John pulled out slowly, watching with rapt attention as his stepson’s glistening pink hole winked at him, alternating between gaping wide and squeezing tight. He had seen many pretty pussies in his life, even raped one a time or two, but this battered little jock just might take a definitive number one ranking–something memorable in a long line of single use cocksleeves disguised as people. “Goddamn.”
Hudson’s anus spasmed violently just before John’s pearlescent cum escaped his channel, dribbling down his fuzzy taint and over his furry balls in a steady stream. A shame, John thought. Beautiful visual, but a waste.
Hudson made a groggy, displeased sound when he felt wetness on his taint and balls. “Is that your jizz?” He was surprised that he could feel anything at all. Despite his impressive cardiovascular fitness, he’d been sure at some points that he was at the brink of death during the assault–if not from pain, from pleasure.
Shit.
“Yeah,” John grunted, dragging his fat cockhead through the mess in his crack and pushing his semen back inside the kid’s fuck tunnel. Hudson groaned and squirmed, and John growled threateningly, causing the boy to go limp once again. “I’m gonna plug you up next time, babygirl. Fill you up with my babies.”
Hudson had thought he was beyond the point of blushing. He was not.
“Right,” he said, laughing nervously while his mind screamed, ‘fuck no!’ At that point, he wasn’t one hundred percent positive that the demented old man realized he couldn’t actually knock up a cis dude. Hudson feared he may have walked in on a ‘Sister Wives’ situation.
Hudson had to admit that he was out of his element here. He’d never been in this position before–figuratively or literally, pinned face first on a recently defiled couch, with a case of carpet burn growing more serious by the second on various parts of his body, namely his knees, while a strange man played with his asshole like a caveman discovering sex for the first time.
‘Moderation!’ Hudson wanted to scream at the older man. There wasn’t an ass shortage. The barbarian didn’t have to go around attacking innocent heterosexual jocks in their own homes!
Hudson decided that it would be in his best interest to forget the past hour in its entirety, unwilling to do the work necessary to unpack it in therapy. He needed to grab his mom–football style if he had to–and get the hell out of there. The beast could keep the house. He could hide her in his next dorm room until they figured out a better living situation and spend the summer camping outdoors. Easy peasy.
The brute was still pushing his splooge back into his hole with teasing, aborted thrusts. Hudson felt exposed and uncomfortably wet, like he’d done a shoddy job wiping his ass. The chilly air conditioning on a place that had previously never seen daylight didn’t help, either.
“So…are we done here?” Hudson dared hope, grimacing when he felt more jizz exit his ass on a fart.
John chuckled darkly. “Not even close.” He used his thumbs to pry open Hudson’s rectum, which had blessedly begun to close up.
Hudson felt tears prick his eyes, not just from the indignity, but because his ass hurt. And the worst part was that his traitorous dick was starting to take an interest. Again.
“You’re a sick fuck,” he said, though he wasn’t sure to whom the words were directed. It was a safe bet to say both of them.
John slapped his ass hard, the flesh there already red and bruised from the beating it had taken earlier. “Is that how you speak to your Daddy?”
“Sorry,” Hudson muttered, adding a loud “Daddy!” when he received another sharp pop to his cheek.
John rubbed his calloused hand in a soothing circle over tender, abused skin.
Hudson was hard as steel.
“You gonna be good for Daddy, baby girl?” John crooned. He rocked his hips against Hudson’s bubble butt in a simulation of sex, his club of a cock sliding through the slippery mess between his cheeks.
Hudson found himself grinding backwards against his stepdad, seeking friction and mindlessly trying to get the head to catch on his rim.
“Y-yes, Daddy,” Hudson whimpered, moaning when he felt a glob of spit hit his tight ring with practiced skill.
John jabbed his battering ram back into the boy’s recovering hole, relishing in the warm pudding feel of his own sloppy seconds. “Tight little fucksleeve. Daddy’s gonna breed his little girl.”
John was only forty, in his prime, with countless spirited fucks under his belt, but even he was impressed with his own refractory time, and the vicious way he tore his son’s tiny asshole into a slimy gash.
All the air was punched from Hudson’s lungs in a wheeze and he clawed at the couch cushions, encompassed by an overwhelming sense of deja vu as his insides rearranged themselves to accommodate the ten foot pole attempting to plant itself in his throat by taking a journey through his intestines.
