Straighthell-stories

Jake couldn’t believe it.  He couldn’t believe what Coach Edwards was making him do, walk into the gym locker room wearing frilly pink lace panties – and a matching pink lace bra.  The guys, the guys on the team, would go berserk when they saw him.  Jake could imagine what they’d say, the names they’d call him, the way they would laugh at him.  And then, afterwards, after they’d all had their fun mocking and reviling him, he knew what they’d do – they’d all fuck him, fuck him like the faggot bitch he so obviously was.  The truth was, though, that Jake wasn’t a faggot; he wasn’t even gay.  In fact, he’d never even had sex with another dude until three weeks ago when Coach Edwards had brutally raped his straight ass and pounded Jake’s virgin butt-hole into absolute mush.  Jake was straight.  Totally straight.  But no one would believe that when they saw him decked out in a bra and a pair of panties.

He’d been stupid, Jake knew that.  But it wasn’t like he was the one coming on to the coach’s wife.  She had flirted with him.  And the thing was, she was hot as fuck.  And Coach Edwards had to figure that a wife nearly twenty years younger than him was going to create a lot of problems, a lot of tensions.  Still, he was stupid to fuck her.  Jake knew that now.

But, still, he could never have imagined that she’d pull the shit on him that she did.  They were going at it, hot and heavy – and not for the first time, either – when Coach Edwards had crashed through the motel room door.  Jake was totally shocked, of course.  And scared shitless, too.  After all, Coach Edwards was a really big guy, way bigger than Jake.  All of them had seen the coach working out in the gym.  They all knew that, pound for pound, he was probably stronger than any of them.  And while Jake may have had the advantage of youth, there wasn’t any question that, one on one, the coach would probably make mincemeat out of Jake if it came to that.

Jake might have been able to foresee all that – that the coach might discover that Jake was snaking his wife, that he might barge in on the two of them while they were doing the dirty, even that he’d be so enraged that he’d beat the crap out of Jake.  But never in his wildest dreams was Jake prepared for the scenario that did play out.  No sooner had Coach Edwards pounded through the door than Jill, his wife, started struggling against Jake.  

“Get off me, goddammit,” she screamed.  “Get off me, you fucker.”

Stunned, Jake had rolled off the coach’s wife, his still hard dick, flailing in the air.  The coach’s wife immediately scrambled off the bed and, with sudden tears streaming down her face, turned to her husband.  “Oh, thank God you got here.  He was raping me, Chuck.  He was holding me down and raping me.  I’m so glad you got here before he could finish the foul deed.”

“How did you even end up here with this asshole,” Coach Edwards asked, his eyes shooting daggers at the naked boy on the bed.

“He called me up and suggested we meet at a local bar,” she replied.  “He said he had something important about you to talk about.  I normally would have just refused but he told me it was urgent, that it involved something that might jeopardize your entire career.  So, I did as he asked.  When I got there, he purchased some drinks – using a fake ID, I imagine.  He must have put something in mine because suddenly I became all woozy and light-headed.  Next thing I knew, he was leading me out of the bar and then he brought me here, where he stripped me and began assaulting me, the bastard.”

Listening to her spiel, Jake was absolutely flabbergasted.  None of it, not one word of it, was true.  If anything, the Coach’s wife had been the aggressor, going out of her way to chat Jake up.  She was the one who first suggested using this motel for their rendezvouses – though Jake was the one who always rented and paid for the room, with money she provided him.  She had insisted on this arrangement because, as she told Jake, she couldn’t risk having her husband see a motel rental on her credit card bill.  And she was the one who suggested that today they first meet in a local bar, where she had Jake order drinks, drinks that he’d paid for with cash she’d given him.  He hadn’t put anything in her drink.  He wouldn’t have had the opportunity, considering the way she pounded it down.  And, while he had physically helped her out of the bar, that was because she told him she had a blinding migraine attack, one that miraculously cleared up once they were in the parking lot.  Jake simply couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

But Coach Edwards was believing it, that was all too obvious.  He strode towards the bed in a menacing way that terrified the college freshman.  “It’s not true, Coach,” Jake sputtered, scrambling backwards on the bed.  “It’s not true.”

