Short Stay - Chapter Four (MM/m; NC; WS; FF)

‘Look at me, Kaden,’ I said.

I was perched on the stool, in front of the trio of clasps securing the kid’s wrists and neck. He was downcast and still upset with me about the brutal fisting, no doubt. He wanted to look at the floor and not level with me, boy to man.

‘Kaden. Look at me, and not down.’

The arrival of my party had been a further setback for the boy, for sure. This was the beginning of his end, he knew it, but that must be compartmentalised for tomorrow. Today there was still work for Kaden: hard, important work.

I grabbed a clump of his hair and yanked his skull up with it, hitting the hard stop of his steel neck bondage. I stood over Kaden’s upturned face, his eyes wide and furious but looking right through me now.

I slapped the athlete once over both cheeks, hard, making him ring like a bell. He sought but failed to turn away from my open palm.

‘Everything you’ve learnt about penetrative sex with me, you will reproduce for my friends, yeah?’

I had Kaden by his hair, still. He blinked hard, and possibly in acknowledgment. He puffed, nostrils flared, loud enough for the indignant gust to be heard across the room.

I let go, and the skull slumped.

‘Best behaviour, yes?’ I suggested.

‘Everyone?’ Kaden croaked.

‘Yes,’ I confirmed. ‘Not forever. Ninety minutes, and I reckon they’ll all be spent.’

‘At once?’ Kaden asked.

‘All in the room, yeah,’ I said.

‘Maybe… no… keep them off me,’ Kaden babbled, pleading for some sort of compromise, I think.

‘You got this, son,’ I told him.

*******

For my party of guests, I had a rousing peroration after the minimal ground rules had been established. Rhetoric for the frat house, you might say.

‘Ten dicks, and a fist each. Balls aching to be drained, and bladders swollen with my hospitality. Just two boy holes. Ninety minutes to take without consent, and to test the quality of my training.

You’ve worked hard to afford your tickets for tonight, gentlemen, so I beg each of you not to let this opportunity pass without creating memories for your lifetimes. Work individually, or as tag teams, but – please – make sure my Kaden knows what it is to be treated with less regard than a dirty rag. Picking up the pieces afterwards will be my burden, not yours. Are you up for it?’

My call generated a chorus response of ‘yeah!’ and ‘fuck, yeah!’, loud and instant. They wanted to be back with my boy, in the room in which I’d reorganised furniture since asking them to vacate temporarily.      

It was true for Kaden, as it had been for many of his predecessor boys, that the ninety minutes of freestyle action required a pioneer. Most of my customers were no longer British, but they were in England and appeared to have absorbed historic local courtesy at the airport terminal. As a gang – every man naked, now – presented with a boy in a state of total availability and a countdown ticking, there was the customary minute of embarrassed milling around and ‘no, you first, please!’ faux politeness, as cover for fleeting pangs of conscience or simple lack of initiative.  

An instigator was required: a man not bashful at the notion of being watched by nine others, to kickstart proceedings. Getting things going was a job for a guy with an exhibitionist streak, whereas his followers could acquire anonymity in the freneticism of the gang bang.

I was relieved when the reliable Reza stepped forward, as a veteran of my events. The stocky Anglo-Iranian was in his fifties, now, but could throw a great fuck when presented with a boy hole younger than his two eldest daughters. Lifestyle issues (fine food; a ten-a-day cigarette habit, and too little exercise) meant the hirsute Reza carried excessive weight all-over, but he knew how to drill a boy as an object rather than a lover, and that’s what the rest of the gang needed to see to shed their own reticence. Thankfully, this brick of a man retained the stamina to persist with deep anal penetration, whilst his technique was spot-on.

Reza’s demo fuck was conducted with a level of aggression that got the ungagged Kaden reacting, hard. As the hairy beast punished the boy with his fat tube of a dick, Kaden bucked on the bench and screwed his face in anguish. Taken to Reza’s hilt, over and over, Kaden screamed protest.

‘Ahhhh… no!’

‘Ahhhh… FUCK!’

With Reza working between the boy’s parted and bound legs, at Kaden’s utterly exposed ring, the apparatus groaned protest at the Anglo-Arab’s pumping action.

He was very far from a thing of beauty, Reza, but there was a certain aesthetic to his relentless drilling of the athlete less than half his age, and to the agonised reactions it produced, that got the other men stroking their pricks and forming a tighter circle around the mounted youth, now eager for a piece of his ass.

