Sucking Cock For Shelter Pt 1

“Get over here and suck my cock, that’s all you’re good for anyway.”

I whimpered and touched my cock harder, squeezing the slender shaft that was wet with my saliva and loving the hard pressure of my hand. I loved the pressure but ached with shame on why it was my hand, and not someone else’s stoking my meek little cock.

I watched the man on my laptop, a big muscular man with a shaved body and a huge cock unreal porn-star cock. I longed to touch it, to touch him. He was holding it out of the reach of some lucky sub with red hair and a leash around his neck. The video was about forty minutes long and I was only ten minutes in, but I suddenly felt tired, and disgusted with myself.

I rolled onto my back and stroked harder, with a little whimper I felt my pathetic, hateful little cock spasm and my balls pull close to my crotch.

The spurts of come that splashed on my soft flat tummy and chest felt feverishly hot.

I stayed there for a minute with tears leaking from my eyes and loneliness eating me from the inside out like a rat. I had heard of a method of torture used by the Chinese army. They would put a rat under a copper bowl on the prisoner’s stomach, and put hot coals on top. Not only would the coals burn the person, but the rat would get panicked and chew a hole in the prisoners stomach trying to get away.

That’s what the loneliness felt like; like a rat that was gnawing into my heart instead of my stomach.

I was twenty-four and all alone.

Tears leaked from my swollen lids as I wiped myself up and rolled onto my stomach to cry myself to sleep.

I guess that for a gay man who wanted to meet other men, I had the worst job in the world. I worked at an establishment where 9 nights out of ten, I would be the only person with a Y-chromosome in the entire building. I worked at an exclusively lesbian bar called Purple Rain.

I mainly served two kinds of drinks, the ridiculously colorful and surgery kind or the butch kind. The butch kind was mostly bull Lesbians who wanted to look tough by drinking only shots, and never a colorful drink.

At first it hurt my feelings when a few of the really drunk women started hitting on me, thinking I was a girl.

It was a Friday night that I met two of the most influential people of my entire life.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. He was about six feet tall with broad shoulders and a lean athletic body. He looked young and sexy and was here with a group of girls that had just brought him for the novelty. He was dancing out on the crowded floor and his body moved in a sleek lithe way, he was like walking, dancing, jiving sex out on the floor. Even a few of the lesbians were checking him out.

I served drinks; my cheeks flushed deeper and deeper and my heart raced faster and I hugged close to the bar to hide the aching boner in my pants. He was looking at me. There could be no mistake. This beautiful god-like man was giving me curious, interested glances with a sexy wolfish grin. When I saw those teeth, I felt like I would faint dead away.

He came up to the bar, his body loose with tiredness from his frantic dance, I could see a rill of sweat on his temple that faded into his short blonde hair.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

I melted. For a panicky moment I literally thought I was going to fall as all the strength simply poured out of my knees and my groin surged warmly. My engorged cock bumped the inside of the bar.

“Um—hi.”

I felt so stupid, so utterly stupid that I could no longer look him in the eye and I looked down at my hands, mentally screaming at myself for my stupidity. My cheeks were so red and I felt nervous moisture in my armpits and back.

“Damn sweetheart, I won’t bite… What’s your name?”

His voice was full of warmth and laughter, I felt so shy and awkward, but also filled with a sudden hope that was savage and warm and made me lightheaded and weak with its potency.

“Aaron. My name is Aaron Beck.”

I couldn’t believe my luck, my sheer luck!

Not even twenty-four hours ago, I had been crying like a little girl because I felt so lonely and depressed. Now, this beautiful man was talking with me, laughing at my clumsy jokes, and undressing me with his beautiful blue eyes.

Those looks made me nervous. And I found myself thinking about sex. I wondered if he would be patient with me. I was very shy and afraid when it came to sex. My one boyfriend had gotten tired of me getting ‘so damn jumpy’ when he tried to get me over my fears. That’s why he dumped me.

I mentally slapped myself. We were just talking. If we ever got to sex (my fingers were crossed) I hoped that he would be gentle.

