Short Stay - Ended (2/2) SNUFF warning

Short Stay - Ended 

Chapter Two 

It wasn’t just Rochelle, Kaden. We know everything, you see?

There was that drunken fuck with the blonde in Riga, on Matt’s stag do, remember? I mean, you were a fit Englishman in a foreign bar, swaggering in your tight jeans and smelling fantastic, so female heads would turn. But you could have bathed in the admiration and resisted taking it further, right? Did you even get her name, honey? There was a language barrier, so I don’t imagine the conversation got deep – unlike your fat prick in her pussy!

But if Riga was a one-night stand, there’s worse culpability back home, as you know.

Who could have imagined the world of van sales being full of such intrigue!? I’m talking about your colleague Jack’s wife, Melody, yes? And what tunes you’ve been playing on her over the last fifteen months, hey!?

Remember when you first set your wandering eyes on her, at that ‘Sales heroes, plus partners’ reward convention in Cornwall? You’d left Libby at home, caring for her sick mother, so down at that beach hotel Melody did some late-night room swapping, didn’t she? That was just a quick shag, by necessity, but you’ve entertained Melody more leisurely – and extravagantly – in the months since, haven’t you, Kaden? It’s surprising she leaves you with enough energy to care for her young children, when she scurries back home to Jack.

So, Kaden, you’re quite the player, aren’t you? That wholesome image, carefully cultivated, is just a façade. You’ve had a lot of fun but – as you’re learning, so painfully – tonight is where it all ends for you, Kaden. Now, back to work, hey? It’s time to finish driving you apart.’  

He listens to my droning monologue in silence, but for the gasps of a boy struggling with a huge impaler. My closing sentences kind of invited his feedback, though:   

‘Fuck you! Just that. FUCK! YOU!’

It makes no difference what Kaden thinks, or says, at this juncture. But undoubtedly, he’ll be checking his attitude. 

The next escalation takes Kaden’s insertion to a length of 16”, if he can handle it. Before the other features of this section are considered, it’s accepted that 16 inches is, of itself, beyond any parameter of anal appetite for even the greediest of bottom sluts, of which Kaden is definitely not one.

Sixteen inches is not a credible fantasy – it’s pure torture. This length, alone, may prove definitive – or it may not.     

Sombre, I address my crew in the control room, and specifically the pair at laptops instructing Maximus:

‘Okay, troops. Ready for some damage?’ I ask them, leading.

In feedback I receive murmurs of assent – they’re work-focused, and eyes stay on monitors. It’s how it should be, when life gets precarious.

I lay a hand on the girl’s shoulder, bare but for the strap of her skimpy top. She’s more petite than I’d imagined her, before we met.  ‘Sure you’re okay?’ I coo into her ear because, despite the planning and our agreement, I feel a certain duty of care to check.

‘Ready, and very willing,’ she says.

But we keep the boy in suspense for what must seem – in the context of this frenzied half-hour – an eternity: two and a half minutes. Skewered, his lithe form gaping so hard, Kaden is held ass-locked on The Impaler. Muscle groups flex, apparently at random, and his neck dances to a mixture of panicked ultra-alertness, and involuntary tics.

And then, waiting, Kaden finds a late burst of energy for talkativeness, like he’s ready to face his peril squarely.

Humility: ‘Okay… I’ve learnt any lesson you wanted to teach me. You’ve hit me hard, to be fair.’

Terror: ‘Don’t put any more in me, you fuckers! You don’t have to do this!’

Descriptive: ‘I can feel the pole in my stomach… piercing my chest… please don’t push any more… it’s not safe!!’

Anger: ‘You cunts!’

Pleading: ‘Give me another chance. That’s all I’m asking. Please… I’ll do anything for another chance.’

Around his words, speared Kaden makes smaller noises, too – the ongoing moaning of a young man fighting a massive one at the back door, plus the sniffing and shallow coughing of misery.

A single bead of sweat forms, hangs, then drops from Kaden’s right tit nub. The cameras will have it and likewise his wet jawline, so acutely masculine.

Maximus reawakens, and Kaden has further thoughts on the matter:

‘This makes you hard, does it? You sick fucks! This is how you cum, yeah? You CUNTS!’

The next four inches are delivered anally in a way that’s controlled, but insistent. No fucking, at this stage – just the driving advance.

Girth-wise, it’s still cavernously broad: soda can ++.

There’s a changing reaction over this latest imposition. On the first two inches Kaden tries to look back at the ram, as though staring it out might scare it off. And he’s rasping, very hard and audible. This is a strain and a squeeze. It’s absolutely not supposed to fit, this far!! Drool hangs from his chin.

Over the second two inches the boy’s head returns to the forward look, neck raised, and he howls. It’s a guttural, curdling scream Kaden gives as inches 15 and 16 are propelled into his unexplored darkness.

The twitching has abated, and Kaden is nearly frozen on the brutal length. He simply dare not move – instinct remaining intact.

But getting to sixteen inches isn’t it.

This section is ridged end-to-end over the length, rather like a lemon squeezer though without the domed tapering of circumference associated with that kitchen tool. The contact surface of the phallus, here, is one of inverse V-shaped peaks, broken by wider troughs.   

There’s a change of material, too, because latex is difficult to form into the desired summits. So we’ve moved to steel, but it’s powder coated in an ivory shade matching the rest of The Impaler. We didn’t want the changes to be too noticeable, in the monitor Kaden uses as a sketchy rear-view mirror to his driveshaft.

Oh – almost forgot! – this section spins, at variable rotation speeds, driven as always by the mixed sex pair sitting with me at their computers.

Kaden has taken the four-inch drum of steel, and my movie watchers will observe how he feels the difference in texture through the look upon his face. The forehead is creased tight, mimicking the ridges of the phallus, whilst the eyes switch between slits and the widest, whitest, emptiest staring. The bottom jaw hangs loose and, when he’s not screaming, Kaden wears the look of a tortured silent howl. 

So yes, the steel has been felt. The latex preceding it was bad, but there’s a sensed difference between unforgiving and rigid.   

The girth… it’s an impossible anal wrench. Nothing more can be said.

The ridges top-off at acute apexes, but they’re not serrated: that’s just how they feel!  

Kaden doesn’t know that a section of the apparatus spins. The jock still conceives of The Impaler as a beastly lateral fucking machine, only.

Let’s step back, just for a moment, to appreciate the fact we’ve got a 24-year-old in the studio, on the end of sixteen ruinous inches, and he’s somehow hanging in there still. Respect to this boy. (But also, this is why you must train them to open-up.)

Now, onwards.

***

The studio lighting dims, and Kaden is alert to the change.

He knows.

‘Please… it’s not too late… let me off.’

But he’s sapped, and his volume has gone. He’s resigned, if not reconciled to it.

The boring-out by way of punishment was one thing, but this latest instalment has crossed a threshold.

Even as he begs to avoid that fate, it’s likely Kaden’s thoughts have turned to how death will feel, administered anally by mega-phallus.

‘I’m sorry… to everyone,’ he whispers, mechanically humbled.

It begins as a benevolent fuck, with only the steel portion of the dildo retracting and re-entering Kaden’s ragged hole, at speed setting 2/9.  

Clunk-hiss-rattle. There’s time for Kaden to calibrate around each penetration, but he’s been ground into a wholly passive recipient of prong. The best advice, anyway, would be to remain still and hope for the best – a miracle.

The boy’s face is fixed in horror.

Damage is underway, of which the kid’s freshly bloodied ass ring is visible – but the most trivial – evidence. The phallic ridges have begun to cut into overstretched flesh, already tenderised.

He’s tenacious, at 2/9, keeping a grip on his state of consciousness. Each side of The Impaler, his glutes still flex. Kaden’s was a firm butt, unyielding to the touch of malicious strangers and recoiling from their grasping hands, but that didn’t stop them. His creamy curves remain sullied by the bruises left by Kaden’s rapists – dick and fist(s) – during the crowd-pleasing days of his short stay. With globes that pressed hard against the fabric of his trouser seats, this was a boy ass that teased, and lured, then provoked all the way to my facility.

When the girl in the hot seat switches-up the pace from a walk (2) to a canter (4/9), Kaden is unsettled, once again, just as he’s found a narrow way to cope. Unable to stay ahead of the new fucking rhythm, the boy reverts to complaint:

‘Ahhh…. fuck!’

‘FUCK!’

‘FUUUUCK!!’

He’s louder, but we’ve stolen his capacity to form sentences.

Unconstrained by a chastity cage, Kaden’s slabby dick shaft – which endowed him with such confidence as a teen – has shrunk progressively through this session, down to a literal knob of flesh, barely noticed in the picture of torture. In contrast, the boy’s nut sac dangles heavy and low, swinging pendulum-like at the transmitted force of each ramrod fuck.      

From his button prick Kaden spurts blood-tainted piss over the platform, liberally and uncontrolled. He appears not to care.

My crew – all of them – work with admirable discipline, untroubled by sudden ethical twinges though it would be easy to fall into that trap.

Libby, though, is the class act of the evening. At the news conference, appealing for information on the disappearance of her photogenic boyfriend, and seated alongside his parents – no pressure! – Libby had perfected her distraught act, complete with unfinished sentences, waterworks and running make-up. Tonight she surveys her monitor with dead-eyed intensity, always yearning to be tougher on Kaden than her male co-worker, who may be sadistic but has no skin in the game.

