Date: Sat, 23 Jan 2010 05:10:05 -0500
From: Jesse Adore <pulp.fictive@gmail.com>
Subject: sweet cheeks, pt.1

This is a work of fiction. It was written by an adult, and is meant to be
read by adults. No minors were harmed in the making of this work, and the
author does not condone real violence of any kind.

This is the first time I've ever submitted a story to the Nifty Archive, or
any internet erotica repository before, though I've been reading since I
was legal. Let me know if you like it or have feedback:
pulp.fictive@gmail.com

Sweet Cheeks, Chapter 1
(t/t, oral, humil)

I have a tiny dick.

I mean, for a teenager. Or for anyone, really. It is kind of ridiculously
small. How do you even measure a dick? From the base at the bottom, near my
pea-sized nuts? Or at the top, where I barely even have the smallest,
softest tuft of light blond hair? Either way, on a good day, it's maybe
3". And that's when it's totally hard, which it is a lot these days.

It's rough having a tiny dick, and it's rough being me. I never knew my
dad, and my mom just got remarried a while ago. Like, it was just me and
her -- even though she was drunk most of the time -- and then all of a
sudden, bing-bang-boom, there's this asshole guy in my life, and his
jerkface son.

Jim and Jake. What stupid names. Jim's the dad -- my stepdad now, can you
believe it? -- and Jake's his big meathead goon of a kid. My "brother"
now. God, what the fuck.

They're both fucking cave men. This place changed overnight when they
showed up. It even started smelling different. Before, our apartment was
nice and neat and smelled like cleaning stuff, mostly, and occasionally
like one of mom's cloying vanilla candles. But now, I'm constantly picking
up dirty underwear and socks and Jake's stupid gear -- from what? Soccer?
Hockey? Football? Lacrosse? All of the above? I think he plays like every
sport, even ones I don't even know about. WTF, javelin? Jim's always
bragging that he's "the perfect all-around athlete": 5'11", 185 lbs of pure
muscle, ripped biceps and pecs and abs and lats and gluts and every other
part of him, too. And he's only 17; he hasn't even stopped growing
yet. Dark hair and eyes, like his dad. Anyway, all of a sudden this place
smells like a locker room all the time.

Jim isn't much better. He works construction, with heavy equipment or
something. He comes home every day covered in grease and dust, tromping in
mud and shit and who knows what else with his big heavy work boots. All
summer he has worn the same basic uniform: hard hat, ripped up Carhart work
pants, wifebeater. What does he wear when it gets cold? How many stained,
gross wifebeaters does he have? He just barges in, with his big burly
tree-trunk arms and chest, all dark and swarthy and kind of hairy, spitting
and cursing and yelling about dinner. He's taller than Jake, about 6"3 and
190 -- probably what Jake will fill out to when he's a little older. I
gotta say, he doesn't look bad for a guy who's 40.

Yeah, what? I'm gay. G-A-Y gay. And I mean gaaaay. Oh, and I'm Kyle, by the
way. I've been hot for guys for about as long as I can remember, and I
guess pretty much everyone knows it. I mean, it's not like I can even hide
it or anything. I'm just one of those homos, you know? A little flaming
faggot, with a lisp and everything. Art, music, reading -- that's my
thing. And it doesn't help that I'm a little runt, either: I'm 15 and I'm
barely 5'5" and just tip the scales at 100lbs. I have shaggy blond hair and
big blue-green eyes and a delicate upturned nose and a pouty little
mouth. I've got a narrow waist and a sweet little butt -- Jake has recently
started calling me "sweet cheeks" while he sneers at me. Whatever, I'm a
pretty boy and I know it. And I rock it. Hard.

"Sweet cheeks" is one of the nicer names that Jake has given me over the
last coupla months. "Homo," "fag," "buttslut," "pussyboy" and "pillow
biter" are a lot more common. He always does it just out of earshot from my
mom, but not always from his dad. I know his dad hears him sometimes, but
he never says anything to him. His latest thing is to catch my eye when
we're all eating dinner and silently mouth the words to me, just to see if
he can get away with it. "Cunt." "Cocksucker." "Sissy bitch."