A second later, the right side of Jake’s face exploded in pain as the bigger man brutally back-handed him.  “You take me for an idiot, boy,” he screamed at the terrified teenager.  “I find you in a hotel room, naked, on a bed, that pathetic excuse for a cock you’ve got between your legs rammed up my wife’s cunt, and you tell me it’s not true.  What type of dumb-fuck do you take me for, boy?” he asked, as he bitch-slapped the boy again and again.

Jake was frantically trying to cover his face when the Coach’s wife intervened and pulled him off the boy.  “No, honey.  No,” she was saying.  “He’s not worth it.  We’ll just call the police and he’ll be arrested and prosecuted and spend the next twenty years in jail.  The little bastard’s not worth it, honey.  He’s not.”

Turning to his wife, the coach took a deep breath, obviously trying to collect himself.  Finally, with another deep breath, he said, “You’re right, Jill.  The little prick isn’t worth it.  I could beat the shit out of him right now, but he’d get over it soon enough.  And he’d probably use the beating as a way of getting sympathy with a jury.  But a boy like this, spending twenty-years in jail, he’s gonna be getting his ass raped pretty much every day.  He’ll be getting fucked every day and, every time he is, he’ll remember how he got there, how he raped you.  That’s what I call real justice. You’re right, honey.  I’ll call the cops.  Right now.”

Even as the man reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, Jake’s mind was reeling.  Jake was sure the coach was right.  A boy like him, a boy like him with his good-looks and toned body, wouldn’t last a week in a prison filled with hardened cons.  Probably not even a single day.  They’d fuck him.  They’d all fuck him.  “No, coach.  Please, coach,” he shouted out.  “Don’t call the cops.  I’m sorry I fucked your wife.  I am.  I…I thought she wanted it.  I did.  But either way, it was wrong.  I know that.  But don’t call the cops.  I’m begging you, coach.  Don’t call the cops.”

Coach Edwards glared at Jake, the fury still obvious on his face.  “You fucking rape my wife and then you tell me that you thought she wanted it.  What sort of sick pervert are you, boy?  You definitely deserve what you’re gonna get, boy.  A line of hardened cons with big cocks plowing out your ass is exactly what you deserve.  And, that’s what you’re gonna get, I promise you that, boy.”

Truly terrified now, desperate to save himself, Jake tried abjectly pleading with the man.  “I’m sorry, coach.  I really am.  I…I must have misread everything.  I don’t know.  I certainly didn’t intend to rape your wife.  I know I have to be punished, coach.  I understand that.  But if you call the cops, if you call the cops everyone in town will find out what I did.  It’ll ruin my reputation completely.  I’ll never be able to show my face in town again without everyone thinking I’m some sick pervert.  And you’re right, the cons in prison, they’ll fuck me.  They’ll all fuck me.  And I don’t want that, coach.  I’ll do anything you want, coach.  Anything you tell me.”

Coach Edwards looked at Jake a long time, and then spat out two words:  “Fuck you.”  He picked up his phone and started punching in the numbers.  And then, as absolute disaster stared Jake in the face, it was the coach’s wife who, out of the blue, intervened to save him.

“Wait, Chuck,” she called out to her husband.  “Wait.”

Coach Edward looked at his wife in surprise.  “Why?” he asked tersely.

“Something the boy said, made me think,” she explained.  “He mentioned about how his reputation would be ruined by these charges.  Well, he’s not the only one whose reputation might get ruined.  If the police get involved you know word will eventually get out that I was the victim, that I was the woman he raped.  And you know how people are in this town, the way they talk and gossip.  Some of them will say I asked for it, that I wanted it.  Some might even say I seduced him, that everything was my fault.  And all that talk might reflect upon you, too, Chuck.  Your contract is up this year.  The scandal might just provide some people on the school board with a reason not to renew it.  Calling the cops might boomerang on us, Chuck.”

