By Wes Leigh
This is a work of fiction intended solely for the
entertainment of my readers; any resemblance to any real people or places is
purely coincidental. Readers who would like to chat are encouraged to contact me
at weston.leigh@protonmail.com.
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I decide to sit
beneath a tree to eat my lunch. I want to be alone today, not that anyone ever
sits next to me during lunch most days. After all, they're too good to eat with
the poor farmer's boy. And that's really stupid, because I always eat better
food than they get from the cafeteria. Momma packs incredible lunches for us. Like
today ... I have a thick sandwich on homemade bread with a huge slice of ham and
two different kinds of cheese, a salad with fresh tomatoes, carrots, and
lettuce out of our greenhouse, and a slice of homemade apple pie. The town kids
think they're better than us because they stand in line to get boring cafeteria
pizza and canned mixed vegetables. Nasty.
But even if they
did want to sit with me, I don't want to sit with them. Not today. Not after
the crap the guys pulled in the shower after PE. Why are they such creeps? I've
never done anything to any of them, except maybe be smarter than they are, but
I've never said hateful things to them like what they say to me all the time. I've
never shoved them into lockers as I walk by. I've never called them names or
made fun of their bodies. I've never hidden their clothes or thrown their
towels into the floor.
And I don't know
how to fix this, because I don't know how it got broken. When did I become the guy the other kids hated? What did I do? Did someone paint a
big sign on my back that says: `This guy is a real loser so make him miserable
today?'
Even my mom's apple
pie can't pull me out of my bad mood. I feel like crying, but I won't do that. No,
`cause these jerks would love to see my cry. I'll
just eat the rest of the pie and sit here under this tree and think about all
the ways I'd love to see those guys get humiliated like they've been
humiliating me.
A shadow falls on
the grass in front of me. I turn and see Carson standing next to the tree,
holding his sack lunch. The older kids eat after us younger kids. Staggered
lunch schedules. Seventh, eighth and ninth graders eat from 11:30 until
noon. All the rest, including my
brother, eat from 11:45 until 12:15. I don't
know why. I'm sure some adult somewhere decided it was a good idea to slightly
separate the rabble from the school royalty.
"Eating alone
again, Squirt?" he asks.
I want to say,
`Duh. What gave you your first clue?' But I know better than to be a smart ass
with Carson. Besides, he sounds like he's worried about me, even if he did call
me a squirt, which he knows I hate.
I just nod my head
and take another bite of apple pie.
Carson sits down
next to me and opens his bag. Momma made him two sandwiches, both like mine,
but Carson is twice as big as me, so he eats more. He takes a big bite of one
sandwich, looks around while he chews, and asks, "Why did you eat out here? It's
kinda windy today."
He's right. It is
windy and a little cold, even with my windbreaker on. I shrug and say, "I
didn't want to eat inside. I don't mind the cold. I like it."
He nods thoughtfully,
takes another bite, and chews slowly. I finish my pie and carefully fold up my lunch
bag. Momma can use it again tomorrow. She likes it when we don't waste stuff.
Carson looks
around, like he's searching for something, then he looks back at me. "Anything
I should know about?"
"Like what?" I ask.
"Like ... are the guys
giving you a hard time?"
I wish I could ask
Carson for help, but I'm sure it won't do any good. He can't watch out for me
all day long, and he graduates in two months. When he's no longer here, what
will I do then? I sure can't stand up for myself, and even if Carson stomps a
few kids for bullying me, they'll eventually get even. I look at Carson, sigh,
and say, "It's okay, Carson. Really. Nothing I can't handle."
Carson nods but
he's also frowning, so I know he doesn't believe me.
I try again. "I'm
not a whiny bitch, Carson. I'm not going to run to my big brother and rat out
the jerks who give me a hard time. I'll just handle it myself. Somehow."
Carson takes
another big bite of his ham sandwich. The bell rings, so I know I have five
minutes before my next class starts.
As I stand up to
leave, Carson says, "I know you're not a bitch, Truman. I'm proud of you, bro."
I turn and look
closely at Carson. He doesn't usually have nice things to say about me.
"Thanks, Carson."
He nods.
I turn and walk
away, feeling his eyes on my back as I head into the building.
