Two Southern Gentlemen Ch. 08

Content/trigger warning: This series contains bullying, homophobic language, and non-consensual sexual acts, but they are integral to the plot and character development so please take them in context.

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DUSTY

It's been a fucking long week.

I've been working hard at the construction site every day, but even with my muscles sore and my body aching I still haven't been able to sleep much. It doesn't look like that fag ratted me out to anyone, and I'm still trying not to think of him, which basically means I've been trying not to think of anything. I haven't jacked off since that one time since my mind turned against me, and most of my energy is spent just wishing with all my heart that Misty was here so I could fuck her hard over and over again and finally get over this whole damn thing, whatever the hell it is.

It's around 2 in the afternoon, and I'm walking away from the crowded part of the lake same as last week but a little later in the day. I left the house a while ago, but it took me a long morning wandering around my house all fidgety and a long car ride, and it's taking a long walk for me to get to where I'm headed because my mind is telling me to turn back at every moment, ignore this invisible pull on me that I'm feeling. I'm going as slowly as I can, hoping that my body will just give up. But it seems to have a mind of its own, 'cause somehow I'm still headed back there...

I don't even know if he'll be there, but some part of me figures he might since he was there last week. By this time I've dropped my stuff in the same spot, stripped down to my trunks again, and have started swimming towards that place as slowly as I possibly can.

In spite of all my efforts to not think at all about anything, I had a really bad time Thursday night. I was as restless as a rabid dog in my room after supper. My room was too hot, and if I turned on the A/C it was too cold, and my bed was too soft, or it was too hard, or the crickets were too loud, and when I turned on music there was nothing I wanted to listen to, and nothing I felt like watching on my TV. I felt like I was damn near suffocating, so finally I told my daddy I was going for a jog and ran out.

I didn't even know where I was headed, but again, my body seems to have a mind of its own these days, and somehow I wound up at the church. Now, I'm definitely a Christian, but more of the Christmas and Easter type. I hadn't been by there for months. I was kind of surprised to find myself standing in front of it, but once I was there I knew exactly why.

By that time it was completely dark with only the moon out, and it wasn't too hard to find an unlocked door and get inside the sanctuary. It was a bit weird to be in there when it was empty, with its pale blue carpet and its dark plush velvet seats, but it was really peaceful and it calmed me right down. The moon was shining in through the windows, and the angle of it lit up the exact thing I wanted to see.

It was that picture of Jesus I had remembered from before. Suffering on the cross, dying for our sins. I sat in a pew near the front and just stared at it for, I don't know, it must have been a solid hour. I don't know a whole lot about religion or art or whatever, but that picture really made me... feel things, like deep inside me. There was Jesus's suffering, sure, but His naked body still looked strong, the expression on His face still looked strong, even with blood dripping down his face, even in the midst of all the pain He must have been in. The way the apostles looked up at Him seemed wrong to me, though. They were sad because they didn't know what was going to happen, but they should have been joyful looking at him, even if He never got resurrected. Because even with everyone and everything against Him, He still looked perfect. He was still above everyone, so far above all of it, above all the shit of the world.

Anyway, I lost track of the time and I got home so late that I snuck in through the back door so that my daddy wouldn't ask me any questions. That was the only night this week that I got any decent sleep, because in the morning that peaceful feeling had disappeared and I was back to feeling like shit all over again.

I guess that was yesterday morning, 'cause today's Saturday. My swimming hasn't been nearly slow enough, because I find myself at that spot way too soon. I tread water just outside the mess of branches and shit, and at that point I very nearly just turn around and swim away right then and there. But there's that insistent pull I've been feeling all day, still tugging at me and never quitting, that tells me I can just take a quick look, forces me to duck my head and swim under, and after I've come up tells me to swim to the shore.

A quick look around tell me he's not there, and I'm hit with a wave of emotions. Relief is the biggest one. Relief at what? Or is disappointment the biggest thing I'm feeling? I decide since I'm here I might as well just sit for a minute, and so I get out of the water and take a seat. As I look out I feel like I'm connected to that kid in a way. I'm sitting on ground that he might have sat on just a day ago. That oddly makes me feel better in a way, lessens my disappointment even if he isn't here. But why the hell should I be disappointed? What was I going to do to him? I keep telling myself that I want to find him so I can torture him again, have some more fun, think up shit to do to him that's even worse than last time. But deep down I know that's not true. It wasn't much fun last time without my buddies there to join in, and somehow all the appeal of messing with him has completely vanished. There's a part of me that wants to yell at him. Blame him for... whatever it is he's done to me. Or maybe I would ask him if he's seen that picture of Jesus, ask him about that. "Oh, yeah, I was just wondering if you ever saw this picture of Jesus at my church where he's bleeding but looks invincible and can you explain to me what I'm feeling because I sure as hell haven't been able to figure it out..." Great idea, Dusty. He'd think I was completely off my goddamn rocker and he'd...

Mid-thought I freeze because I feel the sharp tip of a knife in my back and a voice saying quick and low in my ear:

"Don't you move a muscle or I swear to God I will run this knife straight through you, you fuckin' bastard."

I instantly know it's him, and fuck if my first reaction isn't to feel glad about it. What the hell! At that moment my instincts kick in and they're saying to turn quickly, wrench the knife from him, slam him to the ground, pin him down. I could probably do it too. I know that the fag isn't exactly the athletic type, hasn't had years of training wrestling like I have. But I don't really want to hurt him, not anymore.

Instead, all I say is "All right," in a much calmer voice than what I'm feeling. I hold still and don't move, just wait to see what he's planning on doing. I guess he must have been hiding off to the side. How long was he waiting for me to show up just so he could jump me? I wonder.

