I opened the front door to discover the young skateboarder I’d met earlier in the park standing before me, grinning lopsidedly. Not older than fourteen, he had shaggy, blonde hair, streaked almost platinum by the sun, and deep blue eyes, his skin smooth and golden. He wore olive corduroy shorts, a loose-fitting, white tank top, and green Vans sneakers, his black Zero skateboard under his arm. The board was how I’d convinced him to stop by my house in the hills, telling him that my son had an old Powell Classic skateboard deck to which he was welcome. I didn’t bother to tell him that my son, 10 year old Connor, lived with his bitch of a mother up north and had no fucking interest in skateboards.

       “Hey, uh, Aaron, wasn’t it,” I greeted him, as if fishing for the name that I remembered perfectly well. “Glad you could stop by. You interested in that ‘board?”

       “Yeah, dude,” he replied with a grin. “I’m always bustin’ my boards at the park. And the Powell is a bitchin’ deck.”

       I invited him in, closing the door behind us. “Come into the kitchen. I think the board is in the garage. Wanna beer?” I offered.        

       “Yeah, sweet,” he answered, trying to act casual at the offer of a beer from an adult he barely knew. I handed him a bottle from the fridge, flipping the top for him. I lifted my own beer and drank deep in anticipation. “Your crib is rad,” he observed, looking around the large, modern kitchen. “You must make some real bucks.”

       “I do alright,” I smiled back at him, indicating the tailored Armani suit and imported silk tie that I had yet to remove since returning home from my downtown office, where I’m a partner in a financial agency. “More important things than money, though,” I laughed. “Come on, let’s check the garage.”

With his board in one hand and beer in the other, the blonde skate punk followed me from the kitchen into the pantry that led to the attached garage. My Porsche was parked in the driveway, leaving the garage clear. When I clicked on the overhead light, Aaron gasped, taking in the customized room, fitted with wall brackets for various implements of bondage and torture: whips, paddles, various chains and clamps, leather hoods, large and imposing dildos. Dropping his beer, he turned to run, but it was too late. I grabbed him from behind, one arm around his neck, the other taking hold of his hands. Despite his youth, he was strong and put up a good struggle, but he was no match for my superior height and muscle. Bringing him to the ground, I rested my knees on the crook of his arms and sat heavily on his chest. “Get the fuck off--,” he started to say, but a sudden fist to the jaw shut him up.  

“Quit struggling, boy,” I said to him. “You’re not going anywhere and no one can hear you in here.” He ignored me, trying to buck me off him. I punched him in the face again and again and again. I relaxed my hold on him only when it was clear that he was out for good.

When he awoke, fourteen year old Aaron was hanging from the ceiling of my garage by leather restraints I’d slapped on his wrists. I had allowed him enough slack to rest on the balls of his feet and left him fully clothed, fitting only a red ball-gag into his mouth. The kid was quite adorable hanging there helpless, not unlike a captive angel. His jaw was swelling where I’d slugged him, a deep purple bruise already showing. I reached out and ran my fingers over the darkening contusion. “Pretty,” I said. Still groggy, the young kid flinched from my touch. I slapped him hard, causing his hanging body to flail. “Don’t pull away from me, you little fuck,” I warned him.

I leaned in and kissed the bruise gently, hearing the kid whimper at the touch of my lips. I grinned at his distress. I remained fully dressed in my Armani, but I loosened my tie and undid the top couple of shirt buttons as I walked around the hanging boy, admiring his young body, lean and tan, nicely muscled with regular exercise. Stopping at a work table by the back wall, I pulled on a pair of black leather driving gloves. I clipped and lit a cigar, a fat Jeroboam, sucking in the flavorful smoke. With the cigar clenched between my teeth, I stood close to the suspended kid, and ran my leather-covered hands over his torso. Taking the collar of his tank in both hands, I tore it in half, leaving the shreds to dangle from his shoulders. His chest and stomach were smooth, hairless except for a slight trail of golden fuzz leading down to his pubes. His body was taut and well-defined. I took his pink rosebud nipples between my fingers and pulled gently. “N-no, please,” he tried to say through the ball-gag.

