The Hardin Torments - Part Five
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 preamble: Lance Hardin's tortured cock and balls were grabbed and dunked into a dirty mop bucket of iced water. The shock crashed up his spine, causing him to scream into his gag. His taut body shook from side to side - a futile task. A mighty paw kept his magnificent cop cock immersed in the blisteringly cold water, his balls submerged in several inches of freezing slush.
Angel barked at Lance's greasy face. "How's that, fuckhead? You like this?" Lance's eyes remained screwed tight with the pain as his head shook from side to side.
The scene from the bottom up: a dingy room. Lance's dirty feet exposed to the ceiling, ropes around his raw ankles pulling them towards the ceiling. A kink in his legs as his sturdy dark calves pointed towards the floor. His sharply bent knees, filthy, perched on the floor to support some of his weight. His hairy soccer thighs, bulky and bulging, quivering. His jutting, muscular, furred ass: covered in rivulets of sweat and dirt. His pride and joy: a massive dark cock, shrinking down to its still-respectable minimum with the bitter cold torturing his uncut meat. His normally low-hanging sack - pulled directly against his hairy taint so that his enormous oval balls arrayed themselves akimbo. His hairy back cleft, arching with the strain of his bondage. His thick, prominent abs, sheathed in a blanket of beer fat and dark hair. His well-defined pecs, carpeted with black hair and marred only by tight and dark nipples. Two thick nests of curly pit fur stretching up to his bound arms, wrapped in cords of muscle as they reached for the ceiling where they'd been bound by the same ropes encircling his ankles. A cheap macho chain around his neck, a small gold earring in one ear, a masculine steel bracelet on his right wrist. His dark, intensely handsome face grimacing. His crooked thick brows, damp. His shorter gelled hairstyle blending in with his three day beard. A thick black bite bar crossing his mouth, strapped around his strong jaw in by a belt around his head. A black fabric blindfold, soaked in sweat. Great quantities of drool running from his strong chin to slather his chest and spatter the floor. Pain racking his features.
He looked nothing like his pale ox of a brother. They could not be less alike in personality. Their social circles never crossed outside of the law. But they had two things in common: they'd both made enemies of drug kingpin Angel Munoz, and they both knew how to take punishment.
Lance's intense older brother, Grant Hardin, was to be the man of the family. "Big Jim" Hardin saw to that outcome early and often. Grant was responsible for his younger brother, responsible for the house, responsible for his grades. As he grew into his sexuality, he was responsible for controlling that as well. He was to be a perfect gentleman, a perfect warrior, a perfect paragon of justice and forthrightness and self-control. Few of those expectations ever burdened Lance. He was the charismatic, he was the talent, he was the gem who reminded Big Jim of what he'd lost so many years ago. He was always to respect his elder brother and father, but Dad's intense scrutiny frequently overlooked him and his shenanigans. Frequently the discipline would come down on his stoic linebacker brother instead. Lance knew most consequences could be charmed away... by one means or another.
Young teen Lance's compulsive, overwhelming sexual drive made itself known while he was coming in to his compact body. His cock grew into a spear, the spear into a trident, the trident into a scepter. His balls ached nightly and flooded his body with testosterone, hair bursting out of his pits and crotch, wrapping his jock body fast and thick. He'd disappear into his room, then he'd disappear to parties, then he'd get home late wreathed in the scent of pussy and cum. Big Jim noticed. His confident son became cocky. His self-absorbed son became vain. His energetic son started prowling. Cheap jewelry, jock buddies, sports heroics, loud cars, prominent bulges, trashy clothes. Strutting around the house in a tee, then strutting around shirtless. Strutting around the house in shorts, then strutting around the house in only a jock. Big Jim noticed.
Grant was away to college. Lance was flexing and pumping in the mirror, a popular senior preening for his night out on the town. If tonight was a night like any other, he'd get trashed with his buddies, unload in a fellow jock's mouth, squirt in some slut's puss, and deposit a few more loads at a truck stop rest area before making his way back to the rural ranch. But it wasn't to be tonight: his truck's starter wouldn't turn over. Cussing up a storm, he pounded into the house and threw his shit around in a fury. Big Jim noticed and his hackles raised.
They were at each other's throats in a moment. There was no way Big Jim was going to lend out his truck, and there was no way Lance was staying in the house tonight - not when his hard balls were throbbing with the need to nut.
