Chapter Text
Till’s known Ivan since they were two and four, respectively, so he’s not surprised to see someone in Anakt High red leaning against his locker after the final bell. Ivan’s always hanging around, hands lingering on Till’s shoulder, like he’s forgotten Till’s personal space isn’t an extension of his own. But the person waiting by his locker isn’t Ivan. It’s some guy on the football team he doesn’t recognize, and he’s got a shitty haircut right out of the 80’s movies Till’s mom likes to watch.
Mullet glances over his shoulder, like he’s checking to make sure nobody he knows sees him talking to Till. He’s not exactly well liked. If the wrong person saw, it’d probably tank Mullet’s social standing. How Ivan’s managed to cling to Till like a fucking leech without permanent damage to his reputation is a mystery for the goddamn ages.
“What,” Till snarls, opening his locker and rummaging through the crumpled assignments and greasy old take-out bags until he finds his geometry textbook.
Mullet doesn’t look at Till when he speaks to him. Plausible deniability if someone does catch him talking to the freak who comes to class every day wearing black nail polish and winged eyeliner. “Captain’s being real weird. Can’t you come cheer him up, or whatever?”
“Nope.” Till’s answer is immediate. Ivan’s not his problem. If he lets his genuine freak personality shine through and scare the normies on the football team, Ivan’s got no one but himself to blame.
“C’mon, dude,” Mullet practically whines. “The homecoming game’s in, like, a week. We need him in top form if we’re going to win this year.” None of this sounds like Till’s problem. He’d love it if no one ever mentioned the homecoming game ever again. It’s all anyone’s been talking about, along with the dance, and Till would rather get hit by a Honda Civic than do something as conformist as go to a school dance. He’s told Ivan this, and the bastard just laughed at him, spouting some shit about how he’d only said that because no one liked him enough to ask him.
Mullet must sense that he’s not getting through to Till, though, because he changes tactics. “If you do it, the whole team will owe you one. Next time the basketball team tries to mess with you, we’ll give ’em hell.”
Now that sounds well worth dealing with a whiny Ivan. Sure, the members of the football team themselves are the worst offenders when it comes to fucking with Till... but the basketball team is a close second.
Till slams his locker shut with entirely too much force. “Deal.”
Mullet grins, and before he can thank Till, or something else equally mortifying, Till stomps off in the direction of the locker room.
* * *
The locker room is an entirely different climate from the rest of Anakt High. It’s like stepping into a rainforest, the air warm and wet and heavy with the scent of boy sweat and feet. Till gags as subtly as possible, which really isn’t subtle at all, because the entire football team is standing around, staring right at him. He doesn’t see Ivan, though. Maybe he’s in the shower? He could be taking a shit, too.
Actually, he doesn’t want to think about that.
Till stalks past the football team, into the sectioned-off bathroom. The stalls and showers are all empty. He whirls around to face the guys, who stand clustered between the rows of tiny red lockers. They’re still staring. “Where the hell is Ivan?”
The one who answers has a birthmark crawling out from the neck of his T-shirt. “He left.”
When Till glares at him in disbelief, Birthmark raises his eyebrows and half-laughs, the sound hardly more than a huff. “He was acting real weird, man.”
Now isn’t that just great. Ivan left, and it’s going to be Till’s fault for not getting here on time and failing to kick Ivan’s ass into gear before the big game. If they lose the homecoming game and it gets around that Till’s responsible, the whole school’s going to hate him even more than they already do.
He almost doesn’t hear Birthmark say, “He left you something, though. In his locker.” He points it out with one huge sneaker. It’s on the bottom row of lockers, which are stacked three high.
Ivan left something for him, for Till, in his football locker. It sounds like the set-up for a shitty prank. If the lockers weren’t three feet high, Till would worry he’s about to be shoved into one. Maybe he’ll end up covered in pig’s blood, like that shitty horror novel. Whatever’s about to happen to him, he just wants to get it over with. It’s a Friday, and he wants to go home.
He stomps into the cluster of jocks, biting his tongue as he gets on his knees to open Ivan’s locker. He doesn’t see anything at first but a pair of gym shorts—he didn’t expect to. But there’s something buried underneath them. He leans into the locker and reaches beneath the shorts, fingers brushing cardstock when one of the jocks wolf whistles. Someone says, “Nice ass, emo boy!”
Till slams his head into the top of the locker hard enough that mushroom clouds bloom behind his closed eyelids. “What the fuck?”
