“Fuck… Annabel… you’re gonna make me cum…” Shane whispered frantically.
I hushed him without taking my lips off his cock. Now, two things to know here. One, Shane had a long, thick cock that I’d sucked many times, but had never tried to deep throat. Two, I had no idea if I was going to make him cum or puke all over him or both. Whatever the outcome, I was committed now. If Juju could do it, so could I.
I held my breath and took in as much of his cock into my mouth as I could. Then I went a little deeper and the tip of his cock hit the back of my throat and I gagged.
“Shit, Annabel, don’t puke on me,” Shane said from above me. His words fell on deaf ears. I slowly slid my lips back from his cock, my tongue cupped and trailing along the bottom of the shaft, then slowly lowered my head back down. This time when his cock hit the back of my throat I somehow managed to relax and didn’t gag. That worked so well I did it again. And again. And again. Before I knew it, I had most of Shane’s ten inches in my mouth and was working his balls with my fingers.
“Fuck…” he sighed. I could smell the sweat coming off him. I could smell the aroma of pussy juice wafting from between my legs. I held his cock steady and bobbed my head up and down, taking him in clear to the back of my throat and back out again.
“Fuck… I’m gonna pop…” Shane said. He was wiggling in the seat, breathing hard, tapping his hands against the steering wheel.
“Pop… baby…” I said, my head going up and down like a Texas oil derrick.
“Shit… fuck… people are… walking… fuck…”
Shane sucked in a deep breath and blew his load in my mouth. It was like deep throating a fire hose as he shot his milky cum deep down my throat. I pumped his cock with my hand and sucked up every delicious drop without gagging a single time. When he was done, I pushed myself up in the seat and leaned in and smiled with his cum on my lips.
“Let’s see Juju beat that,” I said.
I should have never said those words.
Because a month later, he gave her the chance.
CHAPTER 8: Shane
I was fucking exhausted by the time the British Airways plane touched down at Houston’s Hobby Airport, about an hour’s drive from Gulf Breeze. I had been in the air a total of 21 hours and 17 minutes, flying out of Kandahar, connecting at Heathrow in London, then direct to Houston. It was better than flying on a troop transport, but not by much. I had spent the last 12 hours scotched between a fat motherfucker who snored like a freight train and smelled like Polish sausage, and a skinny German woman holding a baby that insisted on crying most of the way across the Atlantic Ocean. I had never been so happy to get off a plane in my entire life.
I rented a car at the Hertz window, the biggest thing they had, a monstrous Lincoln Navigator SUV that would allow me to stretch out my long legs. I threw my duffel into the trunk, started it up, and cranked up the air. I adjusted the vents in the dash to blow the cold air directly at my face. It was fucking hot in Texas. Hotter than Kandahar even. I could feel the black t-shirt I was wearing sticking to my back against the soft leather seat.
I made my way onto Interstate 45-south and settled in with the cruise control set at 70. I was the slowpoke I guess because everybody else was doing 90 and passing me like I was sitting still. Fuck the
m. I was in no hurry to get home… shit… I can’t even call it that with a straight face. Gulf Breeze was not my home. It was just a little shithole town on the Gulf coast of Texas that didn’t even show up on most maps. I had spent the first eighteen years of my life there. Leaving was like being let out of prison.
I had never felt safe or free a day in my life. I found myself starting to relax for the first time ever as the bus pulled out of the terminal and headed toward Michigan, but there was still the tingling of danger in my bones. I was honestly afraid my old man would run the bus off the road and come onboard to kill me. To finish what he started. That would be about like Clint Mavic. Kill his oldest son in broad daylight and claim he had done the world a favor. My mother would watch him do it and back him up.
So, why couldn’t I call Gulf Breeze home?
Because for me there was no such place.
* * *
My old man had used me for a punching bag my whole life. I can’t tell you how many bruises and cuts and scrapes the bastard gave me over the years. I could close my eyes today and feel the point of his boot in my back and in my ribs. I could picture my mom standing off to the side covering her mouth with her hands, big tears in her eyes, as she watched her husband pounding her eldest son like a bag of sand.
Stop, she’d whine, barely loud enough to hear. Clint… please… you’re going to hurt him…
He didn’t care. He was pissed off an angry, though not really at me. Clint Mavic was pissed at life in general. He felt that he’d been dealt a shitty hand and he had to take his frustration out on somebody. It might as well be me, a skinny little kid that couldn’t fight back. I learned to just lay there curled up into a ball praying that the blows would soon stop.
When my younger brother Kenny came along, I was terrified that the old man would start shifting some of his venom Kenny’s way. But he didn’t. He never raised a hand to Kenny. Hardly ever raised his voice. It was like Kenny was the son he never had, even though he’d had me for six years by the time Kenny was born.
Kenny was an adorable little kid. And we looked nothing alike. I was stick thin, with black hair, dark skin, and brown eyes. Kenny was born with a headful of blond curls and a pinkish complexion and blue eyes, like the old man. He always said Kenny favored his side of the family while I looked like my mother’s side. He called them “fucking Indians” because my mom’s dad was a full-blooded Cherokee. My old man hated my grandfather, the one man never afraid to stand up to him. My mother once told me that he didn’t start beating her until after my grandfather died because he knew gramps would kill him without blinking an eye. Maybe that’s why he focused his anger on me. Every time he hit me maybe he was picturing his fist slamming into the face of my grandfather.
The old man doted on Kenny. So, did mom and so did I. He was a sweet kid. It wasn’t his fault that he was the old man’s favorite. In all honesty, Kenny’s birth seemed to temper the old man a bit. He didn’t seem so quick to anger and didn’t drink nearly as much, but when he did he always came home looking for me.
“Why does he hit you?” Kenny asked me once when he was probably six or seven years old. I was twelve or thirteen. We were sitting on a dock at Myer’s Lake watching the fish steal the worms off our hooks. Kenny had hidden behind my mother dozens of times over the years, watching the old man pound on me. I tried not to look at Kenny when it was happening. We were both helpless, Kenny even more so than me. It was just too fucking painful for both of us.
“I dunno,” I said quietly, shrugging it off like it wasn’t a big deal.
“Why doesn’t he ever hit me? Doesn’t he love me?”