The Scream - Chapter One

Mojave Desert fringes, SW Nevada, USA

‘Sweat is the cologne of accomplishment.’

Taunting, motivational quotations are daubed in white paint over the rough, grey screed that lines the walls.

The kneeling youth throws back his head and looks to the glass-domed cell roof, thirty feet above.

Shafts of desert sun strike his tightly-hewn cheeks and jawbone, and illuminate the black, sagging cushions underneath his eyes.

The head shakes and tears roll, silently yet freely. He regards the light and his brain computes, for the umpteenth time, how he might get from here, to there.

For the umpteenth time, he fails to find an answer.

“No….  no… no…!”

He whispers to himself in a state of despair, veiny hands locked together by the fingers.

For naked muscle boy 3412 knows, this is where it shall all end.

*******

‘You cannot plough a field by turning it over in your mind.’ 

The cell is twenty feet below ground, and the large picture window ten feet above. Few places of captivity can present such a broad canvas to the occupant, nor such a contrast between light and darkness.

3412 looks out for faces. All it would take is one passer-by, peering curiously through the dome and down the well-like cylinder of pre-cast concrete. Just one prying senior or one pre-teen with a skateboard should be sufficient. Even better, a cop would recognise immediately that something was amiss. 3412 keeps an irregular watch, ready to shout guttural pleas for help to those dumbfounded eyes, stunned by his stark, bondaged nudity.  

This English boy does not understand semi-desert America. Out here, the population density is less than one per square mile, and he is that one. We – his jailers and his sadists – make five. Nobody ‘passes by’ this ranch. Burying and sound-proofing the circular boy prison was a precaution verging on extravagance, but it conveys a message:

No escape, no rescue and no way back. Just you and your fate, 3412.

Still, he hopes and he looks, and the non-believer mumbles incoherent prayers.

The temperature in this sarcophagus is just a few degrees cooler than the desert itself. Trails of perspiration run from pits cleared of hair, and over muscular pectoral plates. Where once a treasure trail way-marked the shortest path from belly button to dick meat, ribbons of sweat now criss-cross on the way to denuded cock root. There is an irony in 3412’s schlong looking fuller and lengthier than ever before, yet being permanently redundant for pleasure, if not for pain.

“No….”

His chunky forearm wipes beads from his brow, and a salty trail from the dark stubble of his upper lip.

Fuck. The hallucinations are kicking back in. He needs his water bottle, to keep with it.

*******

The hose that passes for a cold shower has not been reeled into the cell for five days.

3412’s aroma has been through funky, and come out the other side.

This youth is worked twelve hours a day, and hard. Perhaps you can imagine how a boy lifting, pushing and pulling vast weight might smell, when no right exists to decline the next challenge and external motivation is provided by twin bullwhips, curling in with precision from either side of the struggling torso? 

He is enjoyed, anally, several times a day – the record being thirteen. If you were to nose around 3412’s upper thighs, specifically, you would catch the distinctive whiff of layered, dried cum. For when bred more than thrice an hour, 3412’s rectum struggles to retain multiple spunk loads, and he oozes streams of surplus swimmers from that tight bud.

The weights, incidentally, preserve 3412’s torso, and that is a necessity. This kid is not here for his manners, or his wit. He is the chosen one for his ability to withstand the onslaught of tests, and he was selected for his anticipated star performance in this sado-masochistic struggle to the end, filmed as grotesque docu-soap.  

Despite the trauma of his descent to hell, there remain plenty of firm spots – globes, washboards and slabs – to provide pleasurable anchors for his dry rape.

His odour is fetid, too. There are no toilet facilities for 3412 here, and that is the literal truth. His high fibre, high protein diet creates an urge to void on a regular twenty-four hour cycle, but he is denied for forty-eight if a good boy, or seventy-two otherwise. He is then purged, whistle-clean, by enemas that have expanded to nearly five litres.

Huge bags of water, of variable temperature, torture his intestines over extended afternoon sessions. Fists slam into his ladder-like six-pack, encouraging discharge at a suitable pace into a large metal pail. 

Rasping farts continue unabated for whole minutes as, white knuckles clamouring for something – anything - to grip, he squeezes toothpaste-consistency swirls of semi-dilute fawn turd, interspersed with diarrhoeal blasts that splay the length of his veet’d thigh meat, and hence the stink.

Long after he has passed, the one smell that lingers in the narrow corridors is the naked fear of a boy being terminally processed. Wicked jolts of electricity discourage contemplation at the expense of frantic pace, yet scorched muscle cannot overpower the stench of petrified snuff toy.

*******

‘Effort is only effort when it begins to hurt.’

Towers of light cast by the glass dome appear to throw shadows off 3412’s abdomen, but closer examination reveals multi-hued bruising. The ridges of his coveted tummy are edged in yellow, black and a frighteningly angry purple.

