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Please , let God forgive him.
Elbows resting on the soft mattress of his bed, hands pressed tightly together in prayer, Orel desperately prayed from the bottom of his heart for forgiveness from God. He prayed that the sin that was inflicted upon him would be cleansed somehow, if God was merciful enough.
He wondered if God would ever consider him worthy after something so utterly unholy had been dealt upon his poor young soul.
It had all begun when Clay’s gaze lingered far too long at his bare, whipped behind. Something deeply dark glinted in his eyes, hungry and craving more. Craving more of how his precious son became so hurt and marked under his cruel touch.
Anticipating another sharp, merciless lash of the belt to strike him, Orel noticed a long, unexpected pause in his punishment. Was his belting over? Or was his father merely tempting him with that possibility?
“Dad?”
A hand was suddenly groping his reddened ass, touching uncomfortably at his sensitive skin. Orel winced, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth as he felt Clay’s fingers brush against his whipped behind. What in God’s name was he doing?
“Dad, what are you-”
Without warning, Clay pushed him off the arm of his chair and his lap, his body roughly landing on the mahogany floor of his father’s study. Orel grunted in pain, his vision unable to properly make out anything with his face against the floor. “Ow-”
Before he could even attempt to right himself up, an arm planted itself on his back, pinning him down firmly. Orel, still disoriented from being abruptly shoved down, felt Clay part his near-bare legs with his knee, and some sort of premonition about that action made dreadful unease sink a heavy pit in the boy’s stomach.
He tried to find his voice, which stammered with apprehension, “W-What’s h-happening?”
“Don't question me,” Clay’s voice slurred from intoxication. His other hand slid Orel’s underwear down to his ankles, then went to reach for his own boxers, pants already loosened and falling down from when he took his belt off. “Remember the fifth commandment about honoring thy father? Well, you should honor that right now.”
Clay spat thickly into his hand, gliding it down to stroke at himself, his movements clumsy from all the alcohol pumping through his veins.
Orel felt his own heartbeat begin to quicken. This didn’t seem right. None of this seemed honorable or moral. It seemed to go against God's teachings and commandments, including the very one his father had used as some sort of excuse for his malicious intent. He squirmed under Clay’s hold like a prey animal caught in a predator’s grip, trying to crawl away from him.
“Hold still,” Clay snarled, looming above his son. Orel could smell the reek of alcohol on his breath.
Something hot and hard prodded against the most private and sinful area of Orel’s body, which caused a cold, uneasy sweat to brew on his skin. He swallowed nervously, attempting to shut his legs and writhe out of his father’s grip once again, but his efforts were fruitless.
Clay growled in displeasure, strengthening his grip on Orel’s back, whilst keeping his short legs spread. His other hand grabbed his small hips, fingers gripping his pelvis, pulling him closer towards his own lower half. He hissed venomously in his son’s ear, “I said, hold still.”
Orel swallowed a lump rising in his throat, sharp claws of fearful panic gripping his soul. There was absolutely nothing he could do at that moment except pray to God for mercy.
The strange hardness pushed its way inside Orel, penetrating his tight, tender inner walls. He tensed up at the foreign, uncomfortable sensation, horrific pain searing in his lower half. It felt like his flesh was being torn and ripped open.
He grunted and relentlessly forced himself further in, until his cock was completely sheathed deep inside his son, clenching tightly around him. He exhaled, grabbing his bottle of whiskey and swigging the liquor down in large swallows. He was most assuredly going to hell for all his sinning, but by God, if it didn’t feel great.
The lump in Orel’s throat arose again, his eyes stinging and welling up with tears. His breathing became shaky and rushed, large drops of tears cascading down his cheeks and onto the wooden floorboards. He didn’t know this type of splitting pain was humanly possible. His small, helpless body was impaled by Clay’s cock, the burn and stretch beyond agonizing.
Shifting his hips backwards - enough for his cock to almost pull out of the boy’s ass - Clay roughly thrusted right back in, ramming himself into Orel, earning a choked, tearful scream from him. He began to repeat the motion, bucking into his small body fast, his movements brutal and uncaring. With every thrust, Orel convulsed and cried out in pain, the tears never seeming to stop pouring from his widened eyes.
Clay panted and growled like a wolf tearing its prey apart. He knew his saliva was no proper lubricant whatsoever, and that his son was suffering (affirmed by his cries of agony), but to all Hell if he cared. All he cared for was his own personal pleasure.
If the pain of his father simply penetrating him was unbearable, then it was nothing compared to when he started to move at a fast, unforgiving, and animalistic pace. He sobbed into the floor, fingers raking against the mahogany floorboards. His small form jerked forward from each rough buck of his hips, grinding uncomfortably against the floor.
Why was his father committing such a horrific sin? This wasn’t his dad! Or was it? Was this his true nature in full force?
Trying to find his voice, he sniffled, whimpering, “N-No…D-Dad, stop, i-it hurts…”
“It’s- hnnh -supposed to.” Clay grunted in between his cold words, fucking him without mercy. His words slurred heavily, whiskey breath against Orel’s ear. “Pain is…is just nature’s spankings.”
