As he paced around his prey, the old man took his rampant hard-on from out of his stained camo pants, stroking himself while watching the young man straining below. Wolcott eyed the boy like a predator, lubing up his cock and yelling at him like a drill sergeant.
I was amazed at Bruce’s endurance and toughness. He truly was an elite athlete, able to perform such a difficult exercise after having his testicles tortured for half an hour. Eventually though, he slowed, and the old prick seemed to grow more and more verbally abusive, jeering at him to keep at it. The squat little man stepped between his planked legs and kicked him right in his already brutalized nuts with a vicious punt that made the jock finally collapse belly down on the floor.
Wolcott pulled his fatigues to his ankles and whipped the jacket off the fallen man, finally stripping him entirely. The little bastard then dropped down atop Bruce, positioning his hips over the larger man’s vulnerable ass. He wiggled around and adjusted himself, then pierced between those big white upturned cheeks with his slicked mallet of a cock.
Bruce’s body tensed as he was roughly penetrated by the short old man. I heard a stifled yelp and noticed how Bruce’s limbs shook. While I knew my former hero was no stranger to this cruel man’s cock, it was clear that such a forceful entry still tortured him. I could see Wolcott’s wide hairy ass cheeks flex and pump as he bottomed out and then began the frantic, humping strokes, sodomizing the humbled giant beneath him.
Remarkably, the valiant athlete resumed the pushups, slowly lifting both of them up and down from the floor while getting mercilessly buggered by his tormenetor’s over-sized prick. What could it feel like, having such a large, rigid object rammed up your guts? I shuddered thinking about it.
Wolcott buried his face into Bruce’s lat muscle, and bit. His victim winced but kept lifting both himself and his violator up and down at a steady pace. Wolcott put all his weight down on the bigger man, pounding away wildly, humping him in a frenzy. It looked like a great dane getting mounted by a chihuahua.
I in turn humped my own palm. I was lost in my ridiculous self-rut. It was like I could see myself from above, a furious masturbator, on my knees, ass bared, thrusting into my hand while also watching the scene inside. I lifted my shirt off of me and slung the collar back over my shoulders, so that I could fondle my bare chest with my left hand while I wanked. I tweaked and squeezed my nipples like a pervert while pumping my hard-on. Inside of the house, Wolcott slammed his hips into Bruce, who had finally collapsed face first into the floor, completely defeated.
The buggery was short-lived as I could tell the old man was barrelling towards an orgasm. I squeezed my ball bag with my left hand while jacking myself off, panting like a dog. We ended up cumming simultaneously, Wolcott in his stooge’s guts and me onto the old man’s shrubs. I left my spot by the window while the old bastard was still slamming into his bottom’s hips, determined to completely drain his seed into him. My spooge, splattered against the rosebush, was glinting in the moonlight as I slinked back home.
The next night I found them back in the living room. They were both on all fours, facing Wolcott’s TV. I recognized the footage. He was showing the former champ his own highlight video while brutally sodomizing him. Whenever Bruce’s head would drop he’d grab the back of his hair and yank him back up, forcing him to keep his eyes on his past triumphs. As he humped him the old man was hissing something into his ear.
I watched, fascinated, at his staccato ass-pounding technique. During lulls in action or cuts the old man’s butt-fucking would slow, building up with the momentum of the play on the screen, then coming to a frenzy with each touchdown or pass completion. Bruce’s body would be rocked and buffeted on the floor with each pounding thrust.
As I jerked myself off in his bushes, I realized that Wolcott wanted to imprint himself and this wretched butt-fucking upon the former quarterback’s athletic career. He wanted those proud memories to be corrupted, so that he would come to associate his successes on the field with being all fours and thoroughly buggered by the little old beast. The cruelty of it made me feel woozy and my wanking dick and hand became slick with precum.
Over the next few nights I spied more unimaginable sights. The old man backing his wide, thickly furred ass into Bruce’s handsome face. Smothering the fallen jock with those fat, spread open cheeks and turning his face into a throne. It turned my stomach, watching #9 making out with the old man’s hairy asshole, it also turned my cock granite.
Watersports, the champ on his knees willingly drinking his tormentor’s piss and licking his plum-sized head clean, then kissing it in thanks. Stranger stuff too, things I had only seen on the darker corners of the web and shied away from. The old man slowly funneling a thin metal rod into his dickhole while Bruce sweated and squirmed. Clamps on his nipples and tiny pecker connected to cables leading to what looked like a small car battery, where Wolcott worked buttons that made him twist and shout. It got more and more depraved each night.
After that, I had seen enough. I stopped going to the old man’s window and tried to forget what I saw but of course I couldn’t. Instead a strange plan formed in my head. In the heat and haze of the summer it solidified before me.