What The Hell Just Happened?

Reader discretion is adviced, this story contain graphic content depicting violence and rape which may not be suitable to all readers. This is a fictional story and do not portray real events or real persons.

I ease open the front door, poke my head inside, and blow a sigh of relief at my favorite sight, which is about what I expected anyway: Mom passed out at one end of the couch, my stepfather at the other, coffee table piled high with beer cans and cigarette butts and weed bags, tv locked on the lame sad-faced "Sorry! We're Off The Air!" sign. Stepping out of the frigid winter night and into the lukewarm, draft-laced living room, I ease the door shut, wincing at the inevitable whine; Mom's most likely out for the night, you can never tell with the old man. He doesn't wake up, though, thank fuck, just snorts and rubs his fat hand across his fat mouth. I tilt my head back and chug the rest of my own beer, then tiptoe across the floor and drop the can on the overloaded table with the rest; the old man'll never notice, and it'll probably be my ass ends up cleaning up in here tomorrow anyway. A half-smoked roach sits stubbed out in the overflowing ashtray, and I snag it; he'll never notice that either. As I turn to head to the room I share with my pricklet kid brother, I spot the old man’s crooked cock hanging out the leg of his boxers, and for a minute I'm tempted to grab it, to yank like I did to the tall, muscular pretty boy in juvie, but I stopped when the pretty boy begged enough, and I'd never stop yanking on the old man's, not 'til I held the bleeding stub in my fist.

I tiptoe down the hall, avoiding the creaky runner, and strip off my jacket, wavering only slightly at the complicated maneuver. I didn’t drink but four beers, so I’m not fucked up or anything, unfortunately. Stopping at our closed bedroom door, I put my ear to the wood and listen. Yup, the pricklet’s beating off, the squeaking springs and panting breath surefire signals. Careful not to make too much noise, I fling the door open and flip up the light switch. “Busted!” I stage-whisper, and the pricklet gasps and twists in his twin bed, blanket squirreling around his raised knees and his right hand sliding under his pillow, like he’s got a gun under there and I’m an intruder. I cock my finger at him and go, “Bang!” He jumps, and I all but bellow laughter. Small, skinny, timid, he’s everything I’m not. Thank Christ.

“Ssh, you’ll wake him,” the pricklet warns nervously, relaxing slightly when I head to my own side of the room to start stripping instead of heading for his.

“Nah, he’s out,” I say, but quietly, because you can never tell with the old man. “If you didn’t wake him up moaning and groaning and thumping your headboard against the wall, then he’s out cold.” Handing the pricklet hell over his spanking, not because I care but because it’s fun to watch his cheeks heat.

“Shut up,” he mutters, cheeks heating. “I wasn’t making too much noise, and besides, you beat off as much as I do.”

I don’t even need to stop and cogitate. “True.” Me and the pricklet know all about each other’s self-pollution; hell, we share a room. I slide out of my jeans while he watches warily; aware of what he’s thinking I flip out my half-hard dong to waggle at him. He recoils while I snicker and order, “So don’t use all the slick or I’ll kick your ass.”

“Why? Didn’t my big bad bro get any pussy tonight? The world is shocked and humbled.”

Fucking pricklet. “I got plenty of pussy tonight.” I jump across the floor and stick my middle finger under his nose, demanding, “Wanna smell?” He recoils again, sliding his hand towards his pillow like he’s gonna grab and smack me with it, and I bust out laughing. “I gotta piss,” I say, grabbing the half-joint and my lighter as I head out of the room. “I wasn’t kidding about the slick, pricklet.”

“I hate when you call me that,” he complains.

“Why do think I do it?” Leaving the light on so he’ll have to climb out of bed to shut it off, I close the door on his muttered cursing and, avoiding the creaky runner, tiptoe to the end of the hall. The old man’s still snoring. Relieved, I head to the john and drop my drawers. Might as well cop a squat while I’m here, if I smoke in the bedroom the pricklet’ll want some, and fuck that. Besides, although he might be snoring, you can never tell with the old man, and I’d prefer not to have to shower and change my sheets if he decides to visit.

While I poop and catch a buzz I contemplate the finger I’d shoved under my brother’s nose; it had indeed been deep in pussy earlier tonight. Me and the owner of said pussy had been parked in her car on a random side street, and I’d been this close to finally losing my virgin status in the backseat when I happened to glance out the window.

