Chapter 5
The first figure appears on my left carrying a tall, black chair which he places a few feet away from my head, just at the limit of my peripheral vision. One by one the German boys appear; the kid from New Orleans, the hitchhiker and the altar boy from the church, all clad only in soiled and well worn jockstraps. They are all ripped in boyish ways, torsos tapering sweetly from broad shoulders, abs prominent but not overpowering. My recent memories of their sexuality in my life flood my consciousness with arousal. It is thick in the air as I watch their preparations, their cocks and balls occasionally protruding from the frayed cloth of the jockstraps and further jogging my memory and agitating my dick. The altar boy removes my pallet and bedding from Christ's table. He is quite tidy about his work, folding the linens lovingly and setting them atop the thin pallet. This task complete, he produces a set of red leather restraints which attach nicely to the altar, binding my hands and my legs in a spread eagle posture with an inch or so of movement in any direction. A matching red ball gag snugs behind my head and over my mouth. He steps back, joining the others in admiring his handiwork. They seem to await their next assignment, adjusting their packages in some kind of sexual anticipation.
The Master appears from my left through an amber haze. Again I am awestruck by the beauty of him. He is dressed in a red skin tight t-shirt and again in faded 501s, a single button undone temptingly, his massive package outlined clearly on the left He yawns, stretching his flawless body and says lazily, "You've met the boys already, I believe. They've all been where you are now, not on this altar, of course. This was quite a busy chapel in 1944 when I met them. You seem interested in history, boy. Well, it's quite a good story and we have nothing but time. I'm sure the little Schutzstaffel veterans won't mind hearing it again."
I was on a soul collecting journey to the Eastern front, quite a sight, I must say, in my tailored tweed suit and umbrella. Spring was turning to winter and it it was damp on the front. As I thought I was among only the dead, I was surprised when I first saw them huddled, filthy and sniffling behind an overturned Panzer, the last survivors of an SS battalion that ran afoul of a Cossak division. They had listened all night to the screams of their comrades, captured earlier in the day and now serving as sport for sex starved Russian soldiers. The threat of death was bearable but the screams of their comrades being raped repeatedly by Cossack after Cossack set them on the edge of madness. I took them under my protection and gathered them in a burnt out Eastern Orthodox church to discuss the immediate situation and to make them an offer. Their position was dire, as you can imagine, surrounded by the dead and dying, the moans of the latter filling the silence of the paused battle. I suggested that serving at my pleasure might be a preferable alternative to what was in store for them. They could come with me, satisfying my physical needs for eternity, or take their chances with the Ruskis who would deliver their souls to me by morning anyway, gang raped and still facing eternal punishment. All things considered, serving me seemed the better option. I suppose they may have changed their opinion in the last seventy plus years, not that I really care. I'm sure though, that in their travels with me through the kingdom, they've run into the souls of their comrades and are grateful not to share their torment. At any rate, they live now only for days like today when they are allowed to entertain me and have an opportunity to perhaps have an orgasm. As you've discovered, cumming in my kingdom is at my discretion. That may seem a little authoritarian to you, boy, but I am nothing if not authoritarian. Their cocks and their cum, and yours for that matter, belong to me alone and, occasionally, to those with whom I choose to share it.
History lesson complete, the Master settles in his high chair, observing my nakedness with obvious interest. As the boy from New Orleans produces his Hegars, I have a clear memory of our shared use of the sounds, pumping each other's cocks, in the end, to astounding drug fueled simultaneous orgasms. I'm not at all surprised to see the Hegars here and my cock springs to life instantly in anticipation, the skin peeling back on cue, revealing my reddened cockhead and giving the room a whiff of the funky aroma arising from my inner foreskin. I am not used to claiming that smell as my own. When it drifts up to my nose, I always flash to the image of standing next to an uncut hunk at a public urinal or to the fat cock of the Spanish Uber driver I met in Barcelona. I digress.
There are twelve sounds New Orleans boy's case, ranging from eight to thirty millimeters in diameter, he explains to me, a few more and a few larger ones than he had at our first meeting. My eyes widen and I suck in my breath as he selects the 18mm, a much wider sound than the 14mm we left off with. Initially he needs no lubrication with my now drooling cock and he begins to insert the sound in to my urethra. It is tight and painfully resists his push, precum notwithstanding. The Master beckons the altar boy who grips my cock shaft firmly and the Hegar Boy shoves hard with the pad of his palm. The 18mm is finally forced in and my piss tube is filled with searing pain all the way to the base of my cock. I emit a muffled scream and the master watches intently as my cock is brutally invaded by the Hegar, the first boy holding it while the other savagely rams my piss hole again and again. My cock has not split open and I gradually begin to experience the painful pleasure of this moment. My muffled screams turn to muffled moans. I glance out the corner of my eye at the Master who is beginning to seem bored with my transition from pain to pleasure. He says, "Move up to the twenty-two. We'll see what kind of stuff the boy is made of."
