Bobby stared wide eyed, his breath caught in his chest as Jack slammed down harshly, crying out loudly as the head struck his prostate for probably the hundredth time. His lithe body was shaking in spasms, covered with sheen of sweat and deep bruises on his hips and thighs from the strong hands that helped move him steadily.
He had watched his baby brother flourish the past months. He had always been somewhat in a daze, detached – never quite there; always off strumming that damned noise box he called a guitar. Now there was energy and satisfaction radiating from his very being.
He couldn't tear his eyes away from him. His messy blond hair was sticking to his forehead and the soft hair by his neck and started to curl. Every time he pulled up he would bit his already bruised lip and when he sank back down onto the large hard shaft a shuddered breath would escape him, sometimes accompanied by a mewl or a whimper.
The words that come from him as he moves smoothly and an unfaltering rhythm – he has done this before – were incoherent and whispered, as if his vocals were too weak to utter a louder sound.
His eyes were glassy and dazed, unseeing and blinded by pleasure. Tears rolled down his cheeks as the pressure built in his loins. He could see the flush spreading on Jackie's skin as he came closer and closer to the edge.
Bobby clenched his jaw to keep from making a sound, and closed the door.
He was numb as he walked down the stairs, but once he got there he sat down on the last step and cried. He could not remember the last time he had cried, but it hurt too much to keep inside.
His mother had finally been able to talk him into admitting his love for his little Jackie, and he had spent an hour sitting in the car working up the nerve to walk up those very stares he had just come down.
Bobby shook his head and dried the tears from his cheeks. He was Bobby Mercer. Since when had anything ever gone his way?
He sighed and chided himself. He would not let this get the better of him. He had survived living on the streets of Detroit for nearly six years before he moved in with Evelyn. What was a little soul shattering heartbreak?
He walked to his car, got in and drove to a bar a few blocks down. It was dark and smoky, with a few pool tables at the other side of the bar.
He slammed a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, caught the attention of the bartender, and sat down.
"You look like you had a rough day sir."
"Just give me a double Jackie D," he said, his voice completely monotone.
"Coming right up."
Five seconds later his drink came sliding down the polished wooden counter. Bobby picked it up and swirled the drink and watched the lights dance in the amber liquid.
"Jack drinks Jack, Jack drinks Jack. Jack licks ass crack and ball sack." He chanted silently. Tears stung his eyes, but he blinked them away stubbornly.
"Jack drinks Jack." He murmured softly before he tipped the glass and let the burning liquid burn. Sniffing slightly he rested his head on the edge of the glass. A tear slipped silently from his down his cheek and dripped into the almost empty glass. He lifted his head fro the glass, rubbing the line etched into his forehead. The tear was slowly mixing with the liquor.
"Jack licks salty tears and never looks back."
"How 'bout a bottle on the house? Not every day we see the Michigan Mauler in our humble abode, heartbroken by the looks of it." the bartender said. Bobby nodded without even looking up. This was going to be a long night and a painful morning, but they say that one pain lessen another. He'd put the theory to the test.
The end.