The Neighborhood Hero 1
By RSchwuler.
[google-translator]
It was the summer after my senior year of college, and I was back home and happy to see that Bruce was in town too. He greeted me warmly, grabbing me for a big hug, ruffling my hair, and putting his arm around my shoulder. I let my face be crushed into his broad pecs, relishing his comforting smell and my closeness to him. He still treated me like a little brother and not some annoying kid who followed him around with puppy dog eyes. We caught up a bit, and I got him to promise to hang out with me at some point noncommittally. I walked away, smiling to myself- just being near him made me feel good, kind of tingly inside.
Hugh Wolcott, meanwhile, was a miserable old son of a bitch who lived in a house catty-corner from my own. He was known for picking fights with neighbors over trivial issues. He must have been in his mid-60s or so, and his wife had left him years ago. Who could blame her? He was apparently a former military person, but you wouldn’t have known it from looking at his pot belly. Still, he had the terrifying demeanor of a drill sergeant. Growing up in the neighborhood, all the kids knew to keep a wide berth from his house. I hadn’t thought about him in years.
I had never known the two to interact, but on a Thursday afternoon, a week after I got back to town, I looked out my bedroom window and noticed something strange. I saw Bruce’s car parked in front of the old man’s house, and he was rushing up the walk to the front door, with five huge bags of groceries in each muscled arm. I watched as he rang the bell and waited patiently while struggling to hold the bags. Mr. Wolcott opened his door but barely acknowledged him. The old man stepped aside, and Bruce hurried in, as if he were late, and the door slammed shut. I figured he must have been just dropping off the groceries or helping him put them away, but as the minutes passed, that seemed less and less likely. I stayed there, kneeling on my bed, head propped up on the windowsill, just as I had as a kid, strangely transfixed by this mystery.
Finally, a full twenty minutes later, Bruce emerged from Wolcott’s house. His face was bright red, and he was moving even faster than before, as if he didn’t want to be seen. His shoulders were drooped and his head hung low. He fled so fast that I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like he had been crying.
I asked my parents about it, and they said that when he was in town, Bruce brought the old man groceries, helped with yard work, and seemed to do other chores in and around the house. What a sweetheart, my Mom remarked, then wondered aloud why such a nice, good-looking young man still hadn’t found a wife. My Dad followed up with a comment of his own, musing how it was a shocker that with an arm like his, Bruce hadn’t gone on to play pro, how he had instead taken a job in the city and seemed to come home every month or so.
Sure enough, that Saturday, around 10:00 am, I heard the whine of a lawn mower and saw Bruce, shirtless in a pair of cut-off jeans, operating an old push mower in Mr. Wolcott’s large lawn. He had a pair of scuffed running shoes and striped tube socks pulled up his bulging calves. His shorts were surprisingly skimpy, covering just the top few inches of his thighs. I had never seen him wearing something so revealing. I couldn’t help but admire his muscles; the man could have been a fitness model. He seemed even bigger than when he was still playing ball. His lack of modesty felt very out of character, and he seemed uncomfortable being so under-dressed. His face was fixed in concentration as he drove the rumbling mower in front of him.
I had gone outside to wait for my friend to pick me up to go to the beach, so I was just standing in my driveway in a bathing suit, tank top, and sandals. It must have been 95 degrees already, and Bruce’s usual ivory skin was flush and red with exertion, and I could tell he was sweating buckets. I was about to go across the street to say hi when old man Wolcott burst out of his front door like a bat out of hell.
The short little prick was yelling about something at the top of his lungs, and descended upon big Bruce like an angry bird as he pointed to a patch of grass in the corner of his lawn. His words slurred together, but I could deduce that he was pointing out a spot that Bruce had missed. I gasped as he grabbed Bruce’s ear and pulled the big man’s head down to his own chest’s level, wrenching his neck violently, and made him look at the spot in question, all while spouting foul, abusive language. All the more shocking, Bruce just took it, shoulders hunched, letting his neck remain twisted painfully low. He just absorbed the tirade.
Just then, I heard a voice to my left and saw that our next-door neighbor, Mr. Donaldson, was standing beside me on his side of the fence. He was about Wolcott’s age but nowhere near as frightening, just a goofy old slob. My parents regularly complained about the state of his yard, or his tendency to tie one on for loud, late nights with his poker buddies. He made me uncomfortable, but compared to Wolcott, he was Santa Claus. Come to think of it, Mr. Donaldson kind of looked like Jolly Old Saint Nick’s sleazy, hard-drinking cousin.
“Yup. Wolcott sure is a harsh taskmaster. He’ll be riding that poor kid’s ass for the next couple of hours, and I doubt he’ll even thank him.” He observed with a laugh. I looked at Mr. Donaldson with wide eyes, unable to respond, and then turned back to the demeaning scene across the street.
I just continued to watch the old man berate Bruce in public, unable to look away from the spectacle. Wolcott had released the younger man’s ear but was following him close behind, continuing to yell at him as he returned to mowing the lawn. Bruce seemed to flinch at each word. Mr. Donaldson got closer and spoke in a lower voice.
“Say, Stewie, you ever wanna do chores for me? There’s plenty here that needs doing, and I’ll even give you a couple a dollars. I’m tough, but nowhere near as strict as that old bastard Wolcott. Unless you want me to be, of course.” He chuckled and winked at me, leering at me with a kind of mischievous grin. I tried to say something, but my throat felt dry. Mr. Donaldson took another half step towards me, his hand rubbing the hairy belly that his Hawaiian shirt failed to conceal, and I smelled his unique cologne of cigars and scotch. Just then, my friend’s car pulled up, and he honked his horn gratuitously, shaking me out of my reverie.
“Well, you just let me know, boy.” He said, laughing wheezily as I waved goodbye without looking at him and hurried to the car.
“What the fuck is all that about? Is that Bruce Mitchell?” My friend asked as I buckled into the passenger side seat behind him.
