Brandon's Farewell Video (Con -> Non-Con)

Ascian

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Jan 20, 2013
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“Alright, Brandon. You wanna go ahead and tell us what we're doing here today.”
Brandon, seated on a bench, looks directly at the camera and smiles. He's wearing just a pair of black gym shorts. The room around him is painted black. By contrast, his lightly tanned flesh glows in the darkness and his white teeth gleam, as he says:
“Well, you guys are gonna snuff me.”
He laughs a little. Even to devotees of snuff, it's surreal to see a lighthearted, handsome jock declare without trepidation or irony that he is about to get snuffed. Viewers will know this is a very special case if they didn't already.
Off camera, Carl, one of two men filming Brandon, smiles and asks the next question: “You seem fine with that. You want to tell us a little about why you are okay with getting snuffed on camera?”
Brandon nods and leans back, still grinning. His corrugated abs and fulls pecs are beautifully displayed. His legs are spread and he maintains his balance by gripping the edge of the bench with strong hands, keeping a nice tension on his arms that deepens their striated muscles.
“Yea. I mean, the way I see it we should all be snuffing ourselves. We fucked the planet over. We fuck each other over. I give us a few more years, tops, before we fucking nuke ourselves. I'm over it.”
“So basically, you're saying that humans should go extinct and you're setting an example.”
Brandon laughs again and looks aside, giving the viewer a glimpse of his strong neck and jawline. “Well, I don't know about that. I'm not much of a role model.” He runs fingers through his trimmed, chestnut hair, exposing his pits and giving the camera a new angle of his cut torso.
Carl prods, “But you have a lot of admirers, some of whom are gonna miss seeing you fuck and get fucked. I think I might, myself.”
“Well, you'll still have plenty of material, right? And people probably liked me better when I was younger anyways,” Brandon says, with a hint of bitterness in his voice. Carl picks up on it.
“Yea, you've been doing porn now for how long?”
Brandon knows the answer but just shrugs. “Long enough to know I'm past my prime to most guys.”
“I think a lot of guys would disagree. You're what, 34 now?”
“Yea, turned 34 three months ago.”
“Happy belated birthday. Did you know then that you weren't going to live to be 35?”
Brandon blinks and his smile falls a little. “No, I hadn't thought of it that way. I mean...” He looks down at the floor and his brow creases. “I've thought about suicide before. And it's not just the porn and sex trade shit. I thought about it when I was a kid even. But now I just don't see the point of playing this game anymore.” He stares directly into the camera, this time, not smiling at all. “I was straight when I started in the gay porn stuff, and I just kind of like sex with guys now, but I don't want to be with a guy. I stopped wanting to be with anyone a while ago. Fuck love. It's a lie like all this other shit that people keep chasing. And now I feel myself getting older and a little slower already and I just don't want to go through that, I don't want to keep chasing, or be around when the world falls to shit, so I figure, why not go out with a bang?”
“That's a bold choice. It's brave.”
Brandon laughs hard and the smile is back as he looks aside at Carl. “Brave? I don't know about that, man. I think maybe the Molly helps, too.”
“You're pretty high, eh?”
Brandon laughs again. “Yea, I'm rolling pretty hard. I have been since yesterday.”
“We really ran a train on you last night, didn't we?”
Another laugh. “I can't believe my ass isn't sore after that. I don't remember much.”
Now Carl laughs, as does Lou, the main cameraman. Lou doesn't really speak, but the bearish man laughs gruffly and loudly.
Carl says, “The final count of guys that bred your ass was 32. You were so fucking sloppy by the end of it. We got some great footage.”
Brandon shrugs, “I kinda wanna see it.”
“Oh, let's do it,” says Carl.

The scene changes, and Brandon is holding a tablet. In post-production, this will be shown in split screen, with the footage that Brandon is watching playing at the side as he reacts. Mostly, he's just quiet as he sees himself on his back on a bed getting fucked in both ends. His eyes widen slightly when he sees his head bend back as far as it can to accommodate a thick, 9-inch cock. He can see the head of it bulging in his throat when the guy drives in to the hilt. He can see the base of his head redden and his body convulse as he begins to suffocate. All the while, his own muscular legs are being held wide and high to give full access to his ass, which is getting pounded hard and fast.
“I don't remember that part. Damn.” He's a little impressed with himself.
A close up of his ass shows a swollen, pouty anal ring drenched with cum between his thick, domed glutes.
