He sucked in a low breath when the other headless man rubbed his weeping cockhead against Ichabod’s already well-pounded pucker. Brom had filled his hand with soap from the dispenser on the wall, sudsing up his rigid length, and Ichabod wondered if the horseman was going to jerk himself to completion right then and there. He didn’t have time to dwell on the thought, for the other dullahan pushed into him slowly, allowing the smaller man’s body to adjust to the girth of his meaty shaft.
“Are you ready to cum?”
The dullahan inside him chuckled at Brom’s question, pumping shallowly as Ichabod whimpered.
“I’ve been ready to cum since I came in here. Gonna fill this tight little hole.”
Ichabod Crane could not pull his eyes away from those of the dullahan before him. Brom Bones never blinked, his dark eyes flashing in amusement. He held his head under one arm, stroking his rinsed-clean cock with the other, watching as the other headless man pumped into Ichabod relentlessly.
The reestablished pressure on his prostate was making his eyes roll back in his head, and he imagined them spinning like a cartoon character’s. The sound of the fat scrotum slapping against him made him jolt, but he could not pull his eyes away from whatever was coming next, and there was unmistakably something coming. His rival set his head on the bench outside of the shower’s spray, beside that of his groaning companion’s, still stroking himself.
“Suck my balls.”
Ichabod didn’t think he was serious. At least, not at first. Not until the horseman’s balls were pressed to his face, Brom’s huge hand palming Ichabod’s skull as if it were no bigger than a miniature pumpkin.
His mouth opened tentatively, his tongue laving the dullahan’s scrotum until he sucked a fat testicle into his mouth. First one, then the other, Bones’s head groaning from the bench. Ichabod should have known what was coming next, but he was, he would be ashamed to admit later, woefully naïve about the situation. When Brom Bones nudged the pre-cum smeared head of his cock to Ichabod’s lips, he jerked. He couldn’t be serious, could he?
“Open your mouth, Crane. You’re going to suck my cock.”
Ichabod Crane was no stranger to the sounds of a sloppy blow job, and had he been standing on the other side of the bank of lockers, he knew that was what he would have been hearing. A sloppy blow job, a sloppy fucking, the moaning and groanings of the two headless men and him in the center, speared on their cocks like a suckling pig, being turned on a spit. The fire over which he was spit roasted was that of his own hubris, and he had no one to blame but himself. When you hear a cock being sucked, if it’s not yours, you ought to keep walking.
“You’re going to get a nice double cream filling, like one of those fancy little cakes. How does that sound, professor?”
He was unable to answer, stuffed as he was with headless cock, but he was fairly certain an answer wasn’t expected. The horseman fucking him from behind groaned first, and Ichabod remembered the very first time he had watched the two men, the way this one’s hips had rolled in a slow undulation as he erupted. It was the same movement he took now, his cock going off like a geyser.
Brom continued to thrust for several long minutes, his grip on Ichabod’s hair growing tighter the closer he came to his orgasm until he was moaning, forcing his cock down Ichabod’s throat, ejaculating what felt like a gallon. Spurt after spurt, he could feel the horseman’s cock pulse against his lips, pulsing as Brom Bones emptied. He had imagined being filled like a water balloon, but he had never dreamt of it happening from both ends, couldn’t have fathomed Brom Bones coming straight down his throat.
When it was finished, he was just as limp as he’d been when they’d started, only now he was leaking from what felt like every orifice.
“The next time you want to watch, Crane, you ought to join in. Or else you ought to mind your own fucking business. Understand?”
Brom Bones punctuated his words with his deflated horse cock, slapped against Ichabod’s cheek, one final humiliation. He was well-fucked, filled from both ends, would probably be leaking for days, and might never get the taste of Brom Bone’s semen off the back of his tongue.
Ichabod wasn’t sure how he managed to leave the locker room on his own two feet, and was even less sure how he managed to drive home. He was spent, drained dry, utterly humiliated, and had experienced the most satisfying load he’d blown since moving to Sleepy Hollow. He disliked that the polo star was involved, but there was no way around it. His pride was a bit wounded, but his cock had enjoyed the reward.
He wasn’t sure how he was meant to face the polo star the next time Bones was called to the school, or what might happen the next time he happened upon the dullahans in the locker room. He told you what would happen. Keep your big nose out of their business and keep walking . . . or else take your cock out and join in. The prospect made him quiver. He knew there was no way Brom Bones would ever let him gain the upper hand; would never let him walk away from a dalliance without feeling vaguely humiliated . . . but he couldn’t deny the satisfied liquidity still sloshed through his bones. Well, you’re probably sloshing, period.
The dullahans were obnoxious and boastful, crude and contemptible . . . but Ichabod Crane was beginning to think that no head was far better than one.
This Ichabod Crane, Katrina Van Tassel, and Brom Bones
will return this Halloween on Patreon
Katrina Van Tassel was no stranger to ghosts.
From her earliest age, she had been haunted. The spectre of her mother — the one who had brought her into this world, who’d left it only minutes after Katrina had gasped out her first squalling cry — had followed close behind throughout her childhood, cinching a permanent tie to the unseen world. Life tethered to death; from the moment she drew breath.
A neighbor who had fallen victim to the bitter cold one winter still ambled about their garden each spring, invisible to everyone’s eyes but hers. When another neighbor’s newborn succumbed to the croup, Katrina had still been able to hear the infant’s wail when she visited, bearing baked goods for the family. She had felt the phantom hand of her mother stroking her hair at every minor upset, hovering behind her when she was pushed into the role of surrogate wife and mother to her father and brothers at far too young an age, looming at the end of her bed until Katrina had left her childhood home for good. Life tethered to death, all she had ever known.
Katrina Van Tassel was no stranger to ghosts, and even if she had not grown up knowing that something existed after the body decayed, it would have been impossible to be ignorant of the existence of spirits, living in the Hollow. It seemed that every hill and glen had its own signature spook, every brook and dale watched over by some shade, and there were none the residents of Sleepy Hollow loved to fear more than the Horseman.
They were in the kitchen of the Van Wees farmhouse that day, preparing for the upcoming Hallowmas celebration. It was important to host a party, Annika had confided. It showed that they were still solvent, that even though her husband had passed, she and her daughters were holding their own. The husband in question had come into the kitchen several times already that afternoon, a wavering presence against the wall. Katrina watched him nod, surveying the scene — the wife and daughters he’d left prematurely behind, surviving on their own, just as he’d intended. He’d been a pragmatic man in life and his spectre seemed satisfied with all the preparations being made, with the way things had turned out . . . but still he lingered.