Date: Thu, 1 Nov 2012 02:59:20 +0000
From: Rob Armstrong <robarmstrong26@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: Spike's Piercing Parlour Part Eleven: Hallowe'en Family Balling 2
SPIKE'S PIERCING PARLOUR, PART ELEVEN: HALLOWE'EN FAMILY BALLING 2
THIS STORY CONTAINS THEMES OF INCEST BETWEEN FATHERS AND THEIR 18/19 YR
OLD SONS, WATERSPORTS AND DOMINATION. THESE CHARACTERS EXIST IN AN AIDS
FREE, CONSEQUENCE FREE, FANTASY PARALLEL UNIVERSE AND ARE NOT TO BE
EMULATED.
PLEASE SUPPORT NIFTY WITH YOUR DONATIONS AND KEEP THIS INCREDIBLE
RESOURCE GOING.
SERIES FINALE part two
The logistics of getting thirty-one men (including the two coaches)
from the Upper to the Lower East Side all at the same time had been planned
well in advance.
Taxis would have been impossible to co-ordinate, and it was vital
that Symansky and Rogers get them all to Spike's at the same time.
The fathers of the teams were giddy on alcohol and the fact that
they were off the leash from their wives for the evening - so nobody
questioned the odd convenience of Coach Symansky being able to summon a
city bus almost out of thin air to take them all down there.
The fathers laughed raucously - going by bus just added to the
adventure and made them all feel like they were eighteen again.
At the wheel, Aaron Jonas Wilby III hid his face as best he could
beneath his driver's cap and waved them all on board. Even so, one of the
Manhattan fathers could be heard remarking to another, 'Hey, that guy's the
spit of someone I saw once on the cover of Time Magazine.'
When they were all seated Wilby shut the doors and, unseen by his
passengers, flipped on the 'Not In Service' sign on the front of the bus in
order to deter random New Yorkers from trying to catch a ride.
Then they were off through the misty evening Manhattan traffic.
Another of the parents, one of the Jersey guys, asked, 'Hey, does
anyone know where our boys headed off to in such a hurry earlier? They
left long before we did!'
'Ah, can it, O'Reilly!' came his answer, 'This is our night out
too - and believe me, the less we know what they're up to, the less THEY
know what WE'RE up to!'
The laughter in the bus suggested this was the general consensus.
Coach Symansky smiled to himself, put in mind of the naughty boys
in 'Pinocchio', all laughing their asses off as they headed to Pleasure
Island, never suspecting that they were all to be magically transformed
into braying donkeys.
His dick stirred to painful hardness in his pants.
The fall mist was thicker downtown, rolling straight in off the
Hudson as it was. Wilby deposited them on the sidewalk and the bus
disappeared into the gathering fog.
The father with the card for Spike's lost confidence in where he
was supposed to be leading them - so Symansky was forced to take charge
without appearing to do so. This whole venture had to look like the other
guy's idea, but with some subtle nudging from Coach they found the place.
'Hey, this can't be right,' said one, 'It's a tattoo parlour!'
'Well, it says 'Spike's' over the door,' said the dad-in-charge,
checking the address on the card Thor had been careful to give to him.
And indeed the door stood open. Warm light washed out onto the
steps up to street level. Music reached out to them from within, some
female club singer groaning her way suggestively thru an old disco
standard. Faint traces of perfume wafted on the cold, moist air.
'Yeah, this is the place already!' said an impatient dad, 'Let's
get inside, my balls are starting to freeze off!'
They trooped down the steps, crowding into the reception area. The
place was hung with spooky Hallowe'en decorations and lashings of cobweb.
Now that they were inside they could hear recordings of saucy female sighs
and cooing played beneath the disco track.
Men nudged each other and grinned in wicked delight.
'Hey look, free entry tonight,' said one, pointing out a sign.
'Yeah,' griped another, 'these places make most of their money on
the bar - the tab's gonna be a bitch!'
Before anyone could respond, the beaded curtain parted.
The slender, sinuous figure that emerged was clad in Mummy
wrappings which managed to reveal more of the slim hips and full breasts
than they hid. Beneath a pharaoh's crown, a diaphonous veil concealed all
but the beautiful doe eyes, lined with kohl in the Egyptian manner.
