The Hardin Torments - Part One
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 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.
Sweating. He was sweating. Grant Hardin was damp. From the button-tight dress shirt collar that encased his thick neck all the way down to the slacks hemming in his powerhouse thighs, he was dripping. Sweat slid down his shaved head, his heavy brow, his thin lips, and his broad chin. It all eventually pooled in the deep crack of his mighty ass, encased in pinstriped wool slacks that showed the world who he was: a hotshot young prosecutor for the state who used his bull girth and his intense smarts to make an intimidating name for himself.
Why is it so goddamn hot? he wondered as shapes lazily spun around in his mind. Why in the fuck were these bedsheets so constricting? Why was it so fucking -dark- in here? Where is the goddamn lig... CLINK
His body snapped into mind. He wasn't sleeping, he was sitting. He was sitting up against a pole or... a wall? and his arms were behind his back. Tied together by something metallic that CLANKED and SCRAPED against the pole that held him fast against the ground.
A moment of pure confusion. What in the fuck just happened? Was this a nightmare? Wake up... wake up... fuck.
This was real.
This hulking young prosecutor was bound by his thick, tree-trunk arms in a stifling dungeon. He was helpless and doomed to suffer.
Some subconscious part of his mind realized his dire situation. His cock lurched up and out, stopping its growth almost immediately due to a secret he kept from everyone: that smooth, thick hammer prong had been encased in a chastity cage for days.
With his intense but heaviy repressed sexual urges safely bound up during his impossibly long workdays, he could focus on bringing justice to scumbag criminals without distraction. He wouldn't linger over a young perp's high and tight ass; he wouldn't imagine grabbing a fellow prosecutor's tie to bring him in for a searing kiss in a darkened, late night office; he wouldn't think of the sins he wanted visited upon his flesh. But at night as he lay in bed, exhausted beyond belief, his cock would make its presence known. Roaring back to life it would swell to bursting in its cage. His immense, nearly hairless balls would bloat even harder with unspent cum. That familiar ache that he struggled to ignore all day would return with a vengeance. The sheets would grow damp with precum as he focused mightly, willing his heavy tool and his thudding heart to calm so he could sleep. Focus, focus, focus. Control at all costs. Denial is virtue. Hold fast and strong against the distractions of the flesh.
He focused on his cock now, and it would not be quelled. It thrashed in its sticky prison, filled with four days of thick load, oozing along with the sweat that dampened his briefs and filled his crack. He was not in control any longer, and his primitive cock exulted at this subconscious idea even as his mind roiled with dread.
There was no escape to be had. He flexed and heaved but could not gain escape from his metal binds. He stood up by pinning his brawny back against the pipe that held him fast and lurching to his unsteady feet. He was still in his business dress from... when... the night before? What had happened? Through sweat-glazed eyes he could see that he was in a moderately sized vault with cracked cement walls and a concrete floor and high ceiling. There was only one door in: a heavy rolling number, with a slot on bottom like you'd find in a prison. A dim light somewhere above provided a gloomy cast over a few workmen's cabinets near the door. This was far away from civilization. Far away from help.
And it was hot. Stiflingly hot. No breeze stirred to cool his dripping body, clad as it was inside his constrictive business clothes. His balls broiled in his pants as his labored breathing added to the insufferably humid air.
His eyes adjusted to the dim light, barely spotting dark splatters and stains on the floor at his feet. Chains of various sizes draped against the wall. Implements of obvious and not-so-obvious torture hung on pegboards. Is this some fucked up prank from his cop buddies?
Suddenly the steel door groaned and cranked, lurching open. A much brighter light blinded Grant as a cool surge of air washed over his sopping body. His massive nipples (such an embarrassment in the locker room!) tingled and scraped against his A-shirt, causing a shiver in his core.
He was primed for anything: ready to kick, ready to lunge, ready to rip his captor's head off with his teeth. But in walked an oddity: a short and whip-built Latino, barely past teenage, wearing only an oversized pair of boxers and an elaborate chestpiece tattoo. In his hands were a bike lock and a lit joint, from which he dragged against his thick lips. A little-man mustache rounded out the look.
Grant roared. He bellowed at the fucking punk, swore he'd rip his nuts off, threatened lightning from God himself.
The kid just smirked and took another drag as he walked behind him. With a swift set of movements he wrapped the U-lock around Grant's beefy neck and clapped the restraining bar into place. With barely enough clearance for his swollen bullneck, there was no turning around any longer. No seeing from side to side. He was going to face the door and await his fate.
The kid leaned into his ear, a wet fungal smell of cheap booze filling Grant's nose.
"Angel's gonna fuck you up, faggot."
The punk walked out, slamming the heavy door. A cloud of weed festered in the again-stale air. The temperature began to creep up again.
He was fucked.
Angel Munoz was his worst nightmare, the worst case scenario. He was one of the most powerful domestic figures in the dominant Veras Cartel - feared above all others for their absolute cruelty and absolute control. They didn't just kill, they crushed. He was a top priority, as were his informants and goons. But they were always one step ahead, always a little smarter.
By all reports Angel was huge. A vain and obsessive bodybuilder with the goods to back it up, he was massively built. Immense arms were always on display to frame his powerful chest and dark, beautiful skin. His waist attempted to taper but soon belled out into a gigantic set of legs.
