1 - Exodus

by Araddion

2014 R. Keith Peck


Email : araddion@gmail.com
Blog (porn, man, porn!) : http://araddion.tumblr.com

Twitter: @araddion

List of stories: http://araddion.tumblr.com/araddionstories

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With the help of the Lord I have brought forth[c] a man.
-- Genesis 4:1


Strange dreams haunted Dustin. Of course he had normal dreams -- those fantasies of every man's night. But he had abnormal dreams, too. Dreams that were more like reincarnated memory than numinous personal myths.


You've done it for me before.

This is wrong!

You liked it when we did it before.

A hand creeping up Dustin's thigh. His bulging underwear betraying him. His thudding heart. His fear. Will this secret be discovered?

The sound of a zipper, delicate gunfire. Pop pop pop while the hand continues its journey.

Do it like I taught you, Dusty.

The giant cock, smelling of musk and sweat like Dustin's, exploding into his face.

Put your mouth on it, Dusty.

The forbidden taste of cock. Precum as wine. The humiliating gush of cum into his underwear. Wet. Sticky. Delicious.

You like it, Dusty, don't you?

Deep thrusts. Gagging. Choking. Spit flowing down his chin.

Hot tears coursing down his cheeks because he won't spit it out. Won't? Can't. His throat gapes wide to make a welcoming home for the cock.

The warm mouthful of sperm. Salty. Bitter. Alien. Familiar.

It is not my reward! It is not my reward!

Swallow it. You swallow it and I won't tell anyone you came. Good, Dusty. Good.

Footsteps. Floorboards creak. Wide shoulders and naked butt in silhouette.

Do you want some more?

Hot tears of shame.

Tomorrow night, then.

His bedroom door opening. A shaft of moonlight falling on the slice of birthday cake, crowned with the sole surviving candle out of the set of 19, on his desk. The tall muscular silhouette in the doorway. The door closing.

Dustin woke in the pit of the night, shaking and sweating. He knew what he must do. He shoved all those images down, back inside, compressed them into that bright, fiery singularity that was the core of his strength.

Sleep surges over him like a tide of black oil.

Dustin Mayes' list of last things to complete had shrunk to a few items.

He would officially vacate his apartment later this morning. Last night he'd roughed it, sleeping on the floor the way he'd done in Iraq with his buddies in the First Marine Expeditionary Force. Most of his stuff was already being shipped to Austin for storage.

Naked, Dustin made a beeline to the bathroom to drain his bladder. His morning hardon felt glorious. He was fucking horny. Memory flowed over him. Dustin felt certain he could see his palm prints on that living room window sill, pressed into the wood the night of that party ... oh, fuck, when was it? Last month? Doesn't matter. Dustin smiled, remembering when two -- or was it three? -- guys had fucked him while he hung on for dear life to that sill, looking out on young couples entering and exiting their cars.

Dustin pissed and flushed. He cruised through each room of his small apartment, saying farewell, smiling wryly at memories. He put on workout gear. Shorts, tee shirt with his dojo's faded logo, jockstrap. Then, whistling, he carried his luggage to his Mustang and locked it in his trunk.

One final trip around to make sure he'd forgotten nothing. With a little sadness, Dustin locked the door behind him and strolled to the office. Darlene presided there and he felt sure that if she'd been alone she'd have come over her desk and fucked him right there. She had always looked at Dustin with naked hunger in her eyes, and not being very perceptive had never understood why he wasn't interested in her. Since Darlene's coworkers were there the Marine cock that had eluded her for years remain unsoaked with pussy juice. She was warm and bubbly. Dustin gave her his keys and signed paperwork. Thus he became, for the next two days, officially homeless.

Dustin drove to his dojo with music blaring, tapping his fingers on the wheel. He rolled down his window. It was late spring and the weather was perfect.

He walked into the lobby, grinning at the big guy everyone called Grim the Jovial.

"Didn't expect to see you, Dustin," said Grim. He'd earned the first part of his moniker from his expression, which was the definition of dour. The second part of his name derived from his personality. "You know, it's our policy to burn heretics."

Dustin laughed. "Yeah, well, I told Simon I wanted to work out one last time. You know. Old time's sake. He get you that fire extinguisher?"

Grim eased back in his chair and pretended to look under his desk. "Nope. No fire extinguisher." He rose to his feet. He was at least a foot taller than Dustin and had maybe a hundred more pounds of muscle. Nonetheless, Dustin had won some matches against him. Small size conferred speed and agility.

Grim, smile breaking through his thundery expression like a beam of sunlight, shook Dustin's hand. "It's been an honor. A true honor. You've taught me many things, Dustin. Valor. Persistence. To keep a fly swatter around."

Dustin found himself moved. Unexpectedly he had to swallow. It now struck him. Some of these people he'd thought as casual acquaintances were much more to him. Many things had to be forced into that fiery singularity within him, not just anger. "Thanks, man."

"You got a great destiny ahead of you, Dustin."

"Still mystical, huh?"

"I am strong with the bullshit side of the force." They laughed. "Austin, huh? Big change. Never been there. How long a drive is it?"

"I can do it in two days. One if want to pay speeding tickets."

"Wow. So Monday you'll be in Austin."

Dustin shook in head. "Nope. I'll be in Raleigh tomorrow. Going to see my Mom. Haven't visited her since Dad died. And if everything goes like I plan, I'm going to stay till fall."

"That long?"

"The new dojo won't even be available to reconstruct until then."

"Wow. So a vacation?"

Dustin, fully aware of what he was heading back into, nodded.

"Well, I won't hold you up anymore," said Grim. He clapped Dustin on the shoulder. "Have a great workout, man."

Dustin located an unoccupied room. His routine began like a dance, slow and graceful. He watched himself in the mirror to ensure perfect form. That was the key.

As the sweat bloomed and his muscles turned into to steel, energy flowed into him from that mysterious plane he'd discovered soon after commencing with martial arts. Through his intricate movements Dustin fought to banish all thought, silence every interior voice, to become nothing but physical being, to experience the onset and release of a heartbeat but not remember the previous one. Or worry if his heart would beat again. To resume being a predatory animal.

