BDSM Library - Story: You Can Never Go Home, Chapter: Part 4

You can never go home 4

by Emile

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The shooting pain up Greg's arse was awful, he could barely limp without his arsecheeks squelching together, lubricated by Rey's cum, each step sending a jolt of searing pain up his gut from the cuntsplitting fuck. Rey had been none too gentle with his first few thrusts, and when his dark greasy fuckpole jammed only 12" in, he pulled back and slammed in so hard Greg chipped a tooth on the faucet. Three thrusts later, and something gave - no, ripped - inside him, and the wide dork plunged down to the root. He fucked like a piston - drawing back with each thrust so he could bury his pole back in deep, wiry pubes scratching at Greg's arsecheeks. He liked to talk too, calling Greg a torrent of names so loud Greg was sure the whole school could hear. When Greg grunted or yelped, he egged him on, wanting to hear his pain.

Despite the tight suction of Greg's arselips squeezing around his cock, involuntary spasms that wracked Greg's whole body, Rey had the stamina to prolong the fuck, keeping his pulsing cock rock hard and unsated. He loved it, urging Greg to keep 'milking' his cock, loudly ordering him to squeeze tightly. 15, maybe 20 minutes of hard fucking later, he tightened up, slamming bodily into Greg, his tight pecs lathering Greg's shoulders with salty sweat, and came with a roar, slugs of cum Greg could feel shooting up his bowels. He shot spurt after spurt, slowly draining his bloated balls, until he finally pulled out, slick and satisfied. Relieved of the pressure, Greg tried to turn, but bumped against the sink and collapsed on the ground, letting out a short scream as his raw arse slammed against the tiles. He'd split his lip on the sink, but Rey was pitiless, making him lick the arsejuice and cum slick from his softening tool, and tongue the sweat off his velvety ballbag, as he leaned half dazed on the ground.

When Rey was finally satisfied, he shucked up his pants, horsecock bulging impressively even in its post-fuck state, and slinked out of the bathroom whistling. Greg lounged there a while, a broken, reamed out fuckdoll, half shaking his head as if trying to wake himself from an unpleasant dream. The bell brought him out of his stupor - another class missed, with hell to pay. Unlike Rey, who was cut no end of slack for his prowess on the court, a fuckup "with notions", like Greg, could expect no mercy, despite being prime college material in any other state. In the eyes of every teacher, his kind were cocky with 'smarts', big city arrogance that would best be beaten out of him. Every new indignity was met with stoic dismissiveness, as if he deserved it. He knew if he reported the rape it would be his arse, not Rey's, on the line. He tried to stand, succeeding on the second attempt, slowly inching his pants up as he rose. They'd dried somewhat, piss stains speckling the coarse fabric. He heard noise in the halls as guys poured out of classes, and limped out of the bathroom was quick as he could, which was not too fast, realising with dread he was only seconds away from repeating his experiences all over. He pushed open the door just as more guys arrived, getting jostled and shoved as he swam against the tide of guys. Despite their sniggers, no-one stopped him, so that as the second bell sounded, he made it to his locker. It was gym, and he was now officially late. He glanced into the locker, his stomach tightening as he saw all his books torn to shreds, his few photos defaced and gym bag ripped open. He grabbed it anyway, and dragged himself to the gym, before worse trouble descended on him.

As he got there, the last few classmates were tying their shoes and running on to the floor. He was grateful for the privacy, although he knew he would be late, and gingerly slipped out of his stained uniform, catching a horrifying glimpse of himself in the changeroom mirrors. His whole body looked terrible, muscles taut and sweaty from the jolts of pain, lip split and swelling, chipped tooth, streaked hair. Even his nipples were swollen from the scraping shirt. Turning around, his bubble butt, once a source of pride with the girls, was now embarrassingly red, his hole winking unmistakably, trying to recover some of the elasticity Rey had robbed it of. He reached into the bag, wanting to cover up as quickly as possible. When he pulled his clothes out, for a second he thought he had taken the wrong bag. But there was no mistaking his bag, or his locker, or the guys who would have done this to him. Instead of his usual gear, the singlet and shorts all the guys wore, they had switched it with a cheerleader's uniform. Not a guy's uniform either, but a girl's practice uniform, just like Mindy wore. On her it looked hot, her big breasts barely contained in the tight strappy crop top, "Cougars" (the football team) emblazoned over her rack. How she'd flirted from across the field, as if modelled it for him, until his cock was aching, pushing needily against the plastic cap. It wasn't so sexy now, it was obscene! Even though they wore practice shorts, not a pleated skirt, he knew the strap of satin, which camel toed every girl on the squad, would do little to support his own hefty package, or stop the leakage from his arse. He grabbed a toilet roll, bunching a handful up and wedging it painfully into his crack, and slipped on the humiliating costume, anxious to beat the coach's whistle.

