ERED IN THE BATHROOM
By DannyR (MM/b, oral, anal, incest, extreme pedo, racial epithets)
Copyright 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.
BUGGERED IN THE BATHROOM (2012)
Kwame, my beautiful Saturday born son, stared at me nervously.
It wasn’t because I was naked. I was naked at home far more often than not. He had seen my cock many, many times in his nearly three years. I smiled inwardly, remembering the first time he had seen my cock, the first time he had touched it. Although I doubt he remembers. He was only a few days old. He was naked on the changing table. I leaned forward, stretched out to pick up the wipes to clean his shitty little bottom, and my cock swung forward, my knob touching his nose. And he reached up his tiny, tiny hand and touched it!
I froze.
And couldn’t quite believe what I did next. I pulled my right arm back, and with my huge hand, and at six eight, two eighty, I have very large hands, I covered his little arm, held it softly, and rubbed his baby palm over my piss slit. Which began to leak precum. More than leak, a slow steady stream of slick juice began to come out, and my cock started to grow.
Not that it had far to go. I’m what the Yanks call mostly a shower, not a grower. Eight and a half inches soft. Which everyone in the fucking world knows thanks to Terry Reilly, our fucking Irish left wing. The whole team knows I go commando most of the time, and the little shit had it all planned out. Not that I have anything against showing off my meat, and it wasn’t like my mates hadn’t seen it and stared at it often enough in the locker room, the steam room, the showers, the sauna, the loo at our favorite pub.
Which is where it happened. I went for a piss, unbuttoned my jeans and pulled them aside, flopped my cock and balls out, started and turned my head as the door opened and Terry and Diego, the dago from Milan (the London Wizards is a very multinational rugby team) came in. They watched me piss for a moment.
“Christ, mate, how big is that fucking thing?” Terry asked. None of my team ever had before.
“Eight and a half.” I waggled my hips a little, the heavy piss spraying back and forth, as I lifted the glass, tilted my head and finished off my beer.
“No fuckin’ way.”
I just smirked. I’m not sure how Terry would have done it if I hadn’t said the next thing, but the little shite would have, somehow. Even eventually admitted it. But still, I started it all off when I opened my mouth and said, “Why? You want to measure?”
“Yeah, mate. Prove it.”
In public, after the picture went viral, I just shrug and acknowledge that that is indeed my meat, with my fuck you finger pressing the “zero” end of the measuring tape Terry the fucker just “happened” to have with him, into my shaved skin at the base of my dick. I haven’t told anyone that the white thumb tip at the 8.5 mark in the middle of my piss slit belongs to Terry, although the team obviously knows. In public, I also add a “hey, I was kind of drunk.”
But I wasn’t all that drunk. I just like knowing how impressive others find my prick. So I decided to fuck with them, and let myself get hard.
I have all four pics as screensavers on my computer.
The one that Terry the fuckwad posted shows the bright yellow of the tape against the shiny black of my meat, and his pale lightly freckled thumb in sharp contrast, too. Diego’s phone is top of the line, and the Net pic looks like it was taken with a professional camera. So do the others.
The second pic is a side shot of my cock getting harder against the background of the rusty trough urinal.
The third...I’m all the way hard, and those are Terry’s pale fingers curling under my knob and shaft, while his thumb holds the ten and a quarter mark on the tape against my piss slit.
The fourth is just my full hard, shining in the overhead light, my bare balls and flesh glistening.
Which is when we heard loud voices at the outer door, and I started to turn away to get my meat back inside my jeans. Which is when I noticed three things. The way Terry was staring at my hardon and licking his lips. The fact that both Terry and Diego were stiff inside their jeans. Which is no big deal. Doesn’t mean we’re fags. Just men. And men get hard if they see another man’s hardon; fucking automatic, almost. The third thing was that Diego had been taking pictures.
I lunged for the phone, but Terry twisted in front of me, grabbed it himself, and got his bastard arse out of the loo double time. My glare promised retribution to Diego, but since I was still not all the way soft, and my jeans weren’t all the way buttoned, I couldn’t immediately go after the dickwad.
