Bullet Through Your Face (improved format) (4 page)

—some blunt object cracked him on the back of the skull. And
Gray’s world, as well as all of his desires and all of his dreams and all
of his love, turned black.

He awoke, lying askew, on a gritty bare-wood
floor. A bright light
burned from above, but before it, two blurred shapes began to
sharpen. “How’s it goin’ there, City Boy?” someone asked like a voice echoing from the bottom of a well.
Gray’s head barked with pain. He squinted upward and focused.
Two men in overalls grinned down, stubbled faces, mouths full of black teeth.
“’Cos that’s where you’s’re from, ain’t it? The city?”
Gray groaned at the pain in his head. Another pain, somewhere else, nagged at him, but he couldn’t place it.
“
Must
be from the city, Hull,” another voice, losing its well-bottom echo,
speculated. “Them fancified city clothes, an’ that Callaway ’Vette?
An’he’s got credit cards too. Only city fellas have them.”
Gray strained his vision at the younger of the two overalled men.
Mussed hair stuck up in spikes; he grinned as he ruffled through Gray’s kidskin wallet.
“This here’s my l’il brother Jory, and me? I’se Hull,” said the other
one. This was too proverbial: these guys were hicks, hayseeds, right
down to their dusty workboots and denim overalls.
The girl set me up,
Gray realized, bringing a hand to his head.
And, Christ—what did they hit me with? A fucking refrigerator?
“Bet’cher noggin hurts,” said Hull, the older one, thumbing the straps
of his overalls. Chest hair and muscles showed beneath the bib. “Jory
jacked ya out a might hard.” The man tittered. “Bet’cher backside
smarts too, huh?”
Only then did Gray calculate that other pain. He leaned up and saw that
his X’andrini black silk shirt had been removed, and his Italian
slacks—$150 at Grenadi’s For Men—had been pulled down.
His anus seemed to throb in time with the pain in his head.
“What . . . what did you do?”
“Jory here, see, he already had hisself a nut up yer cornhole.
While’s you was havin’ yer beauty sleep.”
“Tightest boy-pussy I ever had, I still say,” Jory added. He was still
riffing through Gray’s wallet. “Hey, Hull! City’s got a couple hunnerts
here!”
Gray groggily leaned up. The answer to his question had already been
answered by the throbbing rectal pain. But Gray asked anyway.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Are you saying that you sodomized
me?”

The two rednecks belted laughter. “Sodder-mized? Shee-it, you
really is from the city!” Jory exclaimed.
Then Hull: “We don’t call it sodder-mee here, City. We’se real
folks, and what we’se call it is cornholin’.”
Jesus Christ . . .
“An’ I ‘spect,” Hull went on, “Jory here’s gonna have hisself
another nut up yer cornhole, like, real soon. Me, I’se usually just
good fer one nut a day s’bout. But a young fella like him? Got a hard
dog three, four times a day, he does.”
Gray couldn’t believe this.
I’ve been abducted by homosexual
rednecks.
Hull, he could see, was rubbing the front of his overalls
like someone in a grocery testing avocados for ripeness. Jory, on the
other hand, still had his penis hanging out the front of his overalls. He
flicked off a little raisinette of shit.
When Gray adjusted his position on the floor, he heard a metallic
clatter, and then he made the next—decidedly grim—discovery.
A steel shackle girded his left ankle, and from the shackle a chain
extended. A
heavy
chain. The chain looked about six or eight feet
long. Its other end was padlocked to an iron ring bolted to the floor.
I’m fuckin’chained to the floor!
“Had to chain ya,” Hull explained. “Caint have ya gittin’ out.
Sheriff’s station ain’t but five miles yonder, off the Route.”
I’m chained,
Gray thought again as if to finalize the reality. This
fact probably meant that his hosts wouldn’t be letting him out of here
any time soon . . .
“Gits my dog hard juss lookin’ at you, City,” Hull went on.
“Come on, now. Hands and knees.”
Gray was incredulous. Hull was dropping his overalls, and so
was Jory. “You got to be shitting me, man,” Gray remarked. “You
don’t expect me to—”

Hull slapped him hard on the head; Gray reeled. Then he got into
position, chain clattering.
“Hands’n knees now, like a pooch.” Hull produced a buck knife
for a little extra incentive. It glinted.
“Yeah,” the other one chuckled. “Ever heard’a screwin’ the
pooch?
You’re
the pooch.”
“Look,” Gray pleaded in a last effort, “do you guys really have
to do this? I mean, you got the girl. I’m sure she’d be a hell of a lot
better than me.”
Gray shrieked when Hull slapped his head again. “What-choo
talkin’ ‘bout!” Hull took exception. “Kari Ann? She’s our sister!
That’d be insesteriss! What kinda pree-verts ya think we is?”
Gray’s brain felt like a single, throbbing blob of pain.
Pardon
me for making the inference,
he thought, as pissed off as he was
terrified,
but it’s not like I’m seeing a whole lot of morality here. You
just RAPED ME in the ass.
“Shee-it. I oughts ta cut me off one’a yer balls juss fer sayin’such
a dirty thing.”
“Sorry,” Gray sputtered.
But Jory railed, “Dag damn, Hull! I’se gonna have myself a good
come up his this fella’s backside. Second nut’a the day’s always the
best, I say.” Jory knelt and turned Gray around, jerking up at his hips.
“Feels good!”
“Best not ta fight it, City,” Hull obliged. “We’se gonna have ya
one ways’re another. Don’t make me git ta cuttin’ on ya.”
Gray’s eyes widened in more truth. What could he do? Moreover,
what would they do when they were finished? It wasn’t like he was
going anywhere, not chained to the fucking floor. The rationale of
survival set its teeth:
I’ve got no choice . . .
Hull flexed his hairy pecs. “You’s gonna give me a peter-suck
while’s Jory here checks yer oil.”
Gray, fully on hands and knees now, nodded grimly. He winced
at the sound of Jory clearing his throat and expectorating into the cleft
of his buttocks. “Gots ta slick ya up some, huh, City? Give that tight
l’il boy-poon a good lubin’.”

