I know exactly what I am: a filthy, shameless faggot.
I’m a walking mix of everything: dad’s white, mom’s Indian, so I ended up with smooth dark-brown skin, hazel eyes, and dead-straight jet-black hair. 5’4”, 120 lbs soaking wet, lean and wiry from the gym, but under the clothes I’m a hairy little beast: legs like a goat, chest and pits matted thick, and an ass so furry the crack disappears in black curls. I sweat and I stink and it makes my caged cock throb, because smooth twinks can keep their waxing appointments; I want to stay a sweaty, rank animal.
Seven inches swing between my legs, but I hate the fucking thing. It’s useless. All I want is my holes stuffed, so I locked it in a tiny pink chastity cage months ago and only take it out once a week for cleaning.
I’m insane for real men: the hairier, the dirtier, the better. I want their sour, day-old pit stink in my face on a scorching afternoon, the sharp tang of piss still clinging to their bush, big sweaty feet shoved in my mouth while they roar at the game like cavemen. Deep gravel voices, beer bellies, cigarette breath, watching them hawk and spit on the floor; every gross, primitive thing they do makes my hairy cunt twitch and leak.
My biggest dream has always been to get raped, straight-up forced, no pretend, no safe-word. And one day the universe finally gave this dirty faggot exactly what he deserved.
I was driving to my dad’s when I lightly rear-ended this huge pickup. Barely a scratch, but the guy who jumped out looked ready to murder me. I’m 5’4” and shaking, so I called the cops. Then I actually looked at him and almost dropped my phone.
6’4”, 270 lbs of swollen, veiny meat poured into a sweat-rotted white tank that’s turned yellow under the arms and clings to his hairy gut like wet paper. The second he steps out of the truck you get hit by the wall of him: hot diesel, stale cigarette smoke, sour armpit funk, and something sharp like old piss baked into denim. A thick, greasy black mustache drooling smoke and spit, crumbs caught in the bristles from whatever gas-station burrito he demolished for lunch.
Chest hair so dense it’s crawling out the collar in wet black curls, each strand glistening with sweat that drips down his belly and disappears into the waistband. Pit bushes explode out the sides of the tank, black, matted, and dripping; when he lifts an arm to flick ash you catch a nose-full of ripe, oniony stink so strong your eyes water and your caged dick jerks like it’s been slapped.
Neck thicker than my thigh, forearms wrapped in dark fur that’s damp to the touch. You can hear the wet creak of his leather belt every time he shifts his weight, the metallic jingle of the buckle, the low rumble in his gut after too much cheap beer. Jeans sagging under the overhang of his belly, zipper half-busted so the fly gapes open and you see the sweaty black bush and the thick root of a beer-can cock already half-hard from rage and heat. Ass cheeks strain the seat of the jeans so hard the center seam’s gone shiny and gray from years of crack sweat and never washing them.
Those size-16 Red Wings hit the asphalt with a heavy thud, laces broken and flapping, leather cracked and dark with old motor oil. No socks, just bare ankles matted with hair and crusted in dried mud. The boots reek like a locker room left to rot: sour foot sweat, vinegar, and something fungal that makes your throat close and your hole twitch at the same time. Every step releases another puff of trapped stink. He drags hard on the cigarette, cheeks hollowing, then hacks up a thick wad of yellow phlegm and spits it right at my feet; it lands with a wet splat you can feel through your shoes.
He snarls “little sand-nigger bitch” in a voice like a chainsaw gargling gravel, and the sound vibrates straight into my balls. I’m drowning in his stink, deaf from his roar, eyes watering, cage dripping, before the 911 operator even answers.
Two cops rolled up, lights flashing, both built like they moonlight as powerlifters. One was a 6’2” bearded Latino with forearms like hams and a gut straining his vest, the other a blond buzz-cut white boy, maybe 25, shoulders so wide the uniform seams looked ready to blow. Both already sweating through their shirts in the heat, pit stains spreading fast.
The second they stepped out, Cavill-truck-daddy turned his head slow, dragged on his cigarette, and hawked up a fat, slimy wad, thick, yellow, stringy from nicotine and rage. He spat it square in my face. Hot, sticky gob hit my cheek, slid down over my lips, dripped off my chin while I just stood there panting, tasting his phlegm, cage throbbing so hard it hurt.
One cop barked, “The fuck is yours?”
