(8)

8 o'clock sharp next mornin my alarm went off – i'd set the clock-radio to make sure i got up on time – & i jumped out of bed, stood in the middle of my room, looked all around me . . .  had i heard him callin me?  i listened hard.  was that his voice i heard, still echoin thru the air?  or was it just a memory . . .

last night.  suddenly i remembered last night.  reachin round & gingerly touchin my behind, i remembered the feelin of the paddle, how it had stung & burned back there.  then all kinds of jumbled thoughts & images started floatin thru my head, all in pieces.  like brett flexin his muscles at me.  or brett lyin on his bed takin a nap.  brett & his tatoos.  brett tellin me i was a faggot.  brett makin me say i was a faggot . . .

but i wasnt no faggot.  how could i show him that, how could i prove him wrong?  cuz he was wrong.  he had to be.  i mean – like, for instance – brett had this one tatoo down on the side of his calf, right?  a drawin of a womans face, with this long, wicked-lookin black hair twistin all round it & these two huge round titties sketched in underneath.  now, i could imagine touchin her.  gettin down on my knees & puttin my mouth right up against bretts calf & . . . kissin her . . . kissin her . . .

but thinkin of that woman on bretts leg didnt help.  all i could think of was . . . the hard, veiny bulge of bretts calf muscle.  or brett lyin naked on his bed.  or brett rollin his arms up, makin his biceps turn into huge, round lumps . . .  crap!  crap, crap, crap!  it was like i couldnt get him out of my head, like everywhere i turned he was standin right there, blockin my way.  god, what a goon he was.  what a goon!

i looked down at my dick, which was stickin up in a long arc in front of me.  i pulled down on it & let it thwack up against my belly.  jeez louise, i thought.  another day in paradise.

diggin in my dresser drawer i found a fresh pair of underwear.  put them on.  went down the hall to the bathroom to grab a quick shower . . . & found the door shut.  which didnt make no sense.  brett always used the bathroom downstairs.  i reached to grab hold of the knob – then, even tho i didnt hear nothin, decided i'd better knock instead.

"hold your horses, little fucker!" brett calls.  jee-eeez!  what was he doin usin this bathroom?  usually he worked out in the mornin, showered off in the bathroom downstairs, ate breakfast, went to work on a car.  same thing every day.  so what was he doin up here today?  i waited, starin at the door.  a few seconds later it opened, & a bunch of steam comes rollin out.  thru the steam i could see brett wrappin a towel round his middle.  cripes.  steppin towards me, he flicks the towel open & then, real quick like, wraps it round himself again – like he's flashin me or somethin.  i wait for him to leave, keepin my hands folded in front of me to hide my dick.  he glances down, then gives me a sharp look.  he goes "you hard, faggot?"

i wince.  "no" i say.  "i'm not."

"yeah?" he says.  "so drop your hands, why doncha.  whatcha got to hide?"

"c'mon, brett" i say.  "i just need to get into the bathroom, thats all.  i gotta take a piss."

"c'mon, brett" he mimics.  "look, fucker – thats one.  get it?  thats one.  now, move your hands away from your crotch.  dont make me tell you again."

thats one? i think.  miserably, i let my hands drop to my sides.

his eyes flick downwards.  "uh-huh" he says.  "& thats two."

"two?" i say.  "whad'ya mean, thats two?"

"you didnt do what i told you to" he says, holdin up a finger.  "that was one.  & you lied to me.  that was two.  dont ever lie to me, brat."  he moves round beside me as if to let me thru, but when i try to get past him into the bathroom he puts a hand on the back of my neck & squeezes.  my body goes rigid.  "i said, dont lie to me, faggot.  you hear me?"

"yeah" i mumble.  "i hear you."

he jerks me back a little, then sticks his arm out in front of me & pulls the fist up so the muscle bulges.  "you like that, faggot?" he whispers into my ear.

i dont say nothin.

"kiss it" he hisses.

"lemme go, brett!" i say.  i wish i could shout the words, but i cant.  my voice comes out soft & whiny.

"lemme go" he mimics, then adds, "& that makes three."  stickin his arm back out in front of me he makes the muscle bulge again.  "now kiss it" he orders.

what can i do?  i bend forward & give his arm a quick peck.  the skin is soft & warm.  the muscle underneaths as hard as cement.

"now, tell me you like that" he says.  "cuz i know you do – doncha, faggot?"

"no . . ." i say.

he shakes his head.  "thats four" he says.  "i repeat, do not lie to me, kevyn.  now, one more time –" he bulges his arm up in front of me again – "you like that, dont you – faggot."

i close my eyes.  "alright" i say.  "alright.  yes, i like it."

"good boy" he says, movin off down the hall.  "now hurry it up!  you aint got no time to be playin round.  & you aint got time to be playin with yourself neither – you hear me, asshole?"

