*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
**Author's Note: This is a flash story.
*****
Glen Webster stepped into the hot shower and tried hard not to cry. The hot water felt good as it coursed down his back.
He remembered the events of the day and did allow himself some tears as he developed an erection.
"Fucking bitch," Glen sobbed even as he began to stroke his six inch erection.
Carrie Richards had invited him to come along; she and her boyfriend, Bobby Breaux were going to Baylor Lake to go swimming. It was no secret to anyone at Kimble Academy, least of all to Bobby Breaux that Glen Webster was attracted to Carrie. But the young man gritted his teeth and pulled up in his mother's brand new 1999 El Dorado and drove the trio to Baylor Lake.
Carrie and Bobby were both blessed with bland blonde good looks. Glen, on the other hand, was a nondescript youth of brown hair and brown eyes.
Nondescript or not, he still lusted after, fantasized about the eighteen year old Carrie Richards.
At the lake, Bobby proceeded to drink too many beers. Bobby became louder and louder and more and more antagonistic toward Glen and even toward Carrie.
Carrie finally had enough of her boyfriend's boorish and drunken behavior and decided to teach Bobby a lesson. So she started to make out with Glen.
That kiss grew in intensity and soon she had her skimpy bikini top off and Glen was feasting on her 34C boobs with their small nipples.
Then a family came along and Carrie squealed and put her bikini top back on. Glen jumped into the water to quell his raging hard on.
Then when he looked around, Bobby and Carrie were gone, and so was the 1999 Cadillac.
"Your friends, they done left you yeah," the heavy set woman said when Glen came out of the water.
"Hoo-wee, he mad yeah," the husband agreed. "All yelling and stuff."
The Websters lived in a trailer in Kimble, Louisiana. They had very little money for the necessities in life and certainly did not have money for a cellular phone. Having no choice, Glen pulled on his cheap canvas sneakers, his threadbare 'Kimble Mustangs' tee shirt, and started walking the nearly twenty miles from the small Louisiana lake to his home.
In 1999, very little of Baylor Lake had been developed. The road was a gravel road and Glen soon took to walking along the edge, to save his feet from the hard stones of the path.
When he reached Highway 19, the black asphalt scorched through his thin rubber soles, so he continued to walk along the shoulder. DeGarde, Louisiana was still a small town, very little had been developed since the 1930s, so it was a lonely walk.
"Mother fucker!" Glen screamed as his right sneaker ripped, partially separating the tin rubber sole from the rest of the shoe.
True, the sneakers had been on borrowed time for a while, ready to fall apart. That was why, instead of wearing his good sneakers, Glen had put on the cheap ones to go to the lake. But the timing of their demise was a poor one.
So he hobbled along.
A 1973 Chevy Impala sedan pulled over just outside of DeGarde and Glen looked up with hope. This was the third car he'd seen since he'd started his journey. And it was the first one to stop.
"Need a ride, boy?" a man in his thirties or forties asked, leaning out of the rear passenger window.
"Yeah," Glen agreed with relief.
"Well, get in," the driver said.
"Going have get back here; front's loaded," the passenger said.
Glen could see a large cardboard box in the front seat so he opened the rear door of the large car and got in.
Both men were in their late thirties or early forties, dressed in dark brown business suits, both wearing grey fedoras on their heads.
"Thanks, really appreciate this," Glen said.
"Uh huh," the driver said and pulled back onto Highway19.
"I'm uh, I'm heading to Kimble; know where that is?" Glen asked.
"Uh huh," the driver said again.
"Been swimming, huh?" the passenger asked, looking at Glen's attire.
"Yeah, and they left me, believe that?" Glen complained.
"Damned shame," the driver said.
"So, Boy, you ever suck a cock?" the passenger asked.
"What?" Glen said, not sure he'd heard right.
The windows were all down and there was a lot of wind noise in the car.
"I said, you ever suck a man's cock?" the passenger repeated and the driver chuckled.
"What? No! I'm not gay!" Glen cried out.
Both men laughed.
"Boy's not too bright, huh, Jim?" the driver laughed as he turned off the blacktop onto a gravel road.
"How old are you, Boy?" Jim asked.
"I'm eighteen," Glen said, squeezing closer to his door.
"And ain't never sucked a cock huh?" Jim asked.
"No," Glen hotly said.
"Well, that's about to change, Boy," the driver said and turned off onto another gravel road.
"Yeah, Boy, you're about to suck a couple of cocks like your life depends on it," Jim chuckled.
"Know why, Boy?" the driver asked as he pulled to a stop on the side of the gravel road.
Glen could see nothing but thick lush green trees on both sides of the gravel path. There were no houses visible.
"Yeah, Bill, the boy's not too bright," Jim said.
"No he's not," Bill agreed as he opened the driver's door.
"Reason you're about to suck our cocks like your life depends on it," Jim said as Bill opened the rear passenger door. "Is because your life depends on it."
Both men unbuttoned their suit jackets and showed Glen the butts of their handguns.
"Out, Boy," Bill ordered.
Glen was too frightened to do anything but comply. He knew there was a biker bar, the 'Dead End' about three miles through the thick woods, to the west of where they were parked. He also knew, with one good and one torn sneaker, he'd never be able to run through the woods to reach that bar.
A nudge to his back prompted Glen to walk into the thick woods, torn sneaker flopping as he walked.
"Right there," Bill ordered and Glen stopped.
"Now, Boy, let's see the goodies," Jim ordered as the two men stood behind Glen.
