Moonshine

Part Two

I don't know what time it was I woke up, but the sky was just starting to light up in the east. One of us must have kicked off the blanket, but it sure wasn't cold. I looked down at Gabe's naked body and, matter of fact, started to feel kind of warm. All kinds of warm.

I think what got me about Gabe -- and Johnny too -- was their skin. Some boys have the smoothest, softest, most perfect skin you can imagine. I know women put all kinds of creams and oils and stuff on themselves to get skin like that, but it never works all that well. So I looked at Gabe's perfect skin, and then I touched it with my hand. I touched his face, and his chest, and his belly. I ran my hand up and down his legs, and thought about trying to flip him over so I could bury my face in his bottom.

Well, his little nipples got all pointy when I licked them, and his little pecker got all pointy all on its own. When I moved down to take that little pecker in my mouth, returning the favor from the night before, he kind of spread his legs apart, so I could reach between them and hold his soft and comfy bottom while I sucked him. I'd never sucked a cock before, little nor big, and I guess I may have sucked a little too hard, because he said, "Easy!"

Yes, I'd woke him up, but he didn't seem to mind as I sucked on him more easy. He still was little enough so I could get his whole pecker and balls into my mouth, so that's what I did from time to time -- the rest of the time just working his pecker with my lips and my tongue. I wanted to make him feel as good as he'd made me feel the night before, and I guess I did it because his ass cheeks started twitching in my hand and his little thingie was throbbing and he let out a great big "Ooooohhh!" Nothing to swallow, though. He was still too little. Just the same, I was happy to make him so happy.

"Oh, Jeez, that was good," he told me. "Nobody ever done that to me before."

I was dubious. "You suck better than a French whore," I said. "How'd you learn to suck so good if nobody ever sucked you?"

He just looked down, and didn't say nothing.

"You can tell me," I said. "We sucked each other's cocks, so I think I can trust you and you can trust me."

"I'm not supposed to say," he told me, "but I guess there are people know anyway. It was Justice Wainwright. I mean, it is Justice Wainwright. If Jimmy Bob went into town last night after he got drunk, I'll probably be sucking off Justice Wainwright this afternoon."

The standard sentence for drunk and disorderly, it seemed, was a fine of fifteen dollars or a week in jail. The rich drunks -- merchants' and bankers' sons -- would pay the fine and stagger home. The poor ones stayed in jail. Unless...

"So Justice Wainwright," he told me, "will let a drunk out early if some young enough boy or girl will come suck his cock. It's almost funny. Under his judge robes, he's naked 'cept for the bottom halfs of pant legs held up with garters around his knees. You say to the lady outside his office, 'I'm here for my counseling,' and she sends you through. Then you have to crawl under his desk and stick your head up under his judge robes and suck his dick. And if you suck it good enough, and swallow, he'll ask you who you want let out -- although he ought to know if it's me sucking him, it's bound to be Jimmy Bob. And he gives you a peppermint from a big jar on his desk."

I kissed his little pecker a couple of times, then skooched up and kissed his face. He grinned, and hugged me very hard.

"Do you like sucking off Justice Wainwright?" I asked.

"It ain't too bad," he answered. "He's kind of old and fat, but his cock is okay, and that's all I can see of him when I'm under the desk. Anyway, if Jimmy Bob's ass in in jail, he don't get paid, and me and Mama don't have no money."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You know, it ain't like sucking yours. You got the nicest I can even imagine, and I'll come around and suck it every day I can, no pennies and no peppermints neither." After a pause, he continued. "I'll want some hugs and kisses, though."

Naturally enough, he got plenty of hugs and kisses after he said that. When he finally pulled on his overalls and headed home, he had the biggest smile across his face I ever seen.

..........

When Gabe was gone, I started getting one of my black moods back again. I kept seeing pictures of Terry Bryant with the top of his head shot off. Terry was a friend of mine. I mean, we didn't do nothing together, but he's the one who took me to that French whorehouse. I was figuring we'd still be friends after the War. But after the War, he was dead.

I got down my personal use jug and poured me some 'shine. My mouth and my stomach didn't much want it, but my head needed it pretty bad, so I choked it down. Then I got back in bed, and tried to figure out what to do with the rest of the day. Just lay there in bed, I figured. That seemed good enough.

So I was just laying there in bed when the knock came at the door. I found the cover and pulled it up over me before I called out, "Who is it?"

"Me. Johnny."

"Come on in, then."

He came in.

"Where's Gabe?" I asked.

"Probably down Justice Wainwright's, getting Jimmy Bob out of jail."

"So you know about that?"

"Hell, yeah. I have to suck fatty's dick two three times for every time Gabe does."

"Why?" I asked. "I didn't think your mama had a man."

"She don't," he replied. "But she also don't have no money. And there's drunks don't have kids of their own. So the drunk gets out of jail, and Mama gets four bits, and I gets the crappy peppermint."

He was tearing up while he told me how his mama was whoring him out, so I asked if he wanted a cuddle. He did, and he jumped right on top of me.

"Gabe said you give real good hugs."

I did my best, and I didn't even put my hands down his oversized overalls.

"You could put your hands down my pants if you feel like it," he said. "I liked how you were feeling my bottom, yesterday in the crick."