The problem is that I kind of like it. I think Jake senses that. I get all
flushed and sweaty when he talks to me that way. I tell him to leave me
alone, and I try to avoid him, but I think he knows that he's getting to
me. It's that mean smirk on his face when he says it. Like he's trying to
see how much he can get away with before I snap and... what? Freak out on
him or something I guess.

And then there's the matter of my little dick. It's like I can feel them,
both of them, sizing me up. Like they could tell just by looking at me the
first time that I was no challenge to their manhood, but I can't help but
feeling that they're trying to see just how much they've got on me.

They're both so un-self-conscious about their bodies. Maybe intentionally
so. Like, most of the time, particularly after dinner and before breakfast
-- or until way past noon on the weekends -- they're both basically in
their boxers all the time, with or without a teeshirt or undershirt. They
wear the kind that don't button, or if they do, it's like they make a point
of leaving the fly open, to show off a glimpse of what they're
packing. Like sometimes it's their nutsack hanging out, or the head of
their cock peeking out the leg of their shorts, all ridden up. Sometimes
they catch me looking at their crotch. The same smirk. One time Jake
mouthed -- in front of his dad! -- "You want some?"

And God, don't even get me started on the shower situation. Four people in
this tiny-ass apartment, and only one shower and one toilet. Mine room is
right next to bathroom. I have to hear everything they do in there. Why are
straight guys so loud in the bathroom? Grunting when they strain to take a
shit, singing loud stupid jock rock songs when they take a shower, and
panting and groaning when they're jerking off, which the two of them do a
combined total of 4 or 5 times a day, at least.

Not to mention that they're always strutting past in a towel. I could close
my door I guess, but it's been so hot this summer that if I do I burn up,
and it's like they both take full advantage of that, showing off their big
greasy sweaty muscles and their droopy towels. Or just fuck the towel,
right? Sometimes they'll just toss it around their shoulders and walk past
buck naked.

And man oh man, do they both have huge cocks. It's like the big cock gene
runs in their family or something. Jake's is probably like at least 7 1/2"
long, and his balls are the size of kumquats. (Ha ha, kumquats.) His dad is
a fucking monster, though: easily 9", and that's when he's totally soft,
plus his big golf-ball sized testicles.

But as far as I know, they've never seen my little dick. So far, anyway. I
always wear briefs, even under my short shorts, and sometimes I'm a fan of
big long teeshirts, especially to sleep in. I guess my real dad left a few
of them around before he took off. They're all soft and worn from being
washed about a million times, and a bunch of them have holes in them, but I
still keep them around, just because. I've sewn a few of them back together
when they were completely falling apart. "Black Sabbath." "Eat at Joe's."
"Live Free or Die."

So even when they barge in on me when I'm peeing, my little dick has been
my little secret -- you know, I sit down to pee, duh, haha, which Jake is
soo fond of giving me shit about. I'm always all, "What? Number two." And
he's all, "You shit more than anyone I know. Everytime I come in here
you're shitting. I guess your ass is done wrecked from all the cock that's
been in it, huh?" And then he's all, "It don't smell like shit in here."
And I'm all, "My shit smells like roses." Ha.

Actually, I've never been fucked real good. Or really at all yet, anyway. I
mean, it's not for lack of trying. Like I met this kid once at this gay
drop-in youth program thing once I used to go to after school -- my mom
works long hours, she's a hairdresser, she leaves at nine in the morning
and sometimes doesn't get back until ten or eleven or later -- and anyway,
I met this other kid there, he's a lot like me. I mean, there were all
types there, but like, a lot of them had some like real serious problems,
like maybe they seemed a little retarded or something (I mean, not that
there's anything wrong with that.) But this kid, Christian, we got along
okay.

Christian was 14, and so was I, and he even kind of looked like me, except
he was a little bigger, 5'6 or so, maybe 115 pounds and sandy brown hair,
cute brown little puppy dog eyes. He was a super nice kid. After like two
times, we ditched the group and started hanging out on our own together.

He did all this cool stuff. Like he was gay, but he still played soccer and
baseball. He told me that he wanted to go out for basketball but he didn't
know if he could make the cut. He was worried he'd have to play in the B
league, or "the sissy league," as he called it. I was all, "What's wrong
with being a sissy?" and he'd smile this cute, shy smile and say "Nothin'."

