Date: Fri, 14 Jun 2013 18:18:43 -0600 From: Jay Dee Subject: Home part 8 Disclaimer: I own all the rights to this original work and give license to the Nifty archive. Copyright 2013. All characters are fictional, any similarities to living people are entirely coincidental. If you haven't already, please consider donating to Nifty, this is a wonderful project. Comments, critiques: juliet.delta88 (at) gmail (dot) com. -thanks *** Home – Part 8 I was afraid of dribbling semen out of my ass and onto the fat man's carpet, where I spent the night naked and uncovered, so I slept on my stomach. Apparently, at some point, my sleeping body started humping the floor, rubbing my undying hard-on into the carpet tile, a scratchy swath of dirty fabric. The foreskin under my dick was visibly burned and there was a wet spot on the floor. My body ached in places I didn't know existed. I could feel a weary soreness tug at my guts, the bearded man trained me to use my cunt muscles and now it's causing me a new kind of pain I have never before felt. My cunt. Fuck. I mean my asshole, holy shit. I realize now that I dreamt horribly that I was lying on my stomach and my asshole was a wide crevice, exposed to the size of a basketball. I reach around to my hole, to reassure myself. It's not a gaping nightmare, but my fingers are instantly slick with cold, dead cum. My hole is a mess. The room is empty. The bed is made. The clock says it's just after noon. I slept for 12 hours. On the bed is my bag, and my clothes in a messy pile. I realize now that I haven't seen my things since Friday night, after I undressed and locked myself to this bed. He must have hidden them. On top of my shirt is the key to the collar around my neck. The cell phone is also there, blinking. I check the phone before unlocking myself. "next weekend. all weekend." My dick instantly gets hard, stretching my foreskin enough to inflame the carpet burn. I have been naked for almost 48 hours, mostly locked and leashed to this bed. During that time, I have drunk piss, I've been ass fucked by so many men that I can't remember how many. One guy spit on me. I stink an ungodly stench of piss, semen, shit and sweat. It hurts to do so, but I am actively squeezing my asshole to keep in the loads of semen. I am starving. First I have to shower. I rush to the bathroom , but the door is locked. I knock gently, but both the echo from behind and the darkness framing edges of the door tell me that it's empty. He's not here, but he still locked the bathroom door? "Fat motherfucker." In a rush, I head for the kitchen. I'm going to have to piss in the sink. And yet, I realize there is an unspoken command. My clothes, the key, the phone and the locked door. He wants me gone. I hate this man. And I'm starting to see that he hates me. But, inside, in my mind I know I will not disobey. I have no choice. I get dressed and leave, deciding instead to pee in the bushes behind the hotel. "Didn't expect you back this early." When I get home, my dad was mowing the lawn. He was refueling the machine when I approached. It was weird when I first stepped out of the fat man's room. The sunshine, the air. It was almost as if I had forgotten that I belonged in the light, clothed. People could see me, my face and I could see them. That feeling was intensified when my dad talked to me. I belonged here, more than anywhere else. My family, my father, mother, sister. And yet, my weekend haunts me as I approach my father, the man who almost 18 years ago, carried me into this house and probably shed a tear at the thought of what kind of man his only son would someday become. A cockslave. He'd shed another tear if he knew I had become a cockslave for a fat, bald and ugly man who is at least five years older than my father himself. "Yeah," I say to my father. "I just wanted to be at home, I guess." As he filled up the mower from the plastic gas container, he asked something about the guys. I begin to answer, but my words evaporate as I trace with my eyes his hairy legs, solid muscular stumps that pour out of his khaki shorts and plant into the ground at his bare feet, soles grass-stained green. In those shorts, at the apex of his thick, masculine legs, is the bulge. He's not wearing any unde ... What the fuck? "Fine," I say, catching myself. I realize now that my most traumatizing moments have defined my psyche. I have been naked, molested and hate-fucked. Now, my entire life is defined by sex. Not even sex, by cock. By men. Jesus, even my father. "We had a good time. Played a lot of ball." More small talk. Our