Levi Adams
The bell above the door of the thrift store chimed a tinny, cheerful note that felt like a personal insult. Austin stepped out into the humid afternoon air, the scent of hot asphalt and exhaust fumes filling his lungs. It was his third trip this week. His second on a Thursday. The first had been before his shift, a hopeful start to the day. This one, after a grueling nine hours, was the nail in the coffin of his optimism.
Nothing. Again.
Not a single sewing machine. Not even a sad, broken-looking one missing a foot pedal or with a hopelessly tangled bobbin. He’d scoured the aisles, his eyes scanning past the racks of faded clothing and shelves of mismatched dishware, heading straight for the small electronics section. It was a barren wasteland of old VCRs, a tower of encyclopedias from 1998, and a singed toaster. The hope that had buoyed him all morning, the quiet excitement of a potential project, had curdled into a sour, leaden disappointment.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and started the walk back to his car and the drive to his apartment. The city noise washed over him, a cacophony of car horns, distant sirens, and the chatter of people standing outside the thrift store. Each sound was a tiny pinprick against his skin, a reminder of his own isolation. The loneliness wasn't a new feeling; it was a constant, low-grade hum beneath the surface of the past week.But sometimes, like now, it surged. It rose from that hum into a deafening roar, a physical pressure in his chest that made it hard to breathe.
He climbed the stairs to his small suite of rooms, each step a weary effort. The key felt heavy in his hand as he unlocked the door. The apartment greeted him with the same stagnant air it always did. It wasn't dirty, not really, but it had begun to feel less like a home and more like a place he just stayed.. A couch, a TV, a small kitchen table with two chairs. One of them was piled high with towels he had folded but hadn’t put away. The other was where he ate his meals, alone.
He dropped his keys on the counter and the sound echoed in the silence. And that’s when it hit him. The wave wasn't just loneliness; it was a tidal wave of desolation. It was the stark, undeniable reality of his own emptiness. The walls of the small apartment seemed to press in on him, the silence amplifying the frantic, useless beating of his own heart. He felt like a diver who’d gone too deep, the pressure immense, crushing. For a brief moment, he wished he lived in a high rise; he could go to the roof, close his eyes, and pretend to take a dive into the deep end of a pool. The pain, the confusion, the anger, the hurt. It would all end.
He opened his eyes. “That’s a stupid thought,” he said aloud. “Mike’s the one who should have been pushed off a roof.
He leaned against the counter, his eyes squeezed shut. Breathe. Just breathe. He remembered the technique from a therapy session he’d been forced to attend years ago, when he was finally rescued from Mike’s clutches. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. He forced air into his lungs, his chest aching. The numbers gave him something to focus on, a small raft in the vast, churning ocean of his despair. In… two… three… four… hold… two… three… four… five… six… seven… out… slow… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight.
He did it again, and again. The pressure in his chest eased slightly, the roaring in his ears subsiding to a dull throb. He opened his eyes. The apartment was still just an apartment. He was still just Austin. Alone. He needed sex. He needed to pump someone, to gain control of things, to be in charge of his life, to feel the release that would calm his brain. But first, some food.
He tried to concentrate on dinner. The fridge was mostly empty, a testament to his lack of appetite and motivation. A carton of eggs, a bottle of ketchup, a lonely-looking onion. The thought of cooking, of the methodical chopping and sizzling, was exhausting. The thought of eating the result was even worse. He couldn't stay here. The silence would eat him alive.
He would grab something to eat and search for a willing partner. He needed people a crowd of good looking men so he could pick someone with a tight and willing hole. "I'm getting out," he muttered to the empty room, the words feeling both foolish and absolutely necessary.
He grabbed his wallet and keys, not even bothering to change out of his work jeans and t-shirt. He needed a burger. A greasy, cheesy, completely unhealthy burger from Millie's. It was a short walk, but it was enough. It was a mission. A purpose, however small.
The street was livelier now as the city shed its workday skin. He fell into step with the flow of pedestrians, a ghost in the crowd. Millie's was a beacon of neon light and the smell of frying onions. He ordered his usual, a cheeseburger with extra tomato and lettuce, no pickles, and a Coke. He took a small bite before walking away from the counter, the chatter of the other customers and the sizzle from the grill a welcome distraction. The food was good, solid fuel, and for a few minutes, he was just a guy eating a burger.
