Tuesday, September 11, 2018


Author's Note: If you arrived here expecting a story about dirt bike racing, may I suggest you search elsewhere? Because what follows has nothing at all to do with that.

Disclaimer: The following story is a purely fictional account. Any relationship to any real person living or dead is coincidental. The narrative contains non-consensual male-on-male sex, torture, and death. It is intended for mature readers who wish to view such material, and for whom it is legal to do so. The author in no way condones or promotes such acts in real life.

Copyright © 2018 by POW. For spam prevention, an animal name has been added to the author's e-mail address. Remove the animal name to get the actual address: POWauthor zebra at yahoo dot com. This story may be freely copied and distributed so long as it is copied in its entirety, unchanged, including the author credit information and disclaimer. Other POW stories are available at http://powauthor.blogspot.com. The author welcomes feedback.


The doorbell rang and the young twerp who stood there on the front step looked exactly like his picture. He had a nice build, though he was a bit slimmer than my ideal - I prefer men with a bit more meat on their frames. He looked youngish; I could easily believe him to be the 28 he claimed to be when we were chatting online. He was a bit shorter than me and stood peering at me through glasses from under the hood of a very soggy jacket. He was not handsome, not by any stretch. His jaw, in particular, seemed like it had recessed somehow into his neck, leaving his face looking a bit squashed on the bottom. But while my first choice would have been someone a tad taller, more muscular, and more symmetric of feature than Darryl, I was not about to say "ehhhhh, no thanks, I'll wait till someone better comes along". I would readily settle for what I could see before me. Heck, I'd settle for much less, even - it's not every day that a man shows up at my door offering to let me torture him to death.

I opened the door and stared at him. "I'm here," he said nervously, holding up a very familiar index card and cautiously fluttering it like a sad, rain-soaked flag.

"I see that," I said, opening the door wider. "Come in."

He sagged in visible relief and words poured out of him in a rush as he stepped inside. "I was pretty sure this was the right... the lamppost matched... I did it just like I... no one could have followed me, no one knows... I didn't even bring my phone, left it in Greensboro, it... and the computer is set to put up some Facebook posts automatically on time delay and the... oh, and I had the hood up the whole time so nobody..."

"Stop," I told him, to no avail. The flood of words continued as he looked for a place to put the dripping jacket he had taken off his wiry frame and that was now occupying one of his hands, preventing him from supplementing his fast-flowing words with matching gestures. "I took a taxi, not an uber, and I paid cash, oh not all the way, I took a bus from Greensboro, the taxi was just from Newark to Morris... that mall and I found the bookstore and the book and... see here are the directions you left! And I walked from..."

"STOP!" I said again, more forcefully. He shut up then. I took the jacket from him and hung it up in the nearby hall closet nearby. He stood in the entryway, eyes flitting around the room, looking everywhere except at me while I stared at him.

"I have to admit," I finally said, "that I was not expecting you today. Or ever, really. Don't get me wrong, I'm delighted you're here. Just... surprised. No, don't talk!" because it was clear he was about to launch into another ramble. "Let's do this with yes/no questions, OK? You just nod or shake your head."

He nodded mutely.

"OK. First question. You are Darryl, AKA 'slave4harshsir', right?"

Another nod.

"And you came here from Greensboro in a way that you believe is untraceable?"

A vigorous nod this time.

"Because of what we talked about online? And then later over the phone?"

I could see the words were just aching to burst from his lips. He was nodding so hard I thought he'd snap his skinny neck.

"OK. Why don't you tell me, then, in just one sentence, please, one sentence only... why are you here?"

It visibly cost him to limit his thoughts down to a single sentence, but after a short delay he said, "I want to ride your motocross."

Truly, I had no idea the kid would actually want to go through with it. Of all the guys I've chatted up, none of them have ever wanted to actually meet in person. I give off a scary vibe, I admit it. The fantasies I weave are about as dark as they get. And while there are a lot of guys who get turned on by thinking about themselves being tortured to death, the number who actually want to meet with me to live out one of those fantasies has so far been zero. I can't blame them. A lot of the fantasies I spin involve mindfucks. Guys getting in over their heads, getting swept up in events far beyond what they bargained for once it's too late to back out. No one wants to take the chance that I might turn out to be a psychopath who agrees to set up a nice, sane, healthy, consensual scene and then turns into a monster once the victim is chained up and helpless.

And yet... here was Darryl.

This put me into a bit of a quandary because truth be told, I was just as much of a poser as the guys I'd flirted with. I knew I'd never have to deliver on the ideas I came up with, so it was easy to let my imagination soar. I'd spin out elaborate scenes of pain and horror and the guy on the other end and I would both get nice and steamed up, squirt out a pair of loads, and then be on our separate ways. Darryl was just one more of those when we first crossed paths. He was using the handle "slave4harshsir". We chatted a bit, discovered a shared interest in crucifixion. I wove a tale of what would happen if he were to come visit me, etc. etc. Rocks were gotten off and that was the end of it.

It was a few months later that I posted an update showing my latest home construction project. A friend of a friend of mine owns an auto body shop and was replacing the lifts, which were fine, just old and slow. Through my buddy, I asked what the owner was planning to do with the old ones and he said he was just going to scrap them. He had no idea what use I could possibly have for them when I asked him if I could take them off his hands, but New Jersey is filled with practical people - if I was the kind of idiot who was willing to relieve him of a few bulky, heavy chunks of useless crap, he was not going to discourage me.

So I tinkered in my basement for a few weeks and then, one day in February, I had a piece of equipment I was quite proud of. I was not expecting it to ever see use - I just like working with my hands. I took a few photos of it and shared them, and that's when slave4harshsir got back in touch. I figured we'd have another mutual jerk-off session around it, which we did, and that would be the end again.

But he found me again the next day. And the next. And he wanted to speak by phone so he could convince me that he was for real, he was genuinely interested. And I'll be honest, it was intriguing to imagine actually putting my construction to its intended use. Not that I got my hopes up - I kept my expectations realistic. He would never follow through, or he would start to and then back out. It was late at night so I told him to give me his number and I'd call him the next morning. Our local mall still has a pair of coin-operated pay phones in it, so at 10:00 I merged in with the stream of retirees who like to walk the halls, getting their exercise in before the shoppers come out in force. I stood there at the pay phone and gave "slave4harshsir" a call, telling him to call me back at whatever number had just showed up on his caller ID. He did. We spoke for about fifteen minutes. Well, he spoke for thirteen and a half of them, describing what he was looking for in fairly repetitive detail and lots of stop-and-start sentences. What he was looking for was hot stuff, all right, hot enough that there was a point when I had to snuggle up close to the pay phone to hide the bulge in my pants.

When I was finally able to break in, I told him how it would work. I explained my fetish for privacy and untraceability and said that if he really, truly, wanted to find me, that he should come to the Headquarters Plaza mall in Morristown, New Jersey, and find the Barnes and Noble inside. In the store, he should look for the tech section and find a book called "Mastering Visual BASIC 6.0". Between pages 82 and 83 would be a note with further instructions. He was to follow the instructions and bring the note with him. I had him repeat it back to me to make sure he got it right. Then I hung up.

I didn't think anything would come of it, but just to be duly diligent I went up to the second floor and found the dusty old tome, still just as dusty as it had been the last time I had browsed through that section. VB6 had been a hot new thing... in 1998. These days, not so much. One of these decades, the store staff would probably get around to tossing out a worthless old thing no one would ever buy, but for the moment it was still sitting on its shelf. I put the index card with the directions inside. The instructions were clear, but vague. No street names, no addresses. Just things like "leave the mall by the Cinnabon exit" and "turn right at the third street" and "the house with a black and copper lamppost by the front walk".

And son of a gun if he didn't turn up one wet March day!

He was all fired up to start that day, that moment. There was an almost manic gleam in his eye, which I found a bit alarming. Impulsiveness is a good way to get yourself hurt or killed. Which, in this case, was exactly what he intended, but still, I wasn't ready to dive right in. Darryl may have been working himself up for this all the way from Greensboro, but it was a total surprise to me and I needed a little time to mentally adjust.

I told him we were going to wait two weeks before we did anything serious. He was disappointed, but acquiesced because he had to - it was my toy! I figured two weeks should be enough time for pursuit to arrive if there was going to be any. He indeed did not have any electronic gadgets on him, so could not be traced that way. And I knew what my own records of our correspondence contained, and though he asked and pleaded to come visit me, all the written records showed me as believing it was just part of the fantasy we had spun together. It was only over the phone that I had told him how to actually get here.

But I had no idea who else he might have talked to, or what social media he might use and what he might have said there. So I went out one day and used the local library's internet connection to see what I could find. He willingly - and without me prompting it at all - gave me the passwords to his various accounts so I could check for myself. That hardly seemed safe, though, to log in as him from my own town, so I just looked at what was publicly available. Reassuringly, there was nothing that mentioned me, at least, not that I could find. It was tempting to use the credentials he had provided, but I held back. If he was telling the truth, then as far as law enforcement was concerned, he was still in Greensboro. Doing anything to give evidence otherwise would be counterproductive. And if he was lying, well... nothing illegal was going to happen for two weeks (if anything illegal was going to happen at all), so I had nothing to worry about.

His time-delayed Facebook posts were only going to happen for the first three days of his absence. He had spent one day traveling, so by the time he had been in my home for two days, his disappearance would be official. That day passed, and the next, and the one after that. We passed the time with some consensual bondage play, agreeing that the two-week waiting period I was imposing was all part of the scene - this was his time on death row. I like to switch, but under these circumstances that would not be advisable, so I was only the tie-er, never the tie-ee.

It was a strange time, that two-week cooling-off period. I was sometimes jailer, sometimes roommate, and the power dynamic flowed and swirled between those two roles. He was a prisoner, but a willing one, so when I needed to go to work or go fetch some groceries, I would leave him chained to the bed in the guest bedroom, but with the key within his reach. He had no desire to escape, but even so, it's wise to plan for unexpected events. His carefully-choreographed plans for his demise did not include getting caught in an accidental house fire, for instance. So he had access to the key to his chains, but it was at the bottom of a full jar of vegetable oil. Using the key would leave a large mess that would make it obvious he had done so. He never did, not once.

Other times, when I was home, he would have free run of the house, totally unconfined. We'd sit on the sofa and watch the news or a movie or porn and idly talk. We had several long conversations (made longer because of his elliptical speaking style) in which I tried to understand his motivations. I never did, even though he tried to explain. The conversations went something like this:

Me: "Is it because you're sick? You have some kind of cancer that's going to destroy your quality of life and you want to go out on your own terms?"

Darryl: "No. At least, not that I... although you never really know, right? I mean, we're all dying, slowly, and we can't... I had a lump taken out once, but it wasn't anything... they told me it was just fatty tissue... in my back... it wasn't malignant, but I worried it might because my dad? Yeah, skin cancer that went to his lungs and pancreas, but he was older, he was over 60..." (which, by the way, may seem like "older" to him but from my perspective it's not that far away).

Me: "But... why you? Why now?"

Darryl: "It's hard to explain... this is just... it's two of my favorite fantasies, and at the same... because it never occurred to me that you could do them both at... I mean it's not really both, but it's kind of like that... you get the sensations of each one, but sort of at the same time? Even though they're not really the same... but it never occurred to me to try to combine the two, but the moment I saw your... well, I knew, I just knew right then. It's hard to explain... I just know that this is what I'm supposed... this is what feels... you know what I'm saying? This is, like, everything I've hoped for..."

No, I didn't understand. Not at all, and his explanations didn't make his thought process any clearer to me. But then, I wasn't him.

Me: "You do understand that this will kill you, right? You will die. This is not any kind of 'Risk-Aware Consensual Kink' stuff, this is 100% guaranteed mortality. Why the fuck do you want to do that?"

Darryl: "All I can say is like I said... I just know this is right. This is the right time, this is the right way... the right method... I thought about it for a long time and I am totally ready, I'm not going to change my mind now, it's already irreversible, right? I'm on death row! If the... I bet back home people are already starting to wonder... but there's no going back. They think I just disappeared, and I... so it's like it's already happened, right? So until it really does happen it's like I'm not really here, see? Like I'm watching it happen after the fact, even though that can't... because I couldn't be, right?"

I have to say: I do not understand the mindset of the suicide-attempter. To me it makes no sense at all to end your own existence. I don't understand the draw that it had for him. But the draw was there, it was real, and he seemed sane enough. His words were hard to understand... no, that's not true. His individual words were easy enough to comprehend. It was his sentences - or rather, his sentence fragments - that were so unclear. Over time I got the sense that his thoughts flew so fast that his tongue couldn't keep up. But those thoughts were perfectly rational, perfectly consistent: he wanted to die a slow, agonizing death at the hands of a sadist who would relish his suffering. Dying a slow, agonizing death is something he could have arranged on his own, but for him it was crucial to the scene that he have an observer, and not an impartial observer. He needed to have someone there who would enjoy the experience of watching him suffer and die. Well, I certainly fit that bill.

So we spent the two-weeks both planning the event to come and playing around in anticipation of that day. I kept him cuffed and chained a lot of the time, but made sure to exercise him and feed him well. We both wanted him to be at full strength for the ordeal to come. Five days before the designated time he enjoyed his last orgasm, and I made sure it was a doozy, building him up to it for three long hours. I locked him in chastity after that because we both agreed that he would enjoy the experience more with a few days' worth of sperm built up inside him.

One day before, I started getting into sadist-space, shifting to jailer-mode full-time. No more roommate mode; no more idle chats on the sofa. Just as submissives have a sub-space they get into to help them endure a scene, I find it necessary to get into the proper mindset to really enjoy the proceedings in the dominant role. In real life, I'm a nice guy, fairly gentle, polite, quiet, helpful, well-mannered. The perfect friend or neighbor or coworker. But those traits do not make for a perfect dom. I mean, "quiet" is fine - I get off more on making a sub have to pay attention to my every word and flicker of facial expression than on shouting at him. But "gentle"? "polite"? These are not typically the attributes of a sadist. (I am aware I am generalizing here. I suppose it's possible to gently and quietly remove a man's eyelids. But politely? Not so much.) So I made an effort to stop thinking of him as "Darryl, the guy who showed up on my doorstep, who I've been having casual sex with for the last two weeks, who has a brother back in North Carolina who may or may not already be worrying about him and who will probably be sick to his stomach if I screw up the cleanup stage of this operation and he ever learns what really happened during his brother's final hours" and start thinking of him as "bag of meat with ability to scream".

And when the two weeks were up, I brought him downstairs for the first time since his arrival, when he had insisted on seeing the motocross for himself. This time, he wouldn't be just visiting. This time, his journey down the steps was a one-way trip.

"Strip," I commanded. He dutifully removed his shirt, his sweatpants, his socks, his underwear, until he stood naked before me, goosebumps rising on his skin from the cold air. Even the glasses came off - he had no further need for 20/20 vision.

"Put these on," I told him. One by one, I handed him the cuffs for his wrists. They were very heavy-duty pieces of work, designed more for strength that comfort. They were made of metal loops that encircled each wrist with three chains leading out to form a pyramid over his hand to help distribute the strain more evenly. There was some leather padding around the wrist piece, but it was only a token gesture toward the wearer's well-being, really only relevant to the first ten or fifteen minutes of use. He put each one on and snugged it down.

I put on the leg cuffs myself while he stood meekly waiting. His dick twitched inside its clear plastic case, but could not rise to attention. He was quivering, either from the cool air or from the anticipation, I couldn't tell which. Maybe it was both.

Then I fixed his arms in place on the crossbeam and secured his legs to the sides of the upright. He had a small stepstool to stand on so at this point he was merely standing with his arms outstretched, not in any discomfort at all. I removed the chastity device and fluffed his cock a bit, now that his arms were trapped safely away from it. It puffed up straight away. That must have felt good for him, having his first hard-on in five days. I suspected it wouldn't last very long once things got going.

He got even stiffer as I brought a padlock and some chain over. I pressed his balls down in the sac, slipped the lock around it, added the end link of the chain, and then snapped it shut. Kind, gentle, polite guy that I am, I made sure no skin was pinched in the mechanism of the lock. This was an important part of the scene for him - he wanted to have weight dangling from his testicles while he hung from the cross. No problem; happy to accommodate that request. So I brought over a moderate-sized starter weight and fixed it to the end of the chain, then carefully lowered it down until he was supporting it with his nuts. They stretched down very satisfyingly, tugging his fully-erect dick downward with them.

"Ah, damn, that feels so fuckin' good..." he crooned. I let him savor the sensations for a while, then spoke.

"Now," I said. "This is your absolute last chance to back out. After this, there is no stopping the process. If you are going to change your mind, you have to do it right now. If you want to change this into a consensual scene where I hurt you a bit and you walk away unharmed afterward, we can do that and I will not think any less of you for it. But if you insist on going forward, then you are going forward all the way to the end, no matter how much you plead, no matter how much you beg, no matter how much you scream."

It probably wasn't fair of me to be slowly jacking his dick while I was saying this. I might have biased his decision just a bit in so doing. But he was a grown man and had already made his wishes clear numerous times. I held up the control buttons in front of his face, just under his chin.

"If this is really what you want," I said, "press the red button". (It always confused me why machine shops seem to have their colors reversed. I would think that green would be "make machine go" and red would be "make machine stop". Like traffic lights. But the manufacturers use "green = safe, red = danger", I guess.)

He tested his bonds a bit, breathed deeply a couple of times, and then brought his chin down on the button. A gentle hum filled the air.

I knocked the stool out from under his feet. He sagged down far enough that his toes brushed the floor, but not enough that he could put any weight on them. He was crucified.

As usual for the first few minutes of a crucifixion, the victim was in no real discomfort in the beginning. Darryl - the meat - held his legs straight and supported his weight on them. He was pretty taut already; I hadn't left much slack in the arrangement of his limbs. His arms were just slightly angled from horizontal. If he were to let his knees bend, his shoulders would drop a little bit down toward more of a Y shape than a T, but for now he was standing as upright as he could. I kept stroking his still-hard cock just enough to keep his attention, not enough to bring him anywhere close to an unwanted climax. He had his eyes closed and his head leaned back against the upright post, knowing he had just committed himself to an agonizingly painful death, loving the pull of his own weight on his limbs and the extra weight on his balls, satisfied in some sick way that he was finally living out his fantasy.

In the course of any other crucifixon (and yes, I have attended a few, though never at my own house), the scene would last about twenty or thirty minutes. After five, he would begin to feel the discomfort. After ten, he would be enduring serious suffering as he either fought to support his weight on his fast-tiring legs or hung painfully from his stretched-out arms. After fifteen, he would be pleading for release and beyond that, it was just a matter of enduring the minutes one at a time. For me, on the outside looking in, each minute would take sixty seconds to pass just like always. But for the victim, hanging in agony, time would dilate such that each minute would take twice as long to pass as the one before. His last minute on the cross would feel longer than the first fifteen put together.

This was not an ordinary crucifixion, though. This was my motocross.

What I had done was taken the hydraulic tubes from the body shop's retired lifts and assembled them into a cross. One of the tubes formed the upright. On top of it rested the other tube, horizontally, with another short bit of upright attached on top of that. Unlike most crosses, which simply stood there and let the victim's weight and gravity do all the work, this cross could move. It could grow. And that is what it was doing, in teeny-tiny increments.

At the rate of two millimeters per minute, far slower than the minute hand of a clock moved, the horizontal post was expanding. Darryl's hands were fixed to opposite ends, and so as it expanded, the distance between his wrists would also expand. And the vertical beam was expanding at the same rate, so the distance between his ankles and the crossbeam that held his arms was also increasing by two millimeters for every minute that passed.

The motocross! It's a cross, it's a rack! This was what had enticed Darryl to abandon his ordinary life and travel a couple hundred miles north to come find me. This was the combination of torments that he had never dreamed of combining. This was what he had found so irresistible. My little home construction project - two medieval torture-execution methods in one.

The tubes were strong enough to support the weight of a car; the chains and restraints were made of thick steel. None of them were going to be the weak link. When the hydraulic tubes expanded to the point that something had to give way, what gave way was not going to be the cross or the restraints. What gave way was going to be: the meat. In half an hour, the bar holding his arms was going to be longer by about the width of my fist. And it was going to be farther above his ankles by that same amount. Thirty minutes later, there would be two fists' worth of additional space. And so on. The only thing his body would be able to do to fill that extra space would be: st-r--e---t----c--------h.

A few minutes in, I stopped stroking the meat's dick and started working on my own. His cock stayed pointing upward for a minute or two, then started to gently deflate and droop. The flood of words that had marked his stay until now had finally slowed to a trickle. The only sounds he made were grunts and explosive releases of breath and the occasional "damn, I can't believe this is actually happening".

As I mentioned a time or two before, I did not understand this mentality. A victim who wanted to be hurt? A submissive so depraved as to actually want to snuff himself? Mostly for his own sense of fulfillment (I had to assume), but part of that fulfillment involved having a sadist there, watching him and relishing his torment? That was a role I was happy to fulfill, but it was... weird. My fantasies all involved pushing the victim to places he didn't want to go. My dick didn't quite know how to react to a man who chose suffering voluntarily. It rose partway as I fondled it, watching Darryl hanging in front of me, and I was enjoying the scene for sure. But it was just... well, as I said before: weird.

By five minutes in, the victim was feeling it. His toes no longer brushed the floor. His arms had been pulled one centimeter further apart and his shoulders had been lifted that same distance higher. His legs were still holding him up, but he was clearly feeling the burn of having been working his thigh muscles steadily. He wanted to rest them, to lock his knees, to find some relief. There wasn't going to be any. On top of that, his nuts were still bearing the burden of the weight that swung beneath them every time he shifted position. Sweat had started to bead on his forehead, but he was still stoically enduring the challenge. For the time being, at least. I figured eventually he was going to stop moaning and start screaming. My money was on the ten-minute mark.

And yet he was still manfully taking it by the eight-minute point. By then the work demanded of his legs was starting to wear on him. With every passing second their job would become tougher and tougher. This was true of an ordinary crucifixion but even more so on my motocross. But he was still happily in his sub-space, powering through the increasing discomfort.

And my dick was totally soft! What the heck??? Somehow, this was not working for me.

If you had asked me at any point in the past "how would your dick feel if you had a not-unattractive man hung up on a cross in front of you, totally in your control?" I would have said "solid as steel!", no question. Yet here I was, in that exact circumstance, and I just wasn't feeling it. And as the minutes passed and my dick remained stubbornly unengorged, I began to suspect that the only possible explanation was: it was because the guy wanted it. I stood there, impassively watching as he writhed and squirmed, and I realized I was starting to resent the meat for his failure to suffer in a satisfying way. Here I had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity handed to me, and it was being wasted. The victim's attitude was ruining my enjoyment, and there was no way, none at all, that I would ever get a chance to do this a second time.

It dawned on me that if I was going to get any satisfaction out of this at all, if I was going to have any hope of enjoying this scene myself, then something was going to have to change. I was going to have to break him out of his sub-space. I thought for another minute or so while he maintained his posture of brave endurance, then decided on a course of action that just might do what I needed.

Over the course of our conversations during his time on "death row", both in jailer-mode and in roommate-mode, he had revealed various aspects of his fantasies to me. He had a very clear mental image of how his death should play out. Things like the ball weight and the observer were must-haves, but some variation was possible. Tit clamps or no tit clamps? Blindfold or no blindfold? Gag or no gag, outdoors or in, one crucifier or a crowd? He and I would both have been fine going either way with any of these options, and we had talked through the finer points of each at great length (and more than one orgasm). He kept coming back to the ball weight, though. The ball weight was essential. What I realized at that point, watching him suffering so unsatisfyingly, was an implication that had gone unspoken during any of our conversations: a ball weight required balls from which to hang the weight, no? Following that chain of thought ended in only one logical conclusion. And once I'd thought of it, I had to try it. There was no guarantee that the meat would be blown out of his sub-space at the proposal I was developing in my head, but it was a possibility worth exploring.

So I bent down and fastened the other end of the ball chain to a point on the upright between his ankles. The weight on the chain was already pulling his balls pretty far down. I had to tug them a bit lower to make the attachment happen, securing the end in place to ensure they would never, ever have the opportunity to rise any higher than they were at that moment. He groaned at first in a happy, satisfied way at the sudden increase in strain, but when he looked down and realized what I had done, the groan changed tone, and I could tell he was starting to get nervous. I had deviated from the script, and now he had to be wondering: what else might I change now that he had no power to stop me? He didn't say anything and neither did I. I just took the now-superfluous weight off and tossed it aside.

Right around that point, the ten-minute mark, he sagged for the first time. He totally let his legs go limp and hung entirely from his arms. This took a bit of strain off his legs and his balls, but at the cost of increasing the pain in his arms. These were now stretched out two centimeters farther apart than where they had started. There was still room to go before he lost all slack, but that slack was steadily disappearing, and he'd be feeling it in his chest. And once he was done resting his legs, he would find that they would have to work even harder to support his weight because he wouldn't want to push himself all the way to vertical now that his nuts were set at a fixed height. Trying to lift himself higher would only yank his nuts lower, so in addition to chest pain and leg exhaustion he would also have to balance groin pull. His moans were starting to sound a little less pleasure-filled, but he was still pretty far from the breaking point. Clearly he really did get off on living out this fantasy, and when he stood back up again his dick was still semi-hard, though with his balls being yanked so cruelly downward it wouldn't have risen above horizontal even if it had been fully erect.

It seemed I was on the right track, but I still needed more to break him down. I grabbed a shoelace and tied it tight around the base of his half-hard cock. The meat was not happy about this second deviation from the script we had so carefully worked out over the past two weeks. His eyes really went wide, though, when I went upstairs and returned with a long, wickedly-sharp knife from the kitchen, and I knew I was on to something. His bucking and thrashing tripled in intensity and he shouted at me that no, no, this wasn't part of the plan, I couldn't do it, I had to stop, stop, stop...

This is where "quiet" works for me as a sadist. I could have explained to him: I don't care that we didn't agree to it beforehand, I don't care that you don't like it, I don't care that it doesn't fit your image of the way your death scene should play out. But I didn't. My silence communicated all that for me far more effectively than words could. My silence told him not only that I am the one who decides how he will suffer, but also that he was not relevant enough to my plans for me to bother explaining them to him.

I let him wait another minute or so while I played with the knife, running the point along his dick, pressing and sliding. I was willing to bet he wasn't feeling the pain of the cross at all at that point, even though he had been hanging for fifteen minutes by then. The fear and adrenaline surging through his system at the thought of what I was about to do to his helpless dick would have all his attention focused on that, leaving none to spare for the trivial pain of slowly being ripped apart by gravity. At one point I drew blood and held it up to examine the red stain on the blade, making sure the meat could see it as well without being obvious that I was showing it to him. The fight started to go out of him then and I stopped toying with him.

Gripping his cock in one hand, I placed the blade underneath and slid it sideways while pressing upward. The knife, designed to slice through cow or chicken muscle, had no trouble at all with the softer target it had been assigned. The blood that had been trapped in the part that was now detached spurted out, draining down onto the plastic sheets that I had covered the floor with. A little bit more oozed out of the stump left on the meat's body, but the shoelace worked to keep most of his fluids inside him where they would continue to circulate and keep him from expiring too quickly. I shook as much blood as I could out of the shriveled lump of flesh in my hand and held onto it while I watched his now-completely-different suffering.

