The Gas and Go was tucked away in such a remote corner of the county that it wasn't uncommon for the young man behind the cash register to spend an hour or more with no company other than the purr of the Slush Puppy machine. The stillness was occasionally interrupted by a local trucker stopping to buy diesel fuel, or by one of the many leather-clad bikers buying gas and beer.
The young man's name tag bore the white letters RICK on red sticker tape. Whenever one of the motorcycle men came into the Gas and Go, Rick was invariably found studying something borrowed from the magazine rack, always on some irrelevant topic such as world news or horoscopes or science or UFOs. The bikers didn't exchange many words with Rick, other than what was necessary to ring up the sales; they saw no point in wasting words on someone who occupied himself with reading all the time. Any biker knew that reality was to be found not in the squiggles of type on a printed page, but rather in the good honest grease and gears that made a motorcycle run.
For this reason, Rick was a little surprised when one of the county's biggest grizzly-bears of a biker-man leaned against the Slush Puppy machine one slow morning and made friendly conversation him. The man's name was James, but even someone as removed from the bikers as Rick knew him only as Whiskey Jim. On this particular morning, there was nobody else at the Gas and Go besides Rick and Whiskey Jim. An unseen observer would have been struck by the remarkable contrast between the biker and the clerk. Rick was a quiet, slim pup of a young man, presumably at least eighteen but barely looking old enough to be working. His sandy hair and clothes were unpretentious but always neat.
Whiskey Jim, however, was a very large man, a head taller than Rick and with at least twice the body mass. Whiskey Jim's hair was red-blond and was blown wild by the sun and wind, and his big bare arms and face and neck were sunburned a bright red, so that his sun-bleached eyebrows and hair seemed strangely pale against his face. He was wearing a black T-shirt, a pair of jeans, an unusually wide leather belt, and boots. His beer gut filled out the T-shirt, just slightly hanging over his belt. He was obviously nobody to mess with unless you were remarkably strong or brave, but his beard framed a big, friendly grin, and he readily put even someone as shy as Rick at ease. Not for nothing was Whiskey Jim one of the leaders of the pack among the local bikers.
Whiskey Jim talked with Rick about the weather, local happenings, and road conditions. He didn't embarrass the young man by talking about motorcycle repair, even though this was his favorite topic, because he knew that Rick would not be able to offer any opinion here.
"Watcha readin' there?" Whiskey Jim presently asked, indicating the magazine which Rick had left open on the counter.
"It's about the paranormal," said Rick. He knew he'd have to explain. "It's about things like UFOs and Bigfoot and things like that."
"I don't believe any of that," said Whiskey Jim, shaking his head. "UFOs, whatnot. Bullshit."
Rick shrugged. He was pretty skeptical about the things in the magazine himself, and wasn't surprised that Whiskey Jim wholly disbelieved it. "Well, it passes the time. Here's a pretty silly article: it's about the Indians that used to live in this part of the country. It says that when they captured enemy men in battle, they'd actually swallow them alive. Isn't that ridiculous? How could a man swallow another man alive?"
"It's true," said Whiskey Jim. "They really did that."
Rick paused and looked at Whiskey Jim, not knowing what to make of this abrupt reversal of Whiskey Jim's credulity. After Whiskey Jim had expressed disbelief in UFOs and Bigfoot, why was he accepting something so patently absurd as true? It must be some kind of joke, but Rick didn't see the point. He passed it over, not understanding.
"I can take you out and show you a cliff where there's old carvings of it, of the Indians swallowing up their enemies," said Whiskey Jim. "You wanna see it?"
"Sure," said Rick. He was interested in things like old Indian carvings.
"You wanna go today? How much longer you gotta work?"
"Just another ten minutes," said Rick. "Next person comes in at noon."
"You wanna go look at it, then, and get a ride home after? I'll give you a ride on my bike."
