Big-dick Bottom Pt. 11

Author's note: This series contains (occasional) descriptions of rough and forced sex, some of which crosses the boundaries of consent. If this is not up your alley, please click elsewhere! All sexual contact described occurs between adults aged eighteen years and older.

Author's note, part 2: This is the final installment of Big-dick Bottom and a slightly longer read than usual.

Part 11.

The morning after the events at Reverend Bjornsson's, I was just sitting down to a bowl of Frosted Flakes when my parents came trundling into the house, back from church. My mother was fanning herself in the heat, her face flushed red against the bright yellow fabric of one of her church dresses. My dad was in his usual "church suit", wearing the tight-lipped expression that indicated he'd been listening to my mother talk all morning.

"And that sermon," my mother said, barely acknowledging me as she walked into the kitchen, "pride, avarice, and lust?"—she whispered the word—"sometimes it seems like Reverend Bjornsson talks about sin a little to much, don't you think, honey?"

"Hmmph," my dad replied, a response he'd honed over the years to neither agree nor disagree with whatever my mom had just said.

"And then on and on about the sanctity of marriage? I mean, even Evelyn thought it was a bit excessive. She said so, outside the ladies' room, during reception. And if Evelyn thinks to mention it, well, you know it's out of the ordinary."

"Hmmph."

"And have you heard about his house?" my mom continued, "Marcie-Lynn was over there a few weeks ago to help Janet organize some leaflets and she told me that the house—dear, are you listening?—the house, Reverend Bjornsson's house... honey? Well, Marcie-Lynne tells me that it's quite, you know, gratuitous." Again she whispered the word, as if to keep out of the Lord's earshot.

I swallowed a soggy mouthful of flakes and kept my head down. It sounded like Reverend Bjornsson had made it out of the garage, after all. I wondered if his wife had come home to find him or if he had finally been able to wiggle himself loose.

I hoped that the "insurance" Stacy had engineered in the form of the Polaroids we'd taken—and that I'd stashed in the shoe box with my tip money—would be enough to keep him at bay. I'd been thinking about those photos. Part of me wanted to send them to the local paper, or whoever Reverend Bjornsson's boss was... but on the other hand, if the photos ever did come out, he would know it was me who leaked them. Reverend Bjornsson's snarling face flashed in my memory and I shuddered. For now, at least, I figured I'd just hold onto the pictures.

My dad unwrapped the Sunday paper and came to sit down across from me at the table. My mom turned to me when she saw that my dad was not going to engage with her attempts at conversation.

"Paul, I'm very sorry you decided not to join us this morning," she said.

This, coming from my mother, was a fairly severe rebuke. Earlier in the morning, she had poked her head into my room to ask if I was coming to church. I'd waved her away, knowing that I'd hear about it later.

"Sorry, late night," I said, into my cereal.

My dad thwacked the paper angrily as he turned the page.

"I was hoping that your conversation with Reverend Bjornsson yesterday would have led you to think a bit more critically about your decisions, sweetie," my mom said.

When I ignored her she walked over to stand behind my chair.

"You know, in terms of maybe not spending so much time out late with your coworkers?" she said, laying a hand on my shoulder.

"OK, mom," I said.

"Goodness, me!" my mom exclaimed loudly, making both my dad and me jump. She walked over to the window. Outside, I saw a uniformed man with a large dog walking around in our neighbors' yard. When I'd gotten home last night, the neighbors' house had been deserted. No police or anything. The neighbors' truck was gone and there were no lights on in the house. Now it looked like there was some more police activity over there. My mom continued to watch out the window.

"It's such a shame," my mom said, "and after they did all that work on the yard, too. I mean, just look at how lovely it is, now. I can't imagine what must have been going on over there to cause such... such a scene, you know? That reminds me, I was going to call Bernadette to see if she knew anything more about it. You know, Bernadette's cousin or cousin-in-law, or something like that, I can never remember, she is always going on about this relative or that relative... who could ever keep it all straight? Well, whoever it is supposedly knows that man, our neighbor, or at least knew his wife before she died. Oh, it was such a tragic thing, her dying and leaving those boys as young and impressionable as they were. It's no surprise at all that they would have started running with the wrong crowd, what with that brute raising them."

