Ravenswood

by Emile

2009.  This is a work of fantasy and the writer does not suggest or condone any particular activities, which may not be legal, or safe, or even feasible, in real life.

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Ravenswood was once a noble Second Empire mansion, oozing grandeur from the Atlantes grappling with the weight of the porch to the eagles guarding the apex. 

But by the time I inherited it, the neighbourhood was shitty, the roof sagging and the stonework peeling.  Instead of consigning my meagre caseworker wage to its upkeep, I converted it to a boarding house - well halfway house for the dozens of troubled young guys I'd formerly had to look after.  I converted every spare room to a bedroom, so aside from my own, I had 9 rooms, and with "two beds to a room, no exception", took 18 wards in my care.

I guess I started out okay, but temptation was everywhere.  Maybe I cut food bills a little to fix the roof, or neglected to pass on their clothing allowance to pay the rates, or just didn't replace the linen or fix the lights, anyway my wards became older, meaner - the hopeless cases.  The caseworkers still sent me the cuter, muscular ones (I still had friends in the system), but they were roughnuts, angry and desperate sadistic motherfuckers.  I guess I became more militant to keep them in line, and soon I had a rigid system - four sergeants in the two bedrooms flanking mine kept tyrannical order over the other 'cadets', and my rule was absolute, and they stayed mostly because they had no choice.

Then they sent me Zac.  Zac was different from the others.  Blonde and built, a cute, smart football jock, freshman ivy leaguer before his rich parents dodged the law and left the country in a media storm - without him.  He was left alone and peniless, and somehow all his great friends evaporated as fast as his house, and college tuition.  They picked him up on the street 6 months later, barely 20, finding him repeatedly pack raped by the gang that had been keeping him.  They'd broken him good, not just physically, his arsehole punched open like a flower from repeated brutal fucks, but mentally too.  He flinched whenever someone mentioned the past, and barely spoke above a murmur.  I don't know if it was his vulnerability, or whitebread looks, but I broke all the long held rules, fuelled by lust, moving straight into my bedroom.  I got another boy to fill the vacant bed, and spent a month fucking him stupid, and gave him freedom in return.  Unlike the other boys, he showered in my bathroom with its own hot water, bought nice clothes, mooched about the house instead of earning money outside.  The boys hated him, I could see, but dared not lift a finger against my 'favourite'.

There was something about him that made you like him less over time.  Maybe it was the knowledge his life was all coke-and-tails parties before he'd come here.  Or his cocky swagger, the counterswing of his tight arse and his broad shoulders as he sauntered down the hall. His clean, cut cock, plump and perfect, resting on two goose-egg balls also didn't help.  But even after months, he still flinched when I touched him, craved hugs when he touched me, acted conflicted, needy and withdrawn.  It slowly dawned on me, fucking his arse, that he wasn't confused, or in love, but he took it as some kind of payment, or punishment, for the security I offered.  For all I knew (and now suspected), he wasn't even in to guys.  It irritated me, and I responded in kind - the fucks were rougher, and I made him spend his days fixing the roof.  I told him he could have the attic as his bedroom if he finished it, and for the next few months, it became his project, the pace accelerating as fast as my passion cooled.  In fact, my irritation was almost hatred by the time he finally finished.  He'd been working at it 18 hours a day, with the shoestring budget I set, and the room was cold and spartan, but less chilly than around me.  With it, the last of his privileges - the hot showers - ended, but he took it in his stride, figuring he'd adjust to the pecking order somehow.  I couldn't wait to see him fight for the meagre hot water at 7am with the others, almost willing him to get the worst of it, not realising yet just how far I wanted to see him sink. But I did make one last contribution - and the most important - reminding him of the rule - two to a room - that meant we'd soon be getting a new lodger to share it with him.

I wanted Zac's roommate to be mean.  I said it before I realised it, to my old friend Todd.  He grinned and gave me a name, sending me to one of the toughest juvies in town, really a prison for minors.  The candidate - Charles - broke all the rules.   First, he was 17, not even an adult.  He was much rougher than I was used to, sadistic even - having repeatedly been in solitary for violence.  Todd told me his was the slow kind - he liked to break kids.  Lastly, he was coal black - hard midnight muscles that rippled under the skin.  I didn't go in much for Africans, had avoided them so far, but I decided to drive out and meet him for myself.   Sure enough, when he came into the interview room, he lived up to Todd's description.  He was like a panther, lithe, slick and dark, and he had away of slinking into the room , straddling the chair with his muscular arms crossed over the back that looked hungry.  His clothes - a body hugging black singlet and soft shorts - just made him seem more animalistic, more feral.  Or perhaps it was the intense stare, like you were lunch.

