Family Pet

Part four.

The endless day felt much longer than usual. But then again, that was nothing surprising, as every weekday or school day was like that. Weekends, holidays, and non-school or Uni days were different; he’d spend most, if not all, of the time upstairs either in his basket, his lounge corner or worse, being abused by one of his ‘owners’.

He rarely got a day off and even more rarely, a night off. There had been a few occasions when he’d been locked in his basement cage for one, and even by his own reckoning, two nights or days. No one told him anything, of course. He’d figured that out by them adding an extra water bowl and doubling or tripling whatever slop was in his food bowl. A couple of times, they’d added a second bowl with what looked suspiciously like dry dog or cat food mixed with muesli, cornflakes, and bits of stale dry bread and toast remnants. He’d tried eating around those small, suspicious brown bits, but in the end, sheer hunger and frustration had made him gobble the lot.

Miss Susan did not seem to be in the best of moods that morning, but the girl was not unique in that regard. There were four of them in this wicked house, and it was inevitable that one of them would have a bad day now and then. Unfortunately, for him, it happened far too often! He was an easy target for someone to vent their foul mood on, and he suffered ‘extra' punishment at least once a week as a result. The fact that such painful treatment was undeserved because he had done nothing wrong was, of course, irrelevant. Why should that matter when he had done nothing to deserve his lowly position, his mad, unjust, and perverse imprisonment in the crazy house in the first place?

Nor was he the first to suffer at their hands, or so he’d gathered from the occasional snippet of conversation between them. They referred to him as pet; he had no real name as such. Not that he suspected he’d like it if they did give him one. His predecessor had been someone called Fuckslut, possibly a female, but then you never knew with these bastards. He’d been called a fuckslut more than once by his Master, nor did he have an anus or even an arsehole. No, he had a ‘pussy’ because he was a bitch pet! Not that it belonged to him any longer, for every part of him now belonged to his owners, his betters, his absolute Masters and Mistresses—young and old.

They didn’t leave him alone very often, and it had been quite some time since he last had a proper break from all four of them. The closest he had come was the ‘Les Misérables’ weekend a few weeks earlier. During that period, his Master mentioned 'Fuckslut' once while he was being thoroughly fucked, of course—what else! The female contingent of the house had gone to an evening performance of Les Misérables and taken a somewhat reluctant Master Roger with them to seek a bit of culture for a change. Considering the hopeless parking situation in London’s West End and not wanting to rely on public transport late at night, they had arranged accommodation near the theatre for the night.

His Master had declined their invitation to join them, claiming he wanted a quiet night in front of the telly, getting his culture that way, thank you. Unfortunately for Pet, there hadn’t been much worth watching on the TV, so after eating no fewer than three cheap microwave meals of Burger and chips, the fat bastard decided to indulge in the only form of exercise he ever practised.

Pet had hoped for a rare night off; it was Miss Susan’s turn to have him, that phrase being all too apt given his miserable circumstances. Instead, his Master picked the solitary remaining soggy, sad chip from its plastic container and casually tossed it on the floor, followed by the obligatory finger snap. Pet waddled over as quickly as his stubby limbs permitted and snatched up his ‘treat’ with his mouth. It was not the first treat of the evening. His toothless mouth had sucked up half a dozen such chips as well as a couple of semi-chewed beef burger chunks his Master had spat on the carpet, safe in the knowledge that his wife wasn’t around to witness his display of oafish behaviour! There was nothing wrong with the meat bar being somewhat bland and tasteless, but it amused his Master and served to demonstrate just how obedient his human pet could be.

“Fuck all on the box tonight, boy. Always the same these days. Reality crap and bloody soap operas!” he said, flicking the TV off with the remote as he stood up. "And I can’t be arsed to start channel surfing. Since it’s just you and me, boy, let’s have some bedroom fun. What say you? It’s been a while since Daddy popped a few blue viggy pills so you could enjoy a really good, rock-hard man fuck, or maybe two, eh! You’ll enjoy that boy, won’t ya?”

Pet groaned inwardly. No, he wouldn’t enjoy it! Especially not with the bloody Viagra pills or whatever they were. Not good for the bastard's health, or so his Mistress said. She kept them in her bedside cabinet and only handed them out when she was in the mood for some vigorous ‘bedroom fun’ with her husband. The wretched things were highly potent, though, and not only kept the fat bastard's cock rock hard but also seemed to make it swell even more than usual, which might be good news for his Mistress but not so much for him.