Thirty-one pairs of eyes devoured the spectacular newcomer and
there were wolf-whistles aplenty.
'Oooo, Mummy,' said one wiseass, 'Call me Daddy!'
There were groans at the crass comment, but their hostess merely
curtsied and with a graceful gesture bade them come thru the curtain.
The tattoo equipment, barber chair and all, had been cleared away
for the evening and placed behind black velvet drapes that now dressed the
room. Clothing rails indicated that this was the coat check area, and the
men all disrobed from their outer layers and winter accessories.
The silent, mysterious beauty then took up an old-fashioned
archeologist's lantern and indicated they should follow thru the inner
doorway. More elbows nudged neighbouring ribs as the men's excited
anticipation built.
'Wow, they certainly get into the spirit of it, don't they?' said
one dad, thrilling to the drama.
'This is already better than any lap club I ever been to,' returned
his buddy.
As soon as the men were gone, led off into the tunnels, the warm,
welcoming lights in reception were snuffed. The disco music and female sex
noises died. The feminine scents evaporated.
They had done their work.
The door to the street was closed.
And locked.
And barred...
Down... down... the sexy Mummy girl led them, thru the iron gate
and beneath the ground, thru rumbling earthen tunnels that reached out with
root structures to claw at their hair and pluck at their garments.
'Shit!' somebody remarked, 'It's like this joint is trying to tear
our clothes off!'
Nervous titters greeted this - their excitement was becoming tinged
with uncertainty now.
'Jeez, just what IS this place...?'
'My guess, it's an old speakeasy from the 1920's...'
'It sure is one freaky Hallowe'en ghost tour!'
'You got that right!'
Campy sound effects played thru hidden speakers - cackling witches,
wailing spectres and howling wolves. Little plastic jack-o-lanterns sat in
recesses in the walls, lighting their way.
The hostess led them a slightly different route from the one Clay
first took - a side passage that took them around the first two dungeons
and the rock-walled maze.
Gradually the silly sound effects were replaced by sinister, more
serious orchestral music, the kind of choral pieces you would hear in
movies like 'The Omen'. The jack-o-lanterns were larger now. Real flame
danced within genuine pumpkin housing...
...And a mist had begun to rise from the dirt floor.
The guys started coughing as the mist thickened.
'Bouagh-ha!' spluttered the dad-in-charge, struggling to follow the
hostess' lantern, now an indistinct ball of light moving up ahead thru the
cloudy vapour, 'Excuse me, honey? I think you need to get the boys in
special effects to turn the fog machine down a little!'
He waved a hand in front of his face. There was some kind of oily
residue in this mist that was clagging his throat. But at least the light
had stopped moving. She was waiting for them to catch up, holding the
lantern aloft.
The dad and his party stepped from out of the fog at last, a final
spate of coughing marking their emergence.
For some reason he was feeling a little flushed. His nipples were
standing on end, though it was very far from cold down here in the tunnels.
On the contrary.
It was very hot.
He found himself fighting the urge to rip his clothes off.
All of the other dads were exhibiting the same symptoms - tugging
at pullovers or loosening collars.
'Has anyone seen Coach Symansky?' enquired another dad, further
back, 'I coulda sworn he was right behind me...'
'Yeah, Rogers is gone too!'
Of the mysterious Egyptian beauty there was no sign either. Her
lantern had been left hanging from an overhead root.
'Where'd she go?' Dad-in-Charge asked out loud.
A little further down the tunnel her pharoah's crown lay discarded
on the floor. Her veil was just beyond the next corner...
...And that led them onward to a pile of Mummy wrappings...
'Oh boy,' somebody said, 'I guess the striptease has started!'
'About fuckin' time - I'm hornier than a goat!'
'Yeah? How 'bout that - me too!'
'Don't sweat it, fellas,' said Dad-in-Charge - sweating - 'I think
we've arrived!'
They stood at an opening into a vast cavern.
The place was bigger than a fucking cathedral! It was artfully lit
with cool blues splashing against a distant rock face, dappling off the
smoking pool of a natural hot spring - and fiery orange spotlights closer
in, igniting off rock and dirt wall alike.
There were even actual live wooden torches, burning in sconces at
various intervals throughout the space.