When I walked back into the room, half the fucking place, my mates and all, began applauding and chanting “warrior, warrior” and I briefly wondered why I’d ever told them that my middle name (Adofo) means mighty warrior. Terry was grinning as I headed toward him, not even bothering to look worried, despite the fact I was nine inches taller, and outweighed him by over a hundred pounds. That’s when he held up the phone so I could see the pic of the first measurement.
“I called it ‘Adofo’s mighty spear,’ before I posted it,” the bastard said.
At that point I had the choice between pounding the shit out of the shithead, or going along.
“Bloody right it is!” I said, loud enough to be heard. While the others laughed and cheered some more, I noticed what no one else did. The slight release of tension in his body. So he hadn’t been completely sure what the big bad nigger from Ghana would do.
“I, uh, I emailed all of them to you,” he said softly, just barely loud enough for me to hear.
“Fucking all, mate?”
“Uh, well, Diego actually took four, instead of, well, uh, just the one.” His pale, lightly freckled skin flushed. “I, uh, well, I didn’t post the others.”
When I glared, he quickly added that he wouldn’t ever post them.
“Delete ‘em, Terry. Right fucking now.”
He did.
Fucking side track down memory lane. I thought again about that first touch from my baby boy’s hand. About my first pedo hardon.
At least as an adult.
I looked down at my baby boy. He wasn’t really nervous about seeing my hardon. He’d been seeing that with some degree of regularity since he was about six months old. Seen the wanking, too. Just like I was doing right then as I thought back to when I was just a bit older than Kwame.
Just four.
When you grow up poor in the slums of Accra, spend most of your time naked because what few clothes you have, have to be kept for important occasions; when you wander around alone, looking for food, or something you could sell for food, even when you’re three and four and five, you see a lot. A lot of sex. A lot of sex for money.
When you have a two inch cock by the time you’re four; when your balls aren’t a tight little sack up against your body like the other little boys around you, but hanging just a bit loose, you learn you can get a rich man’s attention, like the old man who first used me, by standing there, wanking, getting yourself stiff, making your baby balls flop around. And asking if he wanted to suck my dickie. He did. Around a corner between two sagging buildings, in a tiny bit of shade, he dropped to his knees in the filth, fondled my boy balls and sucked me off. It wasn’t my first dry cum. I’d watched enough and learned enough to wank myself until I felt the tingles all over my body, but it was, up to that moment, the best cum I’d ever had.
He gave me a cedi (about half a U.S. dollar, a bit less in euros). And then he asked how old I was. When I told him “four,” he only smiled and asked if I’d like to earn another cedi. I nodded, and my dickie got all hard again. He smiled at that, too, and still on his knees in the dirt, opened his pants and hauled out a thin, uncut cock surrounded by grey pubes. He peeled the skin back to show me his shiny dark purple knob. Then I held up two fingers as I looked down at him.
He chuckled and said, “Only if you swallow. Do you know what swallowing is?”
I nodded like I did. I had seen a man face fucking a little girl, holding her head to his pubes, telling her to “swallow, bitch.” The only thing I knew coming out of my little dick was piss, so I figured that’s what she was swallowing. I’d pissed on my hand once and licked it. It wasn’t too bad. But I’d also seen men pissing in the streets, against walls, and how much piss they had. Remembered the awful smell. But for two cedis! I nodded again.
He made me get down on my hands and knees in the dirt and the filth, between his spread legs, put his large hand on the back of my head, told me he’d hurt me if I used my teeth, and guided my virgin mouth down onto his thin cock. He moaned when I brought my four year old lips together over his knob, and again when I swiped my tongue over it.
Then he put one hand on the back of my head, forcing his whole cock into my mouth, into my throat. I gagged and struggled, but at four I was far too small, big cock for my age or not, to fight him off. Almost casually he held my head down, smashing my nose into his smelly, raunchy pubes, reaching out with his other arm, his middle finger sliding down my own sweaty ass crack, rubbing across my virgin arse, up and down my crack, circling my tiny tight hole, as he thrust his hips up and down. I could feel the flesh of his foreskin peeling back, bunching up beneath his knob, then sliding back on the out stroke.