"yeah, yeah" i mutter.  "i hear you."

in the shower i soap myself up quick & rinse off.  i hardly touch my dick at all cuz i'm worried that once i start i wont be able to stop.  then, just before i turn the shower off, i think of somethin that i figure'll maybe help.  i turn the hot water off & leave just the cold runnin.  cuz i'd heard once that cold showers was s'posed to make things easier when you was in the kind of condition i was in . . .

it helped a little, i guess.

down in the kitchen, i beat up some eggs & set them to cookin in one pan, then got some bacon fryin in another.  i poured out some juice & some milk into glasses.  i got out cerial bowls & cerial.  i put toast in the toaster.  buttered it.  i got out napkins & silverware.  i – well lemme tell ya, i was flyin round that kitchen, & by 8:30 sharp, just as brett comes pushin thru the door, i was scoopin the last of the eggs onto his plate, right on time.

he looks at the table & nods.  "nice" he says, settlin down in his chair.  "very nice."  i sit down too & start to eat.  the food tastes good.

"so" says brett after a bit, "whatcha got on for this mornin?"

i sigh.  "i'm s'posed to do the mackelroys place first.  then mr bryants yard."

"good" he says.  "that all?"

"its all i can get done in the time your allowin me" i tell him.  he gives me a look & grins – the fucker.

we dont say nothin else for awhile, just keep on eatin.  when i check the clock again, i see its already a quarter til.  i jump up from my chair, take my dishes to the sink.  brett keeps on eatin.  i go over & stand beside him, waitin . . .

he glances up at me.  lets out a belch in my general direction.  glances at me again.  then – "what you want, faggot?" he says.  "i aint done.  in fact" he says, "why dont you fix me a couple more pieces of toast while your up?  i got a good appetite goin this mornin."

i put two more slices of bread in the toaster.  go back to the sink, rinse off my dishes.  stack them up alongside the pans i got dirty fixin breakfast.  butter the toast & hand it to brett.  start puttin away the cerial, the milk, & the juice.  he crams hunks of toast into his mouth, finally finishes eatin, then leans back & stretches, curlin his arms up & makin fists.  i dont look at him.  he belches again.  i take his plate, put it in the sink.  behind me, i hear his chair scrapin back.  he crosses over to me, stands behind me at the sink.  i go very still, my body growin tense.  he clamps a hand down on my shoulder.  my stomach does a double-flip.

"c'mere" he says.

jesus, i think.  what now?  i glance at him over my shoulder, look at his fat lips, his meaty face – turn back to the sink.  "what?" i say.  "i'm busy."

"come here" he says.  he forces me to turn round so i'm facin him.  i try to back up but the sinks behind me so i got no place to go.  "what?" i say.  my bellys crawlin with fear.

he pulls me to him, wraps thick, heavy arms round me.  what the . . . ?  i try to move away but he pulls me in tight.  "stop it!" i tell him.  "please, brett."  then i say "please, sir?" thinkin that might help.

"sir?" he says.  "hmm . . .  i like that."  he grins down at my face.  "now, put your arms round me like a good boy."  but i dont.  i just stand there, rigid.

"ok" he says, "thats five.  now do it.  do . . . it."

i feel sick.  but i aint got no choice.  i lift my arms & hold them loosely round his waist, my hands restin lightly on his back.  i can feel the heat comin off him right thru his shirt.  his back is hard, as broad & solid as a wall.

"atta boy" he murmurs.  he's speakin low, into my neck, into my ear.  "now listen.  i just want you to know that i understand how tough the past coupla days have been for you.  findin out bout your mom leavin?  tough.  gettin spanked?  ok, you deserved that – but still, when someone who's been as big a brat as you been his whole life suddenly gets called on it, it can be kind of a shock.  then, admittin to me about your bein a faggot –"

i let my arms drop away from him.  pull back – or try to pull back anyhow.  "i'm not a faggot" i say.

he lets go of me, steps back a pace & frowns.  "oh?" he says.  "oh, i see.  so lemme get this straight.  what your tellin me is that you lied to me?  when you told me last night that yes, your a fag, you were lyin to me?  is that what i hear you sayin to me now, kevyn?"

tears well up in my eyes.  but i'm determined not to cry.  no, i will . . . not . . . cry . . .

brett waits.  when i dont say nothin he goes "i guess that makes six.  now, lets try this again – & this time i expect you to answer me, kevyn.  are you or are you not tellin me that you lied to me last night?"

if i tell him no, i'm in trouble.  if i tell him yes, i'm in trouble.  "i gotta go" i say & try to duck by him, but he aint havin none of that.  he shoves me back, turns me round, curls an arm up under my chin & pulls it in tight.  i'm headlocked against his chest.

"fuckin christ, kid" he says.  "why d'you always have to make it so hard?  huh?  why is that?"

i couldnt answer even i wanted to.  the idiots got my mouth clamped shut.

"huh, kid?  huh?" he's sayin, & pulls my chin back with his arm til he's lookin right down into my eyes.  "why do you do that?"  then he gets this look on his face like some real bright ideas suddenly come into his head.  with his free hand he reaches down & starts feelin between my legs – then lets out a bark of laughter.  "jesus – you really do like it hard, doncha!  i mean, fuck, kevyn, do you ever not have a boner goin on?"  he laughs again & i try to squirm away from him but he just headlocks me in tighter.  reachin down again he finds my balls & starts squeezin, squeezin hard.  "yeah, thats my good boy" he says.  "thats my goood boy."

i grunt & suck in air.  its like his fist is grindin its way right up into my belly.  i cant catch my breath.  he squeezes my balls a few more times, grabs hold of my dick & squeezes that a coupla times – then finally lets me go.  i twist away from him, run to the door, bend down to pick up my sneakers –

"uh-oh" he says.

i look up him, startled.  "what –" i start to say.  then i see that he's pointin with his thumb up over his shoulder.  pointin at the clock on the wall.

its 9 o'clock.