Bats were the initial weapon of choice, but un-gloved fists are now preferred, testing man on boy the limited ‘give’ of that tight abdominal package. How we savour, knuckle against hide, the clammy exertion and hurt of that six pack. Then, boy strung up and writhing, the fists move cruelly lower, thumping over the bladder with the sickest of fleshy impacts until, involuntarily, his pain lever of a shaft pisses itself over bare concrete.

The ex-DJ, ex-stud, ex-hetero takes a boot to the testes to floor him with a splash, and another upon his back, sole leaving a forensic imprint as it controls 3412’s slurping re-consumption of his strong, dark urine.

 *******

"The man who can drive himself further once the effort gets painful is the man who will win." 

You may be interested to know that 3412 retains his scrotal shackle. Call it a keepsake – the best Sheffield steel to remind this boy of his basic training in England. He will remember a time when trainers exhibited flashes of empathy, and excellence might buy preservation. He will dwell on the morbid camaraderie and the fights, too, amongst four trainees stripped of rights and dignities. He will reflect upon his Team captaincy, because what else is there to do in close-controlled Solitary?

3412 is chained, by his testes, to a 30 kilogram gym weight on the floor.

As the days have passed, the links have been reduced in number. 3412 did not appear to notice, initially, as his chain shrunk from five feet in length to four. Then, returning from a day of exertion and forced sex, he could no longer stand for want of sufficient slack. He howled a protest as the door slammed for lockdown. But he will look back at three feet, and reminisce on the glory days. Barely a foot of chain now connects 3412 to a weight the scrotum cannot bear. He must kneel, or crouch, or lay awkwardly alongside the black disc.

His water bottle is mounted on the wall, at head height. To sup, as now, the boy must pick up his weight and undertake a delicate, bow-legged shuffle over the cell floor. Forearms struggling to retain the death grip that must be held to avoid self-inflicted castration, 3412 finds the feeding nozzle with parched lips and sucks, greedily. The feeder is modelled carefully on the flared head of prime, porn star cock, yet on the scale of indignities, this is nowhere.

“Fuck… no.”

He would gulp on, yet the weight threatens to fall from his grasp, and rip him. Carefully, he lowers down to folded muscular knee slabs, and sobs.

In due course, we shall impose tighter cell controls. The short spreader bar for his ankles is now ready, and we look forward to the panicked ingenuity of his cross-cell shuffle for water. When the wrists are cuffed behind the back we expect more significant protest, and then we shall ask 3412 what price he is prepared to pay, for brief periods of release. That will be a long, soul-destroying negotiation for this muscle hunk. His enema pails are already attracting flies and in need of emptying, somehow.

*******

‘Nobody ever drowned in his own sweat.’

3412 is already a changed boy.

His scrotal skin is elongated and a little flappy. When we allow his upper torso respite in the gym, boy balls are used as tools of heavy haulage, suspension and nightmarish predicament management. It is helpful to be able to work the gonads freely, with the question of ‘where the little 3412’s will come from’ now an irrelevancy.

At what point, I wonder, will physical impossibility demand a drop in his intensive milk production quotas? When will the cracks of the unfurling whip cease to provide the second helpings of cream that 3412 always bluffs us are not there for the taking, as the pump roughly manipulates his shaft?

His tit nubs protrude a little rudely and shout ‘look at me’, like the loud attention-seeker at a party. These are now bruised, rubberised teats that benefit from a rolling and a twisting between punishing fingers, during those rare instances of hushed, to-the-point sadist and boy dialogue.

Of course, his nubs participate in weight training, but the new forte we have found for him is pectoral endurance. Watch those plates of muscle jerk as spring-loaded, saw-toothed clamps tug at his nips, and the toy is reeled in by his breast meat.

And how to diminish a promiscuous fuck sword? 3412’s rouge head is constantly sore, from a regime shifting back and forth, daily and intra-day, from sounds to catheters dependent upon our desire to capture his output. As his knees graze on hard concrete, gauge 20 latex tubes 3412’s piss hole, and drains him to a bag strapped to his trunk-like left thigh. This, truly, is reduction for a straight boy.

3412 will therefore be a little primed for his medical featurette. Three hours of edited highlights from a day in the ‘operating theatre’, along the dimly-lit corridor. This scene will sell strongly at $3000 for disc one, ‘Gross Malpractice’, and $7000 for disc two, ‘Without Anaesthetic.’ The pair for a bargain $9000 with the purchasers, not the Doctor, to sign the Hippocratic Oath.

3412’s welts never fade before they are overlaid. As you have gathered, he lifts weight for us in exhausting, extended sessions. Barbells and dumbbells see new plates piled on, incrementally, as the morning drags. When 3412 arrived here, 100 kilograms was good enough in the Clean & Jerk, but now we start with 120 kilograms on the barbells. We harry this boy through his ‘light’ lifts, expecting perfect execution, and listen for his unpermitted covert sighs at the sharp metallic clinking of additionally plates being loaded.