"No! No! Oh, fuckindammit, no!" and so on and so on. I couldn't understand half of his complaints because his words were slurring. But he was most definitely complaining now, and that was exactly what my dick wanted to hear. I had succeeded in nudging him out of his sub-space. This was no longer the death fantasy he had spent years imagining. Now he was suffering in a way he had not anticipated, which drained out all the... joy? pleasure? satisfaction? Whatever he used to be deriving from the experience, he no longer was. Now it was just pain with no higher purpose. Unwanted pain, undesired suffering. Which was exactly what I needed. My cock hardened fully as I savored his distress.

He continued to kick up a fuss as the minutes dragged by and the cross continued to expand. He stood and sagged and stood again, over and over in endless cycles. The cruel torture of the cross: the victim is forced to participate in his own agony. Part of his torment is the pain of his tiring muscles. Should be easy to simply stop working those muscles, right? Let them rest? Ah, but then he has to suffer the pain of suspension, of gravity attempting to tear his chest in half, and that is too much to bear and so he forces his exhausted muscles back to work to buy a few more seconds of slightly-reduced discomfort at their expense...

At least, that's how the classic version plays out. The motocross gives the sufferer fewer options. As the slack is taken out of his limbs, the victim has fewer and fewer choices available to him. He loses the ability to decide how to suffer at any given moment and instead simply has to endure what the torture tool dishes out. The cross slowly becomes the rack: pure, immobilized pain.

At the twenty-minute mark the tubes had expanded by four centimeters. There was very little slack left in the meat's arms. His breathing had become rough, which at least cut down on the quantity of his words. And the volume of his screams. When he did speak, it was to beg and plead. "Oh, woe is me, this is not what I meant, not at all, oh, you nasty old man, cutting off my dick like that, oh boo hoo hoo". Not his actual words, of course, but that was the gist of the sentiments he expressed. He also seemed to have some wildly delusional fantasy that his cock could be reattached if we could just get him to a hospital in time. Very droll. Also "get me down this instant, I changed my mind, this has to stop, I don't want to die" and so on and so on. Again, I let my silence speak for me. I wasn't explaining anything to the cross or the restraints or the plastic sheets; why should the meat get any different treatment?

By the thirty-minute point he was not saying much. His arms no longer had any slack in them at all. Further stretching was going to start tearing tissue. Also, he wasn't really supporting his weight on his legs any more. The stretching of his arms had lifted his torso - painfully - higher up on the vertical beam, which had itself expanded during the same time. The result was that the restraints on his ankles were now doing more to hold his feet down than to hold them up. The "rack" aspect of the motocross was starting to dominate over the "cross" aspect. This had an effect on his oxygen supply - his chest and ribs were no longer able to expand and contract naturally, so he had to work to keep air flowing in and out. As I watched, he would go long times without breathing at all - fifteen, twenty seconds, even half a minute once. His breath, when it came, was rushed and intense and satisfyingly full of the sound of agony, but then it would taper off again.

Fortunately, I had anticipated this. It would do no good to have the meat pass out from carbon dioxide buildup in his tissues before we got to the good part. So I strapped a mask on his face, hooked up the hoses, and turned on the ventilator. Now he had a machine breathing for him, forcing air into his lungs and pumping it back out again. It imposed a steady rhythm onto his respiration and soon I could see him perking up from it. His eyes cleared and he looked at me. "Please," he begged. "Please take this off. Just let me die." Well, of course I was going to let him die... eventually. But he was asking me to rush the process, and that was not in my interest at all. So the ventilator stayed on and the meat stayed awake and aware.

A little before the forty-minute mark his left shoulder gave way. I could see the buildup happening for maybe half a minute before it happened - the meat's face went tense and he was clearly fighting some horrendous, agonizing sensation far beyond anything he had encountered before. He made little high-pitched nasal noises... "Nnnngggg! Nnngggggg!" I could only imagine what it must have been like for him - he was feeling his flesh tearing apart and was trying to hold it together by sheer force of will. But the machine was implacable and he could do nothing but endure as his upper arm was slowly, painfully wrenched from its socket. It was gruesomely fascinating to watch, taking place over the span of about five seconds during which his body moved in ways that it simply should not have been able to move. His scream was shrill and nearly silent, but the look in his eyes was loud enough. The squirts of semen from my orgasm hit the floor where they mixed with the smears of blood on the plastic - two different fluids spilled from two different cocks.

And that was kind of a mistake on my part. Orgasms always knock me out of sadist-space. In five seconds, I go from getting turned on by some guy's suffering back to mild-mannered regular-guy me. Regular-guy me is fine with the fantasy of hurting someone for sexual gratification, but to actually do it for real? No. As the last pulses of sperm dribbled out of my dick, the scene before me transformed from "fuck'n hot" to "wait a minute" to "this is sick!". Suddenly, I was horrified. This was just wrong, absolutely, 100% wrong. Even if Darryl had done this to himself willingly, still, I could have tried to talk him out of it. Or declined to be a part of it. Or I could have at least let him play out the script the way he wanted it and not made it all about my satisfaction instead of his. Even now, I had the power to stop it. Disgusted with myself, ashamed, even nauseated to the point where I nearly threw up from the sight and the smell, I wanted to turn the machines off, to take Darryl down and tend his wounds and ease his pain and be an actual decent human being. I almost started to do exactly that.

Then my sadist side stirred itself from its blissful post-orgasmic fog and enlisted the aid of the cold, rational part of me to speak on its behalf while it took a few minutes to recover. The rational part dutifully stepped in and reminded me that there was no way to undo what had been done. Darryl's severed dick was still in my left hand. I dropped it to the floor, recoiling, but there was nothing I could do to magically rejoin it to the rest of him. His left arm had been severely damaged and would also not be easily repaired, if it could be saved at all. And trying to save it meant a trip to a hospital, which meant facing questions that I had no desire to answer. There was really no way out of this scene that would involve Darryl being alive and healthy and whole again and me not in jail. There was no way back. We could only go forward.

And as long as we had to go forward, we might as well go all in. Instead of mercifully ending Darryl's agony with a quick flick of the knife to his throat, I might as well let the motocross tear him apart. Instead of turning off the ventilator and letting him slowly lose consciousness, I might as well leave it on. I would never, ever get an opportunity like this again; how could I not take full advantage of it? It was what Darryl had wanted, after all. More or less. My sadist part and my rational part joined forces and my regular-guy part grudgingly acquiesced to their mutually-agreed plan, setting its quaint notions about ethics and morality down by the roadside and moving on with a last mournful, lingering backward look.

While I had been wrestling with my inner demons, the meat had reached a new temporary equilibrium. Most of his body sagged to the right and his right arm now made a greater angle with the floor as his wrist was repositioned relatively higher compared with his body. His left arm stretched out obscenely far. His skin was still intact, so there was no blood visible outside his body. But there was definitely internal bleeding going on because the skin had begun to darken and swell in the area around the tear. Having torn once, though, that was now the weakest link in the horizontal chain, and so further stretching took place there.

Another twenty minutes passed and the meat stayed alert through all of it. The respirator continued to supply him with oxygen and pump out the CO2, and the time scale of this operation was too short for hunger or thirst to play a significant role. I steadily worked my way back into full-on sadist mode and instead of worrying about how to ease his ordeal, I instead worried that he would expire from internal bleeding before the next major failure event. But he didn't. He hung in there, suffering magnificently all the while, sometimes in tense silence, other times mewing like a kitten, other times crying out as loud as his mask-covered mouth and machine-regulated breathing would let him. The horizontal beam continued to expand, slowly pulling his left arm further and further away from the rest of his body. The skin gradually tautened and I knew that at some point it would have to rip apart. Meanwhile, the vertical beam continued its own expansion. The failure of his left shoulder had granted some slack there, but it was soon taken back up again by the relentless pull.

Right around an hour - 12 centimeters of stretch - he let out a fresh yelp and started twitching. (Twitching was all he could do - he was stretched so tight that no other motion of any significance was possible.) I looked to see what part of him was giving way this time. To my delight, it was his scrotum. The unyielding chain had not expanded a bit, so every bit of vertical motion his body had made from the waist up had been applied to the connection between his balls and his pelvis. They were now held impossibly far down in their sac, looking purple and black and distorted. I couldn't see anything obvious giving way, which eventually made me realize what had happened: the connecting cords must have been stretched past their limit and torn free. The skin of the sac was still intact - it must have had more give available to it - but the balls themselves were now floating untethered inside. The meat was now unmanned in both the cock and the ball department.

It was hard to tell how aware he still was. Clearly he was still feeling pain, but he had stopped trying to talk and didn't respond when I got up in front of his face and tried to catch his attention. So I just waited, watching.

Ten minutes later, his balls tore free completely. And I mean, tore free. There was a sudden wet popping sound while I was distracted watching his left arm, and next thing I knew two white blobs hit the floor in a wash of blood along with the lock and chain that had held them. I quickly went in and tied off the gash that was left behind, though I knew it was only a temporary stopgap. The meat had definitely felt the loss of his balls because he had let out a thin, reedy yelp at the time, but it was clear he wouldn't be lasting much longer. Inspired by the sight, I was sorely tempted to add a few more white droplets of my own to the growing puddle of gore. But I held back, knowing that doing so would would make it impossible for me to have the stomach to see the scene through to the end.

He lasted long enough to be able to feel the moment when his left arm finally came completely free at about one hour and fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, there was just no way to keep him going after that. His now-wide-open brachial artery pumped jet after jet of hot sticky fluid onto the floor as if it were having an orgasm of its own. It went on for a minute or so and then there was just no blood left inside to pump out. So the meat quietly ceased feeling pain and I waited all alone for the last failure to occur. I took the now-unnecessary breathing mask off and then decided to up the speed a bit. With the left arm no longer a factor, the meat was now only attached at his ankles and his right wrist, so a lot of the previous tension was now gone. He sagged down, hanging from his wrist, and it would have taken a long while at two millimeters per minute to get him stretched taut again. So I cranked the rate up to ten. That did the trick in reasonable time. When I had gotten him re-tightened, I slowed the rate back down to normal. A few minutes later, the right shoulder gave way just like the left one had. I fast-forwarded another few centimeters, then slowed again until the skin tore free and the body flopped forward. His head hit the plastic-covered floor and I could hear the skull fracture as it did.

I shut the motocross down.

The resulting tableau was interesting, but it could be improved - both arms were dangling from their restraints, suspended like legs of lamb at a butcher shop. That looked great, but the body was lying on the floor with only the ankles attached to the upright. So I did a little staging work, securing the torso and head to the upright with ropes and using more ropes to angle the arms back toward the shoulders they had until recently been attached to. There was plenty of space separating them, enough to have fit a third arm segment in the gap: hand, forearm, upper-arm-become-middle-arm, space-for-new-upper-arm, shoulder. Then I used strings to attach his cock and each ball to the points they had each been ripped from. The strings were long so the dick and balls swung down around the level of his knees. All in all, it made for a rather appealing photograph, and so I took one. Just one, and just the image - no GPS-coordinate metadata or camera identification or any other privacy-compromising details. The sole bit of physical evidence that this event ever happened. Well, it would be the sole physical evidence once I disposed of the meat and all the fluids he had left behind.

The cleanup was tedious. I needed to get every scrap of mess. Liquids were allowed to dry; solid bits were cut into manageable-sized chunks and went into the freezer. At some point, I would be renting a boat (ostensibly for fishing), and I would be disposing of the various parts in the Atlantic, each one weighted down so nothing would come washing back to shore before nature could take care of the recycling. The plastic sheets would be scrubbed in the salt water until no evidence of him remained.

I suppose it would have been possible to dispose of at least part of him a different way. "Tastes like chicken," I might tell you. But both my regular-guy side and my sadist side would agree that such a line would have no truth behind it. My regular-guy side would know that it's an attempt at gallows humor, a macabre joke, a way of defusing a pretty horrifying situation by trying to find a little bit of lightness somewhere in it. Something funny to joke about in the abstract, knowing that actually eating the flesh of a man I had tortured to death was beyond the pale, not something I would ever, ever do for real.

My sadist side would tell you he tasted more like pork.

Wednesday, May 30, 2018

How To Catch A Wrestler

Disclaimer: The following story is a purely fictional account. Any relationship to any real person living or dead is coincidental. The narrative contains non-consensual male-on-male sex, torture, and death. It is intended for mature readers who wish to view such material, and for whom it is legal to do so. The author in no way condones or promotes such acts in real life.

Copyright © 2018 by POW. For spam prevention, an animal name has been added to the author's e-mail address. Remove the animal name to get the actual address: POWauthor zebra at yahoo dot com. This story may be freely copied and distributed so long as it is copied in its entirety, unchanged, including the author credit information and disclaimer. Other POW stories are available at http://powauthor.blogspot.com. The author welcomes feedback.

How To Catch A Wrestler

(A Wormhole Glass Story)

Author's Note: How To Catch A Wrestler is set in the same world as Ab-dick-tion!, though it is not a direct sequel. It contains spoilers in the first few paragraphs, so if you plan to read Ab-dick-tion!, you should do so before reading How To Catch A Wrestler.

Amateurs. That's why we can't have nice things: amateurs.

I first learned of wormhole glass the way a lot of people did: by seeing Jonah's story plastered all over the place. At first, I was captivated by the events it described. The guy's dick and balls had been physically removed from his body? And yet were still, somehow, connected, but at a distance? The poor sap could feel everything that was done to them, but had no idea where on the planet they might be? And best of all, the fellow who had possession of them evidently enjoyed inflicting pain upon them. Surely this guy was my soulmate! (The tormentor, I mean, not the hapless wretch he had taken control of.) What a genius! I had to find him, had to meet him.

But I had no idea how to do that and so, frustrated, I could only observe the story as it played out. The days dragged on; the story receded into the background of the news feeds. Weeks passed and I stopped following quite so closely and forgot about the whole thing for days at a stretch and then one day - poof - it was the top story again because, oh happy day, Jonah had been reunited with his long-lost jewels and all was well again, the end. Shocked, I read every account I could of how the sadist could possibly have let such a FUBAR happen. Had he somehow been found by the authorities, or even by the victim himself? His position should have been invulnerable; nothing could have compelled him to give up his prize, and the more I read, the more I realized that every indication pointed toward one inescapable conclusion: the so-called sadist had allowed it to happen. Perhaps even outright encouraged it.


If you had in your possession a set of abducted genitals, fully functional and invisibly attached to the brain and body they are associated with, why on earth would you ever voluntarily give them up? This guy had apparently grown bored with torturing a cock and balls and not being able to see the result, and so, instead of inducing their owner to come to him as he could easily have done, he had stashed the package in a place where the owner was able to find it. What's more, there was evidence he had done the same thing at least twice before. What a spectacular failure of the imagination. What a colossal letdown. What a total waste of the limitless possibilities such technology had to offer.

I resolved to do it right.

But that would require getting hold of some wormhole glass, and for all the publicity the story got, the one thing that no one ever mentioned was: what was the source? Where did the boneheaded amateur get his magical goodies from?

It took a lot of sleuthing, but I was able to track down the origin of the substance: a lab in Yeonggwang, South Korea. Researchers there had been investigating a way to extract energy from quantum-scale fluctuations in the vacuum. In the typical way of scientific discoveries from penicillin to post-it notes, the researchers were spectacularly unsuccessful at making any useful progress toward their stated goal, but they sure turned up an interesting side effect. Paired particles, bundled together in perfect alignment, capable of being physically separated and yet still thinking of themselves as "adjacent". There was brief speculation that the devices could be used to cheat Einstein, but a few experiments with lasers showed that light beams entering the wormholes from one side emerged from the other after a time that was exactly equal to the time it would have taken to cross the separating distance the old-fashioned way. So no shortcut to the stars and no grandfather paradox. Still, a nifty gadget all the same.

But how to get some? I was able to find a supplier based in Taiwan. The prices they were asking were astronomical, definitely beyond my price range, but before I could even begin to think about ways to drum up the cash, I received a virtual visit from the FBI. It was both amazing and terrifying - one moment I was running on my treadmill, enjoying the wraparound view of the Tuscan countryside that my iSelf provided through my VR headset; the next I was running in place in a cell with plain white walls and a concrete floor, lit by a single bare bulb overhead. Until that moment, I had no idea that the feds could hijack an iSelf like that, just take control of what I was seeing and hearing. Scary, kind of.

My stride broke and I came to a halt, still standing on my now-stopped treadmill but feeling like the cell was more real than my spare bedroom. There were a pair of agents there, manifesting as crew-cut, no-nonsense types wearing opaque sunglasses. I later figured out they were most likely software, but even now I'm not completely sure. The illusion was very convincing, and I wasn't exactly in a position to conduct a Turing test on them. They informed me that the US government isn't too keen on the national security implications of instantaneous travel; the technology has been banned in this country. I inquired about Jonah, but the agents pointed out that they were there to ask questions, not answer them. My guess is Jonah got unofficially grandfathered in because a) the media loves him and b) he's obviously little more than an amiable buffoon. As long as that lasts, he's safe, but the moment he asks his iSelf anything about "plutonium" or "jihad" or "NAMBLA", he'll find his grandfather status revoked and they'll be all over him. The agents spent about 15 minutes asking me over and over about my interest in the subject. Fortunately, with the story all over the news recently, I just kept saying that was what had caught my attention, that I had no idea the substance was off-limits but now that I knew, gosh, sirs, I would certainly not be going anywhere near it ever again, no sirs! With a final warning, I was abruptly back in Tuscany, standing still in the middle of the road while a virtual breeze ruffled the leaves of equally-virtual olive trees but did nothing to remove the very real and not-completely-exercise-induced sweat from my brow. I whipped the headset off and was forced to admit one thing: the dicknapper may have the style and technique of a boneheaded amateur, but he had done one thing right that I hadn't even thought of: shut the iSelf down and use the old web.

So that's where all future research took place: the safely anonymous internet one-point-oh. That's where I was finally able to learn the secret. It took nine months of dedicated, carefully-anonymized digging, sorting out the tidbits of truth from the flood of disinformation that had been spread, no doubt by the same agency that had paid me a visit. I understood the strategy: a discovery, once made, is impossible to undiscover, and concealing knowledge merely draws attention to the fact that something has been concealed. Sometimes the best way to make sure a forbidden truth doesn't spread is to surround it with a cloud of conflicting falsehoods. Well. There is no danger that I will spread the knowledge any further. I have already used the stuff to perform two abductions, and you haven't heard even a whisper of a rumor that such techno-magical means were involved, have you? That's because I know how to keep secrets, and my victims? Well, they're not in any position to go blabbing to you or to the media. So if you want some wormhole glass yourself, you'll have to do the research on your own.

I will tell you this much: you don't need to build anything expensive like a particle accelerator or a supercooled clean room. I was able to set up my production facility in my own home in rural southern Illinois for a grand total of $35,000 using standard off-the-shelf equipment I ordered from Amazon. The one drawback: it's not fast. My production rate is two square inches per day. Another limitation is that the 3D printer I use is capable of producing sheets of arbitrary length but a maximum of 18 inches in width.

By the time I had the production rig set up, I had already formed a plan for what I wanted to do with it. I would need one large, flat plate to perform the abduction, then various smaller flexible bits for use when entertaining myself with my victim. One large flat plate, 6 feet in length and 18 inches wide: 1,296 square inches, or about a year and nine months of continuous production. Then a few months more to manufacture the smaller miscellaneous bits. My electricity bill pretty much tripled during that time. It was a price worth paying, and still way cheaper than what that Taiwanese outfit wanted.

I used the time while the machine churned out wormholes to set up the play space. Being underground, it required a lot of excavation, but when it was done, it was perfect. Totally soundproof and secure, with a ventilation system and plenty of space to either stretch someone out or scrunch him up. Either in whole or in part.

At last, almost three years after firing it up, the 3D printer finished the last of the miscellaneous parts. I had already installed the large flat plate where it needed to go. Everything was ready. I just needed to wait for the right moment to snatch my victim.

Jaren took three deep breaths and held the third. He stretched his arms up over his head, first the right, pushing it way left until he could feel the pull in his neck, then the left. He windmilled them about three times, jumping lightly in place three times per revolution of his arms while letting out the held breath.

Like almost all athletes, he was superstitious. In his case, the superstition took the form of performing the exact same ritual in the locker room before every single match. He knew it was silly, that it had no impact on whether the team would win or lose, but it felt right to do it, and when he felt right, he competed better, and that was all the justification he needed. Ritual complete, Jaren headed out into the dazzling lights and deafening roar of the gym. This was UO's final home match of the season, and the team had already clinched a spot in the division so today's contest was going to be more of a victory lap than an actual wrestling match. Diepler College had only one decent wrestler, and he wasn't in Jaren's weight class. The guy Jaren was paired up against was solid and showed good grasp of the fundamentals but he was way too slow. Jaren should be able to take him down easily enough... no, never think that way. He scratched his right earlobe three times to undo the thought and rephrased it in his head. Jaren was hoping to be able to take his opponent down easily enough that he could end the season - his final senior-year season - with a pin rather than a victory on technical points.

And that was exactly how it turned out. A mere forty-two seconds after the first round began, the hapless Diepler junior was flat on his back with Jaren holding his shoulders to the mat and his legs helplessly up in the air while the ref counted down the moments to victory. Then Jaren was up on his feet, roaring a testosterone-drenched victory cry while the crowd cheered and the camera flashes exploded one after another in a continual sparkling blur. Ah, god, this was surely the best possible feeling in all the entire world!

Afterward, back in the locker room, he took his time washing and packing, waiting as always for the other members of the team to shower and change and depart so that he could be the last to go. When the room was quiet, he performed his post-match ritual, setting items in his bag just so, placing his towel in the laundry bin with just the right amount of corner draped over the edge. Wearing only underwear, he went over to the mirror on the wall at one end of the row of lockers, where he eyed himself from head to toe. This was the time to analyze what he could improve before the next match: what went well during today's round? What should he do differently next time? Today it was easy, but that wouldn't be the case during the run up to the championships. He had to make sure he didn't allow himself to get complacent.

Physically, he looked OK. He flexed to examine himself in detail. Chest strong, legs ready. Arms looking good, both upper and lower. Shoulders... were they a little smaller than last week? Maybe do a little work there in the weight room.

Ritual completed, he dressed, doused the lights, and headed back to his apartment.

Un. Fucking. Believable. You'd expect to have to pay for porn of such quality.

My intended victim was as predictable as a clock. I had gotten the sense from seeing him on videos that he had a touch of OCD. That fit perfectly with my purposes - such men follow their routines like machines, making it very easy to predict where and when they will be so as to snatch them up. Often they are so hung up on following their patterns and rituals that they ignore warning signs and walk right into traps. Of course, that was not an issue in this case - Jaren had no reason at all to suspect that danger was coming for him, let alone what direction it would come from. His OCD made him easy to predict, but I could have nabbed any of the other members of Jared's team with only slightly more difficulty, or any of the volleyball team or the basketball team or the baseball team... all the major mens' sports at the University of Ohio were held in the same arena and used the same locker room.

But Jaren Waszlowicz was the one I wanted. None of the media announcers could ever say his name without mangling it in some way. It's not hard. The first name follows American English pronunciation rules: JAIR-en. It rhymes with "Karen" and starts with an English "J" sound, not a Slavic "Y" or a Spanish "H" or a Frenchy "ZH". The last name has the pronunciation his Polish grandparents would have used: "VASH-lo-vitch". He was... words can't do him justice. Five feet eleven inches tall, 177 pounds, black hair, intense brown eyes, hard masculine face with just a hint of vulnerability in his unguarded moments. And his muscles! All over every inch of his body, nothing but rock solid, golden sinewy muscles! Skin completely free of blemishes - no piercings, scars, or tattoos, which was terrific, though it would not have been a deal-breaker if he had some. So many men disfigure themselves it's hard to find one who hasn't. But Jaren's body was not marred in any way. At least, not at that time. Later on I made some modifications to him, but that was my prerogative as his owner. He did me the courtesy of providing me with a blank canvas to work on rather than one that had been tainted by some previous artist's inferior efforts.

I could have taken him that day, or any of the times before when he had preened all alone in front of the mirror. But on that day my printer still had about two weeks to go before it finished the last of the small pieces. While I could have made it work without them, I had been patient so far and didn't mind waiting a bit longer. I also kind of wanted to see how my wrestler would do in the upcoming championship matches. He was a magnificent specimen, truly in his element when he was on the mat grappling with some equally sweaty hunk of college-age meat.

National championship. UO was actually in contention for the national championship! And because they were the number one seed in their bracket, the matches would be held at home, in front of the revved-up home crowd.

The team had breezed through the first rounds, brushing aside Hawaii, Stanford, and Minnesota. Jaren had achieved pins against the first two, and a solid technical victory over his Minnesota opponent. Up next: a quarter-final match against Purdue, which UO was expected to win but it was going to be close. Then, assuming they won, they would go up against Nebraska in the semis, and that was going to be tough. Nebraska's program had depth, with talented wrestlers in all weight classes. UO's best could compete with Nebraska's best, but Nebraska's second-best were just as good as their first line, whereas UO's quality dropped off more sharply.

The Purdue contest was, as the analysts predicted, a close one. Milo and David won their matches handily, but Dravendra and Chris lost in the 141- and 149-pound weight classes by an equally wide margin. Then Katz, Ben, and Noah all had tight matchups so the team score was a near tie going as Jaren's round approached.

Three breaths, hold, stretch, stretch, windmill, jump, exhale. The ritual both calmed and energized him and carried him out onto the mat to face his opponent. The guy was good, quick and limber and strong. Jaren picked up a few points of riding time but Purdue scored in turn by forcing Jaren out of the ring twice. Jaren managed an acrobatic scramble early in the second round to avoid a takedown, then later snapped his foot out in a successful inside trip for one of his own. By the start of round three, Jaren had a 1.5 point lead and just had to hang onto his edge long enough for the clock to run out. As satisfying as it was to have an easy early victory like against that Diepler wrestler, it was satisfying in a different way to face an opponent whose skills and athleticism matched his own. They moved through the round as if dancing, each aware of the other's style from the experience of the first two rounds.

Then, disaster.

Without even seeing it coming, Jaren suddenly found himself thrown off balance. Where had the hit come from? The guy had moved like lightning. Jaren spun as he fell toward the mat, trying to land in a way that would prevent his opponent from taking advantage of his momentary lapse, but instead found his right arm trapped uselessly underneath his body and his feet kicking nothing but air. With his free left arm he fought to get a grip that would let him lever himself back into a position of advantage, but slowly, inexorably, he felt his body turned face up and his shoulders moving down toward the mat. There was nothing he could do. He couldn't move any limb that mattered and the limbs that he could move couldn't do so in any way that would offer him any support. He fought to the end because that's what he was trained to do, but he knew what the outcome of the match was going to be long before the ref called it.

