The Neighbour By Ruthless@nbnet.nb.ca MM/m rape Part 1 of 6
DISCLAIMER: This story is a work of erotic gay fiction. It depicts graphic gay sex and violence. If you are underage or if you are offended by material of this nature, please do not read this story.
As always, your comments criticism, complaints, flames, requests for stories and requests for missing instalments are welcomed by the author at Ruthless@nbnet.nb.ca
WARNING!: This story is about a gay rape, depicted realistically.
When the car turned up into my driveway it was around eight o'clock in the morning. I was out working, back filling the ditch that I'd dug between the house and the barn to rebury the water pipe, which had frozen last winter. It was the beginning of June, it was hot and I was stripped to the waist, spade in hand, and the pina colada scent of sunscreen rising off me.
For most guys walking around with no shirt on is nothing. But I haven't lived with other people enough to be perfectly at ease with even partial nudity when someone else is around. Not that I wasn't used to having my shirt off. Where I live it hardly makes a difference what I wear because I never get any visitors anyway. The day was shaping up to be a shimmeringly hot one, so I was dressed only in boots and jeans when I walked down to see who had dropped in so unexpectedly.
I don't know if the way I was dressed had anything to do with what happened. They say it doesn't. The trigger doesn't come from the way anyone is dressed, but the violence waiting seizes on an innocent thing like that to use as an excuse. That may be so. But I know for me, being shirtless was pretty far stripped down to have anyone's eyes resting on me.
I thought it might be my neighbour, Petey Wilson, driven over to see me again at last. I'd been waiting for him to come by for weeks now, ever since he'd come back from wherever he had been living to stay on the Wilson farm again. But I didn't really have any reason to think he'd remember me and drop over if he hadn't yet. It wasn't him today.
A couple of guys got out of the car, strangers both. One was a bit taller than me. He had a thin secretive mouth and rangy shoulders. The other guy was a bit shorter than me. He had black hair, cut very close to his scalp and right now was grimacing hard. I didn't take their appearance in much at that moment, just the quick impression that they weren't farmers because the casual clothes they were wearing didn't have the subtle signs of wear, that can be seen when the wearer does heavy labour. They were just a pair of ordinary guys, summer visitors.
"Say, you could tell us where the closest gas station is, couldn't you?" said the tall guy.
I raised both my eyebrows. "It's a matter of twenty-two miles. You fellows getting short on gas?"
The fellow with the grimace gave a nod. That was why he was looking so irritated. "We're close to empty."
"You won't make these hills just on fumes." I said.
The two guys shot quick chagrined looks at each other. They were just the kind of visitors I figured they'd be, when I'd seen them pull in. I've had the odd stranger stop looking for directions before. These guys had the same kind of trouble, not that they were in a real fix.
"I can let you have some gas." I said. "Enough to get you to the gas station. But you'll have to drive in the other direction. The station's at the Hoyt Junction down on the highway."
"Could you?" The tall guy asked.
"Sure." I said.
"But we got to go back twenty miles that way?" The shorter guy pointed.
"That's right." I agreed.
They trooped after me when I went to get the gas can. I didn't have any gas stored in the can. What I had in mind was to siphon it out of the panel truck. I laid down the spade at the entrance to the barn.
"Damn, it's quiet out here." The tall guy said. "Doesn't it give you the willies?"
"No. I grew up out here." I said.
My farm is stuck up on a hill with the forest on three sides. It's two miles from my nearest neighbour and six miles to the next nearest, so I could see why these guys found it quiet. Even I found it quiet. The Wilson farm had had nobody on it all last winter. That was why I was wishing the Wilson who was living on it now, Petey Wilson, would come over to say Hi. Like I told the guys, I'm used to being alone, but sometimes I miss having company.
"This your place?" The guy was going on with his questions.
"That's right." I didn't figure they were interested, of course. They were just making conversation to be polite.
"You're kind of young to own a farm."
"I inherited it."
They watched blankly while I stuck the tube down into the gas tank of the truck.
"Where are you folks from?" I asked.
"Mississauga." said the short guy briefly.
I was wondering if they'd volunteer to pay for the gas or not. If they didn't I could ask them straight out, or skip it. I hadn't made up my mind yet. It wasn't important. "You run this place all by yourself?"
