Another Day Off Pt. 02

In the bedroom, in a reading chair, sits Mr. Rooney. On his knees in front of Mr. Rooney is Mr. Frye, his back to me. They're both nude. Mr. Frye is giving Mr. Rooney a blowjob.

I'm starting to understand what Mr. Frye meant when he said he and Mr. Rooney socialized.

Mr. Rooney leers at me over Mr. Frye's bobbing head, a smile curling up under that terrible mustache. I feel my erection poking through the folds of my robe.

Mr. Rooney gives Mr. Frye another minute or so, then taps him on the head. Mr. Frye raises his head, looking back over his shoulder at me. A strand of saliva, thick with mucus, dribbles from his chin.

Mr. Frye gets up, walks around me, stands behind me. I couldn't not look. His penis is long, thick, and straight, like hard steel.

Mr. Rooney gets up from the chair. His is chubby and overgrown, with a puffy, folded foreskin. It glistens with Mr. Frye's spit.

Don't ever let anyone tell you that bitter, controlling men have small dicks. It's small minds that they have.

Mr. Rooney stands in front of me. "On your knees," he says.

I do as I'm told.

"Suck his cock," Mr. Frye says.

I grip the base, pulling back on the skin so that the foreskin retracts. The head is beet red, almost purple. I put my lips around it.

I've sucked worse cocks. Mr. Rooney is firm but soft, like a comfy shoe. A nice mouthfeel, really. He smells fresh from the shower.

He and Mr. Frye make out over my head. Mr. Frye guides my other hand to his cock, and I oblige him.

Overhead, I hear Mr. Frye say, "How is he?"

"Mm, he's good," Mr. Rooney says. "A bad little boy, but a good little piece of ass."

I occasionally remember to be horrified but what's happening to me, but I'll be honest. Being talked about as if I weren't here is kind of doing it for me.

Mr. Frye's straight, rigid Republican dad cock is in front of my face. I switch from Mr. Rooney to him, making sure to slobber through the transition. I think they like that.

"Yeah," I hear Mr. Frye say. "You like it. You like spending your day off with real men."

In fact, I do. More and more, I'm liking the sound of it. I'm in the moment.

It helps that I'm seriously horny by now. The pressure of the buttplug in my ass is keeping my mind from wandering too far.

I switch back and forth a few more times, jerking one and sucking the other while they kiss and grope each other.

Eventually, Mr. Rooney pulls away. My mouth is full of Mr. Frye, but Mr. Rooney's fingers grip me by the hair and yank upward. I release Mr. Frye with a long, spitty slurp as I stand up.

"Over to the chair," Mr. Rooney commands.

Again, I do as I'm told. There's a big picture window on the wall behind Mr. Frye's reading chair. The Frye house is surrounded by a treeline, so the view is very pretty.

"Robe off," Mr. Frye says. I oblige, slipping the robe off with my back to them. I toss it to the side.

"Kneel on the chair," I hear Mr. Rooney say. "Put your hands on the window sill." I do as I'm told.

"Knees apart," Mr. Frye says.

I'm kneeling on the chair, bent over. My asshole, home to the bright red buttplug, is displayed to the two angry middle-aged men behind me.

"What do you think of his cock and balls?" I hear Mr. Rooney say.

"I think they're small and pathetic," I hear Mr. Frye say.

I feel like telling Mr. Frye that his son didn't think my cock and balls were small and pathetic. But I don't want him to kill me.

"He's young," I hear Mr. Rooney say. "I bet if we made him come, he'd be back at it in 30 seconds."

"I wouldn't give him the satisfaction," I hear Mr. Frye say.

I hear something. A bedside drawer opens. I start to turn my head.

"Face front," Mr. Frye barks from somewhere near the bed. I face front.

Footsteps. Then I feel something tight and a little uncomfortable slide over my boner and around my balls. A silicone cock ring. batman escort It pulls a little at my pubic hair, which I regret I've been letting get out of hand.

I feel a dull throb. My genitals are more engorged than ever under the restrictive pressure of the cock ring.

I hear the rustle and tearing of condom wrappers.

Fingers poke and prod between my buttcheeks. They get ahold of the base of the buttplug. I barely have time to relax myself as they yank it free. Another slurping sound. It isn't painful, but it's briefly intense.

The air is cool on my anus. I smell that faint smell of lube and ass.

Then I feel something else position itself in my gaping doorway. I've been fucked enough times to know what it is.

Whoever it is, their dickhead is slick between my cheeks. I squeeze down, exhale, and release as they tip it in, none too carefully, and shimmy their way in.

The dick is bigger around than the fattest part of the buttplug. The intensity is not brief.

I've just about got the hang of managing my reaction when I feel a hand roughly grip my hair from behind and shove my face against the window. A husky "oh!" escapes from my lugs.