He began fucking my little face faster and faster, and then he forced his finger past my ass lips, into my dirty arse up to the first knuckle, swearing at me, calling me a nigger whore and a pussy boy and a dirty cunt, and suddenly I felt his cock swell in my mouth and he was spurting something thick, and hot, and tasting of salt and bleach and something else, globs of it that coated my teeth and tongue. I was so grateful it was something other than piss that I gulped and gulped and swallowed it all down.
When he was through he yanked his finger out of my arse and allowed me to lift my head. A blob of cum oozed down the side of my lips. He used the finger that had been up inside me to scoop it up and when he put it to my lips, slightly open as I panted for air, I knew I had no choice. I hadn’t been paid yet. I cleaned his finger, wincing only slightly at the taste of my own arse insides.
He could have just gotten up and walked away. But he was an honorable child molester. So he got up and reached into his pants for the three cedi he owed me. Or perhaps he was less honorable than wanting more from me, and knew if he didn’t pay me, he wouldn’t get anything else unless he raped me here and now. And even in the slums of Accra that would have been noticed; we do not take care of our own very well, as we are too concerned with ourselves, but that we would have done something about.
Perhaps.
Or perhaps the men who might have seen it would have joined in.
I clutched my money tightly, edging away so I could run, but his words stopped me. “Would you like to earn more?”
“Now?”
He smiled down at me as he carefully put his slightly slimy cock back into his pants and buttoned it away. “Tomorrow. Do you know where....” and he named a hotel on the very edge of the slums I lived in. Even I knew it was a place that men took their whores. And I realized at that moment that I was now a whore. Not that I cared. Not with three cedi in my sweaty grasp, not with the promise of more.
I nodded.
A few of the rooms on the ground floor had second doors that opened onto the alley, and since I could not read or write, he told me the room had a small sign of a hyena on the door. That I could recognize.
“You’ve not been fucked, have you?”
I knew what fucking was. Had seen, watched, an older boy bent over, his hands braced against a wall, while a middle aged man plowed his cock in and out of the boy’s arse. Heard the man bellow, “Take my cum, whore!” as he thrust deep and held very still. I instinctively knew that the hot juices that had spurted into my mouth just now were the same juices that man was spurting inside the boy’s arse. I wondered what cum looked like, now that I knew the taste and where it came from.
I shook my head “no.”
“Good. I will pay you four cedi to be first in your cunt.”
Four cedi was unimaginable wealth to a four year old, freshly-made whore. He had made a major negotiating mistake, however, but then, he believed was just dealing with an ignorant slum-dwelling four year old, and so did not watch his words. I was a much smarter whore than that. “First” meant that he valued that, it was worth more because I had never been fucked before. “First” also meant that the second time, and the third and the fourth would be worth less.
Oh yes, I knew that if I was going to earn money by sucking men’s cocks and being fucked, there would have to be seconds, and thirds, and fourths and on and on. “Twenty,” I said.
His face showed brief surprise, then grew stern. But I was far enough away from him now that if he lunged at me I could turn and run, and duck into places he was too big to go and get away. He recognized, though, that I was ready to bolt, so he forced a smile. I’ve always wondered if I was the youngest whore he’d ever directly negotiated price with. We finally agreed on ten for the first fuck and five for each one after. Two if I sucked and swallowed.
After we had solemnly agreed on price and time and place, the old man made another mistake. As he started to turn away, he was gloating, and “Robert and Charles will....”
“Who are Robert and Charles?” I almost snapped at him.
He was so surprised to be challenged by a tiny boy whore whose cock was all stiff again, which helped to distract him, that he blurted out, “The friends I’m going to share....” And then an “oh fuck” look passed across his face.
