Andrew Pearson had always been soft. From the moment he could choose his own toys, it was Barbies and My Little Ponies, never trucks or action figures. His mother thought it was a phase. It wasn't. By the time he hit puberty, his voice stayed light, his wrists limp, his walk a little sway. He wore skinny jeans and pastel sweaters, let his hair grow long enough to tuck behind his ears. His friends were all girls—Alyssa, Megan, Chloe—and they talked about boys and makeup while Andrew nodded along, secretly wishing he could be one of them, or at least be wanted by the kind of boys they wanted.
But the kind of boys they wanted—jocks, thick-necked, smelling of sweat and Axe—didn't want him. They wanted cheerleaders with ponytails and push-up bras. And the quarterback, Brad Stevens, wanted nothing more than to make Andrew's life a living hell.
It started freshman year, during gym class. Andrew had forgotten his PE shorts and had to borrow a pair from the lost-and-found—bright purple, too big, with a drawstring that kept coming undone. Brad had noticed during dodgeball. "Look at the little faggot," he'd said loud enough for the whole class to hear. "Probably wants us to pull his string, huh?" The boys laughed. Andrew's face burned. He tried to disappear into the bleachers, but Brad followed, blocking his path. "What's wrong, princess? Scared of a ball?" He shoved a red rubber ball into Andrew's chest hard enough to leave a bruise.
Sophomore year escalated. Brad and his linemen took to calling Andrew "Tinkerbell" wherever he went. They'd corner him in the hallway, flick his ear, pull his backpack straps. One day Brad grabbed Andrew's wrist, twisted it behind his back, and whispered "I bet you suck dick like a pro, don't you? That's all you're good for." Andrew's breath hitched—not from pain, but from the heat of Brad's body so close, the smell of his deodorant, the thick muscle of his forearm. He hated himself for the stirring in his pants.
Junior year: the locker room incident. Andrew had forgotten his math textbook in the gym and slipped in after practice. The football team was showering, steam billowing, laughter echoing off tile. Brad stood naked at a locker, towel slung low over his hips, water still beading on his broad shoulders. Andrew froze. Brad saw him. "The fuck you looking at, fairy?" He strode over, cock half-hard and heavy, and grabbed Andrew by the chin. "You like what you see? Huh? You wanna suck it?" He shoved his thumb into Andrew's mouth, pressed down on his tongue. Andrew gagged, eyes watering. Brad laughed, pulled his hand away, wiped the spit on Andrew's cheek. "Get the fuck out before I make you my bitch."
Andrew stumbled out, shaking, hard as a rock.
Senior year. Brad had a girlfriend now—Britney, head cheerleader, blonde and perfect. They made out in the hallways, Brad's hand sliding down her ass, her giggling. Andrew watched from his locker, jealous of her, of his mouth, of his hands. Brad caught him staring once and flipped him off. "Keep dreaming, Tinkerbell. You'll never get this." He grabbed his crotch. Andrew looked away, but he was dreaming. Every night.
Andrew had a folder on his phone labeled "School Stuff" that contained exactly one photo of a history assignment. But the real folder was hidden three layers deep in his gallery—screenshots of Brad's Instagram, Brad's football team photos, Brad shirtless at a pool party. Brad's jaw, his abs, the V-line disappearing into his shorts. Andrew would wait until his parents were asleep, lock his bedroom door, pull up the pictures, and slide his hand down his briefs.
He'd imagine Brad's weight on top of him. Brad's mouth, cruel and mocking, biting his neck. Brad's thick hands pinning his wrists. "You like that, don't you, faggot?" And Andrew would whimper and nod, because he did. He wanted Brad's cock buried inside him so deep he'd feel it in his throat. He wanted to taste Brad's sweat, his cum, his dominance. Sometimes he'd flip the fantasy—Andrew riding Brad's face, making him beg to eat his ass, using that quarterback body like a toy. But the core was always Brad: his violence, his masculinity, the way he made Andrew feel small and owned.