Listening to his wife, Coach Edwards’ face had taken a more reflective cast.  But the anger he felt was still obvious in his tone as he replied, “But what are we supposed to do.  Just forget about the fact that he raped you.  Just let him walk out of this motel room and let him go his way, so he can drug and rape some other unsuspecting woman?”

“No, I’m not saying that at all,” she assured her husband.  “I’m saying we punish him ourselves.  He’s already said he’ll do anything you say.  I say we punish him and keep the police out of it.”

The man looked at his wife and then over at the boy, still huddled naked on the bed.  Turning back to his wife, he said, “Even if I agreed to do that, Jill, what assurances do we have that the boy would keep his word.  Right now, he’ll say anything to get out of the jam he’s in.  But come tomorrow he might be whistling a totally different tune.”

“You’re right, Chuck,” she agreed.  “We can’t just accept the boy’s word.  But what we could do, we could have him write out a confession of how he drugged and raped me and have him sign it.  Then, as long as he did what he was told and kept the straight and narrow, he wouldn’t have to worry about going to prison.  And we wouldn’t have to worry about him breaking his word.”

The coach gave his wife a long look.  Then he turned to Jake.  “What about it, boy?  You willing to write out a confession about how your drugged my wife and then raped her?”

Jake didn’t want to do that.  He definitely didn’t want to write out a confession that he’d drugged and raped the coach’s wife, particularly since it wasn’t true.  But right then, in the situation he found himself, it seemed infinitely preferable to having the man call the police and being arrested.  So, haltingly, he told the man, “I’ll do it.  I’ll do it, coach.  I’ll write out the confession you want.”

The coach gave him a piercing look, then walked over to the dresser, picked up a pen and a notepad and tossed it onto the bed.  “Then get writing, boy.”

And so he did.  Jake wrote out a full confession, pretty much dictated by the coach’s wife, of how he drugged and raped her.  After it was written to her and her husband’s satisfaction, he signed it.  And then, at the coach’s insistence, he verbally repeated the confession as the coach filmed him, something he found particularly humiliating since he had to confess while he was stark naked, the coach refusing to allow him to get dressed, saying, “You fucked my wife naked.  You can confess just as naked.”  

Jake was mentally and emotionally exhausted by the time he finished his second confession.  Wearily, he reached down beside the bed to pick up his boxers where he had thrown them hours earlier.  And that was when Coach Edwards stopped him with a gruff, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, boy?”

“Getting dressed, coach,” Jake replied.

“The fuck you are,” the coach growled.  “You ain’t going anywhere right now, boy.  We need to start your punishment.”

“Right now, coach?” the boy asked wearily.

“Right now,” the coach replied sternly.

“Okay, coach,” the boy said, sinking back onto the bed.  “You gonna whip my ass, again?”

The coach gave Jake a ferocious smile which suddenly chilled the boy’s heart.  “Oh, it involves your ass, all right, boy.  But I’m not going to be whipping it.  I’m gonna be fucking it.”

“No way, coach,” the teenager replied in shock.  “No way I’m gonna let you fuck my ass.”

If anything, the coach seemed amused by Jake’s response.  “Boy, you seem to already be forgetting all the promises you made to do whatever I told you, to say nothing of the confession you made that makes your conviction for aggravated rape a lead-pipe cinch.  Now get your legs in the air, spread your pretty butt-cheeks apart and show me your pussy, or I call the cops and you spend the next twenty-years in jail.”

Jake looked at the coach for a long time.  Then, the tears gathering in his eyes, he begged, “Please, coach.  Please don’t make me do this.  Please don’t fuck me.”

Grinning like a wolf with a cornered lamb in front of him, the coach just said, “Get those fucking legs in the air.  Now, boy.  Now.”

