Oscar B.A. Chapter 15
Richard, Steve, Jason, Nelson, Michael and Rob fucked me mercilessly on Richard's floor for three-and-a-half hours.
The first three hours like time didn't exist. Like it flew by in a kinetic haze of sensory abundance. The final half-an-hour sore and uncomfortable but dampened by countless lines of class A painkillers.
And worth it for the wank-bank material alone.
Worth every degrading second as they took turns between my legs: the next two in line wetting themselves in the saliva pooling in my gasping mouth. The others watching from the sofas, standing drinking champagne from gleaming crystal, joining in with fingers and hands or reenergising themselves: thick white lines of coke snorted sporadically from the glass dining table top glistening in the afternoon sun.
My arms previously tied tight behind my back as they'd used my throat, on the floor they cut me free. A single slice through my rope bindings from a razor-sharp kitchen knife. Released for stability, but also because, behind his alpha aggressive front, Richard had that twinkle in his eye.
A twinkle of compassion, practically invisible, but unmissable if you know what you're looking for. And he certainly wasn't the first daddy to rough me up in role play. He was, however, the first to tap an eight-inch blade against his thigh as two of his mates fucked my mouth, one held my arse open and another ate.
But I knew why else. The other reason for cutting me free as he kissed me kindly on the cheek and ran the blade between my wrists: he cared. Didn't want my body to end up battered and bruised. Didn't want my face and shoulders and chest shredded by the carpet.
Keeping me in perfect condition.
Not that my knees didn't receive their fair share of grazes as I was pummelled and pounded, arse-up on his rug, of course. But I didn't care. Didn't feel the pain until the final thirty minutes. Anaesthetised by attention.
I was a god. Felt like the sun itself, scorching hot and fixed in space, drawing an orbiting crowd of celestial bodies. Each one caught in my gravitational pull. Unable to escape.
All eyes on me.
Fixed, hungry eyes on my comparatively small, supple body as mine rolled to the back of my head in absolute, submissive ecstasy. Every synapse in my mind firing harder and harder with each second as my holes were filled and stretched.
My other senses taking over. The scent of sweat, coke and champagne. The weight of their bodies. The sounds of their thrusts: grunts, moans, skin slapping against skin. The taste of their pre-cum. Every nerve ending on the verge of explosion.
But I had to keep my cool. Stay as calm as possible to not only look the part but play it. Without deep, controlled lungfuls, I couldn't loosen my throat and arse to keep the pain of rough, drug-fuelled domination at bay for as long as I did. And I had to stay focused. Had to concentrate on flexibility while simultaneously keeping my core and back strong enough that men bigger, stronger and heavier than me could mount, find the right angle and fuck. Deeper and deeper and deeper.
One pair, two pairs, sometimes three pairs of hands, holding and grasping and pushing. Forcing me this and that way; fingers driving in and out; the copper sweetness of my hole on my tongue stirring every obedient inch of me.
For the most part, I was spit-roasted. Each taking their turn but Richard, Steve and Jason first: the latter two at the front, stretching my jaw and lips with both their cocks at once, or thudding thick and heavy against my cheeks and forehead as the other pushed against my tonsils.
Daddy Dick behind, holding my arse open. Smearing me with cold lube.
Then my head would snap back, my lungs would empty their fill in a long, whimpering moan and I'd lose control of my body, giving it completely to the man, whoever's turn it was, thrusting inside of me in his gloriously vicious rhythm.
And the others. The ones watching, waiting in the wings for their turn on the twink. They jerked themselves, sometimes each other, in sweet, sordid anticipation. Hairy legs wide on the sofa or towering figures, hard to discern in the commotion, standing over the grunting, sweaty scene.
One or two of them in my peripheral, kissing and caressing each other. Whispering into each other's ears and pinching hard, pink nipples. Listening with wide eyes and grins as animal noises bouncing around the glass apartment high above the city mixed with the growing scent of bareback sex.
Deep, masculine, primal sounds. Boyish moans. Gargles and gulps and the occasional wretch as I gagged on the meat being forced further and further down my throat. Commentary fired from the side lines:
`He likes that. Don't you?'
`He can take it.'
`Fuck him harder.'
`Whore.'
As each debasing mix of phonemes hit my ears and rushed through my body, fizzing inside my balls, I would nod my head or do as I was told. Then they would call me a "good boy" and pour champagne into my mouth or over my arse: soothing cold crashing against my beaten skin before a hot, wet mouth sucked it up and shared it with me in delicious, effervescing kisses.
Then they'd reach down with a slug of powdered crystal on a slate plate, or now and again racked messily along a hard cock. A finger would press against my nostril and a hand around my neck would guide me to the galvanising streak. A short, sharp snort later, they'd continue.
