sussexfist
Forum Regular
- Joined
- Dec 20, 2008
- Messages
- 172
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- Brighton, UK
Reposted at request of TallBlond1
TO MEET ONE’S FATE
So this was the day. The day Ian had waited for all his life. Well, not all of his life, but increasingly so since he first laid eyes on the drawing that changed and -- in a way -- soon would end his 21-year old life.
He had been about sixteen when he saw the picture in some book about the German "Bauernkriege" that his father, a historian, had let lying around. By that time he had already realised that, sexually, nothing excited him more than pain on his body.
He had gotten a school comrade to torture him now and then, whip him with a belt or riding crop, suspend him spread-eagled, stick ever increasing objects up his ass, squeeze his balls, burn him with cigarettes in sensitive places, the nipples, armpits, once even his cock-head.
But this comrade had finally become frightened by Ian's fanaticism and ever increasing demands. Actually, Ian didn't understand all of this himself. Why he didn't get really excited by naked boys or girls but immediately sprang an erection when he thought of brutal torture methods, mutilations or hideous, painful ways of execution.
Yet he couldn't help it and so he jacked off to images of crucifixion, impalement, quartering, and so on -- and imagined himself to be the victim. Still, he felt that something was missing. That he somehow hadn't found the method that should be uniquely his, the method by which he really wanted to die. Sick, he thought, but exciting nevertheless.
The moment he saw the drawing, something clicked in place. His breath stopped, his heart missed a beat and immediately his cock started to press against his jeans. He couldn't believe his eyes.
The drawing showed a naked man, being hung upside down in a spread-eagled position, tied to two vertical wooden posts. The man was very obviously screaming, and Ian couldn't take his eyes off the instrument that was causing such pain -- a saw. A huge saw with large, sharp teeth that was cutting the man in two -- wielded by two men in medieval clothes, while others looked on.
The saw had obviously started at the perineum but, in the drawing, had already cut way inside the victim, in fact, his buttocks were already apart and, not visible in the picture, his cock and balls must have been cut, mangled, destroyed as well. No wonder the man was screaming.
And Ian was sighing, fishing his erect cock out of his trousers, imagining himself in the victim's place, hung upside down, and feeling the cold, merciless blade inside him. Of course, he knew that he could never imagine what this delinquent must have felt at the moment depicted in the drawing, nor before or after.
How long had he lived, how long had he been conscious, what had he thought the moment they had tied him to the posts, the moment the saw was placed between his thighs, the moment the sawing had started, the moment seen in the picture? Had he been thinking at all, had he still been able to think with unimaginable pain wracking his body and mind?
Ian came much too early, in the last moment managing to avoid shooting all over the drawing. But even in post-orgasm the excitement watching the picture hadn't diminished. The people witnessing the execution wore almost bored expressions on their faces, as if they had seen such a spectacle all too often. And if they had, this form of execution must have been fairly popular at the time.
Ian shivered. What a way to kill a man! Who had first thought of this cruel method? Who had been the first screaming victim? How many men had died this way? Thoughts and questions running through his mind and soon he sported another hard-on.
And now he realised what that something that had clicked into place had been. He had found his method. His body had known it immediately, finally his mind had followed. This was the way he wanted to die -- being sawed in two. Zooming in on the saw-parted fleshy buttocks he came a second time.
But in the afterglow he realised that this would have to remain a fantasy. Dream and reality were too far apart. No man who was being sawed in half would -- could -- feel any lust, a lust that imagination gave. No, all he could feel was pain from beginning to end. Nevertheless, Ian couldn't break away from the drawing, again thinking of himself as the victim, coming a third time.
But in the days, months, years following his discovery Ian couldn't get the saw-execution out of his mind, even experimenting with a tiny saw, cutting open the tender skin between balls and sphincter, drawing some blood, relishing the pain -- knowing that it couldn't be compared to the real thing.
But, as time progressed, he became more and more convinced that he had met his fate -- and convincing himself more and more that there could be some form of lust. Ian had discovered that his body, or brain, turned any kind of pain into a twisted sort of emotion that at least resembled lust. Although, if that feeling still persisted when a saw cut his intestines, he couldn't tell, never would be able to tell -- unless he experienced it. Xxx
And finally, a month after his twenty-first birthday, he knew that he couldn't go on living like that. For the last year or so all of his thoughts, awake or asleep, had centered on an execution by the saw. There was nothing he could do to change it, he wasn't able to learn or study, became more and more of a recluse, didn't want to talk to other people -- something had to be done.
So one night, awaking sweat-soaked from yet another dream where he was being sawed in two, he decided there was only one remedy. The dream had to become a fact. But of course he couldn't do it alone. He needed help.
The next night he went into town, looking for hustlers. Finally he approached three boys, probably barely eighteen, who were standing together. He asked them what they would do for money. They grinned,
"Anything ... almost."
Pulling together all his courage Ian told them what he had in mind. At first the boys thought he was joking. They couldn't believe someone would offer them his body for a week of abuse and then wanted to be killed by being sawed in two. But after almost half an hour Ian had them convinced that he was serious. And when he offered them all the money he had -- about 20.000 dollars -- they agreed.
And now, the day had come. After a week of abuse -- Ian had to suck them, was brutally fucked, burned, whipped, humiliated and had been told a thousand times, that now, as they got the money, there was no turning back for him -- as if he had wanted to. Still, last night he had hardly slept at all, pondering the next, his final, day, knowing, hoping that he had made the right decision, fearing he had made the wrong one, knowing that, in the end, there had never been a choice.
