"Brimstone" is a work of adult fiction and contains scenes of sex between males. If this genre of fiction is not to your taste or liking, or if you are not of legal age to read such fiction online, or should you find it socially or politically or theologically offensive, please leave this site immediately. Any similarity between "Brimstone" and actual persons or situations is purely unintentional and coincidental.
"Brimstone" was inspired by, but in no way derived from, a posted urban legend. You will find a link to that legend's listing appended at the end of the story.
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Author's Note: Best to read this story at night, in the nude, with all lights off except your reading lamp, and don't be bothered by those strange noises going bump in the dark.
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"This is the stupidest, shittiest idea you've ever come up with. Honest to God, brah, what're you doin? Thinkin with your ass hole?"
Ryan Dempsey was normally quiet and easy going, but the escapades of his friend and best buddy, Blake Doyle, could easily unleash the dormant volcano within.
"Dude, chill," Blake laughed. "We're just gonna to have ourselves some fun."
"Fun!" Ryan hollered back. "Fun my fuckin ass!"
Ryan and Blake had been inseparable since kindergarten, and their friendship had endured and, over the years, survived many scrapes and brawls, mostly instigated by Blake. Ryan Dempsey, however, was not the long suffering innocent in this relationship. He would complain, and argue, and rant and rave until he found there were no escape routes from Blake's intrigues, then he'd jump into the mischief as fully as his friend.
"Just take a look at the paper," Blake said, using his best theatrical whine. "It's right there. Mark Teller's got a whole article on it."
He shoved the local edition of the Honolulu Daily Press across the dashboard to Ryan.
"You read that shit to me once already," Ryan growled, "and I'm still not going to do it."
Blake grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, threw his head back and howled loudly. They'd been sitting in his classic '79 TransAm in front of Kukui's All Nite Market on Lualani Streert since shortly after nightfall, arguing.
"Dude, we been here for half an hour; let's go do it." Blake sounded closer to sincerity than he had since their dispute began over dinner.
Ryan sat staring through the windshield at the light rain outside, then after several long, silent minutes, cursed under his breath, banged open the passenger side door, and stomped out into the drizzle of a warm and heavy tropical night.
"Way to go, dude," Blake exalted. "Way to go!"
"Shut the fuck up," was all Ryan replied, or wanted to.
The two young men trotted across the tiny parking lot, dodging a smattering of black puddles, their filp-flops squishing against the wet asphalt and entered the brightly lit market. They headed directly toward the fresh meat department.
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When Blake and Ryan graduated from Waialae Prep two years before, they'd both decided, much to their families' distress, that they would not move forward automatically into college. Both wanted a chance to stretch their legs and have fun before the music stopped.
Blake's dad was an architect, so there was not much chance for him to take over the business unless he were an architect too, but Blake had made his mind up that architecture would play no part in his future life choices. He had no idea what he wanted to be, but he had very definite ideas on what he did not want to be.
Ryan withstood mounting pressure from his folks to follow the path to success of his dad's side of the family, go to Harvard, get an MBA, pop off to the London School of Economics, and finally settle down in Washington DC where half the family lived and become like each of them, another mindless bureaucrat with a six figure income and a seven figure townhouse in Georgetown. As far as Ryan was concerned, that was a death sentence minus the fun of a capital crime.
Both boys had been outdoor fanatics almost from the day they slid out of the womb; friends and family used to say they were able to surf before they could walk or talk. Obviously an exaggeration, but not by much. They grew up with a love of hiking, camping, and climbing, especially in those back-of-beyond places on Maui and Kauai.
Throughout junior high and high school, inter-mural sports were their passion, and they excelled in every field they entered. Blake, at six foot one inch and more muscularly bulky, dominated in varsity football and wrestling; Ryan's lean, firm, six foot four inch frame gave him more than an edge in senior basketball, track, and water polo.
Upon finishing high school, Ryan and Blake wanted to live life through the bodies they had spent so many years building. With no financial worries because of their indulgent but extremely disappointed parents, the boys decided on doing grunt work for a construction company owned by a classmate's dad and family friend.
"Just until we're ready to go to college," they told their folks, then celebrated with a beachside keg party when both sets of parents gave in.
Construction was up, and their jobs were steady and physically hard, but freed them from the imminent prospect of classroom and desk. They worked from seven in the morning till three thirty in the afternoon, followed by a couple of hours surfing and maybe a couple more hours on a basketball court or working out in front of a bevy of chicks at their folks' very, very exclusive health club.
The heavy duty nature of their work bulked up their muscles, and their heavy duty sun screen guaranteed a bronze glow on their shirtless torsos. It was a great time of life, and Blake and Ryan were energized day after day from head to foot. Even their families, particularly their fathers, had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that after six months, the boys were in great shape and great spirits. The boys thought their paunchy dads were just plain jealous.
With no expenses for their upkeep, except what they chose to spend on themselves, their income verged on extravagant. After a year on the job, they decided they could well afford to move out of their folks' homes and into a place of their own, especially in view of the generous subsidies both sets of parents made to their paychecks.
Blake usurped the task of finding the perfect habitat for two dudes on a roll. Weekdays were for work and sports, but weekends were for partying, and wherever they lived, it would have to accommodate the full range of their lifestyles. And Blake found the ideal place, one story, two bedrooms, shared bath, a living room dining room combo, with an all electric kitchen, a big front and back yard fenced all around and set back from the street, on the edge of Makiki Heights for fifteen fifty a month plus utilities.