I gasp as New Orleans boy pulls the eighteen from my penis. I note a spot of blood on the tip as he wipes it off on his shirt tail and replaces it. I have a moment to catch my breath before he removes the sound a couple of spaces up in the case. It's enormous and my cock knows it, my glans swelling and offering a clear invitation of slightly bloody precum. "Remove the gag and go slowly," the master says, "I want to enjoy his screams." And scream I do. The rod will not initially move past my urethral opening, requiring a firm hand from the altar boy and considerable pushing and twisting from New Orleans. I shriek as it finally fills the first inch of my cock, stretching the entirety of my glans' tissue to the tightness of a drum head. But my rock hard cock begs for another push, another twist, another inch of agonizing fullness. So they oblige, as I scream in pain for more. After considerable effort on the boys' part, the Hegar resides snugly at the base of my cock. I stop screaming and catch my breath, waiting for the pain of extraction that I know is coming. Instead the Master says, "Now fuck his cock. Tear it apart if you have to but fuck it hard, with all the love you know I have for suffering." New Orleans struggles to get the sound moving even though my voluminous precum has lubricated the way. The rod moves out a bit, then a bit more until it can be jammed back in. As this continues, I feel something tear and I scream as the rod moves more easily and blood seeps around the sound and on to the altar. Eventually the boys pause, seeming to tire and the rod, finally released from its task, shoots out of my penis and clatters to the marble floor, followed by a mingled gush of blood and precum that coats my groin and belly as my now released cock springs back toward my abs.
As I lie in agony, bleeding from my damaged but still rigid cock, the Master applauds softly and says, "Well done boys. I see you haven't lost the skills they taught you back in your SS unit. Now you may cum on him." New Orleans strips and climbs on the altar to sit on my crotch. I stare at his flawless torso and beautiful dick as he scoops up blood and precum, slathering his rectum before grabbing my cock and working it into his passage. He has a white hot hole that squeezes my cock relentlessly as he bounces on my groin and frantically jacks off. The warm containment merges with the pain in my cock and I am in ecstasy, begging him to keep it up, my cock in preorgasmic spasms constantly. His foreskin flies back and forth over his cock head until finally he shoots an enormous quantity of cum on my chest and face, fifteen and eventually twenty ropes coating my face and entire upper body. He falls exhausted off my cock with a greasy pop, leaving me feeling as if my cock has been mugged and left for dead.
The altar boy has been promised a orgasm too and the Master motions him toward my head. He moves to the top of the altar and positions his junk filled jock near my mouth. I open my mouth eagerly, turning my head to the side to receive him. His uncut cock is a smorgasbord of smegma which he wipes on my face and pushes into my nose. He grabs a handful of my hair and pulls my head toward his groin. Suddenly my mouth is filled with his rancid penis, which he forces down my throat with a single thrust. I gag, I retch, but there is no respite in this place. He face fucks me mercilessly, twisting my nipples in time with his cadence, slapping my face and screaming curses in German. I cannot breathe so I bite his cock hard. He wails plaintively and cums, pulling his cock from my mouth as he does. He does not release my nipples. He continues to pull and twist them as he keeps up hais non stop German curses , calling to his comrades to help avenge his lacerated cock. The Master motions him away and he slinks into the shadows, leaving me with burning tits.
The Master leaves his chair and positions himself beside my face. The bulge in his 501s seems to have gained more prominence and is pressed to the altar a mere two inches from my face. I imagine the cock and balls confined within the denim and I am again breathless. "Master...", I begin weakly, but his electric mouth on mine stifles my attempt to ask for his cock. My face pulses with the fire of him for a moment before he disengages and turns his attention again to my chest and abs with their post fuck coating of cum, blood and anal mucous. He takes a handful of the stuff and rubs it on my face and on my bleeding cock. His face now to my belly, he slurps a good half cup of funk looks playfully into my eyes and presses his mouth to mine. His tongue is electric as he swirls the mixture from my mouth to his and back again, over and over, each sucking and swallowing like an oral orgasm. I am drowning in funk and pleasure, my cock rock hard and ready to explode.