I could not prevent him from having other men there the next day. Knew that if they wanted to they could hold me down, fuck, one of them could hold me down and they could fuck me and fuck me and fuck me and even kill me. But maybe they wouldn’t if I was just a very special little boy whore they had to pay. Pay each and every time they sucked his dickie, used his mouth, fucked his arse.
“Same price. Every time.”
Which told the old man we had an agreement. I understood my four year old body would be molested over and over in that hotel room. He understood that they all had to pay for each hole they used, whether theirs or mine.
The next day, having hidden one cedi away, spent the other on food for my mother and me, and spent the third on stuffing myself full of sweets, I got to the hotel right on time. And the old man got a bit of revenge on me. When I knocked on the hyena door, he opened it just a crack to be sure it was me, held it open just enough for me to hurry in, then shut and locked it.
The curtains were drawn and the room was dim and hot, and smelled. It was, I learned, the smell of sweat and sex and drugs and piss and shit and tobacco and floors, walls, sheets and mattresses that were rarely cleaned. A smell that gets me hard still. But my dickie was already hard. I held up the little bag I’d stolen from my mother. Naked four year olds don’t have wallets to put money in.
The four naked men understood. They smiled at me, while they stroked their cocks. Two were on the bed. Big men, smooth skinned, bellies, thick hair around their thick and damned large hardons. Maybe in their forties. The one in the chair was younger, skinny, with the longest, and thinnest, cock in the room. The old man dropped twenty-five cedi in my bag. All four of them were going to fuck me.
And they did.
The old man’s revenge was that it wasn’t his cock, the smallest of the four, that fucked me first. It was the biggest. Eight inches, looking back. Angry bulging veins. Uncut. The two men got off the bed, made me get on it. Put a filthy pillow under my belly so my plump bottom was raised a little. The young one got behind me and spread my cheeks. I gasped when his tongue hit my sweaty hole, writhed and whimpered when he worked it inside me. He lapped and slurped for a little while and then got up. I heard the sound of someone spitting behind me.
They were wealthy men. At least to a four year old nigger whore. They could have afforded lube of some kind, not that I knew what lube was at the time. But my first fuck was a spit fuck, and it hurt. A lot. The second big man held me down while the first one lined his cock up with my arse hole, rubbed it around, and then forced the knob and a good part of the shaft into me in one hard thrust.
I screamed. And screamed again. I’d never felt such pain, not even when I was sixteen and my leg got broken in a rough match. Never felt such pain since. I howled in agony as my four year old cunt was invaded by thick, brutal Ghanaian prime meat. I tried to struggle, begged him to stop, offered to give back the money if he’d just let me go. The sound of their laughter, the laughter of four adults intent on abusing a tiny boy, hurting the kid cunt they’d paid for, added another layer of fear.
And of course no one came to rescue me, even if my screams were heard outside the room.
“Fucking tight cunt,” he announced when he was all the way in and I could feel his balls against me, his bristly pubes against my bare bottom. He slowly pulled all the way back, my body feeling like my bowels were being turned inside out, knife-slicing pain and burning, until just his knob was still inside. I heard him spit again, the last time anyone bothered, and then he was shoving all the way in again, hard, hurting, fast. The start of rapid strokes in and out of my abused pussy. I screamed myself hoarse, then lay there sobbing as he fucked me, and fucked me, and fucked me, muttering obscenities, his body dripping sweat on me, until at last he punched deep inside and held his cock there. I could feel it pulsing over and over and something hot spurting in my bowels.
Though they’d paid for my body, it was still rape. And when he yanked his meat out, the second man mounted me, sliding his cock into my cunt on lube made up of spit and ass juices and cum and blood and boy shit. He fucked me hard and fast, too, pulling my limp body up almost doggy style. As soon as he was done, the long skinny dick was inside me, pushing my bowels aside, going deeper than the other two cocks, hurting, hurting until I screamed a raw, desperate scream again. When he was finished it was the old man’s turn. I passed out when his cock got all the way in, though he had a much easier time since my arse hole had been spread wide by the earlier pricks. Which didn’t make him happy, and a hard fist punch to my back, and grabbing my hair and pulling my head up, arching back, brought me around.
