The bell on Mr. Mack’s store jingles promptly at 3-o'clock. Mr. Mack’s body floods immediately with anticipatory adrenaline, and he is half-hard on excitement alone.
Oliver, for his part, does not look particularly enthusiastic, but nor does he look like he’s dreading the events to come either. If anything he looks a bit nervous, a certain shy inwardness to his posture, a certain twitchy uncertainty to his limbs.
Mr. Mack sweeps out eagerly from behind the counter, swiftly locking the door behind Olly and ushering him once more into the back room. “Oliver!” he exclaims sweetly, “So good to see you again!” He’d been half afraid the boy would not show up for another afternoon.
“Hey,” the boy mumbles. He sets his backpack down in the corner of the small, dusty storage room.
“Why don’t you take your shoes and pants off today, hm?” says Mr. Mack with an uncontrollable grin on his face. “Last time you left them around your ankles and they got in the way a bit.”
Olly shrugs, but does what he’s told. He shucks the shoes off into the corner with the backpack and pulls off his pants and underwear as he goes, tossing them in the same general direction. With no additional prompting he uses the chair to climb his way on top of the heavy wooden desk against one wall and assumes the position that Mr. Mack had maneuvered him into in the last session: on his knees with his head down and butt lifted into the air.
Mr. Mack’s breath is stolen by the sheer audacity of it. The boy presents his rear as though it comes naturally to him, offering up everything Mr. Mack has ever wanted with a stunning nonchalance. The pale, pert ass gleams in the harsh flat light of the storeroom. That was another thing Mr. Mack should have gotten: better lighting.
He is still less prepared than he’d like to be. After the frankly extraordinary events of the previous day, Mr. Mack had gone home and stormed the internet like a madman. He’d searched and re-searched to find the most ridiculous, debauched toys the filthy depths of the web could offer up. He’d pored over the images of vibrators and anal beads and frankly absurdly-sized dildos with a watering mouth, like a starving man at a buffet.
But although he’d selected absolutely the fastest shipping the websites had offered, nothing is due to arrive until the next day at the earliest. And so Mr. Mack has to make do with what he could scrounge from his own home. He’d scoured it top to bottom for inspiration, and had eventually found the most promising equipment in his kitchen. He eyes the cardboard box of miscellaneous cookware at the foot of the desk with only mild disappointment. Well, he’ll do better tomorrow.
“Did you have a good day at school?” Mr. Mack asks, making small-talk as he draws the lube out of his desk drawer.
“It was okay,” Olly replies. He shrugs downward towards the desk. He’s crossed his arms in front of his head this time, his forehead pressed against them, face turned down against the wooden surface. His voice is muffled as a result.
Mr. Mack lubes his left hand generously and proceeds to slide his pointer finger gently into the boy’s expectant anus. It seems a little more difficult than he remembers from the previous day. “Did you learn anything interesting?” He tries again.
“Not really,” says Olly, before going silent once more.
Mr. Mack gives up on the conversation; Olly clearly isn’t into it and Mr. Mack has more important things to focus on. Still, he feels the need to express at least some small portion of his gratitude to the boy: “I’m really glad you came, Olly. I’ve been looking forward to this all day. You’re an amazing boy for helping out a silly old man like this.”
Mr. Mack twists the finger back and forth, screwing it in bit by bit, working it slowly ever-deeper into the boy’s suddenly reluctant passage. “Just relax,” Mr. Mack soothes.
A few more seconds of working it in and he’s gotten the finger in up to the middle knuckle. He decides to leave it rest there for now, to allow Olly to get used to it. With his free hand he eagerly grabs up a tender globe of the boy’s ass and kneads it, worshipping the soft pliancy of the flesh. He allows the hand to wander downward, caressing the boy’s thigh before slipping down to massage his calf.
He continues the soothing strokes until he feels the tight walls of Olly’s rectum begin to relax around the intrusive digit. Mr. Mack smiles to himself. He pushes it deeper. It goes more easily now, until he’s worked it in all the way down to the palm. He begins to thrust it in and out in little motions, a leisurely finger-fucking that begins to make the small, desperately-awaited squelching noises that had scored Mr. Mack’s feverish dreams the night before.
