SPH-THEMED EROTICA STORIES

*****

Part 2…

I left the window, where just inside Hugh Wolcott, the hateful old boogeyman of our neighborhood, continued to wobble his hips around and stew his cock in the guts of the former star quarterback Bruce Mitchell. The sight of the massive jock letting himself get roughly butt-fucked by the short old bastard had been outrageous to me, hideous, but mesmerizing. The wretched spectacle of it had inflamed me with an animal lust, and I had bared my naked ass to the moonlight and jacked off onto the grass.

When I closed my eyes, I could still see Hugh’s hairy, pale butt cheeks flex with each plunging thrust. Hear the smack of his hips against the jock’s flushed, sweat-slicked skin. I stole off into the night and crossed the street, then quietly entered my house.

Alone in my room, I realized that my heart was pounding. The clock next to my bed told me it was 1:00 am. I had ejaculated into Wolcott’s shrubbery, but I was amped up. I couldn’t believe what I’d seen. The hero of my youth had surrendered himself to the cruel pervert’s most fiendish desires. Worse, Bruce had seemed to need the abuse himself, to want it, beg for it. It didn’t make sense.

I went online and looked up Bruce. I searched his mostly inactive Facebook profile. All the recent updates were from older family members tagging him at holidays. He had that perfect smile in every shot, warm, friendly, confident. The same on his LinkedIn. I scanned old articles about his triumphs at CHS and State. I even tried different search terms for the hell of it. “Bruce Ryan Mitchell gay, Bruce Ryan Mitchell faggot, Bruce Ryan Mitchell little dick.” Nothing indicated that he was like this. He seemed normal, better than normal. A paragon of manhood.

Finally, I went to bed, exhausted. There, I dreamt of Bruce on the fifty-yard line. We were playing together, which would have been impossible, as he graduated 8 years ahead of me. Just as unlikely in any game where Bruce was QB, we were being routed. 0-21. I knew for a fact he had been undefeated his senior year. We were all sweating our balls off, our stinking uniforms splattered with mud. The stakes of this nighttime game felt enormously high, and there seemed to be thousands of people in the stands.

Apart from Bruce, I recognized my friends and former teammates behind their face masks, but we were all our current ages, faces full of stubble with our full, post-collegiate bodies straining our pads. We shared the same mute bewilderment. Why were we there?

A whistle blew as loud as an air raid siren, and a short, angry coach stomped onto the field, parting the two teams. Terror and dread replaced my confusion. His ragged ball cap hid his face, and he hollered something incomprehensible, making a beeline towards Bruce.

The smaller man grabbed his facemask and shook it around violently while spewing vitriol, wrenching #9’s neck down and forcing him to hunch over oafishly. The statuesque QB took off his helmet and bowed his head, revealing the same red-faced, shameful expression he had been wearing in the old man’s house.

More fist-shaking and haranguing from the little nightmare coach had Bruce fiddling with the belt on his orange and brown pants. He had been commanded to drop trou. I heard a collective gasp from both teams and the spectators as he opened his pants and let them fall to his feet, revealing his thick, muscled thighs and jockstrap. He got on his hands and knees, the hip pads bulging from the pants at his ankles. The impish little coach stepped forward and clasped the stripe band of his jockstrap.

The massive jumbotron looming over the stands (our high school field of course did not have one) broadcast images of Brue being stripped of his jockstrap, his cup, and a rolled-up tube sock tumbling out of the pouch. The whole thing was yanked to his knees. The camera zoomed in on his crotch, bare-shaven, and his big, smooth thighs, with his outrageously small penis dead center. Just a circumcised head, about the size of an acorn, the entire penis no longer than a thumb, and two testicles the size of grapes. The crowd erupted in howling peals of laughter. Even our teammates were laughing at the sight, traitorously reveling in his humiliation. Only I seemed to feel sympathy for the fallen hero, to feel bad that his small penis was being exposed to an audience of seemingly thousands.