“N-no, please,” I mimicked in a high pitched whine. “Shut the fuck up, kid,” I told him. “You don’t fucking talk unless I tell you to, understand?” He didn’t reply, only glared at me. I drove my fist deep into his gut, knocking all the air out of him. His body convulsed and tears welled up in his eyes, as much from fear as pain. “Oh,” I told him, leaning in close, “we are going to have such fun, you and I.” Reaching behind his head, I undid the gag, and pulled the kid in close. I took the cigar from my mouth and pressed my mouth over his, driving my tongue deep into his throat. The little fucker tried to bite me, but I withdrew before he could get a good grip. “Faggot!” I shouted at him. “Fuckin’ stupid cunt!” I punched him in the face once, drawing blood from his puckered lips. Turned on, I began driving my fists into this lean body, his stomach and chest, again and again, as if I were working out on a punching bag. He cried out, begging me to stop. “Don’t ever fuckin’ try to bite me, fag,” I warned him. “I could kill you and nobody would ever know.”

He looked right at me. “Aren’t you gonna kill me anyway,” he said. I took a fistful of his blonde hair in my gloved fist and looked right back at him. “I’m not going to kill you, boy,” I told him. “I’m going to break you.” With that, I put my mouth back over his and began kissing him, deeply, wetly, sloppily. Pulling my lips off his, I hocked up a thick wad of saliva and sent it flying down the boy’s throat. I readied another, sending this one directly into the boys face, watching it splattered over his cheek and eyelid. I spit wad after wad of thick, phlegmy saliva over the boy’s face, coating him thoroughly in my spewed mucous. I smiled contentedly at the little faggot covered in my slime, a beautiful sight, but just the beginning. As his tears mixed with my spit, I rubbed my hand all over his face, mixing the two in a glossy lubricant. I ran my tongue over his phlegm-drenched face. The kid sputtered, and I could tell he was biting back a puke.

Returning the thick Jeroboam to my mouth, I undid the kid’s corduroy shorts, letting them drop around his ankles. He wore boxer briefs underneath, white with little soccer balls on them. I massaged the briefs at the crotch, rubbing the boy’s flaccid knob around and around. He moaned in protest, but kept quiet, out of obedience or fear I couldn’t be sure. Reaching into the briefs, I grabbed hold of Aaron’s teenaged pecker in my fist, stroking it languidly, as I pistoned my tongue back in-between his full lips, licking contentedly at the inside of his mouth. The boy retched a couple of times with dry heaves as I continued my tongue probe of his throat. Despite himself, the boy’s cock became bloated under my ministrations, his teenaged nuts tightening expectantly. “That’s right, faggot, you like me stroking that cock for you, don’t you? You like being treated like the sexy little bitch boy you are.”

While working the punk’s teen cock in my leathered fist, I fished my own fat nine inches of uncut wood out of my charcoal Armani dress slacks, fisting it in rhythm to the handjob I was giving the kid. “Yeah,” I told him, holding the cigar between my teeth, “you fuckin’ little hot skatepunk, you and me going to have lots of fun, boy, lotta things I gotta teach you, you sexy little bitch!” The kid threw his neck back as I felt his cock throb in my pounding fist, his splooge erupting all over my glove. “Fuck yes!” I cheered him on. “That’s right, faggot, come for your master!”

As the final spurts drained from his dick, I raised my spunk coated hand to his face, shoving my fingers in his mouth. “Clean me off, boy,” I instructed him. “Get all your filthy spew off my gloves.” I continued fisting my own cock, thick as the bottle of beer I’d offered the kid earlier, simultaneously working my other hand around in his mouth. Again, the kid retched, this time puke filling his mouth and dribbling over his lips like a baby. I shot my load to the sight of the kid drooling his own vomit, my fist still buried in his mouth. He eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out. Content, I left him hanging there unconscious, returning to the main part of the house to finish my cigar and pour myself a scotch.

to be continued

       

