Chapter 2
Tim hadn't slept all night long. His father had departed at six in the morning, cursing him as usual. The older man's last harsh admonition was that he could fucking well get his own breakfast. The only cheerful tint of the new day was the ten-dollar bill Sam had thrust in his pocket before departing on an overnight trucking trip. There was something about the sex adventure the night before, the increased level of abuse, or maybe the final slap in the face, that depressed Tim. Like straw, just one too many, the last defilement of his dignity may have been the one to break the proverbial camel's back.
A break -- that was what Tim Harding needed. He had to get away from this Goddamn servitude trip, or whatever worse Sam had dubbed it. There were other dudes out there with big cocks, there were other hot fucks -- probably more flexible and not nearly so sadistic as his warped father. Of one thing he was sure: there were younger guys, his own age for sure, that he wanted to get his rocks off with. He wasn't about to get into any of it around here, not with Sam watching him like a patient cat. Christ! If a guy couldn't even look at a Goddamn fuck magazine without courting trouble!
Tim hadn't talked with his mother in three months, but he knew she was shacked up with some ski instructor, a beaver-hungry dude seven years younger than herself, up at Copper Mountain. The resort was over 400 miles away, but he had a healthy thumb and an innocent face. He wouldn't even call her. Shit. That would really queer things, what with suddenly leaving school and all. He wondered if she would take him in. Hell, it really didn't matter; if he couldn't stay there, he'd move on to San Francisco and find some dude to shack up with. If his pretty ass was good enough for kin like Sam Harding, it should be capable of turning on a few well-heeled strangers.
In less than fifteen minutes he'd gathered together the bare essentials for the trip and crammed them into a small canvas bag. Anxious as he was to light out of the house, he couldn't resist one more trip to the foreboding basement. He turned on the light and looked around the damp, musty torture chamber. Pawing through several boy-boy fuck magazines, he selected several of the best copies and squeezed them into his small overnight bag. His foot struck something on the floor; it was the big leather dildo. Picking it up, he hurried back upstairs and trotted down the hallway to his father's room.
Above his dresser Sam Harding had placed a gold-framed picture of himself, a posed portrait taken many years back when he wore the uniform of a Marine sergeant with a chestful of medals. Tim grabbed the picture and hurried to the bathroom. He dropped it into the toilet, unbuttoned his fly, and let go with a long stream of piss. Finishing his leak, Tim slammed down the toilet lid and placed the big leather dildo on top in plain sight. Glancing in the mirror, he smiled to himself, feeling a strong surge of inner satisfaction. But he felt something else stir, a familiar itch deep inside him. He needed to get off, pop his rocks just once more in his house, and the big mirror in his father's bathroom turned him on. Staring down at the crotch of his faded blue jeans, he noted with considerable satisfaction that he was showing a good-sized basket. One could, he noted, if they looked close enough, make out the ridge on the knob of his cock.
Tim rubbed his hand back and forth over the bulge and felt it swell. He pressed harder, then squeezed the long prick-shaft back and forth until the revealing basket became a mountain of restrained, hot meat. Peering intently into the mirror, he considered the sexiness, the magnetism of his posture. Too fucking innocent, he figured. He'd done some reading about body language and he knew that on the road, to prompt rides, he'd have to do better.
Tim reached in his canvas bag, withdrew one of the porno magazines and looked at several pictures. All of the poses were infinitely sexier than his own. Abruptly, he tore the top of one of his pants pockets, exposing the white lining and part of his thigh. He took off his jacket dropped it to the floor, and considered his navy-blue T-shirt. Too new. He gave it a tear near the shoulder, then stood back, feet a good foot and a half apart, and admired his work.
Sexy. Wild-looking. It would be good to hit the road just like this, but also stupid; it was winter and cold outside. The jacket would be needed. He started to retrieve it, but hesitated. He pulled up the T-shirt a few inches and lowered his jeans, revealing his flat stomach framed with pubic hairs. Unbuttoning his fly, he pulled out his long, stiff cock, placed one foot on top of the toilet, and leaned back defiantly. He started pounding his meat, beating it as hard as he could, and it felt good; his own mesmerized, horny stare turned him on even further.
Tim grabbed his balls with his other hand, massaging them all over as he continued to whip his big prick back and forth. In the mirror his eyes bore a mean, intense look, fiery, hot and eager. The excitement built up quickly within him like an overheated boiler. He felt the ecstatic explosion coming and pointed all nine inches of his twitching, pounding cock towards the mirror. He beat his prick harder. He looked wild, he felt wild.
"Ohhhh! Goddamn mother-fucker!"
He came quickly, too quickly, shooting a long, pulsing jet of jizz up across the sink and splattering the mirror. His cock pumped again, spurting pure pleasure -- big streaks of sticky cum all across the sink and wall. Trembling all over with satisfaction, he stroked his meat slowly, milking it for the last tingle of bliss. His orgasm complete, he shook his spent prick and shoved it back inside his pants.
Hunching his shoulders and shrugging, Tim offered the dildo-draped toilet a mock salute.
"So long, you sadistic asshole!" he said.
Without bothering to wipe the dripping cum from the mirror, he threw on his jacket and headed for the door.