Big-dick Bottom Pt. 07

Author's note: This series contains (occasional) descriptions of rough and forced sex, some of which crosses the boundaries of consent. If this is not up your alley, please click elsewhere! All sexual contact described occurs between adults aged eighteen years and older.

Part 7.

Several days went by in a sex-crazed, hormone-fueled blur. I was barely home at all. I would stop there for about an hour or so each day after waking up at Mario's and driving, usually pretty hung over, back to my empty house--my parents were still gone--to eat and shower and change my clothes. Then, I'd head to work. Mario let me pick up an earlier shift so that I could get more driving hours. And also, me being around the restaurant in the morning usually meant that the two of us could find our way into the back office at least a few times before things picked up. After work, I would leave before Mario did and drive to his house, parking around the block. Then I would sneak through the yards of the houses behind his and let myself in through the back door. I'd pour myself a whiskey and wait for him to come home.

And then, once he arrived, he'd leave a trail of clothes between the front door and the kitchen, where I'd meet him with a drink and then... well... between booze, weed, and sex, we usually didn't get a lot of sleep.

During the day, as I went out on deliveries, my body would shudder involuntarily, remembering the feeling of Mario's body against mine, his thick cock in my asshole, his tongue in my mouth and his sandpaper chin scraping my body. I smelled him everywhere I went. On my body and on my clothes, and my skin throbbed with the memory of his urgent groping, his greedy consumption of my body each night. That's what it felt like--like he was a starving man and I was made from the last food on earth. It was an overwhelming sensation, to be with him, everything was over the top, excessive, too much.

He had an incredible amount of stamina. Even when drunk, he never seemed to tire of sex. After he came, he'd lie, stroking me, and in minutes I'd feel his erection pressing against me again. And after fucking me once, twice, or even more with very little rest between, he'd be ready for me to fuck him.

It made me uncomfortable, to be honest. I had no idea what to do with myself--my body, my hips, my cock. When Mario would flip over as a signal that he wanted me to fuck him, I would kneel behind his ass and thighs, my erection sticking out between us, and I'd start to panic. I was used to being used--taken, maneuvered into position. And now, when Mario was lying there, his body still, waiting for me to act... it was a disorienting sense of being forced into the position of command.

And of course, I didn't want to hurt him. We had lube that Mario pumped from a bottle and used to coat my dick. And he slicked himself with it, too, but even so, as I leaned forward and pressed my cock head against his warm, wet hole, the sheer physics of what we were attempting to do--what we were trying to put where--didn't add up. He was tight, and despite his eagerness and determination, he couldn't always loosen enough for what he wanted, which was to get pounded.

That's what he would say, "Pound me, P. Do it. Pound my ass." And I would try, I really would. First, to coax the head of my cock past the resistance of his tightly drawn hole, and then, once I was part way in, to lean into him so that the shaft of my cock would sink into him.

The first couple of times, after that first time in the shower, that's as far as we got. Just the tip. The rest of my cock just wouldn't go in, and we'd have to stop, both of us flustered. But on the second or third night I stayed over, Mario drank straight from the bottle of Jack after he'd fucked me twice, and this time, he made me lie under him so that he could sit on my cock and use his weight to bear down on me.

When he sank down onto my cock, all the way, he made a sound that I'd never heard before. I was drunk, too, and the warmth of the liquor in my belly seemed to flow up into him through the shaft of my cock. Carefully, he put his knees down on either side of me and rested his full weight onto me. His breath was coming in ragged bursts and I saw that his belly was quivering with little spasms. I reached up to stroke his belly and chest, and his cock, which was lying limp on my stomach, still leaking remnants from the second load he'd blown in my ass that night.

As I stroked it, his cock started to thicken--the head pushed out past the ridge of his foreskin and then lifted up to curve against his furry belly as he rocked on top of me. His head was tipped up toward the ceiling as he tried to acclimate to the feeling of my cock in his ass.

He began to rock harder, and I felt my cock start to slide in and out of his asshole as he flexed his thigh muscles to come up off of me, just a little, and then relax back down. He shuffled his knees up closer to my armpits so that he'd have a little more room to maneuver. As his weight came off of me, I found that my hips had space to move and, on instinct, I arched my back to push my cock up into him.