When the old man’s cum was inside me, too, he pulled out and let me collapse. I was almost as wet as if it had been raining, from my own sweat and the raunchy perspiration running off my rapists and onto me.
They each fucked me two more times.
But they were honorable child molesters. After the old man bred my pussy a final time, he pulled me off the bed. I was bruised, hurting, tired as if I’d been awake for days. I could feel my cunt gaping, could barely stand. He handed me my bag, told me all my money was there, ten cedi for my cherry, fifty five for the eleven fucks that followed, then dragged me over to the door, unlocked, opened it, and pushed me into the heat and the brilliant sunlight. I squeezed my eyes shut at the change, staggered.
Before he closed the door the old man asked me a very important question.
I agreed that I wanted to be molested again, though that was not the precise question. Even through the pain, I had more money at one time than I’d ever seen, more than mama had ever had at any one time. And mama didn’t ask how I got the money when I brought it to her, or, well, brought most of it, though she could hardly not have known. Not when her four year old son is covered with the smell of men and sex and thick, slimy juices are still running out of his bruised pussy when he gets home with a bag full of money.
But she was pregnant again, so it was a fine mother-son what-the-fuck moment.
My little brother was born a few months later. Mama was just fifteen. By the time I was seven, and he was three, I had a four inch, fat for a little boy cock, with hanging balls. I’d been fucking him since he was two, and I planned on being his pimp when he turned four, just as the old man became mine after that first time. The men who raped me first had become regulars, sometimes singly, sometimes all of them, but my price for a gang bang was higher by then. They were cumming often and well in my mouth and in my cunt. I was cumming even more often as I used my talented throat and pussy muscles on their dicks, and dry cumming frequently with no one touching me.
My littlest brother was born when I was six. Mama knew I was molesting my younger brother; knew I planned for him to become a whore with me when he was four. She knew I was molesting my littlest brother. After all, she’d seen me with my three or so inch pricklet buried inside his six month old ass. Fuck, she even held him in place the first time I put my dick in his arse. She liked the money I was bringing in. Liked to use it to make herself a more attractive whore for adult men. Men who often enough came to me smelling of my mother’s sex, and molested me, fucking my mouth or my cunt, sometimes having me fuck them. One liked to have me fist his man cunt, and if he was...less than very clean...he’d use his mouth to clean my hand afterwards.
It all changed just before my eighth birthday.
Yet another cholera epidemic swept through the slums. My mother died. Both my brothers died. I almost did, too. I woke up in a hospital ward crammed with beds filled with other children. Eventually, when I was well enough to leave, Father Alessandro, a priest from Milan who ran a small orphanage, offered me a place to live, and an education. Along with my new names.
Actually, my first names. I’d never had one. And the men who used me didn’t need a first name or a last name for me. Whore, bitch, slut, cunt, and all the other words were just right for a kid cunt like me.
Fr. Alessandro named me Charles Adofo Abandonato.
Yes. A Ghanaian nigger boy with an Italian surname meaning “forsaken.” Fr. Alessandro had a fine sense of humor. And a fine fat cock that he liked to fuck in and out of my holes. So I whored myself again, but this time in secret, and for food and a chance to learn. I was nearing nine when it became clear that I had another major talent besides my six inch cock, deep throating whore mouth, and boy cunt that loved big meat. Football. Ultimately, rugby.
Fr. Alessandro and I kept our pedo preferences secret. And he was fucking me long after he would normally have turned to another, younger, fresher orphan boy. Not that he didn’t have other, far younger boys that he molested, he just made an exception for me. I had my full cock growth by the time I was fifteen, and the good priest became an eager fan of my meat, learning to swallow every inch, and take it up his man cunt as well.
My cock was slimy with the precum my meat had been pouring out. Slick, shiny.
I looked at the gold Patek Phillipe on my right wrist, all 80,000 quid’s worth. The only thing I was wearing. Time was slipping by, though all the memories were getting me nicely worked up, even more so than I might have expected.
