He was still cuffed to the pipe, but only by one hand, so he could eat and drink as necessary. He had finished the water, and used the container to hold his other business in the meantime–which I disposed of, and then I showed him the mugshot I’d gotten from the computer, the picture of his old face.
“Who’s that?” he said, and then looked a bit closer, eyes going a bit wide, “Oh…where did you dredge this old thing from? I haven’t seen that face in the mirror in…a very long time.”
“So you do remember.”
“Of course I remember–what made you think I didn’t?”
“Tell me what happened. Tell me what the bruiser did to get you from there,” I pointed at the picture, “to here,” I moved my finger to him.
He sighed. “I don’t really feel like talking–isn’t there something you’d rather do to me, sir?” he grinned, “I can smell the cum on you–you didn’t shoot while you were gone did you? I only want that cum of yours going one place.” I told him he was vile, but he just laughed. “The only way you’re going to get me tell you anything, is if you give me what I want.”
I had no patience for this–I walked over and got rough with him, feeling the need to dominate well up inside me, the voices getting louder now, and the smell of him…I lost myself, that night, for the first time. Lost myself to some strange mixture of our own sick desires–my aching need for control, his desperation for filth, both of us meeting somewhere in the middle. I could feel my balls swelling with every load I shot on him, and everytime I came, I only seemed to get hornier, until we both collapsed in exhaustion, and in the early morning hours, my head on his chest, still stroking myself and unable to stop, he relented and told me his story.
His life before his fateful encounter with the bruiser was, as far as he was concerned, a waste. He’d grown up in the sticks, in a little trailer park. Never amounted to much, never done well in school, picked up a few jobs here and there, but nothing had ever really stuck with him…because there was really only one thing he liked to do–and that was sucking cock. He’d sucked off his older brothers, and even his dad once, when he was drunk as hell, but soon discovered that the best place he could find fresh dick was at the rest area about ten miles down the highway, where a few other enterprising faggots had taken to drilling gloryholes faster than the maintenance crews could put new walls in the stalls.
From the way he talked about himself…it was like he was talking about a different person. He only talked about in it the third person–Steven was, Steven did, Steven thought. He’d clearly disassociated himself from the person he’d been entirely–and it was clear that he hated him. He’d been weak, too scared of himself to really commit to what he wanted, torn between what was acceptable and respectable, and what he really was. It was also the most emotional he’d been–it was clear that he hadn’t talked about this in a long time, if ever. I doubted that he’d ever had the opportunity to tell the story to someone who would believe him, much less be able to understand what he was even talking about–although at the time, I didn’t really understand much.
Even after everything that had happened to me, after everything that I had done, I couldn’t really believe that this was something…beyond rationality. Beyond the real, the physical, the mundane. There had to be some other explanation–a drug, most likely. Something in the…smell of them, that was doing this to me, was what I thought. I did listen though. I listened, and for the moment, I let that doubt go. This, I could tell, was his truth–what he firmly believed. Whether it was real or not is something I couldn’t know, but sometimes a lie can be more helpful than the truth. There is power in stories. Anyone who has seen a rape victim take the stand against their rapist can attest to that to the power of one’s story, and of witnessing. So I listened, and I was a witness for him, and he told me what happened that night, at the rest area years ago, the night the bruiser came in to the restroom, stepped into the stall beside the one where the young Steven was crouched down, mouth to the hole, waiting for another cock to service, working his own cock slowly. He thought he heard the man…sniffing at the air, and then, after a moment or two, a cock slipped through, and Steven got to work.
At first, it was nothing particularly interesting. Average to small cock, uncut, uninteresting flavor–but that was no reason for him to not enjoy himself on it. Then, as he worked on it, he began to notice that something about it was changing–that it was growing. At first, he’d thought it was just the process of the man’s cock getting fully hard, but it wasn’t just gaining girth–but length as well, sliding deeper down his throat with each thrust, deep enough that he gagged on it, and had to pull away for a moment to recover. The man on the other side of the wall growled when he did, and the cock pulled back through–and Steven saw it really was larger, so large it scraped the sides of the small gloryhole as it withdrew. The man stepped out of the stall, and hammered on the door of the stall where Steven was kneeling, and the weak lock gave way after a moment, the door swinging in and hitting him in the face, and the man who came in…there was something wrong with him.