A disclaimer from the author: This story is a work of fiction, and is intended to be read for entertainment purposes only. It is not designed to be instructional, nor aspirational, and contains themes that some readers might find difficult to read about, including: possible incest, consensual non-consent/dubious consent, questionable practice BDSM, rough sexual play, and themes involving dominance, submission, and humiliation. Any resemblance to real persons and events is purely coincidental. Please consider your tastes/comfort levels and show discretion before reading, voting, or commenting on this work.
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The Man was dragged from the oblivion of slumber by an all prevailing ache that seemed to begin in his head and travel down his body like a running waterfall. He tried to bring a hand to his throbbing noggin only to discover he couldn’t move his wrists. Could barely move his arms, in fact. The Man forced his heavy eyelids open. The fading afternoon light pierced into his vision, stabbing through his sockets and into his brain like an ice pick. The Man winced, squinting to numb the worst of the pain and the hit to his pride, and cautiously glanced upwards for the source of his captivity.
Cuffs, old and leather, binding him to the bed.
Working past the numbness in his arms, The Man gave an experimental tug, testing the give and take. There was barely a budge, only an empty clanking of the headboard on a wall behind him with each jerky pull of his flaccid feelings limbs. As his swampy vision began to clear and the worst of the stinging pain left him, The Man tried to piece together the story of how he came to be in his predicament.
He had been drugged, he was certain of that. The Man recognized all the signs: the disorientating and confused feelings, the shallow, sluggish sensations of his body’s movements, as if he was swimming through molasses, and worst of all, the great black gaps of nothing where concrete memory should have laid. Yet another violation, uncalled for, like so many before. He gave one last shake of his wrists, mostly out of frustration, and gave up for the struggle for the moment.
The Man knew he was in a mess, but at least he recognized the room he was trapped in. His own bedroom, starkly clean in varying shades of crisp white offset by pine and the faint scent of fresh laundry detergent from the sheets. Mostly spare, except for a few token mementos. Family photos, his father’s flag, a framed diploma. His private haven, twisted for a new purpose. The thought alone made his blood boil and he dug his fingers into the rugged leather to stop himself from screaming his displeasure. Calm yourself. You were built to tolerate much worse than this.
Breathing through his nose, he glanced down his torso, the muscles still well developed for a man his age. The Man’s body was his sacred temple, a source of infinite pride that he was unwilling to relinquish his hold on, even to time itself. The sluggishness of his muscles was disconcerting, but he willed his fears away and focused on the facts his green eyes could see.
He was battered to hell and back, same as always. The Man’s gaze followed the dusty treasure trail through the hills and valleys of his dappled form, moving past the old bruises and craters of previous impacts until he reached the burning bush and the meaty treasure lying within its flame. There he saw it, a new atrocity.
The Man’s penis, a constant joy he had admired and prided himself on since he was old enough to properly notice it, had been caged, locked away in a metallic shell. He could just about make out the palish pink of its skin color peeking between the smooth black bars of the prison. At the tip, where the proud crown should have sat was instead a padlock, tiny and taunting. That little bastard. I’m going to kill him for this…
He ignored his burning indignation for the moment, willing the fury to simmer in the pit of his loins until the time was right and he could release its full wrath. Instead, he focused his attentions back on his body, taking further stock of the situation. Always be prepared.
His legs were hairy as always, thick and bulky, that area of his masculinity untouched. His feet seemed fine too, if uncomfortable under an unexpected weight. The shackles would be a problem. They weren’t hooked to the bed, thank god, and they were soft not metal so at least they didn’t bite his ankles, but they were attached to some kind of rigid bar, forcing his feet to stay spread unnaturally wide. The Man gave his feet an experimental wiggle, relieved that he could move the toes and soles, but dismayed by how severely his mobility was limited. No matter. He had overcome worse than this in the past. Many times.
He moved his hips, readjusting his positioning on the bed, hoping to prop himself up so he would be in a more advantageous position for the inevitable confrontation, when he finally noticed it. A pressure from deep inside his rear, that sent any unexpected jolt through his body every time his hips shifted. He squeezed his rectal muscles, felt the full silicone mass. He hissed, more from embarrassment than pain. A plug. Typical. He squeezed down again, grunting at the pressure, letting the coiling discomfort egg him on and feed the fighter inside. He ignored the tiny tingle of pleasure that would spike anytime he was unable to stop the toy from rubbing against his prostate. He wouldn’t moan. He refused.
