The Neighborhood Hero

"Goddamn, you do that everyday, boy?" He stood close to the former quarterback, inspecting the ridiculous counterfeit bulge.

"Yes Sir, every day before I leave the house, just like you told me."

"So everyday you're out there strutting around like you're swinging some big old hog, when nothing could be further from the truth?" Hugh asked while gripping the stuffed basket, shaking it around. Snapping the waistband of his tighty-whities again and again.

"Yes Sir!" He chirped while letting himself be manhandled.

"What do you think your friends would say if they knew you stuff your crotch? Or your boss, or the fellows you work with?" Hugh had reached up and thrown an arm over his shoulder, forcing him to bend over slightly. As he spoke he kept toying with the artificially-enhanced bulge.

"I'd be a laughing stock, Sir. I'd be ruined." He admitted glumly, eyes fixed on his big bare feet.

Wolcott then yanked the waistband of the tighty-whities so that they fell to his hairless ankles. The sock spilled out and his true equipment, bald and boy-sized, was revealed. The whole thing, dick and balls, looked about the size of a lime. My childhood hero was hung like a 9 year old.

The old man raised his eyes at Bruce's exposed genitals and gave a throaty laugh.

"Christ. Looks like your little thing's gotten even smaller, boy!" He grabbed it in his hand, blowing cigar smoke at it. Now pantsless, the former football hero stared straight ahead, arms at his side, like he was getting a physical. Hugh had large hands for a short man, so his thick, hairy fingers dwarfed Bruce's miniature endowment. For a few moments both men were silent as Hugh fondled him, inspecting him. His little pink penis was thin and thumb-sized, and his tiny testicles were pulled high and tight up in their sack, as if they had never descended. Like all of the hair on his body, his pubes had been closely shaved, completing the effect that his genitals had not properly progressed through puberty.

"Now tell me dipshit, does this little pecker fuck pussy?" Hugh asked, holding the little nub between his thumb and forefinger. He then let it go, only to slap at his junk, a classic nut tap amped up to something far more forceful.

"No Sir!" Bruce cried in pain.

"Does this pecker get blow jobs?" After each invasive question he slapped his hand upwardly, smacking him in his dainty little coin purse and making him hop and squirm like a putz.

"No Sir, never." He shook his head furiously, flinching in anticipation of the blow.

"Does this pecker get to cum, boy?" SLAP! Again Wolcott whipped his big hand against the puny ball bag.

"Just from my hand and right in the trash, Sir!" His voice was high and strained.

"That's right. Right in the trash. Do you hump women, Brucey?" SLAP!

"I don't hump women, I hump pillows, Sir!" He croaked out.

"What?!" SLAP! Bruce stumbled from the blow to his gonads.

"I don't hump women, I just hump pillows, Sir!" Bruce repeated louder, his voice heavy with pain.

"What are you, boy?" SLAP! This one was so hard that Bruce fell to his hands and knees, but still he called out his pathetic answer, loud and clear.

"I'm a virgin, Sir. I'm a virgin! I'm a virgin for life, for you, Sir!" The big man remained on all fours while Hugh leaned forward and grabbed his chin.

"That's right. You're a virgin for life. You'll be a virgin for the rest of your life." He pronounced, looking into the cowed man's eyes.

"Big Brucey Mitchell, #9. The QB. The neighborhood stud. Never put his little dick in anyone. And why?" Hugh had his fingers threaded through Bruce's short-cropped black hair, pulling his head up.

"Because I'm Daddy's boy! I'm Daddy's boy." The prone man answered, gasping for air.

The old man grabbed his ear and led him to a chair where he sat, then had the big man crawl onto his lap. He yanked the tighty-whities from his ankles and threw them away. Hugh proceeded to give Bruce a long, brutal spanking. Bruce was facing the window, I could watch his anguished face react to each stinging blow. A mirror opposite let me see his rear end, how his big bare ass and hamstrings absorbed the punishment. The whimpering lug seemed to know to count them out, and thank him for each one. 20 slaps in, Bruce was yelping at each impact. By 40 the tears had started.

Bruce looked ridiculous, his big form perched over the smaller man's knees, tears streaming down his blushing beet red face. But he didn't resist, didn't fight back whatsoever. He just lay there, looking at the floor as tears streamed down his face, accepting every slap to his bright red backside. Tallying his torture and thanking the old tyrant for it. Hugh kept raining down blows, laughing cruelly at his victim's agonized blubbering. He alternated cheeks, spanked the top of his thighs.