With my head forced sideways, I see Mr. Frye standing beside me to the left of the chair. He stares at me, masturbating his steely hard-on with the deliberate slowness of a serial killer sharpening a knife.

"Say it, you little bastard, I dare you," Mr. Frye says in a huffing-and-puffing voice. I can see in his eyes the visions of his car being destroyed over and over again as Mr. Rooney forces himself farther and farther up my ass.

I won't say it.

"He's only halfway in," Mr. Frye adds.

I won't say it.

I won't say it I won't say it I won't

My colon is full, and he's still pushing. It's starting to get uncomfortable.

I really am about to say it, when I feel Mr. Rooney's fat belly touch my buttcheeks.

Okay. It doesn't really feel good.

But, I console myself, it isn't really hurting me either. What I'm feeling is beyond that.

Then he starts fucking me, and I feel that intense feeling over and over again. He hasn't let go of my head. He exerts just enough pressure to keep my cheek mashed against the glass, keeping the masturbating Mr. Frye in my eyeline.

Mr. Rooney is going in shallow strokes, pounding me up to the hilt. My choked, engorged penis wobbles between my shaky thighs.

He fucks me for a while, then takes one last trip all the way up until his belly meets my ass. He releases my head, much to the relief of my stiffening neck muscles.

"Get down from the chair," I hear him say. "Feet on the floor."

I do as I'm told.

His cock is still in my ass. I'm bent over at an uncomfortable angle to accommodate it.

Mr. Frye slides in front of me and sits down in the chair. My face is directly over his lap. His steel-hard cock points up at me.

I skipped a lot of school, but I know an instruction when I see it.

I take the head in my mouth, putting my lips over the rim and cradling it with my tongue. I let my mouth fill with saliva and begin bobbing my head.

No sooner do I hear Mr. Frye sigh and feel him relaxing into the chair than Mr. Rooney grips my hips and starts fucking me again, more roughly than before.

I have to balance my hands on Mr. Frye's seat. I struggle to maintain focus on sucking him off as Mr. Rooney is pounding my asscheeks and setting my anus on fire.

A few more thrusts and I hear Mr. Rooney grunt, piglike. He immediately slows down and presses hard into my ass. I think he's done.

I breathe a sigh of relief-through my nose, because there's a dick in my mouth.

Mr. Rooney pulls out, giving me that fleeting feeling that I'm shitting myself as the tip of his cock passes out of my anus.

"Good boy," I hear him say. I've gone back to blowing Mr. Frye in earnest, hoping my renewed focus will escort batman make him finish up fast.

He does.

He holds my head down as he comes, whispering, "Don't you dare pull up. You swallow every bit."

He shoots two warm ropes, and the rest is all dribbles. I swallow it easily, as if taking medicine from a medicine dropper.

I think of Cameron, of the prodigious amounts of his semen that I've swallowed over the years. Of all the spent condoms, heavy with his seed and flecked with the byproducts of my reception of him. Cam is a veritable cum firehose.

I wonder if Mr. Frye's two-rope ejaculation is what he has to look forward to as he ages.

Youth is something to be cherished. You have to celebrate it while you have it.

Mr. Rooney says, "I'm bushed. Let's take a nap." As casual as if he had announced he was tired from a fun run.

They give me permission to take off the cock ring and we crawl into Mr. and Mrs. Frye's bed. They snooze, with me trapped in between them. I've never felt more unable to sleep in my life.

But, inevitably, the stereoscopic snoring, the warmth of their bodies, and the Fryes' million threadcount sheets lull me into a fitful sleep.

I dream of a threesome I once had with Cameron and Sloane.

We'd gotten a little tipsy from booze I'd swiped from Cam's parents' liquor cabinet. We were playing board games, which turned into strip board games, which turned into board games for dares.

We started having sex, as drunk friends do when they get naked while playing board games and start kissing and groping each other.

The memory was mangled though. The dream washed out the pleasant bits. We were saying things, laughing, but I couldn't hear what. I tried to do things with them, but couldn't tell how they turned out. I know we had all fucked in a variety of permutations, but those details just weren't there.

The only part I could discern, the only part that happened in the dream the way it had happened in reality, was Cam fucking Sloane on a chair while I watched. Lamp light threw a warming glow on his gyrating buttocks.

In my dream, I wasn't masturbating, even though I had full awareness that I was masturbating when this actually happened. Sometimes, in dreams, you just know things.

At some point, it all comes back around to the beginning and starts again. My erect cock is out. Cam and Sloane are sitting across from me on the other side of the card table and they're giving each other a good frenching. He's groping her breast, about to touch her nipple with his thumb.

Then I snap awake.

