ESSOR MASON’S MESS,
OR, A SWEET DARK PUSSY
by DannyR (MMMM/bbb, incest, oral, anal, piss, racial epithets, extreme pedo)
Copyright 2011-2012. 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: Zack sent me a really hardon making email about the Professor and another repressed memory. As the saying goes (mine at least), sooooooooo fucking hot. We decided that Zack should join the fun, and you’ll meet him down below. That’s his real description by the way, and I know he’s going to blow a huge wad over what he gets to do in the story.
PROFESSOR MASON’S MESS
Chapter 5
“Sit down, Professor.”
The professor obliged, looking warily at the handsome doctor. There was no need for that feeling, though, this was purely professional. No need for nervousness, concern. All the hot Spaniard was doing was trying help him get over his feelings of inadequacy ever since being raped. Help him with the sexual feelings he was having about his young sons; feelings that were getting more and more difficult to suppress. But he had. Somehow. Mostly. Still, he couldn’t quite get a grasp on why he should be feeling worse, instead of better, but the doctor assured him that would turn around.
Obediently, he opened his mouth without being told, letting the professor put the small green pill in and then push it to the back of his throat. He vaguely recalled that at one time the doctor had handed him the pill with water, but now it seemed, well, normal, to have the pill pushed down his throat until he swallowed it. Sort of like his white neighbor Ben, giving medicine to one of his dogs.
Normal, too, to close his lips around the hairy olive-skinned finger and use his tongue to caress it as it withdrew. Normal, natural. Just as it was normal, now, to take off his coat without being told, drop it on the floor, ditto his tie. Toe off his shoes and kick them aside. Unbutton his shirt farther than that first time. He was removing his belt, now, as well, dropping it on the floor. It was almost like it was some sort of progression, but he couldn’t imagine toward what. And then that thought faded away.
He was accustomed, too, to stretching out on the couch, almost displaying himself. Even the hardon that stretched his dress slacks was normal. Accustomed to seeing the doctor sitting in the wingback chair, not quite as formal as that first time, but not relaxed, slumping, by any means. And always, now, with a large bulge at his crotch. The professor vaguely wondered if the doc’s dick was as big as it looked, what Spanish prick might feel like fucking one of his holes.
“I listened to your most recent recording. About how you lost your memories.”
The professor couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped his lips. He wasn’t supposed to listen to the recordings once they were made; they were for therapeutic purposes only, so his doctor could help him. But he had. Twice. Jacking and cumming violently each time. His cock twitched in his pants as his mind did a video not-so-instant replay.
Daddy Cash had really gotten off on the rape of his two year old son. And on being raped by his father and his brothers while he was raping baby Lamar. Not that he’d ever voluntarily admit it. And ever since then, Daddy Cash had enjoyed playing the rape game with his toddler.
The first few times, of course, the rape was real. Little Lamar hadn’t been at all happy about his two year old shitter being turned into a cunt by his daddy’s big nigger dick. And it fucking hurt each time daddy fucked him again, forced more and more of his dark meat in, until finally the day came when he could just slam that big old nigger daddy prong all the way in, balls deep. Baby Lamar still screamed and struggled, though, which just turned daddy on even more. Turned on both his grampas and his uncles, too, when they stopped by to help Daddy Cash rape his little boy, and to use Daddy Cash’s pussies as well.
Eventually, though, and somewhat to the family’s regret, Lamar got to liking being sexed by his daddy, and after he was three, molested not only by his family, but the men they whored him out to, or just let use him for the fun of it. He even got to enjoy the rape game, fighting against his daddy, against whoever was helping in the rape, screaming and shouting just as he had that very first time. Only he was older, so he could actually plead with the men not to do that to him, that he was a good boy; beg them not to hurt him. A good time was had by all. Every time, over the years.
That night, Daddy Cash allowed as how he was going over to the crick. Besides the men from the town and elsewhere that came to get their dicks sucked or their asses fucked in the woods where the crick joined the river, he’d heard there was a little nigger boy that had been seen there on Wednesday nights. A young nigger boy. No one had ever done him, or caught him doing anyone, Daddy had heard.
Daddy was in a mood to rape him some fresh nigger boy pussy, and if the kid wouldn’t give it up willingly, well, that’s what the family Colt was for. A 1907 .38 that one of the Cashes had bought, or stolen, some time around the first World War, and somehow managed to keep on passing it down. Yeah, having a cocked six-shooter at the back of a little boy’s head would sure the fuck be enough to get the kid to give up his cunt.
Uncle Jethro and Uncle Leroy allowed as how that sounded mighty fine to them, too. Jethro went into the bedroom and brought back the revolver. And checked to be sure it was unloaded. And checked again. They might be niggers, they might be not very bright niggers, but they weren’t stupid enough to play the rape game with bullets in the Colt.
Daddy Cash told Lamar to go to bed, like a good son, ‘cause he and his brothers had some business to take care of. Lamar promised to be as good as he (an eight year old nigger whore cum slut) could possibly be and trooped off to bed. Then he quietly went out the door in his bedroom that let onto the back porch. Quiet was easy since Daddy kept the hinges oiled. If somebody wanted to drop by and molest little Lamar without bothering the rest of the family, that’s what the door was for. Of course, they had to leave the right amount of money on the night stand when they were through.
Everyone did. It had taken only once for the Cash men to make their point, back when Lamar was six. They’d stomped the living shit out of a lawyer from over in Wakeville who thought he was so rich and powerful he could sneak in, use the nigger whore’s pussy (fucking him twice) and leave without paying, and no one would dare to say or do anything. When he woke up two days later in the hospital, he remembered the warning, as one of the niggers, he didn’t know who since they all looked alike, emptied his wallet of the numerous hundreds he kept there, shoved the bills in a pocket, and told him he was welcome to use the nigger’s kid cunt any time he wanted, but if he ever fucked them over again, they’d let everybody know about the white lawyer who wanted to be a judge, married, four kids, who liked fucking little boy nigger whores, and then they’d kill him.
Oh, yes, he remembered it well. And when the sheriff questioned him, he could remember nothing from just after breakfast the day of the, ah, mugging, until he woke up in the hospital. The doctors nodded wisely, acknowledging that amnesia was not at all uncommon with an attack this severe. The sheriff who hated niggers was sure it was niggers that had done this to one of the town’s finest. The deputy sheriff who was a nigger hater, too, figured the same. Both were frustrated because they couldn’t do a fucking thing about it.
As Lamar walked to the crick, he played with his not so little hard nigger boy cock, deciding just where his daddy was going to find an innocent little boy playing by the crick on a summer evening. All by himself. It had to be a little bit difficult to locate, so as to help make it feel real. But he also couldn’t make it too difficult, since daddy would get real pissed then, which wasn’t good for little Lamar’s hide.
Lamar stopped, stripped off the raggedy ass pair of fraying shorts he was wearing, carried them in one hand as he walked naked and stiff toward the crick. Maybe, if he was lucky, some men, hell, even one, would be there looking for sex, and he could whore himself for some cash for Daddy Cash. Yeah, that would make daddy happy. Being able to rape and rob an innocent little boy.
Unfortunately, no one was cruising the crick. The boy shrugged, put his shorts back on (innocent little boys wouldn’t be waiting naked for a rapist to come along) and waited patiently, playing with himself just a little. When the men arrived, at first he thought they’d get right to it, but daddy and his uncles decided they’d better take the edge off, so that the rapes could be longer and more enjoyable. Lamar sighed, but only inside where it wouldn’t piss his daddy off, pulled off the shorts and got on all fours. Daddy fucked him first, a rough and rapid job since he just wanted a quick cum, not a ball-draining rape cum. Uncle Leroy enjoyed his nephew’s throat when a fast cum was needed, but Uncle Jethro preferred the kid’s pussy, so they just fucked him fast in both holes.