The entire football team laughs, sharp and mocking. Till’s face burns hot and he feels so fucking uncool he could cry. Whatever Anakt High’s student population might think, Till is well aware he’s a loser. He knows he’s not the kind of guy girls fantasize about—not the kind other guys want, either. He’s scrawny, with no ass to speak of, and he hasn’t figured out the secret to taming the riot of whiteheads exploding across his back and face. He’s a loser, and he hates himself enough without these assholes laughing at him.
The same guy says, “Sounds like you heard me alright. Come on, it’s a compliment.” One of them slaps him on the ass, then, and not gently. Till shrieks, feeling the sting through his jeans. The crowd laughs again, even less kind this time.
Till’s eyes feel itchy with unshed tears. “I don’t want your dumb fucking compliments,” he hisses through gritted teeth, just barely clinging to his tough guy facade.
Someone makes a wounded noise. “Don’t be that way, princess!” But Till doesn’t hear because one of the football players is rubbing his clothed groin against Till’s ass, to even more raucous laughter.
Till snarls—it’s all he can do to keep from crying—and fishes around beneath the gym shorts for whatever Ivan left for him. If it even was Ivan, Till’s not so sure anymore. He’s going to grab whatever the fuck it is, and get out of here, even if he has to fight his way through the football team to do it.
Till’s fingers close around a cardstock box. When he brings it close enough to read the label he says again, this time only a whisper, “What the fuck.”
It’s a box of condoms.
So this definitely was all a part of some prank. A thought bubbles up from the darkest part of his subconscious, almost hysterical. The way they’ve got him cornered and humiliated, halfway inside a stupidly short locker—it’s like the set-up for some shitty “stuck in a wall and raped until mindbroken” hentai. And they’re probably not even going to use condoms, because he’s got the one box with him!
But when he attempts to shuffle backward, no one stops him. He stands and turns to face the football team with a scowl on his burning face, clutching the box of condoms to his chest for some stupid reason. Each one is looking at him, some unable to stifle their nasty grins.
“What is it?” Someone shouts—Till can’t see who—like they don’t already know. There’s no way student council president and teacher’s pet Ivan left a box of condoms in his locker specifically for Till to find. Hell, it probably isn’t even Ivan’s locker he just crawled inside.
When Till doesn’t respond, one of the asshole jocks—some idiot who doesn’t know perms went out of style in the 80’s—gets in his space, crowding him backward until Till’s head collides with the wall of lockers. “Don’t be shy.” He plucks the box from Till’s limp fingers and holds it up for everyone to see. “Little slut’s got himself a box of condoms!”
“That’s our captain!” someone cheers, “Always thinking of us!” More laughter.
But Till’s still stuck on what Perm called him. “I’m not a fucking slut,” he says, voice dangerously close to cracking.
Perm snorts. “You’ve got the captain wrapped around your finger and you’ve never given it up to him? Fat chance.”
They think he’s a slut because Ivan’s a clingy freak? That’s not his fault! They’re Ivan’s teammates, they should know that’s just how he is. Till’s hands tremble in clenched fists at his sides. He was already flustered and upset, and now this? He doesn’t think, can’t think. Maybe if he had, he would have realized what a precious piece of ammunition he was handing over to the enemy, willingly.
“No way, asshole! Like I’d give up my virginity to a psycho egomaniac like Ivan!”
For a moment, it’s quiet. Till’s gaze flits from Perm to the rest of the team, to the door. He admitted he’s still a virgin. Surely they’re going to laugh at the unfuckable freak. The loser who’s gone a mottled, splotchy red in the face and is practically crying in the boy’s locker room.
But they don’t.
“You believe that?” One of them asks.
“Not a chance.”
“I think we need to check.”
Panic reaches between Till’s lungs and squeezes like a vise, cold fear dripping down into his stomach. He tries to dart around Perm, but the football player whips an arm out to stop him. It knocks the wind out of Till, stunning him for a moment—all the time Perm needs to crowd him right back up against the lockers.
Till remembers snatches of a P.E. class on self-defense: aim for the eyes, leave marks. He claws at Perm’s face with pathetic chewed-up fingernails. They’re too nubby to break the skin before Perm’s huge linebacker’s hand closes around his wrists and pins them above Till’s head. His free hand slides up under the hem of Till’s T-shirt, angling his wrist to expose Till’s pale stomach as he counts each too-prominent rib with heavy fingers.
“Stop!” Till’s voice is strained, too high to be intimidating. Fear is a whetstone in his hands, making him sharper. He’s never felt stronger, and yet, for all he thrashes and twists and pulls, Perm’s grip on his wrists is ironclad. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying very hard to keep Till in place.
