A truck pulls in late that night. Hidden in the bushes, Ryan rests his hand on Spencer's back and watches as the driver gets out of the cab, stretching before locking his truck and heading for the toilet block. From this distance he's little more than a shape in the darkness. Ryan’s pleased that someone has finally parked at last, he's pretty nervous, too, because how're they supposed to know if this guy is some kind of freak or not? Ryan had thought Si was okay, and he hadn't been at all.
"Stop thinking so hard." Spencer turns slightly, enough so he's looking at Ryan. "We have to take a chance, we can't stay here."
"And what if he's some axe murdering pervert?"
"He was carrying a magazine, not an axe."
Which is true, but now that he's faced with trusting someone, Ryan isn't sure that he can.
"Hey, it's okay." Spencer reaches out so he can pat Ryan's leg. "We'll think of something, if we have to, we'll climb into the back."
Ryan looks at the truck, at the sides of the trailer that are held down with straps, which surely they'll be able to loosen to get inside. "You're a genius."
"I try," Spencer says, and then he puts his finger the side of Ryan's mouth. "Shush, he's coming."
Ryan nods, watching as the driver goes back to his truck. There's a tense moment when it looks like he might be leaving immediately. Then the lights of the cab switch on, and for a moment, the driver can be seen clearly, a guy wearing a red plaid shirt with blond hair pulled back into a loose pony tail.
"What is it with truckers and bad fashion choices?" Ryan can't actually see Spencer that clearly due to the covering of bushes they're hiding under, but he catches the hint of an eyebrow raise and asks, "What?"
"Have you seen what we look like lately? And you're critiquing his fashion style?"
"We're very boho chic, he's just lame."
"If by boho chic you mean dirty and smelly, I agree."
"Like I said, boho chic." Ryan tugs gently at Spencer's hair and then sits still, watching the dark shape of the driver move behind the closed curtain. When he finally stops moving, and the main light dims to a faint glow, Spencer starts to wiggle out from their hiding place.
"Come on, we need to get inside before he goes."
Despite knowing he won't be seen, Ryan nods. It takes a while to work himself free. He's been sitting crouched over -- his hair is tangled with the branches and he has to go slowly because deep breaths suck. Eventually, after a cursory brushing of his hair with his fingers, Ryan's on clear ground. He steels himself before pushing upright. When he's standing and mostly steady, Ryan holds out a hand to help Spencer stand, and they both make their way over to the truck.
Neither speaks; they don't need to. Ryan can read Spencer's gestures easily, and soon they're standing at the back of the trailer, examining the buckles and straps. It doesn't look that complicated, and if they can get one undone they can squeeze inside. Then it's a matter of waiting for the morning, when they'll be on their way without anyone knowing they're there.
The straps are pulled so tight that Ryan can't get them loose, and Spencer's not doing any better. Both of them are working as hard as they can, tugging and trying to wedge their fingers between the buckles, but all that happens is that Ryan's nails chip and his fingers ache. Not that he stops, all he does is keep trying harder, moving from strap to strap, hoping that at least one will be loose. None of them are, and Ryan's so frustrated, so angry at his inability to even do this, that he doesn't hear the approaching footsteps until it's too late.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!"
Ryan jumps back, turning to see that the driver has hold of Spencer, his hand wrapped around Spencer's arm.
"Let go of him!" Furious, Ryan runs forward, launching himself at the man, who pushes him back easily. Fear pushing past any hurt, Ryan attacks again, and this time the man grabs hold of Ryan's arm too, tightening his grip and not letting go, no matter how hard Spencer and Ryan struggle and hit.
"Will you two stop it? I'm not going to hurt you." The man is frowning, and his strength is obvious, but he's not doing anything except holding on, waiting for them to settle down.
"Let us go," Ryan yells, still struggling to get free. "If you don't, you'll be sorry."
"Really?" The man shakes his head and Ryan catches sight of a hint of a smile. "Seems to me you're the ones who need to be sorry, especially when I hand you over to the authorities for trying to steal my cargo."