Once again, Rick didn't know what to make of this. Why was this big tough motorcycle man treating him so friendly? If Rick didn't know any better, he would think that Whiskey Jim was trying to work out a way to have sex with him, but surely that couldn't be the case. Truth to tell, Rick was terrified by motorcycles, but he was too shy to tell Whiskey Jim this; he would just accept the ride politely and try not to act scared. And, truth to tell, Rick secretly did want to have sex with Whiskey Jim, but there were several reasons why he must not let this be known. He would just go along and see what happened. "Sure, that would be great," he said, trying to put some certainty into his voice.
Whiskey Jim nodded and stroked his beard, and to kill the remaining minutes he told Rick a story about a trucking accident in the next county. When the afternoon clerk arrived at the Gas and Go, Rick clocked out and followed as Whiskey Jim strode on his big jeans-clad legs out to his motorcycle. He was concerned when he saw that there was a helmet neither for Whiskey Jim nor for himself. Still, he did his best to straddle the motorcycle as naturally as Whiskey Jim did, and he wrapped his arms around Whiskey Jim's middle. Whiskey Jim kick-started the motorcycle with a booted foot, and a moment later the county road was banking away beneath them. Rick felt his heart in his mouth and and thought, "My life is in your hands." He felt the heat of the biker's body through the black T-shirt.
Whiskey Jim guided the motorcycle through deserted country roads, and finally onto a little dirt road, half grown over, on which he had to ride more slowly. Finally Whiskey Jim brought the motorcycle to a sputtering stop at the top of a small ridge in an area of dense woods. The sun filtered through the leaves in patterns which were changed by the little stirrings in the heavy air. When Whiskey Jim killed the motorcycle motor, the sound of running water came up from down the hill.
The two got off the motorcycle, and Whiskey Jim kicked down the stand. "Down this way," said Whiskey Jim, leading the way down the wooded slope. Rick looked at him from the back. Except for the moderate bulge of gut, Whiskey Jim really was a powerfully muscled man. Rick eyed the moving ripples of the man's back, only slightly softened by the black T-shirt. Rick looked at the striding legs in the faded blue jeans; from boots to butt, those were some big, powerful legs. Rick looked at the windblown hair on the man's head and noticed that it was just starting to thin at the middle, so that the sunburned scalp showed through a little.
"This here is called Sactoma Ridge," said Whiskey Jim, looking around. "It's an Indian name. You can find arrowheads if you look 'round."
"You've found a lot?" asked Rick.
"Some," said Whiskey Jim. "Here we are." He stopped at a large outcropping of resistant rock about twice his own height. There was a slight overhang in the rock, and Rick knew that this was an what archaeologists called an _abri_, a overhanging rock shelter where Indians might have once camped.
"There," said Whiskey Jim, indicating a part of the rock under the overhand with his thick finger. Rick drew his eyes away from the man's arm muscles and looked at the surface. There, in spite of years of weathering, and in spite of the archaic stylization of line, Rick could make out the traces of a faint picture. Against all probability, it was indeed a picture of a man's head viewed from the side, with his mouth stretched wide open. A pair of human legs and feet hung out of the man's mouth, as if the man were halfway though literally swallowing another man. Rick was reminded of a time he had run across a science magazine picture of a snake, where the mouth was stretched impossibly wide around the snake's half-swallowed prey. Rick had not liked the picture, and had turned the page. But here on the old stone it was less vivid, more remote.
"And there," said Whiskey Jim, moving his hand over a few feet. The second carving was more weathered away, but it looked like a similar sort of picture, although the man had only the head of his victim in his absurdly expanded mouth; he wasn't as far along in the swallowing process.
"But it's not real," said Rick. Whiskey Jim looked at him. "I mean, I'm sure it was just a legend. How could a man do that? It's impossible."
"It can be done," said Whiskey Jim.
Rick shook his head. "But how?"
