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Rabbit ears and fuzzy white light bathe the ramshackle bedroom in the type of chemical blues found only in dreams and hospitals. Metal stalks pivot from the oak-trim television set, playing lewdity at total volume. Sounds of static lines sever well-acted moans and the raw, wet spanking of skin.
It’s abhorrent.
Beneath oily sweat and shredded flannel, your heart races; it skips and chugs, thick and hard, then pitter-patters into a chaotic rhythm as heavy footfalls rattle the warped floorboard beneath your ass. That surreal glow of the analog set blots black as Thomas' massive frame comes to a halt in front of it, haloed edges bright. His shoulders rise and fall, hunched back as his attention stains the sex gyrating on the screen. Your twist your wrists in leather-banded shackles when the sounds of pleasure rise over his own heavy breathing. The clink of chain and squeal of soft leather disappears beneath the pornographic orchestra, but nothing budges. Your arms remain locked around the base frame of the single bed, pulled tautly; body open…
Tommy's back muscles bulge as he starts to pant, lungs shaking with great, big breaths that seem to make the whole room expand and contract.
"T-Tommy…" you whisper, hoping his name on your lips brings back some of that spooked empathy you'd seen at the dinner table. He doesn't move, just watches, breathing raggedly, sounding… wounded…
"Thomas, please."
He's been called other things in your presence. Some of those names shouted through paper-thin walls while others spat in his face right in front of you—things like retard, big dumb lug, mother fucker, and boy…
You'd never call someone those names, let alone someone with a foot and a half on you. The name Tommy or Thomas has been leaking from your cherry lips off, and on the moment the door was shut and locked on the two of you.
As you whimper in hopeless fear, Thomas looks over, head twisting on a thick, chorded neck. Strings of unwashed, sweat-stuck strands swing, outlined by the television glow. You meet his unreadable orbs with your big wet ones, trying to find something to cling to inside those leather eyelets… but before you can find anything there worth working towards, he turns back to the scratchy, itchy porno with a huff. You've been trying to get his attention, even though sense says to melt into the floor, blend with the sheets… disappear.
Ever since the sheriff pushed that unlabeled tape into the VCR, hit play with a dip-stained smile, and locked the both of you in here, you've been a weeping, frail mess… only getting messier. It's just a run-of-the-mill porno… something black and white and barely visible between the snow with its trailing lines descending the dusty screen, but Tommy hasn't taken his eyes off it.
"... please, Tommy… he's not looking; you can help me now. I-I know you want to," you try again, licking sweet-tears off your upper lip, "Thomas. Please… let me go. I'll be quiet, an' they'll never know it was you. Promise. I promise I-"
'Oh! Fuck me, you're a big boy… fuck…'
Your swollen eyes bleed more tears. Your cheeks swell with heat as Tommy's shoulders rise and fall rapidly. The porn star growls 'big boy' over and over again as the choppy sounds of sex grow in volume. Beneath your busted bralette, beneath flesh, sinew, and bone, beats your floppy heart. It's in your throat, your heartbeat. It's in your cunt too, but acknowledging that won't help your dwindling mental translucence. It's evident what's going to happen—what the sheriff wants, but it can't… you're too small, and he's far too big, and it'd be one thing if you were confident you'd survive this, but you're not. There's no way Thomas knows what he's doing—what he's going to do—and you're… you're not ready for him…
'Yes, baby! Fuck… fuck that big cock inside my lil' pussy…'
Tommy turns around, boots dragging on the floorboards.
As he turns, you're helplessly hypnotized by the sheer breadth of his body—the barrel chest, bulky shoulders as broad as a doorframe, waist filled with dense muscle and healthy fat… a bulge glimpsed as he walks around and toward you on thick thighs.
"No, no, no-no-no-please," you mumble as tears slip freely down your cheeks, "T-Thomas… please, I'm not…"
A vivid image of Thomas shoving your face into the bed, splitting you open with hands pressing you down so hard you can't breathe—can't live through the stuff of cock or his eager, leaning body weight. You see yourself suffocating and bleeding out as his hips mash a chaotic rhythm against your ass…
More tears flow as horrible little cries slip out your throat, "… p-please, Tommy. The sheriff was wrong, and I'm not ready. Please…"
Your vision swims as thin snot drips to your lips. Thomas moves to his knees one at a time, holding himself steady with a large hand on the bed beside your head.
Massive forearms bracket your shoulders against the edge of the mattress, fingers digging in and ripping at the threadbare sheets. The reek of Thomas is sour and musky, but it's unpleasantly pleasant despite the unwashed aroma—a working man's filth that makes your insides squirm in anticipation. Testosterone and something sweet like death has an unwelcome effect on your body, even now… even as his hot breath rushes through his hidden nostrils, heating your neckline. You moan, wincing as he groans in response.
'Yes… yes! Oh, Jesus! Harder!'