Around a leering circle of players from both teams, the nightmare coach had Bruce down in a six-point stance. The QB still had on his jersey and shoulder pads, but was butt naked from the waist down. It made the exposure of his bare white ass all the more astounding. Both my team and our opponents roared with approval when the diminutive coach mounted up behind the bent-over jock and penetrated him in one barbaric thrust. Bruce’s body tensed, and he cried out in agony. Sports photographers from the local papers had elbowed their way past the ring of observing athletes, many of whom had their hard cocks out, and were crouching down to take zoomed-in photos of the sodomized star.

The little coach butt-fucked him, fucked the poor guy up the ass until he was mewling face down in the dirt, and then it seemed as if everyone else on the field was having a go. In the circle of guys, more and more of them had stripped down. There were assistant coaches, medics, refs; they were all crowding in for a shot at #9’s vulnerable pussy. The expanding ring of wide, hairy bare asses partially blocked my view of Bruce’s defilement.

As in dreams, these things all seemed to happen at once. The blubbering quarterback is getting rammed up the rear by an infinite procession of strange men. Being stripped of his uniform and equipment piece by piece, guys passing his jersey or carrying off his cleats like trophies. Men in the stands openly jacking off to the exquisite humiliation taking place on the field, hundreds of shoulders pumping furiously.

An impossible perimeter of jumbotrons displaying various degrading ordeals that seemed to proceed in parallel with Bruce’s butt-fucking. I saw him sucking two thick cocks at once, his tiny dick being jerked off with just a thumb and pinky, his muscled, spread-eagled body being shaved, his handsome face getting slapped around, the big man being forced to squat down on a football and yield to its pointed end.

In brief flashes, going in and out of sleep, I saw his endless brutish suitors, their faces and their sweat-soaked, hirsute bodies as they violated Bruce’s back door. Each of them mounted up behind him and had their way. The rival, smirking QB for the opposing team, the fat assed linemen with their ball guts and hairy lower backs, the weedy old ref with his white-haired forearms, gangs of drunken, red-faced men from the stands goading each other to ever-greater cruelty. Even the mascot in his full cartoon Viking uniform had a go at the defeated man’s ass, the patch in his crotch where he usually pissed from opened up to reveal an impressive cock.

Eventually, the circle parted, and the assembled men looked at me. I knew that I was now expected to have my turn. To avail myself of the big man’s parted legs and his well-framed ass. I felt the eyes of all the other men upon me.

It evoked the rare occasions when the coaches put me in, usually near the end of the game. The expectation, the demand to prove myself. I feared that I would somehow ruin the play for our team. With sleepwalking feet, I entered the center of the circle and got on my knees – I was naked, as I always slept naked- and forced my achingly hard cock into Bruce Mitchell’s perfect ass. His smooth body was steaming, each muscle pulsing. I was mounting a thoroughbred.

His pussy – and I knew that’s what it was, that the old man across the street had fucked a raw pussy out of Bruce’s tight asshole – was too tight, too boilingly hot for me. My cock spasmed. I gasped, feeling myself plummet like I was on a roller coaster. Unfortunately, I was familiar with the sensation of cumming prematurely, busting my nut upon entry, and my unconscious brain played it in high fidelity.

It was a feeling of disjointment, my body not in sync with my mind, ejaculating before my nervous system had properly lined up an orgasm to reward me. As I woke up I heard the jeering laughter of the spectacting men watching me fail to properly fuck the quarterback. I felt my teammates spank my ass and jostle my shoulders, hooting and cheering me on sarcastically. I was a boy among men, a ridiculed buffoon and pantywaist just as much as poor Bruce. Opening my eyes, I could see my bed sheet tented up, and a welling wetness spreading from the top.

Just then, my dad burst into my room, calling me to breakfast and remarking that it was nearly the afternoon. I looked at him in surprise, and then there was a long, awful moment where we both stared at the pup-tent in my sheet, my obvious boner. Morning wood. He smirked at my belated efforts to cover my crotch with a pillow, then left with a nod of approval when he saw that I was getting up.

Once the door was shut, I whipped off the sheet and observed my softening penis and the enormous puddle still leaking from it. A wet dream. I couldn’t remember the last time I had succumbed to a nocturnal emission. I did my best to wipe up the sticky mess with the sheet and threw on a pair of basketball shorts.