Today achieving this goal proved a difficult task. He tried the Zen breath-count method. Momentarily he would succeed, but the moment he became aware that he was not thinking the awareness unbalanced him and a swarm of thoughts, images, memories, and feeling burst in his head like glowing, angry bees.

He remained phlegmatic. He'd had days like this before. He'd have them again.

When Dustin broke from his routine he was startled to realize that two hours had passed. His sweat pooled on that mats. His heart throbbed. The thought of sparring tempted him. Familiar voices and the sound of an intense match beckoned. He even took a step towards the room where the ring squatted. He decided against it. The problem? He feared a loss. It wouldn't be good to show up at Mom's with a bruised, swollen face. That would be too much like the time when he left.

He showered for the hell of it. Because the dojo was slack mid-mornings the communal shower was empty. Disappointing, but it let him indulge in a throbbing public hardon. He wished that someone had been there brave enough to ask him about the tattoos on his buttcheeks. He grinned. His tattoos brought him some unexpected fun. He strutted from showerhead to showerhead, flipping water on, turning it off, imagining there was a man, hung like a donkey, under every nozzle, and all Dustin needed to do was display his horniness, his need, and they would spear him with donkeycock. Dojo as sex club. He stroked himself. He tugged his balls. His blazed like the noon sun.

He toweled dry, slipped his engorged cock into his jock, and dressed. Dustin passed the front desk and tossed Grim the Jovial a wave. He was about to leave when he realized to do so would be not simply missing an item on his checklist but a gesture of supreme thoughtlessness.

"Hey, is Mac in?"

"Not till later," said Grim.

"Damn. I'll miss him." Dustin fretted, but what could be done?

"I'll tell him you asked. I guess this is farewell, man." Grim extended his hand.

"It's not really farewell." Dustin took Grim's hand. Immediately the tradition contest began. Grim bore down, almost catching Dustin by surprise. But Dustin squeezed back. Biceps bulged. Eyes turned into balls of ivory, hard and unyielding.

Finally Grim grimaced and ripped his hand free. Grim laughed, shaking his hand. "You're a tough little fuck. I'll miss you, man."

"It's not farewell," Dustin reiterated. "At least until I move to Austin. Raleigh's a dead town. I'll probably be in DC every damn weekend." Dustin thumped the desk. "Tell Mac I'll catch him later."

"Will do, Dustin. Take care."

The antepenultimate item on Dustin's list? Haircut. He drove to Gilman's Barbershop, an old fashioned joint near Quantico. Two other jaraheads, still on active duty, waited ahead of him, so Dustin browsed a magazine. The barber beckoned him over when a chair became available.

"High and tight?" the barber asked.

"You got it, buddy."

"Weren't you in here two weeks ago?"

"Yeah." Dustin stroked his scalp above his ear. "I feel stubble. I want to feel scalp. Down to the skin."

Chuckling and shaking his head, the barber reached for his clippers.

Another jarhead entered and Dustin immediately wished this kid had been in the dojo showers. He was young, maybe 19 or 20, and slim and lanky. He had a slack-jawed glassy-eyed stare Dustin associated with hicks. He smiled to himself. He could have lots of fun screwing horny Texan boys like him. They grow 'em big in Texas.

The penultimate item? It was the Budget Inn just off the ramp to I-95. He'd made reservations on-line last night. He checked in, got his key, and asked to be woken at exactly 7 AM tomorrow. His room was on the ground floor and since it was now early afternoon he was able to park his blue Mustang outside. He carried into his room the bag of casual clothes and underwear. And his phone and his shaving kit.

Dustin threw himself on the bed, resting for a moment. He stretched cat-like. He'd been smart to work out. His emotions, which yesterday had threatened to become turbulent as a river rushing towards a cataract, now flowed smoothly. His predominant feeling was anticipation. He needed change. But sadness tinged his excitement. Mac had been a good friend. And Kevin. And Dozer. He laughed to himself. Don't forget Dozer. He would see them again, but they wouldn't be part of his everyday routine. They wouldn't be in his blood.

Enough of this. Dustin rolled out of bed. Time to move to the ultimate act. From his bag of casuals he pulled a tall bottle of Wet. A bottle of good fresh Rush. He set them on the nightstand. Out of habit he reached for the shaving kit but stopped himself. No meth, no need for his syringe. He pulled out his enema kit, stalked to the bathroom, and purged himself. He dressed in jockstrap and shorts. He smelled himself. Yes. Good and musky, the way a man should smell.

Dustin took up his phone and searched for partners. He had accounts on multiple services and soon he had them all going. Given the fact that it was early afternoon it was likely he wouldn't find anyone he deemed suitable. He was in a choosy mood. This ultimate act was a treat, a reward for all the aggravation of moving and saying good bye.

Dustin had no problem getting responses. His ad consisted of three pictures:

1. Face, displaying high-and-tight blond hair glittering in sunlight like shards of gold, dark sunglasses, a faint smile, and last year's LA-bestowed tan.

2. Hardon, showing enough torsos in the background to emphasize Dustin's hard, sculpted silky-smooth body.

3. Ass. Round. Dimpled. Smooth. Narrow cleft. And hungry. One cheek, turned to the camera, showed off his tattoo. A rearing stallion, a naked cowboy clutching the horse's neck, and the words BAREBACK ONLY.

The text:


Age: 30
Cock: 8"
Height: 5' 6"
Weight: 150 lbs.
Build: Athletic
Race: White
Preference: versatile bottom
Smoke: no
Drugs: yes
Safe sex: never

versatile btm looking for TOPS ONLY.
U B hung.
White OK but prefer superior races.

Every sex act was checked except scat=no and pain=no.

Dustin's first nibbles were standard fare. No pics, hot stats, and text conversations that began with questions about Dustin's feeling. His response? Need seed. One of the prospects grasped the obvious and moseyed on to hookups he could think of as safe. The other clown began lecturing and had to be blocked.