"It's not a big place." I shrugged. They were definitely city people, asking a question like that. "I don't get any vacations but it only takes one guy to get the work done."
"You mean you live alone?"
"Sure." I turned around to the siphon and kinked it to shut it off. "That should do it."
Then unmistakably, as soon as I had my back to them, I felt something thin edged and sharp pressed against the side of my neck. The front of a man's body pushed up against my back. His arm caught my shoulder. His knife kissed me, painfully and hot.
"So don't you get scared living alone?" His voice tickled against my ear, sounding soft and amused.
"Aw, Fuck!" I stood rock still. I heard the other man chuckle.
"That's it, Farmer. Stand nice and still or I'll slit your throat for the fun of it."
I had started to breath heavily. I stared at the side of the panel truck and didn't move. The man's body was warm and bulky so close up behind mine. My breath moved swiftly as well as deep. The knife-edge stayed pushed into my skin.
"You can take what you want." I said. "You robbing me? Alright. Just get that knife away from my neck."
Just by touching me he had cut me a thin slice above the arteries. I could tell that one hard jerk of his hand would open a lethal gash. It was honed to an edge like a razor. If I moved at all, I could kill myself. They had me transfixed.
They were both chuckling. "Yeah, we could do that, rob you."
"Get the knife away."
"Are we all alone here? Are you sure?"
"Yeah, we're alone." I was breathing so hard that my words stuck. My hands had come up. Very lightly I touched the back of his wrist that held the knife.
He was having none of that. "Put them down!" His voice got hard. The knife twitched. I sucked in as it drew a fine edge of heat and pain again. I laid my hands down by my sides.
"Okay, fucking pansy." He sneered. "You do what we say and I won't cut your throat. But any trouble from you and I'd kinda like to see how far the blood sprays when I dig it in." To illustrate he pressed the knife harder. More pain. I felt the trickle palpably start down to my collarbones.
"Oh, Jesus." My voice trembled. Something had happened to my stomach. It felt like I had been kicked. And my breathing had a cadence all it's own. It sawed back and forth. It was jumping so hard that I was afraid my own panting would push my neck against the knife. "Oh Jesus."
"Get walking." He ordered.
"Where?"
He considered. "To your barn."
"Which barn?" My voice was shaking. My body knew how close I was to death and it was reacting with a terror sharper than my mind. My mind knew how soft a motion would kill me but was watching farther back. I was recording how close my body was coming to panicking, even while I was asking questions.
"The big barn, Faggot!" he snarled.
Slowly, with a rigid spine I turned around. The man on my back stayed with me. The knife stayed with me. He didn't even draw it back a millimetre, but let it ride with the edge of the blade in the groove of a cut it had made. I felt heat. The sharpness itched.
I saw the other man. The guy with the dark hair was following along, circling like a dog, with a flat happy grin on his mouth. His eyes were alight and gleaming. He went across the yard and into the barn first, backing in.
Inside the familiar cool mustiness, I walked sure-footed across the concrete guttering. I could walk it blind and I did now. I couldn't look down. There were at least three little thin gashes scoring the skin on my neck. I didn't know why we were going intto the barn. There was nothing that could interest them in the barn. But it took us out of sight of the road.
"Okay, you shit." The man holding the knife to my neck purred. "You going to play with us? You got a chance of getting out of this alive, maybe. But you got to play with us, just the way we like it or I'm going to play with the knife."
"Okay." I said. "I understand you. I'll do what ever you say. Only there's nothing here worth stealing. I don't keep anything in the house. There's a CD player. You can take that."
"A CD player." He sneered. "Fuck, we're going to get a lot more than that."
"There isn't really anything more than that."
I was irritating him. I was trying to cooperate with him, but my words were angering him. I felt the knife slide upward as slow as the dribble of blood that was inching down.
"Harry, find some kind of rope." The man with the knife ordered. "I think we'll have to tie this cocksucker up."
The other guy headed off straight away. There was plentty of rope in the byre. I knew he'd find some pretty quickly. The guy that was holding me was pulling me back against himself firmly. His voice came in my ear.
"Are we scaring you, Pussy?"
"Yeah." It didn't matter my admitting it. My breathing made it quite obvious.
"A cocksucking pussy boy like you should enjoy entertaining visitors. What's your name, cocksucking pansy boy?"