"We weren't trying to steal it." Spencer has stopped struggling now, is standing with one foot raised off the ground. "We needed a ride, that's all."
"And you couldn't have asked?"
"Last time we did that it didn't end well." Spencer indicates himself and Ryan with a sweep of his hand. "Look, we're sorry for bothering you, but if you let us go we'll go away and you'll never have to worry about us again."
"Sorry, kid. Can't do that."
"Why? You going to take what you want, too?" Ryan spits out. "Is there some kind of trucker code we don't know about where rides are paid with sex?"
"For some perverted bastards, maybe." The man looks from Spencer to Ryan, as if considering what to do. "Look, if I let go will you run?"
Ryan doesn't reply, just glares, but Spencer says, "Normally, yeah. But right now I don't think we could."
"I figured." The man sighs and lets go. "I can't let you travel in the back, but I can offer you a ride."
Spencer moves so that he's leaning against the side of the truck, his expression defiant. "We don’t have any money."
"I don't want any." The trucker looks between them, and says softly, obviously to himself, "I must be insane, fucking friends and their bad influences." Then, more loudly, "My name's Bob. If you don't want to tell me your names that's fine, I'll just call you Hey You."
Ryan's about to answer that that's fine, but Spencer gives him a look, and Ryan closes his mouth, letting Spencer do the talking. "Spencer and Ryan will be fine. That's Ryan."
Ryan nods slightly, but keeps glaring, showing Bob that they're not trusting him, they're on guard. Not that Bob seems to care. In fact, all he does is walk back to the front of his truck. Then he looks back. "Are you coming or what?"
"What do you think?" Spencer asks Ryan, pitching his voice low.
Ryan shrugs, unable to answer the question, because the fact is, he's got no idea what to think. Bob seems okay; he could have hurt them but he didn't. That doesn't mean, though, that he won't. And Ryan's not about to drop his guard -- he's been caught out once, it's not about to happen again.
"We can't stay here," Spencer says, and despite how tired he appears, there's also an underlying layer of determination. "And if he tries anything, I'll punch him out."
"Excellent plan." Making a fist, Ryan holds it in the air until Spencer does the same, and they bump their fists together.
"If you've finished plotting to beat me up, you should come here."
Ryan lets his hand drop and frowns at Bob, because what's he doing spying on them from the front of the truck? But Spencer doesn't seem concerned at all, just starts to limp forward, one hand braced against the side of the trailer. Seeing that, Bob watches for a moment, and Ryan expects him to say something, ask for an explanation or make some stupid meaningless remark, but all he does is disappear back around front, leaving Ryan to hurry and catch up.
When he gets there he sees that Bob's looking for something inside the cab, the only thing visible being his legs, showing off his cargo pants and striped socks. It only proves the point that truckers have no fashion sense at all. Ryan's about to point that out to Spencer when Bob straightens up and jumps to the ground. Turning, he holds up a small first-aid kit.
"You probably need the hospital, but I know you won't go, so this is the best I can do."
"Thanks," Spencer says, and he takes the kit.
In reply, Bob climbs back into the cab and rummages around in the foot-well of the passenger seat, finally coming out with two big bottles of water which he sets on the ground. "I'm going to restock on junk food, give me a shout when you're done."
He goes without a backward glance, heading over to the vending machines, where he starts feeding in coin after coin.
"You're the one with the mad skills, you'd better have this." Spencer holds out the kit to Ryan.
Ryan looks away from Bob, who seems to be on a mission to empty the machine of every chocolate bar in there. He takes the first-aid kit off Spencer and opens it up, setting it on the step of the truck. He takes stock of what's inside, because while he doesn't have mad skills like Spencer seems to think, Ryan can patch himself up, and others too.
Dealing with bruises and cuts is different, though, and Ryan doesn't even know where to start. Picking up a roll of bandages, he puts it back, and looks at Spencer who's lowered himself to the ground. He's sitting in the patch of ground illuminated by the cab lights and looking so washed out and pale that Ryan's frozen in place, his doubts overwhelming, because what if he does something wrong? What if he makes things worse?