Whiskey Jim didn't answer immediately, but squatted on his booted feet and pulled off a little spring from a bright green ground vine with shiny diamond-shaped leaves. "Rattlesnake weed," he said showing it to Rick. "See how it's got crinkles in the leaves, kind of like a rattlesnake's skin? If you eat it, it lets ya stretch your mouth out real big, the way a rattlesnake does. You know a rattlesnake can swallow an animal almost its own size. This lets people do the same thing, like in those pictures." He spoke as if he were completely serious about it.
Rick shook his head; even for someone whose favorite magazine was about UFOs, this was too much. "I'll believe it when I see it," he said, as Whiskey Jim offhandedly chewed on the little piece of vine.
"Whatever," said Whiskey Jim, swallowing the sprig. He sat his big body down heavily against a tree. "Anyway, how ya like this place?" said Whiskey Jim. "I just thought I'd show you one of my favorite places here."
"It's nice," said Rick, and immediately wished he hadn't; the word's "it's nice" were too wimpy a thing to say. He felt that he should add some further comment about these woods, and felt awkward that he could think of nothing to add.
"Yeah," said Whiskey Jim. "You can just stretch out here and relax." He stretched and sighed.
Rick cautiously joined him at a nearby tree, trying not to get his clothes dirty. He looked at Whiskey Jim, not knowing what to expect next. There was a silence.
Then Whiskey Jim spoke again. "You know why I brought you out here?" he asked.
"Probably, you want me to suck your cock," Rick answered. He was immediately astonished at his own boldness. He had no definite reason to believe that this was what Whiskey Jim actually wanted. Was he going to get clobbered for saying that?
But Whiskey Jim just gave a natural belly laugh. "Nope," he said. "Though I have to admit, that would feel mighty good. But I want you for something else."
"What is it?" Rick asked.
Whiskey Jim glanced back up at the carvings, and said, "That." Then he looked Rick straight in the eyes. "'Cause you're such a cute little pup that I've just gotta eat you up, like in those pictures there," he said solemnly. He rubbed his stomach. "You're gonna be inside my big ol' gut. How ya like that?"
Rick looked at him and did not know what to say. This was carrying the joke a little too far.
"I see you don't believe I can do it," Whiskey Jim continued. "Well, you'll believe me in a few minutes here, when you're slidin' right down my throat. I'm a hungry man, and it keeps a lot to keep my big ol' body goin'. Sorry it's too bad for you. But I'm stronger 'n you, and I'm hungry."
"How would that be possible?" Rick said, reasonably. "I'm too big for you to-- swallow."
"Oh, don't you worry about that," said Whiskey Jim. "I can feel the rattlesnake weed kickin' in now. I can swallow something pretty damned big. Thanks to that weed, I can unhinge my jaw and stretch my mouth around you the way a rattlesnake does. I've swallowed up boys as big as you before." To demonstrate, he opened his mouth good and wide. Rick had never seen a man open his mouth nearly so wide before, and was rather alarmed; Whiskey Jim's mouth was open almost as impossibly wide as in the carving. "Think you can fit inside?" asked Whiskey Jim, closing his mouth again. Whiskey Jim's mouth had been open so very wide that Rick could almost imagine fitting inside it. He looked down at Whiskey Jim's T-shirt-covered gut. Was Rick going to end up inside of it?
"But you can't!" Rick cried, looking back up to Whiskey Jim's face. "How can you justify eating another human being? How can your morals allow something like that?" As soon as he said this, he knew that he shouldn't use words like "justify" or "morals" with someone like Whiskey Jim. But Whiskey Jim answered the question.
"Well, when I've got you nice and safe inside of me, and I feel you making my body strong, I'd like to think you gave up your life willingly to support me. 'Course, I expect you'll struggle around a lot while I swallow you up. That's just the nature of your body, to fight against getting eaten, and you can't help it. But it's also just a part of nature for the stronger to eat up the weaker. If I'm gonna live, I gotta eat. So it's my right to eat you."
