Date: Mon, 18 Aug 2014 12:34:09 -0700 From: Bend Sinister Subject: The Way Home - Part III The Way Home - Part III 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. Thanks to those of you who already have - I hope this chapter will make you as happy as the last few did. He talked, as he led me inside and showed me the house, but I was too overwhelmed to listen, or even to notice anything until he opened a door and led me into a small, clean room with a big window looking out to the west. The sun was setting over the mountains and it looked like the sky was bleeding. "This is your room," I heard him say, followed by something about apologies for the size, he was right across the hall, he was sure I'd want to wash up and then he'd come back for me. "Thank you..." I said. "It's okay if you don't feel comfortable yet, calling me dad," he said kindly. "I have to call you something," I said. "What would you like to call me? My name is Amir. Do you want to call me by my name?" "No," I said. He waited patiently. "Can I just call you - maybe - Sir? For now?" "You can call me Sir," he said. "Now, go wash up." I stumbled into the bathroom. It was almost as big as the bedroom and one whole wall was a mirror. I could see myself clearly: I looked almost as broken-up as I felt, my eyes puffy from the tears I'd shed into his shirt and my lips swollen from Khalid's cock. I looked used, I thought, or sick - as if the disease that was in me was finally beginning to show. I washed my face as best as I could, my hands, my face again. I might have stayed there forever if I hadn't heard a knock at the door. It was him, my father. He'd changed, too, shed the top of the all-white outfit. He was still wearing the trousers - loose and baggy, wide around his feet - but on top he had nothing but a tight white wife-beater. His chest was massive, stretching the fabric to its limit, the white making his dark skin, covered in thick black hair, look stunning. It was like polished wood, ridged with every muscle you could find in an anatomy textbook: Pectorals, abdominals, obliques, deltoids, biceps, triceps. I kept my eyes on his forearm, the massive hand gripping the doorknob. "I thought you might like your first night here to be just us," he said. "So I've sent the staff away. It's just you and me now. They've left us food in the dining room, are you hungry? You must be hungry. I don't even know what you like to eat. Are you sure you're comfortable? You don't want to change?" His voice was deep and husky, his accent almost as British as mine. But he seemed nervous, and the last thing I wanted to do was make this man nervous. He was terrifying me, and if we set each other off, I didn't know what would happen. "I'm fine like this," I said. "I'll follow you." He led me down a long hallway. It was wrong to call his place a house: It was an estate, if anything. He said it was high up in the mountains in the north of his country and there was no one else around for miles - he owned all the land. The house itself was surrounded by orchards and fields, though he didn't farm himself - he wasn't very clear about what he did for a living. It was beautiful, though, the house: It looked like him. Everything was strong and stark, without any frills. It looked natural, organic. We sat at the table, which was covered with food - meat and bread and rice, thick gravies. He piled his plate with meat and laughed as I found some salad pushed to one side. "Travel stomach?" he said, and I shrugged. He didn't talk much as he ate. But he kept his eyes on me, and once or twice his mouth moved, as though it were full of words he wanted to say and couldn't produce. Eventually, all he said was, "You'll never know how much I regret leaving you behind. But Jesse baby. You will know how glad I am to have you here now. You're the son I dreamed of having." The son he dreamed of having? If only he knew. I was the worst sort of son imaginable: Just watching him eat was making my dick grow hard in my jeans. Whatever sick animal was inside me, it wanted him so badly I could almost hear it yowling, like a wounded cat. I forced more of the salad down on top of Khalid's cum and promised myself it would not be like that. I would be the son he'd dreamed of. And if I couldn't be, I would leave. * Over the next few days I began to think that might even be possible. He was gentle, despite his gruff appearance - like the Beast in the Disney movie. He seemed to know as soon as I woke up, jet-lagged, and before I knew to ask for it there would be a cup of tea waiting for me. He took me around over the estate, introducing me to all the men who worked there - there were no women anywhere, it seemed - in the fields or in the house, with the cars or in other vague capacities. He let me spend long hours by myself, swimming in the pool he'd built in his basement, but he was always there when I wanted him to be. I wasn't really ready to talk to him yet about anything important, but his presence was something like a comfort. I should have known that I wasn't cured, I wasn't fixed. Whatever was wrong with me would always be wrong. I couldn't really deny it: I wanted my father. But I couldn't