“Hey, sweetheart? I have to go. Do you wanna come out back quick?”

I nodded, not trusting myself not to squeal with glee.

I quickly begged Jesse to take over my shift ten minutes early. She saw him and gave me a quick wink.

“Good luck!” She hissed.

I pulled out my tucked-in shirt to hide my small erection; I didn’t want him to see how small I was. The back was a narrow ally filled with dumpsters and puddles and a narrow potholed road that supply trucks could squeeze into for the various restaurants. He was waiting for me, leaning against the brick wall, looking like a model in his tight jeans and silky, half-unbuttoned shirt and his sexy stubbly cheeks. His eyes glowed like the blue flames of low-burning candles.

I don’t know what I expected. But it wasn’t this.

I took a few steps towards him and the next thing I knew, my glasses were hanging from one ear, warm blood was leaking from my mouth and spurting from my nose and the pain was numb and tingly at first, like my face had fallen asleep.

I felt his hand gripping my ponytail and I stared at the brick wall numbly, dimly understanding that he had grabbed my hair and smashed me face-first into the wall.

Why? I thought stupidly, tasting my blood, beginning to feel the pain.

Then he hauled back my head and smashed my face into the wall again, this time I heard the sick crunch as my nose broke. My mouth opened and I let out a weak cry that seemed more out of confusion and bewilderment then pain. My eyebrow had split open and one of my eyes was blinded with blood.

He smashed my head twice more into the wall with the viciousness of an angry drunk slamming his fist on a bar. Then all of my thoughts pretty much stopped.

——– DANIEL ——–

It wouldn’t be fair to say that my sister, Annabel was in the closet. It was closer to say that she was curled into a fetal position at the crawl space in the back of the closet with a set of chains (Conveniently provided by her subconscious) holding her there.

Not a single one of my family knew how Annabel had gotten this way. To tell the truth, I think that most of us were pretty damn confused.

First off, there was our uncle Jack, married to our wonderful, transgender aunt Marie. Marie had started off her life as Mark Denborough, and when she was eighteen she had put on a cute skirt, waxed herself hairless and never looked back.

Then there were our three homosexual cousins (one the adopted child of Jack and Marie) Jason, Carrie, and Laura.

And last, but not least, there was ME!

My parents were loving, our extended family (with the exception of a preacher who didn’t even send Christmas cards anymore) was accepting, and here was my baby sister sobbing her eyes out with longing and fear when my mom found an envelope filled with pictures of naked girls kissing.

It took us a week to convince her that we weren’t going to disown her, and another to convince her that we didn’t hate her. It had taken me the rest of the month to convince her to go to a GLBT club to meet people.

That’s how I ended up chaperoning my shy, terrified sister at the Purple Rain, and gaping dry-mouthed at a gorgeous little bartender.

I don’t think he ever saw me; I was lurking in a darkened booth where several couples were doing some heavy petting and making out. I felt ridiculous and somehow prissy sitting on the edge of the booth, turning my eyes away from the couples (who were giving me some very strange looks) and feeling like a kid who has gotten his first schoolyard crush.

Puppy love, I think they call it.

He was so cute that it should have been illegal. I loved it when guys had longer hair, and this gorgeous boy had a shoulder-length ponytail. He had cute square-rimmed glasses that framed his expressive pretty eyes. He had a slender oval face with high cheekbones and a few messy strands of hair that he kept tucking behind his ear in a way I just thought was adorable. He had one of those smooth slender faces and full lips, when the light hit him just right he looked like a girl.

I felt like a dirty old man. One part of me kept insisting that I was only 28, and 28 wasn’t ‘that’ old. The other part of me insisted that I must be at least ten years older, that kid couldn’t have been more then 18. 19 tops.

Another part of me just kept trying to imagine what we would look like together. Even if he was gay (I was pretty sure he was, but my Gaydar was terrible) he probably had had dozens of boyfriends, and I had only had two.

