Luis Adam Bree
Forum Regular
- Joined
- Oct 31, 2016
- Messages
- 138
- Location
- London England
I saw an execution — really! It was of a young man hang*ed from the tail*gate of a pick-up truck. But be*cause I had wit*nes*sed some*thing I wasn't sup*pos*ed to, I can't tell you the time or place ex*act*ly ... or any other real de*tails that might iden*ti*fy the in*ci*dent. — You can ne*ver be too safe!
All I can say is that it hap*pen*ed one sum*mer in Col*o*ra*do. My hob*by is pan*ning for gold in re*mote moun*tain streams. It gets me away from every*thing. And, like gam*bling, there's always the chance of strik*ing it rich.
The area I pan was part of the gold and sil*ver rush ter*ri*tory near Den*ver. The veins have long since peter*ed out. But there's some pan*ning left. And that's what I do. I al*ways dream of that big nug*get that's worth hun*dreds ... maybe thou*sands of dollars.
But that's only half the reason I vacation out there. The other is my other hobby — photography. I take quite a few slides on my panning expeditions, and I've put together a slide show of scenic and historical sites in Colorado plus a segment on panning for gold. The program is popular with civic organizations, church groups, social clubs, and the like. They're always looking for things like that to make an excuse for a meeting.
Well, on this particular panning expo, I was visiting a town on the edge of ranching country — on the borderline between the flat-lands and the mountains. The stream I wanted to check out was up in the mountains, several miles from town in very rugged country, accessible only on foot or by 4-wheel drive. Since I had an ordinary car and didn't want to spend the money to rent a 4-wheel drive, I hiked in.
I assembled a back-pack with a shelter tent, sleeping bag, and supplies for a two-day trip and set out for the mountains. I followed an old wagon trail still used by hikers and 4-wheel drives.
Early the next morning I was awakened by the revving of engines. Something was coming up the trail. I got up and sneaked through the trees toward the trail, taking care to stay hidden — no sense taking chances when you're alone.
Just as I got within sight of the trail, three pick-ups came roaring up and stopped. The trail was wider there — there was a natural clearing and a rock ledge — one of those cut-in-the-stone arches over the trail.
Eight or nine guys got out of the pick-ups. In the middle of them was this young guy who was their prisoner. He was naked to the waist and his arms were bound behind him at the wrists. Soon as he was out of the truck, though, they stripped him all the way naked — 'cept for his boots, of course.
He didn't even resist when they unbuckled his belt and yanked off his jeans. Not even when they pulled down his jockey shorts and his fat cock and balls pealed away and flapped back and forth. He was standing there naked as the day he was born, except, of course, for those cowboy boots.
As I said, the guy wasn't struggling or nothing — not trying to get away or resisting. Even stranger, his cock started twitching and then started getting hard. He was getting off on this! Something real strange, I thought.
Well there he was standing. He was sort of thin but thickly muscled at the same time — like the American swim team in the '84 Olympics — big chest, pecs that stand out more than most women's tits, and thick legs and neck but a real narrow waist and deep-grooved abdominals. He was a real looker, especially naked like that. No body hair and a blond to boot!
He was about twenty years old and looked about as scared as a guy can look. And, if anything, he looked even scareder as they backed up one of the 4-wheel drive pick-ups under the stone arch.
One of the guys jumped up on the back of the truck-bed and another climbed up the rock arch. The guy in the truck threw a rope up to the other guy who draped it over the edge, down to the bottom guy who threw his end back up to the guy on the arch. This way they wrapped the rope round the arch then the guy on top put a knot in it to hold it in place. That left only about eight feet or so of rope that the guy on top now tied into a noose and let it drop over the edge.
They were either lucky or they'd done this before because the noose hung just at the right height for a guy standing on the back of the pickup. If it hadn't been obvious to me and to that twenty-year-old blond hunk before, it was now. These guys were vigilantes — right out of the Old West ... except instead of riding up on horses they were riding around in 4-wheel drives. And that young hunk was going to be hanged right there. Right in front of my eyes.