It takes me a second to remember my surroundings. The light is a little different, but I don't think I've been asleep for very long. Mr. Frye and Mr. Rooney are out cold.

I debate trying to escape, but they've got me pretty tightly wedged between them. I could barely turn over without risking waking them.

Lying awake, unable to move and with nothing else to occupy your time, you become hyper-aware of every detail of the room you're in.

It occurs to me that the chair I sucked off Mr. Frye on, the one Mr. Rooney fucked me on, and the lamppost next to it are the ones from my dream. The ones that had been in the den when Cam and Sloane and I had had that particular threesome. The Fryes must have moved them when Cam left for college.

Mr. Rooney stirs next to me. I pretend to be asleep.

They're both up and about, but I keep my eyes squeezed shut. As far as they know, I'm dead to the world.

"Wake up, shithead," I hear Mr. Frye say. I feel something hit me-a pile of clothes.

I perform waking up from a deep sleep. I blink with fake bleariness.

They're both dressed.

"Guess what today is," Mr. Rooney says, smiling cruelly.

"What day is it, sir?"

"It's Von Steuben Day."

"Von Steuben Day?"

"Yes. And we're all going to the parade."

"We are?"

"Yes batman escort bayan we are."

Is this it? Could it be that the next phase in their plan to torture me is just going to the parade?

I see what clothes they brought me, and only then does the significance of this particular anniversary sink in.

They've pulled an assortment from Mrs. Frye's closet. It must be stuff she hasn't worn since high school-short skirts, tops permanently knotted in the front with plenty of fringe. All vaguely hippie-ish.

They've also brought me the kind of scandalous lingerie that you typically only see in pornography and imagine every uptight conservative mom secretly has.

"Come on," Mr. Frye says. "Time to get ready."

They set me up in the Fryes' opulent master bathroom. A full set of Mrs. Frye's makeup collection awaits me, as does Mr. Frye's straight razor and cream.

They supervise me. First, I shave. They scrupulously advise me as I take care of my patchy five o'clock shadow, then the handful of hairs that dot my chest, then my armpits, then my legs.

For a moment, I wonder if they're going to make me shave my pubic hair, but they don't. I'm glad that would never become a common practice.

They take me through a selection of lacy, sheer bras, mostly red and black. They prod me towards a particularly revealing red one with half-cups. I play along.

Mrs. Frye wears an A-cup. I've often wondered what it would be like to have her, to get to play with those petite breasts. I'd often seen her nipples through her shirts growing up. They were dark, thumblike, with small, sharply defined areolas. Nobody with nipples like that shows them off by accident.

A couple times, I almost got up the nerve to try to fuck her. Alas, even I don't seize the day 100% of the time.

They select a matching garter belt and thigh highs. I ask about panties. They both laugh at me.

They put me in a flowing tie-dye print dress that cinches at the waist, and complete the outfit with a pair of strappy sandals.

I sit on a stool and they do the makeup for me. Mr. Frye turns out to be a very skillful and delicate makeup artist. Who knew?

As it turns out, this has been quite the makeover. I look almost like a 1960s version of my sister Jean. I try not to think about her too hard, as I am positively horny right now. I'm sure I'll be working through the reasons why for years to come.

"One last thing," Mr. Rooney says, and sets something down on the bathroom counter in front of me.

It's a buttplug, the one that was one size bigger than the one that I'd chosen earlier.

We ride in Mr. Rooney's car. Mr. Frye is driving. I'm in the passenger seat, with Mr. Rooney behind me. I'm very aware of the buttplug, which had gone in easier than I'd thought.

We mill in the crowd at the parade. I'm fully erect. I don't think it's noticeable through the folds of the dress, but still. I try to keep my distance from people.

It turns out to be fairly uneventful-a perfectly ordinary afternoon of parade watching.

Then a parade float appears down the street, blaring rock music. Parade attendees are coming up, one by one, invited by the float operators to lip-sync along to the music.

"Looks like fun, doesn't it?" I hear Mr. Rooney say.

I look up at him. He's smiling like the devil.

I look to Mr. Frye. He's smiling even worse.

The word is at the tip of my tongue. Ferrari. In a matter of seconds, there are about 100 times when I almost say it.

No. I won't let them have this.

Besides, when I say life moves pretty fast, this is what I'm talking about.

And I don't want to miss it.

I get up there, in front of the world, and give them the best rendition of "Twist and Shout" anyone's ever seen. It feels like a religious revival.

During the climactic part of the song-that part where the "ah-ah-ah-ahs" come in for the first time-the famous Chicago wind picks up and hoists my dress up above my waist.

Over the music and the collective gasping of the crowd, I hear someone say, "Who is that?"

Then I hear someone say my name.

~THE END~

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