"Let me help with that, it's awkward for one person to wrap an ankle."
Ryan can only look at Bob, who's dropped an armful of candy and chips on the ground.
"Here, hold his leg up while I take off his shoe." Somehow, Bob's moved so that he's kneeling next to Spencer. With a curt nod, Ryan does the same, looking at Spencer, who's propped up on his elbows, his eyes half closed. Gently, Ryan cradles Spencer's lower leg in his hands, feeling how warm and swollen it is the closer it gets to the ankle.
"Hey, kid, I'm going to take your shoe off. Hang in there." Movements sure, Bob pulls at Spencer's sneaker, easing it off his foot, and then does the same for his sock. Ryan forces himself to stay still, not to haul Bob away when Spencer tries to suppress his cries of pain -- and fails.
"I'll bandage this up, you keep holding on," Bob says, glancing at Ryan before efficiently wrapping a bandage around Spencer's ankle. When he's done, he secures it with tape and then climbs back into the truck, coming back with a pillow that he sets on the ground. "You can rest his foot on here."
"Yeah, sure." Ryan lowers Spencer's leg onto the cushion, and then stands, watching, as Bob opens a see-through box with multiple small bottles of medication inside. Rummaging through them, he eventually takes out a bottle of Tylenol and one of Ibuprofen, shaking pills from both.
"Here, take these, they're painkillers and anti-inflammatories." He hands them to Spencer, who swallows them dry, then offers the boxes to Ryan. "You want?"
Ryan does want. He wants something to take the edge off the pain in his chest, or tame the headache that's a constant background throb. Still, he shakes his head, because he needs to be alert, especially when Spencer is half-asleep.
"Fair enough," Bob puts the box on the dashboard of the cab. "They're there if you change your mind." He looks at Ryan then, and immediately Ryan feels defensive, like he's been judged somehow and coming up lacking. But when Bob does speak again, all he says is, "You should get yourself cleaned up, those cuts could get infected."
"I'm fine," Ryan says, and takes a step closer to Spencer.
"You're being an idiot." Spencer emphasizes his point by poking his finger at Ryan's leg. "You need to get those cleaned out, and take some pain-killers for fuck's sake."
"Look, kid, if it helps, I've got someone waiting for me at home, and have no desire to get near either of your under-aged asses. Get cleaned up, don't. I don't fucking care."
Which is obviously untrue. It's there in the way Bob looks at them, the concern evident in his actions of gathering blankets and water and food. Still, Ryan appreciates the sentiment. "Fine."
Ryan starts cleaning out the cuts on his own, methodically pouring water over his arms, watching the dirt be washed away. It would be easier to do in the bathroom but he's not about to leave Spencer, and so makes do with the bottled water as he scrubs at each cut and scratch with sterile squares of cloth from the kit, adding antiseptic and then moving onto the next. Up his arms, across his shoulders, over his chest – the one across his rib-cage is one of the worst, deep and hot to the touch. Ryan's hands shake as he tucks his t-shirt up under his chin, cleaning and applying cream, smoothing it into the ragged groove. He's taking in shallow breaths, panting for air, but he grits his teeth and keeps going.
"You're not breathing too well."
Ryan rounds on Bob, letting pain fuel his impatience. "You try walking around with busted ribs and see how well you breathe."
"They're probably just cracked."
"They still fucking hurt."
"Never said they wouldn't," Bob says, not reacting to Ryan's anger at all. "It would help to wrap them."
"I know that." Ryan takes another bandage, using his teeth to pull apart the plastic wrapping. Tucking the end of the bandage under his arm, he pulls his t-shirt under his chin again and starts to wrap across his chest. He doesn't even get to under his other arm before he has to stop. It's impossible to hold up his t-shirt and cross his arm and get the bandage behind his back. Not that he doesn't try -- again and again. Until finally, Bob steps forward and takes hold of the bandage. Ryan's so tired, so fucking done, that all he can do is let him.
