Tuesday, January 16, 2018


Author's Note

Inflation is a sequel to The Price Of Pleasure. If you have not already read The Price Of Pleasure, I strongly recommend you take some time to do so before reading this story.

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 and torture. 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.

T-minus 15 minutes

Ah, god, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt. Ron's left nut was sending up distress flares, not yet mortally wounded but sensing it was only a matter of time before the damage was irreparable. Desperate to save itself, it communicated its plight the only way it could: by firing off nerve impulses to Ron's spinal cord and up to his brain. For years and years - decades - this action had been sufficient to ensure that whatever was happening to cause it discomfort would cease. It simply had to inform the brain that all was not well, and the brain would respond by identifying whatever the problem was and fixing it. The nut didn't care about the details - it only had to fire off the signals that said "pain! pain! pain!" and the brain had taken care of the rest.

That strategy was not working this time, but it was the only strategy the testicle had, so it doubled down, increasing the pain signal with every increase in the abuse it was experiencing. The ball had no way of knowing that this time, the brain was powerless to help. The brain was as desperate to relieve the testicle's discomfort as the testicle itself was, but the brain could not act on its own. It could only act through the intervention of other parts of the body such as hands and legs... and the hands and legs were unable to co-operate. The brain kept sending them instructions to go to the aid of the beleaguered testicle, but the hands stubbornly refused to comply. Every so often, the brain would take a moment to investigate why, and would discover that the hands were not unwilling, they were unable because heavy chains held them in place high overhead. And the feet were similarly chained in place. Then the pain signals would draw the brain's attention again and it would forget.

The result, from the perspective of an observer watching, was Ron squirming in perpetual but limited motion. His arms would tug uselessly at the chains. His hips would twist and buck as though trying to shake off the clamp. His legs would bend and straighten, lowering and raising his body a few inches each time. None of the motions made any progress toward dislodging the clamp, but the body seemed compelled to make the motions anyway, repeating the same ineffective problem-solving steps over and over and over.

From the perspective of Ron, enduring it, there was simply a wash of relentless pain. He had never had a high tolerance for discomfort himself, though he did enjoy inflicting it on others. Now, on the receiving end, he was quick to break down. He would have sold his grandmother for relief from the agony, no question. If he had been put into one of the endurance contests he had inflicted on Joe and Greg over the past two weeks, he would have fractured like an eggshell. He simply did not have the stamina to take it.

Mercifully, a break came. Keller's face swam into view of his clearing vision. His arm was down at Ron's groin; clearly he had unscrewed the clamp a few turns, easing the pressure on Ron's trapped testicle. "You with me, buddy?" he said.

"Keller... please... I can't take this. It's too much."

The edges of Keller's lips curled fractionally upward. "Yeah... well... you know, you really don't have any choice. This is the price for all the pleasure you had. You agreed to pay it."

"Please. Don't do this. I'll..."

"You'll what? You'll offer me something else in exchange? Ron, you've been on the other side of this negotiation before. You know how it'll go. Right now, you have nothing to offer me that's better than what I already have. I have a full-on, top-only sadist who voluntarily put himself into my power, who allowed me to chain him up even though he hates pain, who agreed that I could crush his left testicle until it ruptures. What else are you going to offer me that's better than that?"

"There's got to be something... please...", Ron pleaded.

"Well, sure, there's a lot that I would love to do to you. These past two weeks you have opened my eyes to all sorts of possibilities that I never thought of before. It was a whole lot of fun trying the ideas out on unwilling straight guys. It would be even more fun to try some similar variations on an unwilling gay sadist. But all of it, from your perspective, would be worse than what you're currently enduring, which puts you in a bit of a pickle, doesn't it? Now, I am a man of my word, and I will not take anything more than we agreed on. But I will not take anything less than what we agreed on either."

Ron choked back a sob and yanked on his chained wrists again. "Just get it over with, then, please!" he whimpered.

Keller's mouth now smiled fully, but only his mouth. His eyes remained icy and distant. "As you wish."

Keller slowly began to re-tighten the clamp. Ron's ball gradually flattened between the curved jaws of the clamp. The pain level immediately rose back to what it had been before and he started emitting squeals of dismay. Unlike before, this time the level kept rising. Ron yanked at his restraints and thrashed and bucked to the limits the chains allowed, but nothing stopped the inexorable crushing of his ball. Keller kept the turns of the screw slow and steady, never pausing, never rushing. Ron's mind went away and left him lost in the impossible-to-endure sensation radiating up from his groin. The nut deformed under the pressure, flattening and spreading and doing its best to hold itself together under the clamp's assault. Thinner and thinner it grew, the enclosing membrane straining to keep its integrity, stretching and stretching as the contents inside sought somewhere else to go, squeezed out by the relentless force.


Keller felt it as a sudden drop in resistance of the screw under his fingers. Ron felt it as an explosion of agony that erupted up his spine and out through his throat as a fragmented scream. Keller cranked down the screw faster until it could go no further. The jaws of the clamp were pressed together as close as they would go. Between them, inside the still-intact scrotal sac, one of Ron's balls was still perfectly fine while the other had been reduced to amorphous jelly, its contents pressed out from between the jaws like apple pulp at a cider mill.

Ron slowly, slowly came back to himself. It took a long while. The pain never quite went away, but it definitely eased up as time passed. There came a point when he could think and speak again. He opened his eyes, and there was Keller, still standing in front of him, still staring into Ron's face. "OK..." Ron said. "OK... that... that was bad...". He laughed, high and shrill, an incongruous release of pent-up stress that was sucked up by the sound-deadening walls. It was over. He had gotten through it. And yeah, it still hurt pretty bad, but that would lessen with time. God, what a relief! That experience had been... words failed him. "Horrifying" wasn't strong enough, and neither were "excruciating" or "devastating". He felt like he had survived a near-death experience.
But he had survived! Another half-sigh, half-laugh bubbled up from his chest and he took a deep breath, trying to calm his shaken nerves. It was over. Over and done. Now Keller would release him from the chains and...

Keller was still watching him.

"OK," Ron said. "OK, so...?" he looked up at his trapped wrists, not allowing himself to think the thoughts that had started to simmer half-formed in the back of his brain. Keller would uncuff him now. There was no reason to keep him in chains. He had paid the price, he had paid the fucking price goddammit what more could...

Calm. Stay calm.

"Uh, hey buddy, how 'bout opening these cuffs up, huh?"

"Sure. I'll be happy to," Keller said, turning to pick the key up from a nearby table. Relief washed over Ron. He shouldn't have doubted, there was never any reason to doubt. Keller lifted the key toward the cuff attached to Ron's right wrist and inserted it into the hole. But he didn't turn it.

"There's just this one thing," he said, dropping his hands back down. The key sat in the lock, out of reach of the fingers on either of Ron's hands. Ron fumbled briefly all the same, trying to reach it, before realizing this display of helplessness was exactly what Keller had wanted from him, that it was already too late to pretend he hadn't tried, to maintain any pretense of dignity. He pulled his eyes down and looked back at Keller.

"What one thing?" Ron asked.

"Well, you paid the agreed-on price and all, and that's super, and I'd be happy to let you go be on your merry way. Only before I do, I can't help but wonder... what are you going to do about that mushed-up ball?"

"What do you mean, what am I going to do? Nothing. I'm going to be one-balled from this point on."

"Ah, that's what I was worried about. See, 'nothing' isn't really a good plan. Right now you've got a bunch of newly-dead tissue floating around in your ball sac, which is no big deal for the moment. But long-term, that's not a healthy situation to be in. Pretty soon, that dead tissue is going to start to do what all dead tissue does. It's going to start to decay. If you don't do something about that, then in a week or two it will have become a festering blob of bacteria-laden goo. Do you really want to have an infectious mess like that right next door to your one remaining healthy testicle?"

"Oh. No."

"Right. You want to get that crap out of there. Now, you could go to a doctor. I'm sure you could find someone discreet to take care of the problem for you..."

"I think I see where this is going," Ron said.

"... or you could take advantage of the opportunity that you have right here. 'Cause I would be more than happy to fix you up right."

"You would," Ron said flatly.

"Indeed I would. And I think you'd find that my terms are very reasonable, much better than what you'd get from a conventional doctor, assuming you would find one competent enough to do the work but not too inquisitive as to how you happened to come by this most unusual injury. Not to mention the hassle of fighting with an insurance company. Tell you what. You just wait there a bit and think about your options while I do a little more tidying up."

There wasn't much to think about - the decision was a no-brainer, really. But Ron duly waited and thought while Keller strolled about the red-lit underground dungeon, humming to himself, tucking toys away, coiling ropes and hanging them neatly on the walls, hosing bits of detritus down into the septic tank. The larger chunks had been dumped down by opening up a grill set into the floor; what was left was small enough to fit through the openings of the grate. Over the two weeks they had been here, the stench in the dungeon had grown fairly foul from the buildup of by-products of two tortured men, but that had just added to the dungeon atmosphere. Now, with the newly-dead bodies of those two tortured men about to start decomposing, it was only going to get worse in the near term. That was a pretty compelling argument all by itself for getting the hell out of here as quickly as possible and dealing with his crushed nut somewhere else.

Keller was right: the dead nut-pulp had to come out, but any competent doctor would ask questions that Ron had no desire to have to answer. The insurance angle wasn't a factor - Ron was well-enough off that the idea of trying to get such a procedure covered by insurance didn't even cross his mind. It would be much simpler to find a doctor somewhere far from home and flash a wad of cash. Surely it wouldn't be too hard to find someone, although he would have to get started as soon as possible. This wasn't something he could procrastinate about for a month or two.

But there really was no question: having a professional do it was definitely the way to go. Keller's offer to take care of it here and now was no doubt a genuine one, but Ron had seen enough of how the man worked to know that such an offer would come with strings attached. The strings would appear to be threads, but they would turn out to be more like steel cables...

Keller wrapped up his tidying and came over to stand in front of Ron once more. "So. Let's talk terms," he said brightly.

"Yes, let's," Ron replied, playing along, echoing the cheery tone even though his hands had gone almost completely numb from being suspended overhead for so long. "What did you have in mind?"

"Nothing too terrible. Just: two more days. Extend your vacation by two more days."

"That's it? Two days?"

"Yup, that's all I'm asking for."

"And what happens during those two days?"

"Anything I want."

A memory suddenly came surging up in Ron's mind.

T-minus 10 months

SadistNEPA: hey man, whats up?
sk512ym0: Not much. Enjoying the weekend. What's new with you?
SadistNEPA: ehh same old sam old
sk512ym0: Bored, eh? I got something you can occupy your time with.
sk512ym0: Here's your assignment, if you choose to accept it: you've got a victim chained up. You have 48 hours to do whatever you want with him.
sk512ym0: Your goal is to break his mind down completely in that time, but leave him intact physically.
sk512ym0: By the end of 48 hours, you want him to be a gibbering wreck of a man, but with no lasting scars or damage. You up for the challenge?
SadistNEPA: mmmm i like the way this sounds! does he know theirs a time limit?
sk512ym0: Hmm... let's say yes, he does. That should make the challenge more interesting, right?
SadistNEPA: yeah. and does he know hes going to get out ok?
sk512ym0: That I'll leave up to you to decide. You can tell him if you want, or not if you'd rather not.
sk512ym0: Take your time, then. Send me whatever you come up with - I'd love to see what you think of!
SadistNEPA: youve inspired me. this is a much better way to spend the day than doing laundry!

T-plus 35 minutes

Ron found it difficult to keep up the bantering tone, and felt a bit stupid for even trying. That was Keller's game; why did he try to beat him at it, to play it at all? So his next words were delivered seriously. "I see. You want to use my own imagination against me. You got me to provide you with ideas, and now you want to inflict them on me."

Keller beamed. "Nailed it in one!"

Ron's face took on a shocked look as he realized the implications. "You... you fucker. You planned this in advance! Damn, I thought it was impressive enough that you had managed to get Joe and Greg here somehow, to this... and to even have this cabin at all, how the heck? But now... all along, you planned for this. This... followup. Making me your victim once the other two were gone."

"Well, 'planned' is kind of a strong word. I'm not big on planning, you know that. I like to make things up as I go along. But yes, I will confess that I laid some groundwork ahead of time. Not a plan, really, more like a way of keeping my options open. Planning is more your thing. The list you wrote up... I happen to have it right here." He produced three creased and crumpled papers and brandished them in front of Ron's face. "This is very, very detailed."

"Fuck...", Ron breathed.

"That, actually, is not on the agenda, seeing as you did not include it in your writeup. Although I have to say, based on the events of the past two weeks, some of what's in here is kind of dated. I will probably not follow this script exactly, but it will form the basis. The foundation. So, maybe, there just might be a fuck, we'll see."

