Jardonn's Erotic Tales.com 

SCREW HIM

by Jardonn

How could the son of a bitch have done that to his mate? All the guy wanted was an escort to the theater. As his partner, Paul should have sacrificed that one evening of mundane television, if for nothing else than to make sure his pal was safe. I liked Paul Davidson - I really did, but totally disagreed with him on this issue.

"What's the big deal? Just record your program and watch it later."

"No, it's not the same. It's the seventh game of the Stanley Cup."

"So? You record it tonight and watch it when you get home."

"Oh, come on Mike. You know a game like this isn't any good after it's already happened. Besides, what if it isn't over when I get home?"

'Pig-headed asshole,' I thought but didn't say. "Well, fuck it then," I did say. "I'll take him myself. Put him on the phone."

Not only did I take Marty to see the play, we also engaged in some interesting conversation about our weekly get-togethers.

"Sorry to put you through this, Mike," he said during the first intermission. "I know theater is not your thing."

"No problem. This neighborhood's not like it used to be. Too much riff-raff. I didn't like the thought of you walking around down here by yourself."

He was good friends with my roommate and partner Byron, which is how I met both Marty and Paul. Our other halves were nearly the same age, both younger than we. Marty and Byron were season ticket holders of these Civic Theater League productions, but a prior commitment on Byron's part created the available seat. This night I filled that seat, despite my short attention span and disinterest in amateurish attempts to dramatize language I did not understand - Elizabethan English - Shakespeare - Ugh.

I suppose if I was forced to categorize these two relationships, I'd define Paul and myself to be the masculines, while Marty and Byron, the youngsters, played more demure roles.

That's not to say that they were weaklings. In fact, when together Marty and Byron were quite capable of defending themselves. Byron loved to swim and did so daily at a nearby club, while in the basement of Paul and Marty's house was workout equipment (weights and such), plus a 20 by 20 foot padded floor mat, used for tumbling, aerobics and wrestling. These activities kept them fit, trim and formidable, while wrestling matches were the focus of weekly visits from Byron and me.

"He makes me so mad sometimes I could spit," Marty proclaimed.

"Yeah, I'll bet." I smiled, trying to smooth over the situation. "Sometimes we macho types can be rather thoughtless."

"That's true," he laughed. "But sometimes a man needs to have his ass kicked. Helps to remind him that he's not the hot shit he thinks he is. No offense, Mike."

"None taken. I probably need that myself every now and then."

A ringing chime, struck by a silly woman dressed in rags and drifting about the lobby, told us it was time to take our seats for another round of torture. During the second intermission, Marty continued his train of thought.

"Mike, I've got an idea. Would you and Byron be interested in helping me make a point with Paul?"

"Probably," I grinned.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Probably," I laughed aloud. "Does it have to do with our next tag team match?"

"Probably."

The chime girl signaled the impending third act of pain, but mercifully for me Marty had lost interest. "C'mon, Mike, take me home. We'll talk on the way."

Our Tuesday-night wrestling affairs were mostly for social purposes, but also because we all four loved the sport. Paul and I would converse during our stretching exercises, as would Byron and Marty. When ready, Byron and I would stand off the mat at one corner, while Paul and Marty did the same at the opposite, then the match would start. Everything was friendly and light, mostly Greco-Roman style with no punching allowed. When one tired, he would tag his partner and the other man would also enter, so that Byron wrestled only Marty and Mike wrestled only Paul. I was slightly better than Paul, while Marty was a bit more skilled than Byron, but overall the abilities possessed by the four of us were mostly equal. The only differences were in body weights. An evening's session would be best two out of three rounds, all determined by pinning or submission.

As for attire, nothing special was worn, just T-shirts, gym shorts, no shoes or socks. I wore a jock strap and assumed everybody else did the same, although I never had paid much attention to what was inside their shorts before that evening. Of course, I knew what was inside Byron's shorts and that's all that interested me.

The plan was obvious. Paul's partner would betray him. After the younger two had their first go and Byron tagged me, I managed to get Paul into a standing headlock, followed by a hip toss to make it a supine headlock. This wore him down a bit, until I loosened the grip just enough to allow his escape. After maneuvering out of the hold he requested a tag with his partner.

"Oh, hell, Paul," he smirked. "Don't be such a wuss. Stay in there and try again."

"Cute, babe," he panted, facing Marty with hands on hips. "Some pal you are."

This allowed me to hook my arm beneath his pit and execute another hip toss, launching him to flip and land on his butt. Like a tiger I pounced with a knee-standing, from-behind headlock, then twisted and forced him down flat on his belly. Looking to my mate, I nodded and he spoke.

"I'm bored. Let me at him."

Byron entered to secure one leg into an Argentine leg lock, as he stood and lifted the appendage off the mat. Our combination put a severe curve into his spine and he howled accordingly.

"Ow! Damn it, you guys. What's going on here?"

"Byron wanted a close-up view of your foot," I answered. "He thinks your hairy legs and feet are pretty hot."

"Well, shit," he gasped. "All he had to do was ask. This ain't the way to go about it."

Paul's face was beet red and drenched in sweat, so I released the headlock and quickly joined Byron to double on the legs. He slammed his hand onto the mat in agony, as both legs were raised vertical with back cruelly arched in reverse.

