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Introduction:

One man's incredible month of sex, and the twisted aftermath.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


Blackout?

I must have.

Face sideways, plastered against my green leather couch. In a recovery position.

For how long?

For hours. Because I am in my condo. In my hometown. Two and a half hours away from the scene of the crime. It is three o’clock in the afternoon. Says the clock on my living room wall and the sun shining in through my living room window.

How did I get back on this couch?

I sure don’t remember driving home. If I did drive home, holy shit, I didn’t want to think of the possibility of accidents. There was so much traffic in the big city. Over two hours of inter-state highways and state routes. I must not have been pulled over by cops, because I didn’t have any tickets and wasn’t waking up in a jail cell. Wait a minute. I didn’t get drunk last night.

Why did I pass out then?

Did I get choked out again?

How did I get home?

Wasn’t I in the House of God all night?

Sure I was. The center of attention. Again. At least for Stevie.

Did the son of a bitch own me?

How was he able to fuck me up, again?

This was ridiculous.

What is with the brutal memory lapses, the black spots in my mind?

Did I even go there last night?

Maybe I dreamed it all. Imagined it all. Fantasized it all.
Great.

I was fantasizing about this shit?

I looked around my living room. Yes, I was definitely home. I swam out of the fog. My head began to ache. Then my face. My mouth. I tried to swallow. My neck felt bruised and swollen. I had been throttled. Shit. My lips were two pieces of rubber. I touched them. Numb and also swollen. Oh no. Not another beating. I felt an awful taste in my mouth. An awful smell in my nostrils. The couch and living room smelled of latrine.

Did I piss myself while I slept?

I tried to sit up on the couch. I felt the searing in my ass. Fuck. Worse than last time. Way worse.

A cattle prod was stuck in there, turned on, and left.

Damn, did I fucking hurt.

Not a dream after all.

A second sharp pain began to fire. This time, real fire, as in fire on my flesh. On my hip, above the House of God tattoo.

What could be causing this pain?

On the coffee table I spied a crumpled up piece of paper. I had seen this paper before. From the first delivery.

Why was the first note on the table?

I threw it in the garbage a long time ago.

I carefully reached for it. My arms hurt. My ribs hurt. Eight quarters of tackle football with no padding, hurt. I picked up the paper, checking my crotch as I unfurled the note. My crotch was dry, thank goodness, but I still smelled the piss.

I began to read the note. Not much in the note. But it was enough.

‘Movie number two is on the way. Two weeks. Congratulations. You have passed the test. You are worthy. See you again. Soon. Disciple of God.’

‘P.S. In your pocket are instructions for care and cleaning.’

Care and cleaning of what?

I began to panic.

What did they do to me this time?

I stood, nearly falling. I was terribly hung over.

Hung over from what?

I felt the wad of paper in my pocket. I fished it out, opened it, read it. I could have cried.

The paper was entitled, ‘Care and Cleaning after Branding’.

Branding? What the hell was branding?

I made my way carefully into the bathroom. Snapped on the light. Looked in the mirror and stopped.

Jesus Christ!

No way!

Both of my eyes were blackened. My lips were puffed and red. I checked my teeth. All solid. All okay. These pricks were hitting me, but not injuring me in any way.

Right.

Tell my ass. And my immune system.

I remembered the first breeding session I endured. Stevie’s session. The pain from the rape was awful. Except, I had begged for it. Technically, it was not rape. I shuddered. The current pain in my ass said I was raped a second time. By more than one fag. For sure by more than one fag. Raped a whole bunch of times. Or pounded by a monster man. My ass would be sore for the next month. There goes the ‘no serious injury’ theory. Bare back sex was a potential death sentence.

I undid my shirt buttons. My chest was heavily scratched and scraped. The type of damage caused by long, sharp, chick fingernails. Dried blood lined my chest and belly, an etch-a-sketch gone mad.

The more pressing issue was the new fire on my flesh. I dropped my drawers. Immediately, I could see the blood spotting, the shit spotting, and the quarter pound of lubricant and splash in my drawers. The unmistakable stench of old sperm. Lots of old sperm.

Why so much sperm?

I slowly stepped out of my pants and underwear. I turned to my side, exposing the fire zone to the mirror. I carefully pulled back the tape and the white gauze.
My mouth fell open.

Not a tattoo.