"You are seriously proposing that I agree to let you torment the hell out of me for two days, after which you'll do me the favor of cleaning out my scrotum and we somehow part as friends afterward?"

"Well, the parting as friends part is optional... I mean, I hope that happens, but it's kinda up to you too. Aside from that... yes. Exactly. 48 hours from now, you will be free to go, intact and undamaged. You may have marks on your body that will fade and heal, but nothing that will leave a scar. You'll have all your body parts, except for the blob that used to be your left nut. After the 48 hours are up, I will cleanly remove the remnants by cutting a small slit in the side of your scrotum and extracting the nut pulp through it. It'll hurt a little, but by then I suspect you'll hardly notice. I'll make sure to get it all out and to be sterile while doing so. You'll heal up just fine."

"You know, you're very kind, but I think I'm gonna have to say 'no thanks' to this generous offer. I'll take my chances with a doctor."

"Suit yourself! We will part now, then. As friends. I had a great time here, hope you did too. Maybe I'll see you around online sometime." He turned and headed for the stairs. Ron watched him go, not quite believing the man would actually leave. But he showed no sign of slowing as he reached the door, headed through it, and started to shut it behind him.

"Keller! Hey! Before you go, how about unlocking the cuffs? Please?"

Keller paused, peering back through the doorway into the red-lit dungeon. "Ah, that. Well, that's a separate issue."

"A separate... what do you mean?"

Keller pushed the door back open and walked partway into the room. He merely looked at Ron.

"Look," Ron continued, "our deal was: two weeks of whatever I wanted to do to Joe and Greg, at the cost of one testicle. That debt has now been paid, so we're square on that front. True?"

"Every word," Keller said.

"So now I find myself chained up with no way out except through you. So... I'm asking. As a friend. Would you unlock these chains, please?"

"I would be happy to do that, my friend, but you already know what I want in return."

"But what you're asking for is... it's unthinkable!"

"I'm thinking it."

Ron shook his chains in frustration. "So what, you would just leave me to die down here?"

"Oh no, of course not, my very good friend! I wouldn't leave you down here to die! That's something you might do, not me. You know I'm more hands-on than you are, more touchy-feely. If I wanted you dead, surely you know I would rather take an active role and do it myself than just let it happen while I was off someplace else. No, once I leave here and get far enough away, I'll call the fine gentlemen of the local constabulary and tell them where to find you. I'm sure they'll let you out. They'll probably have some questions for you, of course. You could try to convince them that you were as much a victim as the guys in the septic tank. Who knows, maybe you'd even succeed? But in any case, no, you would not be chained up like that for too much longer."

"Oh. You rat bastard. This was not our deal. This was not what we agreed on at all."

"Hey, I have a clear conscience. I lived up to my end of the bargain we struck. Now we're negotiating a new deal and sure, it so happens I'm holding a better hand than you are. But that's not my fault. Remember: you are the one who asked to be restrained. 'You're going to have to tie me up,' you said. You never said anything about untying you afterward. A better time to negotiate that would have been before the chains went on. Now your bargaining power is a lot more limited. I have told you I'll be happy to unlock those chains for you, at a cost of just two extra days of your time. Or I'll arrange for someone else to unlock them once I'm gone. But the choice is still yours: take the deal, or walk away."

"Walk away and spend the rest of my life in prison, you mean. Prisons make for hot fantasies, but a pretty sucky reality."

"No doubt. Or take the deal and spend the rest of your days free as a bird. Well, a one-balled bird. Ha, a nut-hatch, ha-ha!"

Ron flashed back to day one with Joe and Greg, when Keller was talking them through the fix they were in. Joe... or was it Greg...? had asked whether they could trust their captors, and Keller had pointed out that nothing he said could possibly convince them that Keller would be true to his word. Ron found himself wanting to ask the same unanswerable questions. What guarantee did he have that Keller wouldn't force a new deal on him once this next one was over? And another beyond that? Keller had so far demonstrated that he was indeed true to his word... but his use of words was crafty. He would lie by omission, he would mislead, he would encourage false assumptions... but had he ever actually lied? Ron tried to think back... surely the thing with the drills (was that was only an hour or two ago? It felt like ages.), he must have lied about that. He had told the victims that their button controlled the other guy's drill... or had he? Ron couldn't remember the exact words Keller had used. It was possible the man hadn't lied at all, but Ron hadn't been paying close enough attention to be sure.

None of which mattered now. Keller held all the advantages. There was nothing stopping the man from taking his knife, or one of those drills that had recently reamed out the insides of Joe and Greg's dicks, and plunging it into Ron's throat, letting him choke to death on his own blood. Why didn't he just do that?

The answer was painfully clear. It was the same reason why Ron hadn't snuffed Joe or Greg for two long weeks, though it would have been easy to do at any time: the victim is more fun while he's alive.

"OK," Ron said. "I'm going to spell some things out here that have so far gone unsaid. Would you please correct me if I have said anything wrong? Or made any assumptions I shouldn't have made?"

Keller half-smiled. "Well, that last part is pretty open-ended, but I'll try my best."

"If I agree to spend two days taking anything you dish out - which will probably be following my own script but could include anything you feel like doing - then afterward you will clean out my dead nut and then release me intact and undamaged. Completely unrestrained. Whole in body, unscarred, unmaimed. Free and able to leave in my car, which will still be waiting for me right outside this cabin gassed up and in good working order. True?"

"I'd say mostly true," Keller said. Ron started to bristle, but Keller continued. "I haven't touched your car, and I don't plan to. Does that mean it's in good working order? How should I know? Will you be in any condition to drive? Maybe, but probably not. You might want to sleep a bit before hitting the road for all I know."

"You know what I mean," Ron snapped. "This is our last deal. If I say yes, then in two days, I'm out of here. You don't spring any new surprises on me."

Keller smiled his boyish grin again. "Aw, c'mon. Where's your sense of adventure?"

"On the other side of the cuffs! Say it. Say this is the last deal. That I'll go back to my real life once this is over."

"I'll go back to my real life once this is over."

Goddammit, the man was insufferable.

"You really leave me no choice, do you?" Ron asked.

Keller's smile stretched from one side of the cellar to the other. "Nope. No choice at all, really."

T-plus 1 hour, 45 minutes

"The problem is, you are just too damn good with your hands," Keller said. He was applying a seventh - eighth? - layer of plaster over Ron's fists. The innermost layer, under the plaster, was clear plastic wrap, not too tight but enough to prevent Ron from unclenching his fingers. This was held in place by straps of tape around his wrists. Then layer after layer of plaster on top of that covering his hands from the taped wrists all the way over his fingers, holding his hands fixed in that loosely-clenched position. The final touch was a metal hook protruding out from above his knuckles. It was a spring-loaded clip, the sort that would be very easy to attach to something but very difficult to detach again without fingers to press down on the spring-loaded part.

"I watched you work these past few weeks. You are an absolute artist. Your hands can do the most amazing things. I need to make sure you don't get to do any of that for the next two days. I don't have nearly the mechanical aptitude you do, and I don't need you futzing around with my setups."

"Speaking of setups," Ron interjected, "I notice you still haven't started that timer yet."

"That's right. The timer starts when the torture starts. This is still just prep work."

Ron's hands were still chained over his head to the metal frame, but Keller had carefully laid the frame down so that Ron was lying on his back. This was a marvelous improvement: the circulation was restored to his hands and they were no longer numb. But that wasn't the reason why Keller had changed the position; he merely wanted to work on applying the plaster covers without having to reach upward or climb on a crate.

"I think this is the last layer. As soon as it's dry, we'll get those chains off. So... remember what you specified you'd do first?"

"Yeah. Feed the guy a steak dinner and let him go."

"Funny man! No, we'll get to the 'let him go' part, but only after the 'pain and suffering' part. Remember, the goal is to drive the victim insane, make him lose his mind. You decided that one way to help that along was sensory deprivation. So while we wait for the plaster to dry, let's get those eyes covered up."

He pulled out a roll of silver tape and tore off two small squares. One at a time, he laid them, diamond-style, over Ron's eyes. The dim red light vanished from Ron's sight, first the right, then the left. Keller then tore off a much longer strip and wrapped it twice around Ron's head, securing the two smaller patches in place.

He mused as he worked. "Good thing your hair is short. Still, this is gonna hurt coming off. Oh well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. You know, a lot of what we did to Joe and Greg involved them being straight. Just taking a cock in the mouth was torture for them. For you, not so much. Wouldn't it be something if we had a lady friend here and I could make you stick your tongue up into her girly parts? Ah, but I'd find that just as revolting as you would, I'm afraid, so that's a no-go. So with sex off the table, really the only torture possibilities we have left are plain old pain. Forty-eight straight hours of it. There we go, all set."

Ron's main hope was that he would emerge from the other side of the forty-eight hours with his mind intact. Surely two days was not long enough for Keller to do to him what he had done to their previous victims, to alter their minds so much that when granted their freedom, they lashed out at and destroyed each other instead of the men responsible for their torment? Especially if he knew to watch out for it. But honestly, he had no idea what his reaction would be once the pain and disorientation and stress set in. None at all. He lay there a while, trying not to contemplate all the things Keller might do to him - torments that he himself had devised which Keller would now turn around and apply to him.

"Next up: ears. You know, it's a pity that you won't be able to hear me. I'll probably end up talking to you anyway, just 'cause I'm a sociable guy. I'll try to not take it as a slight when you don't respond, yeah?" He rolled two foam earplugs between his fingers and inserted them as far as they would go into Ron's ear canals. Expanding, they blocked Ron's eardrums and reduced the sound that reached them by a large factor. A layer of putty over the outside blocked still more noise, and then a few strips of tape to hold everything in place cut down a small fraction more. If Keller shouted, Ron would be able to hear him, but if he spoke and moved softly, he would be invisible and inaudible.

"And now," Keller said, talking more for his own benefit than Ron's, "a little something to focus your attention. Nothing makes you realize how much you take simple things like air for granted until they're not so easy to come by any more, eh?" He went and retrieved a thin rubber hood and put in place over Ron's head, stretching it to fit and letting it snap into place. The hood had just one opening for both nose and mouth; Ron's eyes and ears were now separated from the rest of the world by a layer of impermeable rubber on top of the plugs and the tape. Keller fiddled with the placement until the opening was centered around the lower half of Ron's face.

Next, he brought a gas mask over and secured it to Ron's head. The mask fit snugly against the underlying rubber hood such that no air could leak in or out through the sides. All Ron's breathing would take place through the opening in the mask and through a short hose attached to that. Keller strapped the mask tightly in place and checked the fit by blocking the opening of the hose with his palm. Nothing happened for long seconds, then Ron began to squirm, then squirm some more. His chest rose and fell, but there was no sound of air whistling past an obstruction. Finally, Keller lifted his hand free and the sound of Ron's breathing could be heard, air hissing in and out through the end of the hose.

Keller then screwed an almost-lid onto the end of the hose. It reduced, but did not completely block, the flow of air by narrowing the passageway. The result: Ron had to actively pull air in and force it back out again. He could not rely on his autonomic system to breathe for him; he had to make a conscious effort to keep himself oxygenated.

Satisfied, Keller rapped on the plaster mitts. "All dried!" he called, probably loud enough for Ron to hear him though there was no visible reaction to the words. "So, according to the script, we have a number of predicaments in store. Your first one calls for hooking the vic's nuts to the floor in such a way that he either has to stretch his ballsac or hold a bent-knee squat." He had no idea how much of his voice was registering in Ron's blocked ears, but that was fine. The vic didn't need to know all the details of how the torturer was changing the original plans. "But your ballsac is no longer a very effective attachment point. So I'm going to use your dick instead."

With that, he turned the key in the locks. Ron pulled his arms down to his sides for the first time in hours, sending aching tingles up and down the nerves. While he adjusted to the sensations, Keller sat him up and brought his hands behind his back, where he fastened one mitt hook to the other. Only then did he release Ron's ankles and pull him to his feet.

They shuffled over to another corner of the room where Keller attached Ron's ankles to a spreader bar three feet long. Ron stood with ankles spread wide beyond his shoulders. Keller attached the mitt hooks to a rope that he ran up over one of the rafter attachment points, tying it off so that Ron was forced to bend forward just a bit. Then he tied a loop of elastic cord around the tip of Ron's spent, depleted dick and pulled steadily downward, forcing Ron to bend his knees and stretch his arms even further up behind him. When he judged the strain to be sufficient, Keller tied the cord to the bolt in the floor and stepped back to watch. "NOW we start the timer!" he called.

