ESSOR MASON’S MESS,
OR, A SWEET DARK PUSSY
by DannyR (MMMM/bbb, incest, oral, anal, piss, racial epithets, extreme pedo)
Copyright 2011. All rights reserved.
Author’s Reminder: Don’t forget that inquiring authors want to know -- what did you think? So when you’re done, put your fingers to a dried-off, cleaned-up keyboard and start by typing: dr_harris_81@hotmail.com.
DISCLAIMER: Some folks apparently have trouble distinguishing between fantasy and reality. This story is a fantasy. It didn’t happen. Never will. And anyone who attempts to do in real life all or any of the things depicted in the story needs to be hanged, then drawn and quartered, and then turned over to the cops for the harshest penalties the law allows. After that, well, hopefully everything Law and Order and the news say is true about child molesters in prison, is really true. Now that we’re clear on what’s what, and what’s not, read on.
SPECIAL NOTE: Praise his pedo Name! All hail TAP, whose depraved ideas just seem to resonate and spawn more depravity in my story-telling cock and typing fingers.
PROFESSOR MASON’S MESS
Chapter 3
“Daddy!”
“Daddy, daddy!”
Two soft little voices, two soft little hands shaking his shoulder gently. That wasn’t right. Little nigger boys should wake their daddies with soft hot boy mouths wrapped around daddy meat. Or if daddy was sleeping on his belly, spreading his hairy cheeks and licking and slurping daddy’s hole.
What the fuck?
Where the fuck did that thought come from? That was disgusting! That was...fuck...what he used to have to do for his real daddy. When he was two. And three. And four.
The professor dragged himself up out of the sleep well he’d fallen into. Blinked. Squeezed his eyes shut, opened them. Christ, his whole goddamned body ached. He turned his head and smiled at his two boys, JJ and Mark, their white undies a sharp contrast to their dark skin, their white teeth in answering grins setting off their plump lips. Flat wide noses so they could get in deep when sniffing his pits. Fuckable nigglet mouths.
The professor shook his head, trying to shake these sick thoughts out. Yeah, yeah, he was molested when he was a kid, but that all ended when he was adopted at...well, hell, when? Oh. Eight. He’d been eight. But there was something, something he wasn’t remembering. And what the fuck was up with these depraved thoughts about his own precious boys?
He turned on his side, every movement painful as he scooted his legs around, leveraged himself upright, put his feet on the floor, tossed off the sheet, and managed to get himself standing.
Completely forgetting the unusually hard morning wood sticking straight out of the slot in his sleep pants. All ten inches of it.
“Oh, wow! Daddy’s got a really big stiffie!” That was JJ’s voice.
And then Mark chimed in with, “Will mine get that big, daddy? It’s so little. See?”
That got the professor fully awake. He was standing in his bedroom, well, his and Elaine’s, with a fucking hardon that his innocent boys could see, and they’d never seen their daddy naked before, okay, in locker rooms at the gym he took them to, or changing rooms at pools or the beach, but never with stiff meat. He looked down. Oh, fuck, he was dead if Elaine walked into the room.
Mark had pulled the front of his undies down below his perfect five year old balls, to show his daddy his perfect five year old uncut cocklet. His stiff little cocklet. All two and a half or three inches of it. The professor looked at his middle son’s meat, realized he had to deal with this, but not in a way that would make the boys ashamed of their bodies. “Wow, Markie, that’s not so little. That’s pretty big for your age. But as you get older your, uh, your penis will grow, too. Like JJ’s. JJ’s is bigger than yours, isn’t it?”
Markie shrugged. The professor looked at his oldest son, who was still covered up, though there was a definite bulge showing. “Show him, JJ. It’s, ah, a legitimate question, and we can help your brother understand.” He waved his right hand, indicating the undies needed to be dropped.
“Da-ad,” JJ whined.
“Did you hear me, son?” The whine stopped, the seven year old’s hands went to the waistband and pushed down. His sons knew the “don’t fuck with me, boys” tone when he used those five words. Though of course he’d never used the f-word in front of his boys. And rarely in front of Elaine. Her disapproval was far too obvious.
JJ’s boy meat was plumped up, but it wasn’t all the way hard. The professor wanted, no, needed to see the seven year old hardon. He licked his lips.
“You see, Markie, all men get stiffies, uh, erections. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes just when a breeze blows,” he chuckled a little at that. “And sometimes, men do it themselves, with their hands.”
Christ, fuck, was he going to make the leap from a fatherly sex-ed-type explanation of erections and penile growth to showing his boys how to masturbate?
Fucking right.
He grasped his own aching cock, slowly stroked forward and back, though just with one fist. Markie immediately followed suit, though naturally he couldn’t use his whole hand on such a small cocklet. It took a stern look from the professor for JJ to start jacking.
Motherfucker.
JJ had at least five inches of cock on him. “Wow, son, that’s impressive. I wasn’t that big when I was your age.”
JJ smirked.
The professor wondered what seven year old boy meat, all five inches of it, would feel like in his pussy. He mentally shook himself. Yeah, he’d been molested as a boy, whored out by his daddy and uncles, and the memories were coming back, but they weren’t going to be repeated. Not with his boys. Not a fucking chance in hell.
But he wasn’t molesting his boys when he wasn’t touching them; he was just...educating them, teaching them about their bodies so they didn’t get their heads fucked up with wrong information from strangers or other boys.
Or other men. With long, short, fat, thin, cut, uncut hardons.
“Have you, ah, masturbated yet, boys?”
JJ looked smug; Markie looked confused. The professor felt relieved. At least he could teach one of his older boys something.
“Ah, let’s just step into the bathroom, okay? And guys, this is just men stuff, father and son stuff that women aren’t interested in, and don’t understand, so we need to keep this just between us. Just the men in the family, no women, no outsiders.”
The boys’ naked chests swelled up with pride. Sure they could keep their mouths shut about secret men stuff. They followed their daddy into the large bathroom, their undies bunched under their stiff cocklets and balls, the professor’s hardon leading the way. He turned around suddenly and the boys came to an abrupt halt. When he leaned forward across them to pull the door shut and lock it, he, ah, accidentally found his pee slit very close to his boys’ faces. The boys’ eyes widened and Markie licked his lips, leaning forward just the tiniest bit, like he wanted to maybe lick that clear drop of goo off the end of his daddy’s dick.
Inside his head, the professor kicked his ass, then straightened up, went over to the toilet, yanked his sleep pants down around his ankles and sat down.
Fuck but his right hip hurt. And what the fuck was the bruise on his left thigh? And the pain in his pussy? No. Goddamn it, no. He had a pain in his asshole, and no fucking idea why. Unconsciously he reached down between his legs and felt his hole. Shit. It was puffy and tender and fucking raw. What the fuck? No, fuck, he had no time for that, not if he wanted to finish this shit up with his boys, teach them about masturbation like a good father would, before he got caught and killed by his uptight wife. He pulled his left hand back out and rested it gently on the bruise.