They drove into the woods to some god-forsaken place where no one would disturb them; no one would hear Ian's screams.
When the hustlers led Ian to the clearing, hands tied behind his back, he saw for the first time the two posts, connected by a crossbeam -- the boys had erected it the way he had told them to. The boys forced him to approach the posts and then he saw it, lying on the ground -- the saw. It seemed frighteningly huge and vicious -- broad blade, long, sharp teeth -- once used to cut down trees.
Ian couldn't take his eyes off it; his throat was dry, sweat breaking out over his naked body. Suddenly one of the hustlers remarked,
"Look at that pervert! He's got a hard-on!"
Ian looked down over his broad, muscular pectorals, and indeed his cock was sticking way out of his crotch. Yes, his decision had probably been right.
Ian was made to sit down on the bare earth between the two posts. The boys tied ropes around his ankles, and then threw the other end over the crossbeam. After a minute or so making sure the ropes wouldn't tangle, two of the hustlers started to lift him up.
Ian's feet were pulled up off the ground, then his legs. The backs of his knees lifted off -- it was a very strange sensation, sort of like his legs were floating in outer space, twitching slowly back and forth -- almost as slowly as his raging hard on was ticking back and forth, like an upside down grandfather clock pendulum.
Now his thighs were pulled up, off the ground, his whole legs now hovering in air out in front of him. He was balancing on his butt, his hands, still tied behind his hands, twisted; fingers stretched trying to push down, helping balance his very teetery upper body.
He lost balance and plopped back onto his arms and twisted silently on them as his buttocks now were lifted off the ground. Ian stared at his cock, throbbing almost like a heart in a movie surgery. As his legs were pulled higher into the air, his body bent at his waist, bringing his throbbing cock closer and closer to his face.
Almost instinctively after so much cock-sucking he had been forced to provide the hustler boys, Ian poked out his lips, trying to kiss his cock, maybe even suck it into his mouth. He stretched his head forward ... more and more ... till his lips just barely brushed his cock-head.
He stuck out his tongue and licked the drool. It was a little salty, a little garlicky, but mostly pungent. Ian forced his head and crotch together as much as he could, trying to grab hold of his cock-head with his lips and suck it in -- he really wanted to suck himself off now that it was all going to happen soon.
There was a sudden jerk of the rope and Ian's cock jerked to the side and up, poking him in the eye. That hurt! Like someone sticking his finger into Ian's eye -- a very large finger.
Ian's head jerked round and his lips again touched his cock. Suddenly, without Ian's knowing how, he had sucked his cock into his mouth and he clamped his teeth down behind the flare of the head, trying to keep it from pulling out.
With a jerk, though, it did yank out, tooth scraped, as Ian was jerked up to his shoulders -- his back and torso all off the ground now, only his shoulders and head touching mother earth.
A few more jerky yanks and Ian was dangling in the air upside down, feeling incredible excitement rush through his body. The teeth-scraping of his cock only made it all the more excited and it was drooling. Ian stuck his head forward as far as he could to look up and a drop of pre-cum fell into his eye. Xxx
It stung and Ian twisted his head around, throwing it side to side trying to get it out, but it wouldn't throw. His eyes watered and he couldn't see anything much, but that did wash out the pre-cum so when he shook his head again, it cleared, mostly.
Ian's arms were pulled away from his back by gravity and his jerking had thrown his arms back and forth behind him. It had been a very strange sensation -- like his arms weren't real, like they were some kind of dead weight attached to his body behind him -- almost dead weight ... they sort of felt very numb, but still there, bouncing around in some kind of watery ether -- all slow motion and only half real.
Ian's heart was pounding in his temples -- it had begun. The boys he had hired were now preparing his body for the execution. It was real. No backing out now. Suddenly Ian had second thoughts. Oh my god ... he started to panic, throwing his body side to side, jerking almost screaming to be let go.
Then his throbbing cock got the better of him again and his excitement calmed him down. He stopped jerking and just hung there, enjoying the incredible sensation of being hung by his ankles, swinging free in the air, his hair dragging something on the ground, maybe a few blades of grass, his wrists now twisting behind his body, trying to get some sort of blood flow into his arms as they hung behind him like he was strapadoed, except upside down -- he was hung by his wrists only by gravity, not by a rope.
The third hustler climbed a ladder leaning to one post and tied Ian's left ankle to the post. He climbed down and moved the ladder, climbed it again, and soon Ian's right ankle was secured as well.
Now one of the boys cut the rope tying his hands and his arms dropped free. Suddenly there were thousands of fire-and-ice needles stabbing his arms all up and down, his hands burned and throbbed as frozen ice picks were stabbed through his palms -- his heart pounding blood into his oxygen starved muscles.
Before the tingle had faded, the boys had jerked his wrists back again and had tied them to the posts as well. Ian was now secured, upside down, naked, spread-eagled, and helpless. This was it -- there was nothing he could do now to protect himself. Nothing.
One of the boys lifted Ian's head by his short, black hair and snarled at him, his pale blue eyes, squinted all crinkly around the corners,
"Bet you wish you hadn't hired us now, do you?"
"Hey, look at his cock. Still hard as a rock."
The boy holding Ian's head glanced up, the snarl in his eyes slowly softening to a laughing amazement,
"Oh well, if you really enjoy this, all the better for you. I don't really care one way or the other. But don't think we'll stop once we started -- even if you scream like hell and beg us to stop. We want the money. And, besides, it's going to be fun -- a lot of fun."