Cavill flicked the cigarette butt at my feet, gave me a last sneer that said your ass is mine later, pig, then lumbered back to his truck. Every step made those muddy size-16s thud and release another puff of sour foot rot. He climbed in, slammed the door hard enough to rock the pickup, and peeled out without another word, leaving a cloud of diesel and burnt rubber.
Now it was just me and the two cops, both staring at me like they could smell how soaked my cage was. The Latino one adjusted his belt, thumb brushing the bulge under his duty pants, and grinning. The blond licked his lips, eyes dropping to the spit still dripping off my chin.
“Looks like you made a new friend,” the blond one said, voice low and amused. “You okay to talk, or you need us to… calm you down first?”
I couldn’t even speak. I just nodded, trembling, already praying they’d throw me in the back of that cruiser and take turns.
I wiped the thick spit off my chin with the back of my shaking hand and looked up at the two sweaty cops, voice cracking like a little bitch.
“S-sorry, officers… I’m just scared. I really thought he was gonna kill me.”
The Latino cop smirked, eyes dragging down my body slow enough to feel it on my skin.
“Yeah?” he rumbled, stepping closer so I got hit with his own wave of fresh cop-sweat and gun-oil leather. “Big guy had you shaking pretty hard, huh?”
The blond one circled behind me, close enough that his belt buckle brushed my back.
“You’re still shaking, sweetheart,” he murmured right against my ear, breath hot, coffee and spearmint gum. “Need us to check you for injuries? Full body search?”
I could smell both of them now, sharp pit stink mixing with the trucker’s spit still drying on my face, and my cage was leaking so bad it was running down my thigh. I just whimpered and nodded, already spreading my legs a little without being told.
I swallowed hard, voice tiny and shaking.
“Is it… is it really needed, officers?”
The Latino cop stepped right up into my space, so close his gut brushed my chest. He smelled like fresh sweat, leather, and the faint bite of pepper spray on his belt.
“Oh yeah, little man,” he growled, low and amused. “Protocol. You just got assaulted (spit in the face counts). We gotta make sure you’re not hiding any… injuries.”
The blond one already had his gloves on, snapping the nitrile loud enough to make me flinch. He pressed two fingers under my chin, tilting my head up so the trucker’s dried spit cracked on my skin.
“Hands on the hood, feet apart,” he ordered, voice gone cold and professional in the hottest way. “You’re trembling so bad I’m gonna need to check everywhere. Shirt up, pants down. Now.”
I whimpered again, but my shaky hands were already moving.
The blond cop pulled out his phone, turned half away, and muttered something low and fast I couldn’t catch. Thirty seconds later those same mud-crusted size-16s came thudding back across the asphalt. The pickup door slammed like a gunshot.
The trucker swaggered up, cigarette already lit again, grinning ear-to-ear when he saw the cops.
“Rico, you beautiful bastard,” he rumbled, clapping the Latino cop on the shoulder hard enough to make the vest creak. Then he fist-bumped the blond like they’d done this a hundred times.
I started shaking so bad my teeth chattered.
The trucker stopped right in front of me, took a long drag, and blew the smoke straight into my face. Little flecks of ash landed on my lips.
“He really thought we were gonna help him,” he laughed, voice dripping with mockery. “I love these soft city fags. You fake a little bump, act pissed, they call the cops, and boom, free fuckmeat.” He looked me up and down, licked his lips. “This one’s a complete sissy, though. Look at him, already crying and he ain’t even bent over yet.”
The Latino cop, Rico, grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my head back.
“On your knees, puta. Time to pay for scratching my cousin’s truck.”
They all cracked up, deep, nasty laughs that bounced around the empty road, while Rico snapped the cuffs on me so tight the metal bit into my wrists. He yanked me toward the cruiser like I weighed nothing, opened the back door, and flung me inside face-first. My shoulder hit the plexiglass divider, knees slammed the floorboard, door slammed shut behind me. The smell of old vinyl, sweat, and piss soaked into the seat.
I opened my mouth to scream and nothing came out. What was the point? Out here it was just cactus and sky.
The blond cop hopped into my car like he’d been driving it for years, cranked the engine, and peeled out behind us. Rico slid into the driver’s seat of the cruiser, the trucker cousin riding shotgun, cigarette already glowing again. They rolled the windows down so the hot wind and smoke whipped through the cage.