With his right hand he grasped his leaking meat and with his thumb smeared the clear precum oozing in a steady stream from his large slit around and around on his knob. Although his cock was slender, he had a splendid knob. He sighed. The boys watched him, Markie’s bright pink tongue licking his fat little lips, JJ with a lot more reserve.
“Now, boys, this is called a dick, or a prick or a cock. At least that’s what men call it, not a penis or a pee-pee, but those words you only use around other men, never in front of a woman.”
“So I can’t tell mommy I have a cock?” Markie piped up.
“No, son, no, absolutely not. Those are secret man names.”
“Huh!” snorted JJ. “Then how come I’ve heard other boys say that? If it’s such a big secret?” The tone was a so-there-daddy-explain-that-away, somewhat smart-ass, all too typical of JJ tone.
The professor might be thinking mostly with his little head (or rather his splendid knob thank you very much) but his big head was still alert. “Why, that’s because their daddies have explained things to them. Or maybe their grampas, or their uncles. And, you know, sometimes when they don’t have a man in the family to explain, or maybe their daddies just don’t know how, a minister, or a pastor, or a teacher might do the job.”
Pastor? Damn that sounded fucking hot. A pastor to explain all the secret man things that could be done to a little boy’s body, bent over a pew, on the altar, down in the church toilet.... An internal headshake. Focus. He needed to focus on teaching his boys to jack off, not on some fantasy. Although.... No. Just a fantasy.
“Wow! So I can talk to Mr. Carter about my cock? ‘cause he knows all about ‘em?”
Huh? What? Focus, you fuck! The professor replayed the words. Carter...oh. Markie’s kindergarten teacher. Holy shit.
“Uh, no, Markie.” The professor’s expression forestalled the protest that was inevitable, in some form, whenever Markie was told “no.” “Okay. Here’s the way it is. You can talk to other boys about your dicks, and jacking off, like we’re doing right now. See, all three of us are playing with our cocks, using our hands to stroke back and forth, back and forth on them. That’s jacking off. But you can’t tell anybody where you learned the words, or learned about jacking off. That’s a really, really big secret, and mommies and women, and even the cops, would be very mad if little boys went around telling a daddy’s secrets.”
Markie protested anyway, giving his daddy that big-eyed, fat bottom lip shoved out pout that usually worked. “But, daaadddy. Mr. Carter’s real nice, ‘n he said we could talk to him ‘bout anything, well, he told that just to me ‘n Jimmy, ‘n I’ll bet he’s got a real nice pee-pee, uh, prick. Do you think Mr. Carter’s cock is as big as yours, daddy. It’s probably lots bigger than mine, isn’t it, huh, daddy? I’ve got a bigger prick than Jimmy, ‘cause he’s white ‘n whites got smaller dicks than us.”
The professor laughed, though his hand hadn’t stopped jacking. Neither, he noticed, had his boys’ fingers stopped their own wanking of their stiffies, even with Markie’s motor mouth babbling. “Enough, Markie. I said no! And I meant it.”
The pout got even bigger. So fucking adorable. So fucking hot. Hot enough to want to shove all ten inches down his five year old baby boy’s hot little throat. He gave in. Just a little. “Okay, here’s the deal. You don’t say anything to any man or woman unless I say it’s okay first.”
Not that he’d ever talk to his boy’s kindergarten teacher. To find out what he was willing to talk to the boys about so privately. To find out whether he was interested.... No. That was sick.
Let’s get back on the fucking jacking track.
The professor leaned back on the toilet, almost sprawling, his knees thrown wide. “Now, boys, you watch what daddy does, and you do the same. In a little while, you’re going to start feeling really, really good, all tingly all over, and it’s kind of like you’re going to pee, but that’s not it, that’s the good feeling men get when they’re jacking. And when you get older, and get some hair down there around your cock and on your balls, you’re gonna pump out some white juice, semen, cum is what men call it. Oh, yeah, jack those little boy dicks, boys. Jack for daddy!”
JJ was jacking and clearly feeling something, but he stayed where he was, just a little aloof. Markie, though, Markie had moved up really close, so his hot legs were pressed against his daddy’s thigh as he jacked and jacked and jacked his little cock. The three Mason men, hidden away in daddy’s bathroom, worked their cocks and breathed heavily, and then suddenly Markie was grunting and moaning and shaking all over, which tipped both his brother and his daddy over the edge. JJ whimpered and then nearly shouted, but remembered where he was and clamped his lips closed, but didn’t stop thrusting his hips violently forward, forcing his cock through his fist. Christ, the seven year old had a big enough cock he could actually fist it. The professor just grunted, sitting up abruptly, leaning forward, pushing his cock down toward the toilet, but for some reason cupping his left hand beneath his knob and catching all the copious cum he spewed out.
Finally done, the Mason men sat or stood, panting, slowly recovering. In a moment, though, JJ had his undies back up and hiding his now soft dicklet. Markie was staring with obvious fascination at the thick globs of spooge in his daddy’s hand. Before the professor realized what his son was doing, Markie reached, stuck out a finger, scooped some up, and sucked the slime off.
The professor wanted to whimper at the sight of his son sucking off his tiny finger, the finger that was just covered with daddy’s juices. Instead, despite knowing how fucking wrong this was, despite knowing how some goddamned line had been crossed when he hadn’t stopped Markie, the professor lifted his hand and with blatant slurps of his unusually long, talented tongue, cleaned his own palm.
JJ looked...somewhat offended. Like what he saw was gross. Damn but the boy looked just like his mama when he did that. Markie, on the other hand, reacted almost like a little slut. Actually, there was no “almost” about it. His face wore an eager, expectant, preteen baby cum whore addict look. He’d probably had the same expression on his face, when he was just about to suck the mayor’s cock, or any of the other men Daddy Cash whored him out to. Maybe there was something to genetics after all, considering what a fuck slut Markie’s daddy had been. Fuck, but the kid actually looked disappointed that his daddy’s palm was slick and bare. The professor reached out to caress his middle boy’s cheek (the one on his face), but as his hand got close, Markie turned his head, leaned and slurped up the middle of his daddy’s palm. The professor’s meat twitched.
Markie giggled. “Tastes good, daddy.”
“Uh, yes, uh, yes, it does, son. Uh, some men just, uh, wipe it up when they cum, but other men like the taste, and uh, eat it. Lick it up.”
“Can you make some more, daddy? So I can taste?”
With a quick side glance at the more disapproving JJ, John quickly reined in the sexploration that was going on. “Now, son, little boys shouldn’t eat their daddy’s cum. It’s okay for you to do it when you make your own, though. Okay?”
Markie looked like he was ready to disagree, but then thought better of it and just nodded his head.
“Get dressed, Markie.” Better not to make a big deal out of the cum eating, though he knew he was probably going to jack to that image later, as foul and perverted as that was. Markie got his undies up. “Scoot, guys. And this is our secret, right? Just between the Mason men? Promise?”
Both boys nodded, solemnly, and then “scooted.” The professor forced his softening meat down between his legs, pissed long and loud, flushed, bent to grab his sleep pants, stood...and suddenly became aware of the pain that had been pushed back while he was horned up over his young sons.
