Twintimacy (2/2): M/m+, NC, INC

Twintimacy

Chapter Two

03 – Fuck

‘Who’s playing the wife? Which of you has femme tendencies?’

That had been the toughest question for the twins to address, and to resolve between them before I imposed a decision.

Getting the boys to accept a fuck scene in this movie took a drawn-out process of dialogue, persuasion and threat, across several days. There’s a bare room with a ceiling lamp suspended centrally over a simple table, resembling an interrogation cell. The seating, for our meetings, comprised three one-piece moulded chairs of lightweight plastic, to limit injury if thrown in anger: these chairs aren’t comfortable for any length of time, which may have gone some way to forcing a resolution. I took one side of the table, with Struan and Cameron sat beside each other, opposite and close enough to clash elbows when they became animated.

We talked, a lot, as I led the boys through the screenplay of scene 03 – Fuck. I told them what was required, tabled as demands not proposals. I laid it out for them starkly, but I’m not a complete ogre and I was ready to listen.

Of course, their first response was along the lines of ‘What the fuck!? NO WAY’, only longer and with fouler language. The carrot I dangled was that Fuck might be sick, but it was to be enacted just the once, and in thirty minutes it would be over. The stick I wielded was the alternative of immediate progression to the filthy movie… or the snuff movie. The imbalance of power helped their decision-making along.

I reassured the twins about exposure, in case they had concerns. They would, I admitted, become porn stars of notoriety, but only amongst the monied queer elite – hundreds of people, worldwide. They’d still be able to walk amongst the tourists in Edinburgh, post-release, without hanging heads in shame. The sort of men (mostly) who buy my films aren’t the kind to point or ask for selfies, because they value discretion.

I spent some time with Struan and Cameron on the psychology of incest, and how their shredded emotions might best be handled, during and after filming. The movie was to be a work of art, in so far as porn can aspire to artistic accolades, but they were just actors, performing parts with brilliance but without any suggestion of real-world sexual attraction. They didn’t think much of my explainer, but it helped turn ‘NO!’ into a more open-minded approach.

Chairs were not thrown, but walls were punched, and heads were held in hands. When the mildest differences of opinion arose between them, I was careful to exploit the division, turning cracks into chasms until they argued puce-faced with each other in front of me, silent.

We would circle back to their options, and I would drip feed them with programme content for that TwAT film I’m desperate to make, to gross them out.

Beyond the concept of family fucking, the hardest conversations concerned their delivery. This couldn’t be a limp piece of film – I just wouldn’t tolerate that. Their slamming had to be much more than a standard fucking of their girlfriends, because anal was special and porn demanded bigger highs.

I asked them to consider their masculinity, and how it must translate into this scene of incest: Strength, control, determination, aggression – where necessary – and breeding. Also stamina, in both roles. I’d help, of course, with lubricant, chemical stimulant (Top) and relaxant (bottom), but these aids wouldn’t get them far. I needed their commitment to force this through – to action it faithfully.

United, they told me they didn’t think they could make this fuck happen. And I was sympathetic, conceding that it was hard for two straight boys to ass fuck, but I reminded them how important this was for me and, by extension, for them. 

It was Struan who asked me, a little naively, whether I’d be judging their fuck in some way and, if so, how.

‘Of course! All I want from this scene is the look of authentic, spontaneous, unforced anal incest. Performed with porn star verbals and flashed smiles, all-round. My standards are high, but fair. Does that answer your question, Struan?’

They never could agree on which of them would power-bottom for the other. That discussion went on interminably, with two reluctant candidates for the fucking role and none to put-out for bro. It was, I reckon, the most serious test of their fraternal bonds they’d experienced in 22 years of brotherhood, and I let the tension fester before appointing Cameron to the passive role: no more debate, and no arguments.

Cameron dared to face me off, jabbing his fingers and raging in the white singlet and boxy shorts he (and Struan) wore for these pre-movie talks. He couldn’t do this, he wasn’t a fuck toy, and I was a fucking cunt. Cameron got so close, I felt his boiling spit over my face as he lashed out, verbally. There was a moment of danger, but I stood my ground, as you have to when working with boys. The fists were clenched and vascular, but he didn’t let them fly, and his chair stayed on the floor. That showed a degree of self-control I admired, privately.

And then, Cameron resorted to pleading with me: ‘We’ll never get over this. Please, don’t make us fuck!’

When he’d calmed, we spoke some more – all of us – about the confidence I had in them to shoot my perfect fuck scene. Sure, it would feel a bit freaky, but they’re sexual animals in their prime and I wanted them to head into the bedroom, relax, and try to enjoy the intimacy I’d brokered.

At that, it became Struan’s turn to fly off the handle. I’m a sick pervert, apparently. Maybe, but it’s not me who’ll be talked about for years in taboo circles as one of those identicals who ass fucked! 

***

It’s important they are able to see each other’s faces, as they fuck, which precludes a number of sexual positions.

Cameron’s on the bottom of the bed with his legs, folded at the knees, drawn up alongside his torso, halving his length. He’s wearing black ankle socks for the opening sequences, with the premise being that this sex was so impulsive – so animalistic – that he was pinned down by his twin before he could strip fully. In close-up we see the socks are damp with Cameron’s sweat, but they’ll get wetter.

Struan is standing, naked – no socks on him. He’s behind his brother, and inside him.

It hasn’t been an enviable task, for our active boy, trying to balance care for his twin with the avoidance of my sharp reprimands through his earpiece. But of course, it’s far worse for the passive actor, in agony at the busting of his virginity but under orders to keep a happy face.

I’ve allowed them plenty of lubricant, but set against that is Struan’s thick slab of Scottish dick meat, pump primed with porn as a preliminary, off screen, though somehow he didn’t find his favourite lesbian girls as horny in my sex prison as he does in the privacy of his own bedroom.

Their positioning allows Struan to lean-in upon Cameron, letting gravity do a little of his penetrative work. He has control over Cameron’s raised ankles, using them to micro-manage the sub’s attitude vis-a-vis the thrusting direction of Struan’ own hips.

Despite their specific instructions, Struan entering Cameron does not proceed in a way that is true to the screenplay I’ve walked them through several times.  

His ass lips parted in the most forgiving way by Struan’s prick, Cameron’s face cycles through a series of acute winces, with brow furrowed and eyes compressed to slits. His paws grab the mattress through the sheet, clawing white-knuckled at the unyielding foam. Cameron’s verbals aren’t consistent with a state of sexual ecstasy, either:

‘No… slower!’