His fingers find one of Till’s nipples, rolling and pulling the little bud until it stiffens. “You can’t fool me,” Perm says, smiling languidly. His eyes travel over Till’s face, lingering on the studs in his nose and bottom lip. “Only skanks desperate for attention turn their faces into pincushions. This’ll be a dream come true for you.”
Even if he’ll never manage to fight Perm off, he can’t stop. Not when the alternative is... is.... He can’t even think it. The idea is as inconceivable as choosing to stop breathing.
Glowering, Till dredges up a wad of saliva and spits. It splatters against Perm’s jaw. “You can’t have me, you piece of shit.”
Till catches the instant the look in his eyes changes from amusement to anger.
Perm’s palm connects with Till’s cheek and his head snaps to the side. Humiliatingly, his vision blurs with tears. He wishes he could say it’s the indignity that hurts the most, but his pride is nothing in this moment, with his cheek hot where Perm slapped him and throbbing in time with his pulse. Till’s always been secretly, shamefully weak.
Perm’s lip curls with disgust. "You want to play rough?” The grip on Till’s wrists tightens, squeezing hard enough to leave marks. “Fine. You asked for it, bitch.”
The pressure on Till’s wrists disappears, Perm’s hands dropping to Till’s shoulders and jerking him forward. Till stumbles into his chest, like the guy is pulling him in for a hug. His brain lurches out of step with his body, unable to catch up and fight back, and then Perm turns with Till and shoves him into the leering knot of football players. He doesn’t see the low bench positioned between the rows of lockers before he runs into it, shins smacking painfully against the wood.
Instantly there are hands on him: manhandling Till with an ease that makes him want to scream. Even as he struggles, they twist his arms behind his back, shoving him down onto his knees. He’s bent over the bench, ass in the air.
Hands grasp at the hem of his T-shirt and pull it up over his head. It tangles around his arms, which are still pinned behind him. No one disentangles him—why bother? There are hands tugging at Till’s belt, too, and even though he can’t tell who the hands belong to, Till kicks. It’s difficult to put any real force behind it when he’s on his knees, but one of the football players puts a quick stop to his rebellion as he sits his full weight on Till’s calves.
The team stares at Till’s pale, skinny chest like he’s a frog to be dissected, mentally cataloging the cuts they’ll need to open him up. There are hands on his breasts, kneading and squeezing the flesh. They try to push the tiny mounds together, without luck. Then they take his stiff nipples between their fingers and pinch.
“Shame you didn’t pierce these. I’d play with you again if you got them done,” says a voice in Till’s ear, his foul breath hot on the back of Till’s neck.
“Fuck you,” he hisses back, to a couple of chuckles.
Off to the side, someone says, “Impatient, are you?”
Stupid. Infuriating. Till bares his teeth when what he really wants to do is explode, shrapnel tearing these rapist assholes into a million bloody pieces. He wants them to die.
The guy fiddling with Till’s belt finally pulls it free and Till’s skinny jeans are tugged down to expose his non-existent ass. The locker room—which had been alive with movement and conversation within the team—goes silent and still.
Then the mob breaks out in collective, hysterical laughter.
“What a fucking loser—”
“What are those?”
Till, he suddenly remembers, is wearing panties. Stupid white cotton panties covered in a pattern of red and pink strawberries. He goes red and white, too—this can’t be happening. His mom had bought them for him, back before Till started wearing only black. He’d let his laundry pile up the past few weeks, though, and when he’d gone to get dressed this morning, the strawberry panties were all he could find that was clean.
There should have been a sign that something so awful was going to happen to him today. It’s not right that there was no warning.
“You act like tough shit, emo boy, but here you are wearing underwear for little girls.” The guy—Birthmark—gets in his face and sneers. “Is that what you are, a little girl?”
Till growls in spite of his mortification. “Go to Hell.”
There’s more laughter, and the telltale shutter sound of someone taking pictures with their phone. Till tries to twist around, but it’s impossible with all the hands on him, holding him down. “Delete that shit, I’m serious!” he yells to even more raucous laughter.
In the pictures where his profile is visible, his eyes shine with tears.
Someone hooks their fingers in the seat of Till’s panties and pulls them aside to reveal his pussy. He doesn’t shave—why bother when he’s practically celibate? A thatch of ash-colored hair grows thick between his legs. He doesn’t mind the way it looks, not like some people do. Though that could be subject to change as one of the football players calls out, “Get a look at that jungle pussy!” and another hoots like a monkey, to the mob’s delight.
Will he like any part of his body, when they’re done? When he looks in the mirror from now on, will he see himself as they see him—just a piece of meat?
Then one says, “I think we need a close-up.”
