Remembrances – Episode 2 (Part 6)

He drank more. He smoked more. He cussed more, and had a reputation around town for having a short temper and a mean right hook. He never used it on her though–he didn’t think he’d be able to forgive himself if he had–and never with Pete either, aside from the occasional stern spanking when the boy had talked back. He looked like a filthy lout, but as horrified as he knew he should be at these memories, as hard as part of him clawed back and tried to hold onto something from his other self, from either of his other selves, there just…wasn’t anything there. Just this brutish fuck, and nothing more.

They slipped away, back into his mind, slotting right into place, exactly where Mr. Elroy wanted them, and he looked down at Harry, at his dull eyes spinning their dull wheels, trying to sort out what had just happened, but Harry had never been much of a thinker, had he? “Ya…ya fucker,” he said, his voice picking up a heavy drawl, “Ya piece a shit, I ain’t supposed tha…this is all a crock a shit.”

“It’s true as far as you’re concerned, Harry–this is what you get. If you can’t be trusted with a mind, then this is what you get to be from now on, just a simple minded, illiterate dumbfucking brute.”

‘Ill–Illita-what?”

“Illiterate,” Mr. Elroy said, slower, enunciating clearly, “It means, Harry, that you never learned to read.”

“I can read shit!”

“Well, I suppose you can read a bit. Some numbers, simple sentences, but tell me Harry, what’s the last book you read in school?”

“I…I dropped the fuck outta school! Learnin’ ain’t something a man should care about. A man don’t gotta think tah work, after all.” He paused, running what he’d just said back to himself. “Wait..no, that ain’t right, is it?”

“On the contrary, Harry, I couldn’t have said it better myself. Well, I could have, because I have an above average vocabulary and a mastery of grammar, but you can’t have everything, right?” He took his hand from Harry’s shoulder. “Now, do we have an understanding again, Harry? Because I was just beginning to enjoy tasting your son here, and I would very much like to enjoy him some more–and I’m sure you would too, right Harry? Or are you going to give me more trouble than you’re worth?”

“No sir, I won’t…” he muttered.

“Good. Now, we’re going to have to start all the way back in the beginning, now that you went and messed up my flow. Still, I think this will be much more fun this time around, for both of us–and for your son too.”

Mr. Elroy went back over to the sofa and sat back down beside Pete, who gave a sudden start and woke up from his sudden slumber, and gave a hacking cough, not quite as severe as Harry’s had become, but still concerning. “Fuck, did I fall asleep?” he muttered, “I feel like I got hit by a fuckin’ semi.”

Mr. Elroy laughed, “You haven’t felt anything yet, Pete–now, we were strolling down memory lane, right?”

Just like that, they were back in the past, back in their memories, back in the house he remembered…or at least, the house Harry thought he remembered. It didn’t seem quite right to him, actually. Everything was a bit…dirtier, and grungier, and when Patricia flitted through the room in a flicker, she wasn’t the prim and dainty 50’s housewife he thought he’d recalled. She seemed…harder, and fatter, smoking her slim cigarettes in the kitchen and listening to the radio, the dishes undone in the sink. There was a thick layer of smoke everywhere, he sensed–he’d been a heavy smoker before, but now he could barely recall a time when he didn’t have a cigar in his mouth, from the moment he woke to the moment he crawled into his lonely twin bed to masturbate, thinking about Wilbur.

“Focus Harry,” a voice said, Mr, Elroy’s voice said, but it was Wilbur speaking, in the memory. And there was Pete, his boy, looking up at him…but not quite as handsome as he was. Then again, mix a brute like Harry with a comely woman like Patricia, and you weren’t going to get movie star looks. “Focus on your boy–on what he needs to know to be a man, a real man like you.”