Nearly every sports professional has some ritual, some symbol, something superstitious though accompanied by loud disclaimers of superstition, that were supposed to bring good luck. A certain way of getting dressed before a game, right up to the last adjustment of your cock. A jock strap that is freshly washed just before the first game, never washed throughout the season, worn every game, carefully put away for the following season.
Mine was a bit different. But when you’re as fucking good as me, and get paid as much as I do, and make as much as I do with sponsorships, you get away with things. Especially things that endeared you to the ignorant arseholes who were my fans.
Immediately after each game, sweaty, filthy, injured or not (unless I was carried off the field unconscious which has only happened once), I ignored my mates, my bosses, the fans, the media and went off for some private time. In London, in the general manager’s office near the locker room, with its fancy furnishings and private bath. A similar type of room in other cities, other countries. Sometimes I was alone, sometimes with my family. Usually around fifteen to twenty minutes. Certainly no more than thirty. Fans and media will only put up with so much.
The times when my wife and son were with me were “oi, ain’t that sweet” moments for the press.
What happened in those minutes?
I unwound. Sometimes just sitting quietly, stinking up the place. Sometimes just showering. Sometimes a good wank. When my wife, the bitch who married me for the prestige and the money, and who I married to give me a son to molest, was there I’d fuck her cunt fast and hard, leaving her worn and gasping. She wasn’t fond of the size of my prick and the way it tore her pussy up. And then she’d have to fix herself back up so she was as beautiful as she was when she joined me.
Sometimes it was just my precious baby boy. Some father-son bonding time. Such good images of a huge fucking nigger cradling his tiny plump son in his massive arms when he came out to meet and greet and sign autographs and answers questions and all the shit that went with my pay cheque.
But in the office I was playing with his growing dickie, finger fucking his virgin pussy, wanking into his face, onto his cocklet, onto his cunt hole. And since my wife had left the actual care of our son to the nanny, she had no idea what was going on. The nanny, who was, oddly enough, a man, also named Charles and with some sort of degree in child care, could not help but be aware of what I was doing. After all, he was nine years old when I fucked him shortly after my arrival in England, a skinny white slut who took all my meat and loved every fat inch.
We had no apparent, public connection, but we remained close and in the following eighteen years besides some great sex, including the occasional little boy, though that ultimately had to come to a halt as I became better known, he eventually became my bodyguard, personal assistant, whatever the fuck I needed. Including a man cunt when I wanted a rough fuck. And given that he’s six feet tall, muscled, shaved bald, and looks like a gangster on the telly, no one has ever suspected our shared interests.
But there was no way the bodyguard/nanny could share private post-game family time, so his quiet share of molesting Kwame was when he was doing the nanny part of my boy’s life.
I’d planned on waiting to fuck my boy until he was four, breaking him in at the same age I was, and having Charles present, to share my baby’s holes. But then the bitch didn’t bother to come to the most important match so far of the season, just told Charles to take the kid to the stadium. And I was horny; knew I would be horny and had planned on a fairly brutal fuck of her arse, something she doesn’t like. Only to discover that it was just Kwame and me.
It was the expression on my face that made my boy nervous. Or maybe the fact that I said I was going to fuck him. He didn’t really care much for sucking me off, though he’d learned that his daddy’s big hand could hurt his bare baby bottom if he disobeyed. I needed to cum. I was in no fucking mood for just a wank. Or even a blowjob from my boy’s fat lips.
I needed bowels around my fucking meat. If the substitute bowels in my wife weren’t available, then the preferable boy bowels would have to do.
The general manager kindly had lube in a not too obvious place in his office. The first time I’d found it, years ago, I made sure to put it back after a great wank in not quite the same place. Just enough difference that he would know I’d found it and used it. After that, it was always available.
