Big-dick Bottom Pt. 01

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Author’s note: This series contains (occasional) descriptions of rough and forced sex, some of which crosses the boundaries of consent. If this is not up your alley, please click elsewhere! All sexual contact described occurs between adults aged eighteen years and older.

Part 1.

The summer after I turned eighteen and graduated from high school, I was living at home and sleeping on the top bunk of a bed I used to share with my older brother. I liked the top bunk because, when I pushed back the curtain of the window next to the bed, I could see over the fence into our neighbor’s back yard. I liked looking into the neighbor’s yard because our neighbor was insanely hot — a real daddy type, the kind of gruff, swaggering man that tended to catch my eye. What’s more, his two sons, boys who had been one and two years ahead of me in school, were also hot. That summer, the three of them were working on a big landscaping project in their back yard.

I had a perfect view from my bed. Daddy was always the first one out in the morning, pacing along his back deck and smoking a cigarette while he surveyed the yard. He was tall and broad and while he wasn’t fat, he had a thick-looking belly that strained against the tight shirts he wore — when he was wearing a shirt at all. Most days, his shirt would be off before nine, allowing me to marvel at the sexy spread of hair on his chest. His chest hair was dark, with patches of gray starting to come in toward the center between his meaty pecs. He a thick mop of salt-and-pepper hair on his head, dark stubble, and a fat Tom Selleck mustache. That goddamned mustache. In my fantasies, he would rub it hard and rough against my taint as he probed my hole with his tongue.

The older son was a carbon copy of his daddy, just not as thick or as hairy. He was tall and dark and muscular. Unlike the daddy, who always wore heavy work pants, son

wore skimpy athletic shorts when he worked in the yard, leaving little to the imagination as he walked around, his bulge swinging left and right as he pushed around loads of dirt, swung the pick, or shoveled gravel.

Now, I’d have been content to watch daddy and son

all day, but it was the younger son, the ginger, who really got under my skin. Who, day after day, would make my balls ache, my nipples harden, push me over the edge. The sight of him would cause my asshole to contract and then loosen, instinctively. He was the one my hole was readying itself for.

It was weird — the ginger wasn’t my usual “type”. He was shorter than his daddy and his brother by nearly a head, probably only a little taller than I was. I usually crushed on tall guys. But he was thick and beefed up, clearly vain about his muscles. He wore tank tops that were just T-shirts with the sleeves cut out. In school I’d seen him wear the same thing, strutting around the halls like a peacock, showing off his arm muscles. He had close-cropped red hair and just a trace of reddish-blond stubble on his cheeks. That summer, his normally pale skin was sun-scorched red, with brownish freckles that darkened his face and shoulders. He wore basketball shorts like his brother, but his were longer and baggier. I knew, though, from my close study of him, that he had a lot going on below the belt — a perfect, round ass and a hefty bulge.

There was something else about him, too, the ginger. Something difficult to describe. I’d only ever interacted with him a few times, but each of those times I had gotten the sense that there was something… unsettling about him. His eyes were a cold, clear blue with a sort of… absence. Like maybe God had forgotten a part or two when he’d put the ginger together.

At that point in the summer, early June, the neighbor and his sons were mostly digging, tearing up a huge section of their yard and wheeling turf and dirt around in wheelbarrows. It was heavy work. They would sweat, spit, and curse. My parents complained to each other, quietly and politely, of course — they were good Minnesota Lutherans, after all — about the noise and the dust. We had never been friendly with our neighbors. “Crude people”, my mother had said once, and this, coming from her, was a shocking indictment.

But I wasn’t complaining. I spent each morning watching them. By the time Daddy’s sons had joined him in the yard, my cock would be hard. I rubbed it under the sheets, pulling it up and across my stomach so that I wouldn’t have to see the ridiculous tent it made when it stood up. My other hand would be between my legs, pushing against my asshole as I watched the men next door, the hair on their faces and bodies catching the light of the morning sun.


The day started off as usual. I lay in the top bunk of my bed, stroking myself while the men next door tore into the earth. Daddy and son

were hard at work excavating a tree stump in the far corner of the yard. The ginger was working on a section of the yard nearest to my window. I watched him attack the ground with a spade, the ropy muscles of his back and shoulders flexing and Maltepe Escort straining with effort as he broke up the ground and shoveled dirt into a wheelbarrow.

