Cock and Balls (Handcuffs and Lace) by Mia Watts by Mia Watts

thought and not caring to provide a beginning line of conversation.
    The words flowed easier now. He hadn’t said them aloud, ever, and there was a relief in it.
    “He went from dad to politician so gradually that I didn’t really notice at first. He had this duty, and Mom supported it. I supported it. It’s just how things were. We all played our parts. I watched Mom get sick. He left for functions and dinners, while I took her to the doctors and through chemo. He’d pat her hand, but I held it. She withered away!” Hank said, suddenly angry. “And he let her. He let her die and never bothered to show up!”
    Tears stung Hank’s eyes, and he tried to blink them away.
    “He fucking let her die. I held her hand in the hospital every day. I watched her smile as she pretended that everything was fine and that Dad was where he needed to be—which was bullshit, because he should’ve been with her, not at a State dinner.”
    He turned to Monty, suddenly needing to see him react. Needing to see him acknowledge that the president he served was less than human. He pushed Monty’s shoulder. Monty looked at him.
    “Do you know what she did when she couldn’t talk anymore? When the tubes in her throat kept her from speaking and dried out her throat? She squeezed my hand, Monty! He should’ve been there to comfort her, us —but he was in France not giving a shit when his wife died. When she reached out to say goodbye the only way she had left.” Hank leapt to his feet and dropped the rod. “This is for shit. All of it. You serve a guy you have to serve, but he’s not someone you should respect. He’s a selfish jackass. A hypocrite on the stand of family values.”
    “He’s broken,” Monty said softly.
    “He can’t be broken. He’s not human enough to break.”
    Hank turned on his heel and started running. He heard a curse and the sound of Monty following him. Hank pushed through the trees blindly shoving at branches and undergrowth. It scratched at him all the same, tore at his arms and body like claws.
    Monty grabbed his shoulder, slowing him. Hank pushed at his hand, but the man held firm. The slightly fishy smell of working with tackle, the scent of working with worms, the stink of the mulching woods and their own sweat perfumed the air as Monty shoved him against a kudzu-covered tree. Hank squirmed, thinking of all the bugs that could be hiding beneath the bright green leaves of the tree-choking ivy.
    He wanted to punish—someone. His father for leaving them to deal with death alone. The American people for having an opinion about him that they had no business forming. Monty for making him think he could talk about it, and it would be okay. Himself for feeling like shit.
    Monty was the only one he was willing to fight, so he fought. He shouted, hit, swung a fist and missed. He grunted as he tried to bodyslam Monty and failed without the momentum he needed, pinned as he was.
    “Fuck you!” he shouted.
    Monty’s arm braced across Hank’s chest. He leaned the weight of his body, and Hank howled in frustration that he couldn’t break free. A hand unsnapped and unzipped his jeans seconds before he realized what was happening. A hard, calloused hand reached inside and grabbed Hank’s cock.
    He should have been turned off, disgusted. The fishiness and forest stink closed around him, and Hank’s nostrils flared. Crickets whined all around them, and the leaves moved with life and wind. These weren’t the smells, sounds, and sensations of pleasure. They were gross, basic, sweat-ridden, earthy. The hands on his flesh had touched nasty things and—oh, God—he needed it!
    Monty’s hand stroked Hank’s cock briskly. Dry and rough, it worked the sensitive flesh of Hank’s shaft while steely eyes stared deep into his, willed him to look back.
    “Fuck the world, Hank. Fuck it. Fuck them all,” Monty growled. “Give it to them. Give it to me . Show me just how pissed off you really are.”
    Hank’s mind