A BROTHER'S BLOOD CRIES OUT
2 - Shadows
© 2014 R. Keith Peck
List of stories: http://araddion.tumblr.com/araddionstories
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Mom drove her Mercedes to Augustine's Seafood. Dustin, sitting in the passenger seat, felt oddly childish. He'd been in the driver's seat for a long time. Ever since that day when he'd had enough and left, signing up with the Marines just to get the fuck away from -- well, having to look at Mom in the morning, and wonder if she'd heard.
"I'm glad you're back," Mom said.
There was a misty, intense inflection in her voice that
disturbed Dustin. She'd always been iron.
A consequence of Dad's death? "I like being home. Just don't forget I'm still on my way to Austin."
She patted Dustin's thigh. "I know. I think you're putting your inheritance to much better use than your brother." She signed. "Though I'm not sure if I understand exactly how you're going to get rich teaching kids how to fight."
"I'm not setting up my dojo to get rich," said Dustin.
Mom looked at him, eyebrow raised quizzically.
He watched the passing roadside. "I want to be me," said Dustin. "I don't want to be a drone anymore. Not for the Corps. Not in some corporation. I want to be independent. I want to be Dustin Mayes."
Her eyes narrowed. "Have you been watching strange movies recently?"
Dustin thought of his collection of Treasure Island Media DVDs, the only movies he owned. Did they qualify as strange? They could be repetitive but they were never boring. His cock stirred. Damn. Those DVDs were in storage, waiting unpacking in Austin.
Damn. Horny again already.
Then he shook himself. Mom wasn't asking about his porn habit. She was making a joke. "Mom. Keep an eye on the traffic."
It was a slow night at Augustine's. The maître d' greeted Mom enthusiastically. Mom was chipper. Dustin was hungry. And horny. But the maître d' wasn't remotely interested in Dustin.
The maître d' led them to a quiet table and lit a candle. Mom ordered a cabernet sauvignon, Dustin a Guinness.
Their waiter was a nelly queen. Young, perhaps twenty one or twenty two, tall, and black. Charming, he swished and he lisped. His skin was lustrous, like moonlight on night water. He flirted with Mom, who twittered with the attention. With Dustin he was circumspect. Dustin's butthole pursed and his cock dwelled. Yeah, he'll do, thought Dustin. Nelly or not the queen had broad shoulders and a trim waist and a bubble butt, so there must be muscle under that lace. Most importantly to Dustin, somewhere under the waiter's formal garb was a cock.
Dustin liked butch men, the kind of guy who spit beer in the face of the bottom he just bred. If this were DC, or NYC, or Austin, Dustin wouldn't give the waiter a second look. But this was Raleigh. You took what you were given. Dustin knew the waiter sensed Dustin's interest. When Dustin passed back the menu after ordering, they had locked eyes. A look of intimidation spread across the waiter's face before Dustin realized how intensely he was staring. Dustin remembered to smile, and the nelly queen had understood everything.
Dustin's snare had captured prey. Now. How to arrange the fuck?
Dustin looked at Mom, tearing his eyes away from the waiter's ass as he scurried to the kitchen with their order. Mom broke open a roll. Abstracted with her own thoughts, she had noticed nothing.
"They're dead," observed Dustin.
"Hmm? Oh, Augustine's? It's an off night. And it's a little early." She smiled "I know you're moving on, Dustin, but I'm glad I've got one son back. It's been ... odd to be in that house, alone."
"What do you mean alone? Beatrice is always there."
"She's not family. I mean, David stops by but he doesn't stay." She frowned. "I never liked the place. Far too big. But I tolerated it when my family lived there."
"Where does he live now?" Dustin asked calmly.
Mom looked at him. "You don't know? So you two don't speak at all?"
"I talked to him at the funeral," said Dustin.
"That was a year ago. Why? You and David used to get on so well."
