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Even The First - PART TWENTYEIGHT
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Even The First - PART TWENTYEIGHT
Kevin screamed with exasperation, sat back on his heels, let my legs fall to the ground, and his still hard dick flipped out of my arse just as Paul got to the bottom of the basement stairs. As I looked up Paul stepped into the the circle of surrounding light. Sean followed just behind, clanking his leg chains down the wooden steps; his bright were eyes full of excitement; he was eager to see my humiliation.
"Right," said Paul, as usual. "Are we done?"
"I'm sick of it," said Kevin, his prick bouncing stupidly. "Useless piece of shit. I didn't even cum," he complained, childishly.
Paul looked at us like a dad who'd arrived home expecting his kids to be asleep already. "Didn't cum? Whathefkve you been doing?"
"I was fucking punishing it like you wanted, but it was useless. In the end I was wore out."
Paul sighed sarcastically, "Oh. Ok. Right. Sorry about that. Oh. Sorry you didn't cum. Anything we can do to ... sort that out?"
Sean was standing, silently, in Paul's shadow, his beautiful nakedness, his body, a pale statue in the darkness where his metal collar made it look as though his head, under its mop of university hair, floated in space, physically separated from the rest of his body, and his nipples, dark and beautiful and huge, were like two large circular boreholes drilled directly into his chest. His arms were linked together by steel wrist clamps closely chained in front and his little cock-harness was just about visible behind his hands.
Kevin glanced at him meaningfully, "Just let me have that for a couple'a minutes ..."
"You kidding, right?"
"Man, I just need to get off ..."
Kevin gave me a push.
"Get out the fuckin way."
I rolled over and scrambled into the dark where I adopted a slumped foetal position, letting my head roll so that all I could see was the expanse of floor going away from me, like a tall grey concrete wall.
Paul resumed, "Right. And you can't get off."
"I just said! Fuckin ... useless."
There was silence. Then I heard Sean's voice protest behind me, "Sir please Sir, I'm not his slave Sir!"
Paul answered abruptly, "You'll do what I fucking tell you, right, princess? Right, next lesson: 'Property doesn't get a say.' Position!"
There was a grunt from Kevin.
"No lube."
"Doesn't need it, right, I already loosened it."
"But ... Sir," said Sean, miserably.
Then Paul said this, "See my hand?" and he must have struck Sean somewhere, because all I could hear was Sean moaning and then the sound of him getting fucked. Kevin was as usual, grunting and abusive. Sean continued to complain. And constantly in the background, Kevin's fucking music.
During all this I was curled on the floor, face kissing the concrete, back and backside exposed towards the action. Despite all my injuries, smarting and hot, I felt safe with the thought vaguely in my head that all my punishment was over, my life could get back to normal and I'd be alright once more, performing my ordinary duties as Paul's slave, preparing his meals, servicing him sexually, him and his friends, sharing his life; part of him, again, like I always had been, since we met and I'd adopted my role as his personal house-servant, fuckhole, and companion.
I must have been concussed!
In the quiet triangle of darkness between my eyes and the concrete I had constructed a private place of safety listening to everything that went on, the steady rhythm of Kevin fucking Sean and Sean moaning in discomfort.
"Wo that's tight! At last!" said Kevin. Sean yelped like he'd never had a man's cock up his arse before. But it still took Kevin so much difficulty to climax that by the time his orgasm arrived, Sean was pleading and pleading for him to stop and Kevin, turned on more by that than by anything else, was slapping him as well, swearing at him and cursing him. Paul didn't say a word.
Afterwards, when I knew Kevin was drained, Paul said, "Good boy. Right. That was well done. Come here ..." I think he must have been fucking Sean as well because Sean was still wailing and crying. I could hear a slap-slap-slap that must have been of Paul's balls hitting Sean's legs as each fuck-thrust drove home. Then Paul made a deep forceful grunt, and then, after a few moments of recovery, said, "Good lad, right, good lad, that was ok. What do you say? What do you say when I cream in your hole!"
"Thank you Sir," said Sean, quietly.
"Thank you Sir. That's right. Right. Good boy. Good boy. Well done. Good fuck."
I felt sorry for him because I knew he didn't know what he had let himself in for. Basically he was just a young idiot. A fool who'd read something about BDSM on the internet once and thought he liked the sound of it. He was going to end up like me: a useless whored-out scrapheap.
Kevin laughed, "Look at all that cum running out of his cunt!" and there was another slap. Sean yelped again.
"What do you say?"
"Thank you Sir," moaned Sean, bitterly.
"Thank you ..." mocked Kevin.
I didn't move. I didn't dare. It was as if I had been forgotten about, but I would be remembered and when I was ... I didn't know what they had planned for me. So I didn't realise what they were talking about when I heard Paul say, "Right, now what about?" and Kevin said, "Get up," and then, because I didn't move a muscle, one of them kicked me in the arse and Kevin said, "Oi, talkin' to you, cunt."
