Daniel looked back and forth between the two cocks in front of him. His dad was rock-hard, and Coach O was almost there. A hand guided him to the coach. He tasted fresh precum and sweaty cock again, licking up along the shaft before taking the head into his mouth.
The whisky helped him—he knew he was on his knees sucking off a middle-aged man, he knew he still had the taste of his own dad's cock on his tongue, but the nauseous warmth soothed the raw, red disgust and shame he felt.
"You know what, I think he likes it," said the coach.
His dad laughed. "Oh, I bet he does. I bet you wish you'd done this ages ago, huh son? I sure do..."
Daniel whined around the cock, trying to take it deeper with every bob in the hope that he wouldn't start thrusting. He couldn't go much deeper. The coach was getting harder by the second, and every twitch of hardness made his jaw stretch uncomfortably.
"I think we're ready," said Coach O, pulling his cock from Daniel's mouth with a pop. "It's time to get you ready, sweetheart."
They grabbed him by his armpits and hauled him to his feet, ignoring his whimpers of protest, then laid him on his back on a wooden bench, his head resting at one end and his legs dangling off the other. The fluorescent lights blinded him, his dad stood over his head, and then descended. Suddenly, a sweaty pair of balls pressed against his nose, muscular thighs clamped down on either side of his head, and all he could see was his dad's hairy ass. The coach grabbed his ankles and passed them to his dad, who pulled them up to his shoulders, stretching his legs and leaving him utterly exposed but for the jock and the athletic cup.
He wriggled to try find the most comfortable position, but the men took it as a sign of resistance and tightened their grips. Every breath of air he could snatch was tainted with sweaty ball musk, leaving him dizzy and scared. He didn't know if he was scared of what they might do to him, or scared that he might disappoint them.
Daniel heard the chut-chut of a soap dispenser before two fingers spread lube up and down the crack of his ass. He squeaked from the shock of the cold gel, heard the dispenser again, and felt Coach O's fingers generously applying it to his hole. The dispenser went a third time. A thick fingertip pressed against his anus. It teased and circled and slipped in by a half inch. He gasped and clenched around it, feeling every ridge and callous as it probed him, but it slid in smoothly inch by inch until he was two knuckles deep. The coach slowly withdrew his finger, applied more lube, and pushed it back in. After working it for a few moments he got to the third knuckle, as deep as it could go.
He whined as he felt a second finger pressing into him.
Two fingers hurt. It wasn't stabbing pain, it wasn't agony, but as the first knuckles slipped inside him it burned, every bump and bone sending tiny spikes of discomfort through his ring. He took shallow breaths through his mouth, tensing up, anticipating further punishment.
"Easy now, girl," the coach crooned, "I'm not pushing you any further until you relax. You've tensed up and it feels like you're trying to squeeze my fingers and pull them in deeper, that's gonna make it uncomfortable. Let yourself relax and try push my fingers out instead of clamping down on them, that way they'll slide in easy. Can you try that for me?"
"Yes, coach..."
He chuckled. "That's a good girl. Don't worry, I've got a lot of lube and we're in no hurry. All you've got to do is open up for me..."
Daniel squirmed.
He inhaled.
He relaxed.
The fingers went in. It wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't painful. The tight knot of hurt at the base of his body unwound, the hurt lessened, it became distributed. With the stretching no longer blotting out everything else, his other aches and sensations came into focus. His shoulder blades digging against the wooden bench, the strain down the back of his legs from having his ankles held high, the thigh pressing and bruising his ear, the athletic cup chafing against his groin, the sweaty, heavy pair of balls resting on his nose, blocking every other breath. The fingers were two knuckles deep, careful, probing, a gentle out-and-in motion when he relaxed, dead still when he tensed.
Thoughts came in layers when they came at all. He was disgusted, he was terrified, he was being betrayed and abused, he was hard as a rock and desperately straining against the athletic cup. The booze was making him sick, the sweat was making him sick, he wanted a break, he should lick and suck and mewl because it pleased them, he should lick and suck and mewl even harder because he craved it. The thought of the two men turning him into a whore was the worst thing he could imagine, but the thought of the two men turning him into a man was simply unimaginable. The more he struggled the tighter they held him, and the more he tightened his hole to keep them out, the more it hurt when they were already inside. Don't squeeze, they'd told him, push. Push him out and he'll slide right in.
Daniel pushed out, and the fingers slid in. Two of them, down to the third knuckle. Coach O was stroking his thigh with his free hand, praising him, petting him. Such a good boy. Such a good girl. A good little whore, opening herself up, letting him in. He started to slowly, gently, ever-so-carefully slide his fingers in and out. Daniel still had to relax, he still had to push, but each stroke was easier than the one before it. The fingers curled upwards, touched something, almost like the back of his cock, not pushing or squeezing, no more pressure than if he'd been rubbing his eye through his eyelid.