"Stay still," Bob orders, and while he sounds rough, his touch is gentle as he carefully wraps the bandage, checking the tightness often, never asking but assessing Ryan's comfort in the way he reacts. "There, done."
Ryan lets his t-shirt drop and takes a tentative deep breath. It still hurts, a lot, but the bandages help.
"Are you going to take these now?"
Ryan turns to Bob, who's leaning against the steps of the cab, holding out the bottles of pills. Despite his reservations, Ryan holds out his hand.
"You're welcome," Bob says, handing them over. Ryan opens both bottles, shakes out the pills and dry swallows them all. When he's done Bob takes back the bottles, and starts to pick up the packets and used sterile squares, crumpling them all together before going to pitch them in the trash cans.
"I can do that," Ryan says, keeping a hand against his ribs as he bends to pick up a stray wrapper.
"You could, and then you'd end up fainting and then I'd have to haul your ass into my truck."
"I don't faint," Ryan protests, because he doesn't. He's never fainted, ever.
"Sorry tough guy, my mistake."
While Bob isn't smiling, Ryan gets the feeling that he's laughing at him somehow, which he doesn't like at all, but he's distracted by the fact Bob's also opening a plastic box filled with sandwiches and setting a giant red plaid flask on the ground.
"More plaid, seriously?" Ryan says without thinking.
Bob looks up. "I like plaid."
"I can see that."
"You're one to talk," Bob says, gesturing toward Ryan.
"He calls it boho chic," Spencer says unexpectedly, and yawns as he rubs at his eyes with one hand. "That’s food, non-trash food."
"It is," Bob says, sitting down far enough from Spencer that Ryan can relax, but close enough that he's in the patch of light. "And that's not boho chic, that's dirt."
"At least I'm not wearing plaid." Easing himself down, Ryan sits next to Spencer. He grunts, "What?" when he's poked in the thigh. For almost a minute he engages in a silent conversation with Spencer, one involving eyebrow raises, shoulder shrugs and fierce frowns. Eventually, though, Ryan looks at Bob. "Not that you look bad in plaid."
"I'll sleep easier knowing that." Bob takes the box of sandwiches and holds them out to Spencer and Ryan. "Help yourself."
They do, both taking a sandwich -- thick doughy bread, with copious slices of roast beef. Ryan chews his slowly, favouring one side of his mouth, and by the time he's finished, both Spencer and Bob have eaten two sandwiches and are starting on cups of coffee, the steam rising into the cool of the night as they wrap their hands around the plastic thermos-topper cups.
"Here," Spencer holds out his cup and Ryan takes it. Resisting the urge to gulp at the coffee, he sips instead, enjoying the warmth in his mouth and belly. Combined with the lessening pain as the pills kick in, right now Ryan feels better than he has in a while.
"Are you going somewhere specific?"
It's not an unexpected question. Ryan knew Bob would ask sometime, he's just taken off-guard, and it's Spencer that replies.
"We're going to Chicago."
"Figures," Bob says, at least that's what Ryan thinks he said, because Bob's taking another drink, his mouth mostly concealed by the white cup. "Is someone expecting you there?"
"My uncle," Ryan says immediately. "He's letting us stay for a while."
"Right," Bob says, drawing out the word and obviously not believing Ryan at all. Surprisingly, he doesn't press for details, just drains his cup before shaking it over the ground, getting rid of any last drops. "I've paperwork I was planning to do tonight, so I'll just stay up in the front of the cab, you two can sleep in back."
Ryan sets down the cup, his heart starting to race as he looks at Bob, because he was beginning to trust him, and now he wants them in his bed. "We're staying out here."
Bob shrugs. "It's your choice, but there's a bed going empty. If you'd rather stay out here, I'm not going to stop you." He stands then, and starts to gather the remains of the sandwiches, sealing the lid of the box.
Reaching out, Spencer grabs Ryan's arm and pulls him close, enough so that he can talk in Ryan's ear. "It's stupid staying here when there's a bed in there."
"And what happens if he comes in the back? It's not like we can fight him off."
