I was only eight when it happened. Not even old enough to really know what was happening to me.
I'd gone over to a friends, and I- Well, long story short, my friend left with his mom for an emergency hospital trip, and I was left alone with his father, crying about how it was all my fault that he'd fallen off the bed and hit his head. I always felt it was my fault as a child.
His father informed me that he'd have to punish me. I didn't understand at all. Only my parents had ever punished me, and teachers, technically, with the occasional spanking or reprimand. I wasn't prepared at all.
He told me to bend over his knee, and I started bawling even harder, assuming that I'd be getting a spanking. The man wasn't all that formidable, only about 5'7"- an accountant. Trembling, I bent over his knee, legs weak with nausea and big, fat crocodile tears dripping down my chin.
When he started pulling down my pants, I froze, hiccuping unsurely. "Wh-what are you doing, Mr. Jones??" I asked hesitantly, twitching on his lap. No one but me took off my pants anymore. I was a big boy, mommy told me so.
"You're a big boy, aren't you Cody?? I'm just going to punish you," he assured, and I was back to crying. Surely a spanking on my bare behind would be even more painful than when I had my pants on.
The spanking I expected did not come.
A warm finger did, lightly sliding down my crack and pausing to tease the hole there. Two large, warm palms spread my cheeks, and I felt something cold touching between them, dripping down. I found out later that it was spit. I shivered. "Mr.- Uh, Mr. Jones??" I asked nervously. Something in my head was telling me that this act in itself was inherently WRONG.
"Shhh..." he said, apparently trying to calm me as he rubbed his spit around my quivering hole with one thumb. And then it really started.
He moved one hand, to gently press at my hole with one index finger. I squirmed, trying to get off of his lap, but his other arm was barring me from moving. "Mr. Jones, I don't like this," I said shakily, pants around my ankles, and his trousers were uncomfortable and chafing against my small, flaccid penis. Even now it's not very remarkable, and when I was eight it was hardly anything. It wasn't something that captured my attention, although the fact that Daddy's was so much bigger than mine had always fascinated me.
He pushed his finger in and I jumped, crying again. "Mr. Jones! Stop, please! Things don't go in there!" I was nearing hysterics, trying desperately not to hyperventilate from my hiccuping breaths. "That hurts!" I yelled at him.
He shoved it in further, roughly, and I clenched, trying to force the foreign intrusion out of my body. It only made the slight stinging sensation worse, and I let out a yelp. "Please??" I practically whimpered, head dropping to stare at the floor dejectedly.
"No. Now shut the hell up and sit still. John probably needs stitches because of you. This is your punishment," he reiterated, starting to thrust shallowly with his finger. He spit again, and it seemed to help a little bit. It didn't stop me crying though, and screaming as he forcefully pushed in another finger. I was bleeding, then. I only found out later that he made me bleed when I found the blood in my underwear.
"No, please," I begged, shaking uncontrollably and sobbing.
It might not have gotten any farther had he not found my prostate. It made my tiny prick twitch against his leg. His erection was poking at me through his pants, although I didn't know what it was, and he was clearly getting off on torturing me. Discovering that he'd found it, he used it as an excuse to breach what wasn't his with another too-large finger. I think I'd gone into shock by this point, but for some reason my cock was hard. I didn't understand at all. He was making me hard, and that had never happened before. I didn't know what to feel, other than the pain blossoming from my anus.
"Please take them out," I whispered hoarsely, pleadingly, voice broken from screaming and crying.
After another few long, slow minutes of him spreading his fingers as wide as he could and ripping the tissue even more, he pulled them out. He held my cheeks apart and spat into my now-bleeding, gaping entrance. He yanked up my pants, looking furious. I didn't know what I'd done this time.
He grabbed me by the collar, jerking me forward roughly. My penis was still hard in my pants, my rear already beginning to leak and create the stain that I'd find later. He poked my zipper. "You feel that??" he hissed, face red and spit flying from his lips as he spoke, "That means you liked it." He was such a liar.
"You can't tell anyone," he ordered, "or your parents will hate you. They'll send you away. Now- go clean up before Mrs. Jones comes home."
With that last, life-crushing threat, he nudged me towards his son's bathroom, my ass throbbing, my eyes still dripping tears that I should have saved to cry the next time.
Because that was only the first time. And I wish that I'd known then to tell someone.