The randy bastard's cock was big enough as it was without any extra stimulus, plus the damn things turned his single-shot weapon into a repeater! Usually, the unfit bastard wasn’t much of a stayer either and could be relied upon to be in and out faster than any of them once he’d shed his load, and it was a big load. Mostly, though, he was a ‘one-shot’ rear-end shooter, being too overweight and unfit for second helpings, not to mention lazy. His spirit might be willing, but it invariably surrendered to the limits of his body, unlike his son, whose youth offset all those happy meals from McDonald's.

The fat guy's balls could produce the goods, though, and then a refill for seconds. Once the bastard had recovered from a brief but energetic bout of sodomy, pet would have to use his mouth to coax a second climax from the guy's semi-ridged cock and swallow the accompanying foul burst of cum. God, how he hated that humiliation both in front and behind. At least the women’s wretched phalluses were free from that yucky creamy mess, but was licking his own shit off the damn things afterwards any better?

Were those blue pills even Viagra? Pet sometimes wondered, for they didn’t just refresh and energise those parts you’d expect from such stuff, but seemed to invigorate his entire metabolism, at least for a short while. A short while that to him invariably felt like an eternity as his Master vigorously raped him at least twice and occasionally three times. God knows what long-term damage they might have been causing to the bastard’s health, which was probably why his use of them was strictly rationed.

He kept brooding. It was debatable which was worse, which was crazy when you considered it. Simple common sense told him that lying quietly in his cage was infinitely better than being abused, beaten, or even fucked over a chair arm upstairs. But it was so... so bloody dull, so mind-numbingly monotonous with nothing to do but try and sleep, which never came easily. Mostly, he lay there in the dirt or his meagre bedding, his mind a long way from the terrible basement, thinking of a life that was becoming harder and harder to recall. A life when he was free, when he walked upright on two legs... God, how long ago had that been? A life when he made choices, real choices, not whether to squat in his bloody litter tray now or leave that ‘entertaining interlude’ till later.

Back when he could decide for himself what to have for his dinner, breakfast, or any other meal, he shook his head and glared at his water bowl—hardly a substitute for popping into the pub for a pint and a sandwich or a meat pie. His stomach rumbled then, and he realised he was hungry. With his Mistress leaving early and Miss Susan’s morning routine being disrupted by her exam cancellation, he hadn’t been fed that morning, nor had he taken his usual strength-sapping pill. Not that a single day would make much difference. He was unlikely to regain Samson-like strength from one careless omission, especially since it had happened before. He did miss his breakfast bowl—or rather the meal, not necessarily its contents! Oh, to be like his whatshisname… Poppy, no, Popeye the sailor man, and gain gargantuan strength simply by cracking open a can!

Not that he had the means or ability to open anything, least of all a can of spinach. Hell, fighting his way out of the proverbial ‘wet paper bag’ might prove tricky given his current circumstances. He went back to brooding over the subject of ‘Pussy Lube!’ as they called it. He couldn’t seem to rid his mind of the term, and even worse, all that it implied.

His first encounter with the jar of Vaseline and its innocent contents came after that final enema, when Miss Susan finally allowed him to evacuate the liquid from his painfully stretched stomach and intestines, whatever went down the drain over in yonder corner area. God, even though he’d endured the same horror many times, the sheer bliss of that initial release remained fixed in his mind. Yes, he’d suffered worse, as the cruel bastards often used such ‘cleansing’ as further humiliation and punishment. Once and only once, his Mistress had left him strapped over that damned bench, full and stretched to an agonising degree for an entire evening and night. God, he’d been near dead in the morning, and it was a wonder that something internally hadn’t ruptured. Part of him wished it had, something vital, and perhaps then his suffering would have finally ended!

It hadn’t, though, so he remained here — not truly locked up but still confined in his damned cage, helpless to do anything without fingers and hands. A bored, helpless captive until later, when Miss Susan returned to feed and clean him out, when life would become far less dull — and what would come next when he slipped upstairs behind her to the girls' bedroom. He was no fool about what might happen if she still felt energetic! Hell, considering how she used those penetrating toys and the ever-increasing size, perhaps the bitch would rupture him herself one evening if she was feeling so dynamic with one of those monsters strapped to her crotch!

Fucking pussy lube or these days, the lack of it! Now he came to think about it, he could barely remember the last time he’d felt the greasy gunk smeared into his anus. They no longer needed it; his rectal passage was so used to being violated, likewise, his sphincter surrendered almost immediately to pressure, now unlike those early months. He shuddered, the horror of being so intimately penetrated by a blue rubber-clad finger smearing Vaseline around, first to take the enema nozzle and then later when she’d plugged him for the first time and finally….