As my mom spoke, my dad lowered the paper and gave me a beleaguered look across the kitchen table. For the first time, I saw him as just a man, not as dad. A man who had been having the same Sunday morning for, what, thirty years? But then the moment passed and he was dad again. The newspaper went back up.

One thing was true, though, in what my mom had said. The neighbors' yard was almost finished, it seemed. In this last, chaotic stretch of time, I hadn't been home enough, really, to keep tabs on the progress of their landscaping project. And then all of a sudden, the paving was finished, new turf had been laid down around the planting beds, and there were several new trees planted.

After the incident in the shed, I had barely seen the neighbors. A few days ago... or maybe a week ago?... I'd seen the daddy briefly as I sped off to work. He'd had a bandage around his head and he was limping down his driveway to the mailbox. He'd seen me in my truck and stopped in his tracks, his expression flat as he'd watched me drive off.

I'd seen the ginger, too, through the window of the kitchen—the same window my mom was looking out right now—pushing a wheelbarrow around his yard. He had also looked pretty banged up.

And as for son #1... when I thought about him, my stomach twisted and my adrenaline spiked, sending my heart rate into overdrive. I closed my eyes and saw the outline of his tall, muscular body, heaving in the moonlight. I could feel his hands on me and the softness of his lips on mine. I shook my head and come back to reality. No. Whatever I'd had with him, whatever there had been between us... it was over. I'd ended all that.

I lifted another sweet, soggy spoonful of cereal to my mouth as my thoughts swirled. Maybe, maybe, maybe... everything would be OK. It was just another week before I left for school. I just had to make it through one more week. I cleared all of the images from my mind by visualizing the the jetway at the airport. In my mind's eye, I walked through the gate and down the jetway, toward the plane that would take me east—away from Minnesota, away from my parents, away from all of this and into the great unknown.

~

I went to work to catch the early shift at eleven. The kitchen was uncharacteristically quiet. I greeted Amanda, who was leaning on the manager's kiosk, but she barely looked at me when she handed me a list of addresses. I took the list and was grabbing bags off the delivery rack when Mario came into the kitchen. He saw me, but he didn't shout out or even nod in my direction. He went straight over to talk with Amanda.

I still had my money belt from the night before that I hadn't checked in. I went and stood, awkwardly, fidgeting with the money belt by the kiosk as Mario and Amanda talked about getting the salad bar set up. When they were done, I held out the belt to Mario.

"Hey, sorry I didn't check this in last night," I said.

Mario took the belt from me and went back out of the kitchen without saying anything. I looked at Amanda, but she just shrugged at me and smacked her gum. I didn't know what to do so I just took the hotbags out to my truck and headed out on my delivery run.

~

The rest of the day passed in the same manner. I crossed paths with Mario a few more times, but he didn't acknowledge my presence in any way. I thought maybe things would pick up when Stacy showed up, but after a cursory, "hi", it became clear that she wasn't really talking to me either. And while Mario usually kept the mood in the restaurant light and fun, today everyone was just quiet and seemed miserable.

At closing, Mario took my money belt, again without a word. We were standing alone near the cash register where Mario was doing some paperwork.

"Hey," I said.

He looked at me and for a second I thought I saw a crack in his gaze, a sliver of the usual Mario shine through his big, blue eyes. But then he hardened up again.

"Have a good night, Paulie," he said, turning back to his papers.

"Mario..." I said, but he cut me off.

"Good night, Paulie," he said, firmly.

I stood for a second and then walked back into the kitchen. I watched Stacy wheel the mop and bucket back into the utility closet.

"Do you need a ride home, Stace?" I asked.

"No, thanks," she said, not looking at me.

I stood, looking at her, surprised and hurt.

"Do you mind?" she said, pointing at my feet. "I just mopped there."

"Sorry," I said, shuffling off to the side, but she had already turned away.

~

The next day was more of the same. Neither Mario nor Stacy said more than a few words to me. My other coworkers were more or less their usual selves, but it was abundantly clear that the vibe was off—even Derek and Jason weren't joking around as much as they usually did. The only person who seemed oblivious was Jeff, unsurprisingly. Whenever we overlapped at the restaurant I heard him talking loudly about the Dave Matthews concert that he gone to down in the cities. Once, behind Jeff's back, Stacy caught my eye and made a jerking off motion. I smiled, relieved that maybe the chill had lifted, but a minute later she was back to ignoring me.

