31. Ecstasy (bonus)
Dislaimer - this chapter has a Mm ("gay") focus. To avoid annoying straight readers, chapters of this sort will be mostly published as "twinned" with a "straight" chapter, as a sort of bonus.
Robbie
He just beat the shit out of me and left me down here, alone. It's been five days now, I think. At least five days. My nose and eyes are still swollen. I don't have a mirror but I can feel it, all puffy and sensitive and sore. My face probably looks really bad.
He left me some food, but I ate most of it and I have only a couple of snacky things left. When he was beating me he talked about things in the future, how I needed to do what he said, blah, blah, blah, but I'm pretty sure he forgot he put me here. He must have been stoned and he fuckin' forgot! I tried pounding on the walls, several times in fact, but he didn't come. Nobody came. What if doesn't remember and I starve to death?
I feel a little better today. Not like a Mack truck hit me; more like a Peterbilt! Yeah, not funny. He really beat the snot out of me, which was pretty easy seeing as how he's a man and I'm just a kid. Some fair fight. And he sucker–punched me, too. The man's above my weight–class, and he cheats. And he's not just any man. Friggin' guy is a freak, built like a mountain, all muscular and everything.
I need a weapon, something I can use if he comes back and thinks he's gonna wail on me again. Something I can use to surprise him, and knock him out. Then I can run like Hell and get out of here. Wherever here is. We must have driven a million miles. Whatever, though. I'll just run to the closest building or person and have them call the cops.
I look around the cell. But weapons are few and far between. The bucket won't work –– it's plastic, and I got nothing else to pee in, and do the other thing. Well maybe I could dump it down the little sink –– but the turds won't fit and I'm not touching them, no f–ing way. Not gonna push them down through the little drain thing there. So the bucket's out. Gross, and out as a weapon. That leaves the bed. It's sturdy, but –– if I give it a shake, really horse it around, I might be able to get that footboard lose. Yeah . . . if I can . . . just . . . dammit. What if I kick it? "Haiii–ya! Haiiii–ya! Haiiii–ya!" OK, what if I pick it way up, and slam it! Like . . ..THIS and . . . THIS and . . . THIS!
It's starting to separate, now, and I kick at the frame repeatedly, using the ball and heel of my foot. Man I wish I had my soccer cleats. But (kick) . . . it (kick) . . . is (kick) . . . loosening. There! A crack. Fuckin' yes!!! Yes!!!!
Now if I can just pry it . . . if I get part of my shirt snagged over it, and I pull . . . yes . . . yes!!! The bed collapses down at the foot as I separate the end boards. I pull the top board free. I did it! This board is like almost three feet long! It's like an f–ing baseball bat. I swish it in my arms, heft it, practice bashing your head with it. Yeah, when the guy comes in, I smash his fuckin' head with it! Payback is a bitch, mister. And you messed with the wrong kid.
Now I just gotta wait here, by the door, for him to come. I'm pretty sure it opens this way. Whatever –– whichever way he comes in, I’ll run up and pop him, and then Run. Like. Hell! If he goes down real hard maybe I'll give him another whack with it just for what he did to me.
Marcus
I see what Robbie has done, and just can't resist the temptation. I speak through the microphone directly into his cell. "You are gonna be punished for damaging my property," I state coldly. "More importantly, if you are not on your knees, bent over, lips pressed to the floor and butt exposed when I come in, I will rape your ass with that stick as soon as I take it from you, which will be pretty much immediately." I leave it at that. I have Laura to take care of and have fun with, Robbie has to wait.
Before I walk into Robbie's cell after a morning of normal life and an afternoon with Laura, I check the screen once more. I growl into the microphone. "I'm coming, kid. And I was dead serious. T'would be a nasty way to die, being anally raped by a three foot plank of wood, guts shredded," I state in a deep, dark voice.
I'm therefore not surprised to see you in position when I come. Kneeling, bend over, face on the floor, buttocks exposed, vulnerable. Pucker showing. I can't see your face straight away, but I'm pretty damn sure your face is red with anger and shame. I walk in and I give you The speech. I was preparing it in my head for a good while now.
"Robbie Waskowicz. Age twelve. Soccer player, traveller with more exciting stamps in his passport than anyone else in your class. Mum's biggest joy, big sister's pet, the “Rob Weasley” and the wet dream of most girls in the school. Stay put. I'm so mad just now I'm still not entirely sure if seeing how far that plank will go up your ass is something I am willing to just pass up on." I slide the tip of my boot down your butt crack, press a bit against your pucker and slide further down to push it into your balls, not kicking them, but making you aware just how easily I could do it. All your sensitive bits are so exposed this way.
"I've done some research on you. You're a brave boy. I could still break you in the old fashioned way; even brave boys can't handle needles under their fingernails and in other parts of their anatomy, even brave boys can't stay being cut open and sprinkled with salt and pepper on top of that, flayed, burned, crushed, have chilly sauce squirted in their eyes, having bits and pieces of them cut off. Not even brave boys like you. But I'm not just ruthless and brutal, I also happen to be . . . quite smart. And I know you are brave and tough, and while pain could push you into submission, it's not the best, easiest way. It's not your weakness. Robbie, know this: I will stop at absolutely, totally nothing to make you obey flawlessly. Nothing. And by nothing, I mean things like . . . setting a timer on a bomb down here when you disobey, and planting it inside the school you go to. Making your disobedience kill dozens of your friends. I could waterboard you, and maybe at some point I will, but if you disobey a direct command, I'm willing and able to grab and bring your big sister here, and rape her and drown her and make you watch." I toss a few recent photos of your mum at the floor near where your face is pressed to it – upset and alone in and around the house (they are actually from tabloids, paparazzi did the work for me this time, without it being a risk, but you have no way of knowing).
"Look at those. I could chop bits off of you when you piss me off, but I will instead bring you bits and pieces of your mother to you, if you fuck up. I'm a strong guy, and I could use tremendous effort to make you do the nastier things that you really will not want to do, but we both know just who's in a similar cell just a few steps away. And guess what, she simply cannot ever put up as much fight as you could if you decided to. So whatever you refuse me, I'll go and do to her. If you leave me in a foul mood, angry, I'll go and take it out on her, kicking, punching -- you've experienced it first hand. And it will be your fault she's losing her teeth and getting her ribs cracked. That, my boy, is your reality from now on. Between it and the world you used to know are four pairs of locked doors for which you would need special keys, a knowledge of exactly how they open, and security codes to do it, too. If you somehow manage to lash out and get lucky, at some point, with a plank of wood or whatever else you collect, you better kill me, because if you just knock me out or maim me, I swear I'll show you worse–than–Hell on Earth unleashed. The things I'll do to your loved ones before I even start doing things to you will make Hell seem like a good place to be going to.”
“And if you kill me, all you have succeeded in doing is that you sentenced yourself and little Laura next door to a slow, awful death by starvation in a place from which, without me, there is absolutely no escape. And I'm talking four inches of thick steel hinged in military–bunker–quality concrete. No escape, not a door you might possibly somehow break or unhinge if you had tools and a plenty of time on your ass -- that kind of no escape. Next time you come up with a stupid idea or an escape plan, know that these are the facts. One more fact: I'm ex–military and a pretty experienced MMA fighter. Even if you did attack me with that plank, you never stood a chance."
I turn away from you so I cannot see you, and command, sharply: "Pick the fucking plank up and try to fucking hit me. Hit hard. NOW, motherfucker!!! Do it otherwise it's going up your ass!" You stand, grab the plan, and approach me with wide-eyed terror, then swing madly at my face. Three seconds later, the plank clatters uselessly onto the floor, and your face is pressed into the floor while I twist your arm to a point of nearly dislocating your shoulder.
"Good boy. It's all very well to do a lot of talking, which you may or may not believe, but now you know for sure."
With that, I release you from the near–crippling grip, and unzip my fly, and command in a hoarse, deep voice with an unshakeable confidence that I will obeyed.
"Kneel up, open your mouth wide and tilt your head back. Cross your hands behind your back. And then, kid, stay totally fucking still." I take a piss into the "chalice" formed by your open mouth and head tilted back. Just 'cause. Just to let you know you there are no boundaries. No limits to what I can and will do to you, and command you to do. "Swallow some of it and gargle the rest before you swallow it, too. If you want me to empty the toilet bucket, allow you a shower and bring you more food, you will wank and cum in under five minutes, just the way you are now, kneeling, facing this way. With the taste of my piss in your mouth. In front of me. Welcome to my world. By the way, you are losing your virginity. Tonight. And I'm not talking about your cock going places," I inform you matter of factly.
I could have beaten you brutally again, but I think once was enough to show you I'm not kidding when I say I'm ready, willing, and able to hurt people, and just now, I've pushed hard, and directly into your biggest weakness -- your good heart, your love for your mother and other people around you, your protective instincts. I won this fight before it even started. And all I have to do if you mess with me is go, come back in a couple hours, and show you a video of Laura being caned bloody. There's no way you would be able to tell that it's a couple days old. And that's more than big enough a bucket of cold water to douse the fire of your resistance, I'm pretty damn sure.
Robbie
I must have jumped 10 feet when your voice boomed into the little room. For a time I had been standing guard near the door, but I got so bored and tired of standing there that I was sitting against the wall where the door was (at least, where I think it was) in case you came in. The board from the bed was in my hands. Three feet of solid board. My plan was to stand up the instant I heard the door start to open. If I could surprise you, it would be over for you real quick when I bash you in the f–ing head with it. Even though that would be mean, you deserve it 'cause of what you did to me. You beat the snot out of me, for no reason. Which gives me license to bash you in the back of the skull.
When I heard you speak, I jumped up, turning, holding the plank, wondering where the sound came from. And when it's clear that you're not here, my next thought is: How the hell did you know what I did to the bed? I look around for cameras but I don't see any. But yet, you knew I was waiting for you. Lying in wait for you. At first I'm like, no f–ing way am I putting my only weapon down. And I don't. I hold onto it. And if you had come right away, I still would have had it in my hands. But you didn't come right away. You didn't come for a long time. And that gave me a lot of time to think.
Mostly I thought about what you said. You're gonna "rape" me with the board. And I started thinking how that might work, and there was no way to think about it that didn't make my blood run cold. And the thing was, I could tell in your voice that you weren't joking or bluffing. If you managed to get the board away from me, it was going up my butt. And it wouldn't fit. And that would be bad. Very bad.
Still, I didn't want to give it up. You're probably gonna beat the shit out of me again. Maybe even kill me, for what I did to the bed, and for what I was planning to do to you. You beat me for nothing before, absolutely nothing. And now you've got a reason. So I'm not letting go of the board. Nope. Not gonna.
Except, you can probably get it away from me, and what then? I'm only 12. You're like, what, 40? You probably out-weigh me by 100 pounds, easily. When you stood up and sucker–punched me in the woods, I thought the whole side of the mountain was rising up. I do some quick calculating. If you get the board away from me, I'm dead. Simple as that. And it's gonna hurt bad when I die. If I put the board down, and do as you say, you're probably gonna beat the shit out of me and I might die then, too. Or maybe not.