He dropped Ian's head and it bobbed back and forth under him, the earth and horizon twirled and joggled and twirled dizzily. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep from getting nauseous. He could feel his body even more, the excitement, the throbbing in his groin, the tightness in his chest, the flutter in his guts.
Ian could feel his testicles squirming -- something almost entirely new -- more sensuous than he could have imagined -- his balls trying to climb up one over the other like frogs in a pond.
It was for certain -- Ian's excitement had increased. But so had his fear. Or, maybe, it was one and the same feeling. Excitement becoming fear, fear becoming excitement -- the dice had rolled.
But, then again, maybe this was what it was all about. The helplessness, the inability to do anything to prevent what was coming, the knowledge that, even if the execution would bring nothing but pain -- unbearable, unimaginable pain and no other feelings whatsoever. He was utterly helpless to stop it -- would have to endure it right to the moment of his death.
Death. What a conception. Even now, hanging naked and spread-eagled upside down, knowing that soon he would start dying, that in a few minutes he would be dead ... past ... history ... even now he couldn't grasp what that really meant. Not being a part of the world any more, being … somewhere … nowhere. Ian just couldn't imagine it.
Maybe he would once the saw was travelling through his body. All the same, the excitement remained.
In the meantime the hustlers had set up a video-camera. Ian himself had suggested that they record his execution, either for their own pleasure, to watch it over and over again or to make copies and sell it as a snuff-tape to make money. While one boy remained at the camera, the other two picked up the saw, heaved it through the stretched, muscular legs of their victim and placed it between his thighs.
Ian felt the teeth. Felt them pressing down into his skin, his sensitive flesh, felt the astonishing weight, the coldness of the metal. A sharp intake of breath, as he realised what this meant.
Oh my god, it's actually happening, it's actually happening.
Yet the teeth hadn't moved. His torturers, now wearing hoods, waited for the boy operating the camera. When he gave his 'okay'-sign, the hustler standing in front of suspended Ian, watching the boy-victim's long and thick and erect cock, his well-sized balls, drawn almost up into his body, said,
"Okay, asshole, here goes. Have a nice dying!"
Ian heard the words, held his breath and felt alive as never before, every nerve, sinew, muscle alert, waiting for the crucial moment.
The sawing began. The hustler in front of Ian was pushing, the other pulling. Coarse, sharp-edged saw-teeth immediately bit into his nerves, grabbing chunks of skin and stretching till it tore the skin open, first the tight-drawn skin across his perineum -- thin and relatively insensate skin ... and Ian didn't scream -- this far he had already experimented.
But when the saw pulled back, it bit into his tender anus. This was new and terrible pain -- more painful than he had experienced before. And even more forcibly, the realization flashed through Ian's mind, they are starting to cut me in two.
He moaned and sighed, his body involuntarily moving, as if it could escape its fate. Back again came the saw and the pain became real. Ian yelped, throwing his head up as far as he could, as if this would help.
He saw the jeans-clad legs of one of the hustlers, realising this was one of the boys handling the saw. The saw that was cutting him in two. And Ian only felt pain, pain, no lust. Oh my god. One tooth got caught in his scrotum, biting deeply, stretching, tearing, ripping it open mercilessly, and just a split second afterwards the saw mangled his right ball, adding a new, incredible quality to Ian's pain.
The moment he wanted to turn his screams into words, wanted to shout,
"Stop, oh my god, please stop!"
His other ball was grabbed, ripped, mangled. The agony kicked his gut like a mule, ramming all air out of his lungs. When he was ready to scream again, the saw had reached the root of his cock -- and that was the moment when, like the first time he had seen the drawing, something clicked into place.
First, he realised that his cock was still erect, as if it had a mind of it's own, not having realised that his balls, source of it's ability to become erect, to spew, had already been brutally destroyed. But if his cock was still hard then something within him had to be feeling something other than just pain.
And what had clicked into place was the sudden awareness that such categories as pain and pleasure that applied in normal situations didn't apply here. All disparate feelings finally had become one. There was no more distinction between pleasure and pain; there was no difference between lust and agony. All was one and one was all. As if he had reached the mental equivalent of the grand unification in physics -- the birth of all in the universe. For a split second or so, Ian's world was fulfilled. He was in a state of bliss. Until the grand unification broke down and he was again thrown into chaotic pain.
When he could again understand what was happening, Ian realized his cock had been cut or rather torn to pulp by the saw, literally exploding, spraying forth all the blood that had been captured within it.
To the boy it felt like, well like heaven and hell combined, like never experienced lust and never experienced pain. If he still had had a cock, it would now have even been harder than before. Ian had once read that soldiers entering a battle often had a hard-on, probably caused by extreme death-fear. Well, maybe in the face of such agony a whole body could become 'erect'.
While his ears told him he was screaming Ian experienced the excitement of feeling the ice-cold, gleaming-hot blade cutting into him, rubbing the red, bleeding flesh of his opened-up buttocks, feeling his arse-cheeks, his body come apart.
Had the man in the drawing felt the same? Because by now, Ian knew, the saw had reached exactly the point shown in the picture -- till now he had only imagined being the man, but now he was the man.
In a way his mind ejaculated as this thought coursed through his brain. Everything became very clear, he heard himself howling, felt his body thrashing about as far as the bonds allowed, felt pain that never could be communicated by words, but still could think, think even beyond this pain.
Ian thought of the saw -- a normal, everyday instrument, but such a huge one probably hardly in use nowadays, since the invention of the chainsaw. Still, nothing spectacular ... used to cutting down trees or other large objects.
