Patrick and John 4

Patrick likes to trash talk and giggle as he walks around the bale. Patrick remembers the bragging. Taunt-echoes of the long-train ritual. The misery-revenge-anger surfaces. “Look at this fresh little bitch.” He manages to whisper as he lets Fourteen see his air-cooled length. Patrick wants to see wonder, perhaps some admiration reflected back. The boy sees Patrick’s pride for sure. When Fourteen turns his head away, Patrick walks around the bale, cock so hard it barely quivers. Fourteen opts to grind his face into the fabric and shake his head, reminding the men that no means no.

John has done his part for now. Patrick needs more later. For now, he prefers to watch the farmhand on his geometric rounds. The man likely earns five times what John is used to getting, Must be nice. It would be nice to stay put for a while. Work my way into a good job with benefits. John does not need to watch. You know what is happening from Fourteen’s frightened voice. John pulls out a cigarette, conscientiously taking care to stand on a clean patch of dirt. The cigarette burns down sand-dial-slow as Patrick pours his self-hate-rage into the struggling boy. John rubs the stubble on his chin and considers a second smoke. Patrick calls out to him. “Yeah, okay.” John stubs out the butt and leaves a trail of clothes and shoes back to where his friend waits. Fourteen is still ready, face planted on the bale. The boy has seen his spent member, so now Patrick sits cross legged peering at Fourteen’s face. He is always fascinated by the moment John enters. Patrick always remembers-needs that spasm-gasp.

***

John figures they can stay at the abandoned farm until dawn. Hershey is waiting for them and they never had that much money to spare. Patrick is always wired about his after. Patrick lives his fractured now in this questing after, and because John was part of it, John trails after Patrick. He has thought about the why of it. Debits, John decided long ago. He slumps in the Bronco, sleeping through the night, barely rousing at the sounds Fourteen makes when Patrick’s living nightmare washes over him. Someone has to drive in the morning. It won’t be Patrick or Fourteen. John has checked the chambers of his gun five times.

Fourteen is curled fetal in a nest of soiled Wet Ones, baby wipes fresh. He would be sucking his thumb if Patrick had unshackled him. It is just as well. “He still looks so clean.” Patrick is awed by Fourteen. John wants to say it is because it's just one summer night with Patrick, not years with the many. John wants to say Fourteen and all the other kidnapped boys were different than Patrick. “Did I look that sweet?”

No, you looked like hell in the after. John spares him this harsh judgement.

Patrick catches John’s mood. “Do we have to go?”

“Yes we have to go.” John answers sarcastically. Too much baggage at the moment. He turns away from crumpled Fourteen. John has to give Patrick another chance though, so he wanders off to scout the farm.

“Fourteen, Fourteen, hey little bitch boy, time to wake up.” Patrick ruffles Fourteen’s matted hair. “Come on sleepy head bitch, you gotta get up now. You can sleep in the car, Fourteen. Lots of time to sleep in the car.” Fourteen blinks up at him. Patrick searches for the changes in the boy. There is nothing from the fresh pussy till Patrick sends a quick confirmation back to Vet28745, slips his phone onto his hip, and opens his jeans.

Patrick’s shirt is open at the bottom and the open V of his faded jeans give way to a forest of tangled hair below a belly button much like his own. Fourteen’s firm muscles lift him up, after a roll onto his knees. He fingers want to search south to test the rawness left by Patrick’s relentless assault on his ass. They are trapped along the small of his back by the John’s choking-chains. “Going pretty soon.” Patrick repeats. His hand is massaging the salami. It is growing between his fingers, finding its way up again. “Bitch,” and that is Fourteen now. “Bitch, you got to be ready.” Patrick tosses his head toward the familiar hay bale. Fourteen hesitates until the strawberry vine is actually free. It is a man’s cock, as muscled as Patrick’s hard torso.

Fourteen is on his feet, blood-rushing dizzy. Jackrabbit backpedal brings him to the hay bale, like he might run turkey-trussed, man-buttered off into the farmyard. In his fresh after, Fourteen is tied more ways than one. He turns back to Patrick when he reaches the straw. “How?” He asks in a small parched capitulation. There were ways and ways, Fourteen has learned that through a long night opening to Patrick. There are more nuckle-print bruises on his back, because Fourteen has learned that he has to open to Patrick.