If you had given me only minutes to think about it instead of hours, I might have been holding the board when you came in, and that probably would have been the end of me. But the thing is, I had all day to think about it. And I'm not stupid. I had lost the element of surprise, which was key to my plan. Without that, what were my chances? 12 years old, against a man? A huge, fit, muscular man? You could come down here with a gun, or a knife, or just a stick of your own. How am I supposed to win that? I can't. I'm toast.
So long before I heard your voice again, I decided: I'm gonna do what you say. Oh, don't for one minute think that's the end of it, 'cause it's not. But for now, I'll do it your way. I even practiced the position. Head down, face to the floor. Butt up. ("Yeah, he probably likes butts," I warn myself. “Kid butts.”) I tried to put the bed back together, but it was broken too bad. The foot of the bed and the mattress resting on the floor, the whole thing tilting. I can't even sit on it. ("Nice going, asshole. You broke the only piece of furniture here in, what is this? A jail?")
When your voice came on again, you scared the shit out of me. I admit it. I got into the position pronto. Head down, lips to the floor, butt up. I feel ridiculous and exposed. But it's better than feeling dead. I tried not to shake. I wanted to be brave. But I was pretty sure I was in for another beating for what I did, and what I tried to do. And that's scary. I’m 12 years old for god’s sake. But fine. If you want to beat the snot out of me again, go ahead. But I'm not sorry I broke your stupid bed.
When you actually arrive, I keep my head down, terrified, not willing to risk incurring any more of your wrath than I've already incurred. When you draw your boot –– yes, I could see it was a boot out of the corner of my eyes –– down my crack and onto my balls, OK, yeah, that was not good. Scary. OK. You win.
But it was what you said that really wrecked me. OK, I get that you can carve me up, stick needles in me, beat the shit out of me. You've already done all three things so I know you're serious. But my sister? My Mom? Laura Vandahl? Laura's even younger than I am, by a whole year. She's only in 6th grade. You're a fucking bastard for saying you'll hurt her. And it's not fair. Why are you saying that about them? How do you know so much about me? How? How did you know I was in the woods to get me? And why me?
My mind races. Either you knew all this shit about me and my family and stuff before you got me, or you researched it afterwards. Since there is no way you could possibly have known where I was going to be that day, you must have grabbed me randomly, like Laura. But OK, if that's true, how the f did you find out all of this stuff about me? Wait . . . oh shit. My Mom's stupid f–ing blog. Nooooooo! I hate that blog! My friends tease me about it all the time. That's where you learned all this stuff about me, and the whole "Rob Weasley" thing.
Except that everything you said you know about me was true. I've had five days to think about my situation, and I've pretty much resolved myself to the fact that you're gonna kill me. You got me here, nobody saw you or they would have come already, and you already showed that you don't care about beating kids up or hurting them really bad. So I'm fucked. And while I'm not OK with that, I was prepared to go out fighting. Or at least swinging. With a big board. Upside your head.
But not if you drag my friends and people I know, and my family into it. That's totally unfair. And what's even more unfair is that you know that's worse for me than beating me. And you're right. It kind of takes the fight out of me. My sister, my Mom. Laura. If you really have her. She's only 11. And a girl. Would you really hurt her just to get back at me? Blow up my school? Hurt my Mom and sister? I can't take that chance. OK, you win. You cheated, but you win.
Your snarky, know–it–all speech makes me mad and sad. And when you tell me to get up and swing for you –– well, you don't need to offer twice. I grab the plank from the end of the bed and I swear to God, you're gonna need a bone doctor to put your skull back together. But I don't even know what happened after that. I swung where you were, and the next thing I know, you weren't there, you have me on the ground, and you're breaking my f–ing arm and it hurts so bad I have tears in my eyes. I mean, nobody can move that fast. Bruce f–ing Lee couldn't move that fast!
OK. So between your words and your speed, you win. It's as simple as that. When you tell me to get down on the floor, and tilt my head back with my mouth open, I do. And when you take your cock out, I'm not surprised. I knew you were gonna make me suck it. I can hear your fly. And then you f–ing asshole . . . you piss in my mouth. And I start crying as I swallow it. And gargle it. And swallow it again. Piss. Man piss. This is bad. Sick. F–ing sick and disgusting.
And then you want me to jerk off? I knew it. I knew you were gonna make me have sex with you. But I'm not messing with you. Not right now, anyway. I can jerk off –– that much I can do, pretty much any time. Even now. My slender fingers wrap around my member and begin to stroke. It takes a little longer than usual to get it hard. Maybe an extra 30 seconds and that's only because I'm replaying some of your words in my head. It starts to get hard, then goes fully erect and I'm really working it. Pumping it. You want me to cum? No problem. In about three minutes, my slender penis starts to spurt cum up, out, and to the floor. The usual amount. Three firm squirts and an ooze. I can do that pretty much on command, usually three or four times a day, sometimes more. Morning, school lavatory, after school, and bed. Maybe twice in bed. There. Done. Satisfied? Asshole. Faggot. Child molester!
Marcus
I watch as the piss pools in your awaiting mouth, fills it, and then gets swallowed, gargled and the rest of it swallowed, too. I shake my cock of off the last droplets, which rain randomly all over you face and the rest of you. I see the tears trickle down your face as you obey and I know I've fucking won. I can still beat the crap out of you to reinforce the dynamic, to make you more respectful and fearful; and if you give me an excuse, I'll gladly make this an excessively, brutally painful experience. But I sense that we're now beyond wooden–plank attacks and nonsense like that. My piss is quite strong, pungent, and a little cloudy; Laura made me cum not that long ago and so there are remnants of cum in it. You drink it up anyway and as I watch you, my cock hardens and a warm, pleasantly tense feeling develops in my lower abdomen. You are as much fun to mess with as little Laura, boy. You're really cute, and you have a plenty fire in your ginger head, in your nearly–teenage heart. A fire that I've managed to stomp down and choke in about three minutes of talking, and a single, instantaneous demonstration of my fighting skills. You now know I am deadly and ruthless and you know that I'm ready and willing to fuck with your family and friends, and also with Laura, if you mess up. I've always been addicted to power and control, liking having as much over a person as I could, but the amount of control I have over you and the stark contrast between how much fight you could be putting up and are putting up is just intoxicating.
I watch as you jack off. Impressive. It takes you a little while to get it up but once you get going, it's a quick and straightforward process. I never spied on you as thoroughly as on Laura, never spied on you through you phone, laptop and shit, didn't go paparazzi on your ass with taking thousands of pictures from a long distance, didn't secretly copy hundreds of hours of CCTV footage from traffic and school cameras to track your habits, learn about you. But you are boy, and I'm a man, although I once was a boy. Not even as long ago as you might think. And I also used to be quite prolific and skilled at what you just did -- well I still am, even though I don't solve it by beating my stick all the time any more, especially now that I have a slave, correction, slaves, to take care of my cock and the regular release of my balls.
It's gonna be so much fun to put you into a chastity device and watch your hormones drive you totally insane, your balls totally swollen, your whole body burn with the need. I can drive you so far in that direction that I might even take an edge of off your good boy nature, make you so needy it will temporarily make you ruthless maybe. I imagine if I let you and Laura meet with you so horny that you would just fuck her, rape her even. It would take an insane amount of work on my part, a good deal of patience, but it might just be worth it, and it might be possible. I can tell from the way you get yourself off you do it routinely, likely often like this, as a quick, instant release. More than once a day then? That's fucking precious.
"Gosh you're an eager little squirter. How many times a day do you beat the monkey. Two? Three? More? Lying to me is a bad idea by the way, which Laura found out the hard way. Maybe you could spare yourself the trouble, being older and wiser and all?" I suggest. Annoyingly, I'll pretty much have to take your word for it, unless you claim something ridiculous such as that you are NOT doing this often at all or if you exaggerate, try and take a piss and tell me it's like ten or more times a day. I know you're a busy little guy and your mum's around a lot; you just can't spend that much time wanking. It doesn't really matter that much; you will be cumming a lot more down here to start with, and what will come after will be a very nasty surprise.
"If you manage to do it again, straight away, you don't have to lick the results of off the filthy floor, otherwise . . . clean up and let's get going," I state, not really commanding it, but kind of giving you a choice. It's either a second round, which should be no problem for a kid your age, especially if you are an eager wanker and haven't gotten off in more than 24 hours because you were too busy plotting your escape. It should be an easy choice, but while your needs are as easy, easier actually to read than Laura's (we boys are really so fucking predictable) I don't have anywhere near as much insight into your mind as I have into hers. I can guess a good bit from your mum's blog, but it's not quite enough for me to pass it off as telepathy or something that borders on it, anyway.
Either way, you're in for a shower. Not in the luxury bathroom but just the hygiene unit in the surgery, which I hope sends the right message to you, including the fact that I wasn't kidding about chopping bits off of you or turning you into a girl should it come to it. I shove you into the glass–walled corner that has everything you need to get nice and clean, and I toss you an enema kit. "The instructions are on the packet. It's an enema. To flush your ass out," I explain, suspecting you're tad too young to be familiar with stuff like this. "You don't have to, but I'll make you lick my cock clean and suck it when I'm done fucking your ass, so you probably want your puckered hole to be empty and clean," I state mockingly.
I lock you in the shower corner – there’s a sink and toilet in the unit, too -- and leave. I remove what is left of the bed from your cell, quickly sanitize and clean it, remove the remnants of your clothes, unlock the toilet, take out the bucket (I don't bring it back), basically making it a nice, clean cell once more. Next I prepare the resting corner in the surveillance room for popping your anal cherry. I pour two generous glasses of whiskey and crush a couple of pills, making two thin lines of perfectly pure MDMA on the table. You're in for a treat. A combination of heavily age–inappropriate treats in fact, but if you like cuddles even half as much as the blog hints, I should be able to fuck with your head even more satisfyingly than with your ass in just a little while. We shall see. Soon. Very fucking soon.
Gosh, I can't wait to see your expression when it first occurs to you that despite all you even knew and thought, you might be a fag; which I bet you aren't, but I also bet I can make you feel that way.
Robbie
I still have your piss drying on my face, and the taste in my mouth, as I shudder and ejaculate onto the floor, kneeling, naked, my 4" cock slender and nail hard as I finish pumping. My young chest is rising and falling from the exertion. The fact that you were watching barely affected me at all. Any delay in getting it up was just because I was replaying your words –– your threats –– in my mind and trying to figure out my next plan.
The plank idea didn't work out. You obviously have some way to see, or at least hear, what I am up to in this little room. So noted. I have to assume that you can see me. I need to figure out a way out of here. There must be a way to escape. I need to figure out how to get that door open. Nobody can make an escape–proof room. There's a way into this room, so there must be a way out. I'll find it. And I'll get Laura out, too. If you really have her, that is.
You seem impressed with my wanking abilities. Well, I am pretty good at it. I've had a lot of practice over the past five or six months. I see no reason to lie about my productivity in that regard. I really don't care what you think. And I'm not all freaked out or intimidated because you made me do it in front of you. Rather, I'm mad that you pissed in my mouth. We both know you just did that to reinforce your power over me. "Three or four; maybe five," I reply, to your question about the frequency of my daily wanks. I look up at you. You are huge and intimidating. Man, I still can't believe how friggin' fast you moved when I tried to hit you with that board.