Not this time.

This time.

Branding.

Above the House of God tattoo.

In block black letters. Slammed on with a hot metal iron.

What other explanation could there be?

‘PROPERTY OF’.

Jesus Christ in all of heaven!

I was now the property of the House of God?

Sick. This was sick.

Branding.

Not a tattoo.

Branding.

How the hell did you get rid of a branding?

The rest of my ass looked raw. I was beaten or paddled across my bare skin. I remembered wearing a black pair of pants.

Or did I?

My pants were in my closet. I did not take them with me last night.

Leather pants? Chaps? With no ass in them?

Why couldn’t I remember this clearly?

It was only a few hours ago.

I suppose I don’t need a clear memory of last night. In two weeks’ time, the movie version of my humiliation will be premiering in my own living room.




CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO


Saturday night, back at the Double Eagle. My home turf, as far as the social scene went. I am at the bar, sipping my second brew, watching the Black Hawks on the big screen. Danny and Donny joined me, and together they listened to my stories. The double fuck with Rico. The dirty little bodywork girls. The sister act. The married with children, librarian. In the library. The small town rumor was true.

Charlene, again. Charlene. Fuck, she was getting to me. I counted seventeen orgasms out of her last night. Seventeen. I could smell her deep in my brain.

I couldn’t be falling for this chick, could I?

I had definitely fallen for her pussy. She could swagger into any room I was in and I would be hitting my knees. What a mind fuck she was becoming. I have thought about stopping this quest because of her. Because I wanted to be with her. Only her.
These stories of conquest were getting more and more incredible. More and more unbelievable. Except for the fact Donny participated in one of them, and Rico in another. Proof positive, the sex was indeed happening. Danny was still carrying the grudge, a cross on his back, getting heavier and heavier. Yes, he was back with Susie. The on again, off again relationship. Yes, he loved her. Did you bro? You loved her?

Yes, he was miffed I fucked her. No, he took no responsibility for offering her up to me. Yes, he seemed excited I was getting into Charlene. I built the Charlene story up pretty good, to see if Danny would buy it. He bought. I could sense the outline of a plan forming in his little mind. A revenge plan. Guys are stupid. It was a cock, in a cunt. Me in little Susie. Happens a million times every day. You can’t stop it, or control it. It happens.

I was one ahead of you Danny. It would be sad to see Charlene go, but the mission came first. Sad, because Charlene was a result of the mission. She was girl number four. Super-hot, incredibly sexy, got to eat her until tomorrow, girl number four. At this point she needed to re-main girl number four. There were seventeen more to go.

Danny, I might have to beat you to the punch and tee you up with my number four. To break me away from her spell. To give me a fighting chance to claim the record.

Speaking of targets, here was number fifteen. Julie was lit, and she was leaning on me at the bar. The small talk of the drunk and sexed. Julie was about twenty-four, can’t remember where she worked, but she was medium height and thin with a nice tight ass. A rock and roll ass. Because her piece of shit boyfriend was a rock and roller. A wanna be, anyway. They were both in the bar tonight. Her rock and roll ass was encased in tight, zippered, leather leggings. Black leather leggings, with pink high heel booties. The leggings fit over her ass and thighs, a true second skin. Nice. A pink shirt with her man’s band logo plastered across the front.

Julie was babbling about Facebook and my great adventure.

I truly fucked all these girls? For real?

How many more were there?

How did I choose them?

How cool it would be if she could get in on the party?

What the hell was she talking about? Facebook?

I was getting freaked out. A bit, anyway. On second thought, maybe not so much. Our town wasn’t big. The fuck pigs probably networked with one another regarding such matters. This chick was offering herself up to me because of Facebook?

When her jackass boyfriend shoved his way between us. Spilling Julie’s drink all over her front, and my beer across the bar. He was calling me a Facebook Fucker.

What was a Facebook Fucker?

The rock and roller was leathered up, head to toe. Leather pants, sleeveless leather vest, leather cap. Long bushy hair, tats covering his arms. Dangerous. Not. I know when a bar fight is going to start, and end. Because the idiot was moving on me, preparing to get tighter into my face.

This was utterly male and utterly stupid, but hey, nothing has changed since the caveman days, and liquor never made anyone smarter. For me, this was winner take all. I would be taking his pride, his girl and his manhood tonight.

