I Sought Out a Man to Beat Me Until He Broke Me

Ever since I was born, my body never learned to fear pain the way everyone else’s did.

My mother noticed the first time I was vaccinated. The pediatrician put the needle in, waited for the cry that always comes, and I just kept looking at her with the same face as before. When she told the family at home, my grandmother laughed and said I’d come out brave. None of them understood it wasn’t bravery; it just didn’t hurt me the same.

Then came the childhood scrapes. I’d fall off my bike, shred my knee to pieces, and while the other kids were crying in the schoolyard, I’d sit on the curb staring at the blood with curiosity. What unsettled my mother most was seeing me pick off the scabs too soon, with my nails, without blinking. She’d scold me, tell me I’d be scarred forever, and a week later I’d be doing it again.

The pediatrician didn’t give it much thought until she pushed so hard that they ended up sending me to a neurophysiologist. The initial tests came back normal. Then came the subjective ones, the reaction assessments: deeper and deeper pinpricks, sharp taps with a little rubber hammer, measured pressure. The doctor looked at me waiting for a reaction that never came. In the end he referred me to a psychologist friend of his. Between them they concluded it was a feature of the nervous system, nothing pathological, and that it would probably never give me problems. Maybe it might even come in handy someday.

They were half right. It didn’t give me problems, no. But it gave me something else.

***

I started watching porn around twelve, like almost everyone. The first things that came up on screen were straight videos, and what stuck in my head wasn’t the naked woman or the guy on top, it was the moment she moaned. When the other one shoved it into her without warning, rough, and that sound slipped out of her between pain and pleasure, and I no longer knew which was which. I’d stop there, rewind, play it five times. I’d stare fixedly as the whole cock slammed into her in one thrust, balls deep, and she opened her mouth without anything coming out.

From there I started looking for gay videos and immediately knew that was it. Big, brutish guys, with thick, veiny cocks that literally split other younger guys open, the ones clutching the sheets, screaming, biting the pillow. I’d put the screen a hand’s breadth from my face to watch the close-ups: the puckered hole stretched around the shaft, the cum running down the thighs, the kid’s face smashed into the mattress while the other one fucked him without giving him a second’s rest. I didn’t picture myself as the big one. I pictured myself as the one taking it. The one opening his mouth to scream and the other covering it with his palm so he’d keep going without pause, without oxygen, without escape. I’d jerk off with both hands, squeezing hard, imagining that the one fucking me was one of those guys and that afterward he’d finish in my mouth without pulling out.

I turned eighteen with a single fixed idea in my head. I needed someone to hurt me. Not hospital hurt, the good kind of hurt, the kind that crosses the line and forces the body to wake up. I needed an adult cock, thick, punishing my throat and my ass until I was left broken. I was also clear that he had to be older than me. Much older. Someone with patience, with technique, someone who genuinely liked splitting virgins open and cumming inside without asking. No guy my age playing at being tough for ten minutes.

I went into a chat for men and filtered by age and description. The third profile said it plainly, no makeup: forty-something, dominant, punisher, I like hitting, on the ass, in the face, wherever it’s needed. I like breaking boys who ask for it. I don’t want to force anyone. If you want it, write me. He called himself Marco.

We talked for a long two weeks before he agreed to see me. I told him I was a virgin and he was surprised, because usually virgins ask for gentleness and lots of patience. I made it clear I didn’t. I asked him, almost begged him through the chat, not to hold back, to get straight to it the moment he walked through the door. To treat me like I’d been asking him for months. To open my ass on the first thrust, without over-lubing, without pauses. Marco asked me three times if I understood what I was saying. Three times I said yes. He sent me a picture of his resting cock lying against his thigh, long, thick, with pronounced veins, and wrote: this is what’s going to go all the way inside you, kid. Think it over carefully. I answered with one word: thanks.

We made plans for a Thursday. I got out of school at five and by six I was standing in front of his building, staring at the intercom buttons, with my heart doing things that also didn’t hurt but felt strange.