I just lowered my head and shook it vigorously. Confirming that it was Bruce would have felt like an inexcusable betrayal As my friend sped off I looked out the window once more, out at Bruce, and our eyes connected. His face blanched with shame as he recognized me. I looked at his big, well-muscled body. His six-pack and obliques, his bulging thighs, his huge domed pecs, almost like a woman’s breasts. Slick and shiny with sweat, his big muscles on display like that looked almost lewd. I had never seen him wearing something so skimpy; it almost felt provocative. Maybe he was under-dressed due to the heat.
As we drove to the beach, I remembered something. I had seen Bruce shirtless before, and he always had a tuft of black chest hair between his pecs, which continued down into a happy trail. I had always thought it looked really cool while I was growing up. A decidedly masculine appointment of hair but not the grotesque carpets of our fathers and grandfathers. And I remembered that once I started growing the same trail and got sprouts on my chest, I had been excited because now I had man hair like Bruce. But seeing him just now, I realized he had been completely hairless. His once proud pectorals were bare. Even his exposed legs and thighs looked smooth. Even his forearms, pink and baby smooth! Bruce had gotten rid of his manly body hair.
I couldn’t shake the thought, and at the beach, I found my eyes drawn to men’s bodies, young and old. Even guys with hairless chests had some body hair, usually on their lower legs, on their calves, and forearms. Most had pit hair, except for a few bodybuilder types. Almost all had a little bit below their belly button, too. I rubbed my happy trail, the little thicket on my chest. I looked over at my friend, who was rubbing suntan lotion on his chest, matting the impressive pelt he had grown while at school. I thought about it and realized that for Bruce to be as completely hairless as he was, either he or someone else had to have consciously taken that hair away from him.
Late that same Saturday night, I walked home from my friend’s house. I was still thinking about what I had seen that morning when I saw a tall, wide-shouldered man walking ahead of me. He was wearing our high school’s varsity jacket. As I got closer, I realized it was Bruce. In the muggy darkness, it felt strange for him to appear like this, out of my thoughts, as if I had evoked him. I was almost going to call out to him when he turned onto Hugh Wolcott’s lawn, walked up to the front door, and knocked. Why would he be going there? What business would he have with that mean old bastard at nearly midnight?
I slowed down to stay out of view and watch what happened. Bruce stood in front of the door, shifting his weight from side to side nervously. He had his hands clasped behind his back. After several moments, Hugh opened up. He looked Bruce up and down, scowling as usual. Then, to my surprise, he reached over, grabbed Bruce by the back of the head, and dragged him inside.
If I hadn’t been buzzed and a little stoned, I would have just minded my own business. But my curiosity got the best of me, and the hours of partying with my old high school buddies emboldened me. As quick as a cat burglar, I snuck onto Hugh’s lawn and found them in the living room, which faced the old man’s backyard. I crouched in the bushes, keeping low.
When I saw them, I gasped again. They were standing perpendicular to me, and Hugh was lecturing Bruce, yelling at him, wagging his finger in his face. The bigger man just cowered, flinching and trembling, taking it all like a wimp.
I slowly crawled forward, trying to stay out of sight. I was still too far to hear what he was hollering about, but Hugh looked genuinely furious, his face tomato red, his eyes and neck veins bulging, spit launching onto Bruce’s neck and chest. Again, I was astonished to see Bruce just standing there, enduring the dressing down without protest. They both stood at a profile so I could see the right side of my idol’s face as he accepted the abuse. Bruce was blushing, his cheeks scarlet, his eyes lowered, and his head bowed slightly.
Bruce was wearing what must have been his old high school varsity jacket – it looked tight around his broad shoulders. He also had on a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and just his socks. Hugh was wearing a wife beater that showed off his hairy chest and shoulders, with green camouflage pants and combat boots. I could see dog tags around his chest. He had a cigar in his mouth, and I could smell the acrid smoke from here. I got closer to the open window, staying low.
Then Hugh did something that blew my mind. Whipping back his hand, he slapped Bruce right across the face. It sounded like a thunderclap, and the force of it unsteadied the big man, knocking him to his left. My mouth hung open – surely Bruce would retaliate, stick up for himself. I braced for him to take a shot at this crazy old man.
Instead, to my shock, Bruce just stooped down to bring his upper body closer to Hugh, thrusting his face out while turning his head. His eyes were locked on the floor. He was offering his other cheek to Wolcott. The old man snorted at his victim’s abject obedience, chuckled once cruelly, then quickly wound up another blow with his right hand and slapped Bruce’s left cheek. This blow was equally hard, as now Bruce stumbled to his right. The old bastard was strong.
It was so strange. Hugh was no pushover, and I was sure he weighed a lot with his big belly, but he couldn’t have been taller than 5’8 and maybe 190 lbs, tops. Meanwhile, I knew for a fact that Bruce was 6’5, maybe 250 lbs, built like an Adonis, a successful college athlete. Even with his boots on, the top of Hugh’s bald head barely came up to Bruce’s chest. Here he was letting this nasty little old man slap him around like a bitch. Instead of breaking the old man’s jaw, he was just bending forward at the waist, lowering himself like a servant, hobbling himself over, so that his head was at Hugh’s level.
I could see Bruce’s huge chest pumping – his whole big body was quivering with fear, shame, or both. He looked absolutely pathetic, a big, strong man wearing his old varsity jacket, getting slapped around while cowering before a pipsqueak. Then I heard the words. They were faint through the open window but clear.
“Thank you, Sir.” His voice lacked the easy, resounding confidence I had always known. It was the whimper of a punished child, a cowed wimp.
Hugh cackled evilly and then began to wallop Bruce’s handsome face, back and forth, open palm, then the back of his hand, over and over again. These were lighter slaps than the first two, but the speed was sickening. The former quarterback just stood there like a goddamn punching bag, wobbling back and forth with each smack but keeping his footing. It would have been almost funny to see, like something out of an old-fashioned cartoon, if it wasn’t so brutal.