As he ran to the floor, the whole class watched him, riveted. Maybe it was the uniform, or the gait of his 'just fucked' canter, or the way the crop top hugged his bulging pecs like a second skin, or the puffy lip like he'd been fighting, or his horsenuts wedged on either side of the midseam, or maybe, just maybe, the way his floppy tackle swung below the hem of the shorts, the skinflap not stretched quite enough to hide his free-swinging plum cockhead. It was hard to pinpoint the exact cause, but the sight of the massive semi tumescent veiny cigar with its half exposed split peach cocklips did sear themselves into one persons mind - Mindy, coalescing into pure revulsion. She blushed at having agreed to go out on a date, for even thinking the handsome older buff jock was suave and sophisticated, when here he was parading around like a sex freak. But he bounded up, giving her a lopsided smile, as if asking for her sympathy, and the coach slammed him with a detention for tardiness, so how (or when) could she tell him the date was off? Anyway, she really wanted to see tonight's film, so she'd just have to put up with him. Maybe teach him a lesson, for thinking life revolved around sex.

Gym was torture for Greg. First there was the physical pain - the ache of his nuts crushed against the fabric, the searing jolts up his arse every time he ran, vaulted or climbed ropes, and the tug of his swinging dork, which needed to be tucked back into the hem every few minutes. Then there was the humiliation, knowing everyone was staring at him, his clothes, his gait, seemingly oblivious to his plight. When they finished, and the last bell for the day went off, all the class poured into the changerooms, relieved, except Greg. Gym detention meant staying back and helping coach clean up. As Mindy passed him, he mouthed "6 o'clock" and she smiled, a surly smile not like before, but nodded. Soon it was just Greg and coach, and the distant noises of the school winding down. The coach pointed to a mop and bucket, grunting 'Okay showman, why don't you make busy with that. I want the gym floor sparkling, then the change rooms, then my office. That'd be an hour or so, then you can go. And take that ridiculous top off.'

Greg stripped down shirtless, filled the bucket with foamy water, and began mopping the huge gym as quick as he could, racing the clock. Despite the discomfort, he cleared the floor in half an hour flat, and the changerooms in half that time again. As he skidded into the coaches office with the bucket in tow, he was confronted by the coach, a huge bear of a man, buck naked soaping up in the showers. Like most coaches offices, the private shower took up half the space, hidden from view until you entered. The coach looked annoyed, like he'd expected him to come later, but just stabbed at the floor while Greg gawked at his hairy body, telling him to get on with it. Greg averted his eyes from the coach's flaccid choad hanging over his low hanging balls. Seeing him naked was worse than the boys before, like at the doctors, he felt like the pervert, not the victim. Somehow, he scraped around in the tiny space, until inevitably, he backed into the coach, feeling his log nestle between his arsecheeks. The man pushed him away gruffly, but the soapy wet dong had wet the shorts, making the seat translucent. "What's with your arse" the coach boomed, thumbing at the tissues. Reluctantly, Greg leaned back, pulling the cummy tissues out of his shorts. Even through the fabric the coach could make out his puffy raw hole, now swollen bright red to boot. Still naked, water coursing off his body, he leant forward and pushed his meaty hand inside, his thumb pushing at the flowering mancunt roughly. "Sick fucking puppy" he grunted, pushing him forward with his hand in place, making the front of the crotch rip. He withdrew his hand, telling Greg to 'get the fuck out of his sight'.

Greg ran home in the cheerleaders shorts, short of time and having nothing to run in. Each time his foot pounded the pavement, his sphincter clenched hard, making him gasp for breath. He felt his whole muscular body was victim to his tender sore hole. His body slicked up with sweat, and the sun shimmered off his exposed body, tanning him a deeper bronze in contrast to the white satin shorts. He got hoots and yells from passing cars, more than one swerving as it approached, forcing him to sidestep quickly, into tree branches and brambles that scratched his torso and arm. He didn't understand it, why a decent jock kid like him should suffer so much, why everyone was so indifferent or hostile to him. Dozens of townsfolk stared at him, one guy in the park even zooming his camera in for pictures, but instead of back east, where his brawny tanned torso and tree trunk thighs would have at least drawn admiration and appreciative looks, here the looks were condemning or predatory, like they were watching a rabbit being chased down by dogs, or worse. Even so, he got back to the farm relatively unscathed, lathered in sweat from his shoulderblades to the root of his cock, peeking out of the satin tear.

