Plane Trip

by Emile

 

Copyright 2007.  This is a work of fantasy and the writer does not suggest or condone any particular activities.  You should obey the laws of your juristiction, ie consensual sex between adults.

 

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To say Mitch Dixon was uncomfortable was an understatement.  The plane trip still had 9 hours to go, and his long veiny cock kept creeping down the leg of his footy shorts, the wide helmet, glistening with precum, peeking from the hem.  It had been months since his swollen balls had shot a load, and the 9 inch dildo crammed up his arse was banging at his prostate with every bump of the plane.  The cabin was unusually warm, and sweat poured from his body, covering his waxed chest with an oily sheen that leaked between his pecs, and dripping streams from his shaved pits.  The thin muscle tank was soaked translucent, and did little to hide his discomfort.  His arms were hooked over the adjacent seat backs, which to the bystander may've seemed like casual comfort, even if it did expose his pecs and lats to everyone, like meat on display.

 

His 18 year old son, Ethan, leaned in close, his hot breath on Mitch's skin, hand resting on Mitch's thigh so his fingers could absently graze his throbbing glans.  "Happy 35th birthday Dad.  I can't believe a dickslave like you could have knocked up Mum younger than I am."  Mitch hoarsely protested, but Ethan just pinched his cockhead, making him grunt and spew a gob of precum on his thigh.  "Just for that, you'll have to shave off your crotch hair, again, in the airport bathroom.  Mitch let out a quiet moan, after months of bare flesh, his son had finally let him grow a miniscule thatch of hair, barely more than stubble, as a vestige of masculinity, and now he would have to shave it off again.  Shaving always made his cock look freakily large against his flat public bone, and Ethan was always more brutal when it obscenely jutted out like that.  Worse, he'd have to do it in public, at the washbasin, stark naked, for everyone to see.  Last time he'd been naked in public, dozens of men had copped a feel, cupping his swollen balls or smacking him on the arse- something about having "ABUSE ME" tattooed on his broad back, especially with his tanned musculature and tight fuckable arse.

 

But for now he was confined to his plane seat, and the ministrations of his domineering jock son. He needed to piss again, well, constantly, since Ethan made him drink 4 litres of water before they boarded.  His bladder ached, and bloated his dick more.  Ethan saw his predicament, and after a few tortuous minutes, he allowed him to pee.  Mitch took one rippling arm off the headrest, pushing his cock between his legs, a little more out of sight from the cabin.  Then, as quietly as he could, he began feeding the thick plastic tube up his cockshaft that led down to a bottle, out of sight below the seats.  The pain and pressure was intense, especially as the tube forced its way into his bladder, and he had to pinch the flow to stop it gurgling out.  Slowly he let himself drain, until Ethan gave him permission to pull out the tube, and drape his cock back over his thigh for maximum visibility.  A few minutes later, and Mitch casually reached under the seat,  retrieving a Powerade bottle which he handed to Mitch.  Not real Powerade, but the acrid piss he'd just expelled, still warm in the bottle.  "Here, drink" he commanded, forcing Mitch to gulp down the urine.  It would be only minutes before his bladder felt full again.

 

At least the trip gave some rest to his balls.  Ethan had taken to kneeding and squeezing them constantly, until the dull ache became a sharp stabbing pain, and his gonads swelled and angry purple colour.  He didn't know how long they could stay that way without permanent damage, not that Ethan was that concerned.  Months ago he'd pierced the bag with a dozen heavy barbells, enough to set off the metal detectors and ensure he was strip-searched at every terminal.  At Ethan's insistence, whenever took him to the private room to strip, he would get naked and squat on the table, arse out toward the door, head down between his knees, so the officer's first view was of his plugged muscle arse.  That display usually ensured the roughest treatment, and the gloved finger regularly became the gloved hand as they fist-fucked his arse in the guise of checking for drugs.  The fat hollow dildo was filled with sand clogged dog cum, and when they felt the grit up his chute, there was often a humiliating wait as they tested it for chemicals.  Most of the guards had him clean off their gloves as they waited, telling him he could keep his lover's cum to himself. He bucked and resisted - eventually blubbering that it was dog cum, but the disgusted officers usually still forced him to lick his arse slime and dog cum, scooping more out of his dripping hole until he'd swallowed every slimy drop.  When he was finally released, they'd return the dildo, which he was obliged to cram back up his arse in front of them, hard thrusts before they threw him out.   Ethan would check when he emerged, casually running his finger down Mitch's crack, over the silky shorts, making his dick jump.  If the dildo wasn't there, Mitch would have to claim it at lost property, a humiliating experience Ethan relished.