He'd cum hard, gasping into his pillow, and then feel the shame wash over. But the shame only made the next time more intense.
Two weeks ago, Mr. Harrison had stood at the whiteboard with a jar of popsicle sticks. "Group project for the final quarter. You'll be paired at random. One project, one grade. Make it work."
Andrew had prayed. He'd prayed to any god listening to keep him away from the football team. When Mr. Harrison read out "Andrew Pearson... Brad Stevens," his stomach dropped. He heard Brad's groan from across the room. "You gotta be shitting me."
After class, Brad cornered him near the water fountain. "Listen, you little cocksucker. I don't wanna work with you. But this assignment is half our grade, so I'm stuck with you. We email. We split the work. We never see each other. Got it?"
Andrew's heart hammered. "But—the instructions say we need to collaborate in person at least three times."
Brad's jaw tightened. He slammed his palm against the wall beside Andrew's head. "Fine. My house. Saturday. Two o'clock. Don't be late, and don't touch anything. And wear something normal for once, you look like a goddamn—" He stopped, shook his head, and walked away.
Andrew leaned against the wall, knees weak. Brad's house. Alone. The fantasy flickered in his mind like a fire he couldn't put out.
Andrew Pearson had spent three hours getting ready, and every minute of it was a deliberate act of defiance—and desire.
He stood in front of his full-length mirror, turning left and right, evaluating his reflection with a critical eye. He'd showered, exfoliated, shaved every inch of his body from his chest down to his ankles. His skin was smooth as silk, glowing under the soft light of his bedroom. He'd applied a light layer of tinted moisturizer, just enough to even out his complexion, a touch of clear mascara to make his lashes pop, and a subtle rose-tinted lip balm that made his mouth look kissable.
His outfit was chosen with care. A pastel pink cropped sweater, soft and oversized, that showed off a sliver of his flat, hairless stomach. Below that, high-waisted white denim shorts that hugged his hips and accentuated the curve of his ass. They were short—very short—cut high on his thighs, showing off legs that were smooth and slender from shaving. He'd paired them with sheer white knee-high socks with a delicate lace trim at the top, folded just below his knees. On his feet, a pair of clean white platform sneakers that added an inch to his height.
He'd accessorized: a thin silver chain around his neck, a few pastel-colored silicone bracelets on his wrist, and a small, crossbody bag—white with little pink strawberries embroidered on it—slung across his chest. His nails were painted a soft baby pink, freshly done the night before.
He looked like a dancer to an Ariana Grande concert , or on the cover of a magazine for soft, pretty boys who wanted to be objects of desire.
And that's exactly what he wanted to be.
His phone buzzed. A text from Brad: Where the fuck are you? You said 2.
Andrew's heart hammered, but he smiled. He typed back: On my way! and added a little pink heart emoji. He knew it would piss Brad off. That was part of the fun.
He grabbed his strawberry bag—which contained his phone, a small wallet, and a few other items he'd tucked into a hidden zipper compartment—and headed out. His mother was at work, so no questions. He biked the familiar route to Brad's neighborhood, the wind cool against his bare thighs, the sun warm on his shoulders. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and thrillingly alive.
Every pedal stroke brought him closer to the boy who had tormented him for four years. The boy who called him "Tinkerbell" and "faggot" and shoved him into lockers. The boy whose cock Andrew had dreamed about more times than he could count.
He arrived at Brad's house—a neat two-story colonial with a manicured lawn and a black Ford F-150 in the driveway. Andrew's mouth went dry. He parked his bike against the garage, took a deep breath, and adjusted his sweater so it sat just right on his hip bones.
He knocked.
The door swung open, and Brad Stevens filled the frame.
Brad was a specimen of brute masculinity. He stood six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, thick-necked, with a jaw that looked like it had been carved from granite. He was wearing a ragged gray tank top that clung to the contours of his pecs and showed off the dark hair under his arms. Gym shorts hung low on his hips, revealing the V-line of his abdomen and a trail of hair disappearing into the waistband. His hair was damp, freshly showered, messy in that careless jock way. He smelled like soap and deodorant and raw, alpha male.