There are fingers on his pussy, spreading him open none too gently, exposing him to the camera’s unfeeling gaze. They can see his twitching pink insides. They will always have seen this. They’ll have it on fucking video.
“Get that shit away from me,” Till snarls, squirming as much as he can with all these hands on him and someone sitting on his legs—which isn’t much. It’s pathetic, but this is the last sort of resistance available to him. He can’t fight back, but he can sort-of fuck up the shot on their disgusting home video.
It earns him a slap on one of his ass cheeks, hard enough that a handprint will stand out on his flushed skin. Till shrieks with the surprising pain and the humiliation.
“Enough with the foreplay,” the guy filming on his phone says. “I wanna see some action already!”
What little bravado Till has left shrinks back, a fresh wave of terror breaking over him. He’s going to be raped. He’s known it all along, but now it’s actually happening. He twists in the mob’s hold, choking on pleas of, “No, please! You can’t!”
One of the guys—Birthmark—grabs a fistful of Till’s hair and pulls Till into the crotch of his jeans. Birthmark grinds his clothed erection into Till’s face like he’s trying to scour the skin from Till’s cheeks.
“You wanna tell me what I can’t do, hole?” The asshole lets go. Till turns his face away, panting, cheeks throbbing and hot with shame at the nickname. He’s just a hole now, not even a person for them to degrade.
Birthmark pulls his cock out, slapping it against Till’s cheek. He squeezes his eyes shut, because there’s nothing else he can do. Without his sight, the stench of crotch sweat is even stronger—completely overpowering—and Till dry heaves.
A large hand closes around Till’s chin. “Open.”
He can’t. He won’t. “I said open, hole.”
There are hands prying open his jaw, dirty fingers on his tongue, a warning in his ear—“If I feel any teeth, I’ll knock ’em out. And then I’ll fuck your bleeding mouth.”
He can’t say anything, he can’t even nod his head. Birthmark doesn’t actually care. He’ll probably be glad for the excuse to do some real damage, if it comes down to it.
And then Till’s being filled. He’s gasping, choking, tears finally streaking down blotchy cheeks—the phone camera in his face as Birthmark ruts into his mouth, stabbing at the back of his throat until he splutters and gags. Until his gorge rises with an awful lurch and he’s being wrenched off of Birthmark’s cock with a growl of “Fucking disgusting.”
Till swallows it back down because he’s not going to vomit for these rapist assholes, not on camera. This is the last possible thing he’s in control of, and all that comes out of him are strings of bile. Birthmark slaps him anyway, hard, and for a second his ears ring.
The piece of shit takes Till’s hair in his fists and plunges his cock into Till’s slack mouth again. It hammers at the entrance to Till’s throat, and through the haze of his tears he can see that Birthmark is angry—his frustration mounting each time Till gags around him.
“Fucking take it,” he growls, like Till has any choice in the matter. It’s awful, utterly degrading, drool leaking down his chin as Birthmark uses him like a pocket pussy. He’s cheap plastic to be discarded after use, all raccoon eyes and eyeliner tears dripping down to his chin. But at least he doesn’t have to be an active participant.
He doesn’t have to think; all he has to do is take it.
In his peripheral vision, Till can see some of the other football players have pulled out their cocks and are watching as Birthmark fucks his face. He can hear the slick sounds of multiple men stroking themselves, off to the side where he can’t see. He hears it behind him, too.
He’s too inexperienced to know what it means when Birthmark’s hands tighten in his hair, thrusting faster. Warmth bursts over Till’s tongue, cloying and salty, and Till can’t help himself. He gags again, strings of spit and spend slopping all over his lips and chin. With a noise of disgust, Birthmark lets go of Till. The guy filming on his phone catches it all up close as Till slumps forward and coughs cum all over himself and the locker room floor.
“Fucking hell, man,” he scoffs. “Should’ve cum on his face, instead. That shit’s disgusting.”
“Do it yourself, asshole. Or are you hiding behind your phone because you can’t get it up?”
“Fuck you, dude. I can get it up! Hold this—” The guy—the cameraman, Till decides to call him,—thrusts his phone into Birthmark’s hands and fumbles with his zipper. Birthmark laughs hysterically the whole time.
As the two argue, someone else steps up to claim Till’s mouth. Till looks up at him with watery eyes, his chest heaving with every breath. He can’t even get a full minute’s reprieve. The new guy slides his cock between Till’s lips, and gives a few shallow thrusts.
The cameraman is irate, of course, when he notices. He punches the new guy in the arm. “Wait your fucking turn. I was gonna fuck his mouth.”