‘Ahh… fuck!’  (Well, that one is fine as I’ve written it, but it’s the grinding of teeth that goes with it that’s cementing the fail.)

He’s forbidden to mention that it hurts, whilst Struan is forbidden to apologise for the pain he is causing. I’d spoken to them, in briefing, about how this fuck should look, in an obsessively granular way:

‘I don’t think this is Cameron’s first time, okay? You boys have messed around before, including anal play. So, I feel your challenge as porn stars is to bring this to life as Cameron’s fourth time, say – he’s not a total slut! – even though it’s a cherry-popping occasion in the real world. Above all, it’s a moment of sweet intimacy you’ve both longed for, and not an ordeal. That’s how I’ll direct the fuck scene, and those are the responses I expect from you.’

They’re both laboured in their breathing, though it’s just the initial spearing they’ve accomplished. Most of Struan is in his twin, but he’s finding anal sex to be tight, and Cameron to be unreceptive. And now they’re both static, panting, like this is enough and they expect a ‘well done’.

<Struan only>  ‘Fuck!’

It should be all I need to say, but he hardly leaps into action.

Sulkily, the fucker’s hips start to swing.

<Cameron only>  ‘Open up!’

They are, I hope, remembering my pointers as to what lust-driven boy fucking should look and sound like. This is limp, though. Struan is ginger in the way he extracts himself from his brother’s ring, then pushes back in an exploratory way, like he fears there’s a booby trap up that dumpster. Cameron, meanwhile, over-voices the discomfort he knows we don’t want to hear of:

‘Aww… damn!’

‘Ahh… shit… hurts!’

As he says the hurt word, abandoning the self-control I’m asking of him, Cameron’s face finds the close-up camera, and he’s scared. It’s a serious fuck-up.

‘Sorry…’ Cameron blurts, compounding the error. This isn’t looking authentic, is it?

<Cameron only>  ‘Recover it, now. Open up properly. No moaning.’

<Struan only>  ‘Fuck him like you’re desperate for his ass. Do it!’

The response is an increase in tempo from 2/10 to 4/10, using two-thirds of Struan’s length. It is, at once, hard for Cameron to take, but having let himself down he finds ways to cope without complaining. One hand tries to extract chunks from the mattress whilst the other fishes for his twin’s thigh, and that’s a move I like: open palm skating over Struan’s humping leg, disturbing the light down arranged upon it, glowing golden, and finding sensory comfort in the touch of his identical, mid-fuck. 

In truth, Cameron’s wandering hand is imploring moderation in Struan’s fuck. That which he can’t ask for, he can promote by way of gestures his twin will understand, because they’re flesh and blood, and DNA.

Gripped in the vice of Cameron’s asshole, Struan’s dick stays hard enough to work with, thank fuck. On autopilot, Struan recalls and displays my mandated facial expressions – the forced grins and the looks of assertive concentration as he plows into his bro. Now and again, Struan remembers his skeletal script, too:

‘Fuck yeah… feels so good!’

‘Holy shit, Cam… you’re so tight.’

<Struan only>  ‘Okay, up some more gears, now.’

I harry the active boy hard. This foreplay is not enthralling to watch, at length, and I need to see men at work.

‘Fuck…’ Struan curses, under his breath but caught by our sensitive microphones. A word of defiance. He mustn’t warn his twin or, worse, ask permission to drill.

<Struan only>  ‘Make him hurt.’

Struan tightens his grip on Cameron’s ankles, pushing back harder on the limbs as he transfers more of his body weight onto his brother, slanting into Cameron with his groin. The bottom boy knows the screenplay from here, and there’s an instinctive reaction of panic:

‘Fuck… Struan… not too fast!’

<Struan only>  ‘Fast!’

I override the fraternal plea with my more important instruction, and find Struan receptive to me. This is, after all, a one-off depravity like I said, and it’s well progressed.

We’re onto focused anal work, now. It’s carefree and fuck the consequences – just enjoy yourself in the moment. Slapping noises have started as Struan hilts his dick to an elevated rhythm, groin slamming into ass. Anal novice he may be, but Struan’s an athlete beginning to deploy his strength, pushing through the hard resistance he encounters. It does look good, for the cameras, with our top developing his technique on the fly, forcing a deep penetration from his engine room – those bucking hips. 

Struan acts-out fragments of my stage directions, as he remembers them: The sexy wink, as he gazes down into Cameron’s stunned eyes, and the placing of a hand against the back of his own neck, casual, to out-turn a furry armpit dribbling with his effortful perspiration.      

Cameron, too, half-recalls his prompts, which are easy. Smile, and be thankful is the sum of it, and he garbles an approximation of his lines, now and then:

‘Feels so good…’

‘Awww…. fuck, yeah…. you’re so big!’

But there’s a mismatch between the hackneyed porn lingo, and the agony writ over Cameron’s face. Everything is tensed or screwed-up. The knuckles drag at the mattress. The toes are curled into the soles, stiff. It’s a war waged on virginity, and it hurts like hell. The red stinging of Cameron’s eyes is caught at length by the passing camera. 

For my viewers, a boy fuck must be a hard fuck, and this has become one.

<Struan only>  ‘Slap him. Improve you verbals.’

Again, Struan acknowledges me with a shallow nod to camera that looks weird. The naturalness should be better.

‘Sweet little pussy, eh?’ he purrs to his twin. ‘My secret faggot, yeah?’

But Cameron isn’t seeing the funny side of this. He’s started to moan at each punching penetration:

‘Ahh…. ahh… ah FUCK… awww.’

Struan uses an open palm to clap his brother across a folded thigh.

<Struan only>  ‘Harder, with the slapping. Let me hear it ring!’

My top boy responds, spanking Cameron with a more satisfactory method, masculine and harsh. Cameron gasps under the assault, though it’s trivial compared to the pain he registers anally.

<Struan only>  ‘Okay, step up your fucking to the max. Give it everything. Fucking rape him!’

At which Struan stops pumping, defiant as anything. Extracting his leaking prick from his bro, leaving it to wobble semi-hard and furious, he finds the nearest camera.

‘Fuck you! Asshole! Fuck you, you utter cunt! I can’t do this anymore!’

***

Earlier this week, I teased the forthcoming release of Twintimacy to my premium mailing list. The big spenders like an early heads-up on my projects, making them feel part of my community.

