[Breeder] It Hurts

[TheBreeder]

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“It hurts.”

The Runt’s brow is furrowed low. His lips are trembling; they’ve been pressing themselves into tight, wordless circles as I worked my fat head and most of the thick, engorged shaft into his skinny little butt. His legs are nominally perched on my shoulders as he stares up at me, but really they’re hovering. The hair on his calves is so wispy that it’s barely there, but it tickles my neck and collarbone in little butterfly landings as his feet tense and flail in the air.

He speaks again. “It really hurts.”

It’s not a complaint. I can tell by his tone he’s not whining, not mewling like a child. The words are simple statement. They’re a prayer. Breathy. Sincere. His dark, clear eyes stare directly into mine. I pause. This boy is so pretty. He’s been letting his hair grow a little long and wild this summer. It’s spread across the pillow in dark chocolate waves. He stares at me like I’m the only sun in his universe—though we both know I’m more the crescent moon, three-quarters shrouded in darkness.

I cock my head sideways, like a bird. His gaze follows. “You are so beautiful, son,” I whisper to him. Joy and relief spreads across his face like a splash of watercolor paint into a clear, clean glass. I watch it unfurl until it tints every reach of him.

He wants to show me how grateful he is for the praise. He strains to lift his head. I help him by slipping my fingers beneath the leather of the dog collar around his neck. It’s the only thing he’s wearing. The leather creaks and strains as I pull him into a kiss. Our lips mold to each other; our tongues connect. I shove mine into his mouth, deep, all the way. He goes limp again, reminded of the invasion taking place below his waist.

“God, it hurts,” he whispers.

“You want me to pull out?” I ask. I have no intention of pulling out. “I’ll do it. It’d be a shame to pull out, though.” I have absolutely no intention of pulling out. “It feels so damned good, but if you’re in pain, I will pull out.” There is no way I’m pulling out.

His cock lies on his abdomen, untouched. The stiff, red, wet muscle jumps, leaving another sticky thread of precum connecting its tip to his stomach. Deep down, the Runt needs to please me. He doesn’t want to disappoint. He knows that if I pull out, it's because he’s letting me down. It’s a weak and vulnerable point to which I apply the chisel, then hammer away. “It’s just that you feel so good,” I tell him in a hush. “And you look . . . so . . pretty. It drives a man like me crazy, just looking down and seeing how pretty you are. How . . . fuckable.” The word drops slowly, like a leaf. I feel his hole twitch around me. His entire body shivers. “But if you want me to pull out—“ I move a few muscles, as if I’m fixing to withdraw.

But I have no intention of pulling out.

“No,” he says. His fingers claw for my thighs, my arms, my hands, anything to keep me inside. “Don’t.”

“You sure, kiddo?” He nods, uncertain at first. Then with more vigor. “All right then,” I say with a smile, pretending it wasn’t going to end like this all along.

When I shift him back into position, he winces for a split-second. His meat jumps again. “How much more?”

I pull his hand around and up to where the two of us connect. “Two inches,” I say. “Maybe three.” Our eyes never unlock.

He nods.

I know how this dance goes. I’ve fucked him for months, now. He’s tight, but he’s not as tight as when we first started. I know that all I need to do is push, and smile at him, and coo encouragement, and keep the pressure on his hole. It’s the last stretch, the roughest part of this particular road. The last two inches. He’s straining and shoving back, determined that I should break past that second ring and into the deepest part of him. He doesn’t want to disappoint. He wants it as much as I do. Hell, he wants it probably even more than I do, at this very moment.

“Oh god, it hurts.” I feel his muscles rearranging themselves, inside. There’s a clutching at my cock’s head, a last show of resistance. Then I strain through. I sink all the way into him. My eyes flicker down briefly at the sight of his balls contracting, the sac moving from fluid to tight, to almost non-existent. His eyes close. His head rolls to the side. His throat strangles a low cry. “Yes,” he tries to say.

Then it happens. It always happens at this point, when I’ve opened that second hole. His hands are on his knees, nowhere near his cock. But his shaft pulses and jerks. His hips buckle. His knees open wide, then scissor shut, over and over again. A jet of sperm erupts from his dick. Another. Then another. He’s got pain and pleasure permanently hardwired together. One elicits the other. “It hurts.” It’s barely a breath. I can only hear the words because the world around us is silent. “Oh fuck, it hurts.”

I stare with satisfaction down at the scarlet, distended flesh engulfing my shaft. We both know it’s a lie. He’s never felt so good.

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[Hotload84]

I've never before read such a thorough description of the process by which a bottom acclimates himself to a top, and correspondingly, the way a top works to open-up a bottom. I imagine all the bottoms who experience your expertise consider themselves to be fortunate.

Edited August 19, 2012 by Hotload84

[TheBreeder]

I've never before read such a thorough description of the process by which a bottom acclimates himself to a top, and correspondingly, the way a top works to open-up a bottom. I imagine all the bottoms who experience your expertise consider themselves to be fortunate.

Thank you, Hotload. I'm really humbled.

Edited August 19, 2012 by Hotload84