Jaren's teammates were supportive. "Great job, man", "no one could have seen that coming", "we still got this", but Jaren knew that last statement wasn't true. If both the remaining UO wrestlers won their matches with pins, then the team score would be high enough to give them the victory. Anything less than that and the slot in the semi-final would go to Purdue. And though no one on the team would ever say it out loud, Jaren knew that it was his loss that was responsible. There was no way Keith and Tyrell would both win so decisively. If Jaren hadn't been thrown, if he had won his match, even if he had lost but less decisively so, then Keith and Tyrell could have just motored through their matches and the team would have marched slow and steady to the semi-finals. Now, that was impossible. The post-season was done, as was his college wrestling career.

Back in the locker room, he had to wait longer than usual for the locker room to empty out. For the seniors this was the end, but even the underclassmen who would be coming back next year didn't want to let go of the moment and so no one was in a hurry to leave. Jaren actually considered forgoing his post-match ritual - what was the point? There wasn't going to be a next time! But he still found reasons to linger, shooting the shit with the guys until one by one, they finally departed and the room was clear.

Line the items up in the bag, hang the towel just so on the laundry bin, over to the mirror. He looked... he looked defeated. There was no other word for it. Shoulders sagged, spine slumped. He flexed a few times, but there was no point. His body was no longer going to be a tool for taking down opponents and earning glory for himself and his school. He turned to go.

Motion caught his attention. He glanced back toward the mirror. Something was moving in a way that just was not natural. Adrenaline surged in his veins as he caught a glimpse of his reflection over his shoulder, only it wasn't behaving the way a reflection should, copying his every move. Instead, his reflection was moving on its own, independently of him. In the brief moment that it took him to notice and process the wrongness, he stood paralyzed, not knowing how to react. As he stood in shocked surprise, his reflection stepped right out of the mirror and came toward him, staying behind him and out of clear sight. By the time his muscles unfroze and he could move again, the skin of his reflection was pressed right up against his back, feeling cool as if the body was made of the glass from the mirror. It held something, some kind of cloth, up against Jaren's nose and mouth right as he was inhaling a gasp of surprise. A powerful smell filled his sinuses. He grabbed at the cloth and fought to pull it away, but his arms were heavier than they should be, and weaker. Over the top of the cloth, still pressed firmly against his face, he could see the space where the mirror used to hang on the wall. It was a gaping black emptiness now, no longer reflecting the white and blue of the locker room. Somehow the glass had come to life and turned into some monstrous simulation of himself, a simulation that was now attacking him from behind and would very likely win unless he could do something about in the next few seconds only his arms were soooo heavy and his legs weren't working so well either and didn't seem to want to hold him up any more...

The black emptiness swelled out from where the mirror used to be, spreading up and down and to both sides until it filled his entire vision.

Jaren wouldn't tell me afterward what the moment of his abduction was like from his perspective, but I could guess. The wormhole layer - infinitesimally small - was fastened to the front of an actual mirror, but because of the physics involved, the mirror didn't actually reflect any light. Instead, the wormholes passed the light through to whatever was on the other side.

So I made sure that what was on the other side was: a mirror. Or most of a mirror. It was silvered in such a way as to reflect about 95% of the incoming light and pass 5% through. The mirror was pressed up against the wall of the underground play space that I had added on under the back yard. I kept the room dark so no light from my end would leak back the other way into the UO locker room. And I stayed quiet because sound passes through wormholes as readily as light and objects. Result: I could see and hear everything that happened in the UO locker room. I could watch the teams prepping for their matches and celebrating or mourning afterward. I could watch my Jaren primp and preen mere inches away from me, even though he and I were separated by 300 miles when measured more conventionally. And when the time was right, I slid my mirror aside - silently on oiled bearings - and stepped through from my world into his.

My physique was not as robust as his, though I do keep myself in shape. And I am an inch or two taller than he is. But the match was close enough that what he would have seen out of the corner of his eye was his own reflection emerging toward him from out of the glass. Straight out of a horror movie, right? The reflection comes to life, steps out of the mirror, and attacks the terrified young hunk, eek, the girls in the theater all scream and snuggle up against their dates for comfort. Only this was real. As the mirror slid aside, my dark lair would have appeared to him, with me standing in the door. With the glass out of the way, I stepped through, covering the distance from southern Illinois to Dayton, Ohio, in a single heartbeat. I caught him from behind as he was turning away and clamped the chloroform over his face. He made no sound, but long seconds elapsed as he flailed frantically, almost dislodging himself from my grip until the fumes took effect and his consciousness shut down.

He was heavy! I was expecting him to be, but the reality still caught me off guard. I dragged him one step toward the mirror, then pulled him through after me, careful to make sure every bit of his body fit through the 18-inch-wide gap that separated his world from mine. Confident he would stay out for at least a few minutes, I stepped back into Dayton, grabbed his gym bag, closed his locker door exactly as he would have done himself, turned off the lights, and walked back to my playroom. I slid the mirror back in place to cover the wormhole plate. In thirty minutes or so I would have the luxury of time to be able to take that down and move it someplace else entirely lest the sound of screaming be audible on the other side, but for now it was enough to just get it covered.

First up: remove the head. That meant one flexible piece of wormhole glass - or plastic, actually; "glass" is such a misnomer and yet that's the name that stuck - down over his head as he lay insensate on the floor. Snip the edges to fit the contours of his neck, then gently, carefully seal them in place by attaching them to the skin. Then separate the two pieces. Result: one bodiless head and one headless body, each still attached to the other through the magic of the wormholes, but now able to be separated by any distance. It would be interesting to see what would happen if I were able to get the two bits of my toy far enough apart that the light-speed delay would start to become a factor. If I brought his head to Australia and left his body here, would both continue to function? Or would the signals from his neurons get disrupted enough by the slight delay crossing the gap to make a difference? What if I sent his head to the moon? To Mars?

Those were questions for the future. Right now my captive was starting to stir, so I placed the head on its side facing away and continued to work on the body. Right hand next, same system: bring a flexible piece down over the hand, trim away the excess, seal up the edges, and dislodge. I put the hand into a metal box, closed the lid, and fixed a combination lock to it. (Combination 6941, if you're interested.) The box was large enough that he could stretch his fingers out or clench his fist; I had considered using something smaller but while that would have provided more physical torture by forcing him to hold a single position, I kind of liked the psychological torment of the helplessness he would feel by having the full range of motion of his hand available to him, but still being utterly unable to do anything with that freedom.

Jonah's story suggests that his captor - that bumbling oaf - had done things the hard, painful way. (Not that hard and painful is a bad thing, but things should be hard and painful on the victim, not the torturer.) Apparently his method of detaching Jonah's dick and balls was to slide the wormhole glass in sideways through the tissue. Wormholes alone would have gone in with no problem, but in order to be separable, each side has to be attached to a backing plate, and pushing those into a body is going to hurt and it takes a long time. My way is much faster and easier. Perhaps the guy didn't know you could trim them? It's a neat trick, actually. As long as both pieces are lined up, you can cut through the backing material with ordinary scissors. Separate the two halves, though, and they become uncuttable - the sharp edge on the backing plate side has nothing to press against, because the sharp edge on the wormhole side simply passes through the wormholes.

By now Jaren was fully awake and thrashing. He was completely disoriented - his body was lying on its back but his head was on its side facing a wall. I watched him flex his neck muscles, trying to lift his head or turn it to the side. Glancing over at the head, I could see the same flexing taking place on that side of the break, but since the two halves were not physically connected, the flexing didn't actually result in movement of the head. He tried moving his body around too, but I was sitting on top of him. Based on the noises he was making, he did not yet realize that his body had been divided into three (so far) parts, because he kept trying to reach up and touch his face, or me, or to try to push me off of him. But only his left hand was capable of getting a grip on me: his right was grasping at nothing in its box even as the arm was aimed at my throat.

I sat on his left arm to hold it in place while I set to work removing that hand. It took a little longer because he was fighting in earnest now. I had to take a break and tie his feet and his knees together to reduce his leverage, but once that was taken care of I was able to get the wormholes in place on his remaining wrist and seal them off. Pop went the hand into a matching box (combination 4084), and I judged myself safe. At this point I took the mirror down, peeled the layer of wormhole glass off the wall and carried it out of the playroom and into the house, then put the mirror back up, this time facing the playroom because it's nice sometimes to be able to watch yourself work.

Then I untied Jaren's ankles and went to the corner to pick up his head. If his hair had been longer, I could have lifted him that way, but he kept it short, which looked really sexy but was inconvenient for lifting purposes. Fortunately, I had a face cage made of leather straps that I had modified by adding a bottom where ordinarily there would be an opening for the neck to protrude through. There were handles conveniently located on top, in back, and by both ears. I fastened the cage in place around him while he gibbered and yelped, then lifted him up and turned him to face me.

"Hi, Jaren. I'm Adam. I'd shake your hand, but it's in that box over there on that shelf. Welcome to your new life!"

"What the... how... fuck... this can't... my head, what've you done to my head?!?"

"Shhhhhh, it's OK, it's OK," I told him, pressing his lips with my finger. "You're fine. Everything that I've done to you is totally reversible. When I'm done with you, you can go right back to normal." Several layers of lies, there, but it's important to give a victim hope. Otherwise they get listless and unresponsive and sometimes even suicidal, which is a waste.

I walked over to the light switch and brightened the bulbs a bit, carrying his head with me. I think he found the motion distressing because he started making nauseous-sounding noises, so I set him down on the shelf next to his hands. That conveniently placed his head right about the height it would have been if it were still attached to his body and he were standing up, with his eyes just an inch or two below mine. "See over there?" I said. "That's your body. It's totally fine. Why don't you go ahead and sit up, huh?"

He did. I watched the play of discovery on his face (tinged with a hint of nausea) as he figured out that everything in his body still worked the way it always had, only he was viewing it from a distance instead of right on top. He fumbled a bit as he tried to use his hands to push himself up but eventually figured out how to use his wrist stumps instead. Soon his headless, handless body was sitting up on the floor while his hands made scratching noises in their boxes and his head made moaning noises on the shelf next to them. "Oh god oh god oh god, what the fuck is happening..."

"You want to try standing?" I asked. He did, and promptly fell back to the floor. This happened several times - apparently balancing is really hard without reliable sensations from your inner ear to help with the process. Eventually he got it by spreading his feet wide and planting his wrists on the floor in front of him in a squatting position. He was then able to lift straight up from there and hold an upright position for several seconds before tipping backward and landing on his butt. Man, what a body! He even made falling down look sexy.

"That's OK, you'll get it with practice," I said.

"WHY???" he shouted. "WHY DID YOU DO THIS?!!?" His body started crawling across the floor toward where I stood. I let him draw near and pulled him to a standing position next to me. There we stood: me, his body (pressed against mine, naked torso touching naked torso), and, an arm's length away, his head.

"Mmm..." I mused. "There are a lot of reasons, but they all boil down to one, really: you are one sexy fucker and I want you."

"You... you want... ah, shit, man, no, I'm not into that."

I laughed out loud. "Ha! You say that like it matters!" I leaned down and took one of his nipples into my mouth, as I had been yearning to do for years, ever since I first saw him wrestle when he was an 18-year-old freshman, full of promise and talent. It was delicious, plump and meaty and tender between my teeth, tasting of freshly showered skin. He lurched away, batting ineffectively at me with his arm stumps, and I let him fall to the floor again.

"But first," I said, "we have one more removal to attend to."

He bucked and fought, but there was no way he could stop me. To keep him from squirming too much, I locked him into a set of steel restraints that I had had custom-made to fit a man whose wrists could not be used as attachment points. These fastened to the upper arm in two places and the forearm in one, three gleaming black steel cuffs that encircled his heavily-muscled skin. Then, depending on the position I wanted to put his arms in, they could either be attached to a chest harness to prevent them from sliding down off his arms, or they could be connected directly to each other. For the position I had in mind this time, the harness wasn't necessary. There was a joint at each elbow that I could lock into several different positions. I chose to stretch his elbows straight out, then set his body facedown on a fucking bench and strapped it in place. His arms I attached to the legs of the bench and his legs I stretched out with ropes to either side.

Jaren got to watch the proceedings from his perch on the shelf. I pulled out my last (for the moment) sheet of wormhole glass and showed him how it worked by passing my fingers through it a few times. Then I set it down and used the scissors to slice off his underwear - he wouldn't be needing that fabric ever again - leaving his tender genitals dangling in open space. Once he figured out what I was going to do with that last sheet of wormhole glass, the noises he was making turned all squeaky and panicky, which was fun to listen to as I brought the glass up toward his crotch. Carefully, because this was a small piece, I guided his shrunken, terrified (and uncut! bonus!) cock and heavy, meaty balls through the glass. He whimpered and moaned, but I knew I wasn't hurting him; he just didn't like the idea of what was coming. That didn't stop me. I sealed the edges, popped the halves apart, and presto, I had one complete set of fully-functional 22-year-old hetero babymakers nestled in the palm of my hand.

I brought them over to show Jaren. Tears were leaking out of the corners of his eyes by this point and running down his cheeks. This sight, more than anything, was what prompted me to change my plans. I had thought at first to ease him into his new life, but at that moment I realized that it was already too late for that. I had originally figured he'd be fine: since there was no pain associated with the removal of the body parts that I did not need him to have, he would therefore see things rationally and realize that what I had done to him was a temporary inconvenience, one that he could recover from whenever I was through with him. But he was behaving as if I had performed actual amputations. I suppose I could have anticipated he would have such a reaction, but this was my first victim, so I can be excused my ignorance. So on seeing his tears I figured, he's already traumatized, let's really give him something to feel traumatized about.

"Jaren... Jaren... come on, boy, open your eyes. Open up." To get his attention, I closed my fist around his cock and balls and squeezed just a bit. His body jerked on the fucking bench and his eyes opened at last.

"Good boy. Now. You see that thing your body is attached to? Do you know what that's called?" He tried to shake his head, reflexes overriding any intellectual knowledge that all he could do was twitch the relevant muscles but not generate any actual movement. "It's called a fucking bench. I'm sure you can guess why." With that, I took my own underwear off (spurning the scissors technique because I would be needing mine again) and revealed my cock, ramrod stiff and ready for action. Jaren kept trying to shake his head - I could see the little crawling movement the base of his neck made in its leather-strap cage and the flexing of the shoulders of the body several feet away. "No... no, no, no..." he muttered.

I took my time about it, letting him anticipate the moment. I set his cock and balls down on his broad back, right between his shoulder blades, resting on the wormhole glass side with his balls pointing down his spine and his dick flopped over to the right. It looked as if his genitals had somehow sprouted right from the center of his upper back instead of from the more conventional location. I got some lube out, greased myself up and then began applying it liberally to the crack of his ass. Closer and closer I worked my fingers to his hole while he watched it all from the side, begging and sobbing every now and then. Then into the hole, first with one finger, then two, then three, and then I was ready. I positioned myself behind him, lined up, and slowly, slowly, slowly slid myself inside.

His whole body tensed beneath me as my dick worked its way into his ass. He lurched from side to side, front to back, but the straps held him tightly in place. A long, slow minute after I began, my cock reached its full depth inside him. My dick was buried as far in as it would go; my balls pressed up against the space where his would have been, except his were resting on his back in front of me. I bent down, still keeping my hips glued against his, and took his limp cock into my mouth. Lifting it off his back with just my lips I began to caress it with my tongue as I at last eased up the pressure on his backside. I withdrew almost to the point of popping out of his hole before beginning another long, slow shove back inside. "Stop! It hurts! Please stop!" the disembodied head whimpered from its position on the shelf, but I was just getting started. I began to pick up the pace, steadily increasing the tempo until I had a good solid rhythm going, pistoning in and out while I sucked with increasing fervor on the dick in my mouth.

I wish I could say it took longer, but despite my efforts to make it last I'm pretty sure it was all over less than three minutes after I started pumping. I couldn't help myself; here was this massive, muscular hunk I'd lusted after for years, helpless and in my power. My dick was in his ass; his was in my mouth tasting of soap and fear and sweat, just beginning to swell under the attentions of my tongue. His balls brushed against my chin, rolling back and forth as I tipped my head from side to side. My nose was filled with the scent of him, my cock enveloped by his warmth. Really, it's amazing I didn't shoot even sooner than I did. My orgasm was explosive. Jets of sperm shot out of my dick into his sweet, hot, silky ass. I very nearly bit down too hard in my moment of ecstasy, but managed to keep my lips between my teeth and his tender flesh.

Slowing, slowing... one last long press of my still-stiff dick as deep in as it would go, and then I held it there while it began to soften and I continued to knead his cock with my tongue. As I slipped free of his ass, I reached up and removed his dick from my mouth. It was not very hard despite all my suction, a quarter, perhaps, maybe a third of the way there, the foreskin just starting to pull back to reveal the head. That was fine - it was not yet my victim's turn for pleasure.

I wiped myself off with a cloth and watched the juice I had left inside him come burbling out to drizzle down his thighs. Let it dry there - a little memento for him to remember the occasion by. "Thanks man," I said, leaning on the wall next to the shelf where Jaren's head sat. "I sure needed that."

By this point, it was getting late. College-kid here would no doubt stay up till at least 1:00 and maybe even 3 or 4 if he were still in his old life and had any say over such matters. But it wasn't up to him any more, and I was getting tired. So... bedtime. I undid the ropes and the straps and the arm binders. Jaren's body climbed unsteadily to its feet, then overbalanced and collapsed in a pile. With a sigh (clearly re-learning basic skills was going to take some time), I helped him scoot over toward a corner where a pallet lay on the floor. I tossed a blanket over his quivering body, then picked up his head and rested it next to his body, on the pallet but outside the blanket for easier breathing. Then I picked up his cock and balls and headed over to the exit.

The exit used an ingenious system, in my humble opinion. It was a simple latch, but it could only be operated by fingers. Which Jaren no longer had access to. The latch was recessed inside a thin slot in the door. It was easy enough to reach - to envision it, stretch your arm out in front of you, palm up, so your wrist is pointing away from your face. Now curl your fingers back 180° so they are pointing back toward you. Press your fingers down onto your palm - voila. That's the motion needed to unlatch the door. Simple, but Jaren would never be able to manage it. And of course, whenever I was leaving the playroom, as now, I locked the door from the outside. His body would remain where it was. He was free to move it around anywhere he wanted during the night, and to reposition his head as well, though he may give himself some unpleasant knocks trying to work that skill out. But come morning, all the parts of him that I left in the playroom would still be right there waiting for me.

I dimmed the lights to nearly nothing. His eyes would adapt to the dark; it would be light enough to see, maybe even move around if he wanted to, but dim enough to sleep when he was ready. I had a feeling it would be a while before sleep came for him. "Good night, Jaren. See you in the morning," I said to the sound of quiet sobs coming from the corner.

This is not happening. This is not real. This is a nightmare and I will wake up on the count of three. One... two... three.

The nightmare stubbornly persisted. His body lay next to his head, detached and yet somehow behaving as if they were connected. It was clearly some trick of whatever that thing was that the psychopath showed him. Some kind of membrane that a body could pass right through, and then be separated like the two halves of a magician's "saw the lady in half!" box. But this was no illusion, or if it was, it was a supremely convincing one.

Jaren reached his arms up out of the blankets. It was strange because he could still feel and move his hands and fingers, but where his arms felt the coarse fabric of the blanket, his hands only felt the hard surfaces of the interiors of the boxes they were in. He tapped his fingers and could hear the sound emerging from the shelf high above his head. They were definitely still there, definitely still under his control... but like his head, they had been separated somehow, and they were locked away where he couldn't do anything with them. Useless.

He could still move everything else, though: arms, legs, body. He sat up, carefully reached down, and grasped his head between his forearms. It was awkward work, but he eventually got himself oriented, upright and able to look around, though his perspective was distorted from having his eyes so much lower than they usually were. Lifting his head up to its normal position was possible but difficult, and he did not want to risk dropping his skull down to the floor.

His ass still burned from when... no... he didn't want to think about that. Focus on the room he was in instead. The room was large and there were various structures and items placed throughout, shadows in the dimness. He had looked around before when the lights were brighter, but he hadn't thought to pay attention then. Now, with time weighing heavily on him and nothing better to do, he rose up onto his knees and knee-walked over to the door, carrying his head in his arms.

He set his head carefully on the floor, then reached up to nudge the light switch brighter. He took a moment to examine the door. The latch mechanism was easy enough to understand, but impossible to work without fingers. Perhaps something in the rest of the room? He looked around. The only word to describe the place was "dungeon". Black leather and shiny chrome. An X-shaped cross. The sawhorse-shaped thing where... no, move along. Implements whose function he could not even guess at and other implements whose functions were horrifyingly clear. This has to end, he thought. I have to get out of here.

Hands. He needed his hands. He knee-walked, still not trusting his balance enough to try standing upright, over to the pallet in the corner. Setting his head down gently again, he carefully stood up, leaning against the wall as he rose. He took hold of one of the boxes between his forearms and brought it back down to floor. Setting it down, he maneuvered both the box and his head so that he could examine it. It was solid steel, heavy and hard. The hinges were invisible, probably inside under the lid. It was held shut by a combination lock whose numbers were set to 0000. Experimentally, he tried pawing at the lock with his arms but was unable to change the numbers. He had more success using his toes and was able to try out the numbers up to 0010 before realizing that he had spent a long time doing it, maybe twenty minutes. Two minutes per number was a lot of minutes. Even if he could get it down to half that time, trying an average of 5,000 numbers and as many as 10,000 if he was unlucky, that would take... well, however long 5,000 to 10,000 minutes was. He had a feeling it was many hours, probably even days. Perhaps at some point he would spend some time trying to get to his hands, but right now there were other possibilities to explore.

How had he gotten here? He remembered blacking out in the locker room, probably because the psycho had chloroformed him there. But where was he now, and how had he been brought here? Well, he could figure out how to get home once he was safely away from wherever "here" was.

He felt fingers pawing at his cock and balls and jumped in alarm. Dammit, the monster had taken them with him when he left! That fact, right there, meant that even if he could somehow get his hands free and somehow find an exit, he would still be at the mercy of the man holding his gear hostage. The fingers continued to play with him, violating him remotely, and then were replaced by the warm, wet embrace of what could only be the kidnapper's mouth. Ah, god, who knew what disgusting diseases that pervert had and was now exposing him to! And had already exposed him to when he was fu... no. He still couldn't think about that.

For a long time the fear and disgust kept his distant appendage soft, but as time went by, it began to respond to the sensations it was experiencing. He tried to think about anything other than the feel of the tongue's suction on his dick, but to his shame he could not stop himself from hardening. Willing the erection away had no effect; it stubbornly persisted. Then the fingers wrapped themselves around the base of his balls and began to push and pull his cock in and out of the warm, wet mouth, and the sensations grew even harder to ignore. It went on for a long while, perhaps 20 minutes. Just as he was getting to the point where he would have to decide whether to keep fighting the stimulation or go with the flow and try to shoot a load, it stopped. His dick was pulled out of the mouth and set down somewhere soft. There was nothing more the rest of the night.

After exploring a bit more, Jaren dimmed the lights again, lay back down on the pallet, covered himself as best he could with the blanket, and closed his eyes. Sleep was a long time coming.

Bright sunshine poured in through my window and my first thought was of my prize down in the playroom. Which then reminded me that part of my prize was right next to me in the bed! I had set it far enough away that I wouldn't roll over and smoosh it during the night, and there it was when I looked under the blanket - soft and pink and speckled with fine black hairs. I stroked Jaren's balls gently with my fingers and they responded to my touch, churning in their sac. I picked the bundle up and headed down to the playroom.

Jaren was right where I had left him, but when I turned up the lights I could see that he had been exploring sometime during the night. As expected.

"Hey, buddy, good morning."

"Let me go. Put me back together and let me go."

"All in good time. For now, you hungry? Need to take a leak?"

"No. Just let me go." It was kind of cute the way this deep, trying-to-be-intimidating voice emerged from what looked like a soccer ball lying in a corner. I had woken him up and his head was lying on its side facing me. His body was already fumbling its way out from under the blanket and sitting up, but his head was still where it had spent the night.

I supposed it was time to have the conversation now. We could have done it over breakfast like civilized people, but clearly he was intending to be tedious.

"Look, Jaren, let me spell this out for you. I'm not letting you go just yet, so there's no point in asking. In case you haven't noticed, you are in a position of absolutely no control whatsoever. So making demands like 'let me go' or 'put me back together'? That's just foolish. How, exactly, do you propose to make me do as you command? What's the 'or else' to your implied threat? Don't bother answering, that's a rhetorical question.

"See, I am the one calling the shots. I decide what happens to you and when. You don't. You don't have any influence at all, you have nothing to negotiate with. Everything I want from you, I already have. I have total access to your body any time I want. I don't require your cooperation or consent. Now, as it happens, I'm pretty easy-going as tops go. I don't have any arbitrary rules for you to follow. I don't need you to call me 'sir' or salute me or kneel in my presence or any hokey shit like that."

He finished sitting up and set his head on his arms. I squatted down in front of him so he didn't have to look quite so far up to see my face. My eye level was still well above his, but that was only appropriate. "But there are some administrative chores that will need attending to, like feeding you and getting rid of your wastes and keeping you clean when I want you clean. This is where you do have some small bit of influence. Because I can either feed you by putting delicious food into your mouth that you then chew and swallow normally, or I can feed you by jamming your mouth open with a funnel and pouring slop directly down your throat. Likewise, we can eliminate your wastes neatly and properly, or I can arrange for much less pleasant things to happen to your shit and piss. Cooperate and you will find your period of captivity ever so slightly more bearable. Resist and any extra discomfort you experience is on your own shoulders."

He stared at me, not blinking, not saying a word.

"So. You haven't peed since before I nabbed you, and I know because I've had your dick in my possession since then. Your bladder must be very full. Maybe your bowels too. Let me explain how this part of the arrangement will work." I held up his dick so he could see the little plastic cap I had snugged over the head, held in place by an elastic band. "At the tip of this little mini-condom thingy is a small piece of wormhole glass about the size of your little fingernail. As you've already seen, wormhole glass is the handy-dandy stuff that magicks things from one place to another. The other half of this particular piece is located over the bowl of a toilet back in the house. The result? As long as this cap is on your dick, you are welcome to let fly any time you like. Why don't you go ahead and do that now, hmm? Try it out. C'mon, your bladder must be really aching by now, yeah?"

Silence. Half a minute passed by.

"Jaren..." I started to say, but he interrupted me. "I'm trying! Just shut up a minute." Some sadists I've spoken to, or whose writings I have read, would have been offended by such language from a captive and punished him for it. I actually relish it - I love when they're spunky and full of fight. So I backed off and let him work up to it. Another half a minute later and I could feel the stream flowing through the nub of flesh in my hand, causing the urethra to swell and vibrate as it passed.

"There you go!" I praised him. "Attaboy! That's all there is to it!" When he had finished, I tucked his cock and balls into the pocket of my sweatpants. "I'll flush it down every so often. Now, there will be times when the little cap is not on. I'll make sure you know when that happens, because I'll tell you now, water sports are not my thing. I said I wouldn't set down any arbitrary rules for you to follow and I won't, because this rule is not arbitrary: I do not ever want to find myself confronted with your urine anywhere except that toilet bowl."

I let that sink in a minute and then continued. "You'll find that I never issue commands that I can't enforce. In this case, you might think I can't stop you from pissing any time or place you want to. But a clothespin on the end of your dick would do just that. I'll go that route if I have to but I would rather not because then I would have to remember to take it off every so often and I would find that tedious and I'm sure there would be times when I would forget." Pause. Long, meaningful glance. "You see, there's a difference between 'rules to follow' and 'consequences of actions', so let's keep this simple: you learned bladder control when you were a toddler. Continue using that skill, or you will not be happy with the consequences of your actions."

