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I saw the teasing photo he posted: lifting up a tight t shirt to show rippling abs, a bulging pec, a left nipple. A photo to show he had built himself into a muscle god. He said that his name was Luis Adam Bree. Real or not, I didn’t care. He said he wanted to be tamed, to be humiliated and punished. That said all I wanted to know about him. That he knew what he was, this waiter/bartender in his late twenties. Meat. Beautiful and well shaped. But meat. Nothing more.
I messaged him to find out what he meant by saying he was very kinky. He wanted to role play over Skype first. I said no. He wanted photos of me. I said no. I told him what I looked like made no difference to meat like him that deserved punishment. I told him to send more photos , and these nude. And he did. I told him to describe the kinky sexual encounters he had had. He did. In detail. He was mine already. I gave him the address of my house outside London. I gave him a date and a time that we could play at his punishment. And for the next two weeks I answered none of his messages.
He was precise, I’ll give him that. My bell rang at exactly the appointed time. I opened the door and he stepped inside, wearing the tight t and jeans of that first picture. I instructed him to stand, hands behind his back, legs spread, eyes ahead. I cupped my hand around the impressive cock and balls beneath the jeans, looking him in the eyes. He smiled as he grew hard and started to say he was pleased to finally meet me. I cuffed him hard across the mouth. I needed no words from him.
I took my time going to get a sharp knife. When I returned he stood stock still where he had been. I started to slowly shred the tight t, exposing his nipples. When he objected about how he couldn’t go home without a shirt I cuffed him again and pressed the point of the knife against his throat. I told him he would walk home totally naked if that was what I told him to do. I went back to my work shredding. His nipples were hard by the time I cut the collar of the t and it dropped to the floor. I started work on the jeans next. Cutting off piece by piece starting at his ankles, watching the cock strain against the crotch, darkening it with precum. It took a while, as I intended, until he stood naked, still with legs spread, hands behind his back, and eyes focused on a spot on the wall across from the front door. His cock stood out from his crotch, nicely hard.
I walked around him, close but not touching, inhaling his scent, feeling the heat coming off of his skin, inspecting every bit of his exposed flesh. When I stood behind him, I put an arm around his chest and drew him to me. I put my other hand over his nose and mouth, clamping them shut as I pulled his head against my shoulder. He tensed but stayed still. I held him as I felt his chest start to strain for air under my arm, and his heart to pound. Then his chest started to heave. As his hands grabbed for mine, I released him and stepped around him, punching him hard in his heaving stomach and cuffing him against the mouth. He was doubled over gasping for breath. I grabbed his hair and pulled his face up near mine. There were bruises beginning under the scruff around his mouth, and a trickle of blood. I told him calmly and slowly to stand with hands behind his back, legs spread, and eyes straight ahead. He did as told. I waited as his breath returned to normal.
I told him there would be no more words between us. I told him we were going to my playroom where I would begin his true humiliation. I repeated the safe word he had used with another partner. I knew it from the account he had sent to show how kinky he could be. I asked if he remembered it. He opened his mouth to speak, and then remembered, and nodded instead. I told him there were no safe words here. That that was how kinky I was. I told him I would punish him until I was satisfied and that he had no more say about what happened to him. I asked if he understood. He nodded. I told him it made no difference whether he understood or agreed. Nothing about him made any more difference. He nodded again. His cock was still hard. I took hold of it and led him to the basement.
I had made only one improvement to my basement to make it a playroom. On one wall was a large mirror I had acquired from a dance studio that had gone out of business. I liked my boys to watch their own humiliation. As you have probably guessed, this is not the first time I have taught a boy the hard lesson of punishment. There have been other boys who wanted to suffer pain. There have been others who have had to watch what was happening to their bodies as they slowly figured out that, no matter what we had agreed, there were no safe words here. And that I was never satisfied with their punishment. There have been others. This was merely the prettiest. And the first to be led down those stairs knowing he could not call a stop to what was going to happen.
I led them by their cocks because it made the stairs awkward. Luis Adam Bree only stumbled once, but he kept his hands behind his back and did not fall. Still his bow legged gait was hardly the elegant movement he probably expected out of his finely tuned body. Humiliation took many forms. And there would be no more elegance in this young man’s life. I led him to the center of the dank, bare room, facing his reflection in the mirror. He could look at the darkening bruises on his face. He could wonder how much they would show at work next week. He could wonder what other marks his body might have by then. He could wonder what it would feel like when he came. He could wonder if there would be a next week for him. He could wonder what death would feel like, and how he would react. He could wonder many things. I left, locking the house. He could not escape.