Two guys, walking down the sidewalk, laughing and joking and cutting up between themselves, paying absolutely no attention to the junker idling at the curb. One tall, muscular, with feathered hair, the other small, lean, wearing a purple beanie, but obviously brothers, you could tell by their easy touches and bright, almost precious smiles. I couldn’t take my eyes off them, and only when my glance crossed with the bigger teen did I recognize him; the tall, muscular pretty boy from juvie. Last time I saw him he’d been bent over his bunk, taking cock and crying into his pillow. Miserable. He didn’t seem to recognize me though, his gaze sliding off mine like our eyes were oiled, and I watched them stroll away, the pretty boy sliding his arm around his brother’s shoulders, the two of them sharing some intimate and amusing secret. A blackness welled within me, an empty yearning for . . . for . . . something, I had no clue what. The slut I’d been about to fuck snapped her fingers in my face, asked why I was watching the boys so hard, was I a fag? I smacked her and commented her pussy stank and she got pissed and shoved me out on the sidewalk, her pathetic junker squealing off before I so much as buttoned my pants.

Fuck it, I didn’t feel like getting laid anymore anyhow, so I headed for the package store. The fugly bitch at the counter eyed me like I was some kind of thug when I came in, so I stopped and counted nonexistent money in my wallet and headed for the soft drinks. She turned away to help some old dude and I made for the beer, shoving a sixer one can at a time into my coat pockets. “Hey!” the fugly bitch yelled, heading around the counter, so I turned to run and shit started spilling out of my pockets: beers, wallet, keys, coins, unopened rubber. I scrambled to gather everything up, but I was forced to leave two cans, the change and the rubber behind. The fugly bitch was yelling something about calling the cops as I busted out the door and onto the street.

So, four beers and one half joint later, I’m feeling pretty fine. Not fubar, but fine. Could stand to get laid, but I don’t mind spanking; I do it often enough. So I sanitize and tiptoe back to the bedroom. The pricklet’s still awake, his knees bent under the covers and his mattress shaking, but I don’t comment other than to demand, “Gimme the slick.” He grumbles but passes it over and I shuck my shorts, fall naked into bed. Knowing what’s on my mind, my dong’s already half-hard as I grease up and start to stroke.

I think about the slut in the backseat. Tig ol’ bitties, meaty ass, hairy, wet vadge clutching on my fingers. Her fist squeezing my dong while she whispers about how big I am and how bad she needs me up inside her but I better be careful I don’t split her in two. So close, I was so fucking close to breaking off my first piece of pussy, but I just had to glance out the window, didn’t I? And the muscular pretty boy from juvie just had to be walking down the street with his twerp brother, didn’t he? The pricklet gasps in the bed across from me and, finally losing his nerves, shoves the blanket down so he can wank in the open, like me. Ignoring him, I remember how me and my buds turned the pretty boy into the fag of the block. The first time, in the showers, was only because the guard ordered us to rape while he took pictures, under threat of becoming victims ourselves, but anybody with eyes could see the pretty boy liked it. He’d beg and he’d cry and pretend to fight back, but you can’t hide a hard-on when you’re spread-eagle on the tile, can you? Everybody knew he was a fag, and everybody took advantage, me included. We’d fuck his throat or his ass and listen to him whine and snuffle, and sometimes, if he’d behaved pretty enough or I was feeling generous I’d let him fist his tiny dick while I fucked him, would let him spooge all over his belly or the floor, then I’d rub it in his face or force him to scoop and swallow while I blasted his innards or his pretty face. My dong throbs at the memory, and I groan and slide my thumb across the glans, spread the dribbles of pre into almost-too-sensitive skin. Man, what I wouldn’t give for a taste of the pretty boy now, or really any tight, hot ass. I consider the pricklet, but the struggle would probably wake up the old man, and nobody wants that. For a brief second I suffer a bright if dark sense of longing for juvie. Regular meals, daily routines, and a piece of ass whenever I –

Heavy, don’t-give-a-crap-about-the-creaky-runner footsteps in the hall shatter my wry amusement. The old man’s awake. Shit. Beside me, the pricklet sits straight up in bed, clutching the sheet to his chest. “Oh no, please, not tonight, please don’t make me do it tonight!”

