UNCLE, GRUNGE & LOVE: Chapter Fifteen
Time had no meaning in that space. It's hard for me to remember what happened next and in what sequence. I recall being held by him for a long while, prone on the old futon. I recall the chill in the air, even as our bodies seemed protected from it by our smeared skin and conjoined heat. I recall the gentle rhythm of our breathing and our heartbeats as we floated on the waves of post-coital pleasure.
I think we dozed.
Eventually we stirred. My mouth, rancid with delicious dirt, required fluids and I brought out bottled water for both of us. When I did, I saw that Dad (he truly FELT like my father now) had, in fact, packed sandwiches. He had lied to me, then, when I reported my hunger and he had offered his shit as the only tonic.
Strangely, it made me love him even more. Dad really DID know what was best for me.
And besides, I felt so full now – my stomach sated with excreta – that the sandwiches seemed inconsequential. When I turned back, handing a bottle of water to him, he stared at me. In his eyes I saw the admission of his lie, and that made it even more perfect. He smiled – it was devilish... actually devilish: both sexy and tinged with evil. He was beginning to assume the mantle of King and enjoy the power he wielded over me.
He sat up and I sank to my knees, gracefully inserting myself between his thick thighs. We both drank, heavily, and the cold water refreshed. It cleared my foggy mind and I looked at him, looking at me. I believed I was a horrifying mess – my face and head smudged and smeared with shit. But just as that self-assessment sank in he whispered: "You are so beautiful to me, Stewart. So perfect like this."
My heart flew as he leaned in, gently kissing my shit-stained lips.
"What would you like to do next?" he asked, offering a gift of agency. This was not an inability to determine our destiny, but a careful question, seeking input from his lesser-than. There was no hesitation in me, even though I understood that the answer to the question could have taken us anywhere, including home.
"I want to eat your ass, Sir," I said. It was straightforward, as our language had become. "I want to make love to your shithole Daddy."
He smiled, nodding, then drank again, while patting my head. I drank, too, finishing most of the bottle.
Then he leaned back, adjusted his position, lifted his legs, gripping them with his strong arms, and presented himself to me.
"Get to it, Stewart," he said, and I nearly dove in, but held back, looking at the center of my universe. He had – just recently – shit out of this hole and the remnants of that expulsion were apparent. I'd licked him clean only once before and it was a barely tinged kiss. Now the privilege presented itself to me and I whimpered in appreciation.
"Oh, Daddy," I said as I gently leaned in, kissing his dirty lips, lapping their soft skin, re-living the ingestion that had just transformed me. And then I got lost.
His ass...oh his ass. Oh...
It was so soft, relative to the total hardness of him – such an entry into his interior world – that I wanted to understand more.
I moaned and groaned into him as he responded fully now. There was no holding back, given the lines we had crossed - there never would be. As I wetted him and entered him with my tongue he relaxed, blooming out, and remnants of the prior passage entered my mouth. I shuddered, gratefully, snorting my desires, anxious to give him both complete pleasure and complete cleansing.
His own body responded. His balls, which had unloaded so much testosterone I couldn't begin to fathom it, had hung heavy just above his entry, but now they pulled up tight, reloading for a lengthier afternoon of fun. I lapped at them, too, and when I did I saw his drooling, still stained cock, flexing and dripping a constant mewl of liquid love. The stench in this central location – the apex of his manhood – was profound.
Everything was so ... REAL.
But my focus was – and remained – his anus. I lapped and sucked and pulled at it, diving my tongue in as deep as it could go, spreading it open with my hands, trying to gain the deepest entry into his gut. I wanted it all – all of his crud and musk and sludge – and I wanted to give him pleasure that I KNEW no woman had ever offered.
And he responded in kind. A quiet litany of praise.
"Nothing has ever felt so good, kid."
"Dig in – deeper, baby."
"Fuck I love this – "
"Daddy," I groaned, going back to that vulnerable emotional place that only he triggered, tears trembling from my lids again.
"I love you on my ass, son. I love you down there. Anytime – all the time –" and then he threw his head back and grunted, pushing out, bearing down, delivering even sweeter essence. It was softer now, mixed with my spit – a scutty remnant that had been left behind. But to me it tasted like gold – a slimy crap-caviar that only goaded me further.
We were here.
We were doing this.
I had become the shit-pig I had always imagined – the toilet boy that I had pushed away, so hard, when I dreamed of ingesting digestion and experienced private, explosive masturbatory orgasms which were followed by equally private and explosive waves of shame.