He breaks away from my mouth, spits a huge gob of funk on my face and says, "Your nipples escaped almost escaped. Shall we offer them the opportunity to further connect with your pleasure?" My nipples have always seemed to be wired directly to my cock. Even the slightest brush of fabric across them when my cock is being worked can send me into paroxysms of pleasure. They still burn with the altar boy's abuse but I am agreeable, of course. I am never disagreeable with the Master. The warning has been clear on that front. He touches a finger to each nipple. I feel the electricity of his touch immediately and watch, literally watch, as a blue line of static electricity snakes slowly from my nipples down my chest and belly to my penis. It pricks like needles on my tits and the nerve endings on each millimetre of flesh it touches an the way to my cock. When the line touches my cock the needles seem to catch fire and I feel them pierce my body in a thousand places, radiant with the fire of a small sun. In the rhythm of his breathing, the fire and current flow to and from cock to nipples and back, again and again, each pass increasing the pain and pleasure of the event until my nipples finally explode. They don't do this literally, of course, but the sensations in them are orgasmic. They pulse and throb, finally emitting a thin milky fluid at each final pulse. I scream, writhe and cry as I experience this incredible event, my breath taken away by this new and unexpected pleasure.
Finished with my tits for the time, the Master moves smoothly back to his chair and says, "As you will see, by the way, I have healed your cock. I will never allow it to remain in a damaged state. When I decide the time is right for your orgasm, I want the perfect cock I gave you in my mouth, not something the boys have ravished in their foul Teutonic enthusiasm. But I like to watch your cock being ripped apart and your rapturous participation in its destruction. I want us both to enjoy it again and again."
"Now," he says, "would you like some time to catch your breath or would you like to see what's behind door number two?"
I was exhausted but my dick wasn't nearly ready to give up. Door number two, it turned out, was actually a door. The altar boy unbuckled my straps and stood me up, guiding me with his hand on the small of my back toward the door. It opened at our approach. Its dim, red lit interior seemed to invite fear and my ever available precum responded predictably, dripping from my newly healed cock on to a hot floor which almost, but not quite, burned my bare feet.
I step into the dim corridor. The altar boy and the Master have disappeared, though I can feel the Master's eyes and know he is watching and waiting to experience his voyeuristic enjoyment of my next painful encounter. The passage I am in grows warmer, though no brighter. I can see no more than a few feet in front of me but I continue forward, toward an unknown goal, sensing a presence just out of visual range. I am starting to sweat profusely as my anxious anticipation activates my parasympathetic nervous system. I feel dizzy and faint. I look around for a place to rest for a moment before continuing, but the corridor walls are not adorned with benches for the faint of heart. I lean against the wall, hoping to cool my head but the wall is as warm as the atmosphere and provides no respite.
Then from behind, something bites my calf ferociously, then attacks the back of my thigh. It jumps and attaches itself to my asshole, biting and sucking as I double over from pain. I am horrified as I look over my shoulder to my bleeding leg and see a thing, person like, but reptilian, scaly, its head gnawing on my rectum, its clawed hand grasping around toward my genitals.
I hear the Master say, "I see you've met my son. He has no name but he has many appetites and many desires. You seem to be a satisfactory repository for his intentions." A flailing claw scores my rigid cock, drawing blood and more precum. The little monster seems to have his wedged his entire bullet shaped head into my rectum and has begun to suck rhythmically on my prostate. It drives me wild. Fluid from my prostate blurps out of my cock, joining the precum on the floor while the little creature's arm continue to flail alongside my crotch, trying, I think, to grasp my balls. They remain just out of his short armed reach though his claws rake my thighs, drawing blood, the scent of gives greater fuel to his furious head fucking. My butt hole has never been so thoroughly violated, even by my biggest dildo. I am beginning to get into the rhythm of his pounding and sucking, my cock on the verge of cumming again.
"Enough," the Master cries, and the creature plops to the ground behind me, licking anal mucous off his peculiar face with a long thin tongue. "Peculiar", I think, "is too lovely a word for such a being." He is about three feet tall, thin and narrow with, as I said, with a bald, bullet shaped head, red skin and a pencil thin foot long cock, scarlet and erect, topped by a bifurcated purple head. I wonder if the Master will make me suck his son's dick. He certainly gets off on weirder things.