“Just fuck his pussy, dude,” is the new guy’s reply.
Till’s mouth goes dry. He swallows around the cock in his mouth, managing a garbled protest. He might as well not have said anything at all, for all the attention they pay him—except for the new guy, who groans, “Do that again.”
Till is too focused on the cameraman to think about the cock in his mouth. He watches with dread as one of the football players hands over the box of condoms that’d been in Ivan’s locker. “Don’t know where that pussy’s been,” someone says, and gets a couple of laughs.
He’d rather take all of them in his mouth twice over than have a single one of these assholes so much as touch his pussy... but at least Till won’t have to do a walk of shame to the nearest pharmacy when this is all over.
The comfort is so small, it might as well not even exist.
The cameraman leaves his field of vision, and all too soon there are fingers spreading him wide, holding him open. There’s the sound of someone clearing his throat, and then something wet splatters on his pussy. “It’s not for his benefit,” the cameraman says to someone Till can’t see, his voice cold. “You try fucking him dry.”
Then, there’s a finger on his pussy, pushing the spit inside him. It’s inside him, touching his insides and it feels bad-wrong-disgusting. Till is crying again, snotty-faced, and unable to breathe around the cock in his mouth, and the cameraman hasn’t even put it in yet.
He suckles pathetically on the new guy’s cock, pulling off every few seconds to suck in great juddering breaths. As if by focusing on that, he could possibly forget about the finger inside of him, rubbing him. That part of him feels warmer now, in a way he can’t shut out.
“Does it feel good?” the cameraman asks, voice slimy and smug.
Till pulls off the new guy’s cock and rasps, “Fuck, no! Like you could ever make me feel good!”
“You say that, but I’ve barely gotten started and you’re already dripping.” To illustrate his point, the cameraman plunges two fingers in to the knuckle with an audible wet squelch. Till’s whole body burns with mortification.
“That’s not— it doesn’t mean shit!” he splutters.
He doesn’t get a chance to defend himself any further—the new guy’s hands are back on his cheeks, guiding the head of his cock between Till’s lips once again. When Till doesn’t move, waiting for the new guy to start fucking his face, he squeezes Till’s jaw. “Suck.”
His cock tastes like the first, musky and too big for his mouth. Till can’t get his tongue around it. There’s cum still stuck to the roof of his mouth and drying on his lips and chin. He feels dirty, used. Not worth the effort to clean.
“Look at you,” the new guy says, “drooling like a slut. You must love the taste of cock.”
He sucks lamely on the cock in his mouth, hollowing his cheeks as best he can, but it’s impossible to get any real suction when he’s crying great hiccuping sobs and he can’t breathe through his nose. It goes on like this for a few minutes before the new guy tires of his pathetic performance. He holds Till’s head in place with two hands fisted in his hair and stuffs his cock down his throat.
Till’s eyes well up and his pussy throbs traitorously. The new guy holds him there. He draws back, but not enough for Till to get any air. Then he shoves back inside Till, grinding against that spot that makes his whole throat constrict.
It’s not long before the discomfort is too much to bear. Till scrabbles at the football player’s muscular thighs, begging to be let up. Black spots swim in his vision, his pussy drooling to match his spit-slick chin. How is it possible that he’s so wet when it feels like he’s dying?
He must pass out, because one second he’s choking on the foul cock in his mouth, and the next—he’s slumped over the bench, airways clear, sucking in chest-rattling gulps of air, the men around him shouting.
“Are you trying to get us fucking arrested?”
Something drips onto his back like rain. It takes Till longer than he’s proud of to realize that it’s cum. One of the guys couldn’t wait to put it inside him and came to the sight of him being choked on another man’s cock. Fucking gross, but at least that’s one less guy for Till to take care of.
Speaking of foul, choked-upon cocks, Till feels something warm sloshing around in his full belly. He almost can’t believe the asshole actually came down his throat while he was choking him out. Almost.
“Calm down! He’s fine, isn’t he?” The new guy says. “Aren’t you, hole?”
Till can no longer distinguish the wetness on his face, can’t tell what’s snot or tears or spit or cum. He’s a disgusting mess and he wants this to end so he can go home to an empty apartment and his guitar and play until his fingers bleed to match the humiliating agony more painful than any bruise or split lip. He wants to spit and scream and break every bone in his body.
He says, “I’m fine.”
It wasn’t like they were going to stop if he asked them to. If he said, actually, I feel like shit and want to stop. This ended one way, with all of them satiated and bored of him. And Till knew they weren’t going to let him go without taking everything he had to give. The cameraman’s fingers are still stuffed inside his pussy after all, making him wet where he can’t stand to be.