I probably would have done it anyway, eventually, but it was nice that he asked.

"That feels so good," he told me. "If I ask you something, will you promise not to get mad at me?"

I couldn't imagine what he thought might make me mad, so I said, "Okay. I promise."

"And you can't tell neither."

"My lips are sealed," I said.

"You don't have to," he replied, "but maybe you could stick your pecker up my hole."

Yes, that caught me by surprise. I'd heard about it, but it never made much sense to me. Of course, what I'd heard about was men doing it to women, who have perfectly good cunts. Well, I figured, boys don't have cunts, so if you're gonna fuck them...

"Don't you think it would hurt?" I asked.

"Won't hurt me," he answered. "Just sit there and I'll show you." He left me in my bed and started poking around the cabin until he came up with my uncle's old feather duster. I will admit I'd never used it myself, and I sure never used it the way Johnny did. He dropped his overalls halfway back to the bed, stopped at the shelf by the stove to dip his finger in the lard, rubbed lard on the feather duster handle, dropped down on the bed, and pushed that handle straight up his ass.

I was kind of amazed, but I had to laugh a little because it really looked kind of funny, with those feathers sticking out, like he'd stuck a whole turkey up his ass. Same time, though, it really looked kind of cute, with his little pecker stiff as a nail and a bit of a sneaky grin on his face. He pumped that duster handle in and out a couple of times, groaning, "Oh, that's so good!"

"How the hell did you do that?" I exclaimed.

"Practice," he said, his face darkening. "Mama figured if I could make four bits for sucking a cock, maybe I could get a whole dollar for taking one in my hole. So she started by putting just a little finger up there, then bigger and bigger until I could take the handles of her rolling pin, which are about the size of Justice Wainwright's fat little cock. And then I had to go ask him if he'd pay a dollar to push it up there! And he got real mad!

It had been half a minute, maybe, but he went from mocking and sexy to tears running down his face. I went to hug him, but he pushed me away.

"He got real mad, and he called me a disgusting little whore, and said I could suck him from under the desk because he didn't have to look at me. And that sticking himself up my shithole, just the idea of it, made him sick. And I didn't get no peppermint, and old Harry Edwards didn't get sprung from jail, and I couldn't go back there for more than two months. And we was hungry those two months, not getting my cocksucking money."

By that time, I was crying too. "Sweetie," I told him, "you don't have to do nothing you don't like for me. I never want to hurt you. I make decent money on the 'shine, so I can help you out, and you don't never have to suck Wainwright's cock again."

By that time, Billy's cheeks were totally covered with tears. "You don't understand!" he sobbed. "I don't hate it. I like it. I love it, having some stiff thing up there. I didn't at first, but the more stuff Mama put up there, the better it felt to me. And when I saw Gabe riding your peter in the crick, all I wanted was to feel it up inside me. And you don't want to, just like Wainwright. You think I'm disgusting."

Very gently, I eased the feather duster out of his ass. There was some leftover lard around his stretched out hole, so I rubbed it in, and smeared the leftovers on the tip of my cock. "I never did this before," I said. "I'll do my best to be gentle."

He was so much better than a French whore. He was so hot and tight, and I could feel he was feeling pleasured instead of bored. Every time I pumped into him, I felt that stiff little pricklet against my belly, and when I put my mouth against his, he figured out what he was supposed to do a lot faster than Gabe did. I was squeezing his ass cheeks so hard with my hands, I was afraid I might leave bruises -- but he didn't complain, and I didn't stop. I don't know how long it was, but he started twitching and shaking, and that baby cock was straining against my belly, and I just let loose. I shot myself way deep up his ass, and both of us just kind of collapsed.

It would have been nice to do it again, but I was pretty much used up, so I just held his soft little body in my arms and rubbed my face against his neck. Then I rolled over, pulling him on top of me because, once I was collapsed, I figured I probably was uncomfortably heavy for him. He, though, was just about right for me.

I don't know when he went home, or wherever he went, because I fell into an unusually gentle sleep. It was sometime in the night I woke up, hearing gunshots. I guessed someone was out shooting possums or 'coons, which mostly come out after dark, and I was surprised I had not dove under the bed, like I had been doing when gunshot woke me. Mind you, I flashed on the trenches, and I got a nasty vision of Terry Bryant with half his head shot off, but it wasn't so bad as usual. Maybe I was doing better. Maybe my shell shock was starting to fade.

Then again, maybe I was doing worse. Anybody will tell you that sucking and fucking with little boys is worse than pretty much anything, and that's what I'd been doing. Just the same, I felt better. I mean, I didn't feel bad or evil or such like. If there was evil in me, it was from the War. "Yes," I told myself, "must have been the War."

That was a pretty good excuse, but not good enough. "Them boys love me," I thought, "and I love them right back. That ain't evil, is it?"

I drank half a mug of 'shine about then, and fell back to sleep.

(In WWI, they called it "Shell Shock." In WWII they doubled the syllables and called it "Battle Fatigue." More recently, they doubled the syllables again and called it "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder." Will they come up with a sixteen syllable term for the next war? And can screwing around with young boys really cure it? Wait for part 3, and say hello to heedon@tormail.org)