That shock of that intimate penetration had even masked the fact that it was a young girl who was doing it to him. Hell, it was even conceivable that under other far more congenial circumstances, he might have accepted such as an erotic prelude to intimacy, especially with such a gorgeous-looking nubile teen specimen of eye candy! Then again, maybe not, he’d never been one to fantasise over bizarre erotic sex situations when he masturbated as he frequently had done being single. Doubtless, had he been married, he’d have been something of a prude, Mister missionary position every time! Indeed, the idea of ever having a finger sheathed in a blue rubber washing-up glove, smearing greasy stuff up his bum, wouldn’t have figured in his wildest fantasy!

Likewise, the dreadful plug that had followed. The wicked brat even showed it to him, waving it in front of his face to increase his humiliation. He had actually been confused for a moment or two, never having seen a butt plug before and not knowing what it was or its purpose in his naive simplicity. It wasn't until she dipped a forefinger into that large jar of Vaseline and started smearing it onto the terrible thing that the penny finally dropped, and he began to struggle again in his bonds. Three damned belly-bursting enemies and now this final indignity! Christ, as if the whippings and pain weren’t enough, what more did these crazy lunatics want from him!

A hell of a lot more, as it turned out. If he felt his masculinity challenged, battered, and literally beaten out of him by the two bitches, what was to come would utterly destroy it! Another bitter memory of intense humiliation, he thought, screwing his eyes into narrow slits and peering up at the nearest light. Why couldn’t they turn them off just once for variety? Why are they always on? Well, yes, he knew the answer to that—those bloody wall-mounted spies could watch him, keep an eye on him in his misery. The cameras that gazed down at him, cyclops-eyed. They could all do that on their mobile phones, he knew. He’d heard them talking about it—some bloody pet app so loving owners could keep an eye on their furry friends when they were at work.

Fuck them! he muttered, almost smiling at the irony of that thought. Yeah, that was wishful thinking. The only thing that was going to get fucked in the near future was that orifice between his buttock cheeks, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to prevent it. Well, he was damn sure of one thing: he doubted those evil bastards would be flashing pictures around to their workmates, friends, and colleagues of their ‘non-furry’ pet. No way!

For about the tenth millionth time, his mind tried to comprehend his situation and the mental attitude of his owners, his captors and abusers. What kind of people were they? He had heard of people, sometimes sadly youngsters, being abducted, imprisoned, and abused by lunatics, but had there ever been anything quite like this? They were so... so natural about everything, so normal in all respects apart from one, and that was a pretty big exception. Him!

Then again, how did you spot a pervert in the crowd? They weren’t likely to advertise themselves, were they? It sometimes takes years to catch a serial killer, even with a body or bodies, crime scenes, and maybe the occasional witness. Nor do they always find out who they are, even after decades. You read about those ‘cold cases’ that are occasionally cracked, usually through DNA evidence. Not all, though — some, like ‘Jack the Ripper’, remain unsolved. What hope did he have, if such murderers moved freely and unnoticed within society, who’d suspect and point a finger at the evil bastards living in this house? They were so…so fucking normal in all other aspects!

He blinked upwards as for the tenth million and first time, he gave up trying to make sense of his situation. He was in it, and there was no sign of the US cavalry arriving any time soon to rescue him. Hell, never mind them, he’d have settled for one elderly, overweight member of the local constabulary along with the theatrical ‘Ho ho ho, what all this then?’ There's little chance of that either, and considering the government's constant ‘trimming’ of police manpower, there was probably more chance of the former riding to his rescue, bugles blowing, pennants flying, and… Did they really have to be so damn bright?

Like studio lights or something similar, perhaps he was unknowingly the star of some twisted porn series on the Dark Web! He glared up at one of the cameras. The adventures of… of… of Bum Bum, the human dog, or whatever! Then again, probably not; one of them would have mentioned it by now, wouldn’t they? And besides, as far as he knew, only his basement prison had cameras. He scowled at the nearest light, blazing away with the intensity of a small sun, before snuggling further into his greasy blankets and turning his gaze back to that bench he’d spent so much time on.