"Oh, P," he moaned, and sank down to meet the upward thrust of my hips. I repeated my movements, and we started to fuck in slow motion, moving our bodies in opposite directions and then bringing them together again, which made my cock slide up through him, into the deep, tight warmth of him.

He rested his hands on the headboard of the bed, and then we really started to go at it. The wood of the headboard started to knock into the wall and the old bed springs were creaking and whining below us. Mario's hole was looser, now, and I found that I could pull out of him enough so that when I flexed my hips up, the ring of his asshole would slide over my dick with an intoxicating friction.

Mario's stout cock was rock-hard and leaking onto my chest. Sweat, too, from his chin and his furry torso, was dripping down onto me. I grabbed his cock and stroked it, squeezing the wide base of it, feeling the thick veins that ridged the skin of his shaft. Through my cock, I could feel the contraction of his ass and pelvic muscles. His legs started to shake.

"Fuck," he grunted, and he sat down, forcefully on my cock and rocked back, releasing his grip of the headboard. The big muscles of his thighs and ass started to shake violently and then a burst of semen erupted from the head of his cock, blasting me in the face.

"Fuck, P!" he yelled, and another torrent of cum hit me, just missing my eye. I slammed my hips up into him and he let out a loud, pained moan. The shaking in his body spread up through his belly and his chest, and he threw his head back and drew a rough, halting breath as the orgasm ripped across his body.

I had been close to coming, too, but the ferocity of his orgasm had surprised me and the moment passed me by. Coming down from the high of his orgasm, Mario looked down at me and flashed a huge grin.

"Paulie, the stud," he said, and playfully pushed at my chin with his closed fist.

I smiled up at him, too, and he bent to kiss me. Later, after we'd cleaned up in the shower, Mario had wanted me to fuck him in the bed again, and this time, now that his hole was loosened up, my cock went in much more easily. I was able to come, fucking my load into him from behind as he bent down in front of me on the bed. After that, once we'd figured it out, he wanted me to do it to him more and more.

In the morning, after maybe a few hours of sleep, we would wake up and fuck again, or just stroke each other off, or I would take his cock in my mouth as we emerged from the half-sleep of being velcroed together all night. He'd make me breakfast. Then I would steal across the back yards and get into my truck, my lips still tingling from the pressure of Mario's mouth as he kissed me on the way out the door.

When I would see him, later, at the restaurant, he would smile and greet me with a shout, as always, and pat me on the arm or shoulder. But in his eyes there would be an ember of the thing that had flared up between us, between our bodies, and even in front of the other employees, his hands would linger on me, pressing into my skin through my shirt, or the skin of my neck, squeezing me with an intensity that relayed his desire to have me, consume me, press his lips and tongue into my mouth, and my hole, fill me with his cock and his cum and his enormous, boundless energy.

During those crazy days, I still serviced my regulars, of course. By this point in the summer, it had become a part of the routine of my job. But the color seemed to have drained from the encounters. What had been so exciting even a few days ago, my knees hitting the floor and a man shoving his cock into my mouth, was now just kind of a blip in the day--a blip in the hours of not being with Mario.

There may have been a perceptible lack of eagerness on my part, too, because, the most recent time I'd knelt in the doorway of Beercan's house, he hadn't been able to come. When he pulled his cock out of my mouth I expected the usual fire hose of cum to hit my face, but he just grunted in frustration and pumped his dick furiously for a few seconds before giving up. He looked at me, and I could see he was annoyed, but I just shrugged and rose slowly to my feet. He still tipped me five bucks, but I could tell he wasn't happy about it. It didn't really matter to me, though. I was high on whatever it was that had been sparked between Mario and me.

The one person I was worried would notice was Stacy, who I knew had an eagle eye--especially for "sketch behavior", as she called it. But if Stacy thought anything was up, she didn't let on. In fact, it seemed like she was a million miles away, distracted and anxious. I knew it probably had to do with her ex. The fact that he was back in town and had menaced her. I could tell that she was scared and I knew that she could really use a friend, and that I should be doing more to support her. But during those fevered, heady days I became so selfishly absorbed in what was going on with Mario that I didn't have time or attention to give anyone else.