I began explaining to the lounging black teen how the house worked, that he'd have the chance to 'reform'.  He seemed dismissive, rocking back and forth on the chair just enough to strain the metal and loosen the back.  As well as slowly breaking the chair, his arms stretched out and back as he rocked, making his chest thrust up and giving me a glimpse of his hairy armpit, glistening from exertion.  It was all deliberate and manipulative - slowly breaking me by catching me out, as surely as he was slowly breaking the chair. He had trouble written all over him.  I checked myself and called his bluff - I stared him straight in the eyes and in a low voice, inaudible to the guards outside, I told him "Yeah, I'd like to fuck you, there are plenty of guys I've fucked before, and don't think I don't get away with it.  I know you're a predator, worse than me, and that's precisely why I'm in here.  Here's the deal, you wanna act like king shit, and have fun, fuck the consequences.  Well I'll give you that, so long as you don't fuck it up with me.  I promise you, I've even got your victim all lined up...."  And when I saw the glint in his eyes - mischevous and evil - I knew I'd make an exception for him.

I'd brought Zac to meet him, and he shifted about awkwardly in the soundproof visitors room, hands in his pockets, trying to his big frame inconspicuous.  Charles was dressed respectably (for him), in tee and jeans, but there was no hiding the animal, you could still make out the muscles sliding under the shirt as he stuck his arm out to shake our hands, and Zac's eyes were almost glued to his crotch, generously filled out by his package.  I'd bet he fluffed himself just for the occasion.  He played the game well, calling me Sir, saying how much it meant for a "poor bro' like him to get a chance wi' us...", but this time there were guards around, so appearances mattered.  After some smalltalk, I mentioned he'd be bunking with Zac.  He jumped up, grabbing Zac tightly to him, with his arms around Zacs.  It looked brotherly enough, I guess, but his arms dropped as he leaned back, and as he mumbled something about 'being bros', I noticed how he still held their crotches together, his cock unmistakably snaking down his thigh as it pressed into Zacs.  Prolonging the moment, I told them I wanted a photo.  It was priceless, they stood close, shoulder to shoulder -  I could still see that Charles had thrown his arm around Zac, not holding his waist like normal, but holding his arse - his thumb and forefinger extended along his crack, the fingertip grazing his balls through the fabric.  Zac bucked and shifted, but Charles held him firm, grinning toothily.

Charles had to get signed out by the parole board, so after the touching meeting, I said my farewell, gave my endorsement to the guards and we left.  As we drove back to the house, Zac begged me to find someone else.  He didn't fess up to the fondling, but knowing my bias, called him a black thug, a thief.  In mock indignation, I told him off.  "You should know better than to be so possessive - in fact I think you should share your things with him, show him what sharing means."  Sure enough when the muscular young stud arrived at my door, the first thing I told him, in front of all the men, was that not only would he share Zac's bedroom, but he could share everything of his.  "Really, Zac, in the spirit of sharing, you shouldn't deny your new friend anything."  Charles smiled really wide at the word 'anything'.

Ravenswood Part 2

by Emile

2009.  This is a work of fantasy and the writer does not suggest or condone any particular activities, which may not be legal, or safe, or even feasible, in real life.

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Charles fit in right away.  For starters, the sergeants were all young studs like himself, 18 or 19 studs with sadistic steaks, abusive but good at keeping order.  They welcomed him as one of their own, relishing watching him break down Zac, four years his senior.  He didn't disappoint.  That first night, the whole house heard him strip Zac naked, slap him around before brutally fucking him, yelling every stage at the top of his voice.  "Yo bitch, feel the head of my cock, it's swelling for you."  Charles was a loud fucker, and every boy knew what was going on upstairs.  He kept a running commentary, so we all got a piece of the action.

