Date: Wed, 30 Aug 2006 20:01:15 -0700 (PDT) From: T. Chase McPhee Subject: "Road Trip: Detour" The story below is a work of fiction, set in the format of reality. Any resemblances to real people, alive or in the hereafter, is entirely coincidental in nature. It is not meant to accurately reflect upon persons, in towns, cities, nor governmental areas, which the story is stages. If a sexual scene involving male-to-male relationships offences you, then you should not read this story. Additionally, if you are under 18 years of age, in most state and countries, you are not allowed to read this story, by law. Check with your local laws regarding such. Sexual safety matters. This is fiction. Use protection, in real life. "Road Trip: Detour" wriTten by T. Chase McPhee % I stepped on the brake. The car in front of me, sped up. I hit the gas, only to read his tail lights turning red. I hit the brake. By the minute, I was getting totally humiliated with the traffic, the stop and go action. A clear indication of my loss of patience, I cursed the poor soul out. This weekend I had to be in the city, for the Applegate All Varsity Wrestling Competition. With this traffic I sarcastically told myself I'd be lucky if I made it by Monday morning! Still, I vigilantly followed the car's lead, ahead of me. To make matters worse, the overhead warning lights, flashing white, told the cue of drivers that contruction would be bottling up three lanes for `only' six more miles. I slammed my back into the bucket seat, slapping the empty seat next to me, as if the referee at the wrestling match. The blazing sun didn't help, even though the air conditioning duct blew a cold breeze onto the front of my tee shirt. "Dammit!" I yelled at the parking lot ahead of me and those responsible for turning the three lane highway into the standing-still lanes. Then I saw it. `Next exit, gas, lodgings'. It's not the amenities I sought, but rather the possibility of rerouting my trip, so as to miss out on all of this slow action. Cutting a guy off, hearing his tires scream at me for pulling in front of him, my black, silver-trimmed Lexus made the transition perfectly. Next, I checked to see if the shoulder was clear, for my illegal exit from all this mess. "Woohoo!" I belted out. Cutting ahead of the others, I easily made my way all the way down the sloping ramp. `Fools,' I thought, `am I the only smart guy here, carving my way out of the world's longest `parking lot'? Going on my own intuition, I made a right. Sooner or later I would have to come to a gas station, a portal to finding a back route, making my detour all worth the while. That came to pass, about five minutes down the road. Back on the highway, it mentioned `food', however the broken down, old cafe I just passed wouldn't make Zagat's by a long shot. Right away, I thought of the nerve they had, putting `food' on the sign and then leading people to a greasy spoon, a dump, like that. Finally, I spotted a gas station. Right away, my opinions put it in the same class as the `greasy spoon'! Still, I didn't want to chance going too far down the road and missing some connection to my destination. "Um, can you tell me how to get to Eric's Landing?" I asked the Latino attendant. Looking up from the engine he toiled on, I got the shock of my life. Decked out in his greasy, grimy, one-piece mechanics overalls, tailored to match the `greasy spoon' and surrounding area, a mostly grime-free face appeared. "Highway's about five minutes west of here." I felt him eyeing me up and down. Most likely they don't get many strangers here, considering the condition of the rundown place. Probably he labored on one of the local's auto. "Just came from there. Wall to wall traffic." "Where you headed?" I thought I already mentioned that, but figured it wouldn't hurt to repeat myself. "Eric's Landing. I've got a college wrestling match to coach." "Wrestling, eh?" Along with the mechanic's eyes scanning me, it seemed like he was starting up some lite conversation. My figuring had been the possibility to turn, walk away, but it's for sure I wasn't going to get my bearings straight, out here in the sticks. It's obvious this guy was into the gay vein. Not swinging that way, kind of irked me, made me feel uncomfortable. "Yeah, you know," I motioned with my arms, "guys get down on the floor and go at it?" I then realized the implications of my statement, if indeed the mechanic `swung' in the opposite direction of myself! "Um, I mean...." "Sure, I know what you mean," the perhaps early-thirties guy shot back at me. Good thing. I didn't want to get tongue-tied up in this gay stuff. Bad enough, at wrestling practice every year, there was some frat that had to bring up the subject of close contact, insinuating something more than a gentleman's sport. "About those directions?" I started to get impetuous, hopefully not showing it. I've overheard at times, people talk about me, these younger coaches coming in, being over efficient, trying to pick up the pace too fast. Being twenty-seven, I'd rather have that be the case, than dragging my feet around, in my mid-forties! I considered myself fairly active, working this six foot, two hundred and five pound bod five days a week, to surpass some of the lard buckets walking around campus. At least some of the coaches could get their asses in gear and work off those beer-belly guts, hitting the gym, instead of the campus pub. Unlike ordinary people, we have free access to a gym, trainers right there at our beck and call, plus the olympian swimming pool. What more could they ask for? With his broken, Latino accent, he told me a route, which stuck in my mind kind of fuzzy. Nevertheless, I thanked `Roberto', the name sewn in red, over a white patch of his coveralls and headed out to my car. Revving up the engine, I pulled out of the station, with a sigh of relief. To myself, outloud, I commented, `dirtbag', meaning the condition of the rundown service center. Going up the road, headed east, I saw the sign Roberto mentioned, Green Lake Cafe. I turned left. It took me off the fairly nice, paved highway and onto an old road. Still paved, it was pocked with holes, so I had to be careful to dodge them. Good thing it seemed a not-so-travelled road, so I could swerve around the holes. About a mile up, I noticed a building, sitting in the middle of a deserted parking lot. "Green Lake Cafe?" I exclaimed. "Yeah right! More like `Green Lake Pigsty'!" Looking at the landmark, I didn't see a pothole. "Shit!" I called out, entering the parking lot, to miss it. Jamming on the brakes, my back wheels spun out, on the gravelly surface of the parking lot, putting my car into a swerve. "Whew!" After wiping my forward, pressing my back into the seat, after cursing myself out for not keeping my eyes on the road, I started out again. I heard a thump. Then another. "Oh double shit!" I cursed. Rolling down the electric window, leaning halfway over, my suspicions proved correct. A flat tire. Suddenly my cell phone started to ring. I had left it in my overnight sports bag. Quickly I unzipped the bag and retrieved it. Opening it, I saw the caller's ID. Before I even