Everything was fine after that. For a while. Lamar was really good at the rape game by now. Very believable. He was clearly nervous about this big nigger who had surprised him. The man kept on talking to him, wondering why such a pretty little boy was all alone, and wouldn’t his family be worried. The man made him nervous, so he agreed, and tried to leave, but the man wouldn’t let him leave the woods. He got frightened when the nigger offered to pay him to put his baby boy lips on the man’s fat nigger dick. That was disgusting, and not something he’d ever done, never would do. He refused like the good little boy he was.
And tried to run.
But the nigger grabbed him and slapped his face. Twice. Hard. He didn’t understand why his little dickie got stiff. And then he got really frightened when the mean old man pulled a revolver out the waistband of his jeans. And cocked it. And pointed it at him. He was so frightened he pissed his shorts even though his little meat was so stiff, soaking the denim, feeling the hot piss run down his bare legs into the dirt.
The bad nigger made him get on his knees and pull a huge nigger dick out of the man’s jeans, and, and, and lick and suck on it, roughly shoving it into his throat, making him choke and gag, and all the while the barrel was pressed against his head.
Then he stopped and made him take off his clothes and get on the ground, belly down on the piss-wet shorts. He felt the gun at the back of his head and begged and pleaded with the man not to hurt him, not to kill him. A large left hand grabbed his left side at the waist, probably leaving a bruise, hauled his nigger boy ass up, felt a knee force his legs apart. Felt the fat, moist head against his virgin poo-poo hole.
Poor, innocent Lamar screamed loud and long when the nasty man shoved his nigger meat all the way into his shitter. Lamar had an excellent rape scream. He used it again as the man began to punch fuck him. Then when the man braced himself with his left palm on the ground, his right still holding the gun, but flat against the earth, the boy tried to escape.
That didn’t last long. The cruel man’s left hand lashed out, slapped him across the back of his head, hard enough to make him pause, long enough for that big hand to get in place flat on his back, fingers pointed towards his skull, and press him down until he was on his belly, his arms and legs flailing, while the raping nigger body followed.
The innocent boy tried to get away, he really, truly did. He wiggled and struggled and gasped and cried and pleaded with the man to stop hurting him, to let him go, fought as hard as a little boy could fight when a two hundred pound nigger was holding his eight year old body down, while using all the force of those two hundred pounds to rape his no longer virgin boy hole.
The nigger was pumping faster and faster. One more rape scream should tip him over the edge, make him seed the boy’s new pussy.
Lamar screamed. A fine scream. An excellent scream.
And everything went south.
A bright light flashed on, shining on Daddy Cash’s pumping ass, moving towards his stunned face as a harsh voice yelled, “Freeze, nigger!”
Daddy Cash was so damned close even the shock couldn’t stop him, he thrust once, twice, started to seed little Lamar’s hole as the voice shouted out of the darkness behind the flashlight, “I said, freeze, you fucking nigger. Freeze or I blow your fucking head off!”
Daddy Cash froze. Almost. He stopped fucking, turned his head toward the voice, and unconsciously raised his right hand, the hand with the six-shooter, to shield his eyes from the glare. He never made it. Fuck, he never got to see another flashlight glare again.
“GUN!”
The word was followed almost instantaneously with a shot that entered Daddy Cash’s right eye and blew his head apart. As his daddy’s body toppled to his left, the cock dragging out of the kid’s cummy cunt, daddy’s bowels and bladder released, the spewing piss making the boy’s ass and thighs as wet with urine as his back and neck and head were with blood and gore and bits of daddy’s brain.
Lamar just lay there, not even daring to tremble. He heard steps coming closer; was aware of the light washing over daddy and over him. The voice was quieter now, up in the mostly dark above the flashlight. “Well, fuck, it’s only a nigger kid. Wasted a goddamn bullet.”
A loud sigh. The well-shit-I-guess-I-have-to-do-my-duty kind of sigh. “C’mon, kid, you have to move.”
Lamar stayed still, hearing the voice from a far distance.
The man with the flashlight leaned over. A callused hand grabbed Lamar’s blood-free right bicep, and yanked him up, and away from the body and the spreading blood. When he let go a few feet away, Lamar sagged, then dropped to his hands and knees. That was a good position to be in. He liked that position. Daddy liked him that way. So did the men who fucked him. Only daddy wouldn’t be fucking him any more. A tear dropped to the ground. Then another.
“Okay, kid, what the fuck’s going on here.” The man’s tone suggested he knew it was a dumb shit question, but that it was the only one that came to mind.
“My daddy fucked me.” Lamar’s voice was thin, soft, distant.
“Your daddy?”
The light moved away toward the body and Lamar risked a quick peek. Not that he could see much in the gloom. Just a shirt that sort of looked like a cop’s, and a name tag that he could just barely make out. But then the light was back, blinding him. He shut his eyes.
“Has...has he done that before?”
“Uh-ha. Lots. My grampas, too. ‘n my uncles.” The voice was almost a monotone. There was only a slight question to it when he said, “Uncle Jethro? Uncle Leroy?” as if he was quietly calling out to someone.
Only silence answered him.
The maybe-cop voice broke it. “So...so you’re a nigger whore?”
Lamar nodded. He felt rather than saw the man drop to his knees behind him. Definitely felt it when the man’s fingers entered his sloppy, slimy pussy and pulled out.
“Jesus, nigger, how much cum you got up inside you?”
“Th...three.”
“Guess I’ll make four.”
Lamar didn’t respond. The fingers were wiped on his butt cheek. He heard the sound of a zipper going down, a sound he knew well. A pause as the pee-lips of the man’s cock nudged his greasy pussy lips.
“That gun wasn’t loaded, was it?”
Lamar shook his head.
“Well, fuck.” Another pause. “Okay, kid, here’s how it is, you’re gonna give up your nigger boy whore pussy to me, and when I’m done and gone you have no idea who shot your daddy. You don’t remember a fucking thing.”
Another pause. The sound as the gun was cocked and pressed against the back of his head, just where daddy had done it, was loud. Only this gun wasn’t pretend. This was the gun that blew daddy’s head apart. “Or I just fucking blow your brains out, too.”
Lamar remained silent, drifting farther and farther away.
The man, the maybe-cop, uncocked the gun, put it away. Shoved his hips forward and groaned as he buried his cock in the bowels of a young nigger boy who was covered with his own daddy’s blood and brains. Because of his so fucking fine coon huntin’. So fucking hot. Such a fucking turnon. The man was probably as brutal as Lamar’s daddy had been during that very first rape, and if Lamar had been feeling anything at all, he might have felt pain.
His body was well-trained though, his nigger dickie got stiff, and his twat writhed through a cock clenching dry cum, though the rest of his body didn’t move. It brought the rapist off, blasting his seed up into the sloppy bowels.
The man leaned over little Lamar, panting. He started to slide his cock out of the kid’s hole. Stopped. Slid it back in, still hard.
He raped the nigger again. And when he was through breeding the boy pussy the second time, he picked the gun back up and pressed it against the child’s head. Told him again he was fucking dead if he said anything about the man who shot his daddy and fucked his ass.
Lamar didn’t move. He felt the man pull his dick out, as so many, many men had done so many, many times before. And then there was a sharp blow to the base of his skull.
And nothing at all.
The professor moaned again, and the doctor snapped, “Professor!”