Reza’s leadership having proven it was legitimate and hot to use the non-consenting boy in this way, from then-on both of Kaden’s holes were plugged near constantly in perpetual rotation.

In the gang, which could so easily have descended into a rabble scrapping over juicy boy cunt, a better sense of organisation developed than in many of my prior shows. ‘Turns’ were loosely agreed for Kaden’s ass, and for his mouth, with the expectation that a few spent men would need to absent themselves from active participation at any one time.

The cuter of my guests understood, quickly, that an early orgasm allowed sufficient recovery time for them to return for a second helping of straight hole, later, therefore it was advantageous to shoot quickly. Others, though, took a different strategic approach to the gang bang, edging themselves in Kaden’s holes before withdrawing, immediately pre-climax, such that they were ready to re-enter him from either end almost immediately: or, more realistically, when the next access ‘slot’ presented itself. This take on forced sex required a non-universal level of self-discipline.

Kaden had been taught the passive gay role by me, though Marco had also tapped him a few times with my blessing. That had been the limit of his experience of service, starting from base camp six weeks ago. I will say more later, but Kaden found ten new fuckers devastating on every level. When I strolled to his head end to check-out what was going down orally, the boy looked up from the latest dick choking him and across to me, as his guardian with the power to stop – or at least moderate – the frenzy of cruelty. Expressionless and saying nothing, I walked on.

For most of the hour and a half Kaden was unable to speak as a succession of pricks plugged his throat; just daring him to bite down in raw, instinctive reaction to events at his other end, where alien shafts plunged into his ass without compassion.

The boy was accustomed to my size and my method of making love in his holes, but now here were men variously longer, girthier, and with ten different styles of foreskin (or lack thereof) to adjust to, immediately. There were guys who took Kaden’s ass with slow, hilting strokes – the fullest penetration – and others who jabbed him twice per second, for two minutes straight, in frenzied rabbit-fucking assaults that had the apparatus squealing.      

Before his torso was polluted by piss and cum the boy became enveloped in a clinging sweat, the product of his exertion and deep distress, that hugged him with its slippery sheen. Men’s fingernails slipped and slid as they sought purchase for their fucks, about Kaden’s moist hips.

The ass pounding barely stopped until the fists started. Guests jostled at Kaden’s rump ready to berate queue-jumpers, but order of sorts was maintained.

When his mouth hole was vacated for a few brief seconds between men, Kaden would be forward in screaming at us to stop, ‘cos it hurt so bad, until energy for protest withered and the interludes were marked by his bovine lowing.

The favoured deposit box for cum was Kaden’s ass snatch, into which orifice it was shot with such force that had him whining at the breeding, regularly. Not just the ass, of course, for before long Kaden was gargling with spent seed of multiple origin, which also hung lazily from his chin and matted as gloop over his forehead locks. Back at his rear the kid’s mounds had been blasted with cum, then smeared-in by the brutal manhandling of his subsequent fuckers. That juice which had found the arch of Kaden’s back laid undisturbed, white, and sticky.

When the dithering of men presented rare opportunities, I nipped-in to catch backflushed cum – a constant – direct from Kaden’s spluttering asshole into a small plastic food container.

My rearrangement of the props, earlier, included the wheeling-out of two identical staircases. There were just three risers, for the necessary height gain was modest. Beyond the third riser was a level metre with a slip proof surface, whilst a guardrail to the rear provided something to grip and averted backward toppling. These were my piss platforms, positioned one to each side of Kaden’s mount and braked securely.

From height, men urinated over Kaden. Their bladders topped-up by the contents of my bar, guests pissed alone and as duos, choreographed in makeshift fashion, working to both flanks of the young athlete.

Golden showers, arcing, pelted the boy’s back, with men wielding their hoses intelligently to ensure the kid was doused from his neck down to his reared ass. At times, Kaden’s deluge from the piss platforms was much more than a shower: it was a hard rain.

The youth barely registered this peripheral indignity amid the coordinated assaults upon his holes, but it added to the sense of misery being experienced down there, on the fisting bench. The opportunity to use Kaden as a piss trough kept otherwise spent men in-play and amused. In time, tightly aimed blasts of gold jet-washed splattered cum from the boy’s back, and piss became a cleansing agent.  

In the second half-hour of Kaden’s service, fist work started in earnest. Handballing became a seed-saver for men in the post-orgasmic comedown and recovery phases, keen to stay active and obtain value for money from the boy.

The kid’s ass was so utterly bunged with cum slime that lube was barely necessary, but applied nonetheless as far as wrists, which was the permitted limit of penetration by limb under my ‘light touch’ rules. There was a need to balance the experience of my guests with benevolence towards Kaden, after all.