His eyes traveled from Andrew's face down to his toes—and stopped. Widened. Narrowed.
"What the fuck are you wearing?"
Brad's voice was low, incredulous, laced with disgust. Andrew felt a thrill zip through him. He'd rehearsed this.
"Just my normal clothes," he said, voice soft, a little breathy. He tilted his hips slightly, letting the shorts ride up a bit more. "You said not to look like a goddamn something. I thought I'd clean up."
"You look like a fucking drag queen," Brad growled. He didn't step aside. "I told you to wear something normal. This isn't normal. This is—fuck, man. My neighbors are gonna think I'm hanging out with some kind of... faggot."
Andrew's heart pounded, but he kept his expression neutral, even a little coy. "I mean, I am a girly gay, Brad. You've made that clear for four years. I'm not hiding it anymore." He met Brad's eyes—cold, angry, but something else flickered there. Confusion? Interest? He couldn't tell. "Can I come in? We have work to do."
Brad stood there, blocking the door, jaw working. For a moment, Andrew thought he might slam the door in his face. But then Brad let out a harsh breath, shook his head, and stepped aside.
"Whatever. Get in before someone sees you."
Andrew stepped past him, close enough to smell his body wash—something cheap and masculine, Axe or Old Spice. His shoulder brushed Brad's arm, and he felt the heat of Brad's skin, the hardness of his muscle. Brad flinched away as if burned.
Andrew smiled to himself as he walked into the living room.
The living room was standard suburban: beige couch, flat-screen TV, a glass coffee table with a PlayStation controller on it. Brad's laptop was already open on the table, a few pages of printed research scattered around. Andrew set his crossbody bag down—carefully, deliberately, making sure Brad noticed the pink strawberries—and settled onto the couch, crossing his legs. His shorts rode up even higher, exposing the smooth, bare top of his thighs almost to the hip.
Brad stopped in the doorway, staring. "You gonna sit like that the whole time?"
"How else should I sit?" Andrew asked, innocent, batting his lashes. He knew exactly how he looked: soft, feminine, inviting. He'd chosen every detail to provoke Brad, to challenge him, to make him uncomfortable—and also to make himself irresistible. A femboy, right there in Brad's living room, in broad daylight.
Brad's eyes lingered on Andrew's legs for a fraction of a second too long before he looked away. "Whatever. Let's just get this over with."
He dropped onto the opposite end of the couch, as far from Andrew as possible, and pulled his laptop toward him. Andrew leaned forward, the cropped sweater riding up to show more of his stomach, and picked up one of the printouts.
"Okay, so I've been thinking about the Cold War presentation," Andrew said, ignoring the tension. "We should focus on proxy wars rather than just the US/USSR standoff. I found some good sources on the Soviet-Afghan war and the stuff in Angola. If we add primary source interviews, it'll really put us over the top."
Brad grunted. He didn't look at Andrew. "Fine. Whatever."
Andrew watched him type, watched the muscles in Brad's forearm flex with each keystroke. Brad wasn't looking at him, but Andrew could see the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set. He knew Brad was hyperaware of Andrew's presence. The perfume—vanilla and a hint of something floral—had to be filling the room.
"You could at least pretend to care about the project," Andrew said softly, a teasing edge in his voice. "It's half our grade."
"I care," Brad snapped. He finally turned to face Andrew, and his gaze dropped involuntarily to Andrew's exposed thighs again. He caught himself, looked away, and his face reddened—not embarrassment, but anger. "Stop fucking with me, Pearson. I know what you're doing."
"What am I doing?"
"Wearing that... getup. The perfume. The way you're sitting." Brad's voice was low, dangerous. "You're trying to get a reaction out of me. You think I'm some kind of fag who's gonna fall for your little trap?"