The professor opened his eyes. Looked down to where his cock was out of his pants, shiny with the precum he’d clearly been using as lube while he stroked. He wondered how long he’d been lost in the memories. How long he’d just been blatantly jacking in front of his doctor. Christ but he was sick. The wondering why his psychiatrist allowed such bizarre behavior flickered through his mind and then vanished. He wiped his sticky, sweaty palms on the slacks, knowing that would mean they’d have to be cleaned. He fumbled with his meat, trying to get it covered up, began to apologize
“Don’t bother.”
The professor stopped, confused.
The doctor continued, his voice somewhat stern, almost disapproving. “You seem to actually enjoy being raped, Professor.”
“No! No, I don’t!”
“Why, then, does it happen so often?”
“But...but it doesn’t.” The professor paused, thought. Okay, so he had been raped when he was two, and raped over and over again, but only for a while, just until he got used to having big nigger man dick in his boy pussy. And then he got to liking it, so there really wasn’t any rape after that. Well, okay, the man who might have been a cop raped him after killing his daddy. And then the rape in the college parking lot. That wasn’t a lot. Just three...or so...times in the thirty one years since he turned two. He tried explaining that to his doctor.
The doctor apparently wasn’t buying it. And he didn’t really have to say much. Just pointed to the professor’s leaking hardon.
“Your case is unfortunately much worse than I had believed when we began your therapy, professor. Now that you have finally come out, finally admitted that you are a nigger slut.”
The professor’s voice was outraged, or as outraged as a well-drugged nigger could be. “I’m not!”
“Not what, professor? Not a nigger? Not a slut? Not both?”
The professor knew this was an important moment. He had no idea how he knew, but he did. The answer was an important one. A part of him, a strange, strange part of him wanted to agree that yes, he was indeed a nigger. But that was a wrong part of him, that couldn’t be right. He was a proud African-American. A nationally-known author and speaker and teacher on empowering young black men, teaching them to be proud of their heritage, proud of themselves, helping them understand they could succeed, could break out of the stereotypical nigger thug mode that white America had branded them with. And yes, yes, he’d enjoyed being molested all those years ago, eventually, though not at first. And yes, fuck yes, he’d enjoyed the down low sex over the years. But that didn’t make him a slut. He wasn’t!
“Both.” Even the professor could tell that his tone was sullen, and almost child-like. “I’m not either one.” Neener-neener-neener.
The doctor sighed. It was one of those professional, what I have to put up with from idiot patients but I’ll persevere anyway sighs. He picked up a remote, pointed it at an entertainment center across the room. “I think you need to listen to this, professor. And then, perhaps, we can address this issue again.”
The remote clicked. A loud, deep, authoritative voice boomed across the room. “Freeze, nigger!”
The professor’s mouth dropped open in horror and he instinctively froze as the doctor clicked pause. No. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. That was twenty fucking five years ago!
The remote clicked.
The two words were followed by a cruel laugh.
“Did you do it, nigger? Freeze ‘cause I told you to?”
The voice laughed again.
“They told me you wouldn’t remember, and while I didn’t fucking believe it at first, I sure the fuck do now. So let me, ah, refresh your recollection like that stupid fucking lawyer tried to do in that suit about me whopping some nigger’s trash ass.
“I’m a bastard, professor.
“My mama was poor white trash right there in Wakeville. Makin’ her livin’ on her back, or on her knees, and when she was on her knees she wasn’t always getting’ cunt fucked. She had no idea who my daddy was, couldn’t have cared less, and from what I heard tell growin’ up, she was such a good slut she had men fucking her mouth, and her ass and even her cunt practically up to the time I was born. Shit, I probably swallowed a gallon of cum before I was even born.
“And when I popped out, she named me Zachary Randolph Scott. About the only thing she liked more than sex, money and booze was them two old time actors, so that’s how I got the name. And the bitch wasn’t even named Scott herself.
“Also turned out I was popular with some of her boyfriends. Pissed her off for a bit, when one of her men friends would get her drunk, or just a little high, and fuck one hole or another, and then go off to molest me. I was four or so when one of ‘em taught me all about suckin’ cock. He had me gulpin’ his meat once a day for the whole month he was screwin’ my mom. But what ended the being pissed off was when her, uh, gentlemen friends started leaving her a little extra cash after abusing her precious baby boy.
“Don’t get me wrong. It wudn’t no reg’lar thing. Sometimes months and months and boyfriends and boyfriends would go by with none of ‘em wanting to dick a little boy. Then there’d be a couple right in a row. Wantin’ me to suck their smelly meat, wantin’ to finger my bottom hole. And once in a while, besides the money, a man would suck me off, too.
“Then came Leroy. Yeah, yeah, nigger, I know you got an uncle with that name, fuck, that’s just a favorite nigger name around where I come from, but it weren’t him. Now, momma never had no nigger boyfriends. She didn’t like niggers, disliked ‘em with a passion. Hated ‘em, even, though she never told me why. ‘n that’s the way I grew up, hatin’ niggers, not knowin’ why the jungle bunnies was so much piles of shit. Least, not until I had a real good reason.
“Leroy.
“Momma went over to Jack’s, and fuck, I hear you got some real hot tales to tell ‘bout Jack’s, ‘n you bein’ a whore ‘n all in that bar. Well, anyway, there was these two guys sittin’ at a table at the other end of the bar from where momma was drinkin’. A handsome white guy, and this big old ugly ass nigger. And the white guy kept sendin’ her drinks. Now, she wudn’t real happy about some hot lookin’ white stud hangin’ ‘round with no nigger, but he was sendin’ her booze, ‘n he was flashin’ a nice thick wad, so she didn’t object.
“It was getting’ on toward closin’ time, ‘n the nigger had left a few minutes earlier, walkin’ right on by and ignorin’ her like she was white trash or somethin’ which of course she was, ‘n she was figurin’ she was just shit outa luck, when the white guy comes up to her ‘n stops as he’s passin’ by ‘n whispers for her to follow him. She was hopin’ for more, but figured what the fuck, givin’ him a blowjob in the dark hall out back by the toilets would get her a few bucks at least.
“Only when he stopped in front of the men’s room, ‘n she sashayed up t’him, ‘n grabbed his crotch, he just grabbed her wrist real tight, used his hip to pop open the door, and dragged her inside. The nigger was standin’ there. Waitin’. With his big fat hard nigger dick just standin’ out from his jeans. The white guy shoved her over to the nigger, ‘n told her that since his buddy had been buyin’ her drinks all night, the least she could do was give him a nice return on his investment.
“Momma was furious, ‘n started to say somethin’, but the nigger just grabbed her tight, and clamped a big hand down over her mouth. ‘Bitch, you is bought, you is paid for, and you is gonna get fucked. Only question here is, you gonna get fucked dry or wet?’
“When he let her mouth free, she got part of a scream out before he bitch-slapped her, said, ‘Dry it is, bitch,’ lifted her up on the counter, ripped the front of her skirt, ripped her panties off and shoved his nigger dick up her snatch. Which wasn’t all that dry, the bastard told me later. She got her pussy juices running thinking she was gonna get dicked by the white stud, so he just took advantage. Then when he was done fuckin’ her in a stinking men’s room, he marched her out to the bar, bent her over the pool table, and fucked her again, only this time she was beggin’ him for it.
“When he was done the second time, he had his white buddy come over and fuck her, and then he called out and asked if she’d ever turned down anyone in the bar. A few men said she had, so the nigger grabbed her hair and yanked her head up and told her, ‘Bitch, slut like you don’t turn nobody down. Now you beg these nice men to fuck you in whichever hole they want.’
