Defile (transitive verb) to befoul; to pollute or corrupt; to violate (Chambers 20th Century Dictionary 1983 edition)
I walked round, assessing what needed to be done. How long would it take? What instruments would I need?
I gave a few prods and punches to the object hanging there in the middle of the room. I suppose it could be described as a perfect specimen of masculinity, secured by chains from its wrists to an electric winch attached to a beam across the ceiling. It was naked except for a tiny pair of red lycra shorts that left very little to one’s imagination: if its penis became erect the shorts would be of little use as far as modesty was concerned.
This boy (for that’s what he was) was, I suppose about twenty five, six feet four with a swarthy complexion, zero crop hair and with about a week’s beard growth on his face. He also looked as though he had spent every day for the last eight years in the gym.
He had answered one of my ads and was interested in joining the BDSM gay scene. I told him that the service I offered would involve being defiled and marked with whiplashes that would make him irresistible to any of the best looking men on the planet. He had agreed to my £100 fee and had turned up on the appointed day.
I prodded again at his very well defined intercostal muscles that were prominent down his flanks. I roughly pinched his erect nipples causing him to utter guttural sounds. I slapped his arse through his shorts with my hand, causing him to writhe. I then turned on the winch, causing the lad to stand on tiptoe. I pulled down his disgustingly brief shorts; a task made more difficult because of his massive erection being caught under the elastic waistband. I made him lift his legs in turn, enabling me to completely remove the garment.
The thought of those gorgeous intercostals overlaid with red and bleeding welts from a severe whipping literally made my mouth water. I could also just imagine him writhing and moaning in pain/pleasure as my whip slashed into his broad back muscles and the screaming he would make as my riding crop violated those exquisite buttocks…
He would also be fucked and wanked.
I started by tickling him up and down his sides from his armpits to underneath his ribcage. This involved very little physical effort from me but very soon he started to gyrate and squirm. After twenty minutes of this torture he was dripping with perspiration and thoroughly exhausted. I let him hang there for a few minutes while I considered what to do next.
I gave his nipples a little more attention: this time I very gently rubbed my fingers over their sensitive tips. The lad moaned in pleasure. I then turned my attention to his upper arms, which were now fully elongated by him hanging in his chains. I ran them up and down his stretched biceps and round his deltoids to circulate round and round his armpits. By this time he was almost frantic with lust. I didn’t stop there: I gently felt his taut back muscles, rubbing my hands up and down from his perfect buttocks to the nape of his neck. “Please, Sir,” he gasped, “Lash me please!”
I replied “All in good time; just enjoy it!”
I then examined his cock, which by this time was rock hard and ramrod straight. I wanked it gently three or four times and gently squeezed a few drops of precum from its tip. I bent down and took his cockhead into my mouth and worked my tongue up and down the underside of his glans, being careful not to ‘edge’ him too much. I released his cock and walked over to the rack attached on the wall, hanging from which were canes, cats o’ nine tails and other instruments of punishment and torture.
He watched me nervously select a bullwhip. I cracked it in the air in front of him a few times and watched his reaction. His teeth started to chatter in terror. I made him kiss the whip and run his tongue down its length. Standing behind him again I waited. His breathing became more and more noisy and he began to shake in fear. I positioned myself.
Crack! He yelled. A bright red streak appeared across his broad back. Crack! Another! I delivered ten more strokes across his back and shoulders, breaking the skin in places causing trickles of blood to run down to the top of his buttocks. He was sobbing at this point.
I moved round and treated his flanks to ten more lashes, five on each. Those lovely intercostal muscles turned from a swarthy brown to angry red.
He thought his ordeal was over. I stood in front of him and carefully wiped the tears from his handsome face. He looked at me beseechingly through his beautiful blue eyes. “Not over yet,” was all that I said.
I then selected a pair of crocodile clips rescued from an old car battery charger and snapped one on each of his nipples. He screamed out in agony. I then reached down and twisted his testicles. His penis remained fully erect with another bead of nectar forming at the tip. I wiped this off, smearing my wet finger over his cockhead. He groaned and squirmed, as much as his chains would allow.
Leaving the clamps on his nipples I selected a riding crop with steel studs riveted at the end. I then held the crop up in front of his face and smiled. The Adonis now hung before me, completely naked with an erection as hard as India-rubber.
Again, I positioned myself behind my victim and waited for him to start panting.
The first stroke across his buttocks I delivered fairly softly. The second was harder. This build-up continued until I was using all my force, delivering twenty strokes to his arse, being careful to aim alternate strokes to already violated flesh.
I couldn’t stand it any longer. I stripped then I lowered the winch so that his arse was level with my now hard cock. I found a condom and KY jelly and greased up his anus, inserting one then two fingers. With a lunge I was inside him.
I fucked as hard as I could. With my hands I played with the crocodile clips attached to his nipples, twisting and pulling them. After only a minute or so I orgasmed with a shout. I then withdrew.
The Adonis by then was only semi-conscious and dripping with sweat and blood. I said “Your turn,” then stood in front of him and removed his nipple clamps. I immediately tweaked and twisted his by now excruciatingly sore tits, with him yelling in ecstasy. I then grabbed his rock hard penis and slowly wanked him. Up and down, up and down; my hand stretching his skin as far down as it would go. More nectar’ which I made him lick off my hand. I then wanked him faster and harder then slowed again. I continued this exquisite torture for half an hour then wanked him brutally. He screamed out as he orgasmed, sending a jet of cum some ten feet into the air. Some had trickled down onto my hand, so I made him lick it off.
I noticed his cock was still rock hard. He looked at me beseechingly. “W-would you do that again, Sir, please?” he stammered. Music to my ears!
I replied “BDSM ers also use electricity. Accordingly, I’m going to connect your cock and balls up to my hand generator so you can see what it’s like.” The lad groaned. I left the room and found the generator and the other bits that I needed. These were two wires attached to another pair of crocodile clips, these being smaller with less powerful springs than the ones that I had fastened to his nipples. I returned and held the clips up to his face. He shuddered, but his cock remained ramrod straight.
I attached one of the clips to the loose skin at the base of his sac, while the other I clipped to that slightly loose skin just below the head of his cock, which in his case wasn’t very substantial; he had been circumcised. I then connected the wires up to the generator’s output terminals and cranked the handle.
His screams were deafening. I turned slower. “Please, sir, no more!” he begged. At once I turned the handle much faster. He screamed again, writhing in his shackles. I kept this torture going for another five or so minutes, with my victim sobbing and yelling all the time. His cock however, remained as hard as india-rubber. I then grabbed his cock and wanked him as hard and as fast as I could. He screamed again as he shot another wad of sperm across the room. He hung there, completely spent, whimpering softly.
I wound down the winch and removed his wrist irons.
“Thanks!” was all he said, handing me one hundred pounds in twenty pound notes.
“Another time?” I asked, as he dressed himself; blood from his wounds staining his white Tee shirt.
“Fuck, yes please! In a fortnight? Same time? Try something else? Still a hundred quid?”
Metal would like to thank Bikermike for this story! If this got you going, be sure to leave a comment below.