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So, You’re Her New Boytoy
by Hitman

I should have known better than to open my front door after glancing from behind the curtain at the knock at the door. The red Chrysler 300 parked in front had been behind me on the road from the bar where I had met my girlfriend. Had I forgotten something at the bar and this was some kind soul taking the trouble of returning it to me. My mind didn’t really think so … especially in this day and age of cell phones and limited actual human interaction or contact. My hand turned the knob.

He was gazing at my flowers, seemingly distracted, only turning his head toward me at the sound of the door opening. He stood an inch or so taller than my own 5’6” and appeared built very solid, outweighing my own 145 pounds by at least 30-40 pounds. His biceps stretched the material of his shirtsleeves just ever so much, his quads amply filling the material of his beige shorts. He smiled and it was so engaging, I had trouble taking my eyes off his face, though it was many years older than my own 40 years.

“May I help you?”

“Levi?” Hearing my own name should have been a real signal, but the way he said it, well it was more of a soothing calm as opposed to a question.

“Yes …. “ The next few seconds are almost a blur as I sit here playing what followed over and over in my mind. His right shoulder hit the door even as his left hand came up and closed on the knot of the tie I still had on. His hand twisted and I was choking, being forced backwards into my own living room. The door swung shut, pushed by his foot as he entered the room. I was wheeling backwards, trying to breath, clawing at his hand on my tie, and maintain balance. The backs of my knees struck something and next thing I knew, he had shoved me into a chair. I started to get up and he hit me for the first time, a hard blow to my chest that knocked me back down.

“What do you … “ He slapped me hard enough to shut me up.

“Don’t talk and don’t move.” My mouth started to open and he slapped me again, harder. I could feel the heat of my blood rushing to my cheek. He turned and walked over to the door, locking it.

“So, you’re her new boytoy,” he said as he turned back to me. His eyes locked on mine and I felt a cold chill sweep through my body.


Still dressed in the clothes I had arrived home in, he strode over to me, yanking me out of the chair by the labels of my zipper jacket. I heard some of the stitching moan.

“Hey, take it easy. This is a fairly new jacket.” His hands slid from the labels down to the bottom where the zipper was still engaged. His hands closed on the bottom of each side and he jerked hard. The zipper snapped and he tore the jacket completely open, bottom to top. My eyes opened wide at the ease with which you had just ruined my jacket, and I admit, that I felt a certain hardening down in my groin area. He started jerking the jacket down over my shoulders, turning it inside out, catching my arms as he did. The moment of amazement passed and I knew I needed to defend myself. I pressed forward, trying to force the jacket back up before it trapped my arms. That’s when he punched me in the stomach the first time. It was a hard uppercut that caught me right in the bread basket. Unprepared, my abs absorbed and swallowed his hand, filling the space where my air had previously resided. I went to my knees, my cheeks going in and out as I tried to regain my breath.

“I knew you were a punk.” Suddenly my head was jerked back as he pulled me up by the tie. I was now choking. With a quick turn of body, I was spun around and we stood back to back. He pulled on the tie with both hands and I was hoisted off the ground, my feet kicking empty air. My vocal noises must have been likened to a dog picked off the ground by his collar for some infraction. My eyes recognized I was being carried into the bedroom. My hands grabbed out at walls and corners in an attempt to stop the madness but it was all to no avail. As we passed into the bedroom, darkness was starting to encroach around the edges of my eyes. I’m pretty sure I was close to passing out when he threw me on the king size bed, my body flopping as it landed. I heard him say, “I don’t know what she sees in you,” just before I must have passed out.


He was standing over me at the foot of the bed as I regained my senses. It could have been moments, or hours, I wasn’t certain at this point. He grabbed my feet and started pulling my shoes off. I tried to pull my legs back but he had a firm grip on my jeans. I heard both shoes clunk on the floor. Then he grabbed one leg of my jeans and began yanking them down.

“What the hell,” I shouted. Grabbing the belt and top of my jeans, I resisted. He alternated between legs, and despite my best efforts, my jeans were slowly and methodically pulled down until they slid off my feet. I was now only in my tie, dress shirt, t-shirt, and green colored briefs. I watched as he tossed the jeans in the corner. I didn’t know but I figured I might need to grab them fast if I saw an opportunity for escape.

His fist closed around my tie and I was yanked off the bed and to my feet. He pulled me in close, close enough to smell the minty flavor of his toothpaste. I’m pretty sure I heard him sniff me. He shook me hard, like a puppy shaking a toy back and forth in its teeth. Then he punched me in the gut again with his free hand. It was a hard punch which elicited an “oomph” sound from me.