"Oh, my god... you're... breaking me in two." Paul's breathing was staggered, as Byron and I stretched both legs upward, raising his entire body off the mat but for the head, hands and forearms. "Marty," he pleaded. "Do something... Get them... off me."

"Jesus Christ," he scorned. "You are such a pussy." Marty stepped onto the mat. "It's hard to believe you need me to come to your rescue." Standing with feet on either side of his curved back, he placed both hands onto Paul's exposed belly, the T-shirt having fallen to his nipples. "Imagine, a big, strong man like you whimpering like a baby." He rubbed the palms of his hands upon his partner's belly and chest. "Begging for a little guy like me to save you." He planted one knee into the small of Paul's back, pressing forward while clutching the stretched abdominals with fingertips. "What the hell am I? Your mother?"

Each exhale of breath brought groans from our victim, coupled with pitiful pleadings. "Marty ... what the... hell are you doing? Help me... for Christ's sake."

"Oh, don't worry," he smirked. "I'll help you all right." He let go the claw and removed his knee, then moved to kneel by his stricken partner's head where he could be seen. "We're all going to help you, tough guy." And with that, he grabbed Paul's shirt and ripped it past his head, stripping him to the shorts. "Ok, you two, on the count of three."

When three was heard, Byron and I quickly released our leg locks, allowing both feet to smack down onto the mat, but before I could execute my planned full-nelson, Paul rolled, sprang to his feet, lunged towards me and got hold of my knee. With a precision I never knew he had in him, Paul circled behind and deftly lifted my leg to send me tumbling face down. Securing me in a single Boston crab he lifted and leveraged my leg while sitting on my butt, nearly ripping the thigh from its hip socket.

Grimacing in pain, I tried to remain silent while he leveraged with all his strength. "Ok, you clowns," he threatened. "Tell me what this is about or I'll tear this leg right off of him. I swear to god I will."

I believed him and groaned to prove it. Paul's anger was evident from the merciless pressure he put on me. He had overstepped the boundaries and risked causing serious injury.

"C'mon, Byron," Marty ordered. "Let's take care of this."

"Don't move an inch," Paul warned while increasing the unholy stretching on my ligaments. "Marty, explain yourself or our good buddy Mike here will be headed to the emergency room."

Both men stopped in their tracks, while I came to the realization that this was a serious situation. I truly believed he would cripple me for life and the blood began to boil. Channeling my rage into a strategy, I quickly planted both palms onto the mat, thrust myself towards the antagonist and spun onto my hip. Using the free leg, I placed a targeted kick with foot to the small of his back, sending him to lurch forward and release the hold. Two youthful wildcats pounced on him, one at the legs and one at the head, both from behind. Within seconds, Byron and Marty rolled him backwards towards me, as he landed on his back secured in Byron's hand-clutching choker. Still recovering, I crawled forward to pin both wrists to the mat, while Marty grabbed hold the ankles.

"Rack him," he barked.

As Byron released the choker, I maneuvered my legs underneath to sit on my butt, all the while keeping Paul's wrists pinned. I planted the right foot onto his right shoulder blade, repeated the left to left and pulled his arms straight towards me. Now Paul howled in pain, as I threatened to rip the arms from his sockets.

We let Marty do the talking. "Ok, Byron. He's not going anywhere. Come down here and get his ankles."

After both were transferred from Marty's grip to Byron's, Paul's partner stood to mock him. "I hereby order that this man be put to torture for his crimes. Stretch him."

Byron pulled the legs one direction, while I tugged the arms in opposition. Our victim groaned with each rapid exhale, his chest and belly falling and rising at an accelerated pace. "Why... Marty? What... have I done?"

"Oh, nothing much." He knelt to straddle Paul's hips, then sat on the crotch, tugging the waistband of his gym shorts to expose more of the belly. "Don't worry. We're not going to hurt you." He rubbed from navel to nipples with the palms of his hands, interspersing with an occasional punch to the gut. "If we go too far, you can tell us to stop." He raised his butt and commanded to us, "Stretch him tighter."

"Ow, god damn it," he moaned. "What... do you mean... too far? What... are you going to do?"

"I'm going to give you a safe word." He crawled onto Paul's helpless body, planting both knees into the flattened belly and both hands onto his chest. "If you say this word, we'll stop what we're doing and listen to you, but you better be serious when you say it."

"Wha... what word?"

"Hamlet."

"Hamlet?"

"Yes, you should recognize it. Remember the play I wanted to see? Remember how you refused to take me?"

"Ok... I get it."

"No, but you will get it. Burn that word into your memory. Use it wisely, because if it is abused I will unleash a punishment you will never forget."

And so it began. Marty removed himself from the prone form, ordered an increased stretching then launched himself high into the air, coming down across the man's chest with a devastating leg drop. Quickly, he rose to his feet and dropped a knee into the stomach, followed by a forearm smash across his chest.

Deep-toned and breathy unghs and ooghs filled the air, as Marty came down on his helpless partner again and again. Satisfied, he inspected the prisoner. "You are quite the man, but it looks like the fight has been taken out of you."