I didn't know what to do. I was plenty scared. Something inside me told me I had to stop the hanging. I had to save this guy. But something else made me too scared to do a thing but watch. And that's exactly what I did — watch.
From my hiding place I could see it all. But I was too far away to hear much. I did, however, hear the word rape a couple of times, so I figure this guy was caught with the daughter of one of these guys. He didn't look like he had to really rape any girl — not with those looks. Still he had obviously fucked the wrong girl and was going to pay — big time!
Several of the vigilantes picked the guy up and hoisted him up to the tail-gate and made him stand there with that noose brushing his hair. The guy was sobbing and pleading. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but it was obvious they weren't listening when one of the guys put the noose round his neck and pulled the rope to tighten the noose snug round the crying hunk's throat.
The guy who had put the noose round the hunk's neck slapped his cheek and shouted in his face. The wind was the wrong way and I couldn't hear a word of it despite his obvious shouting. That must have been the girl's father — getting the honors, so to speak.
Well while two of the guys stood on the back of the tail-gate and steadied the blond hunk, one the girl's father, the others jumped off and one got in the cab. He was ready. The hunk was ready. The others were ready. The guy in the cab revved the engine then popped the clutch.
The truck lurched out from under the guy and he jumped off into the mid air. The rope jerked tight and the rope tightened. His cock jumped straight and hard and he kicked and twisted, his feet stretching, looking for something to stand on.
His feet tried harder and harder to find something when all of a sudden they started to run. There he was, hanging there, his face deep red turning purple, his tongue poking out to the side, and he was running — running so hard it looked like he was in a race — his hard cock slamming side to side against his thighs!
It's funny how much you can see when you have to. I could see the guy's face as plain as if I was standing there face to face with him. His throat was squeezed real tight — so tight the rope almost got covered over by the roll of neck flesh over and under it. And his jaw was locked hard, twisted to one side, his tongue half bitten off and hanging out his mouth. His eye-lids were pulled back, making them look like a horse's scared by a fire, except they were all blood-shot and nearly all the blue was gone. Big veins swelled but didn't really throb in his forehead, neck, and one side of his face.
Suddenly his hard cock erupted and spurted out the cum stored up for that one last go. Spurt. Spurt. Spurt. And farther than he probably ever shot before. This way and that — with his running legs throwing his cock side to side like it was.
After that, his running slowed down and his cock started getting softer. Soon all he was doing was shaking — trembling like an old guy with the Palsy.
One of the guys went to his truck and pulled out a cooler and they all pulled out a beer and drank and yakked. For a good hour or more they walked around, watching a little, talking and drinking a lot. They'd wander over and give the hanging guy a slap on the butt or grab his now soft cock and make some kind of vulgar comment, making the other guys laugh.
After a while, they backed the pick-up back up and held the body up and loosened the noose. One of the guys got a revolver and they held the body over the side so the head hung down toward the ground. One of the guys put a revolver at the back of the guy's head and shot the top clean off — making sure he wasn't going to come to like some hanged guys have done!
Then they wrapped what was left of the head up and lay the body in the back of the truck. All the guys got into their trucks and headed off, farther up the trail.
After they were gone, I skirted around to get a closer look, but careful not to get anywhere near the clearing. That was the better part of discretion! After about an hour I heard the pick-ups again and got back to my hiding place. They stopped and policed the area, picking up all the cans, taking the rope down, beating the bushes close round for any signs someone might have been watching, looking at footprints, comparing them with their shoes, then using brush to erase tire tracks and foot prints. They tied brush to the bumpers and mussed up any tire prints as they drove off slowly.
Instead of heading up to the creek, I went back to the town and got out of there asap. I looked through the local papers for the rest of the three weeks I was there. Not a word. That young hunk disappeared without a trace ... and no one knew ... except the guys that did it ... and me.