 

Ethan had devised other distractions for the long flight.  While the others were sleeping, he pulled out some plastic suction cups,two small, one large, and slipped the small ones under the shoulder straps of Mitch's tank top, suctioning them firmly to his nips.  Mitch protested, his nips were already big and swollen, but Ethan was insistent, pumping each one until the sensitive flesh was pulled out and down.  The large one, a sphere with a hole, he slipped up his pants, jamming it down on Mitch's already engorged throbbing glans.  A few pumps to it and the corona flared, pisslips wide. Mitch involunarily moaned, and Ethan gave it a few more squeezes for good measure, until the head filled the cup.  He slipped the shorts up further, giving the dick a few hard squeezes, sending a shudder of pleasure through Mitch's body, worse since it kept him on edge, just short of orgasm.

 

Despite the fact that he'd been a loving father, and was now at the mercy of his cruel and unrelenting son, he knew this was Ethan's cruel way of getting back at him for what Ethan felt had been his fault - his relentless humiliation through school, and eventual rape 6 months ago.  Ethan had inherited a lot from him - his good looks, stocky frame and sporty nature, but also a heavy, swinging dick and pendulous balls.  From puberty both swelled to animal proportions, and his dangling hairy balls began pumping dickjuice almost constantly.  The guys at school noticed in the showers and teased him and his mule cock, even more so when the wide piss slit began burping an almost constant stream of precum, staining all his shorts.  The dickjuice was almost impossible to staunch, even leaking through wads of tissues if he was aroused.  He cried to his dad, begged him for advice, but all Mitch just told him to be proud, that one day he'd be thankful for his assets.  Mitch was firm in his belief, despite his son's complaints, until that fateful day that four latino punks in an alley beside their gym had taken the poor jock's tented, stained gym pants as an invitation inside.  Mitch usually trained with him, pushing him hard until his muscles bulged, and had stayed back that day for a sauna.  It was late and dark, and no-one heard Ethan's cries, as they stripped him,  laced up his cock with his shoelaces and brutally gang-fucked his virgin arse.  He blamed Mitch for giving him muscles but not teaching him self defence.  He blamed Mitch for not hearing his cries, not coming out sooner.  He blamed him for calling the doctor and police, and for making his ultimate humiliation public record.

 

It didn't take him long to recover physically, although in his minds eye, his arsehole was permenantly ruined, his dick mangled.  He'd taken the doctor's advice to wear a condom to catch leakage, such a simple thing now Mitch thought about it. Then, in his rage, he turned on Mitch, for failing to do all those things, which as a dad he should have done.  Mitch could hardly resist - placid by nature, Ethan had inherited his fiery, cruel streak from his mother, Mitch's bitchy ex-wife.  He also felt like Mitch had failed him - and most of all, they were the only family each had.  Mitch didn't want to lose him, even if it meant copping some trouble.  But he never imagined it would get to this -  somehow, it just kept escalating.  In 6 short months, Ethan had sent pictures to Mitch's boss that had him fired from his job, took control of all his savings, sold the house and bought an apartment in Brazil they were now flying to.  He even held Mitch's passport.  They'd been travelling a month, and since the pair had left home, he had stepped up the abuse tenfold.  In Amsterdam, where Mitch had gotten the tattoo, Ethan bought his gadgets and raped Mitch for the first time, re-enacting his own rape with savage intensity.  Ethan had already humiliated him before, making him kiss his naked cock goodnight, and wear his old sweaty clothes, but it hadn't turned sexual until then.  From that night it was relentless.  He took Mitch to the red light district, to get fucked again the next night by a black bruiser with a long cock.  He watched, smoking hash, as the guy ploughed into Mitch's arse, telling him he wouldn't get paid unless he made sure Mitch felt it for a week.  The next day he took Mitch to get the filthy tattoo on his back and walking out shirtless, three guys wolf whistled as they passed.  Ten minutes later and they were all back in their hotel, and the men took Mitch three ways - his first facefuck and double dicking, all savagely at the same time.