The Master's offspring dances and waves his pencil dick around in a circle, I suppose for his father's entertainment. He lowers his bullet head and sucks his own dick, biting it with his little fangs and drawing a thin line of blood that coats his mouth and what might have been a chin, if he had one, which he didn't. He speaks to me in a high thin voice, "You're Daddy's boy now, aren't you? I was daddy's favorite son once, wasn't I father? But daddy can't stand any back talk or competition so I was downgraded to this small monster with an ugly dick. Has he told you what happens if you refuse him, handsome boy? We have a small herd of daddy's monsters here, some former favorites, some his own children, like me, who have been reshaped in monstrous images for daring to confront his rage."
"I am sure he appreciates the depth of your edification, son, but that's enough for now. I want to see you to fuck his cock," the Master says. "I gave you this incredibly ugly penis for just this one purpose. So fuck his cock good and fuck it hard. Don't let him get away or I'll feed you to your siblings." I turn to run, but the little guy is quick and unbelievably strong. He grabs me and throws me to the ground, holding me there with a scaly foot to my midsection. His distended purple split knob is oozing a viscous red fluid that must be his precum. Holding me with his foot, he pulls me upright with his bullet head just at the level of my chest. He hooks his talons into both my nipples, twists, leans backward and pulls me toward him. The sensations in my nipples erupt painfully but orgasmically as he twists and pulls. He releases my nipples and grabs my hard cock. Using his red precum for lubrication, he pushes the wide split head into my piss hole and down toward my perineum. I look in horror, past my bleeding chest at my cock and see his split head moving downward, outlined clearly by my grotesquely stretched urethra every agonizing centimeter of the way. He begins to pump in and out of my cock, first slowly, then faster and faster, each thrust a greater agony than the last. He wails like a banshee and when he eventually cums it seems his final thrust has penetrated my bladder and I feel a sharp pain behind the base of my penis as he fills my bladder with his ejaculate. With an evil, sharp toothed grin, he pulls his cock slowly from mine. Relief flows through me as my sphincter relaxes and his red, sticky cum mixed with my urine pours from my abused cock.
My cock deflates for a much need rest as the little monster removes his foot from my belly and scurries off down a side passage. I am alone on the hot floor, covered again with a sticky post fuck mixture. I wonder if the Master will come and use it again to heal me or, I pray, fuck me. The possible contents of his 501s tantalizes my imagination and makes my cock stiffen again. I imagine his cock in my ass, him on top of me, his every touch and thrust as electric as I remember. I lie alone in the red glow, waiting and hoping.
I do not seem to wait long, though I think time passes erratically, if time even has a meaning in this place. The Master is standing over me now, watching with that peculiar, erotic gaze that seems to look through me at everything I have shown or attempted to keep hidden. I am naked to him in so many ways. There is no part of me; my body, my needs, my memory that he cannot access.
"You've been thinking about my cock again, haven't you, boy? No need to answer. I fully understand your questions and your desires. I will fully satisfy them in my own time. We can start with your first question, 'why me?' The answer is simple. You and I are both addicted to pain, the root of which in each case, is the same. Each of our fathers expected us to be vessels through which his pain could pass and be manifest. Mine cast me down from paradise with the mandate to harvest souls of the damned and torture them for eternity. It's a busy and tedious business dealing with the abuse of ephemeral manifestations. There's no visual pleasure to it, just a lot of screaming and assorted noises of torment. Really, it drives me mad. I tend to pass the job off to assorted demonic spirits who can enjoy the souls' torment because they can relate on a disembodiment to disembodiment basis."
"As did your father," he continues, "I satisfy myself with boys like you with real flesh that responds to my touch. But your dad had you pegged, didn't he? He heard your first screams at birth and listened to your wails with a roaring hard on as he watched the surgeon slice off your foreskin. From that moment, you were his pain toy. How your little cock and balls survived childhood is quite a mystery. Could your father have known to save them, relatively unscathed for me? He wasn't that smart. Later though, I may offer you a chance to ask him for yourself. I'll see you down to the third level where his soul's been for the last few years in the tender care of a demon named Billy. This first hundred years is focused on guilt and, I think, the next hundred on shame. The soul is just a bundle of emotions which, as you well know, can be quite painful. And dreary, really dreary"
So much for your first question, little buddy. Time again to make you hurt. Old home week, right? The German boys emerge again from the shadows. He nods to the hitchhiker who comes forward with a sinister looking bundle.