***

Marco lived on the third floor, at the end of a long hallway that smelled of old wood and coffee. I walked up to give myself time. When I reached his door I paused for a second with my hand raised in the air, looking at it as if it belonged to someone else. Then I knocked twice.

He opened right away, as if he’d been waiting for me on the other side. He was taller than the chat photos showed. Mid-forties well worn, broad shoulders, a neat short beard, the look of someone who knows exactly what’s in front of him. He motioned me in and locked the door behind my back.

I didn’t even manage a greeting. He grabbed my face with one hand, hard, and slapped me twice, the second one harder than the first. My right cheek burned and my eyes watered from the reflex, not from pain. I felt a tingle in my stomach and, lower down, my cock starting to swell against the fabric of my briefs.

“Good afternoon, kid,” he said, not letting go of my jaw. “You come to surrender, like you promised?”

“Yes, sir.”

He let me go. He took two steps back and looked me over again, this time more slowly, as if inspecting me.

“You look intact. For most boys, that would already have been too much to start with.”

“I can take a lot,” I answered, steadier than I expected. “That was almost nothing. I already told you in the chat: I don’t want caresses, I don’t want to go slow. I want you to treat me without care, like you’ve been doing this to me my whole life. I want you to use my ass and my mouth until you get tired.”

Marco gave a low laugh, almost to himself. He came closer again and slapped me twice more, this time with an open, firm palm, one on each cheek. They cracked dryly against the hallway wall. He turned my face to both sides with two fingers under my chin. With the other hand he grabbed his crotch over his pants and adjusted what was already getting hard in there, without the slightest pretense, so I could see it.

“Good. Then let’s make one thing clear before we really start. From the moment you closed that door, you don’t decide anything else. Not if we stop, not if we keep going, not whether you like it or not. I decide. I tell you when. If you ask me to stop, I won’t stop. If you ask for more, maybe I still won’t give it to you. Is that clear, kid?”

“Yes, sir. I came for that.”

“Now get all your clothes off. Right here, in the hallway. Drop them on the floor, I don’t care how they land. I want to see you the way you came into the world before you move from this tile.”

I started with the jacket. Then the T-shirt. The sneakers, the socks, one by one. The jeans took me a little because my hands were shaking, not from fear, from pure adrenaline. I pulled the briefs down last and let them fall on the warm pile of clothes. My cock slipped out of the waistband already hard, rock hard, pointing upward and dripping a clear thread that hung from the tip. Marco watched me without blinking, hands in his trouser pockets, like someone evaluating a horse at a fair.

“Look at you, kid,” he said slowly. “You’re harder than a flagpole and I haven’t even touched the head yet. You’re a textbook faggot.”

“Yes, sir.”

I had never felt like that before. My skin bristled all over. Not from cold; the apartment was heated. It was knowing I was naked, a virgin, barefoot in the hallway of a man twenty years older who had explicit permission to do whatever he wanted with me. It was exactly what I’d come looking for and, even so, it was stronger than I had imagined in the dark of my room while I jerked off thinking about a scene like this.

“Turn around. Slowly.”

I turned. I felt his gaze on my back, on my buttocks, sliding down my legs to my heels. Then I heard his steps coming up behind me. A large hand settled on my shoulder and gently pushed me forward a little, just enough for my ass to be exposed and parted. With the other hand he spread my cheeks without ceremony and I felt the cold air slip into a place no one had ever touched before.

“Virgin ass, tight ass,” he murmured. “What a shame it doesn’t last long.”

He spat. I felt the warm gob hit right on my hole and slowly run down the crease. He ran two fingers over it, massaging the saliva into the muscle, not entering yet, just making clear where this was going to be. Then he withdrew his hand.

The first slap came without warning. It landed flat, hard, right on the right cheek. The second on the left, just as dry. I barely moved a centimeter. Four more came, alternating, one after another, and on the sixth I finally felt the heat rising for real, a steady burn spread across my whole ass, pleasant, almost warm. A short moan slipped out of my mouth. Not from pain. From hunger.

“Fuck, what an ass you’ve got,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “And you take it so well. That’s not normal, kid. That’s not normal.”