Prior to filming there wasn’t much to show, but I attached a photo of the twins at my negotiating table, huddled close and anxious. The day one feedback was gratifying, reinforcing my choice of boys for the shoot. Before they’d seen anything of these two in action, a clamour for more had begun. These comments were representative:

Twins!! I expect they have a whole programme of releases forthcoming? I’m sure there is plenty of work you could make for them?

Ryan, I guess you have post-shoot plans for this pair? But if you’re uncommitted with them, let’s talk. They are suitable for the extremes I deal in. We can agree a price. Catch-up soon.

Very much looking forward to this one. Huge potential for these boys. Do they already know that there’s no way out for them?

It’s always fun to read the comments, but most of these folk would make poor managers of boys. Until you have one or two movies in the can, it’s vital to encourage feelings of hope in your subjects. Sure, hopelessness is also hot, when the time comes – the days they work with the sole motivation of deferring a darker tomorrow – but Twintimacy has a more nuanced structure.

***

They’re both on the bed, now.

Struan recovers on folded knees, parted wide with the soles of his feet reared under his ass. Head down, palms spread over his broad thighs, panting hard. His hair is a soaking, tousled mess, and his torso runs with sweat. Struan’s dick is bloody along the length, as it continues to pulse cum from the vivid raspberry crown.

Struan fucked powerfully, to finish. I made him, with the appropriate balance of threat, verbal abuse, and the odd praise word streamed live through his earpiece. He built-up the fuck and then, unappreciative, I told him I wanted much more. I made Struan lift and suspend his twin, impaled to the root on bloated prick.

Struan cried through the latter stages, his face a picture of confliction, but my instructions remained clear:

<Struan only>  ‘Fuck harder.’

Slap-slap-slap-slap-slap, became the relentless audio from the bedroom as Struan, pinning his brother, pile-drove his first-timer ass. I caught sight of the blood on his shaft, extracted by tearing then smeared by the fucking, and relayed my thoughts:

<Struan only>  ‘GOOD boy. Good boy. Keep hammering away.’

The active kid issued traces of the right language, from his sodden face…

‘Fuck yeah!’

‘Mmmff… open wider for me!’

…but it was spoilt by openly resistant, off-script complaint, becoming more insistent:

‘Cam… I can’t help it… he’s forcing me!’

‘Fuck, Cam… just hold-out for a bit longer… he’s making me!’

‘I’m SO, SO sorry!’

Cameron is at his twin’s knees, towards the top of the bed, but the arrangement of his body is a contrast. The fucked youth is on his side, curled almost foetal with knees drawn-up towards his chest. He clutches those knees, gathering himself close for huddled comfort. Cameron is sobbing uncontrolled – or, perhaps, he could get his shit together if he wanted to, but has instead decided to spite me by spoiling my film.  

Cameron is dribbling from his asshole onto the expensive bed sheet. The passive boy backflushes his brother’s cum, tinged cloudy red by his own rectal blood.

It was hard work for Cameron, on the bottom, and he too is soaking in bitter sweat. When either of them shifts on the bed, they uncover wet shadows on the sheet. Certainly, it became a masculine fuck, with energy and drive exhibited after my endless cajoling. Was it good enough? I’m sure Struan and Cameron think so, but the twins aren’t the decision-makers, today.

Cameron is saying nothing, just crying a lot. It’s fair to say, he found the ravaging of his virginity a difficult experience. But it’s done, now: cherry popped and well bred.

I’d said their break between scenes 03 and 04 would be a short one, and they’ve had it. Time’s up!

<Universal call>  ‘Suck.’

My tone is calm but clear. The only feedback is the vehemence of the cursing (Struan) and the raised volume of the wailing (Cameron). I leave them for twenty seconds before following-up.

<Universal call>  ‘Suck.’

I’m louder and more definitive, second time around, but I’ve not lost my temper.

‘Pur-leeeze!’ Cameron sobs, pathetic, still curled.

‘FUCK you!’ Struan yells, cum still stringing from his hosepipe.

<Universal call>  ‘Suck. Final warning, now.’

 I’m harsher, but I don’t shout. This is their problem, not mine.

***

04 – Suck

Their USP is ‘snap’. Identical twins who follow the exact same gym routine, use the same barber and work with the same stylist. Predictably, they share a big social media presence across the usual platforms, and their video messaging is slick: Subscribe to our mentoring service, lost young men, and level yourself up until you, too, can globe trot, enjoying the same success we’ve found!

A credible offer? Well, perhaps, if you too had lucky genes, wealthy parents, an expensive education, and the small matter of a duplicate to attract eyeballs.

So they’re used to working in front of the camera, but self-directed. This evening, after a reversal of fortune, they’re being used, working in front of the camera.  

There’s foreplay to perform, and the twins face each other at the centre of the bed. On their knees, backs straight, they’re pretty much the mirror image of the other, if you ignore one dirty, drooling prick, and one asshole still farting abundant seed.

They’re kissing, but this time it’s tender and slow, not greedy and urgent. The pecking of lips is audible. Hands wander across slick backs and clamp to furry, folded thighs.

They do their best to deliver the script for this final scene:

‘Fuck, that was immense!’ says Struan, grinning.

‘It hurt a bit, though,’ says Cameron, stone faced.

‘Yeah… you’re so fucking tight,’ says Struan. ‘That felt so good, like you were strangling my prick.’

‘It was intense,’ says Cameron, matter-of-fact, reluctant to join in his twin’s euphoria.

‘It will get easier for you, on repeat. I promise!’ says Struan, reinforcing his words with a soft kiss.

‘It’s very wrong,’ says Cameron.

‘I know, bro,’ says Struan, solemnly. ‘It’s wild that we feel this way.’

‘Nobody must find out, okay?’ says Cameron.

‘Sure, of course not,’ says Struan. ‘But you’re so freakin HOT, Cam!’

At which, the active boy feigns a giggle. Cameron laughs along, but awkwardly, as though noting an off-stage prompt. This has the dramatic professionalism of an infant school play. I add to my feedback sheet.

‘Can you suck me off?’ asks Cameron. ‘I mean… I’d love to cum, too.’

Without giving an immediate response, Struan caresses his twin’s flank with a twinkle in his eye. Then, he answers. ‘Let’s both suck, huh? Let’s do a 69. It will be fun!’

Cameron’s hopeful smile – already thin – flattens to a stern look. ‘You gonna wash, first?’ he says, nodding towards Struan’s filthy schlong.