"Kid, if I wanted I could take you two here. You're in no condition to fight me off." Bob screws the cups back on top of the thermos, not appearing ashamed of listening in at all.
"No way would you be able to take us," Ryan spits, bitter and fierce. He pointedly turns his back, looking only at Spencer, taking in how he's barely keeping himself awake, and how despite the painkillers, he's shifting uncomfortably on the ground. "Fine, okay, we'll sleep in there."
Ryan pushes himself up, ignoring Bob, who's moved close, ready to help if needed. Holding out his hand, Ryan helps Spencer to stand, letting him lean against him, despite the resulting flash of pain.
Getting into the truck is awkward. The steps are high and Spencer has to haul himself up, clinging onto the door as best he can. All the time Ryan stands behind him, ready to help. Thankfully, Spencer manages on his own. Ryan's honestly not sure he can get himself in, never mind help someone else.
Looking over his shoulder, Ryan checks that Bob's moved away, because Ryan can do this on his own, even if reaching up hurts and pulling himself up hurts even more. He still does it, stepping inside and behind the front seats, to the bed area where Spencer is already lying down.
Bob's quilt is red, and there's a pile of pillows at one end of the sleeping area. He's got a small TV on a shallow shelf and a laptop tucked between the bed and the wall. There’s a pair of battered slippers and what looks like a sketchbook jammed behind the clothes carefully piled in one corner. It's cosy and comfortable and if Ryan wasn't so nervous he'd be enjoying settling down in the pile of pillows. As it is, he's jumping at every noise, so tense that his shoulders feel brittle and tight as he sits, his back against the wall.
"You should lie down," Spencer says. He's got his foot elevated on two pillows, and he twists around so he can rest his head against Ryan's thigh. "We can trust him, Ryan. I've spent my life having to judge people, I know."
"You didn't know about Si," Ryan says, and hates himself for it after, because none of this is Spencer's fault. Maybe he didn't know Si was some kind of pervert, but it's not like Ryan did, either.
"He's not like Si."
"How do you know?" Ryan rubs his hand over Spencer's shoulder, looking toward the door, where Bob's still moving around outside.
"I don't," Spencer admits. He turns even more, enough so he can rest his arm over Ryan's legs. "But we need sleep, and he hasn't tried anything."
"And I'm not going to." The truck dips slightly when Bob climbs on board. Sitting in the passenger seat, he turns so he can see in back. "Can you pass my laptop?"
Ryan does, watching as Bob opens it and settles down, turning off the cab lights, his feet on the dashboard, the glow of his laptop bleaching his face white. Back against the wall, Ryan pulls up the quilt so it covers Spencer. "I'm not going to sleep."
"Up to you," Bob says.
It's nearly midnight when Ryan gives in and sleeps. He remains sitting up, Spencer a heavy weight on his legs, the sound of Bob typing the background noise of his dreams.
Hands against the counter, Brendon leans in, trying his best smile. "Please, I'll be able to pay tomorrow. Promise."
"You pay upfront, or no room." The woman behind the counter glances up then, taking a moment from watching Oprah to actually look at who's standing at the desk. "Have any money?"
Brendon's smile fades, because all he's got is change, and no way will that pay for the room. "No."
"No money, no room, you need to be out by ten." She goes back to watching TV then, something about healthy eating, a chef chopping vegetables, Oprah looking intent as she explains about obesity figures.
Brendon turns away, the sight of food making him feel nauseated. It's been hours since he last threw up, and he feels shaky from dehydration and exhaustion. What he wants is to go back to the room and curl up in bed, but it's pointless, he'd only have to leave in ten minutes, and it's not as if he's got anything to go back for. Never looking back, Brendon leaves the hotel.
It's bright outside, cold, and Brendon shivers and screws up his eyes. Walking slowly, he looks around, taking in the shops and the people who hurry by. None of them look Brendon's way.