Over and over again, Hugh whacked Bruce across the face, slapping his cheeks, occasionally clipping him across the back of his head, the sharp slap sound replaced by a duller thud. A few of the times, Hugh cracked his palms against Bruce’s big ears. I winced at seeing that, knowing how much that hurts.
Bruce only groaned out another miserable-sounding thank you, and Hugh roared with laughter, purposefully boxing Bruce’s ears in with both hands, clapping them over the big man’s head several more times.
When the walloping finally stopped, he held onto Bruce’s head, cupping his cheeks. There was no tenderness in this embrace – with the stogie in his mouth, Hugh looked like a mob boss tormenting a doomed man, or some vicious heel out of professional wrestling gloating at his victory over a powerless jobber.
An odd thought came to me – maybe because I was back here in my hometown. I thought of a childhood friend’s dad, a rather intimidating guy, an Italian man’s man. Stocky and dark-featured. Foul-mouthed, gruff, and prone to anger. So different from my father, an easy-going WASP who never raised his voice. I was both frightened and fascinated by the man. One night, I was over at their house, and we were watching an action movie. It must have been a sleepover, four of us lying belly down on the floor while his father sat in a recliner. The hero was letting a bad guy go, but slapped him across the face to humiliate him. Without turning from the screen, my friend’s Dad spoke.
“See that? That’s how he shows everyone that the other guy’s a bitch. And look how the dipshit just takes it. Doesn’t fight back. He doesn’t have any fucking balls.” His swearing scandalized me. I remember he was drinking a nightcap, and he belched noisily before continuing.
“Men get punched. Men punch men, but men slap bitches. If you don’t respect someone at all, you slap ’em.” He jerked forward and swept his big hand through the air, and I watched, rapt. I imagined what it would feel like to accept a blow like that. He continued, musing to himself.
“He just got ruined for life. All his minions saw him get treated like a bitch by his worst enemy. He might as well have killed him. Now everyone knows that he’s just a bitch, a bitch with no fucking balls. Better to die like a man than live like a bitch.” Though I said nothing and kept watching the movie, I was riveted by this idea. Strangely thrilled by it. What would that feel like, to be exposed as a bitch, as gutless and so spectacularly weak in front of all the other men?
For some reason, then, as now, I was left with an insistent hard-on in my pants. As I kneeled beneath the windowsill, just as I had in Bobby Turino’s darkened den, I discreetly rubbed my crotch, fondling my erect penis through my pants.
Hugh kept squeezing Bruce’s face roughly, shaking his head, as he whispered some menacing words to the captive man. Bruce was blushing, sweating like crazy, and I could tell that tears had fallen from his eyes, but again, he did nothing to put an end to the mistreatment. His whole body was trembling. Hugh took the smoldering stub of his cigar and jammed it over the chest of Bruce’s jacket, smearing a blotch of ash on the white leather, then stuffed it into one of the jacket’s pockets. He whipped out another big stogie and lit it, then grabbed Bruce’s jaw with his left hand. Clasping it tightly, he brought his victim’s face up close to his as he smoked, blowing several plumes of thick gray smoke right into the athlete’s mouth and nose.
Hugh must have subjected him to this particular abuse before. Bruce just relaxed in Bruce’s vise-like grip, eyes closed, breathing in the foul-smelling smoke. Struggling not to cough. Allowing himself to be polluted. It sickened me, and yet I felt a woozy thrill at the sight.
“Drop your pants, sissyboy,” Hugh growled his order and released Bruce’s chin, pushing him back and blowing more cigar smoke into his face.
I watched as he pulled down his pants, quickly stepping out of them and taking off his socks while he was at it. I was surprised to see that he wore tighty-whities instead of boxers or boxer-briefs. I had stopped wearing those well before I got to junior high, and I remember the few classmates who wore them past puberty being teased mercilessly. With his jeans off, cowering in his tighty-whities, his muscled, conspicuously hairless white legs exposed, the big football hero looked quite boyish.
I looked at Bruce’s big bulge, the one I hadn’t been able to help but admire for years when I saw it in his jeans or gym shorts. In just his underwear, there was something off about its shape.
Hugh stepped forward and shook it. As I saw his bare hand squeeze Bruce’s package, shake and wrench it around unnaturally, I gasped. I couldn’t believe it.
“Oooooh-ho-ho-ho. Big man! Mr. Big Pecker, huh?!” Hugh shouted derisively, laughing and coughing cigar smoke. #9 just stared at the floor, his face frozen with humiliation.
“Show and tell time, boy, me! Show me and tell me!” Hugh’s eyes glimmered, and he leered at the shame-faced younger man with a psychotic, toothy smile.
Bruce whimpered and opened his waistband. He pulled it back to reveal a large, rolled-up tube sock.
“I stuff, Sir. I stuff my crotch with a tube sock. Just like you showed me how.” His voice warbled with embarrassment.
“Damn, that’s pathetic, boy! Why the fuck do you do that?” Hugh roared with delight.
“I stuff my crotch with a sock to make it seem like I’m packing a real man’s cock instead of a little boy-sized penis.” He warbled through the words Hugh must have taught him.
“Goddamn, you do that every day, boy?” He stood close to the former quarterback, inspecting the ridiculous counterfeit bulge.
“Yes, Sir, every day before I leave the house, just like you told me.”
“So every day you’re out there strutting around like you’re swinging some big old hog, when nothing could be further from the truth?” Hugh asked while gripping the stuffed basket, shaking it around. Snapping the waistband of his tighty-whities again and again.
“Yes, Sir!” He chirped while letting himself be manhandled.
“What do you think your friends would say if they knew you stuffed your crotch? Or your boss, or the fellows you work with?” Hugh had reached up and thrown an arm over his shoulder, forcing him to bend over slightly. As he spoke, he kept toying with the artificially-enhanced bulge.
“I’d be a laughing stock, Sir. I’d be ruined.” He admitted glumly, eyes fixed on his big bare feet.
Wolcott then yanked the waistband of the tighty-whities so that they fell to his hairless ankles. The sock spilled out and his true equipment, bald and boy-sized, was revealed. The whole thing, dick and balls, looked about the size of a lime. My childhood hero was hung like a 9-year-old.