Things got worse when he ran up to the porch to find his dad and three buddies, half drunk, leering at him. He hesitated, but his father called him up, and he found himself standing at the corner of their table, his crotch just above the timber, and eye level with the hungry half drunk croppers. "what the fuck are you wearing" his father yelled, making him strip out of the shorts in front of them. Without any other support, his dong flopped down on the table with a thwack, the head almost in the centre of their poker cards. "Now that sirrees a big ugly dork you got there" one of the hick hillbillies drawled, and another poked it gingerly, like it was a sleeping snake. It was humiliating, all the more when his dad 'inspected' it, pinching the head and lifting the new foreskin, showing them all where his suction cap should be, if he wasn't such a filthy masturbator. He tried to protest, but having his dickhead mauled, inches from these guys faces, he had other things on his mind. The heat of the cinders of one rancher's cigarillo was palpable, dangling only inches from where his dad was stretching out the extra flesh. "See's your so proud of it, why don't you show us how it's done" he sniggered, his laugh dropping ash on the outstretched foreskin. His dad let go, the elastic skin retracting with a slap, leaving a burning grain trapped in the folds, and Greg went to brush it off, only to have them whoop at once, as if proof of his unsatiable lust. Seeing his hand there, they made him rub himself slowly, wrapping his fingers around his choad and slowly wanking, inches from them, until lust took over and he began fucking his hand, slurping precum over his palm and onto the ace of diamonds. He moaned loudly, to more hooting, ignoring the exploring hands of the rancher, who'd decided to 'help' by standing behind him, mauling his nips with one hand, the other secretly squeezing his arse. He was close, the cum building,when the joke soured on his dad, who shoved his buddy away, slapping Greg hard. "This ain't no fucking freak show boy! These guys can see some city pervert elsewhere, not in my house." Greg was forced to leave his heavy choad aching, letting it bob in front of him as he slid into the house, naked, to do his chores. For an hour, one or other of the farmers would find an excuse to find him, chopping wood or feeding chickens, and slide their hands over his hunky body, tar breath on his neck, telling him how they'd have his sweet arse just's soon as they could. As soon as his dad left town. For now he grinned and beared it, doing nothing to endanger the date.

Finally, at quarter to six, he got his reprieve, his father letting him leave the rest of the chores until after his date. "At least he's got a girl" his father snorted, declining to lend him the car, so he was left to race into the house to sponge off the worst of the stink and throw on his best clothes for the evening. He needn't have bothered, by the time he'd dashed to Mindy's house, he was wrinkled and sweaty again. The tee and jeans hugged his bulging body, which he hoped was kinda sexy, not realising what a dumb oaf he now looked in her eyes. To make matters worse, when he arrived at the house, he went round the side, knocking on the tradesmans door. Her mother opened it, at once seeing he wasn't fit for her daughter.

With the barest hint of civility, she called Mindy down, but not before calling her brother into the room. The ex-army vet was lean, fit and drug addled from a harsh campaign. And while his coke sweats and fits of temper made it hard to find work, there was no reason in her mind why he couldn't at least chaperone his sister just this once. While her mother went to check on Mindy, the muscular Clayton came up to Greg, giving him a friendly knock on the arm. "Hey buster, how's it hanging" Clayton chimed, giving him another friendly pat on the stomach. Since he'd started dating Mindy, Clayton had adopted him as a younger brother, which he'd liked at first, but now felt a bit over friendly. Clayton was forever comparing notes on what they benched, how much they could make their abs pop - man stuff he supposed, but with that same predatory look as the other townsfolk, only this time Clayton was the rabbit-chasing dog. Clayton grabbed him around the neck in a friendly headlock as Mindy came down, smearing his pit sweat on Greg's face only seconds before she entered the room. She winced in disgust as her two oaf companions - the dumb jock boyfriend who smelled of sweat, and a skittish grunt who idolised him.

At the drive through, things didn't improve much for Greg. Clayton drove his pick up, but insisted on sitting between them for the movie, taking his job as chaperone seriously. So he rolled up his sleeves and wrapped his guns behind the headrests, while the couple sat either side of him. Mindy didn't complain much, except about his stinking unwashed body, since she thought Greg was a freak, but Greg was itching at the chance to paw Mindy, and his cock strained against the tight jeans all through the first part. Finally, the intermission came, and Greg offered to get snacks. This way, he figured, he could slip in Mindy's side when he returned.

Since he had so little cash, he didn't go to the main counter, but snuck around to the small side window where the 'townie trash' ate. He figured no-one would know the difference once he brought it back to the car. What he didn't count on was running in to Toby. Toby's family were dirt poor, and the huge footballer took whatever jobs he could get to get by, although he didn't like it much. Plus he looked faintly ridiculous in his white paper hat serving hot dogs, making Greg smile a little, a small revenge for Toby brutally facefucking him at school. Toby saw it different. When Greg got to the front of the line, he reached over, and hauled him up until their faces were inches apart.