But everywhere between these accents, deep pockets of shadow
beckoned, pregnant with amorous possibility - where unaccustomed delights
could be sampled, anonymous and private, under the discretion of darkness.
The party of dads entered, whatever strange new fire that surged in
their blood drawing them on, piquing curiosity rather than disquiet - as it
SHOULD have...
The steam from the rock pool filtered the air thru a lens of soft
focus and the newcomers were vaguely aware of other figures moving amongst
the sultry shadows. Their outlines seemed oddly distorted and they made for
strange silhouettes as they flitted in and out of view.
The ominous music filled the Cavern, played over a professional
sound system, adding to the atmosphere and heightening the fantasy...
Distant sounds reached them now, above the
music... grunts... groans... little cries of pleasure or pain, they could
have been either... and the wet slap of flesh against flesh...
'Jee-zus, this place is a fucking SEX CLUB...' gasped a stocky
Jersey dad, in the voice of one who had only ever heard of such things.
Far from being deterred, however, the men felt pulled in that
direction. The heat was tremendous, or so it seemed. As they drew further
and further into the Cavern, items of clothing began to drop in their wake,
barely noticed by those who abandoned them...
Pullovers... ties... belts...
...shirts...
The choral music segued into the opening bars of Holst's 'Mars: The
Bringer of War'. Its quiet, threatening march accompanied them on their
trek down the wide central concourse.
Rocky tiers rose up to a natural terrace on either side, where some
kind of dried-clay and granite-chip blocks had been sculpted. They looked
like the pagan standing stones at Stonehenge, England, but squatter and
more irregular in shape.
Standing out from the rockface, these gravel blocks were several
feet thick, but not entirely solid - they appeared to have various-sized
holes and openings carved into them.
Backlit by the flickering amber of torchlight, movement was visible
up there within those orifices. Naked flesh glistened moistly, reflecting
the firelight.
The sex noises were loudest here.
The men peered up at the strange sight, quietened and almost
reverential. Trying to make out what it was exactly they were seeing.
Utterly unable to look away...
...as deep within their minds, libidinous hormones whispered to
them that flesh was flesh, be it male or female, and that shame and guilt
were things best left to the light of day...
So totally caught up in the heavy, erotically-charged atmosphere of
this place, several of the men unleashed their erections from the confines
of their pants and began stroking them openly, balls out and bobbing like
Hallowe'en apples.
Others just groped themselves through their clothing.
Or groped the guy standing next to him...
Eyesight must have adjusted to the ambient gloom at some point - as
the football fathers stared, they were able to make out more detail through
the misty haze.
'Hey... that one's a guy up there,' murmured Jersey Dad, pointing.
The guy in question appeared to be naked - from the waist up,
leastways, cos he was laying on his stomach, only his head and shoulders
emerging a little way from the block he occupied.
The way his face was screwed up it was hard to make out what he
looked like - and whether he was having the time of his life or enduring
torture. One second he was groaning like an animal in heat, his tongue out,
lapping at the tangy air - the next he was pinching up his features and
thrashing his head from side to side in denial...
'Unghhh... ooooof.... unghhh... unghhh...'
And then:
'Uh! Uh! Nnnnoooo... pleeeease...!'
Then Jersey Dad saw how his head and shoulders were being thrust
rhythmically forward and back and it hit him - there was somebody round the
back of that structure, fucking the guy up the ass from behind!
Fuuuuck...
Kinnnky...
Jersey Dad hauled out the big cock he had been groping - which
happened to be his neighbour's, not his own - and got pumping...
Few of the fathers still wore their shirts by now - and even those
who did were fully unbuttoned and pulled wide - exposing sweat slicked
torsos that spoke of their own high school or college athletic careers,
somewhat forgotten and run to seed in some, freshly topped up and
gym-sculpted in others.
But every man there was a powerhouse of muscle, whether he ran to
paunch or six-pack.
The guy who was getting fucked had his gorgeous arms stretched out
in front of him, torchlight on muscle, as if reaching out for help...
Ohhhh fuuuck... that made Jersey Dad even hotter and he sped up the
hands he had on both his and his neighbour's cocks, unable to take his eyes
off the action.
Fingertips absently brushed nipples...