You want me to do it again? Well . . . OK. I can. I have. Not like this, of course. But I'm sure not licking my own cum from the floor if I can help it. Still kneeling, I start to stroke myself again. My dick flops around a little as I try to get it hard. The final remnants of boy cum leak out and wet my fingers. It's not getting hard, but I keep at it. And soon enough –– there it goes –– the flopping around becomes less and less as my slender shaft lengthens, and then hardens, and finally is fully erect.
It takes longer, but my right hand is moving in a blur as I work it up and down on my young meat. I'm breathing hard, really hard, trying to keep my mind from focusing on anything. I just want to concentrate on cumming. And then I feel it. The tell–tale preliminary tickling sensation in my balls. The sensation that tells me that my orgasm has officially started or is about to. I stroke faster, my pelvis thrust out. I'm working hard. I bite my lower lip. I am stroking furiously as my boy cock spits a single spurt of jizz and then reduces to oozing. There wasn't much. Maybe a quarter or a third of a teaspoon. But it counts. And it gets me out of licking up my own cum.
And then you beckon me up, and guide me by my arm out of the little room. My eyes flit around as I want to see, want to remember this place, so I can escape. But what I see makes my blood run cold. The place immediately outside the room is big, with a high ceiling. And it looks like a medieval dungeon. Or a torture chamber. There are all sorts of devices and implements and machines and equipment. and it doesn't take a rocket scientist to know what they are for. My blood runs cold, and I literally shiver. All of a sudden I feel very, very glad that I didn't try to challenge or fight you on any of the things you told me to do. All of a sudden, the plank idea seems like a really, really bad idea.
And then we go into this hospital-looking room. With a surgery table right in the middle of it. That scares me even more than the torture room. Who the hell has their own surgery table? Are there other people like you here? It looks so real it could be in a hospital. I'm not sure of the surgical table is real or for show, but if you wanted to scare the shit out of me, you succeeded. I actually feel shaky right now, almost a little unsteady on my legs. I have a real bad feeling about this place. Real bad.
When you put me in the glass shower room, somehow the thought enters my head that this is a gas chamber. Like the Nazis did to people. Who has a shower that locks? I saw a film in school and that's what they did to the Jews. They locked them in, naked, and then gassed them. But I don't think you're gonna kill me, because you tell me again that you're going to fuck my ass.
You mention fucking my ass like it's just a given it's going to happen, in the same tone of voice that a parent might tell a kid that in 30 minutes we have to leave for soccer practice. You're just so matter–of–fact about it. I'm going to take a shower and get clean, and then you're going to butt–rape me. Any questions? That's just chilling. Not to mention that I’ve seen the size of your cock. What's even more chilling is that I can't find a way out of it. I don’t even have a plan for a way out. You're not exactly opening the idea up for comment.
I flinch, surprised, as you toss me the enema kit. But I catch it, because I’m a pretty good athlete, all things being equal. I look down at it. A clear plastic bag, with a flexible plastic tube and some kind of end thing and a plastic bag. I have no idea what it is. And even less how it works. I stare at it as you taunt me. This is for flushing out my ass? So you can stick your cock in it? I feel kind of helpless. I can't figure a way out of this. You're just so calm and straight-forward about everything. You want me to clean my butt out because you want to butt–fuck me. Great. When you leave, I put the kit down. You said I didn't have to use it. I don't think I have any poop in my butt anyway. At least I can get a shower. I turn the water on, and step in, soaping and shampooing myself. My heart is racing in my chest. I'm in trouble. Bad trouble. I'm in a torture-hospital dungeon of some sort, with a huge black–belt Ninja master who wants to stick his enormous cock in my butt. And the stark, simple truth of the matter is, there isn't a damn thing I can do to stop him. It’s unnerving. My only hope is that they find me, but it's been five days, it seems, and I don't think they likely will. As I shower, I wonder with a somber, serious expression how much it hurts to be fucked in the bottom by a man. I suspect that the answer is a lot. After all, I’ve seen your penis and it isn’t small.
Marcus
I come back. Damn you're a handsome kid. By taking both you and Laura out of the local population, I've deceased its aesthetic level rather drastically. I took two of the most beautiful specimens within hundred miles around -- perhaps the two most beautiful people, actually -- and now I have you all for myself. You notice the way I'm looking at you. You read into it very correctly. I want you. And I'll have my way with you. You look extra cute when you are intensively nervous. You even blush a little.
I unlock the door of the bathroom and help you dry yourself. I notice the discarded enema kit, unused. I don't comment. You might regret it, but that's not my problem, is it? I lead you out, let you sit on the operating table and pretty you up a bit. Nothing extreme, just doing the hair the Bieber way, I use face–tonic on your face, bit of a transparent lip gloss, neutral make up, just to cover up what's still visible on your face from the beating, and then an expensive scentless body lotion that will make your skin super smooth, silken to the touch. From neck down, right down to your toes. None of that is really necessary, you're a stunner as it is, but I want you getting used to being dolled up, prepared the way I like. I gently apply the lotion everywhere neck down on you.
I make sure to surprise you; for a guy my size and for someone who's nearly beaten the living shit out of you two days prior, my touch is soft and gentle and patient, and whenever you flinch, I pause, and rub a little. Where I feel tension, I stay motionless over it, warming that spot, and then gently, slowly, patiently rub on it. It ends up being more of a massage than just lotion application. You might not appreciate the invasive, intimate touch, but I'm a good masseur and even if you don't consciously want it at all, I can still make your muscles relax a bit. When I am done, I spray David Beckham – Urban Homme perfume over you. I love that scent. And it suits you, soccer boy.
I look at you. Your face is now presentable and the other bruises look sexy on your pale, smooth and now slightly glossy skin, covered in the body lotion. It makes me smile to see your change of expression when I make you stand up and rub the lotion into your buttocks and around your pucker, too, a finger sliding over it, suggestively. I wash and dry my hands and return, taking you by the wrists, and smile.
"One piece of advice. Don't fight. Nine inches of cock up one's ass is more than enough fun in itself, you don't wanna put up a fight and ending up feeling like you got hit by a truck. Play it cool, and I'll use plenty of lube and go relatively slowly to start with, making sure not to tear your ass. That way we can also avoid having to upset any other people."
With that, I lead you into the surveillance room. I pass you your whisky glass, raise mine in a toast and I have a swig.
"C'mon. Don't be a pussy. Drink. It'll warm you up and take the edge off the pain. This shit is older than you are -- of age, unlike you, actually -- all the way from the Scottish Highlands. A darned fancy way to be introduced to booze," I offer. I give you a warning look as the good–boy instinct and your mum's voice (“You have a plenty of time for alcohol, Robbie,” I bet) make you hesitate. "It's one shot of quality alcohol. It's not gonna melt your brain into porridge, just warm you up and loosen you up a bit. If I have to force it down your throat straight from the bottle, you'll end up with a lot more in your belly," I add, to make it clear the drink is not optional.
I snort up my half of the MDMA, showing you how to do it. "Same goes for this," I grin and then sneeze loudly. “I could lecture you on why it's not a bad idea to take it, but I will simply force it on you if you don't," I state calmly. "It's neither cocaine nor heroine not any of the big scary ones, I swear. You'll mostly just not enjoy the bitter after–taste that snorting things up your nose leaves at the back of your mouth; that's about the worst that will happen. I'm not turning you into a junkie, it's a one-off," I explain.
I stare you down. For a while it looks like I will have to grab you, lock my hand over your mouth, half choke you and then allow you a nasal in–breath with the powder right under your nose or something drastic like that, but then I guess you remember what I said about hurting you and the people you care about, and you bend down to do it. You sneeze too, more than once. You look positively disgusted that you just "did drugs." I imagine in your world that's a big deal. I pass you a tissue to wipe your nose with, and remind you not to blow it just yet. The stuff needs a bit to absorb, but taken this way it will kick in real quick. I knock back the rest of my whiskey and just nod at you to do the same. Maybe it will help flush that nasty weird taste at the back of your mouth, somewhat.
On the surveillance panel, I dim the light in the room to near–darkness, then press the space bar, un–pausing the playlist I prepared earlier -- mostly from your liked and shared Youtube videos. We overlap in three bands at least, rocky stuff and nu metal, grunge, Linkin Park, Nirvana, and Korn, and I mixed in a few of my favourite ones in the similar spirit, Slipknot, Limp Bizkit, Sepultura. At least that should be perfectly painless for the both of us. As the first notes of Bleach start to thunder from the powerful, quality speakers and subwoofer, I turn around to you and smile. "You have a good taste in music, kid," I acknowledge.
I walk over and push you over onto the well-cushioned bed, pinning you down just as the first rush of the pure Ecstasy I've made you snort washes over you. I watch you shudder and my eyes light up. I remember my first time taking it like it was yesterday. The excited, frosty tingly feeling dancing all over me. The hyper–sensitivity of my skin. How aroused I became, each touch emphasized, highlighted, every sensation a lot yummier and pleasurable than normal. How everything, even the lightest stroke, felt so damn good. How I shivered as the sensation washed over me, almost freaked out by the intensity of it, and at the same time having to keep from squealing out loud in joy, because it was exactly as I hoped it would be only better. I lost myself in the cuddling, gentle sexing session that followed -- one of the few times in my entire life that I enjoyed being sexy and intimate for hours on end without any pain or perversion being involved.
I light an incense stick, a sweet, Śri Sathya Sai Baba blend of sandalwood, and a couple of candles. You are so fucking confused just now I have to hold back a guffaw that's building in my belly. You weren't expecting that, not in a million years. And then I attack you again, only this time it's not with my fists and knees and feet, but with my lips, tongue, and fingertips. I lower myself over you and reach into your hair, tilting your head up, holding firmly, but not tugging too sharply or painfully as I shower your already-tingling and hyper–sensitive neck with a hundred small kisses, some nibbles, and long, slow, wet licks. I kiss your ears, your face, and your lips, as my hands travel all over your smooth body, stroking your collar bones, rubbing over your nipples, and your chest, scratching – but gently, only teasing – down your sides. I avoid sticking my tongue into your mouth, and I keep my hands off your junk just now, as well as your slender little ass. There will be time enough for all of that.
I've turned you into a beautiful musical instrument and I intend to play you well. My mouth travels all over you. Kissing, licking, occasionally applying suction and a soft nibble. Twice, on your biceps where I know it will not be too painful, I bite down a little harder, but not hard enough to leave a mark. I retreat from the top of you to give you some breathing space -- judging from the sweat airing on your temples, you need it -- and slide my hand down your firm, pretty, soccer–boy legs and down to your foot. I rub your foot, massage it, even stick a tongue between your toes, plant a few soft kisses on your sensitive sole as I keep the sensation contrasted by rubbing it in a way that is firm enough definitely not to be tickling, but not quite hard enough to be in any way painful.