acknowledged a `hello', I got screamed at, "Where the hell are you Toricelli?" "Um, there was traffic and now.. got a flat." I held the phone inches away, not wanting to go deaf, with my boss, Coach Martucci, screaming his lungs out, complaining of handling a team of college jocks all by himself. "They are men. They should be able to control themselves," I replied, knowing how wired the wrestling team could get. I folded up my phone after taking the heat for something beyond my control, assuring him I was doing my best to get to the varsity competition. Getting out of my car, I opened the trunk, to find the little `donut'. It was hot, but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Getting out the jack, blocks, and `donut', I struggled to get the tire changed. It had to be somewhere around a hundred and ten. No, less, but working up a sweat, it seemed that high, what with the sun beaming down. Not wanting to get my tee shirt dirty, bearing our college logo, I pulled it off over my head. I tossed it in the window, on the seat. Before I got the lug nuts all loosened, I was planing the sweat off my sweat-soaked, hairy chest, straight down my tight, dark stomach trail and wiped the remnants on my pants thigh. Going back to the lug nuts, I unscrewed the rest by hand. Before removing the tire, I reached in the window, into the back seat, for the bottle of spring water. Standing there, hand on my hip, I inadvertently looked up into the hot, sunny sky, while guzzling the contents down. Again, my hand traveled my body, wiping the sweat. By now though, my skin was hot and the sweat doubled in viscosity. I went right back to squatting down, taking the tire in both hands and giving a pull. It didn't budge. "Shit!" I cursed it. I jacked up the car a couple of notches, then tried again. Still didn't work. "What tha fuck?" At the same time, I heard the motor of another vehicle. "Hell yeah!" I yelled out loud. Seeing it was a tow truck, I ran towards the road, my arms up, like hailing a cab. As the guy rolled down his window, I said to him, "Man, you're just in time!" What I didn't hear, under his breath, is, "I'll say!" I did pick up him saying something, answering, "What was that?" With a tinge of Spanish, he replied, "Looks like you need help, amigo?" "That's for sure." He turned into the parking lot, heading towards my disabled Lexus. I ran behind, jogging in the same direction. I didn't pick up on him looking in the wide, side mirror, smiling. "Sure is hot," I said, as he stood there, looking at the tire. "It don't come off?" "No. Here, let me show you." Like before, I squatted down, took each side of the tire in my hands and gave a hefty pull, proving my statement. Something struck me from behind, kayo-ing me on the back of the neck. I remember grunting, my hand feeling the soreness. My body keeled over, falling on the hot surface, rolling like. I started to get up, leaning on all fours, doggie style. That's when I felt the full force blow, the kick to my gut. It sent me rolling over onto my back. I was in serious gut pain, panting hard from the wind being knocked out of me. "Yeah, you are going to be a lot of fun amigo!" Trying to hold my gut, I feel something being put around one of my wrists. Sensing foul play, I lash out, my arm hitting him in the shoulder. Not a good strike, barely stunning him. "You shouldn't have gone and done that amigo!" From above, his fist came from above, directly into the center of my stomach. I belched out loud from the force, placing both arms in front of me, as if protecting my midsection, even though too late a call. Something went around my other wrist. Between the energy I already wasted on trying to change the damn tire, the heat, my body dehydrated, the force of the kick and punch to my gut, I was in no shape to offer much resistance. Next thing I know, I try to pull my arms to my sides, to upright myself, but they are offering no assistance, seemingly positioned together, permanently. "What tha fuck?" Before I could even do a situp, the tow truck operator had backed his truck up to where I lay out on the hot pavement. The noise is deadening to my ears, as I hear a motor whirring. Suddenly, my arms are pulled straight up, as my body is still in the reclining position. He flicks a lever on the back of the truck. Slowly, my arms start climbing towards the sky. Still breathing heavy, I'm helpless to watch my arms rising up. My back becomes unglued from the pavement. Soon my ass leaves the ground. "What tha fuck you trying to prove?" I yell at the driver. No matter how much I protested, he laughed, saying over and over something about `having fun'. I didn't like the sound of that, coupled with the fact, my body now hung by my arms, my feet a foot or so from the pavement. I had one last chance to deck him. Swinging, my foot caught him right in the crotch. It was his turn to feel some pain. While he clutched his jewels and cursed me out, I looked up, above my head, for a way out of my predicament. Around my wrists, had been fastened leather-looking cuffs, held together by a chain. Part of that silvery metal had been looped up, over the hook, normally utilized to be positioned under the bumper of a car, now holding a half-naked man in place, like a slab of beef, ready to be butchered. The reference sent chills up my spine. I had to get out of this and now! Without my feet touching dirt, my struggles proved fruitless. With no means to have something to act as a counterbalance, I couldn't lift my wrists up and over the hook. Trying to move one wrist upwards, caused the connecting chain to slip, sliding the other wrist down. Plus, the tow truck operator wouldn't be down forever. My assumptions proved quite correct. "You ought not have gone and done that, amigo. Now you pay!" A new set of chills went through my body, even though it was balmy out, the heat rays causing my body to sweat, also baked my skin. I tried kicking loose, but this time he was prepared. Taking the tire iron, the same one I used on my tire, from the ground, he used the blunt end, the part used to loosen the lug nuts, as a battering ram. I thought the Latino dude's fist, pounding down, point blank into my gut was bad enough. When the lug nut end of the metal implement hit my gut, my body acted like a swing, after it did it made it's indentation in my stomach. There wasn't any way I could cushion the blow. My outstretched arms, above my head, stretched high, flaunting my sweaty pits, left my solar plexis wide open for the assault. Breathing hard, I was also cursing. Cursing the Latino driver who hit me, the sweat, the sun, the heat, plus the dull ache in my stomach, along with breathing heavily. It left me in no condition to fight off my assailant, as he removed my sneakers and socks. Going for my stomach, I flinched, figuring another punch or strike of the lug nut wrench was impending. Instead, I felt and heard the sound of my belt being unbuckling. Being stretched out, my pants slipped down my thighs, down my legs and off with no problem. He tossed them on the side of the winch. "Fuck no! What the fuck you doing?" I screamed at him. Behind me, he had his thumbs on the