He was really going to do it. Even though Rick knew he had little chance of escaping, he sprang to his feet and bolted away from Whiskey Jim as fast as he could. For an insane few moments he crashed through the woods, but he could hear Whiskey Jim running hot on his tail. Whiskey Jim caught hold of Rick and pulled him to the ground. Rick felt the man's warm weight pinning him down, and the big arms held him locked in an inescapable bear hug. Whiskey Jim's big friendly sunburned face was right above Rick's.
"Shucks," Whiskey Jim, "You didn't think I was gonna let you get away, did you?" He planted a big sloppy kiss on Rick's mouth. "I'm stronger than you and faster than you, and there's nothing you can do to stop me from swallowing you up. But I enjoy the chase. It makes me even hungrier to get you inside of me nice and safe. Let's get you out of these clothes." He raised himself off of Rick for a moment and took hold of Rick's clothes in his hamlike fists. Even though Rick was kicking and thrashing, Whiskey Jim managed to somehow hold him down and get his clothes off at the same time. As frightened as Rick was, he was a little astonished at Whiskey Jim's strength. Soon Rick was squirming in Whiskey Jim's grasp as naked as a peeled switch. "There," Whiskey Jim said. "Now you'll slide down my throat nice and smooth."
"Don't do it," Rick begged. "Please let me go."
Whiskey Jim didn't bother answering that. "Now how should I eat you up? Head first, or feet first? You ready to get swallowed up, boy?"
"Please," Rick said, frantically thinking of anything to make him change his mind. "I'll give you all the money in my bank account if you just let me go." As a Gas and Go clerk, Rick didn't really have very much money, but perhaps this ploy would give him a chance to get away. "You could buy a lot of food with that money, and you wouldn't have to eat me."
Whiskey Jim smiled. "You don't understand. No amount of food could take the place of swallowing you up, alive and kicking. I gotta eat you. There's just nothing that even comes close to the feeling of taking a boy like you into myself." He paused, trying to think of a comparison. "It's better than the wildest blow job I ever got, the feeling of wrestling you down my throat. I know it's too bad for you, but just think: you're gonna become a part of something stronger than yourself. You got any last things you wanna say to me before I swallow you?"
"Please don't do it," Rick whispered.
"Sorry, friend," said Whiskey Jim. At that, he opened his mouth very wide, even larger than he had before. His mouth was surrounded by his red-blond moustache and beard. Inside the big lips, Rick could see his teeth and his big red tongue. The back of his mouth trailed away to an uncertain darkness.
As Rick struggled uselessly under Whiskey Jim's weight, the last thing he saw was that big mouth moving toward his face, the lips opening impossibly wide. Then Whiskey Jim's whole mouth covered Rick's face, and Rick saw nothing more. Rick felt the man's lower lip stretch under his chin, and his upper lip slide across his forehead and over the top of his head. This couldn't be happening; how could a man's open mouth cover Rick's whole face? And yet it was so. Then Rick's ears were in Whiskey Jim's mouth, and Rick could hear the slick sounds in Whiskey Jim's mouth and the sound of him breathing through his nose. A moment later, Whiskey Jim had done the seemingly impossible, wrapping his mouth around Rick's entire head. Rick could feel the tongue against his face and the lips around his neck.
At this point, Whiskey Jim could swallow Rick no further while still lying on top of him. Without taking Rick's head out of his mouth, Whiskey Jim rolled over on his side with both of arms around Rick in a powerful bear hug. Rick could still feel Whiskey Jim's chest against his naked skin, the heat of Whiskey Jim's body through his black T-shirt. Rick was kicking and struggling as much as he was able, but there was no escaping from Whiskey Jim's hug. He ignored Rick's struggles and calmly continued to swallow him, stroking his big hands against Rick's naked back as if he were slowly making love to him.