The position was a strenuous one. The elastic cord could stretch, but it was stiff and had very little give, so pulling on it required a lot of force. Most of Ron's weight was borne by his legs, but they were in an uncomfortable half-squat that would quickly cause his muscles to tire. He couldn't get relief by straightening his legs without yanking on his dick at the same time. He could take some of his weight on his arms, but only in an awkward, shoulder-straining way. There was no comfortable position to be found. And on top of all the muscular discomfort he was about to experience, he would also have to work to breathe. Keller didn't have to do anything at all but enjoy the show.

It was interesting having Ron's face covered by the gas mask. It rendered him anonymous. Keller knew that behind the mask was his buddy Ron, the guy who had just been his co-top for the last two weeks as they blasted two straight hunks into self-inflicted oblivion (a true master stroke, and one that he was proud to have come up with). But with the mask on, it wasn't entirely Ron any more. It was simultaneously both Ron and also just another faceless, nameless victim.

Before five minutes had passed, Ron was clearly suffering. He kept trying to lift his body to give relief to both his arms and his thighs, so he would rise up a few inches and hold that position for a couple of seconds, then sink back down to reduce the force that was trying to yank his cock out at the root. At first the movements were symmetrical, but before long he began compromising by easing one limb at the expense of another. He would stretch one leg out to the side, bearing all his weight on the other for as long as he could stand it, then switch legs and repeat.

"Clever little prick," Keller said, though not loudly enough for Ron to hear. "Now I see why your plans called for tying the legs out to posts on either side. I thought the spreader bar would be basically the same, but you sneaky little bugger, you figured out how to completely rest one leg at a time. That wouldn't be possible if I'd done it your way, which, son of a bitch, I can't do now without moving you. I bet if you were out here with me on this side of the ropes, you'd figure out a way to fix the problem, but I just don't have your Mr. Fix-It knack. Well, that's what I get for trying to improv. But what you get is a longer sentence in that position because you found a way to make it easier on yourself!"

Throughout, Ron kept exploring different positions to put his hands in. He tried straightening his elbows, which forced his neck forward and allowed him to take some weight off his legs that way. But he could only hold that position so long before his arms rebelled and he had to shift. Bending his elbows let him straighten his spine a bit, but at the cost of yanking his wrists up painfully up his back. Various asymmetrical options were available here too, but fewer of them since his hands were joined together. In combination with the legwork, there were a variety of positions he could contort his body into... but only a finite number of them. Before ten minutes had elapsed he had cycled through them all several times.

Keller started out trying to just sit and watch the way Ron would, to see if he could make any sense of that approach. It had puzzled him watching Ron work on their straight victims over the past two weeks. So many times he would just... sit. Doing nothing. Sometimes he would watch, other times he wouldn't even do that! How could a guy get his rocks off torturing a guy long-distance? Keller found it completely unsatisfying. But that was fine, they had two torturers and two hunks of meat to work on, so they could each do whatever worked for them. Now, the torturer-to-meat balance was the same, and with Ron no longer in same role he had once occupied, it made no sense for Keller to try to pretend to be him. Soon enough, Keller was pacing around Ron's dangling body, running his hands along the straining muscles, tweaking the exposed tits, flicking the limp-but-stretched-out dick with his fingernail just to watch Ron jump. He briefly toyed with pressing his own half-hard cock against Ron's squirming, exposed ass, but it was mostly demonstrate what he could do if he felt like doing it. The script didn't call for a fucking, and anyway Ron would... well, not exactly enjoy it, but it wouldn't horrify him the way it had horrified Greg. Every time. Keller smiled to recall how Greg had reacted, predictably, every single time, as if every single violation were as unspeakably awful as the first, ah yeah, good stuff... But it wouldn't be that way for Ron. Besides, Keller had shot so many loads these past days, the last very recently, that he just couldn't get it up to full hardness. Right now, he was more interested in Ron's pain than his own pleasure. Maybe an hour or two from now that would change...

"Please..." Ron's voice was muffled, emerging from the end of the gas mask hose. "Please... stop..."

Keller moved his lips along with the next words that emerged from the hose. "I can't take any more," he mouthed. "JEEZ do you have any idea how predictable you are?" he crowed gleefully, shouting loud enough for Ron to hear him. "Some big tough-guy sadist you are! Fifteen minutes into your first torment and you're already following the EXACT SAME SCRIPT that our last victims did!"

"No... I mean it... this is different..."

"Bullshit! You only think it's different because you're on the other end this time. C'mon, man, you know how this goes! You claim you can't take any more, but what would you say if you were in my shoes? You'd say 'you can take as much as I feel like dishing out' or 'we're just getting started' or 'I'll decide when you've had enough' or something like that. Or maybe you wouldn't say anything at all because you know the victim's thoughts don't matter, so why bother talking to him?"

Ron mumbled something unintelligible.

Keller continued, not sure how much of his voice was making it through the earplugs but not really caring. "And you know what I'm going to do here. I'm going to leave you hanging, just like you are, until you really, truly, can't take any more. And you and I both know what that looks like, because we did something similar to Joe and Greg not that long ago. You know that eventually your thigh muscles are going to fail. Bit by bit, they will tire, and they will start to shudder and shake and you will gradually lose control of them. At some point, you will try to force them to continue to support your weight, but they won't be able to do it. And then your weight will be entirely suspended by your arms, which will be wrenched very painfully backward and upward. And you'll be able to hold that position for a while, only it's going to hurt a whole lot more than you're hurting now, because when you're hanging by your arms you're going to be constantly straining to keep them from getting pulled too far in a direction they don't want to go. And that's just going to tire your arm muscles out.

"But! That position will let your legs rest just a bit. And so after a little while you'll be able to lift yourself up again and ease your arms for just a little bit, but it'll be only temporary and soon enough those thighs will fail again. And back and forth it will go. At some point, the muscles in your arms will grow tired, too. And then you'll be left hanging limply by your arms, which is going to stretch the ligaments in your shoulders, which is going to hurt even more than ever because stretched ligaments are a bitch. At some point, your body will just snap - you won't be able to stop the strain from dislocating your shoulders. My goal is to step in juuuuuuust before you reach that point, y'know? Juuuuuuuust before. Which, as you know, is exactly what you called for when you designed this torture."

And so it played out, just as both men knew it would. Ron struggled against the punishing position, but the physics won out. Twenty minutes in, he started screaming and crying from the ache in his burning thighs and arms, but by the half hour mark, the screaming had stopped: it took too much air. He had to concentrate to keep his breath flowing, feeding oxygen to his muscles in the hope of staving off the inevitable for one minute more, thirty seconds more, ten seconds more. Sometimes he imagined giving in, yielding to gravity's relentless pull, but the pain terrified him too much, and so even though it hurt to fight, it would hurt worse to stop fighting, and so he kept at it.

Keller watched as the angle between Ron's arms and back gradually grew. It fascinated him to see body parts move in ways they were never designed to, because he knew it brought their owners such exquisite agony. Pain came in so many different flavors, all of them delicious... the crack of an impact on skin, the searing heat of flames, the deforming of flesh under compression... but best of all was tension. The slow, inexorable pulling apart of things that were meant to stay together. This was the agony of the rack, the relentless ripping of the torture wheel, the literal excruciation - "from the cross" - of hanging by laterally-extended arms. Ron's fibers were being slowly stretched, torn apart at the cellular level. If the process went on too long, it would result in irreversible damage, but up until that point it merely brought Ron indescribable torment. It was almost a shame to have to step in at some point and stop the proceedings, and yet this was only the first torture of many still to come...

There. Ron must be feeling something getting ready to give way. His panicked movements were in sharp contrast to the stillness he had been exhibiting up until now. He was fighting to get the exhausted muscles of his thighs to take some of his weight so that his arms would not tear themselves out of his shoulders. Time to bring it to a close.

Keller yanked on the release rope, undoing the knot overhead. Ron sank swiftly, tipping forward as he went, and would have knocked his head on the floor had Keller not caught his forehead with his foot and broken his fall. Keller undid the dick rope and the spreader bar as Ron, released from the strenuous position and able to breathe slightly easier, began to scream again.

"Ah, god, my arms!" Sensation would be starting to flood back in: the reward for pain relieved was a new and different pain. There was no time to spare - the script called for the next torment to start right after the end of the previous one. Keller lifted Ron up by his biceps, eliciting fresh cries in the process, and wrestled Ron over to the wooden box in the corner that they had kept their former captives in. That space was large enough to squeeze two bigger-than-average men into; Ron was at best of average size, and thus the box was far too roomy for the intended purpose. Keller had compensated - improvising again - by tossing other objects inside, bulky things like the nail-covered crates Joe and Greg had once danced upon and the styrofoam packing material that had come with the exercise bikes and smaller detritus to fill the space until there was barely enough room left to squeeze Ron's body into.

Into the box he want. Keller closed the lid most of the way to keep his prisoner inside, then reached in and unclipped the two mitt hooks so Ron could move his hands to the front - this was recovery time for the arms. It would be Ron's lungs' time to take their share of abuse. He squeezed the lid down, forcing Ron to wriggle as best he could in the fast-shrinking space to fit all his body into the box. The lid closed completely and Keller shot the two bolts to secure it in place.

Keller found the arrangement unsatisfying. His victim was completely invisible, shut away behind wooden sides. There was no way to interact with him! But he bided his time, patiently waiting. This was Ron's own horror movie, designed according what he, as a sadist, thought would most unnerve and break his victim. Keller tried to imagine the scene from Ron's perspective.

Ron would be shut away in a tight space. He was not claustrophobic, so there was no immediate panic reaction from being closed in. But there was not a whole lot of air flow. The original design had called for a fully-sealed box with vents that the sadist outside could close or open, fully or partly, at will. Keller didn't have that available and had to make do with the one they had built for twice as many larger occupants, which as a result had a lot more air holes. He had tried to block as many as possible with the junk inside the box and now went around the outside covering up the remaining holes with tape. When he was finished, there were two remaining openings, one near where Ron's head was and one at the other side of the box.

In comparison with what Ron had just endured, this would be heaven - no pain, no stretching, no muscles overworked to the point of failure. But over time, he would grow uncomfortable. He would want to shift his position, only that would not be possible beyond a few very restricted movements. Also, his air supply would steadily worsen. The carbon dioxide he exhaled through the hose would build up inside the box, exchanging somewhat with the outside air through the two small vents but mostly just hanging around Ron's body in a steadily-growing cloud. Already he had to work for every breath. That work was going to get harder due to the compression of his chest and ribs in the confined space. In fifteen minutes, the air he worked so hard to suck in would be stale, almost as laden with CO2 as what he was trying to breathe out.

Keller knew he should stick around, that he was responsible for Ron's safety during this ordeal. But this was so boring! Sitting around watching a box was not sexy at all. He wandered upstairs to find something to eat, maybe shut his eyes and rest a bit. No more than 15 minutes. He wouldn't sleep, he was too keyed up for that. Still it wouldn't hurt to set an alarm to let him know when it was time to go check on things downstairs.

T-plus 3 hours, 10 minutes (ordeal hour 2)





Every ounce of Ron's concentration was focused on his breathing. He longed to get up, to stretch out, to fully expand his chest. His body screamed with the need to get rid of the stale air and draw in fresh.

But he could not move. He was sitting on his butt, legs bent up in front of him, jammed up against one or more immovable objects he could not identify. His back was against the wooden wall of the box, his left shoulder was pressed up against another wall while some other unidentified shape squeezed up against his right. His hands were useless, trapped in the plaster mitts, and he was very wary of moving them lest he accidentally catch the hook on some protruding loop or whatever and find his ability to move even more curtailed. Besides, his shoulders were still screaming from the previous abuse they had taken, and any movement in his arms just called attention to that pain.

The box had vents for air. Keller would have made sure of that. And the fact that he was still alive to think the thought meant that there was enough to sustain him, perhaps indefinitely. But it sure didn't feel like enough! The air he took in tasted foul, rank with his own stench on top of the odor that permeated the whole cellar. And it didn't satisfy - he could never expand his chest enough to feel full, and the moment he finished breathing in as much as he could, his body was desperate to expel that breath in hope that the next would be better. And then the next, and the next, and so it went. And every single inhalation and exhalation was an ordeal. His ribs and diaphragm were sore and aching from the endless effort.

Through careful, painstaking experimentation, he had discovered the location of one of the vents. It was up behind his head. He had determined this by holding the end of the hose between his two fists and pointing it various places within his reach. The location just above his left shoulder produced air that was marginally, fractionally sweeter than anywhere else, and so he sought to hold it there as much as he could. This also required concentration and effort. He could not feel the hose between his plaster-covered fists, and he could neither see nor hear anything. Sometimes the hose dropped down without him noticing, and it was only after five or ten increasingly labored breaths went by that he figured out what had happened. Then he had to carefully, painfully, work his fists down, find the end of the hose by trial and error (since neither sight nor touch were available), and lift it back up into position.