Third bite proved to be perfect. Photo of a six-pack and glossy black skin. No face but, with that pic of an uncut cock hanging to the knees, it wasn't necessary. Age ... 19? Hmm. Hot if true, but Dustin had seen ads listing the same age year after year. Available and not far away. Dustin moved quickly. Phone numbers exchanged. A phone call. His young voice got Dustin's balls boiling. The anxious waiting began.

Someone knocked at the door. Dustin stood, his throbbing cock straining against his shorts. He peeked through the spyhole and grinned.

The guy looked 19. He walked in with arrogance, strutting like a proud pony, but as Dustin shut the door the arrogance diminished back to confidence. Better still, he was dreadlocked. He smelled of cannabis and musk.

"Damn," he said, eyes raking Dustin's body, "I hit the jackpot."

Dustin grinned. "So did I."

The guy wore a loose shirt and looser jeans. The sagging jeans revealed faded flannel boxers. The kid slid a hand under his shirt as if casually scratching himself. He lifted the hem, revealing the six-pack. The muscles gleamed as if polished.

"I ain't got much time," said the kid. "My mom gets home round four."

Mouth water, Dustin sank to his knees. He undid the kid's belt buckle. The jeans fell. He saw cockhead swaying from the leg of the boxers. Dustin tugged down the kid's underwear. The meat seemed endless. It was limp but engorging. Rubbery. Headcheese oozed from beneath the foreskin.

"Hey, man," said the kid, "let's get the intro out of the way --"

Dustin stuffed the cock down his throat. He felt like a shark gulping bait. The entire instrument sank into him. It was pliable, hence easy to swallow. The black teen's groin reeked of musk. Dustin leaked precum into his jockstrap. It was a Pavlovian response. Black cock made Dustin wet himself in excitement. The huge cock swelled in his throat, not merely in length but in girth. It felt as if one of those sausage shaped balloons was inflating behind his larynx. Dustin emitted a sound like a drowning man coughing up water when he pulled off that cock.

"Goddamn," Dustin said reverently.

This sublime shaft was everything Dustin sought in a cock. Hard as iron. Had to be a foot long. Had to be. Thick as his wrist. A network of veins throbbed on its surface. And black. Rich, savory, superior black. Dustin cupped the kid's balls. They pulsated.

"Well," drawled the kid, "I guess we've met."

"How many load you good for?" asked Dustin, voice hoarse.

The kid stud shrugged. "Usually 'bout two." He grinned. "For you, man, three at least. I guarantee."

Dustin forced the behemoth down his throat again. He worshipped the meat. His tongue, slithering under the kid's foreskin like a garden slug, found every last curd of headcheese. The cheesy entheogen now consumed, the main obeisance commenced. Deep-throat strokes bathed the obsidian monster in pleasure. Dustin's lips kissed the kid's wiry pubic hair, his tongue crushed flat in his mouth by the gigantic shaft. Dustin coughed up strings of mucous as he forced himself again and again to take a cock far too large for his throat. The kid helped, wearing a serious look on his face as he guided Dustin's head with hands that gripped Dustin like a vice.

The kid stud's balls were stuffed with treasure. On an upstroke Dustin suddenly felt cream in his mouth, hot cream salty and male. He stroked the backside of the kid's balls, eliciting more and more. Dustin's cheeks bloated like a chipmunk's before the kid stopped ejaculating. Dustin savored the juice before swallowing.

Dustin stood and wiped his lips. The kid wore a hazy, pleased look. He smiled sheepishly.

"Thanks, man." He half-turned, reaching for his jeans.

"Three loads, right?"

Kid stud turned back to Dustin. "Oh yeah, man, don't worry." The kid stud held his balls. "That was just the fizz, know what I'm saying?"

The teen cock never really softened. It slackened a bit but Dustin, caressing it with light strokes, revived it in seconds. The kid fondled the bulge in Dustin's shorts but not for long. He wasn't much interested in the wood Dustin sported.

"Man," he laughed, "you piss yourself?" He sniffed his fingers.

A precum stain the size of a fist darkened the fabric.

"I'm fucking horny," said Dustin. He belched. It smelled like a sperm bank. "You want me to piss?"

"Nah, man, keep it."

The kid took Dustin by the hips and turned him around. Slender fingers traced Dustin's globes. The kid eased Dustin's shorts down. Those hands clamped each buttock, palms right over the twinned tattoos of the horse and the bareback cowboy.

"Nice," breathed the kid in Dustin's ear. He ground his shaft against Dustin's buttocks and hooked his fingers into the waistband of the jockstrap. He began to slip them down.

"No," said Dustin, stopping him. "Jock stays on."

The kid sniffed. "They stink."

"Yeah," said Dustin "That's me."

The kid stud pushed Dustin onto the bed. Dustin reached for the Wet. The bottle landed next to his thigh. Dustin was stripping the seal off the Rush when he felt the kid's lips kiss his butthole. He groaned, arched his back, and spread his legs. He never expected the kid stud capable of giving a rimjob. The kid was good at it, slurping away, kissing and snuffling Dustin's hole. The kid's tongue probed Dustin's ring. Dustin relaxed his hole and sucked the tongue deep inside. Spurts of breath exploding in his crack signified the kid's laughter.

"Fuck, man," said the kid as he stripped, "you got a hot ass."

"You do poppers?" asked Dustin, holding up the bottle.


The kid crawled on Dustin's back. He poured Wet on his fingers. He slipped two in. Dustin appreciated his technique. The kid simply slicked up the chute.

All right. The kid didn't like to please his bottom. This turned Dustin on.

Dustin had forgotten the last time a cock lavished pain upon entry. The reminder was exquisite. It reminded him -- but he wouldn't think about his dreams.

Dustin groaned, thrust himself back, and breathed Rush. Everything dissolved in fire and a lion's roar. The kid bottomed out, showing no mercy, and began sawing away. When the amyl high dissolved the agony resumed. Dustin attempted to crawl away, slave to an instinct he thought he'd mastered, but the kid was having none of that. The wiry body was surprisingly strong, and the kid clamped Dustin's arms and legs, pinning him.