Hudson found that the second time one was raped, at least consecutively, really wasn’t that bad. There was way less of an adjustment period, and now that his anus was numb from the overstimulation, and his prostate decided to commit to being a greedy whore, it was…well, enjoyable wasn’t the right word. But it certainly was something. Tolerable, maybe.
With every powerful snap of the larger Alpha’s hips, Hudson let out a grunt, eyes unfocused and more drool pooling on the couch cushion he was immobilized against. His own chubbed schlong was bouncing around between his legs like a dickshaped bobblehead, and if he could just manage to get his hand free, he’d be able to–
Without warning, John yanked his cock from Hudson’s (now cavernous) hole, and Hudson yelped both in surprise and indignance. “Dude!”
Just when he was getting the hang of–was it called bottoming? Receiving?–the piece of shit had to go and mess with his flow.
John ignored him, choosing instead to drag the teenager up by his pretty blond tresses and throw him down on the couch, yanking off his shorts and jockstrap that were stretched out and ruined from the cooking oil he’d used as lube.
Hudson barely caught himself before he was being hauled back up by a rough hold on his bicep and shoved down again, this time on his back. Being able to see his assailant again–the hard features, excess of dark hair, and thick, angry eyebrows–had nothing on the terrifyingly expeditious and detached ease with which the giant manipulated Hudson’s body exactly to his liking. As if he wasn’t one hundred ninety pounds of football jock muscle, able to hold his own with guys twice his size.
John was, to put it in colloquial terms, built different. It was almost like he literally was a giant, and to him, Hudson wasn’t a person. He was as insignificant as…well, he’d said it earlier, hadn’t he?
A fucksleeve.
The discomfort of being bent in half, knees by his ears, paled compared to the euphoric relief his knees and hamstrings were singing now that he wasn’t being forced to kneel. (Rest in peace to the leg hair that had probably gotten lost somewhere in the carpet and left his knees naked.)
Hudson tried to regroup while his stepdad reached behind his neck and yanked off his shirt, but all that broad, muscled man on display had him feeling…well, that sort of squirmy, uncomfortable feeling he sometimes got in his stomach when he was lifting in the weight room and one of the homies had a particularly impressive pump, or just…well…in general.
“Christ,” muttered Hudson. Had he been a fag the whole time? No offense.
John’s delts were big enough to blot out the sun–or, in this case, the lamp–and his pecs could fill out one of those coconut bras chicks wore in Hawaii. He had those beefy abs that showed even when there was a layer of fat just because they were so goddamn strong, and if Hudson got too close to that hair armpit, the stacked dude could snap his neck with a twitch of one colossal bicep.
Speaking of hair: everywhere. He had hair everywhere. And it was dark.
Drool slipped out of the side of Hudson’s mouth.
John laughed right to his face right before he slammed his basilisk sized dong back into his poop chute with zero warning, abs bunching and flexing with every–sharp–snap–of his hips.
Hudson threw his head back, face screwed up in agony–or ecstasy, it was hard to tell–screaming as the angle stabbed at his oversensitized prostate over and over, relentlessly.
Hudson’s vision was blurry, and he realized that he was crying. Again.
Hudson was no longer able to remain stoic–okay, stoic might be generous–and he completely lost his shit. Somehow, his legs found their way around John’s waist, and his hands formed claws at the man’s broad back, tearing at the skin in an effort to ground himself, to find relief. His teeth latched on John’s solid trap muscle, muffling his screams as his cock didn’t drip, exactly, but precum continuously oozed from his slit like he was having the longest, most excruciating orgasm of his life.
“Daddy…” Hudson cried, unprompted, though he wasn’t sure why.
The word had been muffled because he was still biting down on his neck, spit mixing with the older man’s sweat, but he must have understood, because he hummed, gruff but soothing, and said, “Good girl.”
Hudson hadn’t realized John was holding onto his ass, nor that he was fully off the couch and in his arms, until he switched to anchoring him with one hand and moved the other to jack his dick. And it wasn’t long before Hudson, who thought he’d already cum from his ass, actually came from his ass.
His vision whited out…
…then everything went dark.
Again.