I ran some errands. I had a nice dinner at the restaurant where he waited tables. It was hours before I returned.
When I did, he was standing just as instructed. On the concrete floor between his legs was a puddle. He really had not moved. I grabbed the back of his head, forcing him down on his knees, not an easy movement on stiff legs with hands still behind him. But he was strong. I forced his face down to the puddle, my face close to his. To watch. He knew what I wanted. And I knew what he wanted. Humiliation. He started to lick. He gagged a couple of times. The floor was dirty. The piss smelled strong. But I didn’t let him up until the puddle was gone. Then I took his wrists and stretched his arms high, tying them to hooks set into the ceiling. I stepped to a cabinet against the wall and took off my own clothes, folding them on top of it. My body was not as impressive as his, but that was not the point of being naked. I wanted to feel flesh quivering in pain against my own. I took a cat o’ nine tails out of a drawer. It was spiked. He saw it as I stepped up behind him. He gripped the ropes that tied him. He set his jaw. But he made no sound.
I cracked it across his back. He gave a little grunt, and shook his head as if to shake off the shock of the sharp pain. Red lines opened up on his right shoulder blade. Blood began to trickle. The second crack was harder, and his body shook at the blow. The third caught in the flesh of his shoulder and I dragged it across, shredding his back like I shredded his t shirt. I switched hands and began again on his left side. His body shuddered at each blow. Again and again and again. He gave little grunts and moans, but did not cry out. He was hanging now by his wrists, but he was stretched so tight he was still on his feet. I could see his face in the mirror, his eyes watching every blow. I saw his determination to prove himself. To prove the strength of this body he had built. To prove the only thing about himself that was worth anything to him. Or to me.
I stepped back and admired the sight before me. The red stripes crisscrossing the muscles of the back. The shredded flesh. The bright red blood flowing. The sheen of sweat. The ripples as he heaved in air. I saw him looking at me in the mirror and I smiled at him in approval. He nodded. I placed the whip on he floor and walked around, standing face to face with him, close. Our chests rubbed against each other, our nipples hardening. My cock, long and stiffening, rubbed against his. His reacted as it started to get hard again. I wrapped my arms around him, smearing my hands in the blood of his back. Then, staying close, I used my fingers to write. I started with his left pec, over his heart. I was writing backwards, again and again pressing my fingers in the wounds of his back to get fresh blood. I held his eyes, to see if he was figuring out what I was writing. Both of our cocks were hard now. Brushing against each other’s legs. It was short, what I was writing. Ten letters. Three words. But I took my time. Savoring the intimacy. As he was, I think. I wrote the last word across his belly, his rock hard abs. And then I stepped back, still watching his eyes. Their focus shifted, looking at his torso in the mirror. Looking at the words I had written backwards so they were forwards in the mirror. And then his eyes got wide, and wild. He started shaking his head, muttering no, no, no. So he had been holding out hope then. He hadn’t really let himself believe where this was going. Just a game for him. A role play. I turned to look at what he was seeing. At the mirror, where his body read, “Gut me. Alive.”
I went to the cabinet and took out a knife. A gutting knife. I placed it on the floor near the mirror, where he could see himself and the knife together. Then I stepped back close to him, taking care not to smear my message. His cock was limp now, his nipples flat. He was afraid, tamed. So he did not resist when I put my hand behind his head and pulled his face to mine, when I kissed him deep. He returned the kiss after a while, although his cock stayed limp. Then I left him to the knife and the message and his imagination. Imagination about pain and blood and death could be torture on its own. I had a strong feeling though, that for Luis Adam Bree, there had been many nights when imagination about pain and blood and death had been ecstasy. Tonight, if he was lucky, it would be both.
When I returned to my basement playroom he looked up to watch me come down the steps. His eyes were red-rimmed, like he had been crying. He was finding death wasn’t like his fantasy. So strong, he thought he was, strong enough to enjoy torture and even dying. So before I destroyed his body, I would destroy that, any chance that he would enjoy what I did to him.
I walked up to him and ran my hand along his cheek, running my hands over his impressive pecs, running my thumbs around and around his nipples until they grew hard again, running my hands over his hard abs and the v of his hips until I cupped his balls with one hand and grasped his cock in my other. It was a gentle caress, and his cock leapt to erection in my hand. His body was young, and always straining for pleasure. But I saw the hope come back in his eyes as well. I sneered at him. And spit in his face. His cock stayed hard. I could see he enjoyed it.