"You ain't goin' nowhere." Teen hips didn't miss a stroke.

The kid fucked savagely. Dustin huffed amyl. The fire transformed him and he returned to divine whoredom. He ground his pale white buttcheeks into the black youth's groin. The kid's strokes became jackhammering blows and Dustin's whimpering a prayer for more, harder, faster.

When the kid came Dustin knew he'd been bred. Dustin was attuned to the sensation of another man's load in his ass. He always knew when a guy came, even those who had stealth orgasms. The warm mucous coating his rectal walls inflamed him like a shot of whiskey.

The kid stud wasn't stealthy. He grunted, hips bucking helplessly, firing bullet after bullet of semen into Dustin's echoing cave. He collapsed onto Dustin's back, breathing heavy.

Dustin let him rest a few minutes. He enjoyed feeling the monster soften and he almost came himself when his butthole ejected it like a giant turd. His anus felt raw and slimy. Dustin stirred and the kid rolled off. For a long while nothing could be heard but heavy breathing and tiny, wet farts.

To make sure the kid wasn't asleep, Dustin said, "Three loads, remember?"

"I know, I know," said the kid. He hoisted a limp cock. "Give me a few minutes."

The kid did not understand that Dustin had already allowed those few minutes. Dustin crawled over, licking nipples and kissing that beautiful expanse of skin. The kid's armpits smelled like the bottom of a bin full of jockstraps. Dustin engulfed the rubbery monument of a godlike erection. The taste of ass and cum burned Dustin just as fiercely as the Rush. The huge cock revived. When it towered Dustin squatted down on it. His butthole emitted a lurid squelching sound as air and cum blustered out. Eyes staring at the ceiling, Dustin ground his butt on the teen's hardon.

"Better?" he grunted, glancing down at the kid.

"Yeah," said the kid stud, "but now I gotta ride!"

The kid flipped Dustin onto his back. His gigantic cock never escaped the sloppy burrow. He pinned Dustin's knees to the bed and rode at a hard gallop. Dustin huffed poppers, precum turning his jockstrap into a sodden mass. The kid pumped -- his rich musk filling the motel room, biting his lower lip, eyes closed, dreadlocks flailing -- and flew the winds of some private fantasy. It took him a while to deliver the goods but when it came it was with a roar and the lascivious sensation of a wet hole.

Again the kid collapsed. His lips nuzzled Dustin's neck. "That's it, man."

"Good job," whispered Dustin, caressing the kid's smooth buttocks. Where could he buy Viagra?

"You want me to move? You need to beat off?"

"Nah," said Dustin. "Just lay there till you're ready to go." He glanced at the clock. "You got about an hour till your Mom gets home."

After a few minutes the kid rose. Averting his eyes he dressed. Dustin pulled his shorts on.

"See you round," Dustin said as the kid closed the door behind him.

Trick number two was a Hispanic guy. Scruffy looking but handsome. It almost did not happen. Too much negotiation via text. Can you meet me at this rest stop? No. This park? No. Are you alone in your hotel? Yes. Are there any cops there? No. OK, hotel is fine. Could Dustin wait a few more minutes? No, I need it now. Could he call Dustin? Sure. In fact, trick number two called three times, trying to negotiate some change of scene. If he hadn't projected masculinity over the phone Dustin would've moved on to the other nibblers.

Finally trick number two committed, but...

The phone rang again.

"Goddam it," muttered Dustin. He thumbed it on. "Yeah?"

"OK. I'm here. Now you come to the door and you open it just a bit so I can see you."

"Sure thing." Dustin tossed the phone onto the nightstand. He pulled the door wide open.

On the far side of the parking lot a battered white work truck sat. Ladders splattered with paint hung from racks. Mud crusted the wheel wells. The passenger door opened and trick number two got out. He was tall and a few years older than the ad photos. He nodded once to Dustin. Four tanned faces with glossy black hair peered at Dustin through the rear windshield. Dustin stood exposed, legs spread, chest out, arms crossed, and hardon prominent in his stained shorts. Yes, Dustin was up for a gang bang. Eager for it.

Trick number two leaned into the truck, said something to the other four, and then strode toward Dustin. His hardon stood prominent in his paint-stained overalls.

The man shut the door behind him without looking back at the truck. His eyes raked Dustin's body. He emitted a shuddering breath.

"If you ever talk to them," he warned, "you tell 'em I fuck you with a condom. OK?"

"I'll tell 'em that," said Dustin, still hoping for a gang bang, "but you got to do something for me. You don't use a motherfucking condom."

"You safe?"

"Oh yeah."

Reluctant to look Dustin in the eye, the man ran trembling hands over Dustin's muscles, tracing the pectorals, counting the nodes of Dustin's six pack.

"Smooth," he muttered. He tweaked both nipples.

Immediately adrenaline surged through Dustin. He loved to be handled like a piece of meat.

The man took Dustin by the hip and turned him round. His fingers traced up Dustin's spine, then sank back down. He hooked fingers in Dustin shorts and tugged them down. The jockstrap followed. Dustin allowed it this time. Trick number two knelt, kneading Dustin's buttocks. Not a word was said about the tattoos. But Dustin knew their meaning was obvious.

The man pushed Dustin forward. They ended up against the vanity. The man planted a hand between Dustin's shoulder blades and bent him forward. Dustin attempted to turn, wanting to suck the cock he felt throbbing against his naked ass. Nothing doing. The man pinned Dustin against the vanity. In the mirror his eyes glowed with supernatural intensity. Trick number two unzipped his overalls. They fell. In the mirror Dustin glimpsed the thick uncut cock that had attracted him, rising from a sweaty tangle of coarse pubic hair. Not a behemoth but big. Dustin grinned. Two uncut cocks in one day. Life was good.

The man took Dustin by the waist. He guided his cock into Dustin's socket. He pressed inside. Dustin gasped. A thick burbling noise emanated from where the two men joined. In the mirror Dustin saw the man's eyes go wide and glance down. Dustin felt kid stud's thick load trickling out of him, and he heard a drop or two plop on the linoleum.