Occasionally in between spanks, Bruce's legs spread open, revealing both his hole and the back of his ball sack and penis. His genitals looked so small, and like his pubic bush the whole area had been shaved completely smooth. Squirming on the old man's lap, his tiny scrotum and little dangling penis, the hairlessness, it all made him pathetic, laughably underdeveloped. I couldn't believe the guy I looked up to had such a joke between his legs.

Wolcott grabbed the belt from Bruce's discarded jeans for the last few, and I winced while watching each strike, the way the leather slashed into his jiggling crimson cheeks.

Finally he let the devastated younger man stand up. Without being told, Bruce took a few steps back, arms at his side, presenting himself. The old man retrieved his phone from the side table and held it up, filming his victim.

"What's your name?" He asked, holding the phone's camera so that he could capture both Bruce's face and his naked body.

"Bruce Charles Mitchell, Sir." He answered in a clear voice, chin up, chest out, shoulders back, stomach in, his arms crossed arms behind him. He looked like a soldier at attention who had been stripped of his uniform. A naked POW.

'And what are you, boy?" Hugh asked with a grumble.

"Sir! I am a crotch-stuffing, pillow-humping, little dick virgin jerk-off faggot jock boy, Sir." He called out. Loud and proud.

"Again, name and what you are, boy. Louder!" Hugh demanded from behind his phone's camera.

"Bruce Charles Mitchell, Sir! I'm a crotch-stuffing, pillow-humping, little dick virgin jerk-off faggot jock boy, Sir!" He barked out the mouthful obediently like he was answering the call of his superior officer. His miniscule peter wriggled a bit as he roared the degrading phrases.

"And don't you forget it. Now sing it, jock boy!" The old man commanded, leaning back in the arm chair and taking a drink of his scotch.

The big naked cleared his throat, arms at his sides and began to sing in a quavering voice.

"We are the Vikings of CHS

On the field or the court

We are the best

Cheer for the brown and orange

Victory is on the way

Win this game the Viking way!

Cheer for..."

He continued, eyes fixed ahead.

I mouthed the words along, astonished. I had played on the same team as him, only several years later and with a far less distinguished career. He was making Bruce sing our high school fight song while wearing his old varsity jacket. Just the jacket - his pale bare belly was exposed, as were his huge, hairless pectoral muscles. And of course the 30 year old man was completely bottomless beneath the jacket. His huge ass, red and bruised with handprints and belt marks, was on display, and his tiny hairless penis and boy balls stuck out between his massive, muscular thighs. Somehow just wearing the jacket made him seem even more naked than if he was fully stripped. He looked absurd - Hugh had turned the star athlete's stature and impressive physique into a source of shame instead of pride. Bruce made a pathetic spectacle of himself, earnestly belting out the fight song to its finish with his little pecker poking out.

"Again! Do the cheer!" Wolcott clapped and gestured impatiently.

This time as he sang the fight song, Bruce performed a sort of ridiculous dance routine, one I also recognized from our school's cheerleaders back in the day. He stretched out his arms and legs in X, then brought his arms together, raising them over his head, all while wiggling his hips and shaking his big bare ass. He thrust his hips forward then pumped them back, humping the air as he cheered for his beloved Vikings.

"Again!" Hugh yelled, smiling gleefully from behind his camera as he recorded the former QB's shame. Bruce groaned and sprung back into action.

A routine that could be alluring when performed by a woman was ridiculous when performed by a 6'5, 250 lb man, especially one who was porky-pigging, pantless with a comically small penis bouncing with each move, and a big red bottom. The floor shook as he jumped around, pantomiming a cheerleader.

"Again! Sexier!" Hugh had whipped out his cock from his camo pants and was stroking himself while still filming the humiliated younger man with his phone. For a short guy the old man had a big, thick cock, a hideous red hard-on.

This time big Bruce really got into it, writhing like a stripper, feeling himself up. Thrusting his hips and shaking his ass like a whore. Wolcott cackled at the performance while pawing at his hard-on.

"Come on, that's it. Sexier, sexier! Do it like a real cunt for me!" He ordered raspily.

This time Bruce made his voice a breathy feminine lilt, and he really put his big ass into it. He wriggled his huge body and writhed with passion His little dick bobbing around with each thrust, incapable as it was incapable of swinging properly. He held his hips while wiggling them, squeezed his pecs into a set of jugs while bending forward, flicked his wrists and twirled in place. It reminded me of a drag queen, a true pantomime of girliness. He bent over, slapped the ground while looking over his shoulder provocatively, then popped back up. I had never imagined he could make himself so obscenely feminine.

