The Hardin Torments - Part Four
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.
There was no escape from his imprisonment. There was no escape from the bondage. There was no escape from the stress positions. There was no escape from the abuse. There was no escape from the pain. And now there was to be no escape from hard, angry cocks plowing his mouth.
Grant Hardin was on his knees. His pants and boxers had finally been pulled down to entrap his thighs, fully presenting the cleft of his pale, meaty cheeks to the steel pole he had been bound to for countless hours. He could feel the flaking paint brush against his asslips and his back ached with the strain of staying upright.
One pair of hands gripped and positioned his shaved head, another hand reached in his aching mouth, and another's filthy thumb prised his left cheek open to expose a row of shiny teeth that would shortly be drenched in cum. The violation was intense and Hardin flushed red at the sensation of having his face literally fingered open like a pussy about to be fucked.
Toro, the hulking gorilla, went first. His nylon training pants slid down over his tree trunk legs, popping out a sturdy and appropriately sized cock with a deep flared helmet. His foreskin had already pulled back on the wrinkled shaft. The scent was musky and his balls ripe.
"Eat up, bitch!" Angel barked from the sidelines while shifting his stance, clearly aroused by this scene.
Two hundred and eighty-eight pounds of white powerlifter were speared by a brown cock being driven by three hundred and forty-six pounds of absolute brawn. The cock grazed his lips, the erotic shock of which was transmitted directly to Grant's caged cock. This was happening. He was on his knees, he was helpless, and this was happening.
Angel's deadly serious warning hissed in the back of Grant's mind: scrape their pricks with his teeth at his peril. He could instantly chop one of these greaseball's cocks off, but that would undoubtedly be his final act of resistance. Better to withstand this humiliation and sexual assault and hope to live another day.
But his cock, oh man, that didn't mind the humiliation.
This first prick ladled hot meat across his tongue... on its way to plunge down the back of his throat... and his mind suddenly came unbound.
The scene grayed out and his consciousness drifted from the confines of the hot chamber where his brutalized body was being gang raped... The orientation of the world tilted precipitously and he evaporated into nothingness.
And then...
He was home. He was elsewhere... somewhere dark... He was in his father's basement. He was being punished. Again. As ever.
He was seventeen, well into his development as a beefy varsity linebacker. His crisp high and tight, matching dad's dark crown, was glistening with sweat. Presenting military style with his hands clasped behind his head, his swelling arms trembled. Dad was pissed bad this time.
Young Grant Hardin been caught beating his meat - not just a selfish, wasteful pleasure but one of his father's cardinal prohibitions. "Big" Jim Hardin had known exactly what was going on as soon as he had pulled up to their small ranch. The boy wasn't out working the field or training in the backyard like he ought to have been - he was squirreled up inside doing God knows what. Leave 'em alone for one damn minute and this is how they repay you.
Grant didn't rate a door for his room: there was no place for secrets between the Hardin men. His father strode in, a black cloud following. Grant was doing homework, but on his spartan bed - not on the desk where he usually sat. A rough blanket covered his crotch. He could see the truth in his son's eyes, and boy did it disappoint him. Big Jim strode over without a word and ripped the blanket away, exposing a half-zipped pair of jeans and a porno mag hidden in his lap. The little fucker.
Five minutes later his charge was nude in the basement, cock throbbing and bobbing in the air. How many times must they go through this? How many times must he have to teach his son the discipline he'd need in life?
Big Jim ripped a page out of the magazine, mashing it into his son's face while he held the back of his head. "You like this, son? You like this fuckin' garbage?" He threw it violently against the wall. "I've told you a hunnert fucking times: you haven't earned the right to fuck like a man yet. You need to learn some goddamn DISCIPLINE over yourself before you get to call yourself a man."
Big Jim stepped behind his brawny son, wrapping his muscled arm around the boy's neck and firmly controlling his breathing. "One hundred strokes, count them off." He spit into his rough, callused hand and grasped his disobedient son's tool, stroking from the base of the rigid cock to the exposed tip.
"Sir, one sir" Grant dolefully offered.
"I CAN'T FUCKIN' HEAR YOU, BOY."
"SIR, ONE SIR!" Grant's voice cracked, momentarily forsaking his young baritone.
"LIKE A FUCKING MAN." Jim bellowed into the back of his boy's head, hot breath blasting droplets of sweat into the air.
"SIR!! ONE SIR!!"
Dad's fist stroked his boy's prick again, balls to head.
"SIR!! TWO SIR!!" He winced at the terrible effort required not to cum.
Big Jim gritted his teeth. He knew that to bring a real man, a strong man, a righteous man into the world took a great deal of sacrifice and time on his part. It would be worth it: his boy would bring justice to the shitheads and worthless dope fiends of the world. But god-dammit, it's like he never fucking learns.
Grant would reach one hundred strokes without cumming. He would then be sent straight to bed with an empty bladder, empty stomach, and wrists cuffed to the bedposts. Jim felt resolute as he settled in with his nightly bottle of whiskey - his oldest would learn to control his goddamn cock one fuckin' way or another.
That young cock throbbed and wept tears of need all throughout the night while its owner wept tears of shame at his weakness. Tomorrow he'd be a better man.
...