First, one Zac was naked, he made him haul Charles fat black sausage out of his pants using only his mouth, tugging on the zipper with his teeth, and then taking the bloated leaking tool in his mouth.  He described how it was wet and leaky from fuckneed, and how when he frigged it 'like so' it juiced up, and that Zac shouldn't choke, that was just the dickleak, and if he choked on that, how would he deal with a spray of jizz?  Maybe Zac was humilated by the facefuck, or cold from being butt naked, or just scared of Charles' tool, but he got slapped around for giving lousy head, and had to show he was sorry by giving himself five whacks on the balls.  We heard Charles order him to climb onto the desk and spread his legs wide while he rooted around for something Zac could use.  Eventually, he presented Zac with something that made him cry out, and try for the door.  A quick scuffle and Charles manhandled him back onto the desk, and he tried to plea instead.  "Please Charles, it's a chisel!  The steel will bust my balls.  Please I beg you."  Charles appeared to relent, coaxing Zac, massaging his hair and holding him to his chest (I gathered from the muffled thanks Zac gave).  "Yeah baby, you're right, I won't make you bust your balls with the steel." He paused, pushing Zac away.  "So here, turn it around and hold the flat part, and you can beat your balls with the handle, okay?"  From his screams, the pain must've been awful, and for the last two, after long pauses while he worked up the courage, his voice was were hoarse, and his breathing heavy and laboured.  Charles comforted him afterwards, telling him how well he'd done.  "But look" he said, in a false whisper, "you'd just done gone and made me hard again." Zac's breathing became sobs as we heard Charles carry him over onto the bed.  "I's thinking you shu'd do one last thing, just before we get some shut eye.  Is that okay?  One little thing?"  Calming his heaving barrel chest, Zac managed a quiet yes.  "Yeah, when I'm this fat and leaking again I jus' can't sleep until I get off again."  Zac hesitated, and mumbled "you want me to suck it .. again?!"  "Whoa no boy, not wi'd your ragged breath like that, no sirree.  I want you to fuck you'self on it.  Now let me get nice and comfy, and spread my thighs out like this so you can squat right down on top of it..."  "Oh, no, please Charles, I'm not gay ... um.. and it's much bigger than I've ever ... and I don't have any lube up here ... please ..."  Of course, Charles just waited out Zac's resistance, his last pitiful attempt to keep a shred of his masculinity, before slowly beginning to fuck himself on the younger kid's tumescent porker, with only his sculpted athletes legs to slow the burning penetration from splitting his arse apart.

It must've been horrible for Zac to become Charles' boybitch, and get fucked loudly and relentlessly in the attic, knowing we could all hear.  But the humiliation of the ivy league jock being reduced to a nigger kid's fuckdoll was just the start, and the next day was the real surprise.  The guys usually all ran for the showers, eager to get the meagre hot water that came on at 7am.  Not Charles.  He waited a few minutes, until all the barearsed guys had kicked and fought their way into their pecking order, and the first few guys were under the showerheads.  He sauntered in his huge shlong swinging, til he got to Zac near the front of the line, who'd limped down at first light and was cowering, head downcast, trying to avoid the glare of the other guys.  Charles shoved in front of him, squeezing his nuts as he did.  The guys behind him bickered, not too loud as they were already nervous about Charles, and cause they'd heard the fucking noises, but Charles turned around, pushing Zac out of line - "you heard 'em,  can't have another person ahead.  Go to the back."  Cowering from his raised hand, Zac did, and everyone finished and filed down to the kitchen ahead of him for breakfast.  Charles hung back, coming in last to the kitchen like a ray of sunshine, and began serving himself a hearty serve of bacon and eggs.

When Zac came down, eventually, he was dripping wet, covering his dangling package and hovering outside the door.  He called out to Charles, who wouldn't come, eventually having to shout through the door for the room key.  Charles refused.  He begged for a towel at least, and Charles sprang up, with a greasy butter knife.  "Here" he said through the door - "you can scrape off the water like the Greeks did".  I wondered where he'd got that, but Zac understood well enough and began scraping down his flesh in the hall,everyone staring through the doors.  His naked skin was mesmerising, the blond hairs glistening, his fat balls and cock swinging like a statute come alive, still red from the last night's beating.  The fact he couldn't cover up and scrape off the water made him even more embarrassed and delicious.  The other guys were finishing their breakfast when Charles grabbed him round the neck, telling him he was 'done', and slammed him down on a nearby chair.