Sobbing softly, the boy did as he was told.  Just a few moments later, a naked Coach Edwards was crawling onto the bed, his 8-inch cock hard as steel.  And a few moments after that, a cry of absolute agony rent the air as the coach buried his cuntbuster balls-deep in Jake Sampson’s no-longer-cherry boyhole.

That first fuck was a soul-shattering experience for the boy.  The physical pain was bad enough as the man pummeled and battered Jake’s fuck-chute like a man possessed.  But the emotional trauma the boy felt as he was fucked like a woman was even more traumatic, a trauma amplified by the coach’s wife who stood there watching the entire time, urging her husband on, reveling in the anguished squeals ripped from Jake’s mouth whenever a particularly hard thrust turned pain into agony.  And the realization that this violent assault, just like his naked confession, was being recorded on film, just increased the humiliation the teenager was feeling.  Jake was crying like a baby by the time Coach Edwards deposited his first load of man-seed deep inside Jake’s aching fuck-hole.  But the coach wasn’t finished with Jake – hell, he was just warming up.

Jake had merely a fifteen-minute respite before Coach Edwards ordered the boy to get up on his hands and knees, with his knees spread far apart.  Groaning, trying to staunch the tears that continued to course down his face, Jake did as he was told.  And the next thing he knew, the man had rammed his cock back into Jake’s ass and begun punch-fucking him like a maniac.

The pain was simply awesome.  And, even as he was gasping and screeching in agony, Coach Edwards reached forward, grabbed a shock of Jake’s hair, and yanked his head up.  There, just inches from Jake’s face was the coach’s wife, stark naked again, her pussy almost brushing against Jake’s lips.  “See that cunt in front of you, boy,” the coach asked, “that cunt you loved to fuck so much?  Well stick your faggot tongue up it and clean it out, clean out all my wife’s pussy-slime and your own ball-sludge while I pound out another load in your cunt.”

When Jake didn’t immediately comply, the coach unleashed a flurry of ferocious swats to Jake’s ass, screaming, “Get your faggot tongue up my wife’s cunt.  Now, faggot.  Now!  And don’t take it out until I tell you to”

Squealing in renewed agony, Jake leaned forward and began eating out Jill’s pussy, something he had done a number of times before but never while her husband fucked the crap out of his butt-hole.  And, while he had enjoyed his previous tonguing of Jill’s cunt, Jake found this experience particularly humiliating.  But he kept his tongue working in the coach’s wife’s cunt until the man shot a second load up Jake’s own pussy, something that took a good forty-five minutes.

Coach Edwards needed almost half-an-hour to recover after his second nut, but Jake didn’t get any rest at all.  He spent the entire half-hour with his tongue wedged up the coach’s filthy ass.  The smell was noxious and the taste was vile beyond belief.  It seemed to the boy that the man hadn’t properly wiped his ass in over a week.  He came close to upchucking a number of times and the taste of his own bile mingled in his mouth with taste of the coach’s shit.  And as if all that wasn’t degrading enough, the coach’s wife amused herself the whole time by pinching and squeezing Jake’s boy-tits and batting and twisting his dangling junk.  The whole experience was so painful and degrading that Jake was actually relieved when he heard the coach order him to get back on his back and raise his legs back into the air.

But it was less than a minute after Coach Edwards plowed back into Jake’s swollen and aching boypussy, that the coach’s wife lowered her ass onto Jake’s face and the boy discovered his tongue and mouth had merely exchanged one fetid butthole for another.  And it was only a few minutes after that that the coach started in where his wife had left off and began squeezing and twisting – and eventually biting – Jake’s already sore boy-tits.  As the boy quickly discovered, the coach squeezed and mauled hit tits with far more force than his wife had been able to muster.