‘No, mate… I need this now,’ Struan says, demanding.

‘Fuck… come on, mate! It would only take a minute,’ Cameron protests.

Struan shakes his head, dismissing the reasonable compromise. ‘It will feel more raw… more real… sucking each other without breaking our flow, to wash.’

‘For fucks’ sake!’ says Cameron.

‘Bro, let’s just try it, yeah? Let’s suck, before the passion dies,’ says Struan.

The scripted dialogue is finished, and now they’re expected to arrange themselves in a natural-looking way, for oral. Instead the boys freeze, facing each other off, mumbling and mouthing to each other with hands dropped to their sides, making tense fists.

<Universal call>  ‘Suck.’

I broadcast to their earpieces.

***

They’re curled on the mattress like semicolons, planted in opposite directions and offset, each mop of curls embedded in the groin of the other twin.

On the sheet below Cameron’s head, lurid puke is spread. It was the taste of his own shit on Struan’s dick that caught him queasy, early. Not getting the passive boy to douche before the fuck scene was nasty of me.

Both of them have been blown by girlfriends, so they know the qualities of an excellent suck job: deep and vigorous. That’s what I expect of the boys, but they’re making it hard work. I hear more whimpering than I do feasting.

<Universal call>  ‘To the root, boys. All the way down, huh?’

My encouragement drives temporary behavioural change and the sounds of throats gobbling, but they’re quick to lapse back into easier nibbling.

Cameron’s face – when he re-surfaces, now and then – is stained with his tears. He’s also become an irritating sniffer as he cleans Struan’s dick of his own faecal mess, and rectal blood.

Struan, sucking clean shaft, has the better job and wears a set face that’s more furious than sad.

The roles they’ve taken today – top & bottom, dom & sub – could continue beyond this evening, were I so minded, with one twin given the responsibility of making decisions for the pair and first call on the division of tasks; and the other as a powerless junior – a mindless drone. I can think of several fetish scenes, with cruel dilemmas, that would suit that dynamic very well. But I mustn’t get ahead of myself!

Cameron is gagging on shaft, as he tries to follow the screenplay.

<Universal call>  ‘Deep throat, yes? Look keen, and look turned-on!’

Hassled beyond his tolerance level, Cameron reverts to sobbing, and his tears plop to his brother’s fat meat.

‘FUCK you!’ Struan rages, breaking from Cameron’s semi-hard and crimson about his face as he searches for the nearest camera.

It’s fine to have a feisty boy around, when the going gets tough. Anger flushed through his system, Struan could be a persuadable boy in all sorts of abhorrent set-ups. In the end, all that matters is the job getting done, not the hyper-masculine tantrums along the way.

The kids drag on each other’s pricks, nurturing the hard-ons and teasing the orgasms that will end this horror show for them. Faces I expect to evidence joy are lost, conveniently, amidst girthy roots and pubes.

<Universal call>  ‘Deeper still, and faster. Fuck those throats. Choke yourselves.’

Cameron extracts himself from Struan’s slimy rod, to feel sorry for himself to a wider audience. A camera focuses upon his wretched face as his tears roll over Celtic freckles. Our Cam wipes away the worst of his misery with a forearm.

Struan, workmanlike, stays lodged on his bro’s prick, fucking his throat with punishing efficiency and persisting through noisy bouts of gagging.

<Struan only>  ‘Good boy, great work. Keep it going.’

Cameron, though, doesn’t re-engage with fraternal dick. Shoulders slumped, he weeps.

<Cameron only>  ‘Get THE FUCK back onto Struan, and suck. NOW! Fucking faggot!’

 

Engorged, they’re fat in each other’s mouths. They choke around dick meat, coughing and spluttering their ways through first-time blow jobs, starting to appreciate – just maybe – how the girlfriends feel when the boys get carried away. Chins are tickled by trimmed pubes, for they’re going full-length, at last.

The boys ooze drool from tired lips. They don’t look lost in ecstasy. It’s a tragic scene: hateful, desperate, forced. The conceit has been smashed, for the viewer – Struan and Cameron are not, in fact, lover boys. The overtones through this finale are sinister.

They must shoot into the mouth as cum dump, but withdraw whilst their dick is still leaking and their partner still choking on shot juice. To the twins’ credit, their orgasms coincide almost exactly in a way that will look sensational on the small screen, emphasising the psychic bonds of their brotherhood.   

Seething, the boys cough-up family seed, parting from their 69 damn quickly to curl in tight scrunches, back-to-back so as not to see each other in their climax of incestual depravity. Both sob extendedly.

As the closing credits of Twintimacy roll, the boys are faded out.

The screen becomes black, and on it the final formalities appear, in white lettering:

© Liberty Media Group, 2025

Join us again, soon…

***

They want to know NOW but I’ll make them wait, not just overnight but through until tomorrow afternoon. Then, fatigued after scratchy sleeps on top of today’s escapades, I’ll meet with Struan and Cameron in the familiar room, across the desk with the boys back in their flimsy singlets and shorts. 

To start, I’ll ask the twins the sort of open question every boy hates:

How do you feel that went?

They’ll stumble, mumble, look blankly to each other and then – I guarantee – tell me they thought they did great, though along the way they’ll admit to finding it hard. I’ll give them time to talk themselves out, and then I’ll ask them:

Do you want to know what I think?

They won’t want to, but they’ll need to. They’ll be sweating, and I’ll be close enough to smell the fear.  

I’ll tell them, being honest, that there were sequences of excellence in the Twintimacy shoot that will edit well. There were longer periods of functional, if wooden, acting from which I can salvage what I need. I don’t think I’ll raise their expectations to the extent they begin to sense freedom is imminent: they’re smart kids who’ll anticipate my ‘but’ to follow.

I’ll let them know there were long sequences in Fuck and Suck that failed the authenticity test, and the fluency test, which was a great shame. To this they’ll interject with their own opinions, urgent and angry.

They will, I expect, remind me they’re desperate not to become involved with the other film projects I’ve reviewed with them. They miss Mum, who they worry about because she’s not been well. Anyway, they’ve given their best.

I will confirm to the twins, Struan and Cameron, that they’re not leaving my facility tonight. But they’ll remain together, supporting each other, resilient and strong in the face of great challenge.