Now once again, as some centuries before, though it was used differently. Used as a means to cause pain, a means of execution. Slowly executing him. With no mind of its own, no feelings, no emotions. Just a piece of metal with sharp, jagged teeth and two wooden handles. Not caring what it split, whether it was wood or human flesh and bones. Just an instrument to get a job done.
And the job at hand was to cut young, very much alive Ian in two. It was fascinating that any instrument invented for the benefit of humankind could -- and always would -- easily be turned into an instrument to cause pain and destruction.
Ian wondered how his executors felt as they were sawing him in two. Were they excited by the sight of a muscular young male body being split in half? Were they excited by the thought that they were doing it; they were operating the murderous instrument, the saw?
Did they feel the power of taking life from another human being; feel the power of causing a human victim such intense pain? Or did they see him as some human animal, like a pig or cow or whatever, just doing their job, thinking of the money? But real animals were only cut and butchered once they were dead, while this human animal was still very much alive, completely aware of his predicament, screaming, thrashing, howling.
Well, probably they were excited. Killing another human being in such a horrible fashion just had to be exciting.
Ian's mind raced now as the saw reached his bowels. Were they sweating already with the effort? How hard was it to saw a human in two? Tougher than wood? Probably sweat was breaking out on their brows and faces, almost like the blood that was now flowing down Ian's belly, breast, back, neck. Ian looked down and could see a puddle starting to spread on the earth -- a puddle of blood, his own blood.
For some moments, as his intestines were being split open, the one-feeling inside decided to become pure pain and nothing but and his mind went blank. When the saw reached his navel, thoughts returned, pain stronger than ever before, yet the knowledge of the helplessness and finality of his execution adding the needed perverted comfort.
His screams having by now become quite hoarse, Ian wondered if the hustler operating the camera was perhaps stroking his cock. Was he excited? He probably wasn't sweating as his colleagues surely were, but the visualization of filming the tortuous death of a twenty-one year old boy just had to make him hot. Or possibly the thought of all the money he was going to make selling this snuff video.
Was he even wasting a thought on how the already quite visibly split boy was feeling? How he was feeling? No, probably not, probably just stroking his cock and trying to capture the execution as perfect as he could on the tape.
Ian saw something dangling in front of him, finally realising, through tear-filled eyes, that it were his own intestines -- not the way he had seen some in medical books, but cut, split, mangled, smashed, in fact, a Freddy-Krueger-parody of intestines. The saw had now reached way beyond what had once been Ian's navel and the boy realised that he had no longer any feeling in his arms and legs.
At first this confused him, and then the solution was obvious. His spine had been cut. But, paradoxically, he still felt the intense pain of the saw moving within him, to and fro, to and fro, almost, yes, like a fucking motion, a fucking from hell. xxx
How long would he last, how much longer would he stay alive? He had read that victims sentenced to this death easily survived until the saw reached the navel, but many indeed lived till the chest cavity was reached.
Ian's screaming had almost stopped, only sighs and moans were to be heard and he distinctly felt the saw closing in on his heart. Soon the point of no return would be reached.
The point of no return? Ridiculous. This point had already been reached when the blade had exploded his balls and cock, or at least when his bowels had become saw-fodder. No one, no surgeon could have saved him from then on.
No, it was not the point of no return -- it was the final moment, the moment his life would culminate, the moment of his death. And suddenly Ian was afraid, afraid as never before.
Yes, he had been afraid when they had led him onto the clearing, when they had fastened him to the posts, when the saw had been placed between his thighs, for the first time feeling the cold teeth in his flesh. Yet this was a different kind of fear. It was the fear of dying. The fear of going to a place nobody knew. And, all of a sudden, Ian wanted to shout,
"Stop. Stop it!"
And he wanted the sawing to go on forever, even if it meant this pain to go on forever because at least it meant he was still alive.
Then he knew that within the split of a second his heart would be reached, realised there was nothing he could do about it, realised that this was what he had wanted all along, and just before his heart exploded he saw himself, saw his naked, once beautiful body hanging upside down, spread-eagled tied to the posts, now split open from buttocks right to the chest, dangling in the summer air, the saw, operated by the two young hustlers, still moving relentlessly, cutting him even further in two.
And this picture, which should have been a frightening one, actually was strangely comforting -- it told him that he had eventually met his fate. The fate that he had instinctively known since he had been sixteen and laid eyes on the drawing for the first time. Only then he would never have thought that one day he would have the courage to carry it through, would become the naked man, the delinquent in the drawing. Now the mind-picture of his almost completely split body told him that his dream had finally become reality.
Then Ian's heart burst and the pounding, the gushing in his ears suddenly stopped. He could no longer hear his heart. There was an explosion of multi-colored fireworks in his eyes, but mostly bright white, blotting out everything else. Then the fireworks faded, their light dimming, blanching to featureless gray. And even that faded to dark, to black, to nothing.
The hustlers continued sawing the dead body in two until they reached the neck. Then they severed Ian's head, contemplating the two halves of the muscular boy's body that not too long ago had been whole and alive.
They jacked off and spurted the semen right inside the body, one aiming at the left half, the other at the right one. Slowly the come dribbled from the raw, red, bleeding flesh.
The boy behind the camera switched it off and shot his load as well. They left Ian's two halves hanging from the posts, his severed head, blue, glazed over eyes wide open, lying on the ground. Someone would find the corpse but no one could connect them to the execution.