Still, I find myself squatting beside Libby’s desk. Towards the end, qualms are inevitable, and with them comes a responsibility for psychological support.

‘I was thinking, it’s time to take him for a spin?’ I suggest.

‘I know,’ she says, but there’s a sniff at the end of Libby’s sentence. I nod empathy.

‘Listen… if it’s becoming too much, we can take you off the controls and leave Luke to progress Kaden?’ I offer, at which her male teammate gives Libby a kindly smile, reinforcing the stand-down option I’ve tabled.

Libby’s look suggests she feels fragile little girl patronised by me, and Luke.

‘I need to see him whisked,’ Libby says. ‘Hard,’ she adds, as afterthought.

‘Good girl,’ I say, struggling to supress my patronisation. ‘He’s been strong… but not for much longer.’

‘Oh, I know that’ Libby says.

The rotator section whines loud, at a highish pitch, and our fuckee hears it. His ram has retracted by four inches such that the spinner spools-up externally to Kaden’s bleeding ass lips, but the disturbance of air blows them kisses.

The boy twists his neck, desperate to understand the source of this new sound, like a swarm of angry bees.

‘Don’t kill me,’ Kaden says, at average conversational volume. ‘Please… I’m begging you… don’t kill me.’

The rotation speed is set high from the get-go, spinning so quickly the eye can’t see it turning. It’s an odd static blur.

It’s going to turn Kaden out, and he knows it before the drum grinds at his gape.

Before he’s spun the athlete flicks his neck back, gnashing his sparkling white teeth, dreading our drill.

It’s not given gingerly. There’s malice in the directions input by Libby, finalised with a slap of her Enter key daring Luke or I to dissent, which we don’t. She wants plunging; excavating; machine raping, to the last.

Kaden has been rendered hoarse, so his enduring scream as the rotator scoops away at his sphincter, is a scratchy one. He is alive enough to sprain a wrist, or two, in his most daring bid to extract his pommelled innards from The Impaler, but his bondage remains secure.

Down Kaden’s hairless perinium his sweat bubbled early, joined by blood, and now the trickling of gunk that’s faecal matter, in part, but also – you can see it well in camera close-up – shreds of his insides, coloured deep crimson: Sphincter peel.

The soccer stud is succumbing, at sixteen inches culminating in the spinner. He spasms on his ass pole – actually, it looks like a fit. Kaden’s six pack abdomen has become pregnant – something is bust, and has bulged where it shouldn’t.

With a heavy sigh, Kaden groans.

‘His face… it’s a picture,’ Libby says, obsessing over her monitor.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘You’re working him so, so hard.’

If the cheated girlfriend is single-minded, my moment is of reflection, and I say it aloud:

‘I’m thinking, if you look at his thighs – that muscular strain – and the quality of his anal spread… plus the way his face is still gurning, though the tip of the prong must be at his tits…  it’s like Kaden was built for this… made for it… which is so rare.’

Libby indulges my whimsy, stone-faced.

‘He’s hot, I think you mean,’ she says. ‘But also, he’s a cunt.’

I stifle a giggle at her candour.

‘Let’s pile-drive,’ I say.

And again we ask more of Kaden, at sixteen. More depth in his fucking, more speed, and that turbine spinning of the metal grinder.

Taken beyond vocalisation of his torture, even Kaden’s tears have run dry. Only his twitching tells he still feels his ordeal, in a state of ultimate submission.

***

He was coughing-up blood, but now it exits his expiring body without his effort, as red drool, welling in his mouth and topping over his bottom lip in large quantity, draining him.   

His eyes are closed.

He’s white, about the face.

The camera lenses facing upwards to Kaden’s torso, from the platform, have been splattered over by piss and blood, spoiling the quality of their images. In the end, though, watching the boy through blurry shape-shifting globules adds authenticity to the experience. Peer carefully, and Kaden’s pectoral stack can be seen moving, but it’s the shallowest rise and fall of that sculpted deck.

He is, as we speak, taking the last four inches of The Impaler, utilising the full twenty so nobody can complain of being short-changed. Blades – six of them – protrude from this section, top to bottom along the full length. Kaden is getting fucked by sharps.

When the phallus retracts the minority of its length from the boy’s ass, it draws with it fragments of his intestines (etc), in gristly shreds that spin away, beyond the platform.

The butchery team have moved to the studio door, in readiness. They’ll be needed, soon, as the platform performs a new function as a chopping block.

Kaden’s dick and balls will be chemically preserved in a decorative bottle, then handed to their new owner free of charge. I’m sure you’ve guessed who?

The remainder of the boy is a profit centre, alongside movie sales:

Rump steak. Pectoral slices. Low value entrails, for stew.

The thighs command the highest price per kilogram, and they’ll grace dining tables favoured by a select band of epicureans, who’ll savour the prime meat tenderness – it drops off the bone! – and exchange notes on the best bottle of red, to accompany it.

Kaden is limp, his neck dropped.

In the control suite we share muted high fives, and hug. Aftercare is so important. 

The techies will turn their attention to editing, and testing the security of the distribution channel we’ll use to get Kaden to his audience: there are 621 pre-orders, by the way. Quality snuff productions are – mostly – about the subject’s reactions, and we know Kaden’s contortions, his piercing screams and his freefalling tears will deliver the jerk-off highs we need, for 5* reviews.

However: by the time this effusive feedback is logged on the portal, Kaden will be a fading memory for me. Our femme fatale has her katharsis whilst I, simply, will move on to the next. My fun is in the boy’s first shell-shocked days of his short stay, setting expectations at whip point whilst opening virgin hole.  

There are half a dozen fresh prospects on my desk, some the product of my own research and others put forward by middlemen hungry for commission – or revenge. I don’t have capacity to process them all, but I will let you know who makes the cut.

 

This is a work of fiction

Short Stay - Ended (1/2) SNUFF warning

Short Stay - Ended 

Chapter One   

He can’t be finished too quickly, because we need thirty minutes of footage – it’s a value for money thing.

It might take twenty-five to see him off, but that’s fine: critical moments will be seen more than once in the final edit, as they looked from multiple camera positions. Very little will be left on the hard drive equivalent of the cutting room floor, for my customers are big spenders who disapprove of discontinuities.   

There’s a barcode inked in black on the boy’s outer right thigh, six inches across by two in height, and his sweat trickles over those thick and thin uprights. Naturally smooth, it wasn’t necessary to shave his limb before our tattooist set to work for an afternoon.

The kid’s identifier was marked for this evening to rechristen him digitally, by stock number rather than name at his end. It’s been scanned several times as a silent alternative to roll call, tracking Kaden’s whereabouts as we moved around the facility keeping him busy with processes, over the 48-hours of run-in.     

Kaden’s barcode was zapped a final time when the boy’s bondage was confirmed as complete, for final assurance that the correct detainee had been presented to the chamber, in accordance with the paperwork. As though terror was insufficient, the tedium of audit protocol served to frustrate Kaden in the last room he’d see.

Once a date is set, they’re practically meat. And as near-meat, number not name becomes the way of things. 

Set-up finalised and double-checked, my men have withdrawn from the chamber. Barring technical difficulties that would make me curse and result in some crew bonuses being withheld, the boy will remain alone, now.

In the control suite, alongside me as producer/director, are three camera operatives working their allocated arrays, a sound and lighting technician, and two machine operators driving The Impaler remotely, from their laptops.

There are twenty inches of insertable length, but that’s just the start of it.

The crown – an unremarkable size-L phallus head, to ease Kaden into this – has already been aligned and wedged in the boy’s sphincter, as part of the preliminary work undertaken in person. Kaden has been forced open a lot, during his short stay, so a biggish prick at his back door is not a crisis in itself.

In the boy’s line of sight is a countdown that started at 10:00 when my crew closed the door behind them, and is now ticking below 02:00.

Emptiness: nobody to swear at, or plead with, on site. If necessary we can talk to Kaden from our remote monitoring station, but whether we do or don’t use that speaker option, he’ll figure he’s being watched, live, and before long he’ll become chatty as an extrovert after three pints – just wait and see.  

It’s 01:00 on the countdown and the apparatus begins a sequence of self-checks, whirring and hissing and clicking, testing electronics and hydraulics to confirm all is good to go.

The boy has seen the monster at the end of the ram, and he can’t forget it because there’s a monitor ahead of him, providing a crude feed of the butt machinery, like a rear-view mirror.

What Kaden doesn’t know, for sure, is whether tonight will be another brutal test, or his termination. I’m a callous head fucker, after all, and this has landed after three days of respite from sex work. So he’s not without hope, despite the beast gaping his hole.

But SHIT, this is crazy. Part of Kaden stays disbelieving, because it’s his only way to cope.  

00:20

Now he’s vocal and jerking at his restraints, temples throbbing:

‘FUUUUCCCCK!’

***

The attachment is for the customer to choose or – as here – to commission something bespoke, beyond the catalogue. But the powerhouse is one of a range: top of the range, in fact. It’s a Hi-Torq Maximus 9800 that’s the engine of my fuck machine, known more simply as the Maximus.

Their marketing is on-point:

Looking for a ram to batter reluctant doors? Wanting to ask searching questions of tight holes? Won’t consider taking ‘NO!’ for an answer? Think nothing could out-punch your faithful Hi-Torq 7500? Think again, and let us introduce you to the fully featured, capably complete, Maximus!

