Dual Exhaust : Chapter 8 - Without Dignity

Before proceeding, please be aware that this is a work of fiction and fantasy. Any resemblance to real life, persons living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All characters portrayed in this narrative are over 18 years of age.

This chapter features strictly adult themes, including:

• Adult / Explicit Content (+18 / NSFW)

• Incest / Family Taboo Themes: Depicting sexual and psychological dynamics and fixations within a family context (father, son, and grandfather).

Chapter 8 - Without Dignity

Smoke curled slowly from his lips in a steady rhythm, forming near-perfect rings that drifted across the sky. Propped against a concrete pillar in the shop’s parking lot, Brandon watched the gray wisps dissolve into the air as he blew out another stream.

A few yards away, the side door slammed against the corrugated metal wall—a sharp crack that echoed across the entire lot. Bob ambled out without any hurry, his eyes scanning the potholed ground as he picked his way around puddles. He made a beeline for the tow truck, yanked the cab door open with a screech from the hinges, and leaned inside, rummaging through greasy rags and a toolbox overturned on the bench seat.

“Where the fuck is it...” he muttered under his breath.

Bob had to step onto the running board and throw his whole body into the cab, planting a knee on the seat. From that angle, the windshield framed the entire yard. As he reached into the glove compartment, feeling around blindly, his gaze drifted forward and froze.

His eyes locked on Brandon across the lot. Bob blinked twice, squinting. He went back to feeling around the glove box, but his focus was shot. His eyes darted nervously back and forth between the dash and the figure in the distance.

When he finally snagged what he was looking for—a Torx key and an Allen wrench—Bob backed out and climbed down from the truck. As soon as his boots hit the pavement, he straightened up, shading his eyes against the low morning sun beating down on his face to get a clearer view.

“Morning!” he called out, his voice raised just enough without sounding like a yell.

Brandon gave a brief wave. He didn’t look at Bob, didn’t take a step, didn’t say a word.

Bob dropped his hand and headed toward the pillar, his steps thumping heavily against the cracked asphalt. He spun the tools loosely between his fingers like drumsticks, an absentminded, rhythmic habit. With his other hand, he gripped the shoulder strap of his overalls, fingers clamped around the thick canvas.

“Hey man,” Bob said once he was a few feet away, his voice dropping back to normal. “Like I said yesterday, I already ordered the parts for your Mustang, and—”

“I know, I know...” Brandon cut in, his words tumbling out right on top of Bob’s. For the first time, his eyes dropped from the smoke to meet Bob’s. “Thanks for that. It’s just... I wanted to thank you for letting us crash here, lending us the beds, and giving me these beat-up old overalls.”

The tools stopped spinning, clenching tight in Bob’s palm. One eyebrow arched slowly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“You and your brother already thanked me yesterday, Brandon.”

“Oh... right... yeah...” Brandon fumbled for a response, but the sentence died halfway through. Bob stepped closer and, without asking, plucked the cigar straight from between his fingers.

Bob brought the cigar to his lips and took a deep drag, his eyes narrowing to slits.

“You actually like these things?” he asked, his voice tight from holding in the smoke. “Because... Jesus...” He choked, his voice raspy. “This tastes like shit,” he managed to cough out before breaking into a pair of sharp hacks.

Bob held out his hand to return the cigar, and Brandon took it. He rolled the thick cylinder between his fingers before bringing it back to his mouth.

“Andrew gave it to me,” Brandon said, taking a puff. “It’s a Cuban.” He blew the smoke out slowly from the corner of his mouth. “And yeah, it really is shit.”

Bob cleared his throat one last time, spat to the side, and finally looked back at Brandon, his eyes still a bit bloodshot.

“Are you gonna tell me what you actually want?” he asked, his voice still rough around the edges.

Brandon rolled the cigar between his fingers again, his eyes flicking from the cigar to Bob’s face and back.

“Actually...” Brandon started, then paused again as if carefully picking his words. “I wanted to ask you for a favor.”

Bob slid the tools into his jumpsuit pocket, crossed his arms, and tilted his head slightly.

“Fire away. If it’s something I can do.”

“About last night...” Brandon began.

Bob raised an eyebrow before he even finished the sentence, the corner of his mouth already tugging upward.

“When you fucked your brother?”

Brandon froze. He blinked a few times and reached up to scratch the back of his neck before answering.

“Yeah... right...”

