Ryan Author
Forum Newcomer
- Joined
- Sep 21, 2013
- Messages
- 14
- Location
- London
Destination: Abattoir 4
The curtains flutter, caught in a breeze funnelling through the open sash window. It is July, admittedly, but the gusts are of tropical warmth the type of which London witnesses only two or three days a year. Flimsy cream affairs, the curtains cannot block out the mid-summer dawn casting the bedroom in half-light.
Ollie started the night with a featherweight duvet, rapidly discarded to the floor where it rests, bundled. Recognising the trade-off between joyous uncovered sleeping in the summer heat, and the risk of insect bites, the boy draped himself in a white sheet. That cotton layer has been partially shed, too: wrapped around limbs in a few places but otherwise hanging from the bed-edge precipice.
Naked, the target is almost completely revealed on the king size mattress. Lost in his dreams, the boy seems at peace as he slumbers.
Ollie’s head is nestled amongst four plump pillows, scattered at the top of the bed. I guess it has been two days since he shaved, judging by the stubble darkening his jawline and sweeping up to join his sideburns, cut to mid-ear. His lips are closed and his nostrils pulse at every shallow exhalation, but the boy sleeps silently: his beauty unsullied by the vulgarity of snoring.
Propped on his side, Ollie’s tummy flutters with each breath and whilst his six-pack is smooth, his well-hewn pectorals are covered with a mat of down that must, surely, be groomed periodically. The trimmed brown fuzz covers his stacked chest luxuriantly, up to the neckline. I picture the boy wearing his work shirts with the top button undone, and the women of the office cooing over his youthful hunkiness.
Ollie’s pectorals are capped by quality teats, where the base plates are perfectly round and the nubs form prominent ‘twist me’ items. As he turns in his sleep the defined rack shifts into a new shape, where the sculpture is equally impressive.
Lying on his front, now, Ollie’s legs split with one hanging straight and the other drawn up, knee bent, with the foot angled flat towards the opposite thigh. Around the bent leg the sheet is tangled, but fortuitously it has slipped well clear of his buttocks.
Those ass mounds form substantial domes: hairless, pale and extremely firm. With the divergence of his legs, Ollie’s crack is open far enough for the depth of it to be evident. Somewhere in there is a hole I believe remains un-popped, for this boy of twenty-six is straight. Any hint of previous anal penetration would be a disappointment, for this meat order was placed on the basis Ollie might endure a brutalising ‘first time’ at the hands of my client.
On both bedside tables are picture frames, with smiling snapshots from a wedding and the subsequent honeymoon. It was barely twelve months ago that Amy became Ollie’s wife, but perhaps it will be of some consolation to both, in the following days, that they took such a significant step before the husband was removed to Abattoir 4 near Pinsk, Belarus. He will not return, but the couple have happy memories from a year of wedded life, which should be sufficient.
It is time for this young man to move on to a final challenge, and for a possessive girl to share.
I sit perfectly still in their tub chair, placed in the far corner of the bedroom. My handgun rests in my lap, ready for the moment Ollie stirs and goes through the inevitable ‘what the fuck!?’ spasm. I could wake him at any time but the resulting commotion would be louder, probably, than a natural end to his sleep and the blurry-eyed realisation there is a stranger at the end of the bed.
Anyway, I enjoy the sight of a 180 cm naked boy sleeping, sprawled diagonally over a mattress and making such inefficient use of space you wonder where the girl would fit, were she not away on a business trip. Ollie’s broad shoulders shrug in synch with his breathing pattern, and I do not begrudge the wait because after tonight his sleep will be grabbed in short bursts, and in a state of terror.
On top of the bedroom door is a clothes hanger where Ollie’s dark suit and ironed white shirt are ready to be slung on, in the twenty-five minutes he allows himself between a 06.45 alarm call and the dash for the train to work. Aside from dressing pretty dapper, that small window of time also allows for a shower and a bowl of cereal, with all tasks undertaken at pace and timed to the minute.
Today the morning routine will be broken, and the suit is destined not to be worn again. With regard to clothing, Ollie is already perfectly dressed for a short stay at Abattoir 4.
*******
I let myself in through a ground floor rear window, left ajar when the boy turned in for the night. I trust his wife is more security conscious, but young men never imagine this kind of intrusion – this violation – will happen to them. What a tragically high price to pay, for being blasé over personal safety.
Mind you, I would have forced entry if necessary, being expert at the picking of locks and the prising open of old windows, designed at a time of lower burglary rates. The commotion would have been unhelpful but necessary, as the order I’m fulfilling is for this boy specifically, and his time has come.
In stature and circumstance, Ollie fits the exacting requirements of my paymaster. With 437 photographs available for public consumption on Facebook – dozens of them shirtless – Vladimir was able to convince himself this was the white, well-educated English meat he had been looking for, to take a turn in his Cutting Room.
We should give thanks to social media, for the triumvirate of Facebook, Instagram and Twitter have sure made it easier to stalk with privacy, and then to select the cream of the young crop. This is the efficient way to recruit for the absolute blackest of sexual ordeals, now.
Vlad does not get his hands dirty in the acquisition process, because he is rich enough to outsource such dangerous activity. The Russian made his billions in the crooked privatisation of state oilfields back in the 1990s and, fortune made, all he need do is keep on the right side of the President’s cabal, to avoid losing it again. Money made unlawfully can be lost in the same way, but Vlad has spread his assets around Zurich, London and New York by way of risk mitigation.
It was in London that we met professionally, four years ago, where my public career has nothing whatsoever to do with boy-catching, and Vlad was looking at property in Mayfair. Having bonded we discovered a mutual interest in male youth, but our shared passion for extremity became apparent only later, after a Scotch-fuelled evening of conversation in Vlad’s suite at Claridge’s. What had been a set of rich sexual fantasies, for me, was activity Vlad indulged in semi-regularly, it transpired.
I didn’t need to pretend to be appalled, because I was appalled by what I heard. Yet I am weak – we are all weak, where matters of flesh are at stake – and disgust can exist alongside stomach-knotted excitement. I was offered participation and money – a vast fortune, in my situation – to assist with some UK-centric special projects Vlad was planning.
I was drawn into a web when I should have walked away, but have subsequently enjoyed the hardest orgasms of my life. So, I regret nothing.
*******
There is an iPhone on the bedside cabinet I shall need to control, for it would take just a few seconds to dial 999. Given Ollie was stupid enough to leave a ground floor window open, what are the chances he has bothered with a screen lock on his phone? If not, a fumbling sequence is removed between his first sight of me, and a fraught emergency call.
Retrieving the phone now would run the risk of disturbing the boy, and whilst that would not be a disaster, having been patient for three hours I would prefer to see a natural awakening. In any event, Ollie seems listless: tossing and turning more frequently and snorting as he does so. His sleep is a lighter one, now, and I believe it will not be long.
The bedroom is impeccably dressed with, I suspect, Ollie’s money and Amy’s design skills. The boy is rising through the ranks in his first graduate job, with a management consultancy, and must be earning north of £50,000. There are few ornaments to dust, whilst the walls and soft furnishings are a harmony of pastel shades. The overall look is neutral with a few concessions to femininity, about which I’m sure Ollie is secure enough not to give a damn.
On reflection this would have made an excellent family home, if only Ollie were not about to be meat processed.
A sharp gust of wind flares the curtains and rustles the down on Ollie’s bare legs. It is pleasing to confirm he has not neglected those pins in the gym, for they are sturdy from buttocks to calves.
With due regard for Vlad’s specifications, Ollie is characteristically English in appearance: by which I mean pale and lightly freckled, albeit not as white as we have all turned by February, after five months with little sun. The oldest photographs on Facebook suggest he might – just – have qualified as blond, as a teen, but his hair is definitely dark brown now, and cut stylishly.
Ollie rolls onto his back and kicks the tangled sheet away from his legs, sighing. And there is his sex, with cut cock and balls both generously proportioned. The boy flails with both arms, in a deep yawn.
The time is 05.13 and Ollie habitually stirs ninety minutes later, anticipating his alarm call. Maybe, sub-consciously, he has realised something is not quite right in the bedroom this morning.
Ollie blinks and yawns again, and then spots me at the foot of the bed, in his chair.
‘Huh? What? Who are you?’ he blusters, half-awake.
Thud.
Thud.
I place two bullets through the wooden headboard, either side of the sprawled youth, and the gun chamber smokes before the room reeks of cordite.
‘Good morning, Ollie,’ I say by way of greeting.
He grabs the sheet and attempts to hide his privates, whilst retreating towards the top of the bed, crab-like.
‘Who are you?’ the boy repeats. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I want two simple things for starters, Ollie. First, you must throw me your phone.’
Shaking, he hesitates and my finger returns to the trigger.
‘Okay… please don’t shoot!’ he cries.
The boy grabs his iPhone, encased in black rubber, and chucks it in my general direction although it lands short, on the carpet. No worries: it has been placed outside the danger zone.
‘Good,’ I say. ‘Now, I want that wedding ring off, and thrown.’