“She tried to say no, but the nigger bastard just slammed her head down on the pool table, making her nose bleed all over the fucking place, yanked her back up. ‘That got yo attention, bitch?’ And momma gave in. She begged them to fuck her. Two of them took her ass, one took her cunt, and two used her mouth. And she had to suck off her own blood when cleaning their dicks after they came in her throat. And all the while the nigger was watching and stroking his big meat.
“When the men were all done, he got his prick back in his jeans and said she was gonna take him home, but she needed to get cleaned up first. His white buddy wasn’t happy, but he got the job of eating all the cum out of her cunt and her ass. All the way back to our trailer he kept talking about what he was going to do to her, and making her play with herself.
“Except, when they got there, I was sleeping on the couch. In just a pair of ratty not-quite-white briefs. I was still groggy and scrubbing my eyes after the overhead light went on, when the nigger grabbed me by the neck, yanked me up, ‘n said, ‘Damn, ho, is this here white pussy a virgin?’
“My bitch momma just nodded. Happy to have some other holes than hers to interest the nigger. ‘Bitch, get me some fuckin’ grease out tha kitchen.’ Momma did. A half empty can of Crisco that she’d poured grease back into after fryin’ somethin’ up. A couple of weeks earlier. He shook me hard, makin’ my brain rattle in my skull, told me he’d really fuck up me ‘n momma if I tried to run.
“Didn’t give no fuck ‘bout momma, not after what she done in bringin’ a fuckin’ nigger home, ‘n knowing what he was gonna do to me. Did fuckin’ care ‘bout me so when he tossed me back on the couch, ‘n told me to get on my knees on the floor and bend over the couch I fuckin’ did what the fuckin’ nigger said. He ripped my undies off, wadded ‘em up, ‘n told momma to shove ‘em in my mouth, ‘cause much as he liked his virgins screamin’ when he took their cherries, he didn’t need no cops comin’ ‘round ‘cause some neighbor got all riled up with the kid’s noises.
“My bitch momma did just that.
“I was shakin’ ‘n cryin’ ‘n I looked over my shoulder t’where this big ol’ nigger was scoopin’ up a big blob of dirty brown grease on his fingers. Then he was shovin’ them two greasy fingers up my ass. That’s all I got, nigger, just them two fingers. ‘n then the nigger put his knob end up ‘gainst my shit hole ‘n the fuckin’ bastard just shoved it in.
“Scream? You fuckin’ bet your fuckin’ nigger life I did, professor. He was goddamn rippin’ my asshole apart, ‘n gruntin’ and I ain’t never felt pain like that before or since. Broke m’arm oncet, ‘n mah leg. Fuck, I even been shot on the job. Ain’t nothin’ felt like the pain when he got the head of his dick inside me, ‘n then just shoved the rest all the way in. Jus’ fuckin’ rearranged my innards.
“And the motherfucker didn’t give me no time to get used to his cock in my ass, just started in on long-dickin’ me. Just fuckin’ ‘n fuckin’ ‘n fuckin’ me until I passed out ‘n I guess he kept on fuckin’ ‘cause next thing I know he was shakin’ me, ‘n slappin’ the back of my head, ‘n tellin’ me he didn’t want to fuckin’ white boy pussy asleep when he gave me some fine nigger cum. Then he did. I could feel it splashing way the fuck up inside me, and the nigger’s moanin’ and gruntin’ ‘bout havin’ him some fine white boy cunt.
“When he was done, he pulled his dick outa me, ‘n said, ‘Clean me up, bitch.’
“Fuck, I thought he was talkin’ ‘bout me, ‘n givin’ me an order an’ I knew I better not disobey even though my asshole felt like it was torn to shreds ‘n bleedin’. Fuckin’ nigger shithead just laughed when I struggled to raise my head and move from where I’d collapsed during the rape. ‘Damn, boy, you learn fast ‘bout bein’ my bitch, too. This time, though, it’s yo mama what I’m talkin’ to.’ And momma kneeled down by him and carefully cleaned up all the filthy grease and cum and shit and blood and whatever the fuck was on his meat.
“Bastard didn’t get soft.
“Fuckin’ nigger raped me two more times ‘fore he left. Left my slut momma alone. Said her pussy was too loose and he liked my fresh tight cunt. When he was done the last time, after momma cleaned his prick again, he made her eat out my ass, gettin’ as much cum as she could, but not swallowin’. He turned me over, so I was sittin’ on the floor, my head tilted back against the couch. Took my undies out of my mouth. He held me that way with one hand on my forehead so I couldn’t move, and bitch slapped me hard when he told me to open my mouth and I wouldn’t.
“Hey, nigger, I hear you’re pretty bright for a jungle bunny. So I guess you figured out he told momma to fuckin’ kiss her own baby boy ‘n make sure her kid got all of his nigger cum. Momma just did what she was told, didn’t apologize then, like with her eyes or somethin’ and sure the fuck didn’t apologize later, when the nigger was gone. Made me swallow every bit of that awful stuff, and use my little tongue to get as much of the mess out of momma’s mouth as I could. Then the shithead was out the door, tellin’ us how much he enjoyed his bitches, ‘n how they belonged to Leroy now, and maybe he’d come back by sometime ‘n use us again.”
There was a long pause on the recording, and then the voice came on again. “You figure out who I am yet, professor?”
The doctor paused the playback, looked at the professor. Who looked back in total bewilderment. Or perhaps, not quite total. Something about that voice...but the flutter of thought was gone.
“I...I don’t understand, doctor? Christ, why are you playing this awful, hateful thing for me? I’m sorry he was raped when he was a little boy, but I wasn’t the nigger, uh, Jesus, I wasn’t the black man who did that to him and his mother.”
The doctor shook his head. “You’re sure you don’t remember him? Talking with him on the phone, perhaps? Meeting him, even?”
“No, no...I don’t. Jesus, I have no idea who he is, or, or, or why he talks like I know him, he knows me.”
“Professor, I am becoming quite worried about these memory lapses you’ve begun to have, ever since those two white men molested you. Listen to the remainder, and see if it refreshes your recollection.”
The voice resumed.
“I was only there by acci....” There was a long pause, a gulp. “I didn’t plan....” An even longer pause.
“I...fuck! Okay, okay, I, uh, I guess I have to tell you the truth. I, uh, I was there...at the crick...because I was looking for some fag to suck my cock.
“Only it was pretty clear there were no queers around, so I was going to leave when I heard this girl scream. Surprised the fuck out of me. She sounded terrified. But the woods were thick and I didn’t know what the fuck was going on, so I started heading toward where I heard the voice, and she screamed again.
“That’s when I saw him. This big fuckin’ nigger with his jeans around his knees, his darkie ass pumpin’ up and down on some little girl, raping her!
“I yelled at him to freeze, turned my flashlight on him, but he kept on fucking, raping, and I yelled at him again, told him to fucking freeze or I’d blow his motherfucking head off ‘cause I was a cop. I warned him. I fucking warned him. But he still raised up this big old fuckin’ revolver, ‘n pointed it at me. Bastard fuckin’ nigger was gonna shoot me and then go on rapin’ that poor girl so I did what I had to do. I shot the buck.
“Right through his head. Blew his fuckin’ brains out and watched ‘em spatter all over the little girl ‘til she was covered in blood ‘n gore.
“Only it wasn’t no girl, nigger. It was you. I killed a man, even if it was just a nigger, because of you. A fuckin’ nigger whore whose daddy had just been fucking his little boy pussy; whose grampas and uncles used you, too. Hell, you already had three loads of cum in your pussy by the time I pulled that trigger. I asked you how old you were, as you lay belly down in the dirt, clumps of fresh nigger meat on your back, the bright red of your daddy’s blood oozing off. Eight, you told me, in this dazed voice.