But in the consensual, near-vanilla BDSM scene, Maximus hasn’t sold well. Reviewers have critiqued the top quartiles of the outputs as being unusable in the real world. Therefore, the price premium over the well-regarded 7500 machine was difficult to justify.     

More seriously, a number of critics placed in writing an opinion that Maximus, when dialled-up to its more frantic settings, was dangerous to a quite irresponsible degree on the part of the manufacturers. In the hands of an inexperienced operator – it was said – a Maximus was liable to cause catastrophic (accidental) injury.

The reputational damage was such a shame for a precision engineering business, trying to improve their product. I mean, there’s no obligation to use the top of the output bands, is there? If you want to play safe, then keep it turned down. Not difficult!  

For my facility, Maximus was the only choice.

Kaden is arranged for the convenience of the machine in a passive doggy position, hands and knees flat on the platform with his muscular dumpster raised proud. Of course, he wants to wriggle off the prong, and the risk of him doing so is one we’ve mitigated with the tightest bondage, preventing him from drawing forward and away. Cuffs, chains and straps trap ankles, wrists and his waist, anchoring Kaden to the dais on which he’ll be opened-up and turned-out.  

Aesthetically, that riser in ebony stone is in perfect contrast to Kaden’s pale skin. For black boys, my alternative alabaster dais presents better on screen.

Micro-movements will remain possible for the plundered youth: the inevitable balling of fists and clenching of toes; tautening of muscle groups under assault, and demented jerking of the neck. Capturing reaction is key to viewer pleasure.

But Kaden can’t dip his back into an arch because there’s a chain, winched tight, running from the ceiling to a D-ring on the back of the thick leather belt he wears as one of his bondage accoutrements. For his own longevity, when The Impaler starts to piston his A-hole we can’t have Kaden thrashing his core, so his abdominal poise will be enforced even when his instinct is to surrender and slump.

The drama unfolds in the centre of the room, which is overwhelmingly black to minimise visual distractions. Our camera banks are everywhere – above him, looking down to his back; below him (on the platform) viewing up to his sweaty torso; on his face, in close-up and at panoramic distance; covering his flanks, and recording the progress of The Impaler from alongside that vicious shaft and behind it, square. The most popular feeds, though – and therefore to feature extensively in our edit – will be intimate shots of the boy’s ring dilation, as the prong at the end of hydraulic Maximus pillages his cunt, to absolute destruction.

***

Control the pace, and pace the agony

That’s the saying we have, in the control suite. My crew briefings talk of building pressure, and layering the intensity. My words could become trite, but we find – as one team, anticipating each other’s thoughts – that they bring focus to our conduct of Kaden’s brutalisation.

The first four inches of The Impaler are those of the boring size-L dick mould, and Kaden started with three inches inside of him, snared. The latex is firmer than forgiving.

Maximus powers the fucking, at speed settings variable from 1 thru 9. And it receives instructions as to how much length to fuck with, initiated at just those four untroubling inches.

Kaden the footballer. Kaden, with his steady girlfriend. Kaden the straight boy: None of these characters wanted to undergo anal penetration, period. But you’re aware he’s been forced and trained over his short stay, building his resilience for this evening. So, Kaden hates every minute, yet he can cope with what we’re throwing at his pussy – to a level.   

The kid’s boy hole was lubed at the attended preparation stage, and the front of the phallus (at least) was made slippery, too. There’s gliding going on, through a ring of well-shattered virginity. It was fun to pop Kaden’s unripe cherry, that one time, and he wouldn’t have endured long enough as an anal freshman plowed by The Impaler. 

Kaden’s petulance at his opener is expressed in gasps, as his ass is pecked by sequences of rabbit fucks towards the upper reaches of the speed dial. There are inactive interludes of 5 - 20 seconds – avoiding predictability – and then the machine is off again, hammering boy ass.

The anal ring slops with a generosity of lubricant and the easy, early penetration sounds slick. This isn’t difficult for Kaden – a boy introduced to fists, after all. But his solitariness is new, as is his fear that there’s nobody around to hit the big red Emergency Stop! plunger that he presumes exists, unseen.

Yep, it’s No Safe Words.

Muscle memory in Kaden’s sphincters keeps him reluctantly receptive to this first length. In the four corners of the chamber are candles on tall stands, flickering peripherally for the cameras but sufficiently distant to avoid interference with the studio-grade lighting. I hope viewers will appreciate the sepulchral look, and lick lips in anticipation of what’s to come, even as Kaden yields to this cinch of a starter.   

In section two, the shaft expands in girth to a dimension beyond that of the well-endowed prick. Our size reference point changes from man dick to Coke can, but the additional ask feeds-in gradually over the next four inches of length, in the form of a progressive flaring.

To start with, there’s no in-and-out fucking as we introduce Kaden to the new demand in thickness, with his penetration calibrated to be determined, but measured. My male + female team of two, operating Maximus from their computer terminals, are working well together as they manage pace effectively, gauging Kaden’s condition from the cameras on his asshole and face, and from the audio feed.

This step-up is a struggle for the 24-year-old: a savage dilation, and an unreasonable parting of his sphincter as the gross circumference drives into him. Kaden shows us it’s becoming a battle via his bloated cheeks, puffing hard as section two is propelled further. He’s hot (both meanings), and wetter. The fists have clenched white at this anal rigour, and Kaden squirms in his bondage, testing the tiny limits of his wriggle room. The noises of the machine are mechanical; those of the bondage, variously creaking and metallic… and from the boy himself, new distress at this beyond human girth, well-stuffed inside him:

‘Ahh, shit.’

‘Ahh…. FUCK!’

He doesn’t yet talk to me, though. This isn’t worse than a forearm in respect of size, though the density and lack of ‘give’ in this back door burglar will feel tougher than squidgy human flesh.

When it’s lodged, to 7.5”, we stop all progress temporarily, allowing sundry cameras to capture Kaden ‘at rest’. His ass lips in that (now) hairless perinium stretch outrageously wide in accommodation of The Impaler but, of course, the majority of the pole lingers in shot, yet to be rammed home. Despite the static equilibrium, the boy’s face registers something beyond pain – it’s agony – in his contortions and slitted eyes.

Doggy-crouched, Kaden is bubbling moist, his fading holiday tan so incongruous in this place of final reckoning. Without active fucking the barcoded boy has quietened; his thoughts now issued under his breath:  

‘Aww damn!’

‘Ahh!’

He’s re-adapting to a big one up the ass. Destiny, in this modern morality tale.  

My laptop sub-team dial-in a little fucking, now. In scarce dialogue passing between them – always constructive – the girl is, by default, stricter in her requirements of Kaden, suggesting earlier implementations and higher speeds. At this stage we need spectacle not sympathy, to satisfy our customers, and the girl is fully bought-in to the notion of digging Kaden deep, and hard.

The apparatus fucks with those 7.5 inches of length that Kaden has taken, across the flare of girth. He gets a 30-second trial run at speed setting 2, and then it’s cranked right up to 6 with no consideration of intermediate numbers. 

Now (and hereafter), it’s a proper workout for the semi-pro soccer player. Working until failure is a standard gym bro trope, good for motivational Instagram posts that generate high engagement: but with his weights, a boy can stop anytime – it’s all under control. This evil can’t be tamed. It’s a total loss scenario that’s developing, and for sure, Kaden’s petrified by this alternative, sexualised form of character testing.  

‘Aww fuck! FUCK!’  Kaden’s vocabulary remains limited, but it’s yelled with fresh urgency.

It may be a range topper and overengineered, but don’t assume Maximus runs as silently as it does efficiently. Pleasing noise was a design criterion, included in the specification though it would have been simple to construct a machine that purred unfussed, like a Rolls Royce.

When the ram retracts as far as it’s going to retreat from boy ass, there’s a clunk as it hits a stop at the back of the machine. Prior to the next auto-fuck there’s a hiss, likened to the escape of air from a tyre. And then, the penetration, accompanied by a rattling from the mechanical parts as though the travel was along aged, jointed train track.  

Kaden can do nothing but listen for the cycles of clunk-hiss-rattle, preceding each and every rape of his ass. When the speed is set low, his wait for the next inevitable fuck is a torture itself, but when the speed is at midpoint there’s only just enough time to brace for a penetration, once the clunk is heard. Now, though, with the output cranked-up way high, there’s no fraction of a second for Kaden to ready himself, and consequently his torture chamber is a cacophony:

Clunk-hiss-rattle …. ‘FUCK!’

Clunk-hiss-rattle …. ‘FUCK!’

Clunk-hiss-rattle …. ‘Oh my…’

Clunk-hiss-rattle …. ‘…God!’

Clunk-hiss-rattle …. ‘Please…!’

Clunk-hiss-rattle …. ‘Stop!’

Clunk-hiss-rattle …. ‘No…STOP!!’

We pace Kaden’s escalation with several minutes at this, section two, because customers love to see a straightforward intense fuck, at the edge of possibility. The boy is at that finely balanced stage where his struggle is immense, but his tenacity sees him keeping-up, barely, with the pressure we’ve loaded anally. The edit will feature lots of facial shots over these minutes, of a boy who’s been made so utterly miserable by this ramrod, grimacing and sexually moaning and calling his obscenities to an empty room.