first game is in two weeks, he reminds me. His cock is hanging to the left. He advises that I work on my defense, I can't just rely on my speed and shooting skills. His feet are sweaty, and need to be cleaned, I could ... "Son?" I snap to attention. I apologize. He says again, there is something wrong with the choke on the mower. Yes. I will start the machine as he holds down the choke button. Jesus, my mind is a mess. I get into position behind the machine and my dad kneels down to push the button a few times. The sun is beating down and his skin is glistening. There is an elongated patch of moisture darkening his t-shirt at the center of his muscular back. He looks directly at me and sniffs. Oh shit. He sniffs again. He makes a guttural sound. "You guys didn't spend much time showering this weekend," he says, half-joking. I laugh, but my heart sinks. Oh dad. You are smelling my asshole. It's filled with the cold dying sperm from a bunch of men I never saw. I'm sorry. He focuses back on the choke, but pauses again. "Seriously. Did you guys get into something?" No, I say. I just didn't get time to shower before I left. He continues to sniff, faster. It's like, he recognizes something and I can see his brain working, trying to pinpoint the scent. I rush and pull the starting cable with all the strength I can muster. Thankfully, the machine roars to life. I hand the kill switch to my dad and point upstairs and mouth the word "shower." Over the motor, he yells with a smile, "Hurry!" Sorry dad. *** It's hard to masturbate with the carpet burn on my dick. One of the blessings of being uncircumcised, I can pull the skin back as far as it reaches and massage my cock head. I unload four orgasms in the shower, then two more on my bed afterward. The week exists through a filter. I see everything differently, I see everything in scales of fuck. I see a guy and try to picture his dick and imagine his fuck style. I see girls and picture how a man would fuck her, how his muscular ass cheeks would tense with every thrust he threw into her. I can see that Principal Smith was probably hot 30 years ago, not that I wouldn't want to see his wrinkled, naked package today if he'd let me. Even Mrs. Windell, my calculus teacher, she is the most overweight faculty member at school. She's at least 60. But she has kids and that means a man has fucked her. She has had dick, and I envy that. This, this is how I see everything, through dick-colored glasses. The week passes frustratingly slow. I keep the fat man's phone on me, but I'm pretty sure I won't hear from him until Friday. On the other hand, I have not stopped thinking about Coach. My basketball coach was somehow friends with the fat man. He was the last man to fuck me Saturday night with his unbearably thick cock. While I was still blindfolded, gave me my first kiss. It was magic. But he nudged me with his running shoe and told the fat man that I was too disgusting to sleep on the bed when he found out who I was. Coach knows my secret, but I don't think he'll tell. He knows I'm only 17, he knows I'm a student at the high school and not an employee. He doesn't know that I want his fat cock inside me forever. At practice, we ignore each other. He never calls me out, not even when I made a bad pass during scrimmage and he had every right to read me an act. I overthrew it on purpose. I want him to yell at me. I want him to order me. But we never so much as look at each other the entire week. Other than that, I try to resume a normal life. I must admit, there is a part of me, deep within, that holds more than a sliver of guilt over what the men do to me. I have lost a part of myself that I now realize I might never get back. In an effort to do that, I ingratiate myself with my friends. I tell them there isn't much going on in my life. My buddy, and teammate, Jim, suspects something more is going on. He was with me at the mall the day the fat man called me home in the men's room. And he covered for me over the weekend when I told my parents I was staying at his place. He has agreed to do the same this coming weekend. Thankfully, he doesn't push for more information, partly to respect my privacy, partly because he is too enamored by Stacy, his girlfriend. Stacy must know about my weekend secret, or that a secret exists. But she, too, is too preoccupied to push me for info. I watch them in the cafeteria, she sits on his lap, they feed each other fruit. They smile. I envy my friends, their connection and the fact that it's so public. I flash to a picture of me imitating those acts