The fag pauses a second to see if I'm going to pull anything, and then he walks in front of me, still holding his knife at the ready. It's a nice classic Bowie knife, and looking up at him I notice the bruises on his face have faded to a sort of yellowish stain with streaks of purple mixed in. He's wearing the same raggedy shirt and shorts and his curly black hair is looking a bit wild, but then, it always does, and his eyes are flashing behind his glasses. In the silence I can hear his breaths coming out a little hard even though he's keeping a lid on himself... for now.

"I just wanted to... talk," I say unconvincingly, since I'm not even sure why I'm here. I start to raise my hands in an "I surrender" gesture, but he steps closer with his knife and I stop.

The kid doesn't believe me, and I guess I don't blame him. "Yeah, right," he says. "Like we've got anything to talk about."

"Look, I'm... I'm sorry about your nose and busting up your face." I pause and find myself surprised that I actually am sorry. "I know I took it too far. I've got this anger thing..."

The kid's not even listening to me. The light in his eyes is getting brighter and brighter, like a fuse has been lit inside him.

"Take off your trunks. Now," he commands, gesturing at me with his knife again.

I hesitate because I've just realized that I'm getting hard -- why the hell am I getting hard?? -- and that gets him riled up. "Now!" he says more loudly, and damn if that fucker isn't going to cut me up for sure if I don't obey. Again I consider grabbing the knife, but this is real life, not a wrestling match, and I don't much want to see how that particular scenario would play out. That knife looks plenty sharp and the kid is looking plenty pissed off.

I stand up slowly and turn away from him, nice and slow, drop my trunks, and turn back with my hands hiding my half-hard junk. The heat of his eyes on me makes me get even more hard, and I have to position my arms carefully so that they're covering everything.

The kid laughs a short hard laugh when he sees my supposed modesty, and I'm relieved that he doesn't suspect the actual reason I'm covering myself.

"An eye for an eye, that's what the Good Book says. An eye for an eye. By the way, say hi to the camera. This is all being recorded." The kid waves to a camera that he must have already had set up, and now I actually start to get more nervous. What exactly is he going to do that he wants to video record it?

"Kneel!"

I soon have my answer, because once I've knelt down he starts pulling at his ragged shorts with his left hand, his right hand still holding that goddamn knife.

A jolt runs through me as I realize what's going to happen next.

Right then time seems to almost freeze again like before, and every second is like a full minute.

The kid has pulled his dick out and is pointing it straight at my face.

I have what feels like a long and agonizing minute of indecision, or maybe it's a whole century. I for sure want to cover my face, but I definitely don't want to show what is now a full hard-on, all eight inches solid as concrete, just barely covered up by my hands and forearms. Even if the kid hasn't noticed it yet, it would definitely be on full display on camera, and that would definitely be way worse than the humiliation of the piss. And I don't know what the hell's gotten into me, but I find myself thinking that maybe I guess I do deserve it anyway...

Even as I'm coming to that conclusion, the stream of piss hits me straight in the face, and the force of it is so strong and sudden it knocks me back a bit. Like before, my senses feel sharp and heightened to a crazy degree. Somehow every cell of my body is feeling that sun shining down, the heat of the Georgia summer, the sound of the lake behind us... but that entire world has been shoved aside by the force of that piss stream, like a goddamn fire hose, the heat of it, the strong smell of it, the pure... life force of it, it catches me completely off guard. Without even realizing it my mouth is forced open a crack from the surprise and some of his yellow piss has forced its way into my mouth.

"Hukkk!" That's the sound of me choking on that bit of piss that's gone down the wrong pipe and accidentally swallowing some of it. It's bitter and salty and tastes as strong as it smells, and it completely overpowers the tastebuds on my tongue and even though I've shut my mouth by now that fag's onslaught of piss is continuing and coating my face and lips completely.

And somehow, something buried deep, deep, deep, deep within me awakens, and it wants more. Like the deepest, most primal animal instinct, like every newborn baby puppy who has ever suckled at its mother teat, I want, no, need more. Without even thinking I've opened my mouth again, a little wider this time, to catch more of that juice. I've adjusted my mouth down slightly to catch the entire stream, and the feel of it filling my mouth for a couple of long, beautiful seconds, that feeling of growing fullness in my mouth, it's overwhelming, like the warm feeling in your entire body after you've had the most delicious, satisfying Thanksgiving feast, and then I can't wait any longer, I need to drink it again, get it down my throat and inside my belly, and now I'm swallowing it again, swallowing it deep, and like a man dying of thirst I'm immediately opening my mouth for more, more, more, the heat of it so much warmer than even this hot summer day, so much more full of life than anything I've ever come up against, that I've ever encountered.

My senses are going haywire. The powerful piss stream jetting into my open mouth, the way the remains of the initial stream are still dripping down my face, the wet coating of piss on my lips like the coating from a damn yellow lipstick, the strong smell and the strong taste invading every part of my mouth, on my tongue and over my teeth and all the way up to the roof of it, making my tastebuds dance the craziest dance, the deep, deep need for more, more, more...

"What the fuck?"

With the kid's exclamation time immediately resumes its normal pace and within a fraction of a second I come to and realize what's just happened.

My eyes fly open and I see the kid has stopped pissing mid-stream and is just staring at me stunned, no, shocked as hell, the hand holding his knife down at his side.

"Shit!" I grab my trunks and dash towards the water and swim away faster than I've ever swam in my entire life, even faster than last time.

Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! What the fuck have I done????