He was like, really into science, too, and computers, and he had his own
computer at his house with internet access and stuff. His mom and dad
worked a lot, too -- he lived in a really nice big house -- and so we used
to hang out there all the time. It went basically like this: I'd get outta
school, meet up with him, go over to his house, and we'd watch gay porn on
his computer for a while and jerk each other off. His dick was a decent
size -- like just almost 5" when it was totally hard. Sometimes we'd blow
each other. It was cool, but I guess maybe it got kinda boring kinda
fast. He was such a sweet guy, though.

One time I tried to get him to fuck me, but it like didn't really work,
exactly. Like we even looked up how to do it, but when we went to try to
get condoms and lube and stuff, they totally wouldn't sell them to us! WTF!
Crazy. So like, we tried different stuff: hand lotion, Vaseline,
whatever. It just didn't work. Like he'd go to try and put it in and then
get kinda soft, and then he'd try to push it in anyway and I was like, Ow
ow ow! And then he'd go completely soft. He was like, "I don't wanna hurt
you." And I was like, "Yeah, I mean... um, I get it."

I dunno, it all just kind of fizzled out. We started to get on each other's
nerves a little and I think that maybe he kinda had a crush on some older
guy he played soccer with. I started hearing from him less and less and I'd
txt him and he wouldn't txt back or maybe he would sometimes but it'd just
be like "hey" and "ok" or even -- this was the worst -- "busy." Ugh. The
end.

That was the fall before Jim and Jake moved in, so I was already kind of
depressed when they showed up, and they didn't exactly make my life a lot
better. But kinda more exciting, though. There was something about them
that got me scared but excited, in a way that meeting Christian didn't. Oh
man.

So all of a sudden, here's my life: the place I live smells like a jock
strap, and the fridge is full of cold cuts and beer. Oh, and did I mention
the beer? Jim is a big drinker, and he doesn't care if Jake drinks,
too. Like he used to cut him off after one or two, but these days the both
of them just guzzle that shit down. Jim is starting to get kind of a little
beer gut, though he's still big and burly all over. He's been lifting
weights a lot, too, in his spare time -- he's had more spare time all of a
sudden lately -- so his arms are like bigger and burlier than they were,
and I didn't even think that was possible.

It's cramped, the three of us in this little apartment. I don't think they
like hanging out with me any more than I like hanging out with them. Jim is
outta work sometimes, and that makes him even more moody and he's starting
to get mean. He's always mad about something: the way I fold his clothes,
or the way I sweep the rugs ("Do you have to do that during Monday Night
Football?") or even the way I make him a stupid fucking ham sandwich. I
mean, how can you fuck up a ham sandwich? But I guess I don't do it right
or something. Mom has to work more to pick up Jim's slack so now I gotta do
everything.

He never makes Jake lift a finger to do anything. He's all, "Jake has two
full-time jobs: school and sports. We've gotta support him. He deserves
it." Implying that I don't, like I just sit around here or something. Jake
gets in kinda late most of the time, it's true, and sometimes he's all
tired, but most of the time he's all keyed up, sweaty and dirty and
smelly. He always has this look in his eye like he's ready to hurt
somebody.

So it's Saturday night, right? And it's the summertime. So like, for once,
Jake doesn't have some kind of game, which sucks for me because both of
them have been laying around drinking beer all day. Jim eventually fell
asleep in front of the TV. I was doing what I usually do on Saturday night,
lying in bed reading a book, trying to keep to myself. With the door
open. It's hot out. Real hot.

I thought Jake was watching some kinda sportsball game, but all of a
sudden, I roll over and there he is, standing in my doorway. He's got the
front of his mesh athletic shorts pulled down and his big hard dick is
pulled out, and he's just standing there pulling on it, stroking it. "H-how
long you been there?" I asked him. "Long enough," he said. Staring at
me. Eyeballing me, like a hungry wolf.

"You want this, don't you?" he said. I just sat there, with my mouth
agape. "You've wanted it for a long time, ever since you laid eyes on
me. You little fucking faggot. You've been drooling over my dick for the
last six months. I bet you even beat your little faggot dick thinking about
me and this big cuntfucker every night before you go to bed." I didn't know
what to say. I think I may have sort of involuntarily nodded.

