Straight Town: Chapter 6

By Wesley Bracken -
published August 7, 2019

Steve grapples with his new status, and the sheriff discovers what has been going on in the cell block below.

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Warning - Chapter contains mild violence, gun play.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. It wasn’t how Steve had imagined it that morning, when he’d been working himself up to it, working over his feelings, trying to reconcile what he’d let that fucking biker do to him in that cell, what he’d wanted him to do, with the man he’d spent all week trying to be. A good husband, a caring father, an upstanding citizen of this small town. He’d been trying so damn hard, and it had been working, ever so slowly! Sex with Christine, while not exactly easy, was at least becoming easier to manage on a daily basis. At times, he could even maintain an erection without her having to keep her finger in his hole the entire time–though he always seemed to need a little prod to get it working to start with. Work was getting easier, as he became more and more acquainted with the community, and with the sheriff–though he was so damn insistent that he get his little girl pregnant as soon as possible, he half expected for him to start demanding daily pregnancy tests from her, to see how things were progressing. Marcy had, at some point, gotten pregnant with someone’s child–whether it was the sheriff’s, her husband’s, or someone else’s even, Steve didn’t even want to know. That didn’t stop the sheriff from doting on her, bringing her flowers, making sure she didn’t do anything too strenuous around the office. It brought a bit of relief in fact, since in gave the sheriff somewhere else to focus his paternal energies, other than his son-in-law.

There had been an order though, for every frustration. Steve had felt, with all of his bones, that things were getting easier. Things were going right–they way they were supposed to go, the way they always should have gone for him. And then, with one fucking night, and one fucking mistake, everything started coming apart in his fingers.

He had gone home that night, secure in the belief that his dalliance with the biker would be a one time thing. Something he would never be able to explain, and because there was no explanation, it would never be repeated again. No one would ever know, Kevin had probably been to drunk to even remember any of it, and as good as it had felt, feeling that void begin to fill with…with something, he knew it couldn’t happen again, not here, not in this town. And so, exhausted, hole still throbbing, he had climbed into bed with his wife, his kids fast asleep, and drifted off, secure that everything, in the morning, would be fine.

But it wasn’t. He had woken up, only to discover that the void he had begun to accept as something that would just always be there, had in fact been filled slightly–and he discovered that he could remember, now, that his jail cell tryst with Kevin had not, in fact, been their first time meeting one another. In fact, he could now recall a clandestine affair spanning years–since they were young (since they were…there, in that car, not themselves, together, and so, so different, so different he couldn’t recall anything about themselves aside from the surety of their very existence there) and he was horrified. Horrified, that he could have somehow forgotten all of this, all of these things he had done. Horrified, too, that he was not, in fact, the person he had thought he was. That the upstanding, model citizen, the police officer, the lover and carer of children and of his wife, was in fact, just a faggot.

It had been too much for him to handle. He felt betrayed by his own mind. He wanted to forget all of it, wanted to will it from existence, but the more he thought about it, the more real it became. Details filled in, smells and tastes and feelings he did not know how to grapple with. He loved him, he realized. He loved him with more conviction than he had ever felt for Christine. It explained so much–why she had to finger him so he could even get hard enough to fuck her, why he felt so alienated from his children, why the sheriff’s obsession with heterosexual sex both repulsed him, even as he found himself thinking about the man more, about the curve of his gut, wondering how his cock might taste. Maybe Marcy would know–then again, he doubted the sheriff would ever waste his seed on a mouth, and especially not a man’s mouth.

He hated these thoughts. He hated how natural they felt. He was so afraid, all morning, to even speak, for fear that his voice or his thoughts would betray him somehow. Christine wanted him to fuck her, and he couldn’t even stomach the notion, he was so confused and ashamed of what he had allowed himself to become. He felt hopelessly corrupted, and as disgusted as he was by himself, all he could think about was seeing him again, was tasting him again, was smelling him again. And so, it was in that flurry of terror, self-loathing, and desire that he had told the sheriff he was going to take his patrol car to get an oil change at Ron’s that afternoon. And after his confrontation with him, the taste of Kevin’s seed still lingering on his tongue, sitting in that waiting room, he knew then, with absolute certainty, that he was lost.

Steve still loved him, in spite of everything, but Steve also knew that Kevin would never again see him as an equal, not like they had been the night before. He had lost something, in his eyes. He had been so afraid, and he had fucked everything up. He was alone now, and he had nowhere to turn. He did the only thing he could do–he drove it all inside. He hardened, as best he could. He resolved that he would do the best he could, regardless. He had forgotten once, after all. He could forget again. He could claw his way back towards the man he was supposed to be, back to being the man everyone saw him as–everyone except for Kevin. But maybe…maybe if he could do that, then Kevin would see him like that again too, right? Not with that loathing sneer he kept flashing him through the window, when he looked at him from the garage. Not…not like a faggot.

