VOLUME TWO: CHAPTER ONE

Welcome To Straightville.

“Dad- sorry, I mean Father!” I corrected, myself, “Please stop doing this, I ask you!”
“Doing what? Handcuffing you to the interior door handle of my Subaru car so that you can’t escape from it while I drive you to a place far away where nobody minces and is gay and only do sex with women and where you’ll never and never be able to see and be gay with that Tommy faggot ever again and where, in time, I hope, your revolting bloody appetite for cock and balls and male bums will be replaced with a healthy heterosexual appetite for vaginas, breasts and female bums, because I have never approved of your being gay but the neighbours have started asking where you are and I’m running out of lies to explain your absence after I kicked you out of this house for being gay?” he taunted, meticulously.
“Yes Father, that!” I confirmed.
“No; I won’t stop it”, he meanly said, putting his car keys into the ignition of his car and turning them. The car’s engine roared to life in an aggressively masculine way. Unfortunately for me this wasn’t the type of masculinity that normally brought me to arousal (Tommy’s gay masculinity), but a hungry-for-vulva masculinity that, being gay, I didn’t subscribe to. It was as if the car was roaring homophobic abuse at me as Father slipped from neutral to first gear and drove us in the car away from Tommy’s liberal household, even though it wasn’t doing that. My Father was, though.
“You had your tongue in that mincing little prick’s shitty arsecrack; how disgusting of you, Donald”, he roared.
“Little prick? You saw it, Father: Tommy’s erection is enormous! So there!” I said, provocatively, even though I knew he was referring to Tommy and had passed no comment upon his lovely hard gay cock – I was that angry and upset.
“I don’t want to hear about what you’ve been sucking, lately.” Father explained.
“I don’t want to hear about what you’ve been sucking, lately, either, so don’t tell me about All The Tolerance And Love Out Of This Small Town, which is what you suck!” I quipped, “And you suck, in general, Father.” I added, pushing my luck and asking for a whallop but not caring enough not to push and ask for these things.
Soon we were on a big motorway, but still in the car. After two hours of driving down this in silence, save for an occasional mean-spirited tut from my Father, we passed a big sign:
YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE NORTH
Oh, I wish Tommy was now entering me from behind.
“Can you please stop saying things like that?” said Father, testily switching the FM radio of the car on with his left hand. The song “Love Hurts” by the Everly Brothers filled the interior of the car, much like Tommy’s spunk had filled my arse just hours ago. 
(Tommy’s spunk no longer filled that cavity, however, as about an hour of motorway I had noticed that the semen – presumably held up my bum by my anus’ initial constriction in terror of my father being homophobic – had begun to seep out of my bum hole and onto the plush leather upholstery of the seat I had been sat on. 
“Oh, for bloody hell’s sake!” my father had screamed, “I don’t want semen on a seat of this car!” he had continued, in explanation of why he had been angry at this. 
Before I could have collected Tommy’s erotic offering into a small glass jar or a locket (both of which I had found in the glove compartment) to keep as a memento of how gay we’d been my father had dangerously and with an abandon that of which I hadn’t much approve of pulled the car to a halt on the hard shoulder. I had been about to say “Oh, I wish I could be pulled onto a hard man’s penis instead.” but I had not gotten a chance to as my Father had uncuffed my hands from the handcuffs that I had been wearing and had instructed me to squat on the grassy verge and eject any residual cum out of my anus and onto the grass, which I had did with much weeping and reluctance. 
While I had been doing this father had scraped Tommy’s juices out of the car using a palette knife. He had cursed vehemently and then had wretched for several minutes when some of the spaff had spilled onto the back of his hand, but otherwise he had done a very clean job of despunking the front passenger seat. 
I had run into more difficulty, however, as in straining to squeeze every last drop of Tommy’s sex saliva out of my arse I had ejected quite a big bit of poo onto the grass, on a different patch of which I had had to wipe the residual poo off my anus and the sections of my arse cheeks that had enjoyed brief but indelible contact with the poo as it dropped to the ground. My father had called me an animal upon noticing the pile of my poo and Tommy’s semen that I had left and had re-handcuffed me to the car wearing rubber gloves, making a furious but vague comment about not wanting to touch me because I was gay and showed tendencies towards filthy disgusting habits. 