in my world. What if I had a tall, lean stud sitting on my lap during lunches, and we walked down the halls spooning each other, and we made out at my locker in between classes. We wouldn't last long in this small town. Jim once joked that he's going to propose to Stacy during our graduation. He's just going to drop down on one knee after they both get their diplomas, right in front of everyone. I'm starting to believe that he is going to go through with it. And the crowd would love it. They'd make loving sounds and applaud young love. My mystery stud and I, we would get lynched. I mourn my loss of love and build my resolve to meet my master on Friday. Friday. I don't bother telling coach that I'm going to miss practice, I'm sure he knows. I follow my orders and go straight to the fat man's room after school. There, I strip and put all of my things in the large duffel back that is waiting for me at the door. Naked, I get on my knees, facing the door, and wait. It's a bright fall afternoon, but the drawn thick curtains cast the room in almost complete darkness. An hour passes, and I want to get up to stretch my legs, instead I follow my specific orders to kneel here, right in front of the door, waiting to greet Him and His master dick. Suddenly, my heart jumps as I hear the door knob twist. I bow my head to the floor. My eyes are closed, and I expect some type of touch, hopefully to lift my head so my lips can meet his flaccid cockflesh. Instead, I hear footsteps rush beside me. Then I feel harsh fabric on my back. "Put this on," He says. It's his cumrag of a t-shirt. He used this as a gag to keep me quiet when he was training me to take his massive cock. He used it as a blindfold last week when he invited random men to help further train his cockslave. The shirt is splotched with brown protein stains. It stinks of yeast, rotted sugar and oddly a cheap bleach scent. I have to pull apart the fabric, which is pasted together at certain points. It makes a static, almost plastic sound as the months of dried semen breaks up. "Put it on," his voice is harsh. The shirt feels inhuman, cruel, against my skin. It's huge, I could fit two more guys of my size in this thing. I can almost feel the dried semen that clings to my hair as I slip my head through the collar. The shirt hangs down to my thighs. If I stand fully erect, my cock head hangs down low enough to see under the shirt. "Let's go," he says. I pause and wait for him to throw me something else. Some shorts. Fuck, even a towel. Then I realize he has no intention of doing so. He senses this. And orders me out the door. I want to argue. I want to rebel. I look at the front door, the floor, and ... fuck. The duffel bag with my clothes. It's gone. "I can get the collar and leash and lead you out of here," he says, matter-of-factly. I obey. I hunch my back as much as I can and walk out onto the cement walkway. We're on the second floor of this hotel, which is really more of an apartment complex. I try not to hold the bottom of the shirt against my thighs, which would make it too obvious that I am naked under this. Then, I get to the stairs around the corner. And fuck. On the bottom three steps are two boys playing cars. I walk down, carefully, in my bare feet. Each step I take, I also tighten my hold on the bottom of the shirt, holding it close, hoping to hide my cock and balls. I hate to admit, but I am partially erect. The boys stare at me as I walk down the final 10 or so steps. As soon as my back is to them, I hear high-pitched giggling. The man takes me to a pick-up truck, shining black. My heart skips as I approach and see someone sitting inside. He is much younger than the fat man. He is lean and has wide friendly eyes framed by his kempt bushy brown beard. He smiles when I approach the passenger door. "Hey Dump!" He laughs hard and looks to the fat man. "What the fuck is she wearing?" The fat man chuckles. "Trust me, you don't want to know." The bearded man orders me to take off the shirt. I hesitate and look around the parking lot. "Hey!" he says. "A man just gave you an order!" I remove the shirt. He opens the door, and reaches down to unfasten his seatbelt. He is deliberately taking his time as I stand here, bare-ass naked in the hotel parking lot. The fat man is already in the truck, starting the ignition. Then I realize that the bearded man has no intention of moving. Instead, he lifts up his butt just enough to pull down his pants to his ankles. He pushes the entire seat back as far as it will go. With a smile on his face, he looks directly into my