"Ian."
"Ian." He jeered. "Ian's going to do some entertaining. Aren't you, Faggot?"
"I told you. You can steal anything I've got."
"That's a given, Pussy-boy." he said. Then he did something weird. I felt his tongue come out and lick the back of my ear, opposite the knife where his voice was hissing. He licked me like a dog.
Harry came back with a length of yellow rope from my block and tackle. He let it drag through the gutters as he brought it back. He must have cut it to get it free but there were yards of it.
"Put your hands up in front of you, Pussy-boy." The man with the knife said. "Just like you were praying."
"No." Harry held back. "I don't want his arms in front. If his arms are in front, he can still punch."
"Tie them in back then."
"No. I want him tied to that." Harry pointed at a railing. It was the calf pen, empty because I didn't have any calves right then. The enclosure was five feet high and had a railing every ten inches.
The knife never left my throat as they got me to back down and sit on a square bale of straw. Harry tied first my right wrist, yanking the rope firmly and then his friend stepped around me in front and Harry tied my left wrist the same way. I wound up sitting in a crucified position. Harry squatted down in front of me and undid the knots in my work bootlaces. Then he tied them together again, so my boots tied my feet together.
"Head's at the right height, then." Harry pointed out. "How's that, good?"
"That's good." I could see his friend's face now and I wasn't surprised to see his narrow lips stretched into a smile. "Beautiful." he pronounced. "Now we can get at any part of the ugly pansy we want to."
He took the knife away at last. It felt like something dropped from my throat into my stomach. It was a swallow that had locked letting go. I faced the two smiling strangers with my lips parted to pant. "Why?" I asked them. "Why do you want to hurt me? What is this?"
The man who had held the knife answered me. Only it wasn't a knife. It was a straight razor. I had had a straight razor held to my throat. "We're going to fuck you, because you're a pansy," he said
His words sounded like an insult to me, nothing more. They kept on looking at me, satisfied, and then his words started to make sense to me. He was answering me literally.
"We're going to fuck that gross little cocksucking mouth of yours." He told me.
"No, you're not." I said.
"Hear that, Nick?" said Harry. "He wants to hold out on us still. Maybe he wants us to persuade him with a little foreplay. How about it, Faggot? Would a few fistfuls of the horseshit that's lying around on the floor here getting rubbed into your face turn you on? Would you want to suck dick then? Or would you rather my buddy takes his razor to your face instead?"
I started to hate the guys, with the virulent pathological hate that would laugh to see them killed. I don't hate easily but the comfortable contemptuous threats made it rise up in me. I trembled with hate. I couldn't do anything but I glared at them, bitter with an anger that wracked my whole body. I was speechless.
"Scared, Pussy-boy?" Nick asked me. "Just do what we order you to and you might, you might," he emphasised, "Get to live through this with only Harry and me knowing what a cocksucker you are."
He folded his razor and tucked it away but it was Harry who moved on me first. He moved until he stood at my shoulder. My face was exactly the level of his crotch. When he was in my face, he un-zippered the bulge that was pushing the front of his jeans taut. It pushed out of his fly like a living thing coming out for air. I found myself staring at a prick that was only half an inch from my lips.
My teeth were together but my lips were drawn back. I snarled without sound. If it had been any closer I would have snapped at it. I smelt the male scent of him. I thought it was going to go inside and I made ready to rip him with my teeth. I had no thought of the razor. No way was I going to let that ugly, purple veined male thing invade me. I was going to fight.
He stepped back sharply.
"Looks like the faggot's playing coy, Harry." said Nick.
I glared, panting at them both.
"You're going to take it, Pussy-boy," said Nick confidently. He seemed very tall, standing above me with his thin-lipped Etruscan smirk. "You know why? Because one way or another you can't keep us from giving it to you. You think playing hard to get will help?"
When he lunged for me I kicked. Harry lunged suddenly also. I was caught by the knees and I twisted. I felt Nick's fingers at my belly. He laughed. My snap and zipper came undone. I kept on jerking angrily. They held me for only a second, then Nick tugged and my jeans came straight down, underpants and all, skinning me bare to the ankles where they caught on my laced boots.
"See that, Faggot boy? Your asshole can't bite, can it? If your ugly faggot mouth won't suck us off, then we're going to ream your big, loose, cock-hungry ass. How about that then, Farmer? We're going to plough your ass, just like you plough your fields."
