Silence

" . . . Brandon . . ."

Smiling, Omar whispers a thank you to God for finding Brandon for him.

"Ahhhhh Brandon, Brandon . . . what ya do ta me! " and Omar smiles again; this time a special calculating smile.

"I have searched almost all of the damn Westside fo' YOU, man! Where ya been, where ya been! ?" Omar cannot stop smiling.

And to see this smile means everything to Brandon. It indicates that someone cared enough for him to look; someone felt a need to look for him, someone was frightened that he may NOT have been found; someone was glad that he ‘is'; someone, someone . . . that ‘someone' is Omar. Brandon knows that this search confirms exactly who he is: my ‘angel', my man. Brandon stares back at him in awe and wonder, with just a hint of smile forming on his own face, too.

However, to say that that smile, any smile of Omar's burnt away the ‘other': all pain and anguish caused by the events of this morning, would be wrong. It would be a lie, a bold face lie. The smiles cannot help. The shame of it all is too great. Brandon fears that, without a doubt, the uglies have won. Unlike Omar's, Brandon's smile never has the chance to fully form.

All of the unyielding, harsh criticisms and admonishments that Brandon repeatedly tells his self, overpowers the joy that he sees right in front of him. Even hearing that this joy, his angel, has actually been looking for him all-night long doesn't matter. Brandon is so entrenched in the guilts; nothing - no one can get him out of this deep stink. His mind swims in self-defaming words. In his head, he hears a barrage of: "Ya're a worthless fuck, ya disgust me, and most of all ya disgust him! ! You PUKE you; ya're nothin' to me or to him. So, don't ya dare say one fuckin' word! ! !" He hears this: pounding, again and again and again within his mind.

"Yo, Brandon . . . Brandon . . ." Omar immediately senses that something's wrong; the quiet mood has invaded Brandon's entire demeanor. Shit, not again! The last time he has seen an inkling of this type of silent behavior from Brandon resulted in him being gone for three days. So, he resists doing what he wants to do the most, the moment Brandon bumped into him, the moment they collided: to jump him right there, in public, so that the world would see just how much this man means to him. Omar knows that he must be very, very careful in handling whatever it is that has silenced Brandon. He must handle it very delicately. He waits . . . and thinks . . . "What's the matter; what could have happened between na and the last time we were togetha'? Can it be that bad? "

Still vice-gripped by self-hating guilt for allowing ‘him' to do that to him, Brandon is powerless to respond to Omar. The uglies have him thinking that he can never be worthy of that smile, that devastatingly beautiful smile. A yielding smile permanently etched on Omar's face. "How can I tell ya that whenever I look in ya eyes, I go crazy. I want to crawl inside ya skin and feel covered with your touch, to lay inside of you there forever. But for right now, I can't bear to have you even look at me . . . because of the shame of what ‘he' did to me. What ‘he' has been doing to me every since . . . Shit, what I have done! God, I would trade ten thousand lifetimes for none of it to ever have happened, especially this morning's it. How could it have happened . . . Awwwwwhh, right after the most magnificent night of my entire life! I could kill that shitty muta' fucka for that and . . . me. Aaaarrrrggghhh! Damn, damn it . . .Omar please stop smilin' like that, it hurts too much. "

Brandon internalizes every word. He is devastated that by not doing, all he dreams to ever and forever have with Omar: his thoughts, his dreams, ‘his cold', to have the musky taste of him inside of him, to have him have him . . . is so quickly fading away. The betrayal is excruciating. This ache is much more powerful than the physical pain that he feels from the beating this morning. Brandon remains mute and stares at the ground, at Omar's feet. Wordless, the internal chatter rages on.

Although the noonday crowd has started to flood onto the street, Omar and Brandon continue their stares, staring as if the ‘other' only exists. Omar knowing Brandon's mood waits patiently for ‘an in', a twitch or sigh that would help tell him that no matter how fucked his mood is there is a way in to dismantle it. Omar stares to search for that kink.

Brandon sighs. Instantly Omar recognizes his chance. No matter how small the crack in his mood is, Omar is determined that Brandon does not face this devastation alone.

Omar places his hand on Brandon's chin and forces him to look at him

"So . . . Where are ya headed?"

Brandon tilts his head and rolls his eyes to point; Omar's eyes follow: it's the Greeks.

"Well then, shall we . . ."

Without saying a word, Brandon agrees and eagerly follows.Any hope to draw Brandon out of his shell by talking is soon dashed as they neared the entrance. Cacophony of shrill ‘instrumental muszak', buzzers, and pin games: military assaults, mob hits, high-speed chases, and road rage animations blare and seep from the building. The noise is thunderous and deafening. There would be no talking at the Greeks.

Entering in, Brandon pushes pass Omar and heads toward his favorite game. Omar notes Brandon's enthusiasm and graciously steps aside. Maybe this would provide the relief and release that Brandon sought. Maybe some sense or order would be regained through play. Maybe.

Brandon could not hide his relief that his original plan to regain sanity was back on track. The games would bring him out of his depression. They have in the past; and presently, they must work. How many plays it would take to actually reach sane were indeterminate at this point. All Brandon knew was that he was here and he would try. His mood definitely demands a need for ‘pin' therapy.

Brandon is so absorbed in trying to get relief that the only time he is aware of Omar's presence beside him is when the first shot is ejected from the machine. From then on, it's nothing but game. Nothing and no one matter but the click of the press to eject each pinball through the machine; the gutter roar of the balls through the maze; the button tapping to manipulate each game ball; the ticking tally of the score; the shrieking pings and bell-whistles of points being gained; and most of all, the rapid hypnotic flashes of neon light that the headboard gives off. Omar, seeing Brandon's transfixed gaze, leaves several bills on the machine and allows him to have at it. "Work it out! Let the games begin . . ."

To say the least, for a mid-afternoon weekday, the Greeks is crowded. Everyone that is there: kids, teens, ‘twinkies', and of course, ‘papa johns', shouldn't be. It is wall-to-wall mayhem. In spite of the crowd, Omar manages to get a side-table booth for some privacy, for when Brandon would be ready . . . to talk it out. However, by the looks of things, ‘ready' would not be anytime soon. So, Omar sits, orders a Dew, and patiently waits for the magic of the machines to reach Brandon, to soothe his demeanor, to bring back his baby. He waits, game after game after game for ‘something' to occur and make a difference. But, nothing has changed. Brandon's face still registers a blank. His dark troubled stare makes Omar's heart sinks. "How long has he been at it?" Omar questions himself. By ‘Dew count', it has been awhile. Omar finishes his tenth, glazes once again at Brandon, slowly surveys the room, and spots . . . Omar quietly says to no one in particular, "Must go, must go, must go . . . gotta go!" He beats a path to the men's restroom.

This ‘rest' is as crowded as the game room; expect cruising in here is more intense than out there. After waiting on-line, Omar straddles a freed urinal, closes his eyes, and let it flow. Relief! Instinct tells him to open his eyes, slowly. He notices that he is being watched. And, at this point of recognition, the ‘one watching' comes over to Omar and places his hand on his wet dick.

