I have a tiny dick.
I mean, for a teenager. Or for anyone, really. It is kind of ridiculously small. How do you even measure a dick? From the base at the bottom, near my pea-sized nuts? Or at the top, where I barely even have the smallest, softest tuft of light blond hair? Either way, on a good day, it's maybe 3". And that's when it's totally hard, which it is a lot these days.
It's rough having a tiny dick, and it's rough being me. I never knew my dad, and my mom just got remarried a while ago. Like, it was just me and her -- even though she was drunk most of the time -- and then all of a sudden, bing-bang-boom, there's this asshole guy in my life, and his jerkface son.
Jim and Jake. What stupid names. Jim's the dad -- my stepdad now, can you believe it? -- and Jake's his big meathead goon of a kid. My "brother" now. God, what the fuck.
They're both fucking cave men. This place changed overnight when they showed up. It even started smelling different. Before, our apartment was nice and neat and smelled like cleaning stuff, mostly, and occasionally like one of mom's cloying vanilla candles. But now, I'm constantly picking up dirty underwear and socks and Jake's stupid gear -- from what? Soccer? Hockey? Football? Lacrosse? All of the above? I think he plays like every sport, even ones I don't even know about. WTF, javelin? Jim's always bragging that he's "the perfect all-around athlete": 5'11", 185 lbs of pure muscle, ripped biceps and pecs and abs and lats and gluts and every other part of him, too. And he's only 17; he hasn't even stopped growing yet. Dark hair and eyes, like his dad. Anyway, all of a sudden this place smells like a locker room all the time.
Jim isn't much better. He works construction, with heavy equipment or something. He comes home every day covered in grease and dust, tromping in mud and shit and who knows what else with his big heavy work boots. All summer he has worn the same basic uniform: hard hat, ripped up Carhart work pants, wifebeater. What does he wear when it gets cold? How many stained, gross wifebeaters does he have? He just barges in, with his big burly tree-trunk arms and chest, all dark and swarthy and kind of hairy, spitting and cursing and yelling about dinner. He's taller than Jake, about 6"3 and 190 -- probably what Jake will fill out to when he's a little older. I gotta say, he doesn't look bad for a guy who's 40.
Yeah, what? I'm gay. G-A-Y gay. And I mean gaaaay. Oh, and I'm Kyle, by the way. I've been hot for guys for about as long as I can remember, and I guess pretty much everyone knows it. I mean, it's not like I can even hide it or anything. I'm just one of those homos, you know? A little flaming faggot, with a lisp and everything. Art, music, reading -- that's my thing. And it doesn't help that I'm a little runt, either: I'm 15 and I'm barely 5'5" and just tip the scales at 100lbs. I have shaggy blond hair and big blue-green eyes and a delicate upturned nose and a pouty little mouth. I've got a narrow waist and a sweet little butt -- Jake has recently started calling me "sweet cheeks" while he sneers at me. Whatever, I'm a pretty boy and I know it. And I rock it. Hard.
"Sweet cheeks" is one of the nicer names that Jake has given me over the last coupla months. "Homo," "fag," "buttslut," "pussyboy" and "pillow biter" are a lot more common. He always does it just out of earshot from my mom, but not always from his dad. I know his dad hears him sometimes, but he never says anything to him. His latest thing is to catch my eye when we're all eating dinner and silently mouth the words to me, just to see if he can get away with it. "Cunt." "Cocksucker." "Sissy bitch."
The problem is that I kind of like it. I think Jake senses that. I get all flushed and sweaty when he talks to me that way. I tell him to leave me alone, and I try to avoid him, but I think he knows that he's getting to me. It's that mean smirk on his face when he says it. Like he's trying to see how much he can get away with before I snap and... what? Freak out on him or something I guess.
And then there's the matter of my little dick. It's like I can feel them, both of them, sizing me up. Like they could tell just by looking at me the first time that I was no challenge to their manhood, but I can't help but feeling that they're trying to see just how much they've got on me.