One of the fantasies on the site that young Mr Bree and I enjoyed was that a young man could have his best orgasm as he died, spraying cum everywhere. The difference was that I knew it was a fantasy. Young Mr Bree was expecting it to be real. So I was about to turn his expectation into frustration.
I moved around behind him, enjoying running my hands over the firm mounds of his butt. I moved two fingers into his crack, exploring his hole. His body quivered in delight, and he spread his legs expecting my cock to be thrust in next. But I simply explored until I found the spongy prostate inside him and began to rub. If I had used my other hand to stroke his cock, used my tongue to lick his butt, had given him any other pleasure, he would most likely have shot cum across the room. But I was not interested in his pleasure. So I simple rubbed his prostate. It took a while, but eventually I got what I wanted. His milky cum dribbling out of his now not-quite-erect cock. It made quite a puddle by the time it stopped. It would have made for an impressive and fulfilling orgasm. But this milking would leave his balls empty and unable to cum for longer than it was going to take him to die. And it would leave his body, I had been told, aching to cum, but not able to. Mr Bree would get nothing but pain and frustration out of his dying.
I moved around to face him again, wiping my fingers on his chest, smearing the words I had written. He had a puzzled look, looking from the puddle of wasted cum to me. Not understanding what I had just done, or why. In the stories that we read, that Mr Bree had even written, the torturer wanted the young buck to cum. Or he enjoyed the pain enough to cum. Or his body just came at the last second. This was not the stories. This was ugly and painful reality. My reality.
He took a breath and started to speak. I raised my hand and he cut the words off, flinching from the expected blow. I lowered my hand, smiled and walked over to my cabinet of toys. I had been thinking over our little break about how I would end this Luis Adam Bree. I read responses to his photo on the site. People saying what they would do to him if they had the chance. I took perverse pleasure in the fact that the object of their lust was hanging from the joists that supported the floor under my chair. I even hacked his account and posted a photo of his cock and balls that he had sent me. I thought they deserved the chance to beat off over them while I enjoyed the real thing. At last I remembered how my cock loved shredding his t shirt to expose that beautiful torso. So I opened a drawer and took out an extremely sharp scalpel.
I got the puzzled look again as he saw me approach with such a tiny knife. His eyes followed it as I raised it to his right shoulder, as I thrust it through his skin and just into his muscle. There was a sharp intake of breath and a long hiss as I drew a line with the scalpel, straight down, over the edge of his pec, down the side of his ribs to his waist, over the bone of his hip and down the outside of his leg to his ankle. Slowly and calmly. And then I just as slowly licked the beads of blood springing from the line up his leg and torso to his shoulder, my cock hardening as I followed the contours of his muscle, first with my hand, then with my tongue. As I reached the top of the line I had drawn in him, I looked him in the eye and gave him a gory smile. Then I raised my scalpel and drew a second line a little to the right of the first. A slight whimper as I drew over the bumps of his ribs. Again my tongue retraced the contours of his muscle and bone. My cock stood out hard from my crotch. His was long and thick, but it would never be erect again. Again and again I drew the lines, just deep enough to cut into the muscle, to bring the blood trickling down his torso and thighs and calves. I traced around his nipples, leaving them whole. And I left the center line of his body, so well defined on its own, unmarked. He was weakening now, from the constant pain, the slits in the muscles, the loss of blood. His breaths came long and ragged. But he was still far from dying. His body was coated in a sheen of blood and sweat. The bloody lines just helped define the contours of his muscles. His mouth hung open in pain and exhaustion. Tears of pain or despair tracked his cheeks, I didn’t care much which. He was fucking beautiful. His body shredded like I shredded his clothes. THIS is all you’re for, cunt. All you built up that magnificent body for. MY pleasure.
I admired my work for a while, stroking my stiff cock with my free hand. Still holding the scalpel in my right. There was one last part of him still to draw my lines in. I began at the base of the v of his collarbone. His body shuddered a bit at this last violation of so many. I traced the line down the valley of his pecs, the valley of his abs. My cock strained, wanting to cum at this beauty. But I left it alone and continued. I traced around the navel, giving him hope I would stop before I got to where this line was pointing. But I continued, down the trail of hair that led to his bush, through its center, and then … even more slowly … down the top of his long impressive cock, pressing deep now. He howled. But his muscles were shredded enough, the blood loss was enough, that he could only shudder, and hang from his wrists tied to the ceiling.