“Woulda been nice if you’d been nine, like me, but fuck, eight was good enough. A nigger raped me when I was nine, a white guy was gonna rape an eight year old nigger slut. Not quite the same. But good enough.
“Remember yet, nigger? Remember how you turned your head to look up at me when I walked over, and I told you I’d kill your nigger whore ass if you looked? Remember how I put my gun down by the side of your skull, and made you get on all fours? Got behind you, and knelt down and fucking raped your little boy ass. I’d just fucking shot your nigger daddy, the clearing was filled with the stench of blood and flesh and where your daddy’s bowels let loose, and I was turned on like I’d never been fucking turned on before. Your cunt was slimy with those other cums, but you were still tight, and I pounded and pounded and pounded your pussy until I filled you up again.
“And when I was done, I told you I’d fucking find you and kill you if you ever said anything about who shot your daddy, or about me. And hit the back of your head with the butt of my gun.
“Too fucking bad it wasn’t harder.
“I just left. Heard the next day that a raped nigger boy had been found down by the crick. Right near where his daddy had gotten his head blown away. Heard, too, that the kid had amnesia, so I knew I was fairly safe.
“Until you fucking called me, nigger.
“They tell me you’re a really twisted, sick fuck, professor. Of course, I figured that for myself when you gave me this dumb ass story about a cop who killed your daddy and raped you when you were eight, and how you’d just remembered it, remembered seeing a name-tag on your rapist’s shirt that said Zachary R. Scott. How you’d tracked me down because your freaking therapist said you had to.
“Do you remember how I blasted your nigger ass for making an accusation like that against the Sheriff of Ste. Marguerite Parish? How I told you that, yeah, I’d sort of remembered, back when I was a deputy, something on the news about how a nigger over in Alsace Parish up and got himself killed while fucking his very own son, and the boy had amnesia, and they never found who did it. You remember that I told you there was no evidence to support your claim? How I told you I’d rip you a new fucking asshole if you went public with that kind of fucked up crap, and then I’d sue your goddamn ass off and fucking destroy you?”
The professor had been frantically shaking his head. “No, I don’t remember! I don’t remember doing that!” He looked at the doctor who had again clicked pause when the professor began talking back to a recording. “You never told me to do that!”
The doctor sighed again. The same patient-with-the-dumb-shit-patient professional sigh. “Indeed, I did, professor. I instructed you that if, when your repressed memories began to reappear, that if you could remember anything about the men who molested you, other than your own family, you were to try to locate them. And if you were successful, you were to get in touch with them, and tell them only that you had some repressed memories that were surfacing, that you were in deep therapy, that you were uncertain whether any of these memories were accurate or just fantasies, and you were to ask them to call me. I most assuredly did not tell you to accuse anyone of molesting you twenty-five years ago.”
But of course he had. That conversation, or rather, the real version of that conversation was one of the professor’s currently repressed (suppressed) memories.
“I suggest you listen without further interruption. Can you do that?”
The professor looked confused, lost, even frightened. Excellent.
“Well?”
The professor nodded. The doctor clicked the remote again.
“But I don’t have to do any of that shit, do I, nigger? Not with what I know about you. And your boys. Not after you invited me over to your house.”
“No!” The professor’s outburst was loud and shrill and horrified. Yes, he’d been raped by a white cop when he was eight, and apparently the voice on the recording was the voice of his rapist. But he’d never have called him; never have invited him, no, fuck, he hadn’t invited the deputy, the sheriff, to his home.
Had he?
While he was reacting to the sheriff’s words, he hadn’t heard the door open, or rather, not “the” door like the one to the reception area where the nelly faggot queen reigned, but another door that he hadn’t even realized was there. He hadn’t heard the two men cross the thick carpet. Hadn’t realized anything until Sergeant Tate softly said, “Professor.”
The professor looked up to find the sergeant, immaculate in his uniform, towering over him, and he dropped his head in shame. How could the doctor humiliate him this way? The good sergeant would never understand that being on the doctor’s couch, his shirt mostly unbuttoned, his shoes off, his belt and coat and vest carelessly dropped on the floor, his aching, leaking, still hard dick standing out of his unzipped trousers, was all part of the professor’s therapy. He wasn’t a nigger slut. He wasn’t!
The sergeant leaned forward, apparently unaware of any oddities, and whispered, just so the professor could hear, “Odysseus, nigger.” Straightened, stepped aside so the professor could get a good look at the second man who had just entered.
Late forties. Five nine. One seventy-five, one eighty. Stocky. Muscular. Brown hair. Brilliantly green eyes. Tanned. Hairy. Besides the Tom Selleck stache that went well with his face, the short sleeves of his uniform showed off not only the bulging muscles of his arms but the thick, curling hair that covered them. A sheriff’s uniform. With a name tag that read “Z. R. Scott.”
Sheriff Scott also had a very thick seven and a half inches of drooling cut cock on display. Along with matching large balls, all pulled through his unzipped fly. He had a slightly glazed look in his eyes. A careful observer might have noticed a similar but deeper glaze in the professor’s eyes.
“What happened when the doorbell rang, professor?” asked the doctor.
“Huh? What?” The professor had been staring at the leaking white cop cock, the one that’d raped him all those years ago, the one that had...that had....
“The doorbell rang.”
The professor remembered.
He’d opened the door...and the sheriff was there. Only he hadn’t known who it was. Just a stranger, standing there, staring at him. His cock twitched.
“I’m Sheriff Scott, Professor. Invite me in.” It wasn’t a request.
He’d nodded, stepped aside. The...sheriff?...who was dressed in tight jeans, and scuffed boots, and a western shirt hanging open to reveal his hairy pecs and chest and belly, along with a holstered gun on his right hip, came inside, told him to shut and lock the doors. The professor obeyed. The sheriff smiled.
Maybe they hadn’t been lying after all. For a moment he tried to remember who “they” were but the desire to recall faded. “Where are the boys?”
Why? Why do you want to know? Who the fuck are you? screamed inside the professor’s head, but the words were far different. “Luke’s in his crib; Markie’s in his room, JJ’s with his mother.”
“I’ll go on up to your bedroom. You get Markie. He should be naked, don’t you agree?”
No! I’m not going to show you my naked boy! The professor nodded and went up the steps first.
A few minutes later the professor, accompanied by a naked Markie, who’d eagerly stripped when asked, since he figured that meant some more cock fun with his daddy, cock fun that JJ didn’t get to have, opened the door to his bedroom.
Two mouths dropped open.
There was a naked man in mommy and daddy’s bed! A white man. Little Markie had never seen a naked white man before. He was very hairy, with big balls and a big stiffie. Markie was sort of impressed, but mostly because of the hair. His daddy’s dickie was way bigger than this man. Okay, well, way longer, anyway. And what was a stranger doing....? Markie looked up adoringly at his daddy. Hadn’t daddy said he couldn’t tell anyone, anyone at all, about the cock fun? That it was just between the men of the Mason household?
If he’d known the phrase, little Markie with his not-so-little stiffie, would have asked his handsome, hard daddy, “What the fuck!”
Sheriff Zach gestured, and the Mason men obediently went to the bed. The sheriff picked up an envelope that hadn’t been there last night, when the professor...when the professor...had had oddly unsatisfying sex with his beloved wife. Sure, he came in her cunt as he always did, sure, she had cum as well, but even though he’d used the techniques that had worked so well in the past for the both of them, it had felt like just that, a technique. As if he was going through the motions. As if he wasn’t, well, man enough to really satisfy an attractive hot nigger, no, no, hot black woman. As if, maybe there were other men, real men, who could give her more than he now could.