They're both so un-self-conscious about their bodies. Maybe intentionally so. Like, most of the time, particularly after dinner and before breakfast -- or until way past noon on the weekends -- they're both basically in their boxers all the time, with or without a teeshirt or undershirt. They wear the kind that don't button, or if they do, it's like they make a point of leaving the fly open, to show off a glimpse of what they're packing. Like sometimes it's their nutsack hanging out, or the head of their cock peeking out the leg of their shorts, all ridden up. Sometimes they catch me looking at their crotch. The same smirk. One time Jake mouthed -- in front of his dad! -- "You want some?"
And God, don't even get me started on the shower situation. Four people in this tiny-ass apartment, and only one shower and one toilet. Mine room is right next to bathroom. I have to hear everything they do in there. Why are straight guys so loud in the bathroom? Grunting when they strain to take a shit, singing loud stupid jock rock songs when they take a shower, and panting and groaning when they're jerking off, which the two of them do a combined total of 4 or 5 times a day, at least.
Not to mention that they're always strutting past in a towel. I could close my door I guess, but it's been so hot this summer that if I do I burn up, and it's like they both take full advantage of that, showing off their big greasy sweaty muscles and their droopy towels. Or just fuck the towel, right? Sometimes they'll just toss it around their shoulders and walk past buck naked.
And man oh man, do they both have huge cocks. It's like the big cock gene runs in their family or something. Jake's is probably like at least 7 1/2" long, and his balls are the size of kumquats. (Ha ha, kumquats.) His dad is a fucking monster, though: easily 9", and that's when he's totally soft, plus his big golf-ball sized testicles.
But as far as I know, they've never seen my little dick. So far, anyway. I always wear briefs, even under my short shorts, and sometimes I'm a fan of big long teeshirts, especially to sleep in. I guess my real dad left a few of them around before he took off. They're all soft and worn from being washed about a million times, and a bunch of them have holes in them, but I still keep them around, just because. I've sewn a few of them back together when they were completely falling apart. "Black Sabbath." "Eat at Joe's." "Live Free or Die."
So even when they barge in on me when I'm peeing, my little dick has been my little secret -- you know, I sit down to pee, duh, haha, which Jake is soo fond of giving me shit about. I'm always all, "What? Number two." And he's all, "You shit more than anyone I know. Everytime I come in here you're shitting. I guess your ass is done wrecked from all the cock that's been in it, huh?" And then he's all, "It don't smell like shit in here." And I'm all, "My shit smells like roses." Ha.
Actually, I've never been fucked real good. Or really at all yet, anyway. I mean, it's not for lack of trying. Like I met this kid once at this gay drop-in youth program thing once I used to go to after school -- my mom works long hours, she's a hairdresser, she leaves at nine in the morning and sometimes doesn't get back until ten or eleven or later -- and anyway, I met this other kid there, he's a lot like me. I mean, there were all types there, but like, a lot of them had some like real serious problems, like maybe they seemed a little retarded or something (I mean, not that there's anything wrong with that.) But this kid, Christian, we got along okay.
Christian was 14, and so was I, and he even kind of looked like me, except he was a little bigger, 5'6 or so, maybe 115 pounds and sandy brown hair, cute brown little puppy dog eyes. He was a super nice kid. After like two times, we ditched the group and started hanging out on our own together.
He did all this cool stuff. Like he was gay, but he still played soccer and baseball. He told me that he wanted to go out for basketball but he didn't know if he could make the cut. He was worried he'd have to play in the B league, or "the sissy league," as he called it. I was all, "What's wrong with being a sissy?" and he'd smile this cute, shy smile and say "Nothin'."
He was like, really into science, too, and computers, and he had his own computer at his house with internet access and stuff. His mom and dad worked a lot, too -- he lived in a really nice big house -- and so we used to hang out there all the time. It went basically like this: I'd get outta school, meet up with him, go over to his house, and we'd watch gay porn on his computer for a while and jerk each other off. His dick was a decent size -- like just almost 5" when it was totally hard. Sometimes we'd blow each other. It was cool, but I guess maybe it got kinda boring kinda fast. He was such a sweet guy, though.