"Yeah, that's right," he said, in this growly low voice all of a sudden. It
was like a big lion's purr or something, all fucking sexy. "Yeah, you want
it so bad. You want dick from a real man." That shot right through me. He
was right. I wanted a real man.

He walked up to the edge of the bed and held his cock by the base. He bent
back a little, thrusting his pelvis forward, so his cock was right near my
face, near my little cherry lips. His dick was swollen and a deep angry red
color, with a smear of pre-cum sliding down the tip. "Go ahead. Lick
it. Lick up where my dick is leaking."

I did. I was so curious, to see what he tasted like. This wasn't
Christian's little boy cock, this was a fucking man's cock. He wasn't even
that much older than me, but there's no denying he was a man, not a boy. He
smelled different, deeper and muskier. His pubic hair was dark and tangly
and had started to curl. A trail of sweat dribbled down his hard chest and
stomach. "You like the taste of it? You like the taste of cock?"

I looked up at him, all sweet and innocent like, and I think I might have
even grinned. "Uh huh," I said. "I like it. I like your cock."

He grinned back, but with his hardened sneer, some part superiority and the
rest disdain. "I bet I can teach you to give better blow jobs than any cunt
at school. Because you love it so much. Or you're gonna love it. You
fucking crave it. You fucking live for cock, don't you?"

I nodded and said "uh huh" again. Did I live for cock? I dunno, but I liked
the way it sounded.

"God, you disgusting little pig bitch. Come here, and put it in your
mouth." It was hard to -- my mouth barely opened that wide, but when I did
he shoved the head in. "Fuck, no teeth, bitch!" He pulled his cock away
real fast and slapped me across the face. It hurt, stung a little, but I
was more surprised than anything. What the fuck?

"What the fuck?" He slapped me again. "Shut up slut. That's what you
get. That's what you get for disrespecting my cock like that. You think you
can just prance around here, wiggling your little faggot ass, doing
whatever you want, but it's time you learned some respect, for me and your
Dad." "He's not my..." Another quick blow across the face, this time hard
enough to make it throb a little. "Shut up. Yeah, he's not your real
dad. He's my dad. But you need to treat him with respect like he's your
dad, not just some dumb redneck who's banging your mom. I'm his son. You'll
never be his son. Nobody with any self-respect would call you his son."

That hurt. I started to turn away. Was this asshole gonna make me cry? Is
that what he came here to do? All of a sudden, he grabs my hair, and pushed
my face into his crotch.

"Where are you going, faggot? I'm not through with you yet. We're not even
getting started." He rubbed my face back and forth against his cock. It was
drooling all over the place. His cock felt good against the soft
barely-there peach fuzz on my cheek. "That's right, settle down
faggot. Don't forget, you love this. You love this cock. Don't you."

I was a little less enthused, but still excited. "Mm hmm," I said.

"Mm hmm what?"

"I love it."

"You love what, faggot?" he barked.

"I love your cock," I whimpered.

A big smile flashed across his face, showing his teeth. For some reason, I
thought they looked sharp. "That's what I wanna hear. You love the cock of
a real man, huh?"

"Yeah..." I said.

"And what does that make you?"

I was confused. "Huh?"

He put his hand around my neck, and pulled my face up close to his face by
my shirt collar. I was wearing one of my real dad's old shirts, a faded
black Harley Davidson shirt and a little pair of baby blue briefs. I was
only inches from his face and, through his teeth, he hissed,

"You're a little faggot. You were born a faggot, and you're gonna die a
faggot. Your real dad probably knew you were a faggot when you were six
months old, which is probably why he high-tailed it outta here. You're a
worthless little piece of shit. You're even more useless than a woman -- at
least they're hot and can pop out babies. All you have to offer anyone --
the whole world -- is to fucking serve a real man's fucking big hard dick
with everything you've got. Got that?"