The anal dilation is sure to get plenty of screen time, too: such a savage gaping of young hole. If you didn’t know about Kaden’s cheating with a whore (etc), you might almost feel sorry for him.

***

There’s a short respite, during which Kaden pants like he’s just come off a heavy cardio session. The kid’s recovery of composure, sufficient to garble brief sentences, takes thirty seconds.

‘Please… no more,’ he puffs.

‘For fuck’s sake.’

‘No more… please.’ 

Sure enough the boy has started to address me directly, now things are hairy for him. He knows I’m there, though I’m not here with him. The appeal has got to be worth a try.

The duo at the desk extend his downtime until it’s longer than Kaden expected; in fact, long enough for him to wonder whether further escalation has been abandoned, or was ever intended? It’s one of those induced glimmer of hope moments. 

‘Let me off?’ Kaden suggests, with a rising naughty schoolboy cadence.  

‘Please… no further,’ he says – more realistically – re. the many remaining inches yet to exploit him.

The next is a toughie, it’s fair to say. Only another four inches of length, at the prevailing girth, but broken midway by a knot in the shaft like a dog dick, bulging the heavy latex.

Our incremental demand is teased lovingly up the boy’s chute. Had the lubricant not changed in this same section, from oil to Deep Heat rub, then Kaden may have taken the extra length with stubborn stoicism. But instead, his ass is on fire:

‘FUUUUCCCCCK, NO!’

‘YOU CUNTS… FUUUUCCCCCK!’

‘STOP! OH FUUUUCCCCCK…..!’

Those tender thinned lips burn first, followed by his gaped sphincter.

The next push sees the onion-shaped knot jemmy at Kaden’s back door – high torque toying with his anal resistance for amusement, before smashing it down.  

A favourite angle of the moment will be the wide shot of Kaden’s flank. In picture – The Impaler spearing his butt way deep already, but probing even deeper; and the footballer’s smooth torso fixed doggy-style, barcode prominent, sweat-drenched from hair to calves, with muscles rippling in futile defensive efforts against the ferocity of the pillaging.

When the viewer gets to see Kaden’s face again, his neck will be thrown back in stunned agony, his mouth will be hanging open, and his wild eyes bloodshot. His colours of indignance will be reds and purples.

Our overhead cameras will remind the connoisseur of the breadth of Kaden’s slick back, but the orgasm trigger from this point of view is the girth of the phallus already entering his boy cunt, and the extent of what remains to be propelled, conspiring to mess with one’s sense of proportion and to make the athlete’s broad shoulders look (unfairly) unimpressive.

‘Control the pace, okay?’ I remind my crew, in gentle caution because we have a distance to go, with lots of hurty POV still to film.  

Fingers I caught hovering over a keyboard, on the verge of instructing an increase in the fuck speed, hold back, leaving Maximus at a sedate 2/9.

In scale, this assault has become beyond human in terms of length (c.11 inches are entering and extracting at each fuck), and well beyond in respect of ruling girth, and the rigidity. Add the torment of the knot in this latest section, and Kaden’s experience of the moment is akin to being raped by an ornate wooden chair leg.   

Still, my influence keeps the cycling nice and slow for him:

Clunk-hiss-rattle

Clunk-hiss-rattle

Each sequential process takes two seconds. It’s sufficient forewarning for Kaden to steel himself, whimpering. I hope, also, that Kaden is using these less busy minutes to reflect on the circumstances that brought him here – to the end of my ram – and not some other unfortunate boy.

It’s very hard work for Kaden, when it’s as long as a ruler and as wide as a soda can. And that’s fun/hot to watch, for those who’ll buy the curated edit, because opportunities to observe handsome boys under terminal duress, in high definition, are practically non-existent.

Alongside Kaden’s sweat, his tears have formed, and now the cliché is completed with blood on the brutaliser, discernible as smears when the ivory-coloured shaft retracts. He’s sniffling, around his under-breath complaint at every fresh nailing by the big one:

‘No, no, no… fuck!’

‘Fuck… please, make it stop… Fuck!’

‘Holy fuck… No!’

‘Why are you doing this!? (Inaudible - broken by sobbing) Please…you’re ripping me up…just stop…’

It’s not – quite – an irretrievable situation at this moment, but it’s asking a great deal of Kaden’s distended innards. Lots of spread, compression, and flexibility is forced. His tenacity too, of course.

This is an entertaining sequence for the footage. We talk of every production needing several climax shots, creating repeated ecstasy for our customers such that they’ll watch the file again and again, picking-up where they last spent seed, desperate to know what happens next, which is bound to be even worse! As a rule of thumb, if viewers are engaged enough to watch a movie four times, then they’ll place a pre-order for the next production. Loyalty is vital to the bottom line, in this game.

I nod agreement to the fuck speed being increased, because this boy deserves a proper slamming. It mustn’t be final use, though, and whilst I would have lingered at 5/9, I don’t overrule the laptop whiz kids as they dial Maximus up to 6/9. It builds to that pace smoothly, over three fuck cycles, treating the costly machine with mechanical sympathy.

When it settles at the new demand, Kaden’s reaction changes to one of drama borne of shock and critical fear. The youngster howls, sobbing freely and loudly, now.  

‘Tearing me apart… STOP!’

‘PLEASE STOP!’

Kaden manages his pleas, staccato around each silencing thrust of the ram. 

To mix metaphors inelegantly, this is such a fucking ride for Kaden, over rough seas on a bucking bronco. There’s a thread of snot, hanging from his nose. He’s got vascular in a profound way, corded along his pumped arms.

When the knot is driven into the kid’s A-hole he sucks his cheeks in distress, so they deflate like he’s biting lemon.

Kaden’s barcoded thigh, boiling in his sweat, is pure boy meat.

My operators alternate between 3 and 7 on the speed inputs, teasing Kaden in the cruellest way.

We finish this episode by challenging Kaden with a forty-second burst at speed 8, and the sprint produces from him a spectrum of broken noises, incoherent. The boy’s fat tears plop to the dais on which he labours, fast and furious.

This time, when the machine stops the ram hasn’t retracted, leaving those 11.5” cramming Kaden’s ass, but stationary.

We’ve had 20-minutes of retribution, and the time is right to say a few words to Kaden.

Coming 10th October: Short Stay - Ended

 

I last updated my Short Stay piece in 2022. Then, other commitments caused me to put down my pen. If I’m honest, what I’d intended as a short story (per the title) was threatening to become unwieldy – or even an epic – thanks to my over-active imagination. And I don’t have a great track record with finishing epics, as some of my older readers will remember.

However, I’ve continued to receive enquiries around Short Stay. Taking advantage of some free time this autumn I’ve penned a conclusion to this tale, to put people out of their misery.   

By way of warning: too much time has elapsed since I last touched this story, so you may find the continuity wanting, and the transition from chapter four abrupt. Therefore, I’ve not titled this update as a straight chapter five, and it could almost be read in isolation. There’s a change in the narrative to the present tense, which to my mind works better with the events described.  

My second warning concerns the content tags you’ll note carefully before plowing into Ended. Poor Kaden.

Heavy Haul (2/2): MM/m+, NC, CBT, CP, Anal

Chapter Two

As the leaders start their haul towards home, the bold digital numerals of the countdown tell them that 11 minutes (and some seconds) of their 33 remain. They know what their circumstances require, and it mustn’t – absolute imperative – involve defeatism.  

Meanwhile, Hayden has collapsed at the turn. The rangy blond is on the floor, literally, pressing an impression of his sweat slick torso onto the tough blue surfacing of the track. He retches at high volume,  losing himself in a sea of sobbing despond. Face down, Hayden wraps the circumference of his skull with a long arm, draped and limp, hiding from his bosses – as though that were possible.  

The kid’s tears soak the semi-circular turning bowl he’d started negotiating, before he wilted.

The 21-year-old recovers sufficient composure to tell us his problems:

‘It’s soooo heavy….so hard….I know I can’t go on…I just can’t move!’ He whines.

Ivan – who has suspended chucking rotten tomatoes over the Midwestern church boy – stands beside the sad loser, listening to Hayden dump his problems on us.  

‘You feeling the pressure through your nuts, huh?’ Ivan checks.

Regrettably, the boy responds to the gentlest of questioning by breaking down again.

‘It’s just way too heavy…and insanely fast…and I can’t cope!!’ Hayden sobs.

Ivan gives the kid ten seconds to get his shit together again, before pronouncing.

‘Look up at me,’ says the Russian.

From the floor, the boy cranes his neck. His every facial feature is puffy, and raw.

‘I know it’s a big load to tow by your balls, okay?’ Ivan says. Naively, Hayden leans in for a concession. ‘But you will be completing the haul, even if it takes four fucking hours and severs that useless sac.’

The boy doesn’t receive his orders well. His face is back in nested, folded arms.

‘Oh fuck PLLLLEEEEEEEZZZEE Sir!’ Hayden warbles through phlegm.

And now the electro prod is deployed in anger for the first time, today. The lightning is aimed at the crack of Hayden’s quivering ass, seeking to electrify the ultra-sensitive flesh within. With a feline squeal the kid flies into the air, shocked from his lazy slump, then crash lands just as briskly with a thump.

