Date: Wed, 26 Jun 2013 16:09:38 -0700 From: Master MV Subject: White Goat Chapter 2 DISCLAIMER: This is a work of FICTION. I in no way condone sex with minors or taking BDSM beyond sane limits. The characters in this story are not meant to resemble any actual people or to condone illegal acts. This is meant purely for stroke material and to purge some of the more outrageous fantasies that cook inside My head. Feedback is appreciated; write to Me at TheMasterMV@gmail.com to let Me know what you think of the story. Three fucking years. Three long, agonizing years of mind-numbing psychological and sexual torment. And as time has passed, i've grown increasingly convinced it's being inflicted on purpose, though i can't begin to fathom why. None of my brothers have moved out, so it's still the seven of us packed into tight quarters. Dad always has at least one of my brothers spend the night in His room now, meaning Stefan now either occupies one of the empty beds in the other rooms or Dad's room itself. This leaves me alone at night in the dark, with a rage, desperation, and despair building inside me that i struggle to control. Sometimes i wander through the hallways at night, listening at the various doors: to the grunting and groaning, the squelching sounds of cocks destroying mancunts, the gags as they are rammed down open throats, the curses and the pleas, the palms and fists connecting with muscled bodies and chiseled faces, the clink of metal buckles and the unmistakable SNAP of leather belts as they issue discipline. Sometimes, i'll hide in my room to try to escape from the tormenting sounds, and on those nights it seems that the six of them work even harder, fucking louder, shouting and punching and groaning and getting more and more violent, working themselves into a fuckfrenzy that builds to an ear-splitting cacophonous roar, driving me to my knees. i will cry and scream and beg them to stop, covering my ears with my hands, tearing at my hair, punching my balls with my left fist as i stroke my bone-hard cock with my right, joining them in orgasm with a howl of my own before collapsing into hysterical tears while they continue rutting, heedless of my distress. Sometimes, on those nights, i swear i can hear them laughing at me through the walls. What's made it worse is the trophies they leave around the house to toy with me. Socks and rags foul with dried cum, shirts and socks positively gray with sweat, stiff enough to stand on their own. Underwear and jockstraps, stained, frayed and threadbare, discolored, so saturated with sweat, piss, and seed that they never dry out completely. All of these treasures are casually discarded around the house, reeking and vile, but i fall upon them like a starving jackal, sucking the noxious mixtures out and savoring their flavors. With increasing frequency, they've been tossed into my room for me to find, or left hanging with the toilet paper. They hardly ever bother aiming when they piss, so there are plenty of splatters for me to lick up from the seat and the bathroom floor. i've even begun savoring the stray hairs i find matted to the rim. my mounting frustration drove me to seek out a release outside the walls of our house starting about a year ago, to no avail. Flirting, lewd and suggestive displays, even outright begging produced the same reaction, over and over: "your Father would cut my cock off and feed it to me if I touched his son without permission, boy." And while some of them did touch me lecherously, stroking my thighs and my cunt, probing my mouth with their dirty fingers, they all ultimately patted me on the ass and sent me on my way, face burning with shame and boundless lust, throat choked with tears. my balls felt perpetually heavy and sore, no matter how often i unloaded them. Ever since then, the pressure has just built and built. i know i need SOMETHING, or i'm going to fucking snap. That's what brought me here, kneeling inside my Dad's closet, sweating and waiting. Just hearing it isn't fucking enough anymore. i have to SEE it. i have to see the Cock that created me and i have to see what It can do. i know it might only make my torment worse, but my hunger has driven me past the point of caring. i'm so desperate at this point that consequences are meaningless; what could be worse than the years of torture i've already endured? So i'm hiding in the darkness of my Father's closet; the air is warm and dense with the loamy scent of His laundry. i'm wearing nothing but a tank top and a small pair of shorts; something tight and revealing in the hopes that He'll be inspired to tear my clothes off and rape me if i'm discovered. To keep myself quiet, i fish one of His gray, crusty socks from the basket and stuff it in my mouth, sucking and swallowing the grime and sweat. i can hear my brothers horsing around downstairs. i think i hear them wonder aloud where i am a time or two, but the matter is dropped as quickly as it's brought up. i'm not sure how long i wait, but eventually, i hear my Dad's door open. i peek out through the louvred doors and see He and my grandfather coming into the room. Dad shuts the door, then takes my grandpa by the shoulder and turns him around to face Him. He steps in close. "Open," He says softly, and my grandpa opens his mouth wide. My Father spits a sizable wad of saliva into his mouth, and then takes him by the back of the head, jamming His tongue inside. They begin kissing passionately; my Father's hands roaming all over His father's body. i notice grandpa's hands remain at his sides, fingers twitching. "you can touch Me, dad," my Father says, and immediately grandpa's