"Has another man ... has he already had you?"

Dustin nodded, grinding his butt back on the shaft. "Twice."

Trick number two emitted a guttural groan. "Oh mother of fucking God!"

The third flood of the day burst in Dustin's guts. So thick and copious was the kid stud's deposits that Dustin couldn't feel the bullets splatter. Just the inward-bound tide as trick number two's load interpenetrated kid stud's babies.

"Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh damn! I'm sorry." The man fell forward, pinning Dustin. His cock remained stiff and implanted. More gluey sperm slopped onto the linoleum. Trick number two didn't move for a long while, lying on Dustin, panting, chest heaving. From time to time a small sound like a sob escaped him.

Dustin tried to escape. "If you're done --"

"I'm not done."

The second fuck began. It was quick to the point. Trick number two suffered from swollen nuts. The only cure was to empty them. He churned Dustin's leaking cum into froth. He never changed position, fucking Dustin from behind, never looking into his eyes in the mirror but always remaining focused on the smooth, round, sin-filled butt. He adjusted Dustin's position to suit him, lifting Dustin's leg, pushing him forward, making him arch his back. Dustin was a sex doll. A jackoff toy. The jarhead's colon churned with delight. After another five minutes of frenetic pounding trick number two swore at the Virgin Mary and impregnated Dustin. Dustin's rectum now felt like a rubber sack heavy with hot gravy. When trick number two pulled free, Dustin's ass farted a finger-long spurt of jism onto his pubic hair. The man massaged the goo into his crotch fur then zipped up.

Dustin gave the gang bang one last attempt. As the trick drained his bladder Dustin stood at the window above the air conditioning unit, stark naked. He ripped the curtain open. Four pairs of eyes bore in on his jumping hardon. He stood there, staring, clenching and unclenching his fists.

Come on, guys. Come on. I'm horny. I need it. Your buddy put enough cum up me I'll even think about doing it with a condom. I need cock, dammit. Come fuck me!

"Man," trick number two pleaded, "don't do that."

"I'll do what I want," said Dustin. He beckoned the guys in the truck to come on in and get some of this.

The man shook his head. "See you round."

"Be safe," said Dustin as the door shut.

A gang bang was not in the cards. Four pairs of eyes remained fixed on Dustin as the truck roared off down the parking lot. Another pair looked straight ahead.

Trick number three snagged the bait. His look made Dustin's butthole purse. Slightly Euro, possibly Slavic ancestry. Long blond hair in a ponytail, with a blond goatee. The ad listed his age at 32. The picture of his cock, once unlocked, cinched the deal. Not the longest Dustin had ever absorbed but it was thick. A barbarian weapon. Dustin needed to feel opened, and vulnerable, and full of a man's throbbing power.

Ponytail was not far from the hotel, for there was a knock on the door five minutes after the hookup.

Ponytail strutted in. Dustin's ball tightened at sight of him. Ponytail was tall and broad shouldered. A bit more heavy set that Dustin's ideal, but that deviation was insignificant. Ponytail nodded, his eyes cold, raking Dustin's form from top to bottom.

"Nice," Ponytail said. He ran a hand up Dustin's thighs, reaching under the shorts until he felt the jockstrap. "Smooth all the way up. Turn around." Ponytail chuckled. "Boy's been playing with the men today, huh?"

Dustin felt cum leaking from his butt. The sodden crack of his shorts showed everything. The room smelled of sex and cum.

"What's your name?"


"Got a last name?"


"Turn around, boy. Unzip my pants." Ponytail's eyes blazed with intensity as Dustin complied. "Now take out my cock and play with it." His lip curled in a sneer. "Just like I taught you."

Like I taught you.

Looking up at Ponytail's face, Dustin shivered, feeling his heart surging with excitement. Dustin pulled out Ponytail's battering ram. The proportions were brutal. It was about as long as Dustin's cock but easily twice as thick. Maybe three times? Ponytail's cock was hot and steely. Cut, unfortunately. Can't win 'em all.

"You like?" asked Ponytail, one eyebrow raised.

"Fuck yeah." Dustin stroked the underside of the cock, feeling it jump in his hands. The shaft was so heavy with blood it barely lifted an inch above the horizontal. Oh yes. He needed this cock. When it was in Dustin his body would have to adjust to its arrogant power.

Ponytail flung off his shirt and then yanked down Dustin's shorts and jockstrap. He grinned wolfishly. His palms cupped Dustin's balls and stroked his bush. "Damn. You ever think about shaving that?"

Why do guys ask me to shave my crotch? "Nah," said Dustin. "I like it."

"There's a kind of guy who goes nuts for that stuff." Ponytail's eyes turned to slits. "I'm one of those guys. Come on. Suck me." The wolf's grin showed fangs. "Just the way I taught you," he crooned.

The taste was dank and salty. Clearly, Ponytail's cock had already been up someone's butt earlier today. The raw scent stirred Dustin to enthusiasm. If only Ponytail's cock hadn't been so pale he would've worshipped it. He gulped down dick. He almost dislocated his jaw getting the fat cockhead past his uvula. Ponytail pumped, bouncing swollen, pink, almost hairless balls off Dustin's chin.

"Hungry, aren't you, bro?" muttered Ponytail, hoisting Dustin by the armpits. "I got another game we can play. Let's go to bed."

Dustin backed, his eyes fixed on the advancing cock. The back of his knees hit something and he fell onto the bed. Ponytail leaped on top of Dustin, tongue flicking between his lips like a lizard's. Strong hands pinned down Dustin's shoulders. The intensity inflamed Dustin. His legs wrapped around the big man's body. Dustin grabbed the back of his thighs, pulling his knees tight, offering himself.

"Fuck me!" Dustin demanded. His hole trembled, straining to hold in the ocean of cum sloshing inside.

Ponytail slicked himself with Wet and plunged in. The smell of sperm bloomed around them.