‘Another?’ Ivan asks, waggling the baton.

‘NO!’ the boy screams, outraged at the prospect.

‘Re-start then, bitch!’ Ivan yells.

‘Sir, please…’

I interject, looking to improve productivity by lowering the heat. ‘Complete your turn, Hayden, then let’s see you in head-down racing mode, looking to rescue some pride from this nightmare.’

But I’m needed down the track, to manage the leaders, so must leave Hayden with Ivan’s subtleties: 

‘Shift that fucking ass! NOW! Tear those fucking nuts off – whatever it fucking takes!’

Still bawling, the dirty blond collects himself back into a poise for effective haulage. Puffing his soggy cheeks, grimacing and tensing, Hayden overcomes mechanical complaint to get his wagon rolling.

‘Speed, now,’ Ivan harasses him. ‘Create the momentum, and make this a glorious sprint home.’

At the front, the race remains nip and tuck between Tyler and Nathan. They’re through the furnace for a second time, and haven’t let getting cooked bring them to gasping halts they can’t afford to indulge in.

The pace has been upped, to a startling extent. The impossible has become achievable, for a short burst at least.

The black and white leaders are noisy, but in a focused way: no breath is wasted cursing the task, or me, or each other. They’ve got around to exhibiting undiluted effort, because I’m right by their sides with a whip:

‘Ahhh… fuckin’ MOVE!’ (T)

‘Ahhh… Jesus!’ (N)

‘Come ON!’ (T)

Wheelsets trundle with a more consistent sound, suggesting agile tugging of the weighted carts. The squeaks from stressed bearings are more noticeable.  

At this canter, the boys are feeling the bulb plugs wedged in their asses more profoundly. The anal intrusions are significant, and now those firm curves are really grinding their innards, forcing non-optimal, knees-wide crawling stances.

The use of butt plugs in assessments such as this does two things: 1) the imposition of another sexual angle to the physical tasking, and 2) the creation of another compromise the boys must manage, between progress and pain, that Ivan and I will refuse to make any allowance for.

I’m using my personal CP tool on them – a short, hard-cracking signal whip. I’m beating freely, switching between them with no particular strategy beyond a general urge to drive them harder. I’m not counting my strikes to audit fair play between the lanes. Tyler and Nathan are moving at almost twice the speed of their first lengths, but that doesn’t put them on target to cross the line in 33 minutes, so my whiplash motivation is justified and should be regarded as supportive.

Ivan’s biting whips are familiar to these boys, but provoking me personally is a notable low for them. It’s not that I whip harder or more expertly than Ivan – in fact, he’s the ace flogger – but rather that when their ultimate boss man weighs in, unsatisfied, they recognise developments have pivoted unfavourably.

Mostly, I let my whip do the talking across hustling butts. I pepper the flogging with sparing verbals, to reinforce my message in case it’s not been understood:  

‘Faster isn’t fast enough, yet. Let’s put firecrackers up those plugged asses.’

‘You must obsess over the time, boys.’

‘Come on… full stretch on those nuts, boys. Load them up, properly. Hurt until you can’t take anymore, and then drive harder still.’

‘Only one thing should matter to you, at this stage.’

These two are slow to tears, even under assault. Their reserves of resilience impress me, supplemented by a new understanding – taught to them – of the behaviours required to stand just the slimmest chance of satisfying a notorious queer sadist.  

Their jockeying for pole position turbocharges them, as well. Typified by the extra weight in Tyler’s trolley, I’ve spent weeks finding opportunities to seed antagonism in the group, such that their rage which should be directed wholly at me, erupts as nighttime hostilities in their shared cell. Most of their tasks position these boys as rivals, but my manipulation has added petty jealousy, mistrust and estrangement to the toxicity.

For Tyler and Nathan, racing competitively with almost nothing in it, this scrap is personal. The yearning for vengeance overcomes their battles against fatigue.

My whipcracks echo, and to each of them there’s a verbal response from the targeted boy. Tyler is typically pithy at the moment of impact:   

‘FUCK!’

The stinging – the welting of butt flesh, drifting to upper thighs – doesn’t slow the pair. In fact, the statistics show they’re hurrying even faster towards the line. To howls of distress, the last bump is ploughed through at speed.

Now Nathan is forging a narrow lead: he was utterly brutal with himself, over that hump. Characterisation of the Afro-European boy as lazy, because his default is laid back and he’s adept at shirking onerous extras – like that incremental 1kg  – is nothing but a cliché. The soaking fitness model responds excellently to the lashing of a whip tail over his hairless ass mounds, getting his sphincter churning on that rude butt plug.

I continue to press the duo:

‘Rip them clean off, boys. Destroy any baby-making dreams right now, if it’s necessary, Nathan.’

Transferring my attention back to Tyler, I add impetus to the soldier boy’s struggle to re-take his lead. I snap the whip harder, at elevated frequency, over scars I’ve just left. I hope Tyler feels singled-out. It’s been rare for the 25-year-old to receive such personal attention, from me. It’s a treat.

Tyler’s fight fails to close down Nathan’s advantage, though neither is the outcome certain just yet, as they pound the last straight. I remind Tyler what I expect of him:

‘Dig to your depths and turn up the dial. Find that extra 15% you need to level up, and overtake. Make it happen, for us both, Tyler.’

It’s rare for me to use a boy’s given name, in these situations, and I watch Tyler hear it and sharpen his act.

‘Give me something more, huh? Show me, personally, the very best version of you.’

Unexpectedly, he finds a voice around my whip cracks:

‘Yessss….AWWWWW!….SSSSirrrr!’

Tyler’s growing a semi-hard, now. I’d not caged their pricks for this assessment, reasoning that it was improbable any of them would embarrass themselves with stiff wood, under this torture. But the army boy’s cut shaft swells at horizontal, and his crown is moist.  

Astonishing, in the circumstances? Not at all, on my further consideration. Remember, Tyler’s dad died when he was seven, but now – 18 long years later – he’s found the alpha male who occupied his fantasies for much of that time, whom even the edgier sections of the military failed to provide. I’m a man Tyler may call Sir, authentically, who’ll role model masculine control for him, whilst whipping him into line without restraint. At last, a man for Tyler to make proud, though I ensure that’s almost impossible.

There are tears welling, as Tyler fails to re-take the lead he surrendered, but they don’t fall: Tyler would hate to be that conspicuous with his emotions. The extent of his self-containment is highly unusual and, in any normal context, disturbing. 

I know there’s another reason for Tyler’s erection. It’s because he’s lost the lead, and therefore receiving more coaching from me. I’m certain he’s still fighting to win, and that’s evidenced by his statistics improving, but Tyler’s thoughts will have turned to the ‘what next?’, if he’s unable to claw this back:

The minute scrutiny. My disappointment. An intimate 1-2-1 meeting between us, perhaps!!?  The story he’ll spin me, by way of explanation (but not excuse). The role of his extra 1kg, and whether that’s worth mentioning, even? Punishment and – if so – whether it’s tailored to him, and what that might look like in practice? Consequences, and decisions. Final decisions?

A great deal will flow from a second place – a loss, snatched from the jaws of victory – that wouldn’t have arisen if the boy who loved the SERE course in special forces training had brought home his win. And Tyler’s thinking about it lots.

‘FUCK!’ he roars, as I switch to Nathan’s backside and slave drive the dark-skinned boy at the last.

My boots were polished this morning, by one of the boys, until they could recognise facial features reflected. I can’t say who was responsible as it’s a detail they share, with Ivan’s footwear to be buffed to gleaming as well. But with three boys and two pairs of boots, let’s take a wild guess that Nathan managed to shirk the task. (‘I ain’t polishing nutin’ for dem fags, bro! You do it, if you like.)

It’s rare that I kick-out. My sadistic niche is sexual violence, not physical violence. Bruising, per se, is never an objective though it’s often an incidental. But when I get close alongside them, fidgeting with my feet in a way that draws attention to the heavy boots, the kids know I’m contemplating a move.

The boys hate being kicked, with force that can make them puke. I wouldn’t kick without cause, such as disrespect, refusal… or serious non-performance. They were given 33 minutes to complete their ball haul, having been told it was enough, yet here we are at 34 minutes plus, with the leaders still grinding towards the finish, groaning about their lot in life with hard profanities, and the countdown displaying 00:00. 

And I have nut sac pommels, in bondage, as slow-moving targets. I slip behind Nathan, between his ass and his cart, and he’s cute enough to become alarmed.

‘No… please don’t…. Sir…. no….’

It’s a perfect thump, centrally to the boy’s gathered balls with the tip of my boot. And oddly, the other two boys moan, gasping with shock and second-hand agony, before the victim himself reacts.

Nathan stops, dips his gridded abdomen to the track such that his butt is reared to its highest, and screams with a ferocity I’ve not heard before – deep, and with full fury – roaring around the track room. Everything tensed rigid, the boy turns his neck to look behind, glare at me, and ask me non-verbally: WHY?  WHY NOW?  WHY ME?  WHY ARE YOU BEING SUCH A CUNT?

And then he pukes across his lane, pushing his head low to chunder with volume, in both senses of that word.

‘Recover,’ I say, by Nathan’s flank, tapping my whip on a boot calf, impatient. ‘And then faster, to the line.’

I step across lanes to reach the far side of Tyler, who’s used the opportunity to make ground on his nemesis, but is now a broken boy. He senses my suffocating presence most acutely.