Generally, my gang was more tentative in its approach to fist-to-ass than I’d been that day, and there were a couple of novice youngsters, unsure whether they’d do more than watch the spectacle where fisting was concerned. I was, as always, eager to ensure complete satisfaction and five-star reviews for the marketing portal, so encouraged the newbies to take a turn with a fist, under the tutelage of me or one of the men with skill and the patience to coach the art of digital penetration.

This became a time of new learning for Kaden also, forced to adapt from my long, slim hand of the last fortnight over to short but chubby digits, and thick wrists. There were men with prominent knuckles at their finger joints, which ground into sore rectum so badly as they curled, and a preponderance of right-handers – I am a lefty – who corkscrewed with a subtly different style in Kaden’s anus, hurting him in novel ways.

Experts – I am a generalist, rather than a fisting specialist – gave masterclasses in boring-out boy, demonstrating marginal extra cruelties in the ways they entered, twisted and exited Kaden’s mess of a cunt. Rarely, fisting devotees would persuade the man in Kaden’s throat to hold back, just for a moment, such that the assembled voyeurs could listen to the sound of fisting pain inflicted by a true professor of the craft:

‘Awwwww…. Fuck. FUCK. FUUUUCK!’

But beyond words, the noise from the head end was mostly animalistic with Kaden under immense pressure from the best fisters of the night. It was a cacophony of groaning, honking and obscene grunting: so piggy in sound and vision that I saw men with throbbing hard-ons turn away just in time, to preserve their seed for a boy orifice.

In his mouth the expectation of Kaden was deepthroat, all-round. I had been a constant in the kid’s oral development, but now the horses riding his larynx changed repeatedly, with no respite to speak of. It was an awful lot for the boy to manage.

Generally, Kaden’s performance observed the lessons I’d taught. Neatly aligned teeth, still white, were kept clear of dick meat despite the strain it imposed on his jaws. The tongue had a discerning active role, lapping at the underside of shafts and showing devotion to variously shaped crowns in raspberry hues. The back of the throat countered its instinct to close against shoved members.

There was a great deal of reaction from Kaden as ten men cycled through his mouth hole, and some returned for more. The use of his ears – shapely shells, slightly larger than average – as grabs for the leverage necessary for total oral penetration, was the root cause of some of the boy’s tears as the tender flesh was gripped until beet red and distended from near-constant twisting.

Kaden knew he must eat cum, when fed, but sometimes what went down was offset by stuff coming up and out, in the form of globby man seed diluted by his oral swill, and puke in sorry portions rather than great eruptions.

The boy gagged and choked on new (to him) dick, more liberally than I’d have liked given his behaviour reflected on my training. I tried to make allowances for the simultaneous punishment fucks underway at his ass, but my standards weren’t always reached.

The fisting frame was never stationary, rocking at its joints under the shifting mass of a boy under anal assault tending to propel him forward, but also an oral drilling, the force of which set-up an oppositional directional motion. When Kaden was gone, I’d need to attend to that mount with the Allen keys, securing its structural integrity ready for the next youth. Gang bangs could be so destructive of apparatus.

Kaden was awash with sweat, well before his halfway time in the saddle. There was more piss from his caged dick and, as the hour mark approached, filth from his ass when a withdrawing fist, turning the boy’s ring inside-out, drew with it a dash of liquid shit. The fister, Charlie – a fierce young Chinese with a chiselled jawline and pecs cut in a series of abutting straight lines – looked over to me, almost apologetic.

‘Nah, you’re fine,’ I reassured him, as Kaden’s turd crud splattered to the floor.

‘Awwwww… Sir! Please… no more!’ Kaden implored me between throat fucks, briefly.

The involuntary defecation heightened my consciousness of the demands the gang bang was placing upon Kaden physically, and of his deteriorating psyche.

‘Mostly acceptable so far, honey,’ I said. ‘Just keep putting-out, and your time will zip past before you know it.’

‘Too much… please? Stop… now?’

‘It’s okay, K. I’m here for you. I’m not gonna leave you,’ I said, with confidence.

A subset of my guests – those not immersed in carnal moments – picked-up on my dialogue with the boy.

‘Should we, like, go easy for a bit?’ asked Nathan, a 24-year-old Dutch biracial who’d taken Kaden vigorously from both ends; was edging towards the top of the queue to fist him, but felt a spasm of sympathy or – more dangerously, perhaps – a pang of conscience.