I was close enough that I could see how hard his hands gripped the shaft of the shovel, the flexing of tendons in his hands and forearms. I imagined his big, dirty fingers on my ass, the hard slap of his rough palm on my smooth skin. Maybe he would bend me over his knee and smack my ass, leaving deep red marks. Maybe he would berate be for being a bad, disobedient boy. Then, he would pull my ass cheeks apart and spit onto my hole, jam a thick finger into me, make me squeal like a stuck piglet.

I imagined his rage when he saw the size of my cock, how he’d grab me by the balls and squeeze them hard in his hand. How he’d yell at me that a little bitch faggot had no business with a cock that big.

“Just ignore it,” I’d whisper, desperate, not wanting him to get distracted, not wanting him to delay fucking me with his fat ginger cock.


I felt my asshole start to clench around the tips of my fingers, so I backed off. I didn’t want to come yet. It was still early and I wanted to fully enjoy the lucky moment of watching him work so close to my window.

All of a sudden, the ginger threw down his shovel and walked to the very edge of the yard. He glanced over his shoulder toward his daddy and brother and then pushed the front of his shorts down and pulled out his cock. I sucked in my breath. Holy shit.

His dick gleamed white in the sunlight, paler than the rest of him and even more accentuated by the red flame of pubic hair at the base of his shaft. He started to piss into the strip of grass that separated our two houses. I couldn’t believe it. I rubbed myself harder as I took in the sight of his cock, which was stocky and thick, like the rest of him. He looked to be partially chubbed up with a half-hardon. The wide-looking head of his cock was tinged red, a russet knob bobbing back and forth as he pissed. He was close enough that I could just barely hear the stream of his piss as it hit the grass.

When he finished, he shook his dick a few times, then squeezed it to push the last drops out before tucking it back into his shorts. Then he looked up, directly at my window, for a long moment before turning back to the hole he was digging.

My heart beat hard. There’s no way he could see me, right? I was looking through the tiniest sliver of window where my curtain was pulled back. My room was dark. I imagined the glass, from outside, would be a bright mirror reflecting the sunlight.

Had there been a smirk on his face?

I closed my eyes and pressed harder onto my asshole, felt my dick start to jerk with an intense orgasm. I scrambled for the sock, but it was too late. A jet of hot cum splashed up onto my face before I could block the rest of it with my crusty sock. I tasted the bitter saltiness of my cum where it crossed my lips. I licked it up, imagining that it was his, the ginger’s.

I lay and watched the neighbors for a while longer, absentmindedly fingering my softening cock. Soon all three of them were occupied with the stump at the other end of the yard. I couldn’t see them very well so I hopped down from my bed, cleaned up in the bathroom, and then wandered downstairs to find something for breakfast.


At eighteen I was a nerdy, gangly kid. Too short and skinny, too weird, too ugly, I thought, to ever be desired, physically or otherwise. I’d known I was different, somehow, for as long as I’d had coherent thoughts in my head. I never fit in, never really made friends with other kids. Even my own siblings didn’t seem to like me that much. I’d been ridiculed my whole life for being small and girly, nonathletic, weak. I sought refuge in books and TV and movies. Thankfully, my parents mostly left me to my own devices, probably exhausted from raising my three older siblings, each of them loud and extroverted.

My quiet exterior, though, belied a roiling internal struggle. From a young age, I was self-aware enough to realize that something was wrong with me, even if I didn’t completely understand what it was. I tried to stamp out the obvious signs of my otherness, tried to squelch the tendencies that made me a target among my peers and siblings. Of course, it didn’t work. My mind and my body betrayed me in spite of my increasingly desperate efforts to beat back the inevitable. I was convinced that I was sick and headed for a mental breakdown until one day at lunch Jessica Franklin called me a “fucking faggot”.

“At least I’m not a fat bitch, Jessica,” I snapped back.

She turned red and threw her half-drunk Capri Sun at me. It splashed onto my shirt so I stood up and hit across the face with an open ketchup packet and we both got sent to the principal’s office.

Later that day, I hung around after class so that I could be alone with my homeroom teacher, Mrs. Sandersen. Mrs. Sandersen had always been kind to me. She refused to let the other kids bully me in class, unlike most of Anadolu Yakası Escort the other teachers who either ignored it when I got picked on or sometimes even laughed along.

