The Hardin Torments - Part Two
This overwritten mess is a macho bondage fantasy made for like-minded scum to jack off to. I hope it works.
Homosexuality is good, life is a joy. Sadism and cruelty and racism and war is bad. Look but do not touch the darkness.
No copyright claimed.
(They had been followed the entire time. They would eventually learn just how thoroughly they'd been tracked: at the office, on the street, in the bars, in the motels, at their homes, while they slept, while they fucked, while they partied, and while they were sitting in their cars working the phones on the next step in bringing down up-and-coming drug trafficker Angel Munoz.
His goons had followed them everywhere. Their routines were marked, their commutes memorized, and their apartments cased. The trap had sprung - one year in the making - and they were about to learn what happened when you crossed a man with everything to lose.)
A lot of questions can go through your mind in a single minute... did I leave the coffeepot on? Will I get caught for cutting that corner at work? I wonder if that hot little fucker is up for coming around tonight? How am I going to get through this day?
Grant Hardin, hung in vicious strappado in a pitch black nowhere, asked himself just one of those questions. Once. And he knew the answer.
He was going to endure. Like he always had, like he always would.
Nipples throbbing? Endure. Heat withering? Endure. Mouth gagged? Endure. Sweat dripping in his one open eye? Endure. Shoulders on fire? Endure. Trapezius trembling? Endure. Triceps aching? Endure. Tendons straining? Endure. Wrists chafing? Endure. Thighs sore? Endure. Locked up balls swollen? Endure. Captive shaft straining? Endure.
Trapped in a forgotten room, kidnapped by a brutal kingpin adversary, half stripped and fully bound, criminal prosecutor Grant Hardin was enduring.
Each minute was a small fraction harder than the last. There was no respite beyond minor shifts in the balance of his hulking body. Save the arms, punish the core. Save the core, strain the legs. Spare the legs, punish the arms. Meanwhile, every minute, the ache of his clamped nipples grew a bit sharper and a tad broader. Small spiderwebs of pain grew imperceptibly like night ice on a windowpane.
Every minute. Try to count them off. Adapt. Endure.
Thirty-one. (swallow accumulated drool filling his jock-stuffed mouth) Thirty-two. (twist chained feet for relief) Thirty-three. (flex cock helplessly)
...
Ninety-two. (shake sweat off of his brow) Ninety-three. (twist both arms for any new sensation, anything but the rattling pain of reverse crucifixion) Ninety-four. (other elbow trembling now)
...
One hundred, seventeen. (this too shall pass) One hundred, eighteen. (this too shall pass) One hundred, nineteen. (this too shall pass)
...
One hundred, fifty-two. (Fuck you, Angel Munoz.)
As if summoned, the door lock clanked. In strode the demon himself, to collect his dark harvest.
Temporarily blinded by the dim bulb, Grant could only listen to his captor's taunts.
"How you doin, ese? You still standing?"
The chain torturing his powerlifter arms was drawn up higher. Twin stabs of pain shot through his pale shoulders and he wheezed, slightly bowing his head deeper in the general direction of the man he'd spent a year trying to put behind bars.
The tape was roughly ripped off of his face. A thick, glottal "FUCK YOU" burst out along with the sodden jock that was fished out from his hole.
Angel held a bottle of water in front of Grant's bruised face. His eyes locked on desperately.
"Yeah, fuck me?. Fuck the man trying to help you?"
The nipple of the bottle was shoved in his mouth and squeezed, just as the clamp on Hardin's left nipple was suddenly yanked off. Light exploded in his eyes and the precious water burst out of his mouth to splatter on the foul floor below. Black lightning shattered through the dull webs of pain crossing his bulky chest, electrifying his torso. He throatily howled in honor of the complete pain that was his to endure.
"Aw come on man, don't you want no water?"
Hardin panted, eyes fluttering.
"No?"
The other clamp was ripped off. His legs buckled and his breath seized. The pain of the blood surging back into his crushed nipple cast a lava-hot net across his that made thinking impossible. Oh God, ride the pain. Ride it. Make it through. Oh God. Oh God. The intensity peaked. Nothing like this could be endu-...