One time I tried to get him to fuck me, but it like didn't really work, exactly. Like we even looked up how to do it, but when we went to try to get condoms and lube and stuff, they totally wouldn't sell them to us! WTF! Crazy. So like, we tried different stuff: hand lotion, Vaseline, whatever. It just didn't work. Like he'd go to try and put it in and then get kinda soft, and then he'd try to push it in anyway and I was like, Ow ow ow! And then he'd go completely soft. He was like, "I don't wanna hurt you." And I was like, "Yeah, I mean... um, I get it."
I dunno, it all just kind of fizzled out. We started to get on each other's nerves a little and I think that maybe he kinda had a crush on some older guy he played soccer with. I started hearing from him less and less and I'd txt him and he wouldn't txt back or maybe he would sometimes but it'd just be like "hey" and "ok" or even -- this was the worst -- "busy." Ugh. The end.
That was the fall before Jim and Jake moved in, so I was already kind of depressed when they showed up, and they didn't exactly make my life a lot better. But kinda more exciting, though. There was something about them that got me scared but excited, in a way that meeting Christian didn't. Oh man.
So all of a sudden, here's my life: the place I live smells like a jock strap, and the fridge is full of cold cuts and beer. Oh, and did I mention the beer? Jim is a big drinker, and he doesn't care if Jake drinks, too. Like he used to cut him off after one or two, but these days the both of them just guzzle that shit down. Jim is starting to get kind of a little beer gut, though he's still big and burly all over. He's been lifting weights a lot, too, in his spare time -- he's had more spare time all of a sudden lately -- so his arms are like bigger and burlier than they were, and I didn't even think that was possible.
It's cramped, the three of us in this little apartment. I don't think they like hanging out with me any more than I like hanging out with them. Jim is outta work sometimes, and that makes him even more moody and he's starting to get mean. He's always mad about something: the way I fold his clothes, or the way I sweep the rugs ("Do you have to do that during Monday Night Football?") or even the way I make him a stupid fucking ham sandwich. I mean, how can you fuck up a ham sandwich? But I guess I don't do it right or something. Mom has to work more to pick up Jim's slack so now I gotta do everything.
He never makes Jake lift a finger to do anything. He's all, "Jake has two full-time jobs: school and sports. We've gotta support him. He deserves it." Implying that I don't, like I just sit around here or something. Jake gets in kinda late most of the time, it's true, and sometimes he's all tired, but most of the time he's all keyed up, sweaty and dirty and smelly. He always has this look in his eye like he's ready to hurt somebody.
So it's Saturday night, right? And it's the summertime. So like, for once, Jake doesn't have some kind of game, which sucks for me because both of them have been laying around drinking beer all day. Jim eventually fell asleep in front of the TV. I was doing what I usually do on Saturday night, lying in bed reading a book, trying to keep to myself. With the door open. It's hot out. Real hot.
I thought Jake was watching some kinda sportsball game, but all of a sudden, I roll over and there he is, standing in my doorway. He's got the front of his mesh athletic shorts pulled down and his big hard dick is pulled out, and he's just standing there pulling on it, stroking it. "H-how long you been there?" I asked him. "Long enough," he said. Staring at me. Eyeballing me, like a hungry wolf.
"You want this, don't you?" he said. I just sat there, with my mouth agape. "You've wanted it for a long time, ever since you laid eyes on me. You little fucking faggot. You've been drooling over my dick for the last six months. I bet you even beat your little faggot dick thinking about me and this big cuntfucker every night before you go to bed." I didn't know what to say. I think I may have sort of involuntarily nodded.
"Yeah, that's right," he said, in this growly low voice all of a sudden. It was like a big lion's purr or something, all fucking sexy. "Yeah, you want it so bad. You want dick from a real man." That shot right through me. He was right. I wanted a real man.