"What the . . .?" Omar protests and before he completes his complaint . . .

"Ahhhh come on. I saw the invite . . . and I can do anything or be anybody ya want me to be. Try me!" A plea.

"So, taking a piss means ‘come have a taste', does it?" Omar asks sarcastically.

"Yep . . ." The hand is still in place.

"Ah, no! [And less harsh] No, thank you." Omar delicately removes his hand. He wipes and moves over to the basin to wash. From the overhead mirror, Omar watches his ‘audience' and smiles at his rejected disgust. Actually, he feels flattered. To be cruised in a bathroom wasn't that appealing; but the person who was doing the cruise sure helped to make it the opposite, to make it palatable. This not near enough, post-teen ‘Shorty' would be considered as cute in the trade: medium build with smooth, hairless dark skin, average height, large brownish-black eyes, rich chocolate pouty lips, and young, too young. All of these assets add up to one thing: ‘Trouble'. Yeah, incarcerating trouble. Another no, no: he's cute and he knows it. Maybe this is why he had that disgusted look on his face when he was given ‘the NO'. Omar watches as he applies his skill on someone else. This time a ‘papa john' gladly accepts. Omar laughs out loud at this old game at play and frightens the new couple away: who promptly lock themselves into an available stall. Omar smiles again to his self as he wipes his hands dry. "Shorty is cute a'ight; but not fine. He's nothin' like my Brandon. Absolutely nothin' like my beautiful BabyBoy! "

And, speaking of ‘baby', Omar returns to the game room. Within the short amount of time in which he has been gone, the game room - stable has become more boisterous and active. Omar looks at the clock and realizes why there has been a change in its activity: it's after 3:00 p.m., school's out. He looks over at Brandon, still at it. Time does have its own pace.

More Dew is ordered. Determined not to have another ten, Omar sips this one slowly, very slowly. He smiles to see that the new couple has become old. ‘Shorty' has moved on to another prospect. His antics are way too similar to a lot others that are currently in play at the Greeks. In here, the games are definitely on and not just the electronic type neither! Omar reflects back on how this other game used to interest him, a lot. He thinks back to a time in which an invitation like the one from ‘Shorty' would have ended with him being added to his stable of bevies. But, now all of that rowdy ‘chase and be chased' is gone. No more multiple choices! This ‘other game' is out of his system. And, it's all because of Brandon: he did it; he made and makes the difference.

Pensive, with his eyes closed, and rocking his head from side to side, Omar's thoughts continue to wander with Brandon as its central theme. He smiles remembering the first time that they met. What a day . . . what a night! ! ! And just as these thoughts translate into dreams, he hears . . .

‘Ding, ding, ding, ding . . . wooooop, wooop, dang, dang, dang, dang . . .'

Omar proudly looks up. Brandon has register another win. But that's not all that is occurring; he has started to draw a crowd around him. From what Omar can see, the majority of these leering on-lookers are more interested in scoring than in the new tally. Not noticing, Brandon continues to play. "Sheer innocence." Omar watches these lecherous stares cautiously; ready to pounce on the slightest move made. He smiles again to himself, "How did ya get so possessive, dawg?" And, as if on key, Brandon glances over at him and sees his smile. He quakes inside. His heart warms. Holding each other's stare, Brandon places his fist to his chest and caresses his heart. This signal has Omar beaming. What he had prayed for - a difference, what Brandon had prayed for - regained sanity, both were coming true. Thank God! ! !

Drawn back to the game, Brandon strokes and massages every switch, button, and knob on the machine: tallying more and more points in his play. His hips slowly gyrate back and forth to the rhythm of each paddled ping, softly bumping the edge of the machine. His movements are melodic, sensuous and hypnotic. Brandon continues his game. Softly, softly rocking back and forth . . .

"If ya continue playin like that, I won't be able to contain them nor myself." Omar breathed into his ear. Brandon did not hear his approach. With both of Omar's hands stretched out on top of the machine: one hand on either side of his waist, Brandon realizes he is sandwiched between ‘a like and a love'. His body shivers. Omar, pleased with the response that he is getting from Brandon, continues his play. He places his tongue into Brandon's ear and traces small hot, wet circles from inside of his ear to the base of his neck. Stunned, Brandon jolts the machine and causes a mechanical ‘tilt'. Game over! ! He quietly sighs, "Mmmmmmmm!" Cuddling his backside into Omar's front, he places his hands on top of Omar's, interlaces his fingers into his, and tightly squeezes his hands. Omar groans; holding hands never felt so good. He hungrily nibbles on Brandon's reddened earlobe and passionately whispers, "Ohhhhhh Brandon . . . let's go! Let's go . . . home, baby."

Flushed and not feeling well at all, Brandon reluctantly allows Omar to steer him away from his ‘therapist' and the intensely growing and prying-eyed crowd. Hand-in-hand, Omar leads Brandon out of the Greeks: down the street toward his place . . . toward home.

Gawked at by passer-bys, Omar places a protective arm around Brandon as they continue down the block. He is relieved; Brandon's changed mood is definitely there. Although he is still quiet, his body communicates volumes. Brandon toys with Omar's right hand. Each sensuous brush of his index finger to the sides of Omar's hand and palm brings soft chills. Omar smiles and marvels at the improvement. Every so often, their eyes smile at each other communicating needed apologies, acceptance, and love in each wanting glance. No, words were not a requisite. Omar prays that the change he sees in Brandon will continue and grow stronger as they get closer to home. He prays that Brandon will not slip back into his dark, self-imposed silence.
However, his prayers go unanswered. They continue home in silence.

Omar glances once again into Brandon's beautiful brown eyes and willfully tries to break through his silence with a proposal . . .

"Stay with me . . . stay with me ‘B'. I want to do more of what we did last night, much more; I want ta be so deep into ya that I ‘breathe' you; I want to fall a sleep in ya and wake up in ya; I want to compare you to the colors of today's sunset and tomorrow's sunrise, ma rusty BabyBoy; I want to kiss you so deep that it's as if I've lost somethin down there and have hopes of findin it, I want ta drown in those beautiful brown eyes of yours; I want to be ya man; I want . . ." Omar trails off his litany of ‘wants'. Slightly frowning, he sees that these declarations have the opposite effect than he has intended them to have.

Hearing every word, Brandon stops. Stops walking. Stops his soft finger-hand ‘rubs and touches', stops ‘the smile', stops eye-gazing. Stops. And, he starts to tremble. Brandon's darkness creeps back, just as they near Omar's place. He looks as if he has been hit hard. Now what? ! ! ? Omar fumbles to recapture what was quickly abating. He grabs Brandon by the wrist and literally drags him the rest of the way home. Leading the way, Omar mouths an apology to the cool, stiff night air. "Sorry babe . . ."

At the apartment, Omar ushers Brandon in and gently shuts the door behind them. Still edgy and silent, Brandon jumps at the click of the deadbolt. Winded and perspiring from their brisk walk, Omar takes his Sean John hooded fleece off and tosses it onto the swinging bamboo chair.