sides of my torso, already tucked in, pulling downwards on my briefs. I could feel my sweaty pubes get warmed by the sun rays, almost immediately, as he peeled them off. "Now to punish you!" "Punish?" I gasped, unbelieving to what I heard. What did he think that lug nut wrench to my gut was? He disappeared right away. I tried looking over my shoulder. Seeing nothing, I did hear him rummaging about. Returning, he held in his hand a piece of clothesline rope and a rubber mallet. "Wha-what are you gonna," I gulped, "do?" I know this didn't look a bit good for me. I soon found out how bad it was going to get! % I didn't have the energy, nor the pivoting advantage to fight off the tow truck operator. At his mercy, he took up the clothesline rope and tied an end around my right ankle. Picking up the lug nut wrench, he fastened one end to the same ankle. With the same loop, he tied an extension of the rope to my left ankle. Grunting, he forced my legs apart, tying the other end of the lug nut wrench to my other ankle. Hanging there by my arms, totally naked, I could feel the slight breeze play with my sweaty bod. I try fidgeting about, complaining vocally, but see that it is only working to my disadvantage, sweat dripping like a waterfall and causing my mouth to thirst, between the dehydration and my previous verbal assault. The whole time, he is totally ignoring me, humming some tune. At the same time, I look down, upon my captor, watching him go about his crafting. Standing behind me, I try looking over my shoulder, with difficulty. I spy him at the bottom of the winch, the long arm that reaches skywards, holding the hook which my leather-cuffed wrists are affixed to. "Yes, we have good time with you, amigo!" As he says this, I feel my feet slack backwards. "What tha fuck!" I comment, out of surprise. First my left leg is drawn back, then my right. My concave body remains in a perfect curve. The only part of my physique not adhering to the curvature of my arms, chest, stomach and legs, is my cock and balls. My 8.5c is pointing towards the ground, my big orbs hanging free. "Get yer fuckin' hands off... Arrgggggggggghhhhh!" At first feeling them, the Latino grabs both of my balls and gives them a twist. I've never felt such pain before. Worse than his fist or the tire iron tucking in my gut, I throw my head back and scream. Letting go, I still feel a dull ache. My breathing has doubled, from the surprise torment. Before I can recover, I feel the rope on my body once again. I don't get it right away, but then realize he's got a cinch around both my orbs. Another jolt of pain shoots up and through my body, as he pulls it tight around them. My pangs of pain seem to only humor him. My gaze returning to the frontal action, I watch in horror, as he picks up the rubber mallet. "Your... your not gonna...." My worst fears, I'm sure show on my face. I wonder if he's going to pound one of my balls or both at once? He holds the mallet up, over his shoulder, grinning. I close my eyes, squinting. It's then I hear this loud laugh. Opening one eye, then the other, I see the Latino laughing his ass off, lowering the rubber mallet. However, he takes up the end of the rope that's circling both my balls and ties the rubber mallet to it. He gives no warning, dropping it. "Arrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" I scream out. Before I can voice anything more, I hear the engine of the tow truck being revved up. To add to his enjoyment, my fears, he steps on the gas. I thought my balls would be separated from my pubes at any moment, as he began doing wheelies in the parking lot. Thoughts of my wrists breaking, consumed my brain. Fortunately, I could grab at the leather cuffs, holding each tightly, with my hands circling them. Worst scenario he swings out of the parking lot and starts heading down the public road, back from where I came. A new fear came into play. What happens if another vehicle comes up from behind? `Wait!' I thought. My fears turn to joy. That would be my ticket to release! Especially if it was a police cruiser that happened to pull up behind the tow truck. I prayed for that to happen. Sure enough, a gray 4x4 pulls up, starts following the tow truck. The guy behind the wheel, whom I can't make out, due to the blazing sun reflecting off his windshield, starts beeping his horn. I think I actually smiled, thinking this Latino is ready to get what's coming to him. I bet the guy in the 4x4 has phoned the police and they are on their way. Did this Latino dude think he could actually pull something like this off? As the guy gets out of his truck, I watch his moderately young, Hispanic body walk towards the tow truck. "Whew! Am I glad that `you' happened.... along?" To my amazement, he walks right past me, not saying a word, a kinky looking smile on his face. Soon, the driver of the tow truck and he are at the back of the winch, eyeing me up and down, conversing in Spanish. I can't understand a word, but wonder what the sign language of the 4x4 driver's hand on his crotch, plus all this pointing to my pubes and pecs. Most worst horror unfolds, when he takes the handle of the rubber mallet and gives a jerking action, downwards. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" I scream out, in utter pain. Worse than his speeding shenanigans in the `Crappy Cafe' parking lot, my balls are stretched, and holding. "Noooooo stop! Pleeeeease... ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" The only words I understand, is suddenly when the Spanish switches to broken English, the average build 4x4 driver saying, "He be fun. What time party start?" I know Spanish numbers. Siete. The Latino two truck driver was having a party at seven o'clock this evening. I cringed at the thought of what the entertainment would be like. No use of pleading for help. I watched as the 4x4 driver got in his truck, hung his head out, as the tow truck driver revved up the motor. Before pulling from the shoulder, he yelled out his window, "I have fun with you later, amigo!" Without further interruption, the tow truck pulls up at the station, where Roberto is still under the hood of the car. I suppose, upon hearing the noisy tow truck pull up, called his attention to us. He lifted his body up, from the bent over position and wiped his hands on a rag, as he approached the truck. The driver gave an order, out of the window, which prompted Roberto to open one of the three bays. The truck drove right in. Even in my moments of fear, I felt the relief of the hot sun leaving my body, as the shade of the inside of the service center transforms the light to darkness. I know I sighed from the relief. Roberto closed the bay door, my last look at the outside, I suspected. For how long, was one of the unanswered questions. "What's this, Miguel?" Roberto asked, holding up the handle of the mallet. Whether he intended on dropping it or not, it felt relieved not having the weight on my balls. His hand firming up his crotch, the tow truck driver, whom I now knew as `Miguel', must've mentioned it in his native tongue. I was surprised to hear Roberto say, "You know I don't speak that Spanish shit." "I