Three times this month. Three separate occasions his stepson has come home defeated by the same group of bullies, and three times the stepdad has given the same lecture that clearly means nothing. The frustration has curdled into something dark and purposeful. When the boy slinks through the door for the fourth time with that familiar hangdog expression, stepdad does not even speak. He simply points toward the bedroom with one thick finger, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles bulge visibly. The boy shuffles past, already knowing what comes next. In the bedroom, stepdad strips the boy with rough hands that yank fabric instead of unbuttoning. Once naked, the boy is thrown onto the bed with enough force to bounce. Stepdad looms over him, already pulling his own clothes off to reveal a body coiled with frustrated energy and a cock that is almost intimidating in its angry hardness. He flips the boy onto his stomach, pins his wrists above his head with one hand, and enters him raw with the other hand guiding himself to the target. The wrecking begins immediately — no warm-up, no tenderness, just relentless bareback pounding that drives the air from the boy’s lungs with every impact. Stepdad alternates between positions like a man possessed — doggy, prone, sideways — each one designed to drill deeper and harder. By the time he finishes with a growl and a flood of cum, the boy is a trembling puddle of sweat and satisfaction.
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