I was going to try to throw the sheets in the laundry, but my Dad called for me again, and I stumbled downstairs. I could barely taste the food, and I didn’t say a word, just grunted at my parents’ statements. My mind was still floating out in that field, the strange, oversized stadium. I could feel the wet grass and mud on my bare feet, the glare of the floodlights. The brief, tantalizing sensation of that pussy around my cock. My thoughts drifted between that nowhere place and Wolcott’s backyard last night, where everything I had seen seemed equally impossible.

After breakfast, I used the bathroom, splashing water on my face. My Dad was waiting for me in the hall. His arms were crossed. He took me aside, looking me up and down behind his glasses. He had a strange smile on his face. He gripped my arm and pulled me close to him, speaking in a low voice close to my ear.

“Listen, son, I took care of the sheets. Don’t worry about it, I was your age once. But really, come on now. Your mother shouldn’t have to deal with that stuff.” He chided gently, poking my bare chest with his finger, and I lowered my head, feeling my cheeks burn. He peered at me, his face a curious mix, half disappointment and half amusement.

“You’re a big boy, Stewie, you can clean up after yourself.” I opened my mouth, about to explain. I couldn’t decide whether it was more humiliating to admit to my father. Did I admit that at 24 years old I still had wet dreams, or let him believe that I was still jacking off under his roof, and lacked the decency and good sense to handle the evidence?

My voice caught in my throat, and instead, I just looked at him mutely, his disbelieving smirk. He found the whole situation funny. I felt my face grow even warmer with embarrassment, and I knew I was blushing furiously.

“It’s all right, jeez, you didn’t kill anybody.” He lightly slapped my shoulder and shook it around, laughing, defusing the weird tension. I mumbled an apology, grabbed a shirt, and made a beeline out of the house.

Mr. Donaldson was in his yard watering his plants. He had what looked like the same Hawaiian shirt as yesterday, completely open to show off his barrel chest and beer belly. The pale skin was coated in dense, white hair.

“Hey there, Stewie, hot enough for you?” I laughed weakly and waved at him.

As I opened my car door, I looked down and saw that I had a hard-on, poking out the front of my nylon gym shorts. I couldn’t believe that such a mortifying interaction, with my father, had led to me popping a chubby. Had he noticed? Had Mr. Donaldson? I had to wait in the gym parking lot a few moments for it to go down before getting out.

In the loud and crowded weight room, I tried to focus on my workout, but I was supremely conscious of all the men around me. I felt paranoid, as if they all somehow knew or suspected what had happened last night. What I had seen and what I had done. That I had witnessed an outrageous act of perversion, brutality, and sodomy, and instead of fleeing in disgust, I had taken my dick in my hand and masturbated to the sight. On all fours, like a dog, with my bare ass exposed to the night. I was a pud-pulling voyeur.

I knew it was ludicrous, but I felt like I was in trouble, nervous yet excited at the prospect of being discovered by them. How would they react to learning that there was a pants-down peeping tom in their midst? A quick-trigger pervert who still got wet dreams and creamed his bed sheets? I knew I needed to put my head down and stop thinking about this, or I would bone up again.

Later, I noticed an extremely muscular guy, just a couple of years older than me, in a skimpy tank top and what could only be described as booty shorts. Guys wore all sorts of stuff at the gym, plus it was the summer, so usually his outfit wouldn’t have grabbed my attention, but now it seemed provocative to me like he was putting his incredibly developed body on lewd display, for the benefit of me and all the other men in the room. Of course, he reminded me of Bruce and last night’s shocking exhibition.

Eventually, he took the bench next to mine, and I observed him more closely. He was a good-looking guy, a classic gym bro, 230 lbs at least. His skin was tan and hairless. Every muscle bulged; he had mountainous pecs, huge shoulders. He looked almost ridiculous. Oranges in his calves, melons or cantaloupes stuffed under his chest, and in the back of his shorts. Overripe fruit.

What really caught my eye was his ass. Its obscene width and firmness were irresistible. I noticed other guys ogle it as well. Steal discreet looks when his wide back was to them. How could you not look at such a specimen? Why else had he built up his ass to such proportions if he didn’t want people staring? I could have placed my water bottle atop that shelf and had him carry it around the gym for me.

