Burying the Hatchet

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I went back to my hometown to visit my parents recently. In the past my wife always joined me on these trips, but between work and various social engagements she didn’t have as much time as she used to.

It didn’t feel strange packing for one, or flying alone, or even taking a cab by myself from the airport to my parents house. I only felt the difference later that evening after turning in for the night. Behind the door of the guest bedroom I realized I hadn’t slept alone in more than ten years. I took off my clothes in the dark and crawled into bed, and with no other pair of eyes, no other body shifting about, I jerked off for the first time in a long time. It wasn’t just my first time masturbating in years — it was the first time I’d wanted to. I didn’t realize until then how much married life, life as someone’s constant companion and partner for so many years had shaped and constrained my every sexual thought. And the images that flooded my mind were terrifying in their variety.

The next day I told my parents I wanted to go puttering around town on my own. Really I just wanted to somehow continue and extend this feeling of being adrift, unfastened. I visited some old haunts — a book store, a coffee shop, the bike shop I had worked at in high school, a sports bar I frequented in college.

It was at the bar that I ran into Cal, an old friend from my parents’ neighborhood. ‘Friend’ probably isn’t the right word. We were more antagonistic than friendly. I guess the same could be said of Cal and everyone in the neighborhood at that time. There were a few periods of pleasantness between us, but they’d been the punctuation separating long stretches of hostility. He’d had a reputation as a bully, but in hindsight I knew that it wasn’t that simple.

Cal had been a large boy, towering over most of the rest of us. He had a natural predatory quality that most of us recognized and guarded against. He wasn’t athletic, never played any sports. The kids who wrestled, played football, took martial arts — these as a rule were the only kids Cal seemed to regard with caution and wariness, and in the company of these kids the rest of us tended to fear Cal a little less. It was his placement in this pecking order, just a notch or two down from the top, that lead everyone to torment Cal and regard him alternately as a coward and a bully.

I thought about all of this as I shook his hand and exchanged a few pleasantries. If Cal had been large as a boy he was now a giant of a man. He was easily 6’7″ or 6’8″, and the features that had made him intimidating then were all the more so now. His brow seemed to thrust over his eyes, further darkening the earthy color of his irises. His jaw jutted enough to give him a cruel-looking underbite. His frame was broad and powerful, even with the beginnings of a belly. As I stood there dwarfed before his massive form, I felt a strange churning in my gut, which I took to be pangs of guilt for the way I’d treated him years ago.

I told him about my job and my family and pulled out my phone to share a few pictures. He quickly caught me up on what he’d been doing since high school: a year of college out of state, another year on a fishing boat in Alaska, then a long stint as a manager of a temp agency, a title he still held. He had no pictures, or at least none that he offered to share.

After this brief exchange came the moment of awkward silence when two old acquaintances realize they have nothing else to say to each other but feel guilty parting ways again so quickly. We sucked gently at our beer bottles and pretended to watch the baseball game on the screen above us, even though I’m pretty sure neither of us knew who was playing.

I was about to make up some excuse for heading out when suddenly Cal asked me if I like stand-up comedy. He explained that a friend of his owned a new comedy club in town and could get us in without a cover charge. I had nothing else going on that night, and part of me felt I still had some vague amends to make this man, so I said sure. He told me his car was in the shop and asked if I wouldn’t mind picking him up on the way there, and again I said sure. I tipped the last few drops of beer from the bottle between my lips as he scribbled his address on the back of a paper coaster and handed it to me. We shook hands once more before parting, mine disappearing almost completely within his. We both smiled at the incongruity and he paused to promise me a great evening before releasing my hand and saying goodbye. I felt the strange churning once more as I took my hand back and walked away.

When I reached Cal’s house that night around 8:00, it was about what I expected. I slowed to a crawl before turning into his driveway, debating whether I should just keep going and head back home. He lived in a ramshackle single-wide trailer on the edge of one of the older mobile home parks in town. Two rusted out vehicles of unidentifiable make and model were planted in the yard, and I wondered which of these was supposed gaziantep escort to be in the shop. Feeling the churning in my gut again and reminding myself once more of my past sins, I suspended judgement long enough to get out of my car and ascend the steps of his porch, making sure to press the button on my keychain to chirp the sound of my locking car into the night air. Rising up toward the insect-encrusted porch light, stepping onto the dank and discolored welcome mat, the churning seemed to quicken. At the same time I thought I felt some hint of what was on the other side of it. I couldn’t have said exactly what it was, only that I wanted to feel more.