And no one cared. Except maybe me — I remember it fondly ... sort of wishing I could see an encore ... this time up close where I could run my fingers over that tight rope cutting into a young hunk's neck ... and run my fingers over his twisting body.
The thought of it makes me shiver!
All I can say is that it hap*pen*ed one sum*mer in Col*o*ra*do. My hob*by is pan*ning for gold in re*mote moun*tain streams. It gets me away from every*thing. And, like gam*bling, there's always the chance of strik*ing it rich.
The area I pan was part of the gold and sil*ver rush ter*ri*tory near Den*ver. The veins have long since peter*ed out. But there's some pan*ning left. And that's what I do. I al*ways dream of that big nug*get that's worth hun*dreds ... maybe thou*sands of dollars.
But that's only half the reason I vacation out there. The other is my other hobby — photography. I take quite a few slides on my panning expeditions, and I've put together a slide show of scenic and historical sites in Colorado plus a segment on panning for gold. The program is popular with civic organizations, church groups, social clubs, and the like. They're always looking for things like that to make an excuse for a meeting.
Well, on this particular panning expo, I was visiting a town on the edge of ranching country — on the borderline between the flat-lands and the mountains. The stream I wanted to check out was up in the mountains, several miles from town in very rugged country, accessible only on foot or by 4-wheel drive. Since I had an ordinary car and didn't want to spend the money to rent a 4-wheel drive, I hiked in.
I assembled a back-pack with a shelter tent, sleeping bag, and supplies for a two-day trip and set out for the mountains. I followed an old wagon trail still used by hikers and 4-wheel drives.
Early the next morning I was awakened by the revving of engines. Something was coming up the trail. I got up and sneaked through the trees toward the trail, taking care to stay hidden — no sense taking chances when you're alone.
Just as I got within sight of the trail, three pick-ups came roaring up and stopped. The trail was wider there — there was a natural clearing and a rock ledge — one of those cut-in-the-stone arches over the trail.
Eight or nine guys got out of the pick-ups. In the middle of them was this young guy who was their prisoner. He was naked to the waist and his arms were bound behind him at the wrists. Soon as he was out of the truck, though, they stripped him all the way naked — 'cept for his boots, of course.
He didn't even resist when they unbuckled his belt and yanked off his jeans. Not even when they pulled down his jockey shorts and his fat cock and balls pealed away and flapped back and forth. He was standing there naked as the day he was born, except, of course, for those cowboy boots.
As I said, the guy wasn't struggling or nothing — not trying to get away or resisting. Even stranger, his cock started twitching and then started getting hard. He was getting off on this! Something real strange, I thought.
Well there he was standing. He was sort of thin but thickly muscled at the same time — like the American swim team in the '84 Olympics — big chest, pecs that stand out more than most women's tits, and thick legs and neck but a real narrow waist and deep-grooved abdominals. He was a real looker, especially naked like that. No body hair and a blond to boot!
He was about twenty years old and looked about as scared as a guy can look. And, if anything, he looked even scareder as they backed up one of the 4-wheel drive pick-ups under the stone arch.
One of the guys jumped up on the back of the truck-bed and another climbed up the rock arch. The guy in the truck threw a rope up to the other guy who draped it over the edge, down to the bottom guy who threw his end back up to the guy on the arch. This way they wrapped the rope round the arch then the guy on top put a knot in it to hold it in place. That left only about eight feet or so of rope that the guy on top now tied into a noose and let it drop over the edge.
They were either lucky or they'd done this before because the noose hung just at the right height for a guy standing on the back of the pickup. If it hadn't been obvious to me and to that twenty-year-old blond hunk before, it was now. These guys were vigilantes — right out of the Old West ... except instead of riding up on horses they were riding around in 4-wheel drives. And that young hunk was going to be hanged right there. Right in front of my eyes.
I didn't know what to do. I was plenty scared. Something inside me told me I had to stop the hanging. I had to save this guy. But something else made me too scared to do a thing but watch. And that's exactly what I did — watch.
