I…started fucking with Brock after that, changing his whole look into the kind of man I’d always wanted. I forced him to get a haircut, and gave him a nasty looking mullet, like the one’s from all the 80’s porn I’d always fucking loved, and kept it plenty grungy and greasy. He was so big, it was easier to just buy him overalls and wellingtons for his massive feet, and that’s all he wore from then on–no shirt, not that you could see much of his skin through the thick hair on his chest, arms and back. Still, I insisted on the tattoos anyway. Brock was nervous about it, but…but I turned him onto the idea pretty quick. The pain…I got a bit carried away with that, with making him like it. I liked seeing the welts, and the scars, almost as much as I liked seeing the tattoos peeking through all that hair, but when he saw the first ones, he just turned red and looked away as quick as he could.
In fact, that’s the part I enjoyed the most. I could tell that he hated it, all of it. His body, the clothes I put him in, the hair and the beard, the drinking and the smoking, the fact that every time he spoke now, he sounded like a dumb hick. I’d catch him staring at himself in the mirror, whispering to himself that it was just another couple of weeks, that when he got back to school it would all be back to normal, like nothing had happened. He’d never have to come back here ever again. I heard that, and fuck, it pissed me the fuck off, but I didn’t let on that I’d heard it–instead, I started telling him how much he liked it here. That he liked being stupid, that he liked being a brute, that he liked dressing and looking like trailer trash, that he wanted to smoke cigars like a chimney and get drunk every night, just like me. Yeah, I made him beg me to let him get even more tattoos, made him tell me how hard the sting of the needle made him. I made sure he picked out the sleaziest, most humiliating ones that the local shop was willing to do on him…and we put his new nickname there, across the back of his neck–Brick. Because he’s thick as a brick, and as solid as one too. All the guys on the site called him that. I made him practice writing it at home, a couple hundred times a day. I wanted him to believe it himself. I wanted him to believe it, because if he did, then he’d always need me, and he’d never leave.
He’d marked the day school started on the calendar, and the day before, Brick had the fucking audacity to ask me when we were going to leave–and I told him the truth. I told him he wasn’t going back to school. I told him that he was a liar, that he’d never even gotten through highschool, much the less gotten into college. That he was Brick–not Brock, not some smart guy like that. I told him that his place was here with me, and that’s the way things had to be. Honestly? I expected him to push back, but he just nodded, and then went to the bathroom to cry. I knew I should feel bad, in my mind, but I didn’t…feel shit like that anymore. I wasn’t supposed to feel shit like that, not for some dumb musclepig like Brick. I gave him a couple of minutes to sort himself out, and then ordered him to get out here and clean my dirty hole for a bit–that always helped him feel a bit better, and brightened my mood too. I should have known that wasn’t the end of it though–that a fucker like Brock wouldn’t try to get away with every stupid idea that crossed his mind.
I woke up in the middle of the night with a jolt to the heart, and discovered Brick was gone. I’d gone slack with him, I realized. He’d been paying close attention to my orders, and he’d just…fucking left while I was sleeping. The panic in my heart–I’d never felt anything like it before. Brick was mine–mine! I threw on some clothes, and thankfully the dumbass had left the truck behind and gone off on foot. I did recall forbidding him from driving at some point, so maybe he didn’t have a choice. I got in and headed for the one place he’d try and get to–Hobos, the biker bar outside of town. I’d gotten the ban on him lifted a couple weeks earlier, after I’d shown the owner what a good, obedient fucker Brock could be. I rolled up, stormed in and cracked a couple of heads, but I was too late. He’d hooked up with some grungy biker and made a deal. The man had agreed to drive him somewhere, in exchange for as many fucks as he wanted once they got there.
My fucker, my Brick, had run off with some…fucking biker. Still, I knew where they were headed–where Brick was trying to go. I got back in the truck and blazed out of town on the highway, topping a hundred the whole way, and after an hour, I ran that fucking bike off the road, and sent them both into a ditch.
I raped that biker for an hour, and I made Brick watch. He was a sizable fucker, when I started, but by the time I was through with him, he’d shrunk to around five foot five, weighed around 400 pounds, and was begging me for my piss and cum like a bitch pig. I waved down a trucker and “convinced” him to give the pig a ride in the cab with him, giving the biker his last orders–that he’d spend the rest of his live whoring himself for truckers and bikers on the highways, and make sure he came through town at least twice a year so he could service me–and sent them on their way. Then, it was just me, and Brick.
He begged me to understand. He begged me to take him back to school, to let him go. That if he didn’t get there by dawn, he’d never be normal–we’d never be normal. Instead, I fisted his ass in the ditch for a couple of hours, facing him east, so he could watch the sunrise, and then we got back in the car, and headed back home. Brock’s gone now–probably forever–it’s just me and Brick now. I…I can remember everything too, in ways that I couldn’t before, and honestly? I…I feel terrible, about what I’ve done, about who I am now, but I can’t stop. Neither of us can, now, and honestly? When I have my thick cock buried in Brick’s hole, listening to the big brute grunting around those huge cigars I make him smoke? I can almost pretend that everything that happened was for the best. I know it’s a lie, but that’s all I got. That’s all anyone’s got, I think, the lies we tell ourselves. Still, you asked, right? For the truth? Do you feel better, or do you like the lie better?
Bracken's Corner 