Looking at his barely contained flesh, I felt an impulse to grab at him. Paw at him like a drunk lecher gets handsy with a woman. Surely he wanted to be touched, displaying himself like that. A body like that demanded to be groped.

I imagined reaching over and grabbing his chest. Squeezing one of his partially exposed tits, or cupping that fantastic dump truck in his tiny shorts. Parting his big globes and poking at his hole through that thin layer of nylon. He was probably as hairless as Bruce down there. I caught myself as my dick stirred in my shorts, pulled my gaze away.

While I had of course admired another guy’s physique, I had never had these kinds of aggressive sexual thoughts about a dude before. The urge to grab his ass was so bizarre, like the notion one gets to jump when peering over a great height. Witnessing the dismantling of Bruce’s manhood the night before had changed how I perceived these kinds of muscle guys, made me aware of them in a way I had never been before. Put them on the table, so to speak, and filled me with some kind of unfamiliar sexual entitlement.

When he was on his back and benching, lifting his hips to complete his set, his shorts tightened over his crotch, and the material flattened down over just a small bump. Maybe it was shrunken from the exertion of his workout, but whatever he was working with was tiny. It looked more like a woman’s camel toe than a man’s bulge.

His huge pecs squeezed out a few more reps, getting up more weight than I’d ever been able to lift, and it was clear just how empty his package was. I studied the almost labial ridge, and my throat went dry. It made me feel a confusing combination of curiosity, anger, and lust.

I wanted to touch it, poke at the little thing, and hold it between my fingertips to see how much my digits would dwarf it. I daydreamed of pantsing him right there on the gym floor. He was so close I could have just reached over and, in a single motion, yanked both those slutty little shorts and whatever underwear he had on. Pull them off his big feet and toss them in the trash. Make him go bare ass.

I envisioned how all the other men would laugh with glee at his exposure, that the mixed-age crowd would all revert to the cruelty of junior high students eager to join in on the big man’s shaming, and deafen us with their jeers. He eventually put the bar down, plates clattering, and sat up, drinking from his water bottle. The sound woke me from the lurid daydream, but I was still dizzy with lust and this strange aggression.

After adding weight to my bar, I took the opportunity to turn towards his bench and start stretching my hips, side to side, then back and front. He was going to see what a proper man was packing. I was just above average down there, but next to the big blonde himbo, I looked like a porn star. I wasn’t hard, just chubbed up from all this restless stimulation and fantasy, so while my crotch was full, it wasn’t obscene. As he sucked the spout of his water bottle, he gawked at my bulge. I pushed my waist forward, closer towards him. He was at eye level with my hog and couldn’t seem to look away.

I was just far away enough from his face to still be within the bounds of propriety. Plausible deniability due to the proximity of the gym. I knew this was rude, inappropriate, and risky, but some instinct told me that the muscled pretty-boy would not complain about a better-hung male showing off next to him. Peacocking. Practically rubbing his face in it. I knew he would just take it. Submit to the display of superiority.

I was filled with all sorts of foreign-feeling impulses. Some were relatively innocent, flirtatious even, like winking at him. Some were outrageous, like leaning over the bench and spitting a string of saliva down into his face, to see if he’d open his mouth and take it, take it just like Bruce had accepted Wolcott’s endless abuse. I wanted to grab his head and thread my finger through his sweaty golden hair as I dragged his handsome face into my crotch. I wanted to mark him with my scent.

Instead, I just grabbed my groin like I was scratching myself, and shook the whole package as he watched, rapt. His mouth was even hanging open. Then I looked him in the eyes, catching him staring. I kept my face even and neutral, and his cheeks went beet red. His face flushed with guilt and embarrassment.

Somehow, I had been able to make it that he was the one crossing a boundary, and I felt another strange rush of power. He was the chastened pervert, caught staring at a dude’s junk. He dropped his head and averted his gaze, an unambiguous sign of submission, and shortly after that, he abandoned the bench.

I felt like I had won something, but I’m not sure what exactly. It gave me a rush of power, a strange confidence that I could shame a big man like that, make him submit even if only subtly.

For the rest of the day, I thought about Blondie. I imagined what he would look like if I stripped him out of those skimpy workout clothes, and what I could do to him once I had him bare ass in the locker room. Whereas in the past I would have pushed out these uninvited thoughts in the summer heat, they energized me.