That last fuck went on for at least an hour and, by the time it was over, Jake was scarcely conscious.  The boy was barely aware as the coach and his wife got dressed and made ready to leave.  But, before he left, the coach walked over to Jake who was lying sprawled out on the floor, grabbed his face and bitch-slapped him until the boy achieved at least a semi-conscious state.  “I left my address on the notepad, boy,” he informed Jake.  “I expect to see you at my house at 2:00 p.m. this afternoon.  Don’t be late, if you don’t want to get a real beating.”  And with that, the coach and his wife left the motel room.

It was at least an hour after that before Jake even had enough strength to raise himself off the floor.  His ass and boypussy felt as if someone had beaten it with a two-by-four and his grossly swollen nipples felt almost as bad, but in truth his whole body hurt like he’d been in a bad car accident.  Even in his traumatized state, Jake realized that he couldn’t go back to the dorm looking and smelling the way he did.  He had to clean himself up.  So, too unsteady to try walking just yet, he slowly crawled into the shower, turned the spigot on and just lay on the shower floor as the warm water cascaded down onto his body.

The water slowly revived him and after ten minutes he was able to stand up under the spray.  When he finished showering, he toweled himself off, carefully drying his burning ass and not even attempting to touch his inflamed ass-lips which had borne so much of the brunt of the coach’s assault.  The taste of bile and shit still permeated his mouth but there was no toothpaste or mouthwash in sight.  Jake figured he’d have to wait until he got back to the dorm to properly clean his mouth; he just hoped he didn’t run into anyone who wanted to talk to him before he got home.

That concern was magnified when he exited the bathroom and discovered that his clothes were nowhere to be found.  His keys and wallet were there, along with the notepad bearing the coach’s home address, but there wasn’t a stitch of clothing to be found.  The only item available to cover himself was the towel he’d used to dry himself off, and it was soaking wet now.   He realized it was better than nothing as he hitched it around his waist, but Jake had no idea how he could explain why he was dressed in only a motel room towel if he ran into anyone he knew.  Then, as if his present situation wasn’t embarrassing enough, no sooner had he wrapped the towel around himself than his ass just exploded with a loud raspberry fart, which carried with it a copious supply of the coach’s spent spunk, a good portion of which splattered onto the towel while the rest began running down his ass and legs.  Jake had been trying to keep a tight rein on his emotions, but this last disaster pushed Jake over the tipping point and he stood there in the motel room for a good five minutes, crying his eyes out like a little boy.

Eventually, though, Jake managed to regain control of himself.  Slowly opening the door and then sticking just his head out to make sure the coast was clear, he ran as fast as he could to his car, scarcely breathing until he was inside its relative privacy.  There weren’t many cars on the road, which wasn’t unusual since, according to the car’s clock radio, it was 4:30 a.m.  Jake could only hope that his roommate, Greg, had gone out like he usually did on a Friday night and gotten totally wasted so he wouldn’t wake up when Jake stumbled in, barefoot and naked except for the towel around his waist.  And, for once on that horrible night, luck was with Jake and Greg was out like the proverbial light, snoring up a storm when Jake arrived.  He’d originally intended to take another shower when he got back, but he was so exhausted when he finally got to his dorm room, it was all he could do to make it into his own bed before he totally collapsed.  

It was close to noon when the text woke him up.  ‘Bitch,’ it started, and Jake immediately knew who it was from.  The salutation was bad enough, but as Jake read the rest of the message, he could feel his face heating up in embarrassment:

Bitch:

Yeah, that’s what I’m calling you from now on, boy.  Bitch.  Because that’s what you are – my bitch.  And I expect my bitches to have clean pussies.  So, before you show up here today – and, bitch, you’d better be on time – you need to go out and get yourself a Fleet enema and give your cunt a good cleaning out.  If I see so much as a smudge of your shit on my cock when I’m finished fucking you today, your ass is going to get a whipping that’ll make the thrashing I gave you last night seem like a series of love taps.  I expect your ass to be as pristine as my ass was after you cleaned it out with your tongue.  You don’t want to disappoint me, boy.  Thinking about it, though, you should buy two enemas, and bring the second one along with you just in case I decide your pussy needs another good douching.  As I said, I like my bitches clean when I start in on them, regardless of how slimed up their snatches are going to be by the time I’m finished with them.