I didn't wait for him to agree or disagree.

"Moving on. For your solid wastes, right over there against that far wall is a toilet. Any time you are not restrained and you feel the need to go, use it. I understand that wiping yourself afterward would be a little tricky given your current condition, so right next to it is a washstand. I think the technical term is 'bidet' but that's such a stupid affectation of a word. Too highbrow a term for a device with such a lowbrow purpose. You just sit on the stool, press the lever with your foot, and soothing warm water will wash away any remaining nasty bits. See? I'm actually a fairly considerate guy!"

"You're a psychopath. You're a criminal. Let me go. Now."

Feisty was good, but "let me go" was going to get tiresome if kept repeating it long enough. It occurred to me that at some point I might need to remind him that soothing warm water was a privilege, not a right. For now, though...

"Let's get you some breakfast, shall we?" I picked Jaren's head up out of his arms. He reached for it, clumsily because his vision was now from a position that was swinging through the air and his body was still back on the pallet. I heard his arms hit the floor as I headed for the door. Lights out, lock the door from the outside, and we were off up the stairs and into the kitchen. I set his head down on the table and laid his dick next to it while I went to prep some eggs. He didn't seem all that stable upright - he kept flexing his neck muscles and I worried he would tip himself over. So I laid him down on his side and that provided a more solid position for him.

Scrambled eggs, sausage, toast, orange juice... a delicious and healthy breakfast for a wrestler. Feeding him was not difficult, but he had a hard time chewing. I had rested his head upright on the table and was holding it in place with one hand while delivering eggs and sausage via fork with the other. But every time he tried to chew, his head would try to tilt backward. Ordinarily, when chewing, the skull stays still and the jaw moves, but his circumstances made it such that both parts moved roughly equally. What solved the problem was having me hold his head up by the handle on top - getting his neck up off the table allowed his jaw to move without causing a counter-movement of the rest of his head. He cooperated nicely all through breakfast. I was sure he would test me at some point, but for now at least he was playing along. One thing was clear: I was going to have to rig up some kind of hook to suspend his head from. Holding it up by hand was tiring!

Afterward, I brushed his teeth for him, right there in the kitchen. No reason to schlep his head all the way to the bathroom for a chore I'd be doing over and over again every mealtime, right? Easier to just leave a toothbrush handy. After that I set about cleaning up the remains of breakfast.

"Now let me go," he said as I was tidying up the dishes. "Put me back together, or at least give me all my parts, and let me walk out of here."

"Mmm..." I said over the sound of running water. "Soon. Not today, but soon. I went to a lot of trouble to get you and before I let you go I want to get some reward for that effort."

"Reward!" he scoffed.

"Yeah, reward," I replied. "Like raping your ass last night." I glanced over at him and man, it was clear that stung. He did not like the use of the word "rape" as applied to him in the role of rapee. It clashed with his mental picture of himself as a top dog, cock-of-the-walk heterosexual male. Such males do the fucking, they do not get fucked. They certainly do not get raped. And yet, that was exactly what had happened to him, and would again, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. His thoughts were written plainly all over his face and he sputtered in denial and frustration.

"You... but... dammit, you motherfucker! You..."

"Wrong," I cut him off. "I'm a wrestlerfucker."

Jaren's tormentor lifted him by the handle on top of his head again, and again he was launched into a series of nauseating, disorienting lurches. He kept trying to fix his eyes on some stationary point, but he had never realized before how much he relied on his neck muscles to position his head when he wanted to keep something in sight. Every time he tried to fixate on some distant point to try to stabilize the churning view he was seeing and feeling, it would slide to the side as his head rotated away. Over and over he would unconsciously flex his neck, but his head refused to turn in the direction he intended. All that resulted from his effort was the creepy sensation of his neck writhing against the leather bottom of the cage his face was encased in.

They traveled through the halls of his captor's home, which was a distressingly normal place with blandly-painted walls, wooden floors that creaked in places with occasional carpets lain down here and there, chairs and shelves and photos on the walls and all the other trappings he would expect to find in any other home. Except he was living a nightmare, his disembodied head bouncing along while his body was trapped in a prison somewhere else. His environment should have been some dingy third-world detention camp or a sterile, all-white hospital staffed by ex-Nazis, not this unremarkable slice of small-town America. He slammed his hands - or rather, his stumps - onto his legs and relished the pain in his thighs telling him that they were still a part of him.

Up the stairs, swinging crazily with each step, into a bedroom, a quick glimpse out a window onto rolling acres of farmland, and then he was plunked down onto his captor's belly. The psychopath was lying on his bed, propped up against some pillows. Jaren's head was leaning up against his legs, facing his abuser.

"Now," he said. "It's time for you to learn how to suck cock." Ah, jeez. Of course - more gay shit. "I don't trust you with my own yet, but fortunately I happen to have another one right here that you can practice on." He reached into the pocket of his shirt and Jaren felt fingers fumbling at his dick and balls. They emerged from the pocket and the disconnect was jarring - actions that felt like they were happening down below his waist were actually taking place mere inches in front of his eyes. Jaren shut his eyes for a few seconds to let the wave of disorientation pass.

"Aw, c'mon, these are your own! I know you straight guys don't get turned on by other dicks, but surely you're not disgusted by the one that's attached to you... or rather, was attached to you. Notice: I'm taking the tip guard off, so no peeing. Now, open up." He brought the nubby bits of flesh right up in front of Jaren's face.

The bastard. "No. You can't make me do this."

"I think you'll find that I can."


"I'm not asking, Jaren. I'm telling. And I already told you, I don't give orders when I don't also have the means to see that they are obeyed."

"Get your jollies some other way. I'm not playing your game."

The sadist laid Jaren's head down on the bed with his lips right next to his cock, then got up and disappeared from view. Jaren heard him heading off down the stairs. Then silence. He waited.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed his arm and pushed him down on his back. He had to close his eyes to deal with the conflicting signals from his moving body and his stationary head. He struggled, but he knew the effort was doomed - he had no eyes, ears, or hands in the fight that was now going on in the dungeon, while his opponent was fully intact. Jaren felt the arm binders going back on and struggled to remove them. They wouldn't come off, of course. He was rolled over and felt the binders being fastened together behind his back, not painfully so but enough to keep his arms out of action. Then he was rolled back over, his trapped arms propping him halfway between lying on his back and his side.

Then, pain! A sharp set of teeth clamped down on his left nipple and he gasped from the shock of it. Seconds later, a matching pain seared his right tit. Then, no further changes. He rolled into a ball and tried to find a way to ease the pain. It was immensely frustrating: his tits were right there, right in front of his body. His arms were right there too, but they couldn't reach around to his front side. He tried to stretch up with his legs. His knees could thump up against the clamps but could not get any kind of grip on them. He fumbled about for a short while but soon concluded that only his boxed-up fingers would be able to free his trapped nipples.

In the time it took him to discover this, the initial shock of the pain slowly subsided and he heard the sound of footsteps returning up the stairs. Soon enough, he was propped back in the lap of his tormentor with his dick right in front of his mouth. "The clamps come off after you shoot a load. I suggest you get started, because the longer you wait, the worse your tits are going to feel. Now... open up." He picked up Jaren's cock and touched the tip to his lips between the leather straps.

"I said no!" Jaren barked, clenching his teeth. Already the pain in his nipples was becoming manageable. Sure, he'd like to get the things off, but he'd endured worse. The guy didn't think that would be enough to force him to obey, did it?

Ah, shit. No, he did not. Jaren watched him reach over to the nightstand and bring an object into view. It was a file, twelve inches of burred steel that tapered to a point.

"This cock is going into that mouth one way or another. Bear in mind, I don't care a bit about those perfect, pretty white teeth of yours. If a few of them get scraped or chipped when I pry your jaws apart with this tool, it won't bother me at all. It might bother you, though, so if I were you, I would think very carefully about how you plan to respond." Jaren felt the sharp point of the file slip between his lips and worm its way to a spot on the left side of his jaw, aimed right between his upper and lower teeth. He could see the handle protruding, vanishing into his captor's fist.

"I'm not going to tell you again. Open. Your fucking. Mouth." Before Jaren could even think about whether to comply or to continue his defiance, the decision was made for him. The file was pressed between his teeth. A horrid scraping noise echoed in his skull and the tip soon forced his teeth ever so slightly apart. Without thinking, he spread his jaws a crack wider and then immediately the file pried them further and further apart until the gap was wide enough for his cock to be shoved between his lips. The file was removed; he was free to bite down again except that doing so would chomp down on the root of his dick, so he wisely kept his teeth separated.

His tormentor... jeez, what was the guy's name? He had said it once but Jaren could not remember. His tormentor rapidly brought a leather pad up to Jaren's face and attached it in four places to snaps at the corner's of Jaren's mouth. His cock now could not be withdrawn; his balls were pressed tight up against the leather straps at his chin. Tentatively, he used his tongue to try to move the thing around, focusing on trying to find a way to eject the unwelcome intruder and doing his best to ignore the happy, pleasant sensations radiating up from his crotch.

"God, you look so hot!" the asshole said. "Sitting there with your own dick in your mouth, ah man!" Jaren's head lurched and seesawed about as the guy awkwardly pulled his own pants down behind him, out of Jaren's line of vision. He couldn't see what was happening back there, but he could sure feel it: the jostling motion stopped and he felt a soft rhythmic thumping pressure against the back of his head. "So, here's what you do: you run your tongue along the head until it gets hard, then you close your lips and just... suck. Mmmmm... yeah..."

Jaren's lips were open. He had no intention of doing anything like what his jailer had described. A small line of drool threatened to drip down his chin. Reflexively, he closed his lips around his dick and swallowed. His cock felt another little wave of pleasure and grew, ever so slightly, in his mouth.

The thumping behind his head continued, with a steady stream of patter to go along with it. "Mmmmmm... that's right. Gagged by your own dick, how fucking hot is that? Work it with your tongue. Hey, how are your tits doing? They starting to get a little tender? Maybe I should go down there and give 'em a little extra squeeze, yeah? Tug on those clamps a bit, let those sharp points dig in a little deeper? I'll be happy to take 'em off just as soon as your hot wrestler cock there squirts out a load. But hey, you take all the time you want, I've got nowhere else I need to be."

His nipples were aching, but it was a dull throb now, a soreness rather than the lightning flash of sharp pain from when they first went on. It wasn't enough to derail the erection that was inexorably developing in his mouth. He couldn't stop himself from inadvertently stimulating it. He had to breathe, had to swallow, had to adjust things in his mouth for comfort, but every movement he made with his tongue or even his teeth just perked his cock even more, and it responded as it always did to such stimulation by swelling and firming up. Before two minutes had passed, the tip was pressing against the back of his throat and he gagged on it.

"Ah, fuck, yeah, that's it, I wanna hear you choke on it!" the sadist purred. "Now, just relax your throat. It's gonna feel strange to have something in there, but you can do it. Just work it with your tongue, slide that tongue along the shaft while you suck it... ah, fuck..." The pace of the thumping behind him increased.

Jaren felt fingers caressing the underside of his balls, and his traitorous dick pulsed in response despite all his disgust at everything that was going on. Dammit, it actually felt good. His mouth was miserable, but his dick was loving being where it was. Conflicted, Jaren tried to focus on the disgust. For long minutes, he mostly succeeded, but his dick remained stubbornly hard and his attention was drawn ever more often to the feelings of pleasure radiating from his groin. It was these sensations more than the sadist's constant murmured patter that finally got his tongue moving. At first he didn't even realize he was doing it - the natural motion of swallowing around the giant obstacle against his throat caused his tongue to rub and flex against the intruder. Without even realizing, he started swallowing more frequently than strictly necessary, and by the time he became aware he was doing it, his dick had won the battle for his attention. The disgusted part of his brain receded into the background, pretending it was someplace else while his cock worked its way to orgasm by whatever means it had available to it.

The thumping against his head paused, restarted, paused again. The bastard must be closer to the tipping point than Jaren was. Jaren kept sucking, eyes closed, concentrating on what felt good and what didn't. The sensations were... there was no other word, they were amazing. This was like combining the best of two worlds, a jerkoff and a blowjob. When jerking, he had control over the speed and pressure and angle; when getting blown (and there had only been two girls who had been willing to do that for him, though neither one took it all the way), there was the sensation of full, wrap-around, warm, wet coverage, plus the friction of the tongue. Here, he had all of those things. Framing it that way - this was just like jerking off, only with his mouth instead of his hand - took the gay aspect out of the picture. It made him realize that had the circumstances been different, had he been offered the opportunity to experience this voluntarily instead of being coerced into it, well... now that he knew how incredibly good it felt, he would happily say yes.

Like his ex-girlfriends, though, he was not looking forward to the inevitable end of the experience.

That end was approaching rapidly. His mouth rebelled at what it knew was coming and tried to slow the train down. His dick, on the other hand, kept pushing the throttle forward. His brain, helplessly trapped between two conflicting goals, eventually abdicated and stopped thinking. The dick surged, triumphant, and even though Jaren's tongue staged a last-second revolt and pulled away as far as it could, by then it was too late. Jaren felt the pulsing in his dick, and also against his lips and throat, and then hot juice squirted into his mouth. He kept his throat closed, so the liquid had nowhere to go but forward. Thick, viscous, salty fluid filled his mouth, coating every surface it came in contact with. Jaren gagged at the taste and started to choke; this made the second half of the orgasm far less pleasurable than the first. Nevertheless, three or four more squirts came out before things shuddered to a halt. Jaren, trying to not taste any of his own sperm while breathing through his nose, accidentally inhaled some and coughed it back up again, nearly panicking at his inability to get air. His dick, no longer in control of the show, started to soften at last and stopped pressing against the back of his throat. This helped a bit but Jared was desperate for more. Unseen, down in the dungeon, his body strained against the arm binders, tossing and turning on the floor. The nipple clamps, which Jaren had managed to almost forget about in his run-up to orgasm, suddenly started to hurt a whole lot more.

"Ah, yeeeeaaaaaahhhhhhh," his tormentor shouted as he reached his own orgasm. Wet, sticky blobs slapped against the back of Jaren's head, some hitting the leather straps of the face cage, others soaking into his close-cropped hair and his scalp. Jaren tried to expel the residue of his climax from his mouth, sending a white waterfall out from under the base of his dick to dribble down around the place where his balls were mashed up against his chin, soaking both with the sticky glop. He couldn't get it all out, not even with multiple tries, and the salty taste of his own sperm continued to threaten to make him retch while his captor grunted and sighed himself down from the pinnacle of his pleasure.

How the fuck had this happened? Yesterday, he had been on top of the world, heading into a national quarterfinal match that he was expected to win. Today, he was a disembodied head, gagged with his own dick and sitting on some faggot's lap as a living sex toy.

More importantly, how was he going to get out of here?

I wish words could describe how incredibly hot that first experience was, the first time I got Jaren to deliver oral pleasure to himself. I've done it many times since, but there was something magical about the first time. To be curled up on my own bed with my wrestler sucking his own cock right there in front of me, his dick jammed into his mouth and him unable to expel it... to watch him go from being horrified and disgusted at what I was making him do, to grudgingly accepting it, to actively enjoying it... and then to go straight back to horror right at my moment of triumph... ah, there is no way to recreate a first experience. You can't dip your foot in the same stream twice, as they say. Watching that gigantic load of 22-year-old wrestler spunk come gushing down his chin is something I will never, ever forget. Future sessions may have produced similarly large waterfalls (I later taught him to swallow, but I still allow him to spit most of the time because I love to see the flood of semen overflowing from his mouth), but I'll never be able to replicate the shock and revulsion of his first time.

Once I had wiped up, I carried him back down to the basement, still gagged with his own dick. It was completely soft in his mouth now, and no more difficult to manage than a baby's pacifier. As promised, I removed the tit clamps now that he had come. He howled at that. Well, I might have prompted some of the howling by kneading and squeezing his newly-freed tits between my thumb and finger to help get the circulation going again. And to make him shout.

After that, I pocketed his dick and then just let him be. My goal was to make my toy last a good long time, so I didn't want to just burn him up in one use. It would be important over the coming weeks and months that he get some sense of normality, a routine to follow. Routine had been very important to him in his former life and would help him adjust to this one. I could have left him in some state of constant physical discomfort, keeping him restrained or confined while I was away or making him hold a stress position for hours. Don't get me wrong, physical torment is totally hot and I planned to dish out plenty of it during his stay. But if I were to do that, he would crack too quickly and then I'd have to find myself a new toy. He was already dealing with the mental anguish of his disconnectedness; I wanted to let him adjust to that before ramping up more abuse. So I unsnapped the pad that held his cock in place, slipped the cap back on over the tip, set his genitalia in my pocket for safekeeping, and left.

This became his routine: breakfast, lunch, dinner at the usual times. I had to feed him, of course, hanging his head on a hook and alternating forkfuls or spoonfuls of whatever we were having between his mouth and mine. Days I had to work he would spend in the playroom, head and body together. Fortunately, I work from home, and my tech consulting business was such that emergencies rarely cropped up. Most of the time I could set my own schedule. I would usually put in a few hours in the morning and a few more in the afternoon - the business keeps me busy enough, and funded enough, but it doesn't rule my life.

I decided to move his hands out of his reach because given enough time, he would eventually figure out how to open the locks. The point had been made: he knew exactly how inaccessible his grasping fingers were. I moved the boxes to the back of the bottom drawer in my bedroom. Sometimes a scratching noise coming from the drawer would wake me up at night, but it always made me smile because I knew it meant my toy was lying awake too.

Over the next week or so, he re-learned how to stand and walk. It worked best when he could see his body. He got to a point where he was capable of moving around upright when his head was in another room, but only if he moved slowly and carefully. When he could see himself, though, he was much more stable and could stay up pretty much indefinitely.

I kept his cock and balls with me just about all the time, waking, sleeping, working, running errands. Usually they lived in my pocket; sometimes I would hang them from a cord around my neck or fiddle with them while I mused over a complicated network topology issue. I especially loved running into neighbors at the grocery store or the post office in Royalton, engaging in casual small talk while simultaneously fiddling with Jaren's foreskin. They came into the shower with me - I would soap them up and rinse them right along with my own. That's how I washed the rest of him too, every few days, one part at a time. I'd carry his head in sometimes, sit on one of the platforms, and remove the face cage. Then I'd wash his face and hair, careful not to let his head slip from my lap and crash to the floor. When he needed it, I'd give him a shave right there in the shower, stroking the razor along the smooth skin of his cheeks. It's such an intimate action, shaving another man's face for him. Other days I'd lead his body in with me - I have a nice, spacious shower thanks to a renovation two years prior with this exact purpose in mind. His head would stay in the playroom while I would lather soap all over his fine, chiseled physique, then rinse him down and sluice all the sweat away.

Because he did work up a sweat! I had placed various bits of exercise equipment in the playroom. I never ordered him to use them to maintain the fine shape he was in; I figured nature would take its course. And it did. He was, after all, an athlete, so working out came naturally to him. The equipment had been adapted for handless use - nothing needed to be gripped or held. Within a few days, he had set himself up with a routine. He thought he was doing it for his own well-being, but his devotion to exercise happened to suit my purposes as well.

The door opened and Jaren's heart leaped in his chest. Not again, no, not again...

But yes. Again.

It had been at least a week, maybe longer, since Jaren had been yanked from his normal life into this nightmare. He lived in constant fear of the door to his cell opening because he never knew what it would bring. A meal, one where he couldn't even feed himself but humbly opened his mouth to accept food like an infant? A torture session where he was forced to watch from a distance while his body was crunched into a ball until he couldn't breathe or splayed out like an insert and struck until he screamed? A warm and gentle shower? A rough dick forced up his helpless ass? Or something that started out as a warm and gentle shower but ended with a rough dick being forced up his ass? There was no way to predict what would come, and so every click of the latch set his nerves to jangling.

He rubbed his right thumb across his fingertips three times, then repeated that process three times. Nine rubs in all. Totally superstition-based, just like his pre- and post-match rituals had been. He had had to make changes to his pattern because here in this place he had no guarantee that at any given moment he would be able to stretch his arms, or windmill them, or jump, or do any of the things he had done in the locker room to ward off bad luck. The finger rub was what he had fallen into as a replacement. His hands spent most of their time in their locked boxes and were frequently the only things he could move, even in their limited way. He knew it was ineffective, that his jailer had already decided what his fate was going to be, and yet he went through the ritual all the same, manipulating the fingers on his hand wherever it was. Because sometimes performing the ritual corresponded with enduring a lighter session. Sometimes.

Jaren's body was sitting on the floor and he climbed carefully to his feet. In his first few days of captivity, he had kept his head with his body as much as possible just from the sense that the two parts should not be separated. But keeping his head where it naturally belonged - on top of his shoulders - was difficult to do and the risk of dropping it was just too great. Holding it in his lap meant that his view of the world was skewed, as if he was a midget being held by a giant. In the end he settled on keeping it up on the shelf near the pallet while he was awake. The location was at a normal standing height and he found that to be what felt most natural in this wholly-unnatural situation. At night, on nights when he was allowed to make such decisions for himself, he brought his head down and lay it on the pillow on the pallet where his body slept. He had to reach up with his arms to flip his head over to match his body's position from time to time as he turned during the night, but that soon became something he could do without rousing.

Jaren stumbled and fell as he tried to stand... still couldn't control himself well from a distance. By the time he got to his feet again, the door had shut and Adam was walking over toward him. He looked chipper - that usually was not a good sign. When he was less cheery, or even grumpy, he tended not to be in a mood to hurt Jaren as much, which was strangely counter-intuitive, and yet the worst of the torments had so far come when he was wearing a fake smile, as he was now.

"Hi, Jaren. I thought of a little exercise program I wanted to have you try out," he said, closing the distance between them and then running his hands over Jaren's naked shoulders and chest. His body was always naked. He hadn't worn any clothing, not even underwear, since he had arrived and it didn't seem likely that that would change any time soon. Jaren backed away, carefully staying upright. The feel of the man's fingers on his skin made him want to puke. He couldn't go far - the pallet was in a corner of the room and his body was already backed up against a wall, next to the shelf where his head sat. Adam pursued him, still rubbing. Jaren tried to knock his hands away with the stumps of his arms.

"Don't touch me. Look, please man, just let me go, I can't take much more of this, you gotta let me out..."

"Sssssshhhhh, sh sh sh sh shhhhhhhhhh..." Adam said, reaching over with his left hand to place it over Adam's mouth while his right cupped itself around Jaren's left pec. "All in good time. For now, I wanted to see what kind of grip your jaw muscles are capable of."

Capable of biting off your dick if you ever dare bring it close enough. The thought inspired him to try catching Adam's fingers in his teeth - he could endure the filthy taste in exchange for taking out a nice big chunk. But he could not reach, only his lips could move. His head would need to be attached to his neck if he wanted to inflict a solid bite.

"So feisty, I love it!" Adam cooed. Dammit, the freak seemed to thrive on Jaren's futile attempts at resistance! Logically, then, the thing to do would be to stop resisting, or at least to pretend disinterest. But he couldn't do that. It just felt so wrong to not fight his imprisonment, even against hopeless odds. One day there would come a moment when the odds wouldn't be so hopeless, and he'd be ready.

Adam steered Jaren's body to the center of the room and suspended it from the ceiling. This was becoming a "go-to" position for the torture sessions. Jaren's arms were locked into the binders and pinned behind his back. Then a rope under his armpits held him upright and exposed to whatever torment Adam felt like dishing out. Jaren steeled himself to both watch from a distance and feel up close whatever the torture turned out to be.

It turned out to be titwork. This puzzled Jaren a bit - his tormentor had said something about jaw muscles, and yet this had nothing to do with that. Adam squeezed and pinched and clamped them for fifteen or twenty minutes until they were tender and sore while Jaren's jaws, and the rest of his head, sat disregarded on its shelf.

Then Adam came over to the shelf. He picked up Jaren's head and brought it over to where his body stood. He set it down on the floor and began fiddling with something out of Jaren's line of sight. Then, abruptly, his head went soaring up into the air, spinning as it went which left him dizzy and disoriented. His body would have fallen over had it not been held up by the rope. When Jaren's head came to rest at last and he opened his eyes again, he saw a solid wall of skin.

"Let me explain what's going on here, since you can't really see it all that well. I have arranged to hang your head from a rope, right in front of your body. You are staring right now at the front of your own right shoulder. If you reach out your tongue, you'll find it's just in front of your right tit. Now, exactly thirty seconds after I stop talking, I am going to untie the knot that holds the rope that supports your head in place. What happens then is up to you. Either your head goes crashing down to the floor, which won't kill you because we're standing on top of a wrestling mat, but which probably won't be all that enjoyable an experience for you either. If you want to prevent that from happening, then in the next thirty seconds you will have to find a way to get a grip on your tit with your teeth so that when the rope goes slack, your head won't plummet to the floor. I'll help you out by pressing your head up against your chest, but you'll have to decide whether or not you want to latch on. After thirty seconds, I let go, and so does the knot, starting riiiiiight.... now."

Jaren felt a hand on the back of his head that pushed him forward until his right tit was poking against his lips. There was no question in his mind: he would do this. He had dropped his head a few times already during his explorations of his cell, and it had hurt every single time. Even a fall from knee-high off the ground left him jolted and stunned; this was three or four times that height. So he opened his mouth, sucked his own nipple into it, and bit down.

The difficult part to decide was: how hard to bite? How much force would it take for his jaws to support the weight of his head? His jaws could clamp down plenty hard, of course... but every bit of that force would be transmitted to his nipple, which was already sore. He needed to find the right balance of exactly the right amount of pressure. The seconds ticked by interminably while he breathed through his mouth to try to air-dry the surface he was biting against. His nipple hurt like hell, but he would just have to tough that out.

Then the hand slipped away and abruptly Jaren's head dropped down an inch or so. His forehead dipped back, his chin pressed forward into his chest. But it was clear that he had nowhere near enough pressure applied because his tit slipped right out from between his teeth and then he was falling helplessly, hopelessly downward...

Landing didn't hurt nearly as much as he thought it would, and he soon learned why: Adam had caught him. His skull was hoisted up to Adam's eye level. "You get one practice. Next time's for real."

Then he was suspended in place again and again he had to grip his tit between his teeth. This time he bit down hard, far harder than before. His tit screamed but he held on as tight as he could make himself, and this time when the tension in the rope eased he did not fall. He hung there, face pressed against his own chest, clinging to his tit as hard as he could stand.

"Fuckin' A, man, look at you!" Adam crowed. "I looked it up, did you know the average head weighs 10 to 11 pounds? And you're probably on the larger end of the scale. That's a hell of a lot of weight for one tit to hold up. How are you doing in there, any bleeding? Look at that, no. Just a whole lot of stretch!"

It sure felt like there should be blood. Jaren's tit felt like it was being both torn out by the roots and sliced off by his incisors at the same time. He moaned a long, half-grunt-half-scream through his clenched teeth but kept his grip.

"Damn, I didn't know a nipple could stretch that far! Two minutes, that's how long you have to go, let's say. So a minute and a half left now. Damn, that is hot!"