He managed to get Rick's shoulders into his awesomely stretched mouth, and as his lips inched down Rick's back and chest, Rick's arms were gradually pinned to his sides, stopping his wild flailing. The whole upper half of Rick's torso was in the wet warmth of Whiskey Jim's mouth now, and still he continued to take Rick in, half guiding Rick with his hands and half sucking him in with his powerful throat muscles. Then Whiskey Jim's mouth was around Rick's waist. Rick could feel Whiskey Jim's upper lip sliding across his butt.
Now only Rick's legs hung out of Whiskey Jim's mouth. If Rick could have seen himself, he would have witnessed a scene like the one captured in stone on the cliff. Rick was still kicking frantically, but Whiskey Jim's mouth continued to draw him in, inexorably, until Rick was far enough inside that he could not kick any more. Whiskey Jim ate him down to his knees, down his calves, down to his ankles, and finally he managed to get Rick's feet inside his mouth also.
With a great big gulp, Whiskey Jim swallowed Rick down. Rick felt myself sliding down the man's throat; he felt the smoothness surrounding every part of his naked body. He came to rest in Whiskey Jim's stomach, curled up in a ball. It was very warm and perfectly dark, and the walls of the stomach were smooth around him.
"Ahh," Whiskey Jim sighed, slapping his greatly swollen belly. "Can you hear me in there?" he said to the bulge in his T-shirt.
Just on the very remote chance that Whiskey Jim might still have a change of heart and let him out, Rick decided to cooperate with him. He moved around a little to let Whiskey Jim know he had heard him.
"Welcome to my body," Whiskey Jim said. "How ya like it in there? Nice and warm? Don't worry, I'll get you digested here in a little while. You're a part of me now. Glad you could join me." He laughed a great belly laugh, shaking Rick around inside him. That seemed to be his kind of humor. Inside his stomach, Rick didn't find this to be very funny.
Still smiling, Whiskey Jim kicked back on the forest floor to relax. He said no more to Rick. He closed his eyes and put his hand on his stomach, where Rick was still uselessly struggling, obviously still alive. Whiskey Jim was ready for a nice nap, and he was looking forward to digesting Rick.
At that moment, the buzz of an approaching motorcycle became audible. Whiskey Jim opened his eyes to see who was coming to interrupt his nap. Whoever it was, Whiskey Jim was going to tell him to fuck off; he was feeling full and lazy and wanted to be alone to digest the boy. But when he saw that it was a biker named Gil, he changed his mind; Gil was one of the few men in the county who could match Whiskey Jim at a fight, and Whiskey Jim was in no condition to fight with his stomach this full.
The motorcycle came to a stop. "'Lo, Whiskey Jim," called Gil, dismounting the bike and walking toward Whiskey Jim. Whiskey Jim could see that Gil was forcing himself to be patient and not to be angry, but something was clearly the matter.
"'Lo, Gil," said Whiskey Jim. "What's up?"
"You ain't seen that kid from the Gas and Go, have you?"
"Which one? The one with tan hair or the blond one?"
"The one with tan hair, who works in the morning," said Gil.
Whiskey Jim knew he couldn't hide anything with this big bulge in his belly. "Funny you should mention him," he said. "He was such a cute little puppy that I couldn't help givin' him a nice warm home inside of me."
"You swallowed him?" asked Gil.
"Yeah, it was perfect," sighed Whiskey Jim. "You shoulda seen how big and round his eyes got when he realized he was about to get swallowed up. I talked him through it till he was good and scared. He tried to bolt, but I caught him easy enough. He struggled all the way down. He didn't just give up then the way some boys do; he made me rassle him down my throat the whole way. It was great."
"You fuckwit!" snarled Gil. "That kid's my cocksucker! You ate my cocksucker!"