eyes. I climb into the floor of the cabin, at the bearded man's feet. It's cramped and his knee slams into my jaw when he pulls shut the door. I dig into the musty pubic hair to find his cock and get to work. I focus on his cock and balls for the entire hour-and-a-half drive. He never acknowledges me, never touches me, he doesn't even really get hard. Instead he talks to the fat man about contracting work, sports and the news. It becomes clear, based on their conversation that the bearded man is a local employee at the fat man's contracting firm. The fat man is a relatively new addition to the bearded man's circle of friends. It's dusk when we finally park. We are in the woods. At the fat man's cabin. The air is soft and sweet. The bearded man orders me out of the truck. The air is instantly frigid on my naked body. The men immediately start to unload boxes from the truck bed and into the cabin. I have no instructions, so I follow suit and grab a box. It's a case of beer. Holy shit, they have a lot of beer. Food. And bows. There are three of them, they look high-end, titanium compound bows each colored just a different shade of camouflage. That's when I know, we are deep in the mountains. The only legal hunting this time of year is bow hunting and that's strictly in bear country. The boxes are unpacked in no time. The fat man orders me to kneel in the main commons room of the cabin. Other than that, the men both never say a word to the naked teenager. Not even when they finally settle down on the couches next to me. Each, with a beer in his hand, sit right in front of me. "So," said the bearded man. "How do you want to do this?" The fat man takes a deep swallow from his can and immediately tries to stifle a gassy burp. "Like a band aid, I guess." He then unfastens his pants buckle and pulls down his pants to his ankles. "Home." I leap into action. The bearded man laughs at my quick response. "Home? That's a good one." He pauses a contemplation. "Would it do that if I gave that order?" "She better not," the fat man answered. Jesus, with all these pronouns. "She only has one home. Right?" Proudly, I look the ugly fat man in the eyes. "Yes sir." It doesn't take long for the master cock to become fully erect, massive, godlike. I love this cock. He orders me to ride it, but first he sits on the floor. My heart leaps in anticipation. I leave behind an extra glob of spit on the cockhead as I get up to turn around. The cock presses against my asshole and enters smoothly. I exhale, trying to contain the pain, absorb it into my soul. And with no trouble, my butt cheeks are pressed directly against the fat pillow under his pubic hairs. His warm, firm, massive belly is pushed directly into my back. I use my knees to elevate my ass so I can more effectively ride the full foot of cock. I stifle my whimpers, but the bearded man still shakes his head in disgust. Then the sound of crunching earth, engines. Another vehicle has arrived. The bearded man looks out the window. "Showtime," he says. It's not until one of the engines stop that I hear the second one. Two vehicles have arrived simultaneously. I can feel my pulse in my throat. I can almost sense what they have planned, but I'm too scared to guess exactly what it is. The bearded man races to the kitchen and comes back with two six packs of beer. He heads to the front door to greet the visitors. "What's up, fellas?" I can hear him, his voice betraying nothing of what's happening just inside that door. I hear a voice call the bearded man "Jared." That same voice continues "So, Danny says you guys have some treat waiting for us." Danny, that's coach's name. I can hear beer cans splash open. Jared's voice: "Yeah. You guys remember Vegas, a couple years ago?" There is laughter. "You didn't get another hooker, did you? That was ..." Jared interrupts. "... A disaster. I know, we really fucked her up. But she was just in it for the money, that was our first mistake. You guys have to be patient and trust me. This is so much better. But you have to hear us out first." I wish the fat man would blindfold me. I want him to cover my face. I can't stand this. The screen door squeaks open and I hear a herd of heavy boots clunking over the porch and inside. My knees are shaking so bad they start to buckle, which is a bad move considering any slip in my balance would impale me on the master cock. Please, cover my face. I can't do this. I am panicking completely, and yet I have not lost any rhythm as I ride the giant cock in my asshole. I have made no move to get up. My face is boiling