The conversation had veered into dangerous territory, but Dustin had been in these lands before. He knew that Mom, of all people, must never know what had gone on in the bedrooms and in the shed out back and ... so many other places. She had once asked something that made Dustin wince. Does he ever come into your room at night? A remark far too close to the target. She seemed to sense ... something. But what did she sense?
Dustin had great skill at feigning nonchalance. "We just grew apart, Mom. We both have strong personalities."
"Is David why you ran off and joined the Marines?"
Dustin felt cold. She'd never stabbed this close to the truth before. He swallowed. "Yeah. I was tired of ... being bullied. Being Dave's ... little brother. I figured I'd toughen myself up."
"But the Marines," she said. "And enlisted. You could've been killed in Iraq."
For a short while, before Dustin had discovered how to bury the shame and the hatred in that glowing singularity within, that had been Dustin's great hope. Iraq dissuaded him of that delusion. When death was all around you, when everyone except your buddies was your enemy, the spirit of life burned most fiercely. "I wasn't." Grinning, he punched a fist into a palm. "And I got tough. And I'm back. It all worked out."
"You were always tough, Dustin."
"I was always the runt."
The waiter returned, beaming and exuberant. Dustin, not driving, ordered another Guinness after warning Mom against more wine. Mom ignored him. The waiter, now less flustered, remembered to introduce himself as Terence. His eyelids fluttered when he pronounced his name. Dustin, egged on by images of an arm-thick cock shouldering aside frilly panties, brazenly met Terence's gaze, and brazenly let his eyes drop to where he expected the arm-thick cock to nest. The waiter walked away with thighs pressed together.
How can I make this happen? thought Dustin.
Mom looked at him over her wine.
"Any good gyms in Raleigh?" he asked.
Mom laughed. "How the hell would I know? Ask David. He'll know."
"Still the gym rat?" He hadn't meant to bring David back into the conversation but it seemed his brother was unavoidable.
"He always was." Mom patted Dustin's forearm. "Though you caught up."
"What's he up to now?"'
She laughed. "Would you believe it? He's a wrestling coach over at Grant High!"
It felt as if someone poured cold oatmeal directly into Dustin's guts. He froze for a moment, but Mom didn't pick up on it. "How long has he been ... a coach" he managed to ask.
"Four years. I thought you two talked at Eddie's funeral."
"We did, but not much." He was going to ask, Any scandals? but that would bring things too close to home. And, logically, if there had been any scandals, David wouldn't still be a coach at Grant High. He pictured Dave's big, strong body in a wrestling singlet, some high school kid crushed beneath him, straining to throw him off. He glanced around. Where was that waiter? How was Dustin gonna nail him?
"You should see him," said Mom. She brightened. "I'll call and tell him you're coming to see him. What are you doing tomorrow?"
"Umm ... I'll be looking for a gym tomorrow." He flexed. "I want to keep my build."
"We should have dinner one night." She frowned, peering at Dustin. "All three of us. Or would that be too much?"
"Too much, too soon," said Dustin. "Let's ease into this, Mom. You don't want to cause a blowup."
She nodded. "No. No. I don't want that." She peered at him. "Is that why you fight?"
"You got tired of David picking on you? So you joined the Marines and learned to fight?"
He nodded. "It's why I want to teach kids to defend themselves. I've had it with bullies." Dustin was OK with Mom believing this. Totally OK.
"Tell me the truth, Dustin," said Mom. She fixed him with her iron eyes. "What did you really think of Dad?"
Dustin shrugged, almost spoke but suddenly stopped. It was a question he'd never considered. Dad was a man absorbed in his work, and he had been the instrument of Mom's wrath when one of her sons transgressed, but Dad had been there for baseball games and for wrestling matches and fishing at the lake. He was never warm, but he was also never distant. And he never flew off the handle at some the hijinks Dustin got up to in high school.
"I dunno," Dustin said. "He was kind. A little distant."
But this wasn't the right answer. He continued to reflect. Mom sensed this and watched him with inquisitive eyes.