Half an hour of dirt roads, dust clouds, and their filthy jokes about what they were gonna do to my holes. Every pothole slammed my caged dick against the seat. I leaked the whole way, soaking my shorts dark.
Finally the cruiser stopped in front of a sun-bleached single-wide trailer squatting in the middle of pure desert. No neighbors. No signal. Nothing but creosote bushes and the low buzz of flies.
Rico killed the engine, looked at me in the rear-view, and grinned.
“Welcome home, bitch.”
Rico popped the back door and dragged me out by the cuffs. The second my feet hit the dirt, the oven-hot air and the stink of the place slammed into me.
The trailer door creaked open on busted hinges and the smell hit like a fist: years of sweat, piss, spilled beer, cigarette ash, and old cum baked into every surface by desert heat. It was thick, sour, alive, clinging to the back of my throat.
Inside was pure redneck pigsty.
- Brown shag carpet so filthy it looked wet, sticky patches where boots had tracked God-knows-what.
- A sagging couch the color of dried blood, fabric shiny from ass-sweat, armrests black from greasy hands, one cushion permanently dented like someone huge always sits there.
- Coffee table made of a cable spool, covered in crushed beer cans, overflowing ashtrays, crusted lube bottles, and a half-eaten bag of pork rinds swimming in grease.
- Walls yellowed to the color of smoker’s teeth, random holes punched in the paneling, one spot patched with duct tape and a faded Polaroids of used-up bitches bent over that same couch (some faces scratched out, some with Sharpie loads drawn on them).
- A box fan in the window doing nothing but pushing hot, rank air around; the blades coated in dust and dog hair even though there’s no dog.
- Kitchen corner: sink full of crusted plates, counter sticky with spilled tequila and dried cum, fridge humming loud and leaking something brown onto the linoleum.
- One bare bulb swinging overhead, buzzing, throwing sickly light over everything.
- And everywhere the smell: foot rot from boots kicked off in the corner, sour jockstraps dangling from a nail, the ghost of a thousand loads shot into hairy holes right on that nasty carpet.
The trucker kicked the door shut behind us. Dust floated in the light like dirty snow.
“Strip, faggot,” he growled, already unbuckling that creaking belt. “Time to break the new house bitch in.”
“Please… don’t hurt me,” I whimpered, voice cracking.
The trucker’s laugh was low and ugly. His huge, calloused hand cracked across my face so hard the world flashed white. I hit the filthy carpet on my side, ears ringing, cheek already swelling hot, tasting blood.
The blond cop stepped over me, crouching down with that pretty-boy smirk.
“I liked your spit earlier,” he told the trucker, voice lazy. “Give the bitch some more.”
The trucker grinned, hawked loud and wet, then leaned over me. A thick, green-yellow rope of snot-laced spit drooled from his lips straight onto my swollen cheek.
But Rico wasn’t waiting. He grabbed my hair, yanked my head back until my mouth gaped open, and snorted hard. A fat, burning glob shot straight out of his nose into my mouth (hot, salty, thick with mucus and whatever he’d been snorting off his dashboard). He clamped my jaw shut with one meaty hand.
“Swallow, puta.”
I gagged, tears streaming, but his grip tightened until I gulped it down, the slimy mess sliding down my throat like raw oyster and shame. The taste exploded: nicotine, sweat, desert dust, pure man filth.
All three of them laughed again while I coughed and sobbed on the nasty carpet, cage dripping onto the shag like a broken faucet.
“Good girl,” Rico said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “That’s just the appetizer.”
Rico popped the back door and dragged me out by the cuffs. The second my feet hit the dirt, the oven-hot air and the stink of the place slammed into me.
The trailer door creaked open on busted hinges and the smell hit like a fist: years of sweat, piss, spilled beer, cigarette ash, and old cum baked into every surface by desert heat. It was thick, sour, alive, clinging to the back of my throat.
Inside was pure redneck pigsty.
- Brown shag carpet so filthy it looked wet, sticky patches where boots had tracked God-knows-what.
- A sagging couch the color of dried blood, fabric shiny from ass-sweat, armrests black from greasy hands, one cushion permanently dented like someone huge always sits there.
- Coffee table made of a cable spool, covered in crushed beer cans, overflowing ashtrays, crusted lube bottles, and a half-eaten bag of pork rinds swimming in grease.