"Hey ‘B', there's no reason ta be all nervous." Omar slowly unbolts the door. "I won't bite . . . well, maybe just a little, latta." Brandon physically weakens as he notices Omar's alluring, devilish smile tied to that remark. As his eyes narrow to a close, Brandon thinks, "I've gotta sit down . . . sit down before . . ." His knees buckle and the room starts to spin.

Omar reaches out both of his hands and steadies Brandon. "Brandon . . . Brand . . ."

Brandon's hearing and sight blink on and off all at once. Fighting to stay focused, forcing his eyes wide-open, and shaking his head very hard, he tries to clear both of his eyes and ears.

Brandon gently snubs Omar's help; he pulls away from him and swallows hard. New pain flares up within him, internally. Brandon tries helplessly to figure out what the fuck is wrong with him. So this is what it feels like. He can't remember ever blacking out before. He's never fainted, even from the most violent sessions with ‘him'. So, why now . . . why now with Omar? He wipes his mouth with the top part of his hand: trying to control the nausea that he feels building and fighting off throbbing, newer pains. Brandon continues to reason with himself, to understand, "Fuck! But isn't that the fuckin poin with passing out, you don't remember. Ahhhh, shit." Deep in thought, he does not notice Omar's troubled concern and worried stares.

Weary of not being able to get through to Brandon, Omar tries again to reach out to him. Recklessly, he grabs Brandon, engulfs him, and passionately kisses him, over and over again. He tries to devour his pain away. Each kiss reveals Brandon's need for him growing, stiffening. Omar's hands start to caress and massage every inch of Brandon's body. If only he could find where this pain is, Omar vows to rip it out. He struggles with layers of clothes, intensely trying to find it – the source of Brandon's pain. Emotions on both sides run very high, but not high enough to stop the hurt. Omar continues to breathe more smothering kisses into him with little success. Although wet with excitement, Brandon resists any further kisses. He twists and twitches, causing any additional attempted kisses to land on a cheek, in a dimple, on his chin, and on an eye. Seeing that very little of the dark mood has changed, Omar takes this opportunity to offer another plea.

Omar grabs Brandon firmly by the shoulders and looks deep into his eyes, passed those stunning brown irises into his soul.

"Brandon, I know ya and I can tell that somethin ain't quite right right na. All of this silence means somethin shitty is goin on, ‘B'. And, I can also tell that you're tryin to handle it on ya own. I can respect that; but, please . . . Baby, when you hurt I hurt. And I can see a lot of that hurt. And, I can't bear to see ya like this! Come on na, let me do somethin. I can handle it, whatever the hell it is! Let me help Brandon, a'ight? Please, let me!" Less frantic, more calm and determined, Omar adds, "Whatever this shit is, no matter how bad it is . . . I can do somethin abot it. I can take care of it for ya. Let ya man take care of it . . . take care of YOU, Brandon. If ya only let me, just let me! Please don't shut me out of this, ‘B'."

Hearing these words seared Brandon's soul. His heart ached from the pain caused by each word spouted by Omar. "Why is life so damn difficult? Here was a man, a good man asking me to share my hurt with him – to share my life with him; and, all that I could do in response to this God-sent proposal is . . . absolutely nothing. How could I dare tell Omar what has happened; what's been happening to me since . . . well, a very long time. To tell would confirm that my life sucks: it's shit! And, in turn that makes me be not worth shit. To be had by ‘him' and sometimes ‘his'. . . well, that's best left alone for now. Don't think about it. Can't think about it! Just don't. " Brandon's internal voice warns. To clear the disgust from his mind, Brandon wants, needs tears to fall hard - to flow right now. But it's funny when you want to cry, why is it that you can't?

In dry red-eyde silence, Brandon blinks and continues his blank stares.

There are no tears. Brandon has cried them all out, earlier today.

"Tell me what's wrong Brandon! I'm beggin ya! Tell me what's up. . . talk to me Brandon! " Patience waning, Omar feels frustrated that even this plea and several of his harder, persuasive kisses were ineffective, are not enough to pull him out of this thick dark muddle.

Omar snatches Brandon back into his arms. He holds him hard and again tries with softer stifling kisses to end his pain. This must work . . .

Brandon painfully moans. He cries out and pulls back, away from Omar. As much as he desperately wants them, to taste Omar again and again, the hurt just won't let him. Brandon must pull away not only because of this added emotional hurt, but also because of the intense physical pain that he is in and has tried to ignore. The abuse that he endured has actually overwhelmed the original hurt. This involuntary response, ‘the holla and tug', is due to pure pain. ‘He' has definitely done a lot of damage. Brandon knows that there must be something terribly wrong: to be in this much pain AND to have to pull away from any of Omar's loving kisses. He tries to play the slight off by gripping his sides and panting to suffocate any other outbursts. This newer additional pain that he has feels like swallowed jagged daggers are starting to claw their way out of him. Relentlessly gnawing from the inside, they want out bad, real bad. Vainly, he hopes that Omar will not notice . . .

"What the fuck, Brandon! Now, I can't even touch you . . . kiss you? " Omar angrily recedes.

Racked with pain from every wound, hurt, and harm ever done to him, including the hurt from the tortured look Omar just gave him, Brandon rough-eyes Omar and snorts more defensively.

"Brandon, I have had enuf of this shit! Enuf of talkin; enuf of seein that ya'r sufferin in silence; enuf of not bein able to do a damn thing about it; enuf of tryin to reach out to ya and failin; enuf . . . maybe I oughtta . . ." Omar aggressively approaches his love.

Brandon flinches and quickly crosses his right hand to his face in a hasty defense. Although seen for a split second, the look of sheer horror on Brandon's face as he approaches him is enough to make Omar stop, frozen in his tracks. This new look is chilling. It rips at Omar's heart and burns much more fiercely than Brandon's snubs from his embraces.

"Wait, wait. . . . Brandon flinches as if I am about ta beat him down . . . what in the hell is goin on? I would never lay a hand on him or ever hurt his little finger . . . I would hurt myself befo' I'd hurt him! What has happened ta him?" Omar searches for answers. Then, it comes to him. He thinks . . . the layers of clothes, the recoiled embraces, this shattered look, the defensive stance he has . . . And then suddenly, all of the subtle signs start to add up . . . Omar chides himself for not knowing . . . for not understanding sooner! As he thinks on it more, it is clear what the problem is with Brandon.

Why had he not sensed what was wrong? All the pieces do matter . . .

Angry and dismayed, Omar shakes his head in shattered disbelief. He is resolved to what's wrong . . . Someone has actually touched, attacked, abused, molested, or raped Brandon! "Oh, Dear God! "

Seeing the disgust forming in Omar's eyes, Brandon realizes that he may be starting to understand. He grabs Omar's chin and holds his face like a precious chalice in both of his hands. Wide-eyed, Brandon continues his silent, pleading stare; burrowing hard into Omar's eyes. The stare begs him to not go any further with his questioning. Omar now understands that Brandon's pain is very deep: too deep for him to continue to press him like he has. So he relents. How could he not relent, those beautiful bright brown-eyed stares of Brandon are maddening! He will do anything for him: anything. Omar now knows that the hell that Brandon has endured and possibly still is going through is unfathomable; to press him more would just intensify his hurt even more. Shaking his head back and forth, from side to side, Omar wordlessly agrees not to pursue it any further, for now.