With the paper bag containing the rest of his dinner clutched in his hand, he stepped back out into the late afternoon sun. The park across the street was a dark expanse of green, dotted with a few groups of people. He usually avoided it, especially at this hour, but tonight it called to him. He could eat on a bench, listen to the birds, pretend he was just part of the scenery.
He was halfway across the expanse of picnic tables, the bag rustling in his hand, when a voice cut through the evening hum.
"Austin?"
He froze, his feet glued to the bricks that covered the patio. The voice was familiar, friendly, warm; he was sure it belonged to the boy he crushed on in high school. He turned his head slowly, a sense of dread coiling in his stomach. He’d lied to him the last time he’d seen him..
Bruce was sitting on at a table at the edge of the seating area. He looked the same as ever, kind eyes, a easy smile, a worn denim jacket. He was holding a half-eaten sandwich, a picture of casual normalcy. The picture of a life of contentment.
Every instinct screamed at him to keep walking. To pretend he hadn't heard. To cross the street and disappear into the night. But his feet were rooted to the spot. He’d lied to Bruce. The last time they’d run into each other, Austin had blurted out that he was in town on a business trip, a stupid, transparent lie that Bruce had probably seen right through. The shame of it. Austin felt humiliation crawling up his face.
Bruce stood up. "Hey! It is you. I thought so. Come, sit down." His arm gestured Austin to come closer. “How are things going?"
The lie hung between them, fragile and absurd. Austin felt his face flush. He could just double down, keep up the pretense. But he was so tired. So tired of lying, of pretending. He walked toward Bruce and sat across from him.
Bruce seemed to sense his internal struggle. The friendly expression softened into one of gentle understanding. "Look, Austin," he said, his voice quieter now, more intimate. "I know."
Austin’s heart skipped a beat. "You know what?"
"That you live here. In town," Bruce said, his gaze direct but not accusatory. "I saw you a couple of weeks ago, over by the hardware store. I didn't want to say anything and freak you out. I get it. I really do. I can't imagine what it must feel like, running into people from… from before. When everything was so… you know."
Before. The word landed like a punch. Before the trial. Before the whispers. Before his mother went to prison. She had chosen men over her own son. Before the abuse. Before Mike. Before this insatiable need to try to connect to men with sex and only finding a temporary reprieve.
And then Bruce said the thing that truly broke the dam, the thing that sent a shockwave of ice through his veins.
"Especially now that your mom's back in town."
Austin stared at him, his mind refusing to process the words. Back? She was back? He knew some day she would get out, but he’d never imagined that she’d come back here. This was the one place he thought that he’d never have to deal with her again. The world tilted on its axis. The noise of the street, the smell of his burger, the sight of Bruce's concerned face, it all faded into a distant, muffled buzz. All he could hear was the rushing of blood in his ears.
"Back?" The word was a choked whisper. "What do you mean, she's back?"
Bruce’s brow furrowed in concern. "Yeah. I saw her at the grocery store last week. With… I don't know, some guy. I'm sorry, man. I figured you'd know. I shouldn't have said anything. You just seem… you seem more angry than I would have expected. I thought you'd be more… I don't know, sad."
Angry. The word was a spark in a room full of gasoline fumes. Anger? He was beyond angry. He was a supernova of rage. Sad? Sad was for people who had lost something. He had been torn apart. He had been betrayed. And the person who was supposed to protect him, the one person in the world whose love was unconditional, had thrown him to the wolves and then moved on. She was back. Probably with another husband, another "shack-up lover," just like he'd always feared. It hadn't been enough to let Mike into their house, to turn a blind eye. She had to come back here, to the scene of the crime, and rub his face in it.
The anger wasn't a slow burn; it was an inferno, a flash fire that consumed every other emotion. The loneliness, the disappointment, the shame, all of it was incinerated in the white-hot heat of his fury. He could feel it in his clenched jaw, in the tight knot of his fists, in the way his blood seemed to boil in his veins.
"I have to go," Austin said, his voice tight, strained, like a wire pulled to its breaking point. He turned away from Bruce, the movement sharp and jerky. He needed to move. He needed to run.
"Wait, Austin," Bruce’s voice was soft, pleading. "Don't just… don't just leave like this. Talk to me."