“Aw, fuck. Damn. I got turned out. Check that cunt out!” He laughs, but his laughter laugh is cut off as he sees a hand dive in effortlessly and start to work his ass open wider.
“Holy shit! They fisted me? How do I not remember this?!” He laughs again. “Well, now I have done it all.”
Carl's baritone voice croons, “Well, not all, right?”
Brandon is transfixed, watching his own ass prolapse with streams of cum as the anonymous fist works it over on the tablet. “Yea, I guess not all,” he mutters.
“Well, we're gonna fix that today.”
Brandon looks up at Carl, then at the camera and gives it a wink. A showman to the end.
The video fades out.

Brandon is naked, oiled up from head to toe and striking poses to show off his physique. At 191cm and 86 kilos of pure muscle, he's a demigod to his fans. His hair is thinning a little at the crown and his face has deeper lines than it did when he was first taped like this, a dozen years ago, but you'd have to be blind to not see him as wickedly handsome.
But Brandon has revisited those early tapes a lot, often alone, drunk or high, comparing his muscle mass and, inevitably, scrutinizing his younger self so much that he has come to see a stranger in the mirror. To anyone else, he looks still to be in his prime, an enviable, masculine beauty, though some of his clients as a sex worker have remarked on his aging over the years. Brandon gives it his all as he poses for Carl and Lou, trying to make his final performance as good as his first in his mind.
He doesn't know how it will end. He has imagined something relatively quick and pleasurable based on his forays into breath control and choking. He can't comprehend the sadism he's about to experience.
The final video will include footage of him wearing nothing but gloves and using 20 kilo kettlebells in a routine to pump his muscles. Squats to shoulder presses. Bicep curls. Rows. Advanced pushups. Between exercises, he flexes and kisses his own muscles. Carl and Lou are salivating off camera.
“You are a fucking muscle god, Bran. It's almost a waste to kill you now.”
Brandon laughs and comes close to the camera, speaking directly to it. “Can you believe these guys are trying to talk me out of it already?”
Carl laughs. “Wouldn't dream of it, man. Shall we do this thing?”
Brandon flexes his whole body, gives the sign of the devil with his horns, and sticks out his tongue. “WOOF. Let's do this!”

Brandon is standing with his bulging arms manacled overhead. His legs are spread by a meter long spreader bar. The camera pans around to his backside, getting a good view of his lats and ass. His glutes are so full and firm that even spread slightly one can't see between to his fuckhole just yet.
Another camera has been positioned to record his front the whole time, to see his reactions and, as Brandon is led to believe, watch his face as the lights go out for good.
“So, Brandon, you want to tell the people watching how you are going down?”
Brandon smiles. “Hey, sickos. You fuckers are gonna watch me get fucked a couple more times and these guys are gonna choke me out. Like, all the way out. I've been doing some breath play for a few years, but you won't see that in any official videos out there.” he laughs. “Maybe you've seen me choke a few guys while I have pounded their little cunts, but nothing hard, nothing like what I like. So this is it. I'm fucking ready for it!”
On the video, Carl steps into view for the first time, behind Brandon. With combat boots on, he's as tall as Brandon, leaner and meaner in appearance, with a darker tan. The black mask he is wearing covers his scalp and eyes but leaves his mouth and nose free. His pointed chin is covered with three days worth of salt and pepper stubble. His ripped chest and abs are also covered with fine, black and grey hair. He's only a few years older than Brandon, but he comes across as a true, scary daddy behind the more boyish victim at front.
“Well, you'll have to wait a while, Brandon,” says Carl.
Brandon's face falls and he tries to turn, but the bar at his feet is secured to the floor. He can only crane his head around to glimpse Carl, brandishing a flog.
“This is such a special occasion, we're not gonna be quick about it. Lou and I are gonna walk you to the edge before we send you over it.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? We never talked about anything like this.”
“Are you sure about that, Brandon? Because you already said you don't remember a lot from last night.” Carl advances on him.
“Yea, well, fuck you. I'm saying no now, asshole. Just do what we fucking talked about.”
“There is no we, dead boy. I'm gonna do what Lou and I have talked about. You don't figure in this because you're already dead, right?”
Before Brandon can utter his objections and curses, the flog has lashed his back. He's facing the camera again, mouth wide open and bellowing. The flog comes down again, welting his lats, breaking the skin. This flog is not your light BDSM implement. Its hard, vinyl edges are designed to inflict more than pain. They are made to harm.
