Date: Fri, 2 Aug 2013 00:20:06 -0700
From: Altered Ego <alteredegopath@gmail.com>
Subject: The Hardin Torments - Part Five [Gay/Authoritarian]

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