He walked up to the edge of the bed and held his cock by the base. He bent back a little, thrusting his pelvis forward, so his cock was right near my face, near my little cherry lips. His dick was swollen and a deep angry red color, with a smear of pre-cum sliding down the tip. "Go ahead. Lick it. Lick up where my dick is leaking."
I did. I was so curious, to see what he tasted like. This wasn't Christian's little boy cock, this was a fucking man's cock. He wasn't even that much older than me, but there's no denying he was a man, not a boy. He smelled different, deeper and muskier. His pubic hair was dark and tangly and had started to curl. A trail of sweat dribbled down his hard chest and stomach. "You like the taste of it? You like the taste of cock?"
I looked up at him, all sweet and innocent like, and I think I might have even grinned. "Uh huh," I said. "I like it. I like your cock."
He grinned back, but with his hardened sneer, some part superiority and the rest disdain. "I bet I can teach you to give better blow jobs than any cunt at school. Because you love it so much. Or you're gonna love it. You fucking crave it. You fucking live for cock, don't you?"
I nodded and said "uh huh" again. Did I live for cock? I dunno, but I liked the way it sounded.
"God, you disgusting little pig bitch. Come here, and put it in your mouth." It was hard to -- my mouth barely opened that wide, but when I did he shoved the head in. "Fuck, no teeth, bitch!" He pulled his cock away real fast and slapped me across the face. It hurt, stung a little, but I was more surprised than anything. What the fuck?
"What the fuck?" He slapped me again. "Shut up slut. That's what you get. That's what you get for disrespecting my cock like that. You think you can just prance around here, wiggling your little faggot ass, doing whatever you want, but it's time you learned some respect, for me and your Dad." "He's not my..." Another quick blow across the face, this time hard enough to make it throb a little. "Shut up. Yeah, he's not your real dad. He's my dad. But you need to treat him with respect like he's your dad, not just some dumb redneck who's banging your mom. I'm his son. You'll never be his son. Nobody with any self-respect would call you his son."
That hurt. I started to turn away. Was this asshole gonna make me cry? Is that what he came here to do? All of a sudden, he grabs my hair, and pushed my face into his crotch.
"Where are you going, faggot? I'm not through with you yet. We're not even getting started." He rubbed my face back and forth against his cock. It was drooling all over the place. His cock felt good against the soft barely-there peach fuzz on my cheek. "That's right, settle down faggot. Don't forget, you love this. You love this cock. Don't you."
I was a little less enthused, but still excited. "Mm hmm," I said.
"Mm hmm what?"
"I love it."
"You love what, faggot?" he barked.
"I love your cock," I whimpered.
A big smile flashed across his face, showing his teeth. For some reason, I thought they looked sharp. "That's what I wanna hear. You love the cock of a real man, huh?"
"Yeah..." I said.
"And what does that make you?"
I was confused. "Huh?"
He put his hand around my neck, and pulled my face up close to his face by my shirt collar. I was wearing one of my real dad's old shirts, a faded black Harley Davidson shirt and a little pair of baby blue briefs. I was only inches from his face and, through his teeth, he hissed,
"You're a little faggot. You were born a faggot, and you're gonna die a faggot. Your real dad probably knew you were a faggot when you were six months old, which is probably why he high-tailed it outta here. You're a worthless little piece of shit. You're even more useless than a woman -- at least they're hot and can pop out babies. All you have to offer anyone -- the whole world -- is to fucking serve a real man's fucking big hard dick with everything you've got. Got that?"
I could smell the booze on his breath. It was strong. He was gripping me hard, and kind of hurting me. He had this crazy look in his eye. I wondered if he would do something that could really hurt me. "Yeah... I mean, yes. I get it. I'm a faggot. I wanna serve you. I wanna..." I trailed off. For some reason, I got softer, more compliant. I don't know why it came out of my mouth, but I said, "I wanna make your cock happy."