My erection returned, vital, and instinctively each of us reached for our poppers, snorting up, as his guttural needs became clear.
"Eat it – play with it – get in there –" he growled, and I did, pushing my fingers into his hole, licking and kissing around them. The buzz overcame me and I urged him to push out – hard – like the man that he was, and he did, exerting himself dangerously, but the bloom was profound and the final grunge squished out around my fingers. I licked and lapped, then looked up, calling to him...
"Daddy," I said, pouty, youthful, extreme.
He looked at me.
My lips were smeared. I held three muddy fingers up so he could see. Crud wringed my knuckles and then I slowly and worshipfully licked them up and down, sucking in his gore, eyes closed, body shaking, sounds of youthful pleasure emitting from my core, like a too young boy licking his first ice-cream.
When I peeked at him again, his eyes were wide with lust and deviance, watching me as I reveled in his shit and smear.
I was so beyond smell I couldn't begin to understand or describe it. It was as if my olfactory senses had been burned away by our extreme actions, and now all that mattered was taste and consumption.
"Such a good boy – eating Daddy's turd."
I just nodded, so gloriously happy I was nearly beside myself.
My free hand went back to his opening while I mucked and mewled and licked at the sludge on my hands until they were completely clean, then I opened my mouth to him, showing that it was empty, proudly presenting myself as Daddy's little shit-kid. He smiled, lifting his legs up even higher, putting his arms behind his head, and sighing with total contentment.
It went on from there...
"I want to make your hole feel good, Daddy," I whispered, as I greased him up, slowly opening him, taking my time, finding his prostate and massaging it with love and care. First one hand, then the other, fingers gently exploring his insides, taking the time we hadn't had, to explore his depths. He let me, cock drizzling copious amounts of precum that I periodically lapped and licked at, but mostly I stayed focused on his hole, gently exploring it, stretching it, opening it.
"Feels so good, son," he would say, periodically, then snort the poppers and he would get into it even more, groaning and grunting, learning the pleasure of this most private place.
Eventually he was fully greased and I greased his cock, too. I liked getting greasy – nearly as much as I liked getting dirty – and once his cock was slick his hand wandered to it, gripping it, tugging at it, jerking it ...
Just watching that while I opened his hole was another erotic high and it propelled me forward. I got up on my knees, more focused on the task, working his shitter harder, knowing he could take it. He poppered up more often, letting me stretch him, and we talked while I played with his ring.
"Can you really get your hand up in me?" he asked, quietly.
"Not today – but eventually."
"Why not today?" he asked, curiously. When it came to mansex he had gotten so good at asking simple questions.
"Not the right gear, first of all. A sling would be better – or something to hold your legs. As long as your muscles are tense maintaining position, it's hard to completely relax your hole."
He nodded, understanding.
"And head space, I think. You gotta want it, Unc," I said, using "Unc" for the first time in a long time, but we were talking now, out of scene, into mechanics. "You got to believe it in your heand and heart and gut before I can get it in there – WANT it like you want to fuck my ass."
"Fuck – hot," he said, snorting up again.
The talk relaxed him more and I bore into him, pushing a third finger, then a fourth, which made him suck in air, and tense, but he nodded, urging me forward. One leg rested on my shoulder, giving him some respite.
We both relaxed, breathing in, and then he said: "You really want to reach up in me and grab my shit, don't you – pull it out?"
"So much, Dad – I want that so much –" I groaned, shuddering at the thought of my filthy hand ripping out sludge and pushing it into my mouth.
But then I pulled back, gentling him.
There was, in fact, shit stains in the lube – creating a beautiful grimy slime that smelled more perfect than I can describe. I took in deep gasps of air, clearing my head – I was so fucking aroused even though I'd just had a few of the most epic orgasms in my life.
I pulled out completely, then rubbed both of my slimy dirty hands on his chest and pecs and he growled in appreciation for the marking. I gripped both of his pecs and pushed up on him, my cock coming dangerously close to his hole, our eyes locked.
"But – the first time – it may be better for you to be clean, Sir," I said, directly. "It's hard enough to open to a man's fist. Maybe the first time – the first few times – we get in without any shit. We want to make sure we don't hurt you – make sure the first few times are the best for you – completely lubed with no crud that could make it uncomfortable. We want to make sure you can wrap your head around it."
He just nodded, nostrils flaring, imagining yet another undiscovered country.
"How you are so wise about this stuff, Stew?"
"Got me some experience, Unc," I said. "Like I told you – after college this is what I wanted to explore, so I did."
"You been fisted?"
