Poker Night

(Mb) (oral, scat) (humil, viol) (nc)

Milton Kowalski hated to be called Milton. If anyone called him Milton, he would kick in their fucking skulls. He insisted on Milt! Milt was a strong name, and it was manly. But, unfortunately, he looked like a Milton. He was five foot six and had a big beer belly that hung over his baggy, dirty boxer shorts. At fifty-five, he looked almost ten years older, heavy jowls hung beneath a nose swollen and red from too much booze. His eyes were small and bloodshot, and beneath them, he carried enough baggage for a two-week cruise. Milton was balding—really balding. He had a nasty trailer trash fringe of long greasy hair winding around his head from ear to ear and a few of those long gross strands that geeks so carefully place across the top of their chrome domes so they can fool nobody but themselves. Of course, the grease strands always fall off the top of the head, and since they are about eight inches in length, they look particularly disgusting hanging off the fringe.

Milton hated his job at the factory. He hated his shitty one bedroom home. He hated his lousy air conditioner. He pretty much hated everything. He sat there in his worn and frayed easy chair flipping through channels hating everything on TV. He hated the potato chips in the dish on the TV table next to him. The store had run out of Mr. G’s, the only kind worth eating and he had had to settle for Lay’s that tasted like salted paper. He swore when he realized that his glass of rotgut was empty except for a few melting ice cubes, melting because the goddamn air conditioner kept the house at about a hundred and nine. He scratched one naked hairy calf with the dirty sock covered toe of his other foot.
“CUNT!” he bellowed. Then because Milton was not a patient man, he bellowed a second time. “CUNT, GET YOUR WORTHLESS ASS IN HERE NOW!”
The bathroom door opened and a sight to behold entered. If Milton was everything ugly and disgusting in the world, the seven-year-old boy who came from the bathroom was an angel. Small smooth bare-naked body—yes, the little boy was totally naked, blond hair like the silk from cornhusks, long and uncut because Milton didn’t give a fuck about giving Timmy a haircut. The boy’s angelic face was innocence itself— large blue eyes, a tiny button nose, full lips and everything so delicate you would be afraid to touch it for fear of it breaking. Petite body, baby nipples just a shade darker than the pale porcelain skin of his chest, slender hips, tiny little pricklet and grapes and behind: an ass like two oranges.
“And where the fuck have you been? I had to call you twice.”
Milton reached one meaty hand up and scratched the gray armpit hair. He kept his fringe and strands dyed black, but his pit and chest hair was gray. When the boy spoke, his voice was like tapped crystal.
“I was cleaning the bathroom, sir.”
“Yeah? Well, I hope to Christ that you licked that toilet clean better than last week. Last week you didn’t get up under the rim enough. I found some shit splashes and old piss up under there.”
“Yes, sir.”
Timmy would not forget last week’s error. He had spent two hours with his dick and balls covered with honey and shoved into a jar of ants. Yes, sir, one thing that Milton excelled at was bringing up boys. He may have been a total fuck up at everything else, but he was a master at bringing up boys. Pain, pain, and humiliation were the keys.
“Now, tonight is my poker night, asswipe, and I hope you got everything ready, snacks, booze, the pot, everything. And you better not fuckup when you serve my buddies. I won’t have you embarrassing me in front of them. They wanna feel your sack or pussy hole, you make yourself available.”
Timmy’s sweet young face fell...he hated poker night.
“Yes, sir.”
“And when you’re sucking dick under the table, try for fuck sake to distract the guy who’s winning if it ain’t me. Really work over his sweaty balls and lick that piss slit. Get his mind off the game. And that reminds me, Artie says you are lousy at deep throating, so you better prove him wrong tonight, or I’m gonna shove the cattle prod up your little cunt and leave it on for five minutes.”
Timmy hated the cattle prod. He hated it on his ass, on his sweet little-naked feet, on his baby balls and pricklet, on his armpits. Timmy was learning to hate a lot of things too, just like Milton. In fact, even at seven and sweet as he still was, sometimes, Timmy could not wait until he was big and could hurt others. Milton groaned as he arched up in his easy chair and eased his dirty boxer shorts down off of his massive hairy ass.
“Get over here, cuntface and blow me.”