God fucking damnit all to fuck shitting hell. He fucking hurt! He straightened up, moved in front of the mirror and lifted his tee above his pecs.
Fucking hell all over again. His chest and sides were a mass of bruises. And his asshole. Fuck, but it was sore, too. He reached down inside the back of his pants, sliding his hand down his muscular cheeks, moving into the crack, feeling his cunt...no, goddamnit, feeling his rectum. Which was indeed puffy and slightly...greasy, now that he thought about it, felt it, fingered it, actually, his fuck-you finger circling his pussy lips.
Which is how his wife found him, since the boys had left the bathroom door not only unlocked but open and he hadn’t noticed.
He heard her gasp first, then saw her shocked expression in the mirror, her eyes clearly looking at the meeting of her husband’s hand and his ass, hidden by his sleep pants. Then she looked back up, meeting his eyes, and he knew she knew he wasn’t just scratching. He was feeling up his asshole. She flushed, started to turn away, stopped, said quietly, “We need to talk.” Then she turned and went into the bedroom.
He let the tee fall, followed her. She sat on the edge of the bed, but when he moved to sit beside her, she jumped up and moved away. He sat. She wouldn’t look at him as she asked if he remembered anything.
“Remember what?” Then it hit him. He didn’t remember. He remembered going to work, remembered actually working, remembered thinking about going to that gay bar, but nothing after that thought. He shook his head.
“You don’t remember Sergeant Tate? Bringing you home, uh, home from the hospital?”
“Honey, what the...” Well, hell, she didn’t like swearing, so all he could do is say as calmly as he could, which really the fuck wasn’t all that calm, since his minding was screaming, “What the fuck! Cop? What the fuck! Hospital?”—“What’s going on?”
She sighed. A huge sigh. Then inhaled. The kind of inhalation he’d heard before when, on a few occasions, she had to say something she really didn’t want to say. And she still wouldn’t look at him. Then she rushed it all out, so fast it seemed like she didn’t bother with a single breath other than the first one.
“You were raped last night. Sergeant Tate happened to be passing by the school parking lot, and he found you with, with, with your pants around your ankles, and you’d been beaten, and he could tell you’d been, oh dear sweet Lord help me, you’d been raped, and he took you to the hospital and they checked you and that’s what they said, and you couldn’t remember anything, and they gave you some medicine and said you could go home and he brought you and he was very nice but he said you might not remember anything and I should tell you and, uh, uh, call him when you woke up. And, and, he said to tell you that you weren’t really less of a man because you’d been, been raped.”
She finally ran down. He sat there, stunned. Beaten? Raped? No wonder his ass felt the way it did. Slightly greasy when he’d fingered himself. Left over cum? Antibiotics? The doctor put some cream on him? In him? And he couldn’t remember a fucking thing! He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the tears start, the panic. He could remember. He would remember. But maybe he didn’t want to remember. He did remember. Something. Yes. A car. He, he was bent over a car, there was a dick shoving....and the memory was gone.
Christ. He’d been fucked in the college parking lot, bent over his own car. He opened his eyes, tears streaming, looked at his hands. Nothing. He hadn’t got a blow in? Hadn’t fisted some raping motherfucker in the face first? What kind of man was he that he didn’t defend himself. He looked up. Elaine was looking at him now, and there was the faintest twitch as if she wanted to look away again when their eyes met. With a soft, “Please,” he held his arms out so she could come to him, comfort him.
Except she saw...and didn’t move.
And then he understood.
There were parts of the world where, if a woman was raped, she was dishonored, her family dishonored. Sometimes, even, she was killed for dishonoring her family. Here, though, there would be no killing. But his wife, his wife’s preacher father, her whole family, loathed and despised both homosexuals and homosexuality with a virulent passion, without even the saving grace of claiming to love the sinner just loathe the sin.
Christ. If she only knew. And thank the fuck she didn’t. If she couldn’t bear to touch him, almost unable to look at him when he’d been raped, he had a very good idea what it would be like if she knew he’d been on the down low a couple of times, how eagerly he’d sucked that man off in the back room, how even more eagerly he had allowed himself to be gang fucked in Paris. How much he’d enjoyed, all his life, always down low, having a man’s mouth wrapped around his long nigger dick, or having his meat buried in some other man’s ass.
He slumped. His mind sort of shut down.
“Shall I...shall I call the Sergeant? He said, uh, he said he thought you would want to know what happened. That he was concerned about you.”
The professor was numb. He shrugged.
“Very well, I’ll call.” And she nearly bolted from their bedroom.
The click! when the door shut was more of a loud crack! The sound that happened as you put your weight on a piece of wood you thought was fine, but had been quietly rotting for a long, long time. The sound of the wood breaking. Just like his marriage.
He just sat there in a daze. Got up to take a piss and a shit. Felt his ass up again when he had wiped. It hurt, but not a lot. Maybe there’d been an injection or a pill or something to cut the pain. He sniffed the man-smell of unshowered, freshly wiped ass. His cock twitched. He went back. Sat on the bed again.
He was still sitting there, staring at nothing, when Elaine knocked, told him that the officer had arrived. He told her to send him up.
“But don’t you want to....”
No, I don’t fucking want to come downstairs! was in his head. The words in his mouth were, “No. Just do as I say. Isn’t that what your daddy says a wife should do?”
Christ, but when did he get so hurtful?
A few minutes later there was another knock, and the door opened without waiting for an answer.
Sergeant Tate was a white cop. About fifty. The dark blue uniform was molded to him, so either he had the standard uniform a size too small or it was custom tailored. The professor vaguely thought it was custom tailored. A too-small uniform would rip when he bunched the huge biceps. The cop locked the bedroom door, walked straight toward him. The professor didn’t allow his eyes to widen as he found himself staring at an obviously huge and hard cock bulging out the crotch.
The cop’s voice was quiet as he said, “Odysseus, nigger.”
And the professor remembered. Remembered the bar, the ride, telling about being raped by his sperm daddy when he was two, the deserted street, the feel of the cop’s powerful white cock pounding his nigger pussy, first leaning into the car, then braced against the hood, the spic who’d showed up...Carlos or something, the cum on his hips. The shot. The fucking shot! He’d been drugged!
But he didn’t care. Couldn’t seem to bring himself to care. He stared at the crotch.
“Suck me off, nigger.”
His wife could come upstairs again at any moment. Knock. Wonder why the door was locked. Wonder about the face fucking noises coming from behind it.
It didn’t matter.
He unzipped the tight pants, struggled to get the cop’s cock and balls out, somehow knowing the sergeant would prefer that. He moaned as he swallowed the thick cock down to the sergeant’s already slightly smelly pubes, and it wasn’t that far along in the day. The cop grabbed both sides of his skull, and that felt so right.
A part of him screamed that that wasn’t true. That it was wrong. That the cop had no right. But that part was locked away.
The cop started skull fucking him, sliding the full length of his meat in and out of the professor’s mouth, down into his throat, not interested in any difficulties the professor might be having. Again, that was only right.
Wrong! that far off voice whimpered.