Bob shrugged, resting his weight on one leg, waiting.

“Yeah? What about it?” Bob’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Brandon glanced down at the ground for a second. He took a deep breath before continuing, the words coming out faster than he seemed to intend.

“I liked it... I liked it a lot... and...” He paused, his fingers tightening around the cigar. “I was wondering if I could give you a blowjob.”

Bob froze for a second, arms still crossed. His brow furrowed in concentration, his gaze darting away for a split second before snapping right back to Brandon.

“I think I missed a step here...”

“Sorry...” Brandon rubbed his face with his hand. “It’s just... I don’t know if I liked fucking him because of... I don’t know, some fucked-up Freudian bullshit, or if I’m actually into guys too.” He watched Bob for a second, waiting for a reaction, but when none came, he pushed on: “I couldn’t even sleep thinking about it. And you’re...” He swallowed hard. “You’re a handsome guy, and... I don’t know, I thought you could help me figure it out.”

Bob opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He uncrossed his arms slowly, immediately regretting it as he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“Wow,” was all he managed to get out.

He tried to keep a straight face, but the corner of his mouth twitched, and a second later, a laugh burst out.

Brandon felt his face flush, a sudden heat rushing up from his neck to his ears.

“Ah, fuck this shit,” Brandon muttered, slamming the cigar onto the ground.

The cigar scattered sparks across the wet pavement as he turned on his heel without hesitating. Without looking back, he stormed off toward the exit with long, heavy strides.

He didn’t make it three steps. Bob’s hand clamped firmly around his wrist, halting him instantly.

“Hold on a second. Come here.”

Before Brandon could react, Bob closed the distance between them.

The kiss came out of nowhere. Brandon froze instantly. Even as his shoulders tensed up, his hands instinctively went up to push Bob away. But the moment he felt Bob’s scruff scraping against his skin, he hesitated.

Bob’s hand slid up to the nape of Brandon’s neck, fingers tangling in the short hair at the base of his skull, while his other arm wrapped tightly around Brandon’s waist, pulling him in hard, pressing dick to dick. Brandon nipped lightly at Bob’s lower lip, parting their mouths just enough to catch his breath.

“Fag...” Brandon whispered, before going back to devouring his mouth.

Bob gradually slowed the intensity of the kiss until it dissolved, giving way to softer, lingering strokes as he dragged his lips across the corner of Brandon’s mouth. He worked his way down to his jawline and then his neck—hot, measured kisses, one by one.

Brandon tilted his head back as his hand unhurriedly slid down over the bulge in Bob’s overalls. He gave his dick a gentle squeeze, feeling its shape through the thick fabric.

“Just let me suck this fucking thing already,” Brandon breathed, his mouth practically pressed against Bob’s ear.

Bob pulled back a few inches, just enough to look Brandon in the eye. A crooked smirk slowly formed on his face. Without a word, he jerked his head toward the truck.

He threw the cab door wide open with a hard yank and sat down on the edge of the floorboard, legs dangling outside so his waist was aligned right with Brandon’s face. Never breaking eye contact, Bob took hold of the zipper pull and dragged it down agonizingly slow, revealing his torso inch by inch.

“Right here?” Brandon asked, his restless eyes scanning the surroundings. “What if someone walks by and—”

The sentence caught in his throat. Bob’s dick sprang free from the overalls, thick and rock-hard. Bulging veins throbbed beneath the surface, and the thin foreskin pulled back slightly to expose the head, already glistening with a thick thread of pre-cum. At the base, a patch of light hair framed the warm shaft. The sight alone made Brandon forget any hesitation, shutting him up instantly.

Brandon gripped the shaft, feeling its pulsing warmth and slick moisture. He pulled the skin back slowly toward the base until the sensitive, reddish head was fully exposed. Awestruck by the size in front of him, he looked up to meet Bob’s eyes, letting out a breathless, disbelieving laugh.

“Holy shit, man... This thing is as thick as a Pringles can.”

Bob held his gaze and licked his lips, a slow smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Picture yourself bouncing on it.”

“I don’t think I’m anywhere near ready for that,” Brandon replied, swallowing hard as his pulse spiked.

Looking back down at Bob’s dick, pure impulse took over as Brandon saw a drop of pre-cum bead at the tip. He darted his tongue out to catch it mid-air, sliding into a slow, deliberate lick that ran up the shaft and circled the head, taking his time like he was savoring an ice pop.