The Neighborhood Hero Pt. 02
Join the thrilling journey of desire and discovery in ‘The Neighborhood Hero Pt. 02.’ Dive into a passionate tale where love conquers fear and community bonds deepen through steamy encounters. Don’t miss out on this captivating exploration of romance and connection!
CW: over the top, far-fetched smutty work of fantasy. Humiliation, blackmail/exposure, some rough and non-consensual elements, tons of SPH. Skip it if it’s not your thing. Otherwise, enjoy.
All characters are over 18 years of age.
I left the window, where just inside Hugh Wolcott, the hateful old boogeyman of our neighborhood, continued to wobble his hips around and stew his cock in the guts of the former star quarterback Bruce Mitchell. The sight of the massive jock letting himself get roughly butt-fucked by the short old bastard had been outrageous to me, hideous, but mesmerizing. The wretched spectacle of it had inflamed me with an animal lust, and I had bared my naked ass to the moonlight and jacked off onto the grass.
When I closed my eyes I could still see Hugh’s hairy pale butt cheeks flex with each plunging thrust. Hear the smack of his hips against the jock’s flushed, sweat-slicked skin. I stole off into the night and crossed the street, then quietly entered my house.
Alone in my room I realized that my heart was pounding. The clock next to my bed told me it was 1:00am. I had ejaculated into Wolcott’s shrubbery but I was amped up. I couldn’t believe what I’d seen. The hero of my youth had surrendered himself to the cruel pervert’s most fiendish desires. Worse, Bruce had seemed to need the abuse himself, to want it, beg for it. It didn’t make sense.
I went online and looked up Bruce. I searched his mostly inactive Facebook profile. All the recent updates were from older family members tagging him at holidays. He had that perfect smile in every shot, warm, friendly, confident. The same in his Linkedin. I scanned old articles about his triumphs at CHS and State. I even tried different search terms for the hell of it. “Bruce Ryan Mitchell gay, Bruce Ryan Mitchell faggot, Bruce Ryan Mitchell little dick.” Nothing indicated that he was like this. He seemed normal, better than normal. A paragon of manhood.
Finally I went to bed, exhausted. There I dreamt of Bruce on the fifty yard line. We were playing together, which would have been impossible, as he graduated 8 years ahead of me. Just as unlikely in any game where Bruce was QB, we were being routed. 0-21. I knew for a fact he had been undefeated his senior year. We were all sweating our balls off, our stinking uniforms splattered with mud. The stakes of this nighttime game felt enormously high, and there seemed to be thousands of people in the stands.
Apart from Bruce, I recognized my friends and former teammates behind their face masks but we were all our current ages, faces full of stubble with our full, post-collegiate bodies straining our pads. We shared the same mute bewilderment. Why were we there?
A whistle blew as loud as an air raid siren and a short, angry coach stomped onto the field, parting the two teams. My confusion was replaced by terror and dread. His ragged ball cap hid his face and he hollered something incomprehensible, making a beeline towards Bruce.
The smaller man grabbed his facemask and shook it around violently while spewing vitriol, wrenching #9’s neck down and forcing him to hunch over oafishly. The statuesque QB took off his helmet and bowed his head, revealing the same red-faced, shameful expression he had been wearing in the old man’s house.
More fist-shaking and haranguing from the little nightmare coach had Bruce fiddling with the belt on his orange and brown pants. He had been commanded to drop trou. I heard a collective gasp from both teams and the spectators as he opened his pants and let them fall to his feet, revealing his thick, muscled thighs and jockstrap. He got on his hands and knees, the hip pads bulging from the pants at his ankles. The impish little coach stepped forward and clasped the stripe band of his jockstrap.
The massive jumbotron looming over the stands (our high school field of course did not have one) broadcast images of Brue being stripped of his jockstrap, his cup and a rolled-up tube sock tumbling out of the pouch the whole thing was yanked to his knees. The camera zoomed into focus on his crotch, bare-shaven, and his big smooth thighs, with his outrageously small penis dead center. Just a circumcised head, about the size of an acorn, the entire penis no longer than a thumb, and two testicles the size of grapes. The crowd erupted in howling peals of laughter. Even our own teammates were laughing at the sight, traitorously reveling in his humiliation. Only I seemed to feel sympathy for the fallen hero, to feel bad that his small penis was being exposed to an audience of seemingly thousands.
Around a leering circle of players from both teams, the nightmare coach had Bruce down in a six point stance. The QB still had on his jersey and shoulder pads, but was butt naked from the waist down. It made the exposure of his bare white ass all the more astounding. Both my team and our opponents roared with approval when the diminutive coach mounted up behind the bent over jock and penetrated him in one barbaric thrust. Bruce’s body tensed and he cried out in agony. Sports photographers from the local papers had elbowed their way past the ring of observing athletes, many of whom had their hard cocks out, and were crouching down to take zoomed in photos of the sodomized star.
The little coach butt-fucked him, fucked the poor guy up the ass until he was mewling face down in the dirt, and then it seemed as if everyone else on the field was having a go. In the circle of guys, more and more of them had stripped down. There were assistant coaches, medics, refs, they were all crowding in for a shot at #9’s vulnerable pussy. My view of Bruce’s defilement was partially blocked by the expanding ring of wide, hairy bare asses.
As in dreams these things all seemed to happen at once. The blubbering quarterback getting rammed up the rear by an infinite procession of strange men. Being stripped of his uniform and equipment piece by piece, guys passing his jersey or carrying off his cleats like trophies. Men in the stands openly jacking off to the exquisite humiliation taking place on the field, hundreds of shoulders pumping furiously.
An impossible perimeter of jumbotrons displaying various degrading ordeals that seemed to proceed in parallel with Bruce’s butt-fucking. I saw him sucking two thick cocks at once, his tiny dick being jerked off with just a thumb and pinky, his muscled, spread-eagled body being shaved, his handsome face getting slapped around, the big man being forced to squat down on a football and yield to its pointed end.
In brief flashes, going in and out of sleep, I saw his endless brutish suitors, their faces and their sweat-soaked, hirsute bodies as they violated Bruce’s backdoor. Each of them mounted up behind him and had their way. The rival, smirking QB for the opposing team, the fat assed linemen with their ball guts and hairy lower backs, the weedy old ref with his white-haired forearms, gangs of drunken, red-faced men from the stands goading each other to ever-greater cruelty. Even the mascot in his full cartoon viking uniform had a go at the defeated man’s ass, the patch in his crotch where he usually pissed from opened up to reveal an impressive cock.