A hand closed around his wrist. The touch was light, tentative, but it stopped him cold. It wasn't a grab. It wasn't a restraint. It was a connection. And through the haze of his rage, Austin sensed it: a current of pure, unadulterated tenderness. A wave of care so profound it was almost staggering. He could feel it in the warmth of Bruce's fingers on his skin, in the gentle concern that infused his voice.
He turned his head slowly, his eyes meeting Bruce's. He saw it there, plain as day. No pity. No judgment. Just a deep, aching empathy. It was an open door, an invitation to step out of the storm and into the shelter of another human being. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, he wanted to. He felt himself being drawn in, pulled toward the safety and warmth in Bruce's eyes. And that was the most terrifying thing of all. Safety was an illusion. Warmth was a lie that always, eventually, turned to ice.
"I can't," Austin choked out, the words tearing from his throat. He wrenched his wrist from Bruce's grasp, the sudden loss of contact feeling like a physical blow. "We'll… we'll talk later."
It was another lie, a flimsy excuse to flee, and he knew it. He didn't wait for a response. He turned and walked away, his strides long and purposeful, a man escaping a burning building. He could hear Bruce calling his name, the sound following him, but he didn't look back. He couldn't.
He didn't head back toward his apartment or the main street. He plunged into the park, his anger a locomotive driving him forward. The neat, paved paths gave way to dirt trails, and then to thicker foliage. Branches snagged at his clothes, whipped against his face, but he barely felt them. The tears he was fighting back were hot and sharp, blurring his vision. He wasn't crying from sadness; he was crying from pure, unadulterated rage.
She let him in. The thought was a venomous mantra in his head. She let Mike into our house. She knew. She had to have known. It wasn't enough to ruin my life, to make me the town pariah. Now she's back. With another one. Another monster she can bring into our home.
He pushed through a screen of overgrown bushes, the thorns scratching his arms, the physical pain a welcome distraction from the emotional agony tearing him apart. He broke through into a small, unexpected clearing. The air was cooler here, the sounds of the city muffled. And there it was: the old skate park.
It was a relic from his own teenage years, a forgotten concrete scar on the landscape. The ramps were pitted and cracked, the graffiti faded and peeling. It was a graveyard of adolescent dreams. Two skaters were there, each lost in their own world. One was at the far end, practicing a kickflip over a small, rusted lip. The other was closer, rolling back and forth in the empty bowl, his movements fluid and effortless.
He wore a pair of frayed cutoff jeans that hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp V-lines of his pelvis and the muscular curve of his ass. His t-shirt was tight, clinging to a lean, wiry frame. A single, silver hoop earring dangled from one ear, catching the dim light as he moved. He was all youthful energy and casual grace, a creature of pure physicality.
Austin stopped at the edge of the concrete, his chest heaving, the anger still thrumming through him like a high-voltage current. The skater noticed him, his board clattering to a stop. He looked up, and a slow, easy smile spread across his face. It was a confident smile, a knowing smile.
And just like that, the direction of Austin's rage shifted. It didn't disappear, but it pivoted, finding a new target. The fury at his mother, at Bruce, at the entire fucking world, coalesced into a single, sharp, primal point of focus. The skater's smile wasn't a challenge; it was an invitation. The sight of his muscular legs, the way his cutoffs hugged the firm globes of his ass, the promise of his lean body, it was a catalyst.
The anger didn't dissipate. It transformed. It became a raw, predatory hunger. The overwhelming urge to hurt, to lash out, to take, was channeled into a singular, overwhelming thought: shoving his dick up this stranger's ass until he screamed. It was a violent, possessive thought, and it was the only thing that made sense in the chaos of his mind.
Austin felt a grim smile twist his own lips. He raised his eyebrows, a silent acknowledgment. The anger was still there, a thrumming engine beneath his skin, but now it had a purpose. It had fuel.
He stepped onto the concrete, his work boots making a soft, scuffing sound. The skater pushed off his board, kicking it up into his hand with a fluid motion. He drifted closer, his smile never wavering.
"Hey," the skater said. His voice was younger than Austin expected, a little husky.
"Hey," Austin replied, his own voice a low rumble. He let his gaze drift down, slow and deliberate, from the skater's face to his legs and back up again. He lingered on the tight denim stretched across his ass. "You've got muscular legs," Austin said, his tone direct, almost clinical. "And a hot ass."
