“Party Animal” –by Amalaric, Part 6 of 6

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Part 6.

‘It was getting very late…’ I nodded agreement, though I realised that Brent was still rapt in his memories. ‘All  of us reckoned we’d settle delivery on the group of rentals selected earlier but they were definitely for later- it was nearly dawn and time to get home to penthouse, renovated loft, or designer flat, or whatever, for some much needed shut eye. One of the ubiquitous attendants glided silently across the rustic wood planks of the stalls, all incongruous in black suede slippers, and murmured something to the effect that we might enjoy some refreshment…ah, a nightcap, so to speak…before bidding farewell to what was clearly a very special establishment. I reckoned that they would pull out the twenty four year old, best label whisky as a sort of last hurrah and I was only half mistaken- the exquisite captive stud did look like he might have been somewhere around twenty four.

See, it seemed there was a last room the proprietors wished us to visit as a sort of courtesy, or gratuity; a token of gratitude and lingering promise all at the same time. The showroom hype, inclusive of demos and whatnot was complete, the customers both satisfied and filled with anticipation, and we had dropped enough dosh to keep any number of stock holders (or whoever the fuck owned the place) happy for a very long time. Now we were invited to relax and witness an unforgettable crescendo before heading happily into the waning night.

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“Party Animal” –by Amalaric, Part 5 of 6

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Part 5.

We were led to one of around a dozen stalls along a wide wooden corridor with an identification tag labelled 9d. I noticed a multi-strand whip hanging from a ring on the outside wall and reckoned that was a nice touch. Our minion removed the padlock from the door and beckoned to the inmate, who stepped out of his enclosure blinking in the unaccustomed light. He was a handsome young stud, maybe in his mid-twenties, shirtless of course, but otherwise dressed in crisp blue jeans and shiny black shoes. There was something about the guy- for sure his high and tight haircut, but also the black shoes, the crease in his jeans, the way he squared his broad shoulders, and a kind of demeanour, sort of like an overgrown boy scout, that just shouted military…and, sure enough, the ever-helpful minion was quick to explain; the guy was army or air force or maybe a navy flier or something- I can’t remember- and had been taken around six weeks ago from his base somewhere on the west coast. As far as anyone knew back home he had just gone AWOL; another deadbeat among the faceless ranks of guys on the run. I noticed right off that, other than the guys locked up in the lobster tank, this one was unfettered, free to move around- and maybe run or put up a fight- as there were no ropes or shackles at wrists or ankles. The minion was quick to explain that the ‘freedom’ of the commodity (yeah, he actually referred to the guy as a commodity) was one of the ‘charms’ of the stalls. Smirking, he explained; the guy had been taken, as we had already been told, somewhere out on the west coast…but it turns out that he had a wife- cute babe named Connie (or something…there was a pic of her pinned to the entrance to his stall opposite the whip. You guessed it, Ric; our young stud had a powerful incentive to behave himself, as the minion rambled on, because (he was told in no uncertain terms) that failure to obey orders might just be detrimental to the health of his unsuspecting wife…ah…back home. And it worked! The sucker was ours to command, though his gray eyes flashed murderous fire…but, hey, I like them that way!’

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“Party Animal” –by Amalaric, Part 4 of 6

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Part 4.      

Though the hour was late my host seemed more energised than ever. I caught the eye of my buddy in rapt conversation with Brent’s feminine partner and he nodded almost imperceptibly, giving the green light to hang in there a bit longer. Relieved, I encouraged Brent to continue the story. ‘The demo was free of charge, but you know how that sort of thing goes…when we finished with him it was time to get down to business and I suspected the actual rentals (not to mention sales) would cost us a bundle…but we were all primed, stoned on quality booze, and that poor naked kid shackled to the post had done his job; yeah, that’s right- whet our collective appetites for more.

