Big-dick Bottom Pt. 08

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 8.

Carefully, son #1 set me down in the passenger seat of his dad's truck and reclined the seat so that I wouldn't have to sit up. He pulled up my pants and underwear, tucking my cock and balls into the pouch of my briefs. Then he felt along my legs and arms, pressing firmly, but gently.

"Is anything broken?" he whispered.

I tried to answer him but my voice came out as a dry rasp. He pressed his fingertips into my belly and then felt up along my ribs.

"Does that hurt?" he asked me. "Do you need to go to the hospital?"

I shook my head. I was trying to raise my arms to look at my wrists, but my arms weren't cooperating. I had been hanging for so long in the shed that my muscles had gone dead. I felt static prickle along my flesh as nerve conduction started to come back to my arms.

Son #1 took my hands and raised them up to look a them in the dim dome light of the truck. The ropes had dug my wrists red and raw, but they weren't bleeding, just incredibly painful. He rubbed my hands, which were still tinged blue, encouraging blood to come back into them. With the increased circulation came pain, and I sucked my breath in, and felt hot tears stream out of my eyes.

He looked up at me. His eyes were dark pools, filled with sadness and anger.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he set my hands down into my lap. He stood up and looked across the truck toward the back yard with a concerned expression on his face.

"We need to get out of here," he said.

He shut the door and walked around to the driver's side, got in, and started the engine. I wasn't in any condition to protest. And in any case, where would I have gone? I was pretty sure that I couldn't even walk.

He reversed quickly out of the driveway and then put the truck in gear and pealed off down the road. Illuminated by the dashboard lights, I watched him drive as I drifted half-in and half-out of consciousness. His jaw flexed and he shook his head. He muttered to himself a few times and made a fist against the steering wheel.

It was late--the dashboard clock read 11:45. I realized just how long I had been hanging in the shed. I wanted to speak up and ask him where he was taking me, what he was going to do with me, but I didn't have the energy or the voice to do so. I drifted off, letting the vibration of the truck and the road lull me into a blank sleep.

I woke when the truck started to bump and jerk. In the headlights, I saw that we were in the woods, driving on a dirt road littered with rocks, heading up a steep incline. We drove on the road for maybe fifteen minutes, winding up and down, even crossing a few streams. The foliage appeared to get denser and denser around us the further we drove, and the road less and less cleared, until it was just two faint ruts.

Abruptly, Son #1 turned into a wide clearing of overgrown grass, at the center of which was a small, dark-looking cabin. Leaving the truck running, he got out and walked through the grass to the door of the cabin, then ran his hands along the top of the door until he found a key. He opened the door and went in, and about a minute later I saw a light come on inside. It was several more minutes before he came back out to the truck.

He was wearing what he usually wore, heavy work boots and thin, mesh shorts, with a tight tank top. He turned off the truck and came around to my door. I sat up. The muscles of my body were starting to respond to my commands. I started to get out--I thought that I could probably walk--but he swooped me up again in his arms and carried me across the yard to the cabin like I was a baby.

As he carried me, a bolt of lightening streaked across the sky. A loud rumble of thunder rolled across the woods, seconds later. Instinctively, I buried my head into son #1's chest and I felt him grip me tighter. I inhaled his scent, and felt a rush of recognition. I knew this smell--knew the feel of these hands and these deep, even breaths. The soft, yet incredibly strong give of his chest and his arms, the immense power there that I sensed he was holding back in order not to hurt me.

We entered the cabin and I saw that it was a single room. On one side there was a ratty old couch and some chairs clustered around a fireplace, and on the other it looked like there was a rudimentary kitchen. Along the back wall were two sets of bunked beds, side by side, flat wooden pallets made from rough timber. There was an oil lamp burning on the table in the kitchen, and he must have lit the fire when he first came in, because it was crackling in the fireplace.

He carried me to the old couch and set me down, then went to the kitchen and started rooting around in the cupboards. I watched him light a gas cooking stove. I looked around, still dazed and disoriented. The walls were covered in animals... and animal parts. Various taxidermied mammals, fish, dozens of pairs of antlers, and large-tusked jawbones that looked like they came from some kind of wild hog.

