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Will you still love me tomorrow

It was best when I was small and soft and my skin still fit over my head. He would leave me alone then, snug in his pants, only getting me out when he had to go pee-pee.

Now he’s constantly on me, squeezing my head and stretching my skin. He sits down fully dressed, but forever contrives to reach out towards me, scratching the hair that tickles my base as a precursor to moving me this way and that, lifting the sack beneath me up so I’m lying against it, its wiry hair making me itch even though for some reason he considers that a more comfortable arrangement.

He pushes me and pulls me and suffocates me between his thighs. Hair, wiry pieces of sharp hair, find their way under my skin only for him to rip them out making me wonder how I haven’t been sliced in two.

He gets his hands, usually his right, on me as much as he can, and I grow. I’m lolling about, minding my own business, when suddenly he’s helicoptering me around, scratching me with his nails making me swell and stand up.

Sometimes he leaves me alone and the same happens. I expand and throb, my skin peels back and stretches, and my veins expand and darken. I harden and stand and then, before I can begin to hope to return to my lolling state, he’s on me, yanking my skin up and down to the point where I think he’s going to rip it off.

My head nods then and my body reddens. I heat up till eventually I begin to dribble a clear dribble which immediately makes me feel sticky and itchy and desperate to be left alone.

Then I remember the pants and the soft skin and the way I would sit against the sack, the balls inside giving me a nice support, the pants a lovely cushion for my body. I remember peeing and the gentle shake that follows the release of the fluid. I remember the light bounce as he runs and the cozy warmth I feel while he sleeps.

I try to forget that time another hand forever separated my skin from my head and also what he’s doing now, but I can’t. His hand’s wrapped around me taking all of me as if I’m totally his, as if my feelings are irrelevant.

I go up and down and left and right till eventually I feel his grip tighten and his jerks slow, and I know what’s going to happen next, the pressure beneath me building, the gushing from below inside me, low down, but making its way up, up irresistibly up towards my mouth and I brace myself.

I vomit suddenly and powerfully and it arches out of me and back down onto my base, the hair at my base and his knuckles and fingers. Only then does he let go and let me sag and throb my way back to that loose lolling state I wish I could stay in all the time, my body cool and dry instead of hot and sweaty, my head snug instead of exhausted, my skin soft and relaxed instead of tired and beaten and stretched, the only thing keeping me going the knowledge that at least I managed to vomit on him, the bastard, at least it didn’t all end up on me.

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22 thoughts on “Cock Bully

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