said he got me in the balls with his foot!" I expected the mallet to be released, dropped, the dull ache in my balls to return. Instead, the humiliation was worse than any pain. Roberto, standing, I approximated, at maybe five feet, ten inches tall, his head even with my chest, leaned in. He licked my right nip! "Gross!" I called out. Imagine that. My sweaty, dirt-dusty body, hanging there on a meat hook, with this Latino guy, Roberto, sticking his tongue out and licking right over my nip! Worse, my description didn't even irk him. Instead, he smiled. Then he did it again. This time, I felt his tongue travel around my dirty, sweaty, hairy nip. With his lips over his teeth, he cupped them together, pinching me. I can't say he was making it painful. "Do me favor and take him out back. Hose him down?" I wondered what the wink was for. More dirty play, I suspected. As he worked at releasing me, my mind refocused on my left pec. I don't know how he could make love to my pec, with the grime and sweat abounding. However, Miguel's comment to him paid off for me. Slowly, as Roberto teased my nip with his mouth, his hands busied with untying the mallet. It felt so good not to have the rubber mallet making my orbs sag. Breaking lip contact, he commented, "I can't wait til I have you all to myself. You taste so good!" I was totally blown away. I didn't know how to respond, other than having my thoughts return to earlier, before all this pain stuff started happening. I started to assume my guess at Roberto being gay, was for real. As he untied my ankles from the winch, my mind began to wander off into another direction. If Roberto indeed was gay and he commented about having me to himself... just what did that entail? I gasped, as my body flung forward, the lug nut bar causing me swing about. Hearing the sound of the winch, my bod began to descend. I couldn't stand, even if the wrench hadn't parted my legs. Fortunately, due to the slowing descent, I landed softly on my knees. However, one comfort, the cement flooring was nice and cool. "Oooooooooh," I sighed. Eventually, my arms were low enough to be unfastened from the hook. With ease, Roberto lifted it up and over. He didn't let me flop over, but gently let my arms grow accustomed to regaining their curve. In my pain, my muscles spasming, he undid one cuff, pulled my arms behind my back and redid the loose cuff around my wrist. "Oooooh shit!" I called out. "Don't try anything or I will be force to deal with it. I don't want to hurt you." "Sure," I said sarcastically to him. Yet, unlike Miguel, Roberto indeed seemed sincere, in the opposite manner of the sadistic tow truck driver. But right now I wasn't buying anybody's manner of kindness. I wasn't oblivious to the gay culture. I knew what Roberto meant when he said, `I can't wait til I have you all to myself'. His intentions are to do some of that man-to-man, gay sex stuff with me. No way was I about to take another man's cock in my mouth or up my ass, if I had anything to do about it. He untied the lug nut wrench finally, always on his guard, of course. Miguel had warned him already, about how I kicked him in the nuts. He wasn't going to chance a repeat performance. I, on the other hand would resort to anything, if given the chance, to disrupt their party plans! "Don't try anything Anthony. I don't want to hurt you," Roberto repeated, as he marched me towards the back of the service station. I also picked up on him using my name. "I suppose you went through my wallet." As he opened the door, again letting my body bake in the sun, he pulled something from his overalls. "I will keep it for you, until they let you go." "Yeah, right to the cops!" I didn't neglect to add. "No. They will make it so you don't do that." "What tha? And just how are they going to manage that? You don't think I'm going to let all of this rough treatment slide, do you?" Strange thing, I did actually sense true remorse from Roberto. Probably one of the reasons I wasn't kicking the shit out of his crotch. The fear didn't seem to be as intense, without Miguel around. "They will take pictures. Same as other men." "Other men? You mean Miguel has done this to other men?" "You aren't the first..." Roberto stopped in his wording. Reaching around me, he pressed my arms down, between the leather cuffs. He stood right in front of me. The sun blaring, cooking my bare skin, the sweat returning, after the cooling off of the indoors. I'm not sure what the case had been, but for whatever reason, I couldn't flinch a muscle, as the smell from Roberto's coveralls filled my sinuses. It had a rather tantalizing effect on me. I can't explain it. Being about an inch shorter than me, I had to look down, into his eyes. I didn't sense any of the meanness that Miguel evoked. Instead, his eyes looked like pools of water. Cool, like you sense at the end of a waterfall. He said nothing, as I stood there doing the same. I finally opened up and said, "I could be kicking the shit out of you." Kicking the shit out of Roberto? I could be strangling him, as he released his grip on the rope, his hands busy at uncuffing one of my wrists. How come I wasn't acting out the part of a murderer? "Maybe I... I..." he looked back at the station, then to me, completing his thought, "I let you go?" Before I could warn him, Miguel appeared, cursing him out. Roberto took a punch to the back. "You fuckin' faggot!" Roberto curled up on the ground, after taking a boot in the stomach. He tried yelling to Miguel, telling him the opposite intentions of what he communicated to me. At the same time, I saw my opportunity for escape. I headed for the back door of the station. I don't know what happened to me. My mind became blurred. I hated hearing the sound of Roberto's cries, as Miguel pulled him up by his overalls and punched him. Turning, I ran back, my fist ready to punch him out. "Watch out!" Roberto called out to Miguel. In a split second decision, Miguel was facing me. It was his fist, rolled up in a ball, that pummeled my stomach, instead of me hitting him. I fell over in a heap. I looked up momentarily, making eye contact with Roberto. "Why?" I mouthed to him. He didn't have an answer, rather acting embarrassed, blushing. Miguel didn't give me a chance to cause any more commotion. I found myself hauled up, being led over to a patch of sparsely leafed trees, dried from lack of rain. The one wrist, still cuffed, was hooked to a ring, embedded in the tree's body. The position brought my arm up and stretched out. He made light work of separating the other cuff, reattaching it to my free wrist. My gut ached, plus I was really fatigued, in no condition to resist. I know I growled, when Miguel pulled on my arm, given one mighty stretch, looping the round, metal circular piece attached to the leather cuff, over a hook in the other tree. I now stood, at least had my feet on solid ground, as my arms stretched tautly between the two trees. "Roberto! Get the hose! Now!" I watched the action in the yard. Nothing could be seen, except a grove of trees, shriveled leaves, from lack of moisture. I did notice however, around where I stood, the grass was actually