The old man raised his eyes at Bruce’s exposed genitals and gave a throaty laugh.
“Christ. Looks like your little thing’s gotten even smaller, boy!” He grabbed it in his hand, blowing cigar smoke at it. Now pantsless, the former football hero stared straight ahead, arms at his side, like he was getting a physical. Hugh had large hands for a short man, so his thick, hairy fingers dwarfed Bruce’s miniature endowment. For a few moments, both men were silent as Hugh fondled him, inspecting him. His little pink penis was thin and thumb-sized, and his tiny testicles were pulled high and tight up in their sack, as if they had never descended. Like all of the hair on his body, his pubes had been closely shaved, completing the effect that his genitals had not properly progressed through puberty.
“Now tell me, dipshit, does this little pecker fuck pussy?” Hugh asked, holding the little nub between his thumb and forefinger. He then let it go, only to slap at his junk, a classic nut tap amped up to something far more forceful.
“No, Sir!” Bruce cried in pain.
“Does this pecker get blow jobs?” After each invasive question, he slapped his hand upwardly, smacking him in his dainty little coin purse and making him hop and squirm like a putz.
“No, Sir, never.” He shook his head furiously, flinching in anticipation of the blow.
“Does this pecker get to cum, boy?” SLAP! Again, Wolcott whipped his big hand against the puny ball bag.
“Just from my hand and right in the trash, Sir!” His voice was high and strained.
“That’s right. Right in the trash. Do you hump women, Brucey?” SLAP!
“I don’t hump women, I hump pillows, Sir!” He croaked out.
“What?!” SLAP! Bruce stumbled from the blow to his gonads.
“I don’t hump women, I just hump pillows, Sir!” Bruce repeated louder, his voice heavy with pain.
“What are you, boy?” SLAP! This one was so hard that Bruce fell to his hands and knees, but still he called out his pathetic answer, loud and clear.
“I’m a virgin, Sir. I’m a virgin! I’m a virgin for life, for you, Sir!” The big man remained on all fours while Hugh leaned forward and grabbed his chin.
“That’s right. You’re a virgin for life. You’ll be a virgin for the rest of your life.” He pronounced, looking into the cowed man’s eyes.
“Big Brucey Mitchell, #9. The QB. The neighborhood stud. Never put his little dick in anyone. And why?” Hugh had his fingers threaded through Bruce’s short-cropped black hair, pulling his head up.
“Because I’m Daddy’s boy! I’m Daddy’s boy.” The prone man answered, gasping for air.
The old man grabbed his ear and led him to a chair where he sat, then had the big man crawl onto his lap. He yanked the tighty-whities from his ankles and threw them away. Hugh proceeded to give Bruce a long, brutal spanking. Bruce was facing the window, and I could watch his anguished face react to each stinging blow. A mirror opposite let me see his rear end, how his big, bare ass and hamstrings absorbed the punishment. The whimpering lug seemed to know to count them out and thank him for each one. Twenty slaps in, Bruce was yelping at each impact. By 40, the tears had started.
Bruce looked ridiculous, his big form perched over the smaller man’s knees, tears streaming down his beet-red face. But he didn’t resist, didn’t fight back whatsoever. He just lay there, looking at the floor as tears streamed down his face, accepting every slap to his bright red backside. Tallying his torture and thanking the old tyrant for it. Hugh kept raining down blows, laughing cruelly at his victim’s agonized blubbering. He alternated cheeks, spanked the top of his thighs.
Occasionally, in between spanks, Bruce’s legs spread open, revealing both his hole and the back of his ball sack and penis. His genitals looked so small, and like his pubic bush, the whole area had been shaved completely smooth. Squirming on the old man’s lap, his tiny scrotum and little dangling penis, the hairlessness, it all made him pathetic, laughably underdeveloped. I couldn’t believe the guy I looked up to had such a joke between his legs.
Wolcott grabbed the belt from Bruce’s discarded jeans for the last few, and I winced while watching each strike, the way the leather slashed into his jiggling crimson cheeks.
Finally, he let the devastated younger man stand up. Without being told, Bruce took a few steps back, arms at his side, presenting himself. The old man retrieved his phone from the side table and held it up, filming his victim.
“What’s your name?” He asked, holding the phone’s camera so that he could capture both Bruce’s face and his naked body.
“Bruce Charles Mitchell, Sir.” He answered in a clear voice, chin up, chest out, shoulders back, stomach in, his arms crossed behind him. He looked like a soldier at attention who had been stripped of his uniform. A naked POW.
‘And what are you, boy?” Hugh asked with a grumble.
“Sir! I am a crotch-stuffing, pillow-humping, little dick virgin jerk-off faggot jock boy, Sir.” He called out. Loud and proud.
“Again, name and what you are, boy. Louder!” Hugh demanded from behind his phone’s camera.
“Bruce Charles Mitchell, Sir! I’m a crotch-stuffing, pillow-humping, little dick virgin jerk-off faggot jock boy, Sir!” He barked out the mouthful obediently like he was answering the call of his superior officer. His minuscule Peter wriggled a bit as he roared the degrading phrases.
“And don’t you forget it. Now sing it, jock boy!” The old man commanded, leaning back in the armchair and taking a drink of his scotch.
The big naked man cleared his throat, arms at his sides, and began to sing in a quavering voice.
“We are the Vikings of CHS
On the field or the court
We are the best
Cheer for the brown and orange.
Victory is on the way.
Win this game the Viking way!
Cheer for…”
He continued, eyes fixed ahead.
I mouthed the words along, astonished. I had played on the same team as him, only several years later and with a far less distinguished career. He was making Bruce sing our high school fight song while wearing his old varsity jacket. Just the jacket – his pale, bare belly was exposed, as were his huge, hairless pectoral muscles. And of course, the 30-year-old man was completely bottomless beneath the jacket. His huge ass, red and bruised with handprints and belt marks, was on display, and his tiny hairless penis and boy balls stuck out between his massive, muscular thighs. Somehow, just wearing the jacket made him seem even more naked than if he were fully stripped. He looked absurd – Hugh had turned the star athlete’s stature and impressive physique into a source of shame instead of pride. Bruce made a pathetic spectacle of himself, earnestly belting out the fight song to its finish with his little pecker poking out.