You fucking cuntbreath, you tell anyone and I'll mince you...

He held on, thinking for a moment, before pulling him higher, through the serving window and into the greasy trailer. He sniggered, peeling off his hat and handing it over to Greg.

Actually, I could use a break. Oh, wait, there's hot fry oil and greasy shit all over here. Tell you what, you shuck that tee of yours and I'll give you my apron, too.

Reluctantly, with the brute standing over him, Greg slipped the t-shirt over his head, revealing his tight defined body to the night air. Although it was hot and dank in the trailer, a shiver made his nipples erect and his face cold. Toby grabbed the tee, shoving it in his own back pocket, and undid the apron, helping tie it in place as Greg fixed up the hat. He tied the apron loosely around his waist and neck, so the greasy cloth hung a few inches away from his body. When he stood up, the square neck dropped below his chest, his brown nipples exposed, and when he leant over to take orders, customers could see right down to his waist. The townies were very appreciative, and there was a constant line of people wanting their fry up, ugly cowgirls and farmwives that took delight in ogling his body as he sweated and cooked and served.

As the night went on, and the liquor flowed, they got bolder, tweaking his nipples if he leant forward too much, throwing back greasy food when he got their orders wrong - aiming for the bare skin so the oily slop would slide down his body and onto the floor. Toby just sat on the counter, laughing and drinking, occasionally delivering a kick to his leg or arse if he was too slow or sassy. By the time the credits rolled, and Toby pulled down the blind, he was a stinking greasy mess, his front soaked with oik that slaked below his belt, soaking his poor excuse for pubes and coating his balls. Toby pulled the uniform off him, and told him they were done, while counting out the jar now stuffed with tips. Greg hung around, waiting for his share and his shirt. "What the fuck do you want now?" Toby yelled, sending him sprawling out of the door with a well placed kick to his nuts. Bare chested and greasy, he slowly made his way back to the car.

He had no idea how he'd explain it to Mindy, but when he got there, he was spared the need. There was Reb, leaning on the car, his ebony arm wrapped around Mindy's shoulders, joking away with Clayton who was sitting behind the wheel, engine running. He saw Greg first and just laughed, telling Clayton he'd speak later, and leading Mindy off to his own car. Clayton looked at him standing there.

I won't ask man. Hey jump in, I'll give you a lift home. Mindy's got some study to do with Reb...

With an ache, Greg had a vision of being pummelled again by Reb's thick chocolate plunger, only he was Mindy in her cheerleading costume, yelling for more. As he got in the truck, his anger welled up more, at how the sadistic teen could do it, knowing it was only the beginning. Reb liked to fuck girls out, he had a reputation for it, and of barebacked fucking at that. More than a few girls had Reb's babys already, and he feared Mindy was next. Worse, he realised everyone knew they were seeing each other, and had their first date tonight. He'd be the laughing stock. Or worse, she'd say nothing, and everyone would think he'd knocked her up.

They were half way down the road, and Clayton must've seen his depressed look, because he pulled over, killed the engine, and placed a friendly hand on Greg's neck. "Hey man, don't worry about it" he said, massaging the tendons with his fingers. "In the movie, while you were, well, whateverthefuck you were doing, Reb came over and told me. Mindy said she already kinda knew..." Greg shivered again, goosebumps covering his exposed flesh as Clayton's other hand came up, cupping his grease slicked pectoral muscle.

On tour, you know, it was just us guys, and we got awful lonely. Sometimes, you discover things you never knew about yourself...

Clayton was openly massaging Greg's body now, his dick tenting his pants. Greg tried to pull away - "uh, it's not like that..." he began, but Clayton grabbed his head, forcing his tongue down Greg's throat, sloshing spit until Greg could barely breathe. Greg struggled, but Clayton was stronger, and a military man to boot. He grabbed Greg onto his lap, holding him with one arm around his waist, the other around his neck until Greg quietened down.

Quit struggling. Look, I know you've put out for other guys. If you wanna see Mindy again, it will be our secret. I'll only be this once.

Greg could feel Clayton's stiff pole tugging at the fabric, pressing against his crack. Man, was the soldier hung. He could feel the root at the base of his balls, and feel the head pulse against his lower back. His voice was weak, hesitant.

Uh, Clayton, what do you mean exactly?

Clayton swivelled him around, so they were face to face. He reflexively glanced down to see Clayton's swollen purple one eyed monster pulsing and leaking against his t-shirt, level with the pit of Greg's stomach. He looked back up and Clayton was grinning through his mo, licking his lips with anticipation.

I wanna fuck you of course ... doggie style!