He couldn't remember the exact arrangement of the original script he had written. He might have specified a duration for how long this phase should last, or he might have left it open to the torturer's discretion. Of course, that was when he had been picturing himself as the torturer. He would have monitored the victim, as Keller was no doubt doing now, but would have left the vic to suffer alone in his private prison... just as he was doing now.

From inside that private prison, it was miserable indeed but, he had to admit, much better than the strappado. Still, he didn't know how much longer he could face this. At some point, the lack of oxygen was going to cause him to pass out, at which point he would lose the ability to force air through the hose... after which he would die. Which Keller assured him wouldn't happen. And yet, every time he called out for help, no response came.

So he sat, body crushed into an impossibly small space, forcing himself to remain conscious, to keep squeezing the air in and out.





T-plus 4 hours, 25 minutes (ordeal hour 3:15)


The alarm was blaring, right next to his ear, but he had been so exhausted he had managed to keep dozing for an hour and a half while it clanged for his attention. Finally his fogged-up brain had noticed the sound and dragged him up from the depths of slumber. Ron had been in the box, unsupervised, for much longer than Keller had planned.

He made his way downstairs, fearful of what he might find. His thoughts raced, bouncing between various what-if scenarios. What if he was dead? Damn, that would be a shame because Keller genuinely liked the guy and hated to lose a friend... even if he wasn't really a friend any more due to Keller's own actions, but still, that damage was not irreparable and Ron would probably forgive him one day, though he might never trust him again, but that would only happen if Ron had managed to survive so long in the box. Then other thoughts, darker thoughts, thoughts he refused to acknowledge even as his mind thought them, thoughts of the pain he would miss out on, pain he would not be able to inflict on Ron's body if it was no longer inhabited by his mind, and that was a shame too... no, Ron would be fine. He had to be fine... but what if he was alive, but... damaged? Not enough oxygen to the brain, killing off cells? Would there be any joy in torturing a moron, an imbecile, a vegetable? Or any friendship to be repaired?

The trip down the stairs only took fifteen seconds, but it was long enough for all sorts of possibilities to flash through Keller's mind. He opened the heavy door at the base and walked through.

Silence. No sound but the rush of blood in his own ears. His heart sank like a stone, then rose up again - he would never hear the sound of Ron's labored breathing over the noise in his own head. He strode over to the box and before reaching it, the sound became unmistakable: the whistle of air through a hose. Relief washed over him in an endorphin-laced wave.

Keller threw the bolts and lifted the lid. Warm wet air rose up and engulfed him. It probably stank, too, but whatever odor Ron's sweaty body may have been emitting was dwarfed by the foul stench of the room itself, now freshly assaulting his nose after his long stay upstairs.

Ron tried to stand, but his muscles were locked, frozen in place. After watching for a few seconds, Keller reached in, nudged him forward, and grabbed him from behind under the arms. He lifted and soon had Ron out of the box. He muscled Ron over to one of the tables and laid him down on his back upon it. Ron whimpered and grunted as his body painfully unfolded.

There was no reason to let Ron know that any of this was unplanned. Still, it would be a good idea to assess his captive's awareness. He attached the fist hooks and the ankles to the table with cord, not tightly but enough to ensure Ron remained under control. Then he unscrewed the constrictor cap from the end of the hose.

"Breathe," he called, putting his lips next to Ron's rubber-shrouded ear. Slowly, slowly, Ron's breathing eased as oxygen flooded into his system and excess carbon dioxide was gradually purged away. Neither man said anything; the only sound was the low hiss of air moving in and out. Long minutes passed. Keller at some point would have to break the silence if Ron did not, but he wanted to see if Ron would do it first. Unprompted words would give him more of a clue what, if any, damage might have occurred.

"You're not following the script," Ron finally said when his breathing was slow and regular again. Keller felt another wave of relief, smaller than before but still palpable. His friend was fine. And therefore, there was no reason to let on that Keller had been at all worried. "It's supposed to be the treadmill next, but you've got me down on one of the tables."

"Yeah, well," Keller said, trying to keep his voice jovial. "You'll just have to roll with it." He began cranking the handles at the four corners of the table. The table was large enough to have stretched Joe out on, so Ron fit easily, even with the cords attached to the tips of the fist mitts rather than at the wrists. Keller had planned to skip the treadmill anyway, because it wasn't just the treadmill, it was the treadmill plus some electronic zappy thing that he would have had to figure out how to hook up, and he just didn't want to be bothered. He gradually removed the slack from each of the cords, walking from one corner to another, speaking as he went but keeping his voice too low to make it through the dampening plugs in Ron's ears.

Crank. "I think it's time to change the script," he said. Crank. "Your script works for you." Crank. "And if you were around to implement it, I bet I'd be happy to work it right alongside you." Crank. "You with your machines. Your clockwork precision, your attention to the minutest details." Crank. "But I just don't have the patience." Crank. "Here we are, only two scenes in, and I can tell already there's no way I'd make it all the way through." Crank, crank. "The ideas are hot, but implementing them on a schedule is so boring! There's no room for creativity, for spur-of-the-moment whimsy!" Crank. "And the freakin' wires? Way too much setup work!" Crank. "So... as of this point, the script goes out the window. Better yet." Crank. "Down the drain." He stepped over to the hole leading to the septic tank, lifted the grate, and dropped the three wrinkled pages down. "Because that was just too close a call," he whispered, barely loud enough for himself to hear, let alone Ron.

"Right now," he said, returning to the table with tones of frolic back in his voice, "I'm in the mood for a good old-fashioned racking. This is my kind of torture. True, it does involve a machine, sure, but it's a very hands-on machine, one that is powered by just my own muscles. No electronics. No control boxes. No gadgets. No wires leading all over the place. That stuff was great when you were managing it. But now, I'm gonna do things my way."

The body on the table had gradually been repositioned with each crank of the winches until it was now stretched out in an X shape, not yet painfully tight, but with very little room to squirm. Keller took his time tightening each crank in turn, waiting a minute or two for Ron's limbs to adjust to the stretch before ratcheting the tension up another notch. Slowly, steadily, over the course of half an hour, Ron's body was distorted into the classic rack position: immobilized arms and legs, stomach stretched impossibly thin, chest and pelvis seeming cavernously large in comparison. Ron whimpered with each increase in strain, but did not cry out. His breathing grew coarse and irregular as his chest lost its ability to expand and contract along one of its three dimensions.

Throughout, Keller caressed Ron's bound flesh, running his hands along the taut muscles, pinching the tits, squeezing the lone remaining ball, even climbing up on the table and lowering his mouth down onto Ron's shriveled cock. His own cock had long since woken from its exhausted slumber, stimulated by the sight, sound, and touch of the tortured victim. Keller rolled Ron's dick around in his mouth, squeezing it with his tongue and lips until at last it too began to respond, slowly stiffening until it stood erect. Keller grinned with triumph. "Just like the straight guys. You claim you hate this, but your dick tells a different story."

Leaving Ron's cock to bob in the air, he climbed up to the head of the table and unbuckled the gas mask from Ron's face. The rubber hood beneath remained in place, but it offered no obstruction to Ron's mouth, and Keller took full advantage. The position was awkward and he had to bring a chair over to lean on, with his knees at Ron's side and his arms supporting his weight with his arms on the back of the chair. Lowering himself down, he let the tip of his cock touch Ron's lips. Ron's mouth, already open to help his airflow, opened wider in encouragement - he may have been top-only when it came to pain, but he was happily versatile when it came to sex. Slowly, patiently, Keller lowered himself down until he felt the back of Ron's throat against the head. He allowed Ron to do the work and Ron obliged, flexing his lips and tongue and throat to try to bring pleasure to Keller's dick.

For Keller, the position was not one he would be able to shoot a load in. Maybe if he had been building one up for a week, it might have been possible. But he hadn't, and the table was hard on his knees, and the chair would tip over unless he was careful how he leaned on it... it was not going to end in a climax. But he let Ron labor for a good ten minutes.

Finally Ron stopped and turned his head to the side. "Please... my hands are going numb. Just a little slack? Please?"

In response. Keller climbed down and methodically tightened all four ratchets one notch. This elicited from Ron at first a moan, and then a sustained whine as his body fought to keep itself from being torn apart. While his victim was keening in distress, Keller found a ring gag in the pile of supplies and brought it back to the table. Forcing it between Ron's teeth, he secured the strap behind Ron's head. More tracing of the overstretched muscles with his fingers, more kneading of the protruding tits, more groping of the exposed cock (now shriveled to softness once again) and ball, and Keller was hard as a rock. He climbed back up onto the table and once more shoved his cock down Ron's throat. With the ring in place, there was nothing Ron could do to prevent the oral invader from going wherever it wanted to, and Keller toyed with his victim. He would hold his dick down blocking Ron's throat until Ron thrashed his head - the only part of his body he could move - in an attempt to catch a breath. Keller would then ease up, poking the sides of Ron's mouth between the pinned-open teeth just long enough for air to flow in and out a couple of times, then back down to seal the passage once again.

Taking off the gas mask had made the lower part of Ron's face visible again, reducing the illusion of anonymity But the rest of his head was still covered, and having his dick down Ron's throat blocked him from speaking, making it easier to think of Ron not as a friend but as a hole to be filled. A piece of meat to be toyed with and tormented. A victim. Even... an object.

These thoughts got his blood pumping, but there was still no way he was going to come in this position, so when he had reduced Ron to a state of sufficient panic, he pulled out, leaned back, and began stroking himself. His knees still ached from the hard table surface, but he was able to work himself up to the point where a few wet drops splashed into Ron's mouth, interrupting Ron's sobs long enough for him to swallow before he resumed his whimpering pleas for release.

Keller climbed down off the table and hit the release catch on both arms. Ron immediately sighed in relief and pulled his hands down as far as the cords would let him, to about shoulder level. He lay there, alternating between pathetically expressing his gratitude for this small mercy and equally pathetically begging for further mercy. Keller collapsed into the chair, tuning out the words. If he tried, he could understand what Ron was trying to say through the ring, but that just made Ron more like Ron. He needed to get back to Ron being a piece of meat, and to that end it was better to just let the sounds be sounds. He sat a bit while Ron - the meat - lay recovering, having squirmed his body toward his feet, buying some relief for his legs at the cost of lifting his hands a bit higher off his shoulders.

What do to next? Maybe shooting a load, fun as that was, had been a bad idea. It left him relaxed, unwound, uninspired to come up with more torments. The script would have offered ideas, but the script was gone and it hadn't really ever been much help anyway. He could afford to take a little while to bliss out in post-orgasmic happyland, but before too long he would need to come up with something to rev him back up again. Something that would emphasize that though he and Ron had once had been equals, that was no longer the case. Something that would cement in both their minds that Keller was the top here and Ron was disposable, like Kleenex.

He sat. He waited. He thought. Inspiration would come...

T-plus 5 hours, 20 minutes (ordeal hour 4:10)

This was going to just keep getting worse. So far, Ron was holding up OK, but it was just going to keep getting harder and harder to take.

He would have loved to bring his arms all the way down, but they were stuck at shoulder lev... aw, what was the point? As long as he was off in fantasy-land, imagining the impossible, why stop with where his hands were? He would love to get the goddamn plaster mitts off entirely. He would love to get the hell out of this stinking basement. He would love to be sitting in his own living room, drinking a cup of hot tea and watching something mindless on television. He would love to flap his wings and fly to the moon. None of it was going to happen. His hands were trapped and he should be grateful for the fact that they were no longer being stretched far beyond what was comfortable.

He could still taste the residue of Keller's orgasm. That had actually been a welcome distraction during the racking - which was NOT on the script he had written! Keller was running rogue, which Ron had expected would happen at some point, but not this soon. It left him feeling disoriented, not knowing what to expect next. But the blowjob... he was always happy to give a good blowjob. Sucking a cock was a very satisfying thing, the way it would swell up with extra blood as the crucial moment approached, then pulse and throb as hot juice went spraying... yes, very satisfying, enough to distract him from the pain in his arms and legs, his whole body, caused by the relentless pull of the cords. Even when Keller had started blocking his air, that had been helpful to pull his mind off the pain everywhere else.

Now, though, there was no distraction. All he could do was lie there, dreading whatever would come next and trying to appreciate these few moments of relative ease. His groin still throbbed where his missing nut once hung; ligaments, muscles, and tendons all up and down his body were aching and sore. But he could breathe without restriction. He wasn't being stretched or crushed or dangled like a slab of beef. That would probably change soon, so he should be grateful for whatever time he had until then.

