The Blob Chapter 8: When Your Number's Up Evan Andrews 2021
This set of stories is a change from what I've written before in that it is not a fan fiction. To be honest, it's based off a fantasy I concocted back in high school, updated as the passage of time required.
The story depicts males in sci-fi sexual situations with other males, oh, and an alien. If this offends you, if you are underage, or if reading such is illegal where you are please stop reading now. Thank you.
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The crew of abducted cum-donors in the Managerie submitted to the new order (because what choice did they really have?), and getting ass-fucked became part of the thrice-daily ritual of feeding the blob. It hurt less each time Gary took cock up his ass (something he definitely never mentioned to anyone else, especially Paul, Randy, and Joey.
The blob on the other hand (having now seemingly grasped somewhat the reality of what was going on with his donors) displayed confusion. From what it knew about human anatomy, cum should not be found in the ass—certainly not in the quantities it now was. Though the cum-hungry monster was not about to look a gift-horse in the mouth, it began doing what it could to treat the boys gently – almost as it they were lovers, not simply as cum buckets and cum spigots (which was how the humans in charge of the project looked on them).
Today, after Gary's guts had been filled up with cum, he walked into the blob's embrace and surrendered himself entirely to the shared vision as he was milked. The blob made love to his body, and Gary reflected that it was incongruous that a monster should treat him with more compassion than other humans. A mental caress crossed his vision, and the runner tried to catch onto it, but to no avail. He was sure that he only an inch or two away from slipping past the shared vision and actually communicating with the blob. Today was not the day for that breakthrough, though, and instead he radiated appreciation for the blob's touch.
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On the Managerie front, the ritual of humiliation by oral rape, continued. The guards still administered their nightly face-fuck of one of the captives-- two, rather, because the boys in the cells upstairs now had their own rotation through the ordeal.
Matt was flavor of the month for a few days after Gary had seen him first get skull-fucked, and then the guards turned their attention to Mark. The wrestler got the hang of swallowing cock right away, and he seemed even to be getting off on it., something the guards really seemed to get into One night, when Gary was spying on the nightly shenanigans, he caught Mark frantically beating his hard cock as his mouth was fucked. Damn, what a sight.
Gary cringed when he thought how his number would come up eventually. Would he end up fagging out, too, and yanking his own crank while his throat got reamed? Well, stranger things had happened to him since that day he got hauled into the back of an unmarked van. But that was for the future.
The question didn't surface right away. Houston was next on the face-fucking duty roster after Mark, the guards joking about the novelty of fucking a black boy with impunity. Then it was Tweet's turn, then Charlie, Randy, Joey, Tom, and Tony. In the end, though, Gary's night to get endure the guards' abuse.
Gary, lying on his bed feigning sleep, heard the fall of the regulation boots the minute the guards entered the Managerie. Tap. Tap. Tap – until they stopped right in front of his cell.
"This is it," the blond thought.
The wall opened, and Gary's rapists grabbed the long blond hair on his head, hauling the presumably sleeping captive out of his cell. They forced the runner to his knees and pulled his head up enough that he was eye to eye with their zippers. Zippers and something else. Despite Gary's hard-won experience taking cock up his butt, cocksucking was outside his wheelhouse, and he could only stare in horror at the single weeping eye of two hard dicks, black and Latino.
"You smell that cock-snot, bitch?" the black guard demanded as he began to slap Gary's face with his fat rod.
Gary nodded, his mouth still firmly closed. Just because he could see and smell it didn't mean he was ready to taste it.
"Well, that means it's time for our nightly jollies. Open that mouth, bitch!" the guard snarled.
Resigned, Gary closed his eyes and let his lower jaw fall. The black guard then, with no further fanfare, slid his swollen cockhead into the boy's mouth.
"Make love to my knob, bitch," the guard said, "Use that tongue."
Gary had no idea what he'd expected from taking cock in his mouth, but it was definitely not this. The head of the guard's dick was spongy and responsive; was this the same thing that had hurt so much when it forced his asshole open for the first time? Gary experimentally ran his tongue around the engorged plum.