Twintimacy (1/2): M/m+, NC, INC

Twintimacy

Chapter One 

The movie is to be shot as four scenes. My actors will be given live direction, and more detailed feedback in the breaks between shoots. Self-criticism is mandatory. They’ll know me as an uncompromising creator.

Ample opportunity for rehearsal has been given, over the last three days. Moves have been talked through then practised, but always in clothes: dry runs, literally. Naturalness was addressed, in terms of the need for on-screen fluency, and a seamless dynamic. Across the table, over several sessions, the question of how enthusiasm could be manifested was discussed, alighting on bright ideas such as BIG smiles, sensual touching, and lewd verbals.

Of all their challenges, the boys will struggle most to portray mid-scene lust at the level I require of them. But it’s important they manage to act eager, because if I judge this movie to be a flop – and it will come down to my discretion – both of them will be consigned to desperate engagements the nature of which I’ve disclosed, to keep them focused.

***

01 – Shower

There are two rainfall heads the size of dinner plates, dispensing water at sufficient volume and heat to create a fog of steam. Yes, it’s very hot under there, beyond merely uncomfortable, but the boys know they mustn’t give signals of distress or step away from the scorching rain.

The film is to be shot with handheld cameras, throughout. Subject to this limitation the final edit will have something of the home movie about it, which has admitted drawbacks but gives a sense of intimacy to a production. Anyway, there are three cameramen covering different angles; they are porn professionals, and their equipment is of the best specification.

Our boys must proceed as though they are alone together, ignoring the voyeuristic trio darting around the wet room, searching always for the optimal composition in their viewfinders whilst evading their own shadows. There will be no privacy.

The purpose of the steam, boosted by the low ambient temperature of the wet room, is to lose the boys in cloud over the first section of film, to the extent they’re barely discernible figures on camera. Our title and key credits will flash over these opening images.

It’s the easiest three minutes work they’ll get, standing discretely under personal shower heads suspended an appropriate distance apart. The supposed venue isn’t revealed, but visual prompts encourage the viewer to think of a gym, and a post-workout cleanse after a heavy session, shared.  

An impression will begin to form that these figures are big kids, bossing their spaces under the row of shower heads. Reference to wall-mounted fixtures leads to a deduction that the boys are tall, though not unusually so. They are, however, top quartile broad across their shoulders.

The two of them have backs turned to each other, to start, and they’re busy soaping themselves down with gel that throws-off a surplus of foam, in contact with their skin. There appears to be just the one bottle of shower gel in use, passed between them. Soon they turn – not synchronised but one-by-one, quite casual – to face into the room and therefore directly at cameras, still working liquid soap over long limbs in a carefree way, luxuriating. Those gym weights were heavy, PBs have been smashed, and muscles are tired.  

Now, we turn down the water temperature so it becomes comfortable. Sure, there are rotating knobs on the pipework which look as though they’d control these adjustments, but they’re dummy dials. The shower outputs are managed remotely by my production team, and the boys have no say. The purpose of reducing the heat is not their comfort, which is incidental. Our aim is to dissipate the mist enveloping the pair, and we speed this by activation of an extractor fan.

The steam clears slowly, and a process of revelation ensues. My customer base being gay – mostly – the dick-obsessed might gawp at the two fat pricks emerging from cloud and start to compare meat, before remembering they’re watching identical twins at play. They’ve paid a premium for a taboo movie, not an everyday PornHub fuck flick.

One of the boys wears a gold necklace of chain links that’s chunky enough to draw the eye, and the other boy doesn’t. I must be able to identify them easily, to give targeted direction through the discreet earpieces they’ll wear throughout filming. It’s Struan who models the jewellery – not his own – and ultimately he will be our top, but that’s down the line.

The twins will hear me, and when I speak they’re expected to listen well and implement my instructions that second, without fuss or a distracted look. Having practised the minimal script and maximal list of moves, these boys shouldn’t, in theory, require much intervention, but I’m a perfectionist on behalf of my customers.

It’s time for the first move of significance. They’ve both rotated again, ninety degrees on elegant feet to face each other. Struan soaps the length of his dick, languid, as his lips curl into a smile of the cocky kind, neck tilted. Cameron has been lathering his muscular butt mounds, but his long fingers halt, across his crack, as he fixes on his brother’s gaze and laughs.

‘You’re so hot.’

It’s said by the twin who will become the bottom, though it’s not heard around the torrents of the showers. Cameron is caught in close-up by camera 2, though, and he’s careful to deliver his sentence slowly, for the benefit of lipreaders at home.

Struan joins in the awkward laughter, then leads in the pivotal transfer of hands from myself, to my twin.

The boys edge closer, to the peripheries of their personal rainfall zones. Now those hands can reach anywhere, though the pioneering exploration steers clear of genitalia.

Our shower gel is Lynx Black – not that we’re getting product placement fees! – which the boys apply unsparingly to the chest of the other in dollops, smearing it in then passing over the bottle, in keen expectation of reciprocity. They’ve been shown how to work on each other sensually using their hands, with watchwords of gentleness and love, at an unhurried pace.

Get the measure of your brother’s shoulders; tweak tit nubs; stroke laterally across the bumpy ridges of his six pack, I’d told them in their dry runs.   

They’ve made each other foam abundantly, with flat palms travelling well, but there’s something lacking and it is, I admit, the hardest detail to perfect. I can speak to them as one by radio, or individually as needs dictate:

<Universal call>   ‘I need big smiles… adoring looks. Do it!’ 

In the nature of directing action, my instructions are to-the-point without wasting words. There is no courtesy; no leeway for the depravity of what’s being demanded of them.

I see gleaming white teeth on my feeds, now, as they move self-initiated to their next phase, of hands across buttocks.

Those asses are hairless and the cracks, deep. They’re not required to probe boy hole (yet), but they know I must see fingers slide with grace, across globes and – non-negotiably – fingertips slipped into those dark divides between mounds.

They’ve begun to move on their size 11 feet, shifting from stiff planted positions to something more fluent, enabling the wrapping of arms behind the other boy and the caressing of flawless ass meat. In doing so, the twins become closer. They apply shower gel with broad circulations of the hands, letting digits play peekaboo in cracks, as I’ve asked. The boys confect smiles and remember to move their heads in cocksure ways, grinning at the illicitness of their actions whilst they gaze at one another: Full of lust, the screenplay instructs, but pause the playback, look again as a critic, and you’d conclude these athletes are dead-eyed behind a facade.

