Chapter 1: Suburban Confessions
The alley stank like yesterday’s regrets and stale beer. Zach knelt, the rough asphalt biting into his knees, the flickering streetlamp casting long, distorted shadows. He hated Tuesdays. Mr. Thompson Tuesdays were the worst.
The minivan, a beige monument to suburban mediocrity, rocked with a rhythm that was anything but. Mr. Thompson’s breath hitched, a pathetic little whimper lost in the humid night air. Zach focused on the peeling paint of the dumpster in front of him, anything to detach.
Metallic tang of cheap cologne filled his nostrils, a scent he’d come to associate with desperation and self-loathing. He swallowed hard, forcing down the bile that threatened to rise. Survival had a nasty aftertaste.
Mr. Thompson’s hand trembled on the back of Zach’s neck, a clammy, unwelcome weight. “Almost… almost there,” he gasped, the words thick with shame and longing.
"oh yes daddy, yes" Zach replied faking a sultry tone. He'd been homeless for two years now, ever since hhis moms boyfriend got too familiar. hed run out of money shortly afterwards and started walking the streets where he met Mr Thompson
Zach’s stomach growled, a hollow counterpoint to Mr. Thompson’s escalating urgency. He pictured the greasy burger he’d buy with the crumpled bills, the fleeting warmth of the diner booth a temporary sanctuary. The alley was silent except for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional clatter of a dumpster lid. Zach shifted his weight, the gravel crunching beneath his sneakers, and glanced at the man in the minivan. Mr. Thompson’s face was shadowed, but his desperation was palpable.
“Please, Seth, please,” Mr. Thompson begged, his voice cracking like a brittle twig. Zach bit back a sarcastic retort, his jaw tightening as he knelt on the cold asphalt. Seth was Mr. Thompson's son that Zach bore a strong resemblance to. Every week Mr Thompson picked Zach up in his mini-van, calling out his sons name as he buriedd his shame into Zach.He’d heard it all before—the same pathetic pleas, the same guilt-ridden whispers. The scent of cheap cologne mixed with the stench of garbage made his stomach churn. He focused on the rhythm, the mechanical give and take, trying to dissociate from the moment.
He imagined himself somewhere else, a beach maybe, the sound of waves crashing instead of Mr. Thompson’s whimpers. Or a warm bed in a real home, not the shelter with its thin mattresses and flickering fluorescent lights. Zach’s knees ached, the gravel digging into his skin through his jeans. He clenched his teeth, willing it to be over, willing himself to disappear.
Mr. Thompson’s grip tightened painfully on Zach’s neck, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Oh, God,” he moaned, his voice trembling with a mix of shame and need. Zach squeezed his eyes shut, the metallic tang of cologne now mingling with the coppery scent of sweat.
The alley was a symphony of filth—garbage bins overflowing with rot, the faint hum of flickering streetlights casting eerie shadows, and the distant echo of car horns. Zach knelt, knees grinding into the gravel, his hands gripping the edge of the minivan’s seat for balance. The air was thick, suffocating, and the stench of Mr. Thompson’s desperation clung to him like a second skin.
Zach’s knees ached against the cold, uneven asphalt as he knelt in the shadow of the dumpster, the faint glow of the streetlamp casting jagged patterns across the ground. Mr. Thompson’s hand gripped the back of his neck, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to remind him who was in control. The air was thick with the stench of rotting garbage and the sharp tang of the man’s cologne, a cheap, cloying scent that clung to Zach’s throat. He closed his eyes, focusing on the rhythmic hum of traffic in the distance, anything to distance himself from the wet, insistent pressure of Mr. Thompson’s cock against his lips.
“Open up, Seth,” Mr. Thompson murmured, his voice trembling with a mix of desperation and guilt. Zach hated the name, hated how it hung in the air like a ghost, but he obeyed, parting his lips and letting the man push inside. The taste was bitter, metallic, and familiar, a reminder of how many times he’d been here before. He gagged slightly, his throat tightening, but he forced himself to breathe through his nose, to keep going. Mr. Thompson’s grip on his neck tightened, his breathing growing ragged as he thrust deeper, his hips jerking erratically.
