Date: Thu, 18 Jul 2013 01:58:40 -0700 From: Altered Ego <alteredegopath@gmail.com> Subject: The Hardin Torments - Part Three [Gay/Authoritarian] The Hardin Torments - Part Three ---------------------------------------------------------------- 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. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Jesus Christ, they were all piling in to the filthy little room. He could smell them all entering. Men. Testosterone. Ball odor. Ball musk. Sour pits. Dust. Stale air. Violence. He could hear them entering. Chains jangling, some cheaper than others. Rings clinking on fingers. Boots scuffing on the concrete floor. Quiet laughing, muttered curses, simmering machismo. His skin felt clammy. His mouth tasted fear. Grant Hardin, bullgoon prosecutor, was going to be broken by a gang of cartel thugs. --- The men knew something was up with this one: Angel usually had them broken and bleeding by now. This was someone important - someone he was taking his time with. Their usual rampaging peacock energy was blunted by his presence: Angel was the top dog, and everybody took his lead. He was payroll, he was power, he was prestige: he was the reason they dipped their cocks in fresh every night. His hulking body and ferocious cunning kept rivals both big and little at bay. They were little gods in the orbit of a true God. Angel snipped away Grant's dress shirt from his oxen torso, leaving him topless. His brutalized nipples were on display, his beefy arms were trussed behind him, his bullneck was still clamped to the pole that was cleaving his massive ass in two, and his shod feet were still bound by chains to the wall. The ruined pinstripe slacks that wrapped his legs like a second skin were flapping at the torn crotch with every movement, and his immense ballsack poured out to greet his victimizers. His cock remained painfully swollen in its self-inflicted cage, in full view. Angel set the tone. "Boys, this fucking pig has been on my ass for a long time now. He cost big runs and took out some of my boys. But you get him here and find out he's just a little fuckin' bitch with his meat all locked up." Laughter rang out as Angel roughly grasped Hardin's cock and pulled his balls while tugging at the shaft. Grant winced at the pleasure of finally having someone contact his cock while another hot flush of shame burnt his face. As if on cue, another spurt of precum jolted out of his piss slit. "AH FUCK!" Angel's thick knuckles were slimed with the stringy clear pre-fuck. He theatrically wiped it off on the A-shirt strapping down his incredible chest. "You see this? You see this bitch's pussy getting wet? I want you to introduce yourself to this maricon and show him who he's fuckin' with. Show him how we do shit. But leave that ugly face alone. I've got words with him." Angel's posse knew what this meant: don't go for broke. They could show off, but there was a line they weren't meant to cross. And with a whisper of assent they closed in and surrounded the helpless lawyer. Hardin would grow to give each one nicknames over the next two hours of torment. For instance: 'Shorty', (a jug-eared late teen with a fresh set of cheap tattoos) 'Dumbfuck', (a short and powerfully built piece of shit with a dumb and cruel looking face) 'Papa', (a beefy older man with a genie face and nothing but a pair of sweatpants on) 'Greaseball' (a nondescript thirty-something covered in a sheen of grease) 'Freddie' (a smooth man with a Freddie Mercury affect in a tight pair of jeans) 'Tank' (stout, short, and incredibly well built: must be one of Angel's bodybuilder buddies) 'Toro' (the biggest and the brawniest in the room, dwarfing even Angel in sheer size. A giant gold crucifix outlined his colossal neck while a stretched out wifebeater and a linen shirt poorly covered his hulking gorilla body. Clearly Angel's head bodyguard.) One he called 'Glasses' (a handsome piece of well-built club trash wearing an expensive pair of sunglasses) strutted up first and landed a quick series of blows to his gut. Glasses worked his way up and down his nearly hairless torso while landing a few light slaps to Hardin's already bruised face. A mocking kiss was laid upon his cheek and the rest of them swirled in to punish this miserable fuck for the crime of questioning their obvious power. They cackled over his locked up cock, throwing every slur they could utter against his masculinity in his face. They slapped and torqued