DOA III

by Bentley Little

  Adam screamed shrilly through the gag when Joel showed him the strands of barbed wire woven into the flails of the second whip. His screams mounted when the sharp points ripped into his swollen flesh, leaving a pattern of ragged starbursts of blood with each stroke. Again and again, Joel swung the flail and, soon Adam’s back was a curtain of torn strips of skin that caught in the tines of the wire with every swing, only to be ripped away when Joel tugged them free after each stroke. Joel stopped only when he could no longer see more than an inch of unblemished skin.

  His chest was heaving, and he was sweating heavily himself from the effort of swinging the whip. But his cock was rock hard and he was eagerly anticipating what came next. Using only Adam’s mingled sweat and blood as lubricant, he thrust his dick into the boy’s ass a second time. The noises he made as he pumped in and out were animalistic; he grunted and gasped, relishing the hot stickiness every time his bare chest slammed into the thick blood oozing from the wounds, and thrilling to the moist sucking sound when their bodies separated between strokes.

  The second orgasm was even more intense than the first.

  Unmindful of the gore that covered his torso, Joel stood in front of his victim, idly fingering his still tumescent dick and considering what he wanted to do next. Though tears streaked Adam’s cheeks and his eyes were filled with pain, he still met Joel’s gaze evenly, as if daring him to continue. Joel happily accepted the challenge.

  Some men’s nipples were surprisingly vulnerable to torture, most likely because of all the tiny nerve endings concentrated in such a small area. To test whether Adam was one of them, he brushed the backs of his hands across the boy’s heaving chest and smiled evilly when the young man’s cock stirred.

  Adam shrieked anew when Joel brought out two pairs of needle-nosed pliers. Taking his time to fully savor Adam’s aborted struggles to retreat of reach, Joel carefully positioned the jaws around each perky bud. He clamped the tips lightly, an ominous portent of what was to come.

  He paused to appreciate the way the steel jaws bit into the sensitive nubs. Adam’s pectorals fluttered as his muscles involuntarily blenched. Joel waited until Adam looked at him, silently pleading, before he began to squeeze the handles.

  The boy’s eyes bulged and a deep guttural whine came from the back of his throat. Joel increased the pressure, and Adam’s body stiffened, as if by holding still he could somehow alleviate the agony. Joel increased the pressure until he was squeezing as hard as he could. Adam’s shriek came clearly through the gag as his right nipple popped; a thin jet of blood spurted like puss squeezed from a pimple. The left one remained intact, offending Joel’s sense of symmetry. To even things out, he adjusted his grip on the pliers and twisted sharply, ripping the entire nipple, areola and all, from the boy’s chest.

  Adam’s eyes rolled back into his head and he lost consciousness. Though delighted at the effect he’d produced, Joel was unwilling to allow his captive any respite so he thrust a bottle of ammonia under his nose. Adam’s groans seemed to travel from his ears directly to his groin and, though it had been scarcely ten minutes since his last orgasm, Joel’s dick tingled and stiffened, aroused by the twin streams of blood running down the boy’s chest.

  Again, he jerked off. Joel had often before cum twice in a single night, sometimes even thrice. But he’d had to work at it. Tonight though, Joel was effortlessly erect again almost immediately after shooting his third load. His ego preened at the evidence of his own erotic stamina.

  To stem the blood, Joel used an electric paint stripper to cauterize the wounds. The air filled with the sweet stench of burnt pork when he pressed the heating element into Adam’s chest, blackening the skin and searing new faux nipples of char where the fleshy ones had been pulped or ripped away. He amused himself by moving the gun across the boy’s torso, letting him feel the searing heat, but not allowing the muzzle to make direct contact. The skin reddened and took on a shiny, plastic appearance. Blisters bubbled and burst, weeping a clear fluid that the heat gun effectively boiled away.

  Adam’s once attractive physique was ruined and Joel could not understand why he was still turned on by it. There should be nothing scintillating about the scorched chest nor the bloody tatters of his scourged back. Yet Joel saw a sensuality in the angle of the boy’s arms, an artistic quality in the way they were spread-eagled to form the top half of a giant X. When Adam screamed, the muscles and tendons of his throat stood out in bas-relief as if sculpted from marble, as gorgeous as a Renaissance painting of a martyred saint.