“Shut the fuck up, pricklet,” I hiss. “I get it worse than you ever do.”

The door creaking open stifles any reply, and I try to swallow my heart and my nausea. The old man steps inside, wearing only a wife-beater on his chubby frame, his crooked cock sticking out at a downward angle from his nest of gray pubes. He shuts the door behind himself and clomps over to the side of my bed. “Climb the fuck up here, suck my dick.”

Anybody else I’d, heh, go down swinging, but this is the old man, and last time I resisted he beat the snot out of Mom; I don’t like the alcoholic bitch much, but even she doesn’t deserve another broken arm. So I climb the fuck up there, suck the old man’s crooked cock into my mouth and, impatient, he grabs a hank of my hair and yanks me into this pubes, forcing his twisted glans into my throat and making me gag and almost puke all over the saggy balls bouncing off my chin. Trust me, I know better than to puke.

Another whimper from the next bed, and the old man growls, “Pipe the fuck down, boy, or it’ll be your turn tonight.” The pricklet pipes the fuck down, unfortunately, and the old man grunts and intensifies his throat-rape. Once, just goddam once I wish our asshole stepfather would decide to molest the pricklet instead of me; when I got out of juvie I asked if the old man visited him in the night while I was gone, and he smirked and said nope, he wasn’t pretty like me; little pricklet wasn’t smirking five minutes later, but that’s another story.

A whap upside the noggin refocuses my wandering mind, and I reapply myself to sucking dick. I fucking hate it, there’s nothing in it for me. The muscular pretty boy seemed to love doing it, losing himself in suckling like he was drinking the finest wine even as we raped, but the old man’s dick doesn’t taste like fine wine at all, but instead like cheap rotgut flesh, like sweat and piss and cigarettes with some sharp piquancy I hope isn’t my mother’s pussy. Still, I’d rather he spurt in my mouth as up my ass, so I give him my best technique, slithering my tongue against his underseam, licking my way into his rancid foreskin, swirling and sucking and drooling down his glans and shaft. Pre rolls out of his slit with oozy regularity along with the whispered curses, insults, and commands from his lips, but the old man doesn’t cum. Goddammit.

All too soon he pushes me away. “On your belly.” Another whimper from the pricklet’s bed, but we ignore him, me because I’m propping a pillow under my hips to raise my ass higher and the old man because he’s slicking up his crooked cock. I spread my legs and he crawls between, I bury my face in my crossed arms and he shoves two fingers inside, not giving a damn about my comfort, only his own. The penetration burns, and I bite back a hiss as he scissors his fingers, knuckling the fuck out of my innards, and I bitterly wish I’d forgone pooping earlier so he’d have to squish through my shit. The digits withdraw, and I draw in a breath, hold it, determined not to give the old man the satisfaction of a scream. A blunt pressure at my anus, and I clench my teeth and push out, allowing entrance down below. Stretch and burn, stretch and burn, and “OOF!” I exhale as the old man’s crooked cock barrels into me, stretchburnstretchburnstretchburn, his twisted glans gouging one side of my tunnel. Sparks burn through me as he pushes past my sweet spot, and my dong, which had gone soft while I sucked crooked cock, stirs against the pillow. He’s all the way inside now, grinding his pubes into my glutes, rounding me out, and I can’t help it, I bite into my wrist and scream, not loud and agonized but a scream all the same, and the old man chuckles. He enjoys my misery, says he likes to pretend I’m my father, who died before the old man could murder; I don’t know the whole story and I don’t want to know it. All I know is I’m a revenge fuck because I look like my real dad, and that’s all I need to know. The old man chuckles again and starts moving, taking care to avoid a direct hit on my sweet stroke with each stroke, but he can’t prevent the tiny zings of his crooked cock’s passage, and despite my hatred my dong hardens to full. The old man screws me hard, and it hurts, it fucking hurts, but the tiny zings whisper this could feel good if I wanted it to feel good. I don’t want it to feel good. The pretty boy loved it, even as he wailed and begged and cried he fucking loved it, and I swear when he saw it was my turn he smiled, he’d smile so big because he knew I’d aim for his sweet spot, I’d take care to give him what pleasure I could without looking like a fag myself, because if you’re being raped it’s only fair to get some joy out of the act, ain’t it? There’s a lesson I learned hard from the old man’s never learning it at all.