Without the slightest flinch or twinge, Brandon draws closer and closer and with his tongue slowly, from the top of his forehead – down, traces the scar on Omar's face in gratitude. "I have ta' go." Brandon's sorrowful eyes never leave Omar's as he walks backwards to and through the door. With a hungry, mournful last red-eyed look, he leaves.

"Uhhhh, HELL NAWH if ya think I am just gonna let ya walk out of here and go like that! Baaaaaby Baby, ya got anotha thought comin' yo!" Omar yells to an empty room.

"Not afta what I've just learned! ! ! Ya think I would let ya go . . . go back to that shitty type of situation where ya can get hurt all o'va agin or mo' . . . by ya'self? ! ! ! Nawh, nawh, I definitely thinks not . . ." Omar angrily shouts as he watches, from dust stained windows: Brandon walks slowly down the street. As soon as he is slightly out of distance, Omar grabs his sweater and leaves the apartment too. He pulls up his hood and follows Brandon.

Omar's words echo within him, "Stay with me . . . stay with me." An invitation Brandon had no intention of turning down, especially now that Omar knew. He knew something was up all right. He didn't know the specifics, all the keen details. Yet, he knew and still was interested in him. Brandon was determined that Omar would keep his promise well, after knowing all of the rest of the filthy details. Being the man that Brandon knew him to be, Omar wouldn't breach a promise. He knew he had to give a little something in return to show Omar that he was well worth that invitation. Yeah, he had to give something more than just silence as a measure of trust and faith. So actually, at the precise moment Omar made the offer, he knew what had to be done. And, he could only do ‘the what must be done' alone. He had to take care of this himself. No one, no one else can do it, not even Omar. The sharp tender ache in his chest reminded Brandon that to accomplish this task, he had to be more careful. It would not be easy. In fact, ‘he' would definitely have a lot to say about it. Through the layers of Ts, Brandon gently rubs his chest and ribs as he contrives his next move. He anxiously and impatiently walks on into the night.

The plan that Brandon does design is simple. The plan has three steps: to get there, grab all of what he had left in life, and leave. And if there is any trouble, the little something he's carrying would help. This extra something that he happened to obtain from Omar's was a ‘just in case' to the plan. It was a nice to have. Just in case ‘he' had more than ‘a lot of words' to say. He did not want a repeat of the other night to occur. Not to night. All he wanted was out. Out of this nightmarish situation, out of this cage house, out of ‘his' life – out of that type of family life forever. Just thinking about it, about leaving, has butterflies in Brandon's stomach doing the weirdest flips. Brandon wants this to be quick: over in mere minutes. To leave, the third final part of the plan sounds easy. It never worked in the past. This time it must!

Brandon's pace quicken as he turns off Whitcomb onto Blake. And, so does his shadow.

In his room, in the dark, Brandon grabs his duffle and flings it on his bed. He knows that time is of the essence: he has to be quick. There is no such thing as packing neat. Everything goes in in bunches: sweaters, jeans, boxers, and Ts. Nothing is folded. Decisions to what gets taken and what's left are made on the spot without any debates, within an instant. No pondering. Just, execute the second part of the plan: grab it and get it done!

Concentrating, Brandon feels and rummages through each dresser drawer. No wanted item should be left. Finishing the drawers, he enters into his closet to assess what gets taken. Nothing in there is worth anything. All of the hanging things: several blue, brown, and black dress slacks, suits, leather jackets, parkas, bomber jackets were given to him by ‘him'. Years of stuff, stuff he accepted from ‘him' when he didn't know any better . . . know any difference between right and wrong love. And with Omar, he now knows both: ‘better and the difference'. These things were ill gotten gain. He didn't want any part of them. All of these were given to him as gifts . . . bribes . . . bribes to not tell. ‘Hush items'. With each gift Brandon remembers the party attached to it and shivers. His internal voice kicks in, "Don't dwell on it. Hurry up . . . and don't forget the . . ."

Immediately, Brandon turns on an overhead light to aid in his search. He tosses the top shelf. Brandon knows without question that he had placed it in here himself for safekeeping. Safekeeping . . . on a shelf! . . . Yeah, it sounds crazy but it's true: always hide the most treasured in plain sight. He reaches up on tiptoes, feels for it on the far left hand side and pulls out a pair of old, yellow stained tube socks. Brandon unravels the socks and finds his legacy is still in place. The only two things he has from his mother's: a small, delicate gold chain with a silver wedding band laced to it. The chain is his Mom's, the ring her father's. Brandon places both in the inner lining of his chino.

Turning off the overhead and coming out of the closet, he scans his room again, hopefully for the last time. With the bedroom lights still off, he squints his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Brandon tries to think if he has forgotten anything, anything important. "Ahhhhhhhhhh shit! ! ! !" He goes to his bed and drags out from under it three full quart-size Rubbermaids. How could he forget the only thing that has helped to hold him together all these years and has definitely helped serve to drown ‘him' out of his life? He pops the lid off all three; and, trying hard not to read titles, dumps each into his duffle. The first half of the third ‘maid will only half fit. Brandon indiscriminately throws out any piece of packed clothing that he can get his hands on in order to make room for the rest. Every cassette and cd must fit into the duffle. Cramming everything in, Brandon struggles to zip the duffle close. "Come on . . . hurrry up. Let's get outta here! It's gettin late", his inner-voice nags, warns.

Brandon surveys his room once more. In the dark, he smiles. "It's finally about over!", he silently celebrates. Finally . . .

"That's it . . . time to get gone!" Brandon quietly eases over to the window and flings his duffle out into darkness. With one leg stretched through the window, Brandon stops. "Nawh. It can't be this way. To end all of this shit like some punk-ass kid by goin-out through the window, just isn't right. Fuck, the door will do, Straight out of the front door!" Brandon re-enters his room. Heading down the staircase, Brandon feels proud to know, by not departing through the window, he leaves this house not as he first entered it as a child. He leaves it as a man, not hiding, not fearful, nor scared. He is determined to put the past behind him and look only to the now and the future. Brandon wants to stay with Omar. And he knows that in order for that to occur, he must do this, the third item in the plan, first. And then secondly, he must explain everything . . everything to Omar: what's happened, what's been happening, who ‘he' is, ‘the whys' . . . EVERYTHING! Brandon prayed that after all of this is done – when all of his secrets were out, Omar would still want him . . . still love him. He prayed. He had to find out.

Little does Brandon realize that someone is aware of his resolve to leave. This someone has caught his duffle and patiently waits for him outside of the brownstone.

Downstairs, Brandon turns on the living room track lights. With his hand on the front doorknob, he smiles again to himself. As he turns it, he laughs at the clicks he hears: this is no longer a cage.

Just as he steps across the threshold . . .

"What the fuck's so funny . . . and where'n da hell do ya think ya'r goin? " ‘He' presses the duffle hard into Brandon's chest and pushes him back through the doorsill. Leering at Brandon, he continues, " . . . Especially since we're expectin company to arrive soon!"