The next move is the kiss, and it’s due, but the twins delay the escalation with extended soaping of the other, reaching for solid thighs and tracing the sweeping curves of pectoral muscle as water cascades in sheets over their torsos, clearing the boys of suds with efficiency. There’s no technical difficulty with over-runs, as sequences can be trimmed in the editing suite and, in theory, more content ‘in the can’  creates more highlights. No, my problem is with the twins straying from their schedule, wilfully. Call me old-fashioned, but I value disciplined obedience.

<Cameron only>  ‘Timewasting! Onto the kiss, now.’

Hearing my direction, Cameron breaks-off and his identical takes a step back, too.

Struan mouths something that will be confirmed as ‘Shit!’, and with that profanity he lets his eyes flick down to the wet floor for three seconds too long, suggesting reluctance. Cameron, meanwhile, has bitten his bottom lip whilst fidgeting on his feet. They’re behaving really badly, knowing – as they do – that the integrity of my film can’t be compromised, so soon. 

<Universal call>  ‘Fucking KISS! Move!’

Having stunning girlfriends, there’s no question of ignorance around technique. In their practise sessions they didn’t touch lips, but I encouraged the twins to consider, and then rehearse, where their arms would go, how their necks would slant to engage with the other, and the looks of unfiltered joy that would fill their faces.

Well, the cameras catch thin smiles as the boys pause, almost touching faces, gulping. They are unable to magic-up bravado, but if you didn’t know the circumstances then you might, at a push, see longing, supressed for years and now overwhelmingly exciting.  

They join lips, and though it looks clumsy it has authenticity.

<Universal call>  ‘Hands! Necks!’

I bark at them. They’re wooden, yet this is supposed to be an instinctive encounter. Not wanting to disappoint me, the hands dangling purposeless by their flanks switch to wrapping broad backs, and the backs of necks. They smooch more tightly, mirroring the neck movements of their kissing partner.

<Universal call>  ‘Tongues!’

We’ve agreed this will be a French kiss. I know the mutual squirming of muscle in mouth will be difficult for them but, whatever their reservations, their eyes must continue to sparkle for the camera crew.

Struan and Cameron become accustomed to the strong masculine taste of each other. As they do, the action becomes good enough, by which I mean convincing. The pressing of palms into back-of-neck scruff, leveraging the other twin into a deeper kiss, looks greedy. Those necks, once arthritically stiff, twist over an extended range as the twins lock. Cameron lets a hand wander down Struan’s back, skating across the wet expanses but lingering, sometimes, in a muscular caress. In turn, Struan lays a hand over Cameron’s ass meat, pinching and kneading the pale mound.

<Universal call>  ‘Intimacy!’

I demand more from their kissing. The pair take a quick break for air, coinciding with my direction, and I’m sure I note a despairing shake of the head, from Struan, though he’s cute to disguise it with a gormless grin. They re-engage, grinding torsos. Despite the clattering din made by the shower jets under which they make-out, their kissing can be heard, now, as lips alternately sucker and pop apart. Their brown eyes pass my sparkling test, obsessed with the other twin and following him as they entwine.   

Without my direction, but as per their notes, Cameron’s free hand delves between their bodies to find Struan’s prick. Helpfully, it’s a big slab of uncut meat and hard to miss, even flaccid. The boys push back at their hips, leaving Cameron more room to toy with dick. He strokes his twin slowly but thoroughly, root to crown, as the kissing nears a finale.

They’ve been told I want to see wood in Struan’s dick, as though a semi could be summoned on command. I don’t care that it’s not fair.

<Cameron only>  ‘Jerk him much harder!’

With a petulant shoulder slump – brief, but still wrong – Cameron gets pumping his bro, really tugging to tease some juice out of that hose, though I’d settle for a horizontal salute. They remember eye contact, and try smiles with my preferred look of naughty cheekiness: It’s only an indiscretion – surely most twins try it on together, at some point!!?

There’s definitely some spine in Struan’s dick, induced frictionally and without pleasure, though my viewers will delight themselves with whatever hot take they wish to put on the origination of a fraternal semi-hard.

Cameron leaves Struan in penile limbo, edging away from both their kiss, and his stimulation. Struan’s dick wavers awkwardly, mid-air. They don’t know where to look, in this moment. Cameron recalls he must turn a dummy valve, behind him, and on our cue we cut the water supply to the shower heads, leaving the twins standing, dripping, facing each other with loose hands.

They have scripted lines of dialogue to spout:

Cameron: ‘I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have done that.’

Struan: ‘You didn’t enjoy it?’

Cameron: ‘Fuck, Stru… it felt… hot, though. You?’

Struan: ‘Well, you saw me get hard. But yeah, I guess it shouldn’t have happened, right?’

Cameron: ‘Sure… yeah… it’s wrong. It’s bad.’

Struan: ‘I don’t know what to think, Cam.’

Cameron: ‘Nobody knows. It’s okay.’

Struan: ‘Nobody must ever know. It’s freaking wrong.’

Cameron: ‘Fuck, bro!’

Struan: ‘We better get changed.’

Cameron: ‘Yeah… no point just standing here.’

Struan: ‘But… fucking hell, Cam!’

They exit the shower array. As drilled, Cameron leads with Struan following hard on his tail. During the short walk to the lockers, Struan has specific instructions – highlighted to him as VV IMPORTANT! With an open palm, he slaps the right ass cheek of his twin, hard. The collision of firm hand with damp butt muscle makes a sharp crack that’s captured on our AV equipment. Spanked, Cameron stops, turns his neck, and winks to his horny brother:

‘Cheeky fucker!’ Cameron says.

Spanker and spankee. Necklace, and unadorned.

With white cotton bath sheets, the boys towel themselves dry around benches with wooden slats. We have a bank of lockers, against the far wall, giving a sense of location to the viewer. 

The twins work their towels unembarrassed, legs spread as they rub down their backs, sex left uncovered and swinging. I should say, they are very identical: if there are moles or tiny birthmarks to tell them apart, I’ve not noticed and neither will the cameras. They possess pubic bushes that are dense around the dick root, but which don’t encroach untidily upon their shafts. And, as those pubes dry from wet and dark, we can see their natural colour is a strong iron brown tone, verging on ginger.

The hair on the twins’ heads dries to mops of tight curls, full, with curvy bangs flopping to shade their eyes. The colour is a predominant dark auburn, with fiery hints of orange and red setting-off the freckles dotting their noses and beyond, underneath the eyes. These are Scottish twins, which isn’t an astonishing deduction once you consider their given names.