  Before he knew what he was doing, Joel buried his face in one of Adam’s exposed armpits. He filled his nostrils with the scent of the young man’s sweat, tangy and acrid, tinged with the sweetness of cooked flesh. Seized by an odd compulsion, Joel lapped up the salty moisture, taking in a measure of blood along with the perspiration. The intoxicating coppery taste lingered after he swallowed; the musky, sharp essence of his victim’s body odor overwhelmed him and set his head spinning. Transfixed by the unexpected sensations, Joel’s hands roved lightly across Adam’s torso, stroking and gently kneading the muscles, teasing with soft flicks of his fingertips...

  Joel’s eyes snapped open and heat flushed his cheeks. What the hell was he doing? He didn’t want to arouse Adam’s passion; tenderness was the farthest thing from his mind. He wanted the boy screaming as he’d never screamed before, gibbering with terror and despair, knowing that the pain would only increase until he begged, begged Joel to kill him if only it meant that the agony would cease.

  Furious at his weakness, Joel seized a pair of clothes irons and viciously jammed them into his captive’s armpits and held them in place while the hairs crisped and Adam’s skin fried in his own sweat. He pressed the searing plates even harder, determined to incinerate any trace of the evocative smells and tastes that had ensorcelled him.

  The young man’s body went rigid and the muscles of his chest and shoulders clenched in a rictus of agony. He rose up onto his toes as if lifted by the hot irons under his arms. Adam squealed, high pitched, like an animal being butchered. The keening rose in pitch and intensity until, abruptly, it cut off. Adam had passed out a second time and hung, sagging in the chains.

  Blood trickled from under the gag; Joel figured the boy had bitten through his tongue. He was miffed that his plaything had fled into unconsciousness again. The irons peeled away from the melted flesh of Adam’s armpits with a sucking sound. Joel made the mistake of looking before he replaced them on the utility cart; even his hardened gorge rose at the sight of what was fused to the stainless steel plates.

  For variety, Joel splashed a bottle of rubbing alcohol across his captive’s torso to rouse him. A deep, guttural scream emerged from the depths of Adam’s ravaged chest. When it faded, Joel grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head back, forcing their eyes to meet.

  Though he searched the boy’s ravaged visage, he did not find what he expected. True, there was agony. But Joel was accustomed to also finding confusion as his captives wondered, Why me? Why are you doing this?, and a sense of disbelief as their minds fought to come to terms with the reality of what was happening to them.

  Adam’s implacability mocked him. Unlike previous victims, he grimly and stalwartly endured. Though he screamed, Joel would have expected gibbering by now, begging, or a retreat into madness. Something about Adam wasn’t quite right.

  Joel grinned to hide his confusion.

  Playfully, he held a vegetable peeler up to the light, turning it so that it glinted like a knife wielded by a matinee serial killer. With precise attention to the curves of muscle, he peeled away a thin layer of flesh from Adam’s stomach, leaving an aesthetically pleasing and bloody outline of his washboard abs behind.

  Though Adam was lean, a thin layer of subcutaneous fat still clogged the blade. At first, Joel carefully wiped the instrument clean between strokes, but eventually the task grew tedious. He resorted to flicking his wrist to fling away the worst of the gore and, though he’d started by carefull
y and artistically gouging out the spaces between Adam’s abdominal muscles, the areas closest to the youth’s groin were sloppily carved with bits of white gristle peering through the glistening and pulsating tissue.

  Another few splashes of rubbing alcohol got Adam writhing nicely. But when Joel checked again, there was only a fiery will smoldering in the boy’s eyes in spite of his having been half skinned alive. Something figuratively buried inside him gave the young man strength; Joel was eager to dig, quite literally, as deep as necessary to get at it. The thought of breaking Adam’s spirit was titillating and Joel’s hand moved to his own penis once again.

  He winced. The double rape and jerking off had rubbed the skin of his shaft a little raw. Spitting into his hand eased the friction, but it still stung. Inspired, he pressed his hand into the wounds on Adam’s stomach, liberally greasing it with blood and other fluids. The congealed muck was sticky, but moist. Thinned with some more spit, it worked just fine as lube.