Thankfully it was a Sunday so everyone in the country was at Church/Mosque/Other and not on the motorway to see my compromising predicament. I was especially thankful because I had been (and still was) completely naked. We had left in such a hurry that father hadn’t allowed me chance to pack socks, underpants, trousers, belts, neckerchiefs, jumpers or shirts, remarking of the latter:
“What do you want to pack shirts for? You’ll only lift them.”)
Recognising that the song playing on the radio was and was called ‘Love Hurts’, I said: 
“Tommy’s love hurt because his erection is so big when I pushes it into my anus it is actually quite painful, but erotic enough that I can ignore the pain and enjoy myself.”
“Please don’t tell me anything else about yours and Tommy’s gay activities. I really am not interested and would rather not know”, replied father, through gritted teeth and a Murray Mint.
His mention of mine and Tommy’s gay activities naturally brought with it memories of all the thousands of times we had done things that resulted in spraying each other and Tommy’s parents’ house with our semen. I closed my eyes thought about these memories for two minutes, and then became aware that I had an erection, because when I opened my eyes my hard, erect penis stared back at me, standing tall (to the tune of seven inches), gay (to the tune of ‘a lot’) and proud (to the tune of ‘to be gay’). 
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Sighed Father, covering my hard cock with a tartan picnic blanket that he had gotten from somewhere. “Don’t shoot your load on that please, it was expensive”, he not-unreasonably requested.
I didn’t have an orgasm. I think my father was pleased about this, but he didn’t say so, at least not to me at the time. We drove for another spunk-less hour until my father pulled the car off the motorway using its steering wheel and we then immediately arrived in a northern mining village in the middle of nowhere. The village was called Pittown. I didn’t know why, but didn’t say so. This is because of the fact that my father had just finished saying a rant to me about how Gay people were ignorant of everything but current Hollyoaks storylines and the best way to suck another man’s cock. I didn’t want to even begin to prove his point or be a case in that point, so I didn’t so as not to be that. 
When the same Subaru that we had driven to the dank old cottage pulled up outside the dank old cottage that we were to live in from now on, I remembered that I had a mother who was married to my Father but wasn’t here with either her husband or son by that husband.
“Where’s mother mine?” I asked.
“She stayed at home.” explained Father, “She had a lot of cooking to do.”
I said “Ok.” to this information. Father unlocked and locked the doors (of cottage and car respectively) though not in that order. In fact it was in the opposite order that this happened. Once inside the cottage, I was just about to be in trouble. I had asked Tommy as I was dragged screaming but not kicking but instead flailing out of his house to keep in touch on the phone, implying by pointing at his wonderful erection that I would like a picture of it to set as my background and to look at. He had done as I implied, but mistakenly texted an excellent snapshot of his cock and balls and legs to the house phone not my mobile. He must have got the number from a phone book, I explained away that question to myself with that thought. Seeing Tommy’s cock for the second time in one day was too much for Father, who burped out a pint of vomit. He did this onto the carpet and his hand. And then he said some angry things to me, all of which were:
“That’s it, you limp-wristed battyman!” he bellowed, recycling a homophobic slur from a previous tirade, “You’re far more gay than I dreaded that you were. I need to take more drastic action than isolating you in this dank cottage that your uncle died and left me and your mother four years before you were born!” he continued to say. 
“Help” I said, thinking I was in for the gay bashing that, let’s be honest, I hadn’t exactly not been asking for that day, “me!”, I finished.
“I have got it!” my Father then said at me, “This town is called Pittown because, as you probably don’t know because the information doesn’t pertain to Hollyoaks storylines or the best way to administer oral sex to another man and his erection, it is a mining town. A Yorkshire one.” 
“That’s interesting” I said, without really meaning it – I was more interested in Tommy’s cock and the contents of his balls.
“I’m glad you think that.” replied father, “Now get a good night’s sleep in bed. You’ll need it.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Why?” repeated Father.
“Yes” I said.
“Because You, Donald, Are Going Down’t t’Pit!” he said, meaning that I was to work down a mine shaft from tomorrow, which I didn’t want to!

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CHAPTER TWO

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VOLUME TWO: CHAPTER FOUR