"Fuck!" the guard moaned in pleasure.
Encouraged, Gary began to use the textured flat of his tongue, running it over the entire glans, Then he slipped further down the helmet and teased the corona, both the ridge of the cockhead and the shelf of flesh just beneath that.
"Good boy," the guard prompted with a gasp. "Now go for the nerve bundle in front."
Obediently, Gary let his tongue play over that most sensitive flesh in the cleft of the corona. Each stroke of his increasingly-skilled tongue sent a shudder through the guard's body and earned the blond the reward of an additional spurt of precum.
An authoritarian hand reached down and cupped the back of Gary's head.
"Fuck, that is some hot cocksucking there!" the guard moaned as he held Gary in place. "Now lick my piss-slit."
Gary's tongue strayed that fraction of an inch further back and began to toy with the opening in the end of the shaft, lapping away at the flow of cock-snot.
"Sssss," the guard hissed in satisfaction.
Gary didn't get it. He'd played with himself in the past, and his piss-slit had never been a terribly sensitive zone. Apparently it was in some guys – or maybe the guard was just getting off on the idea of making the blond lick up the remains of his last piss.
That last thought was a mistake because it nearly made Gary vomit. The men of the Managerie might be milked as cum-cows and raped anally and orally, but nobody had yet pissed on them. Or in them. (Pessimistically, Gary thought "Just give them time, though.")
"Now, let's find out what that hot boy-throat feels like," the black stud said.
He thrust a few more inches of his hard dick into Gary's mouth, and the blond captive was confronted with an unsettling discrepancy. Though the head of the black dick was spongy and responsive, the shaft was rigid. It really was hard as steel, and the admittedly silky skin that covered it didn't mitigate that up in the slightest. Gary panicked as the length tried the back of his mouth and almost committed the cardinal sin. Teeth inadvertently brushed over the guard's dick, and Gary got a slap on the face.
"None of that, bitch," the guard snarled. "Keep those teeth where they belong, and open the back of your mouth for a good fucking!"
"How the hell..." Gary thought as the guard returned to running the top of his prick over the blond's tongue again. "Maybe what worked with my ass will work with my throat."
With each breath (now entirely through his nose) Gary tried to isolate his throat muscles and relax them, and in a way it worked. The throat relaxed right up until the spongy purple-brown head pressed against whatever it was that triggered the blond's gag reflex. Gary's throat convulsed; a spasm racked his body; his stomach tried to empty itself; and his nose and eyes started streaming. What got the blond in real trouble, though, was his reflexive attempt to push the guard away and, consequently, the black cock out of his throat.
The slap this time dropped Gary to the floor.
Neither guard said a thing, but the Latino guard pulled Gary back to his knees, and strong thumbs found the pressure points in his jaw that made it impossible for the blond to close his mouth. The black guard slid his prick back in Gary's drooling mouth, and, holding the boy's head in place, began to brutally fuck his face.
"Ghagh! Ghagh! Ghagh!" Gary choked as his throat was forced open.
Gary tried to flail his arms, but coping with the reality of being skull-fucked took up most of his mental processes. It wasn't so much pain that was pushing Gary's buttons; it was the fact that his throat was being forced into a new, and for it an unnatural, configuration. Unable to break free, Gary could do nothing but pray that the guard would cum fast.
What Gary didn't realize was that his experience was, in addition to being broadcast into his crew's brains, was finally bridging the gap to a larger mind. That gossamer touch ran over his vision, but Gary was too busy to pay it the attention it deserved.
Gary's pathetic struggles turned the black guard on just enough that he spewed a pint of man's finest into the boy's stomach after only a few more minutes fucking. Then he pulled out and, bending down, spat into Gary's still gaping mouth.
"Ready for my buddy?" the black top sneered.
Buddy?
The word seared itself into Gary's mind. Fuck. He was going to have to endure this whole thing again. And what if the guards decided to make him their nightly stop for a few days? Or a week?! Could he stand having his throat reamed, or would his mind snap?
"Enjoy yourself, Diego," the black man said.