~

Mid-week, Stacy called out and Amanda covered her shift. Amanda showed up wearing a tight, partially unbuttoned top with the edges of a lacy bra framing her truly remarkable breasts just barely visible. Even I had to marvel at how great "the twins" looked. Unsurprisingly, Derek and Jason, and Jeff, when he was around, were all agog in the presence of her exposed flesh. And when Mario was in the kitchen, he too was drawn to Amanda like a magnet. He was all over her, cooing, singing, massaging her shoulders, leading her around like a debutante. For her part, Amanda was loving every second of it.

When I came in between deliveries and saw the two of them together--Mario and Amanda--my heart rate would spike and I would hear a loud rushing sound in my ears as my face went red. Even my vision seemed to redden and my knees got shaky, watching him look at her, smile and laugh, his hand on her hip or lower back. On the road, I fantasized about running Amanda over with my truck--the satisfying thud her curvy little body would make under the Blazer's tires.

~

As the afternoon wore on, I could tell that Mario had started drinking, and he was getting more and more flirtatious with Amanda and rowdy with the guys in the kitchen. When I came in from a delivery around 6:30, he yelled over at me.

"Paulie, my dude! We're all going to Gio's tonight! It's gonna be fucking legendary! Everyone's coming, P!"

I felt my stomach twist with a mixture of frustration and hurt. Gio's? Did that mean he didn't want me to come over? I swallowed and looked at him, no doubt with sadness and confusion on my face.

"Paulie, c'monnnn," Mario said, frowning at me, "don't be a buzzkill, P--you gotta come out, let's do this!"

Angrily, I slung the empty hotbag back onto the rack and walked toward Mario, who was leaning with his arm against the wall. Amanda was leaning into him and her face was just inches away from his. She was giggling. I looked back and forth between the two of them.

"Actually, I'm not feeling well," I said. "I think I'm gonna head home early today."

It was the truth. I felt like I was about to throw up. Mario's smile morphed into a concerned frown. He straightened up and reached for my arm.

"Shit, P, are you OK?" he asked.

"I dunno," I said, meekly.

Mario put the back of his hand against my forehead like I was a little boy. "You don't feel hot," he said.

I flinched away from him. "A stomach bug, maybe," I said. I tried to shrug nonchalantly.

"Well, I guess It's OK if you leave, P. Danny and Jeff can drive tonight," Mario said.

He turned back to Amanda as I counted my tips out of the money belt. I was trying hard not to break down into tears.

"See ya," I said, handing him the belt.

Part of me hoped, or maybe expected, him to follow me out as I left, to make sure I was OK, to ask or reassure me that everything was good between us. But he didn't. As I walked out, I heard his loud, jovial voice and Amanda's high pitched giggle.

~

I drove home, seething. Up until now, my head hadn't been back down to earth for long enough to think about what was going on. A mocking, accusatory voice started up in my head.

The voice said, what, Paulie, you thought he was your boyfriend? That he actually cared about you? That he wanted anything more than a cheap thrill? Of making it with another guy just to see--to see how it felt?

These thoughts carried me all the way home and into the house and upstairs to my room and into my closet. I reached for the shoe box where I was keeping my tips in and--I looked around, suddenly confused--it wasn't there.

I went out into my room and looked around, thinking maybe I had brought it out of the closet for some reason. But no, the box wasn't anywhere in my room. I felt a cold weight fall in my stomach. It was gone. Someone had taken it--taken my money. All my tips, which, by now, was the vast majority of the money I'd made working this summer. At last count there was more than seventeen hundred dollars in that box.

For a second, I thought maybe my parents had taken the box, but I realized that they couldn't have. I had just put money in the box yesterday and they'd been out of town for days--and were still going to be away for a while, yet. My hands started to shake and I went downstairs to get myself a glass of water.

That's when I noticed the dusty boot prints on the kitchen floor. I felt a chill when I saw them, the wide tread and red-tinged dirt. I put down my glass of water. My eye tracked the prints from the kitchen, back through to the living room to the sliding door, confirming what I already knew, viscerally. It was him. The ginger.