"It's our hunting cabin," son #1 said when he came back, holding out a mug of steaming liquid. "Don't worry. They won't come out here."

I reached up and took the mug from him, relieved to feel my hands and arms working. After he handed me the mug, he sat in an old recliner, opposite me. I blew onto the surface of the hot liquid and took a sip. Bitter tannins washed into my mouth and made me flinch.

"Black tea," he said, quietly. "Sorry, it's the only thing here."

I took another sip and the hot liquid lubricated my dry throat. "Thank you," I croaked.

He didn't respond, just ground his jaw again. More lightening flashed in the windows, and thunder rattled the cabin. I could tell that he was angry. He was flexing and relaxing his fists as he sat in the chair. I drank my tea and, slowly, and I felt my senses return as the liquid spread inside me and the caffeine hit my bloodstream. I watched him seethe, and I became uncomfortable. Despite the fact that he'd rescued me, the fact remained that he was a huge man--twice my mass at least. He was the son of his father and brother of his brother. And he had brought me to a remote cabin.

He stood up and threw another log onto the fire. Outside, the sky opened up and I heard a torrent of rain descend on the cabin. He strode back over to the kitchen and rustled around.

"You must be hungry," he said.

I realized I was hungry. Ravenous. He brought over a pouch and held it out to me. I reached in and pulled out a piece of desiccated meat. I looked at him, and to my surprise, he cracked a smile.

"Try it," he said, grabbing a piece himself and tearing off a chunk with his teeth.

I put the gnarled thing into my mouth and bit down. It was tough, but flavorful. I chewed and swallowed, then put the rest of the piece in my mouth and reached for another.

He laughed. "I thought you'd like it," he said.

"What is it?" I asked, my mouth full.

"Deer," he said.

I'd never eaten a deer before, and I was kind of grossed out, but I was so hungry that I didn't care. I took another several pieces from the pouch and he grinned and sat down next to me on the couch. We sat, chewing, staring at the fire. The chill had gone out of the air in the cabin. The rain continued to pour down on the roof as the storm raged outside.

"Hey, is there, um, a bathroom here?" I asked once I had eaten my fill of jerky. The food and the tea had restarted my body and I desperately needed to pee.

"Yeah, out back. Just an outhouse, though," he said.

"That's fine," I said, and I pushed myself up to stand and took a step toward the back door, but immediately fell down onto the rug.

"Shit," I said. My legs were still shot.

Son #1 leaped up and put his hand under my arm to help me stand.

"Let me help you," he said, and he supported me as I limped across the room. I was embarrassed, not being able to walk, but my body was still so broken, and he was so strong, and so gentle with me that I let him half-carry me to the back door. He pushed it open, and I saw the outhouse, about twenty yards from the cabin. I sighed, discouraged by the distance. But, grabbing a flashlight that was hanging by the door, son #1 just bent and picked me up and carried me across the yard through the rain.

He helped me get my pants down to pee. I tried to protest but he just knocked my feeble hands away and unzipped me, and pulled out my cock for me. He didn't react to the size of me, just took it out of my underwear and aimed it into the hole when it was clear that I couldn't even grip it myself. In the beam of the flashlight, we both saw how raw my cock was from having been scraped up so badly by the ginger's teeth. I should have been mortified to be here like this, unable to support my own weight, with this guy holding my dick so that I could pee, but I just let my mind go blank and let the piss flow out of me, relishing the relief of emptying my bladder. He shook the last drips from my cock and put it back in my pants.

"I gotta go, too," he said, and he pulled his dick out of his shorts and started to piss into the hole.

I couldn't help but look, of course, and I swallowed hard when I saw it. In his big, blockish hand, his soft cock was fat and long, with the wide, cut dick head that I had seen bouncing in his shorts all summer long. His piss slit was enormous, and his piss stream was like torrential, almost like a horse's. He saw me looking as he finished up, shaking his cock and slipping it back into his shorts.

Then he carried me back to the cabin, hustling since the rain was coming down so hard. When we were back inside, he put me down on my feet and made sure that I was steady enough to lean against the wall as he secured the door. We were both soaked. He looked around the cabin for something to dry us off, but all he found was an old blanket. He looked at me, then at the fire, and then laid the blanket down on the rug in front of the fireplace. He threw another log onto the fire and then came and walked me carefully over.