I could be hilted all the way up your little ass already, but I love fucking with you this way, fucking with your head. Of course you hate this. But I more than just suspect you also fucking love it. I’m sure that you would like me to stop; you never gave consent, after all, and so this is rape, but does it feel like rape? No . . . I wonder if a moment will come when your "no" will be dulled enough by my experienced, expert touch, the Ecstasy and the whiskey, to a "maybe" or even a “yes.” I don't really care much about the result. Just now I'm enjoying the process.
I take your other leg, bite your foot, and lick along your Achilles tendon, kiss around your ankle. My fingers start massaging your calves, inching their way up your leg towards your crotch. We've been at this for twenty minutes now perhaps, if not more, and I'm yet to touch your cock or ass, or invade your mouth with a kiss. The MDMA would have by now kicked in in the full and the whiskey, drunk on an empty stomach, is already painting your cheeks pink. Or could it be something else? Lively songs with a lot of strong bass notes rumble in the background, contrasting with the softness and smoothness of my touch. The incense is sweet in the air and the light is dim and soft, mostly provided by the candles.
I would pay the whole contents of my account to be inside your head now. To know how you feel and what you are thinking, at what phase the conflict is in your head. What I can see as my firmly, now almost painfully firm fingers reach your inner thigh is that your cock is hard; always a good sign. I reach the very line of your groins and look up, to meet your eyes. I wonder if any kid had ever been messed with quite this way, and conclude that it's not bloody likely.
Robbie
I've been done with my shower for a few minutes, but the door is locked, and I can't get out. Nor can I dry myself, and my sleek, 12–year–old body is wet and shiny as I pick up the enema kit once again. I try to read the directions. I can read the words, but this goes into that, and this end gets lubricated by the tube of that, and this end gets connected to the faucet, and this gets inserted there. It's confusing. Especially for a 12–year–old who's never even heard of an enema before today. I have no idea how it works. There's about zero chance of me figuring it out. Who uses these things, anyway? I put the kit down again, unopened.
I'm nervous as I wait for you, but, oddly, not as nervous as I should be, not as nervous, perhaps, as you suspect I am. There is a bit of an inner calm to me. Now that I realize you cannot be defeated physically, some of the fight is out of me. I don't feel obligated to try to be macho or tough or strong. Even my inner vocabulary has softened a little bit. It's almost as if a weight is off my shoulders.
I've always been a good athlete, and a popular kid. At school, and on the fields, and with my friends, there is a certain code I have to follow. The code of 12 going on 19. The code of swear words and tough talk and never–let–them–see–you–cry machismo. Boys my age are supposed to talk about girls, sports, girls, R–rated movies, Minecraft, Grand Theft Auto, girls, Snapchat, and what kind of cool porn we saw most recently on the Internet. I can follow this code effortlessly and well, even setting new standards sometimes for my cool navigation of "Being 12."
But it's not really me. I mean, some of it is. I am a good athlete, and I like to compete and win –– in some sports, some of the time, under certain circumstances. I was competing in pick–up paintball when you grabbed me, and it was my competitive desire to outflank Dave that put me in precisely the wrong place at the wrong time. But I don't really watch sports on TV, and I mostly pretend to follow professional and college teams. I like video games, but I also like to read –– something my friends don't know about. Young adult fantasy books, mostly –– escapist fiction. And sometimes I like to hang out at home, with my Mom and sister, maybe doing some cooking, instead of always doing something with the guys, always running from one activity to another. I never, ever swear at home. Only with the guys, and only when there are no adults around. I like girls, but mostly more as friends. I like to talk to them. They're fun to hang out with. My friends' Moms like me a lot –– I'm their favorite "friend": the polite kid, always pleasant with a cute smile and my red, Rob Weasley hair. I like talking to them, too. I guess I just like most people.
I wait for you, nervously. My expectation is that you will pull me from the shower, force me down, mount me from behind somehow, and fuck my butt with your cock. I've racked my brain trying to figure a way out. There isn't one. You're too strong, too big, and way, way to f–ing ("Oh, stop with the stupid macho crap. It's just you here.") . . . way too fast for me to match you physically. I'm scared, but resigned. It won't be that bad, will it? I mean, don't gay guys do it that way all the time? ("Yeah, but not kids and huge men, who are like seven feet tall or something!" I remind myself.)
But you surprise me with the way you look at me, and our eyes meet, holding for a second. I look away, embarrassed, and blush. ("What was that?", I wonder to myself.) My heart starts to race a little bit. I think it's because the time is at hand, the time for you to do it. But what happens instead surprises me, as you gently dry me off, like a young child. Your touch is gentle. Your manner loving. I am completely shocked by your demeanor and your touch. ("Is this the same guy who punched and beat the . . . beat me up?" I ask myself.)
My astonishment continues as you fix my hair, and then apply make–up to my face. ("He thinks you're a girl," I tell myself, with a sinking feeling.) But it's not girl stuff. The lip stuff isn't lipstick, it's clear, like a chapping balm. If it were pink or glossy or girly it would weird me out, but it's not. And the lotions and spray don't smell girly, either. I am a passive participant as you apply lotion to every part of my naked, 12–year–old body. There's nothing I could do about it anyway, but my shock and amazement also paralyzes me. This is so much the opposite of what I expected that I am flabbergasted. I even help you a bit, lifting my arms as you apply the lotion all over, everywhere from the neck down, even under my arms, where my skin is milky white, soft, and hairless. I have to admit that your touch is soft, gentle, and feels really good. This bothers me, since it seems gay. But there's nothing I can do about it, and it's hard not to find pleasure in it. You are a good masseur. If I weren't nervous about what's going to happen, I would enjoy your gentle touch even more. As it is, your hands leave a little trail of goose pimples on my alabaster–white skin just about everywhere they touch. They tickle gently as they move across my body –– like all kids, my smooth, hairless skin is highly sensitive to touch.
My breathing is a bit deeper and shivery as the surprise –– and surprisingly pleasurable –– massage continues. When you get to my tummy and lower abdomen, the thought suddenly occurs to me that I'm going to bone up. That would be a disaster. It nearly panics me. I try to think of anything, anything, to prevent it. I seize upon my favorite distraction in such circumstances. Baseball stats: Batting averages, homers, RBIs, stolen bases. And as you grasp my penis and scrotum and begin to work the lotion in, the "Baseball Trick" as I know it works again. It has worked before, when I've needed it. Whether in the locker room shower, or any other inopportune place to bone up, the "Baseball Trick" almost always saves me. I've never had to use it against actual physical stimulation of my young package, but somehow, some way, I manage to avoid more than a slight plumping of my pale, thin penis –– which I hope you didn't notice.
In the surveillance room, I see the shots of alcohol. Not beer, which I've tried, and hated. But whiskey Hard liquor. I'm not supposed to drink any of that stuff. My Mom's been over that several times, whenever I have a sleepover or go to a dance. But your words make me feel a bit foolish. I mean, let's face it: I'm captured, naked, in your dungeon, and in a few minutes you're going to rape my butt. What difference will a little alcohol, a little rule–breaking make? Plus, I suspect that my life expectancy down here is going to be pretty limited. I'm not a stupid kid.
I take a sip of the stuff and –– oh man! –– it burns, with a warmth and hotness that leaves my tongue and mouth feeling like I ate a hot pepper, only not exactly. I can almost sense how that stuff could mess with your mind. It's powerful. I've never been drunk, or even buzzed. But one sip and I get it. And if it helps me to deal with . . . with what's going to happen, then . . . I'm debating taking another sip when you show me the other item you have prepared for me.
Now that stuff looks like really hard–core drugs to me. And my face registers my concern. It's an odd reaction, really. Here, in your dungeon's surgery wing, standing there, lotioned and naked, ready to be raped, I'm worried about drugs. But I've heard the warnings so many times. "You can get addicted from trying drugs once," said Resource Officer Peterson. "Kids your age have overdosed and died because they didn't know how strong the drugs were." The warnings reverberate in my 7th–grade mind. Drugs are bad. Drugs can kill. I've been trained to avoid drugs. Indoctrinated. Like a 12–year–old Pavlov dog.
I watch as you snort and sneeze. My mouth hangs open in shock. I didn't even know that's how a person takes drugs. I thought they smoked them or shot up. I wonder what it feels like inside you, right now. You said you were going to force me. That makes it not my choice, which considerably aids my decision–making process. I decide to do it. I emulate you, snorting it hard and fast, way up into my nostrils, and . . . my nose feels like it has exploded, and my eyes water, and I sneeze. Again and again and again. I sneeze eight times. I stand there, like I just ate an ungodly hot pepper, my mouth open, my nose running. I take the tissue and dab at my nostrils with it, blinking. I knock back the whiskey, again emulating you. And sneeze again. Three more times. Holy cow -- I can’t believe that I just did that. I can’t believe that anyone actually likes this stuff.
And then . . . wow . . . wow . . . oh my God. As you push me on the bed a kind of paralyzing nirvana washes over me. It feels like my body is alive with sensations, and I writhe a little and gasp and sigh and moan on the bed. It's . . . amazing. I never knew. I never imagined. It’s disorienting. I am barely aware of you, as you light the incense, but then . . . you are touching me everywhere. Licking, tasting, fondling, touching. Every touch is magnified seemingly a million–fold. I quiver and wriggle and writhe as my senses overload. My mouth is open wide as the pleasure washes over me. My little cock erects in seconds, my 12–year–old cut shaft reaching 4.5 inches of slender hardness without even being touched. I am so hard that my member juts off my abdomen, pointing at my chin, jutting over my hairless, alabaster-white groin like an arrow.
You think I hate this, but I don't hate it. Not at all. It is the single–most pleasurable, awesome, delightful, amazing physical experience I've ever had. Ever. By a lot. By far. It is overpowering. The pleasurable sensations I am experiencing are way more than is necessary to overcome my inhibitions. I am writhing and moving, my body awash with sensations and pleasure, my cock incredibly, unfathomably stiff with a hardness that only young boys can achieve.
You think I'd like you to stop? I never want you to stop. I don't care if it's wrong or bad or taboo or gay. It is the most amazing experience of my young life. I don't even have to touch myself, which is the only way I have ever felt anything remotely like this kind of pleasure. But this is so much more, so much better than wanking. I lose myself in the pleasure of it. My arms remain at my sides as I writhe and gasp. My eyes are wide. My gaze is intense but I am not focused on anything in particular. I don't speak. I don't trust myself to speak. I'm not sure that words would come out. All I can do is gasp. You take my foot in your hand and to me it almost feels like you took my cock. Your tongue slithers between my toes. I gasp again. I am in heaven. If this is what it means to be gay I am all in. Did I really just say that? I don't care. It feels that good.
Your fingers press and massage harder as you reach the milky white softness of my inner thighs. I spread my legs. I want you to touch my penis. My mind repeats, over and over. It's not gay if you make me. It's not gay if you make me. It's not gay if you make me. And I don't frankly care even if it is.
