straighthell-stories: There’s a lot of things that are hard to get used to about my new life - being
straighthell-stories: There’s a lot of things that are hard to get used to about my new life - being naked 24/7, having to keep my pubes shaved, enduring repeated physical and emotional abuse, to say nothing of sucking dick and getting ass-fucked multiple times every day. But one of the hardest is dealing with the reality that I’m being filmed non-stop, all day long, with a live feed going out onto the internet where thousands of sick perverts get to live vicariously by seeing me bitched out and abused whenever one of my captors feels the urge to get himself a nut. It’s so demeaning and humiliating to know that total strangers are getting off listening to me moan and squeal as my poor ass is pounded into mush, are jacking off as they watch me drop to my knees and guzzle down some other dude’s foul piss, or are laughing hysterically as I’m forced to climb over some guy’s lap and let him spank me until I’m crying my eyes out like a little ten-year old boy being disciplined by his old man. Knowing that all the physical and sexual abuse that I suffer every single day is being viewed and enjoyed by thousands of total strangers is so humiliating that, at times, I just don’t think I can go on. But I do. Somehow, I do. What makes all the shit I’m going through that much harder to endure is that it’s not like I’m some whimpering little faggot. I’m a stud, man. I’m 6′2″, muscled up and ripped - an honest to goodness stud. I’m the type of dude that any father would love to have as a son, the type of boy he’d brag about to his buddies. And I know my dad did just that when I was growing up - brag on what a stud I was, how I was ‘a chip off the old block.’ Of course, my dad wouldn’t be bragging now if he saw me. God, just thinking about him seeing all the stuff these dudes are doing to me makes me cringe and blush. Fuck, my dad would die of shame if he saw me in action now, sucking dick and drinking piss, spreading my legs wide so that one well-hung dude after another can bang the crap out of my boy-hole, crying like a little bitch when one of them blisters my ass with a paddle. He’d just die, I know he would. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here. A month, I’d guess, maybe a little longer. It’s hard to keep track of the calendar when every day you live is the worst day of your life. It’s like I’m living the porn version of ‘Groundhog Day,’ waking up every morning with a hard dick coring out my butt, spending the entire day being sexually and physically tortured and abused, ending every night by being gangbanged and spit-roasted by half-a-dozen or so well-hung dudes who all go out of their way to humiliate and degrade me, only to wake up the next morning with another hard cock coring out my aching boycunt. If hell had been designed by a gay Marquis de Sade, this would be it. And the thing is, I don’t have the slightest idea how I got here. One moment I was drinking with my friends, cruising hot chicks, all of us joking around, and the next thing I knew I was naked, roped to a bed, my entire body wracked with pain, my ass being raped by a huge black dude with a 10-inch cuntbuster between his legs, a group of total strangers standing around watching him fuck me, all of them naked, all of them urging my rapist on, telling him to ‘pound the crap out of the slut’s stud-boy cunt,’ which was precisely what the black dude was doing. And when the black dude was finished with me, after he shot a massive load of his ball-slime deep inside my abraded boy-hole, another dude took his place and fucked me some more. And after him, another. And another. And another. Until I looked up and saw it was the black dude going at me again, just as hard as the first time, just as painfully, too. If my first day in this place was an endless progression of hard dicks coring out my butt, the next day wasn’t much of an improvement. I woke up to find myself hanging from my wrists, stretched out in an X shape, with my ankles yanked so far apart that I was forced up on my toes. I hung there for what seemed like hours, the pain in my toes relentlessly growing, becoming an agony for me - or so I thought at the time, though I was soon to find out what true agony felt like. Just at the point where I was sure I couldn’t bear the pain any longer, a big burly dude came into the room. I was relieved at first, figuring that he’d come in to take me down, but then I noticed that he was carrying something in his hand. It was a metal device consisting of what looked to be two clasps connected to each other by a metal chain. The man walked right up to me, not saying a word, and squeezed one of the clasps so it opened and I could see the sharp, serrated edges that lined the insides, and held it up to my right nipple. Then, smiling at me with a wicked glint in his eyes, he released his hold on the sides and the two prongs slammed shut right on the tip of my nip. The next thing I knew, I was screeching in real agony as my nipple just exploded in