Half a second is all it took. I felt the crack of my fist on his nose, the jarring sensation running up my arm to my shoulder. The rock and roller was on the floor.
Immediately, Donny and Danny were off their stools, grabbing the metal head under his arms. Hoisting him up, hauling him down the hallway leading to the washrooms. Nobody in the bar saw anything. Or heard anything. It was another drunk, having one too many. Slipping and falling. The barkeep was laughing. Another Saturday night. I tossed him a ten spot for his troubles. Wiping up the messy bar and all.

Poor Julie.

She was looking down at her drink splattered pink tee shirt when the punch hit. Her tits were wet. I was ready to suck the liquid off her. In exchange for her sucking the liquid out of me. Now she was alone, and at a loss. Drunk, on this party Saturday night. Wondering where her man disappeared to.
You know rock and rollers. Flighty. Unpredictable. Moody. Creative. The rebel was probably draped over an open shitter, bleeding and puking or bleeding and snoring. Or writing the next great rock and roll hit.

My only question to her was, my place or yours?

She lived with the rock and roller. It was definitely going to be her place.

I helped Julie out to my car. I received some pretty poor directions from her, but finally got her home. A rundown apartment block on the crap side of town; the rock and roll dreams not yet panned out.

We got into the apartment and she leaned all over me, tottering in her pink heeled boots. I held her up as we shuffled to the bedroom. I pulled her shirt off over her head. The same with the bra. She stood there, wavering on her heels, the bedroom light glinting off her leathered thighs and crotch. She looked damn hot.
We embraced, kissing, tonguing, the usual stuff. I needed to show her I cared. You know girls. They need to be cared for. Follow the rules. Embrace. Kiss. Tongue. Feel the ass. Feel the bare tits. Tell her how hot she is. Tell her again. Make her feel nice and warm and beautiful. All automatic. All meaningful.

I was thinking of something else. How to do her with these incredible tights on, and with the pink boots on. With the light on. I began to work her ass and crotch with my fingers. Listening to her moan and heat up in her drunken state. I moved her backwards to the bed. Another nice big bed.

I thought about Rico, naked, his cock pushing into one of the sisters. His muscled carcass flexing above her. Me, doing the same thing to the other sister. With a bigger muscled carcass, and a thicker, longer cock.
A Minotaur savaging an angel.

I lay Julie down on the bed and buried my face in her crotch. The material was thin and supple, it crackled as I worked my tongue and lips. Immediately, I felt the heat, then the taste, as her pussy succumbed to my charms. I slipped my hands under her thighs, moving up to her tight little ass. The leather felt exactly like skin. Smooth. I inhaled her pussy scent as my fingers found the front zipper. Tugged it down. Yanked hard on the zipper. Tore the crotch of the leggings. Kept tearing. Opening the leggings past her pussy. Ruining the leggings. Pushed my tongue into her hot box. Loud moaning. Drunken, horny moaning. Hot and wet, soaking my tongue and face. My cock starting to rise as I serviced Julie’s pussy.

A loud knocking at the front door!

What the fuck?

I stand up, face dripping. Leave the bedroom. Head to the front door. Open it. The rock and roller is in a heap on the floor. Almost certainly, a taxi brought him from the bar. A buddy would have knocked on the door and dragged him in. The rocker was drunker than when I hit him. Or, maybe sliding in and out of a coma. I got behind the jerk and hoisted him to his feet. Dragged him into the apartment. Dropped him on the couch. Returned to the bedroom. Julie was moaning.

Why?

Her fingers were doing the walking. I watched. Very nice. The pink heeled boots. The black leathery skin. The small hips. The small bare tits. The drunken, horny, lost face. Idea time. I went back to the couch, jacked up the boyfriend, and walked him into the bedroom. Laid him out on the bed beside his girl.
Back out to the kitchen. Ran a glass of cold water. Returned to the bedroom. Dumped some of the cold water on the rocker’s face. Kept pouring. The rocker revived momentarily. Wiped at his face. Nose deformed, both eyes already blackened. Not much more than slits. The result of the straight on nose blast. Mumbling, cursing. Not sure where he was.
Back to the kitchen for more water. Colder this time. Return to the bedroom. Pour the cold liquid over the elephant man’s face. More cursing, louder. Eyes fighting open. Realizing at least, his location. Home. Bedroom. Safety.

