Jesus, I didn’t know it’d be this hard to start.
I just have to get it out. They raped my son. Two months ago, three older boys locked him in a basement and gang-raped him for most of an afternoon and evening. They taped the whole thing, bragged about it, and sent copies to their friends. When they finished, they left him passed out and naked next to the high school dumpster.
I’ve been over my son’s ordeal so many times. I sat and held his hand while he cried through the police interviews, the deposition, and the doctors’ examinations. I listened while they made him talk about every graphic detail.
“Was your penis hard?”
“What did you say after he called you a fag?”
“Was that before or after they penetrated your anus?”
“Did you ejaculate while you had sexual intercourse?
I saw him turn white when the prosecutors told us about the plea bargain to allow the little punks to walk free in less than a year. Sure, it makes me angry. It has to, right? He’s my son.
But it gives me such a hard-on when I think about it all. I whack off four times each day, thinking about that scene. The copy of the video—the one they sent to threaten him with after we called the cops—which I keep hidden and watch whenever I’m alone.
Obviously, that’s why I’m just writing things down. Would you talk to a therapist about that?
I guess I’m supposed to be introspective here and start from the top. So I’ll start out with a confession. I’ve raped a few boys myself—more than a few, actually. Not recently, of course. I gave that up years ago, along with the drinking, but as a younger man, I didn’t think twice about forcing my cock into some boy’s ass while he wailed.
My friends and me, as soon as we were old enough to know what our cocks were for, we figured out it was pretty easy to trap a boy in a garage or a field somewhere and take turns on him. I guess that seems sick now, but where I grew up, it was pretty standard. Everybody did it. Most of those boys learned pretty quick to just lay back and take it, and some of them even let on that they liked it. I guess that I was sick even then because it pissed me off when they liked it. I really made it a point to hurt those little faggots.
Obviously, I had girlfriends who put out without me making them. Well, mostly, they put out without me making them. Allison, Beau’s mom, was one of those. Of course, it turns out that even if you marry a girl, she doesn’t have to let you fuck her. After we spent the first three months of our horrible marriage screaming at one another, Allison decided she wasn’t going to let me fuck her anymore.
I lost my shit when she tried to tell me no that first time. I smacked her up good and literally ripped her clothes off of her. Then I pinned her down and fucked her. I just pounded into her dry, and all she could do was scream. She screamed so loud, the neighbors called the cops, and they came, pounding on our door.
When they told Alison she could stay with me or go to a shelter, she chickened out and stayed with me. We were married for two more years after that, and that scene was repeated so often, the cops stopped even coming to our house. Once Allison learned her place, we did not fight anymore. However, I had to hurt her to get her to fuck. Honestly, it always made the sex better anyway.
It’s sort of appropriate that Beau got his ass cherry popped by a rapist since the boy was most likely conceived while I was raping his mother. That probably wouldn’t make him feel better about any of this, though, right?
As I said before, though, I straightened out after Beau was born. I got sober, grew up a bit, and started making an effort to be a decent person. I can’t say I ever treated Allison right, especially not in bed, but our marriage was doomed way before then anyway. She deserved better than me, and after we divorced, she ended up with a really decent guy. I know he treated her well, and he was a good stepfather to Beau.
We had our troubles, but I was sad when Allison died this summer. I mean that. I cried at the funeral, even though I was doing my best to stay strong for my son. Beau came to live with me in August. Beau was obviously depressed having to move all the way out to California with me, but I did my best, and eventually, he seemed well adjusted. At least, that’s what I thought, you know. And here I am, already, just at the thought of what’s coming next, I feel like I have to stop and go jerk off.
I need to stop kidding myself, don’t I?
I’m not an anguished father struggling with my feelings over all of this. I’m not writing this down because I’m too distraught to speak to the doctors. I’m writing it down because I want strangers to get off on it, too. I love what those little shits did to Beau. I wish I was there to have seen it, and I fantasize about them doing it again. God, finally, it just feels good to admit that to myself!
