactly as I say, you hear me." All I can do is nod. "Okay then, you put this leather collar round your neck. Here, lemme fasten it." It's several inches thick and make me hold him neck up high. Once he locks it, he attaches a chain with a leather lead to it. "Now you just be a dog, you got that? A dog is what you are. And you do whatever anyone says. You gonna walk on all fours unless someone pulls you up. And you can cry and whine but you ain't never gonna say no, and you ain't never gonna say nothin'. You let them do whatever they want or you gonna end up dead like the others. You got me?" He's emphatic. Like the others. It's the second time "others" have been eluded to, and it's reverberating in my messed up brain as he leads me out to the join the men.

The candle's still flickering as I crawl on all fours behind Johnny into the living room. "Sit!" he commands holding up a hand. I sit back on my haunches. "See, daddy. He's gonna be real easy to train. He's purdy too, ain't he, daddy? He's got real nice hair, nice new fur growin' on his chest, and nice hangin' balls I KNOW Gary's gonna like to hurt."

"Don't matter if'n he's purdy," says bullet-head. "It matters if'n he's fun and can take what's dished out." Bullet-head is skinny with thin slits for eyes. He got a pointed goatee and tattoos poking out his plaid collar around his neck. If I were a dog I'd be growling at him.

"Well, I think he is purdy," the fat one who wanted me to suck his gooch meat says. I wonder for a second before I push it out of my mind how big that gooch meat is going to be. "He might fit nicely at the foot of my bed when all y'all done havin' fun with him. What'cha call him, Young John?"

"His names College. He got his car all crashed up by ol' Jonesy, I recon, and got lost looking for the main road. I toll him it weren't the way he was goin' even though it was, and he followed me home. I took him the long was so he don't know where he is no more."

"That was right smart of you, Young John," says his daddy. "You sure you wanna call him College after he got so easily fooled? What about Dumbshit?"

"Nah, we already had a Dumbshit, 'member? He was that curly headed feller. Besides, he talks real smart and I bet we can muscle him up. He's a good fucker and fister, and afore you came I was teaching him to take a fist. I betcha you'd get a good rosebud outta him in no time."

There are a lot of alarms tripping during this conversation, but none as loudly as the way Old John is looking at me. He's a large man with very big, solid hands. He's cracking his knuckles looking me over. Hard to believe he's Johnny's father. They don't look anything alike. Where Young John has sandy brown hair, Old John is jet back. He's got a furrowed unibrow arching over deep blue eyes. His beard is thick and black with no grey in it, so I'm guessing he's somewhere in his thirties, which would make him very young for being Johnny's father. He is a daddy type, of that there's no doubt. His neck is thick and shoulder's wide. He's kicking off his boots. They fall near me and the stink that comes out of them could easily make me wretch if I was any nearer. His teeth are yellow but he has all of them, not like bullet-head who's missing all four front teeth. Old John keeps flexing his hands as he's eyeballing me, and I have a feeling I know where he's imagining planting those big, hairy fists. I stare at his fingers, which each have trails of hair running down them. It take me a second to realize he's talking to me: "Looks like you got nice meat on you. What's that, eight inches I recon?" I look at Johnny who nods his head once. I look back at Old John and nod. "You slam him, Young John?"

"No, sir, we just blew some clouds, but look at those arms. He got some nice juicy veins on him, don't he daddy? Bet you could turn him into a slam whore real easy. Maybe makes some money at Shady Acres trailer park."

"Dwayne," Old John says to the fat one, "why don't you introduce our new house pet who would do well to git his first slam."

I'm ready to protest when Young John subtly tugs my chain. I look over at him and, almost invisibly, shakes his head. "Me, too, Dwayne," he says holding out his arm as way of distraction. He stares at me very pointedly.

"Sure, boy. Why don't we all get to know one another," Dwayne says taking off his dingy grey sweater. Underneath are rolls of fat, boobs that droop over his hefty belly, and pits that I can smell over here. He gets up and goes to the kitchen area and from a drawer takes out a handful of used needles with orange caps. He counts out five and brings over a glass of water and starts dolling out power into each of them.

I see bullet-head spot something on the counter and goes over to pick it up. It's Johnny's cage. "Young John, you take off your cage, boy?"

"No, sir. College done that."

"Git up, son," says Old John. "It's been ages since I seen what your wiener looks like. Lemme me see you." The boy stands up. His father is in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a pelt of black chest hair and pecs that any body builder would be proud of. "Well, look at you, boy!" He slips off his pants and underwear. I'd say my jaw dropped but of course it' s being held in place by my muzzle. Still, I'm sure my eyes are boinging out of my face as I look at Johnny's daddy's anaconda hanging down. Out of his huge black bush is a semi-erect monster cock. The black hair from his chest continues non-stop to his crotch and continues spilling down the hairiest, most muscled legs I've seen. I feel my dick at the most inopportune time start getting aroused. "My boy done grown up. Look at that, Gary," he says to bullet-head. "Sprouting a little bush of weeds and everything. Course we gonna have to clip that hedge and get that cage back on you. Cain't let you become queer and the like. But I tell you what, I gotta have me some of that before we do. Dwayne, you almost ready?"

Dwayne's sucking up water into the syringes and, with the flats of his hands, whipping them back and forth, dissolving the white powder in the tubes. "Almost."