 

Ethan was racing through the money at knots, but thoughtfully bought stuff for Mitch as well, like the monstrous dildo currently churning his guts.  Mitch begged and pleaded,on his knees, naked, crying every night, but in a foreign country and at Ethan's mercy, every plea for compassion drew a sneer, or worse.  "No-one answered my cries" Ethan jeered "now you know how it feels."  In fact that was the growing theme - making Mitch relive every humiliating moment in his jock high-school years.  He was determined to swell Mitch's dick and balls to mammoth proportions, make him feel the stares as his swinging dick rippled in his pants, balls banging against his thighs.  To make Mitch's dick constantly hard and drooling.  If he had to stop Mitch cumming, give him aching blue balls and pump up his dick to make it like Ethan's was naturally, then so be it, Ethan thought.  There was no limit to the pain and deformation he was willing to wield on Mitch's body.  In Brazil, it would only get worse for Mitch - he'd have no chance on the streets of Rio, let alone at the mercy of the favela boys.  That is, if Ethan didn't invite them in.

 

Mitch was brought back from his daydreaming (as much as you can be when you're impaled on a rubber dong with beaten balls, throbbing nipples and a flared corona) by Ethan suddenly withdrawing his hand from Mitch's shaft and leaning back in his seat.  Suddenly a flashlight beam flooded Mitch's face - an airline steward was asking what he wanted.  Ethan had hit the call button.  Mitch stammered, but the beam caught the base of his shaft, and before he could answer,the light slowly travelled down onto his lap, revealing the throbbing hard fucktube and engorged pumped glans.  Mitch couldn't see the steward behind the light, but soon the guy's reaction became clear as he leaned forward, half rolled sleeves exposing a beefy forearm, and gave Mitch's dick a long, tight squeeze.   "Wow, you'd make a mean top" the steward whispered, but Mitch knew Ethan was awake, listening, so he gave the only answer he was permitted - no - required - to give.  The entire script was mandatory.  "I only take it up the arse, and only if it's a good hard fuck that keeps me on the edge of cumming."  The steward didn't notice the forced tone, just saying "Fine, I'm versatile, meet me in the galley in 5 minutes."  When he left, Ethan was ecstatic, eager to get Mitch prepared.  He told Mitch to put in his pisstube, and while he leaned forward, Ethan pushed his arse up, wrenching the dildo from his gaping hole. He fed the other end of the tube into Mitch's arse, making him flood his own guts with recycled piss.  The rush of water made him cramp.  "Now waddle up to the bathroom and flush it out, make sure you're nice and clean for your entry to the mile high club.  Mitch could barely squeeze past Ethan, piss lubricating his buttcheeks as he wiggled past.  He quickly hobbled up the aisle, squeezing his cheeks tight, just making it to the toilet before the stale urine, dog cum and other crap came flooding out.  His guts ached, but he knew he couldn't rest, that if the steward came looking Ethan would only make it worse for him.  He quickly dried off as best as he could, and glanced in the mirror, pants still down, to see the sight he would be treated to. His buff body was still sweat sheened and taut, the suction caps still strapped to his nipples and cock.  His hole still moist and winking, body shaved but for the ridiculously short patch over his dangling XL dong.  He was straight, butch and muscular, and could easily have taken a guy out for less, but under Ethan's thumb he looked like a street whore, nervous before her first fuck of the night. Which just happened to be the case.

 

What next?

Plane Trip 2 - Arrival

by Emile

 

Copyright 2007.  This is a work of fantasy and the writer does not suggest or condone any particular activities.  You should obey the laws of your juristiction, ie consensual sex between adults.