Chest swelling, Lance lashed out at the "hardass" ruining his night and then positioned himself directly in front of his hulking father, cocking his fist back. Wrong move. With a shove so mighty and fast it was nigh invisible, Big Jim hurled his little bitch of son across the room. Adrenaline flared and Lance went berzerk with blind rage, but there was no battle to be had. His father literally flipped him over and pinned him to the floor, arms twisted behind his back.
His fuming bull of a father laid down the law that night and re-established dominance over his wayward son.
That load meant for his buddy's face went into dad's paw, and then straight into Lance's mouth. The load meant for some slut's hole went onto dad's chest, and then into Lance's mouth.
The load meant for a truck driver went into Lance's own face, then was scooped into his waiting lips. The load meant for a wino's filthy mouth went into his own mouth, already clotted with dad's third load. The final load he would usually crank out of his sore, spent cock while driving home instead went onto the basement floor, then his mouth.
In the following years, Dad would consistently expect five loads out of his son in memory of that first night. And he'd usually get them.
The first question: "What's your name?"
Minutes prior, Lance had come to with a gasp. He was seated... in a chair? Over the next few minutes he would assemble the following narrative from his crumbling memory:
He'd been at a party after a long day of work cracking skulls and delivering the law to the lawless. He was buffed, gelled, in a tight dress shirt, and the center of attention, as usual. He was homing in on a hot little fucker, certain he'd be unloading his cum into a wet little mouth soon... And then something... something... a blur... and now he was seated in a chair.
He was blindfolded, and well. He was sweating, and heavily. His arms were bound to the chair rests, and firmly. His legs were bound to the chair legs, and tightly. Something full was strapped in his mouth. He was scared shitless and swelling with rage at the same time. That was all he had to go on when the first question was asked:
"What's your name?"
Tensing, he listened to the gravelly voice ask again: "What's your name?"
The solid gag was roughly pulled from his mouth, his jaw aching suddenly.
"What the fuck is going on?" he gasped wetly.
Wrong answer. The thick gag was stuffed harshly back into his mouth. The strap wrapped its way back around his greasy hair and clipped back tight. The hairy, swarthy cop braced himself for what he knew was coming. Fuck.
The torment of Lance Hardin began.
A strong punch landed square on his gut, causing him to cough roughly into his gag. As he gasped for air, a fusillade of slaps to his face reddened his cheeks and rattled his teeth around the plug. His head was pulled back by his hair and slapped in every direction. Spit gathered around the plug and sprayed out of his lips; his nose flared sucking in desperate breaths. A giant hand grabbed his entire face and squeezed, causing him to see stars behind his blindfold.
"You little prick."
A tremendous slap came down and all went black.
Moments later, minutes later, hours later, days later, he came to. His head throbbed.
"You learning yet?"
The torture continued. His fists screwed up and his toes clenched as his nose was pinched shut, cutting off most of his air. He tried to handle the animal panic but soon started thrashing. His muscular ass flexed in his expensive jeans as he strained in the bonds keeping him tightly fixed to the metal chair. His tormenter held his nostrils shut until he was in full panic mode and convulsing wildly. The sadist finally let go and he gasped for air, gasped for his life. This motherfucker meant business. Both of his ears were grasped and squeezed tightly. As the pain exploded in his head the interrogation began:
"Listen to me motherfucker. I eat little shits like you for breakfast. You don't win here. I ask the question and you answer it. What is your motherfucking name?"
His ears were blessedly released and the gag popped out again.
Still gasping, Lance complied. "Officer Lance Hardin". Maybe this thug might respect the badge enough to realize what he'd stepped into. What the hell did they want, drugs? Money? Fuck. Where was he?
"SIR."
A quizzical pause.
"SIR. YOU SAY SIR. WHAT IS YOUR FUCKING NAME?"
"Officer Lance Hardin...... sir." The power in the room inverted. His position was not going to help him here.
"How old are you, pig?"
"Twenty-eight... sir."
Dad was always referred to as sir. Even during his truly rebellious days, Lance would never have called Big Jim "pop" or, god forbid, Big Jim. Respect was maintained even when respect was not shown or due.
"You like pussy?"
What the fuck? "Yes sir, I like pussy." "Sir", he added.
"There ain't no pussy here. You like cock, bitch?"