Skatepunk Slave 2

       The fourteen year old skatepunk remained suspended in my garage in the dark for the 6 hours since I stripped him bare and jerked him off. After having my dinner and another scotch, I changed out of my suit into a pair of black leather trousers, studded chest harness, and leather boots. I admired my physique in the bedroom mirror. My body was heavily-muscled, my biceps thick and taut, my chest cut and defined, my shredded abs ripped. Few who saw me in my work clothes would guess how swoll I was beneath. I tilted my head, smirking, as I ran a leather gloved hand through my short, dark hair. My face was square-jawed, adorned with a full day’s growth of black stubble, my eyes dark and piercing. I made for quite a contrast to the lean-bodied, blonde teen hanging helpless in my garage.

       Aaron stirred when I flipped on the overhead lights, blinking at the brightness. He groaned, weary from the long hours of forced suspension. I stood before him, running my fingers down the length of his smooth torso. “You going to behave yourself, boy?” I asked. He raised his head, locking eyes with me briefly, before looking down.

“Yah,” he whispered. “Yah, dude.” I slugged him once in the face, eliciting a yelp of pain and surprise.

“That is ‘sir’, you little fuck!” I yelled.

“Sir,” he repeated obediently, much to my satisfaction. “Yes, sir.”

Undoing the clasp that fastened him to the ceiling, I watched as he collapsed at my feet with a thud. Grabbing his thick blonde hair in my fist, I dragged him to his feet, warning him, “I didn’t say you could lie down, faggot. Stand up!” He tried, but tottered uncertainly, his legs numb with exertion. I wrapped the little skatepunk in my heavily muscled arms, drawing him close in an embrace.

“It’s okay, baby,” I cooed. “Daddy’s not going to hurt you. Just remember to do whatever Daddy says, okay?” He nodded almost shyly, the fight seemingly gone out of him.

       “Kiss me, baby,” I instructed him. He complied, raising his mouth to mine, letting me slip my tongue down his throat. I could still taste the come and puke on his mouth from where I had smeared it hours ago. “Do you like it when Daddy kisses you, faggot?” I asked. He nodded his head limply, still in something of a daze from his sudden freedom of movement. Pushing him to his knees, I pressed his face against the leather of my bulging crotch with a gloved hand. My uncut nine inch boyfucker was beginning to swell in expectation. Feeling the growing hardness of my cock seemed to shock the boy out of his stupor, and he struggled weakly against my grip. “N-no, no,” he moaned. I grabbed a fistful of hair and raised his face to my dark, menacing eyes.

       “Stick that tongue out, cumdump,” I ordered. “Stick it way out.” He obeyed, but slowly, fearfully. I hocked a large lugie down his throat. “Now, work my leather with that tongue, you dumb cunt.” He pressed his tongue against my crotch, licking with reluctance. Taking hold of his head by both ears as if they were handles, I worked his face over my bulge, massaging my crotch with his lips and tongue, his tears and dripping snot smearing the leather. Feeling the throbbing outline of my heavy cock, he sobbed, drool running down his mouth. “That’s right, bitch,” I said reassuringly, “that’s a good fag.”

       I pushed his face to the ground and shoved one booted foot in front of his mouth, placing the other on top of the side of his face. “Get that tongue out, son, work that boot like the bitch you are,” I instructed him. As if relieved to be momentarily spared the threat of my cock, he began lapping at the leather of my boot with something approaching enthusiasm. I removed my one boot from his face, as he continued tongue-massaging the other. I assured him he was doing a fine job, working his mouth all over the toe of my heavy black leather boot. I raised my foot and pressed the sole of the boot against his mouth, ordering him to clean the bottom as well as he had the top. A moment of revulsion passed over him, evinced by his puckered lips and watering eyes, but he complied, running the tip of his tongue along the bottom of the boot. I watched his lean, near-naked teen body shudder uncontrollably, as he followed my filthy instructions. He was a sight to behold, beautiful and helpless. Inside my leather pants, my nine inch cock swelled to full and expectant erection.