Brandon thrashes and screams as Carl works fast, raining blows across that glorious ass, hamstrings, back, arms and flanks. He's not aiming for the front, but the tails of the flog lash around his serratus and obliques, and soon the front camera is seeing trickles of blood. The rear camera, held by Lou, captures Carl's ripped physique in a vicious dance, slashing Brandon's back mercilessly. The smooth, tanned skin is bright red, smeared with blood running from cuts and gashes after just five minutes.
Brandon is sobbing and panting by then. Carl is panting, too, but he and Lou are in heaven. Carl slaps Brandon's back a few times with his gloved hand.
“That's a good start, eh?”
Through tears, Brandon spits, “Fuck you. FUCK YOU, you fucking psychopath.”
Carl laughs, “Oh, come on. You know you fucking love this. You're a pain pig and you know it. Why else would you tell Lou and me to waste you?”
“I asked you to fucking choke me out for good, motherfucker. Now let me go!”
Lou and Carl both laugh now. “Let you go? And then what? Who's gonna snuff you then?”
“I've changed my mind. Fuck you, let me go!”
“You haven't changed your mind, baby. You're just having a little panic, some second thoughts. It's natural.” Carl tweaks Brandon's nipple, and the younger man hisses, then growls. “You still want we're gonna do for ya, I promise.”
“Then just fucking KILL ME ALREADY. I don't want this pain.”
Lou brings the camera close as Carl leans in, grabs Brandon by the hair and kisses his neck lightly. “But we do, baby. Trust me. Deep down you want it, too. Why rush things along when it will all be over so soon? We're just doing it on our terms, which are also your terms. They became your terms when you agreed to let us snuff you.” Carl bites his left ear lightly. “To do as we please with this beautiful body of yours.”
Brandon hisses and wheezes as Carl's hands roughly scrape over his wounded back...and then he shrieks as Carl sinks his teeth hard into edge of Brandon's ear and tears at it. The camera catches Brandon's shock and despair perfectly while also capturing Carl's rugged, scruffy jaw straining, as his teeth lock onto Brandon's ear and his head pulls, stretching the cartilage until, after a few seconds, it rips. A tattered chunk sits on Carl's tongue for a moment before he spits it hard against Brandon's cheek, stretched wide by his bellowing. The chunk rebounds and lands on the floor beneath, and Carl kicks it aside.
“Fuck that's hot. And I know what I'm going for next.”
This is improvised, but Lou knows Carl well enough to guess his next target and steps aside and hones in on Brandon's chest, the dark, quarter-sized nipple that caps Brandon's left, bulging pec. At first, Carl is just gently nibbling and pulling at it, getting the tit to stand erect. Then he starts chewing lightly, feeling it plump and swell, while Brandon spits and curses.
“No! No, man!” He demands, futilely. His voice turns pleading as Carl begins to gnaw and pull, really tearing into it. He stops for a moment so Lou can get a view of the tit, already swelling and bruising around the purple indentations of teeth crossing Brandon's muscle around the protruding nub. And then Carl is back at it, full force, ripping and pulling, and Brandon is howling as he feels the skin break and the nipple and the tissue behind it begin to come apart. The pain is still strangely less than the sharp throb of his back and ear. Carl's teeth are red when he pulls away again. The nipple is bent slightly now on flap of skin, separating from the chest. The raw, red muscle beneath is visible beneath a thin layer of fat. Carl moves in for the final bite, like a dog on a bone, and just keeps ripping while Brandon looks to the ceiling and screams himself hoarse. Carl's head snaps back, taking the nipple and a tattered triangle of skin in his teeth. He looks right at the camera, though one can't really see his eyes behind the dark lenses of his mask. Just his triumphant grin with the nipple clenched between his incisors. He grabs it between his finger tips and dangles it in front of Brandon, who is hanging his head and weeping.
Faster than Brandon knows what is happening, Carl has grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. Brandon suddenly tastes his own mangled flesh as Carl crams it past his tongue, then slams both hands over Brandon's mouth. Brandon struggles again, but to his horror, his body's instincts react and he can feel his own nipple slip down his gullet.
When Carl senses this, he releases Brandon and let's the boy hang there and dry heave while gets the next toy. Brandon is still heaving uselessly when the first blow comes. A rubber truncheon slams into his ribs on the right, and knocks the wind out of him. He is gasping when the second blow comes, this time on the left. His torso thrashes. Another blow comes across his left scapula, then his right. It feels like his bones are cracking, but they haven't yet. It takes six more wallops before the first rib cracks on his right side, then a second, then two in one blow on the left. Brandon passes out.