His girl beside him. Moaning. Topless. Some dude climbing over her. Some dude spreading those black leathered legs. Some dude mounting his woman, pulling his woman’s crotch over a large erect cock.
The rock and roller groaned, babbled and swore as his brain attained a minimal level of cognizance. I was well into my jack hammer routine, splattering little Julie, shaking the bed, making her cry out in drunken pleasure. The rocker tried to lift up off the bed to stop this indignation.

I saw in his eyes as he finally recognized me. Rage crossed his face. Second only to the defeat crossing his face. He slumped back on the bed, his head only inches from his girl. I did the right thing, turning her face towards his. Face to face. She could not see him through her pleasure. He could barely see her, but he did see her. Oh yes.

I kept thrusting, teasing more and more volume out of her mouth. I thought he was going to lose it. Once more he tried to rise.

Rock and roll baby!

It was not to be.

He stayed down. I folded up the leather legs of the lovely Julie. Reached for her face. Turned her to me. Making sure he was watching. Pulled her up, my tongue out. Slow motion for effect. Pushing into her mouth. Of course she responded, hungry, as a girl should. I held her, continuing to thrust into her pussy. The watching thing was happening again and my cock was responding. I pushed her head back onto the bed, and began to slam her pussy.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

Harder and harder I hit her. Pussy juice was flying off our loins. With each shuddering impact, Julie yelped. She was hysterical, orgasming, bellowing, calling for god, and begging to be fucked. Jesus girl, what do you think I am doing to you?

This was beautiful. Her vocals. Loud. Clear. Passionate. She had the vocal chops of Bret Michaels and Pat Benatar, combined. For sure, rock and roll would never die. I felt my balls tingle, flush and release. I blasted into the rock and roll girl, hard and deep and long. The counter ticked over to fifteen.
Unbelievable. Facebook now. The girls were offering themselves up. I should have started this ten years ago. Instead of jerking off all those times. I hoped the thousand ejaculations during my first year of teenage discovery did not limit my career. I don’t think it would. The jacking off was the same as working out and running. Setting me up for a long, long haul. I was feeling pretty damn good.

The rock and roller dude was barely with us. He was watching. Or at least his eyes were filtering this spectacle into his brain. To be processed at a later date. Weak man. Pathetic man. Shamed man. De-balled man. Defeated man.

Rock and roll will never die?

It just did, a lifestyle no longer relevant.

The son of a bitch reminded me of Arnold at the end of Terminator One, when the red light went out in the robot’s eyes.

Filling in the scorecard was fun. Hole number fifteen. Julie. Nine, she was smoking hot, and ten, for the shaming of the punk. This was the third time on a bed with a guy. How weird.

Was this some kind of new trend?

Was this beginning to figure into my scoring?

I hoped not.




CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE


Movie number two is in the DVD player. Exactly two weeks after the crime. I am not sure I want to see this. Because I have not been able to pull a lot of memory past those black spots in my brain. I should leave the movie alone. Leave it forever and make the final break from the underground world of sickness.
I can’t. I have to know what is on the disc. Because if I have a copy, there exists a master copy, somewhere. A potential YouTube copy. A Facebook copy. A porno site copy. Exposure. Humiliation. The end of my life with everybody I know.

I do remember the clinking of chains and floating in the air. The ultimate sensation of freedom. Then Stevie was at my ass, and the pain and the overwhelming fullness. I don’t remember much more. I have either thrown up an impressive mental block on the rest of the night, or those fuckers drugged me. Perhaps, I have incurred a psychic break.

I am not even pretending to abstain tonight. I am already into my sixth beer. I have drunk every single night since my last visit to the House of God.

Fourteen nights in a row. So much for the non-drinking and health consciousness. To boot, I missed an entire week and a half of work because of the pain in my ass, and the pain on my ass, from the branding. My facial wounds were embarrassing. My general mood was of black depression. A deeper depression than not being able to fuck the girls. Much deeper. A depression caused by worthlessness. By an overwhelming feeling of being weak and pathetic.
My buddies are calling, I haven’t returned their calls. I don’t answer the door. I fear anyone who knows me can see through me, see me for what I am. Hell, anybody who doesn’t know me can see through me. See the faggot growing inside.

