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Author’s note: This series contains (occasional) descriptions of rough and forced sex, some of which crosses the boundaries of consent. If this is not up your alley, please click elsewhere! All sexual contact described occurs between adults aged eighteen years and older.
Adrenaline shot through me. “W-What?” I stammered.
“I heard you’re a cocksucker. So, do you?”
The ginger was looking at me now, his face and eyes inscrutable. When I didn’t answer, he repeated himself, slowly, sarcastically, “Do… you… suck… cock…?”
My heart was pounding but my dick was at full mast. Something about the cold tone of his voice. Assured. Relaxed. Dangerous.
“Who-o told you that?” I said. My voice cracked as I spoke. Could someone have recognized me at the quarry? Maybe one of the guys in the group of jocks that had jumped me?
The ginger didn’t answer, but he pushed himself up and swung his leg over my legs to straddle me. I tried to shuffle back but I ran into the wall of the shed. He pushed his palm against my forehead, slamming my head against the wood.
He grunted and his crotch bulged in my face. The outline of the head of his cock was visible through the mesh of his shorts. I looked up at him. There was that vacant, distant look in his eyes that triggered an electric spike that ran down my spine and into my groin.
He pushed down on the elastic of his shorts. His hard dick swung out into my face.
“Suck it,” he commanded.
I reached up and grabbed his cock, trying not to seem too eager. It wasn’t the longest cock I’d ever seen, but it was thick, with a distinct upward curve. His orange-red pubes curled at the base of it. They felt soft and light against my hand — fair, silky wisps — different from the bristly pubes of most of other guys I’d sucked off down at the quarry.
I opened my mouth and ran my tongue along the bottom edge of his cock head. I looked up at him again as I did this — probably an act of caution — is this really what he wanted? He grunted and pushed his hips toward me. Affirmative. I wrapped my lips around him. He groaned and eased his weight against me, sinking his fat shaft deep into my mouth and throat. I moved my mouth on him the way I had learned to do out in the woods. Slowly, firmly. I let his grunts and the flexing of his muscles guide me in figuring out what he liked, what made him feel good.
He started to move his hips slowly and began to pull his cock out of my mouth and then slide it back in, slowly fucking my face. My head started to spin and my vision blurred. I thought that maybe, despite not inhaling, I had gotten some of the marijuana into my bloodstream. When I tried to take a breath, though, I realized that it was the thickness of his cock that was cutting off my air supply. I tried to relax my jaw and throat. I needed to get some space around his shaft in order to draw a clean breath. But he sensed the loosening of me and he became more aggressive, pushing his cock deeper into my throat, all the way in, until my teeth and lips were buried deep in his soft pubes.
“Holy shit,” he said, under his breath, and then he pulled out, dragging a long string of spit and mucus out of my mouth, which hung like a weighted string of pearls between the tip of his dick and my lips. I gulped air and wiped the fluid from my face. He reached down and grabbed my chin, pulled my face up to look at him. Then he spit into my open mouth.
“Good boy,” he grunted, and pushed his cock back into me, beginning a rhythmic pumping into my throat, fucking my face with long, powerful strokes. The sensation of him slamming his dick into me was intense. More intense than anything I’d experienced at the quarry. Since I was pinned against the shed, I couldn’t back off or get away from him to take a breath. Every couple of strokes, he would slam his cock all the way into my mouth and push his hips into my face, smothering me. I had to catch air in the few moments that his cock wasn’t in my throat.
Despite my inability to breathe my cock was straining in my shorts, threatening to escape and poke itself out against my leg. I reached down and wedged it under my thigh. I didn’t want any distraction from what was happening. At long last, I had him. The ginger’s cock was in my mouth.
He kept thrusting, faster and faster, until I could tell he was getting close. With a last, great thrust, he pushed himself as hard as he could into my face. He started to jerk and I felt the shaft of his cock swell in my mouth with pulse after pulse of semen. The violence of his orgasm and the fact that he had cut off my air caused my gag reflex to kick in, belatedly, and I started to choke. I pushed on him, beat on him with my fists, but he didn’t relax his body until he had finished pumping his sperm down my throat.
Finally, he pulled away and I fell over, coughing and gagging. I disgorged his cum and most of the cereal I had eaten that morning into the dirt. He laughed at me Büyükesat Escort as I heaved and sputtered. When I had finished puking, I wiped my mouth against the back of my forearm, and rolled back to sit with my back against the shed. I took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Jesus,” he said. He kicked at my crotch with his work boot. “What the fuck is this?”