"aint you supposed to be somewhere, faggot?" he asks me softly.  jesus – he's even smilin.  "how long will it take you to get your bike out of the garage & make it over to your first yard job?"

"but – it wasnt my fault!" i cry.

"how long?" he asks.

"i . . .  i dunno" i mumble miserably.

"how long, keveyn?" he asks again.

i look down at my feet.  "five minutes, maybe" i say.

"well then, that would be five more, wouldnt it, faggot?"  he holds up a hand, wigglin the fingers at me.  "five more . . ." he says.  & grins.

i finish tyin my shoes & get up without even lookin at him.  push thru the door without even turnin my head his way.  i wont i wont i wont let him see the tears that are startin to leak down my face . . .

& i tried to be home at 12:00 sharp, just like i was supposed to be.  i really did try.  i got the mackelroys yard done quick enough, but then, when i was mowin mr bryants yard, mr bryant himself comes out right in the middle of it with some lemonaid for me . . . which i really couldnt say no to, could i?  not to mention i was feelin pretty thirsty at the time.  then he starts talkin to me . . .  i wasnt sure why he wanted to talk to me, or why he wanted to talk to me for so long, but what was i s'posed to do bout it?  i mean, i figured he was just bein friendly (he's a college professor, so talkin to people prob'ly just comes natural to him), in which case i hated to be rude – or maybe he was just feelin lonely (he's like, at least 40 years old & he lives all alone), in which case i hated not to be nice to him – or maybe (& it was this last possibility that really got me worried) he was tryin to figure somethin out about me.  the reason why i say this last part is cuz while we're talkin i keep noticin him lookin at me funny, like he's studyin me or somethin, which i couldnt blame him for, mainly cuz of the way i was dressed.  but what could i do?  i mean yeah, i know my jeans was too small for me, too tight & too short – they dont even reach down to my shoes – but that aint my fault, its just that nobody's bought me a new pair of jeans in a long time so now all the ones i got left dont fit me right.  in fact, one of the first things i plan to do with the money i make this summer is to buy myself a whole new wardrobe.  but anyways, mr bryant keeps lookin down at my jeans, & i cant help it if they fit me funny, & also i cant help wonderin if he's wonderin why i'm wearin jeans that fit me so small.  all of which starts makin me feel nervous, & that dont help the situation none either cuz of the reaction i get whenever i start feelin that way.  then he starts askin me all kinda different things bout my life like maybe he's tryin to find out why it is that i dont have clothes that fit me right.  i think he's wonderin, is my parents too poor to buy me proper clothes or somethin?  so then i just start makin things up – like i tell him i have a mom & a dad & that we're all real happy & live in a real nice house with a lawn & a garden which is how come i know bout how to do yardwork so well, & mr bryant seems to buy that ok.  then he starts askin me bout school, & i know i should be gettin back to work but like i say i dont wanna be rude so i tell him bout the different kinds of subjects i like & which ones i dont like & then he asks me, do i play any sports?  so i tell him no, i dont really have time to & then he asks me bout my friends, & i lie & say i have some guys i hang out with, & then he asks me bout girls, if i have any girlfriends & i tell him no, i dont have time for girlfriends neither & mr bryants noddin all the while, noddin his head up & down but he keeps lookin at my pants like he's kinda studyin them & i know hes thinkin why dont this kid have clothes that fit him better? & the way he's lookin at me is makin me feel more & more . . . nervous, so finally i just tell him i better be gettin back to work & before he can say anythin else i walk away & just kinda leave him standin there, which makes me feel sorta bad cuz i know he was only tryin to be nice to me.  but anyways, it was cuz mr bryant kept me talkin for so long that i ended up bein late gettin done with his yard.  & all the way while i was peddlin home & believe me i was peddlin as fast as i could i just knew i was gonna be late no matter how hard i tried not to be . . .

when i finally turned into the driveway i notice that the car bretts been workin on is there with the hood stickin up, but brett himself is nowhere to be seen.  so i stick my bike in the garage real fast thinkin that maybe, just maybe, i can get away with bein late without him knowin bout it.  but then, when i go into the kitchen, there he is . . .

"kevyn!" he says, already startin in on the shoutin.  "your late."

"i know that!" i yell back at him.  i'm yellin cuz i'm feelin pissed.  i'm pissed at him & i'm pissed at mr bryant, i'm even pissed at my mom – i'm pissed with everybody.  cuz now i'm late & i know i'm in trouble & really its everybody elses fault but i know i'm the one whos gonna get blamed for it, so i'm pissed.  "i couldnt help it!" i say.

"i couldnt help it" he repeats, mimickin me.  "jesus kid, when're you gonna learn to take some responsibility?"  he looks up at the clock.  "its 7 minutes after 12" he says.  "so thats 7 plus 5 from before which makes . . ."  he pauses a second to count.  "12, plus 6 from before that . . . makes it 18.  18 already!  your on your way to settin a new record, faggot."  he shakes his head, lookin me up & down & back up again . . .  until his eyes catch on my crotch.  "what the fuck!" he says.  "you are un-fuckin-believable!  your dicks fuckin hard again!  or still.  whad'ya do, walk round all day with a hard-on?  or do you just spring a woody whenever you see me?  i mean, jesus christ, kid!"