       Wrapping my gloved fist in his thick blonde hair, I yanked his face back up to my crotch. Using my free hand to coax my bloated boy-fucker out of my leather jeans, I presented my thick fuck tool to the kid in my open palm--pre-cum splooge drooling liberally over the foreskin--as if offering him a gift. He averted his eyes, his pretty boy lips puckering in petulant sourness. The threat of being forced to become a cocksucker awakened a bit of the fire in him, the small spark of resistance that remained. I squeezed his nose shut, forcing him to breathe through his open mouth. Rather than slam my thick tubesteak down his throat, I instead lowered my fat nuts into his mouth, resting them on his pretty lips, swollen from the beating I’d given him.

       “Let me feel that tongue on those nuts, faggot,” I told him. “I want you lapping at ‘em like your life depended on it, boy.” Hesitantly, the young teen ran the tip of his pink tongue over my balls, bloated with man juice. He whimpered softly as I rested the shaft of my engorged fuck sausage on his face, my ball sac resting in his mouth. “Come on, faggot!” I yelled at him. “You can do better than that! Get those nuts wet with your boy slime!” He began sucking softly on my balls, not unlike a baby nursing a pacifier, his tongue twirling in a circular motion over my low hanging sac.

“Oh! You look so good with my balls in your mouth, boy,” I assured him. “That’s really fuckin’ beautiful.” I enjoyed the tears of humiliation that streaked his cheeks as he worked my fat sac. Nothing I liked better than seeing a cocky young teen in tears. I rubbed the shaft of my cock around on his face, soaking up the tears, leaving a trail of pre-splooge on his forehead. “You are a natural, boy, a natural faggot just like I knew you would be.”

Plucking my saliva soaked balls from the kid’s mouth, I held his head in place by his hair and whacked him hard across the face with my open palm. He cried out in surprise, and again when I backhanded him across the other cheek. “Stand up and strip, faggot,” I instructed him. He stood, slowly, shakily, his eyes downcast as he let his only remaining clothing, his boxer shorts, drop to the floor, and stepped out of his green Vans. I took each of his little pink boy nipples in between my gloved fingers, pulling and twisting at them lewdly, the boy whimpering at my ministrations. “We’re going to work wonders on these tits of yours, faggot,” I told him. “We’re going to work on them every fuckin’ day until they look just like little hard dicks sticking out obscenely. We’re going to turn these little boy tits of yours into the scarred and twisted tits of a fuckin’ used up whore. I can’t wait.”

Reaching down, I took hold of his tiny ball sac in one fist, squeezing roughly. “Of course, as a faggot whose sole purpose is to serve real men you won’t have much use for these fuckin’ things. Maybe I’ll just cut ‘em off. Not like it’d really make much of a fuckin’ difference to a little cumdump like you.” Grabbing him by his hair, I twisted him around so that I could get a look at his teen ass. “No, those little peanuts of yours might be worthless, but this, this cunt of yours, this fuckin’ thing is going to be priceless once you learn what it’s really good for.” I poked around at the boy’s hairless sphincter with a couple of fingers, eliciting a groan, of dread or expectation I could not really tell. “This hole, boy? This hole is mine to do with whatever the fuck I want. I’ll fuck it, I’ll fist it, I’ll shove twelve inch fuckin’ dildos up it if I want. And you, boy? You’re gonna learn to fuckin’ love it!”

Wrapping one gloved hand around his throat, I forced the little blonde skate bitch to the ground and shoved my fat, uncut meat between his lips in one quick thrust. The head of my prick met some resistance at the back of his throat, but again I pinched the faggot’s nose closed, forcing his mouth open wider in a desperate, futile bid for oxygen. I began ramming my cock up against his pharynx in an effort to really bury myself in his throat, seeking his esophagus, causing him to sputter and gag, drool and snot and tears running down his face in a beautiful cascade. Without regard for his tender age or inexperience, I pummeled his virgin throat with all nine inches of my rigid boyfucker, pounding relentlessly, mercilessly. “

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I panted, to the rhythm of my balls slapping against the kid’s chin. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I looked down at his bruised face, the purple contusions on his cheek and under one eye, the lips swollen and raw, the trail of dried blood and puke that smeared his jaw and chin. I admired my own handiwork as I brutally fucked the boy’s throat.