‘The same?’ I ask the American.

‘Sir…. please….’ Tyler stammers, stalling.

Genuinely, I’m unsure whether it’s a pleading NO, Sir! or an extraordinary Yes, please! that the workhorse is trying to articulate. I guess the former, but watching his stiff knob stuck at half-mast, and sensing his conflicted state on this run-in it could, just possibly, be the latter. Anyway, he opts not to clarify for me.

I hold back. No kick.

‘Give me the win, Tyler,’ I address him intimately again, wondering what miracles might be achieved through his masochistic bent alone. ‘Give it to Daddy, now.’

‘Fuck,’ he whispers, barely audible, frustrated because he wants this so fucking much.

Nathan’s performance hasn’t been damaged, beyond the temporary shock. The athlete is galloping towards the line, and almost there. Some boys give their best work only when treated despicably mean – fact.

Tyler suffered momentary distraction, concerning my intentions, that he couldn’t afford. He’s heavy-hauling strongly, again, but there’s going to be fifteen seconds splitting first and second places.

Both of them break down, once their weighted trolleys are safely over the line. Sprawled over the floor, they let limbs spread haphazardly. Nathan sobs hard, now it’s over, whilst Tyler looks what he is – a beaten boy.

Let’s not forget there’s a real loser – Hayden – who, despite Ivan’s motivational cajoling, finishes 14 minutes – yes, minutes, not seconds – behind Tyler. The blond boy is a horrific mess of sweat, tears, and fierce welts. By the time he crosses the mark and hunches as close to foetal as his bondage permits, the other boys have been unhitched, unchained, and ordered into a disciplined upright pose.

***

They present themselves, formally, in their practiced way: feet planted shoulder-width apart; the fingers of both hands weaved behind the skull, with elbows forming wings – thrust back, to turn-out their armpits. Eyes fixed ahead, backs straight, key muscle groups tensed, and tummies tucked.    

Strewn on the floor around them are their extracted butt plugs, still slippery with anal juices and stained by faecal debris. Gaping boy holes seep a nasty cocktail of lube and filth, liquefied by blood.

Hard labour has left them smelling vinegary, with the sickly taint of terror.  

Their liberated nut sacs confirm a brutalisation has occurred. The scrotal colours are black and purple, but it’s the distended shapes that horrify most, post-exertion on the heavy haul. We’re talking drooping, sagging sac leather, but marked by gross asymmetry from side to side, with one nut appearing shrivelled and high – dead? – whilst the other stone is sloppily loose. The sac work-out has left all three with swan necks and the low-hanging balls they always desired, to fill their CKs… but not like this!

The appearance of the freed juicers is similar across the group, but Tyler looks marginally worse injured than the others. The soldier’s nuts might have been burnt, such is their charcoal blackness, and his ‘hang’ is tortuously twisted – so worked that those fat rocks have forgotten how they’re supposed to fall, painlessly. The twin impacts of Tyler’s extra kilogram, and the strength of his effort, have told on him.

Standing, they continue to boil with sweat: it’s kept far too humid. Their chests, smooth and sculpted to a piece, flutter nervously with exquisite pectoral definition on the puff part of the respiratory cycle. I’ve made them close ranks, so it’s a tight row.     

They await my scathing de-brief.

‘Thirty-three minutes,’ I address the trio. ‘It wasn’t a random number. Thirty-three minutes was chosen, with care, as an allowance of time that would present you with challenge. Significant challenge, I admit. Thirty-three minutes invited you to stretch yourselves, literally and metaphorically. You’ve been here for five weeks, now, so you all understand the level of… effort… we’re looking for, when we talk about hard work. Yes?’

‘Sir!’

‘And you know, very well, that we expect you to apply yourselves beyond comfort, and beyond discomfort, and beyond pain, to what we know as agony, when we run these decisive tasks. Yes?’

‘Sir!’

‘Because these events don’t last forever, right? But whilst they’re underway, there has to be a disregard for what’s reasonable, or safe. I thought you understood that being in the service of men such as Ivan and me demands more sacrifice than your previous environments. So, more focus, more determination, endless resilience and – especially – a reorientation away from the obsession with self. I mean, I thought this was clear weeks ago, but does it still sound like Swahili to you, boys?’

‘No, Sir!’

‘So, onto a fact. If you – Nathan and Tyler – had both taken your first halves as quickly as your second halves, then you’d have completed the run comfortably within your 33-minute allowance, and this conversation wouldn’t be happening. Right?’

‘Yes, Sir!’ (T)

‘Yes, boss!’ (N – with a sarcastic tone adjacent to petulance)

‘But instead you started at a crawl, broke into an honest dash only when your situation was irretrievable, and finished with times just under, and just over, thirty-seven minutes. Four minutes late, boys, because you weren’t prepared to work yourselves that bit harder, or to damage yourselves just a little more, for the greater good.’

The chastised pair remain silent. They make a reasonable job of shuttering their emotions, though Nathan’s facial tics – his nasal flaring, for example – parade a boy on the cusp of an  outburst. .But Nathan finished first; there must be some reward attached to that; so the tongue must continue to be bitten.

‘Tyler? No comment? Would you like to tell me how that haul felt for you, perhaps?’ I ask. And the eldest of the boys sees that the consequence of his silence to my simple premise, is an unwanted opportunity to answer a more difficult, open question.

Tyler moistens in a sweaty moustache above his upper lip. He’s weighing my question and gauging my mood, being courageous in taking time to assess my appetite for his truth of the last hour.

‘Sir… that was heavy. I mean, fucking heavy with the load, obviously. But heavy as a task, mostly,’ Tyler says, talking with clarity. ‘Probably the hardest so far with the workload, and the tests of the track, and the limitations of….’ He trails off.

‘Time?’ I suggest.

‘Yes, Sir. I felt like I’d given everything, to finish in 37,’ Tyler says. ‘To think of getting around in 33… that would have been fucking… insanely destructive.’

The boy has opted for candour, I note. It’s his form of pressure release.

‘Perhaps, Tyler,’ I say. ‘Though that’s not an excuse I’m prepared to accept. In fact, that sort of talk pisses me off, big time. So, we’ll meet – one to one – to consider whether you’ll play any further part in the group, before I catch-up with Hayden and seal his fate.’

He sported an erection twenty minutes ago, but there sure ain’t a stiff prick on the soldier now. Tyler was controlled when he went loose-lipped, and there’s no sign of regret, but he’s aware of the gravity of his situation.

‘Understood, Sir. Tonight?’ Tyler asks, of the meeting arrangements. I shake my head.

‘Tomorrow afternoon,’ I say. Another sleep before we discuss his future, plus a half-day of focused work, with this hanging over him.

‘Fuck. Yes, Sir,’ Tyler accepts.

I turn to the biracial boy.

‘Nathan, you also failed to bring your heavy haul back within thirty-three minutes. So there’s no cause, whatsoever, for congratulation.’

‘Yes, boss,’ Nathan says. There’s a trace of dismissiveness in his response, like he’s waiting and seeing how I intend to follow-up, anticipating blessings.

‘But… you were over the line first. Your nut-stretching technique, as you developed it, became efficient. On the second half of your run, I became impressed by your stoicism, Nathan. And, when I kicked your balls, your impetus was positive. So…. I don’t need to see you, and I’ll award you one privilege point. Keep your head up, and I want you to drive yourself even harder for me, Nathan. Okay?’

‘Thank you, Sir!’ Nathan says, oozing cockiness. He leans, letting a winged elbow graze one of Tyler’s, next to him in the row.

***

 

Heavy Haul (1/2): MM/m+, NC, CBT, CP, Anal

Heavy Haul

Chapter One

They can’t get moving.

Well, they could get moving, but there’s an excess of tentativeness in the room. They’re reluctant to stretch themselves, and scared of the consequences of doing so.

The haul they’ve been instructed to make is calibrated as feasible, but it’s a hard ask. The successful boy, or boys, will be the pioneering sort who plunders his personal reserves – of strength, and of courage – to a state of unreasonable depletion.

But fear is contagious and the three boys each add to the collective angst, whilst stuck on the starting line. 

They’re young men of different character, who handle their shared challenge accordingly:

For Tyler, it’s about steely focus.

For Nathan – effortful noise, dashed with profanities of the worst kind.

And for Hayden, tears.

How they achieve is a distant secondary to the act of achievement itself, though, and they know this well.  

Their environment is unfavourable, from the humidity and harsh spotlights of the room to the intimidatory leather and rubber ensembles worn by us, their impatient taskmasters. These disadvantages must all be overcome.

They’re still not moving, loudly, on the grid. Chains are now being tested to tautness, though, as they explore – in a conceptual way – what it will entail, to heavy haul.

Behind each of the boys, to be towed, is a miniature four-wheeled trolley laden with barbell weights. Framework wire mesh sides contain the loads.

The boys’ ball sacs are gripped around their scrotal necks by sturdy wooden traps, hinged to one side, locked on the other, and 30cm across. Clammy sac flesh stuffs a circular hole of 1cm diameter, central in the trap when the jaw is closed.

Screwed to the back of the ball traps are two steel rings – one towards each end of the width. Onto the rings, link chains are attached, stretching to further hitching points on the front axle sets of the trolleys. It’s these chain lengths the boys have moved, from draping over the floor to tightropes, elevated 15cm.