Zac was humiliated - damp and naked while every other guy was fully dressed. Still, he hunkered down his big body over the gruel and began to eat, Charles' greasy egg and bacon fingers still pressing into his neck.  He took about one mouthful when Charles pushed him into his plate - "Breakfast is over dickditch - can't you see".  He grabbed the plate and threw it in the sink, ahead of the line of guys cleaning up.  Charles bullied him into joining the end of the line, barearsed, jostled and prodded, until he got to the front and washed up his plate.  By now only the three of us were left in the room.  "Charles" I said "in this house all the boys work from now to 6pm, and then work out for 2 hours before dinner.  Zac here doesn't have work at the moment, do you have something he can help you with?" Of course he did.  The caseworker had lined up a job in a car wrecker down the road, but they came back downstairs, it was Zac wearing the overalls they'd sent for Charles, nothing else over his bare chest, and Charles was in a tight tee and jeans - clothes Zac had bought.

Zac wasn't at dinner, and I didn't see them until the next morning.  Charles came down with the others, laughing and joking with the rest of them, wearing more of Zac's nice clothes.  All the guys were talking about Zac, but I only caught a few words, something about him staying up all night in the john.  As the guys finished eating, a whoop went up from near the  door, and I looked up to see Zac standing, arms by his side, stark naked.  No covering up this time, and his body had changed - bare hairless flesh covered in little red blotches.  Charles laughed loudest, telling me loudly how Zac had been damp all day, cause his body hair had trapped all the water, so he'd spent the night plucking all of it out.  Apparently he'd had to bribe one of the sergeants to do his arsehole and perenium - I didn't ask what he'd bribed him with.  I remarked how his tackle looked obscene now, big and bald, and Charles whooped, saying something about donkey boys not covering up their pizzles.  He went out and grabbed Zac by the neck again, not sitting him down but pushing him up on the kitchen bench.  He gestured at the seargents, two grabbing his legs and spreading his thighs wide, the other two behind the bench, pulling his hands back until his torso was at 45 degrees, tits facing the ceiling.  Zac's face was muted terror, even more as Charles began a close examination of his work, with me and the others looking in at his spreadeagled body.  "I told him I'd punish him if I found a single cunthair - ever!" Charles grunted.  His skin was perfectly smooth, and there was a ripple of lust and envy from the boys, leaing in close, as Charles fingered his fat smooth balls and lifted them to reveal his freshly fucked hole.

Zach was obviously humiliated but it kept getting worse.  Charles dropped his sac, leaving the other guys to finish 'checking him out', and a dozen hands roved over his naked flesh.  As the guys poked and prodded, he began getting embarassingly hard.  Suddenly, Charles came back, having found what he was after, and the crowd pulled back.  "Don't want you whacking that donkey dong in front of people, man, it's too freaky" he barked.  He held up rubber bands in one hand and plastic garbage ties in the other.  'What'll it be? - I know, garbage ties for a garbage hose!"  Suddenly the plastic ties took on a sinister bent, the hard plastic teeth, the ratchet effect of pulling it through - which he demonstrated, first pulling Zac's balls hard and low in the sac, and tying them off so sharp the teeth dug into nutflesh, then another jagged crown around the base of his dick, the loose end squashed between his prick and balls, and lastly, and worst of all, he peeled back his foreskin until the plum head was tight and shiny, and looped the third tie around, cinching it tightly so the head turned purple.  The plastic teeth trapped it in place between the hood and the flange of his corona, and he yelped as the skin tried to slide back.  His engorged trussed tackle looked even more indecent now.  I wondered just how much lower Zach could sink.

Ravenswood Part 3

by Emile

2009.  This is a work of fantasy and the writer does not suggest or condone any particular activities, which may not be legal, or safe, or even feasible, in real life.