"Young John, you done left this flathead screwdriver out. What I tell you 'bout always puttin' back tools?" Gary scolds Johnny, like a nagging older brother. "You know what I gotta do to you now so you'll remember?" He's taking off his top, too. I'm not surprised to see how many tattoos he has. Praying hands, two kids faces on both sides of his rib cage, a broken open heart on his chest, all kinds of cliched religious images, a cross, prayer beads, wings on his back; also a scorpion tattoo on his shoulder and a biohazard on his treasure trail of thin brown hair.

"Weren't me. Was College left it there," protests Johnny. The kid's sporting his curved hard on, maybe out of the praise from his father, maybe from, for once, not having a cage on him in front of these men, especially his daddy who's now monstrously erect. He's thick as a beer can, black pubic hair growing an inch up his shaft. He has to be a foot long, maybe more. I'm sitting on the floor trying to hide my erection by angling a raised leg. It seems, however, Old John is more interested in his boy than me at the moment.

"Gimme you arm, College," says Dwayne quietly. My hearts thumping so loud in my chest I'm sure the others can hear it. I get on my knees and stretch out my arm. Dwayne puts it on a greasy yellow pillow. "Looks like College is all excited 'bout doing his first slam." Dwayne points to my cock standing straight up. The others laugh.

"Let's see if he can keep that up after you done him," Old John says, taking three syringes off the coffee table. He tosses one to Gary at the counter who pops off the orange cap with his thumb and plunges it into one of his bruised veins. Old John point to the floor in front of him for Johnny to come and kneel. Johnny comes over as Old John settles in. They seems to have a ritual for his. Johnny holds out his arm. His daddy licks the crook and feels for a vein. Finds one, says "Stick," then, when he's pulled some of the blood into the syringe, asks if Johnny is ready. Yes, daddy, please slam me so that I' might be your obedient slave, he recites. Old John pushes in the plunger and Johnny falls to the ground and immediately begins licking his father's detestable feet. The boy looks lost in rapture on the floor holding up his father's foot, bathing it with his tongue, sucking and cleaning up between each of his toes. His father is searching his own arm, pumping his fist. Satisfied he's found one, he empties the content and falls back on the couch while his son caresses each nook and cranny between his father's toes. "Suck 'em good," he says, and Johnny does, one toe at a time looking up through foggy eyes at his dad. "Good boy. That's nice, boy. Take your time. Make sure you git all the smell off 'em. You ready to clean daddy's ass when you done?" Johnny nods enthusiastically. "Hadn't been cleaned since we went off hunting, and you know what that means?" He looks off in his own fog. "You sure you're ready for it?" he asks falling back deeper on the couch and spreading his hairy legs. I can smell his asshole from here. I don't envy Johnny's task.

"College can help me," he churps, "cain't you College? He likes dirty buttholes," Johnny tells the group. I start counting my regrets wondering which one over the last day is the one I regret the most. Rimming Johnny's ass might be the worst, but there's so much completion.

Gary at the counter is trying to get off his pants. I can see he's clumsily working on his belt and having a lot of trouble. "First College has GOT to learn to put away his tools. Boy, you ever git sounded?" he asks me finally getting his buckle open. His pants fall off his revealing a long, thin dick. He starts playing with it while he searching through one of the cabinets. He brings out some cooking oil and coats the screwdriver's tip and blade. He perches on a counter stool watching Dwayne feeling my forearm. Casually he puts the tip of the screwdriver in his piss slit and lets the handle go. It slowly slides into his hardening shaft. "This'll learn ya to put tools away, I guarantee. Oh, fuck, yes it will!" It's almost down to the handle when he grabs it and start pumping it in and out of his dick.

"Stick," Dwayne says, and I feel a pinch where he's inserted the needle. "You ready for this?"

"How much you give him?" Old John asks, relishing his son's tongue as it makes its way up the back of his furry leg. "Go for the balls first, son," he says softly to his son.

"Three-quarters a gram," Dwayne says while I see my red blood swirling within the vial.

Johnny lifts his head as he looks at me with concern. "Seven five's too much for his first time, Dwayne."

"Too late now," he says. When I look down the vial is empty and I feel a rush of adrenaline like I've never felt before. I can't breath it's so intense. I feel my body locked down, incapable of any movement. There's a swelling in my lungs, which after a few moments of absolute panic, explodes with a cough that knocks me on my side. All my motor functions are useless. I'm glued to the floor feeling a red rush coursing through me. Blood behind my blind eyes. Then, like a tidal wave that picks me up without effort on my part, I bounce to my feet like a puppet, dick exploding cum right into Dwayne's beard. He's laughing and I feel insanely good, happy to be here in this dark den of meth heads. I feel like a demon of sex, hard, dripping cum. Looking over Old John who looks incredibly hot, who's cock I can't wait to get in me; over at Gary and want him to plunge that screwdriver right down my shaft like he's doing to his; at Johnny, wanting to join him on Old John's other leg and meet him in the middle at Old John's shit-smelling anus; but first getting down on Dwayne's gooch, as he's getting his last leg out of his dirty underwear, kicking it off his plump leg, and fluffing up a very fat and veiny cock. He's plunged his needle in his arm and is emptying the contents. "Okay, pig. Time to earn your keep," he says as he presses his finger where the syringe has come out. I kneel in front of him and he unbuckles my muzzle. I hungrily chomp down and start sucking his semi-hard cock until it fulfills it's promise, fully engorged, as the biggest cock I've ever seen in my life! "All the way down." I choke once at the attempt. "You puke or choke again, we're gonna go outside and snip those purdy balls right off. I guarantee." I don't choke again, but take his shaft down all the way down to his foul-smelling bush.

[TTFN]

Now that College is ready let the games begin.

If he is going to be acting like a dog maybe he should be bred by one.