Carry on just as hard and rough as before as my cock, stiffer than stone, slapped against my abs to the raw, returning beat of hairy naked muscle against smooth, young skin.
Now and again, my mind racing with stimulation, everything would stop, and my hole would gape and tingle as the guy stretching and forcing his way inside would pull out. Then, whoever was using my throat, would tag in, passing my body amongst themselves like a toy.
A toy for the biggest boys around.
It was phenomenal. Utterly and truly. Six pairs of hands pushing, pulling, slapping and spanking. Six cocks driving and churning. A foot now and again on the back of my head or cheek, forcing my locked elbows to collapse, my face to meet floor and my hole to wink at the ceiling.
I was used. Used until my tight, hairless, nineteen-year-old hole was red, swollen and sore, and every pair of balls had unloaded inside.
Six sizzling loads from six spewing geysers. Hundreds of billions of swimmers from men old enough to be my father.
Each load different in size and sound. Each owner delivering their package in personalised ways. Some loud, grunting and shuddering as they fired, whipping my insides; my arse high as inner thighs slammed against my cheeks.
Others quieter or more controlled, fucking me doggy before pulling out and jerking off in time to blow over my hole, held open by a pair of pulling hands I couldn't see.
All watching down in dopamine-fuelled awe.
Watching my arse get tagged like a wall with graffiti: my balls forever on the edge of unloading, pulsing and throbbing between my legs, as every inch of my resolve stopped me from grabbing hold, beating off and blowing as their nut burnt blissfully over my bruised ring.
Gooey heat, sliding and slipping and gushing over the edges and inside. Every nerve prickling with electricity as white and cream streaked blazing pink.
Whose load was whose, I had no idea until afterwards. When they told me their names. Other than Richard's, that is. He went first: his apartment, his boy. Apart from him, all I saw every time I could focus my rolling eyes was a mix of muscle, skin, hair and tattoos.
But I knew, when the toe-curling pounding through my body grew, thrusting hips hit stronger and powerful legs began to shudder, a seed was about to be sown.
Like an inverse gulp of warm whisky on a winter's day, their gifts would fly. Four, five, six, seven and once eleven seconds of pulsation. Then they would collapse onto me, delivering one last thrust as deep as they could.
Sweat from their foreheads dripping between the ridges of muscle running from my neck to arse before pooling in the small of my back.
Finished, they would kiss my neck or slap my cheeks or just pull out and hold me open to marvel at their work. Until every man was spent and empty.
As the final load shot and its deliverer slumped off, collapsing in a heap of exhaustion, a hand took a tuft of my hair, pulling me to my knees.
It was Richard. Daddy.
`Have I been a good boy?' I said, my hole stretched and sore, my scalp straining under his grip and my knees almost bleeding, but the rest of my body vibrating with pleasure as my legs struggled to hold me upright and the mixture of six loads began to trickle out.
`The best,' he said, leaning down and kissing me hard and deep.
Then standing to full height, he guided his semi hard cock into my mouth.
`That's it,' he said, stroking my hair. `Make me hard again.'
`Yes, Daddy,' I said, my mouth full, as the rest of the group turned their full attentions back to us.
All eyes on me. Again.
`You going to blow for us?' he said.
Suddenly the pain stopped. My knees and hole and body stopped aching as a wave of guttural pleasure crashed through me.
My turn
`Yes, Daddy,' I said again.
`I'm going to blow too,' he said, already fully hard. `And you're going to swallow every drop.'
`I'm close,' I said, my hand already pumping and my hole now dripping its cargo down my crack and the back of my left thigh.
The rumble of climax beginning to build.
`Me too, boy,' he said. `I've been ready since Rob dumped his load an hour ago.'
The rumble now a crescendo: growing and growing bigger and bigger as Richard's thick, uncut cock hit the back walls of my throat over and over; his toned, veined abdomen hitting my forehead; his pubes filling my nostrils.
Then, all of a sudden, who I would later find out was Jason, Richard's tall, olive-skinned doctor friend, was next to him. Hard as a rock: his fisting pumping up and down his impressive shaft.
`Open wide,' he said. `I've got one for you too.'
`And me,' said, Steve, appearing to the right of Richard, just in time.
Just in time for Richard to pull back, my jaw to open as wide as it could and, as my own load shot over Richard's feet, the three of them to unload in my mouth, practically simultaneously.
First Richard, then Steve and then less than a millisecond later, Jason. Three loads, hot, salty and tangy, and still big for the second time in one afternoon.
Nowhere near as big as mine though. As I hungrily sucked and swallowed from my knees, mine poured and poured, thick and white over Richard's feet, the rug below and then finally over my hand, leg and down my inner thigh.
Then I fell against the soft rug fibres. Fell onto my back, wet, sticky and covered.
Wow.
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Copyright Jack Ladd 2018
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