Fucking thing; he hated it, and that expletive was all too relevant. That had been another new experience that no matter how hard he tried, he could never forget and knew he never would. How could anyone forget something like that and, worse, far worse, the dawning realisation that it was going to happen again and again and again, ad infinitum…

He’d read about rape trials in his daily newspaper while travelling on the tube to work, as the supermarket was conveniently near an underground station. Not just for rape trials, of course, but they occasionally appeared in his newspaper, which wasn’t one of the more sensational tabloid papers. His primary interest was in the football scores and other news on the sports pages. He was also mildly interested in world news, curious about UK politics, and keen to see how his various investments were performing. He didn’t hold many shares, but they were spread across different accounts, and he liked to keep a regular eye on them, pretending to be a man of means and substance.

Reflecting on it, he had always leaned towards the ‘probably asked for it’ side, having known several overly flirtatious girls and women. In fact, he’d had, or rather overseen one such woman, he corrected himself, in the department at the supermarket he managed. Maggie, very much over-dressed mutton trying vainly to be lamb, three times married and thrice divorced, all because of her own adulterous affairs. The woman even boasted about it, claiming that anything with a frontal bulge in its trousers was fair game since she was insatiable and couldn’t do without being ‘pleasured’ regularly!

Maggie had once filed a complaint about sexual harassment, but it fizzled out with a formal written warning in her employee record. It turned out the man she accused was gay, and she was a bit miffed when he ignored all her blatant advances. Nice chap, but he left soon after for a better position elsewhere. Shop floor gossip suggested otherwise that Maggie still had her eye on him and thought he was suitable for a bit of ‘conversion’ therapy, which was why he’d legged it for safer pastures!

On reflection, considering his experiences so far, the 'asked for it’ attitude he perhaps previously had held subconsciously was both unfair and biased. He certainly hadn’t asked for any of it! Unfortunately, he was experiencing it regularly, nonetheless. Even Maggie might have found it overwhelming; then again, it was hardly what any sane person would call ‘pleasurable!’ It might, as they said, take two to Tango, but only one partner enjoyed the dancing, and it was never him!

He had it, though — boy, he definitely had it — and he was right about it being ongoing; his eyes rolled upwards, his gaze piercing the ceiling and up towards Miss Susan's bedroom. Yes, a few more hours, and the alluring young Miss would be sitting in nothing but that harness, browsing her extensive collection of oversized double-ended phalluses. Oversized on his end, that is! The bloody girl had more of those dreadful things than she had pairs of boots and shoes, and considering she liked footwear, that was a formidable arsenal of nasty toys!

Probably, on second thoughts, that was an exaggeration, considering how well acquainted his mouth and tongue were with her extensive collection of footwear. But probably not by much—boots, shoes, and oversized bloody didoes or whatever. Hell, he could understand a girl her age keeping one modest sex toy nearby, but not a collection of monsters like she had. Pet shuddered at the thought of them. Humiliating as it was, he’d much rather be raped by the ‘boys’ at night than Miss Susan and her toys. At least they came pretty quickly compared to her! To them, it was simply a release of their innate, primitive male mating urges. He was merely a convenient receptacle, whereas with Miss Susan, it was different.

He felt she was all too aware of him, as he was or rather had been. Partly, he was her creation, hers and the young bitch’s equally evil mother. His main tormentors, who had mercilessly shaped him in this very room into the pet he now was. They had tortured his mind and body, forced his bent limbs into cruel bindings that kept him in his lowly position, sapping his strength and emasculating the physical part of his masculinity via a vicious cock cage, which they each held the keys to. Miss Susan wore hers on a silver chain around her neck to further torment him. It was a symbol of her authority and dominance over him as he lay helpless on her bed, gazing up at her as she loomed above, one hand on each side supporting herself when she took him in that way. He could see the little key dangling before his eyes, between her pert young breasts, swaying with the motion of the young bitch’s hips, as she slowly fucked him.

He didn’t have much experience with women, not much at all, if he was honest about it; he was always a somewhat shy type. The party wallflower on those occasions when he had enough courage to accept an invitation, or during the annual staff Christmas party, he felt obliged to attend. His Mistress varied; sometimes she came very quickly, and other times she took her time, but not an eternity. As for Miss Susan… he sometimes wondered what she was like with her boyfriend. Did ‘Lover Guy, Big Boy or Dream Boat’ her cell phone names for him, have the stamina of a… a… well, the only thing he could think of was a frog.