Suddenly, they were wrestling, him and his son, in the middle of the living room. He’d always loved wrestling and brawling, and he wanted his son to love it to–dominating other men, beating them down. That was how you showed them you were important, that was how you showed them what a man you were. There were other flashes, his notes coming home from teachers and administrators, accusing his boy of being a bully–but he was just being a boy, in Harry’s opinion. In fact, he encouraged it in him, told him it was good to push other guys around, that it was just a sign of how strong he was. That is, until he broke that kid’s arm one day, pushing him into a gully. That had been enough for the school, and they’d expelled him from the eighth grade. Still, that was plenty of school for a boy, in Harry’s opinion. He was old enough to start working, and so he helped him find some jobs around town, sweeping the mechanic’s garage, mowing the lawns at the church–good things for a big boy like Pete to do. Still, he needed an outlet, and Wilbur had the best suggestion–Pete ought to be a boxer.

Wilbur knew just the gym to take him to as well, and Pete took to it like a fish to water. But like before, there were a lot of complaints coming from guys at the gym, as Pete got older, that he tended to fight dirty, and once he was an older teenager, and picked up a taste for alcohol, he took to picking fights and starting brawls in the bars around town. Still, Harry just waved it off, when he wasn’t outright enabling him. Wilbur didn’t see anything wrong with it either–it was just youthful abandon. They’d been the same way when they were young after all, before they’d settled down. Once Pete found a woman, they said, he’d mellow out a bit.

Remembrances – Episode 2 (Part 5)

Harry didn’t say anything–he knew that whatever this demon was thinking, nothing that Harry did would sway him one way or another.

Mr. Elroy just turned back to him, with that same dreadful smile he had on, when he was contemplating something horrible. “I like you Harry–You’re a man–you’re a whole set of possibilities that’s meant to be savored, but I just don’t know if I can trust you. You’re just a bit too…strong willed, I think. That, and I’ve been a bit too kind to you. I’ve let you imagine that you can make a difference here. Tell me, how did it feel, when you found out your best friend was screwing your wife, Harry?”

The memory slammed into him like a freight train. He’d been gone on a trip, a few years before the accident, but arrived home early, when he was bumped up to an earlier flight. He’d come home and found Wilbur’s car in the driveway, and inside, he’d snuck to the bedroom and watched them fuck. It wasn’t like how he fucked Patricia. She never made those sorts of noises when he was on top of her, and Wilbur…he had the same virile energy coursing around him that Harry felt when they were in bed together. He hadn’t been able to help himself–he’d pulled out his cock–his much…shorter cock–and jacked off in the hallway, watching them. He was so ashamed of himself–he’d fled the house, gone to a bar for a few too many drinks, and then arrived home at the correct time. He’d never said anything about it to either of them–he loved them too much, even though he knew now that neither of them really loved him in the same way. He…wanted them to be happy. He would vacate the house at convenient times, and then sneak back in to watch, just to try and capture some of their energy, just to feel close to them, even if they didn’t know he was there.

He found himself back in his apartment, and he couldn’t stop himself–he started sobbing. Mr. Elroy laid a hand on his shoulder. “Now, now, Harry, men shouldn’t cry, you know that.”

He looked up, and Wilbur was looking down at him, or was it Mr. Elroy now? He didn’t know for certain anymore–he didn’t know anything, beyond the fact that he’d never felt so humiliated in his whole life. Humiliated, and yet, he missed them both so damn much…he had his son though–at least he had that. His son loved him, right?

“Look at you, Harry. You’re fucking weak.”

Harry tried to yell at him, but it just came out as gibberish without his teeth in. Mr. Elroy was kind enough to hand them back to him, and Harry shuddered as he put them in. “S-Shut up, this is all a damn pack of lies.”

“Lies? These are your memories, Harry. This is all you know. Can you tell the difference? I know you can’t. This is your truth now, Harry. Your best friend fucked your wife for years, and you never did anything about it, not once. It only got worse after the accident–especially since you couldn’t get hard anymore.” Mr. Elroy slid a hand up Harry’s thigh, and he felt his cock shrivel back, the pain from his knee running up into his hip now, “You’re lucky they could save at least one of your balls, though–the other one popped like a grape.”