 

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Mitch was still clogged with cum when they queued for customs, his chest slick with sweat and cum, tank top clinging to his pecs like a second skin.  They pulled him aside for examination, humiliating despite his already trash pig appearance.  Ethan hung around just to make sure they didn't deport him.  The examination room was a dingy office crowded around by desks filled with leering thugs in uniform, hired for their ability to keep people out, by force or intimidation.  Two rough officers, greasy bouncer types, exchanged some quick words with Ethan in Portuguese, and all 3 came in.  Whatever he'd said enraged them, and they were quick to make him strip off his flimsy clothing, gesturing him to get up on to a steel bench and kneel facing away from them.  They came up behind him, stale breath on his neck, and one pulled his arms up behind his head, cuffing them, while the other forcing him down into a low squat, his swollen dork flopping down on the cold steel as they forced his legs wide.

 

Mitch heard the snap of rubber gloves and tried to look around, but they slapped his head back, jamming it hard against the wall.  One grabbed at his arse, three thick fingers squeezing in around the fat dildo, wrenching it from his hole.  The burly officer fingered his once private parts as he squatted on the table in front of him.  After a long and uncomfortable exploration, his hole wide for all to see, the officers released him and went out leaving the door ajar.  From across the room, Ethan told him to stay in the squat position until the officer returned. The dildo was still next to him, big, slimy and hard, and hearing the voices of the gathering crowd of officers outside, Ethan made his beefy dad find it and cram it back up his exposed arse. Mitch groaned and grunted, part from the snickers and calls behind him, but also from the pain of stuffing his raw and prodded hole.  But his ordeal was far from over, the officers returning, angrily, having yet to examine the dildo, felt the need to pull it  out again, check his cavity for new insertions, and were rough and careless as they could be, landing a few whacks to his back and thighs, and harshly pulling at the sensitive arse lining.

 

Finally, they were satisfied, which they showed by plunging the ribbed dong hard up his gaping hole in one agonising thrust.  They released him, hassling him out of the office as he scrambled to pull the thin shorts over his swinging dick, but required him to report to his local police station monthly until they were satisfied he was not a burden on the state.  Ethan bundled him through the gates, luggage waiting, still bare-chested for all the swarthy latino men to see - a piece of rough trade from the States.  He tried to put the thin tank top on, clinging to any chance to cover his bulky frame, but Ethan took the  clothes away, handing him a shaving kit instead.  "Not yet Mitch, you got some shaving to do.  While you're at it, scrape that stubble off your big boy balls, all these nice Brazilian men expect Americans to be smooth and clean shaven."   Mitch went into the dingy washroom, where guys loitered suspiciously, dark skinned and swarthy, leering as he peeled off his shorts to shave down his thatch of crotch hair and balls.  Ethan insisted he take them off completely and put them on the bench, and without any other clothes, he revealed himself to the whole room as he bend down to slip the shorts off his legs.  As he stood and began, the dirty guys crowded round him, grabbing at his fat dick until it leaked, pinching his nipples, making him heave with pent up fucklust.  He tried to protect himself, block their access with his shaving hand, but knew he was forbidden from actually stopping them.  Undeterred, they moved closer, one sliding his hand down his arsecrack, pushing against the dong stuffing his arse.  He rushed to finish, nicking his left ball, still iron hard, balls tight, from the feel-up they'd given him.  He slipped his shorts up, walked gingerly from the knobbly dildo back up his raw hole, slowly hobbling out of the room, to his waiting son.  He was in such a bad way he could barely move without pain shooting from his arse up his spine, his body cramped and filthy, crotch screaming with dull, throbbing pain.  Ethan was concerned. So concerned, he insisted they go straight to a doctor - something he said he'd already organised as a precaution.

 