‘Nah,’ I said. ‘It’s meant to be hard work, for him. I’ll pick-up the pieces. Everyone as they were, yeah?’

*******

There were, I suppose, three or four famous names on the guest list, but I doubt many would recognise more than one or two. I consume little television, for example, so getting excited that so-and-so was in the first series of The Crown might earn you my riposte that I don’t know who he or they are: never heard of them!

I keep-up with the business pages of The Times, though. Call it force of habit because when I was salaried, I was expected to be up to speed with the latest developments in commerce and to talk knowledgeably about them. Such insight hasn’t been necessary for seven years, since I switched to self-employment in the events industry, but I like to keep an active mind and – anyway – I have cash to invest in suitable opportunities beyond sex.

The richest man in the room with Kaden, was Elliot. He knew that and I knew that, but neither of us told it because Elliot was an unassuming billionaire, and I was an ultra-discreet host. In fact, there was little doubt Elliot’s wealth exceeded that of the rest of the gang – and me – combined, but he participated anonymously beyond ‘do I know you from somewhere?’ flickers of recognition as a couple of guests took sly second glances.

Elliot had made his money in cloud computing, which – I thought – sounded so boring it must be a great way to stay rich and unknown, if that’s what you wanted from life. I believe Elliot may have remained off my business-attuned radar, were it not for his (rare) tweet of autumn 2020, expressing concern at the appreciation in value of cryptocurrencies fuelled by amateur investors/speculators stuck in lockdown. It was all a giant Ponzi scheme, Elliot implied, and folk with little financial resilience stood to lose everything. Here was a billionaire with a conscience, said the press corps, lauding the timely intervention of a quiet man. 

Predictably, the crypto bros went apeshit on Twitter and bulletin boards, and the furore made the pages of respectable newspapers, which is how I came to see the picture of Elliot, age 37 (said The Times), and therefore know of him, vaguely, before he made contact via my TOR presence interested in ‘dark shows with boys’. And I was able to have my little joke with Elliot, noting his scepticism of bitcoin and presuming, therefore, he’d be paying me in hard currency: I accept USD, GBP, and EUR.

The Texan, perma-tanned, flew in and out at the bookends of each show, never lingering in the UK. With other guests he was genial though never over-familiar, and if conversation turned to line of work, explaining he was ‘in computing’ would normally be sufficient to move the dialogue along without further questions.

With boys, however, Elliot was always one of the most aggressive men in the room, exhibiting behaviour bordering on entitled, without ever losing self-control or causing me embarrassment by breaching of one of my few red lines around conduct.

When able, Elliot liked to use a handsome boy as his toilet. That’s not a statement that can be finessed to take the edge off its impact. It wasn’t a fetish I shared particularly, nor one in which I gave training, though I did punish boys in this way occasionally. For Elliot, interpreting why a boy has a mouth was at the core of his identity as a sadist.

‘Is he allowed to do that!?’ I heard called, from the floor, whilst distracted by proceedings at Kaden’s black hole of a gaping ass.

It was a plaintive cry. If this was a permitted activity, then my questioner would like to have known at the outset and not seventy-five minutes in. Obviously, the snitcher was attending his first event, and hadn’t taken me literally when I briefed-out that everything was in order, except if specifically prohibited. Lack of imagination amongst the gang wasn’t my problem.

Elliot had the tip of his dick balanced on Kaden’s bottom lip and incisors, and was delivering instruction.

‘Gonna give you a drink, and you’ll gulp down every drop, yeah?’

The boy was non-responsive. His sodden hair was yanked from close to the roots, to engage him.

‘You understand, yeah? You don’t spill my apple juice?’ Elliot harassed him.

‘Yeah,’ Kaden affirmed, under the duress of a flattened palm held close to his right cheek, ready to sting.

‘Okay, son. Just relax, now, and become my devoted trough.’

The prospect of urinal service being demonstrated drew a few onlookers to Kaden’s head end, though work on his ass continued uninterrupted.

Respectfully, I ushered Elliot aside for a moment so my boy and I could have a one-on-one pep talk. I crouched to align our faces and leaned in close.

‘We’ve hardly done piss before, Kaden… but still… I expect you to make this work, mmm?’

He stewed silently but was careful to retain a sight line into my eyes.

‘It will probably hit you like a flood, so… you just keep accepting…. keep gulping hard… keep swallowing until your man is spent pissing, hmm?’

‘Yeah…’ the boy whispered, barely audible.