He knelt next to the chest and glared into his tormented face. "You see, Mr. Davidson, in my torture chamber pain is not the only method used to break a man down." He reached with fingers and thumbs to secure each nipple between, delicately pinching and twisting the stretched knobs. "I know things about you that I intend to use against you."

"Oh, Jesus, Marty," he begged. "Not that. Not now."

"Yes, my manly man. That. Now."

He raised his head to watch the merciless assault, then collapsed to the mat, turning it side to side with pitiful moans. Despite the stretching of our rack, Paul managed to arch the back, forcing his nipples into the air while fingers and thumbs pinched them into smaller and smaller circles of skin.

There was an undeniable beauty about this man, as I gazed down upon his helpless form. Somehow, seeing him pulled apart this way struck an unknown emotion, an admiration for masculine strength that went beyond the norm. There before me was every bulked line and curve of muscle highlighted by both stretching and sweat, and as this man undulated and writhed, emitting manly groans of pretend and real agony, I became stimulated by a body form that normally would have no effect on me. Desire for muscle and fur superceded sinew and smooth skin. And to further solidify what I felt, Marty upped the ante.

"In my torture chamber, all defenses are stripped. Humiliation is part of the punishment." And with that, he grabbed the waistband and pulled our victim's shorts down to the knees, exposing a boner that sprang up and over to smack his belly.

"Oh, my god," he feigned protest. "You sick bastards."

It was a mesmerizing sight to see Marty strip those shorts to the ankles, taking them past his feet when Byron released the grip. Paul made no move to escape, instead remaining completely flat and allowing Byron to resume the ankle holds to stretch his body. He spread Paul's legs further apart, then pulled with all his strength, as the man on the rack groaned and writhed with anticipation.

While we stretched, Marty stripped - everything, then held his partner's ankles while telling Byron to do the same.

"For your loyalty to me, I give him to you. Do with him as you please."

My naked partner knelt between the thighs of our racked man. He clutched the hardened cock with a fist, then lifted and buried it into his salivating mouth. After raising the head to confirm what he felt, Paul let out a grunting groan and collapsed the head onto the mat with eyes closed. Meanwhile, Marty began to deep-massage one of his feet, which left the other one free of his grasp. Paul again lifted up, peeked around Byron's dick-stroking face and then hesitated before choosing to rebel.

With a dazzling series of quick movements, Paul launched an offensive. He put the sole of his foot onto Marty's shoulder to kick him aside, continuing the momentum with a violent twist of the body and sweeping blow with his thigh to Byron, who tumbled over his other thigh to roll a few feet away. Planting both feet onto the mat, Paul sprang the lower body upwards and rolled towards me, lifting himself over and behind to clamp my neck with a forearm-strangling sleeper hold.

It was a gallant effort, it truly was, but poor Paul never had a chance. Two ravenous men pounced on him like wild animals and this time it was no holds barred. Forearms and fists assaulted his back, while kicks landed on the rib cage and head, forcing him to release the death grip he held on me in order to defend himself. He managed to roll away from the ruthless flurry, spring to his feet and break for the door - hoping to exit the basement and escape. It was Byron who thwarted this attempt, as he deftly dove towards the man's feet and got one hand on an ankle. Paul's own momentum brought him crashing face first to the mat, at which time both youngsters took a leg and raised him into a full Boston crab.

Now recovered I joined the fray, but not before matching their attire. I ripped off my shirt, shorts and jock strap to attack in all my naked glory. It was a long, gruesomely relentless breaking down of the poor man, with so many three-pronged configurations applied that I don't remember them all.

Paul was camel-clutched by me while both feet were lifted up from the mat by Byron and Marty, putting unholy pressure on his spine. He was half-nelsoned face down while both legs were tortured with reverse ankle locks. He was lifted up and dropped across my knee, then held with his back arched over a horizontal thigh, hands pinned to the mat by one tormentor, ankles pinned by another and my elbow grinding into mercilessly stretched abdominals.

And despite it all, Paul never quit fighting us, never uttered the safe word. He took his punishment like a real man - like a man who believed he could actually defeat us, or at least gain enough of an advantage to make an escape. His constant defiance and struggles not only impressed me, but also energized my cock. The thought of him, the sight of him, one tortured soul suffering ungodly punishment at the hands of three, excited me in ways never before known.

His form appeared to be its most beautiful when he suffered. The muscular, fur-covered, sweat-drenched physique exploded with masculinity at each stretching, each bending of the spine, each smash across the chest or blow to the gut, until I found myself dripping with pre-orgasmic ooze.

I wish I would have timed the event. It seemed like hours before he finally surrendered. Countless times we thought he was finished, only to see him rise and launch another half-assed, exhausted offensive, but finally we left him lying spread-eagled on his back, moaning with gasps for breath and struggling no more.

"Let me pin him," I asked.

With Marty's permission, I hooked the man's leg and draped my chest across his, at which time he planted his free foot to the mat and sprang upwards, sending me to roll off his weary form.

"Guess he likes being tortured," Marty chuckled, as he wedged a foot under the man's back, then lifted to roll him onto his belly. "Ok, Mike, nelson him."