Perhaps a rutting rhino or a bull elephant would be more fitting, but he knew nothing about the mating habits of such animals. He had once read an article about frogs that had impressed him. Apparently, they stayed coupled together for hours, sometimes even days. Blimey, he looked up... his eyes wandered upwards again, and it sometimes felt like days when he was upstairs at the end of one of Miss Susan's coupling sessions! Every thrust of her slim hips was as much a challenge to what remained of his masculinity as it was towards satisfying her perverted orgasmic need.

She hadn’t done that to him in quite a while, so perhaps... but probably not, he thought. The fact that he had been spared such intimate and foul penetration by the brat probably meant... he swallowed hard. Not Mister fucking Hedgehog, please! Of all of them, that was the one he hated and feared the most, and luckily, it didn’t seem to happen very often. Reserved for special occasions, no doubt, for his young Mistress was well aware of his dislike of Mister Hedgehog—her name for it, of course, not his.

The dreadful thing wasn’t the largest in her collection, neither in length nor girth, but it was chocolate brown and covered in prickles, hence her name for it. She called them prickles, but in reality, the horrible object was covered in small, spiky protuberances of varying lengths and thicknesses. In his early days, he wouldn’t have been able to accommodate the wretched thing, but that was a long time ago, not now, nor had she had it back then. The spikes weren’t exactly soft but were made of some rubbery material; otherwise, if they had been hard plastic, she’d have torn his innards to pieces the way she went at it! Very much ‘hammer and tongs’, as the old phrase goes! He switched his thoughts momentarily, wondering idly for a second or two why tongs, though?

Inevitably, he would be sore inside for a week or more, but that didn’t stop him from being used by the others. Please God, not Mister Hedgehog, not tonight, not for a little while, please — that was his silent prayer. Heck, he would reluctantly settle for Goliath, the latest addition and the biggest, longest, and fattest of the lot, if given a choice. Now, that thing was a ‘bum-breaker’, but at least it didn’t have those horribly rubbery spikes to ‘tickle his innards’, as the wicked girl laughingly put it.

That bloody bench over there, right in plain sight. Why couldn’t they put it away or at least shove it against the wall for a change? Not that he wouldn’t still see it through the bars of his cage. Psychological torture, perhaps, but no, why should they bother? More likely out of sheer laziness and having it conveniently nearby, ready if they ever had a disobedient or wayward pet on their hands!

How many horrendous, agonising hours had he spent strapped to that piece of furniture? If you could call the horrible thing a piece of furniture! Every minute seemed endless when they were ‘working’ on him. Working! Another of their foolish terms for what the bastards subjected him to. Working, training, educating, improving, adjusting, correcting, and so on… a whole bloody lexicon of words, and all of them meant the same thing in his dictionary: torturing the hell out of him!

Then there were moments when the torture was as much mental as physical, when the whippings, paddling, and canings had been replaced by... He swallowed hard, not wanting to dwell on it, yet the bitter memories could never truly be erased. He had long since lost count of how many times they had used him, ‘the other way’ as he called it. Once that had begun, it wasn't long before he stopped counting, and he couldn't mark lines on the wall through his cage bars anyway. Besides, what would have been the point? Why keep track of how many times the bastards raped him? It wasn’t going to change anything. A conclusion it hadn’t taken him long to reach.

His gloomy reminisces and thoughts had come full circle, and he was back at the start, just after climbing into his basket in obedience to Miss Susan's finger clicks earlier. Back to her saying ‘it’ll be ready when it’s ready’ and that moment when she judged him ‘ready’ for the boys—his first experience of something worse than a cane, paddle, and tawse. Worse, perhaps not from the pain side, although, thinking back, it had hurt, but that was nothing compared to that other hurt, the one that shattered the very foundations of his pride and masculinity—ten times worse!

The damn paddle finally stopped, thank heavens, and he was so relieved he barely noticed his securing straps being loosened so she could pull him backwards off that bench. At least that part of him still capable of thought assumed that’s what the girl was doing. But no, instead of being allowed to rise unsteadily to his feet as usual before being returned to his cage, she began to fiddle, and he groaned inwardly, knowing what that portended and that his ordeal was not yet over. Hah, not that it was remotely funny, any of it, but his ordeal that day had barely begun!

That fucking bench over there, because that’s exactly what it was or could be used for whenever they wanted. That sinister piece of furniture, or maybe a device or contraption—better words? More precise. Not that it mattered, and anyway, who the hell made things like that when it was obviously not some DIY job assembled at home? None of the bastards here had the skill to do anything like that, least of all his Master, who even boasted about his… his incompetence, or rather his indifference and contempt for those who made, repaired, and did manual Labour. He was white-collar and proud of it, leaving such tasks to those blue-collar workers who doubtless needed the money!