...fingers brushed neighbour's nipples...
...finger's brushed buddy's nipples...
... and in one case, fingers brushed over brother's nipples...
Just as it dawned on him that the sex noises surrounding them were
all male, a call came from the other side of the concourse.
'This one's a guy, too!'
'And here!'
'And over here!'
'They're all guys...'
On cue, the torches flamed higher and all was revealed.
'They're OUR guys! They're our SONS!'
Jersey Dad's hands froze on the two cocks he was pumping. The
naked young man being taken by force up there on the terrace - that he'd
been beating off to - was his own son!
'Oh my God - Christopher?'
A moment of eternity passed...
... and then he was jacking both cocks furiously...
'Ohhhh... oh Godddd... oh Christopherrr... oh fuuuck...!'
It was the same everywhere. Up and down the length of the
concourse, on either side, the strapping young athletes of both football
teams had been reduced to stark naked sex-slaves, imprisoned in granite,
getting their virgin holes plundered by a pack of unseen assailants.
It was a vision of Judgement Day, their sons crying out in anguish
for manhood lost... moaning in the ecstasy of pleasures found... whimpering
in the hope of manhood yet to be regained...
Some of the jocks had a little wiggle room, like Christopher.
Others were entombed in a kind of sculpted pillory, only their heads and
hands visible thru the dirt wall as they took a pounding from behind...
Every face revealed the conflicting forces of pleasure and pain -
tear-stained humiliation here, the flush of lust there - a heated frown of
rapture, a grimace of torment...
'Our SONS...' went up the horrified cry, from one man to the
next...'Those are our SONS they're fucking...'
'They're FUCKING our SONS... those deviant bastards, they're
FUCCCKING our SONNNNS...!'
It was a cry filled with outrage... and spiced with arousal...
Groggily the dads lurched about, casting this way and that along
the concourse, desperate to locate their own offspring...
...their reactions slowed by a heavy dose of the Schultz formula
they received in the tunnels, and which was now being constantly topped up
by the vapours rising from the hot spring...
With most of the fathers, as soon as they located their sons they
clambered drunkenly up over the rocks to go to their aid...
...but some dads could only stand rooted to the spot, hypntotised
by the sight of their naked sons being forcibly sodomised...
These fathers were rapt, frowning in concentration...
...mouths hanging open...
...sweat running down their shirtless torsos...
...dripping from pert nipples..
...hands a blur on their dripping, juicy dicks...
Those who went to their boys meant well. Swear to God. But as it
turned out they would have done better to stay with the fathers down on the
dirt floor, who were harmlessly jerking off at a distance.
Thing was, they couldn't have known a thing about the Schultz
formula, much less understand what it was doing to their sex drives.
By the time Jersey Dad reached Christopher, his pants had fallen
down and entangled his ankles. He kicked them away distractedly over his
dress shoes, naked now apart from footwear and a jock strap.
He tumbled to all fours and began crawling his way across the slate
terrace to the granite edifice where his son was being thoroughly reamed
out...
'Chris... sonnn...'
Christopher looked out at his father through the intoxicated stupor
of a sex-daze.
'Daddd...' he wailed, reaching out with those magnificent throwing
arms again, 'Daddd... heeeelp meeee...'
Dad reached his son, both knees on hard slate at the foot of the
block, and they threw their arms around each other. The contact of their
feverish, naked bodies was a flash between them...
'Aaaaaah...!' they both cried in unison.
Christopher sank his face into his father's neck and moaned...
'Ohhhh... Dadddieee... pleeeease...'
'Ohhh SON... what are they DOIN to ya...?'
'Oh Daddd... ungh-ungh-ungh-UNGH! He's FU-uhu-uhu-HUCKING me...'
Dad thought his dick would burst outta his jock.
'Who's fuckin ya, son...?'
'I dunno... some... unghhh... some guy...uhuuung..'
Dad peered thru the tunnel of his son's confinement and glimpsed a
tight, hairy torso flecked with grey at the other end, enthusiastically
pumping a very impressive piece up his boy's shit-chute.
Dad's dick throbbed inside his jock, smearing it with syrupy cock
juices - no wonder Christopher was in some pain...