green and the leaves on the two trees that acted as restraints for my outstretched body, had more of a dark green tint, than the other trees. I soon found out the reason behind it. % I can't say that I didn't know it wasn't coming. From the green hose, an ordinary garden hose, Roberto held out in front of me, it shut off by means of the controlling device. "Give me that!" Miguel ordered, stealing it out of Roberto's hands. Immediately, he opened the jet. "Ahhhhhhhhhhrrrggghhhhh!" I screamed, when hot water hit me, mid chest. Splattering the near boiling water from the heated hose hit my grime-covered, hairy chest. As it splattered, it burned under my chin, drizzling down my stomach, coursing around my cock. The heated effect didn't last more than a few seconds, before it turned ice cold. I actually sighed with relief, the cool spray shooting at me. I slowly became aware of the fact that Miguel began using the powerful jet as a torture tool. I gasped when he trained the tip of the pounded jet at my right nip. Crossing my chest, made a point blank indentation with my left nip. It had the sensation of a constant stinging. Not terribly painful, but uncomfortable. "Wait til tonight. You will be taking ten times more pain than this!" I didn't like the sound of that, but what could I do or say. On the contrary, I think Miguel was getting his jollies out of provoking my fearful nature. I saw it back in the `Crappy Cafe' parking lot, right before he gunned the gas, plus when his Latino buddy stopped him. Yeah, I started to get the whole picture. He wasn't only out to torture me physically, but to evoke havoc on my mind. I decided not to buy in. "Tickles!" I got him that time. Totally psyched him out. Little did I know that it was about to make it worse on me. Slowly, I watched, as I felt the jet travel from my soaked, hairy chest, down my tight belly trail, again lingering when he `washed out' my deep bellyhole. My chin touched my chest, as I watched the strong cannon of water get dangerously close to my cock. The jet made an indelible bare spot in my dark brown pubes, as it approached the base of my flimsy shaft. I have to admit, even though I was purposefully trying to control myself, as it got within a fraction of an inch of the base of my cock, my breathing stepped up. As the bottom of my mouth dropped out, from anticipation, he switched the jet from it's piercing bullet, to spray and let it sprinkle over my pubic region. My head dropped back in relief. He had won! "Here, Roberto. Finish hosing him down and then let him dry off. I've gotta get the beer on ice, for the party." Calling back from the open door, he yelled, "And Roberto?" "Yeah?" he answered Miguel. "Anymore ideas like that and I'll whip your hide!" "Yeah. Sure," Roberto replied to Miguel. I know Miguel's game. He wasn't saying all that for Roberto's benefit. If I'm not the first guy that has fallen prey to their sadistic game, then Roberto for sure, would know of Miguel's game plan. After watching Miguel disappear inside, I decided to find out some curious knowledge. "He your father?" He remained silent. "You're gay, aren't you?" Still Roberto stood there, giving me the silent treatment, playing the soft mist over my body. "Have you helped..." I didn't want to admit it, but knew what my fate was going to be, "torture the others?" As he looked up at my face, the hose falling to the wayside, trickling down my legs, those deep eyes again gazing into mine, I had an idea. I knew, before asking, of Roberto's sexuality. Why not use it to my advantage? "Y'know, Roberto," I tried shrugging my shoulders, but with my arms keeping my body taut, it could be interpeted as nonexistant, yet I followed through, "felt kind of nice when you licked over my pec." He still didn't talk. I dug deeper. "Matter of fact, when you stood kind of close to me earlier, I felt.." I searched for some quick adjectives, "a surge.. like electricity, course through me... well, with your overalls touching my stomach." His mouth was open, but nothing came out. The hose was watering the grass. I decided I had to go great guns with him. "Y'know, later, when you have me all to yourself, I don't think we're going to need these cuffs." I hit pay dirt! As he dropped the hose, it turned itself off. Slowly, he made his way over to me, the whole foot and a half. Before long, his face was directly in front of mine. "Are you saying you... care for me?" That's what I was saying, even if I lied through my teeth. Time to continue the charade. I knew I was going to find this repulsive, but my skin was on the line here. "Um, I thought maybe.. we could find out for sure?" He was taking the bait, yet my mouth wasn't watering for what I'm sure would be forthcoming. Falling for my act, hook, line and sinker, his coveralls touched, no, pressed into the front of my body. I felt the dry cloth on my chest, stomach and pubes, as he leaned into my face. I knew I would have to put on an Academy Award performance here, so got it through my head that I'd have to act like I was madly in love with him. Beating him to the punch, I pushed my head forward, forced my lips up against his. After a quick kiss, he parted lips, his head going to the side of mine, his arms caressing me, his palms on my back, hugging my bound body. I thought the act was going real well. Except for one minor detail. My cock started throbbing! As Roberto grasped me up in his embrace, placing his head on the side of mine, my chin forced his coveralls to push back, over his shoulder. Right now, my head, my lips touched the side of his neck. I began smelling more than car grease. It wasn't part of my finely crafted plan to pick up the man-scent, through the grease camouflage. I also began to think back to twenty seconds ago. The kiss wasn't at all repulsive. Without thinking, my lips pursed and kissed him on the side of the neck. `Fuck! What the hell is happening here?' I didn't get to experience much of the sweetness that abounded. Without either of us having a clue, from the boudaries of the yard, we heard Miguel screaming. "Ai Chiwowwa! I was afraid of this happening!" It became fruitless for Roberto to protest, to apologize. "Get those coveralls off, boy." "No, please... I didn't mean anything by it Miguel!" "You've disobeyed me. Now you will take your punishment like a man!" I coudln't believe it. The man I had planned on helping me to escape, giving my Emmy Award performance to, I was now yelling out accolades of pleas, to exonerate him from doing wrong. I was totally ignored, as apparently Roberto had been. There was nothing I could say or do, other than watch Roberto remove his coveralls. Underneath, he had on a white tee shirt and ordinary gym shorts. Seeing Miguel take out his anger on Roberto, verbally reprimanding him, I watched as he plucked the guy's shirt from being tucked into his shorts. From over his head, Roberto removed it. My curiosity to what Roberto's fate lie ahead of him got sidetracked. As soon as I laid eyes on that deep brown, sunlit back, from neck to torso, I started to get a churning reaction. "Shit!" I said out loud. Miguel and Roberto couldn't hear me, as I gasped at the