"Just once," I replied, "But I didn't like it. I realized why after – I didn't trust the guy. He had small hands, so that helped, but I need a connection. I need ... trust."
"You want my fist in you, son?"
"Yes. So much, Dad. So much. But you're so ... big," I said, reaching out and grabbing his wrist, pulling his mitt to my face, nearly covering it.
"I don't see how I could get that in you," he said, continuing the conversation all the while my cock head dancing on his dirty slick entry.
"I know you can do it, Dad," I said, huffing now in excitement. Our talk about future sex always turned me on. That and the smell and our sweat and our renewed sexual energy was flipping my switch. "And I know how you will do it," I said, asserting myself.
"How, kid?"
"What I know, Unc, is that the guys who are the best fisters are guys who have been fisted. Once I get all up inside you, you'll know exactly what to do."
"Fuck," was all he said, huffing out. Then he pushed the poppers up in my nose. I snorted and took my own hit. He said: "You're gonna fuck me, aren't you son? Fuck your Pops?"
"Only if you let me, Daddy," I said, subserviently.
"Have you fisted a dude before?" he asked, avoiding the topic at hand.
"Yeah Daddy – I like to fist hungry butt – hungry Dad ass..." I was into it now, feeling my vers nature coming out.
"Thought you were a bottom –"
"Always and forever, Dad," I said, dipping my head in respect. "But bottoming is a state of mind, Sir. I love getting inside a man's gut – giving him the pleasure that only my hand can give – and I want in yours so I can feed more."
"Nasty fucker –"
"You, too."
"Why ain't you inside me, son?" he asked, snorting more poppers.
"Waiting for permission, Sir."
"Permission granted, son."
"Push out, Dad," I said, and he did, bearing down, and I pushed in, to the hilt. His body jerked, totally, muscles tensing, and he cried out, but it was a cry of pleasure.
"AWWWWWYEAHFUCKER," he grunted, and I pushed deeper. My nose was touching his own now, my eyes fiery lasers of passion.
"I ate your shit, Dad. It's all inside of me. All of it."
"Love you for that, kid," he said, gripping my neck, huffing out.
"All I want is more, Dad," I said, beginning to fuck.
"Dirty fucking me now, son – like men do."
"Just us guys, Daddy."
"Just us guys."
"Gonna eat my cum out of your hole, Dad. Want to taste what it tastes like when it's mixed with your shit, Sir," I said, beginning to fuck now. He was so strong – so virile – that fucking him was not topping him – the pleasure he took from the act was completely male. He was the most masculine fuckee I had ever nailed and even as I began to rail him and he goaded me on, I never once felt as if I was dominating him and I only ever treated him like the giant he was.
"Fuck me, kid," he growled, eyes slitted, hands beating on my back. "Make me feel it."
"Dad –" I gasped, rising up, watching his cock spew ungodly amounts of slime. "Fuck Dad –" I cried, my cock flexing and expanding.
"Cum," he demanded. "Cum in me. Need your cum, son. Dad needs your fucking cum."
By now he was beating on me with his fists, urging me on with near violence; the opening of his hole had spawned ANOTHER beast in him and it was unleashed, howling in the afternoon. Sweat sprayed from my face and chest, arms strained, muscles flexed – and then I lunged one last time, pushing into his deepest depths, crying out.
"DAD! DAAAAAAAAAADDDY!"
I sprayed in him, dumping what felt like buckets of spew and sperm in his dirty depths, mixing with this shit-remnants, painting his walls, searing his stomach with my seed as he just nodded, urging me on.
"CUM. CUM. CUM. CUM. CUM, KID – FUCKINGCUMMMMM!!!!"
Unable to take any more extreme pleasure I threw myself into his body, heaving and shaking and shivering as he held me, so fucking strong, so fucking hard – so tight that it felt like my ribcage could crack under the pressure of his clutch, and we stayed like that for minutes or hours or days ... I don't know.
As I said before, time had no meaning in this rancid place of our own creation and fuck no, of course it wasn't days but damn ... damn ... damn dudes...
I mean ...
I'm assuming it's dudes who are reading this, if anyone is reading this at all ...
But, damn...
It was so good. So intense. So hot. So perfect and so outside of my own experience: to FUCK a man and feel entirely subservient and submissive to him at the same time was a mindbend of epic proportions and – also – the perfect symmetry and synthesis of our increasingly secure and intimate connection.
And, of course, I was in love.
Deep, dark, dirty love – but love of power and perversion.
((((()))))
When I was done – when we were done with this next stage of our intimacy – I slithered down his body. Our shit-sweat lubed my descent down his trunk, his cock rigid and intense, which smeared more spew into our shared slime.