His one-handed grip on his hips intensified, the other shifting from his back to instead grab a tight fistful of his brown hair. Orel cried, a mess of snot and tears running down his weeping face. His breaths were panicked, his sobbing choking his throat up. It hurt and burned so bad and he wanted nothing more than for it to stop.
Slamming into Orel brutally, Clay yanked Orel up by the hair so that he coud get a proper view of his tear-tracked face. His drunken eyes stared hungrily at Orel's tearful ones. He panted into the shell of his ear, “You’re a little whore, aren’t you? Taking me so well just like one…”
“ No!” Orel screamed, cheeks flushing red, humiliated at his father’s filthy words. He wasn’t a whore. He couldn’t be one of the most unholy things to walk God’s green earth.
The volume of his shout set off an alarm bell in Clay, worried that someone might possibly hear him. He swept his hand down to Orel’s throat, fingers digging into his windpipe. His voice was a harsh, intimidating growl accompanied by breathless panting. “Shut up, slut.”
He accentuated his words with a particularly hard snap of his hips. Coughing and gasping like a fish out of water, Orel could hardly breathe, with his father’s cruel hold on his neck and his own rushed, frightened panting.
Groaning, Clay sped up his pace, practically fucking his son into the floor. He could sense his climax approaching, his shaft throbbing madly inside his tight ass. He just needed a little push to send him to the brink. His alcohol-fuzzed vision drank in the sigh of his sweet, angelic young son speared by his cock, his innocence now destroyed. He looked so perfect like this, ruined and used by him. It made his cock throb more and more, until-
“Hhhngg, fuck-” Clay moaned, eyes rolling back as amazing orgasm blew through him. He let go of Orel’s throat to instead sink his teeth into him, sucking the flesh of his neck as he came deep inside him.
Orel shuddered in discomfort at the sensation of his father biting him hard. Something warm filled up his torn, damaged insides. He retched, feeling sick to his stomach.
Shivering with pleasure, Clay remained still for a moment, still coming down from the high of orgasm. He pet Orel’s disheveled brown hair in a strange, out of place display of affection. (Or was it even affection? Perhaps it was him merely)
Pulling out of his small body, he watched in mild amusement as thick, sticky gobs of his cum dripped out of his damaged hole, tinged red from blood he had drawn.
He gave his ass a hard smack before standing upright, hoisting up his boxers and pants. He struggled to buckle his belt, his movements drunken and uncoordinated. Figuring it was worthless, he gave up and tossed it to the floor with a clatter, seating himself in his chair and bringing his pipe to his mouth to take a long drag of the tobacco.
Orel only twitched from his father’s slap to his behind, having gone limp from all the abuse to his poor body. He laid sprawled on the floor like an animal shot dead by a hunter. The heat of the crackling fireplace warmed his damaged body, its smoky scent wafting over.
He wasn’t sure how long he had laid there without moving. It could have been five, ten, thirty minutes, or even an hour. Clay spoke something to him, but he could not remember what. And in his mind, he didn’t want to. He wanted to hear nothing from the man who had just defiled and ruined him.
What he could recall was him eventually finding the last drops of strength to gradually stand up and pull his underwear and jeans back up, before limping out of Clay’s study. He didn’t dare look back at him. His father deserved none of his attention.
Once he was out of his lair, Orel staggered to the bathroom, his lower half screaming and pulsating. He locked the door securely, before turning on a knob to the shower. His eyes kept hesitantly glancing at the door’s lock, afraid of it not being secure enough to stop Clay from barging in on him and hurting him further.
Undressing himself slowly (he wondered if his mother would question the blood stains on his underwear and jeans), he stepped into the shower, letting hot water sluice onto his small, naked form. He sat in the tub and hugged himself, arms wrapping around his folded legs which were tucked against his chest.
Trembling, he stared at the repulsive alloy of blood and sticky fluid leaking out of him, flowing down the drain. His knees were terribly scraped and bruised. Aside from an imprint of his teeth, a large, dark mark began to form at the spot on his neck where Clay bit him. His unrelenting grip on his hips left nasty purple and red bruises.
Clouds of steam fogged up the room’s mirror and window. The heat of the water didn’t register with him. He let it scald his skin, until it was no longer hot, fading to lukewarm, then to a cold, biting temperature.
A young voice shrieked outside the bathroom, belonging to his younger brother. He heard him fiddle at the doorknob, banging on the wooden door impatiently. Orel took no notice of him, unmoving from where he crouched in the tub.
Now, at his bed, Orel wept, shaking uncontrollably as he prayed, trying to exorcize the horrific memories out of his mind like they were a malicious spirit. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t disappear. He could still feel his father’s touch on him, that horrible sensation of his hardness ramming into the area between his legs. His wolf-like panting and groaning in his ear, the reek of alcohol in his sinuses.
Would God even forgive him? What if he was going to hell for the unholy sin committed on that night? Was he past the point of forgiveness? Was he truly a whore, like Clay had said?
Hands trembling while still in prayer position, Orel could only desperately hope for the Lord to no harbor no grudge against him, begging that he would still be seen as worthy.
Please, forgive his young soul.