The sheriff opened the envelope, shook out two green pills into the palm of his hand. “The little one is for Markie.”
The professor nodded, looked at the nightstand, didn’t see the usual glass of water Elaine kept there, turned as if to go to the bathroom.
“No, professor. Markie has to learn how niggers take their pills.”
Markie let out a loud gasp. “Daddy! He called us niggers! He isn’t s’posed to do that!”
Even at five, Markie already understood that it was okay for his daddy to call his boys or himself niggers, to shout out “Go, nigga!” when some basketball player scored, even to whisper in Markie’s ear at McDonald’s, after tilting his head toward a fat little boy with big tits and a big bubble butt, about Markie’s age, a little older, “Now that’s a fine nigger ass, isn’t it, son? Wouldn’t you like to have your dickie up inside it like you did with Luke?”
But whites, and especially not white men, were never, never, never supposed to say that word. That was the biggest bad of all. Well, no, Markie did understand that the biggest bad would be telling anyone about the cock fun with his daddy and his baby brother.
The professor caressed his boy’s nappy hair. “That’s okay, Markie. It really is. Sheriff Zach is just, well, he’s just telling the truth. That’s what we are.”
Markie’s mouth dropped open. The sheriff thought that was adorable. He thought how much more adorable it would be if those fat pink nigger boy lips were wrapped around thick white meat. Soon, soon.
“Show the little nigger how niggers take their pills, professor.”
The professor nodded. The sheriff swung his legs to the side, sat up, knees spread. The professor knelt between them to Markie’s complete shock, fondling his long hardon, rested on his haunches, opened his wide nigger mouth wide. The sheriff put the larger green pill on the tip of his index finger, carefully put it inside the professor’s mouth, and then shoved his finger in as fast and far as it would go, pushing the pill deep into the nigger’s throat. The professor didn’t choke or gag, just dutifully swallowed.
He also dutifully sucked the finger as it was slowly removed. When his mouth was empty he started to lean forward to fill it again, to get his first taste of the thick white cock that had raped him so well...somewhere deep a thin voice raged at the idea of praising the quality of a rape, but the rage wasn’t near enough, loud enough to make any difference. The sheriff grabbed his thick hair, hair the professor had been growing out despite some protests from Elaine, because he knew, though didn’t know how he knew, that white men liked to have hair to grab onto when they were using niggers.
That’s why Markie’s hair was growing out, too. But the Professor’s mind slid away from that.
“Markie. Over here. Now.”
Markie looked at his daddy. The white man’s voice sounded so harsh. Generations of bred-in slavery began to kick in. For a century or more, long before the first whites came to Africa to take slaves, Markie’s ancestors had been slaves to other niggers; then more generations of subservience to whites. Markie started to walk toward the commanding voice even before his daddy nodded it was okay. The five year old stopped next to the white, hairy thigh, feeling its heat.
“Open your mouth, nigger, just like your daddy. And keep your fucking teeth away or I’ll hurt you, hurt you bad, and then hurt your daddy even worse. Got it?”
Frightened, Markie nodded. But he knew about keeping teeth away. Daddy had taught him. He opened his mouth. The thick hairy finger shoved the pill down into his throat and then stayed there. The boy began to gasp and choke, to struggle to get away, but the professor knew what was required of him. He held his boy firmly in place, his own cock staying hard. How the fuck could he be hard when his precious son was hurting!
But he was proud of the kid. Despite the struggling he had kept his teeth out of the way. The professor shuddered to think of the punishment they would have endured had the boy bitten the sheriff.
Zack looked down at the tear-stained nigger boy face. “Swallow, cunt.” The boy did. “Look at me, just keep looking.” The boy did, dark brown eyes staring into bright green ones, and then, only moments later, the little one’s eyes took on a odd glaze. The sheriff smiled. They...who?...they had told him it would work fast.
He rubbed the callused pad of his thumb gently, gently, gently across the tip of one fat boy tit. The five year old shuddered, and twisted away, and moaned. They were right. The boy’s skin was so fucking sensitive; every nerve ending had been enhanced, everything he felt would be more. A fucking lot more.
“Look at your daddy, boy.” The child did, just turning his head. “Fucking hurt your tits, professor.”
The professor raised thumb and forefinger to each of his tits and then assaulted them, squeezing and twisting as hard as he could. Pain shot through him, magnified by his own drug. His cock spurted precum.
“Now hurt your boy’s titties.”
The professor moaned. “Please, no, don’t make....” The slap to the professor’s face was loud in the room. The professor gasped.
“Little Markie needs to understand betrayal, professor. Remember how momma turned me over to that fucking nigger Leroy? Let him fucking rape me three times, while she helped him. While she played with her own cunt and fucking came while I was getting dicked. Start the fucking lesson, professor.”
The professor pulled on his son, who finally figured out he was supposed to stand between the knees of the mean hairy white man sitting on the bed and his daddy, who was kneeling on the floor. Daddy raised up behind him, and when his daddy put thumb and finger on each of his five year old tits, Markie sighed. That felt so fucking good. Daddy said he could use that word when they had cock fun. He never knew his boy tits could make him feel so good.
The scream when his daddy followed orders and squeezed and twisted as hard as he possibly could, was loud and long. His daddy was hurting him, his daddy wasn’t supposed to do that. The boy tried to get away but the white man’s knees clamped hard on him so all he could do was desperately twist at the relentless hurting from his very own daddy. And finally daddy stopped. The child sobbed hysterically.
Until the sheriff put one finger under his chin, raised his face, and slapped him. The sobs cut off.
“Tell him, nigger.”
The professor had figured it out. Or maybe, somehow, he already knew, almost as if he’d been prepared.... The thought faded. “The...the sheriff is, the sheriff....”
“Stop lying, nigger. It’s not going to be just me. Tell your little slut the truth.”
“I...uh...Markie, I, uh, I’m going to help the sheriff rape you.”
The boy turned his head and looked up at his stammering daddy. The frightened boy didn’t look down and see how his daddy’s dick had twitched and oozed slime as he said the words. The sheriff noticed.
“Wh...what’s rape, daddy?”
The professor whimpered, gathered his thoughts. “Uh, Markie, you remember putting your dickie in Luke’s poo-poo hole?”
Despite the drug, despite the pain, Markie did remember. He nodded enthusiastically. “Well, just like you, uh, fucked your baby brother, some men like to put their dicks up the bottom holes of little boys.” Markie gave his father a “well, fucking duh” look. He was a bright little boy. He’d made the connection between the three fingers his daddy had used on his own hole and his dickie inside his brother. So rape was just another word for fuck. He said so.
“Uh, no, not all.” The professor looked at Sheriff Zack who looked implacably back, with a stare that said get on with the fucking explanation so I can get on with the fucking.
“See, Markie, rape is when a man shoves his big cock inside your bottom hole, rough and deep and hard, so it really, really, really hurts you. It makes the man’s dickie really hard, and he, uh, he likes it that you’re hurting.”
“He...he’s gonna hurt me?” The five year old looked back and forth between his daddy and the hairy white man with the big fat dickie.
“Y...yes, son, and, well, I’m gonna help him.”
“Daddy!”
“Son, you need to understand. Back when Sheriff Zack was a little boy, he was just nine, just two years older than JJ, this big mean nigger with a really big dick raped him. Three times. Hurt him pretty bad, too. So...so when he got older and met me, and I was eight, well, he raped me. Kind of payback, I think.”
“Poor daddy. The mean man hurt you, huh?”