I could smell the booze on his breath. It was strong. He was gripping me
hard, and kind of hurting me. He had this crazy look in his eye. I wondered
if he would do something that could really hurt me. "Yeah... I mean, yes. I
get it. I'm a faggot. I wanna serve you. I wanna..." I trailed off. For
some reason, I got softer, more compliant. I don't know why it came out of
my mouth, but I said, "I wanna make your cock happy."

He pushed me back down on the bed, and started grinning that evil smart-ass
grin again. "That's right, faggot. That's what I want to hear."

And then he just stood there looking at me, cock hard and pointing up,
stupidly. Looking me up and down. I blinked at him. "What?" I said. "Well,
there's one thing." "What?" I said,kind of freaked out a little. He kept
playing games with me, I couldn't figure out what he wanted. "I just gotta
make sure of one thing... I gotta make sure you're really 100% faggot."

I didn't know what he was talking about. But then I did. Or at least, I
started to, as I noticed he wasn't making eye contact with me anymore, but
he had his gaze fixed steadily on my crotch.

"I... what?" I said.

"Show me." His eyes were penetrating, with his steely stare.

"Show you what?" I said. I guess I was kind of playing dumb. Why did he
want to see me?

"Show me what a little faggot you really are. What you've been hiding from
me all this time."

I felt like, well, okay, finally. Moment of truth. All of a sudden I felt
brazen, like what I thought a stripper must feel like for a hungry john
with lots of money. I peeled the big tee-shirt off and kneeled there, on my
bed, my smooth little flat chest gleaming in the moonlight. My hard little
prick was pushed up against the fabric of the front of my little cotton
briefs. Even though you couldn't see it, I knew I had maybe made a tiny
drop of precum on the inside of my shorts, though it wasn't even enough to
soak through a few layers of fabric.

He looked like wild animal about to go in for the kill. "I knew it. What
you waitin' for, sweet cheeks?"

I bit my lower lip and pulled down the front of my shorts.

"That's fucking disgusting." He spat out the words. "That's the most
pathetic, puny excuse for a cock I've ever seen. If there was ever any
doubt that you were born to be a total pussyboy cocksucking fag, you
fucking killed it by showing me that ridiculous stupid nothing of a
prick. You fucking faggot. You little fucking faggot."

And with that, he outta nowhere gave me a fast knee to my crotch. He kicked
me, hard. I was blinded with pain and I doubled over. I had already been so
hard for so long and was so achy anyway, it just intensified the explosion
of pain I felt at the swift kick to my nuts.

"You know what that's for? That's for showing off your puny faggot dick to
a real man. That's for fucking daring to get hard in front of a real
man. That's for even thinking that that thing between your legs deserves to
be called a cock. That's not a cock. That's maybe a fucking clit if it's
anything. Or even worse. You're hung like a fucking baby. Maybe you should
call it some baby name."

I still laid there, all doubled over, reeling in pain. All I could manage
was an "Uh..."

"Aww, whatsamatter? Your pee-pee hurt, faggot? Your little wee-wee givin'
you trouble? That'll teach you to be proud of that sub-standard piece of
non-equipment you've got there. I hope you like that feeling. 'Cause that's
what you're gonna be feeling any time in the future that you feel like
trying to show off that little thing in the presence of a real man's cock."

I looked up at him, my eyes smeared with tears, and my mouth open, agape,
panting. He was on me before I knew it, his dick in my face again. He
stuffed it in my mouth. I didn't dare scratch him with my teeth. I opened
as wide as I could and tried to buffer my teeth with my lips. It hurt. I
could feel my teeth cutting into my lips, but I didn't care. I knew I had
to take good care of his dick.

"Feel that, faggot. Taste that. Feel how big and hard and good it feels in
your mouth. That's what a real man's cock feel like. That's what a real
man's cock looks like. That's what a real man's cock tastes like and smells
like. That's a fucking boner. A rock solid hard-on. You're never allowed to
call that thing of yours any of those things again, hear me?"

His giant prick was stuffed in my mouth, so I could only murmur a muffled
"Mm hmm."

He started to pump his cock in and out of my face. It was hitting the back
of my throat and making me gag. He didn't care. He just kept pounding away
-- kind of easy at first, but harder and harder and he worked up steam.

"I never wanna see you get a little fucking stiffie around me or Dad ever
again, you got it? As a matter of fact, I never wanna see that thing
again. It's fucking disgusting and it makes me wanna kill you. You should
be so ashamed of it you never even touch it."