With what seemed like little effort, he picked me up off the floor by the tie. I was choking and gurgling as he held me there for several seconds, I could see my face turning red in the mirror behind him. Then he tossed me back on the bed. I rolled as I landed, trying to get out of his reach. I lay there watching as he took off a silver bracelet from his wrist and pulled out a necklace of some sort from under his shirt, removing it from his neck. He emptied his pockets of money and some keys, putting them on my dresser. He turned to face me.

“Now for some fun,” I heard him say just before he pounced on the bed. I tried to get away, but my back was already up against the headboard. He grabbed my foot. I tried to kick myself loose but he had a grip like a bear trap. He easily pulled me toward himself with one hand. He was amazingly strong. I kept trying to connect with a kick but he easily defended my efforts. Soon enough I was pulled off the bed, landing on my back on the carpet. He put his foot against my throat, pressing down. I got both hands under his foot, pressing up, but his weight was too much for me. He raised his foot and as I sucked in air, he landed his heel hard into my abs.

“Oh shit,” I blurted out as I curled up in a fetal position, my stomach muscles already starting to burn. He reached down and grabbed me up by the tie again. I was nothing more than a rag doll in his grip. He shoved me against the wall and delivered another couple of hard upper cuts in a row, literally lifting my feet off the ground. He let go and I sank to my knees. In spite of the treatment I was receiving, I was now experiencing a raging hard on as well. My briefs were tented and he noticed.

“Maybe this is what she sees in you,” he said as he jerked me back to my feet. He rubbed my hardon, then grabbed my balls in his hand with a painful squeeze. “Or maybe you’re feeling something for me. Is that it, you’re a queer?”

I was violently shaking my head to the negative when he let go of my balls, for which I was incredibly grateful. However, had I known what was coming, I might have preferred he kept his grip. His knee came up so hard into my balls that I swear they came clear up into my throat. A small amount of gorge filled my throat and I fought hard to keep it in. He tossed me back on the bed and walked out of the room.

“Where’s the bottled water,” I heard him ask from the other room through the muffled sound of blood pounding in my head?


When he reappeared, I was still laying in the same spot he’d thrown me, my legs hanging over the edge of the bed. He sucked a bottle of water dry and tossed it to the floor. He came toward me and I cringed.

“What’s the matter, boyo,” he asked? “You’re not afraid are you?” I shook my head no but I’m pretty sure my eyes betrayed me. He climbed on the bed, his hard, flexed thighs on either side of my torso. He grabbed my shirt at the collar and with one hard yank, the front buttons flew in every direction.

“She bought me that shirt,” I yelled at him, my eyes filled with anger. I took a round house swing, but he easily blocked it. He wrapped my arm at the shoulder, tucking it under his body. He grabbed my other hand, tucked it under my head, and held onto it while his free left hand starting punching me in the gut. Repeatedly the blows landed. I couldn’t get my breath. The pain was incredible. I easily lost count of the number of times he hit me, not even sure I was aware of when he stopped.

All I knew was that when he did, he rolled me first to one side, then the other, pulling my midsection in between his legs. Having wrestled a lot, I knew he had me in a leg scissor. What I didn’t know was how strong his quads were as he locked his feet and started to squeeze.

“Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! Those were the only words I could get out. My hands clasped on his hard quads, the muscle like steel bands in my grip. I could feel the heated blood just below the skin’s surface, coursing like a flow of lava as he held me. He rolled to his back, lifting me in the air above him. I could feel my ribs starting to bend. My breathing was also becoming more and more labored. I barely managed to say, “Please stop.”

His grip lessened and he laid me back down. Then he shoved me away, removing his legs. My chest rose and fell. As he sat up and scooted toward the end of the bed, he punched me hard in the gut one more time. The pain was almost what one would describe as exquisite.

“Oh fuck me,” I said, rolling to my side, hands up on my gut like they were holding my insides where they belonged.


I felt like I barely had my breath back when he grabbed my leg, pulling me to the edge of the bed. Using the tie still around my neck and the collar of my torn shirt, he threw me to the floor, then immediately hauled me back to my feet. My throat felt like I was on Mister Toad’s Wild Ride at Disneyland. He threw a couple of hard punches into my gut, a back hand to my balls, and then slammed me to the bed again.
He grabbed one arm of my shirt and ripped the sleeve wide open, buttons dropping on the floor. He spun me over, slammed a fist into my left kidney, grabbed the other sleeve and did the same thing.

“You’re gonna pay for this shirt,” I said matter-of–factly.?