"Yes sir, I like cock, sir." His own cock automatically started swelling. This was getting too weird.
"Officer faggot cocksucker Hardin: you been typing an awful lot of shit about me and my boys. What's your password?"
His blood froze. They had his cop gear. They had his work laptop. They wanted access to the department's internal investigative files on organized crime. These were pros. Fuck. Fuck them. They were never getting his password.
"Who the fuck is this?" he barked.
"You should know my voice, little bitch. You'll be screaming it soon."
A hand grabbed his chin and raised his face to meet his assailant's. The blindfold was ripped off.
He saw the swirling outlines of a colossal man, face incandescent with hate and disdain.
"Angel... Munoz."
His heart skipped a beat. The kingpin. The Veras nut-crusher. A number-one target. He was fucked.
The blindfold went back on. He would not lay eyes on any of his kidnappers for another two days.
They gave him credit. He'd eventually give them the password, but he put up one hell of a fight. He'd answer them with silence, he'd answer them with spit, he'd answer them with incendiary cusses, he'd answer them with insults. He was a tough, prideful little fucker. But his situation was hopeless. The punishment came and went as slow and as sure as the tides.
The rest of that first day was mostly spent in the chair. His dress shirt was worked open, exposing his meaty pecs encased in a sheer black beater, hair spilling out. Hairs were repeatedly plucked at random. Clamps went on his nipples as he shivered in pain. The slaps never completely stopped, pummeling and stinging his handsome face. The shoes came off so that boots could press down on his feet, crushing his toes. Drool ran freely, soaking his lap. Snot curled into his upper lip, flavoring the gag that kept a constant commute in and out of his mouth. Every manner of insult was laid upon him by a variety of faceless aggressors. Hot, reeking spit intermittently landed on his face.
A knife came out, slowly running over his face and throat for the sheer terror it could cause. They dragged it around his crotch, describing his dickless future and explaining how real men would be plowing his bitch ass into oblivion. A quick and light surface slash on his chest sent rivulets of blood down to stain his beater.
The worst wasn't the knife. The worst was the fingerscrews. They clawed his fists out and added countless, unseeable dark mechanisms to his fingers. And then they screwed. They'd ask for the password, and then a turn on a random finger. He'd sit in silence, bearing the pain. And then they'd screw another random finger. And so on and so forth. The agony was incalculable and his bones and tendons screamed with hot throbbing blades of crushing pain. His eyes screwed up with hot tears and soaked his blindfold. His macho cop body rocked in its cruel bondage as he moaned himself hoarse. But then they'd finally relent: they didn't want him dead, they didn't want him blacked out: they wanted to crush the machismo out of him on their way to his password. But there was just no fucking way: the witnesses in hiding they could find... the charges they could throw... the techniques they'd learn to avoid detection... the things they'd learn about what the heavies on the force had done to -their- henchmen.
And his brother's file. Home, work, schedule, IDs, everything. The fuck they'd -ever- get his brother's file.
The end of the day saw him pissed on repeatedly, still bound to the chair. His belt was opened and so were his jeans, exposing a colossal bulge encased by his blue cop-issue jockstrap. It was the only piece of his uniform he never took off, proud as he was to be one of the boys in blue. It was rarely washed since bitches loved the rank smell and taste of his prick as he pounded their orifices. Late at night his strong legs would step out of the straps and he'd greedily inhale the powerful odor of his absolute manhood, stiffening his drained balls and spent prong so that he could add another load to the fouled jock.
That same testosterone stink boiled out to reach his nose, just as the first streams of hot cholo piss started to soak his crotch. They pissed on his spit-caked face, his torn beater, his hairy chest, his tortured nips, his thick thighs still in stained jeans, his tortured feet, his bruised hands, and his hairy back still pressed up against the chair.
There he would sit and fitfully sleep overnight, strapped to a chair in Hell, lost in his own personal darkness, as his monstrous meat intermittently swelled in its navy blue prison. Tomorrow it'd be over: a hopeful lie he told his battered body.
Tomorrow was worse.
-AE
Gentlemen, I think this will be the first of the final three chapters. I'm loving the feedback, loving your pics, loving your attention, and loving your enjoyment of this filth. Let's go out on a high note.
Narrative closure? On -my- Nifty? It's more likely than you think.
alteredegopath@gmail.com