Tecpatl
Forum Resident
- Joined
- Jan 3, 2011
- Messages
- 501
- Location
- USA
I saw the teasing photo he posted: lifting up a tight t shirt to show rippling abs, a bulging pec, a left nipple. A photo to show he had built himself into a muscle god. He said that his name was Luis Adam Bree. Real or not, I didn't care. He said he wanted to be tamed, to be humiliated and punished. That said all I wanted to know about him. That he knew what he was, this waiter/bartender in his late twenties. Meat. Beautiful and well shaped. But meat. Nothing more.
I messaged him to find out what he meant by saying he was very kinky. He wanted to role play over Skype first. I said no. He wanted photos of me. I said no. I told him what I looked like made no difference to meat like him that deserved punishment. I told him to send more photos , and these nude. And he did. I told him to describe the kinky sexual encounters he had had. He did. In detail. He was mine already. I gave him the address of my house outside London. I gave him a date and a time that we could play at his punishment. And for the next two weeks I answered none of his messages.
He was precise, I'll give him that. My bell rang at exactly the appointed time. I opened the door and he stepped inside, wearing the tight t and jeans of that first picture. I instructed him to stand, hands behind his back, legs spread, eyes ahead. I cupped my hand around the impressive cock and balls beneath the jeans, looking him in the eyes. He smiled as he grew hard and started to say he was pleased to finally meet me. I cuffed him hard across the mouth. I needed no words from him.
I took my time going to get a sharp knife. When I returned he stood stock still where he had been. I started to slowly shred the tight t, exposing his nipples. When he objected about how he couldn't go home without a shirt I cuffed him again and pressed the point of the knife against his throat. I told him he would walk home totally naked if that was what I told him to do. I went back to my work shredding. His nipples were hard by the time I cut the collar of the t and it dropped to the floor. I started work on the jeans next. Cutting off piece by piece starting at his ankles, watching the cock strain against the crotch, darkening it with precum. It took a while, as I intended, until he stood naked, still with legs spread, hands behind his back, and eyes focused on a spot on the wall across from the front door. His cock stood out from his crotch, nicely hard.
I walked around him, close but not touching, inhaling his scent, feeling the heat coming off of his skin, inspecting every bit of his exposed flesh. When I stood behind him, I put an arm around his chest and drew him to me. I put my other hand over his nose and mouth, clamping them shut as I pulled his head against my shoulder. He tensed but stayed still. I held him as I felt his chest start to strain for air under my arm, and his heart to pound. Then his chest started to heave. As his hands grabbed for mine, I released him and stepped around him, punching him hard in his heaving stomach and cuffing him across the mouth. He was doubled over gasping for breath. I grabbed his hair and pulled his face up near mine. There were bruises beginning under the scruff around his mouth, and a trickle of blood. I told him calmly and slowly to stand with hands behind his back, legs spread, and eyes straight ahead. He did as told. I waited as his breath returned to normal.
I told him there would be no more words between us. I told him we were going to my playroom where I would begin his true humiliation. I repeated the safe word he had used with another partner. I knew it from the account he had sent to show how kinky he could be. I asked if he remembered it. He opened his mouth to speak, and then remembered, and nodded instead. I told him there were no safe words here. That that was how kinky I was. I told him I would punish him until I was satisfied and that he had no more say about what happened to him. I asked if he understood. He nodded. I told him it made no difference whether he understood or agreed. Nothing about him made any more difference. He nodded again. His cock was still hard. I took hold of it and led him to the basement.
I had made only one improvement to my basement to make it a playroom. On one wall was a large mirror I had acquired from a dance studio that had gone out of business. I liked my boys to watch their own humiliation. As you have probably guessed, this is not the first time I have taught a boy the hard lesson of punishment. There have been other boys who wanted to suffer pain. There have been others who have had to watch what was happening to their bodies as they slowly figured out that, no matter what we had agreed, there were no safe words here. And that I was never satisfied with their punishment. There have been others. This was merely the prettiest. And the first to be led down those stairs knowing he could not call a stop to what was going to happen.