Jaren could hear the sounds of his captor pleasuring himself, but forced himself to ignore it while he concentrated on maintaining his hold. Half a minute gone with three times that amount still to go? Shit. He was never going to make it. The seconds dragged by while Adam stroked himself and chortled with glee at the sight of Jaren forced to be the inflictor of his own agony.

Then, relief. He felt Adam's hands lift the weight of his head off his battered nipple. He tried to release the pressure of his jaw but found for a moment that it was difficult to do; his jaws were so used to clenching. But he yanked them apart and his tit slipped out from between his teeth, sending fresh jolts of pain to his brain as the blood started to flow through it again.

"Fuck!" Jaren shouted. "You fucking bastard! Don't you ever do that to me again!"

"Ah, Jaren," his captor cooed, holding his head up to his own. "You just bought yourself a second round on your left side."

"Goddammit, no! No! Don't do..." but then his voice was muffled by his own pectoral muscle. He considered refusing to play along. But the thought of crashing to the floor from this height was worse than the known pain that his tit had undergone and so, hating himself, he opened his mouth and began taking his grip.

"Just kidding about you bringing this on yourself," Adam said conversationally. "I didn't quite get to shoot on the first go-around and besides, I like symmetry. This was going to happen anyway." Then the bottom dropped out and Jaren was hanging again. He felt the splatter of semen against his cheek when it came, but even so managed to not lose his grip.

My wrestler settled into his new routine well enough. I found myself challenged to come up with interesting tortures for him. If you've never thought about it before, you might be surprised to learn exactly how many bondage positions are simply not possible when one's victim has no hands at the ends of his arms. Lots of old classics just don't work. Handcuffs, for instance, slide right off. Suspending him by his wrists, or even making him stand with his hands tied over his head, is not an option. Forcing him to hold weights up so that they don't exert force on other more sensitive parts of his anatomy: also out, although I did consider (but never got around to actually doing) ways to rig up some sort of forearm-only equivalent. The rack is flat-out impossible - there's just no way to stretch a victim out in that manner without some method of affixing ropes to the wrists. And a pillory that can hold neither wrists nor neck fails at its fundamental purpose in not one but two ways.

Even crucifixion doesn't work as originally designed. I was able to get a modified version to work by wrapping rope all along the length of his arms, attaching them to the crossbeam in a continuous line. And while that method did succeed in causing him a great deal of distress, it wasn't the same distress that he would have felt with the classic attachment method. The original technique applies tension to the victim's arms, pulling them and the chest between them apart while supporting his body's weight. The version I had to make do with merely supported the weight, so it took a lot more time before he reached the same level of discomfort that a regular crucifixion could have achieved in twenty minutes. That was fine, though. I was in no hurry!

With wrists unavailable, what I had to work with were elbows and legs. For the legs I didn't need to make any special modifications. I could tie them together, or suspend him by his ankles, or chain his feet apart: no problems. As for his elbows, the braces let me regulate the position of his arms and also provided me with attachment points. Any time I wanted to secure him to an object or just keep his arms out of my way, the braces were the tool for the job. But there were still plenty of possibilities that didn't require them. I was able to get him into a parrot perch position, for instance, where instead of holding everything together by a rope between the wrists, it was a rope between the elbows, under the knees, that did the trick, with his ankles tied to his thighs to keep his knees from opening up. And a modified strappado worked out so superbly that I did it often. There is something so exquisitely intoxicating about binding a powerful man's elbows behind him with a short length of rope. It really prevents the arms from being useful for anything at all. All that strength, all that might, rendered ineffective so simply. I sometimes would just stand there for a long while after tying him, running my hands across his shoulders, breathing their scent, steering him around the room by the connecting rope as if he were cattle. But eventually, the time would come to end the foreplay and then up into the air he went. It really challenged his bulging arm muscles to have to support the weight of the rest of his body from his tied-behind-the-back elbows, but he was able to do it for a surprisingly long time.

But for all the classic tortures that I had to forgo or modify because of my captive's "distributed" mode of existence, plenty of possibilities opened up for that very same reason. How often can you torture a wrestler's left hand, for instance, right in front of his face? Nothing irreversible, just some clamps on the fingers, some needles under the nails, some bending of joints in ways that bring delicious agony to the face inches away? It's easy if the rest of the man's body is locked away where it can't interfere. Then it's just you, the hand, and the face that makes such beautiful expressions and utters such satisfying cries. As for the detachable dong? Infinite possibilities there, I'm telling you!

And as if that weren't enough, there were also the options that virtual reality opened up. Setting up for VR sessions was complicated because such scenes are designed for multi-player online use, and online was exactly where I did not want these activities to be. So I downloaded entire scenarios into my iSelf and then totally disabled all network access for the device. I would even shut the house network completely down whenever I would go to play one with him. And after finishing, I would delete the scenes and all their associated data from my iSelf before reconnecting to the net, just to make absolutely sure no record leaked out to any other system. Security assured, I would pull Jaren's hands out of their boxes and bring them down to the playroom, put VR helmets on both my head and Jaren's, haptic gloves on us both, and we'd be off.

It was a lot of fun messing with his mind. In VR-space, I gave him the illusion of feeling normal and whole again. His head sat on top of his shoulders again and his hands were stuck back on the stumps of his wrists where they belonged. He even had a penis dangling between his legs, though if he tried to touch it he'd feel it only in his fingers. (I had not bought haptics to wrap around his schlong, although such devices are abundantly available for purchase.) Then I'd set him free in some world or other... a D&D cavern, a Robin Hood forest, an old West town, a strangely-deserted futuristic Tokyo, a Renaissance village, Alcatraz, a haunted house. He was always naked - even in virtual space I permitted him no clothing. Various non-player characters would encounter him, totally unfazed by his nudity, and he would interact with them or not, depending on how the mood struck him. Only rarely would he play along with the story as intended. Usually he either didn't interact at all or tried to break the illusion out of spite, snarling 21st-century insults at the bots pretending to be washerwomen or knights or prison guards or orcs or whatever. That was fine - the NPCs had been programmed to handle this without breaking stride.

Eventually, I would come into the story. He had no way of telling me apart from the NPCs at first, but sooner or later something would give it away: Robin Hood puts an arrow to his throat and Jaren feels the point pricking into his skin. The mage conjures a spell of binding and real ropes wrap themselves around his body. The giant spider snares him in its web and as he lies helpless, sinks its fangs into his thigh, drawing real blood. The ship's captain has the traitor in the crew unmasked and bound to the mast for a flogging, where real lashes strike his back. Or best of all? The French Revolution. The guillotine was virtual, as was the gushing blood that fountained out after it struck. But Jaren's head dropping from his body to land on the mat on the floor of the playroom was 100% real. So was the cock that plunged into his ass while his head lay on the cobblestones looking up at the mob leader violating the corpse of the deposed nobleman.

VR brought many delightfully fun possibilities to our play sessions and multiplied the number of ways I could amuse myself with my wrestler. Crucifying him was fun in my plain old basement playroom, and also fun on an ancient Roman hillside with half a dozen other soldiers at my side helping me out. Hanging him by strappado was enjoyable as Adam, and also as Torquemada in the dungeons of the Inquisition. Sticking him into a coffin-sized box was fine (if somewhat quick) in the real world; it was even better when it was done by a horde of angry villagers to a vampire who subsequently saw only blackness as his coffin was lowered into the ground and dirt and stones rained down onto the wood. Pretty much anything I could think of to do with my captive, I could do over and over again with different flavors by changing the background of the scene.

Still, for all the fun I had with it, the VR was just icing. The cake was my wrestler, and some of the best times were when it was just the two of us, no fancy gadgets, no headsets or haptic gloves, just two men grappling together the way men have been doing since they were apes.

Jaren was sitting on his pallet, head on his arms, when Adam came through the door. As it did every time, a surge of adrenaline lit up his body at the sound of his jailer's approach. Flick, flick, flick three sets of three finger swipes, hoping to ward off the evil, but he was not optimistic. It wasn't mealtime, which meant one of two things: sex, or torture followed by sex. Which was it going to be this time?

Adam lifted Jaren's head up and set it on the shelf facing the room. "Get up," he said. "Time to wrestle."

What followed was not wrestling as Jaren had once known it - the sizing up of the opponent, the contest to see which man would out-maneuver the other, the mutual respect of two honest competitors afterward. This was... this was just dirty. Jaren had more muscle and far better technique, but he had no hands to work with, which severely limited his options. Despite being so limited, he could still work well enough with arms and elbows and legs but he had learned that Adam possessed a secret weapon that guaranteed the outcome of the contest.

This became clear early on in his captivity. On that occasion, perhaps the third or fourth time Adam had compelled Jaren to "wrestle", Jaren had actually almost succeeded. Whereas previously he had not possessed the balance to be able to stand for long, let alone take down an opponent, by that third or fourth time he had felt confident enough to apply himself for real. And it had worked at first; even without hands, within a minute he was able to unbalance Adam and send him tumbling to the mat. Jaren was on him then, gripping Adam's neck between his thighs and squeezing with all the power he could muster. Adam pounded helplessly at the floor and batted ineffectually at Jaren's body, but there was nothing he could do. Jaren just had to hold tight for thirty seconds, perhaps a minute, and then his captor would pass out. Another few minutes after that and Jaren would never have to worry about him again, could use the man's fingers to open the latch on the door and get the hell out of...

Fire lit up his balls. His body convulsed and he lost his grip on Adam's neck. The pain lasted for long seconds. By the time it stopped, he was down on his stomach and helpless while Adam knelt on his spine and put the damn braces on his arms. Adam stood up and walked over to the shelf where Jaren's head sat, leaving his body bound on the floor. He held up his hand.

"Switch built into the ring," he said, running his thumb over the ring he always wore. "Any time we wrestle, I wire up your balls beforehand. Things start to go south, I turn on the power." He pressed an invisible button just for an instant and Jaren once again briefly felt the blast of current in his nuts, wherever they were. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his body lurch on the floor. "The lesson for you is: every time we wrestle, you need to try hard enough to convince me you want to win, but not hard enough that you actually do."

Now, today, it was time to play the role again. Past attempts at not cooperating only resulted in extra pain - better to get it over with. He stood up and walked to the center of the mat. It was smaller than a regulation space. He took his stance and waited for Adam to do the same.

Then it was feint, lunge, feint again, doing more with his legs and elbows than he would have in a real match to compensate for his absent hands. It was utterly unfair that Adam could wrap his hand around Jaren's arm and pry it away from wherever Jaren had placed it, but Jaren could not do the same in return. On the other hand, he could - and did - aim kicks at Adam's groin and head, acts that would have gotten him disqualified from any real match but which he considered completely legit in these contests. Adam compensated by wearing a protective cup, but maybe one of these days one of Jaren's ever-off-balance kicks could land on Adam's jaw and knock the asshole out. Then he wouldn't have to worry about the nuclear option Adam always had available to him.

That wasn't going to happen today, though. Jaren thought he had an opening, but his still-not-totally-reliable sense of balance threw him off and the kick didn't land hard enough to do any good. Adam countered with a simple shove that knocked the already-reeling Jaren onto his butt. Then he got a hobble latched on to Jaren's ankles and the outcome was certain. The bout lasted a few minutes longer, but with his feet bound together by a 12-inch chain, there was little Jaren could do. One thing he could be proud of - Adam had never been able to get him in an actual regulation pin, despite all his advantages. He could maneuver Jaren into a position where he could apply restraints, but he couldn't win the fair way. It was a victory of sorts, though a tiny one.

Then it was torture time. Jaren watched from across the room as Adam replaced the ankle chain with leather restraints, each attached to one end of a three-foot-long bar. The bar got attached to a hoist affixed to the ceiling, and soon enough his body was suspended upside down, legs spread, arms grazing the floor. He could feel the blood pooling in his head, swelling his sinuses even though the head itself remained upright.

"Today I want to hear you scream, boy," Adam said, still winded from the bout. He brought out a leather strap and began to smack Jaren's body with it. Ass, legs, stomach, chest, shoulders. It hurt, but not enough to make him scream. Jaren watched his skin steadily grow dark and red.

But Adam was only warming up. Once the skin had been sensitized by the thick strap, he brought out a thinner one and applied it to all the same places he had struck with the thick one. On skin already tender, the pain was searing. Jaren still didn't scream, but he did grunt and whimper, and he knew it was only a matter of time. Adam switched implements again, this time to a bamboo cane. He brought it down hard on Jaren's ass, once, twice, three times on exactly the same spot and Jaren teetered on the edge of crying out. Adam waited half a minute, then hit the same spot again, harder than any previous stroke and this brought Jaren's voice out in full. Once the dam was burst, there was no stopping the cries as Adam methodically delivered a lashing that broke the skin in multiple places and left angry red welts everywhere else it touched.

Jaren twisted and writhed, arms flailing and legs tensing but unable to prevent Adam from landing each blow exactly where he wanted it placed. "NO MORE!" Jaren shouted over and over. "PLEASE, STOP!" but the blows kept coming.

Only when the screams dissolved into wordless cries did Adam relent. He barked out some words, but Jaren was too consumed by agony to understand them. It took three or four repetitions before he could work out the sense of them: "Beg me to fuck you!"

"Yes, stop, please, no more."

"Beg me to fuck you, I said!"

"Fuck me, just stop..."


The pain was so all-consuming that the words didn't matter. Whatever words would make the pain stop, Jaren was happy to say. He just had to figure out the right combination.

"Please, please, fuck me."

"Pathetic cunt, you can do better than that."

"Please fuck me, please fuck me, please fuck me..."





This went on for long minutes, Adam threatening to deliver another round of blows every time Jaren's pleading didn't measure up. For Jaren, it was just sounds, not words with meaning. Nonsense syllables to be arranged in the proper order to achieve the desired end: the cessation of pain.

As a result, it was a surprise - and yet no surprise at all - when Adam repositioned Jaren and then rammed his cock into Jaren's ass. Jaren had watched, whimpering with relief, as Adam set the cane down and lowered Jaren's body partway down. Only partway? Why not all the way? But instead Adam brought the fucking bench over and laid Jaren down on it. His back was resting on the bench; his legs were still spread and suspended from the ceiling. The pressure of his body weight resting on the seared skin of his back made him scream afresh and so he didn't notice Adam removing the protective cup, lining himself up, and plunging in. Then the pain of the anal invasion and the rasping of rough hairy skin on the newly-torn flesh of his ass leaped to the forefront of his attention and he could only focus on that for a while.

Then, unexpectedly, the pressure against his prostate eased. He opened his eyes just in time to see Adam's face looming large in his vision. His head was picked up and the world spun as he was carried across the room. "I want you to have a good view of this," Adam grunted. Jaren's head was then suspended from the center of the bar that held his legs, angled slightly down. He found himself hovering over his own stomach, staring down at the smooth, tan layer of plastic covering the place where his cock and balls should have been. Just beyond that he could see Adam's erect dick preparing to plunge back into Jaren's hole. He both saw and felt the return of the monster as Adam slid it easily into his already-stretched rectum. Then it was just a matter of waiting it out, watching the pistoning motion front and center in his vision, feeling the rasp of sandpaper as his back slid back and forth across the bench and the tearing of the tender tissue inside him.

He had lost count of the number of times Adam had violated him this way, and yet every time the pain and humiliation was fresh and new like the first time. He never grew used to it, never could adjust to either the physical sensation of having another man's dick inside him or the idea of being an object for someone else's use. He shouted and protested and cried his helpless frustration, just like he had every time before.

He didn't even realize the moment had come until it had passed and Adam was slowing down his insistent pumping. Another load of his captor's sperm was now squirming its millions of tails deep inside his intestines and Jaren just wanted to vomit. His captor's dick emerged there, right in front of his eyes, and was followed by an explosion of air that had been pumped into Jaren's gut, accompanied by assorted liquid and solid bits. The stench was repugnant. Jaren was left to hang there while Adam went to find a rag to wipe up with. Smaller explosions followed; Jaren found he could hold his head between his arms and pull it back, away from the scene of his violation. He didn't have the dexterity to undo the supporting rope, but at least he could turn his face away, look at something else...

"I want you to know," Adam said, returning, "that you are, without question, the best piece of ass I have ever had. I know it's not your thing, but even so, you are a terrific fuck."

Jaren wanted to explode. The arrogance, the casual cruelty of this monster... He took a deep breath, then turned his face to his tormentor. "Please. Please let me go."

"Soon," came the response, the same as every time he asked.

"You always say that. When is 'soon'? When are you going to let me go?" he pleaded.

"I don't know yet. Let's go grab some supper, eh?"

Adam released Jaren's body from its bonds, then left it unrestrained in the dungeon while he carried his head out the door to the kitchen. What ensued was an unremarkable scene of domestic normality as Adam puttered about the kitchen, preparing chicken and rice and vegetables and humming as he worked. Normal except for the severed head dangling from a hook atop the table, observing the proceedings in mournful silence and feeling every ache of his lashed and raped body, locked alone in an underground room.

Mmmm... those were good days. My wrestler kept himself taut and fit, and I periodically partook of his deliciousness. The number of ways to combine two male bodies in carnal bliss is already pretty large, but once you add detachable parts to the mix, the only limit is the imagination.

One time I brought his head into my bedroom. His dick and balls were already there. I stuffed his balls into his mouth and snapped the mouth cover in place over them to hold them in place. That left his cock hanging down, pointing slightly away from his chin. I held his head in front of mine and dipped his dick into my waiting mouth. Soon enough, it stiffened up. I gave him a long, slow blowjob while he fumed with his mouth stretched wide around his own fat, meaty balls. He shot into my mouth and I swallowed every drop of his thick, rich cream.

Another time I left his head and body down in the playroom and brought his hands out from their boxes. I reclined on my bed, using his hands to stroke both my own cock and his. It was a wild time - sometimes he would cooperate, other times he would resist, but I was able to work with whatever he did. You want to stretch your palm out flat? OK, I'll lick your palms until they're slick, then hold your hands a short distance apart and slide my dick between them. You clench your fist instead? I don't mind a good fisting. Once he figured out where I was shoving his hand, he spread his fingers out wide, but I just placed his balls in his palm and forced his fingers to close around them. He quit resisting then and started getting into it. I used his hands to stroke him off, one holding the base of his balls, the other wrapped around his dick, slick with lube. Forced masturbation. I pumped him until he shot all over my own stiff dick, then transferred his grip to my shaft and finished myself off that way. It's an odd sensation, stroking your dick with someone else's hand. But very hot to use wrestler cream as lubricant.

I did some chastity play with him, locking his dick in a tiny ball where it couldn't get hard. But I never made him go more than two or three days that way because his junk was simply too much fun to play with. I just couldn't keep it locked away, useless. So I tried locking myself up instead. That was a great head trip - I had myself in a chastity device and I used a strap-on harness to hold his cock and balls in front of my own locked-up set. I spent three straight days like that with his dick taking the place of my own. The illusion was amazingly convincing - I would look down at myself in the shower and see a dick hanging right where it was supposed to hang... only it was uncut! And when I touched it, I could feel the touch, but only with my fingers. I could stroke it to hardness and it would stiffen up but transmit no sensation of stiffness to my brain. A completely lifelike strap-on. Meanwhile, my real dick, hidden away out of sight, was straining to bust through its chastity cage.

That was such fun to do that I tried to fuck Jaren that way, to rape him with his own cock. Alas, it didn't go well. He always softened up the moment anything entered his ass, and this was no exception. I could get him hard manually and then penetrate him, but I couldn't make his erection last long enough to get him to come in his own ass, not even by tying the base off with an elastic band. He just couldn't keep it up. That was fine, though - I still had a lot of fun trying to make it work. Eventually I changed tactics and had him fuck my ass instead. I firmed him up and used him to pleasure my hole while his body lay enclosed in the coffin box and his head sat where it could watch me work him around inside of me. Jaren Waszlowicz: wrestler and dildo. He didn't get to shoot, but I kept it up until my cock was drooling through the tip of the chastity cage, then stopped and made myself sleep on it. The next morning I was so horned up I unlocked myself, headed to the playroom, and pretty much immediately shot a giant wad all over Jaren's face. If there is anything more beautiful than a wrestler with ropes of cum stretching from his forehead to his chin, I don't know what it is. It's a pretty enough sight that I came again not twenty minutes later.

Sometimes I would bring his body up out of the basement and let him spend the night in my bed. In the cold months this was a nice treat because his body was like a furnace. I would spoon up against his back, reaching my arm around to gently stroke his tits or trace the magnificent muscles of his chest and arms and back. Once or twice I fucked him there in my bed, but mostly I saved that for the playroom. Still, it made a nice change of pace to lay him face down on my bed and tie his ankles off with ropes, stretching his legs out into a Y-shape. I didn't even need the braces to restrain his arms. All he could do was lie there and take it while I filled him up.

I even got him to suck my cock, but only under carefully controlled conditions. I jammed little rubber wedges onto his molars. He could try to close his mouth, but only with effort and only partway. My cock would be safe if I stuck it in there, and so I did. He refused to suck me the way he would sometimes suck himself, but that didn't matter. I was able to get off by face-fucking him and then it was my semen gushing down the front of his face as he coughed and spat.

And all the while, my printer was steadily churning out the parts I needed for my next acquisition.

One bright morning in late May I decided to bring Jaren outside. I had caught him staring out the window during breakfast and realized that he had not been outdoors once since I captured him. I thought the young man could use some fresh air and sunshine.

So out we went. Not all of him, just most of him. His head stayed down in the playroom and his hands stayed in their locked boxes in my bedroom drawer. His dick and balls were in my pocket, as they often were, and his body walked out the door on its own two feet (though I had to help with balance and steer it in the right direction). Then we were out in the backyard.

I should describe my home a bit. I live in an old farmhouse, just me... well, just me and my wrestler. The house sits on 32 acres of land and is set well back from the road or from any neighbors. The nearest town of any size is Royalton, an unremarkable little prairie village. The home is surrounded by half an acre of grass, then a zone of trees around that, then the rest I lease out to a local farmer to grow corn or soybeans or whatever it is farmers grow around here. Part of the backyard is screened in by a tall, opaque wooden fence, which seems like overkill but I had it installed anyway because I knew there would be occasions when I would want to play with my toys outside.

So there we were: me and the lower 5/6 of Jaren. I chained his ankle to the post of the clothesline, leaving him about five feet of slack. He moved about aimlessly, testing his limits and his restraint while I reclined on a lawn chair and watched him. Such a body, still in fine shape after almost half a year in captivity! He looked really good in the sunshine, and I made a vow to bring him out more often, tan him up a bit.

Thinking of tanning him up reminded me of the part of him that was in my pocket, a part that probably never got much exposure to sunlight even back when he was a free-range wrestler. I pulled it out and set it on my bare chest so it could soak up some rays along with the rest of him. The sun was warm, and while I had a nice cold iced tea to sip on, Jaren did not. Soon both of us were sweating, and the moisture provided a nice silky lubricant while I rubbed his dick against my chest. He stiffened up nicely and soon I was idly fondling both his dick and my own, rubbing them with my hands or against each other.

Then the sun started to feel almost too warm, which gave me an idea. I set his dick down and went to the storage shed to get some supplies. Then over to his body, which was now sitting in the thin strip of shade offered by the clothesline post. I undid the ankle chain and brought him to the central part of the yard where there was no shade at all. Soon enough, I had him flat on his back, held in place by pairs of stakes with ropes attached, pinning him down at ankles, waist, chest, and elbows. He could move his lower arms, but only to flail, not to actually accomplish anything. Then I went back to the patio and put up an umbrella for shade.

He suffered in silence, or at least, if he made any noise at all, it came out of his mouth down in the underground playroom (pretty close to directly below me, in fact). All I could hear was the singing of the birds, the gentle whoosh of the wind in the trees, and the far-off buzz of a lawnmower or a tractor or something from a neighboring farm. I hardened Jaren's dick up again and continued playing with it while I watched him squirm in the yard. The sweat on his skin absolutely glowed in the blazing sunlight and his discomfort meant it took a long time before I was able to stimulate him to orgasm. Hands only this time, greased up with my own sweat and occasional helpings of his that I walked over to collect from time to time. But at last he shot, and I aimed him to squirt all over my own rock-hard erection. It didn't take me long after that, all slicked up with wrestler-juice, and soon my fluids mixed with his. I used his still-twitching cock to rub the results all over my belly, then nodded off to take a nap while it dried.

An hour or so later, I woke up to find all the ice in my tea melted. But on the plus side, Jaren was still suffering in the heat and that was enough to start my dick stirring again. Alas, responsible toy management said that the proper thing to do was get him back down to the playroom and make sure he got plenty of water to drink. I planned to keep him around for the long haul, after all.

So I waited until the next day, when his entire front half was bright red from sunburn, to take him back outside and stake him down again. This time I lay him on his stomach so I could bronze his back. All that itchy grass digging into his sunburned skin added extra discomfort for him in addition to the sweltering rays striking his other side. And of course I fucked him there after he had been baking for a couple of hours. Outdoor sex is great as long as you're not the one in direct contact with the ground.

I brought him outside regularly throughout the summer and early fall. After the initial layers of burnt skin had peeled away, the remainder underneath took on a gorgeous golden brown hue. Very appealing.

Midway through the summer, about six months after nabbing Jaren, I judged the risk to be low enough to venture a trip to Dayton. When catching wrestlers, summer is the time to lay the traps; winter is the time to spring them. Summer is when the campuses are relatively empty and various construction and renovation projects are in full swing, so unauthorized trespassers are far less likely to be noticed. Winter, on the other hand, is the time when wrestling season is wrapping up, when wrestlers are at the peak of their glory and fitness, ripe for the plucking.

Thus it had been the previous summer, when my magic portal had finally emerged from the printer, that I had delivered it to Jaren's locker room in a very conventional way. I dressed up in a delivery uniform, rented a nondescript white van, drove it to Dayton, and wheeled it into the locker room totally unchallenged. I had a cover story all cooked up, a fake name, a business card, even an online presence (building online presences is part of what I do, after all) for "Lansdown Office And Industrial Supply" in Beavercreek, Ohio. As well as an invoice and delivery paperwork for one (1) full-length mirror (60x18 inches), to be installed in the men's locker room, Delancy Athletic Center, University of Ohio. But no one even asked! I wheeled it in, looking for all the world like the kind of schmuck who followed all the OSHA safety regulations, installed it on the wall, then headed back to my van, all without a single soul questioning my presence. Summer is most definitely the season for setting up the snares.

I couldn't test it right away because the far end of the wormhole was in my playroom and was blocked by the mirror. So I made the long drive home and was able to test it that night. I slid the mirror aside, stepped through, and was tickled to find myself right back in the locker room again. Then back to the playroom where I closed the portal up and left it that way. I knew it would work when I needed it to; using it for any other purpose just exposed me to needless risk.

Now, this summer, I needed the portal moved to Janesville, Wisconsin, home of Pioneer College. Because of Jaren's presence at my home, I couldn't do it the way I had done the original installation. It would take five hours to drive to Dayton, then I'd need time to fetch the portal, then another six and a half hours to haul it to Janesville, more time to install it, then finally another five hours to drive home. Sixteen and a half hours just in travel time, probably a total of 20 all told. A full day, assuming I could stay awake that long. I could leave Jaren alone for a day, but if anything at all went wrong and I was delayed, he could easily starve to death before I could get home. There had to be a better way.