Silly 'Pretensions of grandeur’ for a used car salesman, his daughter had once sarcastically remarked, much to her father's displeasure. He mainly sold new prestige cars and ‘one owner only’ similar vehicles — not cheap, mass-produced rubbish by and for the unwashed masses — was his haughty response. Anyway, like his chubby son, he was a fat, lazy bastard to whom a screwdriver was probably an exotic drink rather than a tool! Miss Susan was the practical backbone of the household, usually handling minor maintenance problems. Pet doubted his Master could even change a light bulb!

For some reason, his mind kept fixating on that hated piece of… apparatus. They probably wouldn't have bought the thing from Ikea, unless they had a discreet bondage department catering to sado-masochistic crazies and the like, Pet thought, still staring at that bench. Who the hell would make something like that, especially since it was clearly professionally made to a high standard, as was the cage he was in and everything else? Maybe he wasn’t the only one; maybe there were thousands of people—people like him out there beyond these four walls. Perhaps there was an entire industry devoted to catering to such wicked perversity!

But that was an awful lot of maybes—far too many, in fact—and the popular press would certainly have caught on, wouldn’t they? Yeah, so more than likely, he was the only one, the lone sample, the sole... Oh, fuck it, he thought, shifting slightly in his inadequate bedding. What was the point? All he was doing was depressing himself even more, if that was possible. He glared at the hated bench again, which served as a focus for his thoughts. Stainless steel, leather, and what have you—clearly professionally made and not exactly lightweight either. Certainly not cheap, but why, and who? Yeah, well, the why question was irrelevant, wasn’t it, given the use it was put to. Likewise, who made it was equally irrelevant. It was who occupied the damn thing that was the pertinent point, and he was that ‘who!’.

The middle part of that bench could be entirely removed. The end was pushed forward so that, instead of lying flat, he was bent at nearly right angles, with his ankles seized and secured on either side to the rear legs, which were spread wide apart. He was all too aware of his helplessness when it was time for them to use those toys—the other, less painful but more penetrating ones—or the enema bag. He inwardly groaned, as it wasn’t an unfamiliar position for him; this position left him especially vulnerable back there to such horrible and humiliating insertions!

That bit about the boys hadn’t fully sunk into his pain-ridden mind until the fat bastard yawned loudly and then rose from his comfortable chair, where he had been watching his evil daughter ‘at work’. He came to stand at the front end of the bench, his paunch hanging above Pet’s head and his groin just about touching his face. Even then, the penny had yet to drop, mainly because Miss Susan was callously running her hands over his tormented bottom, sending fresh waves of pain shooting through his overloaded nerves or whatever connected his burning bottom cheeks to his brain!

“About bloody time, too,” was the growled comment from above him. “Your mother's been keeping me on short rations lately, and since we lost Fuckslut I’ve been as horny as hell every damn day!”

“You were born horny, Daddy!”

Hardly the conversation you’d expect to hear between a father and his nineteen-year-old daughter, but then, how did that compare to all the other craziness? He winced into his gag as those female hands squeezed a particularly sore spot, or maybe just squeezed at random, for every part of his bottom was agonisingly painful, and… who the hell was Fuckslut? Once again, he’d heard that reference, and once again, his pain-dulled mind failed to make one plus one add up to two!

The ’Hiroshima moment’ arrived almost simultaneously with that final thought when the leering, portly man yanked down his fly and, with a curved finger, revealed a nearly fully erect, sizeable penis. The meaty, veined shaft with its massive, bulging purple head swung before his stunned eyes. Even then, he was so bemused that the penny was only teetering on the edge of falling until he heard Miss Susan's voice behind him. “Wait one, daddy, I’ll get the pussy lube, otherwise you’ll find him a bit too tight. We haven’t had him riding the dildo stool yet!”, and then the coin dropped off the edge along with his reason as every question he’d had about this crazy situation suddenly found an answer that was neither welcome nor believable!

He could only stare in horror at that monstrous thing, bobbing just inches from his face, so much so that its terrifying, dominating presence and everything it symbolised overshadowed everything else. It was only later, much later, that he remembered Master Rogers giggling and that shrill ‘My turn afterwards, sis’. That proverbial mental penny was still spinning on the… whatever it had landed on, and only finally came to a stop when a greasy, latex-clad finger penetrated his anus. Its metaphorical drop now complete, the worst and most humiliating part of his descent into hell was about to begin!