"Not bad, dude," he beamed, "waddya think?
"Not bad, dude," Ryan beamed back.
The following Saturday, the boys moved out of their rooms at home and stuffed their new digs full of nineteen years worth of furniture, clothes, junk, bric-a-brac, souvenirs, junk, and more junk. What did not fit into their less than spacious bungalow, was piled outside in the yard. Rather than dealing with dismantling, transporting, and reassembling beds, the boys opted for mattresses on the floors of their bedrooms; this also provided them with convenient platforms on which to dump more stuff.
It took Ryan and Blake the better part of the following year to agree on a routine and a division of labor to maintain even a modest degree of habitability in the house. For the most part, they merely walked around in boxers or briefs amid piles of dirty laundry, unemptied garbage cans, discarded pizza boxes, and two unkempt sleeping bags sprawled in front of the TV.
The unmade mattresses in their bedrooms were now used mostly to entertain overnight 'guests,' and with their spectacular bodies and smashing good looks, sandy haired Ryan and dark haired Blake had no lack of overnight guests, provided they cleaned and disinfected the place first.
"Life is good, dude," Blake would chirp while popping the first after work beer of the day. "Life is good."
The first twelve months in the house flew by, and, in amazing short order, the boys found themselves on their lunch break the day before their argument in Kukui's parking lot signing the lease for a second year. That's when they decided they needed to get started making plans for their twentieth birthdays which would fall all too soon at the end of the month, three days apart.
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The following day, still juiced over signing the lease for a second year, they put in a good muscle stretching eight hours on the job, then hustled off with their boards in Ryan's pickup to Yokohama Bay for a couple hours of surfing.
They got in over two good hours, and, returning to Ryan's truck a little after six, scooted out of their wet boardshorts, dried off and jumped into their boxers and baggies; they decided by a kind of silent, mutual agreement, that they'd had enough physical activity for the day and headed back to Makiki Heights to celebrate their new lease. The sun had dropped out of sight and a darkening, overcast twilight domed the sky as they pulled into the gravel driveway in front of their house.
The evening was warmer than expected and unusually and oppressively humid; the house, sweltering. Trade winds and cross ventilation kept the place reasonably comfortable most of the time, but the 'two dudes on a roll' dream house lacked one essential for total comfort, air conditioning. As often as they vowed to install window units, Blake and Ryan kept forgetting to do so, until the next time they came home to a steam box.
Entering their overheated house, the boys immediately dumped their work clothes onto the floor and stripped down to their boxers, leaving two sets of baggy shorts, tee shirts and flip-flops in their wake between the front door and the fridge.
Beer was never in short supply at the Makiki house, and Blake and Ryan made sure they had at least a half dozen six packs ice cold in the fridge at all times. They wrested their cans from separate packs and popped them open, sighing loudly at the crunching sound and the instant, stinging aroma that hit their noses.
After toasting high hopes for their second year in the house, Ryan took his beer and flopped down spread eagle across an oversized bean bag cushion, his beefy cock and balls in full view through his boxers' wide open fly. Squeezing his eyes shut and sucking air in through clenched teeth, he pressed the bottom of the ice cold can to his forehead before greedily gulping its icy contents. When he finished, he tossed the empty into a large box fairly overflowing with empty cans which the two boys fully intended to recycle someday.
Catching a second beer that Blake lobbed at him, Ryan said, "Dude, I'm sweating up a storm. It's too fuckin hot to eat here. Let's grab dinner somewhere, then go to the mall and buy some fuckin air conditioners."
Blake chugalugged his second beer, belched, and said, "Yeah, why not," and belched again. He'd dropped his boxers, kicked them aside and was standing completely naked in front of the open refrigerator, absently fingering his thick semi-hard cock and letting the chilled air flow over his body. "Go get ready, dude; I'm gonna have another beer."
With a groan, Ryan rolled slowly off the bean bag, his sweaty underwear hanging half way down his butt crack in back and across the bottom of his bush in front. He moved listlessly toward his bedroom to sniff out some clean clothes or at least some not too rancid dirty ones.
Forty-five minutes later and after three beers apiece, Blake and Ryan, freshly showered and, back in baggy shorts, clean tee shirts, and flip-flops, emerged from the house and jumped into Blake's pride and joy, the Muscle Car, his 79 TransAm, and roared off to the mall.
The boys decided they'd grab a pizza, then go to the mall and look for air conditioners and babes, but that plan was waylaid when Blake decided he had a taste for beef noodles instead. Under a dark and threatening sky, they wheeled into a Vietnamese place off King Street, ordered their noodles, took a couple of beers and sat down at a table in the little outdoor terrace behind the shop.
Some previous customer had left a copy of the Daily Press on the chair next to Blake's, so he picked it up and started paging through it, glancing at articles and ads until his eyes fell on an tempting headline.
"Dude, listen to this." The Vietnamese cook brought their bowls of noodles as Blake started reading aloud from the item that had caught his attention.
"More than two hundred years ago, in his war to unite the Islands of Hawaii, King Kamehameha I annihilated an army of Oahu warriors in battle by forcing them up the steep Nuuanu Valley and over the edge of the Pali cliffs to their deaths on the rocks a thousand feet below."
"Dude," Ryan said, his mouth full of noodles and hot broth, "we studied that in Island History Class. Remember?"
