The Neighborhood Hero

Between those shaven, muscular thighs and glutes, Bruce's exposed ball bag looked tiny, the size of a single grape and just as vulnerable. Stranger still was seeing his belly expand before my eyes as the liquid was emptied into him. His tight abs and obliques disappeared as the clammy white flesh of his gut swelled. Soon the tube was yanked out of him and the bag thrown to the ground. He gritted his teeth, clearly in pain, and I could see beads of sweat on his forehead. Perhaps he made an objectionable sound of complaint because without warning Hugh whipped his belt over both of his already red-striped butt cheeks. After that the younger man just kept his eyes and his mouth closed, breathing deeply while carefully caressing his inflated gut.

I heard the old man bark something and poor Bruce carefully stood up from the bed. Hugh slapped his water-swollen tummy a few times and laughed. It looked like he had a beer belly, a solid paunch where the washboard used to be. His skin was flush and gleaming with sweat. He held his gut, grimacing down at it miserably, appearing for all the world like a remorseful pregnant woman. He looked knocked up. Only his shrunken little acorn of a pecker confirmed that he was the same gender as his big-hogged tormenter.

I took another quick picture on impulse. I looked at the image on my phone for a moment. Anyone who knew Bruce and saw it might have assumed it was photo-shopped. His handsome face, caught in a moment of distress, attached to a muscular pregnant woman's body. He had always been famous for his perfect physique, but the aesthetics of his musculature were ruined by his swollen gut. He appeared pear-shaped and impregnated, and just below the swollen pot belly he had a penis the size of a quarter. His body and his very manhood looked ravaged.

He waddled gingerly into the bathroom, holding his belly with his face fixed in concentration. The old man closely pursued him, goosing Bruce with a finger between his cheeks and pawing at his own mammoth cock. In the bushes, I followed suit, pulling on my own erection while huddled beneath the window frame. I thought again of leaving. I studied the empty bedroom. It was spartan and dark, but with the lamp on the night table illuminated Hugh's bed like a stage. I saw a black bottle beside the lamp - it was lube. Just as he had said in the living room, Hugh was going to sodomize the younger man. Fuck him up the rear. Per those masculine dictates I had learned in my youth, the only thing more deplorable than sucking a guy's cock was letting him stick it up your ass. I needed to see this happen to Bruce Mitchell, the way people were compelled to witness a public execution. Any thought of leaving fled my mind. Instead I remained kneeling down between the windowsill and the line of shrubs, patiently pulling on my prick.

Bruce reappeared first, getting back on the bed on all fours. Assuming the position. His belly had receded but he looked diminished somehow, weakened from whatever ordeal he had been put through in the bathroom. His eyes were closed, he seemed to dread what happened next yet I could see between his legs that his dinky little penis had come to life, and was now a laughable little boner. The old man emerged from the bathroom, now fully nude with a giant hard-on, and got on the bed with his victim. I watched in captivated horror as Bruce's beautiful body was mounted by the vile, naked old man.

With his clothes off, Wolcott looked like a goblin, or a satyr from mythology. His huge hands and feet did not match his short frame. He had a round belly and barrel chest, and dense gray and black hair covered his entire body below the neck. His fur appeared just as thick on his shoulders and back as it did on his chest and gut. In addition to the swirling gray and black forest, his rough skin was covered in moles and blemishes, and I could see his big, pepperoni sized nipples crowning his drooping pecs. Faded tattoos, watercolor splashes of blue and gray, striped his left arm and his right shoulder. He was a beast. He had a big wide ass, similarly carpeted in hair, but what really made him look like a wild animal was the monstrously long, wrist-thick red penis that seemed to hang down to his knees.

All that was missing was a pair of horns and a tail. Bruce Mitchell, Big # 9, was about to be sodomized by this forest monster. Even more outrageous was the star athlete's capitulation, his absolute surrender to his impending defilement. As Bruce lowered his head and maintained his four-point stance on the bed, the image came to mind of a strapping, valiant knight charmed through dark magic into dropping his sword and stripping off his gleaming armor. Exposing his pale naked body and willingly prostrating himself on the forest floor. Presenting his vulnerable bare ass to a vile little imp and his venomous barbed stinger.