He wasn’t a faggot. He wasn’t a faggot! Faggots were simpering little fuckers, crawling in the gutters of the disgusting cities of this country, unable to control their baser desires, unable to resist the animal clawing at their insides, unable to do what was necessary for the security of the future. Faggots were dangerous, to everything he stood for. These were things that he knew, but they were not things that Steve felt, in that moment. All he felt was fear. Fear, because he could feel that animal inside him now. Feel it growing stronger, each time he succumbed to it. It was whispering: “This is not you, this is not the man you were supposed to be. You ran from this once, you fled, and you can run again, you both can.”

But that would require loving that man there, in that garage, the one who had just…

And it would require Kevin loving him as well, who had just allowed him to…

The oil change on the patrol car was finished. Ron told Steve he would bill the department, as usual, and handed the keys back to him. Steve fled as quickly as he could drive, fantasizing about turning onto the main road, about driving, and driving, and getting the the freeway, and driving more, and never turning around, and never coming back, and forgetting all of this–but he couldn’t do that. Perhaps, if he had been younger, before he had met Christine. He had roots here, now. A family. And as hard as it was, he had to stay here, for them, didn’t he?

He settled back down into his rut, as best he could, but either the rut had grown misshapen, or he had warped himself. Each day, he felt like he was nearly bucked off of it by one thing or another. A text from Kevin in the morning perhaps, a picture of his hard cock, telling him to come by the garage at six, after Ron had left, for a fuck. Another forced fuck with Christine, who found herself working harder and harder now to get Steve hard around her. It was torturous but he knew it was necessary, and he would try not to cry, try not to just…blurt out his name, when he came, thinking about him every moment of every day, it seemed like. But every time he tried to draw closer, Kevin would push him away, and every time he felt Kevin begin to soften towards him just the slightest bit, his rough hands turning gentle in the garage, or in the bathroom, or back behind the tavern, Steve would rile him up, harden him again, too afraid of what might happen should either of them get too vulnerable. It wouldn’t be good for either of them, he knew that too.

And all through this was the mayor, and the sheriff, though each terrified him for different reasons. The mayor was unnatural. The mayor, Steve was coming to believe, was truly inhuman. In all of their casual greetings about town, when Steve was out on patrol, he was perfectly congenial, his eyes and voice projecting confidence and trust and everything that Steve could hope for, in an elder figure for their little town–but he was suspecting, slowly, that the mayor knew what was going on. The slightest hint, in the midst of their conversations, things that would only occur to him hours or days later, when it was too late to wonder if he had ever said the right thing in reply. The sheriff was simpler–Steve knew what would make him happy–another grandchild, but that was proving difficult, this time around. It has seemed some easy, with his first two–so easy, he could barely even recall how they had been conceived. But this time, when Christine’s period arrived, and her mood swings, and her bitching, and her–her failure, and she knew it was a failure too. She was ashamed, and they couldn’t even talk about it, just know how they would have to try next month, again. Steve realized, then, that she hated him. She would never say it to his face, perhaps she couldn’t. Hell, perhaps it was all in his imagination, but he was certain of it. She knew. She knew what he was, and if she knew, her father would know. And if the sheriff knew, than the mayor would know of course. He was waiting, waiting for then to just say something, waiting for them to accuse, so at least he could finally, at long last, stop lying.

Perhaps, subconsciously, he wanted someone to find it. That was why he would leave the drive out at work. That was why he would, on his night shifts, take it and watch it again, watch that first time with Kevin–that…first time that mattered to him. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even watch the sex–just watch them as they talked before hand, how they had come so close, how…they had been reaching for each other, unable to find the words, or the feelings, and…and he would cum, or he would cry, or both.

But then, one morning, it wasn’t there. He thought he must have misplaced it. Taken it home with him on accident. But when the sheriff crossed paths with him a bit later, and Steve felt how cold he had become towards him–he realized what had happened to it, and who had it. Now, all he could do was wait–and sure enough, that afternoon when the station had started to empty out, Guthrie told Steve he needed to have a word with him in his office about a private matter.

“You know, I was furious, when I found out what had happened that day, when you’d rolled into town,” Guthrie said, when Steve stepped into the office and shut the door behind him.

He paused, and Steve wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say something or not. Defend himself? Try and explain? He wasn’t even quite sure what the sheriff was talking about, though, so he said nothing, and waited for the older man to continue.

“She was such a cute girl. Eight years old, I got to watch her grow up–do you know what a privilege, that is around here? No–of fucking course you don’t. But for eight years, she was mine. My little girl. Oh sure, I knew at some point he would take her, use her, breed her with some other fucker in this fucking town, but he knew she was special to me. He knew, that I expected him to treat her right, to give her someone I would approve of–and so what does he do? He drags her off the street that day, and…and now she’s married to some fucking faggot!”