Plus, compared to him, I wasn’t exactly a catch. I had a bit of a belly going on, and I was hairy, and I was just too fucking big. I was really clumsy because I always felt like I should’ve been born a smaller man.

So I sat there, thirsty, worrying, and pathetic. I finally got the thin persistent courage to at least go up to the bar and buy a drink. To be close to that pretty oval face and those dark pretty eyes, when a man I hadn’t even noticed threw himself into a stool and instantly started up a conversation.

My courage wilted, and I sagged back into my seat, tasting bitter disappointment. The man up there was young, thin, confident, and sexy.

In short, everything I wasn’t.

Then I saw Annabel grinding with a lean brunette girl with a nose stud. She was laughing and happy. She looked so free.

I spent the next hour or so torn between bitterness (especially when they went out the back, him blushing adorably), and brotherly love.

I hadn’t had a problem with quitting cigarettes. I still smoked, but only one or two a week, and usually only when I was stressed or annoyed.

I went out front, but several people were in line and I didn’t want to piss them off by fouling their air. I hooked around back into an ally. I almost tripped over something soft and yielding. As my foot hit the obstacle, it let out a heartrending moan.

I looked down, and my first feelings were of shock and horror. I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach with a heavily padded fist.

The bartender was at my feet, curled up into a tiny fetal ball. His thin trembling body was naked and dirty and wet. I could see blood smeared on the fragile hands, and his long hair was in a disarray.

I swooped to my knees and dropped the half-smoked butt into a puddle. I eased my hands under him. One arm under the fragile crook of his knees and the other around his thin back and under his arms. His head lolled back and I felt my stomach twist and become a ball of loose sick jelly.

His face was unrecognizable. His nose was a swollen squashed lump, the size, color, and shape of a strawberry. His lips and eyes were swollen, his lips red from half dried blood, his puffy eyes the dull shiny black/purple/red of bad shiners. There was a split on his forehead and eyebrow and both of his lips so his face was covered in blood.

I ran to the parking lot. Annabel had her own car, thankfully. The bouncing jolted the poor bleeding thing in my arms to consciousness. I saw his puffy eyes slit open, and his swollen bleeding lips parted in a piteous moan.

I fumbled open the car door, babbling like an idiot, my mind running around in idiot circles like a dog chasing it’s tail.

“You’re gonna be okay.” I soothed, over and over. “Shh, your gonna be okay… gonna be okay… Shh.”

I set him down in the passengers seat, feeling softness and wetness as I put my hand under his ass to ease him down. He cried out and the sound was so weak.

I saw my hand in the dim yellow streetlight. In the weird orangey-yellow light, my right hand looked like it was covered in some viscous dark fluid. Chocolate syrup maybe, or brown paint. It was hot. My hand was covered in this boy’s blood.

“Jesus Motherfucking Christ.” I almost whimpered it.

I hopped into the car and drove as fast as I could, only pausing for a moment to buckle the crying boy’s seatbelt and throw my light spring coat over him.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. His eyes were glassy and huge in the streetlights. His voice was the timid, frightened voice of a child who has broken something valuable at a birthday party.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He kept repeating it. He wouldn’t stop.

“Shh” I said desperately. His voice was like a file on my frayed nerves. I felt tight and stretched, as if something in me would snap.

I don’t know how I kept my sanity, driving at breakneck speed with that poor bleeding child begging for forgiveness in my car.

——– AARON ——–

The man who saved me was blurry. I couldn’t see him through the blood and the tears. My body screamed with pain when the car stopped and he picked me up. I was bundled into his jacket. First I had bled on his car seat and now I was bleeding on his jacket.

“I’m S-Sorry.”

“Stop saying that!” His voice was thick and clogged, as if he were crying and I saw his brown eyes and I felt sick.

The hospital was so bright it hurt my eyes. I kept graying out from the pain. I felt myself being put down onto a padded wheeled table and I clung to my rescuers hand.