The ‘showroom’ was actually a series of corridors and cubicles where the real merchandise- either guys personally selected by clients from the lobster tanks, or others referred to as ‘specials’- was seductively displayed. Mainly, the captives were shackled against a wall; always at wrists and ankles rendering them immobile and docile, sometimes also with iron collars, which was a nice touch. Our obsequious guide explained that prospective customers liked to view and examine the merchandise in various ways and the company catered to all tastes. For instance, one of the first studs we were shown stood against a brick wall, shackled in place at wrists and ankles and also by an iron collar. Utterly helpless, the buck simply stared into indeterminate space, fully aware, I guess, of his fate and conscious that there wasn’t a fucking thing he could do about it. He looked like maybe he was in his mid-twenties, slightly more mature than the demo with a light dusting of hair on chest and belly, lean and muscular, with smooth tanned skin, like someone who maybe had spent time outdoors with his shirt off…maybe a construction worker or something. Naturally, he was stripped to the waist but unlike the demo, this one was allowed to keep his trousers on- suggestively unzipped and spread wide; a nice touch as the dipping waistband and bulge in his exposed white cotton fly fronts shrieked a loud advertisement to explore the wonders of his obviously very well-endowed young manhood. The accommodating proprietor gave an affirmative nod and we gathered eagerly around the helpless victim for a (Brent coughed politely) rather intimate examination of the proffered goods. In the end we all reckoned that his price was a tad too high and moved on…but not before thoroughly humiliating the proud stud and reducing him to tears.

Most of the guys occupying the various cubicles that comprised the ‘showroom’ were shackled to the smooth walls of their respective areas buck naked…as, I guess, most of the clientele of the joint was eager to get down to business and liked them that way. We noticed the three previously selected by our group from the lobster tank, now completely stripped and on display, shackled together against the wall of a single cubicle. After quite a bit of invasive fingering and some heated discussion, we decided to rent two of them on a trial basis, returning one (looking both exhausted and oddly relieved) to the communal tank. The two ‘lucky’ enough to be chosen didn’t seem all that thrilled by the honour, seeming instead to be terrified if their wide eyes and heavy breathing were any indication… At any rate, they were released from the display position against the wall and hustled from the cubicle for what the proprietor referred to as processing. Sounds like a fucking butcher shop, I said and you know what, Ric?’ I gulped, suddenly pale and slightly queasy as my host blithely continued, ‘The slick dude- all prissy in his shiny bottle green suit with a smile like a great white shark- winked at me like we were sharing some kind of dirty secret…’ Brent trailed off, muttering suddenly almost inaudible, ‘and, hey, maybe we were…maybe we had all fucking stumbled into the world’s classiest, craziest, kinkiest…butcher shop. I just dunno.’

Time was passing quickly and though I was anything but tired I also realised that the night was far spent and courtesy demanded that we should make our excuses, tender effusive thanks, and head back to our own dingy digs on the other side of the island. Still…I was riveted to Brent’s strange story. My host, on the other hand, never glanced at the ticking clock and seemed completely oblivious to anything but his harrowing tale. ‘Yeah, well, one of the small army of obsequious clerks or minions or whatever ushered our party from the cubicles and suggested that perhaps we would like to tour another part of the rambling establishment that he referred to as the stalls. Hey! Why not? Our fearless leader, Steve, slurring his words because he had had way too much of the establishment’s free booze, nevertheless, also seemed to posses equal measures of energy and curiosity…so, oblivious to the passing time, we all trooped after the minion into an elevator that immediately plunged several floors before gliding to a feather soft landing. You guessed it, Ric; welcome to the stalls! And that is exactly what they were; kind of like a rambling barn or stable, yeah more like a stable, except the stalls were all carefully numbered and had bars on the locked doors and windows.



“Party Animal” –by Amalaric, Part 3 of 6

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Part 3.