At least he’s not crying, anymore.
Someone gives his ass a swat that’s almost playful after what he’s endured, and the football team sets about reshuffling positions. This time it’s Perm who claims Till’s mouth. He doesn’t need to so much as tap Till’s cheek before he’s parting his lips, his mouth a soft wet O. Perm slides inside and this time Till relaxes around the intrusion, the size more manageable that the last. He sucks and swallows it down, knowing the sooner he makes Perm cum, the sooner this will all be over.
He settles into a rhythm, swallowing when his nose brushes Perm’s pubes. He’ll hold his position, then pull off for air, lapping clumsily at the head when it’s all that’s left inside his mouth. The difference is marked enough that one of the guys whistles and remarks, “So you can teach an old dog new tricks.”
Thankfully, it doesn’t get all that many laughs.
Perm is deep in his throat when the cameraman removes his dripping fingers from Till’s cunt. One moment he’s stuffed full, then he’s empty. He feels himself twitching around nothing, the muggy air of the locker room touching his insides. Whoever’s filming now—it’s all too much for Till to keep track of—pulls back from capturing the cock halfway down Till’s throat and steps behind him to get a shot of his gaping pussy.
He doesn’t stay empty for long. The cameraman presses something large and fleshy that has to be the head of his cock to Till’s fluttering entrance. He pushes inside, all wet pressure between Till’s legs. Even though Till had sworn he wasn’t going to make a fucking sound, the shock and horror and the sudden cramp—like he’s on his period—overrides his self control. He whimpers, pathetically.
“Oh shit,” someone says. “I guess he really was a virgin. Congrats, dude.”
Some of the football players actually high-five the cameraman, while Till tries to breathe around the cock in his mouth. He’s so full—he wants to scream. Instead, fresh tears burn behind his eyes. With all they’ve done to him already, this loss shouldn’t feel so very significant. But it does, even though he hadn’t been saving himself for marriage, or imagined an intensely romantic first time.
The cameraman grabs Till’s hips and grinds in deeper. The feeling of too big–too much–wrong grows with every pump of the asshole’s hips. Till clenches down, like he could squeeze it out of him or prevent it from going deeper inside, but the cameraman just makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat. “So fucking tight.”
It takes either moments or long minutes for the cameraman to sheathe himself fully in Till. Time has distorted, his whole world narrowed to the cocks moving inside of him. Perm fucks his mouth almost lazily, forcing Till to do the work if he ever wants this to stop. As Till gets him off with his tongue, the cameraman pulls out— but not completely.
He stops when only the head of his cock is left inside, and Till’s pussy clings to it like he doesn’t want to let it go. God, why won’t it let him go?
“Your slutty cunt’s sucking me in.” The cameraman’s voice is smug, self-satisfied. “It wants more.”
Till can’t protest—can’t do anything except whine around the cock in his mouth.
“Don’t cry, hole. I’m giving you what you want,” the cameraman says.
He slams back inside, sinking in to the hilt in a single, awful thrust. His hips crack against Till’s bony ass, coarse hair rubbing rough on Till’s sore entrance. Till’s howl is muffled by his mouthful. He feels like he’s on fire. He wishes he were on fire, if it meant the asshole’s dick would burn with him.
The cameraman thrusts in and out at a savage pace, while Perm does anything but. There’s no discernible rhythm to any of it, leaving Till adrift and unable to get his bearings. They’re not working together to fuck him—they’re chasing down separate peaks, using his body to get off.
Till takes it with as much dignity as he can muster, which isn’t much.
He lets them push and pull his body between them while he tries not to wince. He’s wet, but not wet enough, and the fullness and stretch of having someone inside of him is too much. Till’s never so much as stuck his own fingers inside himself. He’d rather pretend this part of himself doesn’t exist. If he needs to get off, he touches his dick.
The cameraman’s pace quickens, his grip on Till’s thighs stinging. His hips crash into Till’s one last time, and then he stills, finished. He pulls out of Till, rolling the condom off his dick as he stands. At his gesture, the guy filming follows, refocusing the shot on Till’s tear- and makeup-stained face.
“This is a fucking money shot,” he announces to the mob. Then he empties the condom onto Till’s face.
He would have shrieked, if he could have, but Perm’s hand is firm in his hair, preventing him from pulling off the cock still in his mouth. Till shuts his eyes before anything can drip into them, and without his sight the shutter sounds of multiple camera apps capturing his humiliation are almost too much to bear.