"jesus christ yourself" i say back at him.  "stop talkin bout my dick all the time & maybe it wouldnt keep gettin . . ."  but thats not comin out right.  so then i say, "anyways, it aint hard.  my jeans is just too tight is all.  cuz somebody round here keeps tellin me there aint enough money to buy me any new ones."

he just laughs.  "nah" he says.  "i mean, nice try, but i dont think thats it."  he crosses over to me, one, two, three, & i start to back away from him but before i know it i bump into the counter & he's right on top of me, reachin out & clappin a hand up against my crotch.

"your hard, motherfucker" he says.  "you are haaard.  seems like your always hard, aint ya?  whats up with that anyhow?"

i put my hand on his arm & try to pull him off me.  he goes "stand still, kid."  then, just to make sure i do, he reaches down & puts his hand between my balls & my ass & starts liftin up on me til he's got me on my tiptoes & i cant go nowhere.  in fact i have to lean forward & grab onto his arm just so i dont lose my balance.

he grins.  "hey – lemme see if i can lift you."  puttin both hands down between my legs, he spreads his feet apart & lifts up on me til i feel my toes goin off the floor.  i have to grab onto both his arms to keep myself from fallin over.  he lowers me, then lifts again.  lowers me, lifts me.  lowers me, lifts me.  "yeah!" he laughs.  "fock, yeah!"  lookin down at my hands clutchin onto his biceps he says, "you like those arms, faggot?  huh?  you like they feel?"  i cant answer, i'm too afraid he's gonna drop me.  he lifts me up & down a couple more times, up & down, up & down – then sets me back on the floor again.  i lean against the counter, tryin to catch my breath . . .

"whats the matter?" he says, givin me the eye.  "you squirt in your jeans or somethin?"

"no" i mutter sullenly.  "i didnt squirt in my jeans or somethin."

he leans back on his heels, looks me square in the face, then bellows with laughter.  "alright" he says finally, "alright.  fun times over.  i believe you got some lunch to prepare.  & you need to have it on the table in, what – 15 minutes?  better get movin, fag boy!"  still laughin, he turns round & goes back out to his car.

lunch went ok, but all that afternoon while i'm workin at scrapin the garage & bretts workin on his car i have the feelin that some sorta suspicion is growin in his mind.  he keeps lookin over at me, his eyes goin up & down me like he's studyin me, tryin to figure somethin out.  & whatever that somethin is, i can tell its startin to piss him off.  his eyes keep gettin narrower & narrower, meaner & meaner, as the day wears on.

finally he comes over to where i'm workin & leans himself against the side of the garage.  i just keep on scrapin, but i can feel his eyes travellin up & down, up & down on me.

"lemme ask you something" he says.  so i stop what i'm doin & look at him.  "what made you so late gettin home today?"

i shrug.  "the mackelroys yard took me longer than i thought it would" i tell him.  "& then mr bryant . . ."

"go on" he says.  "what about mr bryant?"

i sigh.  "well, mr bryant brought me out some lemonaid.  then he talked to me while i drank it.  i couldnt get away from him without bein rude, so . . . that held me up awhile."

"mr bryant brought you out some lemonaid?" brett says.  "& then he talked to you awhile?  i see . . .  so, how bout you tell me somethin bout this mr bryant."

"like what?" i ask.

"like, who is he, dumbass."

i give another shrug.  "i dunno.  he's just a guy.  i think he's a teacher."

"a teacher" brett says.  "uh-huh.  & where does mr bryant teach?  at the high school?"

i shake my head.  "nope.  up at the college."

"oh, i see" he says.  "so mr bryant teaches up at the college, does he?  & what is it that mr bryant teaches?"

"geez, brett – i dont know" i say.

"you dont know.  didnt he tell you, fuckhead?  didnt it come up even once durin that nice long conversation you was havin with him while you was standin round drinkin lemonaid instead of workin?  if you didnt talk bout that then what did you talk about?"

"alright, brett" i say.  "english.  mr bryant teaches english."

"english?  what – you mean like to foregners?"

i couldnt help it, i busted out laughin.  he reaches over & gives the side of my head a shove.  "what the fucks so funny?" he asks.

"nothin – geez, brett!  when i said mr bryant teaches english what i meant was that he teaches english literature."

"ohhh" he says.  "well, excuse the fuck out of me.  so mr bryant teaches people how to read is what your basically tellin me.  well, aint that special.  so mr bryants an english teacher & he teaches at the college & he brought you out a nice big glass of lemonaid & the two of you stood round & had yourselves a nice long chat.  right.  so did you tell him about me?"

"no" i say.  "why would i do that?"

"well, you must've talked about somethin" he says.  "whad'ya tell him?"

"geez louise, brett!" i say.  "what're you so worried about?  i dont know what we talked about – we just talked.  we talked bout his yard & how hot it was & he asked me bout what subjects i liked in school & then he told me bout how he's an english teacher up at the college –"

"uh-huh . . .  sounds like the two of you got to know each other pretty well.  lemme ask you somethin, kevyn.  this mr bryant – is he married?"