“Back,” says Patrick, as if it is a trivial decision. He ignores Fourteen until he has a palm of lubricant puddled ready. Fourteen stands-unwilling while he slathers himself. The boy won’t lie back, because they both know he will topple off the perch. Fourteen would rather not do it this way. With his legs frogged out, he is too much on display. Something about this pose makes Fourteen gay-hard when the man assaults him. Shamed-proud, Fourteen will curve boldly over his own small thatch. “You like this bitch,” was Patrick’s only comment the first time they fucked this way, otherwise he spends the time reading Fourteen’s face like a Kindle.

Fourteen won’t go down. He is standing little-boy stubborn, all cloudy face. It just makes Patrick remember his first times. The times before he knew he had no choice. The chain-handle tightens bringing Patrick’s knuckles tight against the boy’s last breaths. Cloudy face, then tears; Patrick tips the silent, struggling cow till Fourteen ends resting uncomfortably on the triangle of his shoulders and the back of his hands.

The thing slides in deep. The deep-in-the-night, mind-numbing, finally-silenced third time, Patrick offered Fourteen bitch-pain-saving advice. This helps a lot in the morning now. Patrick starts doing reps against Fourteen’s bare feet. It’s like Fourteen is some accommodating elliptical in this rural hell-gym. The lubricant helps the burn, but a Patrick cock is no small thing. Head flung back over the end of the bail, Fourteen can see the sunshine. “Five times,” Patrick explains unnecessarily. Fourteen would bite his own forearm if it was not trapped behind his back. He bites his lip instead. Apparently, Patrick wants to tell a story.

“I was thirteen, hey? The shoplifting got to be too much I guess. They pitched me in lockup for a year with my father’s blessing. No idea what was coming. They said it was just a kinda school. My first night? There were five of them waiting for me. That rent-a-prison didn’t give a shit once the lights were out.” This memory makes Patrick angry. He takes it out on Fourteen in four violent strokes that feel like Patrick’s twenty-one-year old cock has broke through somewhere deep. Fourteen cries out in pain. Patrick scopes out adolescent cock. “That makes you hard bitch? Yeah, bitches get hard on long meat.” Patrick goes back to even, gentle, long strokes and his story.

Fourteen tries a few squeezes to get the young man off more quickly. He is also leaning into the curl, figuring to change Patrick’s angle. “So I’m the pig in the middle my first night there. Five of them, John went last.” Fourteen’s eyes widen at that news. “First night, second night, months. Yeah Fourteen, I know how you feel, don’t I?” Patrick’s story keeps the young man harder than Fourteen’s warm, enveloping softness. “Months, nothing to do but be the bitch for their angry cocks. John was different though. He felt sorry for me. He was older, you know? Made them stop.” Patrick stopped stroking somewhere deep in Fourteen. He is smiling softly, but Fourteen only feels the heat and sees the sun. “I was just his bitch after that. A year more anyway.” Patrick shrugs it away. In a colorless voice Patrick finished his story. “Of course, seventeen years old, they let John out.”

Fourteen knows better than to ask, but he needs to know. “So what happened then?”

Patrick eyes the boy curiously. The short shock of privileged blond hair, dark line of a boy’s eyebrows so you’d, definitely a guy, melt a girl’s heart with those eyes, kissable lips, determined jawline. Young sinews shrugging off the pretzel predicament of his now-rape. A small man’s cock swollen from Patrick’s pressure. “Three more years being everybody’s bitch-boy.” With a few slow thrusts, Patrick finishes off in Fourteen.

Patrick steps back, sucking free from Fourteen. The boy’s legs free-fall to either side of the bale leaving him arched over his knotted hands. A failed gymnast on the horse. The boy’s cock wilts, What, no more? Patrick’s dismount was pretty good. He likes the smell of Fourteen coating his cock. “John was waiting for me, though.”

Fourteen manages to slip a foot up onto the hay bale. Patrick’s lubricant or something else is sliding away. He kicks off the bale and rolls his own dismount onto the floor. “So, are you like John’s bitch still? Is he your boyfriend, I mean?” It’s not mean. Millennial bitch-boy knows it is a thing. Even so, Patrick is defensive and not liking this constant cockiness. The shame-pride should stay between Fourteen’s legs where Patrick’s did. The fresh fuck is like already ancient history to this boy. Picture Fourteen board-shorts-sitting on the curb probing a wicked road burn. Those three bros from the fair peering at the flayed flesh and hamburger red pain of it all. “Oh dude, that’s gotta hurt.” Sure, and Fourteen palms it like his hand is a block of cooling ice. Fourteen offers that goofy smile he flashed the cheerleader, then he’s back on the road. Yeah, shrug off a fuck.