“Now listen carefully, nigger. The spic thought it was kind of funny to use that code name to control you, because you are, after all, on a journey. And it’s going to be a long one. So long, in fact, that you aren’t ever likely to get home again. At least, not if ‘home’ means where you were before you met me. Maybe a new home, though.
“Christ, fuck, but you’ve got a talented coon mouth. Your lips aren’t as fat as I’d like, but damn fuck your little boy has a fine nigger whore mouth. Markie? The middle one? Met him downstairs while I was waiting. You dicked his cunt mouth? Spread those fat little cheeks and rammed your cock home fast and deep? No, don’t take your mouth off my cock when I’m fucking you. Multi-task.”
The professor shook his head almost violently to indicate he hadn’t sexed little Markie. Would never. Could never. The motion made the cop’s cock feel even better.
“You weren’t raped, last night, slut. You gave up your cunt to me because you wanted white cop meat fucking you. But when I leave, all you’ll remember is that even though it was me and the spic that kicked the shit out of you, what I told you, what you’ll accept as truth until we do this again, is that you were attacked by two white men in the parking lot, that they overpowered you, that they pulled down your slacks, and found you naked, no underwear, clearly on the prowl for sex, and they raped your nigger cunt. Both of them.
“They fucking beat you, but they ran off when I happened to drive by. I took you to a hospital, had them do a rape kit, confirmed that it was two men who’d used your less-than-a-man pussy, and yeah, no one in the fucking real world believes you can get DNA tests done while you wait, but, darkie, you’re gonna believe it. Christ, fuck, yeah, work my cop meat with that tongue!”
The cop stopped talking and turned the blowjob into a near-brutal skull fuck, pounding so deep the professor was sure his throat would be bruised, that he’d barely be able to talk. But he didn’t care. The cop began to spew out vicious obscenities in a harsh whisper as he leaned forward, positioning the nigger professor’s head and mouth for maximum cop benefit, knowing the nigger being used was horned to the max, hard and aching, but telling him he couldn’t touch his cock. More and more rapid strokes, and then the cop rammed his cock all the way into the professor’s mouth and unloaded shot after shot of thick, bitter spooge.
When he was done, he kept his cock in the professor’s mouth as the agile tongue lovingly cleaned him. The tongue stopped when the bitter piss began.
That little voice screamed that he wasn’t a urinal, he wasn’t! But the professor didn’t care. And if the cop had heard that voice, he would have cared even less. The professor gulped every bit down. He was proud that he didn’t spill a drop.
When the cop was finished, he pulled out, tucked himself back inside, zipped, stepped back. Looked at the nigger on the edge of the bed, his impressive nigger cock standing tall.
“Jack, nigger.”
The professor gratefully began stroking himself, using two hands, a long perfected technique. As his strokes got faster and he shifted to one hand, obviously intending to catch his cum in the other, the cop told him no, told him to make a fucking mess of his tee and his pants. “Cum for me, nigger boy. Cum now!”
And the professor did, shooting long ropes of cum that spurted up on his tee, up and then down to stain his pants. He followed the cop’s order to milk his cock, and then wipe off his cummy hand on his clothes.
When he was done, the cop told him to look up. To listen. The cop gave him more instructions.
“Penelope, nigger.”
The professor looked at the nice cop sitting in the armchair, embarrassed by the fact that he had obviously jacked off and made a mess of himself, hell, he could still smell the cum in the air, before the officer arrived. What the fuck had he been thinking of? Elaine would be furious if she knew. But at least the cop had pretended he hadn’t noticed, all through their very helpful conversation.
The cop stood, ready to leave. The professor stood, too. The cop looked at the cum stains that seemed oddly fresh for having been made before this conversation began, and chuckled. Made a man-to-man kind of gesture to go with the look. “Don’t worry, professor, guys who have been raped, had their asses used for a fuck hole by someone, well, hell, by two white men in your case, pretty often need to assert their manhood with sex. Even if it’s with their own hand. You know, to show that they haven’t been emasculated.”
The professor nodded. That sounded reasonable to him. Though he wasn’t quite sure why. Nor why the reassuring words about his still-intact masculinity made him feel, well, less than masculine.
“Probably ought to change, put those clothes in the hamper or something. Wouldn’t want your delightful little boys downstairs getting any odd ideas about their daddy, would you?”
“No. No, of course not.”
“Fine, fine. Now here’s that card I told you about.” The officer unbuttoned a chest pocket, pulled out a business card, rebuttoned, handed it to the professor. “Give him a call.”
The professor nodded. The cop gave him an odd little half-salute, adjusted his cock and balls, turned, unlocked the door, left.
The professor looked at himself. Fuck, yeah, a fucking mess. And fuck Elaine if she got pissed when she realized what the stains were. He stripped, dropped the clothes in the hamper in the bathroom. During his shower, he jacked again, his fantasies a mixture of the mundane (man sex with the hot cop, getting fucked in a bar again) and the profane (face fucking a reluctant JJ, butt fucking an eager Markie, fingering baby Luke) before spraying the wall with his third load of cum that morning.
He got dressed. Went downstairs. Fixed himself some breakfast, though normally Elaine would have done that, except she was nowhere to be found. As he finished, and sipped his second cup of coffee, he picked the phone up from its cradle, dialed the number on the card.
The nice officer was right. He shouldn’t wait until depression really set in before getting help. Be proactive. And he was in luck, Dr. Santiago...Dr. Rojas? He looked again at the card. Juan Carlos Santiago y Rojas, M.D., plus other abbreviations—a name, not the whole name but at least a first name, that sounded oddly familiar—had a cancellation for the next morning. He promised to be there.
And he was.
Professor Mason sat down on the couch, nervous as hell, even though Sgt. Tate had repeatedly reassured him that Dr. Santiago had extensive experience with men who were traumatized because they had been raped and were feeling that they had lost their manhood. His methods were perhaps a little unusual, or so Sgt. Tate understood, never having needed therapy since he’d never been raped by another man, and obviously the doctor couldn’t disclose anything because of patient confidentiality. But still, he got results, and helped the raped men get as well as they were ever going to get.
The professor had been appalled. None of the raped men the sergeant knew about had ever fully recovered?
“Well, sure, I guess. Anything’s possible,” the sergeant had replied. “But see, if it was me, well, I couldn’t help but think it’s like, you know, back there was a hole you used for shitting, and now there’s been a cock up there. Well, two cocks with you, Professor. And it’s almost like instead of having a rectum, you’ve got like a vagina, or something, in your butt. A cunt.” The sergeant shook his head, regretfully. “Man, I don’t see how I’d ever forget an awful thing like that.”
The professor had wondered then what the fuck good therapy was going to do if there was no light at the end of the tunnel, except for the train rushing at him.
The cop had reached up with his large, hairy, callused hand to grip his shoulder in a man-comfort kind of way. “Well, professor, even if you don’t quite get over two men having their cocks in your c...uh...ass, it’s better than the alternatives. You sure as shit don’t wanta be like this one guy about a year ago, wouldn’t get any help, kept gettin’ worse, and finally bought a gun and blew his brains away. You really do need to get help, and if it turns out you don’t like Doc Santiago, which I don’t think is real likely to happen, you just give me a call, and I’ll help you find someone else.”