I was gagging hard. He was choking me -- sometimes I couldn't breathe. I
think -- no, I knew -- I threw up some. There was snot and a little puke
everywhere. But it just made his dick slipperier, like my mouth was a wet
cunt that was getting all lubed up for him. His cock was banging hard
against the back of my throat, demanding to be let in. It hurt, it felt
like he was bruising me back there, needing to bust through and down into
my guts.

"You hear me, faggot? If I ever even suspect you of touching that thing, or
trying to cum, or even washing it too long, I am going to fucking hurt you
so bad you won't even know what's coming. I will fucking slam your twat
stick so hard that it turns black and falls off. You gotta learn that you
gotta stay in heat for real man cock all the time, and that that little
thing of yours doesn't deserve to exist. The fact that it does is in direct
disrespect to my big hard pussy-stuffing fuck stick -- yeah, you know, the
one that's fucking your throat right now and is about to dump a fucking
enormous load in your belly."

He shoved on past the sphincter of my throat and was fucking my face deep
and hard now. I was gasping for air, snotting and sliming all over the
place, but he didn't care. He started to taste different. Saltier, sweeter,
like that sweet nectar of he pre-cum was flowing free now. He slammed me
over and over, and his cock swelled up so big I couldn't breathe at all. I
thought I was going to pass out.

"Listen faggot. Pay attention, because this is what you're good for. This
is going to be the best experience of your entire fucking life. This is
what you were made for, to take the jizz of a fucking god like me. I rule
over you. All men rule over you. We fucking run the world, and we were
fucking born to own you. I hope you remember this forever, 'cause this is
the best you're ever gonna get."

With that, he fucking exploded in my mouth. The meaty tangy nasty fluid
just kept coming, gush after gush, shooting down my throat but also up my
nose with every thrust. I coughed a little and saw it, white and slimy,
shooting out of my nose. It ran down my upper lip and got shoved back in my
mouth with every thrust of his big nasty cock. I know this sounds crazy,
but my belly ached, like it was swollen, like I was gorged on his cum. I
think I tasted blood in my mouth from where my lips had sunk into my teeth
to protect him from scratch marks -- now they were swollen and red and
puffy, my lips, and my face was covered in cum and snot and puke. I looked
like a total whore.

Eventually, he slowed down his thrusts and gradually, slowly -- achingly
slowly -- pulled his big beautiful relentless cock out of my mouth. He was
still hard, but not quite as big as he was right before he filled me full
of his spunk. He looked at me, almost curious, like he'd never seen me
before.

"Here, wipe your face off." I was in a daze, and he threw my dad's shirt at
me. "But don't put that on. It's nasty, I don't want you wearing it around
the house. As a matter of fact, as long as I'm in charge, I don't want you
to wear anything but those panties you wear. Just to make sure you're doing
what I told you. Or rather, to make sure you're not doing what I told you
not to do."

I tried my best to clean myself up with the teeshirt. When I was pretty
much done, he grabbed it away from me, turned it inside out, and started to
wipe my nastiness off his dick. It was starting to hang down a little now,
but it was still thick and full grown.

"I'm gonna keep this for a while, faggot." He still had my dad's Harley
shirt. "A souvenir. And you know, I was needing a new cum rag." He laughed,
a kind of half-grunt laugh. He turned to go. He walked out the door, and
into the bathroom. I could hear the heavy stream of his piss hit the toilet
as he let out a self-satisfied moan.

I stared at the ceiling. I curled up into the fetal position. What the fuck
just happened? Why did I let him do that? Did that really happen? I
couldn't deny the last question, because my lips were still puffed up, my
throat was sore, and my entire face smelled like my step-brother's sweaty
jock. But deep down, I felt something right. He hit something inside me,
with his big stupid cock and his constant stream of verbal abuse. I wasn't
the same as I was before.

I heard the light click off in the bathroom. Suddenly, there was Jake
again, shiny with sweat, standing in at my doorway.

He said, "I'm goin' to bed..."

I stared at him, with a mixture of awe, fear, lust, and shame.

"...and you're coming with me."