He is impatient today, but he forces himself to remain slow. He fucks Olly with a single finger for several minutes, waiting and feeling him out inside, until finally he is rewarded by a relaxing of the boy’s posture, a softer give to the muscles of the boy’s passage.
Hooking to the side with his pointer finger to draw the boy open a little, Mr. Mack slides in the second digit. Again he takes his time, finger-fucking the boy with a steady in-and-out rhythm. Despite his impatience, Mr. Mack feels he’d happily spend all day at this task—no, his entire life. He could spend years driving his fingers into the boy over and over and over, could die happy with some small part of him embedded eternally in the young flesh.
But he has so many more interesting things to try, and only a limited amount of time to try them. With his free hand, Mr. Mack reaches down into the box of kitchen supplies and draws out a turkey baster. Then he reluctantly withdraws his fingers from Olly’s passage to lube the implement.
He squeezes the red rubber pump on the end of the baster to draw lube up into the tool. He can’t come in Olly’s ass—not yet, doesn’t want to risk discovery so soon into the week—but perhaps this is the next best thing. He lines up the pipette tip of the baster with the pucker of Olly’s hole.
The very tip of the turkey baster is slimmer than Mr. Mack’s own finger, and pushes in with nary a whisper of resistance. In fact as Mr. Mack pushes—slowly, carefully—the entire ten inches or so of the tool slides into the boy’s ass in a single, smooth motion. The hard plastic of the baster took the lube well; it glides in as though made for this task. Olly groans quietly as the full length of it comes to sit inside him.
The image of the boy’s ass with baster plunged so deep inside is almost more than Mr. Mack can handle; he is painfully hard, and almost worried he might come in his slacks. He takes a deep breath, letting go of the tool and stepping back for a moment to calm himself.
He gasps as Olly’s asshole twitches, drawing the tool more firmly inside. Mr. Mack’s mouth is watering, his limbs shaking. The boy is a gift—a gift from all of heaven and the angels that Mr. Mack never believed in. It is the most precious sight he’s ever seen. The boy just lies there, passive, full ass in the air awaiting anything more that Mr. Mack chooses to do to it.
Mr. Mack reaches back in and grasps the protruding end of the baster, drawing it out a few inches and thrusting back in with a few shallow, token thrusts. As lovely as this image is, he has other implements to try out.
As he draws the baster slowly, tantalizingly out of Olly’s ass, Mr. Mack squeezes the red pump once more, letting the tool ejaculate its load of lubricant as it goes, slicking the boy’s passage far deeper in than he could get with his fingers alone. As the boy’s bottom finally relinquishes the makeshift toy, it does so with a tiny, pornographic dribble of lube that makes Mr. Mack’s heart flutter once more as it oozes out of the boy and down the back of his young, smooth balls.
Mr. Mack drops the turkey baster into the box and draws out his next experiment: a wire whisk. The cold metal handle is not as long as the baster, but whereas the baster had been narrow, the whisk handle is probably around an inch and a half in diameter.
Mr. Mack pries the boy’s patient rectum open once more with the edge of his thumb, and works the ridges of flesh up over the smooth metal of the whisk handle. It takes a little while for the boy’s flesh to cooperate enough to envelop the entire width of the tool, but when it does it begins once more its series of hitches and twitches that slurp the intruding object deeper, even without any help from Mr. Mack.
But help it he does. He pushes, gradually but ceaselessly, delighting as the silver metal slides inch by inch into the boy. Mr. Mack licks his lips. This was the tool he wanted to fuck the boy with. This was what he wanted to watch as it now spreads the boy so obscenely open.
The wire head of the whisk is easy to grab, burying his fingers amongst the pliant strands. No sooner has the whisk been fully embedded within the boy than Mr. Mack is drawing it out again, shoving it in, drawing it out, shoving it in. His thrusts are long and firm at first, several inches at a time disappearing into the boy and then reappearing again as he pulls it out once more.