That night, I regrouped with my friends. Drinking and smoking in their backyard, reliving glory days. It felt like I was only half there. My thoughts kept returning to Bruce and what he had let the old bastard Hugh Wolcott do to him.

The guys joked that I had gotten overly stoned, blaming my aloofness on that. As we all got looser from alcohol and weed, they teased me for the random erections that kept popping up as I fixated on last night’s vile images. Each time, I just laughed weakly and tried to bring myself back to the present.

I left at about 11:30, and my friends all piled on, joking that I was going home to jack off. I thought to myself that while this was technically correct, they didn’t know the half of it.

I sat in my car up the street from Wolcott’s house with the engine off, like an undercover cop casing the joint. My hand steadily patted the hard-on in my sweatpants. The minutes ticked by slowly, and the night was silent.

I was about to give up when just after midnight Bruce appeared from down the shadowy street. Again, he wore the varsity jacket that he had outgrown, so tight on the shoulders that he couldn’t close it, and hanging a couple of inches above his waist. It was marked with black stains that I could now identify as cigar burns.

His hands were in his pockets, his head lowered. It might have been my imagination, but there seemed to be a slight limp to his gait. I sank in the driver’s seat and watched him knock on the door. After a few moments, it swung open, and I saw him get roughly pulled inside by Wolcott. I waited five minutes, then quietly exited my car.

I followed them around back and found them in the living room. Both men sat facing each other, knee to knee, like they were having some kind of heart-to-heart. Wolcott was in his armchair, leaning over to reach Bruce, who sat lower to the ground in a dining room chair.

Wolcott was dressed in the same yellow-stained wife-beater, fatigues, and combat boot outfit as the previous night. Bruce had stripped down, or been stripped, to just his varsity jacket. He was bare-chested and naked from the waist down, and barefoot, his skin blindingly white. Like last night, just wearing that one article of clothing made him seem even more naked somehow, more exposed, more ridiculous.

His arms were tied behind the back of the chair behind him, and Wolcott’s hands worked between his spread open legs. The wiry muscles in the old man’s white-furred arms were straining, and his big hands crushed what I knew to be the younger man’s shockingly undersized manhood. He had Bruce’s nuts in one fist, pulling them down towards his thighs, and his other hand twisted and squeezed his dick.

Both men stared into each other’s eyes intensely. I could tell that Bruce was straining to maintain his torturer’s gaze, not to cry out. Wolcott puffed on the cigar between his lips, blowing smoke out of his nostrils into the former quarterback’s agonized face. He smirked at the trembling man, daring him to protest as he gave his dick and balls an Indian burn.

Bruce’s big, shaven thighs shuddered with each squeeze and twist, but he kept himself in place. He even lifted his butt off the chair and thrust his hips forward to bring his defenseless package closer to the sick old son of a bitch.

As I watched Bruce accept this torture, a memory of my youth came back. I was playing Pee Wees or Mighty Mites or some Pop Warner division like that. It was early August, the start of the season. It was one of those practices where older players had joined the coaches, as assistants or role models or some other aim I didn’t understand.

Most of these bigger guys frightened me. They seemed dangerous, their voices deep and their language crude, their colossal bodies towering over us, moving with the force of titans. I kept clear of most of them, as if our coaches had released a dozen stallions out onto the dusty field. However, Bruce had graced me with a high five in front of my teammates that made me blush with pride at his acknowledgement.

Before practice started, the coaches had lined us up for a cup check, going down the line and having us knock on our crotches to produce the hollow thud indicating that each player was properly equipped. The handful of delinquents had been made to do up-downs while the rest of us took a knee around Coach Wilson.

From his neon Starter jacket, he produced the item in question. Rubber and hard, vented plastic, like the holes in a hockey mask, bulging with potency.

“Men, this right here is the most important piece of equipment that we use when we play ball.” He held it in front of us, displaying it like a holy relic.