And yet it was so hard to not focus on the pain. It was never obvious from the other side of the equation, but the effects of torture were cumulative. The racking would have been bad enough on its own, but after the strappado, his arms were weak and unable to fight the pull of the rack as they would have if they were fresh. How long would he be able to hold out? There was no way to know how much time had passed, how much was left until the 48 hours were up. All he could do was endure.

Soon enough, the wait ended. Keller put the damn mask back on, muttering something Ron couldn't make out as he did, and breathing became effortful again. How had he forgotten in those few short minutes how precious it was to be able to not have to think about getting air? Even as he told himself he was appreciating it, he wasn't really. It was too easy to be distracted by other minor aches and pains and just breathe naturally, not thinking about it. Now, with the mask and hose back in place, those easy times were already just a memory.

Ron felt Keller fumbling at the fist restraints, then felt himself pushed up to a sitting position as Keller locked the mitts together behind his back. He was pushed forward until his legs were hanging off the edge of the table and he sat, waiting, unsure what would happen next but with no option but to endure whatever it was.

Keller was mumbling again. The man sure loved to talk. His voice, as usual, was hard to make out, but it was evident he was speaking right next to Ron's ear, so Ron made an effort to listen.

"mumble mumble thirsty. Mumble mumble myself, mumble too easy. Mumble mumble DRINK mumble mumble DROWN".

Ron's heart leapt, but nothing happened. Then, suddenly, something did. Hot, wet liquid splashed through the tube and began puddling around his chin. A pungent smell told him what the liquid was and how it was being introduced into his breathing hose. "OH, FUCK YOU, KELLER!" Ron shouted before the level of the liquid grew too deep. "You know I hate pissplay! This is disgusting!" There might have been an answering mumble, but if there was, it was lost in the gurgling, splashing noises the fetid urine made as it slowly filled his airspace.

Then the level grew deep enough to reach over his lower lip and he knew there was no use prolonging the inevitable. Somehow, he had to force himself to swallow the vile stuff before it rose up and covered his nose. He told himself that the quicker he started getting it down, the easier it would be because he would have the luxury of taking a break later if he needed to. He told himself it wouldn't be that bad, that plenty of guys did this for fun. He told himself that it was just a matter of taking a mouthful and swallowing.

It didn't seem to matter what he told himself. He just couldn't bring himself to open his mouth and take it in.

Then the level stopped rising. Keller must have drained his bladder dry. Or maybe there was no way for the air inside the mask to escape to make room for more liquid. Ron found himself cheek-deep in his tormentor's piss, but could still breathe - for the moment - through his nose. The problem was, the air he was breathing was no longer connected to the outside world: the puddle at his chin blocked the hose. So in another minute or two his air would get very stale, but for the time being he could keep the panic down. Also, every time he breathed in, the liquid level crept up toward his nose, so he could only take shallow breaths.

Suddenly, his head was yanked backward. His chin moved up, the piss flooded back against his cheeks and temples, and the hose was abruptly open to the outside air. But it didn't matter because immediately a gush of more fluid poured in. As it splashed onto his face, colder than what was already there, Ron realized the volume of pure urine was being supplemented by plain water, and that already it was too late to do anything but drink. He squirmed and fought, trying to bring his useless arms around to yank the confining mask off. They stayed stubbornly locked behind his back. Loathing himself for doing it, loathing Keller for forcing this on him, he slit his lips open, sucked in a mouthful of the sloshing fluid, and forced it down. It was every bit as dreadful as he expected it to be. The acrid taste lingered on his tongue and coated his throat. And that was only one swallow. It had made no appreciable difference in the level of liquid surrounding his face, which continued to rise as water poured in until the only air left was in a useless pocket up near his forehead. His nose was blocked - fortunately, his head was not tipped so far back as to send the liquid cascading down that path. But there was no air to be had, and there would be none unless he made room for it.

And so he drank. A second swallow, then a third, a fourth, a fifth, each threatening to trigger his gag reflex and send vomit up into the mask, which truly would kill him and so he forced the reflex back. A sixth swallow and then, lungs sore but not quite burning, his nose was free. He breathed out and - carefully - back in again, re-using the same stale air but appeasing his body's need for a moment. Then another few swallows and then the hose was clear and he could take his time. Keller was still holding it up, keeping Ron's head tipped backward. Ron breathed out and in, out and in, relaxed for a moment...

... and then more water came crashing in. The second round went more easily than the first - the urine was more diluted now and in comparison, the lukewarm substance Ron took into his mouth tasted almost like plain water. He swallowed more until the hose was once more clear, and then Keller let the end drop. Ron's head sagged forward and the remaining liquid poured out the hose, running down Ron's belly and puddling where he sat.

"You fucker," he said. "That was totally unnece... HOOOPHHH!" Ron's words were cut short as something - Keller's fist? - slammed into his stomach. Keller spoke something at him, but the blood was ringing too loudly in his ears to make out the words.

Then, still struggling to recover from the punch, he was pushed backward onto the table and flipped over onto his stomach. He tried to struggle, but all he did was slow Keller down a little - with no eyes, no ears, no hands, what could he do? At least the last of the pungent liquid drained down off his face and out the hose. Keller trussed him up into a hogtie, fastening his feet to his hands then supplementing the position with extra bindings around his upper arms, his body, and his knees. Something got either wrapped around his forehead or fastened to the buckles of the gas mask that kept his head bent backward.

Then... nothing. He just lay there.

Experimentally, he tried to move, but not too far because he didn't want to go crashing off the edge of the table. It didn't matter - Keller had hooked him up to the ceiling, it seemed. He couldn't flip over and couldn't move his body more than an inch or two in any direction. All he could do was endure.

Ordeal hour 4:45

That should make it clear. Equals did not ingest one another's urine. Forcing a man to drink your piss delivered an unmistakable message to him: I am the boss of you.

Keller wished he had Ron's knack for inventive bondage. Ron would have been able to come up with something more imaginative than a hogtie. And yet, what else could he do? He might have asked his friend Ron for ideas, but his friend Ron was no longer here. The only one here to ask was the victim, and asking the victim for ideas of what torture to do next was just crazy talk.

He went upstairs to see what food was left. The stash was getting pretty low - even though Keller had bought extra the last time he had made a supply run, planning ahead for this two-day extension, still they had somehow managed to eat through most of it. He scrounged some chips and cheese and washed it down with a bottle of water. He grinned a bit, thinking of the use the last bottle had been put to.

God, that had felt good. And it was his own idea. He knew Ron was not at all into water sports, and it had just come to him on the spur of the moment how to use that against him. If only he could have seen Ron's face at the moment he got hit with the deluge, looked into his eyes and seen the panic there... It was hot enough as it was, watching this so-called total top reduced to drinking Keller's piss so as not to drown in it. What a rush... it had been exactly the mood-changer Keller had needed to get out of his post-orgasmic funk, the perfect way to stop perceiving of his victim as "my buddy Ron" and start thinking of him as "Ron, meat bag".

Then the little prick had gone and messed it up by speaking to him as if they were equals. Yesterday, sure, they were equals. The day after tomorrow they would be again. Probably. But today, right now, that little sack of pus had no right to call him a "fucker" and tell him what was and was not necessary. A good solid gutpunch shut him up, letting both of them know which one was in charge.

He took a look at the screen. Ron was visible there, right where Keller had left him. He could wait there in his hogtie for a couple of hours while Keller snuck another nap in. He made sure the volume was up on both the A/V system's speaker and on his phone, set his alarm for 4 AM, and settled in to sleep.

Ordeal hour 7:40

He would never use his arms again. They had to be dead lumps of flesh hanging from his shoulders the way the dead lumps of his mashed nut hung from his crotch. He would kill Keller once he got out of this if he could figure out how to do so without any hands.

The pain was mind-boggling. From something so simple as a hogtie, he was trapped in unending agony. His arms had burned the worst at first. Now, however many hours or days in, they were totally numb - he couldn't move - or even feel - his fingers. And he couldn't tell if that was because the mitts and ropes and straps and plaster were preventing them from moving, or because the nerve damage was now irreparable. Then his legs had taken their turn, crying out to be straightened RIGHT NOW lest they forever lose the ability to unbend at the knee. Somehow, he had endured that and was now dealing with the points where his body made contact with the hard surface of the table. He needed to shift position to move the strain elsewhere, but shifting position was impossible, so he just had to suck up the pain of his own weight grinding at the same spots over and over and over. All the while, his neck had been screaming to be allowed to tip forward. That agony was somehow still fresh and new after all this time.

This had to stop. He could not endure this for one more second. And yet, the second ticked by. And the next. And the next. With each one that passed, Ron slowly inched toward what could only end in death or insanity. He could feel it happening, and yet was powerless to stop it. He only had so much brainpower available. Some was needed to continue breathing through the gas mask's hose, every breath rancid with the smell of Keller's piss, now dried onto the mask, the hose, and the skin of his face, as well as with the stench of the dungeon space. Most of the rest was taken up by the constant messages of pain coming from his bound body. Very little was left for things like planning, purpose, self-awareness. There would come a time, he suspected, when it would be easier to dissociate, to try to leave his body behind since it brought nothing but pain and labor. Keller would win. What that victory might entail, Ron could not envision. He just had to hope that at the end of this ordeal, he would truly be free to go.

48 hours suddenly seemed like a very, very, very long time.

Ordeal hour 8:20

Keller loosened the ropes. Ron screamed.

"That's right, bitch," Keller said, watching the writhing lump of agony on the table. "That's all I want to hear from you."

Keller was refreshed and rested, ready for more action. Ron was... well, Ron was a lump of meat, so his opinions or his state of readiness really didn't matter. Keller let him lie on the table, moving only gingerly, until his screams subsided to moans. Then he yanked him to his feet and dragged him over to one of the overhead hooks. One, two, the arms were fixed in place - such a convenience, these built-in attachment points! No need to fuss with ropes or cuffs or chains, just one click and done! In minutes Ron was standing, arms overhead, the rest of his naked body on display.

Keller brought out a candle and flicked it to life. Ron had no idea what to expect until the heat started searing his left nipple. At that point he pulled away. Keller merely moved the candle to a new location. Ron spent the next half hour dancing to the tune of Keller's flame. Armpits, chest, stomach, back, legs, ass, all were exposed to the licking flame at some point. Never hot enough to actually burn Ron's flesh (though some hair was sacrificed, adding a new tang to the aroma of the dungeon), it was nevertheless enough to keep him moving constantly. Ron shifted from foot to foot, each movement clearly costing him as he fought to move joints that had been rendered weak and sore by past tortures. Yet move he did as the fear of the flame forced him to work his abused body.

The vic cried constantly as the torment went on, pleading for mercy through the hose. Every time he used Keller's name, the flame would linger for a time under his dick and his remaining ball until he would leap to try to escape it. Keller wondered idly how many repetitions it would take before the vic made the connection: calling Keller by name = flaming dick agony. It never seemed to happen by the time Keller got bored with the candle and broke out the whip.

Flick, flick, flick. The leather strap hissed through the air and delivered stinging blows to Ron's back, chest, arms, legs, ass... everywhere. Keller watched the inflamed red lines bloom under the skin. No blood, just raw, reddened skin, a little surface pain to go along with all the deep joint and muscle discomfort that he had already inflicted. God, this felt good! Even after two solid weeks of breaking down the heteros, he found himself still hungry for more, and the thing that used to be Ron made as good a target as either Joe or Greg had. True, the body was smaller and less muscular, but he still suffered as satisfyingly as they had. Even now, the wordless cries that erupted every time the lash landed were like music in Keller's ears.

Time for another change of scene. Back to the table, once more spread-eagling his victim face up, limbs stretched out to the four corners. Back came the candle and a second one just like it. The molten wax dripped down onto the pinned, stretched body. More screams. Wax wasn't all that horrible a torment, but apparently having it land on pre-seared, pre-tenderized skin upped the pain factor a bit. Or perhaps the vic was nearing his breaking point already, with still a day and a half to go. That thought made Keller smile as he brought the whip back out and flogged the hardened wax off of the helpless chest. It was the same, but different - a victim hanging by his wrists could spin and pivot and move as he tried uselessly to avoid the next blow, whereas a four-point-restrained victim could only flinch as each stroke hit home. The muffled, whimpering cries remained the same.

Keller kindly hand-picked the wax from around Ron's crotch. True, some hair was yanked out in the process, but at least it wasn't the leather strap striking the already-abused area. Removing the hair gave him another idea - at some point he would be cutting the ball sac open, and hair was not conducive to a sterile environment. Best if it were to go. Keller brought the candle back and burned away much of it - what a stench! Then he pulled out a razor and some soap and took care of the rest. By the time he was finished, Ron's genitals were smooth from waist to ass. Keller figured he might as well continue, so he lathered up Ron's chest and armpits and took care of the hair there, too. Then the only logical thing to do was to apply some more wax to the now-hairless skin and see if it came off any differently with the whip. It did. With no hair to snag on, the wax fractured and scattered when struck. The vic mewed like a kitten.