Thomas pulls a hand off the bed and grabs the side of your face in a rugged, clumsy grip. His wide thumb nudges at the corner of your mouth as his eyes swing back and forth, unable to focus on one part of your weeping face. A desperate rumble tumbles up his chest, throat and warms your cheeks. It makes your guts twist and turn and writhe and beneath all that… your pussy tingles, either excited for what could—will—happen, or… just preparing for the inevitable.
Tommy's leather nose knocks your cheek, dents the puffy flesh there. He inhales greedily. A hot gushing exhale moves oily curls against your neck, making your whole body tremble. His eyes dart down to your chest, where the dirty, peach-colored bra cuts into soft tissue, spilling over from your earlier struggle. The darker coloring of your nipples peek over the material, hardened buds pressing just below the cuff of thin lace.
‘Ahhhhhnnnn fuuuuuck!’
A scream comes from the television behind him.
Tommy turns at the neck, leather buckles and tendons creaking audibly. His chest heaves, once and twice, then his head whips back to yours, thick, brown tresses smacking your face.
Sudden understanding glints in his gaze. He knows what to do - what the sheriff wants him to do, and you turn away to look at a broken, lint-sticky window as the clink and slide of his belt buckle come undone. Beneath your breast bone, your heart contracts tightly again, making you gasp in another sort of hysteria, wondering if you'll die before he has a chance to 'breed the bitch.'
"… just… please, be gentle with me… please."
Several seconds pass as your hammering heart tumbles against your sternum. Nothing happens.
'Ooohh, your so fucking big, baby!'
Curiosity: the bringer of one's own demise. Yet, you slowly turn your head back, blink away lingering tears and find a massive, drooping pipe of cock staring back at you. Your tongue goes fat in your mouth as Tommy squeezes the girthy length, dragging an equally giant fist from base to tip—it engorges with blood, foreskin forced back from the swelling. The ruddy, slick head pearls precum that hangs there like a summer dewdrop.
Your eyes bulge as he strokes it again, wringing the tip until that dollop spills over, lost in the wrinkled skin beneath his frenulum. It's vulgar and graphic and salivating and wrong…
Renewed tears spill just thinking about that thing —that colossal thing—being inside you.
You struggle, digging your back into the bed frame, trying to get away from it, only for Tommy's hands to start pawing at your chest, squeezing, thumbs plucking, palms holding and pulling and bruising tender skin until you're panting… squirming forward and away and forward again.
'You like that, slut?'
Thomas stuffs his wide face in the crook of your neck; his breath is hot and wet. His tongue licks the dip of your collar bone, pulls back, and darts out again, lapping at the salty sweat along the side of your throat up to your ear where your whole face heats up.
You whimper again, broken and helpless. Thomas... he's too… too big to fight off, and… and…
'Yeah, fuck this dirty slut with that fat cock. Fuck me!'
A hard pinch to your nipple sends a bolt of thick, disgusting bliss down your belly. It comes so suddenly—with such intensity—that you barely put up a challenge when Tommy wrangles your thighs around his knees, pulling your ass into his lap, forcing your spin to curl and neck to bend against the frame. Your chin hits your sternum as his fingers yank at your shorts. Soaked, dirty underwear comes away with the denim, peeling off your sticky lower lips in a feeling as horrible as it is a relief.
He gets everything bunched up to your knees, then grabs your ankles, holds them both in one massive hand, and presses them back, folding you in half.
It's hard to breathe… the pain in your spine is a hot ache as your pussy weeps beneath his sweeping, frenzied gaze.
'Fuck me, baby…'
There's no reason to beg at this point, so you don't, only cry softly as the crescendo of sex from the television behind him swaddles your mix of anguish and suspense. You can't see what's happening, where that pillar of meat and blood is, but you don't have to wait for long…
At the first touch—first prod—of his thick cockhead, you jump, startle, and sob. It's just fear now; it's all there is. You don't wanna die here. You don't wanna die on his cock… and you don't wanna-
"Ah!" You belt out as his thumb peels you open, spreads your lips, and gently guides your wet flesh around his gargantuan cock.
It hurts—it stings—it feels good—it shouldn't. Fuck , it shouldn't feel so good…
You pant like an animal in the hot sun getting cooked alive and squeeze your eyes shut, spitting tears and saliva as Tommy huffs and puffs and bottoms out with a buttery snarl, drawing the back of your legs up against firm, fatted muscles. His head hangs low, strings of brown hair hanging over his muzzled face. The heat of his torso leaks into your limbs, soothing the horrible stretch and pulse twanging your guts into a tumultuous dance. Your arms quiver, outstretched and burning. Sweat pours down your temple and chest, leaking from the strain and intensity of the sheer size of him.
Tommy leans in, the movement shoving his pelvis flush, so he can mouth your shoulder, teeth flat against skin-covered bone. Drool warms down your shoulder as he snorts and wheezes.