You are familiar with ‘PBs’ – personal bests? Imagine the torment of a boy required to produce a PB several times a week, and you have found the essence of 3412’s existence here. 

 As his torso shakes under 130 kilograms, veins ready to pop, and an anguished self-motivational howl echoes around the gymnasium, the bull whip is applied in encouragement, but also in warning.

We want more from you, 3412, and we demand it now.

For as things become genuinely difficult, 3412 lifts under the lash, in wilful disregard of the dangers of slips and drops. He is worked by the slicing leather in frenzied bursts, over the course of perhaps thirty minutes, from calves to shoulder blades. We dare him to release his grip upon that bar, or reject today’s new target of 132 kilograms.

As he roars, the pace of the controlling corporal punishment is stepped up, and hide stings rock solid, marble-smooth butt mounds in curling lacerations that mark out complex grids of pain. With a deft whip-hand, sufficiently challenging weight on the bar, and a boy dizzy with hurt and impossible expectations, an involuntary but sustained semi-hard can be lashed out of this boy.

As his dick arcs, we encourage 3412 to punish himself with another two kilograms, and on these occasions only, he is aligned with our thinking.

On sessions without PBs – where 136 kilograms cannot be lifted cleanly, straight-armed, above the head - there is a simple response. We go ‘full frontal’ with the bull whip, and let muscle boy breast meat and dick shaft feel the savage retribution.

*******

  

"The difference between the impossible and the possible lies in a person's determination." 

We have started 3412’s ‘mods’, but there is much more that can and will be done. The body hair has gone, with the genitalia attended to by way of multiple sessions of shriek-inducing electrology, the boy strapped to a gurney as we methodically selected, zapped and killed his proud dark pubes.

At present, 3412 retains his head of black hair, but as our series of non-con destruction-themed porn progresses, he will be shaved bald and reduced to his fundamentals as we invite him to push on, with composure and discipline, towards his end. His name was taken from him at the Training & Correctional Facility in Somerset, England but – with respect – he was permitted to retain an identity and even a status, and that has to be curtailed. The questions ‘who are you?’ and ‘what are you?’ require the simplest of answers from this meat:

‘I am 3412, Sir.’

(Stated, incidentally, by a boy who must never rise to more than half the height of his questioner, and must always look to the floor, for that is proper respect from a muscle boy on the snuff path.)

In his pattern-shaved eyebrows, 3412 wears steel studs.

Two valuable rubies have been embedded via a piercing of each buttock mound. Dead-centre in each ass cheek, they guide the bullwhip, and the cane, and the boot, onto their target.

The needle has plenty more places to visit with its lingering pain pricks, for there is a trinket box upstairs, filled with pieces of metal and gemstone awaiting a decorative bodily home. 3412 may not care about the sparkling diamonds to be affixed in the depths of his armpits, ready to flash a welcome as he honours us with the humility of his pose. I suspect he will care, however, when we hole his manhood and juice makers, and adorn them with ultra-restrictive lumps of steel.

*******

"Suffer the pain of discipline or suffer the pain of regret!"

The most radical modification was discussed in 3412’s presence.

We want part of you, 3412.

We want a piece for a banquet, or the freezer, or for the quasi-eBay hawking that which money cannot legally buy, in this tight-knit circle of international ultra-perversion. 

We want to see a boy critically hobbled, yet still driven to perform through methods yet to be clarified.

Where shall we draw the line, 3412? Below the knee, or perhaps above?

“Fuck you, just fuck you! Fuck youuuuuu!”

He attempts to wriggle from our grasp, as eight sticky hands restrain hunks of smooth, perspiring boy thigh. We are all over his left leg, for that is the limb on which sentence has been passed, and the forked, rushing veins pulsing so close to the skin know it too well.

One of our crew moves in with a black permanent marker pen, and hovers around the kneecap.

“Fuck, please no!”

“No!”

“Noooooo!”

The Scream tests the soundproofing, and instinctively we look nervously to the sky dome.

 As the deep and sadistically homoerotic siren fades, a mess of hands guides the pen higher, and higher still, up boy leg meat.

The cut is for another day and another high-yielding movie, but the line is drawn in the form of a circumference, as close to the groin as practically possible.

“No, please!” He spits as he cries.

He will recover his composure, eventually.

Before the cell door slams, we shall give 3412 as much advice as he will ever get, here:

Re-double your efforts, or we operate sooner rather than later.

Accept this, or the pen makes up to three more cell visits.

Sweet dreams, 3412.

We leave him to his solitary, raging, scrotal-chained terror. An excellent purchase indeed, thank you, Ryan.

*******