pain. I couldn’t believe how much the damn thing hurt. Moments later, it was my other nipple that erupted in pain and I looked down and saw that the dude had attached the other pincer to its tip. “Please, please,” I moaned. “Take it off. Take it off.” “Bitch, you’ve got so much to learn,” the man chuckled at his looked at me writhing in front of him. “And I’m gonna have so much fun teaching you, too.” The man turned around and walked over to a table set to the side where he picked something up. When he turned back to face me, I was horrified to see that he was now holding a whip. “Welcome to hell, bitch,” he sneered as he began slashing the whip across my already burning chest. “Welcome to hell.” The man whipped me for near on an hour that first session, taking breaks when his arm got tired, breaks during which he amused himself by adding weights to the clamps dangling from my tortured nips as I squealed myself hoarse. Every part of my body suffered under the lash, though my chest, abs and ass seemed to be his favorite targets. The man appeared to take a special pleasure in working over my ass, which he did with awesome force for a good twenty minutes straight, heedless of my tears, my cries, my abject pleading with him to ‘stop,’ to ‘please, stop.’ By the time he finally did stop, I was sure I wouldn’t be able sit down comfortably for at least a week. The man left me hanging from my wrist restraints like a wet noodle, the pain emanating from so many parts of my body that I wasn’t able to discern any single source of the agony I was suffering. He casually walked back to the table, put the whip down and then went over to the wall, picked up a folding chair, brought it over in front of me, then opened it and sat down facing me, just three or four feet from where I hung limply from the ceiling. And then slowly, he began talking to me, explaining what was happening, what was going to be happening to me from now on. “Right about now, boy,” he started in a deep, almost sonorous voice, “I’m sure you’re thinking that you’re in some sort of nightmare, some bad dream that you’ll wake up from in a few hours. Well, boy, what you need to understand is that this is no dream. This is real. This is happening to you right now. This is your new reality.” He stopped, reached into a pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and, after selecting one, lit it. He took a few deep drags before continuing. “Whatever your life was before, boy, that’s over. For good. What you are now, what you’re going to be for the foreseeable future - hell, probably for the rest of your life - is a bitch, a faggot fuck-bitch. And, as such, you and your body will be used over and over again for the sexual pleasure of other Men, of Real Men.” He stopped to take another drag from his cigarette and then went on. “Now you’re probably thinking that your friends will come looking for you, that they or the police will find you and rescue you. Well, boy, you can forget that. For one thing, your so-called ‘friends’ were the ones who set you up, who sold you to us, who even now are probably partying on the money they made off of you. Not only are they not looking for you, boy, they’re the last people in the world who would want you found, who would want you ‘rescued.’ And if anyone does come looking for you, your ‘friends,’ your ‘running buddies,’ will do everything they can to throw him off the track.” “And,” the man continued, “as far as the police are concerned, they have no interest in finding you either. They’re completely wired in to this whole operation. There’s big money involved here, boy. You need to understand just how big this operation is. Look up at the ceiling right above you and you’ll see a small metal device. It’s a camera, boy. One of half a dozen spread throughout this room and, even as we speak, there’s a live stream feed going out on the internet of everything that’s been happening to you in this room. And there are literally tens of thousands of subscribers who pay upwards of $100 a month, who’ve been jerking themselves off while I whipped you, sexually aroused by the pain and agony you’ve just suffered, just as they were similarly excited last night watching you getting fucked over and over again by one giant cock after another.” The man took another puff and then went on. “Seeing a young, good-looking, muscular boy like you fucked and degraded really turns them on, and the fact that you’re straight and well-hung, too, is just icing on the cake. They’ve been tuned in by the thousands since we started streaming you on the site. In just two days, you’ve become the most popular boy we have - and we’ve got a dozen boys we’re working on just like we’re working on you. And they’ll continue watching to see how we degrade and abuse you, how we make you suffer, how we turn you, a former straight stud, into a pathetic, cock-hungry fuck-bitch for Real Men. So, boy, like I said, there’s big money involved here, money you’re bringing in, and we’re not about to let you go anyplace - not anytime soon, that’s for sure.” He took another