‘Why?’ he stammers, voice thin.
Why, indeed. I can see he’s perplexed, but none of the honest answers would be palatable at this time:
Because livestock doesn’t wear jewellery.
Because it’s over, for you and Amy.
Because you must go to the Cutting Room stark bollock naked.
Because silver would taint the meat, upon cooking.
‘Because I want that band,’ I find myself saying.
‘It’s the most precious thing, to me,’ he says.
‘It has to come off, Ollie: no debate, and no argument.’
‘Are you going to sell it?’ he asks.
‘Yeah… it may be sold… later.’
Miserably, the boy teases the ring over a swollen knuckle. This time, I catch the simple hoop when thrown.
‘There we go: not so bad,’ I say.
Ollie slumps back, and his head is almost lost amongst a wall of plump pillows. This over-provision contrasts with the cell cot at Abattoir 4 which comes with a plasticised cushion for a headrest, matching the thin mattress. The boy will move from luxury to a period of austerity, but by that time he will be overwhelmed by broader concerns.
Disturbed prematurely, tired and unshaven, the young husband is still incredibly hot. His jawline is chiselled and the nose is perfectly proportioned, but the ruffled hair obviously needs some attention each morning. Today, however, there will be no dryer or comb.
‘What do you want from me?’ Ollie asks.
‘I want to see you exhibit yourself. Get out of bed and face the corner, shutting the window on your way: and no tricks,’ I say.
‘Fuck!’ he sighs.
I trace Ollie’s progress with the gun and he can see the shadow of the barrel move with him, intimidating.
Briefly, a naked youth with low-hanging nuts and a long prick appears behind his bedroom window. It is not yet 05.30 and the trail of commuters headed for the station has yet to build-up, whilst the school kids who will – in a couple of hours – crowd the top decks of passing buses, are still in their beds. In this fleeting moment, there is nobody in the street to stare up and wonder whether the nude boy behind the glass really is mouthing ‘help!’, as it appears.
Confident the risk is modest, I allow Ollie to linger for a few seconds whilst he feigns a struggle with the window mechanism. The boy looks left and right along the road for someone – anyone – but this suburb slept poorly in the heat, and is enjoying a lie-in.
‘Close it!’ I tell him, sharply.
Dick-swinging, the young husband crouches a little and, balancing the weight of the sash frame, allows it to fall shut with a conclusive bang.
‘Re-draw the curtains, but leave a chink of light,’ I say.
I want reasonable illumination, whilst the boy shows himself for me.
*******
Ollie rotates 360 degrees in a slow shuffle, as though he were on a turntable. As instructed, his arms are raised and bent at the elbow at neck height, whilst his hands ball into fists alongside his cheeks. In this way, his solid biceps make domes.
The boy makes tiny adjustments to his footing on the carpet to control the pace of his turning, but he spins four times before I pass comment.
‘Stop for a moment, and slap your butt,’ I order.
‘Huh?’
‘You heard! Reach around, and spank your ass.’
‘Why? I don’t understand!’
I take the gun in both hands and extend my arms fully, pointing it straight at the boy’s heart.
‘Slap!’ I warn him.
He gets going.
‘Harder!’ I chastise, for it is apparent right away that Ollie contemplated something playful, without the sado-masochistic tones I demand.
‘Both cheeks!’ I shout.
Around Ollie’s marital bedroom, multiple impacts upon butt muscle ring sharply. The boy cranes his neck as he spanks, watching how his stacked mounds blush with the imprints of his fingers.
‘Farmers give their cattle a good slap to the rump, to get them moving,’ I observe.
‘So?’ he shoots back, with too much attitude for a boy in his position.
‘So, a boy might need the same encouragement, to get him into the Cutting Room,’ I say.
‘You’re making no sense to me!’ Ollie whines.
Thank fuck! In my excitement I revealed too much, too soon, with that line.
‘Slap harder still!’ I order.
The self-administered spanking echoes, now, and I can tell from Ollie’s facial tics it is starting to sting.
‘Did you masturbate last night, without Amy in your bed?’ I ask.
The ass slapping stops for a moment and then – wisely – resumes before I pass comment, albeit at a slower pace as we converse.
‘Yeah,’ Ollie admits.
I have no right to ask, but he has calculated that being difficult about questions is counter-productive.
‘Did you masturbate to orgasm?’ I push him.
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so. It smells of sex, in here.’
And it’s true that, with the window closed and the breeze absent, the marital quarters are stale like a horny student den.
‘So, there is justice to this spanking,’ I suggest. ‘You know: one forbidden pleasure begets another.’
‘I don’t know what you want, but you’re weird!’ Ollie says.
‘Does Amy go down on you?’ I ask.
‘That’s none of your business!’ he bristles.
‘Tell me,’ I say, toying with the shooter but not aiming it.
‘Yes… sometimes,’ the husband concedes.
‘And you enjoy it?’ I ask.
‘Yeah… of course… I’m no different to any other guy.’
‘So, what about you, Ollie? Have you ever dropped to your knees, for a man? I ask.
‘No! Of course I haven’t: I’m straight!’ he protests.
‘You’ve never gone down on a guy?’
‘No!’
‘You’ve never – ever – spent quality time on your knees, sucking… gagging… choking?’
‘No!’
‘You’ve never wrapped those parched lips around cock, and kissed pubic hair?
‘No! Is that what this is about?’ he asks. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘Would you like to service a portly Russian of fifty-two in that way, Ollie?’
‘No! I don’t want any of that gay shit!’ he yells.
‘I think you should spend time thinking of the perfect technique,’ I say.
‘I don’t want to do that stuff!’ he repeats.
‘So, how do you react if the sex – oral and anal – is forced upon you?’ I ask.
My words hit him hard, and the spanking stops. We eyeball each other for thirty seconds, in a silent stand-off.
‘Resume turning full-circle for me,’ I say.
‘Yeah… okay,’ he stammers, staring down the barrel of my gun.
*******
The boy’s legs end, above slim hips, in the superb V-shape of his abdomen, whilst his arms run into broad, gym-trained shoulders. Over his six pack Ollie’s flesh is stretched as thin as a drum skin, and I yearn to be the one who introduces that tummy to the knives of the Cutting Room.
‘Clench your ass,’ I tell him.
The mounds tense as the boy rotates for me, though they were firm enough already. I fear the steely rump meat will be tough but – chunked – it will make a decent casserole.
Ollie wonders why I make him show himself in this way, but livestock shows are pretty common. As I admire his sturdy thighs, I think of this one as best of breed.
‘Please… I need to piss!’ he says, pacing uncomfortably on the spot.
‘Okay, but I have to come with you,’ I say.
‘Sure.’
‘Walk, then: nice and slowly, with no sudden movements.’
‘Okay.’
Ollie moves around the edge of the bed and I keep him two metres distant at all times, so if he tries for a lunge, the trigger will be pulled into his advancing path.
The boy passes in front of me and leads us into the en suite bathroom. His soles slap over the cold, slate-tiled floor, and he stands in front of the toilet where the seat is already raised.
‘Is this about fear?’ I ask, as Ollie aims his cut dick.
‘Yes,’ he admits.
‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘But, never let fear defeat you, however difficult the circumstances.’
‘No, I won’t.’
His piss emerges as a pale blast, jet-washing the side of the bowl with an urgent tinkling.
‘Have you ever been ass fucked?’ I ask him, matter-of-factly.
At once, the flow stops.
Ollie half-pirouettes to look at me over his shoulder.
‘Why? Are you going to fuck me, then?’ he asks.
‘Not me, and you haven’t answered my question,’ I remind him.
‘No, I’ve never been fucked, just like l’ve never given a blow job. Satisfied?’
‘Not even played with ass toys, to satisfy Amy?’ I suggest.
‘No!’
‘So, your sex life has always been quite vanilla?’ I propose.
‘We have great sex!’ Ollie says, defensively, sidestepping the question I asked. Still, I can deduce the answer.
It does sound as though Vlad’s heavy BDSM induction will form one nasty surprise after another, for Ollie, and I feel the need to elaborate just a little more.
‘Anal sex hurts, first time around, and particularly when it’s forced. It will be dry and bare fucking, too, but it gets easier as your dump hole is worked.’
‘What can I give you to stop this? Money?’ asks the trembling husband.
‘It won’t be stopped. This is your ultimate sexual adventure,’ I say.
‘Please… let’s talk,’ he says, trying hard.
‘Finish your piss,’ I tell him.
Ollie had forgotten about that need. Shaft propped by his palm, he resumes the spray.
‘If you’re not fucking me, then who is?’ asks the boy.
‘We’re taking you overseas,’ I say. ‘We’re taking you away from marriage, and love, and into a harsh service environment.’
Ollie shakes the last few drops from his flaccid prick.
‘Use me here if you have to, but please, don’t take me away!’
‘I’m sorry, Ollie: you’re the chosen one,’ I say.