They were at such an angle that I could see the old man's thick, lubricated red rod poised to pierce the big man's rear end. Wolcott had a grin of pure evil on his face, self-satisfaction. It was the smile of a sadist who knew he had his victim exactly where he wanted him. He bumped his hips forward, grabbing Bruce's waist and jabbing himself in.

I flinched when I heard the younger man cry out, muffled against the back of his hand but still ringing like a clarion in the night. Hugh held onto Bruce's haunches and continued his forceful penetration, swiveling his hips side to side like he was twisting in a knife. The short man had a tall cock, and he jammed it inexorably into what must have been a tight hole, collapsing onto the agonized man's body. He gripped around the jock's wide back and dug his chin into his trapezius muscle while still wiggling his waist to force his way into Bruce's innards.

As with every other abuse and indignity visited upon Bruce Mitchell that night, he just took it. He bit into the flesh on the back of his hand, his eyes screwed shut. It was absurd - he could have easily flung his attacker off of him but he remained in place, on all fours, legs spread, letting himself get brutally buggered like a prison bitch. Legs spread, completely opened up to his invader, surrendering his powerful, beautiful body to that hateful man.

I heard Wolcott roar in triumph, having apparently bottomed out. He rotated his hips, feeling around Bruce's guts with his rampant prick. Then he began a sickening humping motion, his sizable pot belly rolling fluidly as he drew his oversized cock in and out of the squealing man before him, in and out, in and out.

The old little old bastard pushed his way in mercilessly, pumping his hips and slamming into the prone younger jock. It almost looked comical, like a big dog being mounted and furiously humped by a smaller breed. If it weren't for the clear agony on Bruce's face, the little cries of pain escaping his gritted teeth, I could have laughed along with Hugh.

Somewhere down the street I heard a dog bark, perhaps in answer to poor Bruce's howls. I realized the depravity of what I was doing, watching this scene, being a voyeur, but the idea of sheathing my prick, zipping up and pulling myself away from this lurid scene felt about as possible as me lifting off the ground and flying away into the night.

I heard Bruce's syncopated groans come through the closed window as the mean old prick jackhammered his ass. As I watched the assault I thought of my web search history. A lot of videos had titles with violent verbs."Stepsister DESTROYED by stepbro's fat cock." "Tight young slut RUINED by BBC." In my limited sexual history I had never experienced anything remotely like that. My sex with girls had always been a gentle and respectful affair. Weaker, more timid. Uncertain strokes with an early finish.

But Hugh was truly destroying the big football hero with his nasty cock. He was ruining him. Each humping thrust was another damaging blow, it took something from Bruce, something he could never recover. I could see it on his face. As he sped up, bucking his hips into his bottom boy's muscled ass, making him holler, I knew I was witnessing genuine sexual demolition, something I had only seen in porn up until then. I saw that it could be real. That a man could decimate another with his cock.

It was like watching a vandal take a crowbar to Michelangelo's David. Piece by piece, thrust by thrust. All that was strong and hard in Bruce's body, all that was tough and manly, seemed to melt away by the moment. His movements slackened, he no longer braced for the impact of Hugh's brutal, stabbing thrusts. Any resistance vanished. He seemed completely defenseless, completely defeated as he let the old man rearrange his internal organs.

Hugh had a thrilled, almost manic grin on his face as he humped away. Clearly he delighted in the pain he was inflicting, evidenced by the pitiful yelps and moans his bitch croaked out with each stabbing thrust. The cries of agony only seemed to energize him, accelerating his hips and putting a twinkle in his eye. As he roughly porked the younger man, his hands raced all over his body, seemingly for no other reason than to bother him, harry him. He pulled his hair, slapped him upside the head, jammed fingers into his mouth and hooked his lips into a joker's grin. He squeezed and twisted his nose or poked his fingers into his nostrils like he was grabbing a pig. Yanked his ears, pinched his nipples, slapped his enormous ass. Hocked loogies onto the back of his neck and rubbed them into his face or hair. He even appeared to give him a wet willy. He was doing all he could to add insult to injury while he butt-fucked the poor guy. It was like he wanted the once-beloved jock to know what it was to be truly bullied.

