Andrew wakes up, drugged, unable to move, flat on his stomach in a college dorm room that he does not recognize. His pants and boxers are around his ankles, and his whole body is repeatedly being thrown forward with the sharp, rhythmic thrusts of the man who is raping him.
He manages to twist his neck just far enough to look over his shoulder, and vaguely recognizes one of the frat brothers from the party downstairs. He knew he shouldn’t have left his drink alone, he’s always heard that rule, but somehow he imagined it applying only to women. Now, as some anonymous man’s cock slides roughly in and out of his ass, he wishes he’d paid more attention.
He grunts, but whatever drug he was given is powerful, and he is completely unable to move his body. He can only lie there, limply, aware of the fingers clenched on his hips and the rocking motion of the bed and the hot, painful stretching of his anus. He moans a bit more loudly, trying to tell the man to get off him, but it only earns him a sharp slap on his ass.
He tries to get a closer look at his attacker, wondering if he’ll even remember any of this in the morning, or if maybe it already is morning. The man looks like an upperclassmen, probably 21 or 22. He has short, cropped brown hair with fake-looking blond highlights. His eyes are closed and his face is screwed up, as though his mind is elsewhere, and not on the situation at hand.
What the young man, Timothy, is thinking about, is his stepfather. He is remembering the times when he was 11 years old and his stepfather would slip into his room late at night, after everyone else had gone to sleep. He remembers the way his stepfather would lie behind him, pulling Timothy back against his chest, his big thick-fingered hands idly pawing and stroking Timothy’s body. He remembers the soothing whispers of love in his ear, the ones that assured him that this was normal, that this was how a father was supposed to love his children, that their real father, who had beaten them and their mother, had not known about real love.
He remembers the way it felt when his stepfather’s thick fingers would slip into his anus. He remembers how cold they used to be; he doesn’t know what was on them, only that it was so cold, and slippery, and he would press three of the thick digits into Timothy’s anus, stretching him, warning him not to cry out and wake up the household.
He remembers the dread feeling he came to expect whenever the fingers withdrew, because he knew what came next. His stepfather’s large penis, slick and cold like the fingers, would press into him until it was lodged deeply in his anus. His stepfather never thrust, not then; he would just lie there, filling Timothy’s anus, until he fell asleep. Timothy always bit his lip and did not cry out.
In his stepfather’s mind, he was not raping Timothy as long as he did not thrust. If he did not come inside his stepson, it was not sex, and so it was not rape. He did not know what he did in his dreams, when he fell asleep. He had no knowledge of the way his hips bucked until his seed spilled inside the boy. He always pulled out early in the morning, before anyone else in the house woke up, and went downstairs to make breakfast. By the time he did so, he was of course flaccid once again. He did not know that this was because his mind had summoned hot, erotic dreams that caused him to spend his morning erection inside his stepson, as he had the previous night.
Alone in the early morning, cracking eggs into a frying pan, Timothy’s stepfather, whose name was Anthony, did not think about his childhood, and his older brother, who had come home from football practice every day and locked himself in a room with Anthony, cornering him and forcing him to his knees. His brother would shove his penis into Anthony’s mouth, grabbing his hair and forcing him to suck on the engorged member. Anthony had always admired his older brother, and he accepted the oral penetration without complaint, even when his brother pushed his cock into the back of Anthony’s throat and made him choke.
He had always wanted to please his brother, and so when Daniel had told him to swallow the thick ropes of cum that shot down his throat, he did his best. His brother had stroked his hair afterwards, told him that he was good, that he was special to Daniel. He would smile up at his brother, cum dripping from the corner of his mouth, and eagerly wish for the next day to come so he could do it again.
Forcing his little brother to suck him off made Daniel feel powerful. It was a feeling he needed after the desperate surrender that occurred every day in the high school locker room, when the other football players surrounded him and one by one plunged their cocks into his anus. As the youngest member of the team, they told him, it was his duty to take care of them. If he didn’t want as many of them in his ass, then he’d have to use his hands and mouth to get them off.
Daniel tried to do that as much as possible, even though they usually squirted their cum all over his face. Anything was better than the thick, painful feeling of their cocks pounding into his anus. He would stay in the shower long after all the other members had left, waiting for the last of the cum to drip out of his ass so it wouldn’t stain his underwear before he got home and give him away to his parents.
Sometimes, when he had been unable to get enough of them off in other ways, and too many cocks had fucked him so hard he couldn’t stand, Daniel would lie weakly on the floor of the shower after they left, the water beating down onto his back. One of the oldest jocks, Marcus, the ringleader, would slap his ass sharply before he departed, making obscene kissy noises at Daniel’s back as he left.
Walking home, Marcus would picture Daniel lying in a puddle of cum on the shower floor and he would feel strong and invincible. It helped him stop thinking of the times when he was a young boy and the head priest at his catholic school had called him out of class and taken him aside, locking them in his office.
He didn’t want to remember the way the priest had bent him over his large, heavy desk of dark wood and pulled down his pants, slapping his exposed buttocks sharply with a ruler over and over, in punishment for whatever he had decided Marcus’s crime was that week. Sometimes it was actually getting in trouble in class, sometimes it was something more intangible; often father William accused Marcus of thinking lascivious, impure thoughts. The ruler would come down with a sharp thwack, and involuntary tears would jump to Marcus’s eyes.
When Marcus’s butt was flaming red and Marcus was begging for forgiveness, father William would turn the ruler sideways and stick it inside of him, pushing the dry wooden stick deep into his anus. He would wiggle it around, pushing it farther and farther in until Marcus cried out. Then he would draw the ruler out and look at it. “Eight inches today,” he would say. “You’re getting better.” Or, “Only four inches? Tsk tsk. Shameful. Let’s try that again.” Father William never let him go back to class until he took at least five inches of the ruler inside him without crying out. Father William taught that homosexuality was a sin. He taught that sexual perversion was not an urge given by God, but one engendered by men themselves. He was never aware of the irony of these teachings.