The Man had learned from previous incidents not to stretch and strain too much, nor to beg or scream for mercy. That would only bring down further misfortune onto his helpless form, or worse, leave him ignored and neglected, like a willful child sent to bed without supper. He closed his eyes willing away the pain, the shame, the fear, the excitement, and focused solely on his task. Nothing else mattered. Now that he was regaining feeling in his hands, he could try again.
Left hand, back and forth. Testing the limits. No give. Try again. Push and squeeze, harder. He bit his lip.
Nothing. Again. Roll and strain, opposite direction.
Nothing. No give. Not an inch. He sighed, registering the defeat. The Man’s anus unintentionally squeezed on the flared based on the plug.
The other side then.
Right hand, back and forth. Again. He was biting his lip so hard he pierced the gums but didn’t notice.
Nothi-no, wait. Something. A loosening, minuscule, but there.
His pinky finger strained, searching blind and found it. A button, loosened from the snap. He smiled, his heart skipped a beat. There was always a crack to find if you were patient enough for the hunt. The Man rotated the wrist, slowly, methodically, fingers better suited for the task straining and feeling the leather stretch to accommodate. Almost, just a little...there.
With thumb and forefinger in place, he pulled like a titan from legend. Pop. One button. A tug of his wrists on the frame. Still no give. He rested, trembled once from the exertion and anticipation. Tried again.
Pop, pop. Easier this time. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and sat ignored in a thick eyelash. He could feel his breath quickening, his tongue wetting his lips, anticipating the sweet taste of freedom. Just a little more. Please, he thought never saying the word out loud. Never.
When the strap came lose, The Man could have kissed it, that’s how overjoyed he was. It wasn’t often he could cheat the system. Not in the games they played together. With one hand free, it was simple enough work to reach across the divide and unbuckle the other cuff, especially since his right hand was his dominant appendage. Fortunate that. Rubbing both of his sore wrists, he examined the shackles on his legs, hoping for similar luck. No dice.
The cords that bound the shackles to the bar were too strong, and locked securely into place. He wasn’t getting those off without a key or tool of some kind, not without the possibility of accidentally injuring himself. No matter. He would waddle his way to freedom if he had to. He rolled into a sitting position on the bed, gasping as the plug in his ass connected with sensitive nerve endings. He gingerly rose, his legs shaky and weak from disuse, letting the rush of blood flow through his tender muscles. He squeezed, feeling the offender still lodged where it wasn’t wanted.
Should he risk it? Bend the rules and remove it? The consequences could be severe. He hesitated for only a moment, before the old masculine instinct took over and he was grabbing the flared base between his cheeks and pulling. It was a slow, awkward process. It always was for The Man when it came to anal play. Each inch stretched oversensitive nerves that he wished didn’t exist and when the plug exited his body with a wet squelch of lube and his natural juices, he sighed in relief, hating the sound almost as much as the empty sensation in his rectum. He gave the wet object a disgusted look, before dropping the offending article on the floor, where it bumped off his foot, leaving its slimy mark, and rolled under the bed. Time to go.
The Man opened the door slowly, only a crack, peering with one eye through the slit into the dim recess. Nothing but darkness as far as he could see, which wasn’t very far all things considered. Was the house empty? He chanced pushing the door open a few more inches and there was no notable change. Whatever he might have been expecting outside of the door, whatever nightmarish jump scare his mind could conjure, never occurred. As he slipped through the gap, barely wide enough to squeeze his formidable frame through, he frowned, eyes widening in alarm as the door creaked ominously at his heavy touch. He waited for several tension soaked seconds, expecting the worse, but still nothing. You could have heard a pin drop in the silence.
The longer he stood in the hallway, the clearer the details became. The white walls, a match to his bedroom, became more stark and the grey grain on the LVP flooring more noticeable. The few accommodations to furniture he allowed in the space, a slim console table beneath a no-frills mirror and a few feet away a storage bench looked untouched. But those weren’t the details that caught his attention. It was the light, a shining beacon at the far end of the corridor, coming from and leading into the kitchen. He imagined himself charging into the room, glowing with victory in his eyes as he dug through the cabinets for a tool to free the last of his restraints. He began the trip.
Only able to move with an awkward pace, shuffling down the hall like a penguin, the path from A to B felt agonizingly long. The Man made his progress, slow but sure, doing his best to avoid the portions of the flooring that might give away his position, every wrong step feeling like he was stepping on a landmine. Each door he passed felt harrowing and he imagined the slabs of wood flying open, the opening blanketing him in a harsh judgmental light before he was dragged kicking and screaming into the abyss. But it never occurred. He was almost there now, just another 4 meters or so and then into the kitchen where he could free himself.