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday... more of the same. My bruises had faded and the cuts on my body healed even as my mind spiraled. The neighbors were still nowhere to be seen and nobody in my mom's wide circle of gossips seemed to know what was going on. And at work, it was like the air had gone out of the balloon. Mario was acting like a completely different person—quiet and sullen. And Stacy, while she was perfectly civil to me, made it seem like we'd never been friends at all.

I began to feel desperate. The events of the summer started to catch up with me. I'd been moving so fast that the cumulative weight of what had happened—what I'd been through—hadn't really registered. And now, suddenly, I was paralyzed in a web of traumatic thoughts and disturbing memories. It was August. It was hot and thickly humid, but without rain to break the tedium of the heat. The once-verdant landscape began to yellow and leaves hung limp on stems and branches. The high whine of cicadas droned everywhere I went, an inescapable sound that seemed to herald not just the end of summer, but the end of all things.

~

Driving home on Thursday night, I saw a truck parked in the neighbors' driveway. I felt a static prickle in my spine. Were they back, somehow? I slowed as I drove by. Yes, it was definitely their truck. It looked like there was a light on in the living room, but I didn't see the usual blue-white flicker of the television emanating from behind the curtains.

Maybe—could it be that he was...? I felt a spasm in my guts and groin. I told myself to pull into my driveway, but I didn't. I pulled to a stop down the block and across the street from my house.

The signal.

I couldn't help myself. I didn't even know if he was there, or if he'd see, this late. Or even if he did see, if he would come. But I was desperate—my body was desperate. I needed to see him again—be near him again—even for a moment, or I thought I might explode.

My parents were watching TV when I walked in. I shouted hello but ran upstairs to take a shower. This whole week, since there hadn't been any socializing after work, I'd been home "early" and my parents were clearly pleased with me. Surely they thought I'd taken the conversation with Reverend Bjornsson to heart. I waited in my bedroom until I heard them go to bed. After twenty minutes of silence, I stole out of my room and quietly slipped out of the house.

I had just put my key into the door to unlock my truck when I felt a presence behind me. I yelped, but his hand was over my mouth and another was on my wrist, pulling me against his big, muscle-soft body. I collapsed into him as adrenaline shot through me. He squeezed me in his arms and I smelled his familiar, intoxicating scent. I felt his hands relax and I turned to face him. In the dark I couldn't see his face clearly, but he was breathing hard.

"Hey," I said, whispering.

"Not here," he said. "Let's drive."

I took a step back away from him. I had a raging hardon from being close to him again, but my mind was flashing a warning at me. Part of me felt that I should run back to my house, that I didn't know what was going to happen with him. But he took the keys from my trembling hand and opened the driver's side door. With a hand on the small of my back, he half-guided, half-pushed me into the driver's seat and closed the door. Then he walked around to the passenger's side and got in.

"Drive," he said. I started the engine and we drove off.

Instinctively, I headed in the direction of the quarry. He didn't say anything. He sat staring out at the road and when I turned to look at him, he was flexing and relaxing his jaw as he had done the last time we were in a truck together. His face was covered with several days' growth of dark beard. It seemed he hadn't shaved since he'd been arrested. I winced, remembering the sight of him and his dad and his brother being led out of their house by the police.

As we rounded the corner at the Piggly Wiggly, he stripped off his tank top. The night was hot and miserably humid despite the air blowing into the truck from the open windows. In the reflected lights from the store's illuminated sign, I saw that the big muscles of his body were streaked with sweat. He balled up his shirt and squeezed it in his hands as we drove.

When we came to the stretch of road by the quarry, there weren't any other trucks. This struck me as strange until I realized that the police must have been out here in droves after Ben's death. Now, though, there was nobody. Despite the heat, I felt a shiver track up my spine.

"Get out," he said when I parked the truck. Reluctantly I got out of the Blazer and pocketed the keys. When I didn't move to follow him into the woods, he came stomping toward me and grabbed my arm, then hauled me down the path like I was a misbehaving child. I began to thrum with anxiety. His silence and his anger portended something sinister, and where we were—where we were headed—didn't bode well.

