He felt a hard hand grip his chin, twisting his head upwards, hot breath against his skin, wet tongue running over his neck. He grew more frightened, fear clawing at the back of his mind, as he screamed silently in denial.
The hot hands were running over his body, pinching his sagging man breasts and nipples, grabbing his crotch, pressing hard enough to bruise. He continued to struggle, to fight. He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of just giving in. He continued to try to fight back, even though his efforts were greeted with fierce blows. They rained down on his body, on his face, bruising, cutting, scratching. He could feel the blood trickle down his pudgy face, and taste it in his mouth. Still, he fought.
His arms were twisted behind him, pinning him down. He heard the cruel laughter, and felt the hands fumbling at the front of his piss and shit-stained lime green hotpants, the button popping, and the zipper slid down. He felt a hand thrusting inside, gripping his pathetic two-inch member hard; not to give him pleasure, but to cause pain.