Dustin sorted through the memories he had of Dad. Childhood to adolescence to adulthood. At last he arrived at the recollection of the funeral a year past. Did Dustin, looking at the coffin in those minutes before Mrs. Tilman's dog emitted the famous turd, feel a sense of loss?
A year ago Dustin had consoled Mom, who had wept. Sometimes. Consoled her in those moments, and turned his mind away from Dave's smirking face. Dustin himself had been stoic when Dad's coffin had been lowered into the raw earth. The few words he'd spoken over his father's grave were a quote from something Dustin no longer could remember.
What exactly did he feel?
Zero subtracted from zero, Dustin's friend Dozer had said, is still zero. He'd said this in a completely different context. It had puzzled, even pissed off, the other guys who heard it. But Dustin's mind caught those words, and retained them for future use. It applied here.
"I guess," Dustin told his mother, "I don't feel much one way or the other."
This satisfied Mom. She nodded and took a bite. "You're lucky." She seemed about to say more but she, too, felt the need to separate her internal world from the external. Her eyes weren't misty. They were iron, cold as a sword drawn in a glacial evening. All was normal again.
"Things change," Dustin said, as a way of filling the silence.
"Yes," she said "And always for the better." She smiled. "I like who you are now, Dustin. Much more than who you were when you left." She patted his hand. "You did good."
This unexpected pulling-of-the-rug-from-beneath-his-feet sent Dustin reeling, as if he were an urchin on a sea floor and a great wave had passed. This conversation must stop. He turned the topic to money, a subject about which Mom knew much. She too seemed happy to be talking about her properties and this led her to gossip about her sisters and brothers. Soon they were both laughing, and both were happy to be out of the moody, misty landscape they'd explored.
Dustin sensed eyes fixed upon him. The black waiter lingered at the bar for a moment, his eyes luminous with significance. Then he turned and swished down a service hall. Dustin smirked. Yeah. This'll work. There was a bathroom down the hallway where an old adventure had been acted out, out of sight of Mom. Dustin remembered old Ralph Griffin, the first man to teach Dustin that old codgers loved tight young ass.
"Mom," he said, standing. "I'll be back. Got to go to the ... " he trailed off.
"Don't be too long," she said. "I don't want to get bored."
The service corridor that ran alongside the kitchen was empty. Dustin grimaced when he entered it. Damn. No waiter. His butthole mourned the loss of arm-thick cock. He was about to turn and head for the clientele's bathroom when the waiter emerged from the double doors at the far end.
Hot damn. His asshole rejoiced.
Dustin grinned and strode down the hall. Both knew the rules and pretended to not look at the other. Dustin tested the staff bathroom door. It was unlocked and unoccupied. He looked over his shoulder to find eyes rising from his butt to meet his gaze.
"Come on," murmured Dustin and slipped inside. "Let's do this."
The waiter locked the door behind them. "What's your name?" he beamed happily.
Why does sex in Raleigh always have to be a social occasion? "Dustin." He unzipped the waiter's fly, reached inside, and knelt. Briefs, not panties. He drew out a nice sized organ, rubbery but stiffening. The head was small, the size of a grape. The base was thick but not as thick as Dustin's fantasies.
"I can't --" said the queen, glancing over his shoulder as if he feared prying eyes.
"Shh," murmured Dustin. "All you gotta do is get a hardon."
Dustin swallowed the cock. The shaft swelled as Dustin's lips fluttered down it. The water smelled clean, almost intolerably so for a pig like Dustin. Dustin pressed his lips into the nelly waiter's crisp pubes, just to prove he could deep throat anything. Then he backed off and tickled the cockhead and slit with his tongue. The shaft stiffened and grew rigid while Dustin undid his fly and shucked down his trousers.
Dustin looked up into a face poised between shock and delight. Dustin knew this was a done deal. No one ever backed out of sex, no matter how outrageous or contrary to their personal motives, once their face betrayed the slightest hint of pleasure. He coughed up mucous, throated the organ again, coating it thoroughly.
