Big Sur
By C. S. White
Super MR Magazine, Issue 7, 2001
Clincher decided it was time to check in on the new subject that the highway patrolman Bobby Reston delivered earlier that evening. Entering the training chamber, the master found a few of the slavers stripped down and knotted around their victim.
They had striped the captive naked, cuffed and drawn his wrists over his head. They shackled and tethered his ankles to the floor, allowing for movement, but preventing his ability to kick at his abusers. Reston had done well. The young man seemed to be about 27 or 28 years old and had striking, raven-black hair falling in sweaty strings across his forehead. He was extraordinarily handsome with sharp features contrasting, pointedly, the round curves of his muscled torso
The slavers enjoyed tormenting the man, welcoming him to the compound with a good dose of outrageous pain and abuse. The captive roared in agony as the slavers, armed with stiff rubber hoses and wet, twisted towels – the bane of high school locker rooms – assailed him. Employed by skillful hands, the simple utensil could inflict considerable discomfort. For a range of pain, they threw in doses of an electrical prod.
As the slavers rained blows over every inch of the tight physique, the man thrashed, jerking about in his chains, desperate to get away from the taunting slavers.
“Fucking faggots!” the man shouted, his face scarlet with rage. “Let me go, cocksuckersl”
The slavers met his fury with laughter and bites from the hoses.
“Ooooh,” taunted Josh, “big talker, huh? Whadya gonna do, musclefuck? Beat us up?” He landed a blow squarely on the man’s nuts.
“Fucker!” the boy shouted, in considerable pain.
Tiger took the man from behind, plunging his hose – the rubber one – between those tight ass globes. The gymnast gasped. “I’d advise you to be a little – no, a lot – more respectful to people who have the ability, and will, to make your life extremely unpleasant.” Tiger rammed the hose a little farther into the sphincter, jerking the implement from side to side. “Do I make myself clear?”
The pain was such that the athlete drew in his breath, hoping the pain would disappear, but Tiger increased his hose-fucking, thrashing it about in wide circles. He repeated his question.
“Yes … ” gasped the man, panting hard, his abs tensing dramatically, causing his perfect navel to wink seductively.
Bobby, the cop, watched Clincher enter. He smiled and walked over to the master, pulling on his hard tool. “Well, whadya think, Clinch?”
The victim let out a huge howl as a slaver used the sharp tongue of a towel to lick the gymnast’s nutsac. Clincher nodded, raising his eyebrows. “A fine piece of slavemeat, Bobby.” A rubber hose against the back of the thighs did a nice job, too, slicing out a strangled cry from the man. “Where’d you find this one?”
“One of my off-duty men was in Santa Cruz, hanging out on the boardwalk and saw this hunk. It seems that some guys from the U.C.L.A. gymnastics team were spending their spring break there. Can you believe the luck? My men did some surveillance, took some pictures and e-mailed the photo scans to me. Shit, the entire gymnast squad was fucking hot, Clinch, everyone a real jewel, but this shitwad was the standout. What with the late night drinking and the crowds helping us out as far as anonymity goes, it wasn’t difficult at all to collar him. It was too simple, really, almost comical. My men just hid behind a bush and clobbered the guy. He went down in a second. The rest is history.”
The gymnast, Mark Hill by name, was an up-and-coming athlete, star of the team and very popular. A clipboard hanging by the door held a compound computer research readout of the man’s vitals. He was only 23 years old – Clincher had been off by a few years, but the guy seemed older in a self-possessed sort of way, despite the yells and screams. Hill’s body was a mix of sinewy tightness and developed muscularity, very sexy and training-worthy. His muscles were just large enough to interest Clincher, but were far from the truly big boys like Matt or Mike Phillips.
The victim has a tight, round ass, smooth as a beachball – now covered with angry red welts. The man’s low bodyfat allowed a clear view of every painful twitch of the muscles. The lightest dusting of dark hair was evident over the chest, belly, armpits and legs, accentuated by the flood of sweat coursing down Hill’s agonized body.
The men now set up a tried and true pattern of unpleasantness for the prisoner, concentrating on a single body part – in this case, the deliciously round ass – landing a dozen blows in a row with the rubber hoses. The gymnast yanked in the chains, dancing in a maniacal jig of overwhelming pain. Clincher was taken with the young man’s deep voice, resonant in his shouts and begs for mercy. His cock, while not overly huge, was perfectly matched to his etched body. Thicker than it was long, it was heavy and had a nice, tight head to it. It flopped and flailed about as Hill thrashed at his torture. He had pleasantly full balls which sat high in their furry sac. They would provide a great deal of discomfort for the man.