Paul made no move when I approached to lock in a full-nelson. The body felt limp when I rolled to the left and brought it to lie on top of me. His legs never moved when I covered them with mine from outside of his to complete the hold.

Paul Davidson's fight was over. Secured in the full-nelson, draped across my body, his chest thrust up, belly flattened down and legs securely pinned beneath mine, he waited. Stalking above him were two healthy males. Frothing at the mouth, lusting to inflict more punishment, they viciously plotted their next move. I almost felt sorry for Paul, but didn't. I felt sorry for myself because I could not get a full view of him. All I could do was bask in the heaven of his bulky mass pressing down on me, while peeking over his shoulder to see whatever I could, which as it turns out was the ideal perspective from which to witness their first attack.

Each knelt on either side of him. Both nipples disappeared into their mouths. Lips encircled, while tongues licked. Sounds of wetness accompanied pinching and sucking of moistened lips. I caught glimpses of a transformation, as the poor man's nipples, despite their horrendous stretching, contracted, causing the tips to majestically rise and pierce the air.

"Uhhh," he moaned. "How could you do this to me? This is sick."

It was a lie. I have no idea the state of his penis when the assault began because I could not see it, but I am certain that by now it was fully charged. How do I know this? Because Paul's resistance to the full-nelson not only stopped, but reversed. First, his body relaxed, then the back arched away from me, as he thrust his mighty chest high into the air to absorb their worship. His nipples were relentlessly sucked, pinched and kissed, yet no matter how much they gave him, still he begged for more. He raised his head to join me in witnessing their merciless attack - their brutal torment. He looked left and right, gurgling deep-throated and manly grunts of ecstasy, then flexed and expanded his chest to capacity, sacrificing himself to their praise.

They gave him plenty. Countless minutes passed, until the poor man was nearly driven insane with lust. It was a relief when my partner mounted him. He straddled his hips, drenched the man's cock with spit and inserted the cock to his anus, then sat there crushing him in a bowel-crushing vise.

Marty continued the nipple attack, sucking the left while finger pinching the right.

This man suffered like no other before him, as Byron stimulated himself by using the man's pulsating cock head to mesmerize his own tightened rectum. Paul's mighty pole longed for one, minuscule hint of friction - the missing element required to complete his impending explosion, but it was denied. Byron sat motionless, flexing only his innards, using and abusing the manly tool for his own purpose.

No man should be so cruelly punished. So strong he was, yet so helpless, his perfectly sized and shaped fuck tool taken from his control, crushed to nothingness, he cried out in unholy anguish.

"Oh, god, finish me. I can't take any more. For Christ's sake, finish me."

Evil they were. Nothing but purely evil... bitches, and I loved every minute of it. I sensed Byron's orgasm was near. I'd seen that look and heard those sounds before. With his own penis stroked by his own hand, he slid up the victim's mighty pole, and just as he slammed his body down upon the tortured tool, I stretched Paul with all my strength.

KABOOM! Both men contorted and writhed as though electrical currents had been sent throughout their bodies. Masculine groans echoed from wall to wall. Byron relentlessly bounced upon that spurting tube of man-meat, while firing his own cream onto the tortured man's belly. He repeatedly slammed buttocks to pelvis, riding up and down the powerful cock, clamping it tight into his rectal death-grip. Convulsions, contortions, then finally, a simultaneous collapsing of two signaled the beginning of the end.

Paul's neck strained upwards, head pressed in my palms, as Marty halted the assault of his nipples, then draped a weary body across his heaving chest. Byron dropped his butt one last time and sat there, keeping the tortured cock buried inside his ass.

As for Mike, I maintained the nelson even though it was no longer necessary. My victim was exhausted and motionless. In between the small of his back and middle of my belly, I felt the squishing of my own hot come turning sticky and mixing with sweat. It's a mystery as to which one of many emotions had caused me to spurt, but frankly, at that moment I did not care.

________________________________________  

So, what was Paul's reward for such a masterful performance under extreme duress?

After untangling our bodies, Marty directed me to roll on top of him and release the nelson. We three stood looking down, as Paul laid on his chest exhausted, but relaxed and seemingly satisfied.

"Holy shit, that was one wild ride. Thanks, Marty. Thanks everybody."

With an ear-piercing scream worthy of the Banshee, Paul's partner pounced on his back and sat in the middle, clasping both hands to lift his head with a chin lock.

"Ow, come on," he grunted through clenched teeth. "Enough already."

"Fat chance, tough guy." Marty pulled back with all his might. "Now we'll see what you're really made of."

The victim pounded his fists on the mat, as his tormentor brought us into the fray.

"Byron, get his feet. Mike, you take the wrists. Lift him up."

He let go Paul's chin while we raised him from the mat.

"Oh, yes, you are a strong one," he taunted, while reaching underneath to run his hands along the chest and belly. Paul was suspended and quartered, body hanging chest-down about three feet from the mat, as his bronco-buster buddy rode atop the middle to increase the agonizing curve on an already weakened spine.

"Let's see if you're strong enough for this." He clutched both hands onto the abdomen and ground ten fingertips into tightened muscle. "Can you take the belly claw? Are you man enough?"