"Shit! Tight and wet! Goddamn!" For a few moments Ponytail stared down. "This is how I like my lil' bro. Wet and horny!" He pecked Dustin on the lips. "Does it hurt?"

Dustin nodded. It did. Oh damn it did. Fiery slivers of pain tortured his anus. The shaft had displaced cum. He felt like a barely contained explosion. Maybe Ponytail could read the pain from the manner in which Dustin's muscles trembled. Maybe not. In any case, Dustin would not admit to weakness.

Ponytail whispered, "Tell me it hurts." He slammed in deep. "Please," he begged.

"It hurts!" It was a real exclamation. Powerful.

Pony grinned, and then whispered, "Ask me to take it out."

"Please take it out!" Dustin whimpered. He was kidding. He was not kidding.

"In a bit. Let's do more of this game."

Ponytails's cock moved. Slurping noises sounded. Dustin grinned. His eyes rolled heavenward. The sole reason he barebacked was for that nasty feeling of wet slimy ooze dribbling from his butthole. That feeling was sin. He'd done it with a rubber once, and known immediately that this clinical and wholly rational form of sex was not for him. It was sin or nothing.

"Nice butt," he murmured, in the tones of a man savoring a ham hock he's stolen.

The strokes increased. The thick cock pulverized Dustin's prostate. Rush made him hungry. He took his cock in hand and began jacking himself. Ponytail might be the guy to give Dustin the first nut of the night. Dustin took hit after hit of Rush. Then Ponytail took the bottle. The big man went wild, grunting and groaning.

"Yeah, fuck me," Dustin begged. His butt felt like a crater after kid stud's work. A crater lake of semen, brimming over as the titan of the moment bathed in it. He laughed. He loved not being able to remember their names. His tricks. Even their faces were hazy. He wanted to live in this world of unconscious squishy spirituality forever. Whom he coupled with didn't matter, so long as he coupled. He thought of cocks lined up like dumbbells on racks, and he felt their cum, bubbling from his asshole as if it were a spring from which power burbled.

"Yeah, Dusty," Ponytail muttered. "Big bro likes your butt."


Do it like I taught you.

Those cold words froze Dustin. He squeezed his cock, stifling the burst he feared would erupt. Had Ponytail really said what Dustin thought he'd said? A strand of precum struggled free of Dustin's pisshole and draped itself over his stomach.

Ponytail's eyes shut. "Yeah, Dusty, squeeze that butt. Oh yeah, make your bro happy."

Dustin's balls contracted. They were eager to vomit a flood. But Dustin's heart shuddered, almost stopping.

"What did you say, mothefucker?"

Rage exploded from that inner singularity.


Images manifested, danced around Dustin, and mocked him. He writhed. Hands rose to seize Ponytail's neck but he forced them back down. He twisted. He fought against the urge to throw this bastard off him. Sick fuck!

"Don't look at me!" he growled.

Ponytail was far away in fantasyland. "Give your big bro some poppers, Dusty."

Dustin fists pounded the bed. He said nothing. Relentless his butthole milked that motherfucking bastard's cock.

Ponytails' eyes snapped open. Whatever interior landscape he'd been lost in vanished. Twin red novae blazed down at Dustin. "Poppers, Dusty! Give me a fucking hit!"

No matter what Dustin felt, no matter how much rage surged inside, he had to obey that tone. Because he was the little brother.

Dustin groped for the bottle. He uncapped it, shoved it under Ponytail's nose and held one nostril shut. Ponytail snorted it as if it were a half-mile long line of cocaine. He let out a roar. Dustin, even though he feared what rage and Rush combined might release, took a hit. Ponytail's strokes grew long, grew furious. The bed leaped half a foot with each thrust. Dustin felt a wet tide slithering down his buttcrack. He did not have a sphincter. He had a cunt.

"Yeah, lil bro, take my cock, take it, boy, take my motherfuckin' load, oh god I'm shootin' in you, Dusty, Daddy's cumming, Daddy's cummin', Daddy came ..."

The spurting titan more than replenished the lake of cum staining the cover.

Ponytail collapsed onto Dustin's sperm-streaked chest.

Dustin lay pinned under Ponytail, legs forced to either side, collecting himself after that shattering bolt of ecstasy. Recovering? No, it was an internal sparring match. His fists clenched. His fists unclenched. He thought he could hurl Ponytail off him. Then Dustin felt certain he could not. When Ponytail withdrew his cock, Dustin mewled like a lonely kitten.

The tall man stood. He stared down at Dustin, grinning triumphantly. His cock shrank a bit but didn't fully soften. He pulled on his jeans, tucked in his cock, zipped up, cleared his throat, turned, and left. He didn't bother pulling the door fully shut.

Dustin sat up and buried his face in his hands. There were tears of rage to repress, and he was good at that. He shook himself. He felt eyes on him. No. He felt a hand creeping up his thigh, a hand that should not be there. He scrambled off the bed and slammed the door. His butthole left a line of milky gray cumdrops on the carpet.

He was tempted to rip open the curtain again, to display himself. Look at me! Look at the freak!

Dustin knew exactly what the hell had been going through Ponytail's mind. It was not the Daddy part that bothered him. The question Dustin didn't understand was ... why the hell did he have to run into one of those, right now?

His guts felt heavy as a garbage bag full of warm glue. No matter what he felt, the night wasn't over. He screwed the cap tight on the Rush. Sperm bubbled from his asshole. He grimaced, struggling to hold the explosion. A trickle crept down his thigh. He smelled like the floor of a grungy sex club.

Nothin' doing. Nothin' doing, man. You crossed a line, motherfucker. You crossed a goddamned line.

Do it like I taught you, Dusty.

Dustin staggered to the bathroom. He squatted on the toilet. Thunderously he expelled his collection of semen. It felt as if hot spaghetti slithered through his ring. It took many minutes and countless contractions before he felt he'd emptied himself of enough so that his sphincter could retain control. He stood then wiped. Before he threw in the tissue he noted that at least half an inch of semen floated on the water in the bowl. He flushed.