Dustin stood. He hawked up a huge glob of mucous and smeared it on the shaft. The waiter bit his lip, staring into Dustin's eyes. Dustin shoved his trousers down to his knees, turned around and pressed his forehead against the cold tile. He hawked up more mucous, and coated his asshole.
"I don't think --" began the waiter, who made no move to stuff what he had where Dustin so obviously needed it.
"Quiet," said Dustin. He grabbed the cock and guided it his socket.
"I don't have a condom."
"I'm horny," murmured Dustin, rubbing his wet anus on the head.
"Are you safe?"
"Always." He felt his anus gnawing on the head like an old man gumming a lollipop. The slick sensation increased with discharges of precum.
"Damn," said the waiter. He pushed and lodged half his cockhead in Dustin's butthole.
Shit yeah! Once you get them inside, they forget they're barebacking. The burning sensation made Dustin's fingers curl and his feet twist and his hunger blazed like a bonfire stoked by gasoline. "Fuck me," Dustin begged.
"Are you clean?"
Jesus! Dustin resumed command, grabbed the shaft. Holding it firm he impaled himself on it. It was obvious from the gritty sensation Dustin wasn't spic and span. But since the bathroom didn't suddenly reek the matter was tolerable.
Cleanliness or safety didn't matter beyond this point. Once the queen had his cock embedded in hungry jarhead ass, and felt Dustin's ring squeezing his shaft behind his cockhead, he drove it in, braying like a donkey.
"Damn, man!" Dustin whimpered. Fuck! It'd been a while since Dustin had taken an unlubed cock. He'd forgotten the heat, the burning, the sensation of being seared from the inside. But he didn't shirk from the pain. His lust for cock required of him that he endure pain. He whined as his raw rectum ballooned around the shaft.
When he glanced over his shoulder, Dustin saw an intense gaze fastened on the sight of raw black queen cock piercing white Marine ass. Dustin melted, his hips pumping, when surprisingly strong fingers took him by the hips. The queen sheathed his cock in Dustin's guts. Dustin felt big balls press against the backside of his own. The queen pumped. There wasn't much sliding going on. They were two chunks of flesh, glued together at the rectum, effeminate black top and butch white bottom.
It hurt. Fireballs of pain shot across his internal sky. Dustin's cock dripped lube as his asshole began to puff up.
"Damn," breathed the queen, hips churning faster. He licked the back of Dustin's neck. His strokes grew forceful. Suddenly his shaft began to slide. Dustin cried out as grit scoured his ring.
"Yeah, fuck me!"
Suddenly sharp breath exploded against Dustin's ears. He felt a warm rush in his guts and heard the queen gasping. Dustin cooed happily, milking the pulsating cock with his abused ring, feeling the cum spreading within him.
They disengaged with grunts and averted eyes. Dustin yelped when the cockhead emerged. He felt a teardrop of cum leak but did not wipe it away. He pulled pants and underwear in place, squeezing his butthole to keep the remaining cum -- which felt like a cup of warm mushroom soup-- from escaping.
Zipping his fly Dustin turned to see the waiter, grimacing, holding his softening meat, examining it minutely. The waiter looked up, accusation in his eyes.
"Remember to wash up," said Dustin. "My Mom's picky about her food. And she knows lots of lawyers." He unlocked the door and left.
Having stopped at the bar, Dustin returned to the table with another Guinness. He strutted, which he always did when he'd taken a big, juicy load. His butthole felt wet. He hoped he could manage. Sometime he leaked. He grinned to himself. He remembered one time ... well, it had been more than one time ... when he'd gone down to one of the adult bookstores off the interstate in DC, wearing only cutoffs, with Dozer and Mac, and had emerged with strands of cum hanging out the leg holes as he struggled to contain the ejaculations from god knows how many men. That was living.
As he sat Mom said, "That was quick. I ordered you another beer. Hah! Now you've got two. I suppose you'll have to make another trip before we go?"