feeling of my balls churning, my cock pulsating. Suddenly, I forgot all about it, though, upon hearing Roberto cry out. My head shot up, from looking down, to across the courtyard. There, Roberto reaching up, clinging to a limb of a tree, held on for dear life, as Miguel stood behind, his belt in his hand. Another surprise, when Miguel swung the belt, striking Roberto across his shoulder blades, the cry of pain shot through my body as well, to the point where I started feeling responsible for his punishment. I didn't equate it to anything `gay'. Only feeling for another guy, going through pain, because of my plan to spare myself pain. After enduring ten lashes of beltwork across his back, Miguel gave him some kind of order. Dropping from the branch, Roberto arched his back, gathered his coveralls and headed inside. Before he entered the rear entrance of the service station, he looked back at me. I felt so bad. "So, I see you're not as straight as Roberto sensed you to be." "Roberto?" I questioned. "Sure. I'm surprised you haven't caught on to our little set up." "Set up?" Going on, Miguel spelled out the scenario. "A man approaches Roberto, pretending to work on a car. He eyes up the potential victim, sensing out whether he's gay or not. And oh, for all intentional purposes, we're after straight men. I'm not sure how Roberto slipped up this time." "Slipped up?" I should have known what Miguel referred to. As he made each detail, every point of his story, getting the set up out, his folded belt tapped against my shaft. I didn't have to look down. I could feel it swell up. "Slipped up?" Then straying off subject, Miguel states, looking below my navel, now with intention, slapping the leather whipping tool against my shaft, "Your erection betrays your ability to hide your gay sexuality, Anthony." This time I did look down. Only because my pubes had become the target of our conversation. I stressed, "I'm not gay!" Transferring the belt to one hand, Miguel tried to prove his theory. Reaching out, he grabbed hold of my, as he already pointed out, erection. All eight and a half inches of cut meat. The second he folded his hand around my barrel, I could feel the pleasure. "Oooooooooooh!" Some precum, that had seeped out, he took, wiping it on my, by now, dry chest, mingling the creamy goo with my dark chest fur. "By the way, I wanted to mention that since Roberto finds your nips extra sensitive, I'm making it a point to inform my `guests' to give them some extra special attention." He laughed, walking away. I wondered what they had in mind for my nips. Already my balls have been tied off, stretched, my gut worked over. What tortment lay ahead for my nips? The parched trees didn't present much shading. After five minutes passed, Roberto returned to the outdoors. In his hand, he had an orange and yellow tube. Walking towards me, I took in the view of his bare upper half. I can't understand why his bare chest and stomach looked so inviting to the touch. I stopped my staring momentarily, looking to my left hand. I forgot they had been incapacitated. He said nothing, only twisted the cap off, squeezing some white cream into his palm. "What's that?" Again, I got the silent treatment. He accidentally dropped the tube in the grass. When he bent down to retrieve it, I saw lines across his back. "Sorry `bout you getting whipped." Roberto took a short glance to my face, mentioning, "I'll live." Then, sticking the tube in his pocket, used both hands to grease up the sides of my body. Like an inactive volcano, my subsided erection, the lava from my balls again began flooding into my cock chamber, along with the surging blood of hot feelings. I repeated over and over to myself, `I'm not gay... I'm not gay... I'm not...' With the white creamy stuff, paved over my arms, Roberto stepped back. "You... you really are....gay!" "I'm not gay, okay?" I then realized something. Moments ago, I had pretended. Now I was confessing my lie. "But you... you said.." Then with bolts of anger, he threw the tube at me, hitting me in the chest with it, yelling, as he ran away, "you can fry, for all I care!" Worse than the truth coming out to Roberto, the fact remained that he hadn't the chance to completely grease up my bod, with the tanning lotion. Covered, my skin gleamed from the waist up, having felt his hands spread it over my back. What he neglected to finish... well, let's just say my cock, balls and ass were destined to fry! % I think I dozed off at some point, only to be awakened by a mosquito pestering my back. Trying to shake it off, proved fruitless. As the afternoon wore on, it seemed even too hot for the bugs! Though the sun hot, my cock, balls and ass felt the burn consume those areas that evaded the creamy lotion. My parched lips yearned to be wet. At the same time I wished for the sun to set, I dreaded nightfall. Again, dozing off, I'm not sure if it had been sleep that engulfed my senses. I awoke, to two men lifting the metal ring of each cuff, their apparent muscular arms, clutching me under the pits, supporting my two hundred and five pounds. I thought to myself, `This is it,' though I wasn't looking forward to any of it. One of them, while forcing me to walk towards the back door of the service station, reached around, made his hand into a claw and clutched at my stomach. "Hell it's gonna be fun turning these abs to mush!" "Not as much fun as busting his ass wide open," the other one replied. I wasn't taking their talk as a grain of salt, but I thought of how Miguel tried working my fear zone, with his psychological torture. I didn't give them the satisfaction of tensing up. I did get clammy though, when I was forced through the back door. The three bays had been cleaned up. A workbench table had been brought out into the middle of the second bay. From above, high intensity lights shone down on it. "Where do you want to start him out, Miguel?" Eyes dashing around the room, I didn't see Roberto among them. "Let's give him a little stretch first." Taking me over to bay number three, I heard right away, the whir of a motor. Slowly, out of the cement floor, two treads, the ones that hold cars up in the air, while a mechanic works on the underside, started rising up. `Shit!' I said to myself. In my mind, I pictured some poor soul on a medieval torture rack. When it reached the height of my shoulders, they stopped it from lifting upwards. With the same cuffs, they attached my wrists to the lift tread, two little metal `ohs' that had been welded in place. "Gun it!" Miguel called out. Slowly, my arms started raising upwards. I began preparing to feel the pain. Then to my amazement, there wasn't any, except the normal stretching of limbs. They hadn't fastened my ankles to the floor. I guess I had been showing this, in my reaction, looking down at my feet. The men howled in laughter. I'm not sure if it had been another one of Miguel's psychological tortures, when he commented, "That's okay. In a few hours we'll do it for real. Juan, you're up first." Now I was nervous! The guy whom clutched my tight abs in the claw-like formation of his fist stepped over in front of me. "And Juan?" "Yeah?" "Take