drag and then dropped the cigarette on the floor and snuffed it out with the toe of his boot. Almost immediately, he fished out another cigarette, lit it, and then sat there quietly, looking at me as I hung naked and freshly whipped in front of him. And as I hung there, my body still burning from the brutal whipping I’d just suffered, the full horror of my situation began to sink in. It had been bad enough enduring the degradation and shame of the gangbang last night and the whipping this morning when I thought it was simply a matter between me and my assailants. But now, knowing that literally thousands of other men had seen me being raped and used like a woman, had seen me writhing in agony as my body was whipped and abused, and had not only seen all this but gotten off on my suffering was a humiliation almost too great to bear. And I realized that, even if I did somehow manage to escape or if, when the viewers and my tormentors finally tired of me, they let me go, I’d never be able to walk down a public street without wondering if the other men passing by were recognizing me and remembering how I squealed like a little girl while I was getting a cunt cored out between my legs, or how I cried like a baby when I was whipped and tortured. And the despair of this epiphany washed over me like a tsunami. The man who’d whipped me had been sitting there quietly, smoking cigarette after cigarette as he watched me closely. And, somehow, though I hadn’t said a word, he must have seen that I had absorbed the futility of my situation because he started speaking again. “What I need to tell you, boy, is that the viewers are flooding us with suggestions as to what they would like to see us do to you. And, to be honest, some of their suggestions are pretty vile, involving scenes you’ve probably never even imagined with dogs and billy-goats, pigs and ponies. And some involve physical alterations like branding and castration, and other changes of even a more radical nature, that we’d prefer not having to entertain. And we won’t - not if you play ball with us.” I looked at the man closely. Finally, I asked him “What do you mean ‘if I play ball with you?’” “Just what I said,” he replied. “If you play ball with us, if you accept that this is your life for as long as we want you, that we have the absolute right to do anything we want to you, no matter how painful and degrading it is, that your purpose in life right now is to provide pleasure and enjoyment not only to the men using you but to the countless thousands more watching you being fucked and abused, then we’re prepared to commit ourselves to foregoing some of the more disgusting and degrading things a sex slave like you could be subjected to.” “Just exactly what do you mean by that,” I pressed, wanting to pin the man down. “Exactly what won’t you do to me if I agree to let you do anything you want to me? “Well,” he responded, “for one thing you won’t have to service any of our four-legged friends with either your mouth or your pussy. And we’ll also guarantee that we’ll make no permanent alterations to your body. Your boy-tits will be ringed of course, in due time, and you’ll probably be given a PA and a guiche, too. But all these are removable once we let you go. What we promise is not to tattoo or brand you and not to castrate you or otherwise alter your boy-junk. And while you will be routinely expected to clean off dirty cocks and eat-out dirty assholes, we will not subject you to any extended scat scenes. That’s what we won’t do to you, boy. Everything else is on the table. Everything else. And that’s what you’ve got to agree to submit to.” I thought about this - this deal with the devil - for a long moment. While the deal itself was horrible, the alternative was far worse. But I was worried about my ability to fulfill my side of the bargain, particularly since a failure on my part could bring such dire consequences as castration. “What if…what if you’re doing something to me and it hurts so bad I can’t help but try to resist, to try to get it to stop?” “That’s no problem , boy,” the man quickly replied, seemingly prepared for the question. “We expect you to struggle against us when we’re torturing you, just like we expect you to cry and beg us to stop when we’re spanking you or running a train on your ass. That’s the normal human reaction and our viewers not only expect to see it, they enjoy seeing it. So struggling when you’re being tortured and disciplined, writhing and squirming around and begging for mercy when you’re being fucked are all fine with us.” “What we’re really concerned with,” the man continued, “is your prompt obedience to the daily orders you’ll be receiving when we want you to turn around and show the audience your hard boy-clit or to show the cameras your pussy after a full-on gangbang so all the viewers can see how swollen and battered your cunt-lips are. That sort of thing. Soon, we’ll be conducting on-air interviews with you, talking not only about how it feels to be a straight boy being turned into a fuck-bitch for gay men but about