The exquisite blond waited passively…but, really, he didn’t have much of a choice. I guess it’s appropriate to say that he was tastefully, even artistically, displayed- buck naked upright with hands shackled behind his back, affording us an unobstructed view of his physique, and attached to a sturdy iron post, thus presumably immobilising him for casual observation and…er…examination. He had the cubicle all to himself- well, he did until we arrived- and I wondered if the black velvet curtain that served as a backdrop was intentional as the contrast between the sensuous, dusky colour of the hanging fabric and the pale perfection of the young stud’s perfectly smooth skin was really striking. I mean, Ric, the guy was a true blond- this was immediately obvious from the deep gold of his soft, curly pubes and glinting carpet of spun sunlight on his athletic legs and forearms- but his otherwise smooth skin was a wonderful subtle mosaic of fair blushing alabaster, moving sensuously from marble white to rose to the palest of golden tans. In other words, the guy was like a perfect canvas…untouched and unspoiled; ready and primed for some serious creative endeavour.  He looked pretty young- maybe somewhere between 19 and 22…something like that…probably a college student (once upon a time) and, if so, almost certainly into sports. How do I know that? Easy- the guy’s build just shrieked athlete. Though not over-developed, his broad shoulders, defined biceps and pecs and flat tapering abs all bore witness to many a hard workout, as did his muscular thighs and calves. The young jock’s cock and balls, framed by the patch of deep golden pubes, shyly pulsed; ripe testicles retracting and relaxing as if aware of all the exposure and attention and not at all sure what to make of it. We licked our collective lips, determined to clear up any doubts or misunderstandings…’

I couldn’t help but notice that Brent’s tone had subtly changed. Nervousness had given way to animation and…what? A sense of gleeful anticipation? I began to wonder if coming to the strange couple’s hotel room had been such a good idea after all. Brent, oblivious to my rising concern, continued the story, ‘The clerk, or whatever he was- you know, the guy who showed us into the room- said that the young jock was a demo, yeah, a kind of sample of the establishment’s very special kind of product, and that, as such, we were free to…ah…conduct various tests. I ran my hand through the helpless stud’s crew cut hair, marvelling at  its bristly softness, and he looked up at me with wide, frightened eyes the colour of the sky at twilight and whispered, ‘Please man, help me…I don’t belong here, have to get out…’ Shifting against the post, he flexed his biceps, swallowed hard and repeated, ‘Help me!’ Well, Ric, let me tell you,’ Brent was now positively excited; a light sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, ‘I decided then and there that I would help the dude…to the full range of toys arrayed on a nearby antique chair. I mean, it was like Christmas morning or something; there were various gauge whips and paddles, clamps, pins, screws, even a prod, man!! I just couldn’t wait to try out the prod!! The captive, realizing his pleas were futile, eyed the same goods that we were and began to squirm in earnest, raising some more sweat on that delicious body, unconsciously showing off his muscles in the process. He was breathing hard and fast, blue eyes fixed on the medium gauge multi-strand cat in my buddy Steve’s eager hand, and gave out a satisfying yelp as the first stroke raked across his lower rib cage, instantly raising a bright red welt on that smooth, pale skin. Ten minutes later, and with the proprietor’s permission, Steve switched to a heavy gauge bull whip and we all stepped back several paces. The young jock’s naked torso was already bright red- you know, sort of like someone who has spent too much time in the sun…WAY too much time, actually- and he seemed to be in a lot of pain…though he may have been faking it? Yeah, the sucker made a shit load of noise; begging Steve to stop, for someone to help him, dancing all the while against the post, right in time with the snapping of the whip, like some kind of disco lover-boy spaced out on Ecstasy… Anyway, though he was most likely really hurting and not putting on an act, the bull whip put an end to all doubt.’ By this time I was feeling a little queasy but swallowed hard and urged Brent to continue his tale. He raised the short hairs on the back of my neck with narrowed eyes and a knowing glance, asking me what else I wanted to know. ‘Uh…what was the guy’s name? Did you ever find out?’