Steve flinched, like he’d been slapped. He had heard the word from Kevin’s mouth. He had heard it in his own mind. He had never, yet, heard it from his father-in-law’s mouth, and the word emerged with such bile, such contempt, that Steve shuddered.

“Two faggots, rolling into this fucking town. My fucking town! ‘Oh, we need new blood,’ he told me. ‘Oh, why should I waste two young men like that?’ I fucking told him why. I told him that the two of you, you would never fucking survive here, because no matter what he did to you, no matter who you grew into, you’d still, always, just be a fucking pair of faggots! And now my little girl is gone, and wasted on a piece of fucking shit like you.”

“I don’t…understand…” Steve finally managed to say, and the sheriff picked up a file from his desk and flung it at him in a rage.

“Shut the fuck up! Don’t you say a fucking word–I am not finished with this,” Guthrie said, and then put his head in his hands. “The worst fucking part–I really did like you. He did good on you, he really did. Told me you had good bones, good instincts. That with the right…right reeducation, you would understand. You’d fit in just fine. That…that friend of yours, he had him pegged, but you…you fooled us both, with that goody-two-shoes act, with that smile. All the children fucking love you…”

He paused then, unholstered his pistol, and set it down on the desk, the muzzle pointing right at where Steve was seated, hand not on the trigger, but very close. Steve froze, when he saw it.

“Have you even been fucking her? Using her right?”


“Have you been fucking my daughter, your fucking wife? Have you been doing your god given duty on this fucking earth, have you been fucking her or not?” he roared at him, finger twitching, gun shaking in his clenched hand.

“Yes-Yes!” Steve said, hands going up, “I fuck my fucking wife, what the fuck do you want me to say?”

“So what, you let that fucker…fuck you, right here, right in these fucking cells, and who knows where else, and then you just go right back home and fuck her? How many other guys around here have you gotten to fuck you? How far have you spread this sick corruption of yours, anyway?”

“No one, no one else, I swear, please…please, I’ll leave. I’ll…you’ll never see me again. Please, I’ve sorry…”

“You’re sorry…you’re fucking sorry…” Guthrie said as he stood up, and then stepped around the desk, gun in hand, and leveled it at Steve’s face. “I don’t fucking believe you.”

Steve was certain, in that moment, that he was going to die. He wondered if he deserved it. He wondered if he should feel sad about it. In a way, he felt relief. At least, if nothing else, it would be over.

“He told me to tell him, if either of you relapsed. He said that he could use your lives at least, put you to good breeding use. But where the fuck does that leave her, exactly? I already lost years–ages of her to him, because of you, and I am not about to lose even more because you couldn’t stop yourself from sucking cock. Really, I should just fucking end you, right here–but I…fuck.”

Steve noticed then, that something about the sheriff seemed odd. He was swaying a bit on his feet, and he was breathing heavy, the gun drifting a bit off to the side.

“I should have known, you know. You smell…so good, just like fresh fucking pussy. That’s how you get them to do it, isn’t it? You smell, fuck, just…like him…” his eyes went a bit distant for a moment, and then snapped back. He shoved the muzzle of his pistol into Steve’s mouth. “Lick it, cocksucker. Lick it like it’s the last fucking cock you’ll ever taste.”

Don’t do it, he thought for a moment. Save your dignity, at the very least. But he was more afraid of death than he was of humiliation, and he licked it, tasting the metal, and the sheriff…moaned. Moaned, and groped his cock through the front of his pants…and truly, Steve wondered if he was already dead. If the gun had already gone off, and he was now gone, blown to pieces, this image the final, sick, perverted twist of a troubled mind. But the sheriff pushed the gun in deeper, making him choke on it, and then pulled it free, unzipped his pants, and shoved his own cock into Steve’s mouth.

Guthrie told him to take it. Told him to suck it like a good little faggot, that if he liked it, he might let him live. And so, Steve did his best, because, he discovered much to his surprise, that he did want to live. He wanted to live, and the thing he wanted to live for, in that moment, wasn’t Christine, or his children–it was Kevin. Because for all the brute’s hangups, and issues, he had never treated him like this. With such blatant disdain, and disgust. Used him like…like a whore. So he worked the sheriff’s cock, and he came quick, filling Steve’s mouth with a load of cum–and then he stumbled back, leaning against his desk, heaving for breath, face red, cum still dribbling from the head.