  Unfortunately, though he was stiff as a board and wanted to cum, his penis refused to cooperate. Frustrated, Joel quickened the rhythm of his strokes, gritting his teeth against the sting that felt as if he was jerking off with a handful of sandpaper. His climax was unimpressive, a weak ooze of semen. Mildly disgusted by his body’s betrayal, he shook off the meager droplets. They plopped to the floor, tiny white pearls swimming in a scarlet sea, and Joel realized there was a lot of blood covering the plastic tarp.

  Adam’s back still bled, but sluggishly, and Joel had cauterized his chest. Naturally, where he’d been flayed, blood welled and dripped, matting the hair of his groin and trickling down his thighs with tendrils of scarlet. Even so, it seemed to Joel that the floor was bloodier than it should have been, so awash that the footing was treacherous.

  Closer examination revealed a steady flow of dark, fecal-tainted blood from Adam’s ass. The rapes had been as brutal as Joel could make them; apparently, he’d torn something inside Adam’s rectum. Stanching the blood was a priority if Joel didn’t want his plaything bleeding to death before he was ready. With a malicious grin, Joel had a delicious inspiration on how to solve the problem.

  Adam’s weary eyes looked puzzled when he first saw the curling iron. But when his torturer told him, in loving and graphic detail, how he planned to use it, the youth began to struggle against the steel restraints anew. A tiny stream of blood welled from underneath the shackles; it trickled down his arms to drip from his scalded armpits, crimson rubies of perspiration.

  Joel positioned the curling iron at the crack of the boy’s ass, deliciously prolonging the moment when it would begin to scorch the delicate flesh. Blood dripped from Adam’s ass onto the bare metal heating element, hissing and popping as it burned away. With a sizzle and crackle of singeing meat, he firmly inserted the iron into Adam’s ass, easily overcoming the boy’s feeble attempts to clench his butt cheeks closed. Adam’s back arched like a drawn bow, and every muscle of his ruined upper chest stood out in stark relief while he shrieked in agony.

  Adam shit himself. A raw and fetid odor filled the air, a fecund and metallic scent of blood and semi-liquid feces heated to boiling. Joel’s eyes watered and he fought not to gag. Some of his previous guests had also lost control of their bowels, but since this particular trick with the curling iron was a new one, Joel had never had to contend with this particular stench before. Annoyed by the stink, he viciously shoved the curling iron all the way in.

  Adam came close to dislocating his shoulders, wildly thrashing against the chains that held him in place. Joel took his time, twisting and turning the tool to make sure the hot metal made contact with as much of Adam’s insides as possible. He removed it only after he was fairly certain he’d stopped the bleeding by cauterizing every inch of the youth’s anal canal.

  Though Joel knew he should be sickened by the mélange of par-cooked diarrhea dripping in a half-clotted bloody stream down the inside of Adam’s thighs, the sweetly fetid smell was oddly arousing. His dick stiffened yet again, weirdly stimulated by the foul odors and the sensual way the agglutinated blood and charred feces oozed between his toes. Uneasy at his response, Joel fought the feelings. Normally, it was the power and not the torture that turned him on the most. Once his victim was no longer pretty, Joel was usually mildly repulsed by the gaping wounds and the oozing burns. Eroticism fled, allowing him enough objectivity to concentrate entirely on punishment and revenge.

  Though he would be the first to admit that he got an erotic kick out of sadism, it had never risen to the level of a fetish. Except for these rare times when he needed retribution, Joel was perfectly fine with plain old sucking and fucking.

  Tonight though, something was askew. Joel’s attraction to his subject continued to increase, contrary to all of his experience and expectations. Even Joel’s warped psyche sensed how unhealthy it was for him not to be repelled by the damage he’d inflicted. Yet he wanted more from Adam; he needed more. Even now, even as he thought it would take hours for his body to generate more spuge, his dick was dripping pre-cum.

  Nor was the unsettling miracle one-sided. Unbelievably, Adam had not succumbed to shock while his insides were roasted. Pushing his concerns aside, partly for fear of what they might reveal, Joel instead distracted himself by kicking things up a notch.