"I'll make it OK, Mom," said Dustin. And he did. No runs, drips, or errors.
The bed was unfamiliar but comfortable. It didn't creak when Dustin sank into it, the way his old one had. No danger of this one betraying him as he jerked off, wondering about the black teenager he'd had yesterday. Did the kid have friends? Stoner buddies? Yeah. He must have. Feed 'em weed, cocks rise, and Dustin kneels, sucking them off, and squatting and stuffing them up his ass.
He blew a good, thick load, licked it up, and fell asleep.
Dreams begin sweetly.
Frenetic carnival music. The crowd on the midway. The dream copy of Dustin walks alone. Why? He never goes to the State Fair without his friends.
What are these strange figures, these dwarfs, these midgets with huge eyes, who peer at him from behind the legs of passers-by?
The smell of popcorn. Of cotton candy. Of roasting sausage. Vendors shout from booths on either side of the midway. The Ferris wheel spins above. The crowd squeals with delight.
Jesus fucking Christ, a white stallion escaped from the livestock exhibits. There he goes, trotting down the midway, sporting a giant hardon.
Another part of the fair. The crowd mills between the merry-go-round and the roller coaster. Amongst the laughing children the little figures dart, like bits of trash blown by gusts of wind, between the legs of the unseeing adults.
The tent is crimson and trimmed with gold tassels and reminds Dustin of something very, very old.
The sign in front of the tent promises, in an exuberant circus font, that all questions can be answered!
A little man with huge eyes and dressed in a gray suit murmurs: Don't believe everything you read, Dustin.
Dustin takes the sign far more seriously than the gibbering munchkin. Pulling out a wallet thick with money, Dustin pays the pretty girl stationed outside the tent's entrance. She immediately shows him inside.
The figure that rises from the velvet-draped table is dressed like a magician from a children's TV show. A tuxedo with exaggerated cut. Lapels that would shame the direst creations of the '70s. A bow tie spinning like a plane's propeller. A top hat two feet high, so heavy it leans to one side. Shaggy dark hair in need of a comb. A sharp nose and twinkling eyes hidden in sockets where shadow pools deep. Spindly arms and legs. A claw-like hand extends in greeting.
Call me Charlatan T. Liar. Better still, call me Charlie.
Charlie pulls out a deck of cards and begins to shuffle. Dustin is camera, recording, beholding, sensing, but not participating while that deck is rearranged in accordance with the laws of probability.
Sit, Dustin. I already know what you want. You see, your cock gave you away when you came through that door.
Charlie takes his chair across the table from Dustin. He caresses the velvet, eyeing Dustin.
So many questions, Dustin, so many questions, all twined together, tangled like bits of yarn in a ball. You are a knot, made by some malicious kitten for his private amusement.
Charlatan T. Liar holds up a hand to quell speech.
I will show you something. What you must decide in the end is ... are these images history? Are they fantasy? Is there any difference between fantasy and reality? Is your consciousness a thing in itself, or merely a screen on which reality impinges?
Charlie deals one card and one card only and lays it on the table between them. Like distant stars his eyes watch Dustin
It is like looking at a small tablet computer streaming a movie. The images move with the fluidity of reality, with all of the rich colors of reality. But the content? It seems to be scripted in a way that reminds Dustin of a reality TV show. Drama inserted where none naturally exists. Dustin leans forward, peering at Charlie's card, and realizes it's a gateway.
In his bed Dustin slumbers naked, his cock erecting. His hands slip toward it while eyelids flutter.
Year? 2002. It is as if the image has been captioned. Should the image be sepia-toned or pixelated?
Season? Just after high school graduation. The warmth tells Dustin it's June.
Person? Bill Pitt, school lacrosse stud, the subject of many dreams. Short, not much taller than Dustin, and sculpted. Wide lats and deltoids and big pectorals. Bristly dark hair and brown eyes.