"Bastards!" I gasped.
I took a kick suddenly to my thigh. Harry was angry and lashed out.
"Shit, I told you." Harry said. "Now we got to cut you. You don't cooperate, we got to cut you to pieces. You're just a faggot anyway. We're doing this for your pleasure."
Nick moved back. "Look." he said. "The little old hayseed's scared of it. He never got asked to bend over before without a please. He'll give in. He wants a good time as much as we do."
"I'm going to kill him." Harry said.
"Only if we don't get a good fuck out of him." Nick said to Harry. "Come on. I want to go see what he has in his house. If we leave the little faggot to think it over awhile, I'll bet he'll be begging us to give him some hot cock when we get back."
"It's the cock or the razor, Asshole." Harry's cheeks were bright with anger.
"Come on." said Nick to Harry kindly. "Don't sweat it. Aren't you having fun? He's not going to disappoint you. You know he'll get your rocks off, one way or another."
Harry put his prick back into his pants and they walked out of the barn. They left me there roped viciously to the calf pen, sprawled off of the bale on my back, face burning with terror and rage. I was helpless.
The barn is a quiet place. I keep a shed full of pigs but I don't pen them in the barn. I was the only living thing in the building. The men were gone and the open barn door was filled with the vivid cerulean blue of the summer sky.
I walked back up onto the bale and sat with my jeans at my ankles. I couldn't pull them back up. I was exposed, bare, tied so that I couldn't get free. I turned my head and looked at the yellow rope that was twisted around my hands without really seeing it. I felt incredibly sick to my stomach. Also, I couldn't breath.
I was panting. The cadence of my breath was wrong. I'm hyperventilating. I thought. That was panic. The thing to do was to stop panicking and think clearly.
So I tried to control my breathing. Consciously, I tried to interrupt the swift breaths, to slow them down and I couldn't.
Those guys had said they were going to rape me. Could they? They had said it themselves, no lie. I might be able to bite anything they forced into my mouth but supposing they chose to ass fuck me instead? I couldn't do anything about that. Every breath I took was crowded by the next one. They sent shivers all the way down my body.
I'm going to get raped if those guys want to. There's nothing, nothing I can do about it. Breath more slowly, I commanded myself. Still the breaths followed their own cadence. I couldn't even control my breathing. I can't even do anything to prevent them from doing an anal rape to me, from cutting me or... I shut my eyes and twisted against the rope. I'm going to die here. Very likely I'm going to die here.
They were gone up at my house a long while. I had plenty of time to do all the thinking I wanted. I thought quite clearly. Only luck and the capricious mercy of the two maniacs who had invaded my farm would allow me to stay alive. I was alive if those two guys decided to not kill me.
What could I do? I could avoid panicking; I could cooperate with the two guys and not make them angry. I could stay calm and look for a chance. If they untied me so that they could rape my ass, if I got my hands free, then I might be able to get free. Then I might be able to fight or run. I had to wait calmly and look for a chance like that. And in the meantime...
When your livelihood is dependant on whether it rains or not, you learn to watch the sky. Today only the thinnest wisps of cirrus formed delicate patterns on the sky. I sat in that humiliatingly exposed position and listened and I watched the door, waiting for the shape of the two men to appear again in the blue rectangle.
If any cars had gone past on the road I would have heard them, a distant bumpy rumble because the road isn't paved. Even if a car did go past on the road there was nothing to see, just still buildings and not the ghost of a chance they would hear me screaming. There was even less chance that Petey Wilson would hear me scream. Around here the hills swallow up the sounds and an echo gets lost in the forest.
There was a shotgun in the house. Around here the deer are tiny creatures with long matchstick legs. I'd never used the shotgun to go hunting. It was too heavy a weapon for killing deer as small as those. It was meant for something like moose. It had been in the house forever. I'd inherited it along with everything else. I was trying to remember if there was any ammunition to go with it.
Those maniacs would want the gun and maybe the CD player. Maybe the truck. I have two trucks, both old. Maybe, and my stomach tightened with hope, they were just doing big nasty talk and they would search the house, pilfer it, forget about me and go.
Only if they did that, I realised, I would probably die.
End of Part 1 of 6