I knew I had no option, so I slowly raised myself up, first on all fours and then crouching on my toes, and then pulling myself up until, with arms limp by my side, I was standing up on the spot, eyes cast down, facing the two abusers, and I saw Sean, crouched in a "fuck me" pose on his knees and elbows, face down and pressed to the ground, his back sloping like a ski ramp, glossy and ridged, his arse up in the air, and his delicate pink anus pouting like a tiny fairy mouth (though not so tiny after the pounding it had received from Kevin's large and Paul's still larger dicks) - vomiting a stream of pure runny milky cum that ran down his perineum like spit, along the seam of his hairless, soft, red scrotum, and over the smooth insides of his thighs. Some had even reached his knees. The floor was covered with sticky white drops.
Kevin was standing with his long wet cock out. So was Paul. They were both looking at Sean like it was a crime scene.
I lowered my head, staring at the floor, far far away into the distant distance.
"K-fag," said Kevin, "get in there and lick that out. Do you think you can do that?"
"Right. What did you just call him?" asked Paul suspiciously.
"S'just a pet name ..."
Paul shrugged. He too pointed at Sean's gaping bottom, "Look busy. Right!" so I dropped to my knees once more and put my lips to Sean's ruined hole, kissing it, sucking it, leeching out the bitter milk leaking there, licking like a cat; I stood on my palms and knees, brushing his arse-cheeks with my cheeks. The sore red aching hole was running with Paul's and Kevin's milk. It was so beautiful, so red, and so aching, and so sore, I just wanted to kiss it and make it wet and make it better with my spit. It was the loveliest hole I ever saw, pulsing and begging and opening, sucking and dragging and stretching my tongue up into him like I was tongue-fucking him all over again, tasting his sweet passion-juice like his soft squelchy star-hole was a spring in the forest - Sorry. I got carried away - but Sean's cunt is just about the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Like a flower, vulnerable and delicate and hungry to be opened. I felt like he was personally begging me, and just me, to enter him and taste him, and drink him, and possess him. It was incredible. There was like an energy coming off him that was overpowering. I know what he smelt of was his own shit, but the smell of him was overpowering and amazing, soft and masculine, musky and glorious. I loved it. I loved the way it filled my lungs.
His sack seized up like a large bright walnut, bruise-red.
The last thing I wanted to do was to hurt him. I was delicate. I could feel his response ... I felt his tired muscles open and close around my tongue tip. He shivered pleasantly. I felt it. I knew he was feeling me. His leaking hole seemed to almost perspire the cum his two masters had pumped inside him, begging me to continue his penetration. The little mouth, pushing back, was yearning to be filled again.
Drawing large circles with my tongue I cleaned around his hole, lapping broadly across the sensitive shaved skin along his arsecrack, extending out to lick each cheek and down the hot red mound of his perineum to his soft wrinkly, round nuts. He was leaning back. His cock slowly lifted up when I got to his thighs. Kevin said, "Sean, lift a leg." He did so, first one, then the other, like a dog pissing, so that I could lick fully along silky the crease around his scrotum and the flesh down to each knee. It was automatic for me to lick the sperm from the concrete floor. I could feel Sean's tear-reddened eyes watching me, turned on by my sensitivity and caring self-debasement. The fringe of his still-unshaven head of dark university hair flopped down as he turned his neck to look. I began to feel his excitement as he tentatively tried to put his penis in my mouth.
"Right. Enough," Paul interrupted. "Don't make another meal of it."
Sean looked frustrated and might have been about to protest, but he thought better of it. Our eyes met as I took the opportunity to kiss Sean's leg, a private gentle kiss, before pulling myself away. The sight of him made me want to fuck him. That's the first time I've ever felt that. I sat back in my heels. Kevin and Paul were behind me.
"Thank you Sir," I said.
"Thank You Sir," said Sean.
Kevin laughed nervously.
"That was good."
Paul was silent.
"I don't know which of these two is the prettier," said Kevin with a smile.
There was a moment and then Paul said, "Right. Stand up."
We both moved.
"Not you Sean!"
So Sean resumed his position on all fours, arching and angling his back, like a snow slope. I heaved myself to my feet, reluctantly. I couldn't stop staring at his body, a glowing, drained, perfect white, and the muscular details of his back, and fine perfect hairs on the back of his neck, and the gloss of his hair on top, and the strength in his neck and his shoulders and the way they supported his head, and the way he used his thighs and his buttocks to present his anus, like a jewel between two slap-reddened cushions; already it seemed like a memory when I had been there, right up close to it, that close to him, kissing and licking and tasting his arse juice, smelling his arse juice, rubbing my face in it, swallowing him ...
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END OF Even The First - PART TWENTYEIGHT