The professor had thanked the officer who had been so kind to him throughout his ordeal, so he’d made the call, and here he was. The office was clearly an expensive one, so business must be good.
The doctor was more impressive than the office. Just a little taller than the professor, a generally slender build though there was a noticeable thickening at his waist, visible in the tight and undeniably expensive shirt he wore. Spanish, a conclusion somehow obvious, even without the framed degrees from the University of Barcelona and the Universidad Complutense de Madrid; thick wavy black hair worn back in a widow’s peak, almost to his collar, with silver wings at the side. An oh-so-aristocratic nose and thin lips. Smooth shaven. Fine lines at the edge of his eyes, from nose to mouth. A suit that probably cost more than several months’ pay for the professor, well-tailored, too. A sleek and molded fit. Everywhere.
The doc had hung the professor’s suit coat up, persuaded him to take his tie off, open his shirt several buttons down, slip off his loafers, unbuckle his belt. If he’d kept his coat and tie and shoes on, kept his belt buckled, the doctor explained, it would be like some sort of armor around him, controlling him, blocking things from getting in. The doctor paused, acknowledging the perhaps awkward phrasing, but pointed out how unlikely it was that he’d ever have two cocks up inside him again, whether at the same time or sequentially, and that he would need to rise above the oftentimes unfortunate use of language that would bring memories of those two penises and how he was used, back to the surface.
“What do you mean?”
The doctor looked puzzled by the professor’s outburst.
“How do you know what, uh, what happened to me? I haven’t said anything about it.”
“Well, sir, it is, after all, a matter of public record.”
The “What?” this time was even more explosive and he moved almost as if to surge up off the couch but got himself under control. Somehow, he felt more vulnerable being only partially dressed while the handsome Spanish doctor was fully dressed in a suit that seemed to caress his muscular body, and probably cost more than the professor made in a couple of months. Nevertheless he remained seated, the doctor looking down at him.
“While the police records haven’t been turned over to the media, they are still part of an active investigation. So Sgt. Tate gave me a detailed description of what happened, finding you on the ground beside your car, your shirt ripped, your slacks at your ankles, the bruises on your torso and left thigh, the unusually large quantity of semen up inside you and leaking out, the subsequent testing disclosing that two men had, ah, molested you, the small hope they have of ever finding the men who did this, since the police really have nothing to go on, no witnesses, your inability to recall anything about how you were molested and by whom.”
“Molested? I was, I was, goddamnitall, I was raped!”
The doctor nodded. His large black eyes with extraordinarily long lashes looked sympathetically at the professor through the small, square, wire-framed glasses. His voice was soothing. “I do understand, but in these sessions I prefer to use the term ‘molest.’ It carries with it the connotation of being very young, very helpless, unable to prevent two men from putting their cocks inside your most private place. It’s simply not as harsh a word as rape, and I’ve found it helps my patients to regain some perspective, when we use that word instead of the other.”
The professor sighed. Yeah, fuck, he had been molested. Back then, when he was little, with his daddy, and his uncles and his grampas, and the men who’d paid money to use him, no choice at all, so yeah, the two fuckwads who had done this to him, had molested him, too.
The doctor walked back to his desk, opened a small pill bottle, closed it, poured a half glass of water, carried both back.
“I can tell how nervous and strained you are, Mr. M....”
“Professor Mason, sir.”
“Ah, yes. Thank you. Well, I think it would be helpful if you would just take this.”
Professor Mason looked suspiciously at the tiny green pill in the palm of the doctor’s olive-skinned hand.
“I assure you, sir, although quick acting, it is very mild and merely helps you to relax, and not feel quite so terrified or emotionally overwrought when talking about any of the subjects we will be talking about.” It was the doctor’s turn to give a slight laugh as he extended his hand with the pill, and the other hand with the small glass of water. “This certainly isn’t vodka, and that’s certainly not a date rape drug, so you aren’t going to find yourself on the floor, your pants and underwear, ah, no underwear?, well, then, just your pants at your ankles, with my penis sliding up inside you. Correct?”
The professor smiled back, nodded, took the pill and swallowed both it and the water down, only briefly wishing it was vodka. At the doctor’s direction, he swiveled, put his feet up, leaned back and stretched out. A very fine, comfortable couch, with a strong scent of good leather. The professor was slightly surprised when the doctor sat the in the wingback chair closer to the foot of the couch, rather than the one at the head and just a little behind. He seemed relaxed, too, his feet in their gleaming and obviously expensive shoes flat on the floor, his legs apart. At that angle, the professor couldn’t help but notice the doctor had a nice bulge going. He felt his own cock twitch and sternly rebuked it.
The world faded away, just a little. As instructed, he looked at the doctor while he read from a folder that had been on the side table next to the chair. It was obviously from the police, because it was a complete clinical-language statement of the investigation, and what they determined had happened and how.
“I’m sure that waking up the next morning and finding out how, well, thoroughly you had been molested was quite a shock.”
“Y...yes, it was.”
“Your mind was in quite a whirl? All sorts of odd thoughts going around?”
The professor nodded, ashamed of the nature of those vile thoughts, but kept his face mostly impassive. But not quite impassive enough. The drug saw to that.
“Perhaps sexual thoughts?”
The professor nodded again, the shame showing through clearly.
“Sexual thoughts are not unusual, of course. After all, you had just been molested, so it isn’t at all surprising that you would have sexual ideas coming to the surface. Most of my patients have had such thoughts. And just as you shouldn’t feel ashamed and degraded because two men violated you, there is no shame in outrageous sexual thoughts after an event like that.
“You know, of course, that children who are molested often grow up to be molesters themselves.”
The professor nodded. Thank God he was an exception. It didn’t even cross his mind what a fucking weird segue that was.
“Well, when a man has had his manhood attacked as you have, when he’s been so well-molested, his resentment at being used often turns into fantasies of being the molester. One young white patient of mine, well, let’s just call him Jack, had been molested by four, well, I have to go with Jack’s choice of words, four, ah, niggers in a bar. They had fucked his ass and...you don’t mind my frank language, do you, Professor? Clinical terminology is so cold, ah, thank you. Well, then, the niggers fucked his ass and fucked his mouth. It wasn’t at all surprising, well, not to me, at least, that he came twice during the course of being molested. And according to the police you certainly came at least once. Quite powerfully, too.
“But back to Jack. He confided to me in our very first session that after that incident he had found himself having fantasies about molesting young boys, being the powerful one, the one in control, because he wasn’t big enough, strong enough, man enough to take on niggers the size of the thugs who’d fucked his holes so many times that night. At first it was just a nigger boy in the neighborhood, about ten or eleven, skinny, but with that big nigger bubble butt, and he was thinking how good it would be to watch his short, fat white meat slide into the boy’s pussy. And then he confessed he’d even been thinking about dicking his own eight year old son.”
The doctor paused, his almost non-expression seeming to invite comment.
“I...I’ve been having sick thoughts like that, too.”