Pain. So much pain in that memory, his leg and groin crushed under the machine, it must have weighed two tons, and he couldn’t do anything he couldn’t move, he just saw the blood running out on the ground under him, and Wilbur was there, and he just hoped he would…kiss him one last time, and take care of his family.

He flung himself back out of the memory and into the apartment. He hadn’t remembered the accident, not like that. He never wanted to feel that again.

“I could leave you there, you know,” Mr. Elroy said, “You could be pinned there, in your mind, for the rest of your days. Out here, you’ll look like a vegetable, and in there, just that horrific, wracking, neverending pain.” he knelt down, “Do you see how kind I have been to you Harry? Do you see how you’ve taken my kindness and flung it back at me, like a spoiled child?”

All he could do was sob, but he felt that same energy from Mr. Elroy’s hand on his shoulder, the same chill, and his eyes just dried up. The hurt, the anger, the grief and sadness was all still there, but calcified. He couldn’t let it out, he couldn’t show it; all he could do was live with it, remain stoic and unaffected by any emotion. That’s who he was–that’s what a real man was.

“You know why she loved being with Wilbur, Harry?” Mr. Elroy asked him, “It was because, with him, she found someone who could show some emotion. You were a real man, Harry, a real tough one, like a stone. But not very exciting in bed–just a couple of minutes on top of her until you came, and then you’d just fall right asleep. You could never give her satisfaction, and you knew it. You’re not a lover, Harry–you’re just a brute. Well, not anymore, I suppose. Now you’re just a weakling, but before…well, you remember, don’t you Harry?”

He was flung back into the past, back into himself, but while so much of it was the same…so much of it was…completely different. He saw himself in the mirror, his younger self, the unkempt hair and beard he always let grow out too long, until Patricia nagged him into cutting it off. Face caked with oil and sweat, because he rarely bothered showering–especially after Patricia insisted they start sleeping in separate beds, because he kept ruining the sheets with his dirt. He could see himself there, alone in that twin bed, sheets plain, smelling of grease and smoke and his own sweat…but he liked it. It felt comfortable, and he liked being comfortable, and if she wasn’t comfortable with him being a man–a real man–then why in the hell had she married him?

Remembrances – Episode 2 (Part 4)

“You, boy, need to go to sleep while your father and I have a conversation,” he said, touched Pete’s temple, and he slumped over on the sofa, Mr. Elroy plucking the cigar from his hand before it could fall and setting it down in the ashtray. “As for you, Harry, I thought we had an understanding. What you were trying to pull back there…that’s a problem Harry, trying to give your son his life back. You know full well that his life isn’t his anymore, it’s mine. Mine! Just like yours is. He gets to be whatever I allow him to be, you see, and you can either help, or I can send you off to hospice to die, Harry. Is that what you want? A slow, withering death, lost in your own mind, not even knowing your own name?”

He rested a hand gently on Harry’s knee, but as gentle as it appeared, he might as well have brought a sledge hammer down on his body, soul, and spirit. It was happening again, just like the other night, he could feel his entire body weakening, curling in on itself as he sat there, almost like he was drying out under the heat of an impossibly hot sun.  Mr. Elroy stood back up and looked at Harry, who was no longer a middle aged man in his late forties–he had gained at least another two decades in the span of the short touch. His already balding head had progressed all the way past his crown, and turned a dingy, dishwater grey. The same had happened to his beard, which was also thicker and longer, hanging down a couple of inches past his chin, looking tangled, matted, and uncared for.

Harry tried to speak, but all that came up was a rasping, hacking cough, deep in his lungs, his entire body shaking with the force of his coughing, until he felt something dislodge from his mouth and fall into his lap. He looked down…but was having a difficult time seeing anything clearly. “Oh, you might be needing these, Harry,” Mr. Elroy said, “The things you adjust to with age, right?” He slipped a pair of glasses on his face, and everything came into clarity, and Harry moaned at the sight of the dentures he had accidentally coughed out. “Those just do not want to stay put, do they, Harry? It’s almost like you want to be able to remove them on occasion,” the nurse unzipped his fly, his cock freeing itself from his slacks. “I think we need to remember who is in charge here, Harry. Tell me, is it you, you old, feeble piece of shit?”