"Yeah, yeah," Blake answered, "but here's the real interesting part. 'For more than a century, Native Hawaiians left offerings after dark of pork wrapped in Ti leaves to placate the spirits of the warriors hurled over the cliffs in the battle of Nuuanu Pali.'"
"Yeah, that's real interesting," Ryan gurgled, slurping down more of his dinner.
Unfazed, Blake continued dramatically "'These offerings had always disappeared by the following morning.'"
"Right," Ryan scoffed, "like down the throats of some dogs or cats."
"Listen up, dude. It gets better." Blake was visibly excited about the article he was reading, "' In 1953, reports began circulating about strange occurrences taking place at night on the Pali Highway.'" Over the top of the newspaper, Blake arched his eyebrows and stared at Ryan, a steely, serious expression on his face. Ryan rolled his eyes and Blake continued.
"'On June 6, 1953, Makani Anderson of Kaneohe was driving home over the Pali about ten o'clock at night, with...'" Blake glanced at Ryan with the same eyebrow wrenching expression, "'with...ten pounds of spareribs for a barbecue he was hosting the following day. As he approached the crest of the Pali, his car began to choke and sputter, and finally stalled. His efforts to restart the car failed and his headlights went out.'"
Ryan broke into Blake's narrative waving his hands hula style, doing the theme from 'Twilight Zone,' "doh, doh, doh, doh,doh, doh, doh, doh."
Blake ignored him and continued, "'Anderson, now 81, later recalled that sitting in the pitch black was a frightening enough experience, but worse yet, the car started to shudder and rock violently back and forth. "That's when I remembered my grandmother talking about the pork offerings, and," he said, "that's when I tossed the spareribs out the window. All of a sudden, the car stopped rocking; I turned the key in the ignition; the car started; the lights came back on, and I never carried pork across the Pali ever again."
"doh, doh, doh, doh," Ryan giggled.
"You scoff, dude," Blake harrumphed, "but it says here that the same thing's happened a bunch more times since."
"So?"
"So let's do it."
"Do what?"
"Take some spareribs up to the Pali tonight."
"What!" Ryan almost fell out of his chair. "You have lost it, brah. You've gone and lost your fuckin mind. We're gonna go buy air conditioners tonight. That's it, period! So eat your fuckin noodles."
"No, dude. Let's do it. It'll be outrageous, man, taking dinner to a bunch of ghosts."
"Dude, don't even go there. Don't even think about going there. We're going to go buy air conditioners, and then we're going home. No spareribs. No Pali. No ghosts!"
"Ah, dude. Chicks love guys that do stuff like this. We can work them into a frenzy. Tell them all about the curse of Nuuanu Pali, lay it on really thick, and the story of Makani Anderson and how we fuckin dared the curse by taking spareribs up the Pali in the dead of night."
As much as Blake was getting excited by his own enthusiasm, Ryan was having none of it.
"Cut the crap, Blake. This is bad karma, man. You don't know da kaina shit you're gettin into."
"Dude, you're not scared of ghosts, are you," Blake laughed
"I'm sayin," Ryan shot back, "I ain't goin up the Pali tonight."
Blake leaned across the small table and said with a big grin, "You're scared of ghosts," then picked up his noodle bowl and gulped down the broth and all its contents."
In exasperation, Ryan grumbled. "Can we fucking go now and get a couple fuckin air conditioners?"
"Nah," Blake answered with grinning finality, "we gonna go get some fuckin spareribs."
Deep down inside, where Ryan talked only to Ryan, he knew he had no chance of winning this one. He'd complain and argue and rant and rave, like he always did; he'd play all the tricks he'd played before...before losing every time to Blake's whim of the moment.
The first raindrops of the coming storm splattered randomly across the patio as Blake shoved his chair back, stood up, grabbed the newspaper, stuck it in the back pocket of his baggies and said, "C'mon dude, it's Ghostbusters time."
"This is not a good thing," Ryan complained. "We could get into a lot of trouble, and I don't mean with the cops."
"Dude!" Blake took his turn at sounding exasperated. "Fifteen minutes top to the Pali, swing through the parking lot, toss the ribs, fifteen minutes back. What's the big deal?"
"No big deal," Ryan snapped. "You can drop me off at the house on your way."
The light rain began to fall steadily as the two exited the noodle shop and sprinted to the TransAm.
"Tomorrow," Blake proclaimed, "you are going to be so glad you did this; you are going to be talking about it all day; it's gonna be like the best pussy bait of all time."
Ryan looked at his bud, grimaced and said, "You are a total shit," then half heartedly, "I'm still not going."
Little more than half an hour later, Ryan and Blake were standing in front of the display case in Kukui's meat section, and Blake was telling the clerk that he'd like ten pounds of spareribs.
"Anything to go with that?" the clerk asked. "Barbecue sauce? Cole slaw?"
"Nope," Blake responded with a satisfied wink at Ryan. "Just the ribs."
Even though Ryan finally agreed, as they both knew he would, he didn't want any "funny stuff" along the way. "We're going to go up and come right back, that's all," he insisted.
Blake absolutely vowed, "No funny stuff." But then, Blake never knew what he was going to be doing from one minute to the next, so, in a sense, his vows were always technically truthful. The boys chugged back to the car quickly through the increasing rainfall, Blake shielding the ten pounds of ribs by pressing the package like a football against his hard belly, under his tee shirt. In the car, he tossed it onto the floor in front of Ryan.