For at least half an hour Dustin sat on the bed. His phone chirped at him but he ignored it, holding his head. He tried the breath-counting method but success eluded him, a golden carp darting away from fingers groping in dark waters. He felt as if he was a Coke bottle and someone had locked a tornado inside. Dustin wished he was in the ring with Grim the Jovial; he'd beat the shit out of the giant.

With his butthole still raw from three cocks and still wet, thoughts of more sex reasserted themselves.

He called me 'bro.' He called me 'Dusty.' If he'd done it one more time I'd have pulverized the son of a bitch!

No you wouldn't. You never did when you had the chance. Why, Dusty?

Violence had happened. Dustin remembered the time he'd come off the sling, fists bunch, spit flying from his lips. Don't say that, motherfucker, don't say it! He'd landed one good punch, in the center of a face transfigured by lust and shock, before Dozer and Mac tackled him and stopped everything from going to hell. In the chaos they'd managed to escape without police involvement.

Calmness at last began to return. It was a strange sort of calm. But it was calm.

He ordered a pizza. Dustin answered the door in his cum-stinking shorts. The delivery guy was about fifty and shaped like a half-deflated beach ball. A golden crucifix swung from the chain round his neck. Dustin gave the man a five dollar tip. Then he turned around, dropped his shorts, held out a twenty, and told the delivery man what he could do for a bigger tip.

Tires had left the smell of burning rubber in the air.

Somehow the gesture made Dustin feel better.

After eating he reached for his phone. He needed to get pounded. That would drive those fragments of dream from his mind. Oh look. A pair of black guys, looking for a threesome. He composed a text offering. It was accepted.

The phone woke Dustin at 7am. He rolled naked from under the covers. Last night's semen gurgled in his guts. He went into the bathroom. He squatted, voided, and flushed. With great sadness he watched the semen swirl away to oblivion.

He ran the water hot in the shower and cleaned off. He shaved and brushed his teeth. He stashed Wet and Rush into his bag and loaded up his Mustang. He checked out. He got into his car. He started the engine.

It was at this point, Dustin decided, that DC officially transitioned into his past. Visits were not the same as residence. He was in motion towards Austin. Raleigh would be ... an extended stay at a roadside inn.

There was a Waffle House a block away. He filled up, polished off two cups of coffee, climbed back into his car, and departed.

The thought of a quick trip back to the dojo tempted Dustin as he merged into traffic. He needed to recapture that sense of calmness shattered by Ponytail's sick fantasy. He needed to reinvigorate his sense of strength. Only good workouts -- or victories in the ring -- gave these to him. Pounding the steering wheel with his fist, Dustin discarded the temptation. Retreat was not an option. He must go forward. He would find a dojo or at least a gym in Raleigh. Like a messiah, calmness would return. Calmness must return. Otherwise he'd be in bars, staring fights again.

Dustin couldn't find a station that suited his mood. Pop was insipid. Rap mad him angry. Talk made him angrier. His speed surged upwards of 90 and he slalomed around traffic. Country music rode to his rescue. Normally he hated it. Too pious. Too simple. Too syrupy. Today the mellow sound soothed him and Dustin was able to restrain everything within his secret singularity. Dustin's speed sank to a more reasonable 80.

He thought he'd been clever, setting his departure for late morning so he'd miss traffic. But the 21st century interstate was an indefatigable beast. He hit noon rush traffic in Richmond. The corporate cattle had been released to graze. It was stop and go slow for about a half hour, until he cleared the cause of the snarl. A wrecked SUV. Continuing south, he reigned in his impatience, and kept his speed under control. You could have fantasies of being stopped by a hot cop and having him shove a nightstick up your ass, but that never happened to white people.

Travel along I-95 and you'll note that it's just the main vein for one extremely large suburban tumor whose malignant tentacles embrace, with hunger and horror, everything between Boston and Richmond.

Upon exiting that megacity somewhere south of Richmond, Dustin felt he'd travelled back in time fifty years. Trees flanked the interstate. At interchanges there were only a few service stations, a convince store, maybe a fast food joint, sometimes even a local eatery. It was easy to imagine vultures circling in the sky, awaiting that fatal flat tire that promised those vultures strips of delicious human flesh.

Dustin always felt melancholy in this uncivilized land. He liked the throb and energy of a city. The energy. The bustle of a city. The men. The cocks.

He decided to continue down I-95. Last time he'd gone home via a longer route, taking I-85 to Durham, cutting over to I-40 and heading on to Raleigh. His motivation that trip had been to see what had changed since his last visit. The vista from the interstate hadn't been enlightening and he got caught in snarled traffic in Cary. This trip Dustin wasn't feeling at all nostalgic.

Taking I-95 committed him to exiting on Highway 64, which became New Bern Avenue. An iffy section of town. But who was he kidding? He was going to Raleigh, city of bland. Hick young punks weren't the danger. And if the unforeseen did happen, Dustin took comfort in the .45 automatic he had hidden beneath his seat.

No major incidents on New Bern Avenue. He passed dilapidated shopping centers and rundown carwashes. He checked his watch. Four PM. Not bad at all.

He turned right. After a few blocks he was travelling through Oakwood. Huge trees rose above the streets and grand Victorian houses presided. Twenty years ago these old houses had been decaying monuments to old money. Thank God for new money. Dustin remembered his Mom fretting, back in those days, because she kept her house shipshape.

After the meteoric freedom of the interstate, Dustin found the staccato stop-and-go rhythm between intersections annoying.

Two blocks from Mom's, Dustin saw a gigantic ass that could only belong to Mrs. Tilman. And then, after driving a block closer, Mrs. Tilman herself, walking her dog. The little Pekingese had achieved Internet fame. During Dad's memorial at the house Mrs. Tilman's Pekingese -- she was never without the neurotic bastard -- escaped from one of Mrs. Tilman's fat cracks. It walked gingerly up to the casket, squatted, moaned with relief, and extruded a half-foot long turd onto Mom's new carpet. Cameras had captured the spectacle and Mom's subtle vengeance played out on Facebook and YouTube.