It’s true the plan is beyond the point of no return. Somewhere in a corner of the dark web, anonymous surfing guaranteed by encryption, Ollie’s four limbs are already for sale under the Boy Parts sub-heading of the classified section. His sex, too, is being marketed: nuts and shaft separately, or as a genital package for a modest discount.
‘Bend over, and spread them’ I tell him.
‘Why?’
‘I want a glimpse of that boy hole,’ I say.
Here, in a bathroom with ‘his and hers’ basins, the twenty-six year old prises his mounds apart for a violent intruder. His ass crack is as dark as my mission, but the tight little rosebud winks and I return the greeting. There must be something in this house that could be grabbed and inserted, to brutalise this straight boy with anal trauma, but I am on a promise with Vlad to deliver a virgin. Still, it is tempting.
‘You’re sweating,’ I say, noting the perspiration running over his flanks.
‘Yeah.’
‘Turn and face me,’ I order.
Ollie rises and about-turns, looking to his feet because he cannot face staring at me, or my gun.
‘Your chest rug is damp,’ I tell him.
‘Yes,’ he says, taking a glance at his glistening pectorals.
‘Scared?’ I ask.
‘Yeah,’ he admits.
I notice his wash bag, beside one of the basins, and have a thought.
‘Do you wet shave, Ollie?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘If I don’t distract you, could you manage to clear your stubble without cutting yourself, do you think?’
‘Yes… okay… if you like,’ he says, but his shaking hands underline the difficulty of the task, in these circumstances.
‘I would like that, Ollie,’ I confirm.
Taking a step back to de-escalate the tension, I watch in silence as the naked husband lathers chin and cheeks with foam, then glides through the swirls with his Gillette razor.
Clean-shaven, Ollie looks a couple of years younger, and I reckon Vlad will appreciate my initiative.
The boy leans into the basin and splashes warm water over his face from the running faucet, until the bulk of the foam residue has gone. With a hand towel, he pats his chin dry and scoops a couple of stray foam globs from his chest rug.
‘Look at me, Ollie,’ I tell him.
Devoid of dark shadow around his jawline, this is an interesting transformation.
I stare into his blue/grey irises, and find them to be a picture of fear.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
*******
In Abattoir 4 there is a cell with a basic bed where Ollie shall rest, if he can, for no more than five hours in twenty-four. The other nineteen will be filled with sexual perversion.
Vlad runs a short but ultra-intense BDSM programme, before the Cutting Room, where the young husband will learn about his hole, sex package and tit nubs, from scratch.
This is a forced programme. Consent is not sought but it would never be given, in any event. Accomplishments are compulsory, and targets non-negotiable.
In his hole, Ollie will take propelled phalluses of ever greater girth and length. These solitary butt machine sessions will stretch his chute over hours, whilst elsewhere Vlad sharpens his favourite knives.
Through his balls Ollie will discover onerous weight, and through his dick shaft, the agony of rough sounding. The sex will be energised with fierce bolts of electricity, whilst his teats shall be clamped and tugged and twisted.
And, although the Cutting Room should be graced by an unblemished torso, Vlad will be unable to resist the temptation to apply corporal punishment over the few days they have together.
In the dark underbelly of Abattoir 4, this prime hunk of married meat will be tied by his wrists to the ceiling, and whipped until his tears roll freely.
Stretched on the rack or tied in near-impossible stress bondage, perfectly displayed, Ollie will bellow he cannot carry-on. Yet five days of this intensity is not enough for a boy to crave an ending: not truly. Breaking point has been established to occur between days seven and ten, yet Vlad will march Ollie to the Cutting Room prematurely, when he could endure further gut-punching episodes, or more bareback anal work-outs in semi-asphyxia: his windpipe crushed by a gloved hand.
On the naked walk to his place of termination – tortured genitalia slapping his thighs – Ollie will dig deep and nurture the hope, still flickering in his core, that this might somehow end, and escape will be marked by a second passage of the wedding band onto his ring finger.
Upon sight of the cutting instruments, hope vanishes like the air in a slashed tyre and with a similar hiss, through the teeth. This is a moment to treasure, for Vlad.
You might picture an epic struggle, yet the odds are Ollie will mount the butchery slab with just a squeeze of the butt and the gentlest words of direction, whispered into his ear. When he settles flat on the blood-stained wood, the artisan with the cleavers shall even thank him.
Strangely, it is only the fastening of multiple straps which awakens panic and the realisation this is to be a gore fest. Then, when a boy’s fate as meat is sealed, Vlad may say a few unhurried words about the art of dismemberment. As he concludes he will raise a gilt goblet to Ollie, though it is yet to be filled.
Two knives swiped over each other, blade to blade, create a metallic chill Ollie will hold in his mind, to the last.
*******
Back in the bedroom, Ollie collects three items from his wardrobe. I am working to Vlad’s instructions, for he likes a striptease on a boy’s first day at Abattoir 4. From separate drawers, followed by my gun, the boy retrieves black ankle socks of the kind he would wear with his suit; the tightest white T-shirt, and the skimpiest white briefs.
‘Put them on,’ I say.
Unhappy at being bossed, but relieved – I suspect – to be dressing, Ollie slides into the familiar basics of his wardrobe. The T-shirt sleeves barely roll over his square shoulders, ending well above the biceps, whilst his tit nubs push ill-concealed against the front panel.
In his briefs the boy’s genitalia bulges with shapely definition, leaving little to the imagination.
In dark cotton socks that leave little fluff balls on the carpet, Ollie shuffles anxiously, biting his lower lip.
Over in Belarus, to the accompaniment of dance music with a thumping bass line, Ollie will twirl and stretch to Vlad’s orders before shedding the garments sensually, one at a time, whilst pouting like a supermodel.
The striptease will be the last occasion, prior to the slaughter, where Ollie spends time in clothes. In the days following he will become accustomed to nakedness and the cumbersome jiggling of his sex package under forced exertions, before it is sliced from his groin in the Cutting Room.
*******
You will have understood, by now, that the butchery at Abattoir 4 is performed on live victims.
The truth may be unpalatable to some, who – repulsed, yet mildly intrigued – hoped to read of a stun gun or injection before the cutting, rendering the meat comatose. Instead, strapped into the tightest bondage on the slab, the hacking is undertaken with a boy who sees everything, and feels the fire of each slice.
With small, circular blades, the first incisions will cut and lift Ollie’s tits, causing agony and bloodied pectorals but insufficient damage to place him in danger. The same shallow lifting technique will then be deployed at his belly button, with greater care required to avoid puncturing the intestines.
In so far as his neck brace allows, Ollie shall lift his head and watch, with disbelief, as his nubs and button are cleansed, then packaged for immediate freezing.
Vlad will delay the next cut whilst his tongue sweeps over Ollie’s pectoral rack, supping blood and purring ‘Mmm!’, contentedly.
What will a young hunk of a husband say, at this point?
What can he say?’
This horror is beyond foul-mouthed protest, and breathlessness will restrict his pleading to a few words, uttered repeatedly and by habit: courtesy of the recent BDSM extravaganza.
‘No! Please stop!’
‘Please, just stop!’
‘No! Stop!’
As he writhes, the straps binding Ollie to the butcher’s slab will be tested until they burn his flesh raw.
‘It’s time to remove your sex,’ Vlad will forewarn.
‘No! Don’t!’
‘Just dwell upon your greatest orgasms, Ollie,’ Vlad will say, poking a bloody tongue.
With a long blade, incredibly sharp, the Russian will emasculate the youth in two slices.
Ollie will live to see his dick shaft and nuts placed separately in china dishes on a counter, to be readied for retail. At this stage the spurting of blood is impossible to stem, and the butcher must work quickly so his boy meat is conscious at the severing of at least one limb.
The right leg needs the attention of cleaver and saw to detach. Frantically, Vlad will slice muscle and hack at bone in a crunching, gushing chaos, whilst the boy howls and dislocates further joints as he jerks on the slab made slippery by his crimson flood.
The amputated leg will be held for Ollie to see: A well-rounded husband denied a future, in the process of transformation to component parts destined for meat hooks, freezing and the online auction room.
An arm will be taken next, but Ollie will be lost somewhere between the first whack of the cleaver at the shoulder, and the powdery sawing of the last connecting bone. His eyelids will droop and his heart will slow to an irregular murmur as he coughs blood, then chokes upon it. Vlad will join him for a last live kiss, but the dismemberment is only half-done.
‘Thank you,’ Vlad will whisper to the English youth.
Sometimes, the barely audible last word of a boy is the best, as he fades away shorn of his right leg and with the left arm hanging by tendons.
‘Fuck!’
It is more often mouthed, than said.
*******
It is stifling in Ollie’s marital bedroom, without the summer breeze.
He look at me sheepishly, and then to the floor.
‘Pick a couple of mementos to accompany you, if you wish,’ I tell him.
He is back with me again, immediately.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think it’s straightforward enough. If you want – I won’t insist – hand me two items in this room that give you pleasant memories.’
‘Anything?’ Ollie queries.
‘Yes: so long as it fits in a canvas bag,’ I tell him.