I lubed three fingers, wiped my other hand, sat on the comfortable seat in the shower stall, and put my fuck you finger all the way into my almost but not yet three year old’s virgin cunt. He was laying across my lap, my steadily leaking hardon pressing against his fat belly. One finger wasn’t too distressing, he’d had that often enough. Two got a whimper. Three in a triangle got a definite howl, that I quickly cut off with my right hand across his mouth.
I worked my fingers in and out of his pussy, spreading and wiggling them so his cunt would be at least a little bit stretched. But not too much. I hadn’t been lubed and stretched and prepared when my four year old pussy got broken in. So...fair is fair.
I could have stopped. Knew I should. I was out of my fucking mind. Not all that far away were fans, media, mates, all waiting for my “down time” to end so we could get the feeding frenzy over with. But I hadn’t had a boy’s pussy in far too long. Fucking years. Or non-fucking years to be exact.
I needed this. Well, fuck, more want than need, but I was still going to do it.
I stood him up, balanced him on my massive thighs, made him squat so my leaking knob was pressed against his plump virgin pussy lips, and then shoved my hips while I managed to use one hand to cover his mouth, the other gripping the back of his neck and his small shoulders and awkwardly pushing him down.
This would have been so much easier if we’d been at home, the bitch off shopping or boozing or whatever, Charles holding his little shoulders down on the bed as I mounted him. But I couldn’t, wouldn’t, wait.
I buggered my boy in the bathroom. As he howled, the sounds unfortunately muffled by my hand, my cock got harder, spewing thick clear precum up his widened cunny. Like his dad, my boy is a fighter, and he knew he didn’t want that thick daddy dick hurting him, shoving up inside his little boy bowels. He struggled and fought but just like with my own first fuck, no way was he escaping. I kept on pressing until a little over a third of my cock was inside his bottom hole.
I pushed and five inches of fat nigger daddy dick was in my baby boy’s two year old pussy. He passed out.
As much as I wanted my whole cock inside him, I knew that wasn’t going to happen today. And as horny as I was, it wasn’t going to take much to fill his little boy bottom with hot daddy milk. He flopped limply as I took hold of his sides and began easing my cock out until just the knob was buried, then pushing back in, two strokes and he was awake again. I told him sternly that if he screamed again, much as I would have loved that sound, I’d spank him until he couldn’t sit down for a month. Little Kwame knew his daddy kept his word.
He bit down on his lip as I fucked him, tears streaming down his face, five thick inches in and out and in and out of his painful two year old pussy, until with a final grunt and thrust I pumped my balls dry of cum. I slumped against the wall, left my dick up him for a moment, and then eased it out.
I turned Kwame so he was kneeling on my thighs, his head pressed against my abs. I leaned forward to look at his arse. His pussy lips were raw, puffed up. A glob of my cum showed brilliant white against the shiny black of his bottom.
“Holy shit.”
The words were soft, reverent. And my head snapped up.
Not holy shit, but Terry the shit. The fucking bastard knew the rules; knew I wasn’t to be bothered during my father-son bonding time, but only he would have the balls to come in anyway. And I was the fucking arsehole for forgetting to lock the door.
But Terry wasn’t looking at me; he was staring at the two year old’s cunt, and the next glob of white that began oozing out. He wasn’t even aware that he was gripping his own hardon as he muttered something about the natives getting restless.
“Show me your dick.”
That got his fucking attention. The “huh?” that accompanied looking up at my face was priceless.
“Just do it, you dumb Mick.”
He was still wearing his gear, still dirty and sweaty, commando like the rest of us to give the fans a thrill if someone grabbed our shorts too vigorously. He shoved his shorts down. His cock was pale, freckled like the rest of him, the bright red knob end showing as he pulled back the skin. He licked his lips and went back to staring at Kwame.
“Put your cock in his cunt.”
That got another “huh?” plus a “wha?” His face said he was going to start to deny, to babble, but the oozing precum gave him away. He could tell from the expression on my face that I was serious, and while he mightn’t have had any paedo thoughts before this moment, he sure the fuck was having them right now.
“There’s no time, shit for brains. I want to see a white dick in his pussy. You won’t have time to cum, but you can bugger him back at my house later. Now fucking do it.”