Mitch wasn't too confident about Brazilian doctors before he arrived at the grimy surgery, but this exceeded his worst expectations.  The grey white walls were streaked with dirt and dust filtered down from the high windows, which rattled with the muffled sound of traffic beyond.  Ethan helped Mitch up the stairs to the third floor, gently lowering him into the 50's metal examination chair. He stripped him as the doctor emerged, who said nothing to Mitch, but slowly and methodically gagging his chiselled jaw, strapping his beefy arms to the armrests, before gently prying Mitch's thighs open, to reveal his abused cavernous hole.  He gently applied a thick paste to the gaping sphincter, making Mitch instantly and uncontrollably clench like a vice, as if his hole had been sewn together with fishing wire. "This will wear off in about an hour or two" the doctor said, addressing Ethan "then you'll find it nice and tight again.  The cream works by tightening the muscles, you'll find it very effective for another few months, and then it'll need probably surgery. If he whines, a dab to the tongue should cure that, so long as it can breathe through its nose." Mitch was wide eyed - had the latin doctor meant to call him "it" - he seemed to speak English well enough.  He rolled a tray of long acupuncture needles into view.  "These should bring down the swelling" he commented, selecting one of the sharp needles, and slowly, painfully, feeding it through Mitch's foreskin from the base, through the meaty head, until the metal punched out the top several inches.  He repeated the process again and again, until Mitch's cockhead bristled with needles, each stretching the head up and out of the foreskin. He criss-crossed Mitch's teats as well.  The swelling seemed much the same, worse with the needles stretching and poking into his abused dong.

 

Mitch writhed with pain, desperately trying to pull his legs up and out of danger.  The doctor slapped them down, grabbing his hairy calves and pushing them out to the base of the chair, where he restrained them with unseen cuffs.  This was worse, thrusting his pelvis forward, he could only curl his toes as the doctor continued to probe his shaved crotch, slowly threading more needles into the base of his cock, where the two large veins anchored it to his body.

 

Seemingly oblivious to the searing pain thobbing out from his skewered crotch, the doctor continued talking to Ethan as he worked. "Now I think we should cut off this excess skin, I find a penis cut high and tight looks cleaner against shaved skin, and the tightness reminds them not to get too aroused. I could also sever the tendons here at the base as well.  Without them his penis wouldn't get stiff enough for sex, of course, but it would make the package hang lower and further from the body, which many find quite pleasing when they're on show."  Mitch desperately struggled - this fucker wanted to cut off his dickflap, to turn him into some fucked up living statue, and he was powerless to stop it. He moaned and screamed into the gag, desperately trying to plead with Ethan to stop it, but Ethan just smiled.  "Well doc" he said blithely, "if that's what you think is best."  The doctor nodded, smiling, and produced a long hypodermic needle, which he lined up with the larger vein on Mitch's cock.  "Now just a little anasthetic..." he said, and as he emptied the needle into him, he began to get groggy.  The last he heard was Ethan's low voice telling the doctor "I don't want him getting to uppity about his body, I want him reminded of his place.  A few scars, for example ..."  and the world faded to black.

 

When Mitch came to it was dark outside, the room illuminated by one bright surgical light shining down on his exposed body.  He was slumped over the chair, unrestrained, and as he looked down, he saw his crotch covered in wadding.  The whole area ached, sharp pain on his abdomen and glans, dull throbbing otherwise.  He was crushed - they'd done it - mutilated his dick. He could feel tightness across his sensitive dick head, pulling the skin back and tingling maddeningly.  He knew that fully exposed, the exquisite sensitivity of his head would soon dull, and he'd never enjoy the pleasure of penetration again.  That is, if he could physically get hard enough, or was ever allowed to.

 

His balls too were on fire, and he lifted the gauze from them.  Running diagonally across the ballsac was a large sutured cut, roughly pinched together in a way he was sure would scar.  He could still feel his balls, at least, but the sac was huge. They'd sewn in something else, that felt like - the horror dawned - like fake breasts!  Two saline implants, large heavy bags to tug at his balls, stretching them to the size of oranges.  He tore off the remaining wadding, frantic to see the damage.  A large slash across his waist, his dick now swung inches below it's usual place, like a dog pizzle.  The head was throbbing, surrounded by a jagged rough cut where the quack had hacked off his sensitive foreskin.  Not only was the head still as swollen and discoloured as before, but they'd done something else - tight stitches on each side of his dickslit pulled the dicklips apart, leaving his urethra gaping. The stitches were old-style wires, rough and unforgiving as they held his piss hole wide. He was a wreck.  How could he, only 6 months before a rugged hung jock dad have been so completely fucked up.  How had he come to be in a Brazilian surgery, without money or ID, shaved and restrained, his bulging muscles powerless, as his own son carved up his body for sport?  He sunk to his knees, floppy dong dragging between his legs, balls sagging on the floor, and began crying into his hands.