And, of course, there was a better way: the wormhole! I could cut the transit time out and back to zero as long as I only took what could fit through the portal. That just left the transit time from Dayton to Janesville. I could rent a van for a one-way trip, but... why should I do the driving when there were delivery companies perfectly happy to handle that for me?

So I changed my cover-story company's site to have an address in Janesville. The address was for a strip mall with a 20% vacancy rate. The back side of the mall looked just secluded enough for what I needed.

I bought a replacement mirror for the UO locker room, exactly the same size, and late one night, stepped through the portal, carrying the mirror with me in its box. I brought a wheeled dolly along with me as well. Once there in the deserted space, I took the wormhole glass off the wall and replaced it with the mirror made of plain old ordinary glass. Then I boxed up the wormhole version but only tacked the seams down lightly with tape. Wearing my delivery-guy uniform, I wheeled the box out the door, a quarter of a mile through the leafy, largely empty campus, and across Ferry Street to a UPS location that conveniently offered 24-hour self-service. I weighed my package, printed up the necessary tags, and paid for it with an anonymous, untraceable gift card that I had bought with cash at a nearby grocery store weeks earlier on a previous scouting trip to Dayton. Of course I was not so foolish as to bring my iSelf or any other digital gadgets with me on any of these jaunts, not after that experience with the feds' AI.

Now came the tricky part. Video surveillance was ubiquitous, but especially so at a shipping facility during its unstaffed hours. My hat, wig, and facial prosthetics would prevent me from being ID'd, but a video image of a grown man disappearing into a flat cardboard box would attract attention I didn't want. So while I was puttering about with the package and the labels, I was checking out the locations of the cameras. There were two, and between them they covered the whole space. But there were also several other large boxes already in the space, and I could use those for cover.

I made a big show of wanting to prop my package up just right so it would neither be stepped on (if flat) nor knocked over (if upright). In doing this, I moved one of the larger boxes such that it blocked one camera's view of the door. Then I did all my work in full view of the other camera - nothing to hide here. But all it could see was my head and the top of the box, propped up against the wall near the door. So here's what happened: I sealed up the top half of the box and stuck the shipping label on it. Then I bent down to seal the bottom half of the box. After a short time, I moved over to the door, still crouching, and it automatically opened. Then I moved away and the door closed again: logical conclusion: the human has left the building.

In actuality, I was still crouched down in front of the box. I then carefully applied a strip of tape to one side of the outside of the flap and then stepped through the glass back to my house. Reaching back through the wormhole, I pulled the box flaps shut behind me. The loose tape on the outside wouldn't hold well during transit, so I ran another layer down the seam from the inside. Total elapsed time: one hour, fifteen minutes.

Two days later, the package had arrived in Janesville. If they had followed my instructions, then it was now waiting for me in behind the strip mall where my fake company was registered, but I didn't want to open the package to find out until an hour when I could be reasonably sure no one else would be around. At 2:30 AM, keeping the room I was in dark so no light would spill through, I carefully cut a tiny slit in the tape and peeked out. I couldn't see much, but what I saw was still and silent. So I cut a little more, then a little more. Finally I got it open enough to get a clear view, and found myself totally disoriented.

The delivery dope had put the package upside down!

This despite a pair of very clear "THIS END UP" labels that he somehow managed to not notice. I'll tell you, it was a majorly difficult operation to get through the portal with gravity pointing one way on one side of the gap and the other direction on the far side. What I should have done is take the darn glass off the wall and flip it upside down on my end. But it was fixed tight to the wall (now in the main part of the house, not the playroom, since the playroom had a full-time occupant) and the tolerance for the sliding mirror next to it was close and I didn't want to screw that up. So I climbed awkwardly through without injuring myself too badly and then, once I was on the far side, headed three blocks down the street to the next mini-mall to pick up the van I had reserved. I had a brief dispute with the rental place's customer-service bot, which was accustomed to dispensing service to customers via their digital selves. My digital self was, of course, back home, and without it the bot's programming was severely taxed by my efforts to convince it that I was indeed the authorized renter. Eventually it was persuaded by scanning an actual piece of paper I had brought with me on which I had printed all the information in the receipt that had been sent to my iSelf. I could practically hear its electronic grumbling as it dusted off the rusty old circuits that eventually caused it to emit a physical key card containing the e-tags that would allow me to start the van up. I drove the van back to the mall and loaded the box inside, making sure it was right side up (mostly; I had to tilt it to fit in the van). Then I stepped back through to my house and went back to bed.

Later that morning, it was just a matter of stepping through into the van and driving it to the Royce And Stevenson Recreational Center of Pioneer College. I was as unmolested there as I had been at UO. Returning the van went perfectly smoothly.

My new trap was set and ready.

It's not real... it's not real...

Jaren kept reminding himself that this was just another VR session. In real life, his head was on the shelf where it usually was. But it had a helmet on it that he could not remove because his body was elsewhere. The helmet was showing him the sights and sounds of a dim medieval dungeon populated by demons straight out of hell, and the illusion was so convincing it was hard to remember that it was all fake. Sputtering torches lit the walls, and in their flickering light the shadows of black iron bars danced menacingly against the dark stone walls. The sound of dripping water was constant, though frequently the cries of his fellow prisoners were loud enough to drown it out.

Jaren had spent the early hours of the scene in the box. At least, he had known it was the box, but the VR program had made it seem like an iron cage. The box had been tilted to vertical, so he had been forced to stand for hours, shifting his weight from foot to foot and growing increasingly desperate to sit down and rest. Even though he could knock his elbows and knees against the sides of the box, nevertheless the illusion he was being fed through his eyes and ears made it seem like he was pressing against metal bars instead of wood. Over and over, he watched as captives were taken from cages just like the one he was in and subjected to horrifying tortures. One had been seared with an iron bar that had been heated to a red glow in the coals of a fire. Another had confessed to anything he could imagine confessing to as his body was stretched on a rack until his joints popped apart with loud, sickening cracks. Another had lost both eyes; they had been forcibly squeezed from his skull while he screamed.

It's not real...

Hours and hours of watching the worst barbarities men had invented to inflict upon one another... He tried to remind himself over and over that it was just a movie. He would close his eyes to shut out the images that were being fed to his brain through them. But he couldn't shut his ears, and if he spent too much time with his eyes closed, the giant creature in charge of the horror show - a seven-foot-tall monster with the body of a man and the head of a bull, complete with enormous horns - would stomp over to Jaren's cage and bang heavily on the bars with a rod, setting up a clanging in his ears that reverberated up and down his entire body. So he tried to see without watching, to let the images wash into his brain and right back out again. But that was very, very difficult to do. When you see a simulated man's simulated intestines drawn slowly out of his body and wound onto a spool while he gibbers in a very lifelike simulation of agonized distress, it is a difficult image to un-see.

Finally, Jaren's turn had come. He had been removed from the cage and bound into a tight ball, knees drawn up to his chest, arms fixed in place behind him, then suspended over a fat cone. In each of his hands, the bull-man had placed a small bellows. Squeezing the bellows would force air into a tube. The increased pressure in the tube would lift his body higher. But the tube had a slow leak, and as pressure in the tube lowered, so did he. Jaren had been subjected to this particular torment before in real life, so he knew it involved fairly high-tech devices made of plastic and rubber and aluminum. And yet all the parts had been given a medieval makeover so that they fit right in with the dungeon setting he found himself in. The pneumatic tube was a grime-encrusted, dripping pipe of black iron; the smooth cone beneath him was transformed from silicone to wood, liberally peppered with splinters and jagged edges and covered in dried blood and filth from previous victims. He knew what would happen next, but knowing the future did not allow him to change it. And so, hating himself, he started squeezing the bellows while the bull-man looked on, arms folded across its massive, hairy chest, no expression visible in its inhuman face.

It's not real... except... it partly is...

Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Each compression of his hand pumped air into the tube, lifting him a tiny distance higher, away from the cone beneath him. He tried to pace himself so as to not tire the muscles in his forearms too quickly. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, alternating the hands to spread the work between them. For a while he managed it well, but inevitably, his muscles began to tire. He slowed the pace of his pumping and even stopped altogether for twenty or thirty seconds at a time to let them rest. And his body slowly, inexorably, descended.

He first felt the contact as a slight tickling of the hairs on his ass, right along the crack. The pointed end of the cone was directly below his asshole, and he was now low enough to be brushing against it. The desire to postpone the inevitable propelled him to start pumping again and he stayed right at that point for a while. But two factors conspired against him: his steadily-tiring hands and the knowledge that Adam would not end this scene until Jaren had suffered enough by whatever measure he was using to decide what "enough" meant today. And so Jaren once again slowed, and once again slipped further down.

The cone went from brushing hairs to actual contact with the skin of his hole. Knowing that penetration was inevitable, he allowed it to happen, waiting as his body sank lower and lower and the tip of the cone pressed its way inside him. Then he started pumping again, slowly lifting himself up. This stage was bearable - the sensation of the cone inside his ass was unpleasant but not yet painful. It didn't help his concentration that off in other dark corners of the dungeon, the bull-man's minions were continuing their ministrations on other helpless victims, whose agonized screams periodically filled the air.

Long minutes later, his hands were tiring for real. It was no longer a matter of trying to save his strength for the ordeal he knew would come. The ordeal had arrived. It was taking all his strength and willpower to simply hold himself at the same level. And he had to stay at that level, because the thing he was perched atop was a cone. It was not a cylindrical, dick-shaped dong that would enter his hole and then stay the same width no matter how deeply inside him it plunged. This object continued to widen the deeper it went. With every bit of distance he dropped, his ass needed to stretch that much wider to accommodate the intruder. The only power he had to ease the burden on his hole was to force his hands to work, pressing and releasing and pressing and releasing, over and over, against resistance, in a never-ending battle he was guaranteed to lose.

So why fight it? Why not just give up? Because it hurt too fucking much, that's why. He suspected Adam would not let him drop so far that his ass ripped completely apart, because surely that would kill him, no? He would bleed to death out his destroyed rectum, and Adam wouldn't want that because then he wouldn't have Jaren around to abuse any more. He had tried it once, resolutely not pumping, allowing himself to fall further and further as his ass stretched wider and wider, daring Adam to be the one to break first. But dammit, it hurt too much! The pain was overwhelming and grew ever worse the further he dropped, and Adam showed no sign of stepping in to stop him from sinking further, and so he had frantically started pumping, lifting himself up until his ass was no longer screaming that it was about to be torn apart, hating himself all the while for his lack of ability to follow through.

The only way this scene today was going to end was for Jaren to suffer until Adam was satisfied. That was difficult to fake. The two men had been together long enough that Adam knew how to read Jaren's body language and could tell when he was genuinely at his limit and when he was just pretending to be. It was just like their so-called wrestling matches, really. Jaren's job was to try convincingly even though failure was certain. In this scenario, suffering meant working one part of his body to ease the pain in another until both his hands and his ass had reached the point where they couldn't take any more. And so he labored, sometimes able to exert a spurt of effort and buy himself some relief as his asshole was able to close just a bit, other times unable to muster the strength to squeeze and paying the price as the weight of his own body forced the cone ever deeper inside him. The bull-man watched impassively all the while.

At last some invisible tipping point was reached. The look in Jaren's eye or the tone of his breathing or something had told Adam that Jaren had really, truly, reached a point where he had been hurt enough. The bull-man waved its arm in an imperious gesture and turned its attention to a wall where a man hung in chains. The man's head was held immobile by massive iron bands that secured it to the wall. Two helper demons were working him over. One had pulled his tongue out with a set of iron tongs and the other was placing a glowing hot coal on top of it. He was trying to thrash and scream but could not move enough to dislodge the burning ember. Farther off another pair of demons had suspended a man by his wide-spread ankles and were busy sawing him in half from the crotch down. Meanwhile, Jaren felt himself being lifted up off the cone to hang freely in space, no longer impaled by his own weight, swinging freely like a pendulum. A minion took the cone out of the way and set a low chair in place beneath Jaren's suspended body. The bull-man ignored Jaren, instead watching the coal sear its way into the tender tissue of the chained man's tongue, slowly losing its glow as saliva and blood carried the heat away. The helper demon added a second coal and the two together succeeded in burning all the way through. The tip of the tongue came free, still clamped between the first helper demon's tongs. The man's screams quieted as he was finally able to close his mouth around the smoking wound.

The bull-man turned its alien gaze back to Jaren, still hanging. It took a seat on the low chair directly underneath Jaren's dangling body, reclining in readiness. Jaren felt himself slipping downward again, down toward the bull-man's massive erection, which it had made sure Jaren got a good, long view of before it sat down. The monster's tool was as long as Jaren's forearm and at least as thick around, pulsing and oozing vile fluids from its tip all the way down to where the root disappeared into the beast's hairy groin. The only reason that the gigantic demon-cock would be able to fit inside him at all was because his ass had been stretched to triple its usual circumference by the ordeal with the cone. All around, the tortures continued on all sides.

It was all fake, and he knew it was all fake, and it didn't matter because as he was lowered down onto Adam's dick to be raped from beneath, that part was very, very real, and so the rest of it might as well be too.

Summer had turned to fall, and wrestling season was here again! When not working or amusing myself in my playroom, I watched the wrestling matches. The major networks tended to only broadcast the post-season in the run-up to the national championship, but most colleges had a journalism department whose students honed their skills by streaming and commenting on local events, including the regular season competitions. Their production quality was never as polished as what the networks could turn out, and frequently the video was fuzzy or interrupted by latency issues. But the wrestlers looked just fine all the same!

I watched matches from all over the country, of course, as I did every year, but I kept a special eye on Pioneer College's team and my intended new acquisition. He was starting his senior year, just as Jaren had been last fall. He had first caught my eye two years before as a sophomore, a delicious-looking piece of wrestler meat, talented on the mat and full of promise. Now grown into a fully ripened senior, he was more appealing than ever, firm and strong and confident yet still with a raw, boyish look to his face. He was lighter than Jaren, both in color and in weight, blond where Jaren's hair was dark and competing two weight classes below where Jaren had. I thought the two of them would look good paired with each other.

I let Jaren watch the wrestling with me once, but it just made him sad. Too much a reminder of his old life, I guess. After that I made sure his head was locked in the playroom before I turned the matches on. It was a pity I couldn't share my love of the sport with him because I knew he loved the sport as well. But our interests just stemmed from two incompatibly different places, it seemed. Alas.

Jaren ran.

The season had turned; winter was here again. Running was a good way to keep warm in the chilly underground cell. And it helped him mentally, as well, keeping him focused on survival and eventual escape.

The treadmill was a risky thing - his balance was still imperfect, even after all this time to practice, and he occasionally took a tumble and crashed to the floor. As long as he could see himself, though, he was usually OK, and there were guide rails to set his arms on when he needed to. Besides, even if he did fall, there was no risk of hitting his head on the way down, since it was up in its usual perch on the shelf.

The situation was intolerable. He was beginning to despair that the long-promised "soon" of his release would ever come. He had been taken in the winter, and on the occasions when he was brought up to the main part of the house or to the outside, he had seen the snow melt into flowers, the flowers give way to deep green, the green turn to reds and yellows and then fade to brown and white again. An entire year held prisoner by a madman who expected light conversation over dinner then delivered flaming agony and rape later that same evening.

To escape, he exercised. It felt good to work his body. The effort made him forget... well, not exactly forget, but to focus less on his imprisonment. Running on the treadmill, working his arms and legs and chest and back on the machines, doing drills he had learned from his wrestling days... it brought a small semblance of normality to his existence. He had plenty of time on his hands; what else was he going to fill it with?

At least the sex was down to once every few days. There were times earlier in his captivity when the assaults had come almost daily. He still lived in dread of the sound of rustling at the door, knowing that it would be followed by the entry of the psycho, and then anything might follow. It could be as simple as a shower, or as intense as having his body mummified in plastic wrap and duct tape and tossed in a corner for days while his face and cock and balls endured a wide variety of abuses.

While he was running, he heard the familiar scrabbling. He quickly made the three-times-three rubs of thumb across fingers. If he could just complete the gesture before the door opened, then maybe... but no, the door swung open too soon. Panic surged in his throat and he got off the treadmill and stood waiting for whatever was going to happen.

"Get in the box," Adam said. Jaren felt a bit of relief - the coffin-shaped box was not too bad as long as it didn't go on for long. A couple of hours was no big deal. More than that and he started to get squirmy, wanting to move. He tried to gauge how much resistance he could offer without getting punished for it. Sometimes Adam was in a mood where Jaren could safely delay compliance with his instructions for a long while; today he was obviously on edge about something. Jaren decided he didn't want any extra pain, so he walked slowly to the box, still breathing hard from his interrupted run.

"C'mon, get in," Adam snapped. Definitely on edge. Maybe Jaren should be fighting harder to stay out where he had at least some control over what happened? The moment that lid closed, he'd be trapped.

Too late. Adam grabbed him and knocked his legs out from under him. He fell into the box, Adam only half-breaking his fall. Then the lid was down and there was nothing he could do. Adam walked out the door without another glance at Jaren. He waited for the groping fingers to begin working his cock and balls. Strangely, though, they never came. Minutes passed; his breathing gradually returned to its normal rhythm. At least his head was outside - breathing the stale air in the box was an extra discomfort he didn't need.

When the door opened again, to his astonishment, not one but two bodies came through it. Adam was dragging an unconscious, towel-clad man through the doorway. From his perch on the shelf, Jaren could see a man much like himself, equally solid of build but lighter in coloration, lying unconscious while Adam went to retrieve the equipment that would render him disconnected and helpless as Jaren was. It suddenly became clear what was going on and bile rose in his throat. "No!" he shouted. "Ah, you fucker, don't you dare! Hey, dude, wake up! Wake up, man, goddammit..."

It was horrifying to watch. First the head was separated from the body, then the right hand, then, as the new victim was starting to regain consciousness, the left. The sense of helplessness was overpowering. All the memories of his own abduction and of his normal life before, memories that he had worked to suppress just so he could survive his captivity, came surging up to drown him. If his body weren't trapped in the box, he might have been able to do something about it. Even now he punched and kicked and strove to break free of his confinement. Perhaps he could take Adam down before he completed his work, keep him distracted long enough for the new guy to regain consciousness. Not only could he prevent another tragedy like his own, with the new guy's help he might even be able to save himself. The two of them together stood a real chance of being able to overpower their captor.

But it was not to be. His body remained locked in its prison; his head helplessly watched as the new man was dismantled. The hands went into boxes, the head, now fully awake and screaming in terror, remained on the floor next to the body. Adam stood and came over to where Jaren's head waited.

"Let him go," Jaren said, raising his voice to be heard above the frantic sobs. Adam ignored him.

"I'm going to get these things out of reach," he said, nodding at the pair of boxes that were emitting scratching, scrabbling noises as the fingers inside sought a way out. "And then I'm going to go put some ice on my eye and my knee while I think up things to do to that inconsiderate lout. He fought back way harder than you did when I took you, totally uncalled for." He picked up Jaren's head, carried it over to the mat where the new guy's head lay, and laid Jaren's down so that the two were facing each other. The new victim's screams doubled in intensity at the sight of a severed head right in front of him so that Jaren could barely hear Adam say "His name's Troy. Answer any questions he has while I'm gone, eh?" Then Adam disappeared from view and Jaren heard the door slam shut shortly afterward.

Jaren's body was still boxed up, unable to do anything useful. His head was about twelve inches away from Troy's with the two facing each other. Beyond the head, Jaren could see the new guy's body lying on its back, moving its limbs purposelessly. By now Jaren had grown used to the separated perspective of head and body, but Troy was enduring the disorienting sensation for the first time. "Hey. Dude. It's OK," he said in sympathy. But no, no it wasn't OK, not at all. Troy's eyes were squeezed shut. "Troy. Troy. Hey, man, focus on my voice, 'K?"


Jaren kept speaking, repetitive meaningless patter. He tried not to break down in sobs himself as the memories of all that he had lost were brought out from the deep corners of his mind where he had buried them. The key was to survive, to escape. He had to focus on that. Adam had no doubt brought Troy here because he wanted something new to stick his dick into, but it just might turn out to be his undoing. Surely the two of them could figure out some way to outsmart their jailer.

After a long while, Troy settled down enough that they could talk.

That irritating twit. I had thought taking him would be as easy as grabbing Jaren had been. But Troy was much less hung up on his routine, much less predictable. He was never alone in the locker room, and I spied on that place for weeks. I finally had to grab a sub-optimal moment because the end of the season was nearing and soon he'd be out of my reach for another year. So I went through the mirror to Janesville at a time when Troy and two others were in the locker room. Troy was alone on a bench; one guy was in the shower and one was using the can. It was the best chance I was going to get. I came up on him from behind and got the chloroform-soaked rag over his nose and mouth, but he fought like a bear, and not quietly. He smacked me good right on the eye and I nearly let go, and his twisting and flailing while I held him slammed my leg sideways into the bench. But I held on. The guy on the toilet asked what was going on; by then Troy had started to slump and I dragged him as fast as I could to the portal and closed it up.

It was impossible to clean up afterward. Jaren's disappearance had been so effective that no one even realized that he had been taken from the locker room. He had simply vanished and no one had any idea where or when. But with Troy, there was no question that foul play was involved. I had made a racket that the others heard and I had left signs of a struggle behind. By the time I had Troy packaged up and took a look through the portal again, the cops were there taking statements from the now-dressed teammates. Thankfully, neither of them had seen me disappear into the mirror, dragging Troy's unconscious body with me. But they had definitely heard something, so it was time to clean up the loose ends as much as possible.

That night at 3AM, I destroyed the portal. It's fairly easy to do - one of the fundamentals of wormhole theory is that one wormhole cannot pass through another. If you try to do that, both wormholes are destroyed. There's no cataclysmic explosion or ruptures in the space-time continuum or releases of colossal amounts of vacuum foam energy. They just quietly, without fuss, cease to exist. So I took hold of the plastic backing sheet and carefully folded it upward. I pressed the two halves together and everywhere a pair of wormholes met, they annihilated each other. Like popping a sheet of bubble wrap with trillions of bubbles. I slid the thing around, trying to make sure that every point on the plastic sheet contacted many others. I probably missed a few million here and there, but that would be fine. I taped the edges together and buried the thing out in the yard. The destruction of the wormholes meant that the mirror in the locker room at Pioneer College would now pass light through the remaining mostly-transparent plastic backing sheet to the glass and the silvered plate behind it instead of to my home. The portal was just a mirror now, and not a very good one. It hurt to think of how much time it had taken to create this piece of magic that I was so effortlessly destroying. I consoled myself with the knowledge that it had served me well. I now had two wrestlers to play with, one half-tamed, one still feral, and so I wouldn't be needing to abduct another any time soon. Heck, I wasn't sure how I was going to feed the two that I had - 22-year-old athletes eat a lot! (I suppose one of them was technically now 23. He must have had a birthday some time during the past year. But in my heart he would be 22 forever.)

As I iced my eye and knee, I thought about how to proceed. I decided to play up the horror angle. Deflowering Jaren so early and so often had let him know in no uncertain terms which one of us was in charge. But once deflowered, a youth cannot be "reflowered" and so I decided not to rush things with Troy. I would let him get glimpses of the things I did with Jaren, but would hold back from inflicting the same on him for days, maybe even a week. I wanted to watch the dread in his eyes grow as he imagined what awaited him...

For a year, Jaren had been desperate to talk to anyone other than his jailer. Now that he had gotten that wish, he was starting to regret it.

Troy spent all his time complaining. For the first few hours, Jaren had complained right along with him, long into the night. Every bit of description about what his life was like, and what Troy's would presumably become, was met with shock and outrage, followed by denial and protests and complaints. The repetition grew wearisome after a while and then Jaren wanted to sleep, but Troy had kept talking. And talking. And talking! Saying the same thing over and over. No, Jaren had not found any way out yet. Yes, he had tried. A lot. No, he had no idea when Adam would come back, or what he would do when he did. No, he really didn't notice the leather-strap face cage any more. It had been on for so long he had gotten used to it. No, he didn't know if Troy would be getting one, but it seemed likely he would. Yes, this really was happening. Repeat.

His body was still in the box. Troy's was free to move. Jaren finally got him to move his head over to the pallet. That took a while as Troy learned how to move again and Jaren had one very uncomfortable moment when his head spilled out from Troy's (fortunately low-held) arms and rolled a few feet across the floor before thumping to a halt. Finally, they settled in on the pallet, at which point Jaren realized: there was only one. It was not large. For now, it was fine because his own body was locked away. But when it was free again, he was going to want his own goddamn bed back, and he did NOT want to share it, not with another dude. Adam was going to have to provide another pallet and blanket, or Troy was going to be sleeping on the floor.

At last Troy stopped yammering and nodded off. Jaren, on the same pillow, finally did as well.

At some point he woke up. The cell was still dark and quiet. He lay there for a while watching Troy sleep until his cellmate also stirred and then off he went again. There was more sobbing as he realized afresh what had happened to him and Jaren just wanted to put his hands over his ears. He had not slept well at all - he was sore and stiff and wanted to move but couldn't do anything but lie on the hard bottom of the box and he wished Troy would either do something productive or just shut the hell up.

Hmm, come to think of it... perhaps there was something productive he could do...? (And why hadn't he thought of this hours ago?) He spoke loudly over Troy's running complaint.

"Hey, you wanna try something for me? See if you can unlatch the lid on the box over there?"


"That box. Over there." He tried pointing with his eyes, but that was ineffective. It was a major to-do to try to describe what he meant; Troy hadn't figured out yet how to move his head around on his arms to look around, and when Jaren had coached him how to do that then it was a complicated task to describe which box he meant. Jaren knew every square inch of the dungeon cell, but giving directions to a newbie was arduous. Finally he just kicked and thumped in the box until Troy caught on. Then more waiting while Troy fumbled his way over, and when he got there it was more tears.

"How'm I gonna open this with no fucking hands, huh? My hands are fucking gone, man!"

"Goddammit, use your toes, then!" Was this guy completely worthless?

Then there was more waiting while Troy tried to figure out how to get his toes onto one of the latches, which he did, but he couldn't tell what he was doing by touch alone and so he tried to hold his head where he could see and Jaren's head just lay there on the pillow, unable to see what was going on, getting more and more frustrated with every passing minute. How had he ever imagined this guy could actually help him when he was so clearly unable to manage the simplest tasks!

Troy was still fumbling at the first of two latches when the door opened and Adam came in. "Good morning, gentlemen!" he sang. The area around his eye was swollen and discolored and he favored his left leg as he walked. Attaboy, Troy, Jaren thought. Perhaps the newbie wasn't completely worthless after all...

Troy began to plead. "Dude, please, let me go, don't... what are you... hey put me down!" Jaren couldn't see much from where his head lay, but he heard a scuffle and then Troy's head was placed next to his on the pillow with the two facing each other inches apart. Then - ahh! - the box was unlatched at last and he climbed unsteadily to his feet. He swung his arms, hoping to catch Adam off guard but only threw himself off balance and down to the floor. He heard the latches of the box clicking shut again, but at least he was on the outside. Then Adam hauled him to his feet and held his arms pinned behind his back as he marched him to the door. The click of the door latch, and then they were gone. Jaren's head was alone with Troy's. His entire vision was filled with the sight of the newbie.