Andrew tilted his head, a smile playing on his lips. He felt powerful. "I don't think you're a fag, Brad. I think you're a straight guy who's really, really uncomfortable because some part of you likes looking at me." He paused, let the words hang. "And that scares you."
Brad was on his feet in an instant, towering over Andrew, fists clenched. "You better shut your mouth, you little pussy boy. I've had enough of your shit for four years. You're nothing but a weak, pathetic femboy who's gonna get his ass beat one of these days."
Andrew looked up at him, unblinking. His heart was racing, but he held his ground. "Is that a promise or a threat?"
For a long moment, they stared at each other. Brad's breath was heavy, his biceps bulging, his body practically vibrating with fury. But underneath the anger, Andrew saw something else—a flicker of that same confusion, that same unwanted pull. Brad's eyes dropped again to Andrew's lips, to the curve of his waist, to the smooth thighs spread open on the couch.
Then Brad looked away. "Fuck this. I'm getting a drink."
He stalked off to the kitchen. Andrew heard the refrigerator open, the clink of glass, the gulp as Brad drank straight from a carton of orange juice.
Andrew exhaled, trembling. He touched his own thigh, felt the smooth skin, the heat of his own arousal. This is working, he thought. He's not as straight as he pretends to be.
Brad came back from the kitchen, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He set the orange juice carton on the coffee table and dropped onto the couch—still far from Andrew, but this time his eyes lingered a fraction of a second on the smooth expanse of Andrew's thighs before he caught himself.
"Okay, let's just fucking work," Brad muttered, pulling his laptop closer.
Andrew didn't move. He stayed exactly as he was: legs crossed, back arched slightly, the cropped pink sweater riding up to show a pale strip of stomach. His painted nails tapped lightly on his own thigh.
"We will," Andrew said, his voice low, almost a purr. "But first… can I ask you something?"
Brad's jaw tightened. "What?"
Andrew tilted his head, letting his hair fall to one side. "Did you know that men give better blowjobs than women?"
Brad's head snapped up. "What the fuck did you just say?"
"I asked if you knew," Andrew repeated, completely unbothered. "It's a well-known fact. Guys know what feels good. Guys have cocks. So they know exactly how to use their mouths on one."
Brad's face twisted with disgust—but his eyes didn't leave Andrew's lips. "You're full of shit. My girlfriend gives me the best head I've ever had. She deepthroats like a champ."
Andrew let out a soft, musical laugh. "Oh, I'm sure she does. For a girl." He uncrossed his legs and recrossed them the other way, the movement slow and deliberate, his shorts riding up even higher. "But she doesn't know, Brad. She's never felt a cock in her own throat. She doesn't know what it's like to have one hitting the back of her tongue, sliding past her tonsils. She can't control her gag reflex the way a guy can."
Brad's hand was gripping the edge of the couch cushion. "This conversation is over. We're working."
"I'll make you a deal," Andrew said, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a silken whisper. "Let me suck your cock. Right now. If I'm not better than your girlfriend—if you don't cum harder than you ever have in your life—I'll do the entire history project myself. All the research, the writing, the presentation. You won't lift a finger."
Brad stared at him. The silence stretched for five full seconds.
"You're insane," he said, but his voice cracked.
"Maybe." Andrew slowly, sensually, trailed a finger down the center of his own chest, past the cropped sweater, over his stomach, stopping at the waistband of his shorts. "But you're hard right now, aren't you? I can see it."
Brad's gym shorts did nothing to hide the growing bulge. He looked down at himself, then back at Andrew, his face reddening with fury and shame.
"Fuck you," he said, but there was no conviction left.
"That's the idea," Andrew purred. "Come on, Brad. One blowjob. If you don't like it, you never have to talk to me again. And you get an A on the project with zero work. What do you have to lose?"
Brad was breathing heavily. His hands were shaking. And his cock was now pressing visibly against the fabric of his shorts.
"Fucking… fine," he growled. "But if you bite me, I'll knock your teeth out."