“Jory, see, he don’t much care fer a peter-suck, says it tickles,”
Hull enlightened. “Pur-fers a cornholin’ any day. But me? I’se just
the opper-sit. Don’t care to have a fella’s shit on my stick much, ya
know? But a good peter-suck—
that’s
what I’se pur-fer.”

“Time to park the car in the garage,” Jory quipped, kneeling right
up now behind Gray. Gray’s cheek’s billowed at the sensation: a wet
nudge . . . forward pressure, then . . .

Jory’s “car” pulled deftly into Gray’s “garage.” Gray blew out
more air. The pain was not nearly as paramount as the sheer pressure.
Jory’s callused hands held Gray’s hips as he began to draw in and out.
Christ, this motherfucker’s huge!
Gray had no choice but to observe.
It feels like I’m taking a shit in reverse . . .

“Luckys fer you that Hull don’t fancy a lot’a cornholin’, ‘cos his
dog’s even bigger’n mine.”
Hull chuckled. “Now come on, Jory. Ain’t ya got no manners?
When yer cornholin’ a fella it’s only proper’n courteous ta at least
give him a reach-around!”
Jory pumped now in a steady rhythm, each stroke seeming to
reach up into Gray’s guts. “Aw, City, I’se truly do apoler-gize. That
ain’t very hospital of me at all, now, is it?” Jory reached under Gray’s
right hip and grabbed his penis and scrotum. He squeezed it probingly
several times, as though it were an udder on a cow. “Shee-it, Hull, I
say this boy ain’t got much at all!”
Gray’s genitals felt like a bag of dead flesh.
Hull grinned through rotten teeth. “He gittin’ hard?”
“Shee-it, Hull! Hard? This here city fella here? Peter on him
feels about as hard as a chicken liver! And I say, his nuts don’t feel
hardly no bigger’n a coupla olives!”
“Bet he don’t come much neithers.” Hull knelt before Gray’s
face, inched up closer on his knees, and fully pulled down his
overalls. “Well, here’s something for ya, City.” He used his full hand
to extract his genitals. “Like a big hot lollipop.”

Gray’s eyes opened to the size of Kennedy dollars.
You’ve got
to be shitting me!
If Gray, on a good day, sported six and a quarter
inches, well . . . you could add about three more inches to that and
it still wouldn’t be as big as Hull’s, and who cares if it was a good
day? What hung immediately before Gray’s face was something that
looked like an erect summer sausage—with a snout on the end. Folds
of abundant foreskin looked like bunched lunchmeat. “You suck on
this good, City,” Hull said, then flashed the point of the buck knife
toward his face. “Ands if you even think ‘bout bitin’ it, so helps me,
I’ll’se dig yer eyeball out’n make ya eat it. Hear me?”

Gray, puff-eyed, nodded.
Hull pulled back the foreskin—a veritable sheet of loose skin—
to reveal a damp pink glans with a ring of smegma girding the rim.
“Git yer yap open, City, like at the doctor’s office, open wide’n say
ahhh. And don’t mind the dick cheese. Hail, a l’il cheese won’t hurt
ya. Give ya something ta taste, huh?”
Gray, mortified now, squeezed his eyes shut and opened his
mouth, and what was then inserted into said mouth reminded him of
a raw turkey neck. Only bigger. “Reach up’n give my balls a squeeze
too,” Hull eloquently requested. Gray had to lean all his forward
weight on one palm when he did so. And what his hand enclosed felt
like two kiwi fruits.
Only bigger.
“Come on, City! Shee-it! You kins suck a dog better’n that. Suck
it like yer daddy taught ya.”
This may come as a surprise to you, sir, but my father DIDN’T
teach me how to suck dick . . .
Gray reasoned that his survival
just now might very well depend on the dexterity by which he
performed fellatio on this unwashed hayseed. And unwashed was
an understatement. With his mouth so full, he had no recourse but
to breathe through his nose, and with each inhalation came the most nefarious fetors.
Jesus,
he thought.
I’ve never sucked dick before.
How am I supposed to know how to do it?
But he thought about that,
and came to a conclusion.
Suck it the way the girl sucked you...

He tried to abstract, and formulate his own method of expertise.
A few agonizing slaps to the head indicated that his initial efforts
weren’t satisfactory, but then . . . Then he abstracted further: He
pretended he was fellating himself. He kept the inside of his mouth
wet, his lips tight, and his tongue firm against the basal shaft.