The boy sweeps his head around the room, evaluating the sparse collection of objects on tables and fixed to the walls. He lingers on a framed picture of the happy couple, hand in hand on a beach of white sand, barefoot.
‘I want to take that photograph,’ he nods.
‘Honeymoon?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, I agree to that. Put it on the bed.’
The boy picks the frame from Amy’s dresser, folds-in the stand and places it lightly on the mattress.
‘Anything else?’ I ask.
‘I’d like my wedding ring, please,’ he says.
Even in this terror, Ollie’s tone remains rich and warm. There is no slang, and very little nervous stuttering. I hope he remains this way for Vlad: at first calm, then ruffled but stoic, as he is pushed through the worst of homosexual BDSM in five gruelling days
‘I think the ring should stay here, for Amy to cherish,’ I say.
‘No…’ he says. ‘She has her ring, and I want mine with me.’
In his certainty, Ollie appears more square-jawed and masculine than ever.
The mementos will be placed on the only shelf in the Cutting Room, before Ollie visits, in his line of sight from the butcher’s slab. The ring would need to be mounted in some way, but that is feasible.
‘I think one wedding keepsake is enough. How about a football shirt, or a favourite book?’ I suggest.
He scowls at me.
‘I want the fucking ring!’
As he is so vehement, I am inclined to concede. I think, given Ollie’s keenness for these items, they should be exhibited for him at an earlier stage in proceedings: perhaps as his balls are drained by milking machine induced ejaculation, four times over a morning. I shall get a message to Vlad, to that effect.
‘Were you two truly happy?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ he says, definitively. ‘Please, don’t let us become history.’
‘Have you ever thought of yourself as a sexual workhorse?’ I ask, randomly.
‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ he says.
‘All those shirtless pictures on Facebook, despite the happy marriage. Maybe you hoped to be noticed, and selected for some sexual purpose beyond monogamy?’ I propose.
‘I still don’t get you,’ he says. ‘I’m just a regular, straight, married guy. That’s all I want to be.’
‘So, despite the prick-teasing, you had no desire to become a sexual performer: the centre of attention?’ I ask.
‘No!’
‘That’s a shame, because you have the torso for it,’ I say. ‘I think I misunderstood you, too. I was expecting a cocky, worldly boy, but actually you’re quite innocent.’
He shrugs, confused by my meandering.
‘For example, if I mentioned rimming, I think you would tell me you had no experience as a giver or receiver. Is that correct?’
‘Yes,’ he says, blushing.
‘That will change, very soon,’ I tell him. ‘The giving bit, anyway.’
His socked toes claw at the carpet, agitated.
‘Does pain scare you, Ollie?’ I ask.
He looks at me blankly for a bit, genuinely weighing-up the question.
‘Not much,’ he murmurs.
‘I thought so,’ I say.
‘Should I be scared, about where I’m going?’ the boy asks.
I shake my head and manage a thin smile that inadequately camouflages the truth, whatever my words.
‘You will meet another man, to own you. Keep your chin up and your tits thrust forward, and greet him with a loud ‘Hello, Sir!’ Better that, than feeling scared or sounding scared,’ I say.
‘Who is he?’ Ollie asks.
‘A complex man and a demanding man,’ I say. ‘You are headed for a place of great darkness, and I won’t hide that truth from you, now.’
‘I’ll talk to him...’ Ollie says.
‘He will talk, but only in the throes of sexual aggression,’ I say. ‘His golden rule is zero compassion.’
‘Bastard!’ Ollie shouts, and lunges for me launched by those furry legs.
He has figured: there is nothing to be lost in a desperate bid to evade this journey. Of course, Ollie is right, for he will be ended now or within a week, and that is hardly a choice at all.
With bullets either side of his advancing path, whistling past his flanks, I manage to stall the athletic husband.
‘Bad idea!’ I growl. ‘Hands above your head, in the corner, and face the fucking wall!’
Ollie retreats to the designated corner, beaten, but drops to his knees and lets his chin fall to his chest. There, arms raised, he sobs freely. Tears fall onto the expensive carpet Amy chose, paid for out of his salary.
*******
I shall not be there for the cutting.
Nobody is there for the cutting but Vlad, the boy, and some heavies outside the door on a precautionary basis.
I’m not sure I’d want to be there. Maybe this is a fantasy best heard regaled, than witnessed.
I am in receipt of an invite for the meal, though. Half a dozen friends will dine on tender breast meat and ribs, with sauces to taste if desired. Personally, I take the meat plain.
Vlad will carve the headless, limbless carcass, and we shall feast on his stories of BDSM with a young husband. Our tight-knit group of sophisticates will make appreciative noises as we chew, dipping occasionally into side dishes of warm sliced entrails.
At the head of the table will be just that: a head, on a stake. Expressive in perpetuity, Ollie’s fixed look will be of terror mixed with the tragedy of all he had, and has lost. In the fatigue-ridden eyes will be a hint of anger, beyond the shock: and in the downturned lips, pure despondency.
As cutlery is laid down upon empty plates and lips licked, table discussion will rate the meat as though it were a wine of controversial vintage. Of moral crisis, there will not be a shred of evidence.
The ribcage shall be fed through a grinder, creating a powder pyramid. Vlad will shovel a few scoops into a pot of transparent plastic, and within it secrete Ollie’s wedding ring as a souvenir. The residual pile will be parcelled as individual deal bags, and the white meal sold on the dark net to those priced-out of limbs.
*******
With a short text, I summon the coffin.
From the back of a Ford Transit parked outside, my accomplices lift the wooden box, one at each end. They enter the house through the door I left unlocked for them, and manoeuvre the coffin around the double turn of the staircase. Each of their steps causes the treads to creak, where my ascent was restricted to the less noisy edges of the boards. But the disturbance is of no consequence, now.
‘Are you claustrophobic?’ I ask the boy.
‘Why?’ he asks, trembling.
‘We must package you tight, for your journey,’ I say.
‘Please… don’t take me!’ he begs.
The pallbearers enter Ollie’s marital suite and place the long box upon his bed. Unlocked, the open lid reveals an interior fitted with a sound-deadening layer throughout, finished in crimson velvet. Above the place where Ollie’s head will rest are twin feeding tubes, connected to lid-mounted bags: one dispensing water, and the other a liquidised food mush. Neither bag provides much sustenance, but Ollie will only be travelling for eleven hours, weather permitting.
‘Don’t make me get in there,’ the boy sniffs.
‘It’s time, Ollie: Time for a journey, and the most amazing sexual adventure.’
‘If you don’t care about me, then at least consider Amy and my family. You must have a mother too, yeah?’
‘Lie face down, on the bed. Place your wrists in the small of your back,’ I tell him.
‘You’re not fucking listening! I can’t cope with this… you can’t do this!’ Ollie says.
‘No, Ollie: it’s you who fails to listen. You’ve lost control, now. Nobody is interested in the husband and son stuff, any more. All we want is your submission.’
‘Don’t take me away… please!’ he repeats.
‘Prepare to face a sadist, and plan for agony,’ I warn him.
My goons grab the youth and wrestle his slippery torso onto the bed. One pins him down, whilst the other cuffs his wrists tight behind his back. I retrieve a length of rope and tie his calves together, just above the socks. The three of us lift and turn the squirming meat, laying Ollie on his back in the coffin.
‘You’ll travel in luxury, on a private jet,’ I tell the boy.
‘This isn’t happening, surely?’ Ollie says, but cause for hope has long gone.
‘It’s real,’ I advise him.
‘Am I going to be killed?’ he asks.
I suspect the boy is quite sure of the answer, now. Nevertheless, when the coffin arrives in another van at Vlad’s compound, the obvious first question from the box is ‘Where am I?’
It will be Vlad’s privilege to explain his sexual expectations of Ollie, and to demand he break the lazy mental association between sex and love. Guidance will be given about BDSM as toil, and tortured service. Perhaps the premises will be identified as an abattoir even as Ollie does his striptease, or maybe the revelation will be left for a couple of days, until the boy is sexually shattered. Whatever: it is not my place to tell a secret.
‘The coffin lid will be opened in due course, Ollie. Don’t forget, when you face my friend Vlad, it’s all ‘Yes, Sir!’, eyes fixed ahead and a bolt-straight back.’
‘Who the fuck is he?!’ Ollie asks: annoyed at my obfuscation.
‘Vlad is your sadist, and your owner,’ I say, as though it were nothing.
‘No!’ he mouths, as the lid is shut over him.
It will be pitch black for Ollie, as a key turns three locks in sequence.
If they see the coffin being loaded into the back of the clean white Transit van, neighbours hearts will flutter. Please God, one half of that lovely young couple hasn’t suffered a tragedy?
As the box is stowed in the vehicle I shall tidy the bedroom as best I can, to ease the pain of the widow just a little. I can do nothing about the bullet holes in the plasterboard, however, which will linger to torture the girl with the terror wrought upon her stud of a husband.
We shall spare Amy the sights and sounds of Abattoir 4, though, and the trauma of paying witness to boy meat processing.