So fixated on his escape, The Man never saw the foot poke out from beneath the table. He realized his error too late as he began to topple like a collapsing tower crashing down to earth. In the last second, he saved himself from a broken nose, turning his face to the left as he hit the bottom. The impact on the flooring was jarring, slamming the air from his lungs and ignited the old wounds which flared with rippling waves of pain. As he wheezed, his eyes darted frantically to movement from just outside his peripheral vision.
The Boy appeared, crawling out of the hidden nook, spider-like. The Man cursed. He had forgotten all about that old hiding spot, the same small hideaway he would conceal himself in whenever his father was rampaging and he didn’t want to be found. His old safe space turned against him. Some things never changed. Foolish.
“Going somewhere?”
The Man tried to crawl, scrambling to his hands and knees, his slick hands leaving smears on the vinyl, but he was too injured to move fast and The Boy was faster. The foot on the small of his back knocked him flat on his stomach, but even then he kept crawling, inching toward the light. If he strained his arms, he could almost touch the rectangle of greyish-white with the tips of his fingers. He heard the low chuckle above him, felt the foot come down again, harder, making him cry out.
“Stay.”
The Boy was on him then, his younger body settling easy on top of The Man’s bulkier form. The Boy was not nearly as massive as The Man, but what The Boy might have lacked in hulking muscle, he made up with speed, a sadistic imagination, and the firm belief that boundaries were a luxury earned not given. With The Boy’s full attention on him, The Man could do little more than buck and flail under the stinging pin, and when he heard The Boy’s mirthless chuckle behind his ear, he knew he was in trouble.
The Man felt his arm yanked back, and he gasped as it was twisted at a 30 degree angle, palm flat between the shoulder blades. He was too distracted by the waves of pain to notice his other arm joining its brother until it was too late to even think about fighting back. Staring at that same rectangle of light, he felt The Boy shuffle, digging through his baggy pants and then the sharp snap of thin plastic above his head.
The pinch of the ziptie on his straining arms was no surprise, but it stung like a bitch all the same. He hissed, weakly flailing once more, but The Boy’s weight was solid. He could smell The Boy now, a particular musky aroma of cedar, soap, and fresh sweat flooding his nostrils. The scent of a hunter.
With The Man more firmly secured, The Boy sat up, that same crushing weight shifting onto The Man’s lower back. Holding back a snarl, The Man tried to buck off his captor one more time, but to no avail, as The Boy’s fingers gripped The Man’s hips like he was riding a bronco, slim but powerful fingers biting into the meat surrounding his pelvis and glutes. He did succeed in exposing something far worse though.
“Wait.”
The Man froze, the tone of the word making his blood run cold. The Boy shifted, shimmying to face the opposite direction. The Man felt two hands grip his buttocks like a baker kneading dough and pry them apart. The cool air on his most intimate parts said it all.
“You took out the plug. That was stupid. Very stupid.”
The ice began to melt and a fiery panic set in its place. When The Boy rose to stand, The Man tried to crawl again, only to be mercilessly dragged several feet away from the light with one snarling pull. The Man’s head hit the floor again, temporarily dazing him, but he still heard the telltale rustle of loose clothing hitting hard flooring.
“You brought this on yourself.”
Even before The Boy spat into his hand, The Man knew what was coming, knew the price he would pay for disobedience. He knew it the moment his fingers touched the plug and made the fateful decision back in the bedroom. His scrambling became more desperate, fueled by something now approaching fight or flight. He was about to be savaged and the animal inside him knew it. When he felt the wet tip touch his exposed pucker, he bucked wildly, one last desperate effort to save himself. It was all in vain. He’s going to tear me apart.
“You can scream if you want.”
The Boy wasn’t nice or gentle. He took The Man with one thrust and The Man’s howl echoed off the walls like an inmate trapped in an insane asylum. There was no reprieve, no hesitation, just the start of a brutal pounding. The Man could feel it on the tip of his tongue, the overwhelming pain and shame pushing him to say The Word, and he bit down, hard, the sharp taste of copper drowning out the unwelcome urge. He grunted and snarled and hissed and cried as he was taken on the floor like the lowest animal on the food chain.
His prostate was being brutalized, pounded into oblivion by The Boy’s thick cock. The fuck was dry, muscles well used to stretching were pushed to the limit as inches of meat dragging across battered nerve endings. The Man’s poor trapped cock feebly tried to grow in its prison, smashed and twitching uselessly in the cage. It hurt, god help them both did it hurt, but it hurt good. Like having his insides scrubbed clean and raw.