"Bitch!" Ryan squawked.
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By the time Blake swung the TransAm to the right off the H1 and started his ascent up the Pali Highway, what began as a hit-and-miss drizzle had become a deluge.
"Can we go home now," Ryan groused. "It's fuckin pourin out there."
"We'll be home in half an hour," Blake grinned. "Just think how the rain's gonna cool off the house. Good sleepin weather, brah."
"Bastard." Ryan would make sure he added this jaunt to his payback day.
Even with the wipers running full tilt, it was difficult to see much beyond the front of the car, and the increased intensity of the downpour made normal conversation impossible
"Keep an eye out for sign posts," Blake yelled.
"Go fuck a duck," Ryan grumbled to himself.
Blake was justifiably proud of his driving skills, especially under adverse conditions like this torrential storm. Besides, having made innumerable runs between Honolulu and Kailua to windsurf, he knew the Pali Highway well, every twist and every turn.
After less than a quarter of an hour speeding up the highway, Ryan shouted, "Pali turn off coming up."
"Hang on, brah. Here we go." Blake swung the TransAm into the exit lane through the slashing rain and into the historic monument's parking lot.
Nuuanu Pali is notorious for the ferocious winds that roar in off the Pacific, breaking like tsunamis over the jagged lip of the cliffs. This night they were fiercer than ever, driving sheets of rain almost horizontally across the parking lot. The only illumination in the midst of this maelstrom was from the car's headlights, and their beams petered out almost immediately into the inky blackness.
Blake gunned the TransAm, careening wildly across the flooded parking lot, its tortured tires shrieking like banshees against the roar of the storm. He whipped around the steering wheel, plowing up walls of water on either side of the car, finally lurching abruptly to a stop.
"What the fuck are you doin," Ryan screamed. "You said no fuckin funny stuff!"
"Just lettin the ghosts know we've arrived, brah," Blake laughed, then quicker than Ryan could respond, his right hand darted forward, and he switched off the ignition and killed the lights, plunging them into the storm's raging blackness.
"Fuckin son of a bitch," Ryan sputtered. "Turn the fuckin lights back on."
He struggled against the restraint of his seat belt, pummeling Blake and trying to turn the keys in the ignition, only to knock them to the floor, losing them in the darkness.
"Christ, Ryan," Blake hollered, trying to defend himself against Ryan's hysterical barrage of punches. "Back off, man. You're losin it."
"You promised," Ryan screamed, "you promised no funny stuff."
Blake had no idea how scared Ryan had been from the outset; his bud was truly frightened of the pitch black and of the unknown.
"You promised." Ryan was on the verge of tears.
Before Blake had a chance to respond to his friend's distress, the impenetrable darkness surrounding them was ripped apart by violent explosions of lightening and bone crunching avalanches of thunder, one after another after another. The TransAm shook madly as though in the grip of a monstrous earthquake, the thunder so deafening the boys couldn't hear each other scream. Suddenly, the left side of the car heaved up off the pavement, as though hit by a battering ram, and the TransAm skidded sideways across the parking lot on the two right tires.
Ryan buried his face in his arms, shrieking at the top of his lungs; Blake gripped the steering wheel with clenched fists, eyes squeezed shut, mouth soundlessly screaming. A series of gut wrenching blows fell on the car like a circle of sledgehammers smashing repeatedly into the roof, hood, trunk, and fenders. The storm roared in tightening circles around them, like a howling tornado; then, with an earsplitting crack, the windshield and rear window shattered simultaneously, showering glass throughout the dark interior, the gale force wind and rain exploding inwards.
"Out of the car," Blake shouted, already half drenched. "Get out of the car!"
After desperately struggling to release his own seat belt amid jagged bursts of lightening slicing the air, he scrambled to get Ryan free of his.
"Get out, get out, get out of the car," he continued to shout, jerking the handle on Ryan's door and shoving him through. He turned and forced his door open against the storm, but only managed to get one foot part way out.
A powerful blast slammed into both boys, knocking them back into the car, across their seats, and into each other, then, momentarily stunned and pinned by the force of the impact and brutally pounded by the storm, they felt something else, something part of the wind but not part of the wind, something that violently forced itself between Ryan's thighs and threaded his crotch on both sides, coiling around his hips, engulfing Blake's chest and waist and crushing the two boys together. It dragged them howling and squeezed tightly into each other out of the car through Ryan's door, flinging them onto the ground.
Under the ferocity of the storm, reason evaporated and the boys, totally drenched and screaming with terror, felt themselves being pulled by their ankles in whirling circles around the parking lot.
The full fury of the wind and rain whipped their bodies, tearing at their clothes, hurling their flip-flops away into the darkness, as another bone crushing swirl of forces gripped their wrists and arms, and, to their horror, they were lifted straight up off the ground. Fingers unseen, even under repeated, violent lightening flares, clawed at them, ripping their clothes, stripping them naked, exposing them helpless to the scouring elements of a night gone berserk.
Powerful and invisible tendrils wrapped themselves around the boys' genitals, squeezing, crushing, twisting their balls and cocks; others tightly gripped their throats and thighs, winding their way around their midsections and legs. Ryan, his limbs pulled wide apart, his cock stretched like a rubber band, up his belly, past his navel, his balls crushed into the bottom of their sack and pulled half way to his knees, tried in vain to struggle against the agonizing vise-like pressures crushing him.