*******
The curtains flutter, caught in a breeze funnelling through the open sash window. It is July, admittedly, but the gusts are of tropical warmth the type of which London witnesses only two or three days a year. Flimsy cream affairs, the curtains cannot block out the mid-summer dawn casting the bedroom in half-light.
Ollie started the night with a featherweight duvet, rapidly discarded to the floor where it rests, bundled. Recognising the trade-off between joyous uncovered sleeping in the summer heat, and the risk of insect bites, the boy draped himself in a white sheet. That cotton layer has been partially shed, too: wrapped around limbs in a few places but otherwise hanging from the bed-edge precipice.
Naked, the target is almost completely revealed on the king size mattress. Lost in his dreams, the boy seems at peace as he slumbers.
Ollie’s head is nestled amongst four plump pillows, scattered at the top of the bed. I guess it has been two days since he shaved, judging by the stubble darkening his jawline and sweeping up to join his sideburns, cut to mid-ear. His lips are closed and his nostrils pulse at every shallow exhalation, but the boy sleeps silently: his beauty unsullied by the vulgarity of snoring.
Propped on his side, Ollie’s tummy flutters with each breath and whilst his six-pack is smooth, his well-hewn pectorals are covered with a mat of down that must, surely, be groomed periodically. The trimmed brown fuzz covers his stacked chest luxuriantly, up to the neckline. I picture the boy wearing his work shirts with the top button undone, and the women of the office cooing over his youthful hunkiness.
Ollie’s pectorals are capped by quality teats, where the base plates are perfectly round and the nubs form prominent ‘twist me’ items. As he turns in his sleep the defined rack shifts into a new shape, where the sculpture is equally impressive.
Lying on his front, now, Ollie’s legs split with one hanging straight and the other drawn up, knee bent, with the foot angled flat towards the opposite thigh. Around the bent leg the sheet is tangled, but fortuitously it has slipped well clear of his buttocks.
Those ass mounds form substantial domes: hairless, pale and extremely firm. With the divergence of his legs, Ollie’s crack is open far enough for the depth of it to be evident. Somewhere in there is a hole I believe remains un-popped, for this boy of twenty-six is straight. Any hint of previous anal penetration would be a disappointment, for this meat order was placed on the basis Ollie might endure a brutalising ‘first time’ at the hands of my client.
On both bedside tables are picture frames, with smiling snapshots from a wedding and the subsequent honeymoon. It was barely twelve months ago that Amy became Ollie’s wife, but perhaps it will be of some consolation to both, in the following days, that they took such a significant step before the husband was removed to Abattoir 4 near Pinsk, Belarus. He will not return, but the couple have happy memories from a year of wedded life, which should be sufficient.
It is time for this young man to move on to a final challenge, and for a possessive girl to share.
I sit perfectly still in their tub chair, placed in the far corner of the bedroom. My handgun rests in my lap, ready for the moment Ollie stirs and goes through the inevitable ‘what the fuck!?’ spasm. I could wake him at any time but the resulting commotion would be louder, probably, than a natural end to his sleep and the blurry-eyed realisation there is a stranger at the end of the bed.
Anyway, I enjoy the sight of a 180 cm naked boy sleeping, sprawled diagonally over a mattress and making such inefficient use of space you wonder where the girl would fit, were she not away on a business trip. Ollie’s broad shoulders shrug in synch with his breathing pattern, and I do not begrudge the wait because after tonight his sleep will be grabbed in short bursts, and in a state of terror.
On top of the bedroom door is a clothes hanger where Ollie’s dark suit and ironed white shirt are ready to be slung on, in the twenty-five minutes he allows himself between a 06.45 alarm call and the dash for the train to work. Aside from dressing pretty dapper, that small window of time also allows for a shower and a bowl of cereal, with all tasks undertaken at pace and timed to the minute.
Today the morning routine will be broken, and the suit is destined not to be worn again. With regard to clothing, Ollie is already perfectly dressed for a short stay at Abattoir 4.
*******
I let myself in through a ground floor rear window, left ajar when the boy turned in for the night. I trust his wife is more security conscious, but young men never imagine this kind of intrusion – this violation – will happen to them. What a tragically high price to pay, for being blasé over personal safety.
Mind you, I would have forced entry if necessary, being expert at the picking of locks and the prising open of old windows, designed at a time of lower burglary rates. The commotion would have been unhelpful but necessary, as the order I’m fulfilling is for this boy specifically, and his time has come.
In stature and circumstance, Ollie fits the exacting requirements of my paymaster. With 437 photographs available for public consumption on Facebook – dozens of them shirtless – Vladimir was able to convince himself this was the white, well-educated English meat he had been looking for, to take a turn in his Cutting Room.
We should give thanks to social media, for the triumvirate of Facebook, Instagram and Twitter have sure made it easier to stalk with privacy, and then to select the cream of the young crop. This is the efficient way to recruit for the absolute blackest of sexual ordeals, now.
Vlad does not get his hands dirty in the acquisition process, because he is rich enough to outsource such dangerous activity. The Russian made his billions in the crooked privatisation of state oilfields back in the 1990s and, fortune made, all he need do is keep on the right side of the President’s cabal, to avoid losing it again. Money made unlawfully can be lost in the same way, but Vlad has spread his assets around Zurich, London and New York by way of risk mitigation.
It was in London that we met professionally, four years ago, where my public career has nothing whatsoever to do with boy-catching, and Vlad was looking at property in Mayfair. Having bonded we discovered a mutual interest in male youth, but our shared passion for extremity became apparent only later, after a Scotch-fuelled evening of conversation in Vlad’s suite at Claridge’s. What had been a set of rich sexual fantasies, for me, was activity Vlad indulged in semi-regularly, it transpired.
I didn’t need to pretend to be appalled, because I was appalled by what I heard. Yet I am weak – we are all weak, where matters of flesh are at stake – and disgust can exist alongside stomach-knotted excitement. I was offered participation and money – a vast fortune, in my situation – to assist with some UK-centric special projects Vlad was planning.
I was drawn into a web when I should have walked away, but have subsequently enjoyed the hardest orgasms of my life. So, I regret nothing.
*******
There is an iPhone on the bedside cabinet I shall need to control, for it would take just a few seconds to dial 999. Given Ollie was stupid enough to leave a ground floor window open, what are the chances he has bothered with a screen lock on his phone? If not, a fumbling sequence is removed between his first sight of me, and a fraught emergency call.
Retrieving the phone now would run the risk of disturbing the boy, and whilst that would not be a disaster, having been patient for three hours I would prefer to see a natural awakening. In any event, Ollie seems listless: tossing and turning more frequently and snorting as he does so. His sleep is a lighter one, now, and I believe it will not be long.
The bedroom is impeccably dressed with, I suspect, Ollie’s money and Amy’s design skills. The boy is rising through the ranks in his first graduate job, with a management consultancy, and must be earning north of £50,000. There are few ornaments to dust, whilst the walls and soft furnishings are a harmony of pastel shades. The overall look is neutral with a few concessions to femininity, about which I’m sure Ollie is secure enough not to give a damn.
On reflection this would have made an excellent family home, if only Ollie were not about to be meat processed.
A sharp gust of wind flares the curtains and rustles the down on Ollie’s bare legs. It is pleasing to confirm he has not neglected those pins in the gym, for they are sturdy from buttocks to calves.
With due regard for Vlad’s specifications, Ollie is characteristically English in appearance: by which I mean pale and lightly freckled, albeit not as white as we have all turned by February, after five months with little sun. The oldest photographs on Facebook suggest he might – just – have qualified as blond, as a teen, but his hair is definitely dark brown now, and cut stylishly.
Ollie rolls onto his back and kicks the tangled sheet away from his legs, sighing. And there is his sex, with cut cock and balls both generously proportioned. The boy flails with both arms, in a deep yawn.
The time is 05.13 and Ollie habitually stirs ninety minutes later, anticipating his alarm call. Maybe, sub-consciously, he has realised something is not quite right in the bedroom this morning.
Ollie blinks and yawns again, and then spots me at the foot of the bed, in his chair.
‘Huh? What? Who are you?’ he blusters, half-awake.
Thud.
Thud.
I place two bullets through the wooden headboard, either side of the sprawled youth, and the gun chamber smokes before the room reeks of cordite.
‘Good morning, Ollie,’ I say by way of greeting.
He grabs the sheet and attempts to hide his privates, whilst retreating towards the top of the bed, crab-like.
‘Who are you?’ the boy repeats. ‘Why are you here?’
‘I want two simple things for starters, Ollie. First, you must throw me your phone.’
Shaking, he hesitates and my finger returns to the trigger.
‘Okay… please don’t shoot!’ he cries.
The boy grabs his iPhone, encased in black rubber, and chucks it in my general direction although it lands short, on the carpet. No worries: it has been placed outside the danger zone.
‘Good,’ I say. ‘Now, I want that wedding ring off, and thrown.’
‘Why?’ he stammers, voice thin.