“Shit! Here it comes, faggot, here’s your reward for being such an obedient little fuck slave! Here’s your fuckin’ treat, bitch!” With that, I nutted down the boy’s throat, firing goo spurt after goo spurt deep into his body, drowning him in my splooge.

A post-orgasmic shudder ran through me as the last of my jizz emptied itself in the boy’s mouth. I held the kid’s head in place on my softening cock, letting it soak in his saliva. The little bitch, hardly moving, barely breathing, must have been in deep shock at the brutal mouth rape I’d subjected him to. With my cock resting languidly on his tongue, I allowed my bladder to rest, releasing a stream of pungent man piss down his gullet. The realization that I was pissing down his throat elicited a slight moan of disgust but no real resistance from the beaten boy. He reflexively swallowed a fair amount of my piss, the rest running over his mouth and down his taut, hairless torso. I patted his head in approval at his performance. “Good boy,” I assured him. “Good faggot.”

Having had my nut and befouled the boy’s virgin throat, I led him by his hair to a cage in the corner of the garage, making him crawl in. About five feet long and three feet high, containing nothing other than a cum-crusted terrycloth towel, this doggie kennel was going to be the bitch’s home for the duration of his training.  Padlocking the cage shut, I flicked off the light and left the boy to contemplate his future.

Skatepunk Slave, part 3

       The boy spent most of the following week in that cage, being let out only in the evening when I would return from work to resume his training as a cocksucker. Before leaving for the office each day, I would feed him my morning piss, leaving the spillover in a doggie bowl I placed in his kennel. Although the bowl remained untouched the first couple of days, eventually the kid’s thirst got the better of him and I would come home to find the bowl empty of my piss. Over the course of that first week, he did not hear the name Aaron spoken once. Rather, I addressed him only by his new names: faggot, bitch, cunt, pussy, and so on. The day would come when the name Aaron meant virtually nothing to him.

       In those early days of his captivity, I would sometimes hear reports of his disappearance on the local evening news. Little was said of his absent father, but reporters would occasionally speak with his trailer trash, meth whore of a mother, a fuckin’ waste if ever there were one. Given his parentage, being taken captive by me and turned into my personal cumdump might have been the best thing to ever happen to the little punk.

       Although the faggot’s first experience as a cocksucker was little more than a vicious mouth rape, over the ensuing days I practiced more patience, teaching him the subtler arts of cock worship, allowing him to become accustomed to the length and girth of my nine inch uncut boyfucker, encouraging him to massage my well-veined shaft with his lips while his tongue worked itself around inside my thick foreskin. Although far from adept, the faggot had a natural aptitude for cocksucking, and took to the finer points like the born whore he was. He would follow my instructions as he nursed on my prick, massaging my low hanging nuts when I told him to, carefully sucking the headcheese from my foreskin at my instruction. I would relax in the leather recliner I had placed in the garage, my bloated cock hanging from my slacks, enjoying the boy’s rapidly improving attentions to my fuck sausage.

       After I long day of meetings and teleconferencing, enjoying the cock worship of a bourgeoning faggot and a nice thick Diamond Crown cigar was always just what I needed. The faggot did such a good job that first week, in fact, he gave me very little real reason to beat him. Still, twice more those first few days, I suspended him from the ceiling and worked him over with my fists, just to keep him in line. Teaching a faggot his place was always important to breaking him in just right. Although I resisted introducing his ass to much more than a bit of finger probing over those first few days, that was about to change.

       That weekend, I released the faggot from his cage and presented him with my flaccid cock. Already habituated to my early morning piss, he opened his mouth and welcomed my stream down his throat, parched with thirst. He gulped my dark piss greedily, spilling very little of it. In short time, he was becoming an enthusiastic piss pig. As I shook the remaining drops onto his pretty face, there was a knock at the garage door.        