“Again! Do the cheer!” Wolcott clapped and gestured impatiently.
This time, as he sang the fight song, Bruce performed a sort of ridiculous dance routine, one I also recognized from our school’s cheerleaders back in the day. He stretched out his arms and legs in X, then brought his arms together, raising them over his head, all while wiggling his hips and shaking his big, bare ass. He thrust his hips forward, then pumped them back, humping the air as he cheered for his beloved Vikings.
“Again!” Hugh yelled, smiling gleefully from behind his camera as he recorded the former QB’s shame. Bruce groaned and sprang back into action.
A routine that could be alluring when performed by a woman was ridiculous when performed by a 6’5, 250 lb man, especially one who was porky-pigging, pantless with a comically small penis bouncing with each move, and a big red bottom. The floor shook as he jumped around, pantomiming a cheerleader.
“Again! Sexier!” Hugh had whipped out his cock from his camo pants and was stroking himself while still filming the humiliated younger man with his phone. For a short guy, the old man had a big, thick cock, a hideous, red, hard-on.
This time, big Bruce really got into it, writhing like a stripper, feeling himself up. Thrusting his hips and shaking his ass like a whore. Wolcott cackled at the performance while pawing at his hard-on.
“Come on, that’s it. Sexier, sexier! Do it like a real cunt for me!” He ordered raspily.
This time, Bruce made his voice a breathy, feminine lilt, and he really put his big ass into it. He wriggled his huge body and writhed with passion His little dick bobbing around with each thrust, incapable as it was incapable of swinging properly. He held his hips while wiggling them, squeezed his pecs into a set of jugs while bending forward, flicked his wrists, and twirled in place. It reminded me of a drag queen, a true pantomime of girliness. He bent over, slapped the ground while looking over his shoulder provocatively, then popped back up. I had never imagined he could make himself so obscenely feminine.
“Yeaaaah, good girl. Now get that little dick hard!” The humbled quarterback brought his hand to his tiny dink and began working it into a laughably short boner. In just a couple of strokes, he was fully hard.
“Now grab that. Put it up next to your little pecker.” He snapped his fingers.
Bruce was holding a trophy, some kind of MVP award he must have won back in the day. At Hugh’s instruction, he held it against his undersized hard-on. The trophy completely dwarfed him – Bruce’s erect dick was barely longer than the width of his hand. The old man stood from his chair, panning in and out with his phone to capture the ridiculous comparison.
“How long is that little pecker, boy?” He sat back down with a thump, phone still raised to record the cowering jock.
“4 inches, Sir!” He chirped out. Bruce was panting, voice ragged with exertion and lust from his ridiculous cheer performance.
“Goddamn, that’s small!” Hugh roared with laughter. I noticed that Bruce’s little boner kind of pulsed at being told this, like a dog hearing its name. He was enjoying this humiliation. It was turning him on.
“And on a big boy like you. Just tiny!” Hugh continued with a cruel guffaw, eyes locked on his victim, daring him to protest.
“Even if I let you try and screw a girl, that pathetic little thing would just slip right outta her pussy, wouldn’t it?” As Bruce answered the demeaning question in the affirmative, my mind raced at the implication. How much control did this old bastard have over the former football star?
“Do you hump women, boy?” He asked, leaning back in his chair and sucking on his big cigar.
“No, Sir, I hump pillows!” He responded obediently, standing at attention with his ridiculous little hard-on bobbing about.
“That’s right, boy, each night you hump your pillow like a horny little monkey, then you go to sleep face first in your weak seed, don’t you, boy?” Bruce nodded, squeaking out a yes, Sir.
“Now, do you fuck, boy?”
“No, Sir…” He trailed off, hesitating. Hugh gestured towards him like a slap was incoming.
“I get fucked!” Bruce quickly added. I gasped aloud, and for a moment, my heart froze in place, worried that they heard me. Despite all I had seen, the idea of Bruce Mitchell taking it up the can was unfathomable to me.
“That’s right, boy. How do you like to get fucked, boy?” Hugh lifted his ass in the seat and lowered his camo pants and underwear to his thighs. He made sure to keep his phone’s camera pointed at Bruce.
“Sir, my name is Bruce Charles Mitchell, and I like to get bent over and butt-fucked up the back door like a bottom bitch, Sir!” He recited loudly, eyes staring straight ahead like a nervous recruit. Hugh made him repeat it three more times.
“Good, come here on your knees. Show some damn respect to my cock. That’s a real man’s cock, boy.” Hugh opened his legs wide and brandished his big red hog, waiving it in his face. I could tell he had a huge bush, too. It was nasty, but I couldn’t look away.
Bruce got on his knees and crawled between the little old man’s hairy legs. He brought his face up to the man’s crotch and kissed twice, once on his big, glistening cockhead and once on the man’s big, furry ball sack. Then kept his head there in front of his cock, poised like a trained dog.
Hugh clasped the big wimp’s scalp in one hand and his enormous cock in the other and began battering Bruce’s ruggedly handsome face with the thick mallet. #9 just kept in place and accepted each blow, flinching when the old man slammed his heavy penis over his brow. My face burned with shame, and I felt my boner pulse almost painfully in my shorts as the hero of my youth let himself get slapped around by another man’s fat dick. I was shocked by the sight and by how hard it was making me.
Hugh eventually stopped pistol-whipping the poor stooge, instead laying his hard hog over Bruce’s face and pointing his phone down between his legs to immortalize the image. The sight was astounding to me. The most respected man of my youth with a big fat red cock pressed up against his face. I idly pawed at the aching tent in my shorts.