"This will dry us off," he said, and he helped me down onto the blanket. I winced in pain as I sat down. My body was still aching all over. I was shivering, too, from the cold rain.

Wordlessly, son #1 pulled my wet, dirty polo shirt over my head. He carried the shirt over to the sink on the other side of the room and wrung it out, then hung it to dry on a wire that was strung across the ceiling. He stripped off his own tank top and wrung it out as well. Sweet Jesus. I couldn't help but watch him, the great muscles of his back and shoulders working as he squeezed the wet fabric. When he turned back toward me, the firelight licked up his belly and chest. He was smattered with wet hair. When he reached up to hang his tank top, his torso extended, showing me the extent of his powerful musculature, his dark, hairy armpits, and the peppering of stubble on his neck and chin. He ran his hands through his wet hair and flung the moisture onto the floor, then walked back over to me.

"Take your pants off," he said.

I looked up at him questioningly, but his face was stern--serious. I took a deep breath and unbuckled my belt and unzipped my fly, then pushed my pants down as best I could. He saw me struggle and he knelt to help. He laid me back onto the blanket and pulled the cuffs of my pant legs over my ankles and then my pants were off. I put my hands over the bulge of my underwear as he went to hang up my pants. Watching him, my cock was thickening up.

"Those, too," I heard him say, and looked to see him standing and pointing at my crotch.

"R-really?" I stammered, sitting up again to hide my erection.

He didn't answer, just flexed his fingers, indicating that I hand him my briefs. Reluctantly, I hooked my thumbs into my underwear and pulled them down, turning away from him so that he wouldn't see my obvious erection. With a shaky hand, I reached up to hand him my briefs. He took them and hung them up.

My embarrassment faded as I felt the warmth of the fire on my bare, damp skin. I turned to see him, over my shoulder, come and sit on the recliner to unlace his boots. He pulled his feet out of the boots and stripped off his socks. Then he got off the chair, still wearing his mesh shorts, and came to lie next to me on the blanket. He was a few feet away from me, and I was still turned away from him. He put a hand on my shoulder. His touch was warm and soft.

"It's OK," he said, quietly. "You don't have to hide. I'm not going to hurt you."

He pulled gently on my shoulder. I acquiesced and rolled onto my back. My mostly hard cock swung up, swaying over my belly. His eyes tracked down my body and then back up to my face. His eyes softened and he smiled at me. Then he reached down and pulled off his shorts, kicking them away, closer to the fire. His cock was also standing up, a thick pole capped with that wide, round head. Our bodies were still glinting with moisture from the rain--mine, slight, smooth, and pale next to his--large, dark, and hairy.

He crossed his arms behind his head and looked at the fire. I did the same. We stayed like that for a long time, letting the fire dry us, listening to the wood pop and crackle and the rain pour down.

When he rolled toward me and put his hand onto my chest, I took a fast, shuddering breath. His hand was large and warm and when his thumb tracked across my nipple, I felt my flesh tighten and pucker. I turned toward him and saw his dark eyes flickering at me. He pressed his lips against mine in a soft kiss.

If I still had any doubt that it was him, the guy from the quarry, it evaporated with the kiss. He cradled my cheek with his broad palm and kissed me with a tenderness that I hadn't experienced since that night. I felt tears streak my face as I melted into him, felt his muscle-soft bulk press against my body as we kissed.

He pulled back and wiped the tears from my eyes with his thumb. Then he cradled my head in the crook of his neck and rocked me, running his hands along my back and arms. I let my mind dissolve into his skin and the scent of his body, the rasp of his cheek and the soft fur of his chest. He smelled like rain and earth and sweat, and I could feel his heart beating slow and steady, deep in his chest.

Suddenly, my body was wracked with a spasm, the muscles in my lower back contracting painfully. I cried out and jerked away from him, arching my back and pressing my shoulder blades into the blanket. He pushed himself up to kneel beside me as the spasms continued, and he put his hands on the sides of my chest to try to keep me from writhing so violently. When the spasms stopped, I collapsed down, breathing hard, my body coated with a layer of sweat.