He pushed me back down on the bed, and started grinning that evil smart-ass grin again. "That's right, faggot. That's what I want to hear."
And then he just stood there looking at me, cock hard and pointing up, stupidly. Looking me up and down. I blinked at him. "What?" I said. "Well, there's one thing." "What?" I said,kind of freaked out a little. He kept playing games with me, I couldn't figure out what he wanted. "I just gotta make sure of one thing... I gotta make sure you're really 100% faggot."
I didn't know what he was talking about. But then I did. Or at least, I started to, as I noticed he wasn't making eye contact with me anymore, but he had his gaze fixed steadily on my crotch.
"I... what?" I said.
"Show me." His eyes were penetrating, with his steely stare.
"Show you what?" I said. I guess I was kind of playing dumb. Why did he want to see me?
"Show me what a little faggot you really are. What you've been hiding from me all this time."
I felt like, well, okay, finally. Moment of truth. All of a sudden I felt brazen, like what I thought a stripper must feel like for a hungry john with lots of money. I peeled the big tee-shirt off and kneeled there, on my bed, my smooth little flat chest gleaming in the moonlight. My hard little prick was pushed up against the fabric of the front of my little cotton briefs. Even though you couldn't see it, I knew I had maybe made a tiny drop of precum on the inside of my shorts, though it wasn't even enough to soak through a few layers of fabric.
He looked like wild animal about to go in for the kill. "I knew it. What you waitin' for, sweet cheeks?"
I bit my lower lip and pulled down the front of my shorts.
"That's fucking disgusting." He spat out the words. "That's the most pathetic, puny excuse for a cock I've ever seen. If there was ever any doubt that you were born to be a total pussyboy cocksucking fag, you fucking killed it by showing me that ridiculous stupid nothing of a prick. You fucking faggot. You little fucking faggot."
And with that, he outta nowhere gave me a fast knee to my crotch. He kicked me, hard. I was blinded with pain and I doubled over. I had already been so hard for so long and was so achy anyway, it just intensified the explosion of pain I felt at the swift kick to my nuts.
"You know what that's for? That's for showing off your puny faggot dick to a real man. That's for fucking daring to get hard in front of a real man. That's for even thinking that that thing between your legs deserves to be called a cock. That's not a cock. That's maybe a fucking clit if it's anything. Or even worse. You're hung like a fucking baby. Maybe you should call it some baby name."
I still laid there, all doubled over, reeling in pain. All I could manage was an "Uh..."
"Aww, whatsamatter? Your pee-pee hurt, faggot? Your little wee-wee givin' you trouble? That'll teach you to be proud of that sub-standard piece of non-equipment you've got there. I hope you like that feeling. 'Cause that's what you're gonna be feeling any time in the future that you feel like trying to show off that little thing in the presence of a real man's cock."
I looked up at him, my eyes smeared with tears, and my mouth open, agape, panting. He was on me before I knew it, his dick in my face again. He stuffed it in my mouth. I didn't dare scratch him with my teeth. I opened as wide as I could and tried to buffer my teeth with my lips. It hurt. I could feel my teeth cutting into my lips, but I didn't care. I knew I had to take good care of his dick.
"Feel that, faggot. Taste that. Feel how big and hard and good it feels in your mouth. That's what a real man's cock feel like. That's what a real man's cock looks like. That's what a real man's cock tastes like and smells like. That's a fucking boner. A rock solid hard-on. You're never allowed to call that thing of yours any of those things again, hear me?"
His giant prick was stuffed in my mouth, so I could only murmur a muffled "Mm hmm."
He started to pump his cock in and out of my face. It was hitting the back of my throat and making me gag. He didn't care. He just kept pounding away -- kind of easy at first, but harder and harder and he worked up steam.
"I never wanna see you get a little fucking stiffie around me or Dad ever again, you got it? As a matter of fact, I never wanna see that thing again. It's fucking disgusting and it makes me wanna kill you. You should be so ashamed of it you never even touch it."