Marcus
Your reaction surprises me. I knew I intimidated you beyond any hardcore, obvious resistance, but I just gave you a wave of joy, and you don't just let it rock and drag you, no, you get on your board and ride it like a pro. You are into this. It's roughly at the moment when I stick my tongue in between your toes that I realise just how much you are into this. I'm rock hard by then, myself, from just enjoying and exploring your body, and also, subconsciously up until it hits me, also from your amazing, delicious, incredibly hot reaction. I get off on causing intense pleasure that is new and powerful and beyond the control of whoever is receiving it just as much as I get off on causing pain, and damn, kid, I certainly don't need to hurt you to be enjoying myself right now. Without even knowing it, by just letting the MDMA and the booze and my touch have their way with you, you are steering me towards continuing along the nice–guy lines. Instead of violent butt–rape, your fascinating, delicious responses make me wanna explore just how much more I can make you squirm and moan.
I'm tempting to torment you at least mentally, to call you a fag or something, to stir some shame into the cocktail, but for once, I just don't find it in me. This is perfect as it is, you are perfect the way you are, utterly blown away, converted into an eager little fag–boy hungry for more. All it took was a dose of Ecstasy, a shot of whiskey, and then an assault of experienced touch. I've never been with a boy or a guy like this. I've beaten a couple of men before, tied them up, but this is a first. It's even more intuitive, easier than pleasing girls. I just do what I imagine I would like if I was there, buzzing head to toes, on my first-ever trip into sensual paradise. I do the things I know I would enjoy, and they seem to work. It's fascinating. And when it comes to sensitive spots, places where you particularly respond, you are actually eerily similar to me. It's almost like fucking with a younger version of myself in a way, not that I ever looked anything like this. I grew up to be a reasonably handsome man, but I've never been a pretty boy, I was all thin long legs and arms and big knees and very dark skinned and quite hairy from early on, with jet black hair all thick and unruly, which never looked very good unless it was trim and short. You, Robbie -- you little smooth, hairless, perfectly-proportioned, white-skinned, red-headed, handsome young fellow -- really are a treat.
Seeing just how aroused you are, I decide to risk going further. Maybe your brain will register some of it as gross, but your arousal as well as the buzz that should by now just about be reaching a peak should override it, at least judging from your expression and the state of your member, twice milked very recently and yet so very ready for action I bet I could make you cum again, soon, if I stroked it. But that's not where I'm headed.
I slide back up and for a while and kiss your face again, your ears, nibbling on your ear lobes, biting the tips of your ears gently, tonguing the area behind, even letting the tip of my tongue dart into each of them and wiggle (obviously, it doesn't go deep, but the sensation of it teasing along the entrance should be more than nice enough). I'm atop you now, heavy -- even if I'm trying not to crush you with too much of my weight, and I'm big and warm and muscular -- and I lower myself to your mouth and properly kiss you, my tongue finding a way into your mouth and finding yours and playing with it, toying with it. I alternate between shallow, teasing kissing that is mostly lips on lips and the occasional tongue flick along where our mouths meet, and slightly a deeper kiss, pressing more firmly, mouth on mouth, and letting my tongue find yours to play with. I kiss more like a girl; I never stick my tongue too far, and I'm actually doing more of the shallow, teasing kissing, to see if I can get as far as to provoke you to stick your tongue into my mouth, actively. Laura kissed back, reflexively, instinctively, I recall, but in her case it was fear of displeasing me that drove her towards activity. If you participate actively, I will have actually seduced you into it. How fucking impressive would that be?
When I break the kiss, I trail your skin with my tongue down the side of your neck, down your chest, over your nipple, down your belly, the soft, smooth, hairless skin of your lower groin, and finally, my tongue finds your balls, teasing them with alternating soft and hard licks, picking them up and letting them fall, licking along where your sack connects to your body, along the root of your cock. I spend a while doing it, as if I was delaying progressing to your cock, which seems to need only a little attention to get you off. But when I deliver, it's too little even for a super–horny little boy like you to get you over the edge. My tongue darts up along your shaft softly, up one side, up the other side, up the underside, and a brief, quick swirl around your glans. Just those four licks. I can feel you are damn close now, but it wasn't enough to make you cum. And I can see you wanna cum. You really wanna cum. I have you, so easily and promptly, where I thought only chastity and extended edging torture could get you, I have you willing and craving and I bet, willing to beg for more. In fact your mouth moves now, it seems like for the first time we started, you are actually about to say something. Maybe you really will ask for more?
I slide a cushion under the back of your spine though, use my hands to bend your legs, feet on the bed, but butt upraised, exposed, pelvis tilted. You are still belly up, but I can see your pucker now. And I silence you by licking over it, around it, over it, around it again, wider circles now, you've tasted the sensation, you know how shockingly sweet it is, so I tease, I deny you another direct taste of it, I slow down, keep to the normal skin of your buttocks for perhaps a minute – damn, they should probably teach ADHD kids this way, because I don't have even a smidgeon less than 100% of your attention – before I give your butt hole a good, hard lick, pressing my face into it, using the whole of it, the flat chubby body of the muscle, not just the tip, making it slide slowly, firmly all over your butt–hole. I pause then, because in your current state, even nothing is a wonderful sensation, just letting the last one echo and letting your skin tingle as it waits for the next one, so I actually take my sweet time waiting before I actually push my tongue inside to rim you.
It's almost a step too far for me, boundary–wise, sticking my tongue up a boy's butt, especially since I cannot see your expression – next time I'll have Laura do it as I watch your face – but the sounds you make, the way your body shudders, not quite shooting a load, but by the looks of it, it must have felt as good as orgasmic, the way you respond makes it totally worth it. And you have a really cute, clean little hole. Nonetheless . . . I retreat. I don't want you blowing a load. I want you to be close, and desperate for it, yes, that's precisely how I want you for the next bit. I reach for the lube, and lube doubly, actually. Silicone-based lubricant as a first layer all over my cock, and then an extra layer, of water-based lubricant, into your puckered hole and to the tip of my cock, to make things even slipperier. I slide my finger up your butt to check the lubrication, the tightness of your ring, and wiggle it gently. I know a finger is nothing, at your current state, for a boy your size, with this much lube, it feels weird at worst, and curiously but nonetheless very good indeed.
"Look me in the eyes, and keep looking!" I command. I drop my voice to the deepest level, where it rumbles and is as much felt in the body as heard by the ears. I intentionally make it hypnotic. I pour my whole will, my whole power to command into it. I put the whole of my impressive ego, strength, and confidence -- all of my power -- into what follows.
"Listen to my voice. Just listen. Relax and listen. There will be no pain. Pain is a rumor. An illusion. A lie. You will feel pain only if you think pain. There will be no pain. Pain is a rumor. It is an illusion. A lie. You will relax. Relax and listen. You can feel yourself relaxing. You are relaxing. You are going soft. Your sphincter is relaxing already, loosening. It's slick. I can slide in smoothly, easily. There will be no pain. Pain is a rumor. It is an illusion. A lie. Your pucker is relaxed now. It's relaxed. It's soft. It's slick.”
“There's absolutely no reason for pain. Your g–spot, your most sensitive spot, can be accessed this way. Relax and listen. You can have an orgasm this way. You will have an orgasm this way. You will squirt cum all over your chest and belly. Repeatedly, I suspect. Relax and listen. It will be nice. Nicer than you ever imagined. Good. Better than you ever imagined. Relax and listen. There will be no pain. Pain is a rumor. An illusion. A lie. You will feel full. You will feel the intensity of being filled full and good. Intense is not painful. Intense is intense. Your mind can process it as pleasure. Your mind will process it as pleasure. Intense is good. Intense is pleasurable. Your boy–cunt is made to give you pleasure. It felt incredible to have it licked, and invaded by a tongue. Remember the sensation. Hold onto it. Bring the memory to your imagination now, recall it. Re–live it. This will be similar. More intense but similar. Relax and listen. Hold onto that memory. Hold onto that sensation. There will be no pain. Pain is a rumor. An illusion. A lie. There will be no pain. Pain is a rumor. An illusion. A lie. There will be no pain. Pain is a rumor. An illusion. A lie. Repeat after me: ‘This feels good. This feels good. This feels good. This feels good. This feels good. This feels good. This feels good. This feels good. This feels good,’” I repeat.
Some of those words I echo and repeat, let them crash in and fade out like the waves of the ocean, saying stuff over and over again. I don't just speak in a deep voice, I articulate in a very particular way. I let my words bounce of off the rhythm of the music, Linkin Park's Numb, not too bad a song to be losing virginity to, even though you can barely hear it -- the pitch is too soft, and the speakers only really emphasise the base, the beat off of which my voice lifts up and lilts and rocks. I make my speech a flow, each syllable distinct, but practically no larger spaces between words than between syllables within those words, and it's deep and it's repetitive and it floods your drugged and slightly drunk young mind. It's not full hypnosis, I never "switch you off,", never count down to make you not present, I just make you, as and where you are, space out, and let my message penetrate your subconscious mind. I'm still repeating "this feels good" when my big, hard, but also damn-well lubricated cock touches your pucker and starts pressing in. Slowly. Slowly. As if in action–movie slow motion, S... l... o... w... l... y...
There's actually no way on earth a twelve-year-old virgin could take a nine-inch cock painlessly. But you don't know it, you may be a porn–watching, over–wanking little kid, but you don't really know about the reality of anal sex, and I just spent a decent amount of time of flooding your drugged, tipsy mind with the opposite information on all levels. And the stories we tell ourselves matter a lot more than reality. We define our reality by what we think is happening to us. Auto–suggestion and hypnosis (even if, in this case, just very light hypnosis) are powerful tools. And if I cannot come in painlessly, I at least minimize the pain. I make sure you have time to notice how it feels, your pucker stretching around my big glans, relaxing as I wait, and wait, and then wait some more, and then the sensation of being filled, invaded, the fullness pressing against your prostate with a non–compromising intensity. I'm about three inches deep, about a third of the way, but I don't need to go any deeper to give your gland there a very good time. And so I pause there and just rock, softly, to and fro. I'm focusing the stimulation at your prostate, a spot which right now should be giving you just about enough pleasure to make up for whatever pain you are feeling. If what I know about boy anatomy is right, you should easily be able to cum, like this, despite the pain. With the pain. The pain and the pleasure becoming one, as a way to condition you, Pavlov-style, to be a little masochist, as well as a little fag. I keep doing that; moving between being two inches deep and three inches deep. Not retreating nor penetrating further. I wanna make good on my word. I wanna make you squirt, without your cock being in any way touched just now.
Robbie
I want to hate you, I do hate you. Only right now, I'm loving what you are doing to me, and I don't care if it's "gay" or "homo" or whatever. I just never want it to stop, and I'll never tell anybody about this ever, and what it felt like, OMG. I don't know whether it's the drug, or the liquor, or your touch, or some amazing synergy of all three, but my entire slender, 12–year–old, 7th–grader body feels like it is alive and tingly and super, super sensitive, all at once. It's like every skin cell, every body part, suddenly has the sensitivity of my cock, and every touch is this amazing turn on. And, of course, my slender member is like a rigid pole sticking out from my silky, white–skinned, soccer–boy abdomen.