And, they grinned, as they drove away, the tape of young Ian's horrible demise would make them real rich.
TO MEET ONE’S FATE
So this was the day. The day Ian had waited for all his life. Well, not all of his life, but increasingly so since he first laid eyes on the drawing that changed and -- in a way -- soon would end his 21-year old life.
He had been about sixteen when he saw the picture in some book about the German "Bauernkriege" that his father, a historian, had let lying around. By that time he had already realised that, sexually, nothing excited him more than pain on his body.
He had gotten a school comrade to torture him now and then, whip him with a belt or riding crop, suspend him spread-eagled, stick ever increasing objects up his ass, squeeze his balls, burn him with cigarettes in sensitive places, the nipples, armpits, once even his cock-head.
But this comrade had finally become frightened by Ian's fanaticism and ever increasing demands. Actually, Ian didn't understand all of this himself. Why he didn't get really excited by naked boys or girls but immediately sprang an erection when he thought of brutal torture methods, mutilations or hideous, painful ways of execution.
Yet he couldn't help it and so he jacked off to images of crucifixion, impalement, quartering, and so on -- and imagined himself to be the victim. Still, he felt that something was missing. That he somehow hadn't found the method that should be uniquely his, the method by which he really wanted to die. Sick, he thought, but exciting nevertheless.
The moment he saw the drawing, something clicked in place. His breath stopped, his heart missed a beat and immediately his cock started to press against his jeans. He couldn't believe his eyes.
The drawing showed a naked man, being hung upside down in a spread-eagled position, tied to two vertical wooden posts. The man was very obviously screaming, and Ian couldn't take his eyes off the instrument that was causing such pain -- a saw. A huge saw with large, sharp teeth that was cutting the man in two -- wielded by two men in medieval clothes, while others looked on.
The saw had obviously started at the perineum but, in the drawing, had already cut way inside the victim, in fact, his buttocks were already apart and, not visible in the picture, his cock and balls must have been cut, mangled, destroyed as well. No wonder the man was screaming.
And Ian was sighing, fishing his erect cock out of his trousers, imagining himself in the victim's place, hung upside down, and feeling the cold, merciless blade inside him. Of course, he knew that he could never imagine what this delinquent must have felt at the moment depicted in the drawing, nor before or after.
How long had he lived, how long had he been conscious, what had he thought the moment they had tied him to the posts, the moment the saw was placed between his thighs, the moment the sawing had started, the moment seen in the picture? Had he been thinking at all, had he still been able to think with unimaginable pain wracking his body and mind?
Ian came much too early, in the last moment managing to avoid shooting all over the drawing. But even in post-orgasm the excitement watching the picture hadn't diminished. The people witnessing the execution wore almost bored expressions on their faces, as if they had seen such a spectacle all too often. And if they had, this form of execution must have been fairly popular at the time.
Ian shivered. What a way to kill a man! Who had first thought of this cruel method? Who had been the first screaming victim? How many men had died this way? Thoughts and questions running through his mind and soon he sported another hard-on.
And now he realised what that something that had clicked into place had been. He had found his method. His body had known it immediately, finally his mind had followed. This was the way he wanted to die -- being sawed in two. Zooming in on the saw-parted fleshy buttocks he came a second time.
But in the afterglow he realised that this would have to remain a fantasy. Dream and reality were too far apart. No man who was being sawed in half would -- could -- feel any lust, a lust that imagination gave. No, all he could feel was pain from beginning to end. Nevertheless, Ian couldn't break away from the drawing, again thinking of himself as the victim, coming a third time.
But in the days, months, years following his discovery Ian couldn't get the saw-execution out of his mind, even experimenting with a tiny saw, cutting open the tender skin between balls and sphincter, drawing some blood, relishing the pain -- knowing that it couldn't be compared to the real thing.
But, as time progressed, he became more and more convinced that he had met his fate -- and convincing himself more and more that there could be some form of lust. Ian had discovered that his body, or brain, turned any kind of pain into a twisted sort of emotion that at least resembled lust. Although, if that feeling still persisted when a saw cut his intestines, he couldn't tell, never would be able to tell -- unless he experienced it. Xxx
And finally, a month after his twenty-first birthday, he knew that he couldn't go on living like that. For the last year or so all of his thoughts, awake or asleep, had centered on an execution by the saw. There was nothing he could do to change it, he wasn't able to learn or study, became more and more of a recluse, didn't want to talk to other people -- something had to be done.
So one night, awaking sweat-soaked from yet another dream where he was being sawed in two, he decided there was only one remedy. The dream had to become a fact. But of course he couldn't do it alone. He needed help.
The next night he went into town, looking for hustlers. Finally he approached three boys, probably barely eighteen, who were standing together. He asked them what they would do for money. They grinned,
"Anything ... almost."
Pulling together all his courage Ian told them what he had in mind. At first the boys thought he was joking. They couldn't believe someone would offer them his body for a week of abuse and then wanted to be killed by being sawed in two. But after almost half an hour Ian had them convinced that he was serious. And when he offered them all the money he had -- about 20.000 dollars -- they agreed.
And now, the day had come. After a week of abuse -- Ian had to suck them, was brutally fucked, burned, whipped, humiliated and had been told a thousand times, that now, as they got the money, there was no turning back for him -- as if he had wanted to. Still, last night he had hardly slept at all, pondering the next, his final, day, knowing, hoping that he had made the right decision, fearing he had made the wrong one, knowing that, in the end, there had never been a choice.