The professor’s wince was for two reason. The first that the sheriff might lash out and hurt the boy for the remark. The second was because the truthful answer to the question was “no.” An eight year old boy who is getting pretend raped by his daddy in a clearing in woods that were used by queers to troll for sex, whose daddy gets his head blown apart by a cop, spattering his son’s body with blood and lumps of steaming, hot flesh, pretty much goes into a state of fucking shock. And doesn’t really feel it when the stranger’s meat starts pounding in and out of his cunt. So he gave the only answer he could. “Yes, son. Real bad.”
The professor swallowed, inhaled. “And now Sheriff Zack wants another nigger boy to rape and hurt, just like that nasty Leroy guy did to him. He’s picked you, and he, well, he wants me to help, and...and I’m going to. Just...just like I did just now.”
“No, daddy, please. Please don’t.”
The professor ignored the plea and the tears. Ignored the far off voice inside his head that echoed the “please,” echoed the “please, don’t.” The professor stood up, pulled his precious five year old away from the sheriff’s spread legs, moved him to the edge of the bed, made him climb up and get on all fours, his tiny feet hanging over the edge.
He dropped to one knee, spread his boy’s plump ass cheeks, quickly dipped his head, knowing that he hadn’t been told he could, knowing he risked pain, but still willing to lap and slurp at his boy’s puckered little hole, slobbering and hawking up as much slime as he could.
Sheriff Zack shoved the professor aside, ignoring him as he fell on his ass, straddled the tiny nigglet, bent his knees to brace himself, and put the knob of his fat seven and a half inches of white prick at the virgin boy’s pussy lips. “Hold my cock steady, nigger.”
The professor scrambled to his knees, gripped the white meat while the sheriff grabbed the five year old’s hips and pulled back hard. The knob ripped through the boy’s incredibly tight virgin hole and Markie screamed, long and loud and shrill. The professor was horrified that this was happening to his precious son. He reluctantly let go of Zack’s cock now that the fat head was inside his screaming boy. He took a chance, spat on his fingers, and slimed up the sheriff’s staff a bit more. And got backhanded for his trouble.
Still, though, still he got back up on his knees, ignoring the pain in his mouth, the blood dripping from the corner, so he could be, he had to be, up close, as Zack paused, maybe to get control so he wouldn’t cum too quickly inside such a hot tight no longer virgin boy pussy, more likely to let little Markie think the worst was over.
It wasn’t.
The sheriff bruised the little one’s waist as he grabbed even tighter and shoved forward with all the force possible of his muscular back and hard butt and powerful thighs. This scream was nothing like the other one. Louder, longer, shriller, an ice-pick in his father’s eardrums.
Sickened, horrified, horribly turned on, the professor squeezed his cock to prevent an imminent cum as sheriff meat buried itself balls deep in nigglet whore pussy. That was the last pause. Zack was as ruthless on little Markie’s pussy as Leroy, Zack’s very own nigger rapist, had been to Zack’s virgin white cunt. After a while, Markie stopped screaming. Perhaps because his voice was gone, perhaps because he knew it was pointless. Sheriff Zack was raping his five year old boy pussy and that was that. Eventually, it came to an end, when Zack finally spewed every bit of the cum he’d built up by not jacking the last day, into the kid’s ravaged cunt.
He yanked his meat out and the professor dutifully, eagerly sucked it clean.
Your turn something said inside him, while further down, far and away, something else screamed loud and long, Nooooooooooo! But the something else faded, and the original something, some voice, real, fantasy, whatever, went on to...explain? remind?...him that little nigger whores needed to learn betrayal early and well. Little Markie had already been betrayed by his daddy, when the professor did nothing to stop the white sheriff’s rape of the kid’s cunt, when his daddy actually helped the rape.
Now the betrayal had to be sealed. It was the professor’s turn to rape his own little boy. True, his meat wasn’t as thick as the sheriff’s; true, it wasn’t as if it was white meat that would be doing the raping, but it was also true that the professor’s cock was several inches longer than the sheriff’s prick. It was going to go a hell of a lot deeper into his boy’s abused pussy. But the boy had to learn, as all niggers had to learn, that it didn’t matter what the fuck a nigger wanted. All that mattered was what the white man said.
And the white man said the professor had to rape his boy, to fuck the hell out of him.
The professor wasn’t even aware that the white voice giving him those orders was only inside his head; that little Markie wasn’t going to have the “benefit” of knowing his daddy was only following orders when raping his boy. All little Markie would know was that his loving daddy was mounting him, shoving his long professor prick all the way into Markie’s torn and bloody kid cunt, waking him with another raw scream. Pounding the hell out his precious son, making a fucking mess of his kid cunt, while Sheriff Zack shoved his white cop meat into the professor’s own cunt and raped it all over again.
It was over too fast. The professor knew, somehow, that he’d be punished for not making it a better, longer rape, but he’d been so turned on, so helplessly hard that in just a couple of minutes he was pumping his boy’s pussy full of nigger daddy seed. And then the professor had to stay buried inside his five year old boy until the sheriff finished with the professor’s hole.
The sheriff roughly yanked his wilting cock out of the professor’s pussy, slapped his ass hard. “Clean your kid’s cunt, slut.”
The professor slid his still mostly hard meat out, then got on his knees to better lick and slurp with his long and now well trained tongue, tasting the bitterness of the cum up inside, the coppery taste of blood, the other tastes of a boy’s well-fucked little asshole, and eagerly swallowing it all down.
The dazed, sheriff-raped, daddy-raped five year old was made to stand, made to open his mouth and clean his daddy’s dick, swallowing the mostly soft meat down. And when the professor was told to piss, he pissed, holding his five year old urinal’s head tight so he couldn’t escape, and made his precious baby boy drink every drop. The stinking little nigger toilet just stood there when his daddy was done, somehow knowing the sheriff would do the same thing.
Markie was almost right. The sheriff did piss. On Markie’s hair, his eyes, his nose, his mouth, and everywhere else, a smelly foul stream that coated his tiny body, leaving the carpet soaked. Not the sheriff’s problem.
The sheriff got himself back together, and had his well-used niggers follow him back downstairs, to the front door, tracking the raunch all the way. Before he left, he knelt to whisper a few words in the little nigger’s ear, and smiled when the boy instinctively pulled away from him. A few more words in the professor’s ear, and the sheriff left.
The doorbell rang.
The doorbell rang again.
And the professor had forgotten everything about the sheriff’s visit until this very instant.
Dazed, the professor opened his eyes to find himself sprawled on the doctor’s couch, splattered in cum, his fingers still around his wilting meat. He looked around.
Sergeant Tate was standing there with his flushed, angry-looking meat sticking out of his pants, his hairy fist stroking lightly. His voice was disgusted. “Jesus, nigger, the doc here was right. You’re a slut who likes being raped. And your family is the same as you.”
“No. No, please, that’s not, that’s not true.”
“You got hot watching little Markie being raped, didn’t you, nigger?”
The professor wanted to lie, but from the expressions on the faces of the men, he’d apparently not just remembered the story of what happened when the doorbell rang, he’d told them all while he jacked and came. He nodded.
“You’re probably so sick you’d fuckin’ get off on seein’ him gang-raped.”
Images, sick, terrible, horrifying images flashed through the professor’s head. His cock twitched. He nodded again.
“Good thing you brought him along today, then. You’ll get off on this.”
The professor’s mouth dropped open. He hadn’t! Markie was...Markie was...oh fucking Christ, Markie was out in the reception area. With that Puerto Rican faggot with the fucking gold chains and gold tooth and tight clothes. But why would he bring his boy to a treatment session with his psychiatrist? And not even remember it while he’d sprawled on the couch and talked filth about little Markie being raped and jacked and cum in front of these men.
The voice inside that was getting fainter all the time just whimpered.