Why, indeed. I can see he’s perplexed, but none of the honest answers would be palatable at this time:
Because livestock doesn’t wear jewellery.
Because it’s over, for you and Amy.
Because you must go to the Cutting Room stark bollock naked.
Because silver would taint the meat, upon cooking.
‘Because I want that band,’ I find myself saying.
‘It’s the most precious thing, to me,’ he says.
‘It has to come off, Ollie: no debate, and no argument.’
‘Are you going to sell it?’ he asks.
‘Yeah… it may be sold… later.’
Miserably, the boy teases the ring over a swollen knuckle. This time, I catch the simple hoop when thrown.
‘There we go: not so bad,’ I say.
Ollie slumps back, and his head is almost lost amongst a wall of plump pillows. This over-provision contrasts with the cell cot at Abattoir 4 which comes with a plasticised cushion for a headrest, matching the thin mattress. The boy will move from luxury to a period of austerity, but by that time he will be overwhelmed by broader concerns.
Disturbed prematurely, tired and unshaven, the young husband is still incredibly hot. His jawline is chiselled and the nose is perfectly proportioned, but the ruffled hair obviously needs some attention each morning. Today, however, there will be no dryer or comb.
‘What do you want from me?’ Ollie asks.
‘I want to see you exhibit yourself. Get out of bed and face the corner, shutting the window on your way: and no tricks,’ I say.
‘Fuck!’ he sighs.
I trace Ollie’s progress with the gun and he can see the shadow of the barrel move with him, intimidating.
Briefly, a naked youth with low-hanging nuts and a long prick appears behind his bedroom window. It is not yet 05.30 and the trail of commuters headed for the station has yet to build-up, whilst the school kids who will – in a couple of hours – crowd the top decks of passing buses, are still in their beds. In this fleeting moment, there is nobody in the street to stare up and wonder whether the nude boy behind the glass really is mouthing ‘help!’, as it appears.
Confident the risk is modest, I allow Ollie to linger for a few seconds whilst he feigns a struggle with the window mechanism. The boy looks left and right along the road for someone – anyone – but this suburb slept poorly in the heat, and is enjoying a lie-in.
‘Close it!’ I tell him, sharply.
Dick-swinging, the young husband crouches a little and, balancing the weight of the sash frame, allows it to fall shut with a conclusive bang.
‘Re-draw the curtains, but leave a chink of light,’ I say.
I want reasonable illumination, whilst the boy shows himself for me.
*******
Ollie rotates 360 degrees in a slow shuffle, as though he were on a turntable. As instructed, his arms are raised and bent at the elbow at neck height, whilst his hands ball into fists alongside his cheeks. In this way, his solid biceps make domes.
The boy makes tiny adjustments to his footing on the carpet to control the pace of his turning, but he spins four times before I pass comment.
‘Stop for a moment, and slap your butt,’ I order.
‘Huh?’
‘You heard! Reach around, and spank your ass.’
‘Why? I don’t understand!’
I take the gun in both hands and extend my arms fully, pointing it straight at the boy’s heart.
‘Slap!’ I warn him.
He gets going.
‘Harder!’ I chastise, for it is apparent right away that Ollie contemplated something playful, without the sado-masochistic tones I demand.
‘Both cheeks!’ I shout.
Around Ollie’s marital bedroom, multiple impacts upon butt muscle ring sharply. The boy cranes his neck as he spanks, watching how his stacked mounds blush with the imprints of his fingers.
‘Farmers give their cattle a good slap to the rump, to get them moving,’ I observe.
‘So?’ he shoots back, with too much attitude for a boy in his position.
‘So, a boy might need the same encouragement, to get him into the Cutting Room,’ I say.
‘You’re making no sense to me!’ Ollie whines.
Thank fuck! In my excitement I revealed too much, too soon, with that line.
‘Slap harder still!’ I order.
The self-administered spanking echoes, now, and I can tell from Ollie’s facial tics it is starting to sting.
‘Did you masturbate last night, without Amy in your bed?’ I ask.
The ass slapping stops for a moment and then – wisely – resumes before I pass comment, albeit at a slower pace as we converse.
‘Yeah,’ Ollie admits.
I have no right to ask, but he has calculated that being difficult about questions is counter-productive.
‘Did you masturbate to orgasm?’ I push him.
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so. It smells of sex, in here.’
And it’s true that, with the window closed and the breeze absent, the marital quarters are stale like a horny student den.
‘So, there is justice to this spanking,’ I suggest. ‘You know: one forbidden pleasure begets another.’
‘I don’t know what you want, but you’re weird!’ Ollie says.
‘Does Amy go down on you?’ I ask.
‘That’s none of your business!’ he bristles.
‘Tell me,’ I say, toying with the shooter but not aiming it.
‘Yes… sometimes,’ the husband concedes.
‘And you enjoy it?’ I ask.
‘Yeah… of course… I’m no different to any other guy.’
‘So, what about you, Ollie? Have you ever dropped to your knees, for a man? I ask.
‘No! Of course I haven’t: I’m straight!’ he protests.
‘You’ve never gone down on a guy?’
‘No!’
‘You’ve never – ever – spent quality time on your knees, sucking… gagging… choking?’
‘No!’
‘You’ve never wrapped those parched lips around cock, and kissed pubic hair?
‘No! Is that what this is about?’ he asks. ‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘Would you like to service a portly Russian of fifty-two in that way, Ollie?’
‘No! I don’t want any of that gay shit!’ he yells.
‘I think you should spend time thinking of the perfect technique,’ I say.
‘I don’t want to do that stuff!’ he repeats.
‘So, how do you react if the sex – oral and anal – is forced upon you?’ I ask.
My words hit him hard, and the spanking stops. We eyeball each other for thirty seconds, in a silent stand-off.
‘Resume turning full-circle for me,’ I say.
‘Yeah… okay,’ he stammers, staring down the barrel of my gun.
*******
The boy’s legs end, above slim hips, in the superb V-shape of his abdomen, whilst his arms run into broad, gym-trained shoulders. Over his six pack Ollie’s flesh is stretched as thin as a drum skin, and I yearn to be the one who introduces that tummy to the knives of the Cutting Room.
‘Clench your ass,’ I tell him.
The mounds tense as the boy rotates for me, though they were firm enough already. I fear the steely rump meat will be tough but – chunked – it will make a decent casserole.
Ollie wonders why I make him show himself in this way, but livestock shows are pretty common. As I admire his sturdy thighs, I think of this one as best of breed.
‘Please… I need to piss!’ he says, pacing uncomfortably on the spot.
‘Okay, but I have to come with you,’ I say.
‘Sure.’
‘Walk, then: nice and slowly, with no sudden movements.’
‘Okay.’
Ollie moves around the edge of the bed and I keep him two metres distant at all times, so if he tries for a lunge, the trigger will be pulled into his advancing path.
The boy passes in front of me and leads us into the en suite bathroom. His soles slap over the cold, slate-tiled floor, and he stands in front of the toilet where the seat is already raised.
‘Is this about fear?’ I ask, as Ollie aims his cut dick.
‘Yes,’ he admits.
‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘But, never let fear defeat you, however difficult the circumstances.’
‘No, I won’t.’
His piss emerges as a pale blast, jet-washing the side of the bowl with an urgent tinkling.
‘Have you ever been ass fucked?’ I ask him, matter-of-factly.
At once, the flow stops.
Ollie half-pirouettes to look at me over his shoulder.
‘Why? Are you going to fuck me, then?’ he asks.
‘Not me, and you haven’t answered my question,’ I remind him.
‘No, I’ve never been fucked, just like l’ve never given a blow job. Satisfied?’
‘Not even played with ass toys, to satisfy Amy?’ I suggest.
‘No!’
‘So, your sex life has always been quite vanilla?’ I propose.
‘We have great sex!’ Ollie says, defensively, sidestepping the question I asked. Still, I can deduce the answer.
It does sound as though Vlad’s heavy BDSM induction will form one nasty surprise after another, for Ollie, and I feel the need to elaborate just a little more.
‘Anal sex hurts, first time around, and particularly when it’s forced. It will be dry and bare fucking, too, but it gets easier as your dump hole is worked.’
‘What can I give you to stop this? Money?’ asks the trembling husband.
‘It won’t be stopped. This is your ultimate sexual adventure,’ I say.
‘Please… let’s talk,’ he says, trying hard.
‘Finish your piss,’ I tell him.
Ollie had forgotten about that need. Shaft propped by his palm, he resumes the spray.
‘If you’re not fucking me, then who is?’ asks the boy.
‘We’re taking you overseas,’ I say. ‘We’re taking you away from marriage, and love, and into a harsh service environment.’
Ollie shakes the last few drops from his flaccid prick.
‘Use me here if you have to, but please, don’t take me away!’
‘I’m sorry, Ollie: you’re the chosen one,’ I say.