it slow. We've got the whole night ahead of us." Smiling, rubbing one palm over a fist, he stare at me. Then, he looked down at my stomach. I tensed my abs. I've never been through any kind of an intense beating, but I've heard the wrestling frats talk about a standoff at one time or another, that tensing your abs, lessens the burden of a gut punch. "C'mon Juan... tuck his gut in." One of the others badgered him, "Yeah, take your ten shots. We want some action too." Ten? it that `all' I had to take. Miguel had mentioned `all night long'. I guess that didn't mean the same endurance. "Uggggggghhhhhhh!" Oh man that killed me. Instead of focusing on absorbing the pain, I let myself be off guard. At my expense, they congratulated Juan on a well-delivered gut-punch, knocking the wind out of me. Their high-fives proved that it was a good one. It didn't feel so good to me. "Uggggghhhhhh..oooohhh..uugggghhhhh..." The next two really hit hard. It was tough to ignore them. The first I was prepared for. Second one really dug into my gut, plus I wasn't prepared for the consecutive approach. I breathed heavy, as Juan took time out to be congratulated once more and down a few chugs of his Corona. In between gulps of air, I looked up to see Miguel talking with Roberto. At first it was a glance, then a stare. It seems the two argued. Finally, Juan, with an apparent buzz on him, approached me, still holding his bottle of beer. Taking the last chug, which emptied it, he upended it. `No,' I thought... he's not going to... "Ugggggggghhhhhh!" He did what fell suspect to. Plowed my stomach with the bottom of the empty bottle. Cheers abounded, both in english and spanish. Of the english comments, I heard, "Hell yeah! Fuck, let's see that again Juan!" My head hung down, my body wilting in my bondage, by stubbly chin touching my sweaty, hairy chest. I didn't see him right away, didn't even notice, until a period of time elapsed. Looking up, Juan protested like hell, with Miguel. Then, Miguel headed off towards Roberto, as Juan walked towards me. I contracted my gut muscles, what was left of them, to feign off the next workover. A surprise awaited me. Holding up the bottom of the beer bottle, Juan tells me, "I stop now, but when Miguel say so, I will pound your gut hard and heavy gringo!" He laughed his ass off, taking in the party going on, over in bay number one. I should have been concerned with my aching gut. However, looked towards the drunk guests, two of the five men separated themselves from the group. One, hairy, about five feet, ten inches tall, walks over to the workbench, apparently set up for me, for later entertainment options. Right then and there, he takes off his pants, stripping his briefs. The other guy, whom followed, does the same. However, as he peels off his briefs, out springs his hard cock. `Damn,' I say to myself. `that thing's gotta be at least ten inches long!' Two thoughts occur to me. One, why am I so fascinated with this guy's long cock? Thought number two, more of a desire than a dumbfounded curiosity, to see his stalk embedded in the other guy's ass. Hard as a rock, both feeling it and looking down upon myself, my balls begin to churn. By now I'm convinced that I've got some kind of `gay gene'. Stepping up to the side of the workbench, the chunky guy bends over it. In my estimation, the tallness of the workbench is the perfect height for him to bend over. The fact is proven, as man number two approaches him, his cock all primed to fuck him. `Shit!' I say to myself, as the fat barrel of his ten incher is forced inside. As if his shaft is trained on my ass, I gulp, to watch the chunky dude flinch, with the head of his impaler's cock now buried. `That's gotta hurt!' Yet, all I hear are groans of pleasure. More than the two men at the workbench, my glance over to the remaining bunch, shows the others whacking themselves off, finding the fucking action intensely erotic. They aren't the only ones. Like outside, bound between the trees, I find myself wanting to pull free, get my clenched hand around my own cock. It's almost an unbearable torture not to do be able to crank my shaft. `Whoooa... Now I've seen everything!' Beyond the point of no return, the fucker is slapping his balls up against the chunk's ass. That's gotta hurt, having ten inches of cut meat up his ass, let alone the girth of that thing! As if a bunch of cheerleaders, the others are riding their own cause, yelling stuff like, "Yeah! Ride'em Steve!" Suddenly, Miguel appears, Roberto trailing him. "What the fuck you doing, Steve?" As if being a kid, found doing something dirty, this guy Steve, stops the pounding action, dead silent, cock still buried to the hilt in `chunky's' ass. "Having some fun, of course. Nothing wrong with a little fun, eh Miguel?" I swear it! Miguel thrusts against Steve's shoulder, sending him floundering backwards. His cock pops out of chunk's ass, making this loud, popping sound. Really, it sounded like that, ringing out loud and clear, as if a cork pulled from a bottle. I sort of felt good about it, a vengeful feeling, Steve swearing because he didn't get to shoot his load. But then my attention drew into Miguel, whom seemed to be the ringleader of the bunch. "Party's over." "What the fuck you mean the party's over? I still haven't finished working him over!" `Party over?' "You can go first next time, Juan," Miguel promised him. I sensed Juan not wanting to let this go. "Oh yeah? How about I use `you' for a punching bag?" Miguel? Use Miguel for a punching bag? My first thought was, Miguel is bigger than Juan. Next thought, he was also ten times drunker! "Is that so?" Miguel confronted him. "Go ahead. Take your best shot." This was going to be interesting. Lunging forwards, Juan made his threat real. Miguel, prepared, jumped out of the way. Juan fell flat on his face, well cushioned by his hands. However, Miguel wasn't letting him get up. Standing between Juan's legs, he heaves his foot right in the middle. As if doing a pushup, Juan arches his back and lets out a loud groan of pain, squinting his eyes. Apparently, the four or five bottles of Corona haven't impaired the part of his brain receptive of pain. Juan is drowning in his grief. "Any other questions?" Miguel asks the others. They all acknowledge him, in the negative. Steve offers the parting note, "C'mon. Let's go over to my place and fuck around." Miguel, saying something to them, in spanish, makes two report to Juan. Lifting him up, off the floor, the two half drag him away, with them. Miguel then signals Roberto to follow him. They approach me, Miguel veering off to the side. Flicking a switch, the compression decreases, causing my arms to slowly lower. "What's happening?" I question Roberto. Again, he's silent, watching me coming down to earth, as if a deflated balloon. With my elbows bent, he stops the action, reporting to where Roberto and I are standing. "Go ahead. Show me. You prove this to me, Roberto." "Prove what?" I question. Without saying so, Roberto comes over, face to face with me. His tee shirted body moves closer. Again, I get to behold those pools of cool water to each side of his