The ass branding was appalling. The ‘Property of’ made a serious statement. A serious statement of ownership. As, I own your ass. I own you. Somebody owned me. Or thought they did. Fuck you, assholes, I am not going to be part of this slavery thing you are trying to resurrect in your underground world.

The ass branding was no longer a drunken night ending with a senseless tattoo. The ass branding was assault, plain and simple. As were the swollen lips and the black eyes. The ass fucking was rape, plain and simple. All serious charges. All serious crimes.

Who was I going to report these crimes to?

Which branch of law enforcement?

Right. Nobody.

I hit the play button on my remote control. A side view from the camera man. Immediately I see somebody hanging by all fours, chained from the ceiling. Wearing black leather chaps. Bare feet. No shirt. A dog collar. Something orange in the mouth. A strap holding the orange thing. Two chains are attached to the dog collar, holding the head firmly in place. Arms and legs reaching for the heavens.

There’s Stevie, cock already out, hand at my ass, greasing with the gun, hand now pulling away. Stevie steps up and aims his long white cock at me. Aiming for the bull’s-eye, my drip-ping hole. The camera blurs slightly as someone passes by the lens. Whoever it is, takes up station behind my head. As Stevie begins to push in with his cock, this other guy cracks the side of my face. I wince as I watch. That must have hurt. The guy cracks the other side of my face. I wince again as the big open hand makes contact. Because of the collar chains, my face cannot move, therefore it has absorbed the entire force of the two blows.

I chug back my sixth beer.

Stevie is in deep, not playing around. He begins to saw away. As he bucks, my entire body begins to sway in the chains. The guy behind me is actually pushing me back by the shoulders, forcing me down on Stevie’s cock. The reason for my ripped up ass. A sick, perverse swing set in motion. If it wasn’t me in the damn sling, this might be entertaining.

Entertaining?

Never mind. What a stupid thought.

Fuck, what was wrong with me?

For some reason, the guy pushing me moves completely out of the picture, he has left the room. Suddenly, someone is behind Stevie, snapping a leash on the faggot’s collar. Stevie is tugged backwards, his stiff cock yanked clear out of my ass. Stevie staggers, turns and is belted in the face with a back hand. Stevie crumples to the floor. Pit Bull Man is standing over Stevie. Pit Bull Man is buck naked. Menacing. I hear him growl something, then he yanks on the leash and begins to drag Stevie across the floor. Stevie has both hands on the leash, trying to separate it from his collar. Stevie is kicking and resisting, is bare erection jutting out of his zipper. I see the flashes of light on his leather pants and dirty boots. Pit Bull Man is too strong. Stevie is dragged out of camera range.

Holy shit! What the fuck? What is happening?

I hit the pause button and stand up. I go into the kitchen and fetch a partially drained bottle of whiskey. I return to the living room. Double check the curtains. Turn off the last living room light. Stare at the guy hanging in chains. The guy is me, totally defenseless. Totally at the mercy of the House of God S & M squad.

The rest of this movie is not going to be good. It couldn’t be good. Because I had the branding fire on my ass to confirm it. I need to make the mental break.
Into the bedroom to change. Leather pants on. Big boots on. Bottle in pocket. No longer the helpless punk in the movie. I needed to fast become the dominator.
Back on the couch I slug from the bottle. No work tomorrow, it didn’t matter. I tentatively push the play button.

The hanging fag continued to hang. I watch the time counter. Five minutes pass. Still hanging there. I can hear him breathing, barely. He isn’t moving or struggling or trying to get out. I look closely at him. Well built, beautiful body. The chaps are smoking hot. The bulge at the crotch is impressive.

I hear someone enter the room. Two people. They are college age kids. Five or seven years younger than me. They should be at home, studying. Not in this dirty place. The first kid steps up to look. He nods at his buddy, drops his towel and grabs his cock. Five strokes and he his hard. Not huge, but on the camera he looks substantial. He steps up to the hanging fag and pushes into his ass. College boy pumps away.

I am watching the time counter. In two minutes, college boy bucks and squirts. He pulls out and his buddy steps in. His buddy is a little bigger, as is his cock. His stiff cock enters the cum soaked ass and after three minutes of sawing, shoots his load. Shit sakes. The hanging fag has hardly moved since the cocks started hitting his ass.