hot. My head is spinning. This is it. Instinctively, I try cover my face, but at the first sign of movement, the fat man grabs my wrists and pulls my arms behind me. First there is loud, forced, laughter. That's followed immediately by at least four of the men yelling, "What the fuck is this?" I can't look away. The fat man is pulling back my arms so far, I lean forward, toward the men. Squealing under my breath, I scan the entire group. There are six men who walk into the room. Coach is with them, but he is in the back, the last to enter. Jared has to force the men to come into the room, most stopped in their tracks as soon as they saw the teenaged boy riding a 46-year-old man's gigantic dick. The men are dressed for a hunting weekend, they might as well be posing for an outdoors catalog. They were all wearing dirty jeans, hiking boots and most of them had on some variation of long sleeved plaid shirts unbuttoned and open chested. There wasn't a clean chin in the group, each man had at least thick, dark beard stubble, if not a full beard. Two of the men were completely bald, and those were the two with the biggest beards. One of the bald men was fat. The shortest man seemed to be about 5-feet-five-inches, he also had a beard and thick-framed glasses. The tallest man was huge, he was also burly, shaped like a football and carried a belly. The last man was tall, scruffy and broad shouldered. He could have been the bounty paper towel guy. My dick was aching at the sight. Each of the men looked upon me with disgust. "Who the fuck is this, guy," asked the Bounty man, his voice betraying fear and rage. The short guy followed up immediately. "He's just a boy." "Guys," Jared shouted, fighting for attention. "This is not a boy. It's definitely not a man." He took a swig from his beer. "This is 100 percent, pure faggot." The men answered with disbelief. They protested the use of that word, the use of me. "No, it's not gay," Jared said. "Listen to me. This is not a gay man. A gay man is still a man. A faggot serves men, gay, straight, fat, old. Trust me on this. We tested it last weekend and this is a pure faggot." The protests had quieted, but not completely. Every word he said stung me, in my heart, my brain, everything that makes me a human, it hurt hearing what Jared, the bearded man, thought of me. I was ashamed. He was telling the truth, and it hurt me to realize it. Coming to terms with what I am: It stings. "This isn't a `he' or a `him.' It's just, a faggot." Sorry, dad. A couple of the men had calmed down and started sucking on their cans. The short man, shook his head, as if he tried to wake himself up. "Wait. You have sex with him ... it?" "No. Not sex," Jared said. "We fuck it. Sex is what men have with our wives and girlfriends or even our boyfriends. That is mutual. We have to respect them." He paused and let the men absorb what was going on. "Carl, when is the last time you had sex with your wife? The tallest man answered meekly, at least two weeks ago, he says. "And what kind of sex was it?" Jared asked. Carl shrugged. "I know we all love women," Jared said. "We love our wives. We make love to them like men should, right? But we have to wait. They have to be in the mood. We have to clean ourselves up. We have to use condoms and chemicals. We have to be hygienic. Shit! Even when we tried paying for it! That hooker in Vegas still had a bunch of bullshit rules for us." He definitely has everyone's attention. "Aren't there times when you just want to FUCK?" Jared punched the air in front of him. "When you want to just rip something apart with your dick?" He grabbed his crotch. "Don't you ever want to drop a fucked up load into something and walk away leaving it a crying, cummed up mess?" I'm not positive, but I think I see the Bounty man and both bald men slightly nod their heads. Jared walks over to me and grabs my face. Surprisingly, he lightly caresses my cheek. I can see now, he is quite baby-faced under the dark beard. His eyes are almond-shaped and shine with kindness. "Don't you ever want to take something smooth and perfect ..." Suddenly he grabs my hair and yanks so hard I can hear dozens of strands break and uproot. He slams my face into his crotch, the force was so abrupt that my wrists slipped out of the fat man's grip, although to some degree of pain in my shoulders. "... and FUCKING RAPE IT?" My head is spinning. I can't see anything but Jared's stomach and the hair from his belly that is sneaking out, just over his jeans. But I can hear several of the men snicker. "That's what faggots are for!" Jared was enthusiastic, yelling, preaching. "They have evolved to serve that need in men." He drinks more beer. "The faggot is born to serve men. We don't have to wait for it to be in the mood. We don't have to give a fuck if it feels love. It only loves cock. This faggot here, it is just two holes meant to host cock. It has a pussy where its mouth should be and a cunt where its ass should be. And either of these holes will take your cock whenever in the hell you want to give it." By the looks on the faces, I could tell that no one was going to leave the cabin. Although, I'm not sure all of them were sold on Jared's "gift." "Faggot," he says to me. