WTHAIDH (What the hell am I doing here)? Part 4: Y.O.A.T

Memory is a fickle friend.  While so much of this story is remembered in "technicolor" down to the feel of lint in my pocket or the callous on his left hand or the exact time on a clock, other moments are a blur, beyond the reach of a probing mind.

Such is the case, unfortunately, for much of the time I spent in TCD's house.

I remember some things, of course.  I remember the light-headed feeling of walking up to his door.  I remember thinking his lawn was well tended and wryly wondered if he did it himself wearing a "wife-beater".  I remember the doorbell not working and the flash of anxiety at getting no response to my somewhat hesitant knocking.  I vividly remember the relief that he didn't answer the door and the surge of adrenaline that told me to "get the fuck out of there!"

But, of course, just as I turned to run, the door opened, and it is from that point my memories begin to play tricks.

He was not what I expected.  Younger, shorter, more clean cut that his voice suggested.  He was Hispanic, I would guess, though he was clearly raised in America.  And yes, he was good looking, though in an unremarkable way.   Most memorable, however, was the fact that he greeted me at the door with absolutely no clothes on.  Kinda hard to forget that, especially in his somewhat crowded/busy neighborhood.

I don't remember why he hit me and knocked me to the floor or if that was even the next thing that happened.  Perhaps I was staring too long, or maybe I failed to answer him when (or if) he spoke, or maybe because he didn't like what he saw.  I don't know.  I just remember the lemony smell of his floor as my face planted itself on the crack between the white and the black tiles, and I remember thinking, "This floor is really, really clean, I better not mess it up..." followed by the slow recognition: "I am now in for some serious bad luck...".

I must have lost consciousness, because for the life of me, I don't remember how I got naked or even where my clothes were.  And I had even less idea how I ended up on the "most abrasive carpet in the world", but the carpet-burn on my knees is not something I am likely ever to forget.  While obsessing about the blistering pain in my knees, it took me a long time to realize my hands were duct taped behind my back.

I remember a string of events around his coming back into the room and pushing his cock deep into my throat and slapping me for scraping his dick with my teeth.  Every time I tried to explain that I wasn't a particularly good cocksucker, I got jap-slapped, sometimes with the back of his hand, other times with his dick.  I had never really deep-throated an average cock before, at least not well, but TCD's dick wasn't average and he wasn't waiting until I learned.  His very brief instructions, such that they were, entailed telling me:  "I hope you ain't ate nuthin faggot boy, cuz I'm a gonna rape that throat until you throw up, bitch."  I remember trying hard to make enough spit to cover his fat 8 inch cock (or was it 13 inches?) but every time he pushed into my throat I gagged and worse-- I panicked, feeling like I would never breath again. And just as I would start to really go nuts, he would pull out, enough to let me breathe a couple of breaths before he shoved back in.  I don't remember how long he throat fucked me before I blacked out again...

When I woke up the second time, I was alone, face down on the carpet from hell.  I struggled to swallow and then regretted ever trying, as I was accosted by the angry taste of his cum, burning as it tried to slide down my that thing I used to call "my throat".

It wasn't until I stood up that I realized my throat hadn't been the only victim.   Because of the startling "lack" of feeling in my ass, it took me by surprise that I began to feel something dribbling down my right leg.  With no little trepidation, I reached back and felt for my hole but couldn't actually feel anyhing other than the slime oozing from my ass, which I reluctantly brought to my nose for the superfluous identification.

I am not sure what compelled me to look in the mirror, but I wish I hadn't.  When I looked, I saw the letters written on my forehead by what must have been a big-ass marker: "Y O A T".  What the fuck was a "yoat"?  I have been called many things by many people (not all of whom particularly liked me) and indeed was called at least a dozen humiliating names by TCD himself in the short period I actually remember, but try as I may, I couldn't remember anyone calling me or anyone else a "yoat".  Did he mean "goat" by some chance?  Maybe he was just a terrible speller.  Maybe it wasn't English and since I don't know Spanish, I settled anxious mind down thinking that must be it.

Weirdly, the only thing I could think of next were the fucking Hardy Boys and not the cute Parker Stevenson/Shaun Cassidy Hardy Boys, either, but the four dozen Hardy Boys books I read when I was 10 years old.  Nothing I did could clear my mind of the stupid "boys" until it finally occurred to me that they were speaking to me from the recesses of my youthful memories to remind me:  you're looking at a mirror, dumbass.  I ran back to the mirror expecting THE answer to everything going on, but was only met with the sickening realization that TAOY was probably even less intelligible that a "yoat", which at least sounded like something.  Again, my mind rapidly mulled the meaning of TOAY, and again, it was rebuffed.

Of course, by now, my body, and its many travails was now starting to wake up and it didn't take much for my body to remind my mind:  you have far bigger issues than this stupid teenage mystery, dude.  The now searing pain in my ass, the mangled chortling of my throat which could not longer utter words, even in a whisper, the raw feeling in my knees, the ache in my shoulders where my arms must have been pulled back in some physiologically irrational way, and the growing feeling that could only be described as micro-wasps trying to sting their way into my butt cheeks.

When I consulted my new nemesis, the fucking mirror from Wonderland, I could tell someone had wailed on my butt as they were "spanking welts" all up and down each cheek.  And above them in very neatly written words which I deciphered quicker than a Hardy Boy:  This Ain't Over Yet.