"i dunno" i say.

"well, did you see any wife around, fuckhead?"

"no . . ."

"did he mention havin a wife?  or kids?"

i sigh.  "no, brett" i say.  "mr bryant didnt say nothin bout any of those things.  so yeah, i guess he aint married."

"mr bryant aint married?"

"i s'pose not."

he studies me awhile.  i see the color startin to rise up in his cheeks, but i cant figure out why.  "lemme ask you this, kevyn.  did mr bryant ask you anythin bout girls?"

"girls?" i say.  "whad'ya mean, girls?"

"whad'ya mean wha'do i mean?  did he ask you bout you havin any girlfriends?  yes or no?"

"well . . ."

"thats one, kevyn" he says.  "or rather, thats one more.  now lets try this again.  did mr bryant ask you bout havin a girlfriend or did he not?"

"yeah!" i say.  "yeah brett, he asked me."

"& thats two.  like i told you before, brat, dont lie to me."

"i didnt mean to."

"& thats three" he says.  "cuz now your lyin bout knowin you was lyin.  & one more on top of that for givin me backtalk when i corrected you for lyin.  so.  what else did this mr bryant ask you bout?"

"nothin, brett!"

"you swear it?"

"yes!" i say.  "i swear it."

"ok . . .  so what else did you tell him bout?"

"nothin!  nothin, brett – i swear."

his mouth twists sourly.  "so what we got here is that mr bryant aint married, & also of course since mr bryant is a teacher he's got like, what, the whole summer off?  but mr bryant cant mow his own lawn, ohh noo, mr bryants got to get some teenaged kid to come over to his place & mow his yard for him.  then mr bryant brings this little teenaged yardboy a nice big glass of lemonaid & has a nice long chat with him, makin the teenaged kid, who's also a major fuckhead by the way, late in gettin home like he's s'posed to so he can do his other duties.  jesus."  brett shakes his head, snortin.  "you know what mr bryant is, dont you, brat?  mr bryants a fag."

"oh, come on!" i say.  "you dont know that.  you cant know that."

"yeah, kid, i can" he says.  "i can know that & i do know that.  i know mr bryants a fag just like i know your a fag."

"how do you know, brett?" i cry.  "how?"

he leans in close to me.  "i just know" he says.  "so tell me somethin, fag.  did your dick get nice & hard for him?  huh?"  i dont answer.  "well?  did ya give him a nice big eyeful of dick or what?"  i clamp my mouth shut tight, turn back to the garage & start scrapin again.  brett leans in closer still.  "your hard all the time, faggot.  you was hard when you got home today.  you must've been hard when you talked to this bryant guy – right?"  i dont say nothin.  brett slams his hand against the side of the garage.  "thats five, faggot.  no – thats five more.  you listenin to me?"  i nod.  "so tell me, faggot – are ya hard now?"  i turn to face him, look him straight in the eye.  but i cant say nothin.  i cant say nothin cuz i am hard.  fears crawlin through my belly, crawlin up & down my spine & when i get that way i just cant help myself.  a slow, nasty grin spreads over bretts face.  "i knew it" he says.  he dont even look down to see if its true.  he just turns his head, spits, & stomps away . . .

i fix an easy meal that night – spagetti.  i add some crumbled up hamburger with a little cooked onion in it to bretts portion, to make it more special.  plus i make a salad.  & put out some sliced bread.  i'd like to try my hand at rolls sometime – you know, the kind that comes in a can?  but i'm feelin too nervous for that tonight.  my dick almost hurts.

when i go to wake brett up from his nap the bedroom doors shut.  i stand outside for a minute listenin, then raise my hand up to knock on the door . . .

"dont bother!" he shouts.  "i'm up already."

when he comes into the kitchen i see he's put on a clean undershirt & a pair of cut-offs that dont have any grease stains on them.  "well well" i say, tryin for a little humor, "i see you dressed for dinner."

"shut the fuck up" he says back.

so i dont say nothin more.  & neither does he.  all thru dinner we dont neither of us say another word.  it was kinda creepy.

while we're eatin i start thinkin bout mr bryant.  i'm wonderin if bretts right bout him bein a fag.  i remember the way mr bryant looked at me, the way his eyes kept goin up & down on me.  i thought he was just concerned bout me, but . . . he was lookin at me the same way brett looks at me sometimes.  & then i think, well, if mr bryants a fag, then brett must be one too.  but then, the only reason bretts here at all is cuz he was my mothers boyfriend.  so then i guess that means bretts not a fag.  so maybe mr bryant aint one neither.  maybe men just look at each other that way sometimes.  sometimes the guys in my class at school looked at me that way – but their eyes was always full of disgust.  mr bryants eyes werent but bretts are.  most of the time they are anyways . . .  so in the end i dont really know what to think.  sometimes i think maybe i should just give up on thinkin.

after he's thru eatin brett tells me he's goin outside to work on one of his cars again while i do the dishes.  when i'm bout halfway thru i start gettin that feelin you get sometimes – you know, like when you feel your bein watched?  i turn & look out the window . . .

brett aint workin on his car.  he's just leaned up against it, watchin me.

i try to creep out of the kitchen when i'm done without bein noticed, but before i can even get to the livin room i hear him come inside.