"The rest of you is inside the box now, isn't it?" Jaren asked.

"I think so, yeah," Troy answered. "I can feel wood all around me. This is where you were? This is why you wanted me to open the box?"

"Yeah." Duh! "Didn't do much good, though. Wish I'd thought to ask you last night."

"Shit, you spent the whole night in here? Damn, I'd go crazy!"

Jaren just stared. One night? One night was nothing, one night was an inconvenience. Three days, now that was enough to start talking about going crazy. Once he had been in for an entire week, only let out for bathroom breaks and health checks. This guy knew nothing of what his life was going to be like, nothing at all.

"What's going on now?" Troy asked.

"How the hell should I know?" Jaren snapped. "Did you hear him tell me his plans?"

"No, I mean, what's he doing to you? To the rest of you?"


"Shit, we gotta get out of here. There's gotta be a way..."

Here we go again, Jared groaned to himself as Troy droned on. Talking about escape was not the same thing as making escape happen. One was a useful thing to spend brainpower on; the other was just a waste of time.

"Ah, shit," Jaren said.

"I know, right!" Troy asked, thinking Jaren was responding to part of his monologue. Jaren hadn't even been paying attention to what he had been saying at that point.

"No, it's not you. He just put a clamp on my... on my chest." It felt too weird to say "nipple".

"A clamp? You mean, like... what kind of clamp?"

Jeez. "Does it matter?" Jaren snapped. "The kind that fucking hurts, OK? And now the other one just went on."

"Oh, shit, oh shit... we gotta... we gotta get out of here, there's gotta be a..."

Enough was enough. "Hey, Troy? Troy? Listen. If you can actually think of something that we could do that might actually make that escape happen? I'm all ears then. I'm happy to do whatever it takes. But right now, it doesn't sound like you have a whole lot of ideas. Your body is trapped in a box and mine is off with him and I think this is just the start of what's going to become a whole lot of pain. So please just... shut up."

"Pain? What's he doing to you? You can hit him, right? Just haul off and hit him?"

"Wish I could. My elbows are tied together behind my back. And he hooked them to the ceiling."

"Fuck! Kick him, then."

It was not actually a bad suggestion. By the feel of things, Adam was applying more clamps to his body, starting by tracing a line along the underside of his pecs. Each one stung a bit as it went on, then subsided into a general ache that steadily spread as more surface was covered. He waited until he could sense where his tormentor was, then lashed out with a leg. He couldn't tell how successful his assault had been until a fist slammed into his gut, followed by half a dozen more punches. He tried to twist out of the way but the fist followed him.

Troy could tell something was going on. "What's happening? What's he doing?" But Jaren couldn't find enough air to speak with. While he was winded, he felt ropes passing around his ankles. He struggled to keep them from being bound, but soon enough felt them pulling together and there was nothing he could do to separate them.

When he could speak again, he explained what had happened to Troy. "I'm pretty sure I just made him mad."

"Fuck. Is that bad? What's he gonna do?'

"Whatever he does, it won't be any worse than what he usually does. I'm kinda glad I kicked him, though. I haven't fought back enough lately." It was certainly easier to cooperate with instructions - usually that resulted in less pain. But he realized that over time he had been resisting less, cooperating more, which was good for the short term, but maybe not the right approach to get him to his ultimate goal: freedom.

The clamps continued to go on, chest and shoulders and arms and ribs and stomach, then down his legs front, back, and sides. By the time Adam had finished placing them, every inch of his body flamed with discomfort. He could spare no thought for Troy but instead kept his eyes closed, willing the experience to end soon. Even so, he knew that there was no easy way out: every single one of those clamps was going to blaze up in fresh agony when it was removed.

"What's he doing now?" Troy kept asking. Jaren just kept responding "same".

Then, abruptly, it changed. He felt his ankles being separated, pulled to the sides by the ropes around them instead of to each other. Soon they were spread wide and as a result, his body dropped lower and his arms were yanked cruelly up behind him. He began to gasp and moan. Troy asked what was happening, but Jaren couldn't spare the effort to respond. Then, mercifully, his arms were allowed to lower as well. The relief was short-lived, though, because he felt his upper body being pressed down onto a soft surface, presumably the bed his captor slept in. With his ankles tied out to the sides, he was bent at the waist with his weight pressing the clamps against the bed and his arms pulled up toward the ceiling while Adam's hand on the back of his neck held him pressed firmly down. He felt his jailer's cock pressing against his ass and knew what would be coming next.

Troy was growing more and more frantic, seeing the contortions on Jaren's face and hearing the noises he was involuntarily making. "What the hell, man? What the hell is he doing oh jeez this is not happening, this is fucking not happening..." Thumping sounds emerged from the coffin box, but Jaren could pay no attention to them or to the sounds Troy's mouth was making - his mind was consumed by the all-over ache from his body, the particularly sharp pain of his upstretched arms, and then, suddenly, the familiar pressure of a cock invading his ass. Again. This must be the two hundredth time by now and every time was as bad as the first: the pressure, the tearing of fragile tissue, the abrasion and friction as the cock slid in and out. The feeling of fullness in his gut as air was pressed into it by the pistoning motion. It was unbearable, it had to stop, and yet there was nothing he could do to end the assault and now, this time, there was a witness to his suffering and humiliation. Tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes, partly from the pain and partly from shame. He wanted to turn away, to hide his face, but he couldn't and Troy could see every emotion as it crossed his face and he couldn't stop that either...

It was always hard to tell when his rapist was nearing the end. He could never tell when the cock in his ass started spewing its vile seed inside of him, so he just endured until at last the pace of the pumping slowed and he could dare to hope it was almost over. A few last thrusts and then the dick popped free of his ass and he couldn't stop himself from expelling a gaseous cloud behind it. The weight was removed from his neck and he was allowed to stand. Troy must have seen something in his face then and known it was over.

"Ho... ly... shit..." he breathed.

But it wasn't over. Because now the clamps started to come off, one by one, and after each one Adam rubbed and kneaded the dead flesh back to life. Dormant nerves roused from sleep sent lightning bolts to his brain as each reawakened. He yelped and howled with each one, and there were hundreds. At last, at long last, he was down to just the two nipple clamps. Those hurt the worst coming off. Then he felt his body being untied and he was walked numbly back to the cell. The dungeon door opened up, his body was cast inside to fall upon the mat, and then Adam scooped up their two heads and carted them off to the kitchen.

What followed - torment followed by banal conversation over breakfast - was not unusual for the past year but the addition of Troy let him view the horror with fresh eyes and remember that this sort of thing should not be routine, not at all.

I managed to make myself wait two whole weeks before popping Troy's cherry. I let him watch the things I did with Jaren in various ways. After that first session where I left the two wrestler's heads together while I worked on Jaren's body, the next time I took Jaren's head out of the basement cell and left it up in the bedroom while Troy watched what I did. Troy's own body was present, but restrained. Troy could watch Jaren's skin redden and see how his body quivered with every stroke of the lash, but couldn't hear the grunts and groans and shouts (of course, neither could I). Then the next day I took Troy's head and the two wrestlers' dicks and balls up to my bedroom. I figured I'd go through the "how to suck cock" lessons with Troy starting with his own member, then graduate him up to doing Jaren's. It went well - he was able to get both dicks to erupt in his mouth. Interestingly, he seemed less repulsed by the whole process than Jaren had during his first session, which made me wonder... was this just normal variation within the range of typical hetero-wrestler responses to sucking dick, or did I perhaps have a closeted or maybe bi-curious specimen on my hands? It was a question worth investigating.

So that evening I laid the two pairs of genitals on my bed. It was easy enough to tell them apart - only one of them was equipped with a foreskin. Then I went down to the cell where I tied the two strapping young lads together, chest to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, and set them on their sleeping mat. Their arms were free to move around so they could adjust their position, but they wouldn't be untying any of my knots because their fingers were still safely locked away in steel boxes. I laid their heads down near them, then covered the bodies with the blanket. I fed them some line of malarkey about how I didn't like Jaren denying Troy the use of the pad and blanket just because he had been here longer, so this was a way to force them to get used to each other, and if they wanted to spend future nights more comfortably, then they had better learn to share.

Then I went back upstairs and watched. Without touching. The results... well, they were inconclusive. Troy developed a hard-on early, which was promising, but then it faded away. Throughout the night, each wrestler's cock boned up a couple of times, Troy's definitely more often and for longer than Jaren's. But there was no way to know if any given erection was due to normal 22-year-old randiness or due to one muscular male secretly enjoying being pressed up against another.

The day after that I spent exploring Troy's reactions to various stimuli. Jaren's body spent the time in the box; both heads watched from the shelf. He had delightfully responsive nipples that were like little titanium ball bearings when they perked up - delicious! He seemed to be less able to handle pain than Jaren. He really didn't like to have weights suspended from those tender, sensitive nipples, for instance. I couldn't tell if that was, again, natural variation across a spectrum of "normal" responses or perhaps because Jaren had had a year to get used to what I liked to dish out. So many research possibilities! So much to explore!

I "allowed" the two of the to wrestle a couple of times. Jaren had long ago figured out, of course, that what he regarded as nothing more than healthy athletic activity was, for me, a form of foreplay. That made him reluctant to engage, which meant I had to coerce him when I wanted him to grapple with me. But he was conflicted - he enjoyed wrestling, and he didn't really want to avoid it just because I got off on doing it with him. Having Troy around changed the equation. With Troy he was willing to spar without me prompting. Even when I was there in the room with them, watching and stroking myself, Jaren was able to get in his zone and ignore me. Troy... well, Troy was still learning how to balance with his inner ears far removed from their normal spot above his neck. Jaren was able to pin Troy down every time. That might change as Troy figured out how things worked, but for now it was too soon.

So anyway... what with one thing and another two whole weeks passed before I finally took Troy to the fucking bench and tied him down to it. I left Jaren's body out of the box, but I tied his elbows together behind his back and hogtied his ankles up to the rope that linked his arms. He could flop around on the floor but not do anything to deter me.

Jaren's dick went into Troy's mouth, held in place by the snaps and the leather pad. Troy's dick went between his shoulder blades, just where Jaren's had been during his first rape a year before. My own dick went into the warm, wet hole between Troy's legs, a hole that clenched and resisted for long minutes while I teased at it with my fingers until it finally opened like a fragrant flower. Once my fingers had broken a path, my dick followed along. Such tightness! Such an intoxicating sense of power! I was gentle with him, trying to make it as pleasurable an experience for him as possible given the circumstances.

And lo and behold, what wonder was this? The dick lying on the broad back below me began to thicken and swell! To recap: that dick's owner was currently getting stuffed from both ends: one cock was tickling his tonsils while another was probing his prostate. In my entire year with Jaren, there had never once been a time when I could get him to sustain an erection while his ass had anything at all inside it. And here Troy, on his first time, was stiffening right up. That right there told me that Troy was somewhere short of 100% straight. He was gay, possibly closeted, or he was bi, or some other variation. And I had managed to fetch him on only my second try!

I called over to both of the heads there on the shelf. "I've got a lot of stamina and can keep this up for a long time. So this is going to end one of two ways, and it's kind of up to you two to choose which it'll be. One way is, I fuck Troy's ass for a while, and when I'm ready to shoot, I do. The other is, Troy manages to coax a load out of Jaren before I'm ready to pop my own. If you can do that, Troy, then you'll get to come, too, once I'm finished. So there's going to be one orgasm or three. You guys decide."

Jaren tried to resist, of course, and verbally encouraged Troy to do the same. Fetching Troy here had really changed him, presumably because it reminded him that it had been an entire year since I had ripped him from what used to be his life and turned him into a sex toy. Prior to Troy's arrival, the two of us had played a nearly-constant unspoken game: he had been trying to figure out how to minimize his pain, manipulating me into choosing less-disagreeable sports to engage him in. I, in turn, would allow myself to be manipulated just often enough to give him the illusion that he had any control at all over his life. It kept him hoping. Illusions are good for that. I kept him thinking that if he walked exactly the right line between defiance and submission, it would placate me and make his existence a fraction less intolerable. If he just cooperated in this one more thing, then he would finally reach the end of his captivity and I would set him free. Troy's arrival seemed to have shattered that illusion. His whole demeanor had changed - now he was sullen and moody a lot of the time. The two boys didn't seem to like each other very much. That puzzled me... they had so much in common! They were both college-age wrestlers, both gorgeous studs... both abducted by the same connoisseur of gorgeous college-age wrestler studs...

But I digress. Jaren tried to resist, but 22-year-old physiology won out - Troy was able to get him hard. And a while after that, he was able to extract a hot wet load of spunk into his mouth. Some came trickling down his chin, but I knew what the size of Jaren's shots were like, and I knew he had built up a five-day load. Far more sperm had erupted out of that dick than had come dribbling out onto Troy's chin. The rest, therefore, must either still be in Troy's mouth or swallowed down into the guts that I was now plunging deeply into from the other end. That was an appealing image and I growled a deep "Aw, YEAH!" in celebration. For Troy's reward, I took his stiff cock into my mouth and began lavishing attention on it while picking up the pace of my own thrusting. I shot not too long after that, a nice, long, leisurely orgasm. Once the thrusting stopped, my dick stayed hard for long enough that I could hold it in place while increasing the suction I was applying to the third member of this long-distance menage-a-trois. A minute later, he erupted as well. I held the result in my mouth while I disengaged from Troy's ass, walked over to the shelf, picked up Jaren's head, and then let all that hot, white, salty fluid stream out over Jaren's face. I used my tongue to smear it all over him, between the leather straps of the cage, and damn if his helpless, disgusted expression didn't get me all fired up to start round two right that instant!

But no, I needed a breather. So I released the two wrestlers from their bonds and went off to wash up.

"Shut up," Jaren said.

There was a long pause, then Troy tried again, "Look, I..."


Troy stopped talking then, but only seconds later it was Jaren who broke the silence.

"You enjoyed that. You fucking faggot, you enjoyed that!"

"No! No, I... I'm not... he..." the little prick floundered for words.

"You're not a faggot? Hate to break it to you, pal, but... yeah. You are. When a guy gets hard because he's got a dick up his ass? That's pretty much the textbook definition of a faggot."

Jaren had his head in his lap and was trying to wipe the mixed residue of his captor's spit and his traitorous cellmate's spunk off his skin. It was not going well. His wrist stumps were too big to fit between the straps. The opening at the mouth was large enough to let him clear the disgusting glop away from his lips, but everywhere else he was just smearing it around. He was, as usual, helpless. The crap would dry on his skin and would remain there, crackling every time he moved a muscle in his face, a constant reminder of how low he had sunk until his jailer finally got around to washing it off. And there was nothing he could do about it. Just like there was nothing he could do about any other part of this whole massively-fucked-up situation.

For a year he had taken every single bit of abuse that his captor had dished out, sucking it up in the hope that one day the nightmare would end. Even in the darkest nights, he had clung to the hope that the day would come when he would be free again and the pain and horror he had been living would be able to start slowly fading into memory. Somehow, an entire year had slipped away while he was deluding himself - and it was time to be honest, that's what he had been doing: deluding himself. It had taken the arrival of Adam's second victim to make him aware of just how badly he had deluded himself. And how much time had passed.

Such hope he had had when Troy first arrived! Surely the two of them would be able to overpower their abductor, no? And then, once Adam was safely neutralized - perhaps locked into his own coffin box to slowly starve, wouldn't that be poetic justice? - they could escape from the basement, find the rest of their limbs and organs, and get the hell out of this pit. But somehow it hadn't worked out that way. Adam had kept them fully under his control at all times. This latest session, for instance... he had come in and tied them both up first before leaving and returning with their dicks in hand. Jaren knew they would have been wired up for debilitating electric shocks the whole time Adam was in the room with his two powerful, unrestrained captives. Any show of resistance from the victims would have ended with them squirming in agony on the floor. And so they had had no choice but to let him tie them up again, and hurt them again, and force them to do despicable, degrading things. Again.

Only they weren't quite so despicable and degrading to the other captive, it seemed. Jaren's orgasm didn't count - for the past year, every single climax he had experienced had been forced on him against his will. This latest was no different. But Troy, on the other hand... he had hardened right up as soon as his ass was plugged, and had stayed hard throughout the whole ordeal! The whole time! The little rat had actually gotten off on what Adam had done to him.

And to Jaren. And that was the part that was driving Jaren closer and closer to blind rage. It was one thing for Adam to get turned on by the torments he inflicted on Jaren. That was sick and twisted, but it was to be expected because Adam was a psychopathic nut. For the guy who was supposed to be his ally to do the same? Well, that was something entirely different. That was worse.

That was betrayal.

Fuck it. His face was as clean as it was going to get. He wiped his wrist on the floor mat and set his head on the floor as well, pointed toward Troy, who was holding his own head in his lap. A year's worth of rage against his captor had built up inside of him. For a year he had been wanting to beat his jailer to a pulp but had never had the opportunity to do so. Unfortunately, Adam was still not available to suffer the impact of that rage.

But his new little lackey was.

Jaren spoke, his voice ice cold. "You know, I thought when you came here that we might actually, together, have a chance against that asshole. But you. You're useless. In fact, you're worse than useless, you're practically working with him. Working for him. His little cock-sucking accomplice."

"Dude, no, that's not..."

"SHUT UP! Don't tell me that's not what happened! That is exactly what happened! That is exactly what fucking happened you little piece of cock-sucking shit!"

Jaren lunged at Troy. Troy tried to stand, but his lack of coordination made that impossible. What followed was not a fair fight, not by any definition. Jaren knocked Troy effortlessly onto his back on the ground and followed him down, pummeling him with feet and knees and elbows. Each blow was punctuated with a shout. "Fucking traitor!", "Cocksucker!", "Faggot!" Troy tried to fight back at first, but his struggles ended the moment Jaren kicked his head and sent it careening across the room. Troy was left utterly helpless, dizzied and disoriented from the wild spinning motion as it rolled across the wrestling mat. The blows landed with renewed fury once his resistance was destroyed. Troy curled up into a ball; Jaren kept swinging his arms and his legs, letting fly with every bit of rage he had built up over the past year.

Until suddenly, agony! His balls were screaming!

It wasn't the electricity. This was something more primitive. His balls were being squeezed, and squeezed hard. He stopped flailing at Troy and collapsed to the floor, handless arms groping uselessly at his ball-less groin. From his head's position on the floor he could see Adam at the door with a penis protruding from his clenched fist. It was painfully clear what was inside that fist. Now would have been the time to charge him, to take all that rage he had been spending on Troy and redirect it where it truly belonged. But he couldn't move, couldn't rise up off the floor. His balls were being ground together, about to explode from the pressure, and he could no more have stood than he could have flown.

"Now, boys," the sneering voice of his captor came piercing through the haze of pain. "I leave the room for five minutes and look what you get up to. Shame on you, fighting like that. Save it for when I'm here and can enjoy the show!"

Jaren's head was picked up and put into a small box, like the coffin box but smaller, largely soundproofed but with air holes for ventilation. Only then, once he was blinded and mostly deafened, did the pressure on his balls ease up. His body unfolded and he resumed fighting, kicking and punching aimlessly, needing to vent his fury now that the dam had finally broken. But without eyes or ears, his body could only flail around without direction. None of his random blows connected with any effect. Adam was able to subdue him without difficulty, first tripping him and then, after he had crashed to the floor, securing his elbows behind his back and fixing him to the ceiling. His body stood there, reined in place like an animal, unable even to kick due to ropes around his ankles. He strained and screamed his frustration and helplessness for long minutes, but with no target to keep the fire of his rage stoked, it began to sputter and die, leaving behind only the sad hopelessness that had now become such a familiar companion.

I have to admit I had not seen that coming. Again, I will plead inexperience. I had only had one wrestler at a time up to this point. How could I have known that adding a second one would lead to one of them turning on the other? You don't hear about that kind of thing happening in the wild! I suppose it's possible that captive wrestlers are like fighting fish - don't put two of them in the same tank. Well, lesson learned.

But I only had one tank.

Fortunately, Troy's injuries were painful, but nothing serious. Bruises, mostly. He'd be sore for a while, but there was nothing broken except for a small chip off one of his front teeth from when his head had rolled into a table leg. It could have been much worse. Jaren could have killed him. By focusing on Troy's body, he had satisfied his urge to beat something up, but a far more effective strategy would have been to simply drop - or slam - Troy's head down from about six feet up onto a patch of bare concrete. If one such fall didn't do the trick, two or three would have. It so happened that he didn't think of that strategy today, but he could very easily do so tomorrow, or the next day. And then I would be back down to one plaything.


To be clear, I don't mean that it is unacceptable that I should be reduced back down to one wrestler. What would be unacceptable is if I were to be deprived of one of my wrestlers by means I did not myself initiate. So I locked Jaren's head away while his temper cooled, made sure his body couldn't cause any more damage in the meantime, and tended Troy's wounds, setting him up to rest and recover. And then I took some time to do some serious thinking.

It had been a delightful fortnight having two wrestlers at my disposal. Mostly because, well, wrestlers like to wrestle. Which they had been starting to do a lot of. It was win-win-win - the two of them enjoyed it for the sport's sake, and I enjoyed it because it was basically live porn. I could have seen the three of us happily whiling away many an hour on and beside the mat. Oh, it would have been nice if the two of them had been as sexually charged by the action as I was. Having a bout end not in a pin but with the winner fucking the loser would have been marvelously stimulating. But that would have been gilding the lily - it was enough to have them enjoy their sport while I enjoyed them enjoying their sport.

Alas, it seemed that was not to be. Based on Jaren's shouting while he was pummeling poor Troy, he now considered his cellmate to be morally equivalent to me. His captor. The enemy. The two of them really needed to be in separate cells, or I would run the risk of walking in there one day and finding I had only one wrestler left. Or worse, none! What if they somehow fought to the death and both of them lost? (A hot fantasy, but one that could necessarily only be enacted once per pair of participants.) Or what if it was deliberate? What if they both agreed to simultaneously smash the other's head onto the concrete? A suicide pact to deprive me of my toys...

That prospect brought all sorts of grim thoughts to mind. A suicide pact didn't require two participants. One of my wrestlers could off himself unassisted. Of the two, Jaren seemed most likely to take that way out. His year in captivity had left him broken and depressed, and these last two weeks had really driven him to the edge. I didn't think the mental contagion had spread to Troy yet, but if I left the two of them together for long - even if they were physically prevented from harming each other - then Jaren's aura of hopelessness and despair could very well cross over to Troy. I liked spunky, full-of-fight wrestlers much better than morose, gloomy ones. But it seemed that by trying to acquire a second spunky one, I had turned my existing spunky one into a gloomy one. That was not the intended result at all.

As much as it pained me to admit it, by taking on two wrestlers, I had bitten off more than I could chew. One of them would have to go. I looked and looked for some other way, some Plan C that I had not yet thought of. But I could not find one. It saddened me, because it meant I would never get to try out some of the things I had thought up to do to them. For instance, I had been toying with the idea of affixing Jaren's head, hands, and genitals to the corresponding points on Troy's body and then setting the two of them some task to accomplish that required both large movements and fine motor skills, like "go fetch a rope from the storage bin and use it to tie Jaren's legs together". Succeed and they get to come, if they can figure out how to use one man's arm to move the other's hand and dick against each other in the right way; fail and they get flogged. Such fun it would have been to watch them try to operate a chimera body made up of parts from the both of them!

But now that and innumerable other possible entertainments would never happen. There was just no way the two of them could coexist in the space I had available. And once I reluctantly came to that conclusion, it wasn't difficult to determine which wrestler would stay and which would have to go.

Fortunately, I had spent lots of time thinking about good ways to dispose of unwanted wrestlers and wrestler parts, should the need ever arise. So I was ready.

Jaren's head was lifted free of the box. He had no idea how long he had been in there, but it must have been a while. A day, perhaps? Or maybe only half that? He was hungry, thirsty, and tired. And his body ached to move or sit down but remained stuck in its forced-standing position.

Adam carried him, blinking in the bright light, over to where Troy lay on the pallet that Jaren thought of as his own. "Say you're sorry," he said in a sing-song voice.

"Fuck you," Jaren said. He was done cooperating.

"Suit yourself," Adam huffed. "I just thought you might want to patch things up before you leave."

That caught Jaren off guard. Leave? As in... leave? Leave here? It couldn't be.

"Yes, that's right," Adam said, as if reading his mind. "If you won't say you're sorry, then at least say good-bye. I'm setting you free. You two won't be seeing each other again."

Troy stared up at him, saying nothing, an unreadable expression on the face resting on his arms. Jaren stayed equally silent, sure that this must be yet another mind game.

"Whatever," Adam griped, swinging him away and over toward the door. Only then did Jaren call out "I'll do whatever I can to get you out of here, man," voicing a sincere and heartfelt sentiment he hadn't known he felt until that moment. Then the door swung shut and it was too late to say anything more and they were climbing the dim, narrow stairs to the main part of the house. Adam set him on the table and fed him; Jaren ate hungrily.

Afterward, he asked, tentatively. "So. When you said 'free'... did that mean..."

"No, of course not," Adam laughed. "Don't be absurd. You know far too much about me, my home, my methods to ever let you go and blab about it. But acknowledging that in front of Troy would make him lose all hope, and hope was what kept you going for a whole year."

Even though at some level he had known, it was still sent the blood draining from his face to hear the words spoken out loud. There would be no escape for him. All along, since the beginning, there never was going to be. All of his fantasies of escape had been exactly that: fantasies. "So you're going to kill me. Fine. Do it. Asshole." Jaren thought the words would come out bitter, or maybe defiant. Instead, they came out flat and lifeless, as though he were discussing an overdue library book.

"No, I'm not going to kill you. But your life will be changing in ways I suspect you really can't imagine. Now wait here while I go feed Troy downstairs."

As if he had a choice. Jaren sat. Head on the table; body at parade rest; hands locked as usual in their separate steel containers, dick and balls... no way to know where they were. Adam wasn't carrying them with him as he often did. They were lying somewhere in the house, but he had no way to know where, nor any way to get to them.

After a while, he felt his body being released from the ceiling. His elbows remained fastened together behind his back but the rope at his ankles was removed and re-tied as a hobble. He was able to take only short, slow steps. He felt, and then in a bit heard himself being walked up out of the basement cell and up the stairs to the bedroom. After that came a lot of very peculiar sensations. Usually when his body was abused while his head was elsewhere, it was fairly clear what was going on - clamps, weights, the whip, stressful bondage positions. This time, there was no pain. Just a lot of touching in various places while he lay there on his back on top of his captor's bed, waiting for whatever was going to happen. At one point he was untied and blood flow resumed uncomfortably in his newly-freed arms, but attempting to grope around yielded no results. He couldn't tell what was going on.

Eventually Adam came back downstairs and picked up Jaren's head. Jaren was carried upstairs to find that the bedroom was a bizarre horror show of mannequin parts. Only the parts were... him.

It felt like he was lying on his back on the bed, and indeed his torso was. But there must have been two dozen other pieces of him, all in a jumble. He tried to move and found that he was no longer capable of doing so. All the muscles still worked just as they always had; he engaged the right combination to sit up, pull his knees in, and wrap his arms around his legs. But nothing happened. He was now broken into so many different parts that none of them were large enough to have enough leverage to affect the world around him. His head began to spin, and not because it was actually moving.