“Lick!” He shouted, and the beaten man obliged, eagerly lapping at the gnarled old oak. It was as if Bruce had been holding back, but once given the word, he seemed desperate to pleasure the old man’s oversized penis. It was nauseating, but I couldn’t look away, watching Bruce’s pink tongue sweep over the red ridges and blue veins of the bastard’s ugly prick, or dab around the underside of his big purple crown. Old man Wolcott’s monstrously large, fully erect penis and Bruce’s rapt oral worship of it made me feel like I could vomit, and yet I was completely boned up myself.
“Good. Now suck!” In an instant, he swallowed the thick, ugly dong. Once more, the revered figure of my youth voluntarily engaged in the most degrading act a man could subject himself to. Took the worst man imaginable’s dick right into his mouth. My pulse quickened, and I realized that a part of me was outraged by this transgression. Bruce was violating a fundamental rule of manhood. Some innate, essential law of male bodily autonomy and heterosexual inviolability. Thou shalt not suck off another dude. I couldn’t believe I was witnessing the two-time champion and all-state quarterback willingly blow a man, welcoming another man’s hard penis past his lips and pleasuring it. All the more egregious, he was doing this demeaning act for a man as wretched and vile as Hugh Wolcott.
His eyes watered and his cheeks bulged as he labored to please the old man’s enormous penis. I felt moisture in my armpits, on the back of my t-shirt, dripping down into my crack. I was sweating like crazy from watching this. My heart was racing and I felt almost feverish. I had never seen a gay act firsthand before. When I was younger, my friends and I had checked out gay people, mostly to sneer at them together, to gross each other out, and to reaffirm our heterosexuality. Back then, I had been offended by what I saw, but found myself curious, too, quietly transfixed by those monstrous members. Now it was happening right in front of me, the sickening sounds of it filling my ears. Bruce was making himself gag to satisfy the old bastard, who was laughing at him and filming him. Without thinking, I unzipped the fly of my shorts and felt my boner spring out, right through my boxers and into the clammy night air. I looked down between my legs and watched a large drop of pre-cum drip from pisslit and onto the leaves below me. For however conflicted I felt about the blowjob happening inside the house, my dick clearly loved it.
The night was moonless and quiet, the houses next door all dark, and I was behind both a hedge and a fence. Still, I felt dangerously exposed. I was not behaving like the well-liked and respectable young man with the promising future that I was known as in the neighborhood. Jack and Susan’s boy. At that moment, I was nothing more than a peeping tom, a pervert. In the bushes on my knees with my dripping pecker poking out of my pants. I knew this whole situation was dangerous, yet I couldn’t look away, nor could I stop my hand from taking my chubby in its grip and slowly jacking off as I watched the old man violate Bruce’s face.
Eventually, the old bastard grabbed Bruce’s short black hair and wrenched him off his hard-on, slapping his face again with his slimy poker. Bruce remained on his knees, eyes downcast, catching his breath.
“I really have trained you to be quite the talented mouthpussy. Now, wouldn’t this all make a nice video to show at your class reunion? Big #9, the deepthroat pro?” Hugh asked from behind his recording phone.
Bruce just kept his head lowered. Hugh laughed and pawed at his bare chest.
“Or maybe I just send it to Coach Carter, huh? Bet he’d like to see what his golden boy’s up to.” Wolcott swiped again at the cowering men’s pecs.
“No? You’re right. I think there’s just one man and one man only who needs to see this video, and what’s his name?” Hugh slapped his cocksucker’s head.
“What’s his fucking name, boy!” He asked again, raising his voice and twisting Bruce’s ear.
“Michael Bruce Mitchell!” He warbled miserably. Wolcott was threatening to expose this spectacularly shameful secret side of him to his father. I winced at the cruelty of it, and yet my hand remained on my dick, oozing pre-cum into the old bastard’s bushes.
Suddenly, Wolcott stood, and I ducked down and moved away from the window, listening as they both left the living room. I saw a light turn on further alongside the house, and heard the unmistakable sound of a man taking a loud piss. I kept out of sight and considered getting out of Dodge. Putting my pecker back in my pants and heading home, some measure of my dignity intact. If I hadn’t been a little stoned, a little drunk, and a whole lot horned up, I’m sure I would have. Instead, after a few moments of indecision, I crawled between the house and the line of bushes, finding myself in front of the bedroom window. I didn’t even bother putting my boner away; I let it dangle out of the fly of my shorts and bob around ridiculously. As captivated as I was by the obscene scene inside the house, I realized that I was getting off on my outrageous behavior, too. How perverted I was. All it took was a few impulsive choices, and I found myself acting like a degenerate. A peeping Tom with his pecker out.
Eventually, I summoned the courage to lift my head and peek into the window, and was rewarded with a shocking new sight. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Bruce was totally naked, facedown on the bed, lying on his belly over a towel, legs spread open to reveal both his laughably small genitals and a thin white tube going right up his asshole. Above him, the little old man worked some kind of large, red rubber bag. Squeezing out its contents like he was playing the accordion. He was giving Bruce an enema, filling his guts with whatever was inside the red bladder. Without even thinking, I raised my phone and took a photo of the debauched tableau.
Between those shaven, muscular thighs and glutes, Bruce’s exposed ball bag looked tiny, the size of a single grape and just as vulnerable. Stranger still was seeing his belly expand before my eyes as the liquid was emptied into him. His tight abs and obliques disappeared as the clammy white flesh of his gut swelled. Soon, the tube was yanked out of him and the bag thrown to the ground. He gritted his teeth, clearly in pain, and I could see beads of sweat on his forehead. Perhaps he made an objectionable sound of complaint because, without warning, Hugh whipped his belt over both of his already red-striped butt cheeks. After that, the younger man just kept his eyes and his mouth closed, breathing deeply while carefully caressing his inflated gut.
I heard the old man bark something, and poor Bruce carefully stood up from the bed. Hugh slapped his water-swollen tummy a few times and laughed. It looked like he had a beer belly, a solid paunch where the washboard used to be. His skin was flush and gleaming with sweat. He held his gut, grimacing down at it miserably, appearing for all the world like a remorseful pregnant woman. He looked knocked up. Only his shrunken little acorn of a pecker confirmed that he was the same gender as his big-hogged tormenter.
