Maybe there were three of them, all jocks, all bigger, more muscular than him, virile, and used to getting whatever they wanted.
Maybe he begged them to do it, telling them that he did want to get fucked.
Maybe they each one took their turn fucking him in his virgin hole until they had shot their loads deep up his “pussy” as they called it.
Maybe it took a couple of days before Brett could face them, knowing that he begged them to fuck him.
He knew they would do it again, and he wanted them too.
Maybe he didn’t feel like a man anymore.
Maybe no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t help but feel that there was an emptiness in his guts that desperately needed to be filled, filled by his friends’ dicks.
Maybe, he thought, he had no choice anymore because the multiple loads of cum shot deep in his new pussy were a drug, and now he was addicted, craving it.
Maybe this time, he knew they would be coming home drunk and horny again, just like that first night.
Maybe this time he was laying at the door, patiently waiting for them to come back, in nothing but a jockstrap, face down cunt up, the same way they had fucked him that first night.
Maybe this time he wanted them to do it again.
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