Chapter 1

Timmy stumbled to a stop and stood there, looking around confusedly, swaying slightly. "Oh, yeah," he murmured, and turned to the right. Half falling, he lurched forward, caught himself and wandered along the side street.

"Hey, Guy. Come on," he heard voices demanding from his left. He saw his buddies up behind the parked cars in the dirt lot.

"Sheesh, hold on," he grunted, sounding aggravated, trying not to show his eagerness. He veered around and trod a mostly straight path up to where the others were waiting impatiently.

"Bout time," the big one sneered. "I thought you were going to get us high with some really great stuff."

"Yeah! Come on, asshole. Show us what you got," another of the crew demanded. A couple of others hovered there, watching and agreeing.

"I do, too, have it. I've got it right here," he whimpered, fumbling in his pockets. It was indeed very good weed, costly nearly all of the minimal wages he was made by pressing upholstery and draperies for the seamstresses at a nearby interior design company's fabricating department. He had gotten paid today, Friday, and spent nearly everything on scoring some good pot. His inebriated state made his fingers a tangle, but at last he grasped and drew out the baggie.

One of the men grabbed it from him. "Let's see here what you've got." He opened the bag and thrust it against his face, inhaling. "Not bad, not bad." Timmy jerkily reached out to take it back, but the man easily handed it past him to another who had pulled out a pipe.

"Hold on there. Be good, and we may let you have a hit," the big one said, laughing. They all chuckled, but Timmy began to feel like crying.

"Give it back," he whined.

The big one poked him hard in the stomach. "Shut up! You're a baby. All we want to do is get high, right guys?" A round of voices grunted affirmation amid more snickering. "Just like you offered!" The pipe was lit and went around the group of men.

"Here," the big man rasped in that raspy inhaled breath of someone holding onto his smoke, "take a hit," as he shoved the end of the pipe between Timmy's lips. With a small yelp from the sharpness of the pipe pinching his lip against his teeth, Timmy pursed his mouth around the slobbery stem and pulled the bitter fumes inward. He heard the popping sounds of the last of the bud dying in the bowl. He heard a plastic rustle, and saw the rest of his bag being folded up and put away in a pocket.

"No, it's mine," he groaned. The men sniggered, and jostled him to and fro. He felt angry and nervous, and very light headed. He was startled when the biggest one suddenly grabbed a fistful of his hair and forced him down to his knees. He was held down, struggling, while his captor grappled with his fly. Timmy heard the zipper undone one tooth at a time distinctly, and perceived the other men were closely pressing in. Timmy was shocked, and began trying to get away.

"Oh, no buddy, it's ours, and so's this," the big man put his fingers into Timmy's mouth and pulled it open. Holding Timmy's jaw wide, his other hand fished his penis out and shoved it into the gaping maw. The fingers were yanked back out. "Gently, now, fella, you better suck me good." The hand went back into Timmy's hair, and his head was shoved against the other's crotch, the penis forced deeply into his throat. A motion was set up, in, out, in, out. Gorge rose into Timmy's throat as he fought against being sick.

He was afraid, and in pain, and yet a nauseated sexual response began in his loins. Blood rushed in, and he became erect and focused on the connection between his cock stuffed mouth and throat and his own ashamed debasement. He stopped struggling in evasion, and voluntarily now slid his mouth fiercely up and down the organ of his rapist. Sexual hunger rose in him, he wanted to be fed. He wanted to be hurt because the hurting was pleasure. He wanted to service and thus be punished for his existence.

The one using his mouth shouted, "FUCK!" and exploded his cum into Timmy's mouth. Timmy gulped it down greedily. When his mouth was left momentarily vacant, Timmy gasped for air for the brief instant before another man took his throat. A deep thrust, another tang of sweat and odor, and Timmy sucked again. Each man, in turn, raped and spent in Timmy. Somewhere along the way, Timmy shot into his own pants without being touched in any way other than the rape of his mouth. Time came when Timmy detected that he was alone and lying in the dirt with mud smeared tear tracks.

He pushed himself up and sat against the low wall at the top side of the parking lot, hidden by the cars below, crying quietly.

"I hate myself," he thought, his face twisted. He felt soiled beyond repair, soiled by what he was and what he brought upon himself. He ached for a numbing drink.