“No, no, Professor. Not sick at all. Just a mind’s coping mechanism.”
“But, but, I woke up that first morning with JJ and Markie shaking my shoulder, and I, Jesus, I thought that little boys should wake their daddies up with a blowjob, that it was the only right way for a boy to wake his daddy up.”
“Very understandable, Professor, very. Now you didn’t actually put your dick in their little mouths, did you?”
“Christ, no!”
“Of course not. You see, it was just imagining, a way of feeling more manly after being fucked by two men. Now if you told me that you had actually done that, held your oldest boy’s face...how old are they?”
“Uh, JJ’s seven, Markie is five, and, and little Luke is fifteen months.”
The doctor nodded, wisely, and his left hand reached down as if to brush something off his slacks. Was it only the professor’s imagination, or did that hand actually fondle that bulge, did the bulge get a little bigger?
“And in this fantasy are they your little black sons, or are they your nigger boys?”
The professor looked away, more ashamed than ever, but still admitting the truth when he whispered, “Nigger.”
“Again, quite normal, professor. ‘Nigger’ is a demeaning term and by using it you assert your dominance, another effort to regain your lost manhood. But still, you didn’t put your daddy dick between his plump little seven year old nigger lips and fuck JJ’s mouth until you ejaculated. You only thought about it. Now, naturally, if you ever turned that healthy fantasy into reality, I’d have to report you to the sergeant, and you would certainly be arrested.”
The doctor paused, this time shifting his left hand so it rested on his thigh. Right next to the bulge that was definitely larger. But nothing in the doctor’s face showed arousal. He was just, just, calm, and caring, the professor thought.
“And the fantasy undoubtedly aroused you, correct?”
The professor nodded.
“I noticed you used the word ‘should,’ Professor. Now, there’s a difference between just fantasizing about the possibility, the idea of sons sucking on your morning wood, and feeling they had an obligation to do so. That kind of thought suggests to me that, well, you yourself may have done that to your own father?”
A very long pause before the admission. “Y...yes.”
“Your father molested you as a little boy?”
“Y...yes. I, uh, I didn’t know that until, well, until that morning, when I woke up and thought that horrible thought about my boys, and then remembered my daddy doing that to me. Only not my father, the man who raised me, the man I always thought was my real father, this was my biological father. I, I, I don’t know why these memories suddenly came back, but they did.”
“Did he fuck your little bottom as well as your mouth?”
The professor nodded. Christ, the words out of the doctor’s mouth were filthy, but the tone was so professional.
“How old were you?”
“He fucked me for the first time when I was two. He, oh Christ, doc, he raped me!” The professor was shuddering, tears suddenly streaming down his face.
“Tell me about that, Professor. Trust me, it will help to get this memory out into the open. To face it.”
The professor glanced over at the doctor, who was leaning slightly forward in his chair. He told him the full story of his rape at two, how badly his daddy’s big dick had hurt him, how his grampa Cash had held him down, how his grampa and his uncles had fucked his daddy and called him a worthless fag, and all the while he had a feeling that he had told someone this story already. But that wasn’t possible, because he’d only just remembered it the morning after his rape, ah, his being molested. He was gasping and crying harder by the time he finished. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the doctor.
“That aroused you, didn’t it, Professor?”
He turned his head to look at the doctor, opened his mouth to vigorously deny it, but saw where the doctor’s eyes were focused. On the hardon so very visibly displayed down the leg of his slacks. He looked at the wall, anywhere but at his own erection and the doctor’s stare.
The doctor’s voice had a smile in it when he said, “Again, not unusual. No need to feel embarrassed about that hardon, Professor. If I had a dollar for every hardon I’ve seen on that couch from molested men, well, you get the idea. Now, we’re definitely going to need to work on these repressed memories that are coming back.
“But before we talk about that technique, I must caution you not to disclose these repressed memories, the ones coming back, to anyone but me. Those events were, what, thirty years and more ago? And somewhere in the South from your accent while telling me how your little fag pussy got raped at two by your very own nigger daddy.”
That wasn’t right, was it? Saying he had a fag pussy just because he got raped. The fprofessor wanted to say something, to explain. The thought faded and he just said, “Y...yes. L...Louisiana.”
“Well, I believe that there are some laws there which might allow you to pursue a criminal prosecution down there, especially with the very precise details you recall. You would certainly have to go through the police here, first, and while Sergeant Tate is a most honorable and reliable contact, instituting criminal proceedings vastly increases the risk of public exposure. Do you want the world to know how you were molested, brutally fucked by two white men and abandoned to be found half naked?”
The professor shook his head.
“And then there’s the underwear.”
“The...the underwear?”
“Or rather, the lack of it.”
“I don’t understand.”
Of course you don’t, you stupid shit nigger, not with the drugs inside you, not with just being a stupid shit nigger in the first place, the doctor thought but did not say.
“The police report, and the sergeant’s explanation to me made it very clear that it wasn’t a matter of you having worn underwear that was torn off you, or that had been removed and then you were redressed. You were deliberately going ‘commando,’ I believe the expression is, that night. Indeed, you are doing so today.”
“But I, but I always go commando. I never wear....” But he did. Didn’t he? Or used to? And when did that change?
The doctor shook his head. “There are those who will say your lack of underwear is evidence you were looking for sex that night. That you wanted those white men to fuck you, to submit to powerful white men just as your nigger ancestors submitted when the plantation owners, the owners’ sons, the overseers, wanted to use some nigger mouth or nigger ass. That you wanted rough sex; wanted to be hurt. And then when you had what you wanted, but were discovered, you cried rape.”
“No, no, doctor, no, I didn’t. Please, you must believe me.”
“I do, professor, indeed, I believe you. I sympathize with you. But psychologically speaking, going commando, particularly with the fairly restrictive slacks you seem to favor, is a method of flaunting your sexuality. Showing off your big nigger dick. Letting it be known to anyone who sees you that you are interested in sex, not later, but immediately.”
“Christ, I didn’t know.”
“Well, perhaps not consciously. But....” The doctor paused, shrugged, looked at his watch. “Look, professor, we need to move on, but how about this? Confide in Sergeant Tate, a most trustworthy police officer, I assure you. I won’t say anything ahead of time, naturally. But talk to him, tell him of this conversation, and ask his advice. Of course, you should wear tight slacks or jeans so that he would know what the issues were. Okay?”
“Uh, uh, yes.”
“Good, good. Now let’s turn back to your treatment program.
“The first thing I want you to do is to jack off when you remember one of these incidents. Find somewhere private as soon as you think the first thought, get your cock hard, and then relate the story out loud while you jack. Eventually, you’ll begin to associate those past events, not with the horror of being so well and effectively abused, but the pleasure you get now from cumming to the memory.”
“R...really?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve used this technique quite successfully on a number of patients. Now, clearly, you’re going to have more memories than you can recount in our sessions, but it’s important for me, for a successful course of treatment, to know your past. So before you leave I’m going to give you a small digital recorder. Every time you talk out one of these memories, record it, all the way through your cum. Then when the memory is full you can swap it out for another one.”
