Date: Sun, 10 Aug 2014 11:57:09 -0700
From: hizzlito[at]hotmail[dot]com
Subject: The Way Home - Part I

The Way Home - Part I

Wonderfullife

Note: This is a fantasy. If you are not legally, mentally, morally,
emotionally/etc. equipped for fantasy, don't read this. If you are under
18, definitely do not read this.

More to come, though it might get dark. If you enjoy this, I encourage you
to get in touch at hizzlito[at]hotmail[dot]com.

I

As the plane began its descent into the Islamic Republic, I looked out the
window at the lights and the clouds and tried to remember why I was leaving
London and coming here, to a country I had never visited to stay with the
father I had never met. It hadn't been a logical decision but one made in
desperation a week ago, the day I turned eighteen. Looking out at the city
approaching it all came back to me, the day of my birthday, the walk home
alone from the pub until the supervisor at my internship pulled up in his
car.

"Looks like you had a bit too much, Jesse," he had said, rolling down the
window and patting the seat beside him. "Need a lift?"

"I can walk," I said, partly because the cold air was helping me sober up
and partly because I didn't trust myself, that drunk, to get in the car
with Mr. Gutierrez. He was an executive at the bank. He was from somewhere
in the south of Spain and the kind of distinguished older man I'd always
dreamed about: Tall and handsome, with dark skin, a permanent five-o-clock
shadow and a constant bulge in his expensive suits. Even looking at him in
the car made my knees weak.

He parked and got out. "Then let me walk you," he said in his charming
accent, joking, "This time of night, someone might try to mess with you." I
tried to protest but he had none of it, just put an arm around my shoulder
and got me walking. There were still plenty of lights and people, so I
didn't think I'd get myself into any trouble.

He wished me happy birthday and we talked about nothing for a while,
aimless chatter. Mr. Gutierrez was always kind and warm. He'd looked out
for me ever since I started interning at the bank, always had a nice word
and frequently invited me out for lunches or company events. I felt safe
with him. For a guy who'd grown up without a father, that kind of attention
from a man like Mr. Gutierrez was something really special. It was
something I'd never had from a man before, and something I knew I'd always
wanted.

"I want you to know everyone really likes you," he said.

"Thanks very much, Mr. Gutierrez," I said. He told me now that I was
leaving I could call him Carlos, his first name. I had just said it when we
passed an alley and, without warning, he shoved me inside, pushing me up
against the wall with his body and pinning one arm behind my back as he
covered my mouth with his other hand. I hadn't realized how much bigger he
was than me: I couldn't move at all.

"I also want you to know," he whispered into my ear, "that I've been
wanting to do this for a long fucking time. You think I couldn't tell you
were a faggot? You think everybody doesn't know?"

I was stunned. I had known I was gay for years but never thought anyone
else knew. I never dated or went out with girls, but I never gave anyone
any hint I was interested in boys, either. No, not boys: It had always been
men. My mother would have killed me, and I had told myself as soon as I
left home and moved away, I would be able to finally be myself. Until then,
everything would remain under wraps.

"Now, we can do this one of two ways," he continued. "You can be quiet and
cooperate with me and then I'll drive you home, nice and quiet. Or we can
do it so it hurts."

"I'll be quiet," I managed to say. "Just... don't tell anyone."

He ignored me. "Good boy," he said. "Follow me." Still holding my arm
behind my back, he marched me farther down the alley and then around a
corner, so we were stuck between two deserted buildings. "I'm not getting
this suit dirty over you," he said. "So get down on your knees."

I knelt. Gently, he brushed my face with his crotch, and I couldn't help
breathing in. I could smell the wool of his suit and something musky and
warm underneath. He chuckled as he looked down at me. "You want to see your
present, birthday boy?" he asked. I couldn't speak, but I nodded.

He pulled the zipper down and with a few quick gestures, maneuvered out the
biggest dick I'd ever seen. It was easily half again the size of my six
inches, and thicker, a few black hairs also poking out of his fly. "Take a
good look," he said, "and open your mouth." I did. "Stick out your tongue."
He placed the tip of that cock on my tongue. It was the first time I had
ever tasted a man's cock and that slight presence made me hungry for
more. "By the way," he said, reaching a hand down to stroke my hair, "I
lied." I looked up at him. He had a small smile on his face, his teeth
bright in the dark. "This is going to fucking hurt."

