Date: Fri, 1 Sep 2023 08:54:16 -0400 From: Quentin Compton Subject: good boy part 6 Winter break is over, and I am daydreaming in math class. I'm lightly brushing the little bit of fuzz on my upper lip where I've been lazy about letting it grow in. In the daydream, I'm shaving, looking into my dad's bathroom mirror. It's a little weird how even though I'm blond my "beard," as dad calls it, grows in just a little red. Honestly, same with my pubes, same with the hair in my pits. I keep it all shaved, so I don't think about it much. Anyway, I can see dad in the mirror, just watching me. He comes up behind me, the whole heft of him, and presses against my back. He's sweaty and just wearing briefs. He takes the razor from my hand and sets it on the counter. "This can wait," he says in my ear and presses down on my shoulders to get me in a kneeling position in front of him. And then I hear my name. It's being over-annunciated. I guess this is Mr. White's third time saying it now? "Mr. Mat.Thew. Ry.An." I shake my head to clear it. "Yes Mr. White?" "That was the front office on the phone; your dad's here to pick you up early." I just say "Oh." After a ten second pause, he turns his back to the class and keeps writing on the board. I slowly organize everything into my backpack, trying to buy time for my erection to go down. This is weird. Dad didn't say anything about picking me up early. I'm worried it could be any of a dozen totally ridiculous, disastrous things. Someone died? Someone's sick? We have to move, today?! Maybe it was just a doctor's appointment I forgot about. But when I get to the front office, it turns out to be worse than I could have ever actually imagined. "There he is," Uncle Ian says. "Getting an early start on the weekend camping trip," he tells the school secretary, like they're co-conspirators. I start to panic. I can feel the color drain from me. I look pleadingly at the school secretary, trying to make my whole face say, "Please don't make me leave with him." But she just says something about how nice that will be, and my mouth is too dry to even swallow without having to try as hard as I can to get rid of the literal lump in my throat. "Let's go, son," Uncle Ian says. He grins, and my pulse rate doubles. I can feel sweat drip from my armpits down the sides of my body, but I'm in such shock, I just stupidly follow. I'm in his old truck. I scoot so I'm pressed against the door as much as possible, a whole ocean of space between me and Ian. His grin is gone. He looks serious, solemn. "Look kid, we can make this really easy or really difficult. Just know that if you make it difficult though, things will not go well for your dad." In an instant all that fear turns to hot rage. How dare he threaten dad. "What could you do to dad?" I mean to sound protective, but after I say it, I think it probably comes across as pouting. Dad's a good 6 inches taller than Ian. In a fight, I'd think that would matter. "Think, kid. You know I've got cameras in Eric's house, what makes you think I don't have cameras in Luke's--I mean--in your dad's house too?" My mouth opens a little bit in surprise while I work out what he's saying. "I've got some very interesting footage from winter break, law enforcement might want to--" "Shut up." I can feel my eyes sting hot with water. I've decided I'm not going to cry in front of Ian. I'm going to be more mad than I am scared. To my sort of surprise, he does shut up. He gets a cigarette out, rolls down his window a bit, and it's quiet in the car. There's no music. I hate cigarette smoke. I hate Ian. After five minutes or so I ask him, "Where are we going, anyway?" It's a canopy road we're driving down. Already we're in the middle of nowhere. "Curious about that, huh?" He asks. "You're not getting anything for free here." He pulls up the center console revealing the middle seat. He pats it and tells me to scoot over. I tell him no. Ian says nothing, but kind of shrugs and frowns a little. It's quiet another 5 minutes. "Fine," I say. I unglue myself from the passenger side door, and scoot over. Despite my best efforts, my left knee is touching his right knee. I'm aware of it, and I keep being aware of it. "A buddy's cabin on the lake," he says. "Your dad will see us there." Knowing dad is coming helps me relax a bit. Uncle Ian puts his right hand on my left thigh. I recoil, but he grasps tighter and turns to look me in the eyes. "Leave it." The fierceness of it surprises me into obedience. After a minute of not squirming or trying to shake it off, he says, "See, that was easy. Good boy. I like easy." My phone buzzes, and I close my eyes tight trying to disappear and hope Ian didn't notice. He did though. Without