They drove into the woods to some god-forsaken place where no one would disturb them; no one would hear Ian's screams.
When the hustlers led Ian to the clearing, hands tied behind his back, he saw for the first time the two posts, connected by a crossbeam -- the boys had erected it the way he had told them to. The boys forced him to approach the posts and then he saw it, lying on the ground -- the saw. It seemed frighteningly huge and vicious -- broad blade, long, sharp teeth -- once used to cut down trees.
Ian couldn't take his eyes off it; his throat was dry, sweat breaking out over his naked body. Suddenly one of the hustlers remarked,
"Look at that pervert! He's got a hard-on!"
Ian looked down over his broad, muscular pectorals, and indeed his cock was sticking way out of his crotch. Yes, his decision had probably been right.
Ian was made to sit down on the bare earth between the two posts. The boys tied ropes around his ankles, and then threw the other end over the crossbeam. After a minute or so making sure the ropes wouldn't tangle, two of the hustlers started to lift him up.
Ian's feet were pulled up off the ground, then his legs. The backs of his knees lifted off -- it was a very strange sensation, sort of like his legs were floating in outer space, twitching slowly back and forth -- almost as slowly as his raging hard on was ticking back and forth, like an upside down grandfather clock pendulum.
Now his thighs were pulled up, off the ground, his whole legs now hovering in air out in front of him. He was balancing on his butt, his hands, still tied behind his hands, twisted; fingers stretched trying to push down, helping balance his very teetery upper body.
He lost balance and plopped back onto his arms and twisted silently on them as his buttocks now were lifted off the ground. Ian stared at his cock, throbbing almost like a heart in a movie surgery. As his legs were pulled higher into the air, his body bent at his waist, bringing his throbbing cock closer and closer to his face.
Almost instinctively after so much cock-sucking he had been forced to provide the hustler boys, Ian poked out his lips, trying to kiss his cock, maybe even suck it into his mouth. He stretched his head forward ... more and more ... till his lips just barely brushed his cock-head.
He stuck out his tongue and licked the drool. It was a little salty, a little garlicky, but mostly pungent. Ian forced his head and crotch together as much as he could, trying to grab hold of his cock-head with his lips and suck it in -- he really wanted to suck himself off now that it was all going to happen soon.
There was a sudden jerk of the rope and Ian's cock jerked to the side and up, poking him in the eye. That hurt! Like someone sticking his finger into Ian's eye -- a very large finger.
Ian's head jerked round and his lips again touched his cock. Suddenly, without Ian's knowing how, he had sucked his cock into his mouth and he clamped his teeth down behind the flare of the head, trying to keep it from pulling out.
With a jerk, though, it did yank out, tooth scraped, as Ian was jerked up to his shoulders -- his back and torso all off the ground now, only his shoulders and head touching mother earth.
A few more jerky yanks and Ian was dangling in the air upside down, feeling incredible excitement rush through his body. The teeth-scraping of his cock only made it all the more excited and it was drooling. Ian stuck his head forward as far as he could to look up and a drop of pre-cum fell into his eye. Xxx
It stung and Ian twisted his head around, throwing it side to side trying to get it out, but it wouldn't throw. His eyes watered and he couldn't see anything much, but that did wash out the pre-cum so when he shook his head again, it cleared, mostly.
Ian's arms were pulled away from his back by gravity and his jerking had thrown his arms back and forth behind him. It had been a very strange sensation -- like his arms weren't real, like they were some kind of dead weight attached to his body behind him -- almost dead weight ... they sort of felt very numb, but still there, bouncing around in some kind of watery ether -- all slow motion and only half real.
Ian's heart was pounding in his temples -- it had begun. The boys he had hired were now preparing his body for the execution. It was real. No backing out now. Suddenly Ian had second thoughts. Oh my god ... he started to panic, throwing his body side to side, jerking almost screaming to be let go.
Then his throbbing cock got the better of him again and his excitement calmed him down. He stopped jerking and just hung there, enjoying the incredible sensation of being hung by his ankles, swinging free in the air, his hair dragging something on the ground, maybe a few blades of grass, his wrists now twisting behind his body, trying to get some sort of blood flow into his arms as they hung behind him like he was strapadoed, except upside down -- he was hung by his wrists only by gravity, not by a rope.
The third hustler climbed a ladder leaning to one post and tied Ian's left ankle to the post. He climbed down and moved the ladder, climbed it again, and soon Ian's right ankle was secured as well.
Now one of the boys cut the rope tying his hands and his arms dropped free. Suddenly there were thousands of fire-and-ice needles stabbing his arms all up and down, his hands burned and throbbed as frozen ice picks were stabbed through his palms -- his heart pounding blood into his oxygen starved muscles.
Before the tingle had faded, the boys had jerked his wrists back again and had tied them to the posts as well. Ian was now secured, upside down, naked, spread-eagled, and helpless. This was it -- there was nothing he could do now to protect himself. Nothing.
One of the boys lifted Ian's head by his short, black hair and snarled at him, his pale blue eyes, squinted all crinkly around the corners,
"Bet you wish you hadn't hired us now, do you?"
"Hey, look at his cock. Still hard as a rock."
The boy holding Ian's head glanced up, the snarl in his eyes slowly softening to a laughing amazement,
"Oh well, if you really enjoy this, all the better for you. I don't really care one way or the other. But don't think we'll stop once we started -- even if you scream like hell and beg us to stop. We want the money. And, besides, it's going to be fun -- a lot of fun."