The gymnast’s poor ass was nearly blood-red by the time the men had delivered a tenth set of a dozen strikes. He endured the session of constant blows for well over an hour, and had done quite well. Now, tired and frightened, he began to fade. It was time for the denouement.
Hill’s face furrowed in tight misery. Josh took the man’s chin in his hand, shaking .the victim’s head and slapping his face until the gymnast focused his eyes at him. “No more threats, big man?” he taunted. “What happened to all your warnings?” He slapped the boy a few more times, sending a wash of sweat from the handsome face. “We’re not done with you yet, Big Man Off Campus … we’ve only just begun.” Reaching behind Hill, Josh plunged his four fingers into the still tight hole, newly warmed up by Tiger. The man gasped. “Ever been fucked, big man?” All Hill could do was shake his head in dread. “No? Fuck, boy, I don’t believe that … all you jocks take it up the ass, don’t you? It’s a known fact.” By now, Josh’s rod was steel-hard and ready. He pressed his cock against Hill’s. “See this? It loves to go deep into a slave ass, boy, and you are the only slave ass around.” He smiled. “Lucky … lucky … you'”
As Tiger and his cohorts held the man from the front, Josh plunged his mastersaber into Hill’s tight, puckered hole. As the cock slid into the hot tube, the sphincter gripped it and sent jolts of pleasure for the master, and fiery pain for the owner. Tiger pounded away at the tight twin orbs, bucking his hips into the hole so hard that the slaps echoed off the walls. The gymnast grunted and growled, alternately cursing and beseeching his tormentors.
“Aw, fuck! Please, please …. aaaaa-aaahhhhh ….. Fuckers!” A sharp yelp slid forth like an eighteen-wheeler on an icy freeway, followed by more entreaties for mercy.
Tiger rode the athlete for several long minutes, slapping the high-riding cheeks with his rubber hose from time to time for emphasis.
He shot his load deep into Hill’s lovechute, and Josh snarled his explosion, pulling on the gymnast’s hair in his passion.
No sooner had Josh pulled out of the hole than Tiger took his place. The other slavers whacked their meat waiting their turn at the captive, as Tiger plowed the furrow intensely, his thick torpedo stretching the screaming ass muscles so ably sensitized by Josh’s ride. Hill bellowed and yowled, twisting and thrashing, certain that if he could buck the slaver from within him, he would be left alone. His blue-black hair pitched about in thick, wet strands, sending showers of sweat outward in all directions.
Tiger bellowed as his seed shot into the boy, ramming his crotch into the ass orbs with definitive release. His rod dripped jizz and his victim’s blood as he pulled out, allowing another slaver entry. He sucked in a whistle.
“Fuh-huck!” he enthused. “You done a real good job, officer!” he called out to Bobby. “This one’s a keeper, that’s for damn sure!” He jabbed his thumb toward the yelping captive. “You gotta check this one out, Clinch!”
The master slaver and the highway patrolman sauntered over to the action. Up close, Clincher was taken with the gymnast’s face, which was accented by thick eyebrows and deep-set eyes. His upturned nose lent the man a fetching air of youth, and his lips, two perfect halves of an erotic, pink bloom – lips made by God for giving major head – gave Clincher an instant hardon.
Clincher lent his own set of hose blows, relishing the slap of rubber against thick, wet thighs. The prisoner, though exhausted, continued to fight against his bonds, yelling and growling, jerking about in panic and pain as two more slavers violated his virgin hole.
When Clincher’s turn at bat came, he popped open his leather codpiece, freeing his insistent manhood. He stood before his quarry, taking the gymnast’s face in his hands. The boy wouldn’t look at his master-to-be, but a quick twist of the heavy nuts, got his attention. There was a look of real, deep-seated fear in his eyes. His chest heaved violently as he sought to catch his breath and deal with the searing pain in his asshole, raw now and bleeding steadily from the thick, blunt-nosed assaults. Clincher flicked at Hill’s meaty nipples, excitedly planning their eventual ravishment.
“You’re ours, now, boy,” Clincher began. “Do you know what that means?”
“Fuck you, asshole!” Hill shouted.
Clincher’s face was rock somber and drove his fist into Hill’s belly and slashed upward with an open palm across the man’s right cheek, drawing a gasp from the unsuspecting victim. “Not … acceptable,” Clincher spat.
Hill was still and silent for but a moment. Suddenly, he all but ripped his arms from their sockets trying to free himself from the chains. He bucked so abruptly and violently that a drawn up knee caught Clincher in the groin, sending a spike of pain into the slaver’s belly. The surrounding slavers jerked backed instinctively, fearing their leader’s reaction. A couple of the trainers took hold of the prisoner, wrapping their legs around the gymnast’s and grasped him by throat, squeezing until he was again docile. All eyes were on Clincher.