“Don’t leave.” I begged weakly. I was reeling with pain, drunk on it. Not happy-drunk. I was sick-drunk on the pain. Like the people who have so much alcohol that they see creatures crawling on the wall and they claw furrows into their skin to stop the room from spinning.

They swabbed thick clots of half-congealed blood from my ass. It hurt and I let out weak screaming sobs of pain and shame and sick, sick, fear.

He was in the room, the man who rescued me. He was pacing behind a thin translucent curtain. Muttering angrily and sometimes talking to a thin tired-looking black woman who was one of the people examining me. I let out a hurt retching noise and I felt nauseated and filthy. I felt so dirty.

He ran in with a big metal bowl and he held it under my chin. He held my head, one hand on my chin and one keeping the hair out of my face as I retched into the bowl. Shushing me, soothing me. His hands were so gentle.

I grayed out again. This time for good.

——– DANIEL ——–

They let me stay. I guess they kind of had to. They had taken him to a room to do a rape kit on him, and the little bartender had the strength to lift his thin torso and beg for me to stay. His hand, small and cold and wiry had gripped my wrist with a kind of desperate, ferocious strength.

They made me stay behind the curtain, I could hear him crying, and those weak sobs tore at my heart like nothing else could. I asked a nurse what they were doing, and her face was tired and sagging.

“Poor kid’s scared shitless, and he’s in a lot of pain. If I were you, I would just leave him alone.”

I heard deep urking noises from behind the curtain and I looked through; the kid was about to throw up. I held a bowl under his mouth and held his head while he vomited. The stuff in the bowl was thin and laced with blood. I wiped his swollen mouth, and I could feel his pulse in my fingertips as I cradled his skull, I could feel the blood that matted his long brown hair.

A nurse took over, and the head nurse told me that I should stay in the lobby, and that the police could come later and ask me a few questions.

“P-Please.” His voice was so small. It was that same timid scared voice from the car. “Don’t go… please d-don’t go.”

His eyes shut. His face was a swollen, multicolored mess in the bright hospital lights. I was grateful to be allowed to stay. I sat in that small room as they cleaned and inspected the unconscious young man behind the curtain. I called Annabel to tell her why I had left, and I settled down to wait.

It wasn’t until I woke up hearing my name that I realized I had fallen asleep.

“Daniel Arceiro?”

I looked up and it was a heavyset man in a policeman’s uniform. With him was a thin fortyish woman, his partner.

I glanced at the bed. His face had been cleaned, but his hair was still matted with dried blood in places and the bruises and cuts stood out on his pale face like flags. He had a blindingly white strip of bandage across the bridge of his nose, which now looked somewhat normal shaped. He was covered up to his shoulders with a gray blanket and his shoulders were clothed in white, blue-patterned fabric that was unmistakably a hospital gown. His clothes were in an ally somewhere, probably covered in more of his blood.

“Yeah.” My voice was a hollow-sounding whisper.

“Can we ask you some questions?”

“Shh! He’s sleeping. Yeah we can talk, but can we go to the lobby or something?”

The woman nodded. As we left she spoke. “I am officer Olivia Kushner and this is David Reed.”

The clock said it was 3:16 AM. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and bought a coffee from this little café they had in the lobby.

They asked me why I was at the Purple Rain. They asked about the bastard who had raped the bartender. They asked a few other questions.

And I asked my own. “What’s the kids name? I never, y’know, got to really talk with the poor bastard.”

“Aaron Beck, and he ain’t a kid, he’s 24. You gonna stay with him all night?”

I didn’t answer the question at first. I sipped my coffee and digested the shock that the frail young man in there was only four years younger then me, and not ten like I had figured.

“Yeah. I want to be here when he wakes up.”

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One thought on “Sucking Cock For Shelter Pt 1

  1. Steve says:

    This one brought some bad memory for me as i was 14 snd rape and beaten by some high school jocks there was 4 of them if it wasn’t for the young janitor i won’t be here to day that was back in 1974 and yes the we’re charge and all got jail time for rape and attempt murder they all got out 10 year later and yes i married the man that saved me still together 41 years later waiting for part 2

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