Wednesday – Michael Watches
Michael woke up before dawn on Wednesday, his mind still reeling from the night before.
He had fucked his own son for hours---pumping load after load into Jack’s already ruined hole while the boy moaned sweetly beneath him. The guilt was crushing. But so was the lust.
When Jack finally fell asleep, covered in his father’s cum, Michael lay awake staring at the ceiling. He thought about his older son, Ryan---23 years old, serving in the Marines, everything Michael had ever wanted in a boy: disciplined, honorable, upstanding. And then there was Jack… his sweet-faced, cock-hungry youngest who had turned their home into a cum-soaked brothel.
Michael made a decision.
At breakfast he told Jack calmly, “I have to go into the office for a few hours today. Some paperwork I can’t avoid.”
Jack, still visibly sore and moving carefully, nodded softly. “Okay, Dad. I’ll be here.”
Michael left the house… only to circle back ten minutes later through the side gate. He slipped upstairs to the guest bedroom, left the door slightly ajar, and positioned himself in the large walk-in closet with a clear view of the living room and hallway. His phone was set to record. His cock was already hard.
He waited.
---
By 9:30 AM the trucks started arriving. Dozens of them.
Word had spread far beyond the original crew. Men from multiple construction companies, friends of friends, even a few who had simply heard rumors about the “blond twink cumdump at the Thompson house” showed up. Fifty-eight men in total---rough, sweaty, working-class white men ranging from their early 20s to late 50s. Some fathers had brought their sons. The yard and street looked like a job site.
Jack opened the door wearing only his tiny white shorts. His eyes widened at the sheer number of men.
“I… I’m really sore today,” he said softly, voice trembling with uncertainty. “I dunno. Maybe we should take it easy…”
The men laughed. Marco stepped forward and pulled Jack into a deep kiss, then spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.
“You had your rest yesterday, boy. Today you’re draining every last ball here.”
They pulled Jack into the living room.
Michael watched from the closet, heart pounding, phone recording everything. His hand was already inside his pants.
---
The gangbang was merciless and lasted all day.
They started with Jack on his knees in the center of the living room. One after another, nearly sixty men stepped up and fed him their cocks. Jack sucked them with soft, overwhelmed whimpers, his big blue eyes watering as thick shafts stretched his throat. Cum started flying early---heavy ropes painting his face, tongue, and buzzed blond hair.
They bent him over the couch next. The train began in earnest.
Man after man slammed into his sore, swollen hole. Each thrust made thick globs of yesterday’s cum squelch out around their cocks. Jack moaned sweetly, even as tears of overstimulation ran down his cheeks.
“Yeah…oh yeah!” he gasped at one point as his tender rosebud was getting hammered. “Ohh…ohh.…don't stop…”
And they didn’t stop.
Fathers and sons took turns together. One man would fuck Jack’s ass while his son used the boy’s mouth. Michael watched in horrified fascination as a burly father and his 22-year-old son double-penetrated Jack on the floor, their cocks rubbing together inside his son’s wrecked hole.
The house became a nonstop gang-fuck.
They fucked Jack in every room. On the kitchen island. Bent over the dining table. In his father’s bed. In his own bedroom. They made him ride them while sucking others. They DP’d him repeatedly. They pissed on him in the shower. They sat on his face while others bred him.
Michael filmed it all, stroking himself furiously in the closet, tears of shame and unbearable arousal running down his face.
By 8 PM, Jack was completely destroyed.
He lay on the living room floor in a massive puddle of cum. Fifty-eight men's loads had been pumped into him and onto him. His hole was a gaping, ruined wreck---permanently stretched, constantly farting thick white sperm. His face, hair, chest, and stomach were glazed with layer after layer of drying cum. He could barely move.
The men finally started leaving around 9 PM, exhausted and satisfied. Some patted Jack’s cum-covered head as they walked out.
“Good fucking boy.”
“Best cumdump in the state.”
When the last truck pulled away, the house was silent except for Jack’s soft breathing.
Michael stayed hidden for another ten minutes, still filming, still hard. Then he slowly walked downstairs.
Jack looked up at his father from the floor, eyes glassy, cum still leaking heavily from his hole.
“Dad… you’re home,” he whispered.
Michael stood over his son, phone still recording, voice thick with emotion.
“I saw everything, Jack.”
He knelt down beside the cum-drenched boy, gently brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.
“And I couldn’t look away.”
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