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“I think it was only going to be a year or two, but whenever I had a psych evaluation, I would go apeshit and tear up the fucking room, threaten to kill the doc so I could stay in confinement.”
“You didn’t want out?”
“I sure as shit didn’t want to go back to my mother or a random foster home where I could fuck shit up. At least in juvie I got fed three meals a day. After a few years, I even had two good friends who were long-termers like me. We watched each other’s backs, then in our teen years we scratched each other’s itches too,” he adds with a grin. “So it wasn’t that bad, especially after I had enough meals to put on a little weight and grew a few inches so I could stand up to the bigger kids and kick their asses.”
“How long were you in juvie?” I ask as his teasing finger swirls around and around my bellybutton, stealing my breath.
“I went in when I was eight and came out when I was eighteen, so ten years.”
“Damn.”
“It wasn’t bad,” he reiterates, as if trying to convince himself. “Our uniforms were like pajamas, and other than having to wakeup early, it was like a regular school day with classes. Recess outside was a small area surrounded with a thirteen-foot barbed wire fence. But, if we didn’t fuck up for several months in a row, they let us work at the farm next door to the detention center, got to stay outside longer in the summer.”
“Where did you go when you got out? Not back to your mother, right?”
“Oh, hell no. She was dead by then anyway. Drug overdose or suicide seven years earlier.” He suddenly drags his finger down, down, down, to my pubes. His eyes study the dark curls like they’re the most interesting thing he’s ever seen while telling me the craziest fucking story I’ve ever heard. “Not that I gave a shit if she was dead. It’s not like she ever came to visit me before she died.”
“Must have been tough being released with nowhere to go and no money,” I remark, trying to imagine what I would have done without my mom when I was an eighteen-year-old fuck up.
“It wasn’t. I didn’t have shit, so when I was released, I roughed up and robbed people on the street for watches or any shit I could pawn. I lost touch with my friends from juvie. Jace still had time to serve, and Jamal got released before me.”
“You lived on the streets?”
“There sure as shit weren’t any homeless shelters back then in Ridgeway, South Carolina. I never fucked anyone for money, but I would fuck older men or women for a bed for the night.”
I can’t even wrap my head around that type of desperation, having sex with someone just to have a safe place to sleep.
“How did you go from the streets to…” I lift my restrained hand as if to gesture to him. “You know, the suit and all.”
Finished with his thorough examination of my pubes, his fingernail drags down over my cock. Eli chuckles when I squirm and groan as that nail runs along my swollen shaft—up and down, around, teasing. Always teasing.
“How did I go from the streets to here? That’s a long story,” he replies. “And I need a shower. Got some of his blood on you too now.”
“Then wash that shit off while you tell me the rest,” I demand.
The deep blue glower he gives me makes it clear that he doesn’t like taking orders.
“Please wash it off?” I ask nicely. “I don’t want that sick bastard’s blood on me.”
“Me either.” Eli slides out of the booth without a word, and all I can do is watch his juicy round ass head for the bathroom. I hear the spray of the shower and know he’s not coming back for a while.
My mouth waters, wishing I could get a few drops of liquid on my tongue.
The longer Eli is gone, the more aware I become of the sticky blood drying on me. I lift my head and find the trails of crimson all over my stomach, down to my pubes and cock.
Damn him!
I feel so dirty and disgusting, wishing he would hurry up and get back out here so I can beg him to clean me up. And fuck, I really want him to touch me again, only without the blood staining my skin.
Finally, after what feels like forever, the water cuts off, making me wonder what kind of water source the camper is hooked up to in order for it to last so long.
A moment later, Eli strolls out of the bathroom, his shoulder-length wet hair dripping, brushing the tops of his ripped shoulders as he dries his huge body off with a hand towel. It’s pretty ridiculous, actually.
“Are you laughing at my baby towel?” Eli asks when he notices my silent laughter. Grabbing the two ends of the fabricbetween his hands, he rolls it up and then comes over to pop me with it, of course at my dick.
“Ow, fuck that hurts!”
That statement only has him doing it again and again, aiming for my stomach and chest.