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Charles' humiliations were exquisite and slow, and I began to look forward to the communal meals, where he often would publicly reveal his next humiliation.  Sometimes he'd go days without anything new - although Zac never really got used to being around twenty rough and rugged guys in his humiliating state - but we'd just get used to seeing him butt naked with his tackle cinched in the garbage bags, when one day he would come down wearing a pink thong and tassles on his nipples, or he would be back in his overalls, invisible discomfort this time from scratching his loose hanging tackle, with something massive shoved up his butthole.  I mean Zac was a big boy, solid, sporty pretty boy good looks, which just made you want to slap him, and so I frequently through a boner when Charles found new ways of making him sink lower into pain and depravity.

The first few months flew by, and Charles became like a piece of the furniture.  Well maybe Zac became furniture and Charles became part of the family, and they probably didn't fly by for Zac, but anyway, you get the idea.  Come to think of it, Zac came to me almost weekly, begging me to end his living hell.  But somehow, I comforted him enough to keep him going, just a little longer, until I had "good reason" to throw him out.  As I put it to Zac, until I actually caught Charles doing something wrong (and hassling a naked guy in the kitchen didn't really count for much), then "my hands are tied."  As I put it, he could only be sent back to juvie if I caught him doing something illegal - which meant that if Zac was telling the truth about it all - rape, physical abuse (and I made it clear at this point that I didn't believe him) then he'd just have to prove it to me - catch him in the act - for me to do anything.  I told him maybe he should leave his door open from now on, or entice Charles to step up the public abuse - if he was serious about the allegations.  And just to hammer home my 'doubt', I reminded him that he was a big muscular guy himself, and there was no way I felt that a strapping lad like him would let a slim black kid push him around unless he wanted it, especially since "you and I both know you were crazy for cock when you asked me to fuck you..." Well of course he hadn't asked me so much as let me, but I knew he was wise enough not to point out the difference.

His big footballers body was leaner now, since I'd asked Charles to help with his training.  He still worked out for 2 hours a day, with the rest of the house in the sweaty gym in the basement - I liked my kids muscular - but from the moment Charles came to the house last year, it was taken to another level.  Charles controlled every inch of his life from the moment he woke to the moment he was allowed to sleep.  He woke up at 6am and went into the showers, buck naked, standing there, arms out and tackle swinging, using his brawn to fend off the other boys until I turned on the hot water at 7.  At about 5 minutes to, Charles would come and take his place, so the first of the meagre hot water coursed over his black torso while Zac had none. Zac had to sit on the basin, legs apart, and pluck out any pubes that had grown overnight.  It was gross, and the boys complained, and more than once he chipped a tooth or bruised an arm when he was shoved off his perch.  It wasn't like he wanted to sit there, legs spread, dick and arse showing, keeping his lean 25 year old body as bald as an eagle, it was freakish, but  that way Charles could go straight from the shower to shaving without having to queue.  Every month or so, when Zac found fewer and fewer of his precious hairs, Charles would stop him plucking them out altogether, and make him sit there, legs wide, frigging the shiny purple head of his cut cock until it burped beads of precum in pent up need.

Zac was never allowed to cum - not in all the months since Charles had arrived, and his dick throbbed heavily, stiff and painful, almost obscenely red and engorged.  He complained of the growing ache, an almost constant pressure needing release.  His balls hung smooth and heavy, and during these 'breaks', he would cry with anguish as he jerked, often bursting in my office when Charles released him, begging me to stop it.  After a few days, when Zac began groaning in agony as he jerked, I would call a stop to it, and Charles would make him stop beating his throbbing tool, spread wide and count the cunthairs that had grown.  The experience, in front of a dozen of so guys, was humiliating, all the more since over time, fewer and fewer hairs grew back.  Last time, in a week, only 10 hairs appeared - one on his abdomen, two on his dickroot, three on his nutsack and four around his ravaged hole.  His chest and pits were always smooth, although he'd been working on them much longer - only the seniors were allowed to keep their chest hair.  Soon he'd be permanently bald.  Once all the other guys had showered, Charles made him scrub up well, even though the water was always cold by then.  He scrubbed his skin clean, alone in the cold bathroom while the rest of the guys finished up and went down for breakfast.  The slops I served weren't gourmet, but I still insisted they were all fully clothed, for hygiene.