'He's fucking me, Dad... I'm getting FUUUUUCKED...!' he whined
again... whimpering like a lost puppy... writhing in his father's
arms... rubbing his tear-stained face up and down his dad's wet neck and
stubbled cheek...
'Yeahhhh...' his father murmured in a hot, low voice, nuzzling his
boy's neck, 'Is he reaming you OUT, son...?' He patted his head an ran his
fingers thru his son's hair, 'Is he FUCKING you real HARD...?'
Christopher grunted - grunted - grunted - that he was.
The rhythm of the fucking threw Christopher's bowling ball
shoulders up against his dad's, like fleshy rocks clashing in a stream. Dad
held his boy so tight that he, too, was subject to the rutting movements...
'...but aintcha... UNGH!... gonna STOP him, Daddy...?'
'In a minute, son,' replied Dad soothingly, 'in a minute...'
The increasingly violen thrusts were pushing more and more of
Christopher's upper body into his dad's - their sweat-slicked flesh rubbing
and sliding over each other...
They relaxed their embrace in order to reach out and allow questing
hands to run over the other's body...
...feeling...
...exploring...
Dad looked again through the apeture in the granite where his son
lay on protective padding. By GOD his body looked mighty fine, bent over
like that for a good, hard, doggy-style dicking!
He glided a sweaty palm across the smooth caramel skin stretched
taut over sculpted back muscles, scooping down into the narrow waist only
an eighteen-year-old could know, before plumping out into the two rounded
orbs of his tight ass...
...which even now was being speared by the fleshy harpoon of his
ripped, older admirer...
'How does it feel, boy...?' Dad asked, reaching further in to run
his hands over his boy's ass', '... does it feel GOOOOOD....?'
...SQUEEEZING his firm cheeks...
'Ungh... ungh... Guys don't get fucked, Dad...' Christopher
replied, hedging the question - as if he weren't himself even now running
his hand under the waistband of his father's jockstrap, groping his buns.
'MMMMmmm... tight ass, Dad... oooohhh yeaaahhh...'
Dad slapped his ass HARD! SUDDENLY!
Christopher threw his head back and yelled.
Dad slapped him AGAIN!
'Yaaaah! Dad!'
'I asked you a question, boy!'
SLAP!
'Unghh! Ohhh Daddy..!'
Dad kissed his head...
SLAP!
'Ooooohhhh..!'
Dad kissed his face...
SLAP!
'OOOooohhhh Dadddddieeee...'
Dad kissed his lips...
SLAP!
'Dadddddieee... it huuuuurts...'
SLAP!
'...soooo gooooood....'
Next thing Dad was holding his son's head in his hands and they
were frenching wantonly, moaning and groaning into each other's mouths.
The guy still fucking Christopher took up the spanking while father
and son got to know each other in a whole new way. Christopher just
squirmed and writhed on his impalement now, experiencing only pure pleasure
in the wrecking of his hole.
So lost was he in tongueing his son's mouth, Jersey Dad barely
noticed another on his own bent over hole...
...and yet another, nibbling and eating at his ass cheeks...
'Mmmmmmm...' moaned Jersey Dad, as hot tongues laved his trench and
over the globes of his ass - but it was Christopher who received the
benefit of his passion in their dirty incestuous kiss...
As the fucker climaxed and fed Christopher his first ever load of
hot manspunk, Chris's upper body pushed so far outta the hole that his Dad
overbalanced and sprawled backward onto the floor.
Immediately a second unseen guy took the first's place at Chris's
ass and he plunged his dick up him in one go.
Christopher barely grunted, as his upper body began to shake in
time again. He only had eyes for Dad - he reached down and grabbed his
father's dick, soaked in its housing of cotton fabric...
'Dad...?' Chris frowned. 'Isn't that... ungh, ungh... MY jock
you're wearing...?'
'Erm...'
'The one I lost... UNGH!... like, weeks ago? The dirty one I put
in the laundry 'cos it was so... UNGH!...so rank...?'
Busted, Dad brazened it out. 'Yeah, well, it's MINE now, kiddo.
Got it seasoned with a month of all my DAD juices...'
Christopher ran a lewd tongue across his lips, his body rocking
back and forth. 'Yeah? UNGH! Why doncha PROVE it, Pops?'