“You need to wear one of these, always. That way, when you’re older, you can play a game that’s even more fun than football.” At this last sentence, his voice slowed and deepened with innuendo. My heart fluttered when his big, hairy hand grabbed the sizable basket in his Zubaz pants, and the other coaches and older players laughed. My face flushed, thinking about my coach’s dick and balls. I had seen him putting it away after taking a piss in the bushes, and knew he had a big, thick, hairy thing between his legs.

“Brucie knows what I’m talking about.” The rest of the coaching staff erupted with laughter and elbowed Bruce or slapped him on the back. He snickered along obligingly, though in retrospect I realize he was likely a virgin himself.

Then we were permitted to stand, and practice began. The sermon’s message was clear. Protect the dangling organs between your legs at all costs. Safeguard your father’s and forefathers’ most cherished gifts. They were the precious seeds from which all our strength, size, and virility would one day flourish. They were your birthright, your inheritance, and your genetic future all bound up in two vulnerable orbs, your most treasured masculine asset, just hanging there like a pair of bullseyes. The essential source of all your manhood, to be protected above all else.

And now here was Bruce, some 12 or 13 years later, legs spread wide open, letting the old man brutalize those sacred, vital testicles. He had yielded the wellspring of his masculinity to this vile sadist. I was outraged by this heresy.

The former champ was completely passive, enduring each crushing squeeze, each punch, twist, or slap. Sweating and straining to keep his legs open, to welcome the older man’s careful, unhurried battery of his balls. Just like last night, Bruce was complicit in his ruin, and this knowledge both sickened and inflamed me.

Wolcott was experimenting with him. Staring at his agonized face as he tried out different techniques, watching for what got the biggest reaction. What hurt more, one finger jabbed into a single testicle or three? What prompted him to squirm faster, a single punch to the boys or a steady volley of bitch slaps to his ball sack? Wolcott took his time, studying his victim’s body language and clearly relishing his agony.

Between each prod or squeeze, he’d pause, watching the younger man tremble, and the old man would breathe deeply or sigh with satisfaction like he was savoring a fine whiskey. I even saw him lick his lips when tears began streaming down the ex-jock’s stoic face. The old pervert’s big cock was clearly erect in his camo pants, pulsing in appreciation each time his victim winced or twisted in pain.

I wanted to bang on the window, to shout at Wolcott to stop, to holler at Bruce to close his legs, to defend himself and his small but precious gonads from the sick old bastard’s marauding hands. I had to help him. My mouth was dry, and I was entranced, boned up obscenely. Once again, instead of intervening, all I could muster was base self-pleasure. I quickly freed my leaking hard-on from my waistband. Before I knew it, my sweatpants and underwear were all the way down at my ankles, and I felt the mulch dig into my bare knees.

I slowly wacked off as Wolcott tormented Bruce’s dick and balls with the patience and precision of a skilled artisan. The former athlete’s smooth, muscled thighs would shake when the old man seemed to try to make his fingertips touch between the flesh of his testes, and sweat cascaded down his forehead, but he never fought back against this slow and deliberate attack on his manhood.

They kept looking into each other’s eyes. Bruce seemed meek and fearful yet determined, like he wanted to make his torturer proud. Wolcott regarded him with utter contempt, as if he expected him to break at any point. There was an intimacy and a bond between them that seemed nonsensical but made the outrageous scene even more erotic for me.

He emptied his Scotch and finished his second cigar, stuffing both butts in Bruce’s jacket pockets, then stood from the armchair. Wolcott walked behind Bruce, quickly untying his arms and tipping the chair to force him up. An order was barked, and Bruce hit the floor and began doing clapping push-ups. Wolcott circled him, shouting insults and spitting gobs of saliva down onto his head, jacket, and flexing bare ass cheeks.

As he paced around his prey, the old man took his rampant hard-on from out of his stained camo pants, stroking himself while watching the young man straining below. Wolcott eyed the boy like a predator, lubing up his cock and yelling at him like a drill sergeant.

I was amazed at Bruce’s endurance and toughness. He truly was an elite athlete, able to perform such a difficult exercise after having his testicles tortured for half an hour. Eventually, though, he slowed, and the old prick seemed to grow more and more verbally abusive, jeering at him to keep at it. The squat little man stepped between his planked legs and kicked him right in his already brutalized nuts with a vicious punt that made the jock finally collapse belly down on the floor.