Beau is a pretty boy, almost the spitting image of his mother. His long, slender body looks like he is ten-years-old at four foot six and sixty-five pounds. His hair is dirty blonde but streaked with strands the color of yellow straw. He’s got nice little perky nips on his smooth chest, and his dicklet and tiny sack are still waiting for puberty, but the thing you notice first about him is his eyes. They’re big, walnut-shaped, and strikingly blue. My son looks like the faggot he is.
Because of his pretty looks and sweet demeanor, Beau has a lot of trouble making friends at his new school. My son came home crying every day for the first two weeks. Sissy boys do get bullied in middle school. Then he met Brad, and he latched onto him.
I knew the kid was trouble as soon as I laid eyes on him. He was sitting there in my living room with his hat on backward and his pants too low. I should have tossed his ass out when I caught him oh-so-very-casually had his arm draped over my little boy’s shoulders, nonchalantly tweaking his nipple through his shirt, but I didn’t want to overreact. I figured my son had enough trouble adjusting. I watched them, secretly loving the way Brads kept putting his hand back on my son’s nipple no matter how many times Beau shyly pushed it away.
At one point, during the three weeks when Brad practically lived in my house after school, I caught a glance of him pawing up under my son’s shirt. I couldn’t stop to stare, or I would have risked getting caught, but I could see Beau’s pursed lips and tightly shut eyes, and he looked petrified. I wondered how long Brad had to work to get Beau to agree to that.
That was all he ever let him do. I don’t mean that’s all I ever saw, either. Brad told us so on the video. Before he’s even come into view, he and his cohorts are huddled in the basement, speaking into the camera. They have masks on, but it’s not as if I don’t know which one he is.
“Beau Healy is a cock teasing little faggot,” he snarled. “Three weeks, I’ve been listening to him whine about his dead mom and how he’s bullied at school! I offered to be his friend, yet the little faggot gives nothing in return, nothing.”
At this point, his cohorts chime in to sympathize with poor Brad’s plight and agree that my son is indeed a “teasing little faggot.”
The video then cuts to a full screen still shot of Beau. He’s standing in our bathroom, cellphone in hand, dressed in skimpy red lacy panties, and nothing more. He looks spectacular.
“This is our girl,” narrates Brad, “great body, right?”
What is more intriguing than my son’s body—admittedly superb—is the look on his face. He’s forcing a smile, clearly embarrassed. I can only imagine, as I watch, how Brad had to threaten him to get a humiliating picture like that.
“So today,” continued Brad as he reappeared on screen, “me and my boys here are going to show this faggot how we do it. Get ready, ‘cause this bi-otch is about t’get his cherry POPPED.”
Brad shouted that last part, and his boys shouted out their enthusiastic concurrence. Those boys are fired up, and their lust is contagious. I relish it when I watch it. Those boys are about to put their cocks in my son, and my adrenaline starts pumping.
Then I see Brad and Beau on the couch in his basement. He has my son’s long hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing his baggy shorts and a cropped t-shirt, and unexpectedly, six-inch stiletto heels. God, he’s a little piece of eye candy.
The camera’s pointing upward from the floor, and I can see Brad’s hand on my son’s silky red panties under his shorts. Beau grabs the older boy’s wrist and pushes the hand away, but he slips back without missing a beat.
“No,” Beau moans, trying again to push Brad away. “Stop!”
Brad retreats but lands a hand on my son’s chest. “Come on,” he moans as his hand plays with my son’s nipple.
“No, Brad,” he pleads. “You promised!”
“Come on,” he repeats, “Just suck my dick a little.”
“No,” he insists. “I don’t do that! I’m not gay! You…you promised”
Brad looks frustrated.
“Then let me fuck you,” he says.
“Oh…my god,” Beau says, exacerbated. He pushes Brad away with both hands and sits up on the couch. “Why are you doing this to me? I thought you wanted to be my friend.” His voice is shaking, and he’s clearly upset.