I took another quick picture on impulse. I looked at the image on my phone for a moment. Anyone who knew Bruce and saw it might have assumed it was photo-shopped. His handsome face, caught in a moment of distress, was attached to a muscular pregnant woman’s body. He had always been famous for his perfect physique, but his swollen gut ruined the aesthetics of his musculature. He appeared pear-shaped and impregnated, and just below the swollen pot belly, he had a penis the size of a quarter. His body and his very manhood looked ravaged.
He waddled gingerly into the bathroom, holding his belly with his face fixed in concentration. The old man closely pursued him, goosing Bruce with a finger between his cheeks and pawing at his mammoth cock. In the bushes, I followed suit, pulling on my erection while huddled beneath the window frame. I thought again of leaving. I studied the empty bedroom. It was spartan and dark, but with the lamp on the night table illuminated, Hugh’s bed looked like a stage. I saw a black bottle beside the lamp – it was lube. Just as he had said in the living room, Hugh was going to sodomize the younger man. Fuck him up the rear. Per those masculine dictates I had learned in my youth, the only thing more deplorable than sucking a guy’s cock was letting him stick it up your ass. I needed to see this happen to Bruce Mitchell, the way people were compelled to witness a public execution. Any thought of leaving fled my mind. Instead, I remained kneeling between the windowsill and the line of shrubs, patiently pulling on my prick.
Bruce reappeared first, getting back on the bed on all fours. Assuming the position. His belly had receded, but he looked diminished somehow, weakened from whatever ordeal he had been put through in the bathroom. His eyes were closed, he seemed to dread what happened next, yet I could see between his legs that his dinky little penis had come to life, and was now a laughable little boner. The old man emerged from the bathroom, now fully nude with a giant hard-on, and got into bed with his victim. I watched in captivated horror as the vile, naked old man mounted Bruce’s beautiful body.
With his clothes off, Wolcott looked like a goblin or a satyr from mythology. His huge hands and feet did not match his short frame. He had a round belly and barrel chest, and dense gray and black hair covered his entire body below the neck. His fur appeared just as thick on his shoulders and back as it did on his chest and gut. In addition to the swirling gray and black forest, his rough skin was covered in moles and blemishes, and I could see his big, pepperoni-sized nipples crowning his drooping pecs. Faded tattoos, watercolor splashes of blue and gray, striped his left arm and his right shoulder. He was a beast. He had a big, wide ass, similarly carpeted in hair, but what really made him look like a wild animal was the monstrously long, wrist-thick red penis that seemed to hang down to his knees.
All that was missing was a pair of horns and a tail. Bruce Mitchell, Big # 9, was about to be sodomized by this forest monster. Even more outrageous was the star athlete’s capitulation, his absolute surrender to his impending defilement. As Bruce lowered his head and maintained his four-point stance on the bed, the image came to mind of a strapping, valiant knight charmed through dark magic into dropping his sword and stripping off his gleaming armor. Exposing his pale naked body and willingly prostrating himself on the forest floor. Presenting his vulnerable bare ass to a vile little imp and his venomous barbed stinger.
They were at such an angle that I could see the old man’s thick, lubricated red rod poised to pierce the big man’s rear end. Wolcott had a grin of pure evil on his face, self-satisfaction. It was the smile of a sadist who knew he had his victim exactly where he wanted him. He bumped his hips forward, grabbing Bruce’s waist and jabbing himself in.
I flinched when I heard the younger man cry out, muffled against the back of his hand but still ringing like a clarion in the night. Hugh held onto Bruce’s haunches and continued his forceful penetration, swiveling his hips side to side like he was twisting a knife. The short man had a tall cock, and he jammed it inexorably into what must have been a tight hole, collapsing onto the agonized man’s body. He gripped around the jock’s wide back and dug his chin into his trapezius muscle while still wiggling his waist to force his way into Bruce’s innards.
As with every other abuse and indignity visited upon Bruce Mitchell that night, he just took it. He bit into the flesh on the back of his hand, his eyes screwed shut. It was absurd – he could have easily flung his attacker off of him, but he remained in place, on all fours, legs spread, letting himself get brutally buggered like a prison bitch. Legs spread, completely opened up to his invader, surrendering his powerful, beautiful body to that hateful man.
I heard Wolcott roar in triumph, having apparently bottomed out. He rotated his hips, feeling around Bruce’s guts with his rampant prick. Then he began a sickening humping motion, his sizable pot belly rolling fluidly as he drew his oversized cock in and out of the squealing man before him, in and out, in and out.
The old little old bastard pushed his way in mercilessly, pumping his hips and slamming into the prone younger jock. It almost looked comical, like a big dog being mounted and furiously humped by a smaller breed. If it weren’t for the clear agony on Bruce’s face, the little cries of pain escaping his gritted teeth, I could have laughed along with Hugh.
Somewhere down the street, I heard a dog bark, perhaps in answer to poor Bruce’s howls. I realized the depravity of what I was doing, watching this scene, being a voyeur. Still, the idea of sheathing my prick, zipping up, and pulling myself away from this lurid scene felt about as possible as me lifting off the ground and flying away into the night.
I heard Bruce’s syncopated groans come through the closed window as the mean old prick jackhammered his ass. As I watched the assault, I thought of my web search history. A lot of videos had titles with violent verbs.”Stepsister DESTROYED by stepbro’s fat cock.” “Tight young slut RUINED by BBC.” In my limited sexual history, I had never experienced anything remotely like that. My sex with girls had always been a gentle and respectful affair. Weaker, more timid. Uncertain strokes with an early finish.
But Hugh was truly destroying the big football hero with his nasty cock. He was ruining him. Each humping thrust was another damaging blow; it took something from Bruce, something he could never recover. I could see it on his face. As he sped up, bucking his hips into his bottom boy’s muscled ass, making him holler, I knew I was witnessing genuine sexual demolition, something I had only seen in porn up until then. I saw that it could be real. That a man could decimate another with his cock.