He frowned at me and then got up and walked to a trunk near the bunks, opened it and started pulling things out. He came back to the blanket holding a metal jar.

"This will help," he said. "Here, let me..."

He rolled me over onto my back, gently, so as to prevent another muscle spasm. I heard the scrape of the metal jar opening and then felt a cool smear of something on my lower back. He rubbed at it, pressing carefully against my tender muscles, and after a minute or so, I felt warm tingling start to spread across the small of my back.

"What is it?" I whispered, feeling my muscles relax in the warmth of the salve.

"I don't know, really," he said, after a moment. "My mom made this... before she died. I think it's herbs and wax. And maybe some kind of oil. She used to rub it on us when we'd get hurt. It always worked. She even sold it, sometimes, at farmer's markets. But she had to stop when she got sick."

I listened to him talk--felt his deep baritone vibrate in my own chest as he spoke. He was so close to me, leaning over me, rubbing the salve into my skin. It was the most I'd ever heard him say. He stopped talking, but kept rubbing my back, slowly expanding the circles of his hands toward my shoulders and neck. Every once in a while, my muscles would start to cramp, but he would press his thumbs against them and quell their shaking. After a while, it felt like every muscle that had been tense in my back had turned to jelly.

That's when I felt his hands move to my ass. He rubbed salve onto my buttocks and massaged them until they were warm and relaxed. Until now, after my back cramps, my cock had mostly deflated. But as his hands tracked down to my ass, I felt it start to harden again, tucked up under my belly against the blanket.

Slowly, ever so gently, I felt him spread my ass cheeks apart. He exhaled sharply. I winced, too, thinking about the shape my hole must be in. His dad and his brother--and the ax handle--had taken their toll on me. I tried to tighten the muscles down there, but all I felt was a sharp pain and I knew that my hole was struggling and failing to contract.

"Stop, stop," he whispered to me as he realized what I was struggling to do.

He dipped his fingers into the jar of salve and ever so slowly started to work his way into my ass crack, gently and tenderly, massaging his way toward my hole millimeter by millimeter. I was breathing hard, now. He laid down and pulling me onto my side to lay against him, crooking the arm that wasn't pressed into my ass under my head so that I could rest on him. He pressed his cheek against mine and reacted to my breath, using my body's reaction to his touch as a guide to sense when it was OK to push further into me with his fingers.

My ass burned with pain, but as he massaged the salve into me, I felt the pain begin to dissolve into a delicious warmth. He kept a firm pressure on my asshole with his large fingers. Somehow, we both seemed to sense that if he let up on that pressure, even for a moment, that my ass would cramp and spasm. But as long as he was there, pushing, pressing against me, the healing warmth would keep working on me and the muscles deep within me.

I felt him flex and shift his weight and hold me tighter against him, and then I felt a hard firm pressure slide through his fingers and replace their presence against my hole. With a start, I realized that it was his dick--his broad, thick dick head with the enormous piss slit--pressing up against my tattered hole.

He whispered in my ear to calm me, reassure me that he wasn't going to hurt me, and I relaxed against him, trusting him. His hand, freed from my ass was rubbing my hips and my pelvis, and then it was at the base of my cock, encircling it gently, still slick with salve.

I began to whimper as he drew his hand up along my shaft and flexed his hips so that his cock head pressed even more firmly against the battered ring of my asshole. The fire, lower now, was casting a crimson glow on us, on our bodies, and the storm raged outside.

I knew what I needed, and he knew what I needed, too. I pressed myself back against him and felt his wide cock head slide, with only the slightest resistance, into my hole.

He was breathing hard, too, and he released my cock to grab my chest and pull it tighter against him. Wrapped in his arms, I felt completely subsumed by him, as though every inch of my body were enfolded in his, and that he filled me from the inside, too, completely.

I could feel his restraint, his overwhelming desire to fuck me--I felt his legs shaking with the instinct to thrust into me. Instead, he ground against me gently, just using the girth of his shaft to keep the pressure on my asshole and my quaking muscles, to coax them into relaxation. The gentle rocking of his hips pushed the knob of his cock against the pulsing nub inside me and when his hand went to my cock again, it was slick with precum that was oozing out of me in time with the rhythm of his motion.