Paul groaned while pitifully struggling for air. The weight of that vicious youngster coupled with his suspended stretching compressed the diaphragm to torturous extremes. Worsening his plight, the clutching fingers pierced into rock-solid muscle, grinding his belly to a pulp. But unknown to him or us, this was merely a preparation for Marty's next assault. After releasing the double claw, he fell to the mat and crawled beneath to lay on his back.

"Bring him to me," he gleefully requested, and we lowered the victim about a foot.

First, he got one hand to the small of Paul's back, then formed a fist and peppered his abdominals with the other. Short, sharp jabs pounded the flattened muscle, causing the poor man to grunt in absorbing each blow. Again and again he hammered from underneath to further tenderize the vulnerable belly.

Just then, Byron got my attention. "Hey, Mike, look underneath."

Leaning to my side revealed an amazing sight. Our victim's penis was not dangling as I had assumed, but was fully engorged and pointing forward. Not only was he taking this horrendous punishment like a man, he was reacting to it like a he-man. Paul's partner knew exactly what he was doing.

He quit punching and wrapped both arms around the small of Paul's back. Lifting the upper torso, he buried his face into that primed belly and began licking and kissing what he had just destroyed, receiving a positive response for his efforts.

"Omigod... Omigod... Omigod...," Paul kept repeating with each exhale, as Marty slavishly removed manly sweat and tasted heavenly muscle. Only when he took the powerful cock into his mouth did our victim's verbal expressions end. His body jolted. He lowered the head. He again witnessed a ruthless assault on his manhood. And just as before, but in a reversed direction, Paul thrust the pelvis downward to further arch his already contorted spine, then raised his head, revealing to me eyes clamped shut and lips turned upwards in a pleasured, yet painful grin.

Without fanfare, Marty spit out the cock, hooked his legs around the outside of Paul's and added the entire weight of his body to the man's stretching. He used his partner as though he were a jungle gym, slinking towards his chest, moving the hands to his shoulder blades and legs to the back of the thighs. Dropping his upper torso to the mat and with Paul's cock in hand, Marty raised his buttocks upwards and inserted the bulging mushroom head to the entry of his asshole. One final, upward thrust did the trick, as Paul's saliva-slicked tool disappeared into darkness.

Marty kept his shoulders firmly on the mat, pressing his buttocks against his partner's pelvis, all the while keeping the legs wrapped tightly just below the lowest meat of Paul's cheeks. As the cock was imprisoned deep inside that clenching hole, Marty reached up with both hands and brutally scraped the poor man's nipples. No mercy was given in ravaging the sensitive skin with sharp fingernails.

Paul dropped his head. This time, the reaction was a stark contrast to that of his previous ordeal. Although the nipples were under siege, even though the penis was clamped inside Marty's rectum, confined and crushed, but with no friction to finish him, he made no sounds other than his rapid breath. No protests. No moans, grunts or groans of ecstatic agony. Paul Davidson merely hung there, horrifically suspended, occasionally convulsing with an uncontrollable twitch, while watching his partner's frantic assault below.

The man's nipples were scraped raw. The spine curved to a near breaking point. Youthful calves wrapped tightly around male thighs, clinging for dear life with butt muscles flexing. Not until he was ready would Marty give the victim what was so desperately desired. One man, torturously suspended like a sagging limb; another man, clutching onto that limb like a tree-climbing monkey, these two perfected their mid-air gymnastics, masterfully performing an acrobatic copulation.

Marty clasped both hands onto Paul's shoulder blades and humped the yearning cock. With rapid thrusts and retractions up, down, forward and back, he savagely fucked the shit out of this man - fucked him up while crying with chimpanzee shrieks and howls. He ingested the prisoner's come into the depths of his bowels. And through it all, the helpless but domineering gorilla-man did nothing other than to jettison his seed. With every muscle tensed, he remained as though in a trance - an electrically-charged, ecstatically mesmerizing coma - until Marty was finished, until he could no longer support the weight of his body hanging from that sturdy branch.

He dropped to the mat with instructions. "Keep him there so I can see him."

And we did. Marty laid beneath for what seemed countless minutes just staring at the glorious torso of his suspended hero. Taking his own cock in hand, Marty rapidly covered his own belly with own semen.

It was impossible for me not to look. I leaned to the left and there saw Paul's penis still contracting, remnants of manly seed dribbling down onto his partner's belly, combining two doses of manly fluid into one. We three had created a ceaseless, come-producing masterpiece. Scooping into the puddle with fingers, Marty brought the mixture to his victim's mouth and let him lick the digits clean. Only then was he satisfied.

"Drop him," he ordered, while rolling from underneath. Byron and I simultaneously let go the ankles and wrists, allowing gravity to send Paul crashing chest first onto the mat where he laid motionless, arms and legs spread wide, penis crushed beneath his belly.

________________________________________ 

Surely, this was the end of Paul. Surely to god, Marty was finished with him. How could the man take more punishment than what had already been handed out? Hadn't Marty made his point? Hadn't he made it clear that he was not to be trifled with? Apparently not, because Marty's next move was to retrieve a bottle from one of the side walls, returning to inform us of his diabolical plan.

"Let's grease him up."

A steady stream of baby oil flowed from his bottle, painting lines of the slickum along the middle of Paul's back, meat of his buttocks and each furry thigh and calf.