Though they want him conscious for everything, this is part of Carl and Lou's plan. While Brandon is mercifully blacked out, they release his arms and lower the battered body to the ground. Brandon comes to quickly, still in a daze. His struggles are weak as Carl works fast to tourniquet both of Brandon's arms. Brandon's thick right biceps flexes involuntarily as Carl turns the rod and watches Brandon's forearm and hand start to turn livid. He repeats the process, moving even faster on the left side. By then, Brandon is becoming more coherent, but on his back, legs bound, and body overcome with pain at every move, he can only grapple at Carl, who deflects his hands. He straddles Brandon's chest, facing toward his victim's legs, with his ass over Brandon's face and Brandon's arms pinned. Gripping the truncheon with both hands, he stabs down repeatedly into Brandon's gut, bashing the point against kidneys, liver and spleen. The hemorrhages are immediately visible across Brandon's ripped abs, but he can barely breathe, let alone scream, with his face half buried beneath Carl's ass.
He takes a deep breath as Carl pops up, but even breathing now causes searing pain. He's sweating hard. Lou's camera captures the sheen of it beautifully as he writhes. He has started to lose feeling in his hands, which are turning bluer by the minute. Carl leans back and down, takes aim, and smashes Brandon's left hand with truncheon. Bones snap on the first blow. You can hear it on the recording. You can hear other snap on the second, third and fourth blows, too, even over Brandon's shrill babbling.
The right hand gets five solid blows, and then the fingers get their own treatment. Lou is in close, so you can see the index finger pop and twist at an odd angle, and then the ring finger. It's a nightmarish, purple mass of flesh by the end. Lou surveys the growing bruises across Brandon's body as Carl detaches the spreader bar from the floor and hooks it to a cable on a winch overhead. Lou films the slow rise of bar and the legs still attached to them. Brandon is crunched up on the floor, coughing up blood.
“We're not gonna neglect a single part of you, babe. That would truly be a waste,” says Carl, almost tenderly. Brandon weeps again, thinking his feet are next to suffer a smashing. Not quite, though.
A rolling tray is brought over between his legs. Carl stands there, peering down and smiling at Brandon, who looks up blearily. Carl is holding something thin and pointed, but Brandon can't tell what it is. And then Carl touches it to the arch of his right foot and he feels a new kind of agony.
The two sadists inhale the rank odor of burning flesh as Carl works the soldering iron around the foot, between the toes, burning every nerve from heel to toe, turning the pads into a mass of smoldering, blackened flesh and blisters. Brandon passes out again, so Carl stops for a moment, positions himself by Brandon's head, and points his cock down. It takes a second for the piss to work through his erection, but when it comes it splashes in a hard torrent on Brandon's face and neck, running into his nose and mouth and causing him to thrash back to life. When Carl has emptied his bladder, he starts on the other foot, sparing not a speck of Brandon's sensitive sole.
Lou's camera work has to be edited, but it captures the gradual destruction of each foot as well as Brandon's glazed over eyes, darkening with shock, his mouth locked in a constant O of horror, emitting a low gurgling.
It has taken about an hour to reduce the cocky snuff candidate to a mass of flesh on the edge of insanity. Repeat viewings will reward careful observers with telling twitches and twists that give insight into the arc of despair that Brandon has endured and will continue to ride to his brutal end.
Carl detaches the spreader bar from the cable, letting the ruined feet fall splat on the concrete floor. A yelp escapes Brandon's throat, but little more. Carl and Lou stand back and watch their victim's instincts kick in, spasming and shifting his weight in the vain hope that another position might be less painful, but there is not relief. Everything hurts, and moving only raises the pitch of the suffering.
The end is getting close now. They can all feel it. Brandon's hands and forearms are bound in tight sleeves, and this extracts new, hoarse howls at every step. The tourniquets are released, and as blood flows returns into the dead extremities, they begin to swell within their sheathes. More pain. Brandon is delirious, and his head just lolls back as his arms are lifted and the sleeves are bound further up, all the way to his shoulders where they connect to a brace around his neck that will keep his head up. The whole assembly is then attached to the cable and he is lifted again. When the winch stops, Brandon is left with two options: to bear his full weight on his shoulders, or try to stand on his charred feet. He is only cognizant enough to know that this is a choice, but his body decides for him. His feet splay with the soles up and his shoulders and back bear it all.