‘Name? Doubt if he had one…at least at that point. Anyway, like I was saying, the bull whip jacked the concert up an octave, so to speak, and- let me tell you, man- the sounds coming from that dude’s raw throat sounded like Janis Joplin doing an imitation of the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz!’ He laughed at the disgusting analogy, but I got the point. ‘First, though, they flipped him around- welted chest now hugging the post with his pert ass, overdeveloped hairy thighs, and broad muscular back presenting a fresh canvas worthy of a man’s whip!’ ‘Didn’t you feel just a little bit sorry for him?’ I asked, hating myself for the quaver in my voice. ‘Nah…’ Brent yawned, I mean Ric- the dude was a demo after all. So, where was I? Oh yeah. Right. See, the bull whip cut where the cat had merely raised some colourful welts and a few bruises. After five or six hard strokes the blood flew around the room as thick as his sweat and the big stud was left sobbing into the cold iron of the post…when he wasn’t shrieking like a stuck pig. Of course, he eventually passed out…and we all reckoned that was cool as it was time for a smoke break anyway.’ ‘And…’ I hesitated, but only for a split second, ‘what about the, ah, prod?’ I was amazed to feel my pecker stir to lazy life in the depths of my trousers and hoped Brent hadn’t noticed. ‘Farkin right, man!’ Brent grinned like a school boy and glanced at the wet spot spreading in my lap. ‘After around twenty minutes the clerk (or whatever the fuck you call the guy) revived our boy and I got to try out the prod. Yep, pressed the prong right up to his hairy ball sack, threw caution to the winds adjusting the juice to the highest notch…and pulled the trigger.’ ‘Damn! What happened then???!’ I was now unashamedly hooked on the dark tale. Brent sighed, his eyes glazed with nostalgia, ‘Pure fireworks, man, pure fireworks!!’



“Party Animal” –by Amalaric, Part 2 of 6

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Part 2.

‘See, I know of this place in New York City…’ he trailed off, suddenly shy or maybe nervous. ‘Yeah?’ I prompted, interested more in his odd tone than in the prosaic remark. ‘I’ve been there a few times- big, noisy, expensive…but worth a visit, I guess.’ Brent cleared his throat, glanced over at his girl friend in rapt conversation with my buddy, and continued, ‘I doubt if you’ve been to the place I’m thinking of, Ric…I mean, no offense, but you couldn’t afford it and, if that was the case, you wouldn’t even know of its existence.’ Now clearly intrigued, I nodded, signalling my acceptance of his observation and willingness to hear whatever tale he chose to tell. The banker poured himself another drink and took a long swallow. ‘Yeah, I know of this place in New York City…even been there a few times (was he blushing???!) where, if you have more cash than can reasonably be counted, you can rent or even buy…ah…party animals.’ ‘What?’ I smiled, ‘You mean party favours…like, maybe, diamond encrusted napkin rings, a handful of throw away Rolex watches, or a mink covered toilet seat…right?’ He shook his head, not even cracking a smile. ‘No, you heard me correctly- party animals; a euphemism for guys you rent or purchase…for amusement, for entertainment at certain kinds of events, gatherings, or just for the hell of it and in private.’ ‘Oh sure, I get it- like an…escort?’ Now slightly nervous myself, I wondered what kind of person Brent thought I was to start in on a load of sleazy shit like that! ‘They rent out some good looking babes as well?’ It was meant to be a light hearted remark, but he just stared at me intently and whispered, ‘This place only caters…ummm…males, and no, they aren’t escorts.’ ‘Caters? You make it sound like upscale fast food…’ He finally nodded an affirmative, ‘Yeah, I guess you could look at it that way.’