Bill Pitt, who stood time after time with arms raised in triumph, groin bulging, while Dustin stared at that bulge in the shorts that duplicates another bulge in a wrestling singlet. A bulge that smells of male sweat and responded when Dustin kneels and Dustin begs and Dustin's tongue worships.
Catalyst? Dustin's room, as it was then. Two teens, both shirtless, lips swollen, chests heaving, hearts hammering. A laptop, an Internet connection, and a grainy video of porn stars now passé.
It's Dustin who proposes doing it.
See? Guys can do that. (swallow) You wanna try it?
Bill does. Bill very much does. But not as much as Dustin wants to. It'll be something Dave doesn't possess. This'll be Dustin's.
But they can't do it in the house. Footfalls in the next room.
Teen feet in sneakers scamper down the steps. Dad tells them to slow down. The warm afternoon. The great oaks nod in the spring breeze.
Location? The old shed squatting next to the real Dustin's blue Mustang.
The smell of glue, sawdust, cobwebs. Grimy windows. A door, shut and latched. No one can see them. It is Dustin, and Bill, and lust.
Bill's voice sounds like a king's.
Take 'em down!
Dustin squeals and complies. Cool musty air on his ass. He feels like he needs to piss.
The lube? Butter. Because that's all they could find. Fresh from the refrigerator, it is solid. They rub it on like chap stick. The cold greasy feeling on Dustin's butthole. The first anointing of many. At the first touch of the cold grease an addiction is whetted.
The feeling of cock. The feeling of cock against his butthole. The realization that, yeah, this is all he wants out of life. To be mounted. To be taken. To be used. To be filled.
Strong hands on Dustin's hips. Strong hands put Dustin in his place.
Sharp intake of breath when Bill's cockhead fills the socket.
It didn't go in. (mournful disappointment)
You don't think it's too big to go in?
(firm resolution) No, no, it'll go in. I know it. Try it again.
Wait! Wait a damn second! Ow! Ow, shit, goddamnit, slow down, ow!
The inward stab. Eyes clenched with pain. Two teens too enthused by the white stallion neither can perceive. Had one of them not been Dustin, seething with piglet urges, the coupling would have broken apart in tears of pain and accusations.
Bill will not relent. He senses victory. He'll not be denied his triumph.
The pain ebbs like a red tide, leaving only an empty bay needing to be filled.
Just right. Thrusts. Grunts. Success! Big teen cock explores little teen butt. Both explorer and the territory convulse in rapture. Perhaps Bill's was the perfect cock to deflower Dustin's butt. Good sized but not overwhelming. Slim but substantial. A slight downward curve to stab the prostate.
Strange dwarves caper round the shed and a white stallion stomps his hooves.
Dustin descends from a fog of pleasure to realize a question's been asked.
Lay your chest on that table saw.
They shuffle, still joined.
Wait a second. Hang on.
Fingers seek purchase on the edge. Dustin, squeezing on the energy impaled within him, knows he needs support.
(gasping) I gotta fuck you!
Wait a damn second --
Sound of twinned breathing. Slurping flesh. Shocked breathing. How can it feel so good? Why have they waited so long?
Lewd, brutal rhythm of flesh on flesh. Restrained grunting of two teens yielding to sin.
Hot slime blooming in moonless night of Dustin's guts. Hot slime streaking slim chest. Two boys have done the deed and become men.
The white stallion neighs, contented.
The vision scatters. A finger taps the card. Dustin looks up. Charlie leans close.
Dustin looks down again. The image on Charlie's card shifts, pans.
Two hot and sexed up teens, decoupling. Old bikes. A bin of lumber scraps. A knothole. An eye.
Dustin looks up at Charlie.
He saw everything. Every stroke
I didn't know.
Oh yes you did. You knew everything. Remember? In your room? When you pulled down Bill's jock to get him horny? Remember how you listened to Dave pacing back and forth in his room? Do you remember the hatred? Surely no one could forget anything that intense!