There was absolute silence in the chamber for several moments. Hill’s eyes shot around from man to man, sensing from their reaction that he had done something wrong, something terribly, terribly wrong.
Clincher took a breath. The slavers leaned forward, awaiting his command.
“Crucify him.”
With the enthusiasm of a ravenous wolf pack falling upon an injured deer, the slavers unchained the gymnast and hustled him across the room to an x-shaped cross. None too gently, they spread his limbs tightly against the wooden arms, chaining them in place with thick steel manacles.
Barely audible amid the trainers’ threats and growls, were the prisoner’s dreadful moans of “Aw, fuck, aw, fuck, aw fuck … ”
One of the trainers appeared in front of the cross with a rolling cart. A chrome box sat on the cart with dials, buttons and a set of ominous-looking wires dangling from it. Two very thick cables coursed from the box, ending with battery clamps. Clincher took these, opening and closing them, feeling their tensile strength, letting them snap shut. The slavers ooohed and aaahed exaggeratedly, grabbing their own balls protectively and making painful faces, rolling their eyes in mock alarm, all for their captive’s benefit
“Nobody, but nobody touches a master’s body without permission, slug,” Clincher said, his voice low and calm. “And no slave ever, ever strikes a master. Period.”
“1 … please … don’t … 1 didn’t mean … ”
“I didn’t mean to be a worthless piece of shit-eating worm meat!” mocked Clincher, imitating his victim’s tremulous voice. “Shut up!” Hill fell silent, his mouth moving needlessly. “Now you going to have to be taught a lesson.”
“No, please … ”
Clincher glanced over at Josh, who instantly struck the gymnast across both cheeks. The second blow brought a trickle of blood from the boy’s mouth. “I’m sorry, sir,” Josh offered by way of demonstration. “Perhaps he’ll be quiet now.”
“If you’re smart, pig, you’ll remember what you’re about to undergo, and learn from it. Because, believe me, you’re not going to want to go through this again.”
Without hesitation, Clincher closed one of the clamps over Hill’s left nut. The thing bit into the dangling nut, pressing it until he cried out. The next clamp Clincher teased onto the remaining testicle, at last relaxing his fist, allowing the teeth to sink into the firm flesh. Hill barked out a series of cries, tossing his head back and forth.
With counterfeit concern, Clincher leaned forward, knitting his brow. “Does it hurt, doggie?”
The gymnast breathed hard against the pain, scrunching his sexy face into a worried mask, and nodded.
“I’m so sorry,” Clincher continued. “But you ain’t felt nothing yet.” He pressed a button on the box, sending out a healthy pulse of juice. The current rattled to life, biting into the helpless nuts. Hill jerked, flexing his body into a pose of Egyptian hieroglyphic complexity, and screamed like a girl.
The jolt was relatively low in voltage and short in duration, but it did the trick. The next session would make the gymnast not only regret his rash kneeing of a master, but also wish that he was never born.
The electricity would be applied in accumulating five-second increments – five the first time, ten the second, and so on – with ten-second rest periods between. Each time, the intensity would be increased. The session would continue until the current would course through the nuts for a full five minutes. Clincher set the preprogrammed key in place and pressed the button, sending the machine into action. Hill was in for several hours of very painful training. At each snarling of the juice, the gymnast would thrash and writhe, crying out, his manly screams filling the room.
Josh rubbed his rocket with one hand and idly struck out with his rubber hose with the other, adding to the gymnast’s agony, landing a stinging blow on Hill’s thick thigh during the ten dead seconds. The current bit into him again, and his cries sent a rush of blood into the slaver’s meat, something Tiger could not ignore. He pulled close to his friend from behind, pressing his own excited manhood vertically between the orbs of Josh’s firm ass.
The other slavers paired off, too, drawing close to their victim, striking out at the hapless athlete, and not just during the gaps between the electricity. Such were Hill’s cries that each of the slavers soon fell deeply into their passions of fucking and hurting. The gymnast would never forget this schooling.
The young man would make a fine slave, Clincher thought, and without much more training. He would break, and soon, but the training would not be slackened. As the current raged though the tortured balls and the man howled and pleaded and begged, Clincher’s meat stiffened even more. But despite the fact that he was hard as a rock, and aching to shoot his load, Clincher left the slavers to their fun and went back to his quarters, fell into bed and before many minutes went by, fell sound asleep. Even the faint sounds of the man’s agonies didn’t disturb him.
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Aquadude Bunker 