͠
͠ ͠
I make it through
the rest of the day.
Fourth period English,
which I like, because I want to be a famous writer someday like Robert Heinlein
or Isaac Asimov or Frank Herbert.
Fifth period Science,
which is an easy class for me, with all the reading I do.
And sixth period Geography,
which is especially boring at the end of the day when everyone is just waiting
for the last bell to ring.
Finally, the sound
of freedom echoes through the school and everyone, students and teachers,
achieve escape velocity at last, launching ourselves away from the Black Hole We
Call School.
I wait in line for
the bus with the other kids who live south of town. Riding the bus isn't so bad
in the afternoon. In the morning, our farm is the next to the last stop, so
that means the other kids can pull their stupid seat grabbing game, claiming
all the seats and making me look for a place to sit. In the afternoon, it's
different. We line up on the grass in front of the school. If I'm near the
front of the line, I can find a seat easy, as long as I don't try to take
Mattie's seat at the back of the bus with her stupid witch friends.
The bus pulls up
and we climb inside. I grab an empty seat halfway down. Because the other kids
basically hate me, I get a seat all to myself. I'm okay with that. The bus is headed to the elementary school
next, and Toby Welsh will sit next to me. I wonder if Toby will want me to
throw my windbreaker over our laps again so we can ... you know. I start to chub
up just thinking about it.
When we get to the
elementary school, Toby and the rest of the little kids climb on. But Toby doesn't
sit with me. One of his friends from school is coming home with him this
afternoon, probably to ride horses at Toby's house, so they sit together in one
of the seats up front. I have to admit I'm a little disappointed. I sort of
wanted to see if Toby wanted to play with my boner and let me play with his. Why
am I so stupid?
I look out the
window and watch the houses go by until we're out in the country, headed for
our farms where we will have afternoon chores to do, then supper to eat, and a
little time to watch television or read a book before bedtime.
Then we'll start
all over again tomorrow.
͠
͠ ͠
But there's a
change in the routine tonight. After we finish our afternoon chores, Carson
grabs my arm and pulls me into the barn.
"What's going on?"
I ask.
He points at an old
weight bench that was stored in the corner. I remember he begged Poppa to buy
it for him when he started playing football years ago. Carson doesn't use it
anymore because he began working out at school instead. Some rich oil baron guy
bought a fancy weight room for the school, to help our team win a state
championship or something. But for a couple of years, Carson was always out
here, lifting weights, getting stronger and stronger.
Carson walks me
over to the bench and makes me sit down. Then he brings over the smallest
dumbbells and hands them to me. He shows me how to lift them up slowly, hold
them, then lower them just as slow. "Don't just drop it. Make your muscles work
all the way down too," Carson says, holding my fist as I lower the dumbbell. "Nine
more," he adds, watching me.
I lift and lower
the dumbbell just as Carson said, then I switch hands and do the same with the
other arm, ten times.
For an hour, Carson
shows me different exercises I can do to build up my arms. My muscles are
burning and wobbly at the end, and I'm struggling to even lift the weights. He
tells me that's good, actually, because it means I've torn the muscles
slightly, and they'll heal back stronger than ever. I guess that's how you get
big muscles. First you break down the tissues. Then you eat good food to fuel
your body for repairing the damage. It's weird, but I get it. I guess this is
one time when being broken is a good thing.
Carson tells me
we'll do different exercises tomorrow. For my legs. And he says we'll work on
my core the day after that. I'm not sure what my core is, but I'll do whatever
Carson says. Maybe when I have muscles like him, the jerks in my PE class will
think twice before they mess with me. This is so great. Carson is the best big
brother a guy could ever have.
There's just one
thing I don't understand. Why's he doing all this?
We push the weight
bench back into the corner and head into the house. Carson lets me shower
first. He sits on the toilet in his underwear and talks to me about what I
should be eating now. Lots of meats and proteins. And beans and milk and
peanuts and rice. All foods I like, but he tells me I need to eat more of them,
now that my body needs the extra fuel to grow muscle.
I finish my shower
and step out. Carson glances down at my dick, but doesn't say anything. He just
squeezes my shoulder gently and strips off his own underwear. His cock is huge.