"C'mon," Marty coaxed. "This man needs a rub down."

He got a good one - six-handed. Byron and I joined Marty in kneeling beside this beautifully thick mass of fit and trim masculinity. First with palms, we encompassed the skin with slimy oil, then with fingers, we dug into his taut musculature.

"Uhhh," he sighed. "Ummm," he approved.

Each of us could feel the knotted meat give way beneath our touch, as Paul relaxed those tortured muscles to absorb our deep-fingered massages. It was Marty who invited me to do the hardest work, convincingly suggesting I straddle Paul's butt to get the best angle for working on his back. Both hands clasped onto the trapezoids and squeezed tightly. Thumbs drifted onto his deltoids. Squishing sounds were clearly audible, as I crushed the lactose out of his muscles, forcing it into his bloodstream. Starting below the atlas in his neck, I crept down either side of his spine, inch by inch with constant pressure applied by my knuckles, which triggered another groan of "mmm" from our beaten-down hero. This long, satisfying journey continued to the lowest vertebrae, just above his coccyx, then fingertips pointed directly down into muscle, as my hands separated left and right to travel towards each side flank.

This brought me to the butt cheeks. Fully rounded, fully muscled, with a deep ridge running the sides of each hip bone, Paul's ass was a sight to behold. I plowed into his cheeks with stiffened fingers, then switched to flattened knuckles, pressing inward and downward, mercilessly imprinting my knuckles and fingers onto every inch of his meaty butt. Oil caused his manly, dark fur to glisten. These hairs began as a medium-thick mat atop each cheek, then increased to a heavy-thick blackness into the crack between them.

I had to get in there. I don't know why. Maybe it was the baby-oil sparkle of his skin and butt hairs; maybe it was the inviting lubricant applied and waiting; maybe it was the exhilaration of finally being allowed to touch this man in a serious way; but whatever the reason, my desires were proudly displayed in the form of my primed cock pointing forward from between my legs.

Glancing up, my eyes met those of his boyfriend and Marty was smiling, softly whispering to me, "He knows the words."

Paul did not say those "time-out" words, not while I was greasing my dick with the oil on my hand, not when I pressed the head of my cock against that beautiful blackness. He did not say them when the fingers of my other hand reached in to touch him there. He did not say them when one finger slid inside his asshole.

I guided my rose-colored mushroom head through the thumb and three curved fingers of my hand, joining the inserted finger to hover just inside his ass's entry point. Still, he said nothing.

As the finger slid out, my cock slid in, carefully exploring its way into his dark hole. Paul's ass felt like a vise, but a loving and inviting clamp, wet, warm, crushing. My hands were planted to the mat on either side of him. My hips moved closer to him, waiting for him to relax and accept me. Little by little, my cock filled him, as the pelvis made contact with that thick, manly fur on that thick, muscular butt. Still, he said nothing.

Once completely inside him, I rested, lowering my upper torso to lie atop his, my stimulated and erect nipples making contact with his oil-slicked deltoids. Paul's arms were spread flat on the mat, forming a U beyond his head. His head rested on his jaw's right side and my lips touched the left, roughing themselves on his late-day growth of sandpapery beard.

"You ok?" I whispered.

"Go ahead, you sadistic bastard," he answered. "Do your worst."

My entire body shuddered at the words. My cock plowed in deeper and surged to a new strength. What a fucking man he was. Strong as hell, purely masculine, yet willing to pleasure me with his yielding rectum. And doing so while pretending to be helpless; pretending to be bound and at my mercy.

The youngsters were busy oil-rubbing his legs and feet, but were they satisfied with this? No. As a way to punish and further humiliate, they each lifted one of Paul's ankles. Lowering a shin onto the back of his thighs, they tortured Paul with dual ankle locks, ruthlessly hand rubbing his hairy shins and scratching the soles of his manly feet.

Paul jolted from this unexpected assault, and in so doing clenched his ass muscles. My poor dick was momentarily crushed to the diameter of a toothpick. My poor dick longed for those muscles to clench it even harder. Paul also moaned from the torture of his feet. The pitiful sound was one mixed with agony and ecstasy, as I gently recoiled, then thrust my cock to its deepest penetration. My method? Short retractions followed by spearing pokes, both pleasurably time-consuming. I clasped both hands onto his trapezoids and dug my fingers in deep. His oil-greased skin eased my gliding to-and-fro movements, my chest atop his back, as I gradually intensified the pace of short strokes.

"Uhhh," he further excited me. "You bastards. You sick sonsabitches."

All I could see or feel was the magnificent man loving my cock. I envisioned all that we had done to him throughout our session. I pictured the two youngsters savagely attacking his helpless feet. The thought of him, the sight of him taking his punishment like the man - no, like the he-man caused my balls to ache. It was a pleasurable ache, an ache filled with pent-up sperm frantically looking for escape. A dramatic escalation of thrusts and recoils accompanied this ache, as I forcefully speared Paul with my eagerly energized cock. His powerful muscles were put to good use and with good timing. My deepest penetration was greeted by a brutal crushing from his surrounding rectal walls, intensifying the friction that tantalized my bulging corona.