The position was awkward for him, once he got into the shower stall, but even a new born paedophile can figure things out when needed. He squatted, pressed his cock down, got it in position and shoved.
Christ it was so fucking hot to see that slender white, freckled prick slide into my boy’s raw pussy. Hear his again muffled scream. Watch the expression in Terry’s eyes since we were pretty much face to face as baby boy bowels wrapped around his dick. I let him push all the way in. Six inches worth shoving my two year old’s pussy walls aside.
I was going to tell him to get his dick out but I could see even that one stroke got him right up to the edge. I roughly told him to cum in my boy’s cunt, grabbed the back of his head and began tongue fucking his mouth, hurting his nips, and he shoved once, twice into Kwame’s kid pussy and then he was whimpering and moaning into my mouth as he spewed a second load of man cream into the battered boyhole.
I let him go, told him to get his dick the fuck out of my boy. He pulled out, lost his balance, sprawled on his ass. Kwame farted and cum and slime spurted out of his hole. Terry had always bragged about his skills eating out a woman’s cunt. I put his talent to work, told him to clean my boy’s arse. Dazed, he struggled back to his knees and leaned in, bracing his hands on my knees, licking and slurping and gulping down the cum and ass juices and slime from Kwame’s hole.
I didn’t give him much time, since we were, I was, way the fuck over the usual time. But I had it figured.
“You came in,” I told him, “found out that I was taking care of my baby boy, who is ill. You helped clean up some upchuck,” Terry licked his lips and swallowed the last of the “upchuck,” “and now I’ve asked you to get Charles.”
Terry’s eyes widened. The inked, shaved, thug-looking bodyguard knew?
“He’s going to be the third man cock in Kwame’s cunt. Then, while you’re fucking him again, Charles and I are going to give you the best buggering you’ve ever had.”
“But I, but I don’t....”
“Bullshit. You’ve been wanting this big nigger dick for a while now, right?”
Terry nodded.
“You trying to convince me, or just yourself, that you didn’t know that if you got it, I wasn’t going to be pounding your arse with it?”
He blushed, full body, and shut the fuck up. Nodded. Got his act together, well as much as an easily embarrassed Mick redhead could do after he’s just come in his obviously first baby boy pussy, and was trying not to get hard again at the idea he’d do a repeat, and get ruthlessly fucked himself. He left.
I cradled my precious boy whore in my arms, dried his tears, made sure he understood he was never to tell anyone what had just happened.
Charles came into the bathroom then, paused, took in the sight of my not quite soft meat, my naked son, and figured out the upchuck bit was all bollocks. And he knew precisely where my meat had been. He came over, bent down, took naked Kwame from my arms.
“You think you’d like your eight inches in Terry’s arse while he fucks Kwame?” He started to object, but I stopped him with, “Of course, that’ll be after you’ve had the little one’s cunt yourself.”
I stood up in the shower, stretched. “Tell the sharks I’ll be out in a minute.”
Kwame was wrapped in one of the manager’s large towels, just right to catch anything leaking from his cunt, and in keeping with his sudden “illness.” Charles headed out.
I turned the shower on, got under the spray, quickly used some gel to lather up.
Got hard again at the thought of the boy fucking, man cunt fucking that was going to happen later on. Got even harder as I wondered who else on the team might be interested in some paedo action. Diego’s golden brown dago dick? Akira’s Jap dick? Roger’s short fat white meat? I’d seen it in action when we were in the alley behind a bar in Berlin, getting blown by an Aryan slut...a male slut at that, which at the time surprised the fuck out of me about Roger.
I started stroking faster. Fantasizing, planning, actually, about a gang of men taking turns on my two year old baby boy’s holes, fucking him over and over until his pussy opened up and he could take all of their meat, all of daddy’s meat.
I thought about buggering my two year old boy in the bathroom. Buggering him in my bed. Buggering the men who were fucking his nigger pussy in an orgy, a gang bang, that would happen very soon. I came and came hard.