“I already told you, sir. I need more.”

He gave me six more, now with his hand wide open and his arm swinging from the shoulder, each slap echoing off the hallway walls. On the last one he gripped both hot cheeks and slowly spread them apart, looking at the saliva-wet hole, and spat again. Then he pushed in the tip of his thumb, just a centimeter, to test how much resistance there was. The ring gave way faster than he expected. I heard his amused huff behind me.

“This little hole is asking for war. Well, war you’re going to get.”

He sighed. It was the sigh of a man realizing I hadn’t lied to him in the chat even a little. He took me by the neck, not squeezing, just guiding me, and made me walk in front of him down the hallway with his hand firm on the back of my neck and the other resting at the base of my spine, just above my ass, marking my route like someone leading an animal to its place. I could feel his eyes fixed on me at every step, and my own cock swinging hard between my legs. We turned through a door on the right.

The room was arranged like an operating table. A large bed with dark sheets, two dim lamps, and on a wooden dresser, lined up with obsessive care, several objects I had never seen in real life outside a screen: a leather paddle, a wide belt, a thin rod that looked like cane, a pair of metal handcuffs, a black dildo thicker than my wrist, and a couple of other things I didn’t even dare identify at a glance.

I stood looking at all of it from the threshold. Marco stepped in front of me and made me look up at him. He unbuckled his belt, pulled down his fly, and took his cock out into the open, not rushing, holding it at the base with two fingers so I could see it head-on. It was exactly like the photo, and more. Long, thick in the middle, with a swollen purple head pointing upward, a thick thread of clear liquid already hanging from the tip.

“Kneel, kid. Before I touch you with any of that,” he nodded toward the dresser, “I want to know if you can suck cock. Open your mouth. Stick out your tongue. All the way out. Like this.”

I dropped to my knees on the wooden floor and stuck out my tongue as far as I could. He grabbed my head with both hands, one on each ear, and laid the tip of his cock on my tongue. It was hot and heavy. He pushed it in slowly the first time, to gauge how much would fit, and the second time he drove it halfway in all at once. I gagged, my eyes filled with tears. He didn’t pull out. He left it there, pressed against my throat, until I got used to it, and then he started moving his hips, short, rhythmic, never pulling it all the way out. Each thrust knocked his balls against my chin. I gripped his thighs with both hands to steady myself and he knocked my hands away with a slap.

“Hands down. You’re a mouth tonight. Nothing else.”

I lowered my hands and let them hang at my sides. He grabbed my head harder and sped up. Now he drove it all the way in every time, his pelvis banging against my nose, my throat closing over him and opening again, saliva running down my chin and dripping onto my chest. After a couple of minutes he yanked it out all at once, a long rope of spit dangled between us, and he patted my cheeks with his wet cock, first one and then the other, marking my face with his own saliva.

“Not bad for a virgin. Not bad. But we didn’t come here for your mouth, did we?”

“No, sir. I came for you to put it in my ass.”

“With those words, kid. Good.”

He ran his hand over the dresser, hesitated for a moment between the paddle and the belt, and in the end grabbed the belt. He unrolled it calmly, without theatrics, folded it in two holding it by the buckle, and cracked it sharply against his own palm to test its weight. The sound was so clean that even I inhaled deeper.

“Lean over the bed. Feet apart, hands flat on the mattress. If you move from where I put you without permission, we start over from scratch. Understood, kid?”

“Yes, my sir.”

I obeyed. I planted my palms on the sheet, spread my legs until I felt the pull in my thighs, lowered my head between my shoulders. I closed my eyes not to protect myself, but to feel everything from the inside, without the noise of sight. I heard his breathing behind me. I heard the belt moving through the air once, measuring distance. And then, for the first time in my eighteen years, someone was going to give me exactly what I had imagined so many nights in the dark.

The first belt stroke crossed both cheeks at once. It sounded tremendous in the closed room. I felt the burning line rise up my back and down my thighs like a live electrical cable. I bit my lower lip, but it wasn’t from pain. It was from the want, the real want I’d spent years holding back, to ask for the second one.