"Yeaaaah, good girl. Now get that little dick hard!" The humbled quarterback brought his hand to his tiny dink and began working it into a laughably short boner. In just a couple strokes he was fully hard.

"Now grab that. Put it up next to your little pecker." He snapped his fingers.

Bruce was holding a trophy, some kind of MVP award he must have won back in the day. At Hugh's instruction, he held it against his under-sized hard-on. The trophy completely dwarfed him - Bruce's erect dick was barely longer than the width of his hand. The old man stood from his chair, panning in and out with his phone to capture the ridiculous comparison.

"How long is that little pecker, boy?" He sat back down with a thump, phone still raised to record the cowering jock.

"4 inches Sir!" He chirped out. Bruce was panting, voice ragged with exertion and lust from his ridiculous cheer performance.

"Goddamn that's small!" Hugh roared with laughter. I noticed that Bruce's little boner kind of pulsed at being told this. Like a dog hearing its name. He was enjoying this humiliation. It was turning him on.

"And on a big boy like you. Just tiny!" Hugh continued with a cruel guffaw, eyes locked on his victim, daring him to protest.

"Even if I let you try and screw a girl, that pathetic little thing would just slip right outta her pussy, wouldn't it?" As Bruce answered the demeaning question in the affirmative, my mind raced at the implication. How much control did this old bastard have over the former football star?

"Do you hump women, boy?" He asked, leaning back in his chair and sucking on his big cigar.

"No Sir, I hump pillows!" He responded obediently, standing at attention with his ridiculous little hard-on bobbing about.

"That's right boy, each night you hump your pillow like a horny little monkey then you go to sleep face first in your own weak seed, don't you, boy?" Bruce nodded, squeaking out a yes Sir.

"Now, do you fuck, boy?"

"No Sir..." He trailed off, hesitating. Hugh gestured towards him like a slap was incoming.

"I get fucked!" Bruce quickly added. I gasped aloud, and for a moment my heart froze in place, worried that they heard me. Despite alI I had seen, the idea of Bruce Mitchell taking it up the can was unfathomable to me.

"That's right, boy. How do you like to get fucked, boy?" Hugh lifted his ass up in the seat and lowered his camo pants and underwear to his thighs. He made sure to keep his phone's camera pointed at Bruce.

"Sir, my name is Bruce Charles Mitchell and I like to get bent over and butt-fucked up the back door like a bottom bitch, Sir!" He recited loudly, eyes staring straight ahead like a nervous recruit. Hugh made him repeat it 3 more times.

"Good, come here. On your knees. Show some damn respect to my cock. That's a real man's cock, boy." Hugh opened his legs wide and brandished his big red hog,waiving it in his face. I could tell he had a huge bush too. It was nasty but I couldn't look away.

Bruce got on his knees and crawled between the little old man's hairy legs. He brought his face up to the man's crotch and kissed twice, once on his big glistening cockhead and once on the man's big, furry ball sack. Then kept his head there in front of his cock, poised like a trained dog.

Hugh clasped the big wimp's scalp in one hand and his own enormous cock in the other and began battering Bruce's ruggedly handsome face with the thick mallet. #9 just kept in place and accepted each blow, flinching when the old man slammed his heavy penis over his brow. My face burned with shame and I felt my own boner pulse almost painfully in my shorts as the hero of my youth let himself get slapped around by another man's fat dick. I was shocked by the sight and by how hard it was making me.

Hugh eventually stopped pistol whipping the poor stooge, instead laying his hard hog over Bruce's face and pointing his phone down between his legs to immortalize the image. The sight was astounding to me. The most respected man of my youth with a big fat red cock pressed up against his face. I idly pawed at the aching tent in my shorts.

"Lick!" He shouted, and the beaten man obliged, eagerly lapping at the gnarled old oak. It was as If Bruce had been holding back but once given the word he seemed desperate to pleasure the old man's oversized penis. It was nauseating but I couldn't look away, watching Bruce's pink tongue sweep over the red ridges and blue veins of the bastard's ugly prick, or dab around the underside of his big purple crown. Old man Wolcott's monstrously large, fully erect penis, and Bruce's rapt oral worship of it, made me feel like I could vomit, and yet I was completely boned up myself.