Andrew smiled, a slow, triumphant smile. "You won't want me to stop."
Brad stood up abruptly and walked to his bedroom without looking back. Andrew followed, heart pounding with electric excitement. The room was messy—clothes on the floor, unmade bed, the faint smell of sweat and cologne. Brad's queen-sized bed was covered in a dark blue comforter.
Brad sat on the edge of the bed, his hands braced on his knees. He looked like he was about to face a firing squad. Andrew closed the bedroom door behind him and locked it.
"No one's gonna interrupt us," he said softly.
He walked toward Brad with deliberate, swaying steps. He stopped between Brad's spread knees and looked down at the bulge. Even through the fabric, it was impressive—long and thick, straining against the gray gym shorts.
"Let me help you with that," Andrew whispered.
He knelt in front of Brad, his pink-nailed fingers hooking into the waistband of the shorts. Brad tensed but didn't stop him. Andrew pulled the shorts down, along with the black boxer briefs underneath. Brad's cock sprang free, slapping against his lower stomach.
Andrew's breath caught.
It was beautiful. Thick, veiny, at least eight inches, uncut, with a bead of precum already glistening at the slit. The dark pubic hair was trimmed, the balls heavy and tight. Andrew's mouth watered.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're gorgeous."
"Just do it," Brad snapped, but his voice was strained.
Andrew didn't rush. He leaned in, letting his warm breath ghost over the tip. Brad's cock twitched. Andrew licked his lips, then slowly, deliberately, ran the flat of his tongue from the base of the shaft all the way up to the tip, circling the head, tasting the salty precum.
Brad let out a sharp hiss.
Andrew took the head into his mouth, closing his lips around it, sucking gently. He swirled his tongue around the crown, teasing the sensitive ridge. Brad's hand came down on the back of his head—not pushing, just resting there, trembling.
"Fuuuuuuck, you… you actually know what you're doing," Brad muttered.
Andrew responded by taking more of the cock into his throat. He relaxed his jaw, opened wide, and slid down, inch by inch, until his nose was buried in Brad's pubic hair. He held it there for a moment, throat muscles contracting around the thick shaft, then pulled back up, gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the tip.
"Told you," Andrew said, his voice husky. "Men are better."
Brad didn't answer. He just pushed Andrew's head back down.
Andrew let him. He took the cock deep again, bobbing his head, one hand stroking the base while his mouth worked the top. He hummed, the vibration making Brad groan and grip the sheets. Andrew looked up through his lashes, seeing Brad's head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth open. The sight of the big, masculine quarterback being undone by his mouth sent a wave of pure power through Andrew.
He sucked harder, faster, hollowing his cheeks, letting spit drip down his chin. He took Brad's balls in his other hand, fondling them gently, feeling them tighten. Brad's hips started to buck.
"I'm gonna—FUCK, I'm gonna CUUUUM—"
Andrew pulled off at the last second, stroking Brad's shaft with his hand. Brad's eyes flew open.
"What the fuck—"
"Not yet," Andrew said, licking his lips. "We're just getting started."
Andrew stood up slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Brad was panting, his cock slick and throbbing, pointing straight up.
"Watch me," Andrew said.
He took a step back and began to move. His hips swayed in a slow, sensual rhythm, his hands sliding over his own body—up his thighs, over his crotch, across his stomach, up to his chest. He turned around, bending over slightly, giving Brad a perfect view of his ass in those tight white shorts. He reached back and grabbed his own cheeks, squeezing them, before turning around again.
Then he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts and slowly, excruciatingly, peeled them down. Underneath, he was wearing a pair of sheer nude thigh-high stockings held up by a lace garter belt—and a tiny pink silk thong that disappeared between his cheeks.
Brad's breath audibly caught.
Andrew stepped out of the shorts and kicked them aside. He turned, bent over again, and peeled the stockings down his legs, one at a time, straightening up and tossing them aside. Now he was standing in nothing but the thong, his smooth, hairless body on full display. His small, tight ass was perfectly framed by the thin string.