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I didn't know what to say. I didn't know the answer, I have no aspirations beyond this moment right now. "Sir, I want to be ..." both my mind, my mouth are running on autopilot, "... your ..." I struggle to find something, but the words are pouring out of my mouth on their own, reflex, pure instinct. "... your underwear, sir." The truth. The room erupts in deep, masculine laughter that hurts me just as much as excites me. Jared looks at me surprised, puzzled, disgusted. Laughing, he asks, "What the fuck does that mean, Dump?" The fat man's dick is splitting me open, He now has both of his arms hooked around my shoulders and pulling me down onto the throne of His cock with full force. I whimper a faggot's cry. "I ... I want to soak up every drop that comes out of your beautiful dick, sir. I want your cock stain." From a quick gaze, I can see most of the men react to my revelation with shock, maybe disappointment, mostly disgust. What the fuck was I saying? That wasn't true. I want to play basketball. I want to be a writer. I have a family that I love, I someday want my own family that I'll love even more. But I look around the room at the eight men who are watching me ride the monster cock. No one has left. No one has ordered me off the monster cock. No one has beat me. On some level, they have accepted what I am doing and I find solace in that. The tallest man, Carl, is grabbing his crotch, adjusting for comfort. The movement catches my eye immediately and I am fixated. My soul is targeted on his crotch and I know I want it. I don't care what size it is. I don't care if he has showered. I want it in me, I want what's inside. I never want to be without it. I do. I want to be his underwear. I build up my strength. I make a major leap of faith and I speak out of turn. "Please, sir." I'm still looking directly at Carl, the tall man who grabbed his crotch. Jared follows my gaze to the man and smiles when he sees the target of my pleading. Carl looks startled. He immediately looks at his comrades, guilt-ridden, and lightly steps back. I am not trying to manipulate my voice, but it comes out high-pitched, desperate. As if I were days into the desert, begging for the last ever drop of water. "Please sir. Please." My voice sounds like I'm on the verge of uncontrollable sobbing. Jared places an arm around the man and lightly nudges him forward. "It's just a pussy," he says. "It was created for this, for us." The man approaches gingerly and stops directly in front of me. I unlatch his belt, unbutton his jeans and take down his zipper as quickly as I can, panicked, starving. There is a yellow stain on the front of his white jockey shorts and I immediately press my face against it and inhale life. I pull down the band and a thick shrub of pubic hair pops out, my heart skips a beat. I reach down and grab the mostly flaccid cock. It seems about four inches, circumcised. It is almost entirely buried in his unkempt pubes and there is a strong fishy odor of stale piss that I inhale like life support. "Thank you, sir," I whisper directly to the cock and take it in my mouth. I can immediately feel it stiffen in my mouth. This act brings me no physical pleasure, not like getting fucked. But in my heart and my soul, I can feel the sunshine warming the entire world. I feel baptized. I don't even notice that I am moaning deep until I hear a voice from the room. "Jesus, he really loves that." "It," says Jared harshly. "Remember, it's just two holes. And they both belong to men. To us." Fully erect, the cock is just big enough to enter my throat, it creates a deep, satisfying swallowing sound every time his musty balls hit my chin. My lips slurp over the edges of his cockhead as he pulls out. One hand lies limp at his side, the other is holding his beer can close to his face. He has no interest in touching me, which is disappointing. I