Harry shook his head.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“No, Thir,” Harry said, as best he could without his teeth, “You ahhre.”

He fucked Harry’s mouth for a few minutes, and Harry did his best not to cry. He just felt so…empty, like everything had been drained out of him. Why had he fought? He knew better, he knew this could only get worse, and yet he’d done it anyway. He looked over at his dad, at his son, at his kin, at whoever he was now. At Pete. He was still fast asleep, but it was clear that the things Mr. Elroy had made them remember had affected him. He was…thicker. Stockier and beefier, with a sizable gut he didn’t remember him having a moment ago. He had a full beard as well, and the same high and tight cut he’d kept as a kid–the same one Harry still had as well. He was still in his suit though–that hadn’t changed. He’d made a difference. Maybe…maybe he could still fight this, if he was smart.

No–No, that was idiotic. Look at him. All it had taken was the slightest touch, and Mr. Elroy had taken another twenty years from him. As he sucked his nurse’s cock, he explored the rest of his body, his much larger gut and thin arms, the ache in his knee which had only grown more extreme, throbbing dully even through the pain medications he knew he was on. It was hopeless, and he needed to learn that now, before he just made things even worse, but he couldn’t just give up either. This wasn’t right–none of this was right. He didn’t know who, or what, this nurse was, or how he was doing this to them both, or even why, but that didn’t change the fact that it was wrong, and that he needed to do everything he could to resist him. It had been different, when it had just been him, but this was bigger now–this was about his son–his…father…he didn’t really know for certain, but it wasn’t right.

Still, there was nothing he could do now, he supposed. Maybe, maybe there was something his son could do. After all, he doubted that Mr. Elroy was planning on keeping him here too. Once he got out, he would be able to get help–hopefully, if Harry could keep some piece of his old self safe from Mr. Elroy’s magic, somehow. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had left, he supposed. He kept sucking–it was…much easier, and somehow more pleasurable for him, without his teeth–until Mr. Elroy finally pulled his cock free with a pop.

“Do we have an understanding, Harry?” he said, looking down at him, “You’re so delicious, I would hate to have to eat you all at once–and your son as well. After all, your fates are tied, right?”

Harry looked up at him, a bit confused.

Mr. Elroy just walked over to where Pete was slouched over asleep, and rested a hand on his shoulder. Harry saw his sleeping son flinch, let out a groan, and he aged nearly ten years in a moment. Watching it happen from the outside was no less difficult that feeling it from the inside, seeing him be hollowed out, his gut sagging further over the waistline of his pants, beard filling in with more white, his hairline receding further. “He’s still rather handsome, don’t you think?” Mr. Elroy said, “Maybe he would be more cooperative than you–he could take your place rather easily, you know. Or maybe I should keep you both in here, as brothers. That’s a nice thought too.”

Remembrances – Episode 2 (Part 3)

“Everything alright, Harry?”

Mr. Elroy was over on the couch now, sitting with his son, arm around his shoulder, and his boy had that far off look in his eye again, like he had before. “Looked like you were remembering something. Your boy coming back to you finally?”

Harry nodded, “Yeah, some of it, I suppose.”

“Well, why don’t the three of us take a trip down memory lane together? After all, I think your son here could use a refresher as much as you could.”

They were all back in the old house again, and Wilbur was there, sitting with his son. He was older now, probably around ten or twelve, and Wilbur was talking about working in the factory, about tools, about mechanics and all the cool stuff they did at work all day, and his son was enthralled. He turned to Harry, who was just watching, and asked him if, when he was all grown up, he could go work there too, just like them, and Harry told him that nothing in the world would make him happier than having his son follow in his footsteps, and be a union laborer just like him.