I led them by their cocks because it made the stairs awkward. Luis Adam Bree only stumbled once, but he kept his hands behind his back and did not fall. Still his bow legged gait was hardly the elegant movement he probably expected out of his finely tuned body. Humiliation took many forms. And there would be no more elegance in this young man's life. I led him to the center of the dank, bare room, facing his reflection in the mirror. He could look at the darkening bruises on his face. He could wonder how much they would show at work next week. He could wonder what other marks his body might have by then. He could wonder what it would feel like when he came. He could wonder if there would be a next week for him. He could wonder what death would feel like, and how he would react. He could wonder many things. I left, locking the house. He could not escape.
I ran some errands. I had a nice dinner at the restaurant where he waited tables. It was hours before I returned.
When I did, he was standing just as instructed. On the concrete floor between his legs was a puddle. He really had not moved. I grabbed the back of his head, forcing him down on his knees, not an easy movement on stiff legs with hands still behind him. But he was strong. I forced his face down to the puddle, my face close to his. To watch. He knew what I wanted. And I knew what he wanted. Humiliation. He started to lick. He gagged a couple of times. The floor was dirty. The piss smelled strong. But I didn't let him up until the puddle was gone. Then I took his wrists and stretched his arms high, tying them to hooks set into the ceiling. I stepped to a cabinet against the wall and took off my own clothes, folding them on top of it. My body was not as impressive as his, but that was not the point of being naked. I wanted to feel flesh quivering in pain against my own. I took a cat o' nine tails out of a drawer. It was spiked. He saw it as I stepped up behind him. He gripped the ropes that tied him. He set his jaw. But he made no sound.
I cracked it across his back. He gave a little grunt, and shook his head as if to shake off the shock of the sharp pain. Red lines opened up on his right shoulder blade. Blood began to trickle. The second crack was harder, and his body shook at the blow. The third caught in the flesh of his shoulder and I dragged it across, shredding his back like I shredded his t shirt. I switched hands and began again on his left side. His body shuddered at each blow. Again and again and again. He gave little grunts and moans, but did not cry out. He was hanging now by his wrists, but he was stretched so tight he was still on his feet. I could see his face in the mirror, his eyes watching every blow. I saw his determination to prove himself. To prove the strength of this body he had built. To prove the only thing about himself that was worth anything to him. Or to me.
I stepped back and admired the sight before me. The red stripes crisscrossing the muscles of the back. The shredded flesh. The bright red blood flowing. The sheen of sweat. The ripples as he heaved in air. I saw him looking at me in the mirror and I smiled at him in approval. He nodded. I placed the whip on he floor and walked around, standing face to face with him, close. Our chests rubbed against each other, our nipples hardening. My cock, long and stiffening, rubbed against his. His reacted as it started to get hard again. I wrapped my arms around him, smearing my hands in the blood of his back. Then, staying close, I used my fingers to write. I started with his left pec, over his heart. I was writing backwards, again and again pressing my fingers in the wounds of his back to get fresh blood. I held his eyes, to see if he was figuring out what I was writing. Both of our cocks were hard now. Brushing against each other's legs. It was short, what I was writing. Ten letters. Three words. But I took my time. Savoring the intimacy. As he was, I think. I wrote the last word across his belly, his rock hard abs. And then I stepped back, still watching his eyes. Their focus shifted, looking at his torso in the mirror. Looking at the words I had written backwards so they were forwards in the mirror. And then his eyes got wide, and wild. He started shaking his head, muttering no, no, no. So he had been holding out hope then. He hadn't really let himself believe where this was going. Just a game for him. A role play. I turned to look at what he was seeing. At the mirror, where his body read, "Gut me. Alive."
I went to the cabinet and took out a knife. A gutting knife. I placed it on the floor near the mirror, where he could see himself and the knife together. Then I stepped back close to him, taking care not to smear my message. His cock was limp now, his nipples flat. He was afraid, tamed. So he did not resist when I put my hand behind his head and pulled his face to mine, when I kissed him deep. He returned the kiss after a while, although his cock stayed limp. Then I left him to the knife and the message and his imagination. Imagination about pain and blood and death could be torture on its own. I had a strong feeling though, that for Luis Adam Bree, there had been many nights when imagination about pain and blood and death had been ecstasy. Tonight, if he was lucky, imagination would bring him both ...
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