I make promises to myself. I'll never do this again, never allow myself to enjoy this again, not with another male. It's just this once. This one time. And it's not gay if somebody forces you to do it. It's not gay if someone forces you to like it.
I've always been a tactile kid, loving a snuggle and a rub, loving the feel of another person. My family is a hugging, loving family. My Mom knows not to overdue that stuff when the guys are around, which is great. But when they're not around, I'm happy when I'm snuggled up to my Mom or sis or giving either or both of them a big hug. I love the physical contact, the feeling of togetherness, the warmth.
But it's never been sexual, and it's never been gay. But this –– you –– what's happening to me right now. I want you to touch me. I don't care if it's gay because every bone in my body –– especially one specific, rock–hard bone –– is desperate for your touch. When you grasp foot and begin to massage and lick it, it literally brings me close to orgasm. Hazily I wonder how it is even possible for my cock to react to my feet being licked –– but I can wonder all I want because it is my body that is experiencing the sensation and I am very good at knowing when my penis is about to erupt with cum. I've gotten very, very accustomed to that feeling over the last six months.
And when you mount me, and lean down, and start to kiss my face and head and ears, I don't fight you, I don't recoil, I don't try to push you away. Your tantalizing little kisses, nibbles, and licks feel amazing. I want to give myself to you, I want to hug you, which is so gay it confuses me, and I don't move a muscle to follow through. But I have this overwhelming desire for contact, physical contact, which you partially satisfy as your large, powerful, toned, warm body settles down on me like a human blanket. But I still want to hug you, and hold myself against you, even if it is gay. I don't care it it's gay. To spares myself the mental trauma of actively participating in something so completely homo, I simplyclose my eyes. I close them, and lie fully back, floating on the Ectasy and booze, giving myself to the pleasure, the music playing in the background, as bright and pleasing as ever, the lyrics familiar, but distant.
And when we kiss, I want to turn my mouth away because it's so gay, so wrong, but instead my mouth opens slightly because I want your tongue inside and I don't want you to know how much I do. What is wrong with me? Everything is so screwed up. Everything feels so good. And I feel an almost emotional bond with you, like a kinship, and part of me knows it's ridiculous and crazy and wrong, but nobody has ever made me feel this good and my mouth opens and I moan as your lips and tongue dance across my face and linger there. It is all I can do not to send my tongue into your mouth, and when I do exactly that, anyway, I tell myself that it's only to push your tongue back and ward it off, but there's more to it than that and . . . OMG do I feel weird and strange but I want to feel your tongue against mine, two slippery little eels, and I never knew that a tongue could feel pleasure like this, I never knew.
I am moaning and exhaling and writhing and sighing and panting and gasping as sensations, weird sensations, powerful sensations, overwhelm my mind and body. And if this is what happens when you do drugs I just want to do them over and over and over again and I don't care if it's wrong or bad or I could die because they never tell you that it feels more amazing than anything you've felt before. OMG. OMG. My thoughts just rush together in a big jumble of pleasure and confusion and I don't care if it's gay if I only do it once, god just once, just this one time, and it's not gay if you make me do it.
When you break the kiss and start trailing down my body my cock is literally quivering, like a an arrow that just bulls–eyed itself deep into a wood target and is left to wag there, vibrating, "th–th–th–th–th–th" in the wood. I've never been this hard and I swear if I hadn't just wanked myself twice in quick succession my boy jizz would be spurting onto my belly and chest like it does every single night, at least once, usually twice, before I clean it up with an inside–out sock that I keep within reach. I don't care if it's gay. I thrust my pelvis upward, using my hips, hoping to find you, hoping for contact, because it won't take much, let me tell you, not much at all before I cum. And I want to cum like this, right now, with all of my senses on overload. I want to feel my cum spurting out while I feel like this, just once, and it's not gay if it feels this good, it can't be.
When you lick my balls, I flex my cock muscles, or whatever makes it spurt, willing it to cum, making my slender rod flex and jerk as I try to squeeze the orgasm out. God it feels so good. All I need is for you to touch my penis, and I swear I'm going to spurt and –– oh FUCK –– I'm sorry to swear but your tongue feels so good on my balls and my skin and there it goes onto my cock and I flex and . . . and . . . and . . . oh go back! Fuck! I'm so close, and I moan with need, and then you lift me up with the cushion underneath and your tongue goes to my hole, licking there, tantalizingly, and it's gross and awesome all at once and I don't even care and I want you to stick it in, I need it in there, and when you do, I give a shivery, panting sigh as that feels more amazing than anything ever felt ever and I guess I'm just a fag 'cause holy shit! Holy shit I need to cum so bad, but I'm not a homo, please.
Even when you lube me with your finger it feels good and I know what's going to happen and it's not my fault, it's not gay, it's NOT gay if you force me. And I can't help it if your finger feels good. I have to listen as you talk to me calming me, lowering my breathing, and my heart rate as I listen. Even my little guy softens and lies like a slender, helmeted index finger against my sleek, white abdomen. I listen so intensely, your words appear like objects, like notes floating down, around me, like a spring shower, over and over, lyrical, repeating. And I repeat after you, and it doesn't have to hurt, the pain is an illusion, a rumor, and it doesn't exist, and I can feel your cock at my slick, slippery little hole, and when you start to push it against my tiny, unused, pinkish–brown little pucker, it doesn't have to hurt, and it doesn't hurt . . .
. . . except it does. And my mouth opens in surprise and sheer, unadulterated, burning pain, and a noise sounding like "igggg,g'waaahhhhh" leaves my throat, and it is nothing other than the sound of a 12–year–old boy trying, desperately, not to succumb to the rumor and illusion of pain that is very much real and present and consuming. I pant, and my mouth opens and closes as tiny anus goes painfully taut, stretched and translucent, around your glans as it ushers your cock inside my virgin, preteen rectum.
If not for your words and light hypnosis I would be shrieking and crying with pain. As it is, little–boy tears fill my eyes as my mouth opens and closes, almost soundlessly –– no words, but little strangled gasps and grunts of pain as my slender ass takes your engorged erection for the first time. My hands reach up and slightly back behind me to grasp your biceps as you straddle my body and feed me the first three inches of your phallus with your arms supporting your body on either side of my head. My pale face is red with effort as I combat the illusion and rumor of pain, my young hands gripping your strong arms hard, giving me something to clutch and grasp against the pain.
And then I feel a jolt of electricity inside me as your cockhead begins to massage my prostate. My boycock starts to erect again as you rub me there, causing me to moan with pleasure even as I am panting and grunting with pain. I am one very confused, very over–stimulated 12–year–old boy as you begin to undulate your member into my warm, tight little ass.
Marcus
It feels good. I have a preference for girls, but DAMN. You look gorgeous, and despite all the lubrication, your ass is as tight as Laura's pussy, and has a coarser texture, and I love the way your ring is just ever so tight around my glans. I moan. I can see the sudden pained expression on your face, your grunt and the tears in your eyes. I pout as I keep gently, near–motionlessly poking and prodding at your prostate. I could almost come this way. It would not be the most satisfying shag ever, but I can see it happening.
"Relax. Relax. Breathe. Shh, shh... shsssh. It's okay. It's okay. It's just intense. You're not used to it. It's okay. That intense, jolting pleasure you can feel is your prostate being stimulated, that's your boy version of a G–spot. That's the best place ever on the whole of your body to give some attention. Give it a chance. Breathe, relax. You can cum this way, promise."
And I keep working at it. I move only very slightly, barely at all, and I don't -- yet -- focus on my pleasure, but remain working on yours as I keep hitting that sweet spot with mini–thrusts over and over and over again. The friction is minimal, the pain has a fair chance of abating, the double lubrication gets really evenly distributed, there will be no abrasion, no friction injury. It might hurt, but there's no reason for it to bleed or for you to hurt sharply, or unmanageably. So far, anyway.
"Good boy," I praise you as you hold onto me. "Good boy," I repeat happily, jovially, with boisterous satisfaction in my voice. "It's okay Robbie, you can take this. You're brave. You're strong. You're special. Don't over-think it, don't let the intensity and discomfort freak you out, as long as you stay relaxed, as long as I keep going gently, this can feel good. This does feel good, doesn't it?"
I could not have possibly done more to make this a non–traumatizing experience, other than perhaps using a condom and filling your ass with Lidocaine or Novocaine or something, numbing you totally, switching your pain receptors off. But what would be the fun in that, right? For either one of us. As it is, I have you maximally relaxed, fully aroused, thoroughly lubed. But for your pained expression and the fact that it clearly is an effort to take me, an effort that you're making, I'd be annoyed actually. But no. You clearly are doing your best, and so while I visualize myself hilt–deep in and cumming into your tight little puckered hole, I breathe, guiding you to also breathe deeply and slowly, and I keep at it patiently until I force your body into an orgasm.
Nothing but repetition and a little patience is needed on my part. It just . . . happens. I was pretty sure that it would.
You seem almost surprised, as suddenly, from among winces of pain and gasps of effort, your cock pulses, and your balls, hoisted up into a tight sack right at the root of your four-and-one-half inches of boy–pride (impressive for your age, really) squirt a small load onto your belly and chest. And the sweet thing is, I don't stop there. I know how this works and that unlike stroking a cock when it just came, which makes it just sort of ticklish and over-sensitive, guy's holes are much like girl's pussies in that an orgasm doesn't stop them from enjoying the fun. And now that you've had you first-ever anally triggered, gay orgasm ever, I know that the pleasure is greater than the pain, and I just keep at it, confident that you can handle this. I keep it up for a good while, wondering . . . can I get you there again? I keep trying for about ten minutes, out of sheer curiosity of where that might take you.
When your ring stops twitching and tightening around my shaft, and when I feel my own arousal rising, I actually start going teensy eensy little bit deeper, always several thrusts at the same depth, and then a bit farther with one, hoping you won’t notice, or at least not mind, but your eyes bulge and your face contorts in a very unambiguous display of pain. Three inches and barely any movement was a lot. Any more of my monster and anything even remotely more like penetrative,invasive thrusts and it's too much.
I pause and I bite my lip.
"I'll tell you a secret. I really want to go all the way in, even if that actually does hurt," I state calmly. "But I also happen to be a total sucker for creative, inventive begging and sweet-talk. Beg me not to hurt you. Tell me all the dirty, slutty, gay things you will do for me eagerly, just to please me and pleasure me and make me happy and satisfied. Talk to me. Stop pretending you're not really here. The stuff I gave you should also make you feel confident, and connected and eloquent. And good whisky has untied tighter tongues than yours. So speak, boy. Speak. If you make yourself emotionally and psychologically vulnerable, if you tell me how it felt so far, if you talk to me properly, I might resist the urge to physically hurt you, to take my pleasure regardless of your limits. But I won't do it just 'cause. You are holding back. You're barely touching me, apart from gripping on my arms when it hurts. You liked it when I was being gentle . . . stop acting like a Ken doll, then. Is this too much? Tell me. And tell me what other things we could be doing that will feel good . . . and then do those things if you get my permission."