The camera that faced him at the beginning is seeing a very different picture: formerly a bright-eyed jock, now a muscular shell, battered beyond his own recognition.
“Brandon, buddy. You're doing great. For this last part, I'll be taking over the camera while our friend here does the honors of taking the last bits of you apart.”
Lou enters the frame, a hulking, bearish man. As tall as Brandon but with fifteen extra kilos of bone, muscle and fat. He positions himself behind Brandon, whose head would be lolling forward or back if not for the black, leather brace around his thick neck. Lou slides a clear bag over Brandon's head, and then ties it shut with a thong. The thong alone compresses Brandon's windpipe slightly, but not enough to choke him.
Carl films Lou leaning down and parting Brandon's ass with one hand. They made sure to clean Brandon out completely before they started, and since Brandon hadn't swallowed much besides cum, piss and pills in the last 24 hours, it was a fairly clean job.
Lou sniffs at the hole, which had been protected thus far, but smells of the blood and sweat that had run freely from his torn back and glutes. He jabs at it with two fingers. Sweat and blood don't make for much lube, so the pucker resists naturally. Lou jabs hard, and on camera one can see Brandon's eyes bulge behind the steamy plastic enclosing his head as his hole is busted open by two fingers, then three. Lou is not playing it safe, and he goes straight to jamming his big, dry hand against the hole.
Brandon panics. His feet kick up and he tries to plant his soles on the ground to get some leverage to resist. New levels of agony shoot up the lengths of his leg as his burned feet smash down. He roars and bucks. His asshole starts to open. Lou knows it and grabs him around the waist and pushes. Brandon is breath hard and fast, quickly depleting the oxygen in his bag, and then his breathing stops sharply as Lou's hand tears his anus and sinks in to the wrist. Lou is already rooting deeper when Brandon starts breathing quickly, shallowly, sharply, squeaking lightly. His bladder releases and a stream of bloody piss pours from his dick. Carl misses his chance to capture this. He's too busy getting a good view of Brandon's ass busted hole bleeding and gaping around Lou's forearm. Lou is punch fucking, and Brandon's hole is rapidly turning inside out. When he pulls out entirely, Lou is rewarded with the sight of a giant red rose of flesh. He slaps it up and down, prods it, then punches it back in, sinking his arm to the elbow.
At the front, you can see Brandon's corrugated belly start to bulge from the invasion. One can also detect that the boy is starting to suffocate. His face is a haze behind the moisture accumulating inside the bag and pooling around his neck. Lou punch fucks him just a little longer before standing and undoing the thong, pulling the bag off and wiping his bloody hand across Brandon's face.
You might expect the oxygen-starved victim to start breathing hard again, but his breath stays shallow and measured. He is staring blankly into space as his vision clears. Darkness that had crept in during his slow asphyxiation retreats, and he focuses on the prick of light coming from the camera recording his ordeal.
Lou slaps his head from behind and paces around, before kneeling in front of Brandon. Carl kneels and gets a good angle of Lou assessing his next target: that meaty cock. They had pumped Brandon with Viagra as well as ecstasy, and Brandon's cock maintains a slight plumpness in spite of everything. Lou gives it a couple licks, then sucks Brandon's balls into his mouth.
Brandon shakes with horror, not pleasure. He surmises that Lou's gentle approach is a prelude to brutality. He is not kept in suspense long, staring down his nose at the murderous bear before him.
Lou's molars grind down on his balls. All the other pain he felt fades into the background as his guts roil. For a good two minutes, Lou chews and gnashes Brandon's juice bag, slowly increasing his viciousness until he feels one of those tender orbs split open in the sac. Brandon is still screaming as he falls unconscious. His head droops and Lou gives a satisfied grunt.
“He's out, Lou,” says Carl. “Hold up and give him some smelling salts.”
Carl stands and retrieves the smelling salts from the same tray that holds the soldering iron. He shoves them under Brandon's nose, and the victim begins moaning and then howling as he comes to. Lou immediately drops to his knees and bites into Brandon's cock (which has finally shriveled). He chews full force, and in under a minute Brandon's whole prick has been reduced to a bleeding, stringy tangle of tissue. The head of it has come clean off, and Lou swallowed it in his gusto. He didn't mind.
Brandon is catatonic, so technically he didn't mind either.
“Brandon,” says Carl. “I know you're still with us, and I want you to know that this is it. We're finally gonna let you choke out in a few minutes. I just want to get one last look into those beautiful eyes of yours. Can you lift your head?”