I continued my line. Cutting through the head, following the slit, and then holding the cock up to cut through the other side, cutting it in two. Then I continued down the center of his sack, between his heavy balls, around and up the back of it, until at last I reached his hole and stopped. He continued to moan and sob. I knew the pain must be excruciating, even compared to all the other cuts together. I began another line on his cock, cutting each of the halves I had created in two. Then I drew lines down its sides. In all, I cut the tube of his cock so that it hung from his crotch in six strips. Then I went to work on his sack, down under the balls and around, leaving it in six strips as well. But only the sack. The balls themselves hung glistening and untouched, poking through their net of skin and blood.
I licked some of the delicious blood. I smeared some of it on my straining cock. And then I stood, and applied my scalpel to that shredded chest once again. I cut a slit connecting two of my lines along his collarbone. I dug my scalpel under the layer of skin and started to pull loose the strip I had made. It was the one with his untouched left nipple. The one he had teased in his first picture. I had decided when I first saw it that it would be mine. I pulled sharply again and again as the strip came loose down his chest to his waist. I would have thought he didn’t have the strength left, but he howled. Each time I pulled. I left the strip attached to his leg as I put the perfect nipple in my mouth and began to chew while I looked him in the eye. I saw anger and frustration. I had cheated him of what he thought would be the fulfillment of his life, a perfect, cum-soaked death. I even deprived him of the delicious pain of feeling his nipple chewed into pulp. Behind the anger I saw the deep, searing pain that washed over him in waves from all the nerves of his skin severed. And I saw the utter, utter hopelessness. I was stripping away anything erotic from his dying, but he was dying anyway. And there was no way of stopping that now. I saw despair. And with it, something like love. He would not feel any of the pleasure he had imagined. He had no cum left to cum. But he could see by my cock my pleasure. And he was clinging to that.
I reached my fingers into the strips of his sack and circled his left ball. He grunted a bit like this was just a discomfort. He was fading now. I pulled down, sharp and hard until it came free. A soft moan. I looked him in the eye as I put his ball between my teeth and started to chew. I let my face fall into a look of pleasure, my eyes half closed as I savored this delicacy. I saw his look of relief as he saw me enjoying his meat. He even smiled. I just sneered at him. And spit the half-chewed useless thing in his face. He started to sob, tears running down his face now. That was the end of him I wanted.
I walked to the gutting knife, where it still lay on the floor by the mirror. I saw his eyes following me. I picked it up and started toward him. He just hung. Sobbing and crying. No attempt to regain his feet. To show any bravery. To “take it like a man.” His sobs reduced to moans. One with each breath. His eyes fixed on the knife, as I placed it on the center line I had drawn in him, at the base of his breastbone, the top of his stomach.
I thrust through muscle and tendon, into the body cavity. And I worked quickly, sawing down and down. His body jerked with my efforts and the last of his pain. He was strong enough to live through what was left. I was sure of that. I opened him from rib cage to cock. And then, dropping the knife, I thrust both hands, both arms into his belly and far up under his ribs. I felt the slippery beating heart, the heaving lungs. I grasped hold of what I could and heaved downward. Ribs cracked as I pulled it all out of the open wound that was his belly. Intestines and liver and stomach unwound onto the floor at his feet, my arms held heart and lungs and other unnamable things. I saw a glimmer of awareness holding on in his eyes as I had hoped. Just enough maybe, to see me thrust my cock into his steaming innards. And cum. Not cumming for his oh-so-carefully sculpted body, but into the same stinking slop that every body contained.
I left the corpse hanging as I went upstairs and showered. I sat naked, checking the site on my iPad. Posting another photo as Luis Adam Bree. I would continue his online presence for a while for his fans. His real self would disappear and never be found. I had enough contacts in the intelligence community and enough skill at technology to insure that. I would even post the actual description of his final hours as a story to the site. So many guys would beat off again and again, never knowing that it was all real.
At last I went back to the gutted corpse hanging in my basement. I cut off the left pectoral. It was large, but I was very hungry after this day. I took the surviving ball as well. I sautéed it, and ate it with the rare steak. Young Mr Bree would never know how much I enjoyed it. Or how hard I came each time I ate a piece of the meat I butchered and froze from his quite beautiful body. But then he never deserved to know. Because for him to die believing that all that he had worked for was useless to me, except for his pain, was exactly what gave me the most pleasure. And giving me the most pleasure was the only thing he ever deserved.