Somehow, Charles had decided the rule didn't apply to Zac, and from the first time he came down, dripping and cold, begging Charles for the key to their room, Charles had just laughed - that big booming deep chested laugh that made everyone stare.  After that, when Zac entered naked and I began to voice my objection, Charles casually threw his arm around Zac, dragging the footballer to the centre of the room, hauling him up on the benchtop like a new bride.  Zac struggled, but with his arsecheeks pinned to the marble, thighs stretched apart between Charles', his wrists held firmly behind him in one meaty black hand, it was a losing battle.  Back then, Zac was still huge, almost Charles' match, and only years of abuse made him submit, eventually, to Charles' hand.  I withdrew from the battle at that point, and Zac came to breakfast wearing whatever Charles demanded.

But I digress, since it all started before Charles even made him reserve the shower, or pluck out his pubes.  It's just that the sight of this titan stud being wrestled to submission gave me a hard on so stiff I dripped precum all morning.  What he did to make him leaner had a longer, more delicious effect.  When he'd taken his free hand, and grabbed Zac's bowl, and threw it into the sink, he told him  "You're my bitch now, and I like my bitches slim and obedient.  Now you just lost yourself your food, so you better lose that uppity attitude.   Next time, you sit here nekkid, and maybe you can eat some."  Zac had struggled, ashen, but next day, after a night of muffled voices behind closed doors, we were treated to see Zac not only newly meek, but newly plucked as well - crotch bald and glowing. Of course he confessed Charles' words to me in his first complaint, but I had unfortunately heard nothing.

That next day, he entered shyly, keenly aware of his naked swinging dick and muscular arse in a room of fully clothed men, but still vaulted the bench, spreading his legs obscenely wide, to match Charles' growing smile. In return, Charles got up and walked over, until the fly of his jeans mashed the seam of Zac's dick, and with a grin he flourished two grapes.  Zac's face fell and he begged quietly- "Please Charles.  I'm starving.  I haven't eaten all day - none of the guys will give me anything..."  It was true, Charles had seen to that.  He just grinned all the wider, replying "Like I said, I like my bitches lean.  Now you gonna eat like a girl before prom.  Get used to that feeling, it'll remind you who the dicksman is!" And while Charles privately boasted to me that he got plenty of protein - cockspew down his gullet 3 times a day from Charles' choker - the whitebread preppie went from titan tits to perfect pecs as his body fat dropped away.  His muscles were cut from daily exercise, until his ripped, ultra defined physique made him even more of a freakish boy toy.  He'd beg me at least once a week, claiming it was almost worse than the deprivation that kept his dick hard and leaking.  It was easy to believe, and I'd squeeze his pulsing cock as proof, before gently patting him on the back (which often slid down to a gentle fingering of his taut arse), telling him Charles knew best, at least for now. And I'd send him away, to do his daily errands with Charles.

Charles chose a different uniform for him to wear each day - lycra boxers, or shiny briefs - never anything nearly enough to pass for normal, or even ordinary sluttishness.  They'd hit the streets to sell 'newspapers' (drugs I'm guessing), Zac as Charles' runner with his whole body on display.  More than he could wear inside, but far less than even the tramps on the stoop.  How he wailed when he saw the suits, it was priceless.  But they made enough - from his deliveries and (judging from his limping) other side trades he performed - to buy Charles a brand new stereo in just a day.  If he wasn't such a gambler he might've left my house by now.

Well I won't lie, I was really enjoying watching Zac get ground down by Charles, and somehow the sex,  abuse and constant humiliation just kept me guessing about what would happen next.  Charles was a volatile chemical, but so was Zac - I mean this guy was built, broad and buff, and could put up a hell of a fight if he hadn't had the fight fucked out of him on the streets.  I always wondered what might happen if he ever recovered, or was given the chance.  Something in him still burned like a candle, some whisper of hope, or resilience, it was almost arrogant how he always stood up, that made you want to punch him down harder.

Anyway, one day, that flicker of hope came true.  I received a letter in the mail, from Todd.  Unfortunately, there had been something of a paperwork clusterfuck when they'd first brought Zach in from the streets.  It seemed that the law had been kind to Zach, and despite his parents thieving connivery, his trust fund, all twenty million of it, was deemed to be a legitimate gift - untouchable by their creditors.  This had all happened months after they skipped town (the law being a slow moving beast), and I guess he was too busy being double dicked in some back alley to find out.  So in the ordinary course of events, when they brought the broken boy into welfare, the computer should've picked it up, and he could be sitting pretty in his own Victorian mansion (one that wasn't cold and crabby even), being treated like a king.