“Why do you say that?” Patrick tucks himself away. Fourteen shrugs apology. The fucking brat turned the tables on you. “I’m not a bitch. I do girls. I like big tits.”

“Okay, sorry! I don’t know this stuff. I just thought you and John were gay. Sorry, okay?” Fourteen has pushed buttons, bad idea.

“Nobody does it up my ass. The only little bitch-boy here is you.” Patrick rushes Fourteen, who flinches nicely. Patrick swoops around, digs deep, and swipes three fingers across Fourteen’s puffy anus, brings them into the boy’s nose. “This is you, Fourteen. You and I both know it now.” Did I shrug the fucks off like that? Yes, he realizes, he had. Not in the right after, Patrick was a huge pussy that night, blubbering-stupid until someone stamped over to his bed to slug him silent. Later, in the after for sure. Joke with his tormentors, pretend the impossible, it never happened, you’re my friends. How else could Patrick be part of the group? Patrick remembers that too. The slavish need to puppy-dog avoid the kicks. The bull-boy cruelty dies away. Patrick cups Fourteen’s jaw tenderly. “Little bitch, sweet little boy bitch. You get it now, don’t you? Is it real for you too?”

It is too real for Fourteen, but he did not get Patrick at all. Patrick pinned him down just right, so to speak. Fourteen knows the ass bandit raped him proper. It had been extra innings for Patrick, proving a guy did not actually sexually-peak at thirteen. The night-morning hurts more ways than one. Fourteen knew hurt in the before. Heart-hurt for Shane, body-hurt because he is a boy, soul-hurt because he is human. You own your hurts.

Still, dealing with a scraped knee was different. Fourteen bought the board and tried the flip. There was no receipt for anal rape in his abandoned pocket by the Bronco door. Fourteen would have shrugged off a clumsy spill, boarding with his buddies. He could not say why he was not snot-running-into-tears screaming at the man who kidnaped and raped him. It was a mystery. Patrick’s fingers are still on his face. He smells gas station toilet and stained undershirt.

Is this what I’ve been dreaming of? Is this what I should expect? Patrick and John are not the stuff of adolescent dreams. Jeremy Gates dreams wet kisses, maybe tongue twists, and heart-hurting soft touch. Fourteen dreams sweat-slick wrestling matches ending in… something better, something ever-tangerine-beautiful. The thought that being gay means hurt and mean frightens Fourteen more than Patrick’s crazy.

John watches the brotherly love from the door. He feels so bad for Patrick. “Okay, let’s finish it Pat.” Fourteen stares at John, conscious of how John leans against the barn door, right hand behind his back. The dark man has no interest in Fourteen. He only has eyes for Patrick. Jackrabbit cannot outrun a bullet. Fourteen shuffled up two cards in his deck. Patrick played the first one on his open ass all night. John was here to play the last one. John always looked out for Patrick. That is what both men said.

There was no pity on the hood of the Bronco, so Fourteen expects none now. He got the preview by the side of the highway. Fourteen feels the next round of denials ready on his lips. He has nothing left to lose. Kneeling by the straw bale, Fourteen lets the final tears come.

 Patrick knows John’s look. “John, it’s fine. I told you I had this under control.” It is annoying. John is being pig-headed. Patrick goes to John. He checks him at the door with a hand to the chest. Patrick is not going to the tailgate this time. He has John’s attention. He continues quietly. “I’ve worked this out. It’s as good as done. Two thousand dollars, John. That’s damage deposit and first month's rent.”

“You shopped his little ass on Kijiji.” John replies flatly. He has moved into the kill zone reluctantly for Patrick’s sake. Patrick sighs, John never shifts direction easily. Patrick steps through the door to make John turn.

“There’s a buyer who will meet us at a state park, Gifford Pinchot. It is near Harrisburg, right on our way.”

“You’re talking to the police.” John counters.

“You know me better than that. I get in and out clean.” John nods, undecided. You need an umbilical phone, but beyond that, John has never had the disposable cash to spend on computers, nor the interest. Patrick is deep into what his computer can do. He has the skills. Patrick’s wild treks through the dark web’s boards help him cope with the after. Boys like Fourteen don't cycle by often. “You can drive for a while?”