One hundred, fifty-three. (endure)
He made it through to the other side. Ride it down. Ride it down. His inner panic slowly quelled, the agony slowly flattening out into a throbbing hot insult that could be endured without giving it voice.
His heaving breath filled the dim dungeon.
Angel set the water down on a bench. Walking back over he held Hardin's head in both of his meaty paws and wrenched his sweating head up, forcing his prey to look directly into his eyes. His back groaned as yet another inflection point was forced on his body's geometry.
"Man you're an ugly fucker. I saw it in the pictures my boys brought me, but this fuckin' face man. Goddamn. You ever even gotten laid? My boys never saw you with a boy, with a girl, with nothin'. What you been doing with your time?"
He rubbed his thumbs inside Grant's mouth, up behind his lips, caressing his teeth.
"You've got a pretty little fuckin' mouth, but why ain't it ever got a cock in it? Don't you like fuckin'? Does this fuckin' little dick of yours even work? You got a pussy, man?"
Angel reached around and underneath Hardin's heaving gut, making a grab for his crotch. And then - a moment of confusion. Hard. Rock hard. Metal hard.
"What the hell?"
His thick fingers felt around a little more. If his goons fucked up when they snatched this motherfucker and he still had his piece on him, someone was going to catch hell. Angel didn't get to his lofty position by being sloppy. And did this fucking lawyer think he was fuckin' Scarface? A fuckin' fatass Rambo? Carryin' a piece for his faggot ass office job?
"You packin', fucker?"
Grant Hardin, man of steel, ex-jock, feared prosecutor, forceful powerlifter, and paragon of self-assurance and self-control: blushed. Heat ran up his face and his ruddy sweaty cheeks churned a deep red. Not here, not now. Ah, fuck. Chest surging to compensate: "FUCK YOU, MUNOZ."
Angel unexpectedly popped the strappado winch, dropping his arms against the back of the pole with a metallic thud. Hardin raised himself back up, spine screaming and arms cramping with the relief.
The bike lock came back out as Angel shoved Hardin's shaved head back against the pipe. Click, snap: he was immobile again, steel ring pressed up just against his gasping throat. The narco's pulse and fury raised as he fished his fingers around Hardin's black leather belt.
"You fuckin' packin, shithead? What you think you gonna do?"
The crisp, tailored belt was yanked off by the buckle, making a quick tour around each loop circling Hardin's waist. The tail spent a moment loose in the air before whipping back around and slashing his torso. Even off-balance, the damp walls reported with a deafening crack.
Angel stepped back, his sweating arm reaching greater extension for the second abuse: CRACK! A red stripe curled around Hardin's side as a hot lance of pain reached his mind and then his throat.
Angel threw the belt aside and grabbed the pinstriped wool slacks. The zipper popped open and rent the pants further down to the crotch, exposing a completely sodden pair of white boxer briefs. They tented low, concealing a bizarrely shaped bulge. What the fuck? How did his boys miss this when shaking him down?
Alarmed at the idea of a wire that would have been audio-recording and broadcasting this descent into Hell, he slowly pulled down the boxer briefs as Hardin closed his eyes.
What came into view stunned Angel into silence: Hardin's cock was caged.
His thick white meat was trapped in a stainless steel wire contraption, while his colossal sack was bulging out from in front of a strong-looking steel ring that wrapped his cock's base. The shaft was bent in an arc and under intense pressure: it bloated out of its too-small prison creating a trussed sausage effect while his sticky head was slammed up against a mostly solid piece in front.
And his balls, his hairless fucking bitch balls. They were two giant fucking eggs crammed into a swollen sack that was more blue than red. Everything about the situation screamed pain: how could any man endure this?
How could any man lock up his pride like this? The world ran on the combined efforts of every meaty cock swinging heavy and proud between every man's legs. Who would purposely silence its power?
He watched in awe as a long strand of pre-cum spurted out of the metal bell-end, extending a clear line of pre-fuck halfway to the floor before snapping off to join the stains below.
His big brown eyes connected with Hardin's one impassive blue, which was focused somewhere off in the distance.
The sadist hissed: "My boys gotta -see- this."
-AE
Want to read a part 3? You, yes YOU, will have to ask. I work for anonymous praise, constructive criticism, cockshots, and feedback about what keeps -you- hard.
alteredegopath@gmail.com