From my hiding place I could see it all. But I was too far away to hear much. I did, however, hear the word rape a couple of times, so I figure this guy was caught with the daughter of one of these guys. He didn't look like he had to really rape any girl — not with those looks. Still he had obviously fucked the wrong girl and was going to pay — big time!
Several of the vigilantes picked the guy up and hoisted him up to the tail-gate and made him stand there with that noose brushing his hair. The guy was sobbing and pleading. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but it was obvious they weren't listening when one of the guys put the noose round his neck and pulled the rope to tighten the noose snug round the crying hunk's throat.
The guy who had put the noose round the hunk's neck slapped his cheek and shouted in his face. The wind was the wrong way and I couldn't hear a word of it despite his obvious shouting. That must have been the girl's father — getting the honors, so to speak.
Well while two of the guys stood on the back of the tail-gate and steadied the blond hunk, one the girl's father, the others jumped off and one got in the cab. He was ready. The hunk was ready. The others were ready. The guy in the cab revved the engine then popped the clutch.
The truck lurched out from under the guy and he jumped off into the mid air. The rope jerked tight and the rope tightened. His cock jumped straight and hard and he kicked and twisted, his feet stretching, looking for something to stand on.
His feet tried harder and harder to find something when all of a sudden they started to run. There he was, hanging there, his face deep red turning purple, his tongue poking out to the side, and he was running — running so hard it looked like he was in a race — his hard cock slamming side to side against his thighs!
It's funny how much you can see when you have to. I could see the guy's face as plain as if I was standing there face to face with him. His throat was squeezed real tight — so tight the rope almost got covered over by the roll of neck flesh over and under it. And his jaw was locked hard, twisted to one side, his tongue half bitten off and hanging out his mouth. His eye-lids were pulled back, making them look like a horse's scared by a fire, except they were all blood-shot and nearly all the blue was gone. Big veins swelled but didn't really throb in his forehead, neck, and one side of his face.
Suddenly his hard cock erupted and spurted out the cum stored up for that one last go. Spurt. Spurt. Spurt. And farther than he probably ever shot before. This way and that — with his running legs throwing his cock side to side like it was.
After that, his running slowed down and his cock started getting softer. Soon all he was doing was shaking — trembling like an old guy with the Palsy.
One of the guys went to his truck and pulled out a cooler and they all pulled out a beer and drank and yakked. For a good hour or more they walked around, watching a little, talking and drinking a lot. They'd wander over and give the hanging guy a slap on the butt or grab his now soft cock and make some kind of vulgar comment, making the other guys laugh.
After a while, they backed the pick-up back up and held the body up and loosened the noose. One of the guys got a revolver and they held the body over the side so the head hung down toward the ground. One of the guys put a revolver at the back of the guy's head and shot the top clean off — making sure he wasn't going to come to like some hanged guys have done!
Then they wrapped what was left of the head up and lay the body in the back of the truck. All the guys got into their trucks and headed off, farther up the trail.
After they were gone, I skirted around to get a closer look, but careful not to get anywhere near the clearing. That was the better part of discretion! After about an hour I heard the pick-ups again and got back to my hiding place. They stopped and policed the area, picking up all the cans, taking the rope down, beating the bushes close round for any signs someone might have been watching, looking at footprints, comparing them with their shoes, then using brush to erase tire tracks and foot prints. They tied brush to the bumpers and mussed up any tire prints as they drove off slowly.
Instead of heading up to the creek, I went back to the town and got out of there asap. I looked through the local papers for the rest of the three weeks I was there. Not a word. That young hunk disappeared without a trace ... and no one knew ... except the guys that did it ... and me.
And no one cared. Except maybe me — I remember it fondly ... sort of wishing I could see an encore ... this time up close where I could run my fingers over that tight rope cutting into a young hunk's neck ... and run my fingers over his twisting body.
The thought of it makes me shiver!