- Walls yellowed to the color of smoker’s teeth, random holes punched in the paneling, one spot patched with duct tape and a faded Polaroids of used-up bitches bent over that same couch (some faces scratched out, some with Sharpie loads drawn on them).
- A box fan in the window doing nothing but pushing hot, rank air around; the blades coated in dust and dog hair even though there’s no dog.
- Kitchen corner: sink full of crusted plates, counter sticky with spilled tequila and dried cum, fridge humming loud and leaking something brown onto the linoleum.
- One bare bulb swinging overhead, buzzing, throwing sickly light over everything.
- And everywhere the smell: foot rot from boots kicked off in the corner, sour jockstraps dangling from a nail, the ghost of a thousand loads shot into hairy holes right on that nasty carpet.
The trucker kicked the door shut behind us. Dust floated in the light like dirty snow.
“Strip, faggot,” he growled, already unbuckling that creaking belt. “Time to break the new house bitch in.”
“Please… don’t hurt me,” I whimpered, voice cracking.
The trucker’s laugh was low and ugly. His huge, calloused hand cracked across my face so hard the world flashed white. I hit the filthy carpet on my side, ears ringing, cheek already swelling hot, tasting blood.
The blond cop stepped over me, crouching down with that pretty-boy smirk.
“I liked your spit earlier,” he told the trucker, voice lazy. “Give the bitch some more.”
The trucker grinned, hawked loud and wet, then leaned over me. A thick, green-yellow rope of snot-laced spit drooled from his lips straight onto my swollen cheek.
But Rico wasn’t waiting. He grabbed my hair, yanked my head back until my mouth gaped open, and snorted hard. A fat, burning glob shot straight out of his nose into my mouth (hot, salty, thick with mucus and whatever he’d been snorting off his dashboard). He clamped my jaw shut with one meaty hand.
“Swallow, puta.”
I gagged, tears streaming, but his grip tightened until I gulped it down, the slimy mess sliding down my throat like raw oyster and shame. The taste exploded: nicotine, sweat, desert dust, pure man filth.
All three of them laughed again while I coughed and sobbed on the nasty carpet, cage dripping onto the shag like a broken faucet.
“Good girl,” Rico said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “That’s just the appetizer.”
Rico still had my hair twisted in his fist. He hauled me up to my knees like I was a doll.
“Clothes off. Now.”
I was shaking too hard to move fast enough, so the trucker just grabbed the front of my T-shirt with both meaty paws and ripped. Fabric tore loud, buttons from my shorts popping off and pinging across the room. The blond cop yanked what was left down my arms, trapping my cuffed hands behind me so the shirt bunched cloth bit into my wrists.
They didn’t bother with the rest gently.
Trucker hooked two thick fingers into my waistband and shredded my shorts and briefs in one brutal yank; the elastic snapped against my thighs, leaving red welts. My locked pink cage bounced out, already slick and dripping, the little bell on it tinkling like a fucking joke. All three of them barked out laughs when they saw it.
“Aw, the faggot locked himself up for us,” the blond cooed, flicking the cage hard enough to make me yelp and fold forward.
Rico shoved me flat on my stomach, planted a boot between my shoulder blades, and used his free hand to peel my sneakers and socks off, tossing them into the corner with the other rank boots. The trucker grabbed my ankles and dragged my legs apart so wide my hips screamed, then slapped my hairy ass cheeks until they burned cherry-red and the fur was matted with sweat.
In ten seconds I was completely naked except for the cuffs and the cage, face down in decades of dried cum and cigarette ash, every inch of me exposed, shaking, stinking of their spit and my own fear-sweat.
The trucker spat on my hole, a fat glob that rolled down my crack.
“Pretty little welcome mat,” he muttered, grinding the heel of his muddy boot against my swollen cheek. “Time to walk all over it.”
The trucker lifted one massive, mud-caked size-16 Red Wing and planted the sole right on my swollen cheek, the one already glowing red from his slap. The tread was packed with dried desert dirt, sharp little pebbles, flakes of old oil, and something that smelled like dog shit he’d stepped in weeks ago and never scraped off.
He leaned his weight forward slow, real slow, so I felt every ounce of those 270 lbs transfer through that filthy boot into my face. The rubber lugs bit into my skin like teeth, grinding the grit deeper, scraping raw lines across my cheekbone. A jagged chunk of dried mud broke off and stuck to the corner of my mouth; I tasted rust and gasoline.