Whiskey Jim's expression changed from quiet contentment to surprise. "Oh, fuck," he said. "Fuck, man. I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"Sorry?" said Gil. "You ate my fuckin' cocksucker! I've been giving him protection in exchange for head for a coupla months now! Why do you think nobody ever beat him up? It was 'cause I was makin' sure they didn't! He was excellent head, too. You fuckwit!"
"Man, I'm really sorry," said Whiskey Jim. "I wouldn't have eaten him if I'd known he was your cocksucker."
"How long ago'd you eat him?" said Gil.
"Not more 'n a few minutes ago," said Whiskey Jim.
"Is he still alive?" asked Gil.
"Oh, yeah, he's alive," said Whiskey Jim. "I can still feel him kicking around inside of me, tryin' to get free."
"Well, you can just let him out," said Gil. "If anyone's going to eat that kid, it's gonna be me. But until then, that kid's my cocksucker."
"Aw, man," said Whiskey Jim. "I've already swallowed him up. I really didn't know he was your cocksucker. Lemme keep him. I was looking forward to feeling myself digest him."
"Too bad," said Gil. "You wanna let him out, or do I gotta cut him out like Red Riding Hood?"
Whiskey Jim grimaced. Inside his stomach, Rick felt a rumble, and a moment later he was sliding back up Whiskey Jim's throat and out of his mouth. A moment later he was lying naked on the forest floor. He was a little wet with Whiskey Jim's saliva, but since Whiskey Jim hadn't even had a chance to get his stomach juices flowing, Rick was otherwise unharmed.
Rick panted until he had a chance to catch his breath. "Gil," he said. It was the only word he could get out, but it sounded like "Thank you."
"You all right, kid?" asked Gil. The two men looked down at the naked boy.
Rick slowly raised his eyes from the two pairs of booted feet, up the legs and into the jeans-clad crotches. He looked at Whiskey Jim's stomach, and marveled that he had returned from it safely. He raised his eyes to look up into the faces of the two tough men. Whiskey Jim looked regretful at having lost Rick right when he was ready to digest him. Gil looked stern, with his tattooed and muscular arms folded over his chest, but there was a flicker of affection mixed in with the rough look on his face.
"I'm okay," said Rick.
Gil could see that Rick was indeed okay. After thinking a moment, Gil decided he should go ahead and get the blow job from Rick that he had been looking forward to that afternoon. Doing this in front of Whiskey Jim would show him who was boss. "Why don't you show me you're glad to see me?" said Gil, and he unfastened his heavy belt buckle and pulled out his cock.
Rick had caught his breath by now. Whiskey Jim watched with some jealousy as Rick sat up and unhesitatingly began to suck Gil with an obvious oral talent. "Man, if you're gonna take away my dinner," said Whiskey Jim. "You oughta at least let me get a blow job from him too."
Gil looked at Whiskey Jim as Rick continued to suck. As pissed at Gil had been at first at Whiskey Jim swallowing his cocksucker, Gil could not stay angry at him; Whiskey Jim had been a good friend for a long time. Having his personal cocksucker give Whiskey Jim a blow job would be a good way for Gil to show that he was ready to forget what had happened. "Fair enough," said Gil. "But not till I'm finished with him."
And so, Rick expertly sucked off first Gil, and then Whiskey Jim. After Whiskey Jim had pulled his cock out of Rick's mouth and was stuffing his cock back into his jeans, he had to admit, "You are a natural at that." He zipped up his jeans. "Though I woulda rather kept you inside of me. But it's all right, I guess."
Then Gil gave Rick a ride home. "Don't worry about Whiskey Jim," said Gil as he dropped Rick off. "I'll make sure he don't mess with you."
Things went back to normal. Rick went back to work at the Gas and Go the next day. Whiskey Jim stopped in regularly to get gas for his bike, and both Whiskey Jim and Rick usually acted as though nothing had happened. But one time, when Rick and Whiskey Jim were again alone in the store, Whiskey Jim spoke to Rick about it. "I'm really sorry I ate you. I don't know what came over me; I was out of hand, and I'm sorry."