Slap. Slap. Slap. His fleshy belly smacking my asscheeks, his crooked cock digging deep, aiming away from the sweet spot. He stops and grinds and I groan, groan louder when he grabs me by the hair on my head, stretching my neck as if for sacrifice. He grinds and I groan and he grinds and I clutch, trying to hurry him along, and he slides out, rams back in, grinds –

--and moans, low in his throat, and at last, at fucking last his crooked cock swells inside me, spewing his poison deep into my guts while he grunts and grinds and finally, finally slides out of my sure-to-be-gaping hole, his exit at least half as painful as his entrance. Without so much as a ‘thanks for the nut, cunt’ he stalks out of the room and down the hall, again clomping on the creaky runner. I lay here where he left me for a long minute, trying to catch my breath, trying to squeeze my asshole back into some semblance of tightness, the old man’s poison leaking out to drip on my taint. How could the pretty boy like this? How could he look like boneless ecstasy with cum leaking from his anus, how could his own cum drip and drool from his small cock, his, what did he call it, his peanut? To each his own, I guess, but I hate being fucked, and the main thing I hate about it, more than the bruising and the pounding and the humiliation, the main thing I hate is the way it leaves my dong hard, leaves my balls feeling like if they don’t spew they’ll explode. If I was horny earlier, when I was jerking off, I’m double horny now, maybe even triple, and the friction sizzles as I rub my dong into the rough sheets.

Heh, the answer to my aroused problem lays in the bed across from me. He’s stopped whimpering, but I can feel his unease from here. He knows what I’m thinking.

“Don’t make me do it, not tonight, not ever, but please don’t make me do it tonight.” Whimpering under his breath like the pricklet he is.

I groan, push myself to my feet, feel moisture dripping from my abused hole and pooling on the glans of my dong. I stumble bowlegged across the floor between us, and he gasps and makes as if to scoot up to the head of his bed, but I’m too fast. Lightning quick I grab his arm and pull him up to sit on the edge of the mattress. Grasping his jaw, I lay the head of my dong on his lips. “Open,” I order, and he shakes his head, presses his lips tighter, pleads up at me with his eyes. “Open!” I command again, and he shakes his head again, and I chuckle. Alright then. I pinch his nose between my fingers.

Five seconds.

Ten.

His eyes plead.

Fifteen.

He twists his head, trying to shake my fingers from his nostrils.

He fails.

Twenty.

Unable to hold it any longer, he parts his lips for the briefest breath he can survive on, and I take advantage, shoving my dong in his mouth to bounce off the back of his throat, wincing at the scrape of his teeth. He whimpers again, pleads some more, and I grin. I pull out and, knowing what’s best for himself, he sheathes his teeth as I drive back in. His eyes closed, his face resigned, his mouth slack, and I remember, I yearn for the pretty boy’s eyes staring up at me as he takes what I have to give. As he loves what I have to give, even if he won’t admit it. I fuck the pricklet’s mouth, enjoying the wet warmth, and I grin again, almost chuckle when he suddenly surrenders, starts sucking in earnest on my hard dong. He’s not as good as the pretty boy, not even close, but could be, all it takes is practice and desire. Licking up the underseam, swirling across the head, giving tight hollow-cheeked suction. I’m aware of the pricklet’s game, of course – I invented it. He goes deep, hums around my shaft, sending delicious shivers through me, trying to make me cum so I don’t fuck him. Heh, he can try. To encourage him I moan, fist my fingers in his hair, bounce my balls off his smooth chin, and he falls for the feint, working harder and sucking his cheeks hollower. More of the old man’s spunk trickles from my achy, abused hole, drips down my inner thigh, and I wonder how it would feel for somebody to lick and kiss and swallow the poison from inside me. Not the pricklet, of course, he’d let me kill him before sticking his tongue in my ass, but I bet the pretty boy would be all in. Pretty boy would probably even be willing to finger my sweet spot while he sucked me off, and –

I catch my breath and push the moist warmth off my dong, aiming on sticking it someplace hotter but dryer. “Nice try, pricklet,” I taunt as my threatened orgasm fades away, and he whimpers and sags. “Lay down on your – oh fuck no!” I grabs his upper arm as he tries to spring away, tighten my grip as he wrestles against me, doing his best to make good his escape, and my dong throbs. Nothing I like more than a good struggle. I sling him prone onto the bed and crawl up beside him.