The professor’s cock surged. That would be almost like jacking while someone watched. He had no idea why that was such a fucking turn on.
“But, doc, I, uh, I just can’t sit in my office jacking and talking out loud about my daddy molesting me. And Jesus, not at home, not where my boys or my wife might hear.”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, I can see that. Fortunately, I can offer you at least a partial solution. Or rather, Jack can. He had similar issues about being molested when young. First by his priest and then several of his teachers who shared him, passed him around. He told me that there are some trails and clearings in the woods at Clancy Park where queers cruise for cock. He’d go there with the digital recorder in his shirt pocket, stand in a clearing and jack. There were even times when one of the queers would stumble on him, and he said how turned on they all got hearing his story, and would wind up giving him a blow job while he talked.
“But there’s also something closer to home, so to speak. The Franklin Library.”
“The Franklin?” The professor couldn’t quite make up his mind whether he was appalled or eager.
The doctor nodded. “Jack told me about this one as well. There’s a men’s room on the fourth floor, in the back, near the rare book section. Faggots from both on and off campus use it in their quests for cock. Not, of course, that you are a faggot, just a victim of a molester. Or, in your case, two molesters.” The doctor paused. “Besides all the men who molested you while you were young. And I get the sense there were a lot of them?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you need to bring all those repressed memories to the surface again. If you use the toilet you will find the stalls have quite large gloryholes. If there’s a queer next to you, stick your hardon through and get sucked. And, well, I have to advise you that if you are similar to Jack in this way at all, when you are relating an episode of being molested by fucking, you may have an urge to have a cock in your ass. That’s a natural part of the healing process, converting the pain memories to pleasure ones. With Jack, that meant he was hoping for and really pleased to find a nigger buck to fuck him in the stall while he recorded a memory. With you, since it was most likely two white men who molested you in the parking lot, I recommend finding some good white cock to use your hole.”
The professor moaned. His cock was leaking steadily as he imagined himself first in the park, then in the toilet. But he was a professor at that college. If he did that, if he did it more than once, he’d be at great risk of getting caught. Hell, even once was a major risk. He explained his fears.
The doctor reassured him that although there was indeed that sort of risk, the benefits outweighed them. He would have to be very careful is all. But as the memories were starting to surface more rapidly, the professor was going to find himself with a need to record each of those memories and jack more frequently as well. And the library toilet was close and accessible.
The doctor looked at his watch. “Well, we’re nearing the end of this session. Before you go, however, you need to practice.”
“Practice?”
“Yes, I need to be sure you’re comfortable with this technique. And as aroused and leaking as you are, you certainly don’t want to walk through a busy medical building with that hardon, do you?”
The professor knew there were some very sound objections to the idea of him hauling his cock out and jacking off in front of the doctor, but the slight fog was still there and he hadn’t a fucking clue what those reasons might be.
“Sit up, Professor.” The professor began to follow orders.
“Now unzip and get your cock and balls out. Yes, that’s it. Very impressive. Is that a black cock or a nigger cock?”
“Nigger. Ten fucking inches of nigger meat.”
“Fine, fine. Now straddle the couch and begin telling me another memory. Don’t look at me, or think about my presence, just jack that fine nigger donkey dong and when you’re ready to cum, do it on the couch.”
The professor began stroking, and the precise, scholarly English faded away.
“I, I was three the first time Grampa Cash fucked me. He’d been comin’ over ever since my daddy raped me and he helped. Havin’ me t’lick his dick ‘n get it wet ‘fore he’d fuck my daddy, ‘n then clean him up when he was done. Havin’ me t’suck him off. Oh, God, I loved my grampa’s big ol’ nigger dick, ‘n his stuff tasted so fuckin’ good. Sometimes he’d suck my baby boy dick, and put two fingers up my tight little pussy, or three, ‘n he’d stretch me all out ‘n hurt my little cunt, but daddy wudn’t let him put his dick up there. ‘n sometimes he’d just come over ‘n have my daddy dick me, while grampa fucked my fag father. But finally, ‘bout my third birthday, grampa come over one day ‘n daddy was dickin’ me in my bottom, ‘n grampa hauled him off, stood him up, bitch-slapped him ‘n then belly-punched him, makin’ him fold up and fall down.
“Grampa said he was mothafuckin’ tired of his mothafuckin’ son bein’ such a mothafuckin’ prick bastard shithead, ‘n how he was gonna fuck him some grandbaby boy pussy. My little dickie was so hard when he kicked daddy in the thigh with his big ol’ work boots, ‘n then grampa turned back to me, ‘n hauled his big ol’ nigger grampa prick outa his jeans and said I was to get my nigger whore ass on all fours, ‘n I did, and oh, fuck, shit, Christ, doc! He yanked me over to the edge of the bed, lined his dick up and just shoved the fuck all the way in. ‘n he started fuckin’ me rough ‘n deep ‘n ever’ time he shoved in ‘n out he rubbed my boy button, ‘n he fucked me faster ‘n faster ‘n oh fuck shit doc, I’m cummin’ ‘n grampa is cummin’ in my kid cunt.”
With a loud cry the professor spewed ropes of seed out of his large pee lips, spraying the dark leather in front of him. When he finally stopped he held himself motionless, hand still on his dick, gasping loudly.
“If your daddy sprayed like that, what would he make his nigger boy do?” the doctor asked softly.
“L...lick it up.”
“Do it, Professor.”
The professor got off the couch, carefully, his softening prick hanging out of his slacks, and got on his knees, leaned forward and with equal care, licked and slurped every bit of his spooge up and swallowed it. He slumped forward, head bowed. Christ but he was a sick motherfucker.
“Professor, I need you to stand up now, and drop your slacks, and bend over the couch.”
“What?” He was too fogged to make that a truly loud “What the fuck!” but he tried his best.
And still did what he was told.
“Now, professor, I’m certainly not going to stick my dick in that fine nigger ass that so many other men have enjoyed over the years. Why, I’m sure the white men who fucked you last week in the parking lot, or wherever they did it before leaving you there, found you to be tight and talented. But that would be unprofessional of me. I just need to give you a shot, and it’s best in your hip. Trust me, professor, all will be well.”
The doctor was, indeed, sorely tempted to haul his own aching, leaking cock out of his pants and shove it deep in the nigger’s pussy, but he had his instructions. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the already-prepared syringe in its sterile envelope, opened a sterile wipe and swabbed a spot on the professor’s lean, muscled hip, and then, slightly pissed, more than slightly horned up, he rammed the needle in, barely keeping on the right side of professional and pressed the plunger.
The professor jerked, almost tried to get away. The fire in his body was incredible, like that gamma globulin injection all those years ago only with lava instead of medicine...and hadn’t he thought that same thing when he got that...that...other shot? But he had never been to this doctor before, and he hadn’t had another.... And then the blackness took him.
The doctor turned him and eased him down on the couch. That long, floppy dick across his thighs look so fucking edible. Under other circumstances he’d have swallowed it down, but under these circumstances, no fucking way.
The concealed door opened. Sergeant Tate walked into the room, crossed to the doctor, reached up to caress his check, and said, “Federico.”