even think about what I wanted - what I wanted, what I needed him to do to me - it was too much, it was too black, it meant that I was far more damaged than even I had thought. What it meant was, I had to go, and if I couldn't go back to England, I'd go somewhere else. I knew that I'd never find my way anywhere by myself, but I couldn't stay in that room any longer. I put on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts and left, tiptoeing down the long hallway until I got to the front door. Then I ran for it, straight downhill through the trees and the fields, until the house behind me was so small I could almost forget it was there. The estate was bounded by a high, brick wall. I avoided the front gate where I knew the guards would be on duty and, walking now, went sideways, keeping to the shadows like the criminal I knew I was becoming. The moon was bright and the branches of the trees cast wicked shadows on the brick - like my arms reaching out for what they knew they shouldn't. I'd been walking for half an hour when I reached a corner and turned, and almost walked into one of the guards. He looked up at me guiltily: He had been facing the wall, his dick out of his camouflage pants, raining a stream of piss down onto the grass. I only caught a brief glimpse of his face before my eyes were drawn back downwards, to the powerful stream coming from between his legs and hissing as it hit the dirt. When it finally faded he mumbled something in their language and began tucking it back into his pants. I must have done something - moved, made a sound - because he stopped and turned towards me. As I watched, it hardened and lengthened in the moonlight. He was smaller than Khalid, smaller than Mr. Gutierrez - maybe an inch bigger than my six - but much thicker, as big around as my fist, it seemed. I couldn't stop looking at it, at the bead of his piss clinging to the tip of the flaring head. "You suck," were the first words he said to me in English. "I don't," I responded, like a machine. I looked at his face for the first time. He had a cruel, hooked nose, and a full beard. His mouth was stern. He hefted the gun in his arms and before I knew it had it against my temple. The metal was cold, and I shivered. "You suck," he repeated, with exactly the same inflection. "You suck now." He kept the gun pressed to my skin until I had fallen to my knees, the dirt scraping my skin. He only removed it when I extended my tongue to absorb that drop of piss still miraculously hanging on, like a gift that had been waiting for me, a cure for my disease. It was bitter, acrid, almost metallic. "You like piss," I heard above me. "I give more later. Open. Open." Before I knew what was happening, he had my chin in one hand, his other hand holding the butt of his gun as the rest of it entered my mouth. "Open," he said again, moving the gun back and forth. This was metal: Cold and sharp and dangerous. I closed my eyes and let him pull the gun out of my mouth, but I knew what he wanted: I set to work, licking it the way I could tell he wanted me to lick his dick. That was indeed what he wanted. He took the time to undo his pants, letting them fall around his thick, hairy thighs, and then holstered the gun and knit his fingers together on the back of my head, pulling me in towards him. I had been right about how thick he was: Just the head of it stretched my mouth so far I thought my lips might crack. I barely got them over the head, and he stopped there, his hands keeping me from struggling too much. I could taste the precut sliding down my throat, but the pain in my lips had most of my attention. He tapped my nose, reminding me to breathe. Then he began pulling me down further. His shaft was a blessing: Still thick but narrower than the head, so that my lips got some relief. I could feel him inside my mouth, heading down towards my throat. I tried to push against him, but he was having none of it: He kept trying to get deeper and deeper, until I gagged. He pushed me off his dick much more violently than he'd gone in - it was painful, that sudden, harsh stretch again - and even so a long arc of liquid, thin as spider silk, hung between his hard, slick dick and my mouth. I gagged and spit onto the ground. The gun was back against my head as he hauled me to feet. "You no suck good," he said. I tried to say I was sorry - because I was sorry, I knew it hadn't been good, I knew I had failed even at this - but he wasn't interested. He turned me around so that my back was to him and quickly yanked down my shorts. I hadn't put underwear on and he slapped me twice on the ass, once on each cheek, hard. I was terrified, but that gun was still pressed against my skull, and somehow I felt paralyzed. "I fuck you," he said, and I felt something begin to press against my asshole. All of a sudden I felt his weight pushed off me and heard something harsh shouted in their language, followed by a "What the hell is going on here?" If I had been paralyzed before, this was real paralysis: There, with my ass exposed in the moonlight, my face to the dark wall. I wished I could stay there forever, but a hand on my shoulder turned me around to face my father.