"Dad – Dad –" I huffed, shaking, as his hands pushed my descent back to my place, between his haunches and on my knees.
"You know what's next, son," he said, and my face went back to its happy place, licking and loving his wet, now more open hole. I nodded, fervently, and then he bore down, gently. A thick stream of darkened sperm soiled my tongue and I slopped it up greedily. I had often tasted my own spew but this was unlike anything I had ever consumed – an alluring mixture that had the dark taste of tobacco and dirt. Then a wet fart emerged from his sullied lips, emitting directly into my open maw, as more of my spooge lodged in my mouth. It was a full load, reminding me of my own youthful virility and desires. I pushed up, cramming my mouth into his, opening the gift to his lips, sharing our reeking sperm.
"Love you, Dad," is all I said as we kissed, and he nodded, unwilling to unlock his lips to declare what was now obvious.
Then he lifted up, letting me drop back down to my knees, and pronged his pole directly into my face. It was hulking and dominant and perfect – my mouth and throat lubed with my semen, my stomach roiling with his fetid stench, my own seed added to the mix, and now he would finish my meal off with an explosion of virility.
It was a rough fuck, as if he was angry that my plundering of his hole was so arousing – as if he were punishing me for pulling pleasure from the periphery and into his opening. If it was punishment, I deserved it. I deserved everything I got from this man –begged for it – and knowing that I would soon get his cum in my throat, followed by his piss, just opened me more to his muscular abuse.
He grabbed my head, cock vibrant and stiff, and rammed my throat, using me like he'd used me on the flatbed of his truck, but this time from a different angle – and this time with even intense ferocity that drove me deeper into degradation and desire. I made keening moaning cries as he humped my throat, vomited up brown scut that lubed his dirty crotch and balls, sucked it back down, forcing it to incorporate as part of my being, and begged for more, not with words but with unsubtle grunts and lewd displays of body language.
He enjoyed his rape of me – and it was rape. He had not asked, nor had I consented, but we were so far beyond consent it didn't matter. He owned me, was learning the benefits of that ownership, was understanding that at the apex of that benefit structure, just above toilet service, was the violent rape of my needy holes.
When he came – enlarged to a thickness that was shocking to me – he plastered my face into his filthy pubes and held me in a vice grip that prohibited breathing. Of course I choked, and began to drown in my own sick sputum, my eyes enlarging, looking up at his evil, vacant smile, realizing that there would be no mercy from him. My only hope was that his balls drained before my life force did. He stared at me, glaring at my plea for relief, and so I closed my eyes, submitting entirely to his power and strength, knowing that if, in fact, I did lose my life in this moment, I would at least feel complete.
Whole.
As darkness swooped in to take me – as I let my entire body go slack - he thrust one more brutal time, stabbing more semen into my stomach, and then let go, pushing me off his still spurting cock. I fell back, choking and snorting, twisting in the air and vomiting sperm and slick and shit on to the cold concrete floor. My body wracked several times, each against my will, as I did my best to hold his filth down, but the throat abuse was too much. I lost some in a hacking, disgusting contraction, beating the floor in frustration as tears and snot poured from my other orifices. I was sobbing in disappointment of myself, not real tears, just frustration, and then his thick voice permeated the space:
"Lick that up. Now."
"Yes Sir," I cried, too loudly, coughing as I did. "Yes Master," I said, the word escaping my lips without my brain interfering. But it was right – it had to be – and then my face was in my gruel, sucking and licking and tasting and feeling the cold concrete, and floor grit, joined with the delicious mixture of my SIR.
I did not stop – not once – not at all – until the entire slick spill of spew was gone, re-ingested, and all that was left was a wet spot on the floor, made clean with my tongue.
Then I lunged at his feet, prostrating myself, apologizing for my weakness.
"I'm sorry, Sir – I'm sorry – I'm sorry," I said, licking and loving his boots, writhing in slutty need, repeating myself over and over and over. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry ..."
At which point I felt the draining heat of a hard stream of piss, pouring down on my head.
What a gift, what a gift, what a gift –
I lifted my head up, eyes closed, mouth open, and took it all in as he aimed for his new urinal, mouth filling with hot, verdant virility, then swallowing to add to the mix of HIM that was now within me.
I drank and drank, hoping it would never end. His salty urine soothed my raped throat and in that moment I realized he was giving balm to his brutality, in the only way he knew how.
My love – of course – only deepened – and I took every drop of his piss, except that which had initially wetted my stained and sick skin.
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