"Your turn to taste," Andrew said, walking back to the bed. He climbed onto it, crawling on all fours toward Brad, then positioned himself on his elbows and knees, his ass raised high.
Brad stared at the sight. The pink thong was a tiny triangle of fabric barely covering anything. Brad reached out, his hand hovering, then he tore the thong down, exposing Andrew's pink, puckered hole.
"Jesus," Brad whispered.
He didn't need encouragement. He leaned in and shoved his face between Andrew's cheeks, his tongue stabbing into the tight hole. Andrew gasped, gripping the sheets.
"YEEEEESSSS Owwww Braaad fuuuuck yeeesss—eat my ass, Brad—"
Brad groaned against his skin, his hands gripping Andrew's hips, pulling him closer. He licked and sucked savagely, his tongue probing deep, his stubble scratching Andrew's sensitive skin. Andrew moaned, pushing back against Brad's face, his cocklet—a small, hard dicklet—leaking precum onto the sheets.
"You like that, you little slut?" Brad growled between licks.
"Yes baby, Oh god, yes, please, Brad—pleeeeease fuck meeee-FUCK MY HOLE—I need your cock—"
Brad pulled back, his face wet with spit. He grabbed Andrew's hips roughly, positioned his thick cock at the entrance, and shoved in—all at once, no warning.
Andrew screamed. Not in pain—in pure, animal pleasure. The stretch was incredible, burning, filling him completely. Brad's thick cock split him open, buried balls-deep in his tight ass.
"FUCK, you're so tight," Brad grunted, gripping Andrew's hips. "Feel that? Feel my fucking cock in your ass, you little faggot?"
"Owwww Yes—yes—fuck me—fuck me like the bitch I am—"
Brad started pounding. Hard, fast, brutal. His hips slapped against Andrew's ass, his balls swinging, the sound of wet flesh filling the room. Andrew was moaning, babbling, his face pressed into the pillow.
"Harder—harder—break my ass—USE ME—"
"You're just a hole," Brad snarled, leaning over Andrew's back, his teeth grazing Andrew's ear. "Just a tight little hole for my cock. That's all you're good for, you fucking femboy slut."
"Yes, yes, I'm a slut—I'm your slut—FUUUUCK"
Brad grabbed a handful of Andrew's hair and pulled his head back, driving his cock even deeper. Andrew's eyes rolled back. His own dick was bouncing, untouched, dripping onto the sheets.
"You're just a little toy, aren't you?" Brad growled, his voice thick with lust. He slammed into Andrew one last time, his entire muscular frame shuddering. With a guttural roar, Brad erupted, pumping thick, hot loads of cum deep into Andrew's tight ass. He collapsed on top of Andrew for a moment, panting, his heavy chest heaving against Andrew's soft back.
As Brad slowly pulled out with a wet pop, Andrew didn't move. He stayed there, feeling the warmth of Brad's seed leaking out of him. But the dynamic was shifting. The submission had served its purpose; now, Andrew wanted the prize.
Andrew rolled over with a feline grace, his eyes dark and predatory. Brad was still catching his breath, his cock semi-hard and glistening with leftover cum. Andrew leaned in, his tongue darting out to lick the shaft, cleaning off the stray droplets of semen with slow, deliberate strokes.
"You're so fucking hot, Brad," Andrew whispered, his voice no longer pleading, but commanding.
Before Brad could respond, Andrew shifted. He crawled behind the quarterback, who was still lying on his stomach, exhausted. Andrew leaned down and pressed his tongue directly against the puckered entrance of Brad's muscular ass.
Brad jumped, a sharp gasp escaping his lips. "What the fuck are you—!"
Andrew didn't stop. He began to lick Brad's hole with a rhythmic, insistent pressure, swirling his tongue around the rim and then stabbing deep inside. He could taste the salt of Brad's skin and the musk of his masculinity.