The scene shifted, and now he was in the bleachers of the local high school, watching the two cross town rival teams duking it out on the field. Harry found himself following one member of the defensive line closely, and it wasn’t for a few minutes that he realized it was his son, Pete. But of course it was Pete! He was the biggest fucker out on the field after all–thanks to his mom’s big meals, and going to the gym with Uncle Wilbur. He sacked the quarterback, the stands erupted in a cheer, and he pulled his helmet off and waved to his dad in the stands. Harry waved back, along with Wilbur, and he had a hard time imagining that he could be more proud of his son than he was in that moment.

Time slipped again, but seemed…more fluid this time, like he was existing in more times than just one. He could see his son, eight or so, struggling with his homework, and Harry suggested he just skip it, and they go play football instead. Later, there was something similar, an argument he was having with Patricia while Pete was listening in, talking about his grades–or rather, about how bad his grades were. Harry didn’t think it was a big deal. You didn’t need to be smart to work in a factory, after all, but Patricia was concerned. It dawned on Harry that the reason Pete was so large as a Freshman on the football field in high school was because he’d been held back twice…or was it three times? He could also see Pete talking to him, older now, smoking a cigar with his dad in the garage while they worked on the car, telling him he wanted to drop out of school and just go work in the factory with him. Harry felt the entire time collapse there, somehow…and he knew what he was supposed to say–what Mr. Elroy wanted him to say…but he also knew it wasn’t right.

His son wasn’t stupid. He was clever, and intelligent, and just because school was a struggle didn’t mean he should quit…right? But more than that, Harry knew that what he was seeing…it wasn’t what had really happened. This wasn’t really his son, and he wasn’t really Harry at all! He…he was ruining his father’s life, the one he’d worked so hard to build, and for what?

He looked at him in the memory, grease covering his clothes and face, a thick beard already growing around his cheeks, haircut the same flat top his dad liked, ever since his days back in the army. He looked at him there, wanting an answer, and he could…see how if he gave him permission, there wasn’t going to be anything left for him. The factory would close down in a few years, after the accident, and everyone’s pensions would evaporate. His son needed an education if he was going to be someone–someone who mattered to the world–and not just some washed up redneck living in a dying small town, like Harry had become. So he said it.

He sat down with his young son, and even though Harry himself wasn’t very bright, they worked out the problems together, before going out and playing football in the yard as a reward. He agreed with his wife, and they did his best to work with Pete’s teachers to get his grades back where they needed to be, so he wouldn’t have to be held back. He talked him out of dropping out when things got rough, and told him that he wanted his son to have the sorts of opportunities he never got to have. That there was more to life than just working in a factory, that he could be so much. The potential in him was limitless! Why cut himself off at the knees? He could feel it–feel it having an impact and making a difference. He could almost see him walking across that stage to get his diploma, but before it fully materialized, he found himself flung back out, and he was back in the present, his son looking around, bleary and confused, and Mr. Elroy…did not look pleased.

Remembrances – Episode 2 (Part 2)

He shuddered, felt something inside him well up, and when Harry opened his eyes again, he wasn’t in the retirement home anymore, he was back in the old living room. But better than that–he wasn’t old, either. No he was young again, like he’d been in the picture–strapping young factory worker in his early 30’s, newly married after the war to his old high school sweetheart, his best friend and strange love, Wilbur, standing beside him, and there, on the sofa, was his son. His only son, no more that five or six, just sitting there with a happy grin on his face, without a care in the entire world.

“There he is, Harry, your boy.” Was it Wilbur speaking? Was it Mr. Elroy? Harry was beginning to wonder if there was even a difference between them at all. “This is what I was talking about, Harry, when I mentioned my other projects. See, it wasn’t just you that I wanted–not that you wouldn’t have been…delicious on your own.”

Harry felt an odd clarity returning to him, and he could almost remember what had happened to him, what Mr. Elroy had done to him or whatever this thing was, if it was even human at all. He looked up at his friend from his memory, but it was… wrong. His teeth shouldn’t be that sharp, or his jaw that distended, looking over at his innocent little son like he was nothing more than a snack. Then, just as quickly as it had come over him, it passed, and it was just his best friend again beside him…but the lingering sense of unease persisted.