A beastly grunt and exploding exhale of air expressed my pleasurable shower of semen. The in and out strokes climaxed to a frenzied pace, triggering each spurt of spunk. Paul's lips, curved upward, told me he liked it. An exposing of his teeth told me he loved it, which motivated me to continue pumping, even though the shower had faded to a dribble. The smell and feel of our sweat, the sloppy sensation of slimy baby oil, the masculine power of our undulating, hard muscles gliding against one another took me to undefined heights of pleasure, and my cock remained strong, impaling, enduring, far surpassing any performance known to me before.

Another touch of my lips to his face was the beginning of the end. My satisfyingly-spent penis deflated. I left his beautiful hole, oozing out of his warm ass like a slow-moving, afflicted-by-cold-weather serpent.

I collapsed on top of him. I longed to remain there smothering him, listening to the squishy slickness between our hard bodies - but Marty would not allow it.

Both of Paul's ankles slammed back down to the mat, as Byron and Marty ended the torture of his brutalized feet.

"Time to get his other side," Marty barked, rudely taking from us the intimacy and bliss of our gentle come-down.

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Paul was rolled over onto his back. The bottle was given to me. Marty brought Paul's hands together past his head and pinned his wrists to the mat by using his knees. Byron knelt and sat on Paul's shins while turned towards his feet. He pinned Paul's ankles to the floor, leaving him stretched and at my mercy. He did not fight us.

Whatever contents remained in the bottle were sprayed onto his chest, abdomen and legs, as I knelt beside his rib cage. There was no part of Paul's body that was not saturated with the baby oil. His boyfriend worked the goop into his arm pits, all over his hands, arms, face, and even the hair on his head. After working the grease onto Paul's thighs and knees, I slid my hands under Byron's kindly-lifted butt to get Paul's shins, then gave the bottle to Byron. Wet farts came from the plastic nozzle, as Byron sprayed the last remnants of baby oil onto Paul's feet tops, working the slime in between his toes. My focus now turned towards the other end of our victim's body.

Some men have chests that pretty much look the same, regardless of the position of their arms. Not Paul. His would explode when the arms were pulled beyond his head. The rib cage would expand in width and lateral muscles flare outward. The chest cavity would rise dramatically into the air, and the nipples, well, rather than expand, they would shrink from being stretched. The diameter would decrease to half their norm, while the tips took that skin to lengthen themselves, forming sharp-pointed needles to penetrate the air.

Some men have abdominal cavities that don't change much in appearance when their chests are expanded. Not Paul. His belly would flatten to a thin sliver, at least from the side view. From above, each line defining his muscle would suddenly appear, a deep ridge beginning in the pit of his stomach ran to his navel and below, while curved tributaries framed the navel two inches on either side of it.

Paul's body, at that moment, in this stretched position, could easily have passed for one of those muscle men you see in old movies. He could have been Hercules in Chains. He could have been any one of the great male bodybuilders from those 1960's Italian-made films, and just to complete the scene, his skin glistened and glowed with highlighting oil, as though he were drenched in sweat, defiantly struggling against some form of ungodly torture.

His massage was performed with a brutal exhilaration that bordered on torture. My rigid fingertips clutched deep into his thick muscle. His pectorals were assaulted by fingertip claws, then kneaded as though balls of bread dough. Flattened hands rubbed side to side, pressing down hard with all the strength I could muster. Special care was taken to make sure I savagely rubbed his pointed nipple tips, each contact made causing him to arch his back and thrust them upwards.

His dick was hard. It bounced on his belly. I took it into my hand and held it vertical, then pushed it back, straddled his hips and sat on his pelvic bone while facing him. His firm penis pressed the top of my butt crack and extended to the small of my back. I laid down on his chest, clutching his head and squishing the oil-drenched hair in my fingers.

"You strong mother fucker. Why don't you give up?" I begged him.

"Never."

"Come on, Paul. I can't bear to see them torture you this way."

"I'll never give up."

I transferred his baby oil onto me, sliding my torso back and forth atop his. My rigid cock was also greased while pressed and squished between his belly and mine. Shifting lower, I buried my face into his chest, smearing my face with the sloppy oil. My lips clamped onto his right nipple, kissing and tasting its grease, while my finger and thumb twisted his left tit.

Paul raised his head, as Marty savagely rubbed hands into his arm pits. He grunted, closed his eyes and dropped his head back to the mat. Sitting up, I scraped some oil from his stomach and reached back to grab his cock. Manual strokes lubricated it and confirmed its stiff readiness. Raising my hips, I targeted my ass rim with his bulging head, then slowly lowered myself onto his pole. My hands formed claws to grind into his belly, as I drifted downward, taking his cock up my ass inch by inch by inch, until my butt again made contact with his pelvic bone.

His belly was deep-massaged with my fingertips, with my knuckles, and with the palms of my hands. Inside me, Paul's cock was brutally crushed. I clenched him in the vise of my flexing rectum. He was writhing, contorting, arching his back, while Marty slid his hands from Paul's arm pits to the nipples. He took each one between his fingers and thumbs and pinched, twisting them like radio knobs, while I relentlessly squeezed Paul's organ and punished his belly.