“Don’t make me do this, or I’ll, I’ll --”

“You’ll what?” I demand, sliding one leg between his knees. He tries again to twist away, his limp wiener rolling in its thin patch of pubes, and I’m struck with a sudden flash of the pretty boy’s peanut; bet it wouldn’t be limp. Suddenly the pricklet stops struggling, allowing me to spread his knees and crawl between.

“You’re making me,” he says in voice so broken-hearted it almost makes me stop. “Making me do this.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I order the pricklet crossly, pissed at both of us for my almost-change of heart. “You’re luckier than me, the old man likes to hurt, likes to abuse, and I always make sure you cum, don’ t I?”

“That’s not the point,” he answers, sliding his hands up behind his head, underneath his pillow, giving me his true surrender.

“That’s always the point,” I reply, brusque and rough and distracted. Where’s the –? Oh, yeah, on my bed, where the old man left it after he raped me. I lean over the space between our beds, feel the tube sliding from under my fingers, and I lean further, groping, grasping –

CLANG!

A huge sound, a ringing vibration in my bones, in my eyes, in my ears. Darkness and light change places, change places again, and is that . . . birds shrilling in circles above my head like a halo of twittery madness?

I shake my head, and pain roars through my skull. What the fuck? Why am I laying in the floor, my head pounding and my vision blurry? I shake my head again, taking some sort of clarity from the pain, more clarity from the trickle of moisture running down my cheek. I shake my head a third time, and darkness and light change places yet again, and I glance up. The pricklet’s kneeling on his bed, wary and glowering, tears streaming down his cheeks, and . . .

And . . .

One of Mom’s cast-iron skillets clutched in the fist above his head.

“You made me,” he whispers. “I tried, I’m sorry, but you made me.”

The cacophony in my head settles into symphonic pulsing, tendrils of pain flowing outward like wardrums calling for battle. Did I mention I like a struggle? The pricklet’s eyes widen as I push myself to my feet, my dong raging, my lips stretched in a grin so fierce I’m glad I can’t see it myself. I wobble a sec before stabilizing, and the frying pan trembles in the pricklet’s hand.

“You just bit off more than you can chew,” I promise, and he jumps off the bed facing me, skillet raised above his head, his little ‘nads drawn up in terror. He’s right to be scared. I’m gonna do things to the pricklet even the pretty boy would’ve hated. “Come here, pricklet.”

He shakes his head, backing towards the door. “Don’t make me do it again!”

I lunge forward, and he brings the pan down hard, aiming for my head, but I catch it mid-swing, twist the iron bitch out of his hand, toss it to the side. I don’t need no stinkin’ skillet to kick pricklet ass. I lunge again and he breaks, twisting and bending and avoiding my arms, and before I can stop him he throws open the door and darts into the hall, still naked, the creaky runner complaining under his tread.

Oh fuck no! I pound after him, throwing one hand on his shoulder before he twists again and takes off down the hall. The pricklet jets into the living room but suddenly stops as if surprised. He glances back to me, but I’m too close, and even as I raise my fist to swing he jumps forward again, screaming at the top of his lungs:

“RAPE! RAPE! RAPE!”

Murder wells within in me, and I exit the hallway with my fists clenched for battle, my head ringing and face bleeding, my dong swinging in low excitement from my pubes, and I register several things at once:

Mom, sitting up on the couch, her gaze blurry, concerned but confused.

The old man, standing at the open front door, once again clad in boxers, with a look of guilty dread on his face.

The pricklet, still screaming “RAPE” and throwing himself facefirst to the floor in the open doorway.

A cop, holding what looks like my wallet in his hand, with the fugly bitch from the package store downtown standing behind.

The cop dropping my wallet and reaching for his belt, coming back up with a forked metal instrument.

“NO!” I scream, try to scream, but suddenly I can’t talk, can’t control, my body dancing and jigging and twitching, fire and electricity racing through my nerves, dropping me to writhe on the floor. The dance goes on and on and on, but as the fire dies away I become aware of the cop kneeling beside me, cuffs already open in his hand, and I glance toward a stupefied Mom, prostrate pricklet, horrified old man, my body still complaining about being tased, my hole still bitching about being raped, my limp dong spurting drops of piss on my thigh, and wondering:

What the hell just happened?