Anger and indignation surged through me. That weaselly piece of shit motherfucker! That smug sunburned asshole son of a bitch! I was out the door and across the driveway and onto the neighbor's porch and pounding on his door and staring into the daddy's cold, gray-green eyes before I realized what I was doing.

"What the fuck do you want?" neighbor daddy said, through his teeth, standing in the open doorway, his lips wrapped around a thick cigar. The stink of it--the acrid-sweet smoke of smoldering tobacco--shocked me back into my body.

I looked down at my feet. In my rage, I hadn't even put shoes on and my white socks were caked with black dirt from my journey across the driveways... and the flower bed in between them.

I looked up at the daddy and his angry, sneering face. I tried to screw myself up to my full, shoe-less height.

"Tell your son to give me back my money," I said, as powerfully as I could muster.

"Excuse me?" the daddy said, leaning toward me and grabbing the stump of cigar from his mouth.

I took a step back, but kept my gaze on his eyes. I spoke slowly. "I said, tell your piece of shit son to give me back my fucking money."

The daddy straightened and looked at me as though I had just kicked him in the balls. Across his eyes flickered surprise, then confusion, and finally, rage. He reached out, grabbed a fistful of my shirt, and yanked me toward him. I grabbed his wrists and tried to pry his hand from my shirt.

"You got some fuckin' nerve, comin' over here and talkin' to me like that, you little faggot fuck," the daddy spat into my face.

He walked out of the house and dragged me across the front porch, and then down the front steps. He marched me around the side of his house and into the back yard. The sun was low in the sky, sending shafts of golden light cascading across the yard through gaps in the tall trees ringing the yard. He was wearing a tank top and what looked like boxers, with some sort of house slippers on his feet.

"What are you doing?" I yelled as he pulled me roughly across the still mostly torn-up yard. I flailed my legs and tried to kick away from him but he was too strong.

"Shut the fuck up," he snorted at me, still puffing on his cigar as we staggered to the far end of the yard. When I saw where we were going, I began to kick harder.

When we reached the shed, the daddy slammed me against the wooden door, his hand around my neck, while he dialed the combination on the padlock. When it popped, he pulled open the sliding door and tossed me inside. I went skidding across the dusty floor, losing my balance and crashing into the side of a workbench holding a bunch of tools. There was a crack as my head hit the side and I felt a sharp pain as I slid to the ground.

Behind me, I heard the door slide shut and then the daddy was striding over to where I was laying on the ground. He leaned down and pulled me up to my feet, then grabbed my wrists and looped a nylon rope around them. He knotted the rope and then looped it again around my wrists, bringing the ends of the rope up between my bound hands.

My head was still ringing from the blow it had taken against the table and I didn't realize that I had been tied up until the daddy threw the cord over an exposed beam in the ceiling of the shed and yanked down, hard, drawing my arms up above my head.

"What... what are you doing?" I whispered.

"Shut up," the daddy said again, and he pulled down again on the rope. This time, my body started to lift up off the ground with the force of his yank. He let a little slack out of the cord, just enough so that I could support my weight on my tiptoes, and then he tied the rope off, letting the ends of the rope dangle next to me.

He came around to look me in the eye.

"You're gonna hang here and think about the way you spoke to me, boy," he said, coolly.

He picked up the cigar from where he'd set it down on the table and took a long draw. Then he blew the putrid smoke into my face. He reached down. I felt his hand groping my crotch. I realized, as he touched me, that my cock was fully hard, pressing out against my work khakis. The itch surged up through me. He felt along the length of my dick, which was angled down the side of my leg, all the while staring into my eyes. Behind him, the last rays of light from the sunset cut through the dusty air of the shed. He squinted at me and chuckled, then released his hand from my cock. He turned and walked out of the shed, closing the door behind him.

After he left, I tried flailing my arms and legs to get free of the rope. But he'd tied me up tight and the more I struggled, the tighter the knot felt around my wrists. I stopped wiggling, worried that I would cut off blood to my hands, and instead I tried to relieve the pressure on my wrists by pushing up on my toes. I could only hold that position for so long, though, before my calves started to shake and eventually I had to fall back down to hang.