“Excuse me, for that, Harry,” Wilbur said, “I can get over excited before a meal, sometimes.”

“What…What the fuckin’ hell are you?” Harry asked, a quaver in his voice.

“Something very old, Harry, with a much longer memory than you can possibly understand,” Wilbur said, “But that has nothing to do with you and your son, now does it? See, I know how disappointed you are, seeing that your son has grown up and become just the sort of person you despise, no better than the managers at the factory, the ones who wouldn’t bother listening to the warnings from the union. No better than the mealy mouthed fuckers at the department of labor, denying your claims, or the fuckers at the bank, who took this house from you when you needed it most, those asshole doctors who took not just one, but two of your loves far more early than they ever deserved to go.”

None of what the thing was saying could possibly be true–Harry knew that, for the moment. But as he spoke, memories flooded into him, as real as anything he had ever truly experienced, and along with them came an anger. A deep, bitter resentment at everyone who had ruined his life. He’d had…such promise, and he’d lost it all to fate. He could have been somebody, if it wasn’t for the fuckers of the world like his son had somehow managed to become.

“But we can fix it, Harry, don’t you worry. We can make sure your boy grows up to be exactly the sort of man you can be proud of.”

Harry felt everything in the memory spring to life around him, looked over, and the look in his son’s eyes–it was awe. He was just staring at Harry, smoking his cigar, standing with his best friend, and it seemed to stretch for…so long, somehow, and then it was gone. They were back in the retirement center, but not everything was the same. No, now his son was sitting there, still in a suit, sadly, but now he was smoking a cigar, the same brand Harry always smoked, looking at his dad beside him with the same awe and thrill as he had in the memory. “Well, I hope you’re liking it here, dad. I only want the best for you, you know that,” Peter said, taking a draw off his cigar, adding his own smoke to his father’s in the air. “It seems like they’re treating you well, though.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. He just looked up at Mr. Elroy standing beside him…but what was he even supposed to think? The real him, the kid that was growing more and more distant with each passing moment, was horrified, and couldn’t bear the thought of this monster doing to his father what had been done to him. But this new person he was becoming, with all of these vivid memories…he was thrilled…and he wanted to see more. He wanted his boy to become exactly the kind of man he was, to lose…everything, and be swallowed up and spit back out again.

“I can assure you that your father is very much enjoying his place here, isn’t that right, Harry?”

Harry nodded, and cleared his throat, “Yeah, yeah, it ain’t…home, but it’s alright.”

They all chatted for a few minutes, and Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away from his son’s cigar. The boy had always been obsessed with them as a kid, he’d always thought that when he could smoke them, then he’d be a real man, just like his dad was. Fuck, the first time he’d caught him with one, he’d had to give him a spanking (Patricia had demanded it, and he wasn’t about to contradict her word on household manners) but afterwards, he’d taken him for a ride in the truck, out of town a ways, and shown him the right way to do it, how to cut the cap off (or bite it off, if you were in a pickle), how to light it, how to hold it. He’d inhaled too much, and ended up having to throw open the passenger door and vomit on the side of the road, but it wasn’t like Harry hadn’t done the same thing when he’d smoked his first one too!

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 4 (Part 3)

The stranger’s face didn’t seem to match his body. Parts of his face didn’t even match other parts. One side was soft and pale, with a blue eye, the other half was rough, with thickening stubble, and that eye was darkening–in a moment, it was an unnatural black. (Bernard had said something similar, as had Marcus–the similarities were enough to shake some of my conviction in the moment). The softer half caught up quickly, but that was the last look Steven got, before the man grabbed him by the head with both thick hands, and rammed his cock into his mouth. It was even larger now, large enough to stretch his jaw slightly, and the man was merciless. He didn’t allow him a breath, didn’t care if he gagged. He slammed down his throat with a constant, even rhythm, saying nothing, giving no indication that he even enjoyed it. Steven felt like nothing more than a receptacle for him, for his force and cock. It was humiliating. In the moment, he just wanted it to stop–and yet, there was a voice inside him. A voice he’d always heard, a voice screaming out in joy, because he had been seen. Seen for what he was, for what he’d desired to be, and he didn’t notice himself cum all over the front of his jeans and the floor of the bathroom, didn’t know what to do with that sudden joy except to deny it with all the force of his ego.