As I speak I retreat roughly to my original depth of penetration and just keep rocking softly, but I can tell that the pain still echoes in you and freaks you out, and it's much harder for you to relax. Even the drugs and booze are not enough to make the "ideal" happen; me going as deep and as hard as I need to easily get off while you only hurt manageably and have, alongside the pain, a good time.
I wonder if you wanna take me up on that offer, and if you do, exactly what you will spill when you do. Because I was barely was four inches deep when you started to look like you'd rather die than go on, with more than that much still to go. I slow down and relax my rocking to near motionlessness, giving the pain plenty of time to abate, and giving you time to say and do something to save your ass from an exceptionally painful experience.
Eventually I stop entirely and gaze into your gorgeous eyes. I don't say it, but we both know it's the deciding moment. Within the next couple seconds, you will give me what I ask for . . . or I will take my pleasure otherwise. In a way that you really, really won't have fond memories of. Which would be a shame, given how much effort I've put into making this not a horrible experience. Will you throw my gift away, or will you play along, so we can keep up the nice–guy/good–boy dynamic?
Robbie
I lie there underneath you, floating on a wave of intensity both physical and emotional. It feels like an enormous pipe is jammed in my butt. My anus is stretched taut around your shaft and despite the lubrication it tries to roll up into my rectum with every inward motion and that hurts, but then, just as it reaches an apex of pain, and my fresh, young face is etched with discomfort and my eyes are glistening with tears, your penetration stops, the in–and–out thrusts stop, and you just stay inside me, rocking, undulating, rubbing. And you're rubbing against something that feels so good, so unbelievably fucking awesome, that I want it to continue despite the pain.
I don't have a clue what a prostate is. Never heard of it. Didn't know it was down there, in my butt. I know what gay sex is, and I always thought it was gross and homo, but I know that any kind of friction can make a cock feel good, so the concept of a guy shagging another guy in the butt is something I understand. I always figured that the guy on top enjoyed it, but I never knew that the guy on the receiving end could enjoy it even more. This realization astonishes me. My anus still burns, and my pained little grunts and gasps continue, but now they're joined by little sighs and moans of aroused disbelief as you rock against my prostate, massaging me inside my butt with electric intensity.
And it doesn't take much movement. Your erection is cleaving my slender white buttocks in two, your shaft jammed in my hole, your cockhead nudging and pressing against some part of my butt that somehow has some connection to my cock, because it gets so f–ing hard, and I swear it feels like you are touching it, touching my cock. I lift my head up and I can see the familiar sight of my slender 12 year–old erection jutting from my groin, but you're not touching it, and I can't explain how it could possibly feel this good without being wanked or sucked or something.
I am a very confused, very aroused, very over–stimulated 7th–grader as you ever–so–gently undulate inside me, massaging my boy prostate for the first time. I moan and pant, and then my slender white rod just explodes with cum, unbidden, untouched, and I don't even have to look up to know that the familiar spurts of whitish translucent boycum are spraying on my fit abdomen. What I don't understand is how that happened, how you did that, how I did that, without being touched. I've been going at the masturbation thing hard for the last six months. I've probably cum over 500 times since I figured out how good it felt, how it worked. I've fucked a channel in my pillow, spurted into socks and tissues, exploded more times than I can remember onto my tummy and chest. But in every single one of those instances, I've had to touch or rub or somehow use friction on my little guy to make it happen. But not this time.
And you keep at it after I cum, rocking inside me, massaging that spot, working me. My anal ring is stretched and unhappy, sending pain signals to my brain, worrying me. It feels like it's going to rip or tear. But that spot inside me keeps buzzing and tingling with electricity, and I'm not sure that my cock even goes soft, like one of those serial wanking sessions at night or when my Mom and sis aren't home, when I just use the slippery wet cum from my first orgasm to lubricate my hand as I pleasure myself to a second, and once or twice even a third. All in a row. Just wanking and cumming and wanking and cumming, my face contorted in bliss, my right arm and hand tired, my cock sore, but it just feels so fucking good.
The worry, and the fact that I've cum three times already, keeps me from cumming again, right up until the very last, before you start going deeper. I'm almost there, right on the edge, about to send some silvery jism spurting onto my tummy, so f–ing close, my face contorted in bliss –– and that's when you start fucking it into me again, thrusting, gently, but deeper and it hurts, OMG it f–ing hurts. I gasp, and my young hands clutch your biceps again, and I look up into your eyes, my face a mask of worry and pain and we both know that you have several more inches of cock to go, and I know how much it's going to hurt if you do . . .
You want me to beg. To talk dirty and tell you what I can do, what we can do. And you have me in a vulnerable position, both physically, and emotionally. And normally I wouldn't beg, not this way, but I feel so fucked up, and it's gonna hurt so much if you go any deeper, and it's not gay if somebody forces you, and it's not gay and I'm not gay, not a homo, not a faggot.
The words just come spilling out. Tentative words. Vulnerable words. From deep inside me. Gay words. Homo words. But they're not my words, not my thoughts, not really, because you're forcing me, and I'm not really here because I'm floating, floating, in a different world. "I . . . I'll suck y–your cock . . . and lick it . . . lick all over it . . . with my tongue," I gasp, stammering, my eyes looking up, tilted slightly back, at yours. I remove my hands from your biceps and place them against your strong, muscular pecs, grasping you there, touching your warm, soft skin. "I w– I'll touch you all over, on your b–body . . . everywhere," I gasp. My hands slide down your sides to your hips, and I lean up to reach as my hands grasp your firm, chiseled buttocks, grasping and squeezing there with young hands. "Like this," I whisper, embarrassed at the gayness, but it's not gay if somebody forces you.
And it helps that you're strong and fit and muscular, with he kind of body I want to have when I get bigger, the kind that I admire and covet in a guy, in a man –– not in a gay way, no, of course not, just in an athletic way –– the kind that has muscles that maybe I've wanted to touch just to see what they feel like, what they would feel like if I had them, what they will feel like when I have them when I'm older, just to see what they feel like on me, that's all it is. So I gasp and squeeze at your buttocks and then run my hands up your strong, muscled back to your neck, showing you what I could do, not that I want to, but if you don't hurt me I will, please don't hurt me.
And it just pops out, with a gasp, that "We could kiss, too, if you want," because kissing is gay and I wouldn't want to do that, not at all, not with a man, but if you really wanted to, if you insisted, and it would stop you from hurting me I guess we could, and our tongues could touch and stuff and it's not gay if somebody forces you, right? If our tongues rub together and touch inside our mouths and stuff, kinda like we did before, all slippery and wet and warm, it would be gay and homo, but at least you're strong and in shape and not ugly, I mean, for a guy you're not ugly, and if I liked guys, which I don't, I'd probably like your eyes, because that's a nice color And especially your muscles, your body, 'cause you stay in good shape, which if I liked guys, would totally be a requirement for me, which it's not a requirement of course because I'm not into guys, not at all, only just to look at their muscles and bodies and stuff, that's all.
Marcus
I listen to you as your mouth opens, and the flood spills out. And what a sweet, sweet music they play, what a sweet song you sing. it 's exactly the balm my ears wished for. You not only don't show resistance, you actually beg, your tone shows the eagerness to please, to stay out of trouble, I can see how you are looking at me, and thinking, and trying to attune, to try to please and satisfy and guess what I wanna hear and say EXACTLY that.
I smile a devilish, playful, slightly cruel smile, licking my lips as if in anticipation of a delicious snack. For a proud young boy you don't beg half bad. You're willing to throw away your
pride, and that is at the very least a good start.
I'll give you lessons in begging. I'll teach you about what I like, and find out what you don't, and I'll teach you that begging is mostly meant to aim to the place where they overlap, for you to beg for stuff you hate and I love, and love all the more for your hating it. But all in due time.I speak in a deep, solid, steady, resolute voice. Confident.
"You'll lick and suck my cock the moment I pull out, and you'll do it until I cum, and you'll swallow," I confirm and specify what you offered. "You will touch me," I confirm, too, and nod as your fingers tentatively start to stroke my muscular chest. That's it, little fag. You're learning fast. "We will kiss, too," I nod, "to start with, but there's one more thing that you'll have to promise if you really, really want me not to hurt you,” I say, pausing. “We'll play a game, and you'll play along without batting an eye lid. And you'll give it your very very best."
I pause again, so you can contemplate this for a moment, before I start explaining what the game will entail. "When I call you Jasmine, you become a girl. You will dress like a girl, act like a girl, think of yourself as a girl. You'll think of your dick as a clit, forget about your balls, think and speak of your pucker as a pussy. You will answer to the name, Jasmine. You’ll piss sitting down, and wear make–up. Everything. And you'll do your utmost to be in the role spot–on. Raise the pitch of your voice, drop any macho, boy lingo, and so on. You will stick to that role until I call you Robbie again. You will be a heterosexual girl, too. So when you are Jasmine, you will act, naturally and properly, like you are into guys, like you like cocks. Bit shy perhaps, coy, but not unreachable,” I conclude. “I want you to agree to this, out loud, sum it up for me so we know we are in agreement and have an understanding, and I want you to seriously promise that you'll do your best. Whenever called Jasmine, you will become a girl. Or . . . you'll man up and take nine inches of cock."
I stroke your hair, and wait for you to answer. I somehow know what you will say, though. Somehow I don't have the doubt about your willingness to play along that I had before. I wait for your answer, and when I've heard enough, when I'm pleased, I silence you with a long, hot kiss, invasive and daring and full on, my tongue in your mouth and swirling, twisting, playing, teasing, demanding that you return the attention. I hold you and stroke your upper arms and I rock inside you gently, and feel you wince in pain. And I know that the moment I pull out, your lips will leap to claim my cock, just to make sure you're rid and spared of further pain, which is now multiplied and only getting worse as your young hole grows abraded and sore, and you tire of managing the pain and pretending it’s not really there.
We kiss. We kiss and I grab your hair and tug and pull just right. I kiss you in a controlling, dominating, possessive way and I kiss you for a long long time. And then I break the kiss, still with a fistful of your hair in my hand, and then I pull out, and let go of your hair, and kneel up, and smile a knowing, perhaps slightly challenging, teasing smile. Get busy, cocksucker, it says.
I don't say it, I just think it, but I think it pretty loudly, I make sure it kind of shows in my eyes. The victory. The domination, the way I feel like I've claimed and . . . broken you in.
I look at you, and every atom of me expects you to obey, and I radiate that expectation like a sunblaze, almost . . . inevitable, inescapable.
My cock -- nine inches of erection, slick with lube and smelling of the musky scent of your own ass -- stands proudly and waits for you to make good on your promise.
Robbie
My begging seems to work, and for that I'm grateful. Your deeper, more–painful penetrations cease. My anus is crying out now, hurting as your thick cock shaft is abrading it, lightly sanding it with every semi–thrust as you work three inches of your adult member inside my rectum. It just hurts too much for me to enjoy the prostate massage, even though little tingling electric charges seem to emanate from inside my butt and radiate through me and out my cock. My penis is slender and rock hard. Boy cum still glistens on my stomach and sternum from my touch–free climax.