I waited, suddenly serious and oddly sober, for his story to continue. ‘See, Ric, I was invited by a friend…wouldn’t have gone there otherwise, wouldn’t have fucking found out about the place…’ Was it my imagination, or did Brent’s eyes subtly shift as if caught in a half-truth? ‘Strange thing was, considering everything, the joint was in one of the busiest parts of town, fronted as a night club; hell, it WAS a night club…partly. My friend and a couple of other guys were all pretty smashed, hard partiers but bored- been there done that- and looking for some different kind of action…like I’ve been telling you, right?’ I nodded. ‘We were taken down some stairs, around some corners, rang a few buzzers, ID’s flashed, and a big door finally swung open. Inside was like a different world; understated, gently illuminated, obsequious people in thousand dollar suits…you know?’ I didn’t, but made a decent pretence. ‘They took us into a large, well appointed room where we sat on armchairs that, I swear, were sensuous in their own right- sleek green leather that you literally melted into- and looked up at a wall peppered with ten or twelve sixty inch, high res, fully digitized television screens. Each was turned on, of course, and, at first, each seemed to be broadcasting an aspect of the same scenario. Our host enigmatically referred to the whole tableau as the ‘lobster tank’. I arched an eyebrow, nonplussed. ‘Yeah, the lobster tank.’ Brent was now sweating profusely and I was mesmerized by a clear bead of perspiration delicately traversing his chiselled jaw. ‘Each camera- must have been state of the art CCTV- was trained on a large cell, and each of these was packed with…young guys. Yeah. Nothing else…well, ok, toilets, like some kind of Fed prison outfit or something, but the guys were just doing their thing; sitting on benches or the floor, maybe prone on one of the bunks…and they were all…ah…good looking, somewhere I’d say, between the ages of 19 and 30 at the outside.’ He paused and took another hit of whisky. ‘Each cell held maybe eight or ten men and they were all stripped to the waist- yeah, not a single one had his shirt on- most wore what you’d expect; khakis, canvas, sweats, or levis…but some were stripped down to their briefs or boxers and, oh, almost forgot; they were all barefoot; padding around the cells looking scared, or pissed off, or bored, but mainly just confused.’ ‘Why’d they call it the lobster tank?’ I asked. Finally, Brent cracked a slow smile, ‘See, it was kind of like those fish tanks in a swank restaurant, you know, where you size up your sea food- all fat and happy minding his own business- before making your choice and then, hey! Outta the aquarium and into the hot tub!’

Totally hooked on the harrowing tale I urged my strange friend to continue. ‘We sat and watched the guys on the big screens for a while, commenting on this one or that one as the prisoners unknowingly paced and posed…but I wasn’t really sure of the point of it all. When drinks were served I collared one of the waiters and asked who the guys in the cells were and why they were locked up. He excused himself for a moment and soon returned with a portly gentleman who must have been one of the proprietors of the place. It was then that I learned to my amazement that each of the men pacing their cells had been picked up- ok, abducted- basically from all over the country after careful observation and evaluation of…ah…certain qualities. There were several young military guys, identifiable by their haircuts and, if they were wearing any, their trousers and dog tags. Others, I was assured, may have been just about any kind of guy you’d meet on the street; college students and back packers, a cute young doctor just out of med school who looked like he could already afford a personal trainer, young fathers, tanned construction workers or landscapers or whatever, buzz cut skater punks, maybe a surfer or two, pizza boys and office workers, a few cops and firemen…shit, the place was a regular human menagerie! One thing though, like I already said; every one of these dudes was clean cut, with ripped physiques, and handsome features, yeah, you guessed it- all part of the selection process.’

My mouth agape in stunned amazement, I simply willed him to go on. Brent uncapped another bottle of whisky and continued, ‘My friends had already been there a few times but they let the proprietor know that I was a …virgin. The dapper old prick sort of smirked, looked at me in a patronising way and remarked that maybe I would benefit from a demo. What the hell was that? All confused, but I have to admit also intrigued, I muttered something and we all left the room but not before my friend pointed toward  the screens and, making sure that a few of the imprisoned men were properly noted by the staff, remarked that we might consider a three day rental.



New Story: “Party Animal” –by Amalaric, Part 1 of 6

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Part 1.

Several years ago, while travelling in an out of the way kind of place, I met a couple in a restaurant overlooking the sea and was told a very strange story. It all happened by coincidence, if you believe in that sort of thing, as a friend and I- sleazing around some islands in the Med- took a table in a crowded restaurant after a delightful day on rented motorcycles and, rapt in laughing conversation, were surprised but not really upset, at a sudden interruption. The woman at the next table- not three feet away- after staring intently for a minute or two, blurted, ‘I couldn’t help but overhear…’ and, for the life of me, I can’t remember what she may have overheard or whether it was all that interesting or important or maybe just a gambit to butt in on the conversation of a couple of good looking (yeah, I know- I should be more modest) guys…but all of a sudden we became a foursome.