“You already are,” he replied. Grabbing me by the back of the collar, he hauled me up in the air, holding me there. My toes couldn’t quite touch the carpet so I swung gently too and fro. He tossed me to the floor. I tried to roll away but wasn’t quick enough. A kick caught me in the gut. Then his foot found my balls and my still raging hardon. The flat of his foot came down hard, causing me to yelp like a puppy and then he added his weight. Standing on my privates one footed, he gave a little hop and I’m pretty sure I blacked out. If I didn’t, it must have been like a drunken stupor because when I came to, I was back laying on the bed.

As soon as my eyes opened, he grabbed the tattered shirt and spun it over my head and a sleeve around my neck. Yanking back and up, my butt coming off the bed, I couldn’t breathe, was choking, and he started punching my gut again. I lost count at ten hits.

Pain wrestled for domination in my body. My arms flailed, my feet kicked, but none of it did any good until he decided to let go. I slumped, my head just off the bed. He stepped over my head, my face jammed up into his junk between his quads, and he began to squeeze again. I was immediately hearing the ocean in my ears as my own blood coursed. His squeeze was incredible and I thought my head would pop like one of those You-Tube videos of a person squeezing a watermelon between their thighs.

He finally let go and stepped off my head. Another fist to the gut and I was curled up like a baby again.

“No more, please no more.” I didn’t care if it sounded like I was begging.

“That’s for me to decide, Boyo,” he replied. I felt him grab both sleeves. With an incredible jerk in both directions, the sleeves tore from bottom to top, now tattered flags hanging from my shoulders.


At this point, only my t-shirt, tie, and skivvies remained intact. He grabbed the tie and dragged me off the bed again. Holding the tie tight, just above the crown of my head, he shoved me back against the wall. I brought my hands up to protect my gut.

“Put your hands down,” he ordered. I started to but brought them back up as his fist started for my gut.

“Put them down or it’ll hurt more.” Somehow, I knew he meant it so I put them down. He slammed into my gut several times, each blow digging in deeper and deeper, feeling like he was close to being able to grab my spinal cord. As my knees started to give, the tie tightened, forcing me to stand back up. He continued this form of torture for about 15 minutes by the clock beside my bed but it felt like hours passed. Unexpectedly, his knee came up, catching me hard in the groin. Gorge once again filled my throat but went back down. His hand came up hard, clenching my balls and I screamed. The tie filled my throat, cutting off the sound. “Don’t do that again.”

I muffled my agreement, also shaking my head up and down, tears filling my eyes from the pain. He pulled the tie back out and removed it from my neck. Forcing me around to face the wall, he tied my hands behind my back. Spinning me around, he dropped me back on the bed and started working my gut over again. I was lying on my hands, plus they were tied, so I brought my knees up, trying to stem the blows. He slammed a fist into one of my quads and the muscle went into spasms. I couldn’t even raise my leg. I had heard of this condition, called a “dead leg”, but I had never had it done to me with just a punch. He threatened to punch the other leg and I lowered it. His pounding resumed and my gut turned to jelly, not able to withstand his punches in any way, shape, or form. He would change direction, hitting from different angles, but he didn’t stop until I was close to blacking out, unable to draw sufficient breath. He stopped punching me, but only long enough to wrap the shirt shreds back over my head, the sleeve again around my throat. I had no way to fend him off and soon I felt my self losing consciousness. I didn’t feel him undo the shirt sleeve or lay me out on the bed, massaging my chest to get me breathing again. When I came to, my hands were free and I was in the middle of the bed, my head on the pillows. His bulk lay next to me, one arm under my neck.

“Ah, good, you’re back with us.”


His free hand caressed my punished abs, rubbing up and down in a slow, soothing motion. Every few strokes, it would touch the tip of my still swollen woodie that continued to tent my briefs. Each time he did sent a small electric shock up my spine, causing me to moan out loud. He leaned over and filled my mouth with his tongue, his lips tight against mine. I couldn’t help but kiss back in response. As we kissed for several moments, his hand continued stroking me. Even with the pain, it felt so good. One of his legs rubbed up and down on the quad he’s punched. It was like he was trying to make up for all the rough treatment.

He leaned in and started kissing me again. That’s when he punched me. It was the perfect mixture of pain and pleasure. I could hardly stand the combination of feelings that flooded me. My hard on is completely engorged, almost uncomfortable. His stroking hand moves down to my meat and encases it.

“What do we have here?” Now we’re kissing, I’m being punched, and his hand is jerking me off. I can hardly believe a man is able to put me in this sort of euphoria. “Now, let’s see if we can’t make you forget about her completely.”


The End