M

Jake had realized that the coach wasn’t done with him when the man had ordered him to come by the man’s house this afternoon.  But he had nursed the hope that maybe the man was finished with fucking him, that the purpose of the meeting was merely to set up some ground rules that Jake would be expected to follow in the future.  The text made it absolutely clear that Jake’s hopes were misplaced.  He was the coach’s ‘bitch’ now.  That’s what the man had referred to him as, his ‘bitch.'  And Jake had the sinking realization that the horrors he had suffered through the previous night were doomed to be repeated over and over again.

Jake didn’t want to be the coach’s bitch.  He didn’t want to be any dude’s bitch.  But what could he do?  Jake had confessed to raping the coach’s wife in writing and on video and the coach had both of those confessions.  If the coach handed them over to the cops, there’d be no question he’d be headed to prison, probably for a long time.  The coach had him by the balls and, if the coach wanted to twist them, well Jake just had to stand there and take it, no matter how much it hurt.  Cursing himself for the fool he had been, Jake got out of bed, threw on some clothes, and hurried out to buy himself a pair of enemas.  After all, Coach Edwards expected his bitches to have clean pussies and Jake was his new bitch.

That first weekend he spent with the coach and the coach’s wife validated all Jake’s worst fears, and then some.  He had scarcely walked through the front door before he was ordered to strip down and turn around for a ‘pussy inspection,’ to make sure that the boy’s cunt had been properly cleaned out.  Jake didn’t realize it at the time, but it would be a day and a half before he was allowed to wear clothes again.

Coach Edwards didn’t waste any time.  No sooner had he determined that Jake had passed his pussy inspection than the man began undoing the enema’s work.  He fucked Jake right there on the entryway floor, banging the crap out of the boy’s poor fuck-hole, heedless of the fact that it was still swollen and sore from the previous night’s use and actually laughing at the boy when he begged and pleaded with the man not to fuck him, not to fuck his pussy, so hard.

That first fuck set the tone for the rest of the weekend.  Jake quickly lost count of how many times the coach fucked him, just like he lost count of how many times the coach hauled the boy’s naked butt over the man’s lap and spanked the hell of his twin globes for various ‘infractions,’ both real and imagined, of the rules he was instructing the boy in. 

The rules, themselves, were both varied and humiliating.  First and foremost, Jake was instructed that he was to keep his body totally devoid of hair.  And this stricture encompassed not merely pubic and pit hair but even the hair on the boy’s upper arms and his legs.  The coach told Jake that he was allowing the boy to keep the air on his forearms as a concession to his ‘modesty,’ but as Jake soon discovered, the hair on his arms just drew attention to the fact that the rest of his body was shaved rather than naturally hairless.

Just how humiliating this was going to be was driven home when, immediately after his first fuck, Coach Edwards hauled the boy into the shower and gave him his first body shave.  When he stood in front of a full-length mirror afterwards, it was all Jake could do to keep from crying.  He wasn’t sure whether he looked like a bitch, but what he was sure was that he looked like a prepubescent little boy.  He couldn’t imagine appearing in a locker room looking the way he now looked.  He could just imagine all the comments and sneers that would be aimed at him.  He could scarcely look at himself without blushing as red as a beet.

While none of the other rules he was taught were quite as humiliating as the first, they were all obviously designed to maximize Jake’s embarrassment.  Thus, clothed or naked, he was expressly prohibited from making any effort to cover up an erection.  And, by requiring the boy to take a Viagra pill three times a day, the coach was ensuring that these unwarranted boners would be occurring multiple times every day.