his balls until the nausea softened his knees. Most were fascinated by his chastity cage and wedged their fingers in to molest his bloated shaft. Papa in particular took interest, running his paw over Hardin's cock so thoroughly that Hardin couldn't help but surge harder, the scrotal ring lifting up his sack and punishing his worthless prick. There was piss. Dumbfuck heaved his baseball bat cock out of his sagging boxers, aiming it square at Hardin's pants-clad asscrack. He felt the splatter of hot liquid on his back and then the hissing liquid ooze warmed his brawny butt as it soaked the slacks down to the backs of his knees. Dumbfuck whooped and hollered the entire time, clearly impressed with his own joke. The beatings weren't full force, but they were relentless. Lumbering Tank had a pair of sparring gloves on and used Hardin's trussed body as a punching bag. His ribs withstood impact after impact, slow and heavy then fast-fast-fast. Punches to his powerful gut mixed with the putrid ache from his tortured balls, causing him to waver in his bonds. Toro had do get in his digs too, pounding Hardin's meaty pecs into hamburger while taunting him to retaliate. Hardin's suffering ego finally took the bait as he spit in Toro's face, earning himself several full-strength smashes that left him coughing and breathless. There was nipple abuse. Tweaking, pulling, poking, pinching, punishing. Shorty eventually found the clips and reattached them, causing Hardin to groan. Others would then flick the clips relentlessly. A few would remove them and reattach them for a more punishing fit. The subtle sexual thrill persisted through the obvious pain, driving the sexually deprived Hardin wild even as he winced. Floggers came out of the cabinets. They assaulted every exposed piece of flesh: flicking his ears, searing his thighs, slapping his balls (vomit surged to the back of his throat with every ungodly hit). His elbows, his biceps, his chest, his stomach, his calves, his shoulders, his exposed back, nothing was safe. Even his ass took slaps that transmitted straight through the piss-soaked pants and tenderized his mighty buttocks. At one lull in the torment, heat rub came out. The room grew quiet with anticipation as Freddie squeezed out a fingerful. He smeared the creamy clot on Hardin's exposed balls, wiping the rest on his reddened chest. Hardin looked on quizzically as they bared their fangs at him in glee. Then he felt a tingle. Then a buzz. Then a shivering wave of cold. Then a blowtorch of impossible heat. His balls roasted with a searing chemical pain that elicited his first true howl of agony. The howling did not stop for ten full minutes as his body shuddered and twisted helplessly with the intolerable pain of having his scrotum roasted. No extra insults were offered beyond sadist's laughter: there was only a shared appreciation of his torment as he danced a beautiful pale dance in the eyes of his captors. As the pain cooled, they moved back in. Mercies were few, and requests for mercy were nonexistent. Hardin withstood everything, having not said a word in the process. Water was provided, and there were lulls where he could catch his breath. But then a new bleak idea would form in some goon's head and another fusillade of pain was rolled out. Hardin withstood everything with a tenacity they had to respect, even as they tried to grind it out of him. Finally, with a word, everything ceased. The nipple clamps were plucked off and tossed aside, causing a deep wave of pain. Hardin panted, a wounded warrior on his last reserves. Angel removed the bike lock from Grant's neck and kicked the back of his leg. Hardin slumped to his knees, not having to withstand his considerable bulk for the first time in hours. His thighs and ankles quivered as the bloated feet in his expensive dress shoes protested. What now? Just do it, you cocksuckers. Just fucking do it. Angel leaned over and whispered in his ear: "Any one of my boys feels teeth, you die." Then he stood back up and growled: "Fuck this whore." The mood of the room immediately went electric as a shared sexual thrill ran through the tormenters. Time for a new kind of cruelty. The rape of Grant Hardin began in earnest. -AE ---------------------------------------------------------------- Want to read a part 4? I want you to beg for it. I work for anonymous praise, constructive criticism, cockshots, and feedback about what keeps -you- hard. alteredegopath@gmail.com