Can You Feel That 1

Author's note: First story in this category for me. A revision of a story I wrote for a Litster a while back, and it's short. If you do not like reading about gay sex, domination, green snails or Martians masochists, you may not want to read on, because two of those things are in this story. No similarity between characters in this story and real persons are intended, but if you want to imagine yourself as one of them, you're welcome to. All characters are 18 or older.

Are you feeling what I'm feeling? Behind you, is your bull tapping his big, meaty club of a cock against your puckering boi cunt? You know why they do that, right? It's to intimidate us, to make damn sure (as if there were any doubts in OUR heads) that THEY are the alphas, the real men; Men, with a capital M.

They want us to feel their strength, their power; this, their ultimate superiority over us with our little dicklets. They want us to feel that intimidation, that fear, that anxiety as we wait for what we know is coming: the shock, the pain, the stretch, the burn, the feeling of intrusion, invasion, possession. They want us to think about what we're going to feel, the sounds that will come out of our mouths as they strip us of any manly dignity. They want to make sure there is that sense of helplessness, that stark realization that, by choosing to be here, we essentially give up; really, already gave up the opportunity to say "No." But do you know why?

Because fear makes us better fuckpuppets. Fear makes us tense up, makes us tighter. It's ironic, isn't it? The fear of what will most certainly come makes what does come more fearsome, and thus feeds the fear which feeds the tension which means that, even though they've had us before, we will once again be as scared little virgins, crying out as they are bred.

Not that I think it will ever get to be easy; not at first, anyway. These are quintessential bulls; endowed with cocks (not dicks, COCKS) that make women's thighs slick and their lips tremble. They don't have to even show their cocks; men like this just naturally exude a pride, a COCKiness that draws women and little sissies like us to them. We know when an alpha is near; we just naturally slut up when they approach. The very fact that they are with US, when they could be with...just about anybody sends a thrill through us. In our minds, we know that it is only because we ARE easy, we ARE sluts; but we aren't going to overanalyze it, are we?

No, we're not. We're not here to analyze. We're here to GET FUCKED.

So as they slick that lube (thank GOD for that lube!) all up and down their big cocks, and grant us the mercy of pushing some of it inside of us with long, thick fingers, drawing whiny groans of discomfort from our lips; as they prep us for breeding, we squeeze at those digits in futile resistance, but we also welcome them. Their fingers, first one, then two, then three saw in and out of us, and side by side, on our knees with our faces on the bed, our hands cuffed behind our backs, we can but groan and beg them to go slow, to be gently.

Fully aware that our pleas are futile; that they indeed will goad them to be even more demanding of us. And fully aware that we expect no less.

Oh-are you...is yours...Oh, fuck! He's lining it up against my-; shit, so is yours, isn't he? I heard your sudden gasp even as your eyes opened wide. We mirror each other, like a mismatched set of twins. Our mouths open wide simultaneously, but your cry becomes audible just before mine does.

There is no pause; they have no patience for it and they know we will probably be able to adjust to their turgid clubs of meat. Although they have no intention of waiting until we have actually reached that point of acclimation. No, they aren't here for us, for our comfort, and certainly not for our pleasure. Their hands grasp our hips and pull even as they thrust hard, impaling us further and further on their fleshy battering rams.

Again and again, they pull back, retrieving the inches they just gave us save one or two, then plowing forward again, each time stretching tunnels never meant to accept such intrusions. We're howling, crying, begging them to go easy; a perverse exercise in futility, since we know such pleas for mercy only ensure that we will not receive any.

I see the tears on your face, running down off your nose onto the pillow, and then I realize that my own face is wet too. We lock eyes, looking at each other suffering...slowly realizing that we are caught in a parallel plane of suffering and...more.

In a few moments, it dawns on me that our breathing has synchronized. We gasp in as they retreat, then exhale as they bore forward again. You catch on as well, and we realize we are in synch; our bulls are fucking us in rhythm, and thus we are being fucked in rhythm. Somehow, this becomes our focus, without any words being exchanged, and soon we realize that this shared understanding becomes a source of inexplicable...comfort.

These are men, real men, and they are as genetically bred to be dominant as you and I are to be submissive bitches to them. These breeder cocks are hard, thick, and virile, and they have incredible stamina. They are not boys, who would cum within a few strokes, IF they even got their dicks INTO us without losing their loads. We've each had a few of those, back when we were just discovering this other side of ourselves: College boys who would cum in a rattlesnake if they could hold it still, but couldn't hold back their seed. No, these are men, men who know how to control themselves, how to ride long and hard in the saddle of our depths.

There is some undeniable form of masochism that brings bottoms like us to bulls like these. The pain we endure during the penetration, the stretching, the raw heat of having our boi pussies thoroughly reamed; it is as traumatizing to the flesh as it is pleasurable. Yet in the midst of all trauma of being sodomized by these bulls, there is a thrill to the submissive in surrendering our pain, our tears. Their swollen cockheads strum a steady beat, in and out, in and out, rubbing across our p-spot, one of few characteristics we have in common with them as males.

Beneath us, our little dicklets, which have been swaying back and forth violently as they pound us, begin to stiffen, though they remain insignificant in comparison to these man-tools wrecking us. Weak sputters and spits of our cum drool from them, falling useless to the bedcovers beneath us.

"AHHHH!!!YESSS!" My whiny, subby cries of pleasure as I orgasm are of no interest to my bull, but the spasms in my depths are, as my traumatized tunnel seems to convulse around his fleshy club. He may have logged many miles of cock-in-boi-pussy usage, but he is still human. His thrusts became more brutal, harder, faster, and impossibly deeper.

"That's it! Take that, slut! Take my fucking load! Gonna cum in your little bitch ass! FUCCCKKKK!" He roars at me, his fingers digging cruelly deep into my hips, undoubtedly leaving bruises I will feel and show off proudly tomorrow. Finally, with several jerky thrusts, he fires rope after rope of his potent thick seed into my depths.

Through the fog of ecstasy, I see and hear you. Your cries as your own tormentor nears his climax, your moans as his plundering of your poor boi pussy stepped up to a relentless hammering; these are the song they drive from our lips, an ageless tune of surrender and pleasure.

When our plundered bottoms have wrung the last bits of male essence from their magnificent balls, the two of them engage in a high five, a celebration of yet another mutual conquest. As if on cue, they both pull back hard, abruptly vacating our holes, making us both yelp at the sudden loss. Mine smacks me hard on my right ass cheek, your on the left. They retreat to the bathroom to clean up, talking about sports or whatever it is bulls talk about after thoroughly destroying two inconsequential boi bitches.

Deprived, debauched, we both collapse into the king sized hotel bed, me on my belly, you on your side, facing me. We don't have to look to know what we look like "back there." We can feel our inflamed holes, red and rough, trying to wink themselves closed after being distended for so long. Even as they slowly close, their thick white seed oozes out of us, a copious flow of masculinity which does not convey itself into any such traits for us.

Our eyes, wet, red, bloodshot from the strain of enduring all of this, they lock, speaking volumes without words. Knowing, sharing, commiserating...and celebrating our own victory.