Paul's familiar voice once more echoed from the depths of his chest. Deep-throated, masculine growls and grunts accompanied tortured moans. We hurt him in the best way possible. One man suffering at the hands of three. This was the scenario he wanted. This is what we wanted to give him.

Suddenly, Byron was standing to my left. He stepped over Paul's belly and straddled it, then grabbed the back of my head and guided my face towards his crotch. I dined on it. Penile juices seeped from his slit and I tasted them, with tongue, with lips. Abandoning Paul's belly, my hands drifted up to clutch Byron's butt cheeks, which I pulled towards me to bury his beautiful, elongated and pulsating cock into the back of my throat. From here, Byron took control, clutching the back of my head to force feed me with a dominating, neck piercing, fucking of my mouth.

Just when I had established a steady rhythm of oral and anal clenching, a jolt reverberated throughout my body from the sensation of a mouth engulfing my cock. Marty had leaned forward, straddled Paul on hands and knees, and started to slurp on my hardened tool with his extremely talented mouth. At his other end, Marty lowered his scrotum to within Paul's reach. By Paul, I mean Paul's mouth, and Paul slavishly licked on Marty's dangling nuts, sucking them into his lips, drenching them with his tongue. With a guiding hand, Marty pointed his dick straight down, allowing Paul to grab it with his lips and begin to slurp.

All was complete. All were involved, and I continued to feast.

I vaguely remember getting light-headed when I moaned my satisfied orgasm into Marty's mouth, so apparently I was the first of us to shoot a load. Byron nearly collapsed when my clenching throat caused him to spew, and after licking me dry, Marty focused his attention on Paul, spinning his body around one half turn, clutching the back of Paul's head and skull-fucking his lover. Marty thrust every inch of his cock to the back of Paul's throat, then ruthlessly pounded in and out with a savage fury. Unholy grunts and groans signaled Marty's explosion of semen into Paul's mouth, which left Paul as the lone survivor, the last man standing, although he was laying on his back and certainly not going anywhere. Paul was to again be the center of attention.

Marty knew what to do and he invited Byron to join him at the air-piercing temple that was Paul's nipples. They covered both tits with their mouths, while I ground my fingers into his belly. Slowly lifting my ass to the top of his pole, I dropped myself like an anvil, bouncing my cheeks onto his pelvis and taking his skewering cock deep inside me. I repeated the move - slowly up, crashing down, again a rise, again a fall, over and over and over, until Paul's every muscle tensed. Manly, Neanderthal grunts announced Paul's eruption. My technique did not alter. I continued to rise and crash, squeezing the hell out of his cock each time I took a seat. And just for good measure, I reached behind me, delicately took the skin of his nuts between fingers and thumbs, and then twisted the hide. Paul contorted as though enduring electro-torture, as the skin of his sensitive, emptied orbs was turned left and right.

Once satisfied these gonads, the last of the eight, were empty, I lifted off of him and set his dick free. 

We pinned him - all three of us, with me sitting on his shins and holding down his knees, Byron sitting on his belly and Marty laying cross-ways upon his chest. Amazingly, Paul actually tried to kick out of this. I felt his knees struggle to lift up from the mat, but his effort was puny and useless against my hands pressing down on them. His actions, however, left little doubt that he was ready and willing to go for as many rounds as we wanted to take him.

It was quite some time before we finally left that mat. We must have looked like a nest of newly-hatched reptiles, writhing over and under each other in a pool of slick baby oil. We orgied. Every one of us got equal attention, three-on-one's, two-on-two's, man with man and more men, any configuration given to the imagination. It was a fuck and suck festival, lustfully intensified by human sweat, greasy oil and mutually shared techniques of pleasure.

Hell, we couldn't even control ourselves when it was clean-up time. We had planned to shower one by one - first Byron; then me; and then we could go home, but it didn't work out that way. I interrupted Byron's soap lathering and Paul and Marty joined in. Soap replaced baby oil, but the results were the same. Four more orgasms, which conveniently dribbled down the drain.

None of us learned anything from this, unless you consider the countless new methods we discovered for sucking, fucking, and good old-fashioned body worship. Paul's attitude did not change. In fact, it became worse because he wanted Marty to be angry with him when Tuesday night came around, but we finally convinced him that he could be sufficiently punished even when he had done nothing wrong. He was the designated victim, because his body was custom-made for it, and because he loved taking our abuse as much as we loved dishing it out.

My lesson, of course, was that I realized my affections for the mature male physique were equal to those I felt for the young. I could pleasure an oldster or youngster or both and be more than satisfied either way. Paul has become the ideal man for me. He is my muscle-bound hero, struggling against his tormentors with a masculine defiance.

Our discipline is maintained. We continue to engage in technical wrestling matches, which lead to naked wrestling matches, which lead to three-against-one sessions of the pretend torture of Paul, which lead to anything and everything. New story lines are introduced to keep our sessions fresh, mostly simulated plots taken either from pro wrestling, or sword and sandal movies, or actual history, or fiction we have read. Paul is a superb actor, contorting and flexing, while maintaining forceful erections to pleasure every hole we have to offer.

Like Marty said, sometimes a man just needs to have his ass kicked. For Paul, that sometimes is now once a week.

The End

Copyright ©2006

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