The doctor pressed a button on his desk, and a moment later the door opened. A dazed looking, naked Markie walked in ahead of the PR receptionist. His boy lips were unusually puffy, with that kind of freshly face fucked swelling the professor had often seen in mirrors or any reflective surface. His eyes widened, brightened when he saw his daddy, and then looked dismayed at the disgusting daddy slut sight.
“Give him his pill, professor.”
The cop’s voice jerked the professor’s attention away from his son to the open palm with the tiny pill in it. He took it, put it on his fingertip. His boy had to learn how niggers got their pills.
Warily, little Markie came to stand in front of his daddy, fearfully eyeing the sheriff who had raped him, the cop who had seemed so nice when he’d visited their home, the other stranger with his big olive dick out of his pants. He didn’t look behind him at the nasty man who’d told him his daddy had given the man permission to fuck his nigger ho mouth, and he had to swallow the man’s bitter nasty juices.
“Open up, baby boy.”
Markie stubbornly shook his head. The professor looked up and got the fucking message. He used his free hand to slap his son’s face. The blow was loud in the silent room. The molesters’ meat twitched at the sight. The young boy’s fat-lipped mouth gaped wide. His daddy had never hit him before! Not like that.
With his left hand he clamped Markie’s nostrils shut, and shoved his finger with the green pill on the tip all the way into the boy’s tight, hurting throat, holding it down deep while the child struggled and writhed and tried to get away, get air. At last he yanked his slimy finger out. The boy coughed and gasped.
The sergeant stepped forward, grabbed Markie under his arms and lifted him onto the couch, with a brutal “Move, nigger!” that got the professor scrambling out of the way. The four horny hard child abusers moved in, surrounding the boy, fondling him, caressing him, tweaking his tits, squeezing his dickie, waiting for the moment when the pill would take effect.
It did. The poor youngster’s brain was overwhelmed with the sensations washing over him. Every feeling was magnified five times, ten times. Perfect for gang rape. As the cop, the sheriff, the doctor and the PR queen began stripping, the sergeant roughly told the professor to go check out what was on the doc’s computer, and stay there, but he could watch and learn if he wanted to. “Click on the rape link on the desktop first. Sheriff Zack here got in his third rape.”
The doctor started to say something but a glare from Sergeant Tate shut him up. Oh well, he’d tried and now he was doing as he was told, as he had no choice to do. So the responsibility wasn’t his.
“Get naked, too,” the sergeant said, not looking at the professor, knowing he would be obeyed. His focus instead was on the bruised puffy tits of little Markie, and the way his big hairy thumbs and forefingers were bruising and hurting them more as the boy cried. The kid couldn’t have gotten away even if he’d been bigger. Not with four large men molesting every inch of his body with their hands and tongues.
“Just listen, professor, listen while your little nigger ho son is abused. Don’t watch, just picture it in your mind.”
The professor did as he was told. He stripped, sat in the doctor’s chair, clicked the desktop link that said “rape,” and watched in horror as Sheriff Zack’s third rape unfolded. It was all in silence, except for the muttered foulness from the sheriff’s mouth, his grunts as he rammed his cop meat in and out of the raped tight cunt, while the victim just stared, eyes glazed. The professor recognized that glaze. The same glaze he saw in his own eyes, in Markie’s eyes, when the pill had been taken. He was disgusted, but unable to tear his eyes away. Unable to keep from getting hard and taking his long meat in hand. His hardon wasn’t hurt by the sounds on the other side of the doctor’s office.
The squeals as little Markie was thoroughly fucked and molested. The howls when one cock after another went into his drugged body, hurting, raping his twat, the ugly grunts as the four men gangbanged his precious son, all the while the professor jacked and jacked and came all over his chest and belly when Sergeant Tate shouted out he was breeding the little nigger ho.
Panting, his chest heaving, wanting desperately to look at his son being used by four ruthless adults, knowing how sick it was that he would jack to it again, but unable to do so, he turned his eyes away from the rape clip, and did as he was told. He checked out what was on the computer. He clicked on an open Word document. It was three columns. Initials in the first. A word or phrase opposite in the second column, a word or phrase in the third column. He scanned down and paused, eyes widening. Those were his initials! And beside them...Odysseus...Penelope.
The words the sheriff said to him. Before controlling him. And further down, ZRS. The fucking sheriff had been drugged, too? He wanted desperately to look over his shoulder to see if he was being watched, to see if the rapists knew what he’d found. His orders wouldn’t let him. Fortunately, he was an expert computer user, not hacker grade, but sophisticated. He logged into a secret email account no one knew about, emailed the document to himself, with instructions to say aloud, “Odysseus, nigger. Remember everything,” before opening the file.
The sounds to the side were coming to an end. The four-man multiple rape of little Markie was nearly complete. He could hear his well-fucked son crying. The professor rapidly closed out the email account, erased the history, and re-opened the appalling video of the sheriff’s third rape. He was staring at it when he felt more than heard the naked cop approach him.
And despite himself, the memory of the sounds of his boy being gang raped, the sights in the rape video, turned the professor on yet again, even though his belly was smeared with dried and drying cum.. Sergeant Tate laughed at the professor’s hardon, gestured toward the video which was just reaching the sheriff’s third cum, and said, “Fuck, professor, that’s a fucking gift that just keeps on giving, huh?”
The professor nodded. Even without the drugs he knew he would have agreed. He’d cum so many times already and his hardon was painful.
“You want to fuck your little whore’s face or his cunt?”
Neither! that small voice screamed inside.
Noooo! Christ, no! My boy! screamed the voice inside when the cop ordered him to get up and come over to the sprawled, abused five year old, with the dull well-raped eyes.
“It’s your daddy’s turn to rape you, whore.”
Little Markie just stared up at his daddy, a brief flicker of a frightened plea not to do it, then resignation. “M...my mouth or my pussy, s...sir?”
“Pussy.”
The bruised, anguished little boy struggled upright on the couch, turned over, his tiny light brown nigger boy feet hanging over the edge, presenting his pussy. The professor bent his legs, leaned forward, braced himself, and shoved balls deep. That elicited a raw-voiced “daddy!” but the professor ignored it, because he had to, because he wanted to, and he started pounding his child’s pussy fast and deep, thrusting in and out, letting the sights and smells of the naked horny men who’d already repeatedly raped his boy get him even more turned on until finally he was pumping whatever small amount of cum still in his balls into his five year old’s hole.
Still gasping from his cum, he pulled his meat out as he was told, followed the doctor into a surprisingly large bathroom, got into the oversized shower stall with Markie, knelt, and the pair became willing toilets for their rapists and controllers. Sheriff Zach took particular pleasure in forcing both the professor and his son to drink his raunchy piss direct from the source.
The rapists went back into the office to put on their clothes, except for still smelling of sex and cum and violence and a whiff of piss, they were as well-dressed as they had been when they first entered the doctor’s office. The professor and his boy dried themselves as best they could with the single small towel the doctor gave them, then padded in to resume their filthy clothing. Father and son were horrified at the idea of leaving the busy building, walking through the busy area to the parking garage and their car, looking as they did, but they knew they had no choice.
The cop moved from rapist to rapist, whispering something in the receptionist’s, the sheriff’s, the doctor’s ear. Then did the same to the professor and Markie.
As the pair left the doctor’s office, he ignored the shocked stares, the pulling away, the repulsed looks. He didn’t even wonder how he was going to explain to his wife about precious Markie’s blatantly well-molested, well-fucked, puffy and bruised boy hole, and mouth, and titties.
The far away voice in the professor’s head was even farther away now as he contemplated helping his baby boy get ready for his first real fuck.