Surprised, Brandon stumbles backwards across the floor into the foyer and bumps his head. Dazed, he hears ‘him' . . .

"Get up! Get up and tell me why I should be seeing a duffle bag full of shit flyin out of ya window? Why should I be seeing dhat? WHY? ! ! Havn't I done a lot for ya, Brandon, as ya fatha . . . givin ya a damn lot? And this is how ya repay me fo all that by doin what . . . leavin, runnin away from me, again? " ‘His' voice is incredulous.

"I don't think that ya've gotten it quite yet. Ya can't walk out of here as a ‘just as ya please'. I own YOU! Can't ya get that through that stupid redhead of yours? I've told ya ov'a and ov'a again ya mama saw to dhat! Ya know it! Don't let me have ta get dha papers out ta proove it!"

‘He' crouches over Brandon and slaps him hard on the side of his head. "That whacked out motha of yours sold ya ass ta me fo a lifetime supply of shit. She didn't want a ‘house with a white picket fence stuff' – marriage nawh! She wanted what she cared most about in life: shit and a lot of it. That woman peddled ya ass off to any and every dealer or street hustler that would listen to her game. Since she snorted up all of her ‘lifetime supply', ya'r all that's left fo payment. That was the agreement; and I damn well intend ta capitalize on every bit of it even if she ain't here no mo ta. She got her tokes and I WILL sure as hell have mine, Ya know it's true! " As Brandon tries to get up, ‘he' jams his head hard back against the floor. Everything blurs.

" . . .She's told ya and I keep tellin ya. She agreed I could have ya as a points runna and do whatever else I damn pleased with ya fo free shit. I agreed and . . . back then, YOU even agreed, ya know . . . bein the lovin son and all. So, what's ya fuckin problem? Live out the agreement, live out the contract, Bran."

Rising, ‘he' towers over Brandon for emphasis and gives him a very firm final kick.

Hearing these accusations and realizing there is truth behind each word devastates Brandon. No longer dry-eyed, tears start to brim within his eyes. Brandon fumbles in his jacket pocket for the ‘extra something' that would help end this conversation. This something he brought from Omar should stop all of ‘his' talk. Struggling to his feet, he pulls out the '38 Special and nervously points the revolver directly at ‘him'. Brandon yells, "Ya fuckin skuzz, ya took advantage of her and me! I was almost thirteen when I agreed to that; and, I only did it then because of her. Seein her like that that day, I thought she was diein . . . I would have vowed ta do anything: to eat shit if I thought it would help her."

Pivoting back around to face Brandon, ‘he' adds in midstrive, "Awwwwhhhhh . . . Too bad we didn't think ta put dhat in writing too . . ."

Now seeing the gun, ‘he' counters, "Shit Brandon! ! ! Ya punk ass nigga you, what da fuck ya think ya goin' to do with dhat . . .Gimme dhat! Gimme dhat right na, Brandon! " ‘He' starts to charge toward him.

"Hell No! I'm tired of this shit and I am not goin' ta let ya do a damn thing to me anymore. Not na', not latta, not e'va! " Brandon shouts back, shaking. "Not aftta, not aftta . . . Omar!" He blurts out. "This has got to stop! "

"Uh hmmm! I thought somethin like dhat was bound ta happen some day. Sooo, ya SEEIN' someone, is that it: this uh Omar? Well, I could tell that tail of yours was bein' butta by someone else. The fit just wasn't quite right last night." ‘He' calmly taunts.

Brandon, pissed but not shocked that ‘he' could say something this vile, cringes at this last dig; his inner-voice screams, "What are ‘ya waitin for - more shitty insults to be said ? Just pull the damn trigga and off this sick bastard, do it NOW!"

Again, Brandon hears but he doesn't listen. He does not take the advice of his inner-voice.

"Why do ya have ta keep tryin to shit all over everything I have or do, ya nasty fuck? ! Mutta fucka, don't ya see that I finally have got one-up on ya na. I've got the gun!" shaking, Brandon nervously yells.

"Oh, Bran. Nah nah nah! If ya'r so on it and got thangs so under control, why don't ya stop talkin and just pull the damn trigga. Do me! " ‘He' taunts more, beating his chest. "Go ahead, do it, pull the trigga! "

Brandon nervously wipes his left eye with his shirtsleeve. Shaking, he adds "And don't think I am not gonna . . ."

"Yeah, yeah you're gonna a'ight! ! Jeez, Bran the gun's not even loaded! " ‘He' retorts. "Ya'r so lame, Brandon! " ‘He' turns his back to him.

Furious, Brandon aims and with his eyes closed, he fires. The first click . . . nothing. The second click. . . nothing, again. He repeatedly squeezes the trigger again and again. Click, click, click . . .

Turning back around, in one swift moment, ‘he' snatches the gun out of Brandon's hand. ". . . I told you, shithead! The gun ain't loaded! " Using the butt-end of the gun, ‘He' stings Brandon's vision again by giving him a firm backhand across his face. Struggling to remain standing and conscious, Brandon staggers towards the door. Inches from the knob, he's flung, by the cuff of his neck, backwards away from the door. Brandon lands sprawled on the couch.

"Ya ain't goin no where, Bran. I told ya that ass of yours is mine. Mine fo at least a few mo months. And then . . . maybe; hell, we'll come ta that."

He's interrupted.

The door is chucked opened, wide.". . . What the fuck, Marcellis . . . what's with the yellin? What's all this noise? Damn man, I can hear ya out here. Shit! " It's company. Marcellis greets his guest at the door.

"What the fuck took you so long? Damn, I almost started without ya, again. Get the fuck in here!"

Peering cautiously through the door, "How is he?" Vincent LeBec asks.

"Just as feisty as ever! Just as I told ya and promised, he's prime and almost ready. Get in here and see fo ya self!"

"I will if ya get the hell outta dha way and stop blocking dha door. Shit, I've been waitin to play along time. Let me see just how good he is." Vincent shoves his way through the door and past Marcellis. Entering into the living room, Vin sees Brandon sprawled out on the couch. He eyes Marcellis.

"I thought ya said that he was ‘almost ready'? Shit Marcellis, he's unconscious! Damn I didn't know that ya were startin out rough. If I had known, I would have brought my toys!" Vin complains.

"What dha fuck man, I said that he was feisty. Shit, thangs just got a little out of hand when he tried to leave. Besides, ya use ta a little resistance, especially since ya'r just comin out of Jessup. Nigga, please! Ya concern is so touchin and well noted", Marcellis laughs.

Brandon stirs and moans.

Little does either of the two know that someone else is very concerned about Brandon; where has he gone; what house is he in; if he is safe; and, most of all, he is very interested in what's about to go down. Although Omar followed Brandon, it was impossible to shadow him completely. He had Brandon in plain sight until he turned off of Whitcomb onto Blake: one of the longest streets in the city: cluttered with run-down and abandoned row-houses and brownstones. He has been on Blake canvassing the block for quite awhile. Omar's patience is becoming strained. He has stalked almost every residence on the street: no house resembled any ‘home' he imagined Brandon would be living in. "Damn Brandon, where are you . . . which of these doors is yours? Shit . . . I've gotta bad feelin abot all of this! Where ya be na?! I've gotta find ya!" Omar silently pledges.

