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