The mishap, Todd explained, happened when they typed his name in as Zac, instead of Zach, or Zachary.  All he needed to do was go into their office, or any police station, and register his proper name, and presto, fuckboy would be rich again.  Only he had to do it within 7 years, or he'd be declared dead, and the money would go to internal revenue.  Child welfare, to be precise, since they had carriage of it.  I filed the letter carefully in my locked drawer, knowing Todd would do nothing without my input, now he had officially discharged his duty to notify.  Zach (or Zac) had til he was 26 - another 4 or 5 years at least - to figure it out.  If he didn't, well, I could get my cut of the action like all the other hapless foster homes that needed the cash.  If he did, I just had to make sure he only did it through me. There was plenty of time to think it through, no need to bother him with the truth just yet.  I mean, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right?

Ravenswood Part 4

by Emile

2009.  This is a work of fantasy and the writer does not suggest or condone any particular activities, which may not be legal, or safe, or even feasible, in real life.

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By now, the heat of summer had set in, and in those lazy days, everyone disappeared to take advantage of the endless daylight, or their cool hideouts, or whoever else they could take advantage of.  Even Ravenswood seemed to take the summer off, with the usual repairs to broken shingles and rusted downpipes seeming less urgent in the parched desert air.  I made a mental note to start saving Zach's paychecks for a roofer, I mean I knew the fuckjob could afford it now, so I didn't see any reason why the state should pay his way anymore.  So he had no clothes to speak of, and had to beg, steal or borrow even toothpaste, doing favours even prisoners would flinch at.  Who the fuck cares.  Still, too hot to get really angry, so I succumbed to the sun, and took a towel up to the roof to get some rays.

I thought the house was empty.  That's when I next saw Zach, and he was quite a sight.  Instead of being on his chores, there he was, his body glistening with sweat, spreadeagled on the rough cement, his body straining to reach four flowerpots that had been placed far apart, so he could barely touch them with his fingertips and toes if he kept his muscles rigid.  At first I thought he was naked, but then I saw a series of split rings digging into his cockshaft, linked by a black elastic strap that stretched between his legs, nudging his bloated nuts to one side.  Evidently he couldn't see who had come up as he stiffened tautly  at my footsteps, even though the pose made him sweat a torrent, until I sauntered around to stand between his wide open thighs.

We both got a shock - in my case realising the filthy porn costume he was wearing - the black elastic strap connecting to a wide fuck ring that encircled his arsepucker and kept the sphincter (if you could call the well fucked tunnel that) exposed.  Plugging that worthless excuse for a manpussy, a large writhing electric eel of a dildo, still whirring and twisting in his arse, although it had obviously been plugging him for a while, since his blunt tool had softened back to its usual semi-engorged state, dulled by constant arousal and denial.  His skin was a uniform honey brown, and each muscle stood out as if incised in stone from Charles' forced diet, particularly as Charles had evidently been beefing up his "rack", making his chest swell unnaturally large.  Still, his body was impressively proportioned and ruggedly masculine, from his broad hands to the vein along his football sized bicep to the valley between his ice tray abs - which made his vulnerable pose, denuded cockroot and smooth ballbag seem even more obscene and unnatural.

Seeing me, he quickly retracted his hands from their outstretched position, covering his tackle with his meaty paw, but even his wide palm and thick digits couldn't entirely cover up the donkey dong that jutted up in his holster, or cradle the slippery ballbag which hung through the fingers like ripe cheese in the sun (which was probably not far from the truth).  He started speaking and his words came through oddly slurred, until I caught a glint of steel as he spoke.  I told him to stick his tongue out, ignoring the words, and he reluctantly complied, to reveal no delicate stud, but a bulging 2 gauge captive bead ring punched through the tip of his tongue.  The steel clicked against his teeth as he spoke, and made him lisp, so his speech was laboured and difficult to understand.  but eventually, while he slaked off the sweat slick from his chest and rubbed his aching melons with his free hand, he told me he was forced to stay like this for half an hour - exposed to anyone that came up and the buildings around - because Charles was 'training him' for a new job - at the porn shop where his filthy outfits were sold.

