Prasang opened his mouth and Martin placed the plantain on his tongue. He positioned his other hand on the back of the boy’s head, clutching his longish hair. “Suck it nice and slow, Prasang, just like you’d suck a lolly.”
Prasang did as he was told, moving his head up and down about a quarter of the way over the long, hard fruit.
After a minute or two, he had found a nice rhythm between the two sources of stimuli. His lips sliding up and down over the plantain, his hole sliding over my fingers.
“There, you see now, Prasang? It’s not so very big is it?” Martin said.
“Nah, mah-thur,” he responded.
“Good, now let’s take it up a notch.” Martin pushed the banana further into Prasang’s throat. Prasang opened his mouth wide as it went nearly to the halfway point. He started to clutch and gag. “RRMF…RR-MMF!”
Gripping the stem like a handle, Martin pushed it further in, a centimeter at a time. “Sorry, Prasang, but I’d prefer to get this show on the road. We haven’t got all night, you know?”
Martin, it seemed, was not a patient man.
Prasang’s face turned a deeper shade of crimson as three fourths of the banana went down his throat. Martin moved it in and out a little too quickly for comfort.
The gurgling, gagging noises the boy made grew louder and more strained. “RRRG! UMRPH…UMM-OOF!” He said desperately.
He began to struggle, wiggling his buns and clenching his hole around my fingers. I ran my hand over his leg to try to keep him calm.
“What would you say, Master Martin?” I called up to him. “Were my calculations correct about the three fingers?”
“Close enough, mate, though you may want to try four on him just to be on the safe side.”
I agreed. “Better safe than sorry.”
Four fingers had, of course, been my plan all along. But I wanted to work Prasang up to it. Prepare him psychologically.
I slid my fingers out to position my pinky into the mix, then forced them all up into his hole as one thick digit. I squeezed his left buttock hard to offset the pain.
He gasped and lifted himself up again, flexing his buns as his sphincter spasmed desperately, trying to expel the many intruders.
“ARRMPH,” he grunted around the plantain in his throat, which was only going deeper in. It was clear my four fingers in his hole were not easy either.
Gary, who had stayed in charge of pumping the boy’s cock this whole time, finally spoke up. “Honestly, making such a fuss. Bit of a prima donna, wouldn’t you say?”
He reached over and slapped Prasang’s plump, swollen balls. “AAARCK!” Prasang cried. Water streamed from his eyes.
“Right you are, Master Gary,” I said, sounding more like an Australian myself all the time. “I’ll give him something to take his mind off it.”
With my free hand I reached into my bag. There were six remaining clothespins from a pack of twenty.
Prasang’s egg-sized balls hung down before me, the loose skin at the bottom of his scrotum still wearing the crown of wooden clothespins. I took a new one and used its head to feel for loose skin around his sack. When I found some, I clamped the clothespin on. I repeated this with three more until his ballsack looked like a pincushion. Prasang wept pitifully through the plantain.
“I’m doing this to help you, Prasang,” I explained, rubbing his back again. “More clothespins will balance out the pain.”
I reached up and clamped the last two remaining clothespins to the hairless flesh of his armpits.
“MM-HMF!” He could only blubber and slurp on the huge thing in his throat, his face moist with tears and saliva.
“Well now,” Martin said, “I think we’ve given him about as much of a warmup as we can, wouldn’t you say?”
He dislodged the green giant from the boy’s throat, which actually took a little time. Prasang coughed and hacked when he was free of it, saliva dripped from his chin.
“We’ve got it all nice and warmed up for you, Master Jim,” Martin said, “Now I think it’s time to put it in the other end.”
He handed me the soggy plantain, which I took by the stem. I was caught off guard by its heft and weighed it up and down in my hand as Martin had done.
I held it up to the moon and watched it shimmer, wet with saliva.
I then drizzled up and down the length of it with the bottle of oil the way you would apply ketchup to a hot dog. I used up almost all of it and by the end the plantain was dripping and shining like glass.
It was ready. As ready as it was ever going to be. Whether or not Prasang was was another matter.
I held the tip of it up to his beautiful hole, which was defenseless to ward off this massive beast looming behind it.
Holding it with both hands, I ran the tip up and down the crack of his ass a few times. He put up no resistance, understanding there was really no point, and flinched only once.
“Okay, Prasang, this is the big one. Keep breathing like I told you and push out with your ass. Let me see you push it out. Let me hear you groan.”
Prasang pushed back and groaned like he was having a huge bowel movement. I was amazed to see his anus actually pucker outward into a little rosette. I would have loved to taste it, but now was not the time.
I put the tip of the plantain into the rosette and pushed.
The first four inches were no trouble at all. The oiled-up plantain combined with the intense loosening he’d already received meant there was no virtually resistance whatsoever. Prasang made only a mild “mmf” sound.
But the plantain got thicker. And thicker and thicker.
“You were right Martin,” I said, holding it like a horn, “It really is more like four fingers rather than three. I owe you a beer, mate.”
“Not at all, not at all,” said Martin.
Prasang, meanwhile, was gritting his teeth and sucking in hissing breaths. Veins stood out on his forehead.
The truth was it was more like four and a half fingers and his hole was being stretched to near capacity. I stopped for a moment to wipe my own brow. Looking at the big green horn stuck halfway up his ass, I had a vision of a cargo ship docking in its bay.
“It’s halfway in Prasang and it’s bigger than I thought. Try clenching your hole, can you move it at all?”
“RRRRMMF,” Prasang growled like an actual beast. That was apparently a no. Gary took out a tissue of his own and mopped Prasang’s forehead with it. With the three of us tending him, it was like we were midwives at a birth. It was kind of “reverse” birthing, I guess.
Now I tried to push it in further but actually couldn’t. I had to twist it an inch this way and inch that way, like a locker combination. At last, I found the exact right position and it began moving forward again.
Finally, we made it over the mountain and things got easier. Once we were three quarters in, as if by some miracle, the banana went the rest of the way in on its own. Prasang’s hole swallowed it up all the way up to the stem.
“AA…AAAAHH!” Prasang cried out when it was all the way in. Exhausted and defeated as he was, he suddenly thrust his pelvis high into the air as if struck by lightning. Every muscle in his body went taut like marble and stood out. His buns clenched together so tightly even the little stem disappeared between them.