"kevyn!" he shouts.  i turn round just as he appears in the doorway.  "where you goin?"

"i . . .  i thought i'd try & get some housework done" i lie.

"huh-uh."

"but the bathrooms –"

"no" he says, & jerks his thumb.  "weight room.  now.  we need to talk."

i dont say nothin more.  there aint no point to it.  i just turn & go on down the hall to the weightroom.  my belly feels frozen solid.  my dick aint even gettin hard.  i must be too scared – even for that.

"shut the door" he tells me when we get inside.

i do like he says.  meantime he closes the curtains at the window.  then he goes over to the ping-pong table, bends down & picks up the paddle.  "c'mere" he says, & i can feel myself start to tremblin as i walk across the room towards him.  "how many mistakes you make today, faggot?" he asks me.  i shrug.  "i dunno" i mumble.  he sighs wearily.  "sir" i add quickly.  "sir . . ."  he sighs again.  "drop your pants" he orders, "& lean over."  there aint nothin i can do bout it.  i pull down my pants, then my underpants, just far enough to expose my behind.  i'm careful to keep my dick covered – its a little bit hard now, from the feel of the air on my naked bottom, plus from bein nervous bout what bretts gonna do to me.  he pulls my shirt up a bit & jerks down my pants some more.  "lean over" he tells me again, "& put your hands against the wall."  i lean over.  i put my hands up against the wall.  then i squeeze my eyes shut & wait . . .

but, instead of paddlin me right away, brett comes round beside me & leans his back against the wall, his arms folded across his chest.  "tell me somethin, kevyn" he says.  "why do you think i keep puttin you thru this?"

i look at him blankly, tryin to figure out if should know the answer to that one or not.  i cant think of anythin to say.  bretts lips twist & curl.  "answer me" he says.

"i dont know!" i cry – then suddenly remember.  "i mean, i dont know, sir!" i say.  "i dont know, sir!"

he gives me a look filled with disgust.  or maybe its just disappointment – cuz i'd took away his chance to hit me one more.  then he smiles a little.  "good boy" he says.  "look, you might not believe this, kevyn, but i'm actually tryin to help you here.  i'm tryin to teach you somethin.  do you have any idea what that might be?"

"no, sir!" i say.

"uh-huh.  well, it sure as hell aint english" he says.  "i can tell you that much.  but i s'pose your too much of a dumbass to be able to figure out what it is i am tryin to teach you, so i'm gonna try & explain it to you, just this once.  the reason, kevyn, that i'm doin all this is to teach you somethin bout discipline.  discipline, you stupid fuck, is the only protection a man has in this world.  discipline is his only defense.  in fact, discipline is the source of the only strength a mans got.  & the art of discipline, you stupid dickhead, is the art of understandin what a mans limitations are, & of learnin how to use that understandin of what his limitations are to make him strong.  discipline, you dumb retard, you pathetic little twerp, you friggin asshole, is what makes a man a man."

he comes round behind me again.  rests the paddle against my ass.  rubs it round there a little.  "for instance, skin is a limitation" he says.  "& pain . . .  pain is the discipline."  WHAP!  he brings the paddle down against my ass.  i wince.  he brings it down again, harder.  WHAP!

"you understand me, kevyn?"

WHAP!

"i said, do you understand me, faggot?"

WHAP!

"yes, sir!" i yelp, my fingers curlin against the wall.  i have to grind the words out between my teeth, it hurts so much.

"what is pain, you stupid fuck?"

WHAP!

"i asked you a question, faggot!  what is pain?"

WHAP!

"discipline, sir!" i cry.

"& what is discipline, boy?"

WHAP!

"pain, sir!"

brett snorts.  "no, you stupid goddamn motherfuckin little piece of shit!  try again.  what is discipline?"

WHAP!

i think furiously – try to fight back the tears.  no – i will not cry!  what is discipline?  discipline is . . .  discipline is . . .

WHAP!

"discipline is what makes a man a man!" i holler.  then add quickly "sir!  sir!"

WHAP!

brett stops a moment, flexin his fingers.  "very good" he says.  "that was very good, kevyn.  discipline is what makes a man a man.  now tell me, kevyn – what are you?"  he tightens his grip on the paddle again & swings back his arm.

WHAP!

again my mind spins furiously as i try to think of the right answer.  "i'm . . . i'm . . .  i'm an asshole, sir!" i shout.

brett busts out laughin.  "well, you sure as fuck are that" he agrees, "but that aint the answer i was lookin for.  try again.  what are you, kevyn?"

WHAP!  WHAP!

my head droops forward.  i squeeze my eyes shut & feel a single tear squirt out – pull my head back & shake the tear away.  then i have it.  "a faggot, sir!" i shout.  &, knowin that that answer was the right one – the only right one – my voice is suddenly loud & clear.

WHAP!

"again!  what are you, kevyn?"

"i'm a faggot, sir!  a faggot!"

WHAP!

brett sets the paddle down.  he moves round behind me, sticks his arm under my face & bends his fist up so that the muscle bulges, big & hard, under my nose.