The skater's grin widened, a flash of white teeth in the gloom. He wasn't shocked. He wasn't offended. He was pleased. He shifted his weight, popping one hip out slightly, a subtle, practiced pose. "I bet you'd like to squeeze one of my cheeks."
Austin closed the distance between them until they were only a foot apart. He could smell the faint scent of sweat and something else, something clean and youthful, like soap. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "My name's Austin," he said. "And I'd like to do more than squeeze a cheek."
The skater's eyes, a deep, dark brown, sparkled with amusement and intrigue. He looked Austin up and down, an appreciative once-over. "My name's Levi," he said. "And you're cute."
"Cute isn't what I'm going for," Austin said, his voice flat. "You're making my dick hard."
Levi let out a low chuckle, a sound that was both provocative and confident. "Yeah? My ass is that hot?"
"You fucking know it is," Austin growled. There was no pretense left, no game. This was pure, animal negotiation.
Levi's smile was pure, unadulterated challenge. "I bet you'd like a piece of it."
"I'd like to bury my cock down deep into it," Austin shot back, the words a raw, explicit promise.
Levi’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. He glanced around the empty park, then back at Austin, his decision made. "Then let's go over there," he said, nodding his head toward a dense thicket of bushes and trees at the edge of the clearing. "I have my stuff hidden back that way. It's private."
He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and walked toward the foliage, his swagger unmistakable. Austin followed, the anger and lust thrumming through him in a powerful, intoxicating rhythm. This was what he needed. Not comfort. Not understanding. This. A raw, physical act to burn away the emotional poison.
Levi pushed aside a curtain of leaves, revealing a small, hidden clearing. It was barely ten feet across, enclosed on three sides by thick bushes. A battered backpack and a cheap BMX bike were leaned against a tree. It was perfect. It was furtive, dirty, and exactly what Austin wanted.
Without a word, Levi turned to face him. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his cutoffs and pushed them down, along with his underwear, exposing his ass. It was even better up close. Smooth, firm, perfectly shaped. He bent forward slightly, bracing his hands on his knees, presenting himself to Austin. It was an offer, a sacrifice.
Austin's hands were already at his own belt, his fingers fumbling with the buckle. The rage was a roaring in his ears, a fire in his blood. He needed this. He needed to take, to possess, to erase the feeling of being powerless by wielding power over someone else.
"You have lube in that pack?" Austin asked, his voice rough with need.
Levi turned his head, looking back at him from under his arm. A sly, almost feral grin was on his face. "Use your spit," he said, his voice a low, breathy challenge. "I like it as raw as possible."
The words were gasoline on Austin's fire. Raw. The idea of it, the sheer, unvarnished filthiness of the act, was exactly what his rage-fueled haze demanded. There would be no gentleness, no pretense of care. This would be a primal act, a claiming. A punishment delivered to a willing body because the one who truly deserved it was miles away, living a life of three meals a day and shelter provided by the state.
He didn't hesitate. He spat a thick wad of saliva into his palm and slicked his already hard cock, the friction sending a jolt of pleasure through him that was so sharp it was almost painful. He positioned himself behind Levi, the head of his dick nudging against the tight, puckered ring of muscle. He could feel Levi tense, then consciously relax, a subtle yielding that was its own form of submission.
With one hand, Austin gripped Levi's hip, his fingers digging into the firm flesh. The other hand he planted on Levi's lower back, holding him in place. He didn't prep him. He didn't wait. He pushed.
The resistance was immediate and intense. Levi let out a sharp, guttural gasp, his body bowing forward. Austin didn't stop. He drove forward, inch by brutal inch, forcing his way into the tight, dry heat. The feeling was incredible, a tight, clenching grip that fought him every step of the way. It was a battle, and Austin was determined to win. He could feel Levi's knuckles turning white where he gripped his own knees, the muscles in his thighs straining.
"Fuck," Levi grunted, the word torn from his throat. It wasn't a word of pleasure, but of endurance. “That’s perfect.”
Austin ignored it. He was buried to the hilt now, his balls pressed against Levi's ass. He paused for a moment, savoring the feeling of complete possession, of being sheathed so completely in another person's body. The anger was still there, a dark thrumming presence, but now it was channeled, focused. It was the engine of this act.