I looked down. There it was — my erection — bulging down the length of my thigh. I tried to cover myself but he kicked my hand away from my crotch, then bent and pulled me up by the collar of my T-shirt to stand in front of him. He grabbed at the shaft of my cock through my shorts.
“The fuck?” he said again, incredulous. His eyebrows — so light colored as to be nearly non-existent — were knit together in consternation.
I tried to push his hand away but he grabbed my arms and pinned my hands above my head against the shed, immobilizing both of my wrists with a single one of his hands. Then, with his other hand, he yanked my shorts down. My cock lurched up like a spring-loaded jack-in-the-box. We both stared at it, and as we did, a glob of pre-cum oozed out of the tip and landed with an audible splat across the toe of his boot.
I looked at his face. He was red with rage. His cock was still hanging out of his shorts, mostly deflated now. This didn’t help the comparison — even at full mast his penis would have been dwarfed by mine. I trembled, not knowing what was going to happen. For the hundred thousandth time, I cursed my dick. Why did it have to be like this, so obscene, so outrageous?
He let out a grunt of frustration and then grabbed my shoulders and jostled me roughly around the corner and into the shed. He shoved me and sent me stumbling into a stacked pile of plastic bags filled with soil. It was dark and dusty inside the shed. There was an overwhelming smell of cut grass and gasoline. He was on me then, pinning me down, on my stomach, bracing me against the dirty plastic bags by pressing down on my ass with this thighs and hips. My cock was bent back painfully between my legs and I felt him grab it, wrap his fingers around the shaft.
“Motherfucker,” he whispered, his voice harsh. I felt his cock against me, hardening again, the slick knob of his cock head pressing into my ass crack. He started to grind against me, one of his hands pressed hard between my shoulder blades, and the other on the shaft of my cock, stroking it.
“You fucking bitch,” he said, and the obscenities kept flowing. I felt each word hit me like a hot poker, penetrating my brain.
Yes. Yes. This is it. Finally. This is what I want.
The thoughts came unbidden into my mind. I arched my back and pressed my ass against his cock.
“Oh, you want this cock in your ass, you faggot?” he said into my ear.
“Yeah,” I said.
He hit me then, hard, his fist plowing into my cheekbone.
“Shut up, bitch. You don’t talk back to me,” he said.
I nodded, chastened, fearful. The pain from his fist ricocheted through my head and body, amplifying my desire. He kicked my legs apart and pressed his cock further into my ass crack, jamming it hard against my hole.
“‘Bout to get fucked, you bitch slut,” he said.
“Yeah, do it,” I said, unable to stop myself.
He hit me again. I saw bright white stars explode in my peripheral vision.
“Shut the fuck up!” he yelled.
Suddenly, I heard the roar of different, deeper voice. The weight of the ginger lifted off me. I turned around in time to see the neighbor daddy toss his son across the shed as though he were made of straw. The ginger hit the far wall of the shed and crumpled into a ball on the ground. Then the daddy turned to me. He looked down, his eyes snagging on my engorged cock as I scrambled to cover myself, then back up to look me in the eye. His face was contorted with confusion and rage.
“Get the fuck out of here!” he yelled.
I jumped to my feet, pulling my shorts up and rushing past the seething man. I ran out of the shed and across the yard, around the fence, then back into my own yard. As I fled, I heard more slamming and yelling behind me.
I stayed in my room for the rest of the day after cleaning myself up in the shower. When my parents called me for dinner, I yelled down that I wasn’t hungry. For the entire rest of the day, there was no sign of the neighbors in the yard next door.
At around eight, I heard the doorbell ring. Then, in a stern voice, my dad called for me to come downstairs. When I came down, my stomach twisted when I saw them. The ginger and his dad were sitting on the couch in our front living room. The ginger was slouched, looking down at the ground. My mom and dad were sitting stiffly in two arm chairs, across from the two men. The whole scene was bizarre and disorienting. For one, nobody was talking. Also, we never used this room. It was the “nice” room.
“Oh, Paulie, your face!” my mom exclaimed Elvankent Escort when I walked into the room. She got up to inspect the marks on my cheek. Earlier, in the bathroom, I had seen that my right temple and eye were turning black and blue where the ginger’s fist had connected with my cheek.