nose. However, different than the other times, I feel a connection, as if some kind of laser is shooting out from his eyes, traveling inside me, touching way down to my soul. "Well?" Miguel again provokes. Leaning in, his eyes close, as his lips join mine. I feel his dry tee shirt on my sweaty body, his hands soon joining in on the caress. Unlike the other time Roberto kissed me, my eyes close and I imbibe in the passion of the moment. I can't reach too far, but the chains on my cuffs are loose enough to allow me to touch Roberto's shoulders. "Watch it!" Miguel cautions. Yet, I don't follow through on the path Miguel thinks I'm headed. Instead, I softly touch Roberto's shoulders. Stepping back, breaking off our sweet moment, Roberto turns to Miguel and says, "He's the one." "You know what this means?" Miguel asks Roberto. "I know." I wanted to know what was happening here, so asked, "Somebody want to fill me in?" They both ignored me. Instead, Miguel approaches Roberto, taking him in his arms, hugging him, kissing him on the cheek. As they break, their brotherly hug, Miguel states, "I return in a little while. You take him down," he signifies me, "and get him cleaned up." Miguel turns his back and walks away. "Miguel, thanks." In return, Miguel says, "We're even now." "Even now?" I question Roberto, as he goes at the leather cuffs around my wrists. "What did he mean by that?" "You are free to go." "Oh? How does that go?" One hand freed, I let it sag, loosening it up, waiting for Roberto to free the other. "Just be glad you are getting out of here, without further torture." "Oh, that I'm grateful for, but how do you play in all of this?" "Look, Anthony, Miguel owed me. I just called in the debt. You're free to go." With my other wrist free from it's binding, I said, "Oooh, that feels good." "C'mon," Roberto says, "I'll show you where to get cleaned up." He took me through the office of the service station. I hadn't noticed before, but a building sat to the side, rear of the station. "Nice place," I commented. "C'mon. We have to hurry. You have to be ready to go when Miguel gets back." "Where'd he go? To finish off the party with his friends?" "No." I didn't question Roberto anymore, just followed him. Strangely, I didn't have any qualms about him dirty-dealing me. Plainly followed him into the subdivision of buildings, through a nicely kept kitchen, up the stairs and into the jon. I was impressed, actually. Instead of being rundown, the insides of the housing part of the complex was furnishes rather lavishly. "There's soap in the tub and I'll get some fresh towels for you." "Roberto?" "Yeah?" "Why are you doing this?" He smirked, saying, "I thought I already answered that question!" I bid him farewell for now, ducking into the tub, closing the glass partition, turning on the water, measuring out the hot and cold, then turning on the jet of mixed warmth. It felt great and I verbally heard myself expressing it, letting out a long sigh of `Ahhhhhhhhhh'. As I soaped myself up, I let out a groan, my hand softly paving the bar of soap over my abs. `Tender', I commented to myself. I actually surprised myself, owing all those years of working out, to my abs withstanding the beating, not turning to mush. Opening the shower door a smidgeon, I heard Roberto say, "Hurry up. We've gotta go." "We?" I inquired, but got the door slammed shut in my face. It's then that I put attention off of myself and onto Roberto. `What did he mean by `we'. Did he mean him and I together?' As I streamed the water over my bod, washing the soap down the drain, I smiled. I thought of how contented I could be with his mostly smooth body pressed against mine, us two laying close to one another. I didn't think once of how my entire concept of sexuality had changed like day and night. All the soap washed off, I turned off the water. Immediately the trifold doors pushed open. With towel wide open, Roberto states, "C'mon. Hurry it up." Drying off, he left momentarily returning. Instead of my own pants, dress shirt, undergear in hand, he had a pair of sweatpants and tee shirt, with Cancun written across it. "I think these will fit. They are mine. And... here." Outstretched, in his hand, he held out my wallet. I just looked at it. "I told you I would save it for you. Take it." Taking my hand in his, he placed my wallet into my hand. "Get dressed." While I busied myself, fitting the sweatpants up around my waist and tossing the tee shirt over my shoulders, I heard him somewhere else, making noises. All dressed, I followed the sounds. Walking into a small, rather luxiouriously furnished room, I came upon Roberto, tossing things into a suitcase. On top of everything, he placed a laptop and some books. "Nice place. Why do you want to leave it?" "It's not that I want to. I have to." "I don't get all this." Roberto didn't explain, just packed. He brought another suitcase out from the closet, the kind that had wheels. He dumped some more books into it, a few momentos, including picture frames and a well-worn football. "I wish you would explain..." "I can't right now. I have to go." "Wait!" I placed my palm against his chest. It stopped him in his tracks. "Before you said, `we'. Now you say `I', `you' have to go. I was under the impression you were coming `with' me." "Look," he says to me, very seriously, "I'm the reason for you being here. The reason you went through the humiliation and torture. Why would you want me to go with you?" I didn't know the answer to that myself. Not until two seconds ago. For all that it was worth, no words could justify why I was totally forgiving him of his trepasses. However, I did show him why I wanted him to go with me. As I kissed him hard on the lips and for a long time, my hands traveled up under his tee shirt, over the half-day-old lines across his back, up to the back of his neck, reinforcing my caring, as our chests, stomach, lower extremities gravitated towards each other. "Isn't this sweet?" With the sound of Miguel's rough voice, we broke our loving hold. "You got your stuff packed?" "Um, yeah," Roberto responded, wiping my kiss off his lips. "I'll help you to the car. Oh, here!" Barely, I caught the wad of keys thrown to me. "My car?" "It's outside." I helped Roberto out, taking one of the suitcases. Even though I workout with weights, the suitcase felt like it had all the rock from the grand canyon, packed in it. I waited at the door, as Roberto turned, saying to Miguel, "I guess this is it." "Yeah," is all Miguel said. Unlike I've come to know him, he seemed subdued in his manner now, as he faced Roberto's leaving. The two stood there for the longest time. Dropping his suitcase, actually setting it down, Roberto walked towards Miguel. With open arms, they embraced each other. `Wonders never cease', I thought to myself. `Miguel actually does have a heart!' When he said, "You take care," seemingly to both of us, even though I knew it was only directed at Roberto, I responded, "Yeah, you too and thanks for making me two inches taller!" % Copyright 2006 T. Chase McPhee This story may not be sold, nor made part of any collection without prior written permission, by the author.