After Diner (Patreon)

You reseat your cap, lifting it up a little and pushing it back on in a swift motion, ending with a quick squeeze to shape the bill. Countryside is rushing by outside the window as you drive aimlessly. You don't know where you are, not where you are going. You press you jaw forward, squeezing the dip in your lower lip pocket. There's an instant rush that sends shivers through your body and tingles in your dick. You want nothing more than just sink deeper into the seat and drive. Don't think of where you are, why you are here, or even who you are.

That last suggestion, desire, whatever it was grated against your mind. You needed to remember it. As you pack the dip with your tongue, first from the top, then the left, then the right, you slow down the truck to a stop on the road shoulder. You let the engine in idle, giving that lulling rumble of comfort. He gave you the dip, you remember. Why can't you remember what he looked like?

You struggle your way back in time, clawing for anything to hold on to. You'd arrived in your Tesler and asked to use the diner's charger. Then you had something to eat, and somehow you had made him mad. You can't recall anything before he was standing next to you, one fist grabbing you by the hair and the other hand holding your right hand, almost breaking it. It hurt real bad. He leans forward and spits in your coffee. Not a quick glob of spit, but a slow one that still hangs from his lips when it touches the surface of the coffee. He tells you to drink the coffee, all of it. You refuse and the pain gets unbearable. With a shaky left hand you get hold of the cup and take a sip. All of it, he repeats.

By the time you set down the empty cup he has released his grip on you. "You're a fucking good boy now, ain't you?" he asks. You have no idea how to respond. You can feel the coffee churning and let out a large burp. "Say it!" he demands. "What?" you ask. "Say I'm a fucking good boy." You repeat the words. He seems pleased and pats you on your cap. "Yeah, you're a fucking good boy." It annoys you, and you lift up the cap slightly, push it back on, and adjust the bill. "Now take your truck and get the fuck out of there," he told you.

You can't recall leaving the diner, or anything specific about it. It must be well over an hour behind you by now. Two maybe. You pull down the sun visor to have a look in the mirror. You don't recognize what you see, but you also can't think of anyone else you expected there. Your soiled T-shirt has "Hunter" printed on it along with the name of a welding shop. One mystery less at least.