Cal answered the door wearing a bright green t-shirt, gray exercise shorts and sandals. Not exactly club attire. He had a beer in one hand and a stereo remote in the other, which he promptly used to turn down the music he’d been blasting. His broad, animated smile and the exuberance with which he ushered me inside suggested he hadn’t really stopped drinking since I saw him at the bar.

He practically wrenched my coat off of me and offered me a drink. I asked him if he was about ready to go to the club, even though I could plainly see he wasn’t ready to go anywhere. He waived his hand at the idea as if I’d suggested going to evening Mass, and said wouldn’t it be more fun to watch the comedy marathon that was playing on HBO. Not waiting for me to answer he put a beer in my hand and shepherded me to the living room sofa, which seemed surprisingly clean and cushy. A half empty bottle of rum and another of tequila sat on the coffee table in front of the couch, along with a few opened bags of chips and nuts. The caps were off the bottles, but I couldn’t tell how much of their contents had been consumed that night.

While I had been looking forward to getting out, I had never been much of one for crowds and the idea of sitting on a comfortable couch laughing at a bunch of dirty jokes with no fear of judgement didn’t sound half bad. Cal sat down beside me, his thick blocky knees jutting a good eight inches past mine, and we drank our beers and laughed at the first few comics, and didn’t really talk.

At some point in his drinking, Cal seemed to turn a corner and he grew less cheerful and more sarcastic, tossing out mildly racist and sexist epithets at some of the comics. A little while later he even seemed to grow angry when one of the comics happened to remind him of a person he’d recently helped find a job. His anger veered away from whatever the comic was talking about to something this other person had said or done to piss him off. I’d had a few beers at this point and I couldn’t really follow what he was talking about, but I understood that I needed to agree, or at least not disagree. Every now and then he would punctuate his indignation with a slap on my knee, and over the course of an hour or so, even as he grew more agitated, he seemed to inch into me more and more, until our shoulders were mashed up against each other.

I was getting a little afraid of his moods by this time, but it was a fear that was somehow comfortable, or at least familiar. It was the same churning feeling I’d had at the bar and on the porch before entering the house. I was starting to feel more sharply the thing that was being churned and stirred, and whatever else it made me feel, it made me want to continue. That didn’t change when Cal suddenly said with menace in his voice, “You were like that, you know. You and the others. You had no respect for me, even then.”

I didn’t say anything at first, but just sipped my beer and stared at the bottle of tequila on the coffee table. His shoulder and his leg were pressed against mine.

“We shouldn’t have treated you like that. We were stupid kids,” I finally said, feeling his large inebriated eyes glowering down at me.

“Bitches is what you were. You were little bitches,” he said, knocking his knee into mine more than playfully but not quite violently.

“We were,” I said, nodding. I heaved a sigh and took a small swig of beer, sensing I had only encouraged rather than placated him.

“You were what?” he said, his voice getting more gruff. “Say it.”

“Bitches,” I said, not wanting to antagonize him by dragging out my confession. “We were little bitches. I was a little bitch.”

He looked at me as if not quite sure he believed me, then said, “You’re still a little bitch.”

We were both sunk fairly deep into the couch by this time, and I looked down at my gut as if for some visual confirmation of the churning and ache that was still trying to resolve itself there. I nodded and said, “Yes.”

“Yes what?” he said. The look in his eyes held me, restrained me every bit as powerfully as if he were pinning me to the couch with his arms. At some point the beer bottle in his hand had been replaced by the rum, and his eyes were glazed and shone with a dull ferocity.

I looked up at him and said without irony or humor, “I’m a bitch. I’m a little bitch.”