The two college boys leave. An old guy enters. Tall, skinny, ugly, about sixty years old. His cock is already hard. Skinny and ugly. He simply steps into position and pushes his cock into the fag’s ass. The old crow shoots in less than a minute. After he pulls out he steps to the side and begins to massage the bulging leather crotch of the hanging fag. As he does this, a large black man enters the camera range. The guy is tall and heavy. With a thin layer of fat smoothed over his entire body. Fuck me, I say to myself. A little equal opportunity rape is about to happen.

The black guy drops his towel exposing at least ten inches of dark meat. The old guy is rubbing my leather crotch. I mean, he’s rubbing the hanging fag’s leather crotch. The black guy doesn’t care. He steps in, grabs the fag by the ass and rams his monster home. I can hear the squish and splat as the previous loads of cum get pushed around. The hanging fag certainly feels this one, as he immediately squirms in the chains. I hear guttural sounds coming from behind the orange thing stuck in his mouth. Another guy enters the camera range. Then another. These two guys are fully dressed and wearing hoodies. I can’t see their faces. They are carrying things.

I forget about them and concentrate on the black guy. The camera shot is from above. The camera zooms in. Nice and close. The huge black cock is sliding in and out of the white ass. The black cock shaft is covered in white lubricating sperm. I stop the movie.
My cock is rock hard in my pants. I need to pull myself out of this scene. There is something very wrong about this gleaming black pole violating my white ass. I unscrew the brown bottle and take a deep hit. Then a second deep hit. I cap the bottle and hit the play button. The black pole is beginning to pound the fag’s raw ass. The fag is kicking his leather legs. Muffled moans and clinking chains can be heard. The fag is either fighting, or orgasming. The camera pulls back again, side view. The old man has the fag’s cock out. The fag’s cock is swollen.

The throbbing from the brown bottle hits my skull and crotch at the same time. The smell of the chemical nearly overwhelms me.

The old guy begins to jerk the fag’s thick meat.
My eyes are beginning to slide shut. Black dots fill my vision.

The two hooded guys are up to something. One of them has bent down on the floor under-neath the hanging fag. The other one hands the guy a short metal rod. The end of the rod is smoking.
Fuck me!

It looks…

The hooded guy presses the metal rod against the hanging fag’s bare ass!

I hear a distinct hissing sound. I squirm on my couch in sympathy.

The hanging fag is thrashing in his chains! Flesh on fire!

Jesus! Did the burning ever hurt!

I remember!

Son of a bitch!

Now I know why the chaps were on the table.

Ass-less chaps.

What a set up.

The old fag continued to grip the full cock. The black guy continued to pound away. The black guy must have been two hundred and fifty pounds. Sweating, heaving and thrusting with an enormous amount of power. My eyes close shut and the memory leaps into clear view. The fire was burning my asshole, and the branding iron was burning my ass. I looked up and saw a nightmare. A giant black man, a sick smile curling on his lips, driving his cock into me. Me, the insignificant, twenty dollar whore. I was helpless and chained, an animal. A slave. Through my eyes, I begged him for mercy, as many of his ancestors once begged. The damn thing in my mouth allowed no words. I could only grunt in pain.

He smiled down at me, an ugly hooded smile.

“How to do you like it, you white cunt?”

I remembered his taunt as my cock throbbed in my pants.

Why was my cock hard, watching this horrific, debasing assault? Why?

The black guy shoots into the hanging fag. When he pulls out, his dark meat is dripping cum. The black guy slips out of camera range, taking the two hooded guys and the old fag with him.

Four minutes pass on the timer. I have my cock out of my leathers. I was in the danger zone of shooting.
Movement into camera range. Another old guy. Fuck. It was the bartender. The bartender looked around, in every direction. Sneaky. He walked beside the hanging fag. Grabbed the fag by both sides of his head.

Spit in the fag’s face!

What the hell? Spitting? What for?

I picked up my bottle. I needed to be as far away from this as possible. Two more deep inhalations. I held the chemical in my lungs until I was about to pass out.
The bartender carried a piece of wood in his hands. He bent low, swung and cracked the fag on the ass. The crack leapt through the speaker system. Loud and clear. The chains rung as the fag absorbed the pain. The bartender swung again. Crack! More chain thrashing. I both imagined and remembered the pain of the wood making contact with the raw branding. Unbelievable. Sick. Twisted. A premeditated, brutal assault.