He dropped Ian's head and it bobbed back and forth under him, the earth and horizon twirled and joggled and twirled dizzily. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep from getting nauseous. He could feel his body even more, the excitement, the throbbing in his groin, the tightness in his chest, the flutter in his guts.
Ian could feel his testicles squirming -- something almost entirely new -- more sensuous than he could have imagined -- his balls trying to climb up one over the other like frogs in a pond.
It was for certain -- Ian's excitement had increased. But so had his fear. Or, maybe, it was one and the same feeling. Excitement becoming fear, fear becoming excitement -- the dice had rolled.
But, then again, maybe this was what it was all about. The helplessness, the inability to do anything to prevent what was coming, the knowledge that, even if the execution would bring nothing but pain -- unbearable, unimaginable pain and no other feelings whatsoever. He was utterly helpless to stop it -- would have to endure it right to the moment of his death.
Death. What a conception. Even now, hanging naked and spread-eagled upside down, knowing that soon he would start dying, that in a few minutes he would be dead ... past ... history ... even now he couldn't grasp what that really meant. Not being a part of the world any more, being … somewhere … nowhere. Ian just couldn't imagine it.
Maybe he would once the saw was travelling through his body. All the same, the excitement remained.
In the meantime the hustlers had set up a video-camera. Ian himself had suggested that they record his execution, either for their own pleasure, to watch it over and over again or to make copies and sell it as a snuff-tape to make money. While one boy remained at the camera, the other two picked up the saw, heaved it through the stretched, muscular legs of their victim and placed it between his thighs.
Ian felt the teeth. Felt them pressing down into his skin, his sensitive flesh, felt the astonishing weight, the coldness of the metal. A sharp intake of breath, as he realised what this meant.
Oh my god, it's actually happening, it's actually happening.
Yet the teeth hadn't moved. His torturers, now wearing hoods, waited for the boy operating the camera. When he gave his 'okay'-sign, the hustler standing in front of suspended Ian, watching the boy-victim's long and thick and erect cock, his well-sized balls, drawn almost up into his body, said,
"Okay, asshole, here goes. Have a nice dying!"
Ian heard the words, held his breath and felt alive as never before, every nerve, sinew, muscle alert, waiting for the crucial moment.
The sawing began. The hustler in front of Ian was pushing, the other pulling. Coarse, sharp-edged saw-teeth immediately bit into his nerves, grabbing chunks of skin and stretching till it tore the skin open, first the tight-drawn skin across his perineum -- thin and relatively insensate skin ... and Ian didn't scream -- this far he had already experimented.
But when the saw pulled back, it bit into his tender anus. This was new and terrible pain -- more painful than he had experienced before. And even more forcibly, the realization flashed through Ian's mind, they are starting to cut me in two.
He moaned and sighed, his body involuntarily moving, as if it could escape its fate. Back again came the saw and the pain became real. Ian yelped, throwing his head up as far as he could, as if this would help.
He saw the jeans-clad legs of one of the hustlers, realising this was one of the boys handling the saw. The saw that was cutting him in two. And Ian only felt pain, pain, no lust. Oh my god. One tooth got caught in his scrotum, biting deeply, stretching, tearing, ripping it open mercilessly, and just a split second afterwards the saw mangled his right ball, adding a new, incredible quality to Ian's pain.
The moment he wanted to turn his screams into words, wanted to shout,
"Stop, oh my god, please stop!"
His other ball was grabbed, ripped, mangled. The agony kicked his gut like a mule, ramming all air out of his lungs. When he was ready to scream again, the saw had reached the root of his cock -- and that was the moment when, like the first time he had seen the drawing, something clicked into place.
First, he realised that his cock was still erect, as if it had a mind of it's own, not having realised that his balls, source of it's ability to become erect, to spew, had already been brutally destroyed. But if his cock was still hard then something within him had to be feeling something other than just pain.
And what had clicked into place was the sudden awareness that such categories as pain and pleasure that applied in normal situations didn't apply here. All disparate feelings finally had become one. There was no more distinction between pleasure and pain; there was no difference between lust and agony. All was one and one was all. As if he had reached the mental equivalent of the grand unification in physics -- the birth of all in the universe. For a split second or so, Ian's world was fulfilled. He was in a state of bliss. Until the grand unification broke down and he was again thrown into chaotic pain.
When he could again understand what was happening, Ian realized his cock had been cut or rather torn to pulp by the saw, literally exploding, spraying forth all the blood that had been captured within it.
To the boy it felt like, well like heaven and hell combined, like never experienced lust and never experienced pain. If he still had had a cock, it would now have even been harder than before. Ian had once read that soldiers entering a battle often had a hard-on, probably caused by extreme death-fear. Well, maybe in the face of such agony a whole body could become 'erect'.
While his ears told him he was screaming Ian experienced the excitement of feeling the ice-cold, gleaming-hot blade cutting into him, rubbing the red, bleeding flesh of his opened-up buttocks, feeling his arse-cheeks, his body come apart.
Had the man in the drawing felt the same? Because by now, Ian knew, the saw had reached exactly the point shown in the picture -- till now he had only imagined being the man, but now he was the man.
In a way his mind ejaculated as this thought coursed through his brain. Everything became very clear, he heard himself howling, felt his body thrashing about as far as the bonds allowed, felt pain that never could be communicated by words, but still could think, think even beyond this pain.
Ian thought of the saw -- a normal, everyday instrument, but such a huge one probably hardly in use nowadays, since the invention of the chainsaw. Still, nothing spectacular ... used to cutting down trees or other large objects.