"It's all right," said Rick.
Whiskey Jim paused and looked at Rick curiously. "But didn't at least a part of you enjoy it? Didn't it feel good?"
"Let's just say I'm glad it's over," said Rick.
The weeks went on. Whiskey Jim and Gil had been drinking buddies for a long time, and they fell back into their pattern of buying a twelve-pack every few nights and taking off to some remote county road to drink. It was Whiskey Jim who once suggested that they take Rick along, and Gil agreed. Rick understood that he was there to fetch the beer and give the men blow jobs as needed, and was willing to do so to keep these two tough men on his side; Rick needed their protection against the less tolerant bikers. The men started taking Rick along regularly for sessions of drinking and sucking.
And this was Rick's undoing. One night, when the two men had a good number of beers in them, they started arm wrestling over a big flat rock, and then they started betting on the wrestling. They started with small wagers (who would buy gas for the other one's motorcycle tomorrow; who would get the first use of Rick's mouth tonight), but then Whiskey Jim laid the most serious bet.
"I'll bet you my bike I can beat you next round," he said.
"Your bike?" said Gil. Rick could tell that Gil's speech was more slurred than Whiskey Jim's. "I ain't betting my bike against yours."
"I ain't askin' you to," said Whiskey Jim. "My bike against the boy."
"What do want the boy for?" asked Gil.
"I wanna swallow him up again," said Whiskey Jim. "And this time, for keeps."
Gil looked at Whiskey Jim for a long time. How could he refuse this challenge, and still look like a real man? Then he looked at Rick, and back at Whiskey Jim again.
"Don't do it," Rick suddenly said, speaking very quickly. "I know you can beat him, but please don't take the chance. I don't want to get swallowed by him again."
Gil ignored Rick. "I'm tougher than you," said Gil to Whiskey Jim. "I'll take the bike." He stretched his arm across the rock.
As if to make his point that he felt certain of winning, Whiskey Jim picked a piece of rattlesnake weed and chewed on it, in preparation for swallowing Rick. Then Whiskey Jim extended his arm across the rock as well.
The men's hands met, and Rick could see their muscles flex as they started to wrestle. Rick watched, breathless, knowing that his own fate was in the outcome of this match. He did not run away; he knew that Whiskey Jim could catch him anyway, and if Gil should win, he would still be wanted for cocksucking purposes.
Both men were sweating and breathing heavily, and their arms quivered with the force of exertion. For a minute it looked as if Gil would prevail; he slowly inched his hand further and further down toward Whiskey Jim's side of the rock. But Gil had drunk more than Whiskey Jim, and his most recent two beers were entering his bloodstream even as the men wrestled. Rick could see the moment where Whiskey Jim got the upper hand. Slowly, unstoppably, Whiskey Jim's arm flexed, and his hand forced Gil's closer to the surface of the rock. Gil grunted, breathing through his teeth, trying to stop Whiskey Jim. But he failed. Whiskey Jim pinned Gil's hand down to the rock, and Rick was thus consigned to Whiskey Jim's stomach.
"Good match, buddy," said Whiskey Jim to Gil as he released his hand and stood to his full height.
"Gil!" cried Rick. "Don't let him do it! Please! Don't let him eat me!"
"Sorry, boy," said Gil regretfully. "A bet's a bet. Nothing I can do." He laid his head down on the rock and passed out.
Whiskey Jim grinned as he approached Rick. "I got you now," he said. "This time you ain't getting away."
"Whiskey Jim," pleaded Rick, backing away. "Don't do it. I'll do anything you want. You can fill up with gas for free any time you like. I'll be your cocksucker instead of Gil's, if you want."
"I have to admit, you are a Class A cocksucker," said Whiskey Jim, but he was not tempted. "But I've made up my mind to eat you, and I ain't changing my mind. I can't wait to take you into my big hungry mouth. Come here, boy."