“What happened, Paul?” my father asked.
“The boys had a fight today,” the neighbor daddy said. His voice was deep and scratchy, and altogether too loud.
My parents looked at each other, then at the neighbor and his son, then at me. I could tell they were incredulous. I was not the sort of kid that got into fights.
“Is this true?” my mom asked me.
I glanced at the ginger. He was fidgeting, still looking at the ground. I noticed that his left eye was darkened, too. That must have happened after I’d run off.
“Yeah,” I said, meekly.
“You got anything to say, son?” The neighbor kicked at his son’s foot. The ginger scowled and looked up at me. There was a bloody streak just under his left eyebrow.
“Sorry, dude,” he said, glaring at me.
“What else,” the neighbor said.
“It won’t happen again,” the ginger said.
“You’re goddamn right it won’t,” the neighbor said.
Both my parents flinched at the curse word. But then my dad looked at me, gravely.
“Paul, apologize to the boy,” he said.
“Sorry,” I said, looking at the ginger. He didn’t meet my eye.
“Well, OK, then,” the neighbor said, standing up. The ginger stood up as well. The two of them walked toward the door.
My dad showed them out and came back into the room, where he exchanged another bewildered look with my mom.
“Let me get you something for that eye,” my mom said. She hurried into the kitchen.
“What really happened, Paul?” my dad asked, putting his hand on my shoulder.
I sighed and shook my head. “It’s nothing, dad. Forget it.”
My dad pursed his lips then nodded. “OK, then,” he said.
My mom came back with a bag of ice. She looked to my dad, then to me. I realized, then, that despite their astonishment, they both understood. They knew why I had been beaten up. Not necessarily the specifics, but the underlying reason. Their son was a fag. They knew. They had always known. They were probably surprised that I hadn’t been beaten up sooner. Maybe, at some level, they even thought I deserved it.
I felt tears start to well up in my eyes so I grabbed the bag of ice from my mom’s hands and ran back upstairs.
The next morning, only the older son was out in the neighbors’ back yard. Daddy and the ginger were absent. I watched son
for a while, but the wind had gone out of my sails. It’s not that I wasn’t attracted to him. He was a beast, just like his dad, albeit with less of a gut. He was swinging a pickax this morning, busting up rocky dirt. As he worked, I could see his crotch bouncing around in his shorts. The guy never seemed to wear underwear, as far as I could tell. But today, the spectacle wasn’t doing it for me. I had tasted the ginger’s cock — it had been in my mouth — and I had felt his hands on me, inhaled his scent.
I kicked off the covers and jumped down from the high bunk bed. In the bathroom, I saw that almost the entire right side of my face was darkened with a deep bruise. I winced, remembering the hard impact of the ginger’s fist on my cheek. The memory caused my dick to thicken, so I splashed some water on my face and tried to avoid getting a full-on erection. I walked downstairs and tried to put the entire incident out of my mind.
Today’s the day, I told myself, making an effort to redirect my thoughts, Today’s the day you find a job, you useless fuck.
I was just ending my fourth or fifth phone call, this one to a garden center that had advertised a temporary job in the newspaper, when I heard the doorbell ring. The sound sent a jolt into my stomach. Who would be coming over? I ended the call, another bust. It seemed like all the jobs that had been advertised in the weekend paper had already dried up.
The doorbell rang again, more insistently.
I gulped when I saw who was standing on our porch. It was the neighbor daddy. I panicked. I debated pretending that nobody was home.
“Open up,” he yelled. “I can hear you in there, boy!”
I cracked open the large wooden front door.
“Yeah?” I said, tentatively.
“Let me in,” the daddy said.
“What’s this about?” I asked.
“You know what,” he said.
I felt my stomach turn a somersault but I unlatched the screen door and pushed it open. He came in quickly. I backed away as he strode toward me. His boots were dirty and he left dusty footprints on the tile and carpet of our foyer. He stopped in the middle of the room, took off his ball cap and ran a hand through his thick, greasy hair. He looked at me, then away, then cleared his throat as though to speak, but then didn’t. He just stood there.
“Can Beşevler Escort I get you something…” I ventured, but he cut me off.
“My son’s no faggot,” he said. He made eye contact with me again, glaring.
I backed up another few steps and raised my hands toward him in a show of acquiescence.