After that, Keller's arm was tired. Time to take a break, then. He wrapped a chain around his prisoner's neck and locked it to one of the floor bolts with the gas mask facing down. Then he pulled the fist mitts up and attached them to the ceiling via another chain. A final bit of rope fastened his victim's feet to the same hook the wrists were attached to. The pathetic creature was left lying with his face and chest on the ground and his arms and legs half-suspending him from the rafter. Another fine predicament position: he could choose to take more of his weight on his arms and legs, working his muscles to ease some of the strain of being stretched, or he could accept the stretch, letting his muscles rest at the cost of added pain in his joints and ligaments. Keller got himself a bottle of water and sat back to take a break.

Ordeal hour 11:35

Ron didn't do any thinking any more. He just hurt, everywhere, all over, every single part of his body. Right now his arms were the worst, again. He just wanted to cradle them in front of his body. But he couldn't. They stayed right where they were, behind him, and no matter how he pulled and twisted, they wouldn't budge. They hurt, all the way down, from fingers to shoulders. Every so often, a lightning bolt of agony flashed somewhere, some muscle fiber tearing, some nerve bundle sparking with electric fire. There was nothing to be done. He couldn't move, he was drifting in blackness, not even sure which way was up any more. The only sounds he heard were the sounds of his own agony: his breathing, the grunting noises he made without meaning to, the clicks and pops and grinding sounds that emanated from elsewhere in his body and were channeled up through his tissue to his plugged ears.

It was as if the whole world had gone away. He was all that was left, adrift in emptiness and torment. In rare lucid moments, he could see how this had been done: how removing his vision and his hearing had taken away the anchors he normally used to know where he was in the world. The constant pain, and the variety of pains, that his body was experiencing were all designed to make him focus on that and only that. And it worked. Even knowing the mechanism, even having designed the mechanism (though Keller was not following the playbook any more... which made the tortures unpredictable, which was part of the playbook after all... the man operated in layer after layer of complexity and deception), even knowing how he was being broken down, nevertheless he was being broken down all the same. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

At one point he realized he had wet himself. It must have been a while ago because the puddle he was lying in had gone cold. There had been a time when he would have been horrified to be lying in a puddle of his own piss, particularly knowing that it really wasn't his, it was Keller's, recycled through his body. Keller's piss dried on his face, Keller's piss in his belly, in his blood, Keller's piss coming out where his own should be. There was a time when that would have horrified him. Now, being Keller's living toilet was not even in the top five things that horrified him. All five of the top slots were taken up by the pain.

The lucid moments would inevitably fade and he would be a pain-wracked animal once more, living in the moment, the ceaseless present of eternal anguish.

Ordeal hour 12:10

Twelve hours in. It was time to give his victim a break. He released the arms and legs from their bindings. Fresh screams erupted from the gas mask as the overstressed muscles and tendons adjusted to their changed positions. Carefully, gingerly, Ron worked his arms around underneath his body, grunting and groaning with each delicate movement. His neck remained chained to the floor, so there was not much room for his plaster-encased fists under his chest. He settled for putting one hand on either side of his head.

Keller brought a blanket over and tossed it over Ron's prone body. The basement room was always chilly; Ron could use a bit of warmth now that he was no longer exercising his muscles. Keller let him recover for fifteen minutes or so while he went upstairs and prepared a meal for himself and his captive. The last of the cold cuts and bread made for two flat, flavorless sandwiches - no condiments - but they would do for nutrition. He ate his own upstairs, downed a bottle of water with it, then brought Ron's downstairs. He set the sandwich down on the floor next to Ron's head, then bent to remove the gas mask. Ron's nose and mouth emerged; the rest of his head was still shrouded by the rubber hood that clung to it everywhere else. He said nothing. Keller bent down and shouted in Ron's ear.

"Eat. Sandwich right in front of you. Eat it. Hey!" He slapped Ron's face three times with his palm. Ron's flinching reaction suggested he was aware. "I said eat!"

Ron began to move his head back and forth. Keller pushed the sandwich with his foot to a point where Ron's lips ran into it on their quest. He maneuvered his mouth around, took a small bite, and began to chew. He looked like a pig, like a filthy animal. His body was streaked with sweat and grime, his face too where it wasn't covered by the hood, lying in a puddle of his own urine. This, this was SadistNEPA? This pathetic wretch eating off a filthy floor? This wasn't a man, this was barely even a victim. This was... this was something beneath contempt, something he didn't even have words for.

Well, he may not have words for it, but he had actions. As Ron's lips sought the sandwich for a second bite, Keller let fly. A stream of fresh urine splashed onto Ron's face and onto the the sandwich. Ron lurched back, but the chain limited his movement such that there was no place he could go that was beyond Keller's reach. He soaked Ron's face, making sure some splashed into his nose, and he gave the sandwich a good drenching until the bread had absorbed as much of the pungent yellow liquid as it could hold. That would make up for the lack of condiments!

"Finish every goddamn bite," Keller hollered into Ron's ear. "Every single bite, you pathetic worm." Ron whimpered but obeyed, taking the sodden bread and piss-slicked meat into his mouth and swallowing it down piece by piece. The rush this gave Keller was absolutely electrifying. Look what he had done, in just twelve hours! He had done this, all this! Turned a man into an offal-eating worm! He was fucking invincible, that's what he was. In-fucking-vincible. He gave the faggot on the floor a kick to the side just for fun and relished the jump it brought. Damn, what a rush!

What to do next, though, what to do?

Ordeal hour 17:20

Keller was tired just watching the poor meat bag. The thing that used to be Ron had been on the stationary bike for an hour now. Sure, it was a retread torture from the Joe-n-Greg era, repurposed for a single victim, but it was a good one, worth revisiting. It was even better with the change Keller made. He had made himself deal with figuring out how to hook the wires up, and had done a reasonably good job of it. What he didn't know how to do was rewire the ball zapper so that it would fire at different speed settings. Ron could have done that, but it wasn't like the damn thing had a user interface or anything. He probably would have needed a soldering iron or something. Hey, a soldering iron! That might make for a useful implement! He'd have to remember to track that down from wherever Ron had last left it.

But anyway, since he couldn't change the sensitivity setting, the thing was fixed at 20. Every time Ron's pedaling speed dropped below 20, he got an electric kick in the nuts - in the nut, rather - until he cranked the speed back up again. Tough to do after an hour of sweaty labor, made all the harder by the air-restricting gas mask. The revision Keller had made was: variable resistance. This was his style, nice and hands-on. Every so often he would turn up the resistance on the wheel. Ron's exhausted legs would suddenly find their job much more difficult, and that would be enough to drop the speed below 20. Fireworks would ensue. Keller would gloat, Ron's whole body would clench, sometimes forward motion came almost to a standstill. Then Keller would dial the resistance back down and the pedals would spin easily again. Ron would slowly work himself back up to pace and the fire in his crotch would cease. Until next time.

Keller also entertained himself with other hands-on amusements: nipple clamps, a stroke of the whip, something sharp held right where Ron's pumping leg would graze against it once per revolution. Sometimes he would use his palm to completely block Ron's airflow. He couldn't do that for long because Ron was working so hard he needed every bit of oxygen he could get. Even a five-second interruption was enough to send him into panic. Ten seconds, if Keller had dared to hold the hose that long, might have made him pass out. That'd be no good - unconscious victims felt no pain.

At last, bored with the game, he unplugged the ball zapper. The meatbag continued to crank the pedals, running mindlessly like a hamster. Keller wondered how long he would go if left to his own devices, but didn't have the patience to wait and see. He cranked the resistance up again. The pedaling slowed, then stopped. Ron's body tensed in anticipation and stayed tensed for long seconds. Right as he started to relax, Keller plugged the wire back in, just to be a jerk. Ron seized up and tried to start pedaling again, but the resistance was so heavy it was impossible for his burnt-out legs to get the wheel moving. Keller let him sizzle for a few long seconds, then unplugged the wires again. Ron sagged in his bonds.

"Preezh," he mumbled. The words were impossible to make out, muffled by the mask and by Ron's frayed nervous system. "Preezh shtah. No morr... canh taygh it... no morr." Each phrase came out in a tiny burst between heaving breaths.

If this were still his friend Ron, Keller might have had some sympathy for him. But this wasn't Ron, this was a faceless, anonymous creature specifically built for suffering. And despite the creature's claim that it couldn't take any more, Keller knew that was not the case. Maybe it was time to dial the intensity down a bit, though...

He unbuckled the gas mask to let his victim recover. When the frantic breathing had slowed to a more normal level, he brought a bottle of water to the slack lips and fed in sip after sip until the bottle was empty. He waited another fifteen minutes or so until Ron seemed on the point of dozing off in the chair. Then it was up and over to another corner of the dungeon.

Ron was placed in a standing position under one of the ceiling hooks. Keller fed a rope under his arms and up to the hook to hold him there. Then he tied the fist hooks to Ron's thighs, one on each side. This held the arms down and kept the body from being able to slip down out of the supporting rope.

"I'd tell you to listen up, shithead," Keller said as he worked, "but you don't seem to do that too well. So I'm gonna try to show you what you'll need to do without words. Hope you're a fast learner. It's not a a hard task. But it's gonna require you to concentrate."

He tied a rope to the head of Ron's dick and hung a five-pound weight from it. Nothing terrible, but definitely not comfortable either. Ron tried to sag down under the pull of the weight, but the rope prevented him from sinking down far enough to set the weight on the ground. Then Keller added a second rope and tied it to a pencil. Holding the pencil flat against Ron's stomach and chest, he lifted it up and lowered it down a few times, demonstrating how the system worked. Stick up: no dick pain. Stick down: dick pain. After the tenth repetition he brought the pencil up high enough to reach Ron's chin and pressed it against Ron's mouth. Ron resisted, but Keller pressed insistently and Ron's mouth eventually opened to accept the stick. Keller left it there for a few seconds, then pulled it back out again and lowered it gently downward, pressed against Ron's body all the way. A few more repetitions and that was all he could do. The vic had either figured it out or he hadn't. Keller placed the pencil between Ron's teeth like a horse's bit and stepped back. The gag remained in place.

"I need another nap, meat. But you better not take one. Not unless you want that weight to come crashing down. Back in a few hours." With that, he headed upstairs.

Ordeal hour 21:45

Returning to the basement, Keller found Ron hanging slackly in the rope, pencil on the floor, weight pulling his distended cock toward the floor... fast asleep. Or at least drowsing. It was probably not possible to get deeply asleep in such a position. Still, Ron was clearly exhausted enough to have gotten at least partway there. There was no way to know how long ago the pencil had dropped. Had he let it slip right away, or had he clung to it for hours, fighting off the drowsiness that would have slowly overwhelmed him until he could fight no more? The weight would have yanked cruelly at his cock when it dropped. The fall was only about a foot, but that would have been enough for a five-pound mass to build up quite a bit of force. Looking closer, Keller could see rope-shaped abrasions on the head of Ron's dick. Poor fella. That would make jerking off an unpleasant prospect for a while. Assuming that was even going to be in the cards for him...

Enough with the sleepy time, though. Keller slammed his fist into Ron's belly. Ron surged awake, disoriented, making the weight swing back and forth. Another blow for good measure and the pain train was off and rolling once again. The mask went back on - it was much easier to think of Ron as meat with his face completely obscured. Keller, well-rested, kept it up for hours: impacts, predicament positions, heat, compression. Clamps. Punches. Sharp points. All the tactics they had used against Joe and Greg except for the bloody ones - Keller left Ron's body unpunctured, unsliced. There was still plenty of pain to be delivered bloodlessly. The mask only came off when it was essential for the scene, as when Keller hung Ron upside-down over the tub of water that had given Greg such nightmares and held him there until his exhausted ab muscles could no longer lift his head up and he breathed water for long seconds until Keller hauled him up to drain his lungs. After that scene, the mask went right back on again and they were on to the next.

Hour after hour Keller kept it up. After a while, Ron stopped using words completely and only reacted in moans and screams. Eventually, his throat gave out and even the screams were soundless.

Ordeal hour 32:30

Enough with the foreplay, Keller thought. I'm more than ready now.