“It’s cleaner here, Pat.”

“Wait and see.” John nods again. Patrick takes that as a yes. The long night has caught up to him suddenly. John will bring Fourteen along, or he will be left behind. Living Patrick’s life is exhausting. He goes to the Bronco and stretches out on the the bench. It is so hard sometimes. Fourteen understands that now. Sleep comes quickly.

Patrick has walked away from him and John finally gets around to turning his death stare Fourteen’s way. John’s turn at the door brings Fourteen to his feet and two terrified steps away from the man. John’s revolver was just another finger as he listened to Patrick’s foolishness. Fourteen knows it is the end times, and there is no little bitterness to his thoughts. He can see daylight all around through the steel shed’s many doors. Fourteen is jackrabbit jumpy, dealing out blackjack hands, searching for a perfect combination. No time for mom, dad, and I’m only a kid you fucking bastard rapists. That last card keeps turning over like John has rigged his deck.

John sees the jackrabbit in him. He is seeing the scared naked boy too. Patrick has killed the kill-mood, and let the admiration for the little bobcat slip through. John needs the mind-numb when he cleans up after his friend. Patrick’s internet-dealing distracted him. Unfortunate this, John has his own befores and afters. He has slipped this last death-card in more than one boy’s deck. Fourteen is only the next naked stripling gasping huge volumes of oxygen, poised for the sprint of his life. Fourteen can squeeze in about three painful heart beats before John reaches him. It’s the right-wrong thing to do. Saturday Night Special drops into his pocket holster like it was supposed to and the clippers John thought he would not need come out in his palm.

Fourteen’s mind is blistered from flipping cards. Friction was going to ignite the deck in a muzzle flash. Meanwhile, the cards were smoking so badly Fourteen could barely read the combinations he was dealing out. Clippers and a smile, no gun; Fourteen swings to the left, doubles over and empties an empty stomach. Bitter thoughts burn his taste buds as he lets them go. Patrick lured the boy into the after, but he left him twilight-strong with hope, not three years fucked empty.

He spits the last of the bile onto the dashed hopes of some rust belt farmer. The cards did not deal blackjack. Fourteen is not sure of that last point. He stands up slow and turns to John. John is tending to problems in his mind, waiting out the heaves. Patrick’s brunch-fuck has kept them trespassing into a Monday afternoon Remax Open House. Not much chance anyone is going to take Fourteen for a fresh plate of brownies. Well, Patrick did, and that is why John has to pack the boy-brownie into a Tupperware for later.

Fourteen is wound too tight. As soon as he can see that his wrists are free he leans into John and lets everything go onto his chest. This is more after-drama John does not have time for. “Save it for the car.” John growls, not un-gently. Fourteen’s hair smells like apricots. Maybe overripe, sun-warm fruit, salty-sour from sweat and anal pheromones drawn out by the men’s dicks. Toss in the dust powder of grey hay from the old bale, honest dirt, blackened grease from some carney corn dog. John pats the young-strung muscles of Fourteen’s shivering shoulder, there there little bitch, there there, but he is actually caressing down to the dangling end of Fourteen’s choker. He uses it to pull Fourteen’s face away from his sopping chest and draws the Saturday Night Special from his pocket. There is gun oil between them now. “Are we cool?”

Fourteen blinks back the tears of relief and feels the snub nose threat scribble its deadly message on his cheek. “Way cool.” Fourteen manages softly. John’s hand winds up the links as the revolver starts its journey back into his pocket. His fist is at Fourteen’s throat, pressure point message that jackrabbit is still on the leash. Saturday Night Special has bunny hopped its way down Fourteen’s body till it nuzzles adolescent flare and licks the man root.

Now John is not into Fourteen, not much anyway. John has a cheap-discrete hotel room, a table of drafted soldiers lined up for inspection, and some bored shopgirl on his mind. So, it might be the recent Monday Night Madness that molests John’s meat. Happiness is a warm gun. Fourteen’s dog sniffs John’s fingers as they wrap around the gun. Sure, John is not into Fourteen, but the boy has that tangerine tang about him that makes cheerleader blondes and closeted buds want to peel back the rind and suck juice. Straight arrow baseball coaches grin and shake their grizzled heads when Fourteen strikes out because Fourteen will smirk a sheepish, tangerine-alive apology, and because, darn it all, the boy’s just all that…. “Get to the car.”