Our tractor units crouch on hands and knees, a metre or so in front of their trailers. They’ve all shuffled forward, extending their twin towing chains. That was pain-free but, as they test what it will mean to make the required progress, they gain first impressions of how big weight feels, when transmitted through boy juicers.    

At least two of them are close to motion, but there’s a mental block preventing them from making it happen. They’re not quite prepared to accept the quantum of pain intrinsic to this haul.

They’ve done a practice trolley drag, last week, but under favourable conditions – namely, 2kg of payload, lots of time, and low stakes. As Ivan told them in their briefing for this task, to prepare them for change: 

‘Your era of easy, is over. Your time for fun in life, is over.’

They’re accustomed to being harried by the Russian, but my presence in person from the start is irregular, layering-on the pressure. If I’m around, the task is of great consequence and they’ll want to perform well, in front of me. But the claustrophobia of sadist leather and rubber – so close they can smell the uniforms – plus our weaponry, hasn’t cowed the group into movement, so far.

There’s an electro-prod clipped to one side of Ivan’s utility belt, and a whip to the other, but he and I are prowling rather than jumpstarting boys, at this early stage. After all, the deadline is their problem, not ours. When they hear our boots clopping beside them, though, the kids are inclined to turn their heads and worry, diverting their focus from work.

They’ve each got one lane of a straight, 30m indoor track, and they start alongside each other. 

Stationary but with tow chains extended rigid, on the cusp of achieving something, the boys are grunting lots. It’s like the return of serve vocal in a hotly contested tennis championship. With me around, too, they’re desperate to prove they’re trying really hard, but the soundtrack cuts no ice.

Ivan and I have stayed quiet, but now we offer encouragement from close quarters:

‘Let’s see you queens get racing… or do I need to get my toys out?’ (Ivan)

‘The first step is the worst step, boys. Time to take it and gain motion, though.’ (Me) 

Biracial Nathan and Ohioan church boy Hayden have 6kg of discs loaded in their carts, but military boy Tyler struggles with 7kg. Our game was to create bad blood between them, by demanding one competitor take an outsize burden and leaving it to the three of them to decide who put his hand up for more.

There was a physical altercation – face-off pushing and shoving – between Nathan and Tyler, with appalling cursing directed personally. Hayden did well to keep mute and let the mouthy model and American army boy battle it out. Only Ivan’s looming deadline to decide – just six seconds remaining – and terror of presenting an inconclusive outcome saw Tyler fold, accepting the incremental 1kg with tense vascularity and hot fury.

With a jolt and a high-pitched wail, Nathan inches forward on his mitted hands and padded knees. He’s surprised himself.

‘Good boy. Now, keep it moving… don’t let it stop… keep your momentum… torture those nuts,’ Ivan addresses the trailblazer individually.

The white hand and knee protectors are worn by the three of them, but otherwise they’re ball-hauling naked. However, each is stuffed with a bulbous black butt plug that caused indignation upon rammed insertion, despite a slime of lubricant easing the anal passage.

Seeing a rival get moving, blond Hayden’s self-indulgent sobbing increases in volume. It doesn’t help him that this place echoes.

They’re working to a ticking countdown, as so often. This evening, the boys have 33 minutes to complete travel of the track in both directions; so, 60 metres in total with an awkward turn at the half-way point. It’s a precise allowance of time, arrived at by taking a ‘reasonable’ number – 50 minutes – established through long experience of running this scene, and then subtracting a third to present the trio with an aspirational timing, that has instead been presented to them as a no excuses norm.

All three of them must return to the starting line within 33 minutes. Beyond that imperative they know I appreciate a winner, sometimes rewarding him. And for loser(s)? Well, Kit’s fate is now their nightmares.

With a guttural roar, Tyler’s underway with his overweight cart before he’s seen Nathan’s soles. Progress, also, is contagious.

Time is an abstract number until the boys, one by one, feel the weight they’re to haul for 60m, in the compression of their testes. But once they’ve known 6kg (or 7kg) stretching their nuts – plus the considerable weight of the trolley itself – they believe 33 minutes is way too short!

Executed correctly, the hauling task sees scrotal flesh behind the collar elongated to bacon rasher thinness. In contrast what remains of the sac, the other side of the squeeze hole, becomes the tightest pommel, nuts prominent as stones pushing against their much-diminished basket case shield. Done properly, this is how the boys should abuse their juicers throughout, but despite the countdown displays they’re tempted to slacken tow chains often, for crisis relief.

Ivan’s focus, during this heavy haul, is to persuade the kids to eliminate their slack and perform.

‘Tyler, let’s up the pace, yes? Adjust your poise, and let’s see some rhythm from you, huh?’

They know how to haul weight by the balls, but in panic it can be too easy to forget the optimal technique. Knees far apart; thighs angled in slightly, towards the waist; abdomen dipped low; ass high; hands wide; head up, proudly… and heave! Every pointer on that list helps them, honestly. Coincidentally it maximises the aesthetic of their sweated agony, for the observer. But they’ve started in an unorganised way that won’t sustain a sprint.

‘Don’t stop, Nathan! You know it makes your life harder. Keep grinding forward, yes?’

Their first 12 metres is a clear straight and, when they take it in the opposite direction on their return, they’ll be encouraged to think of it as a closing gallop. But on their outward journey, fresh, this is a section of track on which to set a pace and gain an advantage, in readiness for the trials ahead.

Hayden is the last boy to get going. Ivan encourages him with whiplashes through the air, above his ass, threatening to close-in upon those creamy globes if he fails to shift. It’s effective motivation, but there’s ground to make up for the tousle-haired God-botherer. Hayden’s physique – athletically slim – is less suited to ultimate endurance tasks, such as the haul, than Tyler’s surging muscularity – deep and powerful. Whatever: the deadline never discriminates between them.

There’s a pleasing soundtrack as these males barely cope with movement:

‘Ahh…. fuck.’

‘Ahh…. shit.’

‘Aww… FUCK!’

It’s not laid on for the benefit of Ivan and me. The profanities from lanes 1 to 3 are spoken softly, and they’re expressions of exasperation as the boys advance inch by inch. They swear as the weight is taken up by their sacs, then gasp exhales in tiny satisfaction of moving the wretched carts on, a pathetic distance.

I patrol with Ivan. The fact of the matter is, I’ve never witnessed a group of boys succeed on this track without very close adult supervision. My verbal interventions are sparse, but I like to think they carry authority:

‘I see all of you cruising, not hurting. I look at the clock. I advise a change of attitude.’

As I finish speaking, the rumbling gets louder: it’s the four tyres of each truck, turning faster on the smooth trackway. Tragically, for boys in general, bursts of pace in response to the choice words of a sadist usually fail to translate into a consistent dash. 

The background noise is completed by sundry sounds of motion, from the metallic jangling of tow chains, through soft clicking from uneven wheelsets, to the slight shifting of piled disc weights in their trolleys as the boys proceed with a series of yanking jerks.

They’ve become moist, though not yet soaked. Their ass-reared hauling poise is improving, and with it, their thrust. Watching one another, effective technique is spread silently around the group – boys are good at pilfering skills in this way. They’re re-learning toleration of high-level pain, but they’ve yet to embrace it.

Tyler has made ground on Nathan’s early start and there’s little distance between them, despite the cruel disparity in Tyler’s load. Hayden isn’t closing on them, but he’s keeping moving.

‘Dig deep, you faggots. Force an acceleration,’ Ivan demands. He’s such an inspiration.  

I don’t think Hayden has ever stopped crying, though at least his tears roll silently down those puffed cheeks, now. Nathan strains loudly in self-motivation, but Tyler is stoic.

The lead pair are approaching their first test, at the 12m mark. It’s a bump, across the full width of each lane and therefore unavoidable. Think of a speed hump on a residential street, with a graded ascent and descent. The bumps are rubberised, with short plateau tops and insignificant in height (2.5 cm), unless you happen to be tugging a cart full of weight by your twisted nuts.

In briefing the boys, the word test is always used of such features, never obstacle, or impediment. And now, Ivan reinforces the key point:

‘Nathan, Tyler… make damn sure your bumps are taken with no loss of pace. We’re serious about this, and watching… fucking zero loss of momentum from the humps in  the road. Understood, boys?’

‘Sir!’ Tyler shouts. His voice remains clear; confident, even.

Nathan merely huffs, petulant.

The boys must crawl over the bumps before their towed carts encounter them, and the anticipation adds to the sense of distress at the front of the race. Nathan grimaces in advance of the hurdle, displaying a full set of teeth perfected cosmetically for both alignment and whiteness. Tyler braces himself, stiffening his beefy thighs.

‘No loss of pace,’ I say, backing-up Ivan before front axles hit inclines.

Nathan is marginally ahead. When his trolley meets the bump, the dark boy gives a sharp wail of agony. Tyler battles forward until he, too, is climbing with his cart, and he yells:

‘FUUUUCCCCK!’ Everything clenched, face full of contortions. 7kg of dead weight, plus the trolley, up and over the hillock.

Both of them are feeling the hump with a stabbing pain resonating as acute nausea, registering over faces at once sickly. Those maltreated boy balls have a serious complaint, and demand to speak with the manager.  