That was the doctor’s word, just as “Odysseus” now belonged to the professor. Not a word that would come up in ordinary conversation and trigger him accidentally. The part of him that was buried inside, behind the glass wall where shouting and wailing could never leak out and be heard, sighed. He had long ago given up berating himself for his stupidity in trusting Tate, in agreeing to test the drug on himself, believing, actually fucking believing that the cop would not use it to take control of him.
By now, he would have done what Tate wanted even without being controlled. But Tate enjoyed that control, enjoyed the power. “Cunt. Now.”
The doctor knew better than to ask for, much less hope, that he would be allowed to get naked, to enjoy the feeling of being fucked by this powerful white man. He unbuckled, unzipped, dropped the slacks to his ankles, bent forward to brace himself on the back of the couch, his cock painfully hard in his white Calvin Klein briefs, made even harder, more painful, by the cock ring he had been ordered to wear. He had freshly lubed his pussy before the session with the professor, but since there was a hole to allow cop cock easy access, that meant his slacks were stained. He wondered if his dry cleaner ever sniffed them before cleaning, smelling cum, and cunt juice, and lube, and the occasional not quite clean wipe.
He grunted as the cop took what he owned. Slammed his white meat deep inside the doctor’s cunt. Began a quick fuck. Paused long enough to say, “Odysseus, nigger.” Started a role playing fantasy in which the cop was a teacher molesting a three year old preschooler who was the younger brother of one of his students. Once, even the thought of molesting a little boy would have made the doctor nauseous, but that was long ago, in a drug-free galaxy far, far away. Now, he was eager to play the three year old getting his pussy pounded. Now, he was eager to abuse the street boys, the young street boys the cop pulled in, at least whenever he was allowed to.
Behind the glass wall the part of the doctor that was the original him wept, but only a little and not for long. That part of him that was still independent had begun to be aroused by all of this, had begun playing with himself, fantasizing about plunging his thick Spanish meat into tiny white boy pussies, hot little boy mouths, breeding their slut little holes. Soon, too soon, the glass wall would be gone, the old version vanished, the new pedophile in charge. Or as much in charge as the cop would allow.
The doctor surrendered to the white man pounding his ass, brutally fucking him in his own office, while the drugged professor sprawled. Almost...but not quite...unaware. The cop’s words as he fucked the doctor, role-playing an abusive teacher molesting a three year old, the doctor’s voice fantasizing the powerful cock spreading his cunt walls wide, bruising his pussy deep inside as his tiny twat was power-fucked, seeped into the professor’s mind. The scholar’s cock stiffened.
The doctor’s mouth watered. He’d been a top when this all began. A bi-sexual Spanish aristocrat top, naturalized citizen or not, whose thick meat plowed the mouths and asses of the men he chose. Now he couldn’t even get hard if offered the chance to fuck, not unless he’d been told he could. Now he was a pathetic bottom who hungered for cock and cum, like the professor’s.
Neither of which he was likely to get at the moment. The cop’s cock was relentless, every in and out stroke designed to rub his enlarged prostate. The tempo of the fuck increased, increased again, until all he could hear, feel, sense was the rapid, rhythmic slap of the cop’s hairy body against his smooth ass, the large hairy balls banging into him. Faster still, with no hand touching him, and yet when the cop ordered, “Cum, spic!” in a hoarse voice as he spilled his own juices inside the willing pussy beneath him, the doctor sprayed his underwear with his own slime.
The cop yanked his meat out. Allowed Juan Carlos...poor, helpless, submissive, aristocrat with the same name as a king...no chance to recover. Crudely ordered him to get his fucking pussy ass dressed. Not even a butt plug, although there were several in the office as the cop knew, to hold the cum and slime in. The doctor paused for as long as he thought it might be safe...there was often a punishment if he didn’t respond quickly enough to an order...and then struggled upright.
He pulled his trousers up, buttoned, zipped, buckled. And could feel the slime, the thick load of cop cum oozing out of his abused cunt, staining the briefs, staining the slacks.
“Get him the fuck dressed.”
It was even more of a struggle than standing upright, but the doctor managed to get the professor decent again. The cop leaned over to the get close to the professor’s ear as he lolled back on the couch. Began issuing soft instructions the doctor couldn’t hear, but he could see as the professor’s cock hardened again inside his underwear, inside his slacks. He watched the professor hesitantly, and then with more confidence as the words the doctor couldn’t hear, and knew better than to try to hear, droned into the teacher’s skull, reach to his crotch and begin playing with himself.
The professor began babbling incoherently as he frantically worked his meat through his clothes, some memory, some fantasy? some idea planted by Tate? of being five and being fucked by several men, a forced fuck that wasn’t quite a rape, and the boy in the professor’s voice begged to be fucked hard, and then he was writhing on the couch when the cop said, “Cum, nigger,” and right on command the nigger made a fucking mess of his underwear and his oh-so-proper professor pants.
There was a visible stain on the professor’s crotch. The only question anyone who saw it would be asking was whether it was piss or cum. The distinct and obvious strong scent of the professor’s seed would answer that question before anyone actually asked.
The cop stopped talking. Straightened. “Wake him when I’ve gone.” Left.
The cop needed no acknowledgment, no affirmation that he would be obeyed. The drugs had long ago left the doctor no choice.
“Penelope, nigger.”
The professor jerked into awareness. He had a vague sensation that time had passed, but...and then he noticed, felt, his crotch. He looked down at the large stain. Impossible. Yes, he’d cum on the couch, but he’d licked all that up. So how the fuck had he..... He looked to the doctor for an explanation.
The doctor stared back coldly. “I gave you an opportunity to begin your treatment properly, professor. You responded well. You quite properly cleaned up your cummy mess, just as a good nigger boy would have done in your past. You could have left here with no visible evidence of the depravity of your mind. Indeed, I asked you to leave, but you begged me to let you stay a little longer. And then you began masturbating through your clothes, spewing some fantasy, some memory, I’m not sure which, of being three and being viciously fucked by your teacher, until you finally ejaculated in your trousers. I expect better of you in the future, Professor, but for now, our session is most definitely at an end. Good day, sir.”
The professor looked at the doctor he had begun to trust. Felt pain at having disappointed him. Felt confused because he didn’t remember doing any.... Oh. Yes. He had. Just as the doctor described. Fuck, but he was depraved. And he couldn’t even claim it was because he was deprived.
The professor stood, walked over to the stand, grabbed his jacket and put it on. There was no way to hide the cum stain on his groin. Fuck, fuck, fuck! How could he be so perverted!
He wanted to beg the doctor to solve the problem, to keep from having everyone see the highly visible, wet stain. But the doctor’s face made it clear he was not going to help.
As he left the doctor’s office, left the reception area with the unquestionably faggot receptionist, entered the busy hallway, the crowded elevator down thirty floors to the lobby, he knew there was something he needed to do, but he couldn’t quite remember what.
He also knew that everyone was looking at his cummy groin. At Professor Mason’s mess.
Christ, but he was well and truly fucked.
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