As he passes 5602 Blake for the third time, a stout elderly woman peeps out of her door. She pointedly stares at him. "Uuumph, this boy been pacin back and forth like he done lost somethin. I wonda what he's lookin fo . . .'specially at this time of night? " She questions TeeTee Fey, her tabby cat.

Frustrated to have not have seen Brandon enter into any of the brownstones, Omar starts to circle back around the block for the fourth time. He spots the stare. "Excuse me ma'amum! !" Omar calls to her. Mrs. Mabel Ann Williams pulls her housecoat closer together, adjusts her salt and pepper bun, and pretends to not notice either his approach or his request.

Omar respectfully reiterates a little louder. "Excuse me . . . excuse me Madam!"

Mrs. Mabel looks down the walkway, still determined not to notice. She starts to close her door. Omar, realizing that this contact maybe the only chance that he has to find Brandon, respectfully pleads to her. ". . .Please excuse me, Madame . . . I am tryin to find . . ."

Hearing something different in his voice: desperation, worry, and concern, with a wave of her hand, Mrs. Williams interrupts. "I was just tellin TeeTee Fey that you must be lookin for somethin, ‘cause I ain't seen you around here befo, young man." She pushes the door ajar with her foot and slowly adjusts her glasses around her ears.

Omar tries to make his request known again.

" . . . Excuse me for disturbin ya evening, Madame . . ." Again, he is interrupted.

"Ah, don't be so formal, I'm Mamma Ann or Auntie Mabel or Miss Ann to everybody, beybie." The politeness and winning smile of this stranger disarmed her. She wasn't fearful of Omar at all. Miss Ann picks up TeeTee Fey and softly strokes the cat as she focuses her attention on him.

" . . . I'm trying to find . . ." And, again an interruption.

"I know that already son, you're tryin to find . . . what? What is it: an address, a family, or your way home? ‘Cause it can't be nothin else, beybie", she softly chuckles under her breath.

" . . . Well, yes ma'amum . . . it's kinda both of the first." Omar waits, anticipating another interruption from her.

"Oh, so it's a house address and a family you be lookin for, is it na sweetie? ‘Cause I been in this airea fo years; I pretty much knows everyone. So, don't think I can't help ya; na who or what address do ya need? " Miss Ann strokes and hugs TeeTee Fey.

"Do you know of or seen a young man, slightly taller than me, curly bricklike reddish brown hair, light complexi'ted, thin . . . he's near late teens; has freckles, rich medium brown eyes and dimples . . ." Omar's voice trembles as an image of Brandon flutters his mind.

"My! Ya description is very detailed. Do ya have a name to go with all of dhat, too?" Miss Ann lets TeeTee Fey down to wonder around on her own.

Omar silently vows that this will be the last time that this woman interrupts. With quiet desperation, he internally pledges, " . .. If nothin comes of this, I'm goin ta knock on or in every door on this street until I find him! ! ! So, what will it be old woman?"

". . . So do ya have one . . . a name, son? The way you look, that description, and ya bein so lost in ya'r thoughts, he must be in some kindda trouble. What's his name, boy? Do ya have a name?"

Amazed at her insight, Omar stutters, "Yes ma'amum. His name is Brandon. I don't have his last but I do know that he lives here on Blake. I'm not sure of the exact address." Omar politely states and secretly prays that the woman would know. Timing in finding him is essential. Omar knew that it was getting late.

" . . . Hmmmmmm! Well with all of that . . . I don't rightly know who dhat could be, off hand." Even in the semi-darkness of her breezeway, she sees that Omar's facial expression has changed and become more worrisome. She quickly adds, " . . . Sorry, I couldn't be of help ta ya, beybie." Turning to re-enter her house, Miss Ann opens her heavily barred screen door and lets her tabby cat in first. She shakes her head slowly. "Yeah, I can't say directly . . . sorry, plain sorry. They say the mind is the first ta go. . .", she continues to mumble to herself.

Crushed, Omar turns back to the main walk to leave. He politely adds, " . . . Thank you anyway, Miss Ann. I'm sure that ya've tried ya best. Thanks!"

Shaken by his concern, Miss Ann forces her memory to work. " . . . Freckles and dimples he said. A . . . Brandon. Redheaded. No, brick red . . ." She stops and quick as her pudgy body can, turns back around. "Sonny . . . uh, uh you whoo . . . Mr. Man!", she calls to Omar. About a house and half away, Omar hears her and returns.

" . . . Lands sakes, I'm getting so dim-witted in my old age. I shoulda known time ya said curly. I know'd that little cute rascal eva since his father started him on the numbers. Yes Lawdy, he just as helpful and nice as he could be. The sweetest thang back then as he is na. What a smile and a look on that boy! Have mercy, I sho shoulda known who ya were talkin about!. How could I've forget? Just a coupl'a weeks ago he placed 2-0-4 fo me and then fo days ago 4-0-2 and both hits! Ooooo, he gimme the payout and some, what a sweetheart; ya know that helps with ma supplement! Yes, in deedy . . ."

Omar stops her, "I'm sorry Miss Ann, but ya said ‘his father' . . . does that mean that they do live around here? "

" . . . What? Oh, yeah . . . his ‘so called father'. Mr. Macellis ‘Rallo' Wright is as much as that boy's daddy as I am. Uuuuumph! Somethin aaawfo musta have happened to his motha fo her ta have left him with that man, child! " Miss Ann reminisces and adds. "Yes Lawde, that man ain't nothin but troubled news. You right in being worried and concerned, trying to find that boy. ‘Cause wheneva that fatha of his gets with any of his friends, especially dhat ‘wicked' – ‘scuse my French, Vincent LeRoy LeBec, I neva sees my ‘sweet boy' fo a while. And, when he does sho back up, he's not the same as he was before . . . somethin has changed. It takes a while befo he's back to his old self. I tells Miss TeeTee Fey that somethin gotta be done fo that boy, somethin. This can't go on." She stares out in no particular direction, pensive.

Terror rising within his self, Omar insistently redirects her attention. "Please, Mama Mabel . . . which house is theirs? Where does Brandon live?"

"Oh beybie . . . they just about eight and a half doors down. Being concerned and all, I would hurry if I were you. Brandon has been home fo awhile. And, I just saw his fatha at the door with Mr. Vincent about ova a half hour ago. Oh my,my! I sho hope you can help that boy!"

"'Fo sho I will, Mama Mabel . . . Ahhh, indeed." Omar smiles and gratefully hugs her.

Heart pounding, Omar sprints off. Time is fleeting. He steadies his self and tries to prepare for anything that may have to come in order to get Brandon out. Miss Ann's words gnaw at him with each step he takes . . .

" . . . And, dhen when he do sho back up, he don't look too well at all. I know it musta be somethin they done to him. He's all peaked, bruised, and silent-like, all dhe time - every time . . ."