The front axles are through before the rear wheels hit the incline, and the pain goes on repeat.

‘FUCK you!!’ Nathan screams, high-pitched.  

When the pair are back on plain track, Tyler has his head in front and is racing.

‘Now, I want real zoom-zoom speed. Let me see live torture,’ Ivan tells them. There’s no credit given for the nifty handling of the bumps – no acknowledgement of progress, even – so it’s just onto the next, grinding it out.  

My overseer flicks his whip in a more active way, striking fear but serving only as warning, for now. We want them to self-discipline on the outbound journey.

Hayden approaches his bump. With his rival boys having cleared the section already, Ivan and I can crowd the blond, bullying him with presence, let alone our words.

‘Shift, hillbilly!’ Ivan growls.

His front wheels hit the bump slope, but to Hayden the test feels like an insurmountable kerb and his trolley rolls back to the flat track, dragging bollocks with it.  

The slim kid breaks down, sobbing again but this time with added snivels and extra volume.

‘Problem?’ Ivan harries him.

‘The hump… I just can’t… hurts so much!’ Hayden whines. A pathetic sight from the teasing OnlyFans ‘creator’.  

‘You’re refusing? Saying no, fucker?’ Ivan bawls, leaning down into the kid’s face.

‘Hurts so bad… it’s ripping my balls!’ Hayden squeals. A drama queen. Abandoning control he pisses through his shrivelled dick, onto the track. It puddles. Hayden cries freely, eyes soaking. Stocky Ivan, snorting, readies his multi-tailed whip for imminent action. 

‘The end of the road for you, then?’ I intervene, measured with my tone.  

‘No… Sir… but pur-lease… just…’

‘One chance, only, to re-start,’ I tell the whimpering farm boy, deadly serious.

‘Yes… Sir….’ he garbles.

‘Now!’ Ivan barks, adding bad cop urgency.

And – lo and behold! – we find Hayden can tackle the bump. Just thin-out that sac neck further, until it’s almost transparent; tighten the crush on your nuts in their marble case; deploy some rarely seen grit, and fucking hurt yourself.  

Another melodrama with the rear wheels and, when he’s fully over, Hayden lets his truck stop, taking a break to indulge feelings of being hard done by.

‘Power on now, cunt,’ Ivan says. ‘Effort switched up, speed to fucking 10/10.’

‘Sir,’ Hayden says, his miserableness maxed out. But his wheels start to roll again.

Ivan steps back and turns from boy-specific to generalised bullying, raising his voice.

‘You can see the fucking countdown – all of you – and you know this is far too slow a pace, right? So, tell me, did anyone come here prepared to work hard?’

‘Yessir!’ Tyler slams back.

‘Any chance your Master and me will see heavy pain from you boys, today?’

‘Yes, Sir!’ Tyler again, quick to communicate, because it’s been known to help manage Ivan’s mood. The Russian dislikes being ignored.   

‘Fuck off!’ Nathan calls, hating Tyler’s ass-licking responses, but still – he’s striving to recover that lead he lost.

‘It’s time – well beyond time – to show us you’re serious, boys,’ Ivan says.

***

At the 20-metre mark is the feature known as the furnace. It’s novel, it’s exciting, and it’s a fantastic opportunity for ambitious boys to show us their character in adversity. But they don’t always perceive it that way.

For a length of 3 metres, to both sides and facing inwards to each lane, are arrays of slimline panel heaters. Adding to the temperature are ceiling-suspended heaters of similar design, covering the same distance above the lanes. Each of the devices is run at 2000w, with thermostats turned up to their maximum.  

Within every furnace, two further track bumps are encountered – one towards both ends of the 3-metre test. The generous width of each lane leaves sufficient room for our athletes to crawl between the oppressive heat sources, to their sides.

The furnace poses questions around endurance, and resolve. Optically, every boy will leave it drenched in sweat; their cores so overheated they won’t lose that sheen for the rest of the exercise.   

Tyler has a slim lead over Nathan.

‘Fun times, Sergeant?’ Ivan asks, looking to provoke our army boy as he nears the feature.

‘No, Sir!’ Tyler says, in clear distress.

‘Gonna motor through this?’ Ivan says.  

‘Yes, Sir!’

And lately, Tyler seems to have found equilibrium in his urgent, awkward crawl, one bent knee forward – HEAVE WEIGHT – then the next, repeating ad infinitum, mechanically.

If there is a special cruelty, in the furnace, it’s the propensity of the invisible heat cloud to sap a kid’s energy in seconds, tempting him to linger and enter into the doom loop represented by a mid-oven stall.

The furnace must, instead, be a place of learning. It’s where fighting boys discover they can, in fact, work their balls way harder without a catastrophe occurring.

The moment Nathan enters the semi-tunnel of enveloping heat, he’s coated in a dense blanket of sweat. Rivulets in their dozens roll over his milk chocolate flesh, and drip from his septum. His cheeks balloon at the fiery encounter, as though pumped by an air hose.

Tyler, too, is soaking in seconds; the white boy’s pinkened thighs glistening under his dome of desert despair.

The feature punches hard, as intended. There are whole new levels of agony registering on the boys’ faces.

Ivan is ready with guidance:

‘Thin-out that ball flesh even further… flatten down those bollocks, paper thin… swell those tight nuts in their pommels until they’re purple boys… get it fucking DONE!’

This would be a whipping opportunity for my hard man, if only the boys weren’t shielded by heating apparatus. For that, they should be thankful.

Searing, the boys continue their back-and-forth leadership tussle as they grill, swapping pole and second positions with just centimetres in it. The competition drives them on, jerking nuts to unbearable nausea as the bumps are crested under acceleration.

It’s a long three metres for a boy – a relentless wall of fire, though the tunnel end is always within sight. 

Our biracial boy breaks down, though he must hate the exposure of his weakness, whimpering in the furnace as his muscles work to load-on stupid amounts of torture through his nuts.

The special forces grunt maintains better composure, as you might expect, but in the slit-eyed, brow-furrowed distortions of his face, it’s obvious that Tyler is close to his own breaking point.

I offer my thoughts on what I’m seeing:

‘Let’s start work, boys. I’m still searching for a hero, or two. Seen no sign of one, so far.’ 

The leaders have exited the furnace, though their trailers remain inside. Nathan – stopped – crouches low, stretching forward with his arms and panting raggedly. Tyler keeps moving in a disorientated way, crabbing and weaving along his straight lane, coughing.

‘No stopping! Keep moving. Force the pace. Torture your nuts, boys… really hard… really leverage them… you heard what your boss said!’ Ivan bullies, and he unclips the electro prod from his belt, which they’ll be sure to see through the corners of eyes, because it’s something these kids watch for keenly.

Lagging Hayden hits the furnace, and the slim-limbed gymfluencer is a mess, literally. The boy’s blond curls are soaking, dark and dishevelled. Hayden’s ill-advised (we say) tattoos offer a projection of masculinity that we just don’t see as he sobs through our pressure cooker, shaking and dripping and turning roasted red.

Alone, through this test, the 3^rd-placed boy attracts unwanted attention. Ivan hovers with the prod, but uses it only to rap the kid’s creamy ass globes whilst giving verbals:

‘Fucking faggot… get that lazy cunt moving… useless fag!’

Smooth and shimmering, Hayden is loudly distraught in the oven, wiggling his buns in an ineffectual attempt to shift up a gear.

‘This isn’t the moment to feel blue, Hayden,’ I say. ‘I don’t see an acceptable level of commitment from you. Therefore, my patience with you is near exhaustion.’

The blond wails, high pitched and curdled – probably a plea though it’s difficult to discern, he’s so shambolic. Out the other side the boiled boy collapses, as close to prostrate as his ball bondage permits. Hayden sheds waterfalls, head in mitted hands.

At the end of the track our two leaders struggle with the burden of turning their trolleys, 180 degrees, to face in the opposite direction ready for the homeward dash. A generous semi-circle is provided, for execution of the reversals, and the front axles are steerable, begrudgingly. Obviously, the manoeuvres must be completed through boy ball transmission alone, with no handling of the carts.

The act of switching direction requires the youths to subject themselves to a different range of pain; pulling and cajoling new nerves as they spin the trolleys – quickly, boys!! – in sequences of angled jerks, with legs askew and thighs putting in a great deal of directional work.

There’s huffing and puffing from the rivals. At the halfway point – distance, not time! – signs are emerging that order-taker Tyler – so resilient – is getting just as sick of this shit as quick-to-moan Nathan.

In buckets, Ivan and I have gathered a total of fifty rotting tomatoes. And, slowed at their turn, we pelt the twisting boys from close range. Broad backs are splattered with gunge in a semi-pureed state, and we lob the fruit at the masculine thighs straining like hell to switch overweight trucks.

Alongside the pelting, we support Tyler and Nathan’s endeavour verbally:

‘Get a fucking shift on, Sergeant!’ 

‘Hit the road, nigger! Get that fucking whore ass into second gear!’ (Ivan)

‘Enough of the dawdle. Time for the sprint, boys.’ (Me)

It becomes a noisy turn across the two of them, getting in each others’ way. Lots of self-pity, and fear, and anger about to explode.

The boys understand how we work, so they dread what’s to come. Their first 30 metres saw hands-off management, but their return runs – through the same tests – will be marked by intervention from Ivan, as necessary.