[Breeder] The Bank Book

[TheBreeder]

To see Breeder's original blog post click here

“That’s a lot of money you’ve got there, sonny,” said the teller behind the counter of Southern Bank. In typical preppy Richmond fashion, he wore a blue button-down shirt and a bright yellow silk tie under his navy blazer—a style they still affect there. He riffled through the two heaps of bills and began to count through them, sorting the tens and twenties into their own piles. He plucked out the sole fifty-dollar bill and used it as a foundation for the others, totaling it all one more time while he assembled it into a single stack. “Five hundred and thirty dollars,” he announced. “Saving up for a car?” The teller winked at me in a chummy way.

I was a month shy of my birthday, and struck shy by the small talk of strangers. I wasn’t saving for a car. I wasn’t saving for anything. I’d just opened my first savings account, and barely comprehended why. For years I’d collected allowance from my parents for doing my chores and practicing the piano, but I regularly frittered it away on bottles of Grape Nehi and board games from Woolco. Five hundred and thirty dollars was money. Real money, and because I had no idea how to manage it, it had been decided I would put it in a savings account.

“The boy mowed a lot of lawns last summer,” said the older man beside me. He ruffled my hair paternally and winked back. “It adds up, right? Every little bit counts.”

The teller smiled, made some notations and filled out a card, and then took the little blue booklet and thrust it into a mechanical stamping machine. When he handed it to me, under my name and new bank account number was the date, a legend, and a figure: DEPOSIT $530.00.

“Would you like me to show you how to fill out the deposit slip?” the teller asked me.

“I’ll get him up to speed,” said my guardian. “Thanks for your time.”

Together we stood by the glass counter in the middle of the room while he explained how to fill out the slip for future deposits. The scene was like a Norman Rockwell painting, Day at the Bank, in which side by side stood a blond man and a very blond boy, father and son, as the older taught the younger the importance of saving his lawn-mowing nickels.

Only the man wasn’t my father at all. His name was Earl, and he was the man around whom a lot of my teen years revolved. I hadn’t earned a cent behind a Toro. I’d accumulated it trading sex for money in Earl’s home, weekends.

Earl was often able to pass me off as his son because of our physical resemblance. He was rugged and handsome where I was skinny and finer-featured, but our hair color, height, and general ranginess were similar enough that we could travel together and not attract attention. In fact, I’d been mistaken for his son the first time we’d met.

I was in the public park clearing with That Sprinkler Guy. It was a late summer afternoon shortly after lunch, and I’d met the sprinkler installer by my reading tree at the lake’s edge. At his approach I’d already put away my book and pulled my bike to the road’s side; by the time he pulled to a stop beside me, I was hauling my bike up and into his truck’s bed so that we could drive off to a quieter spot. I’m pretty sure he’d hosed me down with his piss that afternoon. I was totally naked, with my clothes hanging over a branch nearby, and my shoes parked on a ledge of moss beneath a tree. And he was fucking me. I remember the teeth of That Sprinkler Guy’s jeans would nip at my ass cheeks with every thrust. If I’d had hairs back there, at that age, they would have been picked clean, one by one.

My ass was sore from That Sprinkler Guy’s extra-thick dick, and the constant hammering at my prostate was making me whimper. I can’t say I was enjoying the sensations from his fucking, but I did like that sense of being used. I liked feeling I’d gone so low as to submit to the guy’s piss. Knowing I was a very bad boy with a host of secrets gave me a thrill inside, and every new adventure or degradation made everything all the more exciting.

I was in so much of a haze that I didn’t notice the other man approaching to intrude on our private scene. That Sprinkler Guy must have, however, because when in a panic I looked from the tall blond stranger with the deep blue eyes and the dimpled chin who was leaning against the tree from which my clothes hung, to the man assaulting my hole, I saw That Sprinkler Guy was merely pounding harder with an audience. The newcomer wore shorts and a polo shirt, despite the warm temperatures. A wedding band decorated his ring finger. He looked like some kind of daddy accidentally wandered in from the tennis courts or from coaching his daughter’s field hockey game.

That Sprinkler Guy must have thought so too. He fucked me hard for several minutes, then finally relented and let loose a blast of cum in my hole, shooting so violently that I lost my grip on my knees and had to thrust my palms onto the ground to keep from falling. He yanked out of me without ceremony, seeming to leave me gaping. “He’s not yours, is he?” he asked the stranger.

The guy I later knew as Earl raised his eyebrows. “My what?”

“Your kid,” said the sprinkler guy. “He looks like you.”

Earl didn’t take his eyes off me as he shook his head. Blue and friendly as they were, at that moment they held a dangerous edge. He wanted me. He meant to have me. And he didn’t intend to stop with a single fuck. “No,” he said. “He’s not mine.”

Though soon enough I would be.

More...