The brothers had a comfortable, middle-class, Edinburgh upbringing. Not for them the drug-riddled squalor of Trainspotting notoriety, nor the grey, gritty high-rises of Glasgow, come to that. I enjoy working with boys, such as the twins, who’ve had limited exposure to adversity and adhere to a certain moral uprightness – a modern Protestant conception of good and bad; right and wrong; indolence, versus hard work.

Emerging from the showers, flustered after kissing, the boys’ skin tone was muted pink with patches of lobster. Then, after two minutes of vigorous towelling, they’d rubbed themselves red. Now, bath sheets wrapped and worn as skirts whilst they check missed notifications on their his’n’his iPhones – retrieved from lockers as a priority** – their skin reverts to its regular state, of lightly tanned Scottish pale. The high definition of our cameras reveals a smattering of small moles across their square upper backs, and if you had sufficient time, counting them might provide a tell-tale to distinguish one from the other.

** De-activated prop handsets for filming purposes, not their own mobiles, of course.

Arms are raised vertical, and deodorant is sprayed liberally from aerosol cans into hairy pits, one arm at a time with the can swapped between hands, until fragrance mists around them. A squirt, too, into sculpted pectoral clefts patched with token fluff, barely visible.   

They’re sat on a bench, knees spread wide, Struan’s right grazing Cameron’s left in that casual boys’ locker room way, though it’s not normally a family affair.

Cameron gives his twin some side eye, taking a long look down at his groin and checking for bumps in Struan’s fluffy towel. The script requires Struan to notice the ogling:

‘Bro, are you checking me out!? Again!’

Cameron, guilty as charged, gives an embarrassed giggle and the best beetroot flush of the face he can manage for the cameras. ‘No, I swear, I wasn’t looking!’ he lies.

‘Like fuck you weren’t!’ Struan says, making a good job of a scathing tone and a mock serious face. He rises from the bench and unhitches his towel skirt. His balls drag heavy and low. Struan gathers his towel – unwieldy as a sail when opened fully – fashioning it into something snappy enough for his intentions. Cameron, anticipating what’s next, stands and drops his own bath sheet to marshal a defence.

‘You’re such a perv, Cam,’ Struan says, grinning.

‘Takes one to know one, yeah?’ Cameron hits back.

And they’re off, circling the island of benches with Struan chasing his twin, flicking out with his folded towel, and – when his family target gets within range, fleetingly – deploying it as a whip.

The twins flash around the locker room, laughing and switching direction abruptly to catch the other out. This sequence is designed to showcase their naked athleticism, powered by downy thighs that launch them fast, this way and that, then spin them on the spot, agile. Creamy butt mounds flex and tense at their spurting movements and hard braking.

Both twins have towel floggers so there’s parity of weaponry, but Cameron uses his defensively, mostly, whilst getting chased, with Struan as the aggressor twin who does the hunting. It’s all planned and, for the purposes of drama, there’s mutual excitement in this locker room.

The towel fight makes the boys red again. Struan breaks, raising a Stop! hand gesture to Cameron, and they stand facing each other, hands back on slim hips and panting, chests rising and falling quickly, towels discarded untidily by their feet.

‘Someone might come in,’ Struan says, only now considering the risk.

‘We better get some clothes on,’ Cameron agrees.

The final sequence in scene 01 has the twins bumping fronts, as both of them grab the dick of the other and jerk it as their coded alternative to a high five. Embracing, they backslap in an overtly masculine way. The dick-swinging twins separate to their own pegs at the bench, where they’ll dress. As the screen fades, they’re pulling underwear up muscular legs. It’s Calvin Klein trunks for both 22-year-olds: black in colour for Struan, and salmon pink for his twin.

***   

02 – Rim

Ladies and gentlemen. Struan opposed the rimming scene because ‘it’s dirty’. (I’m sure Cameron wasn’t happy, either, but his tongue won’t feature, so it was hard to get him animated on the subject. Our Cam has bigger concerns.)

It’s preposterous. Number one – Cameron has just showered. Number two – as though Struan would honourably decline a rimming offer from his hot girlfriend! Give me a break.

My cameras have moved to the ‘bedroom’, with the boys. It’s a king size bed but they’ve filled it top to bottom (or bottom to top?) with their substantial physical presence, arranged in a line as tractor (Cameron) and trailer (Struan). Cameron is on knees and elbows, back dipped a little, ass reared high. Directly behind him Struan is also on his knees and crouching, but his hands are in active service, prising his twin’s ass mounds apart to facilitate his access.

They must look enthusiastic about rimming, and that goes for both of them. Now, if you have a reluctant boy then the ideal role for him is the rimmer, because all the time his face is lost between cheeks, it doesn’t matter whether he’s smiling or scowling – the cameras won’t observe the emotion. As I told Struan, when he got stroppily negative with me:

‘If you’re finding it hard, bury yourself in Cam and get licking. Be as huffy as you like, clamped to asshole, but make sure that winning smile re-surfaces with you.’

Struan’s thumbs are hooked between globes, holding his brother’s butt clamped wide whilst he rims. Mostly the cameras capture his curly hair, bobbing and thrusting with his face as he goes mouth-to-ass on his bro.

This will be thorough. The perineum must be worshipped with long, devoted tongue strokes, to be heard like paint applied with roller. The boy hole requires detailed attention; those virgin ass lips circled with deliberate care by the tip of the tongue, ticklish, before their resistance is tested gently, then assertively.

I wonder what sensations Cameron is feeling. He’s looking straight ahead, to the wall, avoiding his miserable brother lapping away at his dumpster. Touched in the right place, the right way, there’s the danger of an erotic spark that would take the evening to a whole new level of bad, for the two of them.

They’d didn’t have to perform in this way, for my movie with the title Twintimacy. There is a complete storyboard written for an alternative film, with the more cumbersome name of Twins Accelerated Toilet Service – though that dormant project is known by my team more snappily as ‘TwATS’. It didn’t appeal to these boys.

Their other option – there wasn’t unlimited choice! – goes by Double Sacrifice, available if they’d decided to get things over with quickly, on the assumption I was untrustworthy and unlikely to grant them a way out of here.

To inform the decision of Struan and Cameron I treated them to a movie afternoon, even supplying popcorn. Screening in that matinee was a compilation of my greatest hits: The Drop, Progression, Capstan, Ended etc. Just so they knew I was a serious sadist, and how deep a hole they were in.