Wolcott pulled his fatigues to his ankles and whipped the jacket off the fallen man, finally stripping him entirely. The little bastard then dropped down atop Bruce, positioning his hips over the larger man’s vulnerable ass. He wiggled around and adjusted himself, then pierced between those big white upturned cheeks with his slicked mallet of a cock.

Bruce’s body tensed as the short old man roughly penetrated him. I heard a stifled yelp and noticed how Bruce’s limbs shook. While I knew my former hero was no stranger to this cruel man’s cock, it was clear that such a forceful entry still tortured him. I could see Wolcott’s wide, hairy ass cheeks flex and pump as he bottomed out and then began the frantic, humping strokes, sodomizing the humbled giant beneath him.

Remarkably, the valiant athlete resumed the pushups, slowly lifting both of them up and down from the floor while getting mercilessly buggered by his tormentor’s over-sized prick. What could it feel like, having such a large, rigid object rammed up your guts? I shuddered thinking about it.

Wolcott buried his face into Bruce’s left muscle and bit. His victim winced but kept lifting both himself and his violator up and down at a steady pace. Wolcott put all his weight down on the bigger man, pounding away wildly, humping him in a frenzy. It looked like a Great Dane getting mounted by a Chihuahua.

I, in turn, humped my palm. I was lost in my ridiculous self-rut. It was like I could see myself from above, a furious masturbator, on my knees, ass bared, thrusting into my hand while also watching the scene inside. I lifted my shirt off of me and slung the collar back over my shoulders, so that I could fondle my bare chest with my left hand while I wanked. I tweaked and squeezed my nipples like a pervert while pumping my hard-on. Inside the house, Wolcott slammed his hips into Bruce, who had finally collapsed face-first into the floor, completely defeated.

The buggery was short-lived as I could tell the old man was barrelling towards an orgasm. I squeezed my ball bag with my left hand while jacking myself off, panting like a dog. We ended up cumming simultaneously, Wolcott in his stooge’s guts and me onto the old man’s shrubs. I left my spot by the window while the old bastard was still slamming into his bottom’s hips, determined to drain his seed into him completely. My spooge, splattered against the rosebush, was glinting in the moonlight as I slinked back home.

The next night, I found them back in the living room. They were both on all fours, facing Wolcott’s TV. I recognized the footage. He was showing the former champ his highlight video while brutally sodomizing him. Whenever Bruce’s head would drop, he’d grab the back of his hair and yank him back up, forcing him to keep his eyes on his past triumphs. As he humped him, the old man was hissing something into his ear.

I watched, fascinated, at his staccato ass-pounding technique. During lulls in action or cuts, the old man’s butt-fucking would slow, building up with the momentum of the play on the screen, then coming to a frenzy with each touchdown or pass completion. Bruce’s body would be rocked and buffeted on the floor with each pounding thrust.

As I jerked myself off in his bushes, I realized that Wolcott wanted to imprint himself and this wretched butt-fucking upon the former quarterback’s athletic career. He wanted those proud memories to be corrupted, so that he would come to associate his successes on the field with being all fours and thoroughly buggered by the little old beast. The cruelty of it made me feel woozy, and my wanking dick and hand became slick with precum.

Over the next few nights, I spied more unimaginable sights. The old man was backing his wide, thickly furred ass into Bruce’s handsome face. Smothering the fallen jock with those fat, spread open cheeks and turning his face into a throne. It turned my stomach, watching #9 making out with the old man’s hairy asshole, it also turned my cock granite.

Watersports, the champ on his knees willingly drinking his tormentor’s piss and licking his plum-sized head clean, then kissing it in thanks. Stranger stuff too, things I had only seen on the darker corners of the web and shied away from. The old man was slowly funneling a thin metal rod into his dickhole while Bruce sweated and squirmed. Clamps on his nipples and tiny pecker connected to cables leading to what looked like a small car battery, where Wolcott worked buttons that made him twist and shout. It got more and more depraved each night.

After that, I had seen enough. I stopped going to the old man’s window and tried to forget what I saw, but of course I couldn’t. Instead, a strange plan formed in my head. In the heat and haze of the summer, it solidified before me.

To Be Continued…

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