When you speak, and tell me what I will do, there is no question that I will do it, none at all, because you have to when someone forces you. I will suck you. I will touch you. We will kiss. All of those things will happen because I begged to do them, even though I don't want to, not at all, because it's gay and faggy and homo. I don't want to suck your cock, but I have to if you make me. I might even have to taste your cum, and swallow it. And I don't want to kiss you, either, or feel your wet tongue pressing inside my mouth, but I have to if you make me. And touching you –– well, the good part about that is I can feel your muscles, compare them, aspire to them, and that's not even gay, not really, and even if it is, you're making me, and I'm not really in a position to say no, right?
And then you tell me about Jasmine. Me. As Jasmine. How I'll act, how I'll behave. And I know I will. And I'm ashamed, and embarrassed, and my face flushes red, contrasting with or perhaps even complementing my ginger hair. But my embarrassment is not what you think; no, not exactly. Jasmine. It's not the name I would have chosen. Not the name I have chosen, those times, when the Bad Thoughts come, when I wonder, just for the sake of wondering, what it would be like to be a girl, to have been born female, to have boobs, and a pussy, and . . .
I hate it when the Bad Thoughts enter my mind. Not faggy, homo, gay thoughts, but somehow even worse than those. Worse than gay. Gay wouldn't be so bad. In this day and age, gay is in. There are gays in my middle school. Or gay wannabes. Or kids who pretend to be indifferent, or ambiguous, or mysterious, or androgynous, or bi. Gay is in. Not with my, friends, of course. Macho is in with them. Overly macho. My friends and I don't tease the gay and wannabe gay kids –– you get suspended for that. But if the only thoughts I had were gay thoughts, I wouldn't feel quite so weird, quite so different, because gay is in.
I don't really have gay thoughts, not really. I like muscles, but that's not gay, even if I like them on other guys, like to see them on other guys. 'Cause I'm a guy, and I want muscles, and there's nothing gay about wanting muscles, and seeing how they look once you get them, even if you don't have them, yet, and sometimes I like looking at guys who do have them, maybe in a magazine or something, a fitness magazine maybe, at the store, maybe, just looking. Just looking at the guys who are really built, really muscular. Wondering what it would be like to have muscles like that. What it would be like to flex them. What they feel like when they flex, what the skin feels like on top of them when they flex, smooth skin, soft skin, with taut muscles underneath.
I want to have muscles to impress girls. All my friends do. I want to be cut, and built, and firm, and fit. For the girls. To touch my muscles. If I was a girl I'd want to touch them all day long. Snuggle against them. Naked. Together. Feeling the muscles, the strength, the smooth, warm skin . . .
And that's when the Bad Thoughts come, the thoughts that are worse than gay. Thoughts about being a girl. With boobs. And a pussy. And soft, smooth skin. I would touch those muscles. I'd touch them and rub them and feel them, and glide my hands over them, and snuggle with them, and lick them. I'd be dressed, of course. In clothes. Girl clothes. Skirts, and sundresses. And tights. Form–fitting tights. And bras and slips and panties. And lipstick and nail polish and eye-shadow, with my hair long and soft and flowing red and beautiful.
I hate the Bad Thoughts. I hate when they come. I banish them. I bury them. But they come back. And sometimes, late at night, when I'm tired, and alone, and nobody is around, I don't banish them. Not right away. I let them play over me, like light from a helicopter spotlight playing over an open field, searching, looking, probing. They're not my thoughts. They're the Bad Thoughts. Originating not from within me but from somewhere else. Coming to visit me. They know they're not welcome. They know they're despised and hated and feared and loathed. But they come anyway. They visit. The Bad Thoughts.
So I blush. Because Jasmine is the incarnation of the Bad Thoughts. All of them. And you're pretending that you don't know about the Bad Thoughts, but everything about Jasmine is the Bad Thoughts. . . how could you know about the Bad Thoughts? I've had liquor, and drugs, and my mind has been floating in and out. I must have spoken aloud. That's it. I must have said the Bad Thoughts. Said them to you. But not Jasmine. I wouldn't have said Jasmine. I've never been Jasmine. I've been Robin. Robin is very close to Robbie. And my Mom always said that if I was born a girl I'd have been named Kaitlyn. I've been Kaitlyn when the Bad Thoughts came, wondering, had I been born a girl, what would it be like? What would it be like to be Kaitlyn? But not Jasmine. You changed the name. To tease me about the Bad Thoughts. Hence my blush.
And then your question comes, and I want to tell you that it's not Jasmine, but Kaitlyn. I would be Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn Waskowicz. But you're stroking my hair, and your cock is in my butt –– or some of it is –– and it hurts, and it could hurt more, a lot more, and I need to tell you now, quickly, what I think. "OK . . . I can be . . . I can be Jasmine. Be a girl. With m–makeup. I mean wear it," I say, nodding. "I'll do it, really good, I swear," I say, as you lean in for a kiss and I just decide, right then and there, if you're going to make me be Jasmine I might as well start now, and my hands grope for the soft, smooth, muscled skin of your back and buttocks, as my tongue presses and plays and glides against yours, and it's NOT gay to kiss a guy if he makes you and you're probably not even gay because you're really fit and handsome with nice eyes and I'm not either . . .
And when the kiss ends and your cock pulls free from my gripping rectum I emit a boy gasp and you release my hair and you sit up and I know it's time for me to suck your cock, suck it until it cums right in my mouth, and I don't want to but I have to and I clamber to my knees and grasp your jutting shaft with my hand and lean down and open wide and take it right inside my boy mouth, urgently, one, two, three inches. I don't care that it tastes of lube and my boy pussy as I take it inside and begin to bob and suck, because it's not gay if you make me. And if I'm going to be Jasmine I'm going to feel your muscles so I reach up with my left hand as I'm sucking and grasp your awesome, shapely right pec and squeeze it while I bob and suck on your fleshy rod, before sliding over and touching and squeezing your left pec. And even if it's gay and faggy and homo I want to taste your cum, eat it, see how it compares to mine, and I suck and bob and swirl and work to make that happen.
Marcus
I lay out the tranny game we're gonna play. I lay out to you how I'm gonna turn you into a girl on a whim, treat you like one and expect you to behave like one. And instead of anger, resistance, instead of freaking out, all those reactions that I imagined and expected, you fucking blush, and then blush some more. And you look surprised and amazed. Ashamed. There's something on your lips for a moment there, and I struggle to catch what it might be simply because I expect resistance, fury, hurt pride at least silently lashing out, at least an inside–of–your–chest clash -- a conflict of your boyhood and emerging manhood with the idea of being totally sissified -- but, fucking hell, Robbie, it would seem that I've gotten myself a toy with a hell of a fucking secret. I smile, the sort of broad, wide smile that shows of my white teeth, full on, not quite a Cheshire cat grin, but not too far from it. You thought about this before. You have been through this fantasy before. This is not new to you. And if that's the case . . . my brain turns at the highest possible speed, the cogs spinning in a blur, I half expect smoke to start coming out of my ears. What am I missing, what the fuck am I missing . . . of course. If you already had this fantasy, you already have a stage-name, a girl name. Don't you now?
You confirm that you will do every bit of it and that you will do it good. And you only have to choke it out because you're beetroot red and ashamed and rock–hard now, which I suspect is not caused by my cock inside you anymore.
"You little fag," I sneer, "you already HAVE a girl name. You already have a skirt-and-panties and pretty dresses-wearing nick–name, don't you, kid? Tell me. Tell me. Don't make me torture it out of you, boy." I could and I would, but I strongly suspect that your drugged, tipsy self will not put up nowhere near enough resistance on this point for me to even have to bother to get my tools out. Worst case worse I push a bit deeper again. I'm sure you'll share. And I can look into your eyes and I can see and sense if you are bullshitting me or not, with a very fair certainty. Jasmine, Jane, Anne–Marie, Juanita, Lada, Hildegard, Su or Amira, who gives a fuck, but if I can mess with your fantasy, if I can trespass on your dreams and secret desires, it would not be me at all if I simply passed up on such an opportunity.
And then we kiss, and I pull out and your mouth wraps itself around me with unprecedented eagerness I groan and stretch and cry out in bliss. I wanted a model girl simply ‘cause she was pretty and got myself the girl who is the best cocksucker of her age on the planet, who also happens to have more than just a small workable submissive streak. I wanted the boy who is her crush and who is the handsome Rob Weasley and got myself a submissively-inclined boy with a secret cross–dressing fetish, if it even is just a fetish that is, your reaction was pretty big and immediate. Damn!!!
As has become commonplace in recent days, I feel thoroughly victorious and happy. Smug. My ego blown up and my head dizzy with the intensity of the multi–level pleasure that bombards me. And as luck would have it, the sensation that your inexperienced mouth provides isn't half bad, either. The tongue work isn't as good and we're yet to see what happens if I push you a bit, and heck, I can't really compare you to Laura -- only a handful of people who are not professional porn–stars could withstand that comparison -- so let's not be unfair here. Damn. But for an innocent, seventh-grader, "heterosexual" boy, even if you're one with an entertaining secret, you suck good.
"You're not half bad a cock-sucker. More tongue. Tighter suction. And see if you can take a bit more of my cock in. But you're doing good boy, you are doing good," I praise you. I notice that you've, all of a sudden, without further encouragement, lost all your shyness and resentment about touching me. Heck, you seem to be getting pretty excited by it, even, letting your fingers dance over my pecs, massaging my muscular torso, holding onto me with fingers dancing as your head bobs on my rod. I'm one lucky bastard, and so are you. It seems like for now, I'll spare you physical brutality and will just play along with humiliating the fuck out of you and letting you explore the newly found space of boundless obedience that you're finding yourself in.
I actually reposition us in a while because the angle isn't ideal for cock–sucking. I sit on the side of the couch, make you slide of off it, and kneel on the floor before me, and guide you back to the job in a better position, so that you can do better, and take me deeper, and all that. You also happen to look super fucking cute on your knees and with a mouthful of cock. I run my fingers through your gorgeous ginger hair, toy with it and tease it, pulling at it not quite painfully, but just the right sort of firmly. I guide you into a steady, decent, but not frantic pace that I can enjoy and give you a couple more instructions just so we don't run into a misunderstanding.
"Don't try to pause to swallow slobber and other mess. It's a messy job and I like it that way. Just let it drip and dribble," I encourage you. "Breathe through your nose, and don't panic if you think you're short of breath. Just stick with it. Deal with it. You'd be surprised how much you can take without actually passing out. And even passing out on my cock is preferable to putting up a fight to release yourself for a breath. You'll only get the opposite effect, if you resist, I'll grab you and force you to go on, and take it deeper, and guess who is stronger, kid?" I ask, with a small laugh.
I let you pleasure me and play through my head the kind of scenarios I could play with two girls, even if one of them is just an "honorary" girl, a sissy. I'm so gonna use this to the utmost, boy! You have no idea, yet. Well at least I won't be the only one who's dirty dreams will be coming true. With those kind of thoughts, my cock twitches in your mouth pre–orgasmically. I'm not that far away now. Partially it was the fucking before, partially it is the intensity of your effort, and last but not least, the perverse satisfaction of having stumbled on a secret of yours that I can make a advantage of and have unending heaps of fun with.
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