Back to the present, back to now. His body was sweating in his binds, the back of his head was being slapped, and his mouth was sliming as Toro's cock hammered the top of his throat. Watching Hardin glaze over had just egged on the cartel heavies further and they redoubled their efforts to seed their boss's bitch. Toro would shortly slow his pace, grunting rhythmically as he prepared his cannon for fire. HRRRNNNNNGG he groaned as the first lob of hot wet cum painted Hardin's back teeth. HRRRRRRRNNG he grunted as the second lob of fuck impacted Hardin's uvula, boomeranging around for a full coating. HRRRRNG he wheezed as the third jet of cum went south, sliding down the back of Hardin's throat. HRRRRRRRNG he barked as the fourth jet of cum sluiced along Hardin's tongue, giving a taste of the sour dregs of Toro's pulled-tight balls. HRRRRGH he panted as the surprisingly energetic final shot of Hardin's breakfast spurted straight down his throat.
The bodyguard roughly pulled his wrinkled velvet rod out and, to the admiration of all present, slapped Hardin across the face with it. Wet strands of cum laced a line of spit across his fat cheek. The thug stepped back, pulling his nylon pants up around his weary meat as the the next fucker presented himself to the fuckee.
Each goon had a different style. Every one of them badly turned Hardin on.
Greaseball rolled his hips in a fluid manner, sensuously rimming Hardin's tightly pursed lips. His cock was modest but his load was starchy and thick and full.
Glasses was as obnoxious as could be imagined, crowing wildly as his smooth shaft and shaved balls impacted Grant's face. He'd coo filthy things while flexing his ass muscles, giving a show for anyone who cared to watch. He came soft and wet but with an extra dramatic flourish, as if he'd really shown them all something.
The crowd rallied for Shorty the teenager, giving him tips on how to make his long cock really do some damage. Papa came from behind, holding the young man's hips close to his and giving him guidance on rhythm and angling. One might notice that Papa's cock grew mighty erect during this tutelage.
Papa put that mighty cock to good use on his turn, drilling Hardin's face with a smooth practiced rhythm. He'd occasionally use his thick cockhead to dredge the cummy trench of Grant's gumline, scooping up the multi-load mess with his thumb and popping it all into his own mouth to savor. Angel nodded his approval, protecting the integrity of the scene. The only bitch here was on his knees - everyone else was a real man with an important task.
Then it was Dumbfuck's turn at bat. Hardin cringed, tightening his asshole while wondering what indignities would be heaped on him this time. The savage piece of shit did not disappoint. Monstrously hung for his size, Dumbfuck repeatedly beat Hardin in the face with his tool while cackling like a hyena. He'd stuff himself up to the sack in Hardin's throat for twenty, thirty seconds at a time until the bitch would turn deep red with the struggle for oxygen - hands flapping helplessly in their cuffs. A second after pulling back out, Dumbfuck would suffocate his bitch again just to watch him squirm and panic. Hardin struggled not to bite the enormous cock that was blocking his air during these assaults, grabbing a breath as soon as he was able. Finally, Dumbfuck uncorked his colossal load in Hardin's face. Slashes of cum covered his (thankfully!) swollen shut eye, his shaved head, his sloping brow, his big nose, his strong chin, and his bruised cheeks. The gang laughed at his humiliation as Dumbfuck promised to do round two right there if they'd give him the chance.
But it wasn't his turn. Tank went up with his reeking balls and yellowish, bitter, 'roided out load. The kid with the chestpiece came by, unloading his tiny balls through his long prick. Shorty, desperate to impress Dumbfuck, dumped his quick teenage reload on Hardin's face, giving him a broad goatee of congealing jizz. A fat stranger with unfinished gang tattoos came by, forcing Hardin's strained neck muscles to do all the fucking and sucking. Then another stranger. Then Papa provided another load of cum, trying to squeeze in as many questing fingers as possible alongside his rotund cock. Tank provided a second assault, far more brutal than the last. Hardin's lip split during the vicious facefucking, leaving a metallic taste in his mouth as his own blood mixed with the loads of a dozen men. And all through this time his cock waxed and waned, thrilling in its cage to this total domination. Never in his blackest fantasies could he imagine this dark scene coming to light. A swizzled puddle of precum gathering on the floor testified to his total perversion. Thick cocks, thin cocks, short cocks, long cocks, curved cocks, straight cocks, thick bushes, trimmed bushes, smooth shafts, veiny knobs, sour foreskin, sweet loads, runny cums, bleachy clots: it all blurred in his mind as he succumbed to this neverending surge of vile manhood.
Greaseball finished off his second load, opting to squirt his thick white clot into his hand and feed it to Hardin directly. Grant's lips and exhausted tongue pathetically searched and slurped up the stringy load as his aching and trembling knees and legs signed their defeat. He sank further to the floor, empty stomach gurgling with the hot loads of a dozen men while a mask of drying cum hid his rough features.
Angel snapped his fingers and motioned to two goons who slipped out of the room.
"You're enjoying your stay here, yeah faggot? You like the hospitality? You like this treatment?"
A swift kick to the ribs reminded Hardin that pain would be served with the pleasure.
"Maybe you're still hungry? Maybe you need to suck one more cock to get full."
The two men returned, frogmarching a shorter figure between them. While strongly muscled and vital, the nude man was slumped over, head down. Hardin could immediately see that this hairy figure was coated with whipmarks, bruises, and ligature burns of all kinds. Whatever had happened to this poor soul, he had gone through the ringer.
Angel walked over, snapping his fingers to make sure Hardin's line of sight was following him. He grasped the scalp of the tortured figure by the short hairs and lifted his face up.
Hardin's stomach sank through the floor, roiling its cummy contents. His blood froze.
No, no, no, no, no... please no. This can't be real... Not him... not here...
It was his brother.
-AE
Damn, we're well into this story now. If you're digging it and want a part 5, I want some love. I work for anonymous praise, constructive criticism, cockshots, and feedback about what keeps -you- hard.
alteredegopath@gmail.com