"do you know what this is, kevyn?" he asks, his mouth close against my ear.  i shake my head confusedly – first yes, then no.  "its muscle, kevyn.  big, hard muscle.  & do you know what muscle is, boy?"  i shake my head.  "muscle is what happens when a man disciplines his body, boy.  muscle is what happens when a man works his body to its full capacity within the limitations imposed by fatique, self-pity, & pain."  he flexes his bicep several times in front of my face, making the muscle bulge.  "beautiful, aint it?" he says.  i dont say nothin.  "kevyn, i asked you –"

"yes, sir" i whisper.

"yes, sir what?"

"yes, sir, its – its beautiful, sir" i whisper.

"good boy" he tells me.  "now kiss it."

i press my lips together & close my eyes.  discipline was muscle.  no – discipline was pain.  no – discipline was understandin the limitations of pain.  discipline was . . .  it was . . .

brett sighs, bends down & picks up the paddle again.

WHAP!  WHAP!  WHAP!

i groan.

again he moves round behind me & flexes his arm in front of my face.

"kiss it!" he orders.

i stop thinkin then & just do what he says.  i bend my head down & press my lips against the muscle.  i leave my lips there a long time . . .  then, as i'm pullin away, i kiss it a second time, quickly, just for good measure.

"good boy" he says, & for once he sounds almost satisfied.  he gets behind me again.  "turn round" he tells me.  i do, & he backs a few steps away from me, lookin me up & down, up & down . . .

"strip" he says.

i gape at him.  "what?" i cry, my voice soundin creaky & hoarse – then add quickly "sir!  i . . . i dont understand you, sir!"

"strip!" he repeats.  "what are you, dense?  i said strip, faggot!  d'you need an english professor to explain the word to you?  strip!  take off your clothes!"

spit gathers in my mouth.  i swallow it down.  slowly i reach down & pull my t-shirt up over my head – let it drop to the floor.  swallow again, my throat so tight it aches.  slowly i pull down my jeans & step out of them.  its impossible to hide my hard-on now.  anyways, what'd be the point?  its just like he said – i cant lie to him.  he wont let me.  i take off my underwear.  add it to the little heap of crumpled clothes at my feet.  stand up again . . .

my dick, long & hard & curved, juts out in front of me.  i shiver.  i feel cold.  so cold . . .

"your a skinny little runt" brett observes.  "a skinny little runt with a great big hard-on.  that hard-on for me, faggot?"

he pauses, lookin at me expectently.  i shake my head.  "i'm . . .  i'm . . ."

"what?" he says.  "what are you, kevyn?  tell me."

"i'm . . . scared, sir" i whisper.

he chuckles.  peels off his undershirt & tosses it aside, then comes round so that hes standin behind me again.  leanin in close, he says "scared?  what are you scared of, faggot?"

"of . . . of you, sir" i whisper.

he chuckles again, softly, & places his hands on my shoulders.  "your just findin out what your limitations are, kevyn.  thats all."  steppin in closer, he moves his hands lightly down over my body, up my back, then round to my chest & down over my belly.  he places one hand on either side of my dick & balls, makin a ring out of his fingers, & squeezes . . .  i groan.  "& now your findin out bout the pleasure that comes when you accept your limitations & work within them" he says, & squeezes again.  my dick jerks.  my mouth opens, but no sound comes out . . .

"what are you, boy?" he asks me, his voice soft & low, lips pressed up against my ear.

i swallow.  but the answer comes easy this time.  "i'm a faggot, sir" i whisper.

he reaches for my balls, cups them in his hands, gathers them up in a fist & squeezes . . . squeezes . . .

involuntarily i pull my hips back.  my ass presses up against his crotch.  spreadin his legs a little wider i feel him move in closer.  he lets go of my balls.  i pull my hips away from him again.

"do you know what guys like me – two-bit cons i think you called us – do with faggots like you in prison, boy?"

"no, sir" i whisper.

again he gathers my balls in his fist & squeezes.  involuntarily i pull my hips back, & he grinds his crotch up against me.  i can feel the hard lump in his cut-offs rubbin against my ass.

"we make them our bitches" he says, his voice heavy & low, his lips movin softly against my ear.  he lets go of my balls again.  steps back from me.  i hear the snap of his cut-offs comin open.  hear the zipper go down.  hear him pullin his cut-offs down his legs, steppin out of them & kickin them aside.  then he's pressed up against me, his hands rubbin all over me, all over my chest, my belly, & his dick, hot & hard, is pushin up against the crack of my ass . . .

"now your my bitch" he says into my ear.  "now i'm gonna make you my bitch."

he takes his hands from my belly, puts one hand on my waist & with the other hand . . .  i hear him spit.  then i feel the head of his dick slidin against my ass, slippery & wet.  he pushes it against the center of my ass, probin for the hole, pushin at it, pushin . . .  my buttcheeks clench up tight.  i hear him spit again, then feel his fingers wipin the spit all over my asshole – then they go into my asshole.  i whimper.  "shut up!" he orders.  plantin his feet down solid on either side of mine, he centers himself behind me.  "dont move" he tells me.  then slowly, slowly, i feel him pushin his dick up into me . . .

it hurts.  oh jesus it hurts!  a hot, tinglin sensation burns all thru the muscle round my hole – its like a hundred needles bein stuck into me.  i let out a cry but brett dont stop, he just keeps workin it in & workin it in til he's all the way up inside me.  my fingers are scrabblin against the wall.  jesus jesus jesus it hurts!  "hold still" he orders.  "hold still . . ."

we stand like that for a few seconds, maybe a minute, clamped together.  finally brett shifts on his feet a little.  then he wraps his arms round me, pullin me back til i'm standin upright, & hugs me close.