There were no thoughts, no words in his head; he couldn't breath; fingers he could feel but could not see tightened around his throat; his blood pounded in his ears. This was what it was like to die. He continued to fight against the unbearable pain, but to no avail. As a thick darkness began to sink into his skull, he was suddenly, savagely catapulted up into into the black. Released from constraints, he frantically clawed and kicked the air, gasping for breath to fill his burning lungs, his face and body lashed by the fierce cyclone roaring around him.
Unable to comprehend any of what was happening or even to touch the terror that pulverized his consciousness, Ryan heard Blake's high pitched screams over the shattering roar of wind and rain as he fell back into a sea of invisible arms, thrashing and coiling around his body, pulling at him, tearing at him, hurling him through the darkness.
Blake and Ryan could hear each other's cries of pain and terror and could see each other at every lightening bolt that split the night, their bodies whipped by the vicious storm, their balls now shriveled with fear, their cocks, limp, lifeless, bouncing up and down between their legs, slapping their thighs and bellys as they twisted and struggled against the unseen forces hoisting them above the ground and into the raging winds of the Pali.
From some unknown space within each of them, sparks of reason grazed the boys' consciousness, unnoticed in the horror of the moment, but touch them they did, and the slight wedge of awareness that scratched the surface of their terror opened the jaws of fear and panic wider still. They were being borne irresistibly into the fury of the Pali winds, not by the winds, not in their direction, but straight into them, against them, toward the Pali itself. They crashed into the trees and shrubbery edging the perimeter of the parking lot, twigs and branches, sharp edged leaves and thorns raking their naked bodies, their new awareness intensifying their screams and vain struggles to escape.
As lightening bolts tore across the storm, the boys could clearly see the rain beaten cliffs and reinforced guard rail pass beneath them, and for a fraction of an instant, they hung, frozen, suspended, wailing, shaking uncontrollably in the blackness beyond the Pali's edge, then they plunged into the abyss.
Kicking and clawing, twisting and writhing, screaming in horror at the face of death, they plummeted insanely through the black. They fell and they fell, and continued to fall, until the faintest glimmers of reason extinguished in a mad rush of blind terror, flickered dimly anew as a wordless knowing spread through their brains that they were falling too far, hurtling through the void longer than it should have taken them to smash onto the rocks at the foot of the Pali.
Their bodies should already have exploded, impacting on jagged boulders, but they kept falling ceaselessly until they plowed feet first and without warning into a viscous cushion of spongy, slimy mud. They cartwheeled and tumbled over and over, sliding and spinning on their backs uncontrollably across the slick, liquid surface, trying to regain their breath, rasping cries of terror spilling from their lips.
At once, they were horrifyingly aware of a scalding heat bubbling out of the muck surrounding them. The mud was boiling, prompting newer, more prolonged, higher pitched cries of pain. They struggled and writhed in the steaming, agonizing mire that clung to their skin, but there was no way out, no way to free themselves, no anywhere else to go. They flung their arms about, vainly crying for rescue; ultimately succumbing to the boiling torment oozing over them.
Through this ceaseless onslaught of agony and terror, Ryan and Blake could not escape their consciousness, could not escape their awareness, their pain. They could not cease to be; they could not die; they could only suffer.
Steaming volcanic mud surrounded them, stretching out endlessly in front and to their right into a curving wall of darkness and to their left, sweeping into a seething ocean boiling out of a black beyond. Above them, a dark, red glow throbbed, like the dim reflection from a slag heap or lava flow. Enough to see by, enough to distort, enough to terrorize.
Sobbing, the boys were beyond words; their agony, excruciating; their reason, dissolving. They slumped over in the bubbling slime, the only sound, the crashing of a boiling hot sea swirling closer and closer.
Then, faintly at first, accompanying the pulse of the steaming ocean, a second sound arose, different from the ocean, separate from it. Increasingly more insistent, increasingly more pronounced, increasingly closer than the beating surf. Almost identifiable sounds. Almost animal sounds.
In an agonized daze, Blake opened one eye and slowly raised himself up on one arm from the blistering mud He listened.
"Oli," he gasped. "Oli."
Ryan stirred at the sound of his friend's voice. "What?"
he groaned.
"Listen," he whispered horsely, "Oli. Chanting. Someone's chanting"
In spite of the scalding mud, Ryan and Blake rose slowly and painfully to their knees, to see what the chant like sound was and where it was coming from, hoping it promised salvation. The dull red cover above them distorted perspective and distance. The sound was coming from behind them, rhythmically, like a drumbeat, deep, persistent, primal, closer, wilder. They turned toward it.
"I see them," Ryan moaned, "Oh, Jesus! I see them."
Blake groaned inwardly; the boys began to claw at the mud, despite their pain, trying desperately to stand and get their footing, only to fall back each time into the seething, steaming slime.
"Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh God," Ryan cried, his voice strained by his suffering.
Racing across the surface of the mud, as though it were solid ground, a grisly legion sprung from the gates of hell, chanting in unison and shouting in cadence with their foot falls, rapidly advanced toward the boys.
"I know who they are," Ryan sobbed. "I've seen pictures of them."
Blake's arm fell around his friend's hips as they both struggled to their feet again. "I know," he gasped. "I know."
Like the surge of an incoming tide, their horrifying fate spilled across the boiling mud in front of them, approaching swiftly, features easily distinguishable even under the dark and foul reddish light. The boys tried to turn and run, but could only slide and stumble.