Apart from his stifled grunts and involuntary wincing, Bruce never seemed to utter a word of complaint or protest. Not at the mammoth size of the cock pushing his guts around, not at the brutal pace of said buggery, not even at the old man's gratuitous molestations. Instead, little by little I saw a change on the bitch's face, a softening. He licked his lips, it looked like he was moving his hips back to meet the rapid strokes, and I could see steady beads of clear pre-cum crying from the ridiculously small boner flailing around between his tree trunk thighs.

Bruce's colossal, sweat-slick body was rocked with each thrust, knocking him further into the bed. His face was red from exertion or shame, but his eyes looked dazed. Behind him Wolcott was the same shade of crimson and his body was shiny with perspiration too. The smaller man rode the big bottom like a bronco. The strange pair were in sync and I could tell that they were getting close to coming.

Outside the window in the old man's empty yard, my penis was still out of my shorts and hard as marble in my hand. In fact just having it poking out of my fly was no longer good enough. I wanted to fully embrace my newfound perviness. I wanted to feel the night air on my naked buttocks. I lowered them to my ankles and remained on my knees, enjoying feeling exposed like this. Anyone able to see in Wolcott's yard would have seen my bare ass, my full moon. I began to stroke myself off at a faster pace. Pumping my hips in time like I was fucking the air. With my free hand I felt myself up, fondling my belly, my chest, running my fingers through my armpit. I pulled my t-shirt up to my chest, rubbing my torso up and down as I tossed myself off.

Inside it looked like Hugh's bed was about to collapse under the force and speed of the old man's ass pounding. I heard them both howl through the window as they came. Hugh bucked and slammed into Bruce's hips, draining his balls up the conquered man's ass, while I could see that Bruce's short little spout was spraying strands of thick white jizz all over the towel and his own body. Both of his hands were firmly planted on the mattress, below his shoulders - the brutal invasion of Wolcott's rampaging cock had made his own meager manhood bust its nut despite being totally untouched.

The little old man's bald head was just below the QB's shoulder, and I could tell that he was biting Bruce, giving him a hickey. His right knee had turned towards the window so I could see between his furry legs. I watched fascinated as just below the old man's rutting, hairy ass cheeks and winking hole, his big balls were pulsing. Each nut was huge, his scrotum looked as big as a softball, and I could see them pull tighter as they emptied themselves. Surely they were depositing a river of the old man's wretched seed inside of Bruce Mitchell's guts.

Watching this vile insemination brought me over the edge. Two more strokes and I shot my load all over the ground beneath me, hitting the grass and the side of the old man's house. I humped my naked butt in the air as I jizzed. I knew I must have made a truly ridiculous spectacle, thrusting my bare ass while masturbating furiously, but the thought of it made me cum even harder. I opened my mouth, gasping as I orgasmed but willing myself not to cry out from the auto-administered pleasure. Even if I screamed bloody murder there's no way the two men inside me could have heard me over their own animalistic shouts, old man Wolcott's deep and throaty, Bruce's strangely high and feminine.

I fell onto all fours while jerking out the last of my jizz, just peeking over the window sill as Hugh slowed his humping. The old man brought his head to Bruce's broad back, and he was lapping up the sweat pooled there, while his hands continued to bother the boy's chest. Looking beneath me I was shocked at the quantity of my spooge, thick ropes of it carpeted the grass and streaked across the cement foundation. I felt a minor pang of shame looking at it, and I momentarily contemplated using my t-shirt to clean up my mess. When I heard a car drive by the other sounds of the night all came into focus, and my post-nut clarity urged me to finally put my dick away and get out of here.

I stuffed my pecker back into my shorts, feeling a few final drops of cum seep into my boxers as I zipped up my fly. I carefully stood, hiding behind the wall beside the window, surveying where I would flee to get back to the safety of the street and my house. Before I sprinted away, I took one last look at the men inside.

Hugh was slowly bumping into the QB's upturned ass again and again, letting the last of his semen leak into his guts. One hand was clamped over Bruce's throat, the other reached between their legs and gripped the younger man's tiny coin purse. Both squeezed tightly, choking his windpipe and crushing his little nuts.

Below him, Big #9 accepted this treatment, gently pushing his hips back to receive all the foul, potent seed the old man offered. His chin rested on the cum-stained mattress, and he looked intoxicated, blissed out. Bruce's eyes were closed and he was saying something, repeating it over and over. I couldn't read lips but after a few moments of study I understood. He was thanking him.