Billy and the Goon - 10. Chapter 10

Billy was in the supermarket when a voice behind him said, “Leave the cart and keep walking,” and he was close marched – the goon’s legs nearly against his rear – through the industrial swinging doors just ahead. That took them to a fluorescent lit gray utility hallway, then into a stinky sweet janitor’s closet – this market couldn’t have deserved the high rating on its window.

The goon immediately flipped on the light and locked the door behind them. The room was maybe four by ten, with tall shelves of cleaning supplies at left and mops and brooms hanging on the right. A slop sink – the source of the sweet stench – sat at the end of the room, its chromed rim shining at floor level and a rolling bucket standing nearby.

Billy didn’t wait to be told. He stripped off his Saturday morning clothes – mainly a ripped T-shirt, shorts, and running shoes – dropped to the cold concrete floor, and started the first fifty. Done, the goon said, “Another,” and then, “One more.” Billy smiled when he was done, feeling that surge of adrenaline. Then the goon’s foot pressed on the small of his back, and Billy was held tight to the clean but still creepy floor.

“Crawl.” the goon ordered, and Billy did, until his head hung into the sink like in a guillotine. His pecs pressed onto the sink’s curved rim, nicely crushing his nipples flat, and he wondered if the goon knew that would happen, or if he practiced.

There was an idea – the goon trying out all the things he put Billy through. Though he didn’t seem interested in Billy’s nipples just then – at least, not yet. Instead, he leaned over, spun the tap, and cold water soaked Billy’s head.

It also melted the remains of the smashed birthday cake under Billy’s nose, and he began to hum “MacArthur Park.” Not that it mattered. The goon always seemed to know Billy’s recipe

Whatever, the cold water now dripped and dribbled down Billy’s neck and back, and the sink below his face filled with tiny bits of cake almost floating into his nose. He tipped his head back, straining a little but adding pleasure. As he did, the goon’s foot moved off Billy’s back and nudged between his legs, tap, tap, tapping forward, seemingly seeking his balls.

The goon had never bothered with them before, maybe because they were too easy a target and so less interesting that his sensitive nipples. But this time, the toe of the goon’s shoe connected and pressed Billy’s balls just hard enough to make him moan but not enough to make him scream. The goon did this over and over. Press. Moan. Wait. Press. Moan. Wait. Finally, he stopped, and Billy laughed in relief.

“You enjoying this?” the goon asked.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Think we’ve reached your limit?”

“Nowhere close.”

Billy immediately regretted what he’d just opened himself to, and the goon tapped his balls in agreement.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t drop your clothes in that water?” he went on.

In desperation, because he really didn’t want to have to sneak out of his neighborhood market wringing wet, Billy said, “Because you already own me.”

That made the goon laugh. “That was exactly the right answer.”

And he dropped Billy’s clothes and shoes on the dry floor, flipped Billy over, and jerked him off, using some slimy green industrial detergent as lube. Done, he stepped on Billy’s balls one last time, flipped off the light, unlocked the door, and went on with his Saturday morning. Billy relaxed, happily rubbing his wet, sticky belly. Then he smelled of that green goo for a week.