“Sounds like you got a visitor, faggot,” I observed. “Let’s see who it is.”  Raising the garage door, I welcomed our guest, my bud Rafael, keeping one eye on the boy, curious if he might be drawn to his first glimpse of the outside world in almost eight days. I was impressed: he barely raised his downcast eyes from the cement floor of the garage. I lowered the door with a clang.

       “Hey, amigo,” Rafe greeted me with a slap on the shoulder. “Hope I’m not late.”

       “Not at all,” I assured him. “I was just giving the faggot his morning piss. Help yourself if you like.”

       “Ah, gracias, hombre,” he said. “I been needing to leak for the past half hour.” Rafe strode across the garage, stopping in front of the faggot. Reaching into his jeans, he freed his fuck snake, working the foreskin back and forth over the bulbous cockhead. The faggot looked up, as if registering for the first time the presence of someone new. “Open that mouth for my buddy, you bitch,” I ordered. He obeyed, just as Rafe’s acrid piss stream splashed on his tongue.

       My buddy, Rafe, was a real fucking stud, a hard-muscled, brown-skinned spic with dark hair and a goatee. As he pissed, he peeled off his T-shirt, revealing his swoll physique, heavily covered in tattoos. A Mexican flag tat decorated his left pec, an American flag his right. His broad, muscular back sported an elaborate tattoo of Quetzacoatl, the Mexican feathered-serpent god. In cursive script on his thick, corded arms were Spanish words such as palabra and respetar. As he pissed, Rafe hocked a thick loogie into the faggot’s open mouth. “Maricón,” he snarled.

       Rafael and I shared a fondness for raping kids. We’d hooked up in an internet chat room a few years back, and since then had worked over dozens of kids together, boys and girls, with both our fists and our cocks. Girls we generally just raped and dumped by the side of the highway; they were seldom worth the trouble of breaking. At any given time, however, one or both of us kept a boy slave that we shared between us. Currently, Rafe kept a thirteen year old nigger he’d taken captive several months ago chained in his backyard shed. We not only enjoyed the services of one another’s sex slaves, but we also turned a profit by whoring them out for gang fucks to other rapists and pedos.

       Rafe, however, could be one brutal motherfucker. Sometimes when he was working a kid over he couldn’t stop himself and would go too far until something in the kid broke that couldn’t be fixed. More than once he had called me late at night, asking me to take him out on my boat and help him dispose of the evidence. Don’t get me wrong: it’s not like he’s a serial killer or anything. He would just get caught up in his fun. He’d never out-and-out kill the kids. Once he realized how badly he’d fucked them up, he’d sit back and watch with fascination as they bled to death somewhere deep inside or asphyxiated on their own blood and puke. Needless to say, I never approved of these accidents, this waste of a good fuck toy, but, really, who am I to judge?

       His piss spent, Rafe dropped his jeans to his ankles and turned his ass to the faggot. “Get that mouth on my hole, mariquita,” he ordered. The boy obeyed with only the slightest visible reluctance. I heard him as he slurped heavily on my bud’s dirty asshole. Laughing, Rafe let rip a rancid fart that I could smell from several feet away. Retching, the faggot pulled his face off the spic’s foul hole, eliciting a shout of rage from Rafael. “Marica!” he shouted. “Cunt! Don’t you ever pull your mouth off my fuckin’ ass, bitch!” He backhanded the fag so hard the kid went sprawling across the floor, a spray of blood flying from his mouth. I sighed, seeing another trip on my boat in our future. Stepping out of his jeans, the latino stud began kicking the shit out of the kid with his heavy work boots. As I watched the vicious beating, I felt my cock grow rigid, my balls filling with fuck sauce.