He didn’t know how long that fuck lasted, but it ended, eventually. The man came, and the load was massive, flooding his mouth, Steven choking on it…and as hard as he tried, he couldn’t seem to swallow it. Instead, it poured back out his mouth and down the front of his face and shirt, spewed from his nose, his hands running through it and spreading it all over himself, and the cock finally pulled away, and he could look up at the figure looming over him, now seven feet tall, thick as the stall itself, but the eyes. He couldn’t look away from the eyes, how cold they seemed, how focused and unmerciful. He grabbed Steven by the collar and dragged him out of the stall. He fought him, and the man simply slammed his head to the wall hard enough to knock him out…and after that, he didn’t remember anything until he next woke up.

He didn’t know where he was, when he did, though he did recognize what sort of place it was, from the lifts and the garage doors. It was an abandoned mechanic’s shop of some sort, and he was alone, still in the same cum coated clothes he had been in, and shackled to the floor. Near him, was a bowl of food and a bottle of water. He drank and ate, and then tested the chain and screamed–but no one came to his rescue. Slowly, a different ache began to overtake him–something he recognized as a bodily ache, like a growing stomach or a dry throat, but it was like a dryness of his skin, a tingle in his tongue and upper palate. It grew more intense, and he became obsessed with trying to decipher it, and as it grew stronger, so did that voice. The voice he’d heard in the stall, but now it didn’t sound quite like his voice. Not like the narration of his thoughts, but like someone else speaking to him, trying to overwhelm him. Here, I recall that Cumster said it was his voice–and that was the first time in the story he referred to himself in the first person.

The rapist returned, again, with more food and water to give him, and he took more sex. Fucked his mouth, fucked his ass–but he never came inside him, only on him, and the more the cum soaked into his clothes, the more he tasted it (but never swallowed it, just swished it through his mouth before spitting it down onto his shirt and pants) the more the unnamed need began to fade, but the voice, Cumster’s voice, only grew stronger, more insistant, and he found it impossible to resist its desires.

The rapist would leave for hours at a time, return with more food and water, abuse him, and then leave again. When he was gone, with nothing to occupy his mind, Steven found himself masturbating helplessly and constantly. Soaking himself in his own cum helped ease his desires, but it wasn’t enough–he found himself aching for his captor, begging him for more cum, begging him to not leave…but the stranger never spoke. Never even acknowledged him. He would plead for an explanation, beg him to release him, but he said nothing. He would just stare at him with those black eyes, and when he did, Steven could almost…feel the man probing into him, testing the depths of his desires and his mind, cocking his head slightly like he, too, could hear Cumster’s voice inside him, gauging its strength, but doing nothing beyond that.

He paused there in his story, thinking. Perhaps he was wondering if he was telling me too much, or perhaps he was just wondering what words to use next. I felt like he wanted to be precise, and so, I remembered what he said clearly. “The next part was the…most difficult. Not everyone can make it through. I can’t tell you about that–you’ll…see for yourself, one day soon. But I can say that Steven wasn’t there anymore afterwards, it was just me. Cumster. I didn’t need to be chained in place, because there was nowhere else in the world that I wanted to be, than there, waiting for Master, waiting for him to return and abuse me more, to use me…to free me from Steven’s chains. I hadn’t been strong enough to break them without him. Steven hadn’t even noticed them, not once in his entire life. But afterwards, I was finally free. I could be something else, someone better than that…worthless man I’d been before. I could be everything he wanted to be, but was too terrified to chase.”

The Bruiser Rapes – Episode 4 (Part 2)

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.