Zach’s mind drifted to the burger he’d promised himself later, the greasy, overpriced meal that would be his reward for enduring this. He imagined the way the cheese would melt over the patty, the crunch of the pickles, the way it would fill the hollow ache in his stomach. It was a small comfort, but it was enough to keep him going, to keep his hands from shaking as they rested on his thighs. Mr. Thompson moaned, a low, guttural sound that made Zach’s skin crawl, and he felt the man’s fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling him closer.
The minivan rocked slightly, the suspension creaking under the weight of their movements.
The minivan’s suspension groaned as Mr. Thompson’s weight shifted, the sound muffled by the hum of the city outside. Zach’s knees pressed into the cracked asphalt, the rough texture digging into his skin through the thin fabric of his jeans. He stared at the dumpster, its rusted edges catching the faint glow of the flickering streetlamp, and tried to focus on the peeling paint instead of the hand gripping the back of his neck.
Mr Thompson continued talking dirty to his "son", thrusting faster and faster.
Zach knelt on the cracked asphalt, the cold seeping through his jeans as Mr. Thompson’s trembling hands fumbled with his belt. The man’s breathing was shallow, uneven, his cologne clashing with the stench of the alley. Zach forced himself to stay still, his jaw tight, as Mr. Thompson’s zipper hissed open. The flickering streetlamp above cast jagged shadows across the minivan’s interior, illuminating the desperation in the man’s eyes. “Just… just do it,” Zach muttered, his voice low, rough, and devoid of emotion.
Mr. Thompson hesitated, his hands shaking as he tugged down his pants, exposing himself. Zach’s stomach churned, but he leaned forward, his lips parting reluctantly. The taste was immediate—sweat, salt, and something metallic—as he took him in, his throat tightening in reflex. Mr. Thompson groaned, a sound that was part relief, part shame, and his fingers tangled in Zach’s hair, pulling him closer. "Make your dad proud" he whispered, guiding "Seth"'s head into his lap. Zach's lips wrapped around his cock, short and wide playing with his head using his tongue. He knew Mr. Thompson was almost finished, and bobbed his head eagerily to hasten it.
The alley was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and made you forget what warmth felt like. Zachary Hayes knelt on the cracked pavement, the gravel biting into his knees, his breath visible in the faint glow of the flickering streetlamp above. Mr. Thompson’s hand was tangled in his hair, pulling just enough to make his scalp sting, and the metallic tang of cheap cologne mixed with the stench of garbage made his stomach churn. “Keep going,” Mr. Thompson muttered, his voice shaky, desperate. Zach’s jaw ached, but he obeyed, his throat tightening as he swallowed down the bile rising in his throat.
Mr. Thompson’s moans grew louder, more frantic, his grip on Zach’s hair tightening like a vice. Zach could feel the man’s body tensing, his hips jerking forward with every shallow thrust. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, his mind blank, focusing on the rhythm, the mechanical repetition of it all. The taste was bitter, acrid, but he’d learned to ignore it, to separate himself from the act.
Zach’s throat tightened as Mr. Thompson’s grip on his hair turned punishing, pulling him deeper. The man’s hips bucked erratically, his breath hitching in ragged gasps. “Fuck, Seth, just like that,” Mr. Thompson groaned, his voice strained and trembling. Zach’s jaw ached, the pressure relentless, but he pushed through, his mind drifting to the diner booth he’d sit in later, the greasy burger he’d order with the crumpled bills. The alley stank of garbage and sweat, the flickering streetlamp casting jagged shadows on the minivan’s interior.Mr. Thompson grunted, spurts of semen hitting the back of Zach's throat who eagerly swallowed, his stomach warming, hunger pains slightly subsided.
Mr Thompson quickly pushes Zach off of him, his shame on full display. Before Zach could pull up his boyshorts, he shoved money into Zach's hands, and quickly drove off. Zach looked down at the crumpled bills, 2 1's. "No burger tonight" he thought. Quickly dressing himself, he walked out of the alley nonchalently, stuffing the dollars in his pocket. At least it'll be enough for some hot coffee he thought.