We moved quickly through the woods, past the divots in the trees where men tended to lurk. My memory flashed through a series of scattered recollections—me, on my knees, just over there. The smell of a tall, skinny man I'd sucked off, just on the other side of that log. The sandpaper skin of man's hand on my face, smearing cum into my hair, next to that tree.

He dragged me past all of these places and down, down, toward the boulders that lined the edge of the steep dropoff to the water. Here, the trees were more spaced out and larger swathes of stars appeared above us as we neared the quarry's edge. The moon, a bright gibbous oval, soared in the exposed southern sky, and its silvery light cast everything around us in a ghostly, ethereal glow.

When we got to the boulders, he pulled me in front of him and with a guttural yell, he threw me down onto the dirt.

"Is this were you did it?" he shouted, pointing at the rock ledge with his finger.

I scuttled away but he followed me and kicked my legs out from under me when I tried to get to my feet.

"Answer me!" he yelled.

I backed up against a boulder. He stood about a pace and a half away from me, his body shaking with anger. His eyes flashed in the reflected moonlight. The hair on his chest was matted with sweat and I could see veins standing out on his neck and upper arms. He started pacing back and forth, and he put his hands up to his head.

"How could you? How could you do this?" he kept repeating.

I tried to ball myself up to be as small as possible. He stopped pacing, suddenly, and came at me again. I let out a squeal as he grabbed me by the shirt and hauled me up and pushed me against the rock.

"Stop, please," I managed to say. I grabbed his wrists. "Please... I'm sorry," I said.

Then, to my astonishment, he pressed his mouth against mine. The coarseness of his beard took me by surprise but his lips and his tongue were as soft as I remembered, pressing urgently against my mouth. The feel of his mouth overrode my senses and I kissed him back.

He pressed himself into me and I felt the hardness of his erection push against my belly. He stepped back and pulled my shirt up over my head and then his hands were at my belt and zipper, then down into my underwear to pull out my cock as he kissed me more and more desperately.

I reached for the elastic of his shorts and pushed them down, freeing his hard cock to press against me. I took it in my hand and pulled on it as we kissed, the rasp of his unshaven chin scraping my cheek and lips.

He grabbed my shoulders and pulled me toward a large, flattened rock—the same rock, I realized, where we had first hooked up that night in the early summer, when everything had been so green and new. He hoisted himself up onto the rock and then pulled me up. When I was up on the rock he straddled my legs and laid me down beneath him, with his great, muscled bulk suspended above me as his hand tracked across my body. He ground his dick against mine and then put his hand into the hair at the back of my head, pulling my face into his to kiss me again.

There was slickness—precum from my cock and and perhaps from his, too, as our shafts rubbed together. It had felt like an eternity since I'd felt his body, or any body, against mine that the primal recesses of my brain overtook control of my body to get what I needed. I took his hand and put it onto my ass, needing him to touch me there, to feel me there.

"No," he said, pulling his mouth away from mine. "I... I don't want to hurt you again."

But his fingers worked themselves into my ass crack and then were pushing hard against my hole, through the sheer fabric of my shorts. I reached down and pushed my shorts further down, past my knees and then completely off, pulling them over the resistance of my tennis shoes. He was still leaning over me, propped up on his elbow, his other hand on his cock, stroking himself, the moonlight glinting off the slick surface of it, wet with precum.

Boldly, I pushed him to lie on his back and then I swung my leg over him to straddle his crotch. He was breathing hard, looking up at me, and in the moonlight I saw his face was knit with a tangle of anger, consternation, and lust. His broad, furry torso was slick with sweat. I brought myself down and grasped his shaft, maneuvering the head of his cock up between my legs. His cock head slipped along my taint and then slid into the shallow divot of my hole. We rested like that for a minute, my cock swaying out over his belly as his cock pulsed against my tightly drawn hole. He put his hands on my thighs and I felt them tremble with that mix of power and resistance—that inextricable element of being with him.

Slowly I lowered my weight down onto him and felt the broad head of his dick compress against the ring of my ass, easing it open. A rivulet of precum spilled from the head of my cock and fell onto his belly, and he took my shaft in one of his hands and squeezed it while he used the other to steady his cock as I eased myself down onto him.