"now your my bitch, boy" he whispers into my ear.  "my bitch.  mine, no one elses.  you understand?"

i swallow hard.  tears are tricklin down my face – i cant stop them now.  brett pulls his hips back a little, then pushes himself into me even deeper.  "tell me what you are, boy" he says.

"i'm . . . i'm a faggot, sir" i manage to get out.

"& what else?" he asks.

"i'm . . . your bitch, sir" i say.

"again.  tell me what you are, boy."

"your bitch, sir" i groan.  "your bitch."  & again, knowin that this is the correct response, i feel myself relax, just a little.  i feel just a little stronger, just a little better able to survive what he's doin to me.  if i can just hold on to that feelin.  just hold on . . .

he moves his hands down my belly, down to my crotch – but i've gone limp now.  so he starts playin with me – squeezin my dick, squeezin my balls, rollin my cock round between his palms . . . & slowly, slowly, i start gettin hard again.  i cant seem to help it – i cant stop it.  cant stop it . . .

"thats it.  make it hard for me, bitch" he says.  "make it nice & hard."  he spits into his hand & rubs the spit all over the head of my cock.  spits again & starts runnin his hand all up & down the length of my dick.  his palm is rough & calloused & hot.  an uncontrollable shiver runs through me.  i cant help it, cant stop myself . . .

"thats it" he says.  "thats my good faggot.  thats my good little bitch."  he pulls out of me a little & shoves himself back in again.  "jesus" he whispers.  "your so tight – sooo fuckin tight."  he runs his tongue down the side of my neck, then bites me there, softly.  inches out of me a little – punches back into me again.  "fuu-ook" he whispers.  "fuu-ooock!  oh, fock!  fock!"

he starts jackin me off, movin his hand up & down my dick fast & hard.  "fock, boy!" he says.  "you like that, you know you like that!  yeah you do!  now, what are you, boy – tell me what you are!"

"i'm . . . i'm a faggot, sir!" i cry.  "a faggot, sir!"

he squeezes my balls in his fist – runs his hand back up & down my dick again.  "say it, boy!  say it!"

"i'm . . . i'm your bitch, sir!  your bitch!"

"fockin right!" he growls.  "thats just what you fockin are, you faggot bitch, you dirty little faggot bitch!  cum for me bitch!  i want you to cum for me.  cum for me now, you dirty little bitch!"

he starts pumpin himself in & out of me, fast now.  a mixture of pain & pleasure spreads out from my asshole & seems to run straight into my dick.  & i cant help it, i cant stop myself . . . long streams of cum start spurtin out of me, splatterin onto the floor.  "fock yeah!" brett hollers.  "oh, fooock!  foooock!  fooooock!"  he starts thrustin harder, harder, pullin that fat dick of his out of me & then pushin it back in with so much force it feels like its gonna pop right thru my belly.  more cum starts spurtin out of me.  i cant help it, cant stop it . . .  brett twists my cock round in his palm so hard it feels like hes gonna pull it off.  his voice turns into one long, wordless groan as he clamps his mouth against my shoulder & bites down, his teeth sharp against my skin.  he starts gruntin . . . gruntin . . . growlin as my cum dribbles off his hand in thick, heavy globs . . .

then its like i must've fainted or somethin.  everthin goes dark.  when i come to again, both of us is standin there like we aint nothin but two rag dolls hardly able to hold ourselves up.  slowly brett pulls himself out of me.  leans against my back, his breath still comin hard & ragged.  after he's quieted down a bit, he puts his mouth to my ear & says "now i'm inside of you, faggot.  my cums inside you.  that means your mine, boy.  your mine.  you got that, faggot?  you understand me?"

i cant speak for a moment.  i cant find the words.  finally i whisper "yes, sir."

"good boy."  he lets go of me & backs up a few steps.  swipes one thick arm up over his forehead to wipe off the sweat.  "ok" he says.  "go to bed now.  pick up your clothes & go to bed.  get some sleep.  we'll talk more tomorrow."

i stoop down, gather up my clothes.  hold them in a crumpled mass against my chest.  i can feel his cum leakin out of my asshole – can feel my asshole movin round all slippery & wet as i begin walkin, stumblin towards the door . . .

"kevyn!" brett calls.  slowly i turn to look at him again.

"yes, sir?"

"tell me again.  what is discipline?"

"discipline is . . .  discipline is learnin to overcome the limitations of pain, sir" i say.

"good boy."  he gives me a wink & grins.  "your learnin."

"thank you" i mumble.  "thank you, sir."  i turn to go.  "thank you, sir . . .  thank you . . ."  then even those words start to fade.  as i trudge up the stairs to my room & flop onto the bed i seem to be fallin into a pit.  my minds as blank as a stone, a stone thats draggin me down into someplace deep & dark, someplace where theres nothin but pain, a pain i have to face all alone . . .