“You been giving me blue balls for weeks is why,” he shouts. “I think you owe me some of that pussy for protecting you.”
Beau stands up, pushed way too far. “Fuck you! I told you I’m not gay! You promised.” he snaps as he marches towards the door.
The boy working the camera zooms in on my son’s shapely ass. It’s small and tight, and the baggy shorts still hug it perfectly as the six-inch stilettos he is wearing cause his ass to swish. I don’t even care that he’s my son. It’s a magnificent ass.
Brad let him get a few steps before he grabbed him by his hair and jerked him back. It was a cruel way to do it. Brad was easily six foot one. He could have lifted a little boy like Beau pretty easily, but he yanked him down by the hair. Sick, right?
So Beau’s lying flat on his back, and Dave, the kid with the camera, he has to get up from his hiding place to get the shot. He and the third boy, Steve, they come out and stand over Beau. You can see the look in my son’s face when he sees the two of them, just this utter despair because he knows right then that something’s up. Those big blue eyes, they’re welling up with tears. It’s stunning camera work. I have to give Dave that.
Beau attempts to stand up, but Brad kicks his feet out from under him as soon as he tries.
“Take your clothes off,” he says.
My son tries to stand again, and once more, Brad kicks him down and orders him to strip. They go through the motions again, but this time, once he’s down, Brad kicks him good and hard in the balls. He curls into a fetal position, and the boys all laugh my son’s suffering. Brad shouts down at him viciously.
“Take your fucking clothes off so we can fuck you, you little faggot!”
The boys seem to enjoy yelling at and kicking Beau, while they strip my struggling son as he tries to keep his clothes on. The boys soon have the t-shirt and shorts yanked off. My son is left in his silky red panties and bra (when had Brad gotten him to wear a bra?) and his six-inch stiletto heels. Obviously, Beau didn’t expect anyone to see him wearing lingerie, and that realization makes me smile.
At this point, it’s clear that the boys intend to rape my son, and he’s crying and screaming for help while the two older boys hold him down.
“Fucking gross!” shouts Steve, the boy holding my son’s legs while Brad straddles Beau’s chest, pinching and twisting his nipples under the bra. “The faggot pissed himself!”
Sure enough, as the camera focuses in on my son’s damp crotch. You can see Beau peed his panties, and zoomed in that close, you can also see his skinny little legs violently trembling. That’s the sort of fear that you usually write off as hyperbole—the kind that makes you convulse and lose control of your bladder—but there it is right there on film. Beau actually looks ashamed. The boys laugh and jeer at the humiliated boy. Funny, isn’t it? He’s beyond terrified, but he’s still embarrassed about pissing his panties.
Steve pulls the urine-soaked panties off and hands them to Brad, and the pair laughed knowingly before the taller boy wads them into a ball and stuffs them into my son’s mouth.
“Drink up your piss, you disgusting fag!” he shouts.
I cringe over how much I love that part. Dave pans back, so we see the length of the now nearly naked boy except for bra and heels beneath the two clothed boys. Steve grabs Beau’s legs and bends them back towards his head. The boys whoop and holler as the tiny rosebud comes into view.
“Get in here,” shouts Steve. “Get a close-up.”
The screen fills with Beau’s flawless, twelve-year-old virgin boy-pussy. The last time I saw him down there, he was maybe five or six, just a little boy. At a certain point, sons stop being kids and start being men, so you stop seeing their beautiful little assholes. It’s an exquisite asshole though, small and tight, like a young flower waiting to bloom.
Someone, I can’t see who, has a finger probing the outer ass lips as Dave zooms in close as the little rosebud winks at the touch. The boys laugh as my son’s prepubescent pricklet erects to its full three and a half inches in his panties.
“You like that, faggot?” someone taunts.
Again the camera pulls back, and Beau’s face is in the frame. He’s still got the panties in his mouth, and he’s crying. I wonder if he’s thinking of me—“I wish Daddy was here to save me”—isn’t that normal? I probably should want to save my son, but my cock is always throbbing at the sight of him pinned down like that.