‘You’ve got this, I know it!’ I enthused, rising from my haunches and drawing back to let Elliot return into Kaden’s face space.

As we parted I made to ruffle Kaden’s hair as a small morale booster, but found it so wet as to be unrufflable, with cum making a gluey porridge of his forelocks.

Elliot – tactically astute – hadn’t pissed over Kaden from the platforms, but two large glasses of mineral water and a dopamine hit of sexual adventurism had left him with a full and ready bladder.

The lean billionaire kept the boy on edge, waiting, brown eyes as wide as his mouth sewer. When he started, though, the hosing was instantly full force: the flick of a switch, not the turn of a dial. From the audience, there were gasps.

I know how hard Kaden tried, because I was stood directly behind and to one side of Elliot, watching. My boy made a solid start, rippling his Adam’s apple to clear his mouth as quickly as it was filling with that bastard’s rich brew. Elliot’s piss was shot at close range to Kaden’s throat, from where it ricocheted around his mouth pre-swallowing.     

My guest exercised no self-control. Elliot might have abated his flow to let Kaden play catch-up, but not once did he offer respite from the torrent. I knew the man to be exceptionally demanding of his toilet boys, whatever the activity. It was Elliot’s prerogative to behave in this way, at my events.

Feeling that drowning sensation, Kaden gulped Elliot’s straw-coloured waste tenaciously. The gang murmured, awestruck (with Elliot) and appreciative.

‘Keep it going, K!’ I encouraged.

I ill-judged my timing. The youngster choked on the weight of piss swirling in eddies around his mouth and ejected – rejected – a whole load of it, over Elliot’s meaty prick. Panicking and still spluttering, Kaden allowed his jaws to close in front of Elliot’s crown, though not biting it: a tiny saving grace.

When you’re a boy, and especially a pretty and athletic boy, and you’re asked to be a drain for Elliot, then you don’t close your mouth against him without consequence.

‘Asshole!’ Elliot shouted, frustrated.

Elements of the crowd tutted and dispersed.

I levelled with my boy, again.

‘You’re better than that, Kaden,’ I said. ‘This is a serious setback, right?’

*******

My cane for bastinado was carried in a bastardised flute case with a lining of purple velour. It wasn’t an instrument Kaden had seen, before.

A convenience of the fisting frame was the way it splayed a boy’s legs, allowing ass work to continue unimpeded even as I delivered retribution to the kid’s bare soles. Both of Kaden’s feet were to be kissed by the whippy rod, requiring me to dart behind a fucker or a fister to even-out the stinging.

Kaden had no experience of this form of pain. I caned harshly, respectful of the fact this was not a training detail but punishment. There are spots of especial sensitivity on the soles of the feet, and I made sure I found them repeatedly. Whilst there was a lot going-on in Kaden’s world, with his boy hole well on the way to prolapse and his puke oozing around the latest prick to stuff his throat, the gang became quiet and drew-in close to the bench, watching how the incremental agony of bastinado would impact the kid.

There was a serious amount of noise from the mount, and a terrorised violence to Kaden’s yanking of his restraints, the like of which I’d never witnessed from this boy.

The athlete wailed long and hard, barely muffled by whichever dick slab was stuffing his gob from time to time. His howl became perpetual as I caned, drowning-out the satisfying snapping of wood against the undersides of his feet: flesh already roughened and scaled, in parts, after six weeks of Marco’s grossly excessive demands of Kaden on the gym treadmill.

Though Kaden’s reinvigorated fight for freedom was futile, it was instinctive. My guests saw, and appreciated, another level of desperation in the way the boy self-inflicted sprains and put himself at high risk of dislocations, in his epic struggles to rid himself of a hand in his rectum and the new abomination of the fire I’d lit across his soles. Ankles chafed to the point of bleeding as they tried to swivel feet away from my short cane. Every attachment of Kaden’s bondage, and the frame itself, groaned in distress under a pounding almost as extreme as that being experienced by the boy mounted to it.  

As I turned his soles into red messes, caning on and on indefinitely applying bastinado without a communicated parameter for the punishment, Kaden’s face likewise became a red mess of tears, flowing freely until diverted by the cum distributed above his lips. I saw that boy face in the mirror occasionally, when men receiving oral service switched, and it gave me fresh strength to continue his trial, always.

In the room there was masturbation from those who were able to get aroused for a third or fourth time, jerking in a crude circle around the pitiful boy. There was no objection; no attempt to temper proceedings: no kindness. It was a fine gang, staying emotionally removed and leaving me the sole arbiter of what was, or wasn’t, enough for Kaden. If the boy was to have an ally, it could only be me.     