The woman, though she was white, said she had been raised somewhere in Africa and I had no reason to doubt her, though her ‘mid-Atlantic’ accent grated on my nerves like fingernails raked across the proverbial blackboard. She was with her partner, or whatever; a soft spoken guy in his mid-thirties named Brent. He was of American origin but, really, of indeterminate nationality as only royalty and the upper-echelon super-rich at the helms of multi-nationals can claim to be. He, of course, belonged to the latter and quietly identified himself as a banker. Now, I know what you’re thinking- right, anyone can claim to be a super-rich banker…and you are correct; anyone can. It may have been a put on, but my instincts tell me otherwise. Seems he had been involved in some kind of financial trouble on the Continent (I checked it out when I returned to work and, sure enough, it had been a whopper of a scandal and Brent had made the papers). Upshot was, he and his lady friend needed a break. They had helicoptered onto the remote, but trendy, holiday destination several days before and would depart the same way over the weekend. One thing led to another and we ended up having drinks in some up-scale bar after dinner, and then some more at their hotel, which caused my buddy and me to trade fast, thoroughly amazed, glances- a suite of rooms furnished with antiques, overlooking the sea in the most expensive hotel on the island. Noticing our reaction, Brent laughed and said the digs were a little over-priced at 3000.00 euro a night. We, of course, nodded sagely, neglecting to mention the 60.00 euro pensione on the other side of the island where we were more or less camped with our backpacks…

Brent turned out to be an interesting guy. When he found out what I did for a living he zeroed right in; professing a profound sense of boredom with the wasteful and meaningless fodder that made up his life. He was tired, he said, of collecting sports cars and, later, French chateaux and hungered instead to discuss weighty philosophical propositions, historical conundrums reverberating into the present…you know…’things that mattered’. I was happy to indulge, suffused with the warm glow of his very expensive whisky and the thrill of an interesting adventure unfolding. It was later in the evening- as we all basked in that inimitable boozy glow- surrounded by the mellow diffused light thrown from antique stained glass lamp shades, and feeling as if we had all known one another for a lifetime or more…that Brent pulled me aside, and for reasons I am (understandably) uncertain of, told me a harrowing tale of life in a kind of parallel universe, the world of the super-rich, where any desire may, and is expected to be, fulfilled.



Story: “The Cube” – Text and Imagery by Amalaric (Part 2 of 2)

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Jeff lay spread eagle, naked arms and legs splayed wide and taut, corded muscles stretched and involuntarily flexed, on his back chained to a wide white table of some cold indeterminate substance. An overhead light on a ball jointed swivel could be adjusted to a bright glare that illumined every hill and valley of the tall stud or plunge him in mellow shadow- with or without attendant heat to make him run rivers of sweat or just lie there in air conditioned ‘comfort’. His back arched painfully, bubble butt pressed firmly against the unyielding surface and, on a whim, I adjusted the suddenly flexible table to bow slightly, apex at the small of his back, wrists and ankles pointed only a few degrees downward, just enough to cause a bit more discomfort but also to afford a more dramatic view of arched ribs, impossibly flattened belly, cramping muscles in his spread thighs and, of course, the magnificent thrust of totally exposed pelvis- crowned by his prodigious manhood; thick penis now resting against a spread thigh, slack balls hanging between his legs just above the suddenly revealed pucker of his tightly clenched ass hole. For all of the bright surfaces and modern convenience, the young marine was effectively secured to a rack and I underscored the point by increasing the tension on the four points of restraint- wrists and ankles- causing him to rumble with a low groan of mounting agony.