Coach Edwards also informed the boy that henceforth he would be naked whenever he was in private and that included his dorm room.  And when he went out in public the only clothing he was allowed to wear were cut-off tank-tops, tight shorts and flip-flops.  All this was bad enough, but then the coach told the boy that, whenever he was in public, there was one item of clothing he was required to wear – lace women’s panties.  When Jake protested that he didn’t own any panties, Coach Edwards told him not to worry.  His wife had graciously decided to lend the boy a number of her panties until he had the opportunity to go out and buy his own.

The coach went over to the dresser and pulled out half a dozen women’s panties, some in pink, some in lavender, and one in neon green and ordered Jake to model them for the coach and his wife.  Even though Jake had already spent more than a full day naked in front of the two of them, he still found the experience humiliating.  There simply was something surprisingly emasculating in being forced to wear women’s panties and Jake could just imagine the shame he would feel if any of his teammates ever saw him in them.  Jake was actually more upset at the prospect of wearing women’s panties around campus than being naked full-time in his dorm room.

And the rules encompassed more than just Jake’s physical appearance and how he appeared in public and private.  Coach Edwards informed the boy that, henceforth, he was to address the coach as ‘Master,’ because that’s what he now was, the bitch’s ‘Master.’  Similarly, he was to address the coach’s wife as ‘Mistress.’  And this rule applied even when they were in public, with other people around.  And the coach was equally adamant that Jake refer to his asshole as his ‘pussy,’ his ‘cunt,’ or his ‘boytwat.’  In the same vein, Jake’s nipples were now his ‘tits’ or ‘titties,’ his cock now his ‘boy-clit,’ his balls now his ‘boyvaries.’

These seemed like small matters when the coach was explaining them to the boy, but Jake found that when he actually had to use these terms verbally in reference to his own body it was incredibly humiliating.  And, as Jake soon discovered, even a single mistake, a single reference to his ‘asshole’ or his ‘cock,’ was enough for the coach to reach for his belt and give Jake an all-out ass-thrashing.  By the time that first weekend ended, not only was Jake routinely referring to his body-parts with those demeaning terms, he realized to his dismay that he was actually beginning to think of them that way – as his titties, his boy-clit, and his cunt.

But as bad as the coach’s constant assaults on his ‘cunt’ were, as demeaning as the rules he was now being required to follow were, they all paled when compared to the raw agony and excruciating humiliation Jake felt when the coach’s wife fucked him with a monstrously large strap-on.  The coach had been careful to include his wife in virtually every session he had with the boy.  Jake had literally spent hours eating out her pussy, cleaning out her ass, and sucking on her toes while her husband banged away at his sore and swollen boytwat.  And he had already discovered that she could wield a belt with almost as much force as the coach mustered when he beat the boy.  But it wasn’t until she appeared in the bedroom on Sunday afternoon, with what had to be at least 14-inches of hard, plastic cock strapped to her waist, that Jake truly plumbed the depths of pain and degradation.  

“Oh, my God!” Jake exclaimed in horror as he saw her approaching the bed he was lying on.

Coach Edwards, who had just finished making yet another cum-deposit up the boy’s battered bung, couldn’t hide his amusement.  “It’s something, isn’t it, bitch,” he chortled.  “Makes my big dick look like a little toy.  It’s gonna do a real number on your boy-snatch, you can bet on that.”

“Oh, please, Master.  Please,” Jake pleaded, the terror he felt making his voice crack.  “Please don’t let Mistress fuck me with that.  It’ll kill me.  It’ll kill me for sure.”

“Nonsense, bitch,” the coach responded.  “It’ll hurt for sure.  No question about that.  And it’s bound to wreak havoc with your pussy.  But it won’t kill you.  And, anyway, just consider it payback for raping her.”

“But…but,” Jake started, intending to point out that he had never raped her, that their sex had been consensual, but he’d tried to make that argument the day before and been brutally beaten for even implying that his Mistress was lying.  So he stopped himself, instead turning towards the coach’s wife, pleading “Please, Mistress.  Please don’t.’

“Quiet, boy,” she shushed him.  “You’re ruining the mood.  Just spread your legs apart and prepared to get fucked like you’ve never been fucked before.”