Before he can process what’s happening, Perm tugs violently on his hair, pulling Till off his cock. He hears the slick sounds of flesh on flesh, then Perms adds to the mess on his face. Warmth splashes across his cheeks and this time he does shriek, “No! Stop! Wh—!” Only for spurts of cum to land in his open mouth. He’s surrounded by laughter, interspersed with more shutter sounds.
Till doesn’t open his eyes, not even when he hears movement around him. New members of the mob lining up to take their turn with him, he presumes. Then there’s the sound of a foil packet being ripped open, and the press of another cock at his entrance follows all too soon after.
It pushes inside him with relative ease, as if Till were a wild horse that needed an expert hand to break him in. Maybe his body’s producing more slick. Or maybe this cock isn’t as big as the last one. Whatever the reason, there’s less pain this time, though Till tenses at the penetration, trying to prevent it from going deeper inside him.
When he groans, someone takes the opportunity to slip the head of their dick between his lips, overwhelming his remaining senses with cock. It’s all he tastes and smells He hears nothing but the slap of skin on skin. Feels it moving inside him, pressing up into a spongy part of his cunt that makes his insides throb—the first indication that fucking can be anything other than painful—and Till clenches down before his mind catches up, trying to milk the brief flash of pleasure for all it’s worth.
The guy pinches Till’s ass. “You like that, bitch?”
And shame hits him like an eighteen wheeler.
No. No, no, no: what he would have said if his mouth were free. He didn’t like that, because he’s not the kind of pervert who gets off on being hurt and humiliated and raped.
He makes himself go limp as the cock pulls out for another thrust, determined not to feel anything this time. Till’s insides flutter briefly as the jock’s cockhead glances off that spot deep inside of him, but the guy is already pulling out. It’s his own pleasure he’s after—anything Till feels is incidental.
Occasionally there’s an awful, humiliating spark of sensation, when the angle is right, but it never catches. When the jock stills and spills into the condom, what remains of Till’s pride is blessedly intact. He can endure this.
The guy pulls out, choosing not to add what’s in his condom to the mess on Till’s face. Someone else takes his place.
“Hey, sweetheart,” this one says, leaning in close enough that Till feels his wet breath on the back of one ear. “You don’t look like you’re having a lot of fun, yet.”
Till grimaces as best he can with a cock moving in and out of his mouth. The guy must get the picture, because he laughs, and rubs Till’s hip with his thumb. If Till didn’t know any better, he might have found the gesture encouraging or sweet.
Because he does know better, he ignores it and bears it stoically as the jock enters him in a slow, gentle slide. “Where is it?” the jock mutters, adjusting the angle of his hips. Then his cock presses up against that sweet spot, and before Till can control himself, his muscles give a little involuntary spasm.
The jock’s voice is smug. “Found it.”
And then he fucks into that spot with targeted precision, tilting his hips so he hits it with every thrust. Till tries not to react, to stay limp in the jock’s hold, but it’s impossible. He feels his insides flutter, hot and suddenly so much wetter.
“Act like you hate this all you want, sweetheart. Your slutty cunt is honest with me. I can feel you spasming around my cock.”
More tears prickle behind Till’s eyes and his nose threatens to clog again. How could his own body betray him like this? He’d thought that with the loss of his virginity they’d already taken everything he had to lose. He’d been wrong—this loss is just as painful as the rest. If he can’t control his own body, just what does he have left?
Till’s pussy makes embarrassingly loud slick sounds with every thrust, his toes curling at how good the assault on his sweet spot feels. The sparks that’d failed to catch before now burn through tinder, the warmth in Till’s belly spreading throughout his body.
This is wrong. So fucking wrong. And yet when the guy ravaging Till’s mouth pulls out and cums onto his face, Till doesn’t say no or beg them to stop. He moans pathetically and parts his lips for the next man to slide inside him. He’s weak. Weaker than he ever thought, no trace left of his tough punk act.
He’s getting closer to what his body wants—what it needs. It’s like he’s hyper aware of the cock moving inside of him. He feels slick dribble sloppily from his entrance each time the jock pulls out. He feels it building inside him, different from when he plays with his dick, but so very similar at the same time. It’s the same feeling of pressure building, a spring coiling tight inside him—just in a slightly different place.
“Fuck,” the jock says. “You were made for this. Made to be a stupid cock slut.”
Till is so close, the pressure inside of him ready for release. And then, the jock just stops. He pulls all the way out, leaving Till’s pussy gaping, and noisily jerks himself off until he cums all over Till’s back and the crack of his ass.
It’s over, just like that.