He looked back at the TV and grew sullen and quiet, as if disappointed with how easily I had submitted to his opinion of me. The churning inside me subsided a bit, and my heart sank as the crisis seemed like it might pass. “You forgive me?” I asked, and he brought his angry gaze back to my face.

“You want my forgiveness?” he asked, visibly annoyed.


“Beg for it.”


“If my forgiveness is worth anything to you, it should be worth begging for,” he said, once more pressing his massive thigh against mine.

“Please?” I asked, eagerly.

He snarled and shoved his leg into me harder. “Is that how you beg, sitting back all smug and comfortable?”

Sensing what he was getting at, and feeling the churning inside me start up again, I leaned forward off of the couch and onto my knees. I turned myself around so I was facing Cal, kneeling between him and the coffee table. I still wasn’t completely sure where he was leading me with this, but I took a chance and placed my hands on his thighs just above the knees, and returning his dominating gaze I said again, quietly, “Please?”

“Please what?” he said.

“Please forgive me.”

“For what?” he asked, and I saw for the first time a little twitch in his shorts.

“For being a little bitch,” I said, and his shorts twitched again, this time a little higher.

“Say it again,” he said, reaching a hand forward to gently rub his cock through his shorts.

“For being a little bitch,” I said, and he lowered the waistband, bringing his semi-hard cock into view. It must have been at least 9 inches — easily twice the size of mine.

“A what?” he said, slowly squeezing it and starting to jerk it off in front of me.

“A little bitch,” I said, now so mesmerized by the sight of his cock that I didn’t notice I had leaned forward. It was only about six inches from my face. I wanted it closer.

“A little bitch,” he repeated, suddenly taking his hand off his cock, letting it wag freely from side to side. I didn’t miss a beat.

“Your little bitch,” I almost panted, moving my hand to where his had been and sliding it smoothly up and down his long, thick shaft.

We didn’t say anything more for a few minutes. He shut his eyes and let his head fall back a bit, his lip curled in a hard little smile. His cock was almost too big to fit my hand around, so I started stroking it with both hands, a move he seemed to appreciate. Every now and then he’d open his eyes and tell me again what a little fucking bitch I was, and I’d respond by giving his meaty tool a long penitent tug and confirm with a whimper that, yes, uh huh, oh fuck, I was his little bitch.

After a few minutes he took a swig of the rum and then reached down and casually pulled my hands away from his cock. It was still rock hard, throbbing there between us, and I knew what he wanted. I planted my hands in their earlier position on his legs and took the engorged head of his prick in my mouth.

I was a complete novice at giving blow jobs, but I was focused less on his pleasure than mine, hungrily taking his beautiful cock in my mouth as if it was the thing I had always wanted most in the world. At that moment it was. I slurped and slobbered all over it, withdrawing it from my mouth now and then only to run my lips and tongue along its shaft or to lick and suck his balls.

Now, my wife is a beautiful woman with a great body, and when we first started dating I could spend hours devouring every inch of her, but I’ve never worshipped anyone or anything the way I was worshipping Cal’s massive cock at that moment. The feeling of submitting to it and to him, of having my mouth and throat penetrated by his powerful, throbbing rod was more erotic and intense than anything I had ever experienced.

My enthusiasm must have made up for my lack of technique, because between the gruff little murmurs about what a bitch I was Cal was grunting and moaning the whole time. I didn’t know what he was feeling beyond the physical at that moment, but having one of his old tormenters there in his house, kneeling before him, feverishly and devoutly sucking his dick had to be a little gratifying. At least I hoped it was.

I don’t know how long we went on like that. Between the booze and the intoxicating mix of hormones flooding our brains we may as well have been in a trance. At one point he threatened to break the spell when he sat forward and growled at me to back up. For a moment I was afraid he’d suddenly sobered up and become disgusted with what we were doing, or that I was just doing it badly. He merely kicked off his shorts and sandals and stepped toward me again, and taking his cock in one hand he slapped it against my face a couple of times before thrusting it back in my mouth.

I immediately started devouring his pole again, struggling to swallow as much as I could but barely managing to get half. He didn’t seem to mind and rewarded me with a steady stream of insults like “cock-hungry little slut”, “sissy little whore”, and of course, “little fucking bitch.” Having my mouth very full I didn’t say much, except to whimper or pant my agreement every now and then. But at one point, after being called a little bitch for the umpteenth time, I couldn’t help myself anymore.

