If you haven't read part 4, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.Mr. Hale only once asks me about playing Frisbee, and it is after he “fucked the fight” out of me. This means that he had thrown me onto the bed without warning and used every tactic possible to make me beg for his attentions. After sessions like these I invariably fall into a dark mood, hating myself for letting him get the better of me one more time. Mr. Hale is still imbedded in me, his hands still gripping my shoulders as I lie stretched out beneath him, both of us gasping for breath. My lower half is practically numb, but my nipples feel as though they will fall off any moment.
“Well,” he says smugly, “I can tell that your endurance level has risen. Remind me to thank the little friends on your team.”
I laugh weakly, mirthlessly, into a pillow, afterglow and exhaustion making me giddy. “I’ll let them know, Sir.” The odor of our mingled juices stains the room.
Mr. Hale withdraws his soft penis from my body and thrusts three fingers into the mess he made, laughing when I cry out. “Can those beer-bellied frat boys make you do this, Bunny?” he asks maliciously as he moves his fingers rapidly over my sensitive prostate. I squirm on the bed, stretched thin. “Can they do what I do?”
A dribble of semen fights its way out of my softened penis as I twist on Mr. Hale’s fingers. I can’t handle anymore. “No, Sir,” I tell him, “no they couldn’t. Oh, please stop.” My tortured nipples are rasping against the bedsheets.
Mr. Hale pulls his fingers from my anus and slaps my buttocks soundly. “No one can take care of you like I can, Bunny.”
I can only whimper as I lie like a broken doll, an offering to pederasts and their lusty deities. The gods of lost souls have forgotten me.