He tries to remember his lessons from school, when they were told what to do in an emergency, but none of those situations apply now. It's a terrifying situation, and Brendon crosses his arms across his chest, hugging himself as he watches people walk past. When he sees an older woman he steps forward, about to ask about the nearest park, anything as long as someone sees him and will look his way. He calls, "Excuse me." She doesn't slow down at all.
He tries again and again; each time they duck their heads, look away, and Brendon's left standing alone. Before he'd have gone to the church, but now the thought makes him feel sick, and he begins to walk, never looking where he's going, just knowing he needs to move.
He stops when he notices a library. It's in an old building, a wooden ramp built over the stone stairs that lead to the heavy doors. Walking inside, Brendon heads for the stacks, wandering until he finds a chair. Sitting, he takes a moment to rest, then reaches out and grabs the nearest book, opening it and holding it in his hands. He grips the pages, forces himself to loosen his grip when the paper crumples -- he doesn't try to read. It's pointless when all the words will do is dance in front of his eyes. Instead Brendon pretends, that he's supposed to be here, tucked up small, book in hands. He pretends to be a boy with somewhere to go.
The problem is, he isn’t that boy. The library closes at eight, and Brendon has to leave. He smiles at the woman who's ushering people out, keeps acting -- he's got someplace to go, really, he's going to walk out here and go home. What he does instead is walk out and start walking again.
Brendon's hungry, thirsty, and all he has is a few coins in his pocket. It's dark, cold, and he shivers, curling his hands as he hurries through the emptying streets, until, finally, he finds himself outside of the club again. This time there's no line outside, just locked doors and dim lights and Brendon walks up to the doors, rests his hands on the sparkling surface and imagines he can feel the beat of music that's contained within.
Which is stupid and pointless, but Brendon focuses on the songs, the melodies that he keeps safe in his head. Things that have never turned on him, have never expected more than he can give. If he imagines those he doesn't have to remember how his stomach is growling and his throat is dry, how he's freezing and so tired he's swaying in place. Lost in those sounds, those songs, Brendon jumps when someone suddenly walks close, stops in front of Brendon and clears his throat.
"You're new around here, aren't you?" The man is older, around Brendon's dad's age. He's wearing a tan overcoat, a striped scarf and black pants. He smiles at Brendon, reaches out and runs his fingers down Brendon's face. "Did you just arrive?"
Brendon nods and then remembers his manners, smiling as he holds out his hand. "I'm Brendon."
The man seems surprised and shakes hands briefly, looking Brendon up and down. "Even with the bruise you're a pretty one."
Flushing, Brendon wonders what to say. He eventually settles on, "Thanks."
"You're welcome." The man's still staring at Brendon, assessing him. "I take it this is your first day?"
"I'm not..." Brendon's unsure what he's supposed to say, but the man looks pleased with his confusion, like Brendon's pleased him somehow.
"Oh, you really are green." He steps forward, so close that Brendon has to look up at him. "I'll give you ten dollars if you blow me."
It's not what Brendon expected at all, and he's about to refuse, hurry away when he thinks what the money will get him. It could easily buy something hot to drink, something to settle his stomach, to warm him; something plain, because despite the constant nausea, Brendon’s starving. And even if he hasn't done this before, there's no reason why he can't, a blow job can't be that difficult. He's tainted anyway, that’s why his parents couldn’t keep him.
“Come on, pretty. A few minutes for ten dollars, that’s a good rate. I’m being generous here.” The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, taking out a ten; he holds it in front of Brendon’s face.
Brendon wants the money, but more than that, he needs it. He has a momentary dream of hot soup, tea with sugar, even an apple would do. Stomach grumbling, he reaches out, placing his palm flat against the wall of the club, steadying himself as he suddenly sways.
“You using, pretty?”
Brendon’s not sure what that means, but, “Just hungry.” He blinks away the spots that float in front of his eyes. He concentrates on the rough feel of the wall, the brick digging into the scabbed cuts on his palms, the sidewalk, so solid under his feet, how he’s cold, exposed skin chilled, anything to keep him rooted in the here and now.
The man nods, opens his wallet again. “Tell you what, I like to think of myself as a kind man and I like you. So I’m going to make it fifteen – that’s a solid meal.”