It’s true the plan is beyond the point of no return. Somewhere in a corner of the dark web, anonymous surfing guaranteed by encryption, Ollie’s four limbs are already for sale under the Boy Parts sub-heading of the classified section. His sex, too, is being marketed: nuts and shaft separately, or as a genital package for a modest discount.
‘Bend over, and spread them’ I tell him.
‘Why?’
‘I want a glimpse of that boy hole,’ I say.
Here, in a bathroom with ‘his and hers’ basins, the twenty-six year old prises his mounds apart for a violent intruder. His ass crack is as dark as my mission, but the tight little rosebud winks and I return the greeting. There must be something in this house that could be grabbed and inserted, to brutalise this straight boy with anal trauma, but I am on a promise with Vlad to deliver a virgin. Still, it is tempting.
‘You’re sweating,’ I say, noting the perspiration running over his flanks.
‘Yeah.’
‘Turn and face me,’ I order.
Ollie rises and about-turns, looking to his feet because he cannot face staring at me, or my gun.
‘Your chest rug is damp,’ I tell him.
‘Yes,’ he says, taking a glance at his glistening pectorals.
‘Scared?’ I ask.
‘Yeah,’ he admits.
I notice his wash bag, beside one of the basins, and have a thought.
‘Do you wet shave, Ollie?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘If I don’t distract you, could you manage to clear your stubble without cutting yourself, do you think?’
‘Yes… okay… if you like,’ he says, but his shaking hands underline the difficulty of the task, in these circumstances.
‘I would like that, Ollie,’ I confirm.
Taking a step back to de-escalate the tension, I watch in silence as the naked husband lathers chin and cheeks with foam, then glides through the swirls with his Gillette razor.
Clean-shaven, Ollie looks a couple of years younger, and I reckon Vlad will appreciate my initiative.
The boy leans into the basin and splashes warm water over his face from the running faucet, until the bulk of the foam residue has gone. With a hand towel, he pats his chin dry and scoops a couple of stray foam globs from his chest rug.
‘Look at me, Ollie,’ I tell him.
Devoid of dark shadow around his jawline, this is an interesting transformation.
I stare into his blue/grey irises, and find them to be a picture of fear.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
*******
In Abattoir 4 there is a cell with a basic bed where Ollie shall rest, if he can, for no more than five hours in twenty-four. The other nineteen will be filled with sexual perversion.
Vlad runs a short but ultra-intense BDSM programme, before the Cutting Room, where the young husband will learn about his hole, sex package and tit nubs, from scratch.
This is a forced programme. Consent is not sought but it would never be given, in any event. Accomplishments are compulsory, and targets non-negotiable.
In his hole, Ollie will take propelled phalluses of ever greater girth and length. These solitary butt machine sessions will stretch his chute over hours, whilst elsewhere Vlad sharpens his favourite knives.
Through his balls Ollie will discover onerous weight, and through his dick shaft, the agony of rough sounding. The sex will be energised with fierce bolts of electricity, whilst his teats shall be clamped and tugged and twisted.
And, although the Cutting Room should be graced by an unblemished torso, Vlad will be unable to resist the temptation to apply corporal punishment over the few days they have together.
In the dark underbelly of Abattoir 4, this prime hunk of married meat will be tied by his wrists to the ceiling, and whipped until his tears roll freely.
Stretched on the rack or tied in near-impossible stress bondage, perfectly displayed, Ollie will bellow he cannot carry-on. Yet five days of this intensity is not enough for a boy to crave an ending: not truly. Breaking point has been established to occur between days seven and ten, yet Vlad will march Ollie to the Cutting Room prematurely, when he could endure further gut-punching episodes, or more bareback anal work-outs in semi-asphyxia: his windpipe crushed by a gloved hand.
On the naked walk to his place of termination – tortured genitalia slapping his thighs – Ollie will dig deep and nurture the hope, still flickering in his core, that this might somehow end, and escape will be marked by a second passage of the wedding band onto his ring finger.
Upon sight of the cutting instruments, hope vanishes like the air in a slashed tyre and with a similar hiss, through the teeth. This is a moment to treasure, for Vlad.
You might picture an epic struggle, yet the odds are Ollie will mount the butchery slab with just a squeeze of the butt and the gentlest words of direction, whispered into his ear. When he settles flat on the blood-stained wood, the artisan with the cleavers shall even thank him.
Strangely, it is only the fastening of multiple straps which awakens panic and the realisation this is to be a gore fest. Then, when a boy’s fate as meat is sealed, Vlad may say a few unhurried words about the art of dismemberment. As he concludes he will raise a gilt goblet to Ollie, though it is yet to be filled.
Two knives swiped over each other, blade to blade, create a metallic chill Ollie will hold in his mind, to the last.
*******
Back in the bedroom, Ollie collects three items from his wardrobe. I am working to Vlad’s instructions, for he likes a striptease on a boy’s first day at Abattoir 4. From separate drawers, followed by my gun, the boy retrieves black ankle socks of the kind he would wear with his suit; the tightest white T-shirt, and the skimpiest white briefs.
‘Put them on,’ I say.
Unhappy at being bossed, but relieved – I suspect – to be dressing, Ollie slides into the familiar basics of his wardrobe. The T-shirt sleeves barely roll over his square shoulders, ending well above the biceps, whilst his tit nubs push ill-concealed against the front panel.
In his briefs the boy’s genitalia bulges with shapely definition, leaving little to the imagination.
In dark cotton socks that leave little fluff balls on the carpet, Ollie shuffles anxiously, biting his lower lip.
Over in Belarus, to the accompaniment of dance music with a thumping bass line, Ollie will twirl and stretch to Vlad’s orders before shedding the garments sensually, one at a time, whilst pouting like a supermodel.
The striptease will be the last occasion, prior to the slaughter, where Ollie spends time in clothes. In the days following he will become accustomed to nakedness and the cumbersome jiggling of his sex package under forced exertions, before it is sliced from his groin in the Cutting Room.
*******
You will have understood, by now, that the butchery at Abattoir 4 is performed on live victims.
The truth may be unpalatable to some, who – repulsed, yet mildly intrigued – hoped to read of a stun gun or injection before the cutting, rendering the meat comatose. Instead, strapped into the tightest bondage on the slab, the hacking is undertaken with a boy who sees everything, and feels the fire of each slice.
With small, circular blades, the first incisions will cut and lift Ollie’s tits, causing agony and bloodied pectorals but insufficient damage to place him in danger. The same shallow lifting technique will then be deployed at his belly button, with greater care required to avoid puncturing the intestines.
In so far as his neck brace allows, Ollie shall lift his head and watch, with disbelief, as his nubs and button are cleansed, then packaged for immediate freezing.
Vlad will delay the next cut whilst his tongue sweeps over Ollie’s pectoral rack, supping blood and purring ‘Mmm!’, contentedly.
What will a young hunk of a husband say, at this point?
What can he say?’
This horror is beyond foul-mouthed protest, and breathlessness will restrict his pleading to a few words, uttered repeatedly and by habit: courtesy of the recent BDSM extravaganza.
‘No! Please stop!’
‘Please, just stop!’
‘No! Stop!’
As he writhes, the straps binding Ollie to the butcher’s slab will be tested until they burn his flesh raw.
‘It’s time to remove your sex,’ Vlad will forewarn.
‘No! Don’t!’
‘Just dwell upon your greatest orgasms, Ollie,’ Vlad will say, poking a bloody tongue.
With a long blade, incredibly sharp, the Russian will emasculate the youth in two slices.
Ollie will live to see his dick shaft and nuts placed separately in china dishes on a counter, to be readied for retail. At this stage the spurting of blood is impossible to stem, and the butcher must work quickly so his boy meat is conscious at the severing of at least one limb.
The right leg needs the attention of cleaver and saw to detach. Frantically, Vlad will slice muscle and hack at bone in a crunching, gushing chaos, whilst the boy howls and dislocates further joints as he jerks on the slab made slippery by his crimson flood.
The amputated leg will be held for Ollie to see: A well-rounded husband denied a future, in the process of transformation to component parts destined for meat hooks, freezing and the online auction room.
An arm will be taken next, but Ollie will be lost somewhere between the first whack of the cleaver at the shoulder, and the powdery sawing of the last connecting bone. His eyelids will droop and his heart will slow to an irregular murmur as he coughs blood, then chokes upon it. Vlad will join him for a last live kiss, but the dismemberment is only half-done.
‘Thank you,’ Vlad will whisper to the English youth.
Sometimes, the barely audible last word of a boy is the best, as he fades away shorn of his right leg and with the left arm hanging by tendons.
‘Fuck!’
It is more often mouthed, than said.
*******
It is stifling in Ollie’s marital bedroom, without the summer breeze.
He look at me sheepishly, and then to the floor.
‘Pick a couple of mementos to accompany you, if you wish,’ I tell him.
He is back with me again, immediately.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think it’s straightforward enough. If you want – I won’t insist – hand me two items in this room that give you pleasant memories.’
‘Anything?’ Ollie queries.
‘Yes: so long as it fits in a canvas bag,’ I tell him.
