Buggering the Burglar BoysChapter 3
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Pooh free porn video
The following is a story I did based on fictionalized accounts of events from my
father's real life. A song Dad used to love inspired it. The transformation
isn't so much physical as... well you'll see. Hope you enjoy it.
Pooh
By JDG
Who can say where dreams come from, or where childhood goes? His dreams
had been the sustaining force in his life. Never wavering... never changing. The
one constant he could depend upon. When did they start? Who could say. Perhaps
they started when he was very small and his mother gave him a little yellow
bear. A smiling bit of fluff and cotton that he could hold close when his Daddy
drank too much and became the angry man. When his large, calloused hands would
curl into fists and try to beat the innocence out of the tiny boy.
Perhaps they started in third grade, when a horsey faced teacher would
read to the class, after lunch, about the hundred-acre wood... and the
adventures of that same bear and his friends. Her voice would gently transport
her surrogate children to that far away place. A place where there was always so
much to do... count all the bees in the hive... chase all the clouds from the
sky.
His mind snapped back to the present. He could not afford to let it drift
today of all days. He, along with the rest of the members of the Special
Response Team, were en route to a drug raid. He, as the biggest man, would be on
the sledgehammer. He would take the door down and then move aside as the first
in-team entered the building. Then he and the support team would move in and
help secure the area. He never imagined that his life would turn out like this.
*****
"You little worthless piece of shit!" his father was in a tearing rage
today. "What are you a Pussy! Why don't you wear a dress like your sister then
you little faggot!!"
His head down the young man trembled with barely suppressed panic at his
father's display of temper. He could afford to show no fear in front of the big
man or it would go the worse for him.
"Look at me when I talk to you Pussy! Why the hell did you let that fat
bastard get away with beating your ass!??!"
It wasn't really a question. It was simply meant to evoke a response that
could be twisted and used against him. The boy knew this, and so remained,
stoically, silent. After all the "fat bastard" his father referred to was 4
years his senior and at least 80 lbs heavier than him. When Mark Guzwell took it
into his head to abuse a smaller child in the neighborhood, there was precious
little they could do about it. Even most adults gave the 18 year old a wide
berth.
He was brought back to the reality of his present danger by a stinging
slap to his cheek. His father's hands were like leather. Years as a sailor had
toughened them to the state of animal hide. "I said look at me you little
bastard! No running off to hide away with your little sissy faggot stuffed bear.
Damn! I thought that when I got rid of that piece of shit you would start to
grow up! But no! You're as big a pansy as ever! You sure ain't any of my seed.
Your slut of a Momma must have been fucking around on me with some candy ass.
You make me sick you little shit! Get the fuck out of my sight before I really
get pissed off at you." With a final vicious kick to his backside, the boy was
sent to his room.
Only behind the, relative, safety of his locked door could he unleash his
tears. His sobs racked his thin chest as he threw himself on his bed. He had to
muffle the sound of his gulping breaths and bitter tears in his pillow or, he
knew, his father would kick his door in and really beat him. His back and
buttocks bore the scars of earlier encounters where his manhood had been found
wanting. He supposed he was lucky his father had not been drunk this time. It
could have been far... far worse.
Two years later his father had left his mother to marry a rich woman. He
finally had everything he wanted. A big house, lots of money, a woman with big
tits and a big ass to boot, and a young step daughter who was rumored to "be
into" older men. The boy should have been in hog heaven. But, strangely, he
wasn't. He still needed to prove himself to his father. To win, just once, his
approval. His excellent grades had never done it. His ability at drawing had
failed also. His speed and skill at track had been either ignored, or ridiculed.
After all, his father would say, a real man has no need to run away. A
real man stands his ground and fights to the last. The boy began to work out. He
did push ups and pull ups. He did butterflies with bricks in his hands on a
homemade bench, constructed from a board and two sawhorses. He studied martial
arts in the after school program. Eventually he got a weight set for his
birthday.
After graduation he married his high school sweetheart, against virtually
everyone's advice. They had two children in as many years. Everyone was right,
but he wasn't able, yet, to admit it. On the day he learned of her on going
affair, his father had come to the trailer he lived in. The old man didn't look
so big and threatening anymore. He had been gradually drinking himself to death
for the last 4 years. They argued about his wife. He could not admit, not to
this man, that she was unfaithful.
The little bear struggled mightily to hold back the swelling torrent of
rage and pain in his mind. His little donkey friend, and the silly tiger also
tried. The rabbit, the mole, even the tiny piglet leant their strength to the
struggle, but, to no avail. The dam broke. At last all the pain and rage was
released.
When his eyes cleared he saw his father, a broken, used up, old drunk
lying on the ground with a split lip and a black eye. The old man just stared at
him for a while. Slowly he rubbed his sore jaw. Then, he picked himself up,
looked at his son, and said, "I'm sorry."
He walked off to his car and left the young man panting with the release
of such raw emotion. His wife threw him out that night. He moved back in with
his mother until he could get a place of his own. It was while he was at work
the next day that word came that his father had suffered a fatal heart attack
while at breakfast.
He was one of three people at the funeral. He was the only one that cried.
*****
"Heads up people." his Sergeant was shouting at the team. "Everyone knows
their job. Let's just do this right, and it will go by the numbers. Garrett, are
you ready with that hammer!"
"Sir, yes Sir!" he shouted, as he felt sweat trickle down his back, under
his bullet resistant vest.
"All right people, this is it! Go-go-go-go-go!"
With that they all tumbled out of the back of the van and ran toward the
low cost housing project apartment. He swing the 16 pound sledge like a baseball
bat and the lock blew out of the metal door. The first in team surged past him.
As soon as the door was clear he abandoned the sledge and charged inside. The
team had already gathered the occupants into the living room, and had them all
proned out on the floor. He began to search the closets for people hiding
within. Then he saw it.
A small, dirt encrusted, doll of a bear. Yellow with a red shirt, smiling
at him from the floor of a closet piled with junk and old clothes. As he reached
for it he heard the tell tale click of a shotgun hammer. Looking up, he saw a
scared kid, couldn't have been more than 15 at most, pointing a twelve-gauge
pump shotgun right at his face. He could have brought his Sig Saur 9mm semi
automatic pistol up and fired on the boy. He could have swatted the shotgun
barrel aside and rolled clear. He could have leaped backwards. Instead he picked
up the bear. He never heard the roar of the shotgun blast that took him full in
the face.
Slowly he sat up. He was confused. Where was he? In the woods somewhere.
He heard his name called. Looking in the direction the voice came from he saw
his father, young, fit, and smiling. Looking down at himself he realized he was
a young child again. Behind him he heard a noise. A gentle voice said, "Welcome
home boy." A coarse paw sat light on his shoulder; it's yellow fur gleaming in
the sunlight. He ran to his father who lifted him high in the air, embracing him
in his strong arms. He was home at last.
'Count all the bees in the hive! Chase all the clouds from the sky!'
Home is where your heart is.
Fini
Mckenna
- 26.06.2020
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