"Oh." Daniel felt a sensation. He gasped. The sensation grew. His core quivered. He cooed. He moaned. He was whimpering.
"You're going to milk like a charm, little girl," purred the coach. "Not today, though, right now I'm just getting you ready."
The fingers stopped curling, they resumed their out-and-in motion, slow and short at first, picking up speed and pulling out further. A steady out-in-out-in, first knuckle to last knuckle. The sensation had gone from burning to mild discomfort to something almost pleasurable. A few months ago, depressed and stuck in his room, Daniel had jerked off six times in one day, and the closest feeling he knew was trying without success to jerk off a seventh time: tender, at once totally numb and too sensitive, nice, but not leading anywhere.
"How's he doing, Coach?"
"Getting there, Bob, getting there. Maybe you should give him something to focus on while I get him ready."
"Hear that, Danny? You need something to focus on, so focus on these," said Bob, shifting his weight so that his testicles were over Daniel's lips. "Lick daddy's balls."
Daniel obeyed. The hairs dragged across his tongue and the sweat was so salty as to sting his mouth, but he lapped, suckled and kissed at the heavy pair of balls. He heard his father sigh with pleasure.
He felt the third finger press against his anus and didn't even think to resist it. Three fingers felt different, Coach O used them different. He wasn't trying to fuck them in and out, he was turning them, spreading and closing them, getting Daniel's hole used to being spread out, training him to relax, relax, relax. The pleasure didn't fade but the discomfort returned, and the balls he was spit-shining weren't enough to distract Daniel from the thought that his limits, both physical and mental, were being stretched, pushed, and remade to suit the two men's needs.
"I've got three fingers palm-deep in your asshole, little girl, and I'm curious to see if I can fit my whole damn fist up there."
The thought of that was enough to make Daniel clench up and hurt himself, moaning in protest around a mouthful of nuts.
"Now I know that's kinda scary, so I'll give you an out: if you think I've stretched you out enough, you can prove it by showing your dad just how good your hole feels."
Daniel whined, his brain too squeezed to talk, the three fingers slipping in and out of his ass breaking any thoughts as they formed.
"Is that a 'yes you want dad's dick' or a 'no you want coach's hand,' I can't tell."
Daniel mumbled "yes" through his full mouth and nodded desperately.
Bob laughed. "You want me to pop your cherry, son?"
He whined again, and kept sucking.
"That's my boy."
Daniel was pulled to his feet, wobbling on shaky legs as his dad laid down on the bench. He straddled his hips and collapsed on top of his chest, his face inches away from his father's. He yelped as his dad smacked his ass with both hands, grabbing each cheek and pulling them apart.
"Reach down, grab my cock, and line it up with your hole," Bob growled.
Daniel tried to kneel up straight but Bob pulled him down and pressed kisses all over his neck, two-day stubble scratching soft skin. Another slap to the ass told Daniel to get moving, so he reached back to grope at his father's groin until his fingers were wrapped around his shaft.
He fumbled, sliding it between his cheeks, and then it was there: the plum-sized head of his father's cock nestled against his asshole. It pushed into him, he tensed up, it slipped away. He eased it back into place, it pushed, he pushed, re-learning the lessons that the coach's fingers had just taught him. He felt it open him up. He felt heat pulse through it. It wasn't as thick as three fingers but it somehow felt like it was spreading him even more. He felt the foreskin slipping over the head and gasped as the head penetrated his ring.
It twitched.
"Oh..."
He laid still for a moment. His chest was pressed against his father's, wiry greying chest hair tickling his smooth skin, damp with sweat. Bob was too warm, a human hot water bottle, every place where their skin touched prickling as if Daniel was standing under a too-hot shower. He was still kissing his neck, nipping it too, his hot breath clinging to the side of his face making his skin crawl, his stomach turn, and his cock twitch.
Slowly, carefully, he pushed his ass down on his dad's cock. It slid in an inch, and slid in another inch, and slid in a third inch and stopped, almost but not quite catching on something. He breathed in deep, mewled as his dad nibbled his ear, and it stopped after a fourth inch.
"I can't fit it in any further, it's, it's like—"
Bob rolled his hips back, pulling all but the very tip of his cock out of his son, and rolled them forward, sinking all four inches and another half inch.
Daniel wheezed. "Fuck!"
Bob pinched his nipple, making him squeal. "What have I told you about swearing in front of me?"
"But daa~aad," he whined, trailing off into a moan as Bob rolled his hips again. Three inches out, three-and-a-half back in, out a little, in a little more, each stroke literally rearranging his guts into a warm channel for his dad to fuck. The last inch wouldn't go in and Daniel was in no rush to make it fit; it already felt much deeper than Coach O's fingers had reached.
His dad slapped his ass again. "You gonna make your old man do all the work, or are you gonna ride me?"