It's too hot.
Everything is stifling—boiling. The stretch is a lengthy, tingling line of fire, and his skin is a fucking brand. The ache in your bent spine is hot and throbbing. You're barely conscious—barely lucid when a mallet-sized hand wraps around your waist, holding you in place beneath your ribs as he pulls back. All that plump cock dragging superheated friction through acres of tender, half-shredded walls.
"Fuuuuu'k," you blurt out, quivering against the shackles, needing to hold onto something—someone— anything .
Thomas rears back and thrusts forward without warning, whistling under his breath like some bucking bull. Gushes of air flood down your back and chest, cooling sticky sweat before the warmth brings back more perspiration.
You wince, ignore the comparison of your whimpers and the ones from the porn still echoing behind him. It's not so bad—the pain, that is. It's okay. It's good, too, even if it hurts. You just… you need to hold onto something or else you'll fly away into a white-hot ball of-
"Mmmnnn-no…." It's a sob as Thomas jerks forward, cockhead ripe against your cervix, and shimmies your shorts and panties off, throwing them somewhere in the inky darkness. He drops your ankles with a grunt, letting your legs fall open around his hips. Your bones are lead, hanging uselessly off him as Tommy fists your manacles and the slack of thick chain, tearing them out of the wooden frame with a desperate, muffled snarl. Left manacle gone, followed swiftly by the right.
'I'm so close! Oh—fuck, yes!'
Your free, but not—free to scream as he cradles you to his chest, only to rise on one foot and throw you both down on the mattress, forcing his cock deeper and deeper and fucking deep with a fetid bounce of bedsprings. His weight is suffocating, but you can adhere to him now. Your fingers wedge in the stiff muscles around his back, knees scooping under his ribs, heels in the meat of his waist. You hold on like you'll die if you lose your grip and take a sloppy whack of cock, then another and another.
Tommy mashes his cock back and forth, never pulling away more than a few inches before slamming back in, grinding and humping in a sweltering rut.
The damp, scratchy shirt hanging above his cock rubs at your clit, itching at that wet little nerve all swollen and inflamed from the beating your pussy takes. Even without the added stimulation, you're not sure you'd be able to suffer this without cumming.
'Fuck, you're tight, you fucking bitch. Take it, fucking take it!'
Frantic—besides yourself with awful pleasure—your nose bumps his forehead, the leather wet with sweat from his greasy swinging hair. You inhale brokenly as a wave of something damp and thick builds in your guts.
Mouth open, tongue tasting salty, smokey leather and whatever fumes have bled off him into the porous material, you brace against the wet, juicy hilt of massive fucking cock and…
"Fuuh'k! Fuck! Fuck me… oh, my god… fuck!"
Your orgasm is a rip and tear. It disembowels, flooding your pelvis with blood and clean, slick fluids that squirt and dribble around Thomas' slapping pace, jamming himself even deeper… ever quicker. Your walls contract tightly, desperate to hold him still—desperate to unman him for the wretched ecstasy forcing obscene, foul things out your mouth.
"Gah'immie, gimmie that-yes! Yes!"
You gape upwards at the water-stained ceiling, fingers going numb in his stiffening muscles.
Tommy whimpers like some little boy being beaten to a pulp as your insides struggle to latch on and milk him dry. He lifts his head up and watches with pupil-swollen eyes as you're torn apart from the inside out.
"Cum inside me, please," you beg.
You should be put out of your misery for this, but it's so fucking exquisite.
"Oh, fuuuuck-I-need-it!"
Thomas nods his head furiously, making choked, muffled sounds. He winces, and you can feel it—hear it—as his thrusts turn sloppy, messy—messier—and start to falter.
The bed squeaks. Someone outside the door laughs. Someone else hollers. You arch your back and spread your legs until the muscles in your inner thighs burn. Hot spurts of cum flush so deep you feel it stinging beneath your navel, traveling up your belly to your chest where your heart beats longingly.
Vivid pictures of his seed forced through your cervix into your womb enter your mind as spots float in the darkness surrounding his dimmed silhouette. Fresh sweat breaks over your brow, but the orgasmic leavings mix so beautifully with the hot wash of Thomas' cum that you don't care… not only do you not care… but you want more...
It's embarrassing—humiliating—maybe, but…
"… please," you breathe, ragged and aching, "fuck it all inside… gimmie all of it…"
Tommy gives it to you, and then he gives it to you again.
You're weak-boned and floundering for air, freshly fucked when Thomas flips you over on your belly, pinned with his cock and palms… rutted like a fucking animal over and over again until the television is just a static limbo and you're as full of cum as a bred mare.
"… T-Tommy," you grin, inebriated and hysterical.
Just how they want you; cock-drunk and bloated.
But... there are worse things in life, you suppose…