I’ve given these twins positive vibes, but no promises: Encouragement, but not commitment. I’ve been clear with them that their futures rest in their own hands. As special brothers they must work hard for each other, not just themselves, because their fate is indivisible.

Specifically, if their choice was Twintimacy – the easy screenplay – then my expectation was excellence from them. The production must exude authority, resonating as a tale of taboo – twin boys falling head over heels in lust with each other.

Following their movie afternoon, Struan and Cameron believe me when I tell them how difficult things could get, if I don’t see brilliance in the studio. They understand how keen I am to film TwATS; how much interest I’ve received in the on-paper project from my customer base, and how few suitable twin brothers are available. As I summarised for the boys:

‘The toilet service film is the place I’d like to take you, and I reckon you’d just about cope with the demands, over three months. When you go out there to shoot Twintimacy, your job is to convince me you’re better than pigs, and that I should leave the $300k in guaranteed profit from the filth movie, on the table. So, persuade me well, yes?’

‘Sir!’ they’d answered in unison. That’s not how they would address me straight after their abductions, but I’d adjusted attitudes along the way.

I digress. An invasive cameraman is doing close-ups of Struan, and the kid is trying to model perfection in his rimming, taking long, exaggerated swipes up his twin’s crack, and curling his tongue to push at Cameron’s puckered rosebud.

They’re perspiring, through anxiety more than heat, though I keep it stifling in the ‘bedroom’. The bed linen is unobtrusive – plain light blue – and the set is sparsely furnished with a single bedside table (plus lamp), and a desk in one corner with a computer monitor, strewn personal effects and a video gaming chair. Affixed to the wall above the bed, with a pat of Blu Tack in each corner, is a large team poster from Heart of Midlothian football club – one of the two big Edinburgh soccer teams – reminding the viewer they’ve entered the domain of a sporty, straight-presenting boy.   

<Universal call>  ‘Make some noise!’

They’ve been too quiet, and I’ll I’ve heard is Struan’s tongue work. Responding to me with obedience, the boys taper-in a clichéd porn soundtrack:

‘Ahhh…. yeah!’ (Cameron)

‘Ahhh…. FUCK yeah! (Cameron)

‘Mmm… tastes so good, bro!’ (Struan)

<Struan only>   ‘Take control of his ass, yes? Slap. Give him verbals.’

With intelligence, because he knows I’ll be judging his performance, Struan feeds in my commands such that the actions appear natural.  

Breaking from mouth-to-ass, Struan flexes on his thighs, kneeling, and delivers a volley of convincing slaps to Cameron’s taut mounds. It’s administered fast, using both hands and to each globe in succession, catching the twin off his guard: spank, spank, spank – spank, spank, spank. The prime Scottish ass meat is tenderised, palm imprints clear.

‘Awww!’ (Cameron)

‘Fuckin give it up for me, Cam. Make that pretty hole wink.’  (Struan)

‘FUCK yeah!’ (Cameron)

And Struan is back into ass, this time dominating with his tongue, digging fingernails into Cameron’s rump as he stripes the interior of the crack with his spittle then pushes strongly at the gatekeeping ring, no longer asking for surrender but demanding it.

<Cameron only>  ‘Hand to dick, now. Start stroking.’

Absent mindedly, Cameron acknowledges my message to his earpiece with a flurry of nods that would look random to viewers, so won’t make the edit. He balances on one hand, turning the forearm vascular with his bodyweight as he shifts the other paw to his knob and gets jerking. It’s a slow stimulation that Cameron works-up, tugging from root to uncut crown whilst basking in the fraternal tongue-bathing of his unexplored hole.

Excavating, as he knows he must, Struan finds unpleasantness. Cameron may have showered, but he hasn’t douched prior to filming: that level of hygiene was off-limits to these fresh kids, though in their naivety they failed even to anticipate, and ask the question.

Eating-out boy ass, Struan gets deep enough to encounter faecal matter, and his instinctive reaction is one of recoil, gagging and horrified.

<Struan only>  ‘Smiling face! NO GAGGING.’

<Struan only>  ‘Get back in. Stay deep inside Cam, and dine on him. Work through it.’

Instead, Struan gives his first significant gesture of defiance: the raising of his neck, away from Cameron’s ass, accompanied by an exaggerated shake of his head, eyes full of despair.

<Struan only>  ‘Last chance, Struan, or it’s onto that TwAT movie for both of you.’

He mouths, but doesn’t say out loud, Fuck!

And Struan gets his head back down, onto it and into it, face buried in his twin’s ass to hide his scarlet anger, and maybe sullen tears, from the roving camera crew.

We’ll decide later whether Struan’s moment of petulance, poignant as it was, has a place in the final cut. At some point in the film the disposition of the boys is seen to change – that’s the arc of the production – but it’s inevitable there will be further deviations from the agreed screenplay, with the twins unable to retain emotional control through the perversions I’m demanding of them. It may be that we save the pivot, for viewers, until scene 03 – Fuck, because you can only really change direction – lay bare the conceit – once, with impact.

<Universal call>  ‘Let’s see more activity. Cameron – jerk harder, and groan. Struan – eat ass hungrily, not timidly. Let the camera see your poked tongue – it will be with you for close-ups in a few seconds.’

They want to stop, but the coveted twins will rim for another ten minutes. Cameron will get a hard-on after sore efforts with his shaft, and with his brain, but he won’t cum in scene 02. Struan’s face will be rarely filmed in this time because it’s easier for him to hide away, muffled and concealed inside Cam, free to be furious, than it is to take a rest and smile for the cameras, poking cheekily with his brown tongue and winking. (Yes, I’d demand a wink via the earpiece, if he dared to re-surface).

They’ll get a few reminders about their rimming verbals, though Struan is necessarily limited whilst he remains ass-clamped:

‘Mmmm! Mmmm!’

From Cameron, voiced, I’ll expect much more, and he’ll give it after my encouragement:

‘Mmm… yeah… hit my sweet spot!’

‘Oh fuck!’

‘Awww… feels so good when you’re really deep inside of me!’

‘Bro… that’s so hot.’

 It’s not easy for Cameron to act cool, when he knows the rimming is prep.

Coming soon: Twintimacy

 I have some holiday reading for you.

A cosy, family story to gladden the heart in this season of goodwill. Perhaps….

Twintimacy will be here before Christmas.

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.