Grant was a hulking weekend powerlifter, but Angel was a true pro. His body commanded total respect. And as he walked through the door, Grant realized that he was going to demand it from him too.
The kingpin slammed the steel door shut like it was balsa.
Hung nose. Diamond stud earrings. Close-shorn head with a professional fade, leading towards a thick goatee.
An expensive gold chain draped against his swelling chest. Incredible arms. A thin dusting of curly chest hair looked out from a body-hugging black wifebeater. He was a young titan in his prime, and his dark brown eyes pierced Grant's hard blue ones.
"Look at my cock." he growled.
Grant stared him down, eyes blazing into hate. His fists balled behind him and his heart surged:
"FUCK YOU."
The hit came out of nowhere. Grant's ears rang and his sparking white eye blatted shut as Angel's meaty paw pounded the side of his head. That wasn't even the beginning of the thug's strength, and yet Grant felt his consciousness lurch.
Angel stepped back and repeated: "Look at my fucking cock."
Grant looked down as best he could. Black nylon workout shorts encased tremendous thighs and an epic bulge that was clear even in the dim light.
His dick surged in his chastity cage, even as his mouth opened to cuss out this God standing in front of him. He could immediately appreciate that this man had a prong built for devastation.
Angel reached back and pulled out a piece of dark blue fabric as he began to explain:
"I know shit about you. I know you ain't a real man. This is a true man's cock. This is the cock of a man who made himself, not a pussy little pig who don't know when to stop fucking around with a real man's business. You don't know shit about me, you ain't tough, you ain't gonna win. You're a fuckin' loser, and now you're gonna fuckin' lose."
With that, he held up a dark navy jockstrap to Grant's eyes and then stuffed it wad by wad into his mouth. Duct tape came out from nowhere, wrapping around his head and sealing the pungent strap in. Hot, intense wafts of dried sweat and ball funk filled his mouth and nose. It only grew worse as his fat tongue tried to push it forward, sopping the fabric and collecting pools of slime on the sides of his tongue. He could taste the sex, taste the piss, taste a man, taste the fuck.
His cock surged ever harder against its metal cage. Beads of sweat dripped in his eyes. His pits poured into his dress shirt.
He was going to suffer at the hands of his greatest enemy...
...but this fucker was not going to break him. Grant was a winner, and winners don't break down.
His left eye swelled shut, black and blue rising.
Angel's skin rose a slight sheen as he walked around the pole and inspected his captured prey. Grant was thick, powerfully thick, packed into attire befitting a prosecutor of means and reputation. His wide ass pressed deeply into the steel pole, pant pinstripes showing the strain.
Time to bring this arrogant fuck down a notch.
Grant barked helplessly into the sodden jockstrap as Angel's calloused ring-laden fingers worked the expensive tie off. It fluttered to the floor. His top collar button was popped off... then the next... then the next... all the way down to his belt. The shirt was flared open to expose Grant's girth, wrapped in a sweat-stained white A-shirt. This was then mercifully pulled up above his pecs, giving him a moment's respite from the oppressive heat. His nearly hairless pecs swelled up around his giant nipples and his pits billowed their day-old funk outwards, filling the rooom with his musk. How did he fuck up? How was he going to get out of this? The dossiers said he wasn't going to be getting out alive.
Withstand. He was going to withstand.
Angel stared him directly in the eyes and with the lightest touch of a single hand, pulled at Grant's right nip. His entire body shivered, a faint and involuntary moan issued from the wet tape, and Angel knew: breaking this piece of shit down was going to be -fun-.
The A-shirt tore off of his body like a wet tissue and was rubbed harshly in his bruised face before being thrown aside. His dress shirt flapped loosely, constricting his arms. With a steely quiet Angel wrapped both of Grant's ankles in thick leather cuffs. The metallic rattle of chains being pulled off of reels filled the otherwise still room as his ankles were bound to wall-mounted winches.
The bike lock came off and Grant was able to relax his neck - even as a chain mounted to the ceiling was attached to the cuffs on his wrist.
Mouth full of stale jock, he hissed at Angel as he came back around in sight.
"Fuckin' bitch." was the reply.
A moment of digging around in a metal cabinet produced two oversized metal clips. Grant watched helplessly as they came closer. Angel caressed his subject's meaty nipples until they swelled up again and then SNIP, SNAP: a dull bite of pain drew a line across Grant's broad chest. He shivered again.
Impossibly slow, cracking winches pulled his legs apart. His Ferragamos slid across the foul concrete to compensate while his hips strained against his wool slacks. The cranking stopped with his feet shoulder-width apart and then the true evil begain: the chain attached to his wrists began to ratchet up towards the ceiling.
Palestinian crucifixion. Reverse hanging. Strappado.
His sturdy body compensated as his arms were wrenched just past horizontal with his head bowing down and shoulders bearing the strain of the cruel position. And then BAM. Angel walked out the door, flipping the light switch.
Perfect blackness. Tumblers rolling. Silence descending. Breathing heavy. Shoulders straining. Laterals working. Mouth sliming. Nipples aching. Sweat dripping. Face aching. Fingers flexing. Weight shifting. Watch ticking. Thighs bearing.
Balls rolling. Cock straining.
Cock straining.
Mightily.
Want more? You'll have to ask. I work for anonymous praise, constructive criticism, cockshots, and sleaze.
alteredegopath@gmail.com