"Good. Now suck!" In an instant he swallowed the thick, ugly dong. Once more, the revered figure of my youth voluntarily engaged in the most degrading act a man could subject himself to. Took the worst man imaginable's dick right into his mouth. My pulse quickened and I realized that a part of me was outraged by this transgression. Bruce was violating a fundamental rule of manhood. Some innate, essential law of male bodily autonomy and heterosexual inviolability. Thou shalt not suck off another dude. I couldn't believe I was witnessing the two time champion and all-state quarterback willingly blow a man, welcoming another man's hard penis past his lips and pleasuring it. All the more egregious, he was doing this demeaning act for a man as wretched and vile as Hugh Wolcott.

His eyes watered and his cheeks bulged as he labored to please the old man's enormous penis. I felt moisture in my armpits, on the back of my t-shirt dripping down into my crack. I was sweating like crazy from watching this. My heart was racing and I felt almost feverish. I had never seen a gay act firsthand before. When I was younger my friends and I had checked out gay, mostly to sneer at it together, to gross each other out and reaffirm our own heterosexuality. Back then I had been offended by what I saw, but found myself curious, too, quietly transfixed by those monstrous members. Now it was happening right in front of me, the sickening sounds of it filling my ears. Bruce was making himself gag to satisfy the old bastard, who was laughing at him and filming him. Without thinking I unzipped the fly of my shorts, and felt my boner spring out, right through my boxers and into the clammy night air. I looked down between my legs and watched a large drop of pre-cum drip from pisslit and onto the leaves below me. For however conflicted I felt about the blowjob happening inside the house, my own dick clearly loved it.

The night was moonless and quiet, the houses next door all dark and I was behind both a hedge and a fence. Still I felt dangerously exposed. I was not behaving like the well-liked and respectable young man with the promising future that I was known as in the neighborhood. Jack and Susan's boy. At that moment I was nothing more than a peeping tom, a pervert. In the bushes on my knees with my dripping pecker poking out of my pants. I knew this whole situation was dangerous, yet I couldn't look away nor could I stop my hand from taking my chubby in its grip and slowly jacking off as I watched the old man violate Bruce's face.

Eventually the old bastard grabbed Bruce's short black hair and wrenched him off his hard-on, slapping his face again with his slimy poker. Bruce remained on his knees, tearing eyes downcast, catching his breath.

"I really have trained you to be quite the talented mouthpussy. Now wouldn't this all make a nice video to show at your class reunion? Big #9, the deepthroat pro?" Hugh asked from behind his recording phone.

Bruce just kept his head lowered. Hugh laughed and pawed at his bare chest.

"Or maybe I just send it to Coach Carter, huh? Bet he'd like to see what his golden boy's up to." Wolcott swiped again at the cowering mans' pecs again.

"No? You're right. I think there's just one man and one man only who needs to see this video, and what's his name?" Hugh slapped his cocksucker's head.

"What's his fucking name, boy!" He asked again, raising his voice and twisting Bruce's ear.

"Michael Bruce Mitchell!" He warbled miserably. Wolcott was threatening to expose this spectacularly shameful secret side of him to his father. I winced at the cruelty of it, and yet my hand remained on my dick, oozing pre-cum into the old bastard's bushes.

Suddenly Wolcott stood, and I ducked down and moved away from the window, listening as they both left the living room. I saw a light turn on further alongside the house, and heard the unmistakable sound of a man taking a loud piss. I kept out of sight, and considered getting out of dodge. Putting my pecker back in my pants and heading home, some measure of my dignity intact. If I hadn't been a little stoned, a little drunk, and a whole lot horned up, I'm sure I would have. Instead, after a few moments of indecision I crawled between the house and the line of bushes, finding myself in front of the bedroom window. I didn't even bother putting my boner away, I let it dangle out of the fly of my shorts and bob around ridiculously. As captivated as I was by the obscene scene inside of the house, I realized that I was getting off on my own outrageous behavior, too. How perverted I was. All it took was a few impulsive choices and I found myself acting like a degenerate. A peeping tom with his pecker out.

Eventually I summoned the courage to lift my head and peek into the window, and was rewarded with a shocking new sight. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Bruce was totally naked, facedown on the bed, laying on his belly over a towel, legs spread open to reveal both his laughably small genitals and a thin white tube going right up his asshole. Above him the little old man worked some kind of large, red rubber bag. Squeezing out its contents like he was playing the accordion. He was giving Bruce an enema, filling his guts with whatever was inside the red bladder. Without even thinking I raised my phone and took a photo of the debauched tableau.