As the fucking continued and his felt The Boy’s sweat drip onto his back beneath the crushing weight, The Man could feel it building, deep inside his bowels. That old pleasure, the same one he would frantically deny if he could form words, that always dismantled him to the core. He tried to fight it, to focus on the sharper edges letting them cut him to the bone, but the more he ignored it, the brighter the pleasure stung, the more it mingled and absorbed the humiliation, the shame, the unspoken desire to be abused. He’s turning me inside out. Fucking me away until there’s nothing left.
The orgasm felt like a small death and his shriek of overwhelmed pain and pleasure matched the pulsing of his hole. The Boy didn’t stop. If anything, he only speed up, perhaps drawing closer to his own release. The Man barely noticed, his body taut, his mind going white with static noise, his teeth grinding so hard together his jaw began to go numb.
Tears swarmed The Man’s vision, falling in streaming rivers of defeat as he stared blankly ahead, the light mere feet away long forgotten. Eventually the spasms stopped, his arms and legs went limp, and his battered hole relaxed the same as it always did in the end. This was how it was between them. How it would always be. The Man on the bottom. The Boy on the top. Nature flipped on its head.
His numb insides didn’t recognize the semen filling him, but The Man’s brain recognized the sounds of His Boy’s release. His Boy slumped across him, stinking of sweat now, overpowering the more wholesome scents. The faint exhale of saliva filled breath on his neck almost felt like a kiss. The Man lay there and accepted, fully docile.
The Man couldn’t hide his whimper as His Boy began the dismount. He felt as if a layer of skin was being pulled off of him as His Boy pried himself free of The Man’s heavy grip. The exit was almost as painful as the initial thrust and The Man winced at the twin sensations of pain and loss. As His Boy exited the sacred part of The Man he had once more claimed, all The Man felt was the loss. He could feel how open he was. His Boy had gaped him. His Boy had cunted him...
Above him, The Boy examined his handiwork. With one foot, he nudged apart the bruised cheeks of His Man’s body, fully exposing the wrecked and red-rimmed hole. Gaped to perfection just like he liked it. He rolled a nubby digit along the puffy rim, letting the weight his foot rest until his big toe sunk through His Man’s anus like it was sinking beneath quicksand. He flexed inside His Man’s cavern, testing its depth and dampness. The toe popped free with a humiliating squelch, sticky with mixed residue.
The Man made no motion to move as His Boy walked around his prone form. His eyes were staring blankly at the wall, not seeing, just feeling, as His Boy’s foot descended to sit on top of the side of his face, a heavy weight, size 11. That big toe, still wet with muck, rubbed along The Man’s stress-bitten lips.
“Had enough, old man?”
Before now, when he still wore the armor of hubris, The Man might have taken offense at the question, might have assumed insult, but all he heard now was a simple question, spoken plain. The Man rolled his eyes off the stained wall, straining to look up at His Boy from the sharp angle. He could just make out the swath of orange hair on His Boy’s head, a close match to the public hair closer to The Man’s level. His Boy was grinning, green eyes sparkling in triumphant at his latest victory. The Man opened his mouth and His Boy’s toe slipped onto his tongue filling his mouth with the twin flavors of grimy sweat and his own filth. He released it from his moist hollow, only reluctantly.
“...more.”
One word, spoken clear as day in the dim hallway. He saw His Boy’s grin widen and it made The Man’s useless cock twitch in its cage. It had been the right word. The only right word.
The Boy didn’t respond, not with words. He stepped back behind His Man, bending down to clutch at his pants. The Man felt His Boy fiddle around near his feet, The Boy lifting His Man’s weary legs with a calm, gentle motion that almost felt like tenderness. The Man’s ankles were freed, one at a time, and the bar was removed and set aside. Through all of this The Boy made no motion to restrain or manhandle His Man further. There was no need.
Without being told, The Man parted his legs, giving His Boy as much space as his heart desired. The Boy settled between His Man’s gap, allowing himself the luxury of one last peek at the wreckage between His Man’s cheeks, but he didn’t fill it again, not yet. That would come later. It was time for a change of scenery.
Bending down, The Boy grasped His Man’s ankles, lifting the tree trunk legs off the floor and began to pull, dragging His Man back to his proper place. The pull slow, but not gentle. The floor chaffed on The Man’s sensitive skin, but it hardly mattered. He was domesticated. He wouldn’t complain.
As The Boy turned the corner back into the bedroom where it all began and always ended, The Man’s elbow connected with the door frame drawing a hollow thud from the aged wood that went unacknowledged. Fully settled back home, The Boy peeked out of the doorway one last time, glancing down the alleyway of His Man’s house and then closed the door to the bedroom with a definitive slam. This time he locked it behind him.
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