Satisfied, at last, with the mode of display I spent the next hour having fun with a variety of neurowands; each seemingly innocuous, merely a coloured plastic rod about six inches long with artistically worked hard rubber insulating handles fitted with a red button and dial for adjusting intensity. There were maybe two dozen of the wands (with instruction booklet) hung in a glass-fronted cabinet on one of the walls and each was colour-coded according to the sensation it would deliver when brushed against the skin of my terrified and completely helpless jarhead. One of the wonders of the wands was that they worked by direct neuro-stimulation, so that, though the jolt of pain delivered was staggering in its intensity (depending, of course, on how I set the dial), no actual physical damage was done- when the wand was withdrawn, the pain ceased and Jeff was left panting with exhaustion, only to sample a different ‘flavour’ a few moments (or seconds) later. I began with the prosaic- selecting ‘electric’ and working select points on all of the major muscle groups from his bull-like neck to the tendons in his hairy toes; marvelling at the way the wand, with its simulated current of raw electricity, caused the muscles of my spread eagled stud to twitch and jump. ‘Fire’ (appropriately bright orange in colour) and ‘Ice’ (cool blue, naturally) were fun, though I definitely had a preference for ‘Fire’. ‘Tickle’ I ignored with disdain, tried out ‘Pinch’ with a sense of amusement, made mental notes regarding ‘Slice’ and ‘Rip’, and then something really exotic caught my eye; ‘Scorpion Sting’ might have some real possibilities! I nuzzled the yellow-brown nozzle of the wand hard against the seamed back of Jeff’s ball sack and pressed the red button. The result was dazzling! A high-pitched yelp of surprised agony immediately preceded that magnificent ass lifted straight off the table- despite the fact that he was stretched and bound tighter than James West in his worst wet dream- only to slam back down a second later with thunderous force. ‘Fark!!!’ I exclaimed, clearly impressed, let’s try that again… Continue reading

Story: “The Cube” – Text and Imagery by Amalaric (Part 1 of 2)

Several people mentioned this story on the thread of the ‘Guy on the Left’ manip series. Keeping that series in mind, I added a few new manips to this old story (tweaking the story slightly to match the new manips) in the spirit of the force-strip celebrated in the ‘Guy on the Left’ series. 


I’ve always been an avid hiker- prefer the beach, but forest and woodland will do almost as well. It was around three years ago, while on a ramble in a remote range I’d rather not name that I stumbled on the Cube. Yeah, I know it sounds bonkers, maybe is bonkers…but this isn’t a fucking fantasy and, no, I’m not cracking up. The Cube looked like it was made of shimmering, opaque frosted glass, about twenty meters square hovering- yeah, hovering- a couple of feet above the forest floor in the centre of a sunlit clearing in the otherwise dense cover of trees. There was an open aperture, obviously a door, with a ramp leading up to it and, well, I’ve always been a risk taker. What the hell, let’s have a look inside this baby… I nearly shit my pants when, once fully inside, the ‘door’ silently rolled up, or sort of solidified, and a not-unpleasant disembodied voice coming from all directions said, ‘Welcome to Podvac 779, at your service and, hopefully, pleasure.’ And the rest is history…

To make the story less long and, hopefully, not bore you to tears, here is the deal- Seems that in a galaxy too fucking far away to describe in comprehensible terms there was a road accident on one of the inter-planetary highways and one of the luxury Podvac 779’s- the latest creation in holiday technology, sort of an ultra-advanced, alien camper van- was jarred from the transport and floated, lost in space- oh, I’d reckon at least two and a half million years- and finally ended up in a clearing in a forest on our lovely little blue-green jewel, planet Earth. Being the first to stumble on the find, I became the de facto owner, immediately adopted by the programmed computer intelligence that ran the thing. And what an operation! Any command, and I mean ANY command, request, desire- with the one caveat that no other life forms could be hurt or destroyed- were fulfilled by the near-magic facilities aboard the Cube. For instance, we had some dynamite flights to the various planets of our solar system and a few beyond, the surface of the sun is kind of interesting…as is the deepest part of the ocean here on earth and points in between. Capable of transparency, invisibility and, obviously, radar evasion the sky was literally the limit (not really true…as there was also time and other inter-dimensional modes of travel…but that gets us off the point of this story) as I took early retirement and embarked on a course of some serious adventure. And that brings me, finally, to the point.