He began to move. His thrusts were hard, deep, and unforgiving. He set a brutal pace, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoed in the small, hidden clearing, a lewd, percussive rhythm. Each thrust was a blow, a vent for the fury that had been building inside him all day, all year. This is for that bitch. Slam. This is for that bastard Mike. Slam. This is for that feeling of being alone.Slam.
Levi took it. He braced himself against the onslaught, his body rocking forward with each powerful thrust. He was making noises, low, guttural groans that were a mix of pain and a strange, reluctant pleasure. He was trying to be quiet, his head bowed, his breath coming in ragged pants. He was a vessel, a receptacle for Austin's rage, and he seemed to understand his role perfectly.
Austin watched him, watched the play of muscles in Levi's back as he strained to take the punishment. He watched the way his ass jiggled with the impact of each thrust. It was a mesmerizing, violent dance. He reached forward, grabbing a handful of Levi's hair, pulling his head back. Levi's neck was exposed, a long, vulnerable line. Austin leaned over him, his mouth next to Levi's ear.
"Is this what you wanted?" he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper.
"Y…yes," Levi stammered, his voice strained. "Fuck… yes."
With his free hand, Levi reached down and began to stroke his own cock. His movements were frantic, desperate. He was trying to find his own release in the midst of the storm Austin was unleashing on him. Austin could feel Levi's ass clenching around him, the involuntary spasms adding a new dimension of sensation. It was too much. The combination of the tight heat, the visual of Levi submitting to him, the raw power coursing through him, it was all coalescing into a critical mass.
Levi came first. He let out a choked cry, muffled against his own arm, and Austin felt his body spasm. He looked down and saw Levi's seed spurt onto the dry, packed earth beneath them, a few quick, pulsing jets. The sight of it, the proof of Levi's surrender, was the final trigger.
The pressure in Austin's own balls became unbearable. He drove into Levi one last time, as deep as he could possibly go, and let go. A guttural roar tore from his throat as he emptied himself, his cock pulsing violently as he pumped his cum deep into Levi's ass. It was a cathartic, explosive release, a physical manifestation of all his pent-up fury and pain. For a few precious seconds, his mind was completely blank. There was no mother, no past, no loneliness. There was only the blinding, all-consuming pleasure of the orgasm.
He stayed there for a moment, his body slumped over Levi's, both of them breathing heavily, the air thick with the smell of sweat and sex. Then, slowly, he pulled out. As his dick left the tight confines of Levi's ass, a thick stream of his own ejaculate followed, squirting out and running down the back of Levi's thigh.
"Fuck," Levi breathed, slowly straightening up. He reached back and touched the wet trail, a look of grudging respect on his face. "Your dick is the perfect size for my ass," he said, his voice hoarse. "Most guys I meet are way too small."
"I aim to please," Austin said, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion. The post-orgasmic clarity was already setting in, and with it came a creeping sense of hollowness. The rage was gone, spent, but it had left a void in its wake. He felt dirty, used, and strangely empty.
Levi turned to face Austin, a smirk playing on his lips. "That was intense, man. You've got some serious anger issues, but I liked it. Hey, if you want to go again, I know a place we can score some weed. Fucking is great when you’re high."
Austin just stared at him, unsure how to respond. He’d never done drugs; he’s sworn he never would after witnessing what they could do.
Before he could formulate an answer, a new voice cut through the heavy air of the clearing. It was calm, authoritative, and utterly chilling.
"Put it back in your pants, Austin."
Austin's head whipped around. Standing at the edge of the clearing, his large frame blocking the only exit, was Officer Jeff Watson. He wasn't in his patrol car; he was on foot, having clearly approached silently through the trees. His face was a stony mask, his eyes cold and hard. There was no sympathy in them today.
Officer Watson's gaze shifted from Austin to Levi. "And you," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Pull your pants up. You know, sex in the park is called public lewdness. It's a crime."
Levi's face, which had been flushed with post-coital confidence, went stark white. His smirk vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated panic. His eyes darted from the officer to Austin and back again, like a cornered animal searching for an escape that wasn't there.
Officer Watson slowly, deliberately, reached to his belt and pulled out his handcuffs. The metal jingled softly, a sound that seemed to suck all the air out of the small clearing. It was the sound of finality. The sound of a door slamming shut. The anger, the lust, the fleeting moment of oblivion, it was all gone. All that was left was the cold, hard reality of the consequences, standing there in a crisp blue uniform, holding a pair of handcuffs.
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