The boy sweeps his head around the room, evaluating the sparse collection of objects on tables and fixed to the walls. He lingers on a framed picture of the happy couple, hand in hand on a beach of white sand, barefoot.
‘I want to take that photograph,’ he nods.
‘Honeymoon?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, I agree to that. Put it on the bed.’
The boy picks the frame from Amy’s dresser, folds-in the stand and places it lightly on the mattress.
‘Anything else?’ I ask.
‘I’d like my wedding ring, please,’ he says.
Even in this terror, Ollie’s tone remains rich and warm. There is no slang, and very little nervous stuttering. I hope he remains this way for Vlad: at first calm, then ruffled but stoic, as he is pushed through the worst of homosexual BDSM in five gruelling days
‘I think the ring should stay here, for Amy to cherish,’ I say.
‘No…’ he says. ‘She has her ring, and I want mine with me.’
In his certainty, Ollie appears more square-jawed and masculine than ever.
The mementos will be placed on the only shelf in the Cutting Room, before Ollie visits, in his line of sight from the butcher’s slab. The ring would need to be mounted in some way, but that is feasible.
‘I think one wedding keepsake is enough. How about a football shirt, or a favourite book?’ I suggest.
He scowls at me.
‘I want the fucking ring!’
As he is so vehement, I am inclined to concede. I think, given Ollie’s keenness for these items, they should be exhibited for him at an earlier stage in proceedings: perhaps as his balls are drained by milking machine induced ejaculation, four times over a morning. I shall get a message to Vlad, to that effect.
‘Were you two truly happy?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ he says, definitively. ‘Please, don’t let us become history.’
‘Have you ever thought of yourself as a sexual workhorse?’ I ask, randomly.
‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ he says.
‘All those shirtless pictures on Facebook, despite the happy marriage. Maybe you hoped to be noticed, and selected for some sexual purpose beyond monogamy?’ I propose.
‘I still don’t get you,’ he says. ‘I’m just a regular, straight, married guy. That’s all I want to be.’
‘So, despite the prick-teasing, you had no desire to become a sexual performer: the centre of attention?’ I ask.
‘No!’
‘That’s a shame, because you have the torso for it,’ I say. ‘I think I misunderstood you, too. I was expecting a cocky, worldly boy, but actually you’re quite innocent.’
He shrugs, confused by my meandering.
‘For example, if I mentioned rimming, I think you would tell me you had no experience as a giver or receiver. Is that correct?’
‘Yes,’ he says, blushing.
‘That will change, very soon,’ I tell him. ‘The giving bit, anyway.’
His socked toes claw at the carpet, agitated.
‘Does pain scare you, Ollie?’ I ask.
He looks at me blankly for a bit, genuinely weighing-up the question.
‘Not much,’ he murmurs.
‘I thought so,’ I say.
‘Should I be scared, about where I’m going?’ the boy asks.
I shake my head and manage a thin smile that inadequately camouflages the truth, whatever my words.
‘You will meet another man, to own you. Keep your chin up and your tits thrust forward, and greet him with a loud ‘Hello, Sir!’ Better that, than feeling scared or sounding scared,’ I say.
‘Who is he?’ Ollie asks.
‘A complex man and a demanding man,’ I say. ‘You are headed for a place of great darkness, and I won’t hide that truth from you, now.’
‘I’ll talk to him...’ Ollie says.
‘He will talk, but only in the throes of sexual aggression,’ I say. ‘His golden rule is zero compassion.’
‘Bastard!’ Ollie shouts, and lunges for me launched by those furry legs.
He has figured: there is nothing to be lost in a desperate bid to evade this journey. Of course, Ollie is right, for he will be ended now or within a week, and that is hardly a choice at all.
With bullets either side of his advancing path, whistling past his flanks, I manage to stall the athletic husband.
‘Bad idea!’ I growl. ‘Hands above your head, in the corner, and face the fucking wall!’
Ollie retreats to the designated corner, beaten, but drops to his knees and lets his chin fall to his chest. There, arms raised, he sobs freely. Tears fall onto the expensive carpet Amy chose, paid for out of his salary.
*******
I shall not be there for the cutting.
Nobody is there for the cutting but Vlad, the boy, and some heavies outside the door on a precautionary basis.
I’m not sure I’d want to be there. Maybe this is a fantasy best heard regaled, than witnessed.
I am in receipt of an invite for the meal, though. Half a dozen friends will dine on tender breast meat and ribs, with sauces to taste if desired. Personally, I take the meat plain.
Vlad will carve the headless, limbless carcass, and we shall feast on his stories of BDSM with a young husband. Our tight-knit group of sophisticates will make appreciative noises as we chew, dipping occasionally into side dishes of warm sliced entrails.
At the head of the table will be just that: a head, on a stake. Expressive in perpetuity, Ollie’s fixed look will be of terror mixed with the tragedy of all he had, and has lost. In the fatigue-ridden eyes will be a hint of anger, beyond the shock: and in the downturned lips, pure despondency.
As cutlery is laid down upon empty plates and lips licked, table discussion will rate the meat as though it were a wine of controversial vintage. Of moral crisis, there will not be a shred of evidence.
The ribcage shall be fed through a grinder, creating a powder pyramid. Vlad will shovel a few scoops into a pot of transparent plastic, and within it secrete Ollie’s wedding ring as a souvenir. The residual pile will be parcelled as individual deal bags, and the white meal sold on the dark net to those priced-out of limbs.
*******
With a short text, I summon the coffin.
From the back of a Ford Transit parked outside, my accomplices lift the wooden box, one at each end. They enter the house through the door I left unlocked for them, and manoeuvre the coffin around the double turn of the staircase. Each of their steps causes the treads to creak, where my ascent was restricted to the less noisy edges of the boards. But the disturbance is of no consequence, now.
‘Are you claustrophobic?’ I ask the boy.
‘Why?’ he asks, trembling.
‘We must package you tight, for your journey,’ I say.
‘Please… don’t take me!’ he begs.
The pallbearers enter Ollie’s marital suite and place the long box upon his bed. Unlocked, the open lid reveals an interior fitted with a sound-deadening layer throughout, finished in crimson velvet. Above the place where Ollie’s head will rest are twin feeding tubes, connected to lid-mounted bags: one dispensing water, and the other a liquidised food mush. Neither bag provides much sustenance, but Ollie will only be travelling for eleven hours, weather permitting.
‘Don’t make me get in there,’ the boy sniffs.
‘It’s time, Ollie: Time for a journey, and the most amazing sexual adventure.’
‘If you don’t care about me, then at least consider Amy and my family. You must have a mother too, yeah?’
‘Lie face down, on the bed. Place your wrists in the small of your back,’ I tell him.
‘You’re not fucking listening! I can’t cope with this… you can’t do this!’ Ollie says.
‘No, Ollie: it’s you who fails to listen. You’ve lost control, now. Nobody is interested in the husband and son stuff, any more. All we want is your submission.’
‘Don’t take me away… please!’ he repeats.
‘Prepare to face a sadist, and plan for agony,’ I warn him.
My goons grab the youth and wrestle his slippery torso onto the bed. One pins him down, whilst the other cuffs his wrists tight behind his back. I retrieve a length of rope and tie his calves together, just above the socks. The three of us lift and turn the squirming meat, laying Ollie on his back in the coffin.
‘You’ll travel in luxury, on a private jet,’ I tell the boy.
‘This isn’t happening, surely?’ Ollie says, but cause for hope has long gone.
‘It’s real,’ I advise him.
‘Am I going to be killed?’ he asks.
I suspect the boy is quite sure of the answer, now. Nevertheless, when the coffin arrives in another van at Vlad’s compound, the obvious first question from the box is ‘Where am I?’
It will be Vlad’s privilege to explain his sexual expectations of Ollie, and to demand he break the lazy mental association between sex and love. Guidance will be given about BDSM as toil, and tortured service. Perhaps the premises will be identified as an abattoir even as Ollie does his striptease, or maybe the revelation will be left for a couple of days, until the boy is sexually shattered. Whatever: it is not my place to tell a secret.
‘The coffin lid will be opened in due course, Ollie. Don’t forget, when you face my friend Vlad, it’s all ‘Yes, Sir!’, eyes fixed ahead and a bolt-straight back.’
‘Who the fuck is he?!’ Ollie asks: annoyed at my obfuscation.
‘Vlad is your sadist, and your owner,’ I say, as though it were nothing.
‘No!’ he mouths, as the lid is shut over him.
It will be pitch black for Ollie, as a key turns three locks in sequence.
If they see the coffin being loaded into the back of the clean white Transit van, neighbours hearts will flutter. Please God, one half of that lovely young couple hasn’t suffered a tragedy?
As the box is stowed in the vehicle I shall tidy the bedroom as best I can, to ease the pain of the widow just a little. I can do nothing about the bullet holes in the plasterboard, however, which will linger to torture the girl with the terror wrought upon her stud of a husband.
We shall spare Amy the sights and sounds of Abattoir 4, though, and the trauma of paying witness to boy meat processing.
*******
