Page 5 of The Demons of Wychwood

Hearing those filthy words brought me back to my own body and its needs. My prick tented in my trousers, and my bollocks ached something awful. Without taking my eye from the peephole I fumbled with my buttons, stuffed my shaking hand into my small clothes, and began tugging at my cock. The sounds of desire tinged with pain that came from 27 were like a flame dancing down my spine to set my bollocks alight. I didn’t understand what it was about that pleading, whimpering, submissive sound that aroused me so. My view through the peephole was of the beefy brute’s pink hairy backside violently jabbing forward, impaling, and dominating the younger man’s body. 45 leaned in, burying the whole of his substantial length into 27 until his bollocks slapped roughly against 27s reddened thighs. He fisted a hand into the dark curls and pulled 27’s head up. I wished I could see 27’s face properly beneath that mop of hair.

“Tell me how much you love dancing on my prick, demon!”

“Please, please don’t make me,” 27 squirmed and writhed, looking like he was trying to escape from his bindings.

“Say it; make that filthy demon talk to me.” 45 thrust, forcing 27 to jettison up the bed. 45 clambered on top of 27 and pinned him down.

“Say it,” he ground out the words with such menace that I shivered to my very bones with fear and lust.

“I… I…I love dancing on your prick… I love it…I love it.”

Satisfied, 45s fevered movements began again. They were bestial and uncaring, the slap, slap, slap of his bollocks against 27s thighs echoed around the bedchamber mixing with 45s grunts and 27s pleading and whimpering. I knew I shouldn’t be enjoying this—that 27 was not just a hole to fill to ease 45s desires. But I was in a trance as I watched that heaving backside. My grip tightened and the strokes on my prick matched every thrust 45 was giving. I imagined that it was me, and not 45 taking pleasure in 27s arse. I’d never taken a prick or buggered another and wondered if pushing my length inside a man would feel better than spit and my fist? Was it wet and tight like a mouth? Did the channel pulse and squeeze at a prick? Did it hurt like the blazes? From the yelps I’d heard at seeing men get buggered I thought it must be so. But they still pleaded, begged for it to continue, so they must be getting some pleasure from the act.

27 cried out as he reached his peak, and behind the wall, my own prick pulsed and spend erupted in hot musky streams over my fingers. I rested my head against the wall and took a breath, but 45 weren’t done with 27 yet. He rode on for what seemed like hours until 27s passage must have been raw. 45s stamina was bullish, but it seemed that 27 had passed his point of tolerance and fainted. Again, a twisting unease in my belly made me feel uncomfortable and sick, but I couldn’t look away. 45 reached completion with a triumphant roar and let his spill fill 27s channel. He rolled off the younger man’s unconscious clothed body and lay panting. 27 appeared as lifeless as a wrung-out dishrag. His pummelled backside remained on display with a stream of pearly white flowing from between pinked cheeks.

45 didn’t waste any time in regaining his energy, or on niceties. He sat up and stowed his pendulous spent cock. Then he stood, pulled up his britches, untied 27s wrists, slapped him firmly on the rump leaving his crimson handprint, and said, “That should keep the bastard at bay for a while.” Then he strode for the door.

I was stunned. 45 treated 27 as if he was his damn horse. It was outrageous and cold. My heart crawled up into my throat when the door slammed shut and I saw 27 flinch like he’d been struck for a second time.

****