hands are all over Him. i'm struck by how similar they look; grandpa has more salt-and-pepper gray in his hair and beard and stands only slightly shorter than Dad. They are both strong, impressive male specimens, but my Father is like a more perfect, beautiful version of His father. "you want it, dad?" my Father asks quietly. "Fuck, yes, please Son," my grandpa whimpers. "Go ahead then," Dad says. Grandpa sinks to his knees with a quiet moan. He begins unbuckling my Father's belt, then pulls it free and loops it around his own neck, threading the leather through the buckle and pulling it tight like a combined collar and leash. He then reverently bows before my Father, as if in supplication or prayer, kissing and licking His filthy boots. my Dad gazes down at His dad, smirking a bit as grandpa slobbers all over the leather, lips and tongue smacking, hands gripping the heels as he polishes his Son's boots with his saliva. He wipes the excess away with his face, hair and beard, sighing and groaning all the while. Eventually, my Father snaps his fingers and grandpa immediately rises to his knees, hands in his lap, gazing up intently. "Open," Dad says again. Grandpa obeys once more, opening his mouth as wide as it will go, sticking his tongue out and looking at my Father with naked longing. "Beg Me," Dad commands. At this, my grandpa begins whimpering like a starved animal. He never closes his mouth to form words -- he was told to open after all -- but communicates his desperation and hunger with his eyes and his nonverbal whines and groans. Drool begins to slide off the edge of his quivering, outstretched tongue, and his body begins to undulate and tremble in frustration. Without warning, my Father lands a swift and vicious booted kick to grandpa's unprotected balls, eliciting a long, strained groan from His kneeling dad. Grandpa's eyes squeeze shut in pain but his mouth never closes, and before long he recovers enough to moan and grind and whimper even more wantonly than before. "Beg!" Dad snarls, and grandpa's breaths come in short gasps; his whines and groans frow increasingly desperate. i realize i'm making similar sounds under my breath in the hot, humid closet. Grandpa has broken out in a sweat and is practically fucking the air on his knees. Dad rears His godlike boot back and swings it HARD into His father's crotch, devastating the place of His origin. Grandpa screams in agony; his eyes squeeze shut and tears spring from them, raining down into the thicket of his beard. His body curls on itself, swaying as the breath leaves him. "Up," Father commands softly, and His father draws a shuddering breath, once more resting his tear-filled eyes upon the beauty of his Son. Dad draws close, pressing His swollen crotch against grandpa's exposed throat. He wraps the fingers of His left hand in his hair, tipping his head back. He commands, "Swallow," and inserts the thick, dirty fingers of His right hand into grandpa's stretched gullet. He doen't just let His dad suck on them; he keeps pushing them deeper. His hand stretches grandpa's lips obscenely. Grandpa lurches and chokes when Dad reaches the back of his throat. Grandpa begins trembling all over with the effort to remain still. He coughs and chokes violently; tears and snot and spit all run down his neck in glistening rivers. Still, Dad forces His fingers deeper, heedless of His father's desperate gagging. All the while, the mound in His frayed, fragrant jeans throbs like a hidden weapon, jutting sideways toward His hip. Eventually, when grandpa's lurching and choking ceases to sound human, He yanks His slimy hand from the yawning fuckhole, releasing His captive and dropping him on the floor. Grandpa crumbles to the floor, gasping like a drowning man, reduced to a pile of fuckmeat soaked in his own spit and tears. "Yeah you like that, don't you dad," He says, pacing in a circle around the defeated form of His father. "What's that?" He asks. "I couldn't hear you." "Yes, Son," grandpa croaks. "I know you do," He replies. "And I'm going to give you more. There's just one thing I have to take care of first." With that, His eyes lock onto the closet where i'm hiding and my breath catches in my throat. i begin to shake all over as He strides forward; the heels of His boots make funerary thuds against the hardwood floor. Finally, He stands before the closet door; I can see His crotch and stomach up close, but His face is blocked by the louvres. Will He give me what i've yearned for at last? The door opens. He gazes down at me, taking in the sight of His youngest son kneeling on the floor of His closet, mouth stuffed with a slimy, crusty sock, trembling in awe and fear. He grabs me by the tank top, yanking me out into the room as easily as if i were just another piece of filthy laundry. His expression reveals nothing, even when He rears His massive hand back and strikes me violently across the face, sending fields of black stars across my vision. i collapse onto my side from the force of the blow; my face on fire, already swelling. i lock eyes with my grandfather, also still on the floor in a pool of his own spit. Dad comes to stand over me. "Get the fuck out of My room, goat," He growls. "I want to fuck your grandfather in peace." --------------------------------------------------------------- I hope you're enjoying the tale, fuckers. Let Me know what you think and what you might like to see happen to the goat. I can be reached at TheMasterMV@gmail.com. Also, remember Nifty is run on donations; be generous so we can all continue to get off together! http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html