*******    

Time became short, and the gang bang wilder still. There were a hardcore posse of men with cum still to expend, being event veterans who’d learnt the right rhythm to squeeze-in multiple orgasms before the close: subject to available holes, which became hotly contested with jostling for Kaden’s service.

As the ninety minutes elapsed, I permitted those already inside Kaden to shoot their loads without egocentric delay.

Empty at both ends – an extraordinary feeling for this whore – the boy groaned on his mount, loud and in a deep pitch. Kaden’s chest continued to heave, and muscular spasms shot down his legs, causing tic-like jerks in his bondage. The youth was soaked in sweat, drenched with piss and sticky with cum from face to ankles. Several strings oozed from his farting, bubbling asshole, thinning as they stretched elastically towards the floor.        

It's so hard for a boy, the group sex segment. Not just the most searching sexual work-out imaginable, but also a physical Everest. It’s why I train for six weeks and let Marco loose on them, before well-paying guests gain access to trusted hole.

It was my turn for access, and time for others to revert to observer status as they recovered, letting their panting subside.

I’d not put both of my hands into Kaden’s ass, before: not at the same time, anyhow. Therefore, this was new to him on event night as it had been to his predecessors Tyler, Sam, and Oli, etc. Double fisting had never been a welcome development, it’s fair to say, but it would happen with my familiar hands rather than those of strangers; with my known temperament for Kaden to work with, and now when his rectum had never been more ‘open’. This would be an exemplar DP, or there would be repercussions.

I told Kaden my intentions, calmly, though without the courtesy of addressing his face because I was already poised at his leaking, quivering rump. The boy understood what it meant, well enough.

‘FUCK! NO!’

I was impressed by the resolute voice he found, after all he’d endured in his throat. The gang murmured, equally surprised.

‘Be nice and cool about it, Kaden,’ I said. ‘Just let it slip in…. let it happen.’

‘CUNT!’ he cried.

My entry technique was textbook though my delivery had to be forced, regrettably. Leading hand advanced ahead of trailing hand, in prayer with palms pressing but offset and thumbs tucked carefully. I found a sodden mess of a cum dump inside Kaden’s ring, reflecting that there might be – what? – fifteen or even twenty loads drying slowly in his anal clutch. Truly, a quagmire of breeding pools.

My K-boy was miserable with me and loath to submit, for he’d done his full shift on the frame. If this shit was going to continue, like, forever, then – fuck it! – what was the point of accommodating my plans? He might as well close-down and shut me out, now.

There was backchat aplenty, from the mount.

‘Nah… not two!’

‘FUCK off!’

‘STOP IT… yeah?’

Kaden’s vocality in turn prompted derisive verbal objectification from the floor.

‘Open that asscunt, bitch!’

‘Let him in, son!’

‘Open-up, fag!’

Taken as a whole, the commotion was tawdry and bathed nobody in favourable light, but it seemed to spur momentum. The digits of my trailing hand barged through the boy’s sphincter, and I had traction in double penetration. Kaden thrashed and screamed, delirious. I mulled the merits of a gag to deaden his noise but concluded his natural soundtrack would entertain amusingly.

After all he had undergone, anally, there remained a remarkable corrugated rigidity to Kaden’s ass. A precious boy, and a benefit of starting training from the point of virginity.  

I had both hands inside Kaden, twisting carefully, probing deeper. The lips of his ass were spread so very thin, gaping where my wrists wrenched them brutally wide. My guests appeared to be enjoying the show as comedown from their active participation, so I became self-indulgent in the time I spent with Kaden’s battered box, extracting my hands whilst making soothing ‘game over’ noises, before punching back to get him honking, again.

My hands became bloodied where they grazed Kaden’s rectum. No crisis: just smears of warpaint when I pulled out, marking my victory in battle. Later came the patter of crimson droplets when my withdrawing hands broke their ass seal, creating a void through which trapped blood fell.       

Some of the gang were jerking again, which was flattering. However, it was time to break that cycle.

I was in Kaden more fully than ever, now finding his filth with my fingers. He’d stopped the shouts of protest but not the constant bellowing that was the defining facet of DP fisting, for so many boys.

‘Well done, baby,’ I said.

*******

I hope you're enjoying my latest fiction. Chapter 5 will be published here by the end of September. Any feedback will be greatly appreciated. If you wish, you can email me at ryanauthor@protonmail.com     Thank you.