He can't. So Lou does. Lou takes Brandon's head in both hands and turns it to face Carl's camera. Dark rings have formed around his bloodshot eyes. There is no light in them. His face is puffy and sweaty. And yet, he is still undeniably handsome. It is a glorious vision.
Even carl is a bit surprised by Lou's next burst of savagery. Brandon's vision goes dark as Lou's thick thumbs press over them and then jab inward. His jaw flaps and squeaks emerge from his mouth as Lou smashes the eyes into their sockets. One pops loose, the other ruptures. Brandon kicks feebly as Lou finishes the job, reducing both eyes to a sludgy mess and leaving Brandon in total visual darkness for his descent into oblivion. He is gasping like a dying fish when a fresh bag is lowered over his head and tied off as before.
Lou moves behind him again, this time with the truncheon in hand. It slides easily into prolapsed wound that was once a tight, tempting asshole. Brandon only flinches and spasms subtly as Lou jabs the first twenty centimeters in. He has a full 45 centimeters of hard, death-dealing rubber above the handle, and he will see every bit of it lodged in this hot snuffee before he dies.
He pistons the truncheon quickly, lengthening each stroke. Brandon's bowels were already perforated by fisting, so it is easy for Lou to go deep with the truncheon, only encountering resistance as it jabs against organs and the inside of Brandon's abs.
On those strokes, you see Brandon's abs pulse and protrude, tenting around the tip of the instrument. His guts are turning to Swiss cheese. He can feel it happening. He can feel the blood filling his torso. He can feel the truncheon make contact with his broken ribs within, as Lou sinks its full length in and twists it.
But above all, he can feel his lungs catch fire, his brain throb helplessly in his skull as it runs out of oxygen. With his last strength, he tries to lift himself, carry himself away from the pain. The camera at front captures this final show of strength beautifully. His abs in high relief, being punched from the inside. His chest (minus one nipple) flexing to form a deep crevasse between his pecs. His shoulders bulging within their sleeves, his eyeless head craning in the bag. It is a perfect image of masculine destruction.
And then that final burst of strength fades and he slowly slumps. He still has a minute of dying left, but Brandon is already gone in so many ways. Irreversible brain damage, not to mention organ failure, has seized him. He is going limp and numb all over, but Lou keeps at it, stirring his insides to mush until he senses that it's just a matter of seconds.
Lou stands, leaving the truncheon fully lodged in Brandon's gut, and puts a hand over Brandon's chest, feeling the final erratic thuds of his heart slow...and then stop. He withdraws his hand, give a thumbs up to the camera, and then takes a step back. He rears back, and with perfect aim, brings the toe of his boot square against the hilt of the truncheon. With a wet crack and thud, it shoots up into Brandon's body, tearing up into a lung. The misty inside of the bag is covered with a burst of scarlet, launched from Brandon's nose and mouth. Carl captures the moment at rear, when for a moment Lou's boot is jammed into the torn chute. Lou yanks it free and a clump of torn innards comes with and dangles between Brandon's thick, splayed thighs.
Carl and Lou both takes their time capturing every angle of the destroyed body. In the final production, they will edit this footage in with clips of Brandon fucking and getting fucked.
A close up of intestines and pulverized kidneys seeping out of his ass will be juxtaposed with him getting rimmed on camera for the first time, taking his first dildo, and shaking his ass playfully for the camera. His battered, hemorrhaged stomach will be spliced with scenes of him doing crunches and riding a cock. The chest and the gaping wound where his nipple was will be followed by images of other actors tonguing his tits, worshipping the slabs of meat, and even one scene where Brandon pushed his pecs together and let his fellow actor fuck the tight crevasse.
The documentation of the body continues after it is released from bondage. But the final shot of the video will linger on Brandon's head, his eyeless face, torn ear, and mouth slightly parted and trickling drool and blood. A full minute will be spent examining this face, before showing Lou and Carl pumping their cocks and unloading gouts of cum into the open sockets. The head is then propped up, allowing their cum to run like white tears over Brandon's cheeks.
Footage cuts to Brandon, twelve years before, seated on a couch for his first audition tape.
“So, say hello to the camera.”
“Hello. I'm Brandon,” he waves and gives a cocky smile.
“And, Brandon, what brings you here today?”
He looks at the voice off camera. He hesitates to answer. And then he looks at the camera, at the faceless viewer for the first time and last time. The video ends before he answers.
 
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