"No!" cried Rick, backing away faster from Whiskey Jim's approach. Then he tripped over a root and fell on his back on the soft ground, and Whiskey Jim was atop him in a second. Whiskey Jim took hold of Rick's shirt in his fists. Rather than undressing Rick as before, Whiskey Jim just ripped the clothes right off of him. Whiskey Jim was in a hurry to get Rick swallowed before Gil woke up and changed his mind about honoring the bet.
Once again, Rick found himself naked, pinned down under Whiskey Jim's weight. "Mmm, mmm, mmm," said Whiskey Jim, eying his victim. "So you're headed for my stomach once again, and this time you ain't gettin' out."
Rick caught a whiff of beer from Whiskey Jim's breath as the big bearded mouth stretched wide open. It only took Whiskey Jim a moment to get Rick's head in his mouth. At a surprising speed, Whiskey Jim took Rick's body into his mouth, in spite of Rick's thrashing and kicking. Rick's shoulders smoothly slid though Whiskey Jim's lips, then his chest, then his waist. Rick felt the power of the muscles in Whiskey Jim's throat as he was drawn in. Rick's legs were still hanging out of Whiskey Jim's mouth, and he was kicking wildly. But Whiskey Jim took him in further, until he was no longer able to kick. Down to his knees Whiskey Jim ate him, and finally down to his feet. Rick's fidgeting toes disappeared inside Whiskey Jim's closing lips. With a few big gulping motions in his throat, Whiskey Jim swallowed Rick down.
Once again, Rick found himself curled up inside of Whiskey Jim's stomach. It was very warm and moist and dark, and Rick could hear Whiskey Jim's heart beating nearby, as well as the sound of Whiskey Jim breathing. Rick struggled weakly, as well as the confines of the stomach allowed, but this did no good; he was trapped. He knew there was nothing he could do to stop Whiskey Jim from digesting him.
Whiskey Jim laid down next to the fire. The feeling of beer in his veins, the cool darkness of the night, the feeling of triumph at having beaten his buddy at arm wrestling, and the wonderfully full feeling of having a boy struggling in his stomach: nothing could be better than this. Whiskey Jim drifted off to a pleasant sleep.
This time, there was no way for Rick to escape. As the night hours passed, Whiskey Jim slowly digested him. Rick's matter was gradually absorbed and carried through Whiskey Jim's bloodstream. Some of this matter went into making Whiskey Jim's arms and legs and chest even stronger than before. Some of the matter went to Whiskey Jim's abdomen, making him just a little bigger than before: Whiskey Jim's had earned his gut not only by drinking beer but also by swallowing boys, and Rick had not been his first. Some of Rick's matter went into Whiskey Jim's balls, making them just a little heavier than before.
Gil was the first to awaken in the morning. At first he wondered where Rick was. Then he looked over at the sleeping figure of Whiskey Jim , and remembered his foolish bet the night before. The look of contentment on Whiskey Jim's sleeping face left Gil no question as to what had come of Rick. Well, it was too late to do anything about it now.
As if he felt Gil's eyes on him, Whiskey Jim opened his eyes. Whiskey Jim smiled a little smugly, one eyebrow raised.
"I guess you ate the boy," said Gil.
"Mmm hmm," said Whiskey Jim. "He sure kicked up a struggle, but I got him swallowed up, safe and sound. He's part of me now. Man, I feel great."
Well, a bet was a bet. Gil knew he couldn't hold it against Whiskey Jim; Whiskey Jim had won the boy from him fair and square.
Rick's disappearance was never explained, and neither of the two bikers ever stepped forward to discuss it. When it came clear that Rick had vanished for good, a HELP WANTED sign appeared in the window of the Gas and Go. Gil needed a new cocksucker, but Whiskey Jim was looking for another young man to swallow. Both men watched to see whether the new clerk would serve the purpose.
THE END