saying anything, he lets go of my thigh and holds his hand in front of me, palm up. I fish it out of my pocket. "See, easy," he says. He turns my phone off, tosses it in the back of the cab. He adjusts a bulge in his pants and goes back to holding my thigh. Another few minutes pass, he whispers in my ear while still watching the road, "Tell me what you're feeling Matty." I want to give him the silent treatment, but I think talking might help me not be so terrified. So I babble, stupidly. "Your cigarette smoke breath makes me feel sick. I'm feeling angry because I'd be getting home about now and I wanna be at dad's. I'm scared about spending time with you alone. You scare me. The things you do to Eric, scare me. I can't believe you watch us!" Ian waits a beat, maybe deciding which thing to tackle first. "You know I've never actually hurt Eric, right, not really?" Ian says, and his tone seems softer, which is like watching him wear clothes that are too small for him. "Sometimes," he says, "we don't know what we like, what we want, until someone shows us." I think the thing about Eric sounds not true. And the thing about not knowing what we want, also not true. But I don't argue. Ian keeps going. "And Matty, I want to show you a lot." I gulp. And even though I hate Ian, and I'm in the exact last place in the world I'd ever want to be, I start to get hard. Ian sighs, takes his hands off the steering wheel and my thigh, unzips his jeans, pulls his balls and cock out. It's just simple briefs, but he's starting to outgrow them. Sometimes talking about feelings makes gets me like this, maybe Ian is the same way. Whatever made it happen, I'm stunned. He's so much bigger than dad. It's gotta be like wrapping my fingers around a coke can. "You wanna touch it?" He asks. I nod. "Then you gotta take off something, it's only fair." "What?" I ask. He says I'm a good boy for asking and tells me to take off my shirt, that I won't be wearing it again for a long time. "Can I touch it now," and I'm unsure of myself saying this next word, "Sir?" "Damn boy, Luke--I mean--your dad, has taught you well. Much better behaved than Eric, you're kinda driving me crazy." He tugs on my exposed nipple. I want to swat his hand away, but I don't. Instead, I bite my bottom lip and moan. Why am I so compliant? Why do I get so horny? "Spit in your hand," he instructs, "a couple times. Reach inside. Make it feel good for me, Matty." I didn't know a man could be this thick. It's strange, but I feel honored to be able to handle it, grateful. "A little bigger than the one you're used to playing with, huh, boy?" I nod as I start stroking more confidently. Ian has his right hand down the back of my pants, down the back of my briefs, playing with the very beginning of my crack. "Did you want to put your mouth on it, Matty?" I shake my head and say no sir. Ian's voice, is doing weird things. Losing its edge, becoming tender. "Are you sure you don't want to, because you LOOK like you want to." I stammer. Am I betraying dad? Am I betraying Eric? I HATE, Ian, so why do I find it difficult to refuse him? Why is he not wrong? "I DO want to, sir," I say. I feel ashamed, but also eager. "Attaboy," Ian says. "Always say what you want." He tugs on the other nipple this time. I moan again. "Do you want me to stop doing that?" I shake my head, no. I see him glance down at my crotch. I look too. A telltale damp spot has soaked through my briefs, through my jeans and is spreading. "Matty," Ian says. "There's nothing hotter than knowing how wet I'm making you." For some reason, hearing uncle Ian say that, makes my chest unlock, expand. I feel all, well, hot and bothered. I feel myself grinning, and grinning and grinning. "Can I put it in my mouth, now, sir?" "If you take off those pants, boy. It will be a long time before you need those again too." I don't know what he means by that, but I peel them off just the same, leave them down around my ankles. Now I'm sitting there next to him, in the truck, only in my briefs. He reaches his hand behind my head and guides me down to himself. It's not cut like dad's is, and I go a little euphoric, slipping my tongue beneath the foreskin. Ian runs his hand through my hair. It's so much gentler than I thought he could ever be. He's moaning, and it's my reward to hear it. He pulls his shirt up a bit, the left side of my face now resting against so much, red, red hair, fur really, and muscle. Dad is fit, but Ian is MUSCULAR. I let myself slip into feeling safe, working too hard to examine if I'm doing something bad or not. "We've got another half hour at least before we get to the house, boy. No rush to any of this. Just keep sucking on what you can handle, nice and easy."