       Finally, the hotheaded spic’s rage subsided. He circled the kid, who lay crumpled on the floor like a broken plaything, Rafe panting from the sudden physical exertion. I hadn’t heard any bones crunch, so I was hoping the kid had weathered the worst of Rafe’s beating. Mean-looking purple bruises were already darkening on the kid’s arms and back where he’d been kicked. As always, my cock pulsed hotly at the sight of the contusions on the boy’s smooth, milky white skin. I joined Rafe in his predator-like circling of the little faggot. He hocked another wad of spit into the kid’s bloody, swollen face. He looked at me across the prostrate body of the helpless, blonde fourteen year old. “You fuck ‘im, yet?” he asked.

       I grinned lewdly. “Not yet, buddy.”

       “Let’s fuck ‘im now, homes,” Rafe suggested.

       “Not quite yet,” I answered. “I want to tat him up first, mark him as the fuck toy he is. Then we take his ass.”

       The hard-bodied spic grinned with evil intent. “Got my inks in my bag, stud,” he assured me. “Just like you asked. Let’s get to work.”

       Barely conscious, the teenaged faggot opened his eyes to find himself strapped to a table, his back and ass exposed. It was the pressure and hum of Rafe’s coil tattoo machine that had brought him out of his stupor, as Rafe worked on the kid’s lower back with his ink. I’d gotten us a couple of beers while Rafe tatted the kid’s smooth fuck flesh. 

       Having stripped down to my Armani briefs, I stood by the kid’s head, my crotch in his face, enjoying my beer and a second cigar. While Rafe worked, I rubbed my crotch against the boy’s face, his mouth opening instinctively, expectantly. Blood from his wounds smeared itself across the fabric of my underwear, so I dropped them, letting my cock slap against the faggot’s face. Resting my foreskin on the kid’s tongue, I dribbled a bit of beer onto the head of my cock. The kid closed his mouth around it, sucking the second-hand brew down. He kept my cockhead in his mouth, nursing gently on it as the ink was worked into the smooth flesh of his back. Other then my piss, I hadn’t allowed him more than a can of dog food a day for the past week. He was beginning to welcome any nourishment, from jism to used beer, as a treat.        

       With the work on the faggot’s lower back complete, Rafael turned his attention to the kid’s shoulder blades, taking a moment to toss back some beer. I held my Diamond Crown out to him and he wrapped his lips around it, sucking on the end, smoke issuing from his nose. “Gracias, amigo,” he said, as he resumed his tat work, the thick cigar held between his teeth. “You gonna like my work, little faggot, you wait an’ see,” he assured the kid. “Little skateboarding faggot like you probably always wanted some nice inkwork, no?”

       When Rafe finished with his back, we undid the kid’s restraints and sat him down on a stool to work on his chest. I selected a leather hood from the assortment on the wall of my garage. After wiping the blood off the kid’s face with a rag that I wet with a bit of piss, I slipped the hood over his head, fastening the buckled collar around his neck. The hood had no opening for his eyes or nose, just a zippered slit for his mouth, which I left undone. Once he’d completed the tat work, Rafe proceeded to the piercings we had discussed. The boy flinched, but didn’t cry out as the needle broke his tender flesh. Done, the spic stud ordered the boy to stand and turn around so I could admire Rafe’s work. Just above the faggot’s ass, following the contour of his lower back, was the word cumdump in gothic script. Higher up, stretching between the kids shoulder blades it read faggot. The crude words looked so very good on the punk’s youthful flesh.                

       Obediently, he turned around, revealing the word cockslave tatted across his hairless chest and the heavy steel rings that Rafe had put through his pink nipple buds, rings that matched those Rafe wore through both his own tits and in his ears, as well. The kid was well down the road to becoming little more than a thing, a fuck slave. I’d already discarded his name and reduced his effective vocabulary to little more than two words: “yes” and “sir.” He’d come to depend on my cock for most of his sustenance, for the piss he drank and the cum he ate. With the hood, I’d now robbed him of any identity save that of the words Rafe had tattooed on his flesh: cumdump, faggot, cockslave. Now, it was time to teach him what his hole was for.