"They're the warriors," Ryan howled. "The warriors Kamehameha killed. Jesus God! They're coming to kill us."
Pressing their bodies together instinctively, side by side, Blake and Ryan tried to back away as the first line of marauders swooped in around them. They were petrified, terrified beyond the confines of their pain, slack jawed, eyes bulging, staring at the embodiment of all the frightening, ghoulish drawings they had grown up with. Drawings of ferocious aboriginal Hawaiian warriors, their arms raised, hands spread, fingers curled, teeth bared.
They were huge naked creatures, hair thick and wild, falling far below their shoulders, bodies pierced with shards of bone and blackened by tattoos and ritual scaring; even their cocks, protruding like gigantic war clubs, were scared and tattooed, their eyes burning red, like coals in a furnace, leering mouths ringed with teeth filed sharp, reflecting darkly the glow overhead, slime oozing over their lips.
The boys screamed as a forest of arms descended on them, dragging them apart, driving them back down into the boiling mud, pinning their arms and legs. Howling chants and war cries hammered down on them, crushing their minds and throttling their bodies, as warriors scooped out handfuls of steaming mud and began smearing it over the boys. They tried uselessly to buck and fight against the searing agony of the boiling muck and the warriors' horrific strength, but hands, huge and rough, dragged layers of volcanic mud down the full length of their bodies, jerking their cocks and mangling their balls with it.
One of the monsters dropped onto Ryan's chest, forcing a mud caked fist into the his mouth, clogging it almost shut. From head to foot, the boys were blackened with blistering mud. Powerful hands gripped their ankles, jerking their legs upward and wrenching them wide apart and back over their shoulders, exposing their holes for the warriors' pleasure.
On earth, honua, as well as under the earth, kehena, prisoners taken alive were for raping and torture, and then for the heiau stones, the places of sacrifice. In kehena, in hell, Ryan and Blake were prizes, plunder for demon warriors, never dying agonizing sheets of flame.
Like white hot pokers, fingers of fire, thick and hard, ripped into the boys' anal cavities spewing geysers of pain into their bowels, and, like mindless beasts, the two screamed beyond all screams ripped from their throats so far. Hunched around Ryan's and Blake's upturned buttocks, a circle of warriors shoved mud coated fingers deep into the boys' rectums, layering with scalding muck and stretching their syphincters wide as drain pipes, scorching the walls of their inner chutes with the boiling abrasive.
When they had been made ready, specters of madness loomed over them, glaring into their faces, monstrous warriors, pointing their huge, black, mutilated cocks at the steaming, mud smeared holes prepared for them; the boys, their faces screwed tight in agony and terror, shook their heads, pleading soundlessly, until the massive throbbing war clubs tore into their holes, plowing apart the walls of their innards, digging and grinding more than a foot into their bellys, cockheads clearly bulging through their bellies, impaling them on swords of fire until massive jets of molten lava shot into their guts, drowning them in pain beyond pain.
Warrior cocks, like branding irons, ripped into the boys' asses one after another. They no longer needed to be pinned down; walls of steaming, mud slimed arms and legs held the boys in place, doubled over, bent at the knees, their holes bubbling with sludge and semen, their chests crushed under the weight of grotesquely tattooed giants, their ritually scared cocks crammed deep into the their throats, warrior cum, like fiery acid, filling their guts.
The boys and the warriors raping their holes and throttling their bodies, and the ranks of seething torsos, arms, and legs grasping at them, clawing them, began to slide across the boiling slime like some prehistoric creature returning to the sea. Warriors hoisted Blake and Ryan above their shoulders; hands, burning to the touch, tore at them, dug into their flesh, wrenching their arms and legs wide apart.
Like the launching of some satanic barge, mud smeared warriors, chanting and howling wildly and pressed tight together, their captives, coated with steaming muck, crying aloud and held overhead like twin sacrifices to devil gods, slid into the blistering surf that crashed against the shore. Blake and Ryan, their captors and torturers plunged beneath the surface into the boiling, churning sea, their shrieks of torment beyond human capacity.
The convulsing, bubbling liquid swirling away layers of mud and filling lungs and bellys, did not diminish the screams of agony erupting from all their mouths. The dark and throbbing blood red overcast blanketing this world glowed deeply into the raging acid sea, transforming it into a crimson bath of horror.
Sliding deeper into the seething currents, the warriors continued raping Ryan and Blake, their massive limbs wound around the boys' arms and legs, unimpeded by the surface of a volcanic shore or the limits of gravity. They twisted and turned, spun and plunged, warrior cocks driven deeply into the boys' guts and throats, warrior claws squeezing and crushing their balls and cocks, needle sharp warrior teeth grinding against nipples, throats, buttocks. None could drown. Not the warriors. Not Ryan or Blake. None could die. None could escape. They were together in agony beyond understanding. They were at once alive and dead
Fiery pain, the boys only awareness; no thoughts, no reason, only the scalding sea and searing cocks; torment was existence, and it was addictive. Ryan and Blake writhed not just in misery, not in never ending pain, they writhed as tortured partners, accomplices, slamming themselves back into the warriors' thrusting cocks, clenching their guts tight around them, milking out bursts of boiling cum.
Their bodies knew what their crippled minds could not; warrior seed was not just filling their bowels or clogging their throats; it was transforming them, saturating their flesh, releasing a long shackled primordial beast within. They were becoming part of the savage horde, its rage and blood lust becoming theirs as well.