I was gagging hard. He was choking me -- sometimes I couldn't breathe. I think -- no, I knew -- I threw up some. There was snot and a little puke everywhere. But it just made his dick slipperier, like my mouth was a wet cunt that was getting all lubed up for him. His cock was banging hard against the back of my throat, demanding to be let in. It hurt, it felt like he was bruising me back there, needing to bust through and down into my guts.
"You hear me, faggot? If I ever even suspect you of touching that thing, or trying to cum, or even washing it too long, I am going to fucking hurt you so bad you won't even know what's coming. I will fucking slam your twat stick so hard that it turns black and falls off. You gotta learn that you gotta stay in heat for real man cock all the time, and that that little thing of yours doesn't deserve to exist. The fact that it does is in direct disrespect to my big hard pussy-stuffing fuck stick -- yeah, you know, the one that's fucking your throat right now and is about to dump a fucking enormous load in your belly."
He shoved on past the sphincter of my throat and was fucking my face deep and hard now. I was gasping for air, snotting and sliming all over the place, but he didn't care. He started to taste different. Saltier, sweeter, like that sweet nectar of he pre-cum was flowing free now. He slammed me over and over, and his cock swelled up so big I couldn't breathe at all. I thought I was going to pass out.
"Listen faggot. Pay attention, because this is what you're good for. This is going to be the best experience of your entire fucking life. This is what you were made for, to take the jizz of a fucking god like me. I rule over you. All men rule over you. We fucking run the world, and we were fucking born to own you. I hope you remember this forever, 'cause this is the best you're ever gonna get."
With that, he fucking exploded in my mouth. The meaty tangy nasty fluid just kept coming, gush after gush, shooting down my throat but also up my nose with every thrust. I coughed a little and saw it, white and slimy, shooting out of my nose. It ran down my upper lip and got shoved back in my mouth with every thrust of his big nasty cock. I know this sounds crazy, but my belly ached, like it was swollen, like I was gorged on his cum. I think I tasted blood in my mouth from where my lips had sunk into my teeth to protect him from scratch marks -- now they were swollen and red and puffy, my lips, and my face was covered in cum and snot and puke. I looked like a total whore.
Eventually, he slowed down his thrusts and gradually, slowly -- achingly slowly -- pulled his big beautiful relentless cock out of my mouth. He was still hard, but not quite as big as he was right before he filled me full of his spunk. He looked at me, almost curious, like he'd never seen me before.
"Here, wipe your face off." I was in a daze, and he threw my dad's shirt at me. "But don't put that on. It's nasty, I don't want you wearing it around the house. As a matter of fact, as long as I'm in charge, I don't want you to wear anything but those panties you wear. Just to make sure you're doing what I told you. Or rather, to make sure you're not doing what I told you not to do."
I tried my best to clean myself up with the teeshirt. When I was pretty much done, he grabbed it away from me, turned it inside out, and started to wipe my nastiness off his dick. It was starting to hang down a little now, but it was still thick and full grown.
"I'm gonna keep this for a while, faggot." He still had my dad's Harley shirt. "A souvenir. And you know, I was needing a new cum rag." He laughed, a kind of half-grunt laugh. He turned to go. He walked out the door, and into the bathroom. I could hear the heavy stream of his piss hit the toilet as he let out a self-satisfied moan.
I stared at the ceiling. I curled up into the fetal position. What the fuck just happened? Why did I let him do that? Did that really happen? I couldn't deny the last question, because my lips were still puffed up, my throat was sore, and my entire face smelled like my step-brother's sweaty jock. But deep down, I felt something right. He hit something inside me, with his big stupid cock and his constant stream of verbal abuse. I wasn't the same as I was before.
I heard the light click off in the bathroom. Suddenly, there was Jake again, shiny with sweat, standing in at my doorway.
He said, "I'm goin' to bed..."
I stared at him, with a mixture of awe, fear, lust, and shame.
"...and you're coming with me."