It’s an offer Brendon can’t refuse. He takes a deep breath and pushes back the part of him that’s screaming wrong wrong wrong . “Okay.”
"Excellent." The man smiles and starts to walk, looking cursorily back at Brendon. "Well come on, we can't do it here."
The end up in an alley behind the club, the floor littered with used condoms, broken glass and take-out cartons. It smells of decay, urine, the sour taint of old vomit. Brendon begins to regret saying yes; he's out of his depth and each decision he makes seems to make things worse. He looks back at the entrance to the alley and thinks about running, but that would take energy he doesn't have, and he makes himself remember Alan's face. How close he came to dying, and all because of Brendon. Would-be murderers deserve to be punished: there's a reason Brendon's here.
Nervous, Brendon takes a step back, looks down and digs the toe of his sneaker into the ground. "I haven't. I mean. I haven't done this before."
"It's easy." The man opens his coat, runs his hands through Brendon's hair, his touch gentle. He urges Brendon down, pressing on his head until he drops to his knees. "You need to open my pants first."
Brendon's palms are still criss-crossed with scrapes, and he feels clumsy as he fumbles at the button of the man's pants --they're made of some kind of plastic, tiny buttons arranged in a pair. It takes a while to unbutton each one, and Brendon listens to the man breathe, so relaxed in comparison to the way Brendon is almost hyperventilating as he bites at his bottom lip and finally undoes the buttons. He figures out to pull down the zipper all on his own.
"That's it, pretty, take them down. My underwear too."
Brendon does, his hands shaking as he eases the man's pants past his hips, then hooks his fingers in the waistband of his underwear and tugs. The man sighs, and Brendon doesn't know where to look. He's never been this close to someone else's cock before, and he's got no idea what to do. He's read books, checked out web sites, seen all the movies that Alan used to show, but none of that helps at all. Not when he's kneeling on the hard ground and the man's cock is right there, hard and red and already glistening at the end.
"Come on, pretty. I haven't got all night."
The man sounds impatient now, and instead of stroking Brendon's hair, he grabs hold of it, his grip tight. Wincing, Brendon tentatively moves in, opening his mouth, intending to go slow. It doesn't happen like that at all. As soon as Brendon's close, the man thrusts forward, shoving his cock into Brendon's mouth. It hits the back of his throat and Brendon gags at the taste and sensation, hating how his mouth is full, how he has to open his mouth wide to get it all in. He tries to pull back but the man tightens his hold and starts to thrust, pulling his hips back slightly before slamming back in.
Eyes streaming, Brendon chokes with each thrust, fighting for breath as spit oozes from his mouth, sliding down his chin. Desperate, he brings up his hands and grabs hold of the man's hips, trying to keep him back, but that doesn't work. Brendon yelps when the man just thrusts harder while pulling on Brendon's hair.
"Come on. Jesus, you said I could do this."
Brendon closes his eyes and fights for air, choking on the man's cock, pushing too far into his throat, the rhythm brutal, and only getting faster, more insistent.
"That's it. You can take it. Such a good boy. If I didn't have to get home I'd fuck you, too. I bet you'd be tight. Would you want that, pretty? My cock in your ass?"
There's no way Brendon can reply, not that the man seems to expect him to, he just grunts and slams his hips forward, and Brendon has no warning before he's forced to swallow when the man comes, retching at the thick warm fluid that slides down his throat. The man pulls back then, sliding his softening cock over Brendon's bottom lip, leaving behind a trail of fluid. Brendon wipes at his mouth with his hand, keeps looking at the ground as the man pulls up his underwear and pants, fastens his coat.
"Here you go, pretty."
Two bills float to the ground, and Brendon reaches out for them, crumpling them in his hand. He stays on his knees, breathing hard as the man fastens his coat, and then goes. As soon as he's gone Brendon falls forward, hands against the ground as he throws up, bile mixed with the remains of the man's come -- evidence of just how disgusting Brendon has become.
Tags: my stories:bandom