The bartender looked around the room quickly. He is alone. Evil all over his ugly face.

The chemical did its job as the rush came quickly to my skull. My bare cock twitched outside the open zipper.

The bartender moved into fuck position, pulled out his cock, and slammed it hard into the fag’s ass. There was nothing left in the hanging fag. No response, no defense. Pathetically suspended in sufferance and humiliation, as the bartender punched away. The fag shook in the chains from the impacts.

I winced as I watched, wondering how much more the fag could take before he split in two.

The bartender jerked his entire body as he came. He dropped the stick he was holding and moved back to the head area. He undid the orange thing and pulled it out of my mouth.

What relief, I recalled.

He undid the chains from my collar.

Help was here, I remembered thinking.

Then the bartender reared back and belted me in the face. My head rag dolled to the side. He belted me back the other way. My head swiveled with the blow. This set the bartender on a slapping frenzy, pounding my face from side to side. The poor bastard in the chains, I thought. The camera pulled back to a widescreen side view. Three more men were entering the room. The first was already in my ass.

My eyes tried to surrender as the chemical worked its magic. Surrender, surrender, the chemical commanded. I fought. I needed to see this. I had to see this.

The bartender was standing behind my head, my hair tangled in his fists. Blood was again pouring out of my broken lips. He held my head tight as the first guy emptied himself. Over the next eight minutes on the time counter, four more guys dumped their loads.

“Pease…” is being mumbled by the hanging fag.

Over and over again.

When they were all gone, the bartender pulled out his limp cock, aimed it at the back of my head, and Jesus Christ!

He began to piss!

Piss!

All over my head and face.

His back pressure grew, the piss arching up and onto my chest and belly.

My hand was crushing my cock, trying to hold back the spasms riddling my loins.

I could not cum while watching this sick shit.

I would not cum.

The wet piss was running off my face and torso. Cum was pooling on the floor below my ass. As the camera angle shifted, I could see the white globs dripping from my raw, bleeding hole. The party hole. Everyone invited, everyone coming.

My eyes refocused on the massive cock on the screen which was jerking on its own.

Why was it jerking?

Nothing was touching it, except for some hot piss droplets.

At the same time my cock blew on the green leather couch, the hanging fag’s cock blew on my flat screen, spewing cum at least five feet into the air.

The bartender tucked away his pissed out, flaccid cock. He reached for my chest and began raking his fingers across my flesh. His fingers with the long, painted red nails. The girl nails. The pointed nails. The hanging fag responds, trying to thrash against the chains. I sense the pain from the TV screen. Christ almighty. The bartender repeats this action, over and over. I can see blood beading in lines on my chest. I can only watch this in disgrace and awe.

I brought my breathing back to normal.

I sighed.

Looked at my crotch.

Another load of sticky cum to clean up.

I shake my head slowly. The movie was over.

Talk about the ultimate defeat.

I remembered putting many defeats on many girls, somewhere in the golden days of my past.

The memories were foggy, and fading.


[To be continued.............]


See the video 'TRAILER FOR THIRTY-ONE DAYS' on YouTube.
8 comments

Anonymous readerReport

2014-10-16 20:08:26
There are some very demure, very smoking hot chicks working in our libraries...........

Anonymous readerReport

2014-10-05 01:20:25
Good stuff! Who would have thought that going to the library could be so much fun.

Anonymous readerReport

2014-07-14 21:13:12
Twisted? Sick? Damaged? Or perfectly normal? Dare to wade into the tsunami of raw eroticism and engage in the struggles and the triumphs of super stud Derek Helton. His transformation is magnificent as he morphs from who he thought he was into what he must become in order to survive the greatest challenge of his young life. This is a story of a predator, a hunter, a great lover. This story is raw, open and wounded. You will struggle intimately with every situation the book presents. When you are finished, you will shake your head, wonder what on earth you just read, and then ask for more. Be warned. This book is not for the righteous or the sensitive or the weak at heart. THIRTY-ONE DAYS is dangerous, inflammatory and thrilling!

Anonymous readerReport

2014-04-16 17:07:40
the madness has set in! where is this going?

I didn't know this was a released novel.

Check out the reviews on Barnes & Noble.com!!

Anonymous readerReport

2014-04-08 03:17:16
How long till the next part? Its been two weeks now! Having withdrawal now. Vectivus

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