“I… I know,” I said.
He stepped another few paces toward me, cornering me against a wall. I couldn’t help but notice the prominent bulge in his jeans, and the wide leather belt holding up his firm-looking belly.
“You stay away from my boy, understand?” he said. He loomed over me and he was close enough that I could smell him now, a mix of sweat and earth, cut through with an acrid whiff of tobacco smoke.
“OK, sure,” I said.
He reached over and grabbed my upper arm. His grip was hard, angry. I tried to make myself shrink even smaller.
“I will,” I sputtered, “stay away, I mean.”
He stood for a moment, palpating my arm in his hand. He looked down at me, sweeping his eyes across my body, up and down. He was seething, breathing hard.
“Take your pants off,” he said.
I shook my head, uncomprehending. “What?” I said, trying to wriggle out of his painful grip. He responded by grabbing my shoulder with his other hand and squeezing me even harder.
“You heard me. I want to see your equipment, boy. I want to see what got my son all hot and bothered.”
I thought about trying to wrench myself from him and making a run for the door but I doubted I’d succeed. I’d never get past him. He was too big and strong. I could try to distract him, maybe, then run upstairs and lock myself in my room or the bathroom. Or maybe I could grab the lamp from the foyer table and break it over his head.
In spite of myself, I looked down again at the bulge in his pants. There was a thick, tubular mass starting to press out and take dimension against his thigh.
I swallowed. Hesitantly, I hooked the thumb of my free arm into the elastic of my shorts and pushed them down past my crotch, leaving my underwear on. My shorts fell in a heap at my ankles. The neighbor daddy released me and took a step back. He reached down and squeezed his crotch, adjusting his bulge.
“Take your shirt off,” he said.
My hands trembling, I lifted my shirt over my head and dropped it on the floor. The daddy grabbed my shoulder again, and pulled me toward him, forcing me to step out of my shorts and stand in the middle of a bright shaft of light that was streaming in through the window above our door. I shuddered at the power I felt in his arm and the grip of his strong, callused hand. My cock was standing out now, trying to poke through the flimsy resistance of my underwear.
He inspected me. I heard his breath, rasping and somewhat labored. With a quick movement of his hand, he pulled down my briefs. My fully engorged cock sprung up. In the bright light, it somehow it looked even bigger than usual, more obscene in relation to the skinny rest of me.
“Motherfucker,” he said, shaking his head. He grabbed the shaft of my cock and squeezed it. He jerked it around, examining it from different angles.
“This goddamn dick,” he said, as if confirming a suspicion. He released my cock and then scooped his hand underneath to grip my balls. He lifted my balls up past my shaft to inspect them. He rolled them over his palm, muttering to himself. His hand was huge, but my sack filled it.
“S-sir, please,” I whispered, not wanting to anger him. “I didn’t mean to…”
“Shut up,” he grunted, and then he whipped me around. Guiding me by the neck and shoulder, he walked me over to the front living room and bent me over the arm of the couch where he and his son had sat the night before.
He pushed my torso down onto the upholstery and pulled on my hips so that my ass was pointed up at him. I felt him spread my butt cheeks apart and poke a rough finger at my asshole. I bucked, but he grabbed my thigh and held it tight as his finger pressed into me. I yelped, feeling the intense friction as he pushed into me, dry. The delicate skin of my asshole burned with pain as he jammed his finger in, puncturing inside me, past the resistance of my sphincter. He flexed his knuckle and twisted his finger around. I yelled in pain and again tried to wiggle free, but there was no where to go. He had me pinned against the couch.
“My son ain’t no faggot,” he said, hoarsely. “You remember that.”
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
“You’re the faggot.”
“I know, sir.”
“You stay away from my boy.”
“I will, sir.”
I was breathing heavily, whimpering my replies to him, both terrified and electrified by what was happening. Was he going to hurt me? Was he going to fuck me?
“Little pussy boy,” he said, and there was a wet splat as his spit hit my ass crack.
“Piece of shit faggot bitch,” he said. Another wad of spit hit me. He pulled his finger out of my hole.
I heard the sound of his belt coming undone, leather on metal, then the sound of his zipper. He grunted and then his cock was on me, riding up through the spit in my crack and across the small of my back. He pushed his shaft down with his hand, rolling it in spit, pressing it against me. My brain was exploding in fireworks.
He was going to do it, he was really going to fuck me.
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