Ethan begs for it

[billyinri]

The morning sun was just beginning to cast long shadows across the quiet suburban street as Ethan, nineteen and still clinging to the soft edges of boyhood, finished his paper route. He was a picture of youthful innocence—wide blue eyes, a smattering of freckles across his nose, and a lanky frame that suggested he hadn't quite grown into his own hands and feet. His last stop was always the old Miller place at the end of the cul-de-sac, a dark, imposing Victorian that seemed to absorb the light around it.

The customer, Mr. Miller, was different from the others. He was a man in his late forties with a magnetic, almost predatory charm. He always answered the door in a silk robe, his eyes lingering on Ethan a little too long. Today was no exception.

"Running a bit late today, Ethan," Mr. Miller said, his voice a low, smooth rumble. "Come in for a moment. I have your payment, and I brewed some fresh coffee. You look like you could use a break."

Ethan hesitated, his innate shyness warring with his ingrained politeness. "Oh, I shouldn't, sir. I have to get home."

"Nonsense," Mr. Miller insisted, stepping aside and gesturing with a fluid motion of his hand. "It'll only take a minute."

The house was cool and dim, smelling of old books, expensive cologne, and something else... something sterile and medicinal. Ethan followed him into the kitchen, where a steaming mug of black coffee sat on the counter. "Drink up," Mr. Miller said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Ethan took a hesitant sip. It was bitter, stronger than he liked, but he didn't want to be rude. He forced a few more swallows, the liquid burning a trail down to his stomach. A strange warmth began to spread through his limbs, a pleasant fuzziness that softened the sharp edges of his anxiety.

"You know, Ethan," Mr. Miller began, leaning against the counter opposite him, "I've been watching you. You're a hard-working young man. Responsible." He circled slowly around Ethan, his presence overwhelming. "But you're also... untested. Untouched."

Ethan's head was swimming. The room felt like it was tilting slightly. "I... I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do," Mr. Miller whispered, his breath hot against Ethan's ear. He placed a hand on the small of Ethan's back, a firm, possessive touch that made the boy flinch. "All that innocence... it's a waste. It's begging to be broken."

The drug was taking full effect now, a potent cocktail that dulled Ethan's will and amplified his senses. He felt a confusing mix of terror and a strange, illicit thrill. Mr. Miller's hands were on his hips, guiding him, leading him out of the kitchen and down a flight of wooden stairs into the basement.

The basement was not what Ethan expected. It was finished, but starkly. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, illuminating a mattress on the floor and, in the corner, a tripod with a small, unblinking red light.

"Don't be shy, boy," Mr. Miller murmured, his voice thick with desire. He began to unbutton Ethan's shirt, his fingers surprisingly gentle. "We're just going to... broaden your horizons."

Ethan's mind was a fog, but he knew this was wrong. He tried to protest, to push the man's hands away, but his arms felt like lead. His words came out as a slurred mumble. Mr. Miller chuckled, a low, dark sound. "The camera loves a struggler, but it loves consent even more."

He positioned Ethan in front of the lens. "Look into the camera, Ethan. Tell them what you want."

Through the haze, Ethan felt a profound, humiliating sense of surrender. The words that came out of his mouth weren't his own, but they felt true in that drugged, manipulated moment. "Please," he heard himself beg, his voice cracking. "Please... fuck me. I want it."

Mr. Miller smiled in triumph. He stripped Ethan efficiently, exposing his pale, untouched body to the camera's gaze. He positioned the trembling boy on his hands and knees on the mattress. The first touch of the man's fingers, slick with cold lube, made Ethan cry out—a sound of pain and a strange, unwelcome spark of pleasure.

The cherry busting was brutal. Mr. Miller showed no mercy, his grip tight on Ethan's hips as he forced his way inside. Ethan screamed, a raw, ragged sound that was swallowed by the basement's oppressive silence. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the sweat on his brow. Through it all, the camera recorded everything—the initial shock of pain, the humiliated grimaces, the broken sobs, and, to Ethan's eternal shame, the moments his drugged body betrayed him, arching back to meet the thrusts. He begged for more, just as he'd been told to do, his voice a pathetic, pleading whine that echoed his complete and total defilement.

Weeks later, the memory was a nightmare he tried to bury. He'd quit his paper route, avoided the street, and tried to pretend it never happened. But the internet is a permanent archive.

One night, on a whim, he typed his own name into a search engine. Buried in the results was a link to a video on a seedy amateur site. His heart hammered against his ribs as he clicked it.

There he was. Larger than life, on the screen. The video quality was shockingly clear. He watched himself, looking young and terrified, beg to be fucked. He watched his own face contort in pain and humiliation as Mr. Miller took him. The audio was pristine—every whimper, every sob, every degrading plea he'd been forced to utter was captured for the world to hear.

The title of the video was "Innocent Paperboy Begs for His First Load and HIV+ Breeding."

A cold dread washed over him. HIV+. The word slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. He remembered the man's guttural whisper as he'd finished deep inside him: "Take my gift, boy. Take it all."

The comments below the video were a cesspool of depraved praise. Users praised his "enthusiasm," his "natural submissiveness." They called him a "faggot cumdump" and a "cherry-popping slut." They marveled at how he "begged for the poz load."

Ethan slammed his laptop shut, but the images were seared into his mind. He ran to the bathroom and threw up until his stomach was empty, his body wracked with violent, shuddering sobs. His innocence wasn't just gone; it had been packaged, sold, and used as a spectacle for the world's most depraved. He had been drugged, raped, and infected, and his own violated voice had been used to convict him in the court of public opinion. The boy who had delivered papers was gone, replaced by a ghost in a basement video, forever begging for a poison he never knew he was receiving.

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