“What’s a faggot?” I asked, when she approached, noticing that I was lingering in the back of the classroom.

“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “Who called you that?” By her reaction, I knew. I knew that whatever a faggot was, I was one. And that it was bad.

“Just tell me what it is,” I said, frustrated and unnerved because I saw tears welling up in her eyes.

“Well, it’s… a demeaning term for men, who, well…” she paused, biting her lip. “Men who prefer… relations… with other men.”

“Relations?” I said, confused.

“Sex,” she said. Her voice was a hushed whisper.

I must have looked shocked, because her hand flew up to her mouth, and she said, “Oh goodness, Paulie, I shouldn’t have said anything. This is something you should talk about with…”

She didn’t finish that thought. Who could she have referred me to? My parents? The principal? The school nurse?

Meanwhile, my head was reeling. Clearly it was shameful, being a faggot. Men were obviously supposed to “prefer relations” with women. In that moment, though, everything began to fall into place. The otherness I’d felt my whole life began to make a horrible sort of sense.

But something else Mrs. Sandersen said caught in my mind. She’d said, “men”. As in, more than one. Multiple men, enough men to have an entire term applied to them, faggots. My heart start to pound. It meant… holy shit… I wasn’t alone.

Perhaps because I’d been ashamed my whole life, the shamefulness of being a faggot didn’t put me off. If anything, my lifelong shame amplified the power of the revelation. I didn’t have anything to lose, really. I was a pariah, already the lowest rung on the social ladder, a freak. As I stumbled out of the classroom that day and walked home, I started to feel almost euphoric. God bless Beth Franklin, in retrospect. And God bless Mrs. Sandersen. In the span of a single day in sixth grade, they changed my life.


Despite coming to terms with the truth about myself in middle school, I remained a pathetic virgin all through high school. I barely even looked at other guys, lest I betray myself. It was tough for a gay kid back then in the days before the internet, growing up in the rural, conservative Midwest. How was I supposed to learn about what it was to be gay?

I picked up information piecemeal. I looked up “Homosexual” in the “H” volume of the encyclopedia in our upstairs hallway. In health class, I watched Coach Levensen prance across the classroom, wrists limp, joking about the “fairies” dying of AIDS in San Francisco. At church, I listened to Reverend Bjornsson inveigh against “pedophile perverts” in his sermons about the importance of family. At school, I overheard kids whispering to each other about the “fudgepackers” and “cocksuckers” that supposedly stalked the woods at night out at the abandoned quarry just outside town.

When I first heard about the quarry, my ears perked up. Until then, I thought that homosexuals were disease-ridden deviants who lived in big coastal cities. I never thought that there might be bona fide faggots here in Minnesota, walking among us, gathering in the woods to fudgepack and cocksuck just down the road from the local Piggly Wiggly. My curiosity was sky-high, but I never had the guts to go out to the quarry and see for myself.

That all changed, though, the spring of my senior year. I had turned eighteen in December and my grandpa had given me an old, beat-up Chevy Blazer for my birthday. Suddenly I had the means to get out to the quarry. But not the opportunity. It was winter, which meant sub-zero temperatures and no cover, no foliage to obscure the view of clandestine activity in the woods.

Spring was late that year, but when it finally came, it exploded. Almost overnight the drab northern Minnesota woods transformed into a verdant Eden. Green covered everything and flowers bloomed everywhere. And as the landscape emerged from its long, cold slumber, so did I.

At eighteen, having been blocked from light and flooded with poison for so many years, my sexuality was hardy and tough — a fibrous, parasitic weed that coiled around my heart, lungs, and brain, tapping into my flesh for nourishment. That spring, just like the trees and flowers around me, the weed I’d harbored inside me for so long began to bloom. And when it did, the blossom was spectacular.

In literal terms, I am talking about my cock. My penis seemed to convert all my suppressed sexual energy into veiny flesh. It erupted from my body like a sequoia, inches upon inches of length and girth that defied my attempts to ignore or contain it. In the morning, I’d wake up to it, rigid and throbbing under the covers, taunting me. In school, I’d sit as still as possible at my desk, as even the slightest movement carried the risk that it would leap to life, thicken in the tight underwear and baggy İstanbul Escort pants I wore to keep it as hidden as possible. Given that I had no experience with other men, I didn’t know what an outlier I was. All I knew was that, somehow, my penis was wrong. Inappropriate. Obscene. Just like every other part of me.