He twisted his foot side to side, smearing the mess, forcing my head to turn until my other cheek hit the sticky carpet. The pressure mashed my nose flat, made my eyes water, forced a whimper out of me that vibrated straight into the boot leather. I could hear the creak of his ankle, the soft squish where sweat had soaked through weeks of sockless wear.
“Kiss it, bitch,” he growled, pressing harder until my lips parted and the tread scraped over my teeth. I stuck my tongue out without being told twice, licking at the filth, tasting salt, tar, dried piss, and the sour leather of a boot polish gone rancid in the heat.
He laughed, gave one last cruel twist that left a perfect waffle-print bruise blooming across my face, then finally lifted the boot, only to drag it down my back, leaving a long brown streak of desert grime all the way to my hairy ass.
“Marked,” he said, spitting on the tread print. “Now you look like property.”
The trucker finally lifted that filthy boot off my face, strings of spit and mud stretching from my tongue to the tread. He looked down at me, wiped his mouth with the back of a hairy wrist, and grinned.
“Boots off, boys. Let the bitch taste the real thing.”
All three of them kicked back on the nasty couch like kings, legs spread wide. One by one the boots came off with wet, sucking pops, the stench rolling out like a punch.
First the trucker: size-16 Red Wings, no socks for weeks. When the boot peeled away the smell hit first, thick, cheesy, vinegary foot rot mixed with old leather and dried piss. His bare foot was huge, pale on top, black with grime on the sole, toes matted in sweat-soaked hair, nails yellow and cracked. A crust of dead skin flaked off the heel when he flexed.
Rico next: thick black cop boots, laces frayed. Inside was a soaked gray sock so rank it stood up by itself when he yanked it off. His bare foot was brown, wide, veins bulging, toes crusted with sock lint and dried sweat, the ball of his foot shiny from rubbing in those boots all shift. The smell was sharp, onions and old cheese.
Last the blond: tan tactical boots, still had the factory smell on the outside, but inside? Pure locker-room hell. He’d worn thin white ankle socks that were now gray-brown and dripping. When he peeled them, the foot underneath was pale, almost pretty, but the toes were curled with days of sweat, the crevices between them packed with black lint and skin flakes. The stink was younger, sharper, like gym socks left in a plastic bag for a month.
They shoved all six feet in my face at once, soles up, laughing while I gagged on the heat and the smell.
“Lick, faggot. Every inch. Start with the heels and work your way between every toe.”
I started with the trucker’s heel, tongue flat against the rough, calloused skin, tasting salt crust and old mud. I dragged it slow up the arch, collecting flakes of dead skin that stuck to my tongue like wet paper. When I got to the ball of his foot the sweat was thicker, almost oily, tasting like pure man filth. I sucked it off in long stripes until his sole glistened with my spit instead of his sweat.
Rico shoved his foot over my mouth next, forcing three thick toes between my lips at once. I gagged as the lint and toe-jam dissolved on my tongue, sour, cheesy, perfect. I worked my tongue between each toe, digging out the black gunk, swallowing it down while he laughed and ground his heel into my forehead.
The blond made me clean the tops first, licking the sweaty hair on his instep, then flipped his foot and pressed the sole to my face so hard my nose flattened. I licked the soft, sweaty skin under his toes, sucking each one like a tiny cock, cleaning the lint from between them until my mouth was full of foot grime and spit.
They took turns wiping their wet soles across my face, smearing the mess into my hair, over my swollen cheek, painting me with their stink until I was glazed head to toe in foot sweat, toe jam, and shame.
Only when all three soles were shining clean with my spit did the trucker grab my hair again.
“Good pig,” he grunted. “Now open wide. Time for the main course.”
They weren’t done with me on the floor.
The trucker hauled me up by the hair and slammed me onto my knees between the couch and the coffee table. All three stood up, towering, shirts coming off in one rough motion.
The smell changed from foot rot to something thicker, sharper, wetter. Pure armpit hell.
The trucker lifted one massive arm. His pit was a black jungle, hair matted into wet spikes, yellowed at the roots from old deodorant that gave up months ago. Sweat poured off the strands in slow drops, dripping onto my upturned face. The stink was brutal: onions, diesel, ball-sweat, and something metallic like dried blood. He grabbed the back of my head and smashed my face straight into it.