“You ready, fag?” demands Brad off camera.
Beau shakes his head.
“Oh, he’s ready,” says Steve.
“You ever been fucked, Beau?” asks Brad.
Beau doesn’t even bother responding. It’s probably pointless anyway. However, Brad reaches out and slaps my son across the face, determined to make him play his game.
“I asked you a question,” he snaps. “Have you ever had a cock in you?”
Beau is still shaking and sobbing, but he shakes his head no.
Brad and Steve argue over who gets to go first. Beau is his faggot, Brad argues, so he should have the honors, but Steve counters that he’s doing this as a favor so he should.
“Fuck that,” says Brad, reminding Steve that he got to go first on that Puerto Rican fifth-grade boy. Ultimately, they decide that Brad can go first, but Steve gets “sloppy seconds.” Dave is promised leftovers.
“When we’re done,” asks Dave from behind the camera, “can we fist him?”
The other boys laugh. All the while, the camera is fixed on Beau’s tear-streaked, terrified face as they discuss him in such crude, pornographic terms.
It all sounds so mechanical, doesn’t it, like I’m describing a porn movie. I guess that’s what I’m doing. How do you even convey what it’s like, though, to see your little boy reduced to a whimpering mess like that? To watch those boys just use him like a cunt?
The other night, I put the video on in my room with the headphones. I was at that point where they had just decided that Brad got to go first when I heard Beau turning on the shower. Just there, on the other side of the bedroom wall, he was naked and lathering his supple body.
It crossed my mind that I could have him right then. What would he do? What could he do? The little faggot would probably just lie back and take it. Instead, I just listened as he showered and imagined him reliving what they did. Does he break down sobbing, or does he touch himself when he thinks about it? I couldn’t decide.
I turned back to the video. The order now determined, the boys stand in a circle around my trembling son. They are not holding him down, but when he tries to stand, they kicked him back down.
“Crawl, fag,” says Brad.
Beau looks confused, but he rolls onto his hands and knees.
“Good, faggot,” he says. “Get your ass up high!”
He lowers his face and hikes up his ass. Already, I want to cream! Then Brad lowers himself down, his rough hands on the smooth skin of Beau’s hips. My son’s still sobbing, but there’s a whole new terror in his eyes. He knows what’s coming.
Curse the little shit operating the camera because he did not zoom in to get a frame full of Brad’s fat cock burrowing into Beau’s tight virgin asshole. It would have been priceless! Instead, he filled the shot with my son’s tear-streaked, snotty face. He screams as he is impaled. His pained wailing is offset by the way the boys laugh at his anguish.
Usually, at this point, I cannot control it, and I cum. While Brad is popping my little boy’s cherry right there before my eyes, I shoot my load in my hands.
Brad shoves himself up into my son’s as if he wants to hurt him, slamming his hips hard against him every time. He probably does want to hurt the little faggot. Sure enough, with every slam, my son whimpers. Sometimes he screams.
“I’m gonna cum in your cunt, fag!” Brad shouts as he speeds up his thrusts.
Brad cums hard and long, forcing every drop into my son. When Beau falls to the floor, Dave finally zooms in. The blood and cum seeping out of my son’s abused asshole transfix me. The sight makes me smile.
Dave, flipping my son onto his back and raising his legs in the air to impale him, is not one for showmanship. He plunges in all at once and pulls all the way out before thrusting back in balls deep. I like watching my son’s legs tremble, as Steve keeps them hoisted in the air, but he’s already defeated—there’s no more struggling. It becomes so much less fun when a boy accepts his fate. When Steve has his first turn, my son is almost passed out.
The video goes on for hours. They fuck my son in ass and mouth, they stuff objects into his asshole and ultimately content themselves punching and kicking him as he fights to regain consciousness. His balls were swollen to three times their size. His nipples are red and black from the abuse they have suffered. His eyes are swollen shut. I wonder if they expected him to live at all. As I said, we found him in the dumpster outside the school.