Gary sobbed as the Latino guard's shaft penetrated his mouth. Again he tried to control himself and accept the violation, but again he failed. The black guard's fingers forced Gary's mouth open wide again, and the Latino guard's strong hands grabbed the blond's head to hold it in place. It was all over, then, except for the actual fucking.
As the thick brown shaft forced its way into his throat, though, Gary felt the presence. It was like what he felt when he shared the blob's vision of a milking session, but it went beyond that. This wasn't Gary sharing what the blob sensed; rather, the blob was trying the reverse.
"Help me!" Gary tried to think through the connection.
The emotion behind the touch, at first quizzing now took on a different – well, tone was the best that Gary could come up with. It was similar to what the blob had felt when it had discovered for the first time how Gary (and the rest of that session's cum-donors) had been ass-fucked. Confused.
But Gary didn't remain alone in the contact. Paul sat up all of a sudden, and Gary felt his fellow blond drawn into the contact. Gary rode along in the vision as the blob took in the Managerie (from Paul's point of view) and went from confused to -- shocked? For the first time the blob watched as the Latino guard's dick choked one of the blob's boys. Now understanding dawned, and it understood why it had found cum in the boys' assholes. Gary could tell the blob had expected something else. The cells, the restraints, the compulsion — not to mention the non-consensual sex that was part of it — apparently the monster had believed his cum donors were being housed and treated differently. It definitely expected them to having been treated better.
Fuck, Gary realized. The blob thought that the guys in the Managerie were some corps of noble volunteers at best. Willing sacrifices at worst. If Gary could have seen the blob's emotions reflected in Paul's face, he would have recognized the slow, deliberate change from confusion to anger. But the blob hadn't reached rage -- not yet at least.
An eerie calm now forced its way into Gary's mind and took control. This was all that the blob could do to help his — friend? lover? – cope with what he was enduring. The control didn't force acceptance of the guard's violation of the blond, nor did it encourage submission to the guards' sadistic game. Instead it offered the opposite of panic, helping Gary ride the wave and come out the other side emotionally intact. What helped most, though, was Gary's certain realization that he was no longer alone in his suffering, and that made all the difference. The fat cockhead scraping at Gary's uvula and the steely rod seeking to rearrange his throat became nothing to him, and together Gary and his new ally mastered the necessary muscles to give the rigid intruder the access it demanded.
While the blob helped Gary endure his face-rape, Paul watched and started jerking himself off. He stroked as fast as he could without doing damage, hoping against all odds that he might manage to catch up and cum at the same time Gary did. (That Gary's own cock was just as hard as the guard's and that it was getting ready to blow was something the runner didn't realize until he compared notes with Paul later.) Meanwhile in every other cell, the sleeping captives' cocks grew long and hard as their minds were filled with the images and feelings from Gary's face-rape.
The Latino hunk, at last, seeded Gary's mouth, filling it with his hot load and causing the blond's own cock to explode. Paul grunted and at the same time felt his shaft throb as it poured out his own thick load. In the rest of the Managerie, twenty-two other sets of balls emptied themselves with dreamy sighs.
"Lookit that, Rufus," Diego said, gesturing at Greg and then at the other captives on the first floor as he pulled his diminishing erection out of Gary's defiled mouth. "Creepy, how they all came at once, ain't it?"
"I'll say," Rufus, the black guard, agreed as he shoved his dick back into his pants – not that he looked unduly concerned.
"Should we report it, do you think? The captain told us to keep an eye out for stuff like that."
"What? And have that twatwaddle with a severe case of brass-poisoning ask how it was that we were in the Managerie to see it in the first place?"
"You've got a point. Okay, back into the cell with you, bitch," the Latino rapist told his victim.
As Gary crawled back into his cell and up onto his bed, the blob disengaged withdrew from the boys' minds. As it withdrew, though, there was a final touch on Gary's mind. Something intimate. Something like – a kiss? Yes, that was it. A mental kiss -- and a promise. And the angry promise of a person who finds out that someone has Goldilocksed his shit.