"Sixteen separate pieces," his captor was saying gleefully. "Head, torso, pelvis. Arms in three chunks each: upper, lower, and hand. Ditto for legs: thigh, calf, foot. And, of course, the crown jewel: dick and balls."

Jaren's head looked down at the jumble of parts on the bed. They were piled together in a heap. He could see one forearm resting on top of a thigh with a foot leaning against it, all lying atop his torso. That was the largest piece of him that remained intact - from neck to waist, truncated at the shoulders. Everything else had been separated at or near a joint - shoulders, elbows, hips, knees. He tried to move his body, his arms and legs in ways that a lifetime of experience had ingrained into him, but succeeded only in making the heap of limbs before him twitch and wriggle like ghastly, enormous worms. He watched the toes of his feet curl and felt the tickle both against his stomach and along his left biceps. He twisted his spine and dislodged a trio of limbs, sending them flopping to the bed. Adam piled the parts back up again.

Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed it down only with great difficulty.

His head soared through a short arc and landed on the bed among the random sprawl of the rest of his body. He barely felt the bump of his nose against part of his elbow, so lost was he in the horror of his situation. The way his head had landed, he had no view to speak of. He was staring into a small cave bounded by various parts of him, but he had no way of knowing which parts. He heard a high, keening noise and realized after a while that it was coming from his own throat.

At one point he felt sensations on his hands, which had not felt any sensations in a very long time. Then he felt a thump on both his hands and, at the same time, his left thigh and his right hip. His hands had been removed from their locked boxes and tossed into the heap with the rest of him. Shortly after that, he felt his cock and balls being manhandled and added to the pile. He could not stop the tears from coming.

His tormentor waited for him to calm down before speaking. "As I said, sixteen separate pieces. But I want to make a few more splits. We're going to go up to twenty tonight, maybe twenty-one a few days from now. For now, I want you to be able to see this."

Jaren's head was extracted from the heap and propped up on a pillow overlooking the pile of parts. Adam swept the torso clear so that nothing rested on it any more. Then he used two more pieces of wormhole glass to remove the nipples from the torso. They were slightly curved; one at a time, Adam lowered each into place so that it had a nipple resting in the center of the cup that it formed. Then he did whatever it was he did to make sure the edges stayed attached to Jaren's skin, and then lifted the nipples free from his body. Jaren heard himself stammering but couldn't stop. "Please don't do this... stop, man, please stop... no more... don't do this..."

His balls were next. Ever since they had been detached when he first arrived, the whole package of dick, ball, ball had been one unit. Now Adam used two more pieces of his magic slicer to separate each ball so that all three had an independent existence.

"Now," he said, "you and I and these two beauties are going to take a little trip." He held the two testicles up for Jaren to see. They looked more like large pink grapes than like body parts. Adam slipped them into his pocket.

Then up and away and out to a car. Jaren's head was propped up on the passenger seat. All he could see was black sky as they drove off into the night, occasionally blocked by skeletal limbs of trees. He spent some time at first exploring by touch the rest of him, back in the bedroom. Now that his hands were free he could use them to grope around, even moving them by pulling along with his fingers like some scene out of a zombie movie. But he could do nothing useful. He was totally unrestrained, and yet totally powerless. Eventually, lulled by the monotony and the motion of the car, he started to drowse.

He woke when the car stopped and the engine shut off. Adam left for about twenty minutes, then returned to carry Jaren's head out into the cold night air. He had no idea where they were, but it was someplace desolate, with ankle-deep snow on the ground and wind pouring steadily into their faces as they walked, their way lit by a quarter moon hanging in the sky. Adam came to a set of railroad tracks and started to walk along them. Soon enough they reached a trestle, a long one, so long that the other side was invisibly far away. They traveled along it until they reached a point that looked no different from any other and then stopped.

Adam lifted Jaren's head up and showed him the view over the edge of the trestle. There was nothing down there but blackness; vertigo overcame him and, back in the bedroom, his body fought to backpedal, to take his head away from the edge.

"The mighty Mississippi," Adam said. "Father of waters. We're on the rail bridge near Thebes. Know any history? This is the bridge that killed the town of Cairo. Before it was built, Cairo, downstream from here, was the place where goods and passengers would get ferried across the river. When the bridge was built and the trains no longer had to stop to unload and reload, it shattered the town's economy. Well, the people living there did some shattering of their own, too. Seems the store owners with paler skin decided they would rather go out of business than serve customers with darker skin. Pretty self-defeating, if you ask me, but people do crazy things, don't they?

"Speaking of doing crazy things... it is now time for you to make a decision. Did you ever see the movie 'Sophie's Choice'? You're playing the role of Sophie. Now, I could tell you that there's a reason why we're doing this, that you disappointed me somehow or in some way brought this on yourself. But the fact is, this is something I've been planning to do for a while. It was going to happen sooner or later. Your little incident with Troy just made it clear that now was the right time."

The wind was bitterly cold. Even though most of Jaren's body was lying in the warm bedroom, his head was getting cold, especially his ears and nose. Then, suddenly, his balls felt cold as well. He realized that Adam had pulled them out of his pocket and they were now exposed to the biting wind. With an abrupt lurch in his gut, Jaren suddenly knew what the reference to Sophie was about, even though he was only vaguely aware of the movie.

"Don't. Please don't do this," he whispered, his voice carried away by the relentless wind.

Adam spelled it out anyway. "Honestly, I've lost track of which one of these is which. And from my perspective, it really doesn't matter. But I thought I might give you the chance to voice an opinion. So..." He held the two small, fragile orbs up where Jaren could see them. One was higher in his hand, held in place between his palm and the first two fingers of his hand. The other was secured by the ring and pinky fingers. He gently squeezed the higher one. "Which one is this? Lefty or Righty?"

It was the left. Jaren didn't say that, though. He just kept begging, knowing it was hopeless but going through the motions anyway. "No... no, please... don't.... you don't have to do this.." Out of habit, he kept flicking his thumb across his fingers, three sets of three, three sets of three, over and over. He caught himself doing it and stopped. Feeble superstitious gestures hadn't done shit to save him so far and weren't going to start now.

"Aw, c'mon. No opinion? See, in the movie, if Sophie didn't pick one of her kids to feed to the Nazi brutes, they would take them both. I can't threaten you with that because if I cast both of these over the edge, they would eventually both stop working, and then I wouldn't be able to get that delicious dick of yours hard any more and your gorgeous figure would start going to fat and neither of us wants that to happen, right? So rest assured, only one of these little babies is going for a swim tonight, regardless of what you decide or whether you decide at all. The other one will continue pumping out all the big T you'll need. I just thought you might have a preference as to which one stays and which one goes."

This was impossible. Jaren was crying again, his voice cracking, hopelessly soft. "Please. No. Don't. Please."

"That's all you got? No actual opinion? I mean, as I said, that's fine by me, I don't even know which one is which, they're totally interchangeable." There was a sudden flicking motion in his palm while he was speaking. With no warning, no dramatic countdown, right in the middle of the sentence, suddenly there was only one ball left in his palm where a second before there had been two. Jaren gasped and didn't hear the end of what he said, then gasped again long seconds later as his ball crashed into the icy water below, sending shock waves of agony up his spine. Then he found his voice at last.

"NOOOOOOooooooOOOOOOO!" he screamed. He barely felt his remaining ball being tucked safely back into Adam's pocket. He didn't notice any of the walk back to the car. All he could focus on was the icy cold of his left nut, already far beyond his reach, impossible to retrieve and drifting farther away with every passing second.

Obviously, I had no idea what would happen after I dropped Jaren's ball off the bridge. My expectation - my hope, even - was that it would float downstream for a few hours or a few days and then get snapped up by some hungry critter. But there was no way to be sure. It might get hung up in the shallows and locked into a block of ice when a cold front came through, then sit there until spring... and who could say if I'd even still have the rest of Jaren around by then? Or it might get devoured right away, either in one giant gulp from some large bird or fish, or in a thousand tiny nibbles from a swarm of smaller somethings. Or it might get sucked into the propeller of a passing boat. One way or another, the nut's eventual destruction was assured, but it was a very open question as to method and timing. I kind of enjoyed the uncertainty, the casting of fate to the winds. To the waters, more accurately.

But I really hoped we'd be able to make it back home before the nut's demise. I wanted Jaren to spend at least a little while in a state of anticipation, neither of us knowing when the end would come. That state of waiting, of not-knowing, is so precious and so hard to duplicate. Also, I wanted to be able to watch him with my full attention when the moment came.

So we went home, Jaren either asleep or faking it on the seat beside me by the time we got there. I would have loved to sleep myself, but it was pretty much morning anyway and - more importantly - I didn't want to risk missing the Big Crunch. I looked in on Troy (sleeping soundly), then headed upstairs where the rest of Jaren was still waiting where I had left him. The various bits had moved around a little, but I counted and all the parts were still there on the bed. I wasn't worried that he would accidentally trigger wormhole collapse by touching parts together that shouldn't touch - it's fine if one plastic backing plate rubs up against another; that's just plastic touching plastic. It's only if a wormhole touches another wormhole that they both cease to exist. Since all his wormholes were sealed up tight against his body, the risk was nil. So I still had all my wrestler's parts intact, nineteen fragments in total... plus the one that was plying the river somewhere between Thebes and Cairo. By lining up the edges, I discovered that I still had possession of the right nut; by process of elimination, it was therefore the left that was off getting in touch with its inner Huckleberry Finn.

Jaren spent most of the time trying to fold in on himself and pretend the world didn't exist. I didn't mind that. I got myself all worked up for a while, stroking myself with various bits of Jaren's anatomy, then let my dick go soft when nothing continued to happen. Then I went and fetched a mug of coffee to help me stay awake, stiffened myself up again and repeated the process. Long sessions of edging, taking myself right up to the brink but not letting myself go over. Dawn had broken by then, the wintry sun edging up low over the horizon. Early morning. Prime feeding time for aquatic wildlife.

I had Jaren's head in the crook of my arm, his dick (soft) in my mouth, and his ball on my chest and was lazily rubbing my cock when it started. Jaren's eyes flew open and his entire body tensed, bits and pieces of trunk and limb twitching as he worked his muscles. "Shi..." he said, the syllable bitten off by clenched teeth. I spat his dick out of my mouth and started rubbing myself harder.

"Aw, yeah, that's it. Tell me what's going on. What are you feeling?"

He didn't. I didn't really expect him to, and I didn't need him to: his experience was written plainly all over his face. His ball was still intact, at least for the moment, or he'd be screaming a lot louder. But it had definitely been poked by something, possibly nibbled? Perhaps whatever was hunting it was doing so in the manner of a shark, delivering an exploratory chomp first to see if the prey was tasty, then letting it bleed and weaken a bit before circling around to finish the meal. I hoped whatever it was appreciated the delicacy it was about to ingest. Unattended human testicles, especially wrestler testicles still warmed by hot wrestler blood, did not float by every day, y'know. Whoever the diner was, it was the lucky recipient of a rare and precious treat.

He tensed again and bit off another cry. His body tried to curl up in a hopeless effort to protect something that was miles away. Then the screaming began in earnest and I knew that whatever was eating him was no longer taking sample bites. I pictured razor sharp teeth piercing through the taut pink skin, then through the membrane that held the testicle's insides in, spilling the contents out into the ravenous creature's mouth, millions of half-formed sperm cells whose evolutionary destiny would now never be fulfilled washing down the beast's gullet. My orgasm came on me swiftly and with an intensity that nearly made me pass out. The hours of buildup contributed, of course, but mostly what made the experience so overwhelming was the knowledge that at that very moment my wrestler's ball was undergoing painful, irrevocable destruction. I was able to keep enough presence of mind to aim the pulsating jets at Jaren's face, spraying my sperm all over him even as his own spilled into the Mississippi, driving home the point that the whole purpose of this exercise, the whole reason why I sacrificed half of his manhood to some random bit of wildlife, was to provide myself with a more satisfying climax.

And satisfying it was. I lay there for a long, languid minute or two while aftershocks shuddered through my body. Jaren's body was shuddering too, and his screams were only starting to subside to moans by the time I stirred myself to motion. The wormhole glass, after all, was still active. Blood from my toy was pulsing out into the river, and muddy Mississippi water had a direct line to the inside of Jaren's crotch. That was not ideal. So I got a string, tied off the spot where the left nut used to be attached, and passed another chunk of wormhole glass over the bit that was already there. Poof, instant destruction of all intersecting wormholes, leaving only the flexible plastic backing, which promptly started leaking blood once the wormhole connections were severed. I bandaged it up and that was really all I could do. Jaren's body would have to heal up the wound and then hopefully his immune system would be robust enough to handle any tiny beasties and creepy-crawlies that may have crept in through the gap while it was open.

Or maybe he wouldn't be around long enough for that to matter.

It had been a long night. I slept a lot of the rest of that day, curled up on the bed surrounded by various parts of Jaren. (I put his hands back in their boxes just to make sure he didn't get up to anything while I was out.) I got up between naps to feed and tend to Troy, who would have been no fun to play with anyway since he was still recovering from the beating Jaren had given him. I offered to feed Jaren too, but he didn't feel like eating and was probably on his way toward convincing himself to start a hunger strike. I had other plans for him.

I gave him the following day to rest and recover. He still wouldn't eat and I didn't push the issue. The next day, inspecting the skin below the base of his cock, I saw that infection probably was starting to set in. Not surprising, given the circumstances. You don't do a hemi-castration in a muddy river if it's sterile conditions you're looking for. So it was either antibiotics or... plan B.

Plan B was what I had spent the first twenty minutes out at the bridge doing, while Jaren's head stayed in the car. I had taken a piece of wormhole glass, walked out a good way across, and attached the wormhole glass to the underside of the trestle. That had been a fun little exercise, let me tell you. A high-wire acrobatic stunt on a dark night in the dead of winter. But I managed to get the one half attached without dropping myself into the river. The other half was, of course, in my possession. I had to keep it out in the garage because every time a train rumbled over that trestle, the noise and vibration were transmitted straight through to my side.

I had a little talk with Jaren. "You have one more choice to make. Our life together as we knew it is coming to an end. I can't let you have any contact with Troy - he thinks you've been released back into the wild. I don't really have the ability to keep you around any more, since I only have one playroom and Troy's in it. I can't let you go. Not a whole lot of options, see?"

"You talk too much," he told me. "Just do it, already." Such world-weariness, such ennui from one so young!

"I'm not going to do it. You are. Or you aren't. That's what your choice is. See, I realized something once I cut you into so many pieces. I realized that I only need six of those pieces. The other thirteen are superfluous. Don't get me wrong, your muscles are still magnificent and I love watching them bunch and squirm here on the bed every time you try to move. But I don't really need your beautiful broad shoulders or your lusciously thick thighs or the blazing guns of your biceps. The only parts I really need are here."

While we were talking, I had separated the parts of him into two piles on the bed. In one pile were his head, his pelvis, his dick, his one remaining ball, and both nipples. In the other sat everything else. I picked up one of the nipples, gave it a squeeze, and applied a clamp to it. Jaded as he pretended to be, he still winced as the sharp metal teeth dug in.

"These six parts are enough. I have your mouth and ass to fuck and your dick, your ball, and your tits to abuse. You can eat, breathe, and excrete just like always. All that other stuff," I said, gesturing to the second pile, "is unnecessary. Now, there is one more modification I would make. Right now, your mouth is still connected to the rest of your head. That's more than I need. I just want the mouth and also the nose so you can keep breathing. But eyes? Ears? I have no use for those. So what I was thinking was that I would run another sheet of wormhole glass through your head... just... like... this..."

I did exactly as I described. The glass passed over the bridge of his nose and under his eyes, then diagonally downward through his head, passing under his ears and ending at the base of his skull. I very carefully did not touch the existing glass at his neck - wormhole destruction was not my desired outcome just yet. The effect was to separate his skull into two pieces, with the parts I desired below and the unwanted extras above.

"See, all I would do is split it off here and then I can keep the parts I need handy and dispose of... or rather, store the rest somewhere else." I lifted the glass off his head, not going through just yet with the proposed separation. "I was thinking I would seal up the top half in a plastic bag and bury it out in the back yard. Four feet deep ought to do it. No light would reach down that far. No sound. Just dark and quiet for the rest of your days. The chest and arms and legs and such could all go into boxes, and then the remaining parts - the parts I have a use for - could live right here in this drawer. I'd just pull out whichever bits I feel like playing with and pack them away again afterward. Fancy a fuck? Got an ass ready in the drawer right here! Wake up in the night feeling like nibbling on a tit or sucking on a dick? I don't even have to get out of bed, just reach over and grab whatever I'm in the mood for. Mmm... I gotta tell you, just thinking about it has made me second-guess the whole idea of giving you a say at all."

Not true. I really didn't feel like feeding and caring for two wrestlers any more, but Jaren didn't need to know that.. Too expensive, too time-consuming, especially now that one of them was starting to become tiresome and much less cooperative about his feeding. Next time I will definitely dispose of the current wrestler before fetching his successor.

"Or, if you wish, I will give you the chance to end it all. It'll hurt, and it'll probably be hard for you to do, but if you don't take that out, then what I've just described will be your life for however long you last: you will become a collection of six separate sex toys plus extra bits that I will forgot about as soon as they are out of sight.

I unclamped his nipple then and kneaded the life back into it. He grunted and moaned, probably more from the prospect of what lay ahead of him than the abuse I had inflicted on his tit. It occurred to me I had no idea if I had been torturing the left or the right, if I had put the clamp on horizontally or vertically or any diagonal in between. And it really didn't matter.

The setup was elaborate.

On the kitchen floor was a sheet of plastic to catch any spills. I didn't expect any, but things happen. In the center of that was the piece of wormhole glass that led to the underside of the trestle. It was about 2:30 in the morning. I kept the lights off lest the warm, cozy glow of my kitchen shine like a beacon from the underside of the bridge. There was enough light to see by thanks to a dim red bulb, the kind used in darkrooms back when cameras required film. Cold air gusted up from the portal, driven into my toasty warm kitchen by the relentless wind across the plain.

Jaren's pelvis was suspended over one end of the rectangular gateway, held in place with rope so it wouldn't fall through, or even get near enough to touch and thus trigger unwanted wormhole collapse. Over at the other end I had propped another piece of wormhole glass (both halves, still stuck together) a short distance above the first. This was intended to be a sacrificial piece, a way to remove the wormholes from anything that passed through it. Before anything could get passed through to the trestle for disposal into the Mississippi, it would need to be de-wormholed so as not to destroy the gateway to the river.

Jaren's head was set upright, looking at the tableau. The rest of his body was lying in various places nearby. His right hand was propped up above the sacrificial piece of glass. In it he was gently cradling his cock and his one remaining testicle.

The choice he was to make was a simple one. Either open his hand, or don't. If he didn't open his hand, then after a suitable length of time had passed, I would undo the whole elaborate construction, pop the top of his head off, store it in the garage until the ground thawed enough to bury it in the yard, and use him as a set of bedside sex toys as I had described. This would have been an acceptable outcome, but I was pretty sure he was going to choose the other possibility. If he could muster up the strength to do it.

If he did open his hand, then his ball and his dick would drop down through the piece of sacrificial glass. On their way through, the wormholes that kept his gonads invisibly connected to the rest of his body would cease to exist. So would the wormholes in the sacrificial piece, of course, but it was a large enough plate that the bits of flesh would still be able to make their way through by going around the de-wormholed places. From there they would fall down to the gateway below and then be whisked instantly to the Thebes trestle, and thence straight on down to the river.

Of course, the effect for Jaren would be as if someone had taken a sword and sliced right through the point where his junk was attached to his body. As soon as that connection was severed, I would unseal the pelvis side of the connection. At that point it would be just a sheet of plastic covering what was effectively a gaping wound. I would tear that plastic off and let the blood flow, straight down through the gateway and into the river. It would take a while, and, as I had told him, it would hurt. But eventually he would lose enough blood to end his life.

So that was the choice he faced. Either tear his own cock and remaining ball off and bleed to death through the resulting wound, or spend the rest of his life, however long that might be, as a set of disconnected objects.

I had explained all this to him. He understood the consequences of each path he could take. I was pretty sure he wanted to make the choice that I wanted him to make, but he was, naturally, terrified of it. A year ago, he had had his whole life spread out before him, full of possibility, a cornucopia of delights to choose from. Then I had nabbed him, and he had spent a year thinking that the buffet was still out there waiting for him, that he had just been delayed a bit but things would get back on track any day. It had taken the separation of his body into two dozen parts and the permanent loss of a ball to convince him that his circumstances had indeed irrevocably changed and that there was no going back to the life he had before. He had spent the last few hours trying to wrap his head around the fact that one way or another, the rest of him was eventually going to follow his left nut's lead and end up in that river. The only control he had left was to decide how soon that would happen.

You might think that the choice would be an easy one. And if I had arranged it so that it was his head that would fall through the portal first, you would probably be right. Death by decapitation is swift; he would be unconscious before his head splashed into the murky water. But the route I had planned? That was a different story. He wanted oblivion, all right, but the only path to get there was through self-inflicted emasculation. For all the agony I had put him through during his stay here, most of it had me inflicting the pain and him enduring it. Sometimes I would force him to hurt himself, like the time when I had made him support the weight of his head by biting his own nipple. But much more often I'd dish it out myself. He was accustomed to being hurt by me; he was not used to hurting himself. It was a tough hurdle to overcome. On the one hand, it would be as simple as opening his fingers. But the moment he did, he'd be taking a guillotine to his gonads.

I watched him try to psych himself up to do it. I had told him to take ten minutes to decide, but I was prepared to give him fifteen. I figured he'd stall and delay until the very end. Which he did. I was almost moved to pity by the expression on his face and the tears that leaked quietly down his cheeks as he contemplated his mortality. A modern Hamlet, only that wasn't Yorick's skull he was holding in his hand. He hemmed and hawed, started to open his fingers half a dozen times, then stopped and closed them up again, terrified at the prospect of suddenly losing contact with all those sensitive nerve endings. Ten minutes passed; I threatened to yank his hand away and start carving up his head. He begged and pleaded for just one more minute, just one more, which I made a big show of granting him. One became two, two became four. Finally he closed his eyes and started uncurling his fingers for the umpteenth time, only this time he didn't stop.

The ball fell out first, hitting the glass below on an angle. It tipped to the side as what used to be wormholes suddenly became impervious plastic. But there were plenty more wormholes nearby and the nut fell through and on down. Long before it could hit the water, it was lost from view. By then, the dick had started falling. It had two attachment points - one that had led to the ball that had just fallen, already converted to plain plastic, and a second, larger one that led back to his body. The dick landed mostly aimed downward so that most of the flesh had passed through the sacrificial glass before the connection point reached it. Then it hit, and the connection was severed, and the disembodied cock plunged down, only a second or two behind the ball.

Jaren sucked in air with a wet, gulping sound, then let it out in a mournful, agonized scream. I quickly ripped the now-merely-plastic off his crotch and the blood started to flow. A little splashed on me and on the plastic sheet covering the floor, but it mostly went down through the gateway. It pulsed out of him with each beat of his heart. I picked up his head and held it in my hands, staring into his terrified, agony-struck face, imagining what he must be experiencing. He was moaning and panting hard but he offered no words; neither did I. This was too intimate a moment for words. Off in my peripheral vision I could see the rest of his parts clenching and twitching on the floor as in his mind he made movements like curling into a ball, cupping his wounded groin with his hands, motions that his body tried to carry out but couldn't.

It took a long time, at least ten minutes. Slowly, slowly, the light dimmed in his eyes as the flow of blood steadily tapered off. There came a point where it seemed he had fallen asleep. I set his head down and helped to drain him out by setting his torso upright in a chair and propping his arms and legs up against walls so that for each, "down" pointed toward his crotch. The flow increased a bit as gravity took over where the heart left off and soon enough, most of his vital fluid had been drained out.

After that it was just a matter of disposing of what was left, one piece at a time. First I de-wormholed the end caps on all his various parts, then weighted each one down by tying rocks to it. Clever of me to bring some rocks back from that earlier late-night trip to Thebes, no? On the remote chance that someone should happen to come across any of Jaren's parts before the fishies had finished cleaning him up, they would not be attached to rocks that had come from my yard. One by one I tossed the various bits through to the river. I tried to do all my work over the gateway and succeeded in not getting any additional mess on the plastic sheets. The torso - the largest piece - went last. It was sad to see what had become of my magnificent wrestler... those cannonball shoulders would never again be forcing the shoulders of a sweaty opponent to the mat. But sad as it was, that was the way things had to be.

The last step of the cleanup was to fold the gateway in half and thus destroy it. It was a shame - I could foresee a day coming when I would have need of it again, but it was just too risky to leave it intact. Even locking my half in a metal box of the same color as the trestle would leave clues that something was not right about that particular patch of the bridge. Not to mention the racket every time a train went by! No, it had to go. Some future maintenance or inspection crew would only find a sheet of adhesive plastic stuck to their bridge, totally innocuous. The next time I needed another disposal gateway, I would just have to make one and carry it out by hand again.

So now it's just me and Troy. There was a brief time when his disappearance was all over the news in Janesville and his hometown of Eau Claire, but in the total absence of clues the police eventually had to shelve the case. In the months since, the story has quietly faded into the background. Perhaps next winter the local news station might do a "whatever happened to... ?" segment, but they might not even bother. As long as I keep my distance, both physically and digitally, there's no way anyone will figure out what actually happened to him. It's not like two disappearances is a pattern, anyway. In the last eighteen months, I was able to find stories of twenty-one college-age students who simply vanished. Six turned up later; they had just gotten tired of what they were doing and had struck out for greener pastures. For all anyone knows, all the others - including my two wrestlers - did the same thing.

My new wrestler is very different from my old one. Where Jaren hated everything I did to him, Troy is more accommodating. It took him a while to admit it, but he's kind of into this whole being-tied-up thing. He's not completely a pain-pig, but he does enjoy bondage and discomfort more than Jaren ever did. And he's willing to role-play the various VR scenarios with me. He is conflicted enough about it that I enjoy walking him along the line between "hurts so bad" and "hurts so good". It's not a straight line, but one with innumerable twists and turns such that it's an ever-changing delight to take him back and forth across that Byzantine border. I can always tell which side of the line I've got him on by checking the hardness of his cock. While I don't think this is the life he would have chosen for himself if I hadn't made the choice for him, he is certainly more accepting of his lot than my first wrestler was. I anticipate him lasting longer than the year that Jaren endured, at least three or four, maybe even five or six.

But I know that inevitably, I will grow bored with him. I will have memorized every square inch of his superbly-muscled skin. I will have pushed him up to and past every limit he possesses. I will have explored all there is to explore of his for-now-fascinating boundary between pleasure and pain. I'm already preparing for that day - my 3D-printer is slowly churning out another full-body-sized portal to be some day installed in the locker room of a campus somewhere in reasonable driving range of my home. One day, I will have to decide how I want to wrap things up with Troy and then get ready to abduct my next victim. I have no reason to doubt that the third time will go as smoothly as the first two.

Because if there is one thing I know better than anyone else in the world, it's how to catch a wrestler.