A man's cock, but he's seventeen, so I guess it's supposed to be that size by
now. He steps past me into the shower and keeps talking to me about how I can
make sure I'm getting enough food and what to do when my muscles are really
sore. I sit and listen. This is so cool. Carson and I have never talked like
this before, and I don't know why he's doing it now, but I'm glad he is.
I'll say it again. Carson
is the best big brother a guy could ever have.
Soon, I'll have
muscles like Carson. Maybe then my dick will get the message and start growing
too. That would be incredible. Having muscles AND a cock as big as Carson's.
͠
͠ ͠
Supper is great,
because Momma serves up one of my favorite meals. Fried chicken with mashed
potatoes and cream gravy. Fresh green beans from the greenhouse. Hot, buttery
corn on the cob. And more of Momma's homemade biscuits.
Carson tells me to
eat another piece of chicken and drink an extra glass of milk. I know why. My
muscles need fuel.
Mattie must think
we're up to something, because she gives us a distrustful look. I ignore her
and take another big piece of chicken off the platter at the center of the
table.
Momma smiles really
big because I'm eating so good.
Poppa nods his
head, clears his throat, and says, "Those two-year-old colts and fillies need
to be broken to saddle and trained this summer. Carson is going to be busy
helping me with the lower pastures. I want to clear out some river bottom land
and plant bermuda grass down there. Should grow fine without
irrigation, being so close to the river and all. That means you'll have to train
the horses, Truman."
The good feelings I
had been having stop. My stomach churns. Suddenly I don't want any more
chicken. "Wha-a-at?" I stutter.
Poppa grins. "I
want you to break the horses and train them. We'll take them to auction at the
end of the summer and sell them for a good price."
"But, ummm, I don't know how to do all that," I manage to say.
Poppa looks at
Momma. He grins, so I know he's up to something.
She shakes her head
at Poppa and says, "Quit teasing him, my love. Tell him the rest."
Poppa chuckles and
looks back at me. "I've hired a young man to come work with the two-year-olds. He'll
be here Saturday. He'll do most of the training, but I want you to work with
him. Be his helper. Do whatever he needs you to do, but also learn what he
knows. You're good with animals, Truman, so this will be a new skill you can
bring to the farm, once Monty teaches you."
"Monty?" I ask.
"Yes. Monty McDowell
is his name."
I nod. My stomach
isn't churning so much now. I like learning new things, and working with the
horses is probably my favorite thing to do on the farm. This should be fun. I
hope Monty McDowell is a good teacher, like Mr. Jacoby. I hope he likes me. I
hope he doesn't mind a smart student who listens well and works hard.
Carson reaches over
and spoons more green beans onto my plate. I smirk at him. Muscles!
͠
͠ ͠
The next morning, I
wake up in excruciating pain. I try to lift the heavy quilt off my body, but my
arms refuse to cooperate. The muscles in my chest, shoulders, and arms are
burning. Oh, my God, something is really, really wrong!
"Carson!" I shout. When
he doesn't respond, I yell again. "CARSON!"
My bedroom door
opens and Carson, dressed only in his underwear, sticks his head in my room. "What?"
"Carson. Something's
bad wrong. My arms won't move, and they feel like they're on fire."
The alarm in his
face disappears and is replaced by amusement. "Stay right there, little
brother. I'll be right back."
He turns and walks out
of my room, returning soon with a small tube. He lifts the quilt off my body
and says, "Just stay still. This will help." He squeezes out a thick gel onto
his hands and gently rubs it into my chest. Whatever it is, it makes my eyes
sting. It feels hot on my skin wherever he spreads it around, and the heat
gradually soaks down into my muscles. He squirts out more and rubs my shoulders
and arms, which makes me grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut.
"What's wrong with
me?" I ask.
Carson chuckles and
helps me sit up. He rubs more ointment into my back while he explains. "Nothing's
wrong, bro. I told you yesterday that lifting weights makes small tears in the
muscles. Your body is letting you know with pain this morning. It will go away,
but you'll be sore all day. We might have done too much yesterday, so we'll
take it easy this afternoon when we work your legs."
"It didn't hurt
this bad when that colt kicked me in the hip."
More chuckling. "It'll
stop hurting soon. The liniment will help. And getting up and moving your arms will
too."