Travel, though exciting, wasn’t everything. Molecular re-organization ensured robust health, near-eternal youth, with a pretty face and ripped body…and I could still pig out on whatever food or drink I could imagine! Perfect counterfeit money of any conceivable currency was had in abundance, so there were no problems there…as were fake ID’s of all sorts, gerrymandered computerised bank accounts (Switzerland and the Caymans being favourite venues), birth, employment, social security records and stuff like that- all manipulated at the flick of a switch or press of a button. Tablets provided by the computer and taken at bed time had the strange effect of making me fluent in a given language when I woke up the next morning…odd feeling, brushing your teeth and suddenly able to think in Mandarin. Various hobbies could be indulged to a point beyond satiety, and that more or less gets me to the point; let’s face it, a guy has certain needs and I’m no exception.

‘Say, ah…computer…’ ‘Yes, Amalaric?’ ‘You do realise that my…uh…sexual appetites can be…how should I put this? Well, slightly exotic.’ ‘Yes, Amalaric, as you already know, I am telepathic in order to serve more efficiently.’ Of course I knew that but I was still blushing like a virgin caught in the act. ‘Well then, computer, you see we may have a problem in that area- at least if you are going to work your magic because, well, you know…the prime directive (or whatever) not to hurt other life forms and all.’ ‘I have given this some thought, Amalaric…’ You have??!!!!! ‘…and do not perceive an insurmountable problem.’ ‘No??? Please go on…’ ‘Yes, Amalaric…you see I have access to a holographic technology that may intrigue you…and no ‘life form’ need suffer.’ To say that I was intrigued is a gross understatement. Here is what ultimately transpired… Continue reading

“Todd Sanders” – Story and Imagery by Amalaric, Chapter 3c (FINAL)

25- penis whipped

‘We really are, for all practical purposes, finished here this evening.’ Brewster’s words, however, rang patently false as Todd hung, newly strung up from a single rope passed through a ring mounted on the ceiling. Brewster had released his bound wrists from the legs of the stool and quickly rebound them tightly together as the dazed and exhausted young jock dimly wondered if his hellish ordeal would ever come to an end. Safely pacified, Todd’s ankles were also released from the stool, only to be re-shackled to a wood plank that functioned as a makeshift spreader bar, once again levering his muscular legs as wide as possible. It was only then that the single rope was looped through the ring on the ceiling, attached to Todd’s bound wrists and hoisted high and tight. He stood now in a different mode of invasive uncomfortable display, an inverted ‘Y’ in the center of the cubicle. The effect of this position, with arms closely bound together and stretched upward to duplicate the effect on Todd’s torso achieved by the punishment frame, but with his legs spread painfully wide, was to highlight a single aspect of his masculine anatomy; the magnificent cock and low slung balls dangling between his legs. Brewster opened a cabinet and produced a small rectangular box. Anglo-Indian, well over a hundred years old; a sedeli micro-mosaic glove box of exquisite artistry. Reverently, he lifted the lid of the box and inside was a miniature whip, almost toy-like but perfect in every detail. Brewster removed the small whip- supple leather strands not more than six inches in length with a disproportionately large handle of carved ebony almost as long- and…shrugged. Turning toward Todd stretched uncomfortably on nude display, he shook his head and, in a low voice, offered a kind of apology, ‘You should know, young man, that this evening’s requirements have been met in full. You have been soundly and thoroughly whipped as a man should be for rendered offences and those offences have been duly remitted. The file on Officer Orford’s desk will never again see the light of day. Furthermore, your testicles have been drained, initiating a course of therapy that I hope you continue into the future…but,’ he paused, minimally regretful, ‘I had mentioned, back on the day you were disciplined in front of the Beginning Algebra class, that the penis whip was particularly effective, making a lasting impression on a recalcitrant young man, though it required a certain amount of practiced skill. If it weren’t for the unseasoned presence of Dylan and Bobby (he lied), I would have forgone this demonstration…but…’ Todd merely bent his handsome blond head in resigned acceptance, unsurprised by any twist of fate in Brewster’s labyrinthine basement. Continue reading