The writhing mass of bodies coiled around its captives and around itself broke the surface of the boiling sea, a monster spewing scalding liquid out of throats and lungs and bellys, rolling and roaring, tumbling back toward a steaming shore of mud. The boys twisted and squirmed on warrior cocks embedded in their guts and ramming their throats, driven mad with pain along with the savages raping them, and like the savages, their eyes burned red like the skies of hell, lusting for that pain beyond pain, for that pain that fed their lust.
The acid sea hurled the devil warriors and their prey onto the boiling mud and surged over them as they struggled against its pull. Ryan and Blake fell beneath a tidal wave of bodies, encased in walls of convulsing flesh, twisted and bent, held in place again. Mindlessly driven by the lust possessing their bodies, they gyrated violently on cocks buried deep in their guts and sucked savagely at the ones crammed in their mouths, digging their tongues into the ancient, tribal scars gouged into the pulsing shafts. The more blistering semen swirled in their guts and bellys, the more the madness possessed them.
Bone crushing claws grabbed their ankles and wrists, hoisting them up and carrying them high in the middle of the demonic, howling army, tossing them from one circle of upraised devil arms to another, fingers tearing at their flesh, twisting, pulling, digging. In a frenzy, they fought against the swirl of arms and hands wrenching and twisting their bodies until with bone crunching suddenness they were hurled onto a rough, blistering hot black stone platform. The Heiau.
Monster warriors wrestled the boys onto the surface of the platform, dragging them to its center and pinning them spread eagle upon it. The broiling, rough stone expanse burned and raked their backs, ripping their flesh and cauterizing it at the same time. They raged against their captors, fear and terror long melted before their unrestrained fury. Like wild dogs snared, they lunged impotently, with fiery lust at the warriors crushing in on them, possessed of one all consuming drive, to plow their own cocks deep into warrior holes.
Two hulking warriors hunched down between their legs and began to finger their man-cocks; two more crouched down on either side of their hips, and another two on either side of their chests. They would prepare the sacrifices.
Like a sudden, blinding bolt of lightening, a brutal explosion of pain ripped through the captives' bodies, tearing away the blood lust that had driven them mad. Ryan and Blake howled in agony as the warriors squatting between their legs ripped out knots of cock hairs one fistful after another. The pain was like a blow torch aimed full blast at their crotches. Their cocks withered under the assault, their balls shriveled. Fire and pain throttled their bodies, but at a single scorching touch from a warrior's hand, the boys' cocks sprang up in the midst of their pain, rigid, thick, bursting against their skins.
The warriors held the boys' rock hard cocks flat against their bellys, stretching them and, with the points of their thumb nails, traced a line slowly across the base of their shafts, then viciously gouged a furrow deep along the line. Deluged with bloodthirsty war cries and the savage pounding of warrior feet on the heiau stones, the boys, their backs arched, limbs writhing against the hands that pinned them fast, shrieked as furrow after furrow was slashed along the length of their cocks, blood spurting onto their bellys and spilling onto the stones of the heiau, sizzling.
The other warriors crouched around their bodies began slashing them with with their sharp serrated claws. They were sliced across their nipples, down the front of their bellys, into their navels, back and forth across their thighs, slick with their own blood. As the howling grew louder and fiercer, the ritual scaring of their bodies continued, unabated, brutally agonizing, seemingly never to end; they were thrown over onto their bellys, the fire stones beneath them searing the cuts they'd just received while their shoulders, backs, buttocks, and legs were ravaged over and over, more blood pouring onto the sacrificial stones.
Thrown onto their backs again, they were yanked up by massive warrior hands, their arms stretched out at their sides, their legs bent and knees pressed back against their chests, raw, bleeding gashes circling their exposed holes. The cacophony of war cries battered them with the force of a hurricane; the swarm of savages parted in front of them as they were carried aloft, toward the far end of the heiau, to a horror beyond reason
Two huge black stone idols, eyes blazing like molten steel, stood at the far end of the platform, thick grooved snarling masks with gaping fang edged mouthes, atop grasping, gnarled, distorted arms tipped with wide spread, talon clawed hands, riding thick, massive bowed legs deep into the stone base. At the very center point of each carving, jutting out above the blackened stones, a giant, obscene, twisted, cock waiting for sacrifice.
Even knowing the futility of struggle, Ryan and Blake could not help but writhe and howl against the terror in front of them. Two devil gods etched obscenely against the lurid glow above, seemed about to leap upon the captives and rend them to shreds on the spot. They seemed to quiver, like dogs waiting to attack, but the boys' eyes were riveted in horror on one spot only, the massive, mushroom capped cocks thrusting out from the black, scared stone surface of the idols' bodies.
These cocks were not carved of rock as the rest of the gods' bodies were; not rough, tortured volcanic stone; they were flesh. Flesh, rigid, throbbing, pulsating, muscle and vein bursting, erupting out of the crudely chiseled black rock, and the boys, their legs bent high, their holes distended, were hurled upon them.
Heads thrown back, Ryan and Blake could only gasp in agony as the warriors drove their asses onto the devil cocks, ramming them back and forth along the full length of the fiery shafts, smashing their raw and bleeding scarred buttocks into the idols' jagged stone flesh, their bodies grinding against the blistering spikes buried deep within.