He stands up and
motions for me to get out of bed. I let out a small yelp when I try pushing off
with my arms. "I'm not trying to be a wimp," I tell Carson, gritting my teeth.
"I know," he replies,
very patiently. "Let me help." He takes my hands and pulls me to my feet, then
turns and grabs my pants and holds them for me, while I slide my legs inside. He
works them up my legs and even tucks my dick in for me. He pulls up the zipper
and snaps the button.
I look at my shirt
laying on the chair. I glance at Carson and grimace. He nods and picks up the
shirt, holding it open for me to slide my arms inside.
"You're doing fine,
Truman. Let's get you dressed and moving. Doing chores will get the blood
flowing in your arms and make you feel better."
I tell myself over
and over, `Don't complain. Don't be a wimp. Carson is helping you.'
And he is helping. When
there are chores I can't do, he jumps in and helps me out. When we finish
everything up, he helps me undress and get in the shower. The hot water feels
incredible on my sore body. Carson even strips down and climbs in with me to
shampoo my hair. My dick starts to get hard when I feel his man-cock brushing
against my hip, but I turn sideways until it droops
back down. I don't think Carson notices.
Toweled dry by my
big brother, I don't feel like a little baby at all, because Carson is really
amazing the entire time. He talks to me about how it will take a few months
before I'll see results and where the first muscles will show up. Then he dries
himself off and walks with me to my room.
"Can you dress
yourself now?" he asks, in a concerned but not mean way.
"I think so."
"Call me if you
need me."
"Okay."
We eat our usual big
breakfast, then grab our lunches. Walking down the lane in front of our house,
headed for the main highway where the bus picks us up, I shake my head in
amazement. I can't believe everything Carson has done for me, but he's not
finished.
Carson puts his arm
across my shoulder and says, "Sometimes bullies fuck with you only because you
let them."
Mattie glares at
Carson because he said the f--- word, and none of us are supposed to say that.
Carson ignores her.
He pulls me against his side and says, "Like on the bus. They take all the
seats and play their little games because they know they can. But a guy who
isn't a little bitch won't care about their stupid games. He'll let them know
it doesn't work. You know what I mean?"
I nod. I guess I've
been letting this go for a long time, giving the jerks a chance to fuck with
me. I think I'm allowed to use the f--- word in my head, now that Carson said
it out loud. That's really what they're doing. Just fucking with me. Trying to
see what I'll let them do. Carson's right. They're only doing this because I
let them.
Of course, knowing
what they're doing and stopping them from doing it are two different things. I'm
not sure I can stand up to them. I'm afraid I'll give up at the last minute and
give in to their games. I don't want to be a wimp. Carson is showing me how to
get big muscles, and starting this weekend, Monty McDowell will be teaching me
to train horses. A big, muscular horse trainer isn't a wimp. He wouldn't put up
with shit from the other guys.
We reach the
highway just as the bus is screeching to a stop. Carson holds back. Mattie
pushes ahead and gets on the bus, headed for her "reserved" back seat.
Carson gives me a
nod and a grin, squeezes my shoulder one more time, and pushes me gently toward
the bus.
I climb up the
steps and look down the aisle. Yeah. Like always. Someone sitting in every
seat, and they're looking at me, grinning or snarling. Ugly little space
pirates.
I choose one seat
and stand next to the kid sitting there. "Move over," I say, staring him down.
He seems surprised
I'm even talking to him. He shakes his head. "I was saving this seat for
someone," he mumbles.
"Yeah? Well,
thanks. Thanks for saving it for ME. I'm here now, so move over."
He frowns and
swings his legs into the aisle so that I can get around him and sit next to the
window. That's fine by me. I plop down next to him, drop my backpack at my
feet, and hold my lunch in my lap. I look up and see Carson grinning at me.
He moves down the
aisle and points at one of the other space pirates. The kid squeaks and scoots
across the aisle. Carson sits down, saving the spot next to him for Nancy Jo,
who I can see standing at the road a mile down the way, waiting to be picked up
next.
The bus rumbles into
motion and heads off.
I look out the
window and smile really big. Muscles. Horse trainer. Disintegrated space pirates.
The end of BROKEN, Chapter Three