For the last few hours, Keller's victim had only reacted to torment through its body language. The meat's speech centers seemed to have completely shut down. All Keller could get from it verbally were occasional raspy grunts. But it still offered very satisfying non-verbal responses, twitching and flinching straining within the limits of whatever its current bonds were as it sought desperately to avoid Keller's ministrations. Things had reached a point where the slightest touch was enough to trigger a response. Even blowing on the red, bruised skin made the meat jump in anticipation of pain to come. Keller found that highly amusing and spent a long time entertaining himself with nothing more than light touch and gentle breaths, watching the meat leap at each as if struck by the whip. Any time it grew too accustomed to the gentle approach and stopped reacting, Keller found that one single touch followed by a whip stroke to that same spot was enough to re-train the meat's brain to associate the two sensations again.

But now he was revved up, and it had been hours and hours, almost a day, since his last orgasm. Time to make use of one of the meatbag's holes. Currently, it was bound on one of the tables, face down, arms and legs stretched to the four corners, head bent back by a rope attached to the mask and fastened to a hook in its ass. Keller climbed up onto the table, cock hard and ready. He took a moment to loosen up the ass rope, then slowly lowered himself until he was lying on top of the meat's body and the rope, taking up all the slack he had just granted. The meat, still having to work for every breath, would no doubt find its labor more difficult due to Keller's weight compressing its chest, but that was not Keller's problem. Slicked up with lube, Keller's dick slowly probed its way in to the meat's ass, sliding past the hook that was already there. There was plenty of room for both, or there would be once Keller got the hole stretched out enough.

The meat whimpered and moaned. It pulled half-heartedly against the ropes that held its limbs splayed out, lacking the strength now to fight very hard. It worked at breathing, keeping the air flowing irregularly in and out as Keller held his cock buried full-deep in the meat's ass. Slowly, slowly, he pulled it out, then pressed it home again. Damn, this was perfect. Fucking a piece of flesh that once thought it was a human being, that once thought itself Keller's equal. His cock began to slide more rapidly in and out, rubbing against the meat's tight hole. That's it, meat. Squeeze my dick with your hole. This is what you exist for, this is all you're good for. You are meat, you are nothing but man-shaped meat and I own every fucking inch of you.

He didn't want to rush to the ending. It felt too good to be right where he was, hammering his cock into the meatbag's guts. Every thrust tugged on the rope attached to the gas mask, yanking the meat's head backward in rhythmic time. Keller slid his own head around to the side of the meat's neck, rubbing his teeth against the taut skin just below where the rubber hood ended. What would it be like to sink his teeth into that taut skin? What would it feel like to bite and rip and tear? The blood would jet out from the severed carotid, spraying into the air and Keller's mouth with every pump of the frenzied heart. He'd have to time it just right so that the meat would feel Keller's cock pulsing and throbbing at the moment of triumph, pumping jets of warm, sticky fluid into its body at one end while more warm, sticky fluid streamed out from the other, its consciousness fading to black while its ass clenched spasmodically around Keller's spent cock, squeezing a last few droplets out with its final convulsions...

Ah, damn, that would be hot. But not yet, not yet. First he wanted to deliver some friction burn to the meat's ass, rubbing it raw from the inside out. He pumped and pistoned, thrusting in and out, grinding the meat's own genitals down into the table. Teasingly, he bit down, ever so gently at first, then less gently, on the meat's neck, just hard enough make it clear in a raw, visceral way that the meat's life was Keller's for the taking, that it continued to breathe and exist solely on Keller's sufferance, that permission to go on existing could be violently revoked at any moment, without warning, in a shred of torn tissue and sprayed blood.

Now he was getting close. Ten, fifteen minutes of ceaseless pumping had brought him near to the edge. Should he do it? Should he forego the remaining planned hours of pain and pleasure for one hyper-boosted orgasm? The meat was there for the taking, throat exposed, open, vulnerable to the predator's slashing teeth. Its eyes were hidden, but Keller knew what they would say if he could see them. They would say "Take me. I yield. I am yours," the universal language of the prey animal that knows it can run and fight no longer.

Closer yet. He flicked his tongue against the meat's neck, feeling the heat of the blood flowing just beneath the surface. It would be so easy to set that blood free. So easy to break through the taut skin to expose the pumping artery, the tense muscles, the ragged windpipe beneath. He pressed his cock in as deep as it would go, once, twice, a third time, and then the moment was upon him. His loins spasmed convulsively and he bit down hard, not quite sure what to expect when his teeth came together, how much pressure it would take before he broke through. What would he feel first, the crushing of the windpipe? Or the puncturing of skin by sharp canines? Or the ripping and shredding and tearing of flesh? Or the coppery taste of hot red blood? Would it take more than one bite or would a single clenching of the jaw be enough to deliver the kill, to trigger the death spasms that would milk the last drops of juice out of Keller's pulsing cock?

In the end, it was empty air that his teeth snapped closed on, for he turned his head away at the last possible instant while the sensations from his cock poured through his entire body and the meat lay there, helpless, taking it, filling up with Keller's sperm until it spilled out from the overstretched hole and dribbled down onto the table.

Slowing... slowing... Keller gradually stopped the thrusting of his hips and shifted his weight slightly, allowing his still-hard cock to creep out from Ron's ass until it popped free with a wet slurp. He rolled to one side, finally taking his weight off Ron's back and allowing the cord that held his head go slack. Ron's head dipped forward, not far enough to let him lie on the table but in a much less uncomfortable position than it had been in for the last fifteen minutes. Keller lay there, resting, basking in the afterglow.

"You have no idea how close a call you just had, my friend," he said, eyes closed, knowing that Ron would be unable to hear his low voice. "I very nearly did something I would not have been able to undo."

Fifteen minutes later, he was up and working again. He released Ron from the table, bound him at ankles and knees, unscrewed the partial cap from the end of the hose, attached the fist mitts to Ron's thighs once more, wrapped his chest with a few more straps, and the hauled him over to the box, now empty again except for a thin blanket on the bottom for padding. All air vents were open. He muscled Ron's immobilized body inside, shut the lid, and went back upstairs.

Ordeal hour 42:30

Ron came to himself in stages, with no firm boundary between unbeing and being. At some point, he realized he possessed an ego again, an "I", and that that condition had been gradually building up for some unknowable amount of time. But time was difficult to measure, and he didn't even try to hazard a guess.

He sensed there was pain everywhere, all through his body, just waiting to be unleashed if he moved. Fortunately, it seemed movement was not possible for him. He didn't try hard for fear of succeeding, but a few exploratory attempts suggested that he was tied up from head to toe. His world was still pitch-black and silent except for the sounds of his own body processes. There was no time, no space, no duration, no movement. He simply... was.

There was some hunger, but it was distant. There was some thirst as well, likewise something sensed from afar, not anything that required his immediate attention. It was good that nothing required his immediate attention, because if there were then he might have to try to do something about it. To move. Movement only brought pain. Thinking only brought pain. It was best to simply wait. Waiting didn't hurt. Waiting could be boring, but boredom only mattered if you had something else you would rather be doing. Since all of Ron's available options were worse than the nothing he was currently doing, boredom was not a concept that applied. He was content to wait forever if waiting was what kept the pain from coming back.

"Waiting" wasn't really the right word, though. Like boredom, waiting implied there was something else you would rather be doing, something you were waiting for. Was there a word for "spending time without doing anything"? American English didn't really lend itself well to that concept. Such a busy people, always on the go. Words like "waiting", "idling", "sitting around" all had negative connotations that implied the condition was temporary until a stronger, more active verb came along. He couldn't think of any word that meant "passing time and quite content to do so for the foreseeable future". Maybe the language didn't have one. Or maybe it did and he just couldn't think of it, because thinking too hard was not something he wanted to do.

He lay in the quiet darkness, allowing the time to pass and savoring as best he could the absence of active torment. He still hurt all over, head to toe, outside and inside, but he was not suffering additional hurt, and that was something. He bore the discomfort of having to maintain a fixed position by reminding himself that whatever position he moved to would hurt just as bad as the one he was currently in. Besides, he couldn't move anyway. The point was moot.

Time passed.

Then, as he had feared must happen at some point, a change came. There was a faint hint of sound, which probably meant that beyond his plugged ears the sound was actually loud, and then there was a whooshing rush of air that washed over his body. Keller. He felt his heart start pounding in his chest and his bladder let go, totally out of his control. He wanted to flee, to hide, to cease to exist again, but he could not move, could not force his consciousness back to nonexistence. The adrenalin thrummed through his veins as he felt himself lifted to his feet, awkwardly. He half-hopped, half was carried back to the torture table, gibbering all the way. "No... no... no more... please no more..." He was laid down on his back. His bindings were untied and he was once more stretched into the X position in which he had endured so much torment already. The idea of it starting all over again was unthinkable. He could not endure more, he simply could not. He would find a way to kill himself first before he would let Keller do it all over again.

But he could not. His mind stubbornly remained alert and aware as he felt a freezing sensation on his scrotum, cold beyond the chill of the basement dungeon. Then it came again and he could do nothing to stop whatever would be coming next, could not close his legs together, could not protect himself in any way. He began to cry at his helplessness, the tears welling up behind his taped-shut eyes with nowhere to flow. He lay there, an insect pinned to a specimen board, waiting for the pain to start.

The pain, when it came, was far less than he expected. There was a small biting sensation on his ballsac, then sensations that were more disturbing than painful, as though invisible hands were manipulating his body from the inside. And here, at last, he dared to allow himself to experience hope. Surely what he was feeling was consistent with Keller following through on his promise to remove the remains of Ron's left testicle? The wash of alcohol, the slit in the side, the extraction of mashed nutmeat before it could turn gangrenous. And Keller's prediction had been accurate: on a pain scale of one to ten, this barely registered.

Then it was done. Would there be sutures, or merely bandages and tape? Ron had no idea. If there were sutures, then the prick of the needle was just one more under-the-threshold sensation that Ron didn't notice. There was definitely tape; he could feel it as it was applied.

Then Keller was releasing his arms and legs and helping him to sit up. He felt shoes being put onto his feet, and then they were headed up the stairs, one painful halting step at a time, up to freedom, up to where there would be light and sound once Keller took off the hood, and air that did not smell of waste and decay. The staircase ended, they were in the cabin and then... oddly... they were outside the cabin, walking across the gravel of the driveway. Ron felt the glow of sun warm on his back. April in Pennsylvania was notoriously variable; temperatures could be in the 30s or the 70s. This felt like something in the mid or maybe upper 50s, cool to be outside naked, but not life-threateningly so, and the sun made it downright enjoyable after so long underground. But then the warm glow faded as they passed into the underbrush of the forest. The trees would have no leaves at this point, but their bare branches were still enough to take the warmth out of the sunshine before it reached the ground.

They walked on for long minutes, Ron's feet kicking through mud and last year's leaves as they went. Still wrapped in the hood and mask, he had no sense of direction, no idea where Keller might be leading him. And with the fistmitts still covering his hands there was no way to get the mask off. He was still firmly under Keller's control. There would probably turn out to be a purpose behind this walk in the woods, but Ron was content to wait and figure out what it was. The relief at being free from the basement, of smelling air that had not already been through his lungs a hundred times, of having reached the end of his ordeal, had left him almost euphoric. His various aches and pains barely registered under the endorphin high.

At last they stopped. He felt Keller fumbling at his feet, taking off the shoes, left, then right. Then a voice sounded right next to his ear. "Time's up," Keller said. "You're free to go."

Freedom! He had survived, he had made it through! Ron waited for the mask to come off, unsure whether to punch Keller when it did or kiss him. He waited some more. And then his giddy euphoria began to fade, just a bit. Then a bit more. Rising up to take its place was a much less pleasant emotion.

"Keller?" he called through the hose. "Keller, you still there?" There was no response, or if there was, it was too soft for him to hear.

"Keller, don't do this. Please don't do this." Already his mind could see where this was going, the whole scene coming to mind as if it had already happened. Keller would drum up some technicality in the wording of their previous arrangement. Ron had specified he was to be released "unrestrained" and Keller would argue that Ron was unrestrained, that no rope or chain or strap bound him, that he was free to get in his car and drive away whenever he wanted. And Ron would point out that he couldn't use his hands or eyes or ears, could barely breathe unless he concentrated on it, and that this in no way could be defined as "unrestrained", but Keller would just smile his infuriating smile and claim once again that he had lived up to his end of the deal and if Ron now wanted to negotiate a new deal to get out of the hood and mitts, one that would no doubt cost him even more dearly than the past two days' experience had, Keller would be more than happy to do that...

... only where was Keller? He was strangely silent.

"Keller, please. Where are you?" Ron wondered if his voice could even be heard through the other end of the hose, so he tried calling a bit louder. There was still no response. He took one tentative step forward, stepped painfully on a sharp twig and recoiled back, and realized just how totally fucked he now was.