Jersey Dad smiled. For the first time he became properly aware of
the two men who had been eating his ass. The two enormous black guys,
square-jawed and gorgeous, helped him to his feet.
One wore a vampire cape and nothing else. The other was completely
naked. Clearly brothers, they smiled and resumed licking every inch of
Dad's body, first working their way up his short, beefy legs.
Enjoying the attention, Dad stepped out of the jock and pressed it
to his son's face, smearing all the juices over his mouth and nose.
Chris lapped eagerly at the soaked cotton, doing his best to
extract every drop of moisture from it. His eyes turned up in his head, so
delirious was he made by the reek of his father's fluids.
Meanwhile the black dudes licked their way up into Dad's armpits
and coated his neck and chest in their rich saliva. Dad was pretty
delirious himself by now, as they each latched onto a nipple and got
chewing.
Chris abandoned the jock and sucked his father's cock as deep into
his mouth as he could bury it. Dad happily surrendered to pleasure,
leaning back into the embrace of the black guys, frenching and licking them
with as much gusto as they did him.
Meanwhile his boy licked and slurped on his lolipop, coaxing a
fiery load when Dad could contain himself no longer. Dad jetted volley
after volley into Christopher's mouth, who savored the fresher spunk.
The scene between Jersey Dad and Christopher was being repeated,
with variations, up and down the slate terraces, as fathers who had gone
initially to save their sons had, instead, become embroiled in their
deflowering and pulled into very public acts of incest.
Other denizens of the Cavern were making themselves known, now -
studs who had been fucking the young jocks, horned demons or hot
werewolves, emerging now to take their pleasure with their front ends.
The football fathers saw and leaned quickly by example. Soon they
were forcing their own dicks inside their sons' mouths, smothering them in
their raunchy assholes, or pissing over their faces.
When long fingers teased at his asshole, Jersey Dad welcomed them
with excitement. The Schultz magic meant that his ass was looser than
normal, and with the talented tongues and fingers of the brothers at work,
it wasn't long before they got him nice and sloppy.
In no time at all, father and son were tonguing each other's mouths
again, both bent over and taking a magnificent rod up their cunts.
The sounds of pagan bacchanalia were at last drowned out by a
grandiose swell in the music as 'Carmina Burana' sounded its opening choral
fanfare.
Again, the flames shot high, and there was a pyrotechnic explosion
up by the rock pool. A dramatic red spotlight picked out the enormous
demonic figure that stood there.
Spike was a terrifying vision, appearing in full satanic regalia.
The spotlight painted his naked body crimson. Stacked platform boots, that
the leatherworker had skillfully fashioned into resembling cloven hooves,
added a further six inches to his height, bringing him close to seven feet
tall.
And then a headdress of curling ivory horns on his bald head took
him well over that.
A pair of wide animatronic devil wings had been affixed to the back
of his leather harness. They flapped and closed dramatically, on a set
programme of random movement...
...as did the red devils tail, thrashing and writhing at his back,
springing from a custom made butt plug that was lodged deep up Spike's
cunt. Cruel coils of barbed wire pierced his proud nipples.
But most terrifying of all was his blunt-headed monster of a
phallus, which stood fully erect and dripping, needing only the adornment
of a vicious-looking spiked cock cage and his 0 grade pa piercing.
Most terrifying until, that was, he opened his eyes, and his UV
sensitive contact lenses caused them to burn with inner hellfire...
One of the football fathers actually screamed like a woman.
Swear to God.
'Welcome!' Spike announced, his gravelly base amplified tenfold by
a radio mic concealed in his headdress, 'Welcome to the Hallowe'en Family
Ball!'
He smiled widely, revealing his filed teeth and ran his forked
tongue over them, completing his image as a demonic master of ceremonies.
A large leather whip appeared in one hand suddenly, and he cracked
it expertly, laughing with satanic fervor at the assembled hoard.
'So Get The Fuck Balling Each Other!' he commanded with a snarl.
And then... well... all Hell broke loose...
END OF PART ELEVEN. I LIED. THIS IS PLAINLY NOT THE FINAL
INSTALMENT. THE DAMNED THING HAS DEVELOPED A LIFE OF ITS OWN.