reach around and pull on his buttcheeks, trying to create a forceful fuck rhythm. His breathing is ragged. Eventually, he takes over thrusting his hips into my mouth to the point where his pelvis smashes my face. I moan even louder. Behind me, the fat man starts making his own sounds, deeper breathing and light groaning. "You see?" says Jared. "Unlike a woman, or a real gay man, the faggot is always ready to serve. It will never turn you down. It will never ask you to cuddle afterwards. What it does have is a man's libido, which makes it willing to take the most brutal fucking you wouldn't dare give your women." The fat man is groaning louder. The sound is like a wakeup call. I remember all over again, the promise I made to Him. I cannot swallow another man's seed. Just in time, the tall man starts moaning and I can feel the cock in my mouth begin to spasm. It's happening. With no time to plan a strategy, I pull off the cock and rub it against my face. A thick, heavy blob spurts out, directly in my eye. Another follows and covers one of my nostrils. The third spurt seems to warm the rest of my face. I am completely plastered in cum. I look back to the fat man, my way of showing him my cum-caked face, silently proving to him that I have kept my promise. With that, he thrusts hard and deep into my asshole ... my cunt that it instantly makes me yelp and tear up. His massive cock shoots into my guts then continues to convulse and pump his seed into me, impregnating me with pride. He pushes me off of his dick. For a second, I'm not sure what to do. I suddenly feel exposed and scared until He saves me with that word. "Home," he says, frustrated that he has to remind me. Shit. I have to clean His cock. Without pause, I kneel before him and suck the master dick clean. Behind me, there is a baritone chorus of disgust. The voices of men groaning at the faggot. "That was just in its asshole," I don't recognize the voice. But I do recognize Jared's, which admonishes: "Its cunt." There is another voice. "Jesus, look at the cunt, it's leaking a pint of jizz." Oh shit. "Feed yourself," says the fat man in a sinister whisper. Immediately, I am filled with regret. But my duty is simple. It's clear. The cum on my face is cooling into a glaze. The larger globs have dropped down to my chest, although, my left eye feels sealed shut. I start to lean my face to the floor, targeting the semen that dripped out of my cunt before the fat man speaks again. "Start with what's inside." I move slowly, and lie on my back. I lift my legs, so my asshole is pointed toward the fat man. He grabs one of my ankles and forcefully spins me so the men can see directly into my cunt hole. They have no idea what is going on. I work my cunt muscles, the same muscles I use to shit. My cum-stained cunt is winking at the men and I can see the confusion and shock on their faces. Simultaneously, I feel a glob of semen seep out of the hole and the eyebrows of the men rise in shock. A few of them release groans of disgust. One of them asks, "What the fuck is it doing?" I bunch together the four fingers of my right hand and press them against my cunt crack, just below my hole. I shit out another glob of cum, a big one, then I comb my fingers over the hole, carefully gathering all of the precious semen. For the first time since we kissed last week, I look Coach directly in his eyes. With nothing else to lose, I take my fingers from my ass and hungrily lick off the semen, thoroughly sucking between each finger and licking every crack of my knuckles. Greedily, I moan with pleasure, eating my cunt sludge. The room completely erupts in horrified laughter and groans. The sound of men is thunderous, it shakes my chest cavity. I sense complete disgust from them. The fat man and Jared both laugh, accomplished. I shit out another load and feed myself, and the chaotic groans seem to evolve to hatred. The men call me a faggot. This time, at last, realizing what it truly means. The men, that is, except for coach. I stare into his eyes throughout the ordeal. He doesn't yell, he doesn't groan. He is stone faced. I can't tell if he is angry, or if he is mourning. When my cunt is clean, I turn over, lifting my hole high, and slurp up the cold semen on the floor. "The faggot, fellas," says Jared, turning the attention back to him. "We are here all weekend. Both holes will be here and exposed the entire time." A few of the men laugh. Some of them cheer. Naked on my hands and knees, my body shivers from fear and excitement. My dick is so hard, my foreskin actually hurts.