Trying to stifle a laugh, Dustin beeped the horn. Mrs. Tilman shot him a confused look because his Mustang was new to her. He lowered the window and she recognized him. She waved and arm flesh wobbled asynchronously.

"Is Mom home?" he called.

"Yes she is, Dustin, and she's waiting for you. My, where did you get that car?"

He thumbed the glass up. "Talk to you later, Mrs. Tilman!"

He drove then turned into the driveway. The concrete tracks led between the fence and the house. On the back parking apron, which his Dad had built, only two cars sat. Mom had gotten rid of Dad's clutch of vehicles two weeks after his funeral. There was a Mercedes, for Mom's elegant mode, and a Prius, for her environmental mode. He parked between the Mercedes and the shed Dad had built.

When he got out he looked, as he always did, toward the spot under the giant oak in the far corner. The 2011 tornado took several limbs but the tree survived. Under that tree there once was a kid's swing set the private domain of Dustin and his brother. It remained a happy space, even though the swing set was no longer there. Dad had dismantled it and gotten it out of there the moment he deemed his two sons too old for it.

He glanced once at the shed. The knotholes were still unpatched.

He retrieved a bag full of respectable clothes from his trunk. His other stuff he'd leave in the car for a while. He walked towards the kitchen entrance. The house was a relic of Queen Victoria's time and it was a monument to large families. If the house hadn't been something like a family heirloom Dustin supposed Mom would've sold it. She complained about being alone in the barn.

The screen door slammed behind Dustin. Mom supervised Beatrice, her help. Two heads turned. Beatrice never stopped stirring the batter. Both women smiled.

Mom crossed the floor, beaming. She hugged him. "Well, it's been a while. I'm glad you're here. I wasn't expecting you till later."

"Do you need me to clean up? I saw Mrs. Tilman."

Mom laughed. "No. I make her cork that little asshole tight before I let her bring that thing in my house." She frowned. "Just one bag?"

"There's more in the car. I'll get them later."

"Well, you get your old room back. You haven't been home for a year, so I'll warn you. It's not the same old room. Are you hungry?""


"What do you --"

"Seafood. Scallops. Fried."

She nodded. "I figured that. Put your stuff away. We'll go in a bit."

Beatrice called, "Hi, Dustin. You can go eat just as soon as Mrs. Mayes is done managin' this cake!"

"That's Miss Naughton, Beatrice," Mom warned. "I won't have you using foul words in my house."

Dustin thought, So she did go back to her maiden name.

Both women laughed. Mom strode back towards Beatrice, wagging a finger in mock admonishment. "You need to be stirring four times counterclockwise, three times clockwise."

Dustin grinned, picked up his bag, and went into the living room.

Big changes here. The furniture had been rearranged. The most significant change was the photographs. Dad had wanted an exuberant set of family photographs on both sides of the fireplace. While he'd been alive he'd gotten his way. In the end the wall had resembled a mosaic.

Mom had purged the prints and moved the survivors to the back wall. There was only one photograph of Dad. Most were of Mom and Dustin and his older brother David.

He went through the photographs carefully.

There was one, taken when Dustin was twelve. Both David and he held up a brace of fish. Dustin grinned, remembering that day. There had been a distant gunshot and then, not five minutes later, a bass boat raced flat out across the lake. David had wanted to solve that mystery but they never got round to it.

Birthday photos. Christmas photos. School photos.

A chill settled over him.

Christ. That photo. Why of all photographs had Mom chosen to keep that one?

It seemed innocuous. Big brother David, his arm thrown around little brother Dustin. Dustin was a high school senior, David a wrestler on the varsity team. Dave beamed. Dustin wore a hooded expression, his eyes glancing suspiciously at Dave.

Dustin remembered why he wore that hooded look. You couldn't see much from this angle in that lighting. But if you'd stood next to Dave, the way Dustin did in that photo, you'd be aware just like him of how fucking huge Dave's bulge swelled.

Dustin heaved a sigh, stuffing memory back where they belonged. The choice wasn't deliberate on Mom's part, he knew. She didn't know what had happened the night before the photo had been taken.

Dustin climbed the stairs. His old room was three doors down on the left. Each creek emitted by the floorboards recalled old treachery. He'd walked this hall many times in the night, creeping back from the bathroom, wishing those fucking floorboards would shut up. For, if they spoke too loudly, then the hinges would creak from two doors down on the left. And it would resume, and Dustin's dread of discovery would be refreshed.

He set his bag down on the bed. The room was unfamiliar. The size and general contours remained unchanged but nothing else of his childhood room survived. This pleased him. Mom had redone the room completely. Maybe this summer wouldn't be as haunted as he'd thought.

He sat on the bed. He pulled his phone out. Damn. To turn back the tide of tricks last night he'd shut off the ringer. He checked his calls. Mac. Shit. Dustin immediately called back.

"Hey, buddy," said Mac. "Where have you been?"

"Shut my damn ringer off and forgot to turn it back on."

"A whole day?" Mac was incredulous but not angry. "Who was he?"

"Heh. That was last night. I guess Grim told you I stopped by."

"Yeah. Wish I'd seen you. We would've hit a few clubs." Dustin heard the leer in Mac's voice. "Had some fun, didn't we? Now it's all over."

"No, no, no it isn't," Dustin insisted. "Everyone keeps acting like I'm a thousand miles away. I'm in Raleigh. I'm not doing anything here except staying with my Mom. Party central's still DC. I can get back up there in five, six hours. Hell, I'll probably be calling you this Friday."

"You'd better, Dustin. You'd better."

The wistful tone in Mac's voice disturbed Dustin. His life in DC was in Room A. His life-to-be in Austin was in Room B. His past was on another, lower floor. He had not closed the door to A. He was in a hallway, at the end of which stairs leg down, between A and B. B was not open yet but the key was in the lock. A was not closed. Why did no one get this?>

He heaved a great sigh. He was home, source of his bad dreams.

"Talk to me, Mac," he said. "Keep me from going crazy."

Continued in part 2