There’s a flash of animal frustration—he’d been so close—but it only lasts a heartbeat, his rational self overcome by a powerful swell of relief. He hadn’t came. His dignity is intact. He won’t have to live with the humiliation of orgasming from rape on camera.
Without any further stimulation, his encroaching orgasm burns out, until there’s nothing left but smoldering embers. Some of the tension drains out of him, and despite the cock in his mouth, it’s a little easier to breathe.
It doesn’t last.
Someone else settles between his legs and shoves inside Till. This cock is so much larger than the ones that came before, and Till feels his insides stretching around it. It’s like being fucked with a battering ram, like it’s splitting him open.
Till’s abdomen cramps, and instantly, he’s reminded of the cameraman taking his virginity not so long ago. It’s the same too-tight, too-much feeling, the same fear he’ll break. But as this cock crushes his sweet spot, a singular jolt of pleasure trails up Till’s vertebrae, just beneath the pain.
This fucking is brutal, hard and fast. When the jock suddenly adjusts his angle—stabbing even deeper than before, battering something deep inside of Till that has to be his cervix—it’s all Till can do to temper his scream into a weak moan. It dribbles out of him along with the drool that collects on his chin, and the jock laughs at him.
It hurts—worse than he thought possible—but once again, Till feels himself growing wet and hot between the legs. The pain doesn’t blot out the pleasure, like he would have guessed. The flame he’d thought extinguished comes roaring back to life, so overwhelmingly intense that it and the pain eclipse all thought.
He needs this to stop—and not just a brief break while the football team shuffles positions. But it’s not going to end anytime soon, so all Till can do is brace himself for his coming orgasm, and try to suffer through it as quietly as he can.
He’s ready for it, his dick throbbing impatiently. A single touch to the underside of the aching nub would put him over the edge, but even if Till’s hands were free, he wouldn’t debase himself like that. These assholes already have enough blackmail material on him without video of him touching himself.
He needs just a little more stimulation, when the cock inside him twitches and stills in a way Till’s become all too familiar with.
The jock pulls out with a lewd slurp. It sounds like Till’s pussy is trying to suck it back inside, like his body knows what it needs, and is desperate. Again, the oncoming orgasm fades, and Till’s skin prickles with an itchy, impatient feeling. Beneath that, he feels... almost disappointed.
No. That has to be wrong. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. It’s good that he hasn’t cum. If he does, they’ll have video proof that he’s a disgusting pervert. They’ll be able to claim he liked being raped. Sure, it’s aggravating being brought so close to the edge and not getting the relief of release, but he’s won. Hasn’t he?
Someone new takes their place between his legs. When the guy fucking his throat finishes, he’s given another cock to suck. It seems like there’s no end to them, all selfishly chasing their pleasure, using him like they would a cheap cocksleeve. It’s hard to judge the time; there are no windows in the locker room. Till might have measured the time in how many cocks he’s sucked and let fuck him, but he’s long since lost count.
There’s a point at which the degradation stops mattering, that his actions become mechanical. Whether there’s one more cock or one hundred, he’ll take them all. He stops thinking, stops caring. Pride and dignity belong to people, and Till doesn’t feel like a person anymore. All he can think about is cumming, and the sweet relief that will follow.
The guy fucking him pulls out abruptly, and Till can’t hold back his wail of despair. He hears multiple people laugh, but he doesn’t open his eyes. It feels like his whole body is on fire. He hates everything—these men, their cocks.
But he still wants more.
“He’s crying,” says a voice somewhere in front of him. “Slutty fuckhole isn’t satisfied yet. Anyone want to go another round?”
“Already did.”
Someone else says, “He’s all loose now.”
The guy in front of him tuts. “Well, you heard them. But...” His voice drops to a sultry whisper. “I’ll give you what you need, if you beg.”
Till’s voice comes out cracked and thin, like he hasn’t spoken in a long time. “Wh... what?”
“Do you want to cum?” the guy asks him slowly, like he’s talking to a child. Till nods vigorously. “Then beg.”
“Puh... please,” he says.
“Beg me properly. Tell me what you want.”
“Hhh— please,” Till says, the words coming out harsh around a lump in his throat. He’s crying now, tears leaking out from shut eyelids crusted with dried cum.
He hears movement, the sound of the heavy locker room door opening. Is the man leaving him, because he couldn’t beg properly? No, no, no. Please, no! Till chokes on a sob, cries out, “Please let me cum! I’m begging you!”
“What...? Till?” The voice doesn’t belong to the man who said he’d give him what he needs. It’s a new voice that answers him, one so horribly familiar it makes his heart go cold.
“Ivan,” Till whispers.
At the same time that one of the football players says, “Captain!”