Omar silently prays that Brandon is okay. He must be. Omar yells, "GOD, please . . . God please!"

"Shit, Marcellis I'm sweatin. You didn't tell me that I would be workin this hard for a taste! I'm tellin you, he betta be worth every bit of it. " Vincent and Marcellis have managed to drag Brandon from the downstairs living room to his bedroom upstairs. Both were meticulously unwrapping their ‘present'.

". . . Damn man, where is the trust and some ‘love'? ! I wouldn't shit an old shitter of mine. Don't ya remember, back then he was choice; now . . . Bran is prime, baby. Back then ya couldn't do much; but I'm tellin ya na, ya can do and have it all this time. There's no rush! " Marcellis peels off the last layer of Brandon's Ts.

"Although this is nice. . .," Vincent runs his left hand from Brandon thick, bushy underarm growth, along his side, to his barely visible pubic hair.

" . . . did ya have ta do all of this?" He points to Brandon's severely bruised chest and his left temple.

"Yo, I told you he gets feisty; and, when I want it . . . I want it on demand!" Marcellis grins. "Man, the other night, he fights me like a damn wildcat. Shit, he did some damage too; but of course, I had to fuck'em up hard fo dhat. And, in mo' ways than one, too Yo. "

"But hell, man! Unconscious . . . dhis ain't nothin but Jessup, all ova again. Where da fun in all of dhat? I want activity! Not this shit here, Come on na!" Vincent pleads.

"Not ta worry, not ta worry. Ya know I'll take care of ya and that . . . " Marcellis reaches into his pocket and pulls out a fist full of poppers. He opens one and holds it under Brandon's nostrils. Brandon starts to cough and wheeze. Vincent and Marcellis laugh. He pops three more. Yet still impatient, Vincent takes the remainder of his beer that he has gotten from downstairs and douses it all over Brandon's face, neck, and chest. Deep guttural coughs start emanating from Brandon.

"Vin, what the fuck. Na the sheets is soaked. " Marcellis gets splashed too.

"Damn Marcel, what the flyin fuck do ya care? The way this room and that bed look, shit this is an improvement. Man, can ya spell ‘betta days' . . . well both of'em have seen them." Vin sneers. He roughly rubs Brandon's chest and painfully pulls on both of his nipples. "Wake up, wake the fuck up! "

Brandon moans louder. His head moves from side to side on the drenched pillow.

"Ooohhh yeah baby, moans and groans do turn a fella on! Don't they? " Marcellis chimes.

" . . . Let's see about dhat. " Vincent reaches over and massages Marcellis' crotch.

"Mmmmmm. Don't go ta far na; we got a hella va night ahead of us already. The plans I have LeRoy. Oh, the plans! "

Marcellis rubs his ass into the mattress as Vin gropes him more. "Damn, I said ta . . . ta stop. Stop na! Vin, Vinnie . . . you keep this up and . . ." Marcellis catches his breath.

"And what, do ya really want me ta stop?" Vin digs in deeper between his legs.

"Yeah . . . our plate is already goin ta be full with Bran. It might be time enough fo us to play latta. I know you and I definitely need some rough stuff na. So . . . stop!" Marcellis reasons. He reaches over and removes Vin's determined hand. "Let's concentrate on this first." Marcellis unzips Brandon's jeans and slowly rolls back the flap.

"But Marcel, he's still in an out of it. How long has he been like dhat?" Vin inquires.

"I'on know . . . just a coupl'a minutes, shit. Whatta fuck anyway?" Marcellis questions.

"Shit nigga, from the looks of the side of his face, it's been longa than dhat."

"And? ! I told ya this boy fights like hell. I had to ‘calm' him a little with a butt-end of a gun, okay? "

"A what . . . gun? "

"Yeah, a gun . . . Shit, he pulled it on me first! Besides, you've done worst than dhis, What da ya think keeps ya in and out of County?"

"Yeah that's just the point to stay out of County. That's why I'm trying to hookup wit y'all who have mo' betta access . . ."

"Look Vin, who the fuck is he goin ta tell? I'm his mutta fuckin guardian! "

"Ya'r right . . . but by the looks of him, ya'r doin some serious guardin a'ight! Damn, can I at least try and get some before YOU get started again. Sheeit! "

"Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . a'ight, aaaa the fuck ‘ight! But I'm tellin ya if he gets started on me again, I goin ta have ta lay his ass out: just like befo and worst than na! Ya feel me?" Marcellis threatens.

"Like I am the hell scared. Just as long as I get first dibs . . . ya know it's been awhile. Shit, I told ya I shoulda brought my ‘toys', yo." Vincent confirms his desires.

"A'ight! We straight then. So . . . help me wit dhese! " Marcellis pulls Brandon's jeans down tangling them on his Tims. His body groans at its rough treatment. In spite of the visible purple-black bruises on his thighs and skinned knees and chins, Vincent salivates at his semi-nudeness. He runs his hands down Brandon's waist to his silk white-stripped black boxers and thugs. The boxers refuse to give. Vincent flicks out his double-edged 10-inch blade and with the skill of a surgeon cuts them off of him.

Another groan.

"Hey I didn't know what ya were about ta do! But I see dhat sure did come in handy!" Marcellis snickers. Bending over Brandon, he adds, "Sleepy head time to wake up, we've got company again. Come on . . . wake the fuck up! Our guest awaits."

"Yeah, Brandon, remember me . . . Vin? We played before and na it's time again! Let's play hard!" Vincent reintroduces himself to a very semi-conscious Brandon. His eyes repeated blink in attempts to focus. He rolls his head back and forth and moans. No other audible words will come out. The left side of his head ached; Brandon grit his teeth in an attempt to relieve the pain.

"That's it, open those brown eyes of yours and sho us dhat there's someone dhere." Vin gently shakes Brandon.

"Nawh. That ain't how it's done. Do this . . ." Marcellis reaches across and slaps him across the face. Immediately, Brandon's eyes widen. Vincent eyes Marcellis. "I told you it's an attention grabba; it gets his every time!" And, he does it again.

"I said, ‘Wake up Bran!'" ‘His' voice and an approaching blurry face jolt Brandon into full consciousness. He buries his head into the pillow in an attempt to escape ‘the face'. "Don't be like dhat ‘Bran', stop tryin ta hide from me! Come on Bran, you know that just makes it worst for ya . . . mo' of a turn-on fo' me! ! Let me have it this last time without bein too mean ta ya! Or if ya don't, I'll have ta . . ."

"Ststop!" Brandon manages to gurgle out. To himself, his voice sounds like a stranger's. Instantly, a thousand of questions run through his mind like: Where am I? What's happened? Who is this? Why can't ‘he' leave me alone? How did I get back to my room? Why. . .? Each unanswered question plagues his mind. The question of ‘Why aren't you gone from this place?" hurt the most.

" . . . Yo at least he startin to come around . . ." A voice says. Brandon tries to first understand that there is someone else here besides him. And, second: Who is this someone? The voice did sound familiar. It talks again . . .