The chef who mixes the ingredients of these visions ... he can develop a taste for the spicy. And, as if to recall the spice, dreaming Dustin rolls onto his stomach, presenting his ass to be touched by unseen hands. The naked cowboy bucks on the horse.
Charlie takes up the card and places it back into his deck. He shuffles, eyeing Dustin the way a creep might ogle a fresh boy at a sex club.
You understand that everything's connected?
Dustin did not.
What do you mean?
To want something to happen is to make it happen.
Charlie dealt a single card. Again Dustin leans forward.
The year? 2002.
The time? The night after the shed, chiaroscuro in the moonlight.
The place? This room as it was in that year. Very much a teenager male's room, with dirty tennis shoes lined up outside the closet door. A closed laptop on a desk. Kleenexes reeking of dried jism in the waste in. The room is neat and orderly, for Mom wants it that way.
Smell that? It's mingled ass and semen. An odor that's never floated in here before.
The creak of opening door.
Beam of moonlight on the bed. Dustin, face down, cradling his face on his arms. The dream world copies the real. The sheet drawn halfway. This is the Dustin of 2002. The muscles won in boot camp and in Iraq are lacking. The curve of his buttocks is outlined.
An eye opens. A smile?
Black silhouette cut out of the silvery moonlight.
Intake of breath. From who?
Feet padding on carpet. The floorboards do not creak. The silhouette knows where to step. There is silence, though if you're sensitive you hear two thudding hearts.
This isn't right, whimpers the Dustin who watches from the tent, this isn't true. He came in and he held me down --
Charlatan T. Liar leans forward and soothes Dustin's hand.
Don't judge. Watch.
The Dustin on the bed? The sheet moves. His legs spread. His back arches.
Boxers fall. Hard thrusting cock. Huge and thick, wrapped in veins like a net. Balls like melons.
Hand touches Dustin's shoulder. A caress? An appraisal. A hiss. Then a command.
Don't say a word.
You keep quiet. And I'll keep quiet. Forever. Deal?
No answer. Sound of heavy nose breathing.
Charlatan T. Liar asks: Did you remember that promise?
Entranced, Dustin doesn't look up from the porn on the card, but he nods. He adjusts his swollen cock. He hears a stallion neigh outside the tent.
Did you keep your promise?
The dream hand moves from shoulder to the base of Dustin's neck. It opens. It pins him down. The other hand throws the sheet down and seizes the waistband of Dustin's boxers. He's stripped. He's naked.
Dustin's ass is smooth, bereft of hair and tattoo.
Shit. Damn. Nice.
A palm cups a buttock.
So you gave this to Bill Pitt? (sniff) Betcha he filled you up.
Imperceptible creak of bedsprings. Knees force Dustin's thighs apart. Cool air on his raw butthole, no longer virgin. A teardrop of semen escapes.
(spit) A globule lands in his crack. A thumb smears it over his ring. Spit and sperm become sinful froth.
A moan. From who?
(spit) No impact. But the sound of a hand slathering something thick and moist on flesh.
Are you going to put it in me?
Will you keep it quiet?
Dustin again looks at Charlatan. That's not what he said!
Will you keep it quiet?
You're the one who moans, Dusty.
The pressure on his butthole.
You moan because you're a whore, Dusty.
The ring irises open. The entry. The moan that must not escape Dustin escapes and both figures freeze. Has anyone heard? Are those footsteps in their parents' bedroom? In the hall?
The drip-drip of semen leaking from Dustin's opened butthole counts the seconds.
The sin remains unnoticed.
A gasp. Then a brutal thrust. Full penetration. Bill Pitt's rich sperm oozes down the back of Dustin's balls.
Nice, Dusty. Nice. I should've got in here a long time ago.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
Goddamn. Tight. Goddamn. Wet.
The hot fire blossoms within. A second load of what Dustin craves most in the world soaks his colon.
Dustin's own sin stains the sheets.
I felt you cum, Dusty. Don't pretend you didn't like it.
