So he’s lying on his mattress, staring at me with those big, helpless eyes, hands clawing at the sheets, feet paddling the air like a kitten. I’m straddling his chest, sitting on his rib cage. My weight’s holding him down, making him breathless. One of my hands is clamped over his mouth, muffling the whimpers and pleas. The other is reaching back to work on his sloppy butt. I’ve got four fingers plugging that gape; my first load has already seeped out onto the rumpled sheets, and into the palm of my hand. My fingers stink of semen and boyhole.
“That hurt?” I ask the Runt. To get the answer I want, I add my thumb to the cone I’m making and jab it in. Harder. Deeper. His eyes widen. His lashes are already fringed with moisture bordering on tears. “I said, does that hurt?”
The sound he makes is smothered by my hand, pushing down so hard on his mouth that his head is disappearing into the pillow. “What?” I snarl. “I can’t fucking understand you. Does it hurt?”
He tries to speak again, then realizes that I’m not going to let up on my grip on his face. Runt looks up at me and nods as best he can. His panicked eyes telling me all I really need to know.
His dick tells me the rest of the tale. He’s shot already during the first fuck, and not that long ago, but it’s hard again and red and glistening across the gentle downward slope of his abdomen. There’s a pool of precum sliding out of his dick’s tip. Sure, it hurts. But the little fucker loves it.
My eyes drill into his as my hand insistently probes his hole. His legs paddle helplessly. As he begins to accept the sensation of being opened wide, their fruitless motions lessen, then cease. His dick leaps up and points to the headboard. I feel breath on the side of my head from his nose, as he sighs deeply. He fucking loves what I do to him. He settles into the mattress and open his legs wider, inviting me in.
The Runt lives with his folks still. His room’s still a boy’s room. There’s a pile of laundry in a corner that carries the vaguely goat-like stink of boys his age. His desk is covered with video game discs and electronic equipment. His closet looks like it’s been used to contain the explosion of a hoodie factory. He doesn’t have an adult’s artwork on the walls; he’s got posters. I don’t fuck him at his home much. I drill his little hole in cars. I bring him to my place and ram the shit out of him. Anyplace I can get the little fuck on his knees, spread his cheeks, wet him up, and slam it deep.
Because when it comes down to it, the penetration is what he craves. Penetration is the defining moment of sex for him. It’s the point of fucking, to be put in his place, spread wide, and violated. There hasn’t been a time we’ve been together when he hasn’t let loose with his load, the moments I’m forcing myself into his hole. The rougher and more humiliating I make it, the harder this boy shoots. Oh, he’s still in it for the fuck. He grinds his ass and begs for my load. He loves cock in his shitter.
But the penetration is what gets him off—that sensation of being ripped into, of being entered, of giving it up to a superior cock. The more painful it is, the harder he climaxes. So I play it up and make sure he fucking feels it, every time.
I let go of his mouth. There’s a red print on his face from the pressure. His lips tremble and work to bring the blood back. “Get up,” I order him, as I swing my knee over his body and release him from my weight. I flop back on his stinky bed, let my head dent the pillows. He scrambles to his feet. Reflexively, his hand touches the collar around his neck. It’s the dog collar we bought together. It’s a talisman for him. He’d wear it 24/7 if I let him. “Fuck, son,” I drawl, letting some of my Southern cadences color my voice. “You’re a sloppy mess.”
He looks up and down his body. He’s covered with silvery dry traces of his own juice. With lube. His moon-white skin is covered with my pawprints. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“You look like a fucking whore,” I tell him. “You look like you’re just a cunt. Is that all you are? Just a cunt?”
There’s a smile playing at the edge of his lips. He’s liking this. His skinny cock is still rock hard, and it’s projecting out in front of him. He nods.
“Go over to your desk,” I tell him. “Get one of those marking pens in that cup there.” He shuffles over his books and manga and pulls out a blue highlighter from the cup. “No,” I say, annoyed. “The black one. There.”
He comes back with a thick-tipped Sharpie, which he offers me.
“Uncap it.” He obeys, his eyes on me unwaveringly. I sit up, take the pen, and turn it so that the tip is facing him. “So you’re just a whore, huh? A little boy-whore?”
He nods. Another bead of pre-cum oozes from his dick and begins to hang down underneath the head. “Yes sir,” he says. It’s barely a murmur.
“Come here.” I reach up and pull him down by the collar. He thinks I’m going to kiss him. I do not. Instead, I hold him at a distance, so I can write on his chest with the Sharpie. His eyes widen as I scrawl a thick W over his right nipple. I put a H on his pectoral, and a O right in the middle of his sternum. An R follows, and then I finish off with an E over the left nipple.
When I release him, he staggers back and looks down at himself. It’s upside and backwards from his perspective, but I know he can read. “What’s that say?” I ask.
“Whore,” he says, faintly. His face is red. He looks mortified that I’ve written the legend on him. But that dick doesn’t lie. He loves it. Loves it.
“Is that what you are?” I ask. He nods. “I didn’t hear you.”
This time, he asserts his answer a little more loudly. “Yes sir.”
“Turn around. Bend over.”
He thinks I’m going to eat his cummy hole. Or maybe shove my fingers back inside. I do neither. “And this,” I say, brandishing the Sharpie, “is what this is.”
On his left cheek I write a large, dark CU. On the right, NT. Right above the crack, I draw an arrow pointing down.
“Look in the mirror,” I tell him.
He turns, and looks at his creamy white butt in the full-length mirror on his door. His cock leaps as he realizes what it says. “What are you?” I ask.
“A cunt, sir,” he says.
“Fucking right. Put this away.” I throw the marker at him. He nearly misses grabbing at it, but he caps it and returns it to the desk. “Now get over here.”
I pull him down onto the bed using his collar. Put him face down. Pull the pillows so they’re under his hips. Yank his ankles apart so that little butthole is exposed. Drive in two fingers. He gasps, and groans. I’ve arranged his dick so that the pillows are pushing it between his thighs. It’s pointing straight down at the mattress, exposed, hard, angry red. “What are you?” I ask.
“A whore,” he moans, into the bed. “A cunt.”
“You’re a fucking cunt,” I tell him. Then I take my cock, aim it at his hole, and shove myself into that warm, tight boyflesh. No mercy. No kindness. I plow all the way in, and and land on the little nub that’s his prostate. I mash my dick’s head against it.
He cries out, loudly. His body shakes. It’s almost as if he’s trying to buck me off, his reaction is so strong. But it’s only the orgasm taking over. His semen squirts down onto the bedclothes . . . one, two, three jets of the thick and sloppy stuff.
“I’m a cunt,” he whimpers. He’s saying it more to himself than to me. It’s a mantra to him now. “I’m a cunt. I’m a fucking cunt. Just a fucking little cunt.”
“Good boy,” I say, letting him hear the pleasure in my voice. “Lesson learned.”
I wait until his body stops shaking. Then I withdraw a few inches, slide in, and begin the real fuck.