       Even though that hole was virgin, I wasn’t about to bother with any lube. I wanted to feel that tight boy sphincter squeezing my cock, I wanted that resistance and blood. Smearing a bit of gooey spit around the head of my fat cock, I bent the faggot over at the waist and instructed him to stick his ass in the air. Across his lower back, the word cumdump beckoned me invitingly. I probed briefly at his boyhole, eliciting a whimper from the little faggot. “Go ahead and cry, pussy boy,” I told him. “It makes no difference to me. About time you learned what your cunt is good for.” With that, I grabbed hold of his hips and rammed myself deep into the kid’s ass, drilling for his bowels. Not only could the sweet-assed punk not cry out, he could barely breathe as I fucked the air right out of him. I held myself balls deep in his teen pussy, feeling his sphincter tighten around the base of my cock. So fucking good!

       As I plumbed the depths of the boy’s hole, Rafael yanked the kid’s hooded head up, impaling the faggot’s mouth with his own bloated fuckmeat. With one hand on each side of the punk’s head, Rafe began masturbating his fat Mexican boyfucker with the kid’s throat, his heavy balls slapping against the fag’s chin. “Chupame  la polla,” he  shouted. “Chupame!” We fucked the boy between us, my thrusts driving the kid’s throat deeper onto my bud’s fuck sausage, his throat thrusts forcing the fag’s ass further down on my own thickly veined tool.        

       Rafe inhaled deeply on a small, brown bottle of poppers before holding it out to me. I took a deep hit, feeling the warm rush course through my veins. Bending over the kids tatted back, I grabbed Rafe by the back of the neck. Pulling him close, I put my mouth over his. The horny spic kissed me back, shoving his tongue into my mouth, as he took hold of my hard tits in each of his hands, ferociously twisting my nipples between his thumb and index fingers. “So fuckin’ good,” he said into my mouth as we sloppily fuck kissed. “So fuckin’ good, suckin’ mi amigo’s tongue while fuckin’ this little kid’s fag throat!”

       Breaking off the kiss, I hauled off and slugged my bud in his heavy, tatted chest with my fist. “Fuck, yeah!” he yelled. Still fucking into the kid’s drooling mouth, the thickly muscled spic swung, connecting with my jaw. We began pounding on one another with our fists as we fucked the faggot back and forth between us. It was so fucking hot, raping my nine inches of boyfucker into the kid’s virgin hole while pounding on my buddy’s hard muscled brown flesh, digging the feel of his fists pounding into my own ripped body.  We each took another hit of the poppers, before turning our fists from each other to the faggot we were raping so brutally. We drove our fists into the kid’s back and ass, eliciting cries, muffled only by Rafe’s fat Mexican dick fucking in and out of the boy’s throat.

       We came almost simultaneously. I shot my first spurts deep into the faggot’s bowels, withdrawing enough meat to fist myself and enjoy and sight of the next several spurts of man-splooge coating the kid’s raw-fucked anus. Rafe plucked his foreskinned prick out of the faggot’s throat, fisting himself to climax all over the kid’s leather-hooded face, his thick Mexican goo dripping into the kid’s open mouth, onto his panting tongue. Grabbing hold of the fag’s throat, I twisted him toward me and buried my tongue in his mouth, lapping at Rafael’s musky load. The kid felt barely conscious in my grip, as I removed my tongue from his mouth and licked at the leather of his hood. Releasing him from my grip, I watched the kid slump to his knees, his hood coated with Rafe’s splooge and my saliva, his ass dripping a mix of blood and cum.

       Much to my surprise, the teen skate punk began massaging his own cock between his fingers as he knelt on the cold garage floor. Rafael grinned at me. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, hombre,” he said, as the fag dribbled his thin boy splooge onto the cement floor. “This little punk is a natural pussy.”

       “Is that true, boy,” I asked the kid, looking into his face, his eyes hidden by the leather hood. “Are you a natural pussy.”

       “I…I guess I am, sir,” he stuttered. “Yes, yes, sir, I am,” he repeated with more assurance. “Good boy,” I congratulated him as I began emptying my beer-full bladder onto the kid’s head. Rafe joined me in providing the piss and cum coated faggot with a piss shower. “Good fuckin’ slave boy.” 

to be continued