“Maybe you should have made me your little bitch a long time ago,” I offered between bobs of my head. He seemed to like the suggestion and thrust his cock forward a bit more, and I held a good six inches for a few seconds before withdrawing again.

“Maybe so,” he said as I continued. “Maybe the way to shut you up was to shove my cock in your mouth.” My head burned with lust at the thought, and I leaned forward and took another couple inches of his pulsing cock down my throat.

“That what you wanted all along?” he said. “You were just acting like a little bitch because you were secretly hoping I’d treat you like one. Should I have just caught you alone one day and made you my little bitch?”

If I’d had a free hand to touch my own cock I would have come the moment he said that. “Mmhmmm, God, fuck yeah, you should have just bent me over and made me your little bitch,” I groaned.

Suddenly his cock was out of my mouth and Cal was striding to the other end of the trailer, rustling around in another room, opening and slamming drawers. I didn’t understand what was happening, so I stayed where I was, kneeling and confused, listening to him swear as he searched frantically for something. Suddenly he was back, holding a small jar of petroleum jelly. Only then did I realize exactly what I had said.

I started to stand up, and stammered, “I’m not sure I can, um — I mean I’ve never actually –“

“That’s what this is for,” he said, setting the lube on the coffee table. He grabbed my shoulder firmly, redirecting my movement as I rose so that I found myself kneeling on the sofa with my hands gripping the back of it.

I still wasn’t sure I was ready for this, but Cal made it clear I had no choice as he reached around and roughly unbuckled my belt and pulled my pants and boxers down to my knees with one swift motion.

“Lift up,” he barked, and I lifted each knee so that he could yank the pants the rest of the way off. I was kneeling there with only my shirt on, bent over the couch, when I realized for the first time that his living room blinds had been open the entire time. The lights were on in his trailer and it was pitch black outside, so I had no idea how many of his neighbors were taking in the show. What was more surprising was that I didn’t care that much at the moment. With the lid off the lube and Cal’s hands suddenly clutching my hips I had other things to think about.

I looked back to see his enormous cock covered in the glistening jelly, and even in my petrified state I still managed to crave it. I was worried he might just try to ram it in, but he took a few minutes running the head up and down my crack to get me nice and lubricated. As soon as I felt him start to push forward with it I grabbed the couch in my fists and clenched my teeth in pain, but he backed off almost immediately.

“Gonna have to break my little bitch in slowly,” he said, and I heard him fumble with the jar again. A few seconds later he was inserting one of his large fingers into my tight little hole, and even that was rough going at first. One of his fingers was probably as thick as the average cock, and he spent a minute or two easing it in and out before adding a second, and then a third. It hurt like hell each time he inserted another one, but after he had all three in my ass for a couple minutes I had loosened up quite a bit. I still didn’t think I could take his gigantic dick, but he obviously felt I was ready to try. He reapplied the lube to his cock, and grabbing my hips again he started to ease into me.

“Push back,” he commanded, and instead of moving away from the pain like I wanted to I gritted my teeth and leaned back into it. The pain was unbelievable. His engorged head kept stretching me more and more until I thought it was going to actually tear me open. Finally I felt it pass my ring and he just held it there, letting me breathe and get used to it for a minute. I still wasn’t ready when he started pushing again, but he didn’t seem to care. I grunted in pain as he thrust it in about six inches or so — I was just guessing the depth, since I couldn’t really feel his cock, only the pain getting deeper. Then he withdrew it until just the head was inside me again. He held it there for another minute, and it wasn’t quite as bad as before.

When he pushed it inside me again the feeling was very different. It still hurt, but this time I felt him, felt his cock driving up inside of me, and my gasp of pleasure must have let him know I was ready to be fucked. He started out with half thrusts, just to make sure I could take it, then started adding another inch with each thrust. By the time he was all the way inside me he was no longer holding back, slapping his huge balls into mine and gripping the flesh on my hips with his vice-like hands.

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