The Victor and the Vanquished

Prologue

PrologueOn the Banks of Big Beaver Creek, Pinoan Indian Reservation

Approaching sleep had begun to blur images of the two of us skinny dipping in the creek until a familiar voice, thick with alcohol, came out of the darkness.

“Hey, where are you pansies?”

I lay in my bedroll feigning sleep as a figure staggered out of the dark forest and wove its uncertain way across the moonlit clearing, bringing the sharp, tangy smell of beer along with it.

“How you girls doing?” The man tripped over his own feet and almost stumbled into the little lean-to we’d built for our camp out.

“We ain’t girls. And be quiet,” my companion said in a hushed voice. “You’ll wake him up.”

“Let him sleep, but you’n me’s gonna get it on.”

My heart thudding wildly, I opened my eyes a squint and saw the man snatch the blanket off my friend.

“Don’t! He might wake up. Please, not with him here.”

“He ain’t dumb. He knows what you are. Hell, you probably got it off with him too.”

The man swayed as he stripped off his shirt and dropped his pants. He wasn’t wearing shorts as he knelt astride the other boy. He shoved his hips forward and almost fell. He was sweating, although the night was cool.

“That’s it. Take it like a good little pussy.” He hunched his powerful hips. Soon, he was panting and groaning like he was about to get it, but then he pulled out, threw the boy’s long legs atop his shoulders and was soon rocking back and forth, his naked cheeks dimpling in the moonlight with each thrust. He mumbled and picked up speed—and urgency.

At last, he gave a lunge and reared up until his head struck the top of the lean-to. “Take it, you fairy…you f*****g queer. Ungh!” Panting from his exertions and the force of his ejaculation, he snarled, “You like that, don’t you, faggot?”

“Not so loud! Please don’t wake him. We didn’t do anything.”

His seed spent, the man jerked out and stood, his manhood sagging like a piece of bark peeling from a tree trunk. “I oughta make you lick it clean.”

Instead, he picked up his clothes and reeled away, pausing to cleanse himself in the creek before stumbling noisily down the path. When he was gone, the night grew quiet—unnaturally so. The nocturnal creatures had gone silent. A quarter moon hid behind a bank of clouds. Even Big Beaver, normally a noisy stream, seemed muted. The scent of honeysuckle wafted in on a silent breeze. The odor was so thick I could almost taste it. I watched the silhouette of my companion, his excitement evident.

“You awake?” The whisper was barely audible.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t even breathe. I throbbed against my britches so hard it hurt, but I didn’t dare move.