Sobbing bitterly, the boy did as he was told.  The coach’s wife got on the bed, positioned her strap-on right on the boy’s swollen cunt-lips and then violently thrusted forward as Jake let loose an ear-piercing scream.

Jake continued screaming throughout the entire assault, or at least he did until his voice gave out.  It was simply the worst, the most painful experience of Jake’s entire life, making all the humiliations and agonies he had suffered before pale to insignificance by comparison.  And it totally destroyed any faint claim to Manhood the boy had managed to hold onto until then.  Mistress fucked him like a bitch and that’s what Jake now was, even in his own mind, a pathetic little bitch.

If there was any bright point to this brutal assault, other than the multiple orgasms Mistress experienced as she pound away at Jake’s cunt, it was that the strap-on so stretched out Jake’s boycunt that the coach found it difficult afterwards to enjoy fucking it.  While this resulted in the coach making increased use of Jake’s mouth-pussy, leaving that almost as sore as his ass-cunt by Monday morning, it provided the boy’s cunt with a much-needed respite.  And it also led to a decision by the coach that his wife would have to drastically limit the frequency of her strap-on usage.  Even so, Jake’s ass-cunt was in tatters by the time they sent the boy back to his dorm on Monday morning.

By the time Jake staggered out of the coach’s – now his Master’s – house on Monday morning, barefoot and wearing only a pair of pink panties since his other clothes were deemed violative of the new rules, Jake had no doubt that he was now his Master’s and Mistress’s fuck-bitch.  He realized that he had been set up from the very beginning, but that knowledge had come too late to do him any good.  He was trapped by the two confessions he had foolishly made.  And now he had no option but to do whatever his Master or his Mistress ordered.  And as Jake had already found out, he was serving a harsh Master and an equally harsh Mistress.

Jake has spent every night since that first weekend, servicing the two of them.  Sometimes they let him go back to the dorm around midnight, but most nights they keep him until early morning.  And while Jake has been forced to endure Mistress’s giant strap-on only one time since that first weekend, he lives in constant terror of being forced to do so again, a terror which makes him abjectly compliant whenever he receives a new order from either of them.  So when Master ordered Jake to inform his roommate, Greg, that he was a faggot cum-slut and that Greg should feel free to fuck him whenever he wanted, Jake did precisely that.

Even though Jake had already spent three days totally naked in their dorm room, Greg was surprised by Jake’s confession since he had walked in on Jake many times in the past while the jock-boy was plowing co-ed pussy.  Nevertheless, once he got over his initial shock at hearing this admission, Greg took Jake up on his offer and began fucking Jake whenever he was horny, which, unfortunately for Jake, was pretty much all the time.  So now, even when Master and Mistress send him home early, Jake is pretty much simply exchanging their bed for his roommate’s, exchanging his Master’s cock for Greg’s.

This Monday, though, Jake was given a new rule.  In addition to wearing women’s lace panties under his shorts, he was ordered to begin wearing a matching lace bra under his tank-top.  From the moment he tried it on, Jake hated it.  It was like the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.  Even with all the other humiliations and indignities that had been heaped upon him, there was something about wearing a bra that Jake found singularly degrading, a feeling that was validated the first time Greg saw him in it and was doubled-over with hysterical laughter.  Greg actually insisted on fucking Jake while he was wearing the bra, telling Jake that it really did make the boy look ‘just like a faggot should.’  And that was exactly what Jake felt like when Greg fucked him – like a disgusting little faggot.

And now, now Jake was about to walk into a locker room crowded with his teammates dressed in panties and the hated bra.  And Jake understood all too well what their reaction would be.  He just hoped they’d let him remove the bra before they all fucked him.  That’s how much of a bitch he’d become, how low Jake had sunk since that fateful Friday night.  All Jake hoped for was that his teammates would let him take off his bra before they all gangbanged him.  Jesus.