Now once again, as some centuries before, though it was used differently. Used as a means to cause pain, a means of execution. Slowly executing him. With no mind of its own, no feelings, no emotions. Just a piece of metal with sharp, jagged teeth and two wooden handles. Not caring what it split, whether it was wood or human flesh and bones. Just an instrument to get a job done.
And the job at hand was to cut young, very much alive Ian in two. It was fascinating that any instrument invented for the benefit of humankind could -- and always would -- easily be turned into an instrument to cause pain and destruction.
Ian wondered how his executors felt as they were sawing him in two. Were they excited by the sight of a muscular young male body being split in half? Were they excited by the thought that they were doing it; they were operating the murderous instrument, the saw?
Did they feel the power of taking life from another human being; feel the power of causing a human victim such intense pain? Or did they see him as some human animal, like a pig or cow or whatever, just doing their job, thinking of the money? But real animals were only cut and butchered once they were dead, while this human animal was still very much alive, completely aware of his predicament, screaming, thrashing, howling.
Well, probably they were excited. Killing another human being in such a horrible fashion just had to be exciting.
Ian's mind raced now as the saw reached his bowels. Were they sweating already with the effort? How hard was it to saw a human in two? Tougher than wood? Probably sweat was breaking out on their brows and faces, almost like the blood that was now flowing down Ian's belly, breast, back, neck. Ian looked down and could see a puddle starting to spread on the earth -- a puddle of blood, his own blood.
For some moments, as his intestines were being split open, the one-feeling inside decided to become pure pain and nothing but and his mind went blank. When the saw reached his navel, thoughts returned, pain stronger than ever before, yet the knowledge of the helplessness and finality of his execution adding the needed perverted comfort.
His screams having by now become quite hoarse, Ian wondered if the hustler operating the camera was perhaps stroking his cock. Was he excited? He probably wasn't sweating as his colleagues surely were, but the visualization of filming the tortuous death of a twenty-one year old boy just had to make him hot. Or possibly the thought of all the money he was going to make selling this snuff video.
Was he even wasting a thought on how the already quite visibly split boy was feeling? How he was feeling? No, probably not, probably just stroking his cock and trying to capture the execution as perfect as he could on the tape.
Ian saw something dangling in front of him, finally realising, through tear-filled eyes, that it were his own intestines -- not the way he had seen some in medical books, but cut, split, mangled, smashed, in fact, a Freddy-Krueger-parody of intestines. The saw had now reached way beyond what had once been Ian's navel and the boy realised that he had no longer any feeling in his arms and legs.
At first this confused him, and then the solution was obvious. His spine had been cut. But, paradoxically, he still felt the intense pain of the saw moving within him, to and fro, to and fro, almost, yes, like a fucking motion, a fucking from hell. xxx
How long would he last, how much longer would he stay alive? He had read that victims sentenced to this death easily survived until the saw reached the navel, but many indeed lived till the chest cavity was reached.
Ian's screaming had almost stopped, only sighs and moans were to be heard and he distinctly felt the saw closing in on his heart. Soon the point of no return would be reached.
The point of no return? Ridiculous. This point had already been reached when the blade had exploded his balls and cock, or at least when his bowels had become saw-fodder. No one, no surgeon could have saved him from then on.
No, it was not the point of no return -- it was the final moment, the moment his life would culminate, the moment of his death. And suddenly Ian was afraid, afraid as never before.
Yes, he had been afraid when they had led him onto the clearing, when they had fastened him to the posts, when the saw had been placed between his thighs, for the first time feeling the cold teeth in his flesh. Yet this was a different kind of fear. It was the fear of dying. The fear of going to a place nobody knew. And, all of a sudden, Ian wanted to shout,
"Stop. Stop it!"
And he wanted the sawing to go on forever, even if it meant this pain to go on forever because at least it meant he was still alive.
Then he knew that within the split of a second his heart would be reached, realised there was nothing he could do about it, realised that this was what he had wanted all along, and just before his heart exploded he saw himself, saw his naked, once beautiful body hanging upside down, spread-eagled tied to the posts, now split open from buttocks right to the chest, dangling in the summer air, the saw, operated by the two young hustlers, still moving relentlessly, cutting him even further in two.
And this picture, which should have been a frightening one, actually was strangely comforting -- it told him that he had eventually met his fate. The fate that he had instinctively known since he had been sixteen and laid eyes on the drawing for the first time. Only then he would never have thought that one day he would have the courage to carry it through, would become the naked man, the delinquent in the drawing. Now the mind-picture of his almost completely split body told him that his dream had finally become reality.
Then Ian's heart burst and the pounding, the gushing in his ears suddenly stopped. He could no longer hear his heart. There was an explosion of multi-colored fireworks in his eyes, but mostly bright white, blotting out everything else. Then the fireworks faded, their light dimming, blanching to featureless gray. And even that faded to dark, to black, to nothing.
The hustlers continued sawing the dead body in two until they reached the neck. Then they severed Ian's head, contemplating the two halves of the muscular boy's body that not too long ago had been whole and alive.
They jacked off and spurted the semen right inside the body, one aiming at the left half, the other at the right one. Slowly the come dribbled from the raw, red, bleeding flesh.
The boy behind the camera switched it off and shot his load as well. They left Ian's two halves hanging from the posts, his severed head, blue, glazed over eyes wide open, lying on the ground. Someone would find the corpse but no one could connect them to the execution.
And, they grinned, as they drove away, the tape of young Ian's horrible demise would make them real rich.