"Marcellis, I got ta hand it ta ya: ya do have a way about ya. Shit, dhose slaps sure did the trick! Ya sho can be a demanding alarm clock. And, ya'r right despite the bruises, he is obviously a good looker. I can imagine that he will be quite a piece! But, I warn ya, the agreement is fo ya ta let me ‘taste' him first. And, since he is awake right na, well, sort of, I want ta take full advantage of dhat."

Vincent gropes Brandon's genitals: digging hard into his balls. He stares into Brandon's eyes expecting revulsion. But he gets . . . recognition.

In spite of Brandon's blurry vision, the voice confirms who he is . . . it's Mr. V. L. LeBec, nickname: ‘The Grappla'. LeBec brought fear to all newbies at Jessup. There, his specialties were knives and rough trade fucks – fist fucks. Brandon remembers that he had a vise-like grip. Similar to the vise feeling he was experiencing now. His mind drifts between memory and present.

" . . . Vin ma boy, ya'r guest. The Wright household is always accommodating to company. " Marcellis reassures. "Have at him! I'll stand back and watch. " His words chill Brandon.

One thousand and one questions: where the hell are my clothes? Brandon moans aloud.

". . .Ahhhhhh . . . Day-um! Feel this soft skin! Un-believable!" Vincent rakes Brandon's entire body with his callous hands. His body excites him. Vincent straddles Brandon's prone body. He pulls off his own shirt and throws it into Marcellis' face. "Oh yeah, I'm goin ta finish what I started long ago. I'm goin ta give ya the ride of ya life, yello'boy! ! I'm goin ta give ya somethin to groan about!"

"Yeeeeeaaaahhhh! ! Lay that pipe good! Give it ta him! Hot me the fuck up with dhose moans and groans of his! " Marcellis yells and directs Vincent.

Although still semi-out-of-it, Brandon does hear ‘his' words; and, he knows that he doesn't want any part in what ‘he' was saying. Brandon flares his arms in defense at LeBec. His weak struggles are met head-on. Vincent grabs his arms and easily pins them under his knees. Brandon grunts and moans, straining to defend-off any impending attacks. He angrily twitches and twists, trying desperately to ‘buck' off his ‘rider'. He did not want to be ‘broke in' tonight. He wanted to be gone from here. What happened to that plan? ! ! ? Realizing that his ‘moans and groans' excite ‘him', Brandon vows to remain silent from here on, no matter what happens. He refuses to give ‘him' any audible satisfaction. He will not open his mouth.

Seeing that there is no fear in Brandon's eyes, Vincent tries another approach. He quickly places his right hand on his throat and while pinching his nose; he chokes Brandon. Suffocating, Brandon realizes that he has no other choice but to open his mouth for air. As soon as he does, Vincent sticks his tongue down his throat and mauls Brandon's mouth. He rams his tongue back and forth against Brandon's tongue, batters his gums, and gnashes his teeth. This violation is devastating! Guttural groans escape when Brandon tastes blood. He can't believe that ‘his vow' could be so easily broken in such a short period of time. His resolve starts to fail. Brandon hears him cooing, too.

Feeling his resistance faltering, Vincent proceeds with another attack to disarm Brandon more. With reluctance, he leaves his soft, supple mouth and licks his way down his neck to his torso. Once there, Vincent encircles each of his nipples with wet kisses. Glancing back at Brandon's eyes, he knows he may soon have him as tears brim in Brandon's eyes. Now more than ever determined to make him submit to him, Vincent viciously bites down on his left nibble. Brandon swallows his scream. Hearing this silent whimper, Vincent playfully softly licks his sore nibble. Unknowingly, Brandon allows more of his resolve to falter by accepting this temporary relief.

Fully aware that he has gained a little of Brandon's confidence, Vincent leaves his sore and swelling left nibble and licks and massages the right. The relief of not having his left nibble gnawed on starts hot tears to trickle down Brandon's face. Vincent sees the tears; he thinks, "Soon . . . very soon..." and continues his assault. Still straddling his chest, he reaches down and roughly pries Brandon's thighs apart. The cut boxers part into fallen halves. Immediately, Vincent rams his fist into his crotch. An intensely smothered yelp escapes from him lips; Brandon hears ‘him' laugh. Tears roll rapidly down his face in disgust knowing that he has given ‘him' anything that resembles a victory. Vincent rubs harder and feels his own excitement surge.

"Damn, just by watching ya two, has gotten me hot and bothered, If you don't do somethin soon, I'm goin ta take over!" Marcellis warns.

". . . Let me finish this Marcel, you promised . . ." Vincent counters back.

While they argued, Brandon tries to work his arms and hands free. He wiggles and bucks, trying to get LeBec off of him. Feeling his strength and resolve growing, Vincent jams his fists back into Brandon's crotch, over and over again until he no longer feels him resisting. Brandon whales as Vincent slowly dismounts him. The pain is agonizing. Brandon brings his bent knees up in defense and cradles his aching crotch. Vincent takes full advantage of this involuntary motion. With Brandon's ass exposed, he plunges three fingers deep inside of him. This time Brandon's screams are smothered by Vin's rough kisses. He purrs with excitement. And with his free hand, he fumbles with his buckle and unzips his own pants. Vincent's manhood boldly bobs free and swells to full erection.

No longer able to contain his desires to join in, Marcellis comes over to the bed. Watching their every move, he continues to masturbate in front of them. Vincent warns off Marcellis again, "Get back, Marcellis, remember you promised me this a long time ago. And I will have it yo! " He roughly works a fourth finger inside of Brandon. This added pain leaves him speechless; tears run down his neck.

"No Brandon, I want more than tears . . . yell for me to stop!" No response. LeBec stretches him open. "Come on, yell, groan, and moan fo me . . . I like it more than ya fatha. Come on . . . damn it, scream fo me to stop! Yell! " Again, not a sound from Brandon, just tears. Vincent angrily determined to have what he wants, bends down and digs his teeth into Brandon's gnawed left swollen nibble. The shriek that he releases is deafening. Vin explodes in a convulsing climax. His hand slips out of Brandon's sore red-ass. His cum splatters Marcellis, who simultaneously releases his load onto the floor. Both are so spent that they collapse on top of Brandon.

Catching their breath, Marcellis and Vin reach for each other and exchange a passionate kiss. "Shit that was too slammin." Marcellis chimes. "I always liked ya technique and ya work, Vinnay."

"Yeah! Me, too. I can be inventive at times." Vin agrees.

Brandon whimpers in pain.

"Just think - there is so much more to come tonight! " Marcellis punches Brandon hard across the face and almost knocks him unconscious, "So save that voice of ya'rs! Stop ya whining Bran, we goin ta get you off too, don't worry. You're in fo the longest damn fuck of ya life tonight. It's my turn to lead! I am up next! And, then Vin . . . and then me, and then . . ." Both of them softly giggle in anticipation to what's to come: more pain, more pleasure.

However, in the shrill silence of the room, a response to their plan is given . . .

"AyYo. . . I thinks not Vincent and Marcellis . . . I thinks not ! It won't be none of dhat concernin' Brandon. He won't be stayin' any longa wit' chu' tonight . . . nor any other night eva Yo! "

It's Omar with his Glock.

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