It was like watching a vandal take a crowbar to Michelangelo’s David. Piece by piece, thrust by thrust. All that was strong and hard in Bruce’s body, all that was tough and manly, seemed to melt away by the moment. His movements slackened; he no longer braced for the impact of Hugh’s brutal, stabbing thrusts. Any resistance vanished. He seemed completely defenseless, completely defeated as he let the old man rearrange his internal organs.
Hugh had a thrilled, almost manic grin on his face as he humped away. Clearly, he delighted in the pain he was inflicting, evidenced by the pitiful yelps and moans his bitch croaked out with each stabbing thrust. The cries of agony only seemed to energize him, accelerating his hips and putting a twinkle in his eye. As he roughly porked the younger man, his hands raced all over his body, seemingly for no other reason than to bother him, harass him. He pulled his hair, slapped him upside the head, jammed fingers into his mouth, and hooked his lips into a Joker’s grin. He squeezed and twisted his nose or poked his fingers into his nostrils like he was grabbing a pig. Yanked his ears, pinched his nipples, slapped his enormous ass. He would hock loogies onto the back of his neck and rub them into his face or hair. He even appeared to give him a wet willy. He was doing all he could to add insult to injury while he butt-fucked the poor guy. It was like he wanted the once-beloved jock to know what it was to be truly bullied.
Apart from his stifled grunts and involuntary wincing, Bruce never seemed to utter a word of complaint or protest. Not at the mammoth size of the cock pushing his guts around, not at the brutal pace of said buggery, not even at the old man’s gratuitous molestations. Instead, little by little, I saw a change on the bitch’s face, a softening. He licked his lips, it looked like he was moving his hips back to meet the rapid strokes, and I could see steady beads of clear pre-cum crying from the ridiculously small boner flailing around between his tree trunk thighs.
Bruce’s colossal, sweat-slick body was rocked with each thrust, knocking him further into the bed. His face was red from exertion or shame, but his eyes looked dazed. Behind him, Wolcott was the same shade of crimson, and his body was shiny with perspiration too. The smaller man rode the big bottom like a bronco. The strange pair was in sync, and I could tell that they were getting close to coming.
Outside the window in the old man’s empty yard, my penis was still out of my shorts and hard as marble in my hand. In fact, just having it poking out of my fly was no longer good enough. I wanted to embrace my newfound perviness fully. I wanted to feel the night air on my naked buttocks. I lowered them to my ankles and remained on my knees, enjoying feeling exposed like this. Anyone able to see in Wolcott’s yard would have seen my bare ass, my full moon. I began to stroke myself off at a faster pace. Pumping my hips in time like I was fucking the air. With my free hand, I felt myself up, fondling my belly, my chest, running my fingers through my armpit. I pulled my t-shirt up to my chest, rubbing my torso up and down as I tossed myself off.
Inside, it looked like Hugh’s bed was about to collapse under the force and speed of the old man’s ass pounding. I heard them both howl through the window as they came. Hugh bucked and slammed into Bruce’s hips, draining his balls up the conquered man’s ass, while I could see that Bruce’s short little spout was spraying strands of thick white jizz all over the towel and his own body. Both of his hands were firmly planted on the mattress, below his shoulders – the brutal invasion of Wolcott’s rampaging cock had made his meager manhood bust its nut despite being totally untouched.
The little old man’s bald head was just below the QB’s shoulder, and I could tell that he was biting Bruce, giving him a hickey. His right knee had turned towards the window so that I could see between his furry legs. I watched fascinated as just below the old man’s rutting, hairy ass cheeks and winking hole, his big balls were pulsing. Each nut was huge, his scrotum looked as big as a softball, and I could see them pull tighter as they emptied themselves. Surely they were depositing a river of the old man’s wretched seed inside of Bruce Mitchell’s guts.
Watching this vile insemination brought me over the edge. Two more strokes and I shot my load all over the ground beneath me, hitting the grass and the side of the old man’s house. I humped my naked butt in the air as I jizzed. I knew I must have made a truly ridiculous spectacle, thrusting my bare ass while masturbating furiously, but the thought of it made me cum even harder. I opened my mouth, gasping as I orgasmed but willing myself not to cry out from the auto-administered pleasure. Even if I screamed bloody murder, there’s no way the two men inside me could have heard me over their animalistic shouts, old man Wolcott’s deep and throaty, Bruce’s strangely high and feminine.
I fell onto all fours while jerking out the last of my jizz, just peeking over the windowsill as Hugh slowed his humping. The old man brought his head to Bruce’s broad back, and he was lapping up the sweat pooled there, while his hands continued to bother the boy’s chest. Looking beneath me, I was shocked at the quantity of my spooge, thick ropes of it carpeted the grass and streaked across the cement foundation. I felt a minor pang of shame looking at it, and I momentarily contemplated using my t-shirt to clean up my mess. When I heard a car drive by, the other sounds of the night all came into focus, and my post-nut clarity urged me to put my dick away and get out of here finally.
I stuffed my pecker back into my shorts, feeling a few final drops of cum seep into my boxers as I zipped up my fly. I carefully stood, hiding behind the wall beside the window, surveying where I would flee to get back to the safety of the street and my house. Before I sprinted away, I took one last look at the men inside.
Hugh was slowly bumping into the QB’s upturned ass again and again, letting the last of his semen leak into his guts. One hand was clamped over Bruce’s throat, the other reached between their legs and gripped the younger man’s tiny coin purse. Both squeezed tightly, choking his windpipe and crushing his little nuts.
Below him, Big #9 accepted this treatment, gently pushing his hips back to receive all the foul, potent seed the old man offered. His chin rested on the cum-stained mattress, and he looked intoxicated, blissed out. Bruce’s eyes were closed, and he was saying something, repeating it over and over. I couldn’t read lips, but after a few moments of study, I understood. He was thanking him.
To Be Continued…
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