He begged me again to send him away, pointing to his saut hungry body and trussed dork as proof of Charles' wrongdoing.  I snorted.  "Looks to me like you're just embarrassed at the kinky shit you pull to sell yourself.  I'm disgusted..."  He leapt up, a crazed look in his eyes, pivoting around so fast his smooth ballbag swung and slapped against his thigh with an audible whack, revealing his lower back to me.  The sight made me spring a boner, his muscular thighs spread, leaning slightly away, presenting his taut globes and ringed pussyhole to me - but what he was pointing to was the huge black tattoo that sprawled over his lower back in an arc the width of his hips.  It read, in gothic letters, "FUCKHOLE".  I leant forward to get a better look, placing my hands on his arseglobes, which leant him further forward, off balance, and he had to put his hands out on the ground to brace himself.

Now his back was arched up enticingly, so I worked my thumbs towards each other and pressed down on his pink cuntflesh, teasing open his loose hole wide enough for my thumbs to slip in past the rotating dildo.  He gasped, and began to throw a stiff boner, which curved enticingly towards me.  The split rings were connected to each other on the underside of his dork only, so when his hardening shaft expanded, it bent his cock downwards as the rings held their place underneath.  This was unmistakably painful, and he began to groan and sweat again, clearly struggling with my role as protector and abuser. "Looks to me like this little fuck routine of yours is turning you on, boy ..." I observed "... you ain't proved nothing but your own sick dicklust and twisted need to embarrass yourself."  I dug in deeper now, making his legs buckle a little as he tried to shy away from my prying hands.  "Yeah, you're just lucky a wholesome straight boy like Charles is so tolerant..."  He gasped at this.  "Tolerant?!  Charles is a monster, he ugh ... he ... oh fuck..."  I'd been working the eel in and out of his hole for a few seconds at this point, and despite the pain and depravity, his engorged and bloated cock looked ready to pop.  Clearly Charles had him on cum control, 'cause he was leaking and his toes were curling with the effort of controlling the orgasm that was threatening to wash over his body.  "Uh, what's that, Zac" I asked, still working the writhing plunger into him, jamming it against his prostrate.  His cock was so hard and throbbing now that despite the equipment, it was nearly completely rigid.  Pointing directly down now, I could see the pisslips pulsing like a silent alarm, spitting beads of thick precum that stretched into threads, dangling towards the floor.

Meanwhile I noticed Charles had come up onto the roof, silent as a cat, and was making his way towards us, out of Zac's limited vision.  "Oh please, I need to cum so bad" Zac panted, his whole body shaking, "but Charles will kill me if I spit so much as a drop..."  Charles came up just as he looked ready to pop, smacking him on the balls so hard he slipped off my fingers and toppled to the ground.  "Damned straight whitey" Charles barked as Zac lay there, curled in a ball, nursing his aching black-and-blue balls, his whole body convulsing with pain and pent up fucklust.  Between gasps he managed to croak "See, it's not my ..." but Charles silenced him with a quick jab to the solar plexus.   I patted Charles on the back, but said, loud enough for Zac to hear "Okay Charles that's enough, I don't care what little arrangement you and Zac have to get his rocks off, I don't approve of violence in the house." Charles turned to me solicitously.  "I's sorry mister, he just gets so uppity sometimes, it just makes me mad..."  I nodded sagely.  "Alright, Charles, I understand.  Sometimes when you're provoked by a little dickditch like this, it's hard to control yourself.  Just take that as a warning.  You too Zac, keep your filthiness away from me, understand, it's disgusting.  Tell you what, I want to see $10 in the swear jar every time one of you misbehaves.  Zac, I'm holding you personally responsible.  Understand?"  Somewhere between the hoarse sobs came a yes. I smiled inwardly, wondering how much extra pressure that would apply.

With that, I walked towards the staircase to give the two some privacy.  As I got to the door, I heard Charles leaning over Zac's face and whispering "Whoa boy, I gonna punish you good for that one!"  I could only wonder at what punishment was, when this was considered normal.  But then I remembered that this weekend was Charles' 18th birthday, and some wicked notions sprang to mind. I mean, if this was Charles, what would his friends from juvie be like?  He'd been very particular about the day-release form, very particular indeed...