“You…what the fuck are you?” the sheriff muttered, “You…I haven’t…not since…” He raised the gun again, and he was shaking now, and Steve knew what had happened. He knew–because he could remember it too. All those other times now, that he had sucked the sheriff’s cock–here in the office, down in the jail. “No…no no no, I promised myself, I…you fucking…” he wheeled on him, and slapped Steve across the face–but that wasn’t new to Steve either. The sheriff was a rough fucker, after all, and…

God–was this all his fault, Steve wondered? First Kevin, and now the sheriff–he was the common vector. Is he…literally turning men gay? He knew he should feel shame at that, and yet…when the sheriff slapped him again, he could see that the older man was already hard again, and Steve could feel his own mind starting to warp too. He liked this. He…he deserved this sort of abuse, didn’t he? A corrupting little faggot like him. “Harder sir, hit me harder,” he heard himself say, and the sheriff slapped him again, sneering at him, and then gripped his throat, choking him, Steve feeling himself going a bit lightheaded, as the sheriff leaned in closer to him. “This what you wanted, boy? You…you married my daughter, just so you could get some of her daddy’s cock?”

It was like, in the aftermath of their sex together, their memories were still…maleable. Steve could remember that now, but he thought, he could recall something else too…perhaps. “You wanted me too, don’t forget. You…you put on a face, but I think you love me…don’t you…”

It was a gamble. He could see the flash of anger in Guthrie’s eyes, but it wasn’t as strong as before, and his grip lightened, just enough, that he could breathe easier. “I…I could never love a faggot like you, I…you did this, you changed things. Only he can change shit like that, how did you–”

Steve lunged up, and kissed him. Forced himself on him. He could feel the sheriff fighting with himself, with these desires welling up inside him, and finally, he pulled him closer, kissing him back, remembering not just the rough sex now, but the moments of intimacy too. Steve…Steve loved him too, he could feel it, but it wasn’t like what he felt with Kevin. He knew that what he was doing now, he was doing so he could survive. If the sheriff didn’t love him, if he told anyone about what he was doing, about what he was. No–he had to be complicit. He had to need Steve, as much as Steve needed to stay alive. “Say it,” Steve said to him, grabbing the sheriff’s cock with one hand, rubbing it, massaging it.

“I…no, I can’t, I won’t…” the sheriff moaned.

“Fucking say it!”

“I…I love you! I love you boy, fuck, I…oh god–”

The sheriff came again, then, his cock spewing another massive load of cum, soaking their uniforms between them, and Steve felt a rush of power unlike anything he had felt before. He could feel it shifting, could feel how the sheriff longed for him, the long texts he got from him, asking when they could see each other again. Sure, he could be a rough fucker when he wanted, but he knew he only did it because…because they both enjoyed it. He felt the hands on his belt buckle, the sheriff undoing the front of Steve’s pants, freeing his cock, and staring at it. Knowing what he wanted, but terrified of taking it.

“Come on daddy, help your boy out,” Steve whispered into his ear, and the sheriff slowly dropped to his knees, and started sucking on Steve’s cock–and Steve realized that he’d won, somehow. He allowed himself to enjoy this, for a moment. Revel in the feel of the sheriff’s mustache on his cock…and the man was too good, to have not done this before, he realized. Had he…actually wanted this, just as much as Steve had, all this time? He wanted to ask…but he couldn’t. It was too raw, somehow. So he just enjoyed this, filled the sheriff’s mouth with his load, and then stepped back, head spinning with everything that had just happened, trying to fit all of the pieces of this complicated relationship with his father-in-law into place. The sheriff just gulped down the cum, and then started to cry. Steve went to comfort him, and the sheriff shoved him back, and turned away.

“I…I promised myself I would never do that again. I promised him, I wouldn’t. I had to be…strong, and in charge. I…” He took a deep breath, and looked up at Steve. “I knew this was a terrible idea. I knew it, but…fuck, I do love you, son.” He put his head in his hands. “I…I think I always did. I wanted you to do good. I wanted you to be good, because…because it would be easier, for me, if you were, but…but neither of us were strong enough. I just wanted to be normal. I just wanted…a family, and kids, and grandkids.”


“Get out.”

Steve paused…wondering if that was really for the best.

“Boy, I said, get out! Get the fuck out!”

And so, Steve ran, and he got out of the station and into the sunshine, amazed that he, after all of that, was even alive to feel it. And inside, Guthrie sat down at his desk, trying to muffle his sobs, and he remembered a time before Derry, before his family, before all of this. The smell of a locker room, the smell of a boy. A time he had trie, so hard to forget, the deals he had made to seal it away, all of it. Steve climbed in his car, and looked at the setting sun, and at the clock. The garage would be closed–where would Kevin be? He thought about what Guthrie had said, and how little sense it had all made, but it was the closest to the truth he had gotten, in all the time he lived here–and somehow, he knew that Kevin was the key to the rest of it. He had to be–no one else…fit. And he headed for the bar, to hopefully make sense of this, at last, and understand what this fucking town was really doing to them both.

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