He was somewhere in the woods, far from any town. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't use his hands. No one knew where he was. He was completely naked except for the goddamn fistmitts. He could walk, but only haltingly and slowly, and he had no idea what direction he should walk in. If he tried, he would probably wander in circles without realizing it - that's what even sighted people did when they were lost and had no distant landmarks to fix their direction on. Blinded, he had no chance of moving in a straight line.

He was at most ten minutes' walk from the cabin and his car. His phone would be there, he could probably figure out a way to use it hands-free and call for help. That would be the logical place to go, except that he had no idea which direction to move in. He would never find the place by wandering aimlessly. So what other options did he have? He could try to walk downhill. Civilization tended to form near rivers, so walking downhill would eventually bring him to other people, at which point he could beg for help and hope to bluff his way past the inevitable questions. But which way was downhill? He stretched out his foot tentatively to the front, then to the sides, on the alert for anything pointy. It was impossible to tell which direction, if any, would lead to a lower elevation. He took a ginger step to front left, thinking that was the direction he had come from before Keller had spun him around when taking off his shoes.

Two more steps in the same - or approximately the same - direction, and he knew this was not going to be a viable solution. It would take days to get any meaningful distance at all, and he did not have days. His last food had been that piss-soaked sandwich; his last drink a bottle of water some unknown time before Keller had raped his ass. The day was warm enough now, but in at most nine or ten hours, and probably much sooner, the sun was going to set and the mountain forest would cool dramatically. His body ached all over; he had rested for a long while but even so his stamina was near its all-time low point. He could try to build himself a nest of leaves, but what would that do other than delay the inevitable? With the mask on, he couldn't eat or drink, not that he had any food or water anyway...

Oh, he was totally, totally screwed.

"KELLLLL-LERRRRR!" he shouted, though with his throat so shredded from all the screaming he had done earlier it really wasn't all that loud. "Please! Come back!"

He waited, listening for any hint of sound through the earplugs. There was none.

He sat then. There had to be a way out of this. He pawed at the mask with his plaster-gloved hands. There were a few times when he thought he might have worked something almost loose, but he never actually succeeded. He just didn't have the dexterity without his fingers. He couldn't grip anything between the two mitts and the mask clung too tightly to the rubber hood to be able to slip free. He might have been able to get the hood off if the mask hadn't been holding it in place, but he couldn't work the both of them off as a unit.

Maybe he could do something about the mitts. He tried slamming them together, hoping to crack the plaster. For long minutes he used the sore, aching muscles of his arms to bang the mitts against each other, hoping to crack one or the other or even both. If any cracks formed, though, he couldn't tell. The mitts didn't feel any different and they certainly didn't do anything as helpful as shattering into pieces that would fall to the ground.

He located a rock with his toes, one that seemed large and heavy. He couldn't move the rock, but he could clear leaves and sticks off of it. Once free, he tried slamming his hands down onto the rock. Still nothing. How much plaster had Keller used in the damn things?

After a while, his arms and hands hurt too much to continue and so he simply sat, ass on the cold, damp ground. "Come back, Keller," he whimpered, over and over. "Please come back. Don't leave me here. Please come back."

At last he stirred, not wanting to get up but knowing if he stayed sitting too long, all his body heat would get sucked into the ground and he'd never get up again. So he climbed painfully to his feet, every muscle aching from the past two days of torture, and began setting one foot in front of the other, slowly, carefully, six or eight steps per minute.

"Help," he called after every tenth step or so. "Somebody, please help me!" But there was no reason to expect anyone to hear him. There were no hunters out this time of year, no fall-colored foliage for leaf-peepers to see, no cross-country skiers or summer hikers. This was April, the cold and wet springtime month when no one had any reason to go out in the woods. That was the very reason Keller had chosen this cabin, in this place, at this time, to set up their torture orgy. Ron had admired the thinking when he had first arrived. Now that same solitude and isolation were going to be his end.

Something brushed against his head and shoulders and he froze. Ah. Just branches. He reached up to try to feel where the branches began and ended and realized he must have come up against a tree without actually running into the trunk. He stepped around it, slowly, cautiously, and continued on in what he hoped was the same direction he had been going. There was no way to be sure, but what choice did he have but to keep moving?

The thought of hunters led Ron's mind to the hunted. Most of the hunters targeted deer, which this area had in abundance. If Ron happened to stumble on a deer, he'd never know it - the thing would bound away from him without him ever knowing he had come near it. But deer were not the only animals in these woods... would a bear flee the way a deer would? Or would it be more likely to take Ron's masked head off with one swipe of a paw and break its winter fast on the rest of him? He kept shouting for help, vaguely remembering somewhere that hikers in the woods should make a lot of noise so as not to surprise the local wildlife by their presence.

Somehow, once he started thinking of bears, he couldn't stop. All the other possible ways for him to die just didn't grip his imagination quite the same way. Hypothermia, hunger, thirst, exhaustion... any or all of those were more likely to claim him at the end, but somehow the image his mind kept returning to was that of unseen, unheard claws and teeth flashing out at him when he least expected it - which could be any moment at all. Any second, he could stumble right into the pain to end all pain, and he would be helpless to do anything at all as it tore him apart and left him bleeding on the ground. The best he could hope for would be for the beast to have the mercy to wait until Ron was fully dead before it started devouring his organs.

If the bear thought at all the way Keller did, such mercy was unlikely.

Ordeal hour 47:55

Ron was not up for this, not after two weeks of little sleep while torturing Joe and Greg and then two straight days of none at all as victim, as well as the constant aches from every inch of his abused body. He needed food, he needed water, he needed sleep and warmth and time to let his bruises heal. Every step, every breath, required effort, and he had none left to give. But what else could he do but keep on? He had no idea how long he had been wandering; his time sense was no use at all. He had stopped to rest more than once, gulping air in and out through the hose, mind lost in a red haze for some unknown time before the inactivity caused the warmth he had built up by moving to seep away into the air and ground, and so he eventually forced himself to stand once more and continue.

Evening was coming on, he could tell. The air was getting colder. Soon he would have to stop and try to huddle in some leaves for warmth during the night. The odds were very good that he would not make it to morning, but if he kept trying to walk, his chances were even worse. He would trip and fall, maybe plunging into an unseen ravine or soaking himself in a stream or simply cracking his head against a tree or a rock on his way down. He had already nearly fallen half a dozen times, and his balance was only getting worse the more he pushed himself. He would have to stop soon, there was no choice. Not just yet, though. One more slow, cautious step... then one more...

Something brushed against his legs from behind.

He jumped and whirled, then froze. Nothing natural could have been behind him - that was the direction he had just come from. No branch or tree could possibly have brushed up against his legs from that angle. But something had most definitely touched him, something soft and whispery. His heart slammed into overdrive.

There it was again, brushing against his calves, this time from the left. Wind? Possible, but not likely. Oh, he wished he had a stick in his hand, a weapon to use, however pathetic it might be. He reached down to search for some sort of tool, a stick, a rock, anything, forgetting until the mitts touched ground that he wouldn't be able to hold a stick anyway. Then it occurred to him that his hands were sort of weapons already, encased in a substance that didn't shatter even when pounded against rocks. He was just starting to stand up again when whatever it was brushed against his wrist just above the cast and he whipped his hand back, overbalancing and falling to the ground. He scrambled back to his feet. "Scram!" he shouted, his voice sounding squeaky and terrified in his own ears. "Get out of here! Go!" He stood, trembling, blind and deaf, half ready for the claws to rip him to pieces and half mocking himself for being terrified of what could easily be a skunk or a bunch of leaves.

Then the blow came. A heavy weight slammed into his chest and hurled him backwards, sending him spinning to the ground to land, incongruously, on top of whatever it was that had knocked him down. He was so terrified he didn't even hear his own high-pitched scream, a scream cut short as he landed and the wind was knocked out of him. He slipped off to the side of his assailant and lay on the ground, unmoving, unable to even raise a hand to save himself. The fear was so intense he thought he would die from that alone, that the bear wouldn't have to bother taking his head off because he would obligingly stop his own heart beforehand, serving up a fresh-killed dinner for the beast without it having to dirty a paw.

"57... 58... 59... Forty-eight hours. NOW the time is really up."

The sounds came next to his ear, loud enough for Ron to hear but containing no meaning. He was still too petrified. It was only when something reached for his head and started tugging at it that he moved again, swinging his arms in a feeble attempt to fend off the slavering teeth and razor-sharp claws, shouting and screaming wordlessly through his torn throat. Something grabbed at his fists and forced them down to his sides and he struggled all the harder. Panic lent strength to his movements, but exhaustion and hunger sapped the strength away and he was soon overpowered, forced to lie on the ground while the beast pinned his arms to his sides with its weight atop his chest. Its paws groped gently at his head.

"Hey, easy! Easy there!" More sounds, coming more easily to his ears now. Breathing was easier too as the mask was yanked carefully off his face. Then the paws were groping at his neck and all he could do was lie there, heart hammering like it was going to explode out of his chest while the rubber hood that had surrounded his head for so long was peeled free. Pain, tearing, and then, suddenly: light. Vision. He could see again! At first he could make no sense of the jumble of shapes and colors. The world spun crazily around him, then settled into predictable, familiar shapes: sky overhead, blue starting to dim toward purple. Skeletons of trees, brown against the sky. And front and center...

... Keller.

His lips were moving, but sound was still not coming through clearly. Two days of experience had taught him to associate Keller's presence with pain and terror, but somehow, Ron got the sense that he was actually trying to help this time. Had he driven off the bear? All by himself?

Ron's other eye opened up and then, one by one, his ears cleared. He could see and hear again. Keller put shoes onto his feet, then helped him stand. His heart slowed; his breathing eased. The adrenalin rush had passed: Ron was now even more spent than before. He leaned heavily on Keller as they walked back to the cabin. There was warmth; there was soup; somehow his hands were working again. Then there was a mattress on the floor with blankets and a warm body next to him underneath the blankets. He shivered violently for a few minutes, teeth chattering uncontrollably.

Then he slept.

Post-ordeal day 3

sk512ym0: Hey, man, how are you doing?

Post-ordeal day 7

sk512ym0: Dude, nice to see you online.
sk512ym0: Everything healing up OK?
sk512ym0: C'mon man, I just want to know if you're OK. Then I'll leave you alone, promise.

Post-ordeal day 10

sk512ym0: The fact that you go on and offline means you are able to. So you are well enough to operate a computer.
sk512ym0: That's really all I needed to know. I won't trouble you again.

Post-ordeal day 35

SadistNEPA: i think im ready to forgive you
sk512ym0: Oh! Well! Lucky me. To what do I owe the honor?
SadistNEPA: i dunno. time i guess.
sk512ym0: Hey. I'm proud of you, man. You made it through. I put you through hell and you made it through.
SadistNEPA: yeah. you did.
sk512ym0: How are you healing up? Nut sack doing OK?
SadistNEPA: actually, yeah. it was pretty sore for 2-3 dasy but after that it was ok. the arms took a lot longer.
SadistNEPA: they still ache evey now and then if i overstraign them. but yeah, im ok.
sk512ym0: I'm delighted to hear that. Really, that's all I wanted to know. You left the cabin before I thought you were ready,
sk512ym0: which I totally understand. But still, I wanted to make sure you got home OK and didn't have any other trouble.
sk512ym0: I'll leave you alone if that's what you want.
SadistNEPA: its ok.
SadistNEPA: ive been thinking it over and i realiezd you did exactly what you said you were going to do.
SadistNEPA: you broke me. thats really hard to admit. but you did.
SadistNEPA: and i hated you for it for a long time. then i hated mysefl for letting you do it
sk512ym0: And now?
SadistNEPA: yesterday i realized somehting. at the end, you could have done aynthing you wanted with me.
SadistNEPA: made me submit to you full- time. or dupmed me down the drain.
SadistNEPA: and i would have done it. i would have agreed to become your slave. or begged you to kill me.
SadistNEPA: you could have made me do anythng.
SadistNEPA: but you didnt'. instead, you fed me soup and warmed me up with yuor own body.
SadistNEPA: and then let me go
SadistNEPA: so i just wanted say
sk512ym0: Thank you?
SadistNEPA: haha!! no way!!
SadistNEPA: i was going to say your not a complete asshole!
sk512ym0: HA! OK, fair enough. I guess I deserve that.
SadistNEPA: and maybe later we can biuld more from there, but for now
<long pause>
sk512ym0: For now, that's good enough. Got it. You stay well, man. It was fun, and I'd always be up for more if you ever want to play again.
SadistNEPA: if... IF!... we ever play agian...
sk512ym0: <wink> We'll see!

1 comment:

  1. Yeah. Finally a story including gut punching!
    If you ever write another story, please let the protagonist suffer from some GP.