One hulking savage stood behind each boy's head, like a formal guard, digging claw like fingers into their shoulders, holding them in place as each drove his massive cock deep into the boys' tortured throats, then bending over, lying belly to belly, full length on top, they shoved their blackened lips down around the boy-cocks. Like the searing heat of a furnace, the burning walls of the warriors' mouths sucked tight around the two thick rigid, juicy fuck stalks, reigniting the boys' agony fueled lust for devils' semen.
The howling chants and bedlam of war cries, the writhing arms and the pounding of feet on the fiery stones of the heiau, the savage screaming all pounded into the boys' flesh like a thousand primitive drum beats, as they ground themselves fiercely and furiously on the stone gods' throbbing, living cocks embedded in their guts, the searing agony of each movement hurling them closer to the blistering eruption they sought. With warrior cocks crammed into their mouths, and theirs sucked deep into warrior throats, the boys pumped and bucked wildly, madly, insanely until, like a volcano exploding, devil semen erupted violently out of the stone gods into their bellys.
The boys and their warrior guards convulsed against each other, ancient hardened ritual scars grinding against fresh, bleeding gashes, as they discharged in spasm after spasm boiling cum down each others' throats. The convulsions continued unabated as huge quantities of semen were blasted into the boys' quivering submissive bodies, until the warriors pinning their asses to the bellys of the stone gods jerked them back off the idols' pulsing cocks of flesh and off the warrior guards buried deep in their throats.
Two of the largest and fiercest of the warrior savages tore the boys out of the hands of those who had rammed them back and forth on the idols' cocks, and flung them over their shoulders like sacks, or trophies, or lifeless bodies. The entire bestial horde, howling as they once did charging into battle, surged around the running giants and their victims. With hands grabbing their upended buttocks and fingers jabbing their balls and holes, the boys, helpless and slamming wildly against bodies of their captors, were hauled across the venting mud once again toward the boiling surf.
They were dragged under the surface by the sheer volume of warriors pressing in upon them, the giants pinning them tightly to their shoulders as they plunged deeper and deeper into the swirling acid sea. They passed beyond the final fringe of the red atmosphere above and into utter, scalding darkness, their lungs and guts filled as before with the searing ocean, their screams pulsating out in waves through the sea.
Like balloons caught on branches in a windstorm, the two boys struggled in the ever heavier blackness against the massive arms grasping them tight as they fell deeper and deeper into the void, eyes like burning embers.
Release came with a violent jolt; in an instant, the boys shot upwards through the dark toward the faint swath of dull reddish light and on to the boiling surface beyond. They surged upwards, faster and faster, eyes blazing like molten lava, mouths open, trailing currents of warrior semen and gut juices through the swirling acid, until they exploded through the boiling foam, mindless, screaming into a dark gray blanket of fog.
Blake and Ryan continued to scream, gawking mindlessly into phantom curtains of clouds swirling in front of them. Dissolving slowly; through the blurring fog, new shapes gradually began to appear; lines began to intersect in front of them; forms seemed to emerge out of emptiness. The boys' cries melted away, the evil glow of their eyes dimmed as they stared uncomprehendingly at flat white lined rectangles faintly visible through the mist. In stunned silence, they watched a world created, and as each part touched their unraveling consciousness, they knew what they were seeing. A dashboard. A windshield. A parking lot. A TransAm.
They were seated in Blake's muscle car, dry, dressed in baggies, tee shirts, and flip-flops, seat belts fastened. Mindless. As the world took shape under the faint glow of a pre-dawn overcast, the boys also became aware of throbbing agony throughout their bodies, buried into their flesh. They grunted as they shifted their weight, straining against the pull of the seat belts, and looked at each other, their cocks hard as granit pinned tight by the webbed retraints against their steel hard bellies.
Nothing seemed to have changed; the storm had passed, but rain puddles abounded; confusing images swirled and merged in the boys' minds, nothing distinct, but more than either cared to speak about. As they turned their heads away in silence, glowing, red devil eyes reflected back at them from the windshield; instantly they both knew they would return to the Pali that night, and they knew exactly who they would bring with them. A co-worker, a muscled hunk of man flesh that both boys enjoyed roughhousing with. Eric Takagawa would make a juicy sacrifice to the devil gods.
As quickly as their eyes had burned with evil, they returned to normal, along with their minds.
"Brah," Blake puzzled, "Where my keys? Ignition's empty."
Ryan replied, fingering his cock through his baggies. "I think they fell on the floor."
"Oh, yeah," Blake answered, "I see them."
In a moment the TransAm sped out of the parking lot and onto the highway back to Honolulu, the boys confused, disoriented, in pain and drawing a total blank about the night they'd spent on the Pali; each wondering, however, why he was thinking about Eric Takagawa naked, spead eagled, screaming, ancient warrrior cocks pounding his fuck hole. Huge blossom stains of firey cum exploded across the front of their shorts. With one hand on the wheel, Blake reached across Ryan's belly and shoved his free hand down the front of Ryan's undershots. After dragging his fingers through Ryan's cum soaked cock hairs, Blake whipped his hand out of his friend's shorts and shoved it into his mouth, sucking down the hot, thick, salty young dude fuck juice.
"Let's go home and call in sick."
"Yeah," Ryan answered. He'd aleady released his seat belt, and pulled off his tee shirt, and shoved his cum soaked shorts and baggies over his bare feet, kicking them next to his flip-flops on the floor. His cock stood like a steel mast jutting out in front of him. "But only until lunch time," he smiled, "We got a date to play with Takagawa."
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