He forced his cock into my mouth, not caring that the back of my head
scraped against the wall, barely pulling it out in time for me to avoid
vomiting. It was only a brief respite before it came back in, further this
time. He sighed as my throat spasmed around it and I managed to beat at his
thighs with my fists. "You dumb piece of shit," he said. "Everyone knew you
wanted my dick. Now you've got it. So enjoy it, maricon." He grabbed a
handful of my hair with his fist and pulled out long enough to slap me
across the face with his other hand. "I thought you said you were gonna
cooperate," he said.

"You said... Carlos, you said..."

Another slap. "It's Mr. Gutierrez to faggots like you," he growled. He spat
down on me and it landed right beneath my eye. "Now, I want you to suck my
dick like you mean it. You're on your own, slut. Just remember you're
cooperating." He made a fist, clenched and unclenched it, and then spread
his legs apart, standing there in the darkness in his suit with that thick
cock jutting out of his suit. He even moved a few steps back from me, his
dick bobbing, glaring at me.

I crawled forward after him and knelt before him. Gently, I licked the
underside of his cock from the base to the tip. He growled -- it wasn't
good enough. I lifted up my hands to ask if I could use them and, when he
didn't do anything, pulled at his foreskin so I could slip my tongue
inside, where it could kiss the head of his massive cock.

"That's good, faggot. That's really good," he hissed. He let me do that for
a quiet minute or two until he shoved me again. "I better feel your throat
on my cock really soon, boy," he said.

I took a deep breath, looking at the weapon getting ready to attack my
face, and then slowly moved forward. Maybe an inch or two went in smoothly,
but then it hit a block and could go no further. He pulled it out and
whacked me across the face with it, leaving clear, sticky trails of precum
and my saliva. "You're pathetic," he said. "Maybe I should try your little
culito instead?"

"I'll do better, please," I whispered. "Please, just let me try again."

"Since you asked so nicely," he said. From where I was on my knees he
towered above me but I breathed again and, trying not to think, dove down
onto him. His hands came down tightly on my head. "Maybe I'll be nice and
help you out," he said. "Would you like that? Some help for the little dumb
mariconcito? I thought so." He held me tightly in place, bucking forward so
that more and more of his cock entered my mouth.

"You need to open up for me, slut," he said, "or I'll open you up." Maybe
it was the threat that did it: Something opened up, or something broke, or
something tore -- and he was inside me, buried to the hilt in my throat, my
nose pressed into the place where the wool of his suit met the cotton of
his underwear and the thick, sweaty smell of his pubic hair. 

"Breathe through your nose," he said, almost kindly, before tightening his
grip and pulling back a tiny bit. It was only for an instant and then he
slammed into me again. Even through the fabric I could feel his balls
hitting my chin, and as if from somewhere far away I could hear myself
gagging. "That's the smartest sound I've ever heard coming from you," he
said, as if he could read my mind. "Try to do that more often. Less talk,
more... oh, that..." I felt a tiny ripple in the back of his thigh, but it
was the only warning I had: His cock began to fire cum down my throat, so
far down I couldn't taste it, only feel it, as though it were coming out of
a gun.

Eventually he pulled his dick from my mouth, wiped it in my hair and then
tucked it back into his pants. "We've decided to offer you a permanent
position at the bank," he said. "I expect to see you bright and early on
Monday. You'll be working directly under me." And then he was gone.

Somehow I had made it home that night, and somehow -- when my mother asked
me what had happened to my clothes -- I couldn't keep it in. "I need to --
I need to leave," I sobbed. "I can't be there on Monday. I can't be in
London. I have to be far away from here."

"I'll deal with him," she promised. "You... you can go to your father."

Which is how I ended up here, in a plane that just landed, the shock of the
wheels hitting the tarmac jolting me out of my reverie. I looked down: I
was hard in my jeans.

Because that was part of what I hadn't told her. I hadn't told her I was
gay, but somehow that seemed now like the least important part. What I
hadn't told her was that I had liked it. That somehow, Mr. Gutierrez had
known how to give me something even I hadn't known I needed, and wanted,
and craved. I had always known something in me was broken and damaged. He
had tried to fix it.