Olly’s breathing is heavy, Mr. Mack notices. He says nothing, and his face is still buried against the desk, so Mr. Mack can’t tell whether the boy is enjoying the experience or merely tolerating it. But he does not complain, and so Mr. Mack continues his thrusts.
Once again, he feels as though he could go on forever. It is positively dream-like watching the thick handle slide in and out of the boy. Hypnotic. Mr. Mack isn’t sure how long he’s lost in the reverie of pushing and pulling, long slow thrusts that fuck the boy’s hole open again and again.
Until, suddenly, another hungry twitch from the boy’s anus. Another unsteady gulp as it draws the tool deeper in at the zenith, clenching around it. And Mr. Mack loses it.
He becomes frenzied, plunging the whisk into the boy’s ass, driving it home over and over in shallow, brutal thrusts. The boy begins a soft, mumbling whimper as Mr. Mack pounds the greedy hole with all the strength he can muster. He fucks the toy into the child as though in punishment, as though he can somehow drive his own lust and desires into the boy if he simply plunges deep enough.
Finally Mr. Mack can’t take it any more. He wrenches the whisk from the boy’s anus and retrieves his final kitchen implement: a white plastic funnel.
He doesn’t even bother to lube the thing; the boy is dripping with sweat and runoff from the over-vigorous use of the other tools, sloppy with wetness. Mr. Mack drives the funnel into him, screwing it in with a back and forth motion while with the other hand he unzips his pants and pulls out his own member.
Seating the funnel as deep as he can in the boy—even the largest funnel he could find is still unfortunately small—Mr. Mack lets go of the plastic implement and grabs the boy’s hip with his hand. He guides his own penis into the plastic funnel and begins to grind wildly into the boy.
The funnel does not want to stay nicely seated in the boy; unlike the baster and whisk, its conic shape is not ideal for this task—at least not from this angle. But the frantic thrusts of Mr. Mack’s cock against the plastic do any work that the boy’s passage will not to on its own. Again and again his thrusts drive the plastic into the boy.
It is not the full satisfaction he wants. The plastic walls of the funnel do not clench around him the way he knows and fantasizes that the boy’s anus will. The only pressure comes against the head of his penis where it grinds against the abrupt narrowing of the funnel’s spout.
Mr. Mack wants so badly to come into the funnel. He wants to shoot his load down into the fucked-open passage of the boy that he can even now see as a delightful dark redness against the translucence of the plastic. It’s the perfect tool for guiding his sperm into the boy, claiming the angelic little hole for his own.
But he’s terrified of leaving genetic evidence. At the very least he has to wait out the week. It will be the culmination. He’ll finish the week out, fuck the boy well and truly, and then he can die happy no matter what happens to him. No regrets.
So he fucks his frustrations against the funnel, fucks into the boy and pretends, pretends thrust after thrust, until finally he wrenches the thing out of the boy’s passage and comes, sloppy and undirected onto the floor.
He’s panting with exertion when he finally comes back to himself. The boy’s anus is a true sight to behold, red and distended, fucked open in the finest of pornographic tradition, oozing a filthy slurry of lube. Mr. Mack admires it for several long minutes as he breathes, before retrieving tissues to clean the boy up.
“There now,” he soothes. “That’s two amazing days you’ve given me, dear Oliver. Just three more and you’ll get just what you want. Thank you again, my dear, dear boy.”
Oliver uncurls from his position, clearly stiff and sore. He sniffles a bit, and his eyes are perhaps a bit red, but he does not cry. Mr. Mack pets his soft hair, grateful beyond words.
“What say I give you a few of my nice tin soldiers on your way out today, for being so very good, hm? I think you’ve earned it.”
Finally, for the first time since he arrived, Olly smiles. Mr. Mack echoes it back at him, a warm and blooming joy in his chest. “And then we’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
Olly nods firmly. “Uh-huh.”