“Lick, faggot. Tongue all the way up.”
I opened wide and dragged my tongue through the soaked hair. The taste exploded: salt so strong it burned, sour curd under the hair, flakes of skin and old sweat sticking to my lips. I licked again and again, long stripes from the bottom of the bush to the top, swallowing the filth while he groaned and ground harder, smearing it across my nose, my eyes, my forehead until I was wearing his pit stink like face paint.
Rico stepped up next, both arms up, hands locked behind his head. His pits were darker, curlier, absolutely drenched; sweat ran in rivers down his sides. The smell was spicier, cumin and stale cop sweat and gunpowder from the range. He didn’t even have to force me; I dove in on my own, burying my face, sucking the sweat straight off the hair, chewing the wet curls, moaning like a slut while he laughed and called me a greedy little pig.
The blond was last. He turned sideways, lifted one arm, and flexed. His pit hair was lighter, almost golden, but just as soaked. The stink was younger, sharper, gym-boy sour, like protein farts and cheap body spray that lost the war. He grabbed my cage and squeezed while I licked, slow circles around his pit, then deep into the crease, tongue-fucking the fold until he was panting and leaking in his pants.
They rotated me like that for what felt like hours: face shoved from one ripe, dripping pit to the next, forced to clean every drop of sweat, every flake of skin, every sour curl. By the end my face was glazed shiny with their pit juice, hair plastered to my skull, beard (if I had one) would’ve been ruined forever.
Only when all three pits were licked clean and glistening with my spit did the trucker step back, unbuckle his belt all the way, and growl:
“Enough foreplay. Ass up, face down. Time to split that hairy hole.”
The trucker didn’t line up. He just kicked my legs wider, hawked a thick, phlegmy wad straight onto my hairy hole, and rammed in dry. One single, murderous thrust. The head of his fat, cheesy, uncut cock punched past my ring like a fist, tore straight through the muscle, and buried every last inch until his sweaty, wiry bush scraped my torn skin and his heavy, sweat-sour balls slapping my taint so hard they left bruises.
I screamed. Real scream, animal, throat-ripping. He answered by punching me square in the caged balls with a closed fist. The metal cage rang, pain detonated white-hot through my gut, and my vision blacked out for a second. When it came back he was already jackhammering, each slam lifting my knees off the carpet, blood and precum splattering the shag in wet red-brown streaks.
Rico dropped his weight on my face, hairy ass cheeks smothering me, and ripped a wet, protein-shake fart that burned my lungs. While I choked on it the blond grabbed my hair, yanked my head sideways, and forced his piss-soaked cock down my throat until my neck bulged. He punched my throat mid-thrust just to feel me gag harder around him.
They rotated like a machine.
Every new cock tore me wider. The blond split me next, smaller but meaner, aiming for the fresh rips so every stroke felt like sandpaper and fire. He punched my swollen balls again and again until the cage was dented and my nuts throbbed purple.
Rico went last for the first round, thickest of all, veins like cables. He spat in my gaping, bleeding hole, then drove in so hard something inside me tore with a wet pop. Blood poured out around his shaft, slicking his hairy thighs. He laughed, pulled out just to watch it gush, then slammed back in, punching my taint on every upstroke until I felt my balls swell to twice their size, skin split, hot fluid leaking.
While one raped my guts, the other two kept my face busy:
- Trucker squatted and forced a chunky log of snot and tobacco spit into my mouth, then punched my cheek until I swallowed.
- Blond pissed straight up my nose so it burned into my sinuses.
- Blond shat a wet fart directly into my open screaming mouth and held my jaw shut so I had to breathe it.
Hours.
They didn’t stop when I passed out; they slapped me awake, pissed on my face until I sputtered back.
My hole went from tight to ruined to a raw, flapping sleeve of meat. Blood, cum, and shit bubbled out in wet farts every time they pulled free. My balls were black, swollen to softballs, cage cutting into the skin.
By the end I wasn’t screaming anymore; just wet, broken whimpers. My guts felt rearranged, my throat shredded, face a crusted mask of every fluid they could produce.
The trucker finally pulled out, my hole making a sick, sucking pop as it tried and failed to close. He hawked one last yellow-green glob into the gaping red crater.
“That’s round one, faggot,” he said, lighting another cigarette off the cherry of the last. “We got all weekend
