As Marty awoke, for a blissful moment he didn't remember the events of the previous night. He didn't remember the sick, twisted things that had been done to him – that he had allowed to be done to him. That he'd sucked on another man's cock. That he'd been folded in half and fucked like a well-used slut. That he'd been paid for the entire thing, then had in turn paid back his new master in full, and then some, all for the privilege of coming on his own face.
Now here he was, with no clothes, no car, and no dignity, in the middle of the woods in what was apparently the house of a deviant older man named Roger. God, he didn't even know the man's last name.
Or his real first name, probably, Marty scolded himself.
And to top it all off, his dick had straightened up as the memories came rushing back.
Marty groaned and sat up. He was exactly where he'd been left the night before – sprawled in a pool of cum on the house's hardwood-floored living room. The cum had crusted over as it dried, flaking off of him as he stood up and tried to get his bearings.
Over the smell of stale sweat and dried, the young man could smell something that made his mouth water – hot food. He timidly crept towards what was apparently the kitchen, then slowly pushed the door separating it from the living room open a crack and peered inside.
Roger stood over a frying pan at the stove, with his back to the door. He was dressed like a lumberjack – big work boots, blue jeans, and a red flannel shirt. He looked completely different than the previous night, but at the same time he retained a cocksure, casually dominant stance. Marty inwardly flinched at the sight of him, but at the same moment his cock surged even more erect.
"Come in, boy. Don't just stand there gawking," grunted Roger without turning around.
"H-how did you..." Marty mumbled.
Marty could hear the man's smirk without seeing it. "I could smell the cum on you."
Roger piled up two plates with pancakes, scrambled eggs, and juicy sausage, then laid them both out on the table. He calmly poured himself a tall glass of milk, using the end of a carton of milk, and seated himself.
Bewildered by his abuser's (and abuser Roger was, even if the abuse was consensual) nonchalance, Marty cautiously seated himself across the table from him. As Roger slathered everything on his own plate with hot sauce, Marty drooled over his food. Until faced with such a sumptuous meal, Marty hadn't realized how incredibly hungry he was. His hands were shaking with anticipation as he picked up his fork.
Before he had a chance to take his first mouthful, Roger offered him the bottle of hot sauce. "Want to add a little flavor?"
Marty barely paid attention to the offer, too busy attempting to shovel a little bit of each food onto his fork. "Uhh...nah."
Roger shook his head slowly. "No, no. That won't do. I won't have someone eating such bland fare at my own table. I'm not that kind of host."
Marty's eyes shot to Roger's stern face, while the youth's stomach dropped. He'd made some sort of mistake. "I...I'll take the sauce i-if it'll make you happy."
"Oh, it's too late for that. But there's another kind of seasoning I have in mind. Stand up."
Trembling a little, Marty reluctantly stood, once more exposing his naked body to the rough gaze of his tormentor.
Roger pointed to Marty's dick, which betrayed him by slowly rising like a dog to greet its master. "Use that little thing."
Marty nearly broke into tears. "What? But I'm hungry..."