Timmy dropped to his knees. You do not approach a prick standing. It’s disrespectful. He crawled across the floor arching his little back and wiggling his little ass like a fucking whore as he had been taught to do. He could smell Milton’s fat flaccid prick before he was even close to it. Milton seldom bathed. Why should he when he had a fresh young cunt like Timmy to lick him clean? Timmy stuck out his small pink tongue and took a gentle swipe at the huge fat cockhead. Milton liked that. He liked to feel little boy tongue on his dickhead. If Timmy did an excellent enough job on the cockhead and Milton came quickly, maybe, just maybe, he would not have to lick and suck the old man’s stinking asshole, but most days, Milton held out for a good one to two-hour ass sucking session. While watching the television, he would complain about the shit that was on while sitting right down on seven-year-old Timmy’s little face. He’d fart and laugh, telling Timmy those were special treats for the little boy. Timmy let his little pink tongue flip over the prick head tickling the fat pisshole. Then the little boy swiped his tongue all around the dick stalk feeling the huge fuck log grow from his devotion. Sometimes, Milton held onto the kid by his hair, but today he just lay back in the lounge chair and relaxed. Milton chuckled.
“You’re gonna get fucked by Artie’s dog again tonight too, just for a little entertainment. Last week that mutt bit you, but you deserved it, you little asswipe. You don’t even know how to suck and fuck a dog the right way. I’m getting damn tired of how lazy you are, and here I put out good money to feed you the finest canned dog food. From now on I think I’ll just have you eat my shit and get your vitamins that way. It’d save a fuck load of money.”
Timmy hated eating Milton’s shit. Sometimes at the poker games, before they gang fucked him, they played a terrible game with Timmy. They made the little seven year old eat a plate piled full of shit, and then he had to lick from ass to ass around the room trying to tell whose shit it was. When he got it wrong, they stuck a funnel in his little ass and pissed into the funnel until his baby tummy almost exploded. It hurt terribly.
Timmy was busy licking Milton’s huge scrotum now—huge, hairy, stinking, and filthy. Milton was very particular about how he wanted his scrotum licked. Timmy had to practice for hours and hours. If some of the black hair caught in Timmy’s teeth and pulled, he would get slapped and kicked, and maybe worse. He had to lick all the ball bag wrinkles and down where the sack joins the leg where the smell and taste were the worst. Timmy’s whole angelic face stank like ball sweat for hours sometimes after he finished licking Milton’s nuts. However, Milton was in some kind of hurry today. Maybe because it was already late afternoon and he was frustrated by the fucking queers and crossdressers on the Jerry Springer show. He grabbed Timmy by his shell-like ears and began to fuck his tiny face roughly. It was hard to believe the dick head could fit in that little mouth much less the nine inches of prick that backed it up, but Milton was determined to make the little boy cunt an excellent deep throater.
“Come on, whoreface, take that dick. Open up that goddamn throat pussy and feel a real man’s prick.”
It really was as if Timmy was impaled on the prick—thoroughly impaled. His little body jerked around like a puppet. You could see the enormous dick all the way down his neck. One day, Milton would kill the boy; Timmy knew that. Nonetheless, Timmy gagged on the humongous fuck slab.
“You worthless cocksucking piece of fuck filth you! How fucking many times do I have to tell you, it’s fucking impolite to gag on a guy’s prick when he is kind enough to feed it to a piece of ass waste like you.”
He pulled back, and the big wet dick actually popped out of the boy’s mouth.
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s so big.”
Timmy sounded hoarse from the dick in his throat, but he was used to that. Half the time his throat was so raw from cock, and his lips and tongue were so swollen that he could not produce any sounds at all. Milton shook his head, and his long hair tendrils slapped at his neck. He pounded his fists angrily on his thighs, and his nine-inch throbbing dick spurted some pre-fuck.
“Aw, shit, now I’m gonna have to punish you. I didn’t wanna. I wanted us to have one, just one fucking nice day around here, but you, you fuckhole, you seven-year-old asscunt you, you dog dick licking cock slut, you have to go and ruin everything. All right, shit-for-brains, go into the kitchen and bring me a nice cold bottle of beer, but I ain’t gonna drink it. I’m gonna fuck your ass with it. And I am going to fuck your ass with the wide end. GOT THAT?”
Timmy turned and walked into the kitchen with tears running down his soft, smooth, baby cheeks. Milton watched the tiny ass cheeks roll as the boy walked. Oh, it was going to be fun to fuck those baby melons—it always was—to hurt the boy immensely. Yes, sir, that bottle was going way up today. After all how many fucking times had Milton patiently told Timmy not to gag on prick.
But for some reason, some pre-destined reason perhaps, or just an accidental culmination of events, on this Thursday afternoon, Timmy didn’t return with a beer bottle. He came back in the room with a butcher knife, which he stabbed into Milton’s rather tiny brain through the right eye, and then when the son of a bitch had stopped twitching, Timmy withdrew the knife and then leaned down and sliced off the man’s dick and balls. Seven years old and not bad with a knife. He had learned something. Then the little boy calmly walked to the telephone, called the other poker players, and told them the game was canceled.