  He had a theory about men that he enjoyed testing. Joel believed that no matter how brutally the rest of a man’s body was abused, it all paled in comparison to an attack on his genitals. Aside from the physical torment, there was the added mental anguish that accompanied the torture of a guy’s junk that made the experience ever more agonizing and terrifying.

  He cupped the boy’s balls in one hand. God, the kid was well hung! His testicles were heavy and full, with decent heft. Joel squeezed, once, as hard as he could, and even in spite of everything he’d endured so far, Adam emitted a strangled scream with a fresh, new intensity.

  “I like my men clean shaven,” he whispered, tugging the hairs on Adam’s balls.

  The boy’s eyes bugged when Joel lit the candles. Though the crisping hair stank, it was nothing compared to what he’d smelled already. Patiently and deliberately, rarely taking his eyes from Adam’s face, Joel slowly roasted his balls in the flames. Adam writhed in his bindings, squealing and twitching while the juices inside boiled and seethed until, after an excruciating eternity, each testicle burst through the blackened skin like an overcooked grape.

  Something—perhaps melted fat—dripped onto the flames, squelching them. Impatiently, Joel tossed the candle aside in favor of a small blow torch. Adam’s ravaged testicles crackled and popped; at one point, the skin actually ignited. Joel hummed to himself, enjoying the slow castration by fire, never letting up until the testicles were steaming lumps of blackened flesh.

  When he was done, his own balls were tight, clamoring again to release their juices. Joel wanted to taunt the newly-made eunuch with his own priapic erection, but the minute he touched his dick he winced. He retreated to the bathroom where he used a warm, damp washcloth to tenderly wiped the last of the bloody lubrication from his dick. It was no wonder that the organ was hypersensitive. He’d rubbed himself raw; tiny friction abrasions all along the staff leaked a clear fluid. Using even the slightest bit of hand soap to clean it stung enough to make him yelp.

  He grabbed a bottle of baby oil anyway and returned to the bedroom. Unbelievably, the fresh sight of Adam’s ruined body turned him on even more powerfully than if he was seeing the boy for the first time, pristine and whole, quivering in fear at what he only imagined was in store for him.

  Joel’s libido betrayed him. Though he knew it would hurt, he could no more refrain from another wank than he could have ignored the original offense to his ego. He squirted some oil into his palm and, with exquisite care, he began to polish the smooth head–the only part of his penis that he could still touch without flinching.

  When he ejaculated, some time later, his body shuddered with the effort and the few meager drops were downright pitiful. A
deep ache settled into his balls, as if someone had been slapping them too roughly; his urethra burned like he had a urinary infection. He was annoyed to discover the limits of his own body; limits he’d never approached before. Perhaps his body’s failure to produce was a sign that he’d finally taken the edge off of his lust. Joel took a brief reprieve from his torturous game, but the anticipation of inflicting further indignities on Adam’s ruined body only made Joel ache to touch himself again. Even though he knew his balls were completely drained, he was unspeakably horny and mild uneasiness at his inexplicable arousal morphed into an ominous sense of foreboding.

  But he closed his mind to any fear. He replaced it with anger for which Adam was a convenient target. Throughout the remainder of the night and into the next day, he played with his human toy. Despite every atrocity he inflicted—and Joel taxed his sadistic creativity further than he ever had before—his eldritch sexual arousal continued to build.

  By noon, he’d cum five more times, each climax more painful than the last. Now it was Joel who begged. He pleaded with his victim to apologize, to grovel, to ask for Joel’s forgiveness and spare himself further torment. But though Adam shrieked and blubbered, he refused to utter a sensible word.

  Joel’s dick could no longer tolerate any friction at all, yet still it remained rock hard. His libido had taken control of his body, flooding it with sexual impulses he could not fight and warping his release into something twisted and unwholesome. In desperation, he donned an old pair of boxing gloves from college out of his bedroom closet and found, to his horror, that he no longer needed to touch himself to cum. His body was nonetheless wracked with desiccated orgasms that were beyond his control. A deep, primal pain originated in his balls and quickly extended into his torso where it settled in the pit of his stomach, making him dizzy and nauseous as his body desperately strove to expel something from the end of his dick even though all his reserves were drained.