"Stop it... fuck, STOP" Brad groaned, but he wasn't pulling away. In fact, his hips were beginning to twitch, instinctively pushing back into Andrew's mouth. The shock was quickly being replaced by a forbidden, electric heat.
Seeing the opening, Andrew reached down. He coated his middle finger in Brad's own pre-cum and, without warning, shoved it deep into Brad's tight, unpracticed hole.
"AH!" Brad let out a strangled cry, his fingers clawing at the bedsheets. "What the fuck! GET OUT ! Get your fucking finger out of me!"
"Shhh," Andrew purred, his voice dripping with dominance. He didn't pull out; instead, he began to curl his finger, hitting the prostate. "You like it, don't you? You've never had anyone touch you here, have you, Brad? The big, tough quarterback... feeling a little finger inside him."
Brad's protests turned into fragmented moans. "I... I hate you... FUCK... OH GOD..." His body betrayed him. His toes curled, and a low, guttural moan vibrated in his throat. The pleasure was overwhelming, a sensation he had spent his whole life suppressing. He was shaking, his muscles tensing and relaxing as Andrew worked his finger with expert precision.
Andrew pulled his hand away and sat up, looking down at the defeated athlete. "Get up. Stand up and strip. Everything."
Brad looked at him, eyes wide and clouded with lust and confusion. "I'm not—"
"DO IT," Andrew commanded, his voice cold and firm. "Show me this body that makes every girl in school drool. I want to see every inch of you."
Driven by a primal need he couldn't explain, Brad slowly stood up and stripped off the remnants of his clothes until he was completely naked. He stood there, a masterpiece of athletic masculinity—broad shoulders, a chiseled chest, and powerful thighs. He looked like a god, but his expression was that of a servant.
Andrew didn't waste time. He grabbed Brad's legs and forced him back onto the bed. With a surge of strength, Andrew pushed Brad's legs up and over his own shoulders, leaving Brad's ass hoisted high in the air, completely exposed and vulnerable.
"You're going to learn what it's like to be the slut, Brad," Andrew whispered.
Brad's face was flushed, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. "NO... LITTLE BITCH, I’M NOT A FAG-"
Andrew didn't wait. He lined himself up and shoved his cock forward, penetrating Brad's tight, virgin hole in one forceful thrust.
"FUCK!" Brad screamed, his head slamming back into the pillow. But as the initial shock faded, the feeling of being filled—of being dominated by the boy he had bullied for years—triggered something explosive. A loud, high-pitched moan escaped his lips. "OH GOD... OH FUCK... it's soooo big... nnnggh!"
Andrew began to pump into him, his movements aggressive and rhythmic. He wasn't being gentle; he was claiming him. Every thrust sent a shockwave through Brad's body.
"Who's the slut now, Brad?" Andrew hissed, slamming his hips against Brad's muscular glutes. "Tell me! Who's the little bitch getting fucked by a femboy?"
"I AM I'M YOUR BITCH! AH! FUCK ME HARDER ! PLEASE, JUST FUCK ME!" Brad wailed, his voice breaking, sounding completely undone. He was sobbing and moaning, his legs shaking on Andrew's shoulders, his masculine pride completely shattered and replaced by raw, animalistic pleasure. "I'M YOUR SLUT! YES! OHHHH I’M SO HORNY ! OH MY GOOOOOD, YESSSS !"
Andrew was in a trance, the power trip more intoxicating than the sex itself. He was hammering away at the quarterback, listening to the sounds of the school's most popular boy begging for more.
As he drove himself deep into Brad one more time, Andrew's gaze drifted toward the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, a sliver of the hallway visible.
Andrew froze.
There, standing in the gap of the door, was Brad's father. He wasn't trying to stop them. He wasn't shouting. He was standing perfectly still, his eyes wide and glazed with lust, his hand working furiously in his trousers, masturbating wildly as he watched his son be bent over and fucked like a whore…
[To be Continued]
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