In more figurative terms, as the winter wore on, my sexual thoughts and fantasies carried me further and further into disturbing territory. At night, my cock would harden and my mind would spiral into dark places as I tried desperately to fall asleep. But even in sleep I found no refuge. Every night, it seemed, I would be attacked — violated in new and bizarre ways. I’d be beaten and fucked by one or more of my male teachers, a gang of older boys in the locker room, or even cartoon characters from television. I would be tied up, thrown around, mounted, spanked, penetrated with large, painful objects. I’d jolt awake in a confusing mix of arousal and horror, covered in sticky webs of my own cum.

When winter abruptly melted into spring, my dreams escalated. I would be humiliated, exposed in public or at church. I would be marched to the front of the congregation and forced to strip at the command of Reverend Bjornsson — huge, burly, and bearded — who would incite the gathered throng of normally reserved Lutherans to mock my naked body, gawk at my genitals, scream obscenities and demand physical penitence. Robes billowing, Reverend Bjornsson would grab my cock in his meaty fist and squeeze it, twist it until I screamed with pain. He’d tie me to the altar and thread a rope around my balls. He’d pull on the rope slowly, chanting verses from from the Bible, until, in blinding flash of pain, I’d come, blasting semen onto his face, coating his flaming red cheeks, sputtering lips, and bushy beard.

It was too much. Something had to give.


I snuck out of my room once my parents were asleep. I stole down the street to my truck, which I had parked down the block so as not to wake up my parents when I started the engine. My window was open to the warm, fragrant spring air as I drove, and I collected the charged energy of the night in my body as I careened down the empty roads.

When I got out to the quarry, there were six or seven trucks parked along the highway. A quarter moon provided just enough light to make out the trail that led from the road into the woods. I trembled as I stepped out of my truck and along the gravel path into the forest. The dense foliage of the trees closed around me as I crossed into the woods.

I walked a good ways not seeing or hearing anybody. My heart started to sink. Maybe the rumors were all bullshit. Of course they were bullshit. I was the only faggot in Minnesota.

But then, from far back in the trees, I heard a soft whistle. I turned to see the silhouette of a tall figure standing back in the undergrowth. There was a dim ember glowing at the end of his cigarette. I stood, frozen in place at the sight of him. He flicked his cigarette onto the ground and came toward me.

My heart pounded as he approached. When he got to me, he pushed me down onto my knees in front of him and grunted, grabbed my head and ground his crotch into my face. I smelled denim and leather and sweat, the stink of animals, of a farm. The ridge of his hard cock pressed against my face through his jeans. The shock of it — this man’s hard cock — knocked me out of my stupor. I reached up and fumbled with his belt. My hands were shaking so much that I couldn’t get my fingers around his belt buckle.

“Sonofabitch,” he muttered.

He swatted my hands away and he unbuckled his belt, then unbuttoned the front of his jeans. Then his cock was in my face, the first cock of my life. I could barely see it in the darkness, but it was long and slender, a hot shaft against my cheek. Before I had a chance to touch it with my hand, he shoved it into my mouth and started pumping. He grabbed the back of my head and thrust himself into me. He smelled terrible and he gagged me when his cock hit the back of my throat, but my brain was exploding with excitement.

Yes. It was finally happening.

He came almost instantly, too quickly. Before I could really react or adjust to his cock being in my mouth, his body started bucking and he pulled his cock out my mouth to shoot his load. His cum splattered onto my forehead, my hair, and down the side of my face, an incredible volume of cum, it seemed to me, naive as I was. He stood there, shuddering for a moment with his hand still on my head, gripping my hair to steady himself. Then he quickly packed his cock back into his pants and walked away before he was even done buttoning himself up. He left me, shell-shocked, kneeling in the leaves and dirt, covered in semen. My own cock, as I belatedly became aware, was hard and aching in my pants.

All of a sudden, there was another hand on my shoulder and then a man — a different man — standing in front of me. His cock was out and in my mouth before I had a chance to register what was happening. This guy was shorter and pudgier than the first guy but his cock was a lot thicker. Still bewildered about the first cock I had ever sucked, here was another in my mouth. A big one. I had to strain to get my lips around the head of it and my teeth scraped along the top of him.

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