Creak of bedsprings during the dismount. Dustin lays naked on his bed. Legs spread. Two loads of cum dribble from his anus. Wet farts. He likes the feeling, the raw, visceral sensation that reminds him that a man has been inside him and done a man's business in there.
Soft feet on the floor.
Black silhouette cut against the moonlight. Tall and broad shouldered with a buzz-cut. Almost high-and-tight. Carved muscles. Huge arc of a sleepy cock. It bends down, picks up discarded boxers.
The closing door enables the resumption of night. The seed bubbles within Dustin.
What will happen tomorrow night? Will the great explosion come? Will they be found out?
Dustin hears laughter. That laugh. Replay of a track he's heard over and over again. Moonlit room? A tent? Or across the table?
Not Charlie. The top hat is gone. There are blue eyes, cold as shards of icebergs. There is blond hair, cropped close. There are broad shoulders straining against the shoulder straps of a wrestling singlet.
He lunges like a maniac. Suddenly the tent swarms the big-eyed dwarfs, capering and hooting around them. They laugh! They point. They shout: Freaks! Freaks!
Leering, Dave lunges across the table.
Lips meet, brother to brother, and the inside of the tent flickers as if a bonfire has erupted spontaneously.
Dustin's mouth opens hungrily and sucks inside the invading tongue. His legs fly apart.
Touch me. Do it again. Finger me. Put it in me.
You always act like you don't want it. But you're my whore, Dusty. You're my whore.
Fingers yank down Dustin fly and creep inside and find the target.
Dustin shot straight up in bed. He ripped the sheets free. His cock throbbed. Sweat drenched him. He had to cum. He had to cum now. The clock read 2:31 am.
He flipped on the light and yanked open the curtains. Like a caged lion he strutted back and forth. His hardon leaked snot. Breath pulsed in his nostrils. Heart throbbed. He glanced at the wall. He was so horny he seriously considered driving a hole in it with his cock.
Look at me! Look at me!
Something flickered in the corner of his eye, as if a dwarf scurried for cover beneath the bed. Did he hear distant laughter? Hooves?
He opened the window that looked down on the driveway. He leaned against the frame, thrusting his cock out of the house.
Look at it! Look at it! I'm hard! I'm goddamned hard! Do you motherfuckers know why I'm so goddamned hard?
He hawked up spit and he began jacking furiously. In seconds a white streamer of cum blasted from his cock. For a brief moment he saw it glimmering as it lay cradled in the boughs of the tree in the yard across the driveway. Growling with each shot, he blasted on. Streamers of jism coated his hand.
His desire wasn't assuaged. In fact, the cum greasing his hand made his motions far more lubricious.
Images galloped through his mind. The lanky blond jarhead grinning at him in the showers of Mac's dojo, jacking his cock while soap dripped from his hand. Beating off with Trent in the jerk-off booth at the firebase outside Bara. So horny even sight of a naked cunt made Dustin want to get a nut. A glory hole in a bookstore in DC, wearing a pearl-gray beard of jism, as cock after anonymous cock thrust through for Marine service. The sling in the Minotaur Club, as he looked groggily between his legs at the hazy face of the pudgy guy sawing away at him. At a hairy forearm being greased with Crisco.
Bam! More fireworks streamed from Dustin's balls. He moaned. This was the one he'd been seeking. The earthquake. The one that drained and satisfied. He just wished that nelly queen's cock was still stuffed up his ass.
Dustin shook off the post-orgasmic lethargy. He managed a grin. He held up his hand. Strings and sheets of jism hung from his fingers. He scarfed it up. Not as good as some other guy's but hey, this is Raleigh. You take what you can get.
He closed the window. He turned out the light. He rolled back into bed. He laid awake a few minutes as his heart slowed.
Dustin was not afraid of going crazy. That had happened a long time ago. What he found disturbing was that he was beginning to like his insanity. Even to prefer it.
continued in part 3