your former life, too. Probing questions which we expect you to answer fully and honestly. And eventually, after the viewers get to know you, we will be raffling off individual sessions with you and we expect you to accommodate our viewers’ desires fully and completely. Individual infractions of any of these rules will result in immediate and severe punishment, as you will doubtless discover for yourself. But repeated infractions will not be tolerated and will subject you to the kind of treatment I’ve already described which you can otherwise avoid by agreeing to play ball.” The man took another puff from his cigarette and then went on, “But I want to warn you, boy, that there’s one infraction that will not be tolerated. Any attempt to escape will totally vitiate our agreement and subject you to the full range of treatments we had agreed to forego. And I will advise you, boy, that even as we speak, one of your fellow sex slaves is discovering for himself how serious we are about this infraction. There was a mix-up - which we are investigating - that resulted in the boy being totally unguarded for over an hour. And rather than sitting quietly and waiting for the guards to return as he should have done, he decided to attempt to leave the premises. He did not succeed. He has already had the word “Fag-bitch” tattooed across his chest and is now in his second day of servicing a half-dozen over-sexed greyhounds. You would not believe the damage they’ve already done to that boy’s cunt. God knows what it’s going to look like by the end of the week. But the boy was warned, just as you are being warned now, of what would happen if he attempted to escape. He ignored those warnings and is now facing the consequences. I would suggest you learn from his mistake.” The calm, matter-of-fact, way that the man was describing truly horrible punishments being endured by another sex slave even as he spoke to me terrified me, more so than the day-long gangbang and the whipping I had already experienced. These men who had captured me were not only deadly serious; they would think nothing of subjecting me to the vilest sort of abuse imaginable. And I realized I had no real choice but to agree to their proposition and just hope they would uphold their end of the bargain. There was, in my mind, one question left and I asked it. “How long?” “How long what, boy?” the man asked me, in response. “How long will you be keeping me here, sir?” I replied, consciously ending my question with the honorific, intentionally signalling by acquiescence in their dominance over me. They had won; I would not resist. The man raised his eyebrow slightly and smiled. He recognized my capitulation for what it was - a total surrender to their control over me and my body. “At least a year, boy. Probably a year and a half though, if you retain your popularity, it could push two years. But that’s really pushing it. The longest any boy has ever been held was twenty-seven months, but he was truly spectacular in both looks and performance.” There was a short pause before I asked my final question, desperately seeking re-assurance. “And, when you’re done with me, sir, you’ll let me go?” “Yes, boy,” the man replied. “When we’re done with you, when your utility to our business interests is at an end, we will let you go. Why would we keep you when you’re no longer bringing in money? I assure you, boy, that we have no interest in holding you when you become an expense rather than an asset.” The cold calculation underlying the man’s assurances - they would let me go once they could no longer make any money off my pain and suffering - was chilling but there was a measure of reassurance in it as well. The operation I was ensnared in might be run by sexual sadists - who else would come up with the idea of kidnapping straight studs and then bitching them out and abusing them on the internet for the amusement and sexual gratification of those with a similar bent - but the bottom line was still dollars and cents. They would let me go when my value had been used up. Why wouldn’t they? Why keep me around when they weren’t making any money on my abuse and degradation when there were thousands of straight dudes out there they could have the same fun with AND make money? Naturally, I wasn’t pleased by the prospect of spending the next two years of my life as a male sex slave whose every degrading action was being taped and distributed to a world-wide audience, but I didn’t see how I had any other choice. So, I looked the man in the eye and agreed to their terms. I would let them do what they wanted to me, I would do whatever they told me to do no matter how foul and degrading, I would make no effort to escape. And all I could do was hope that they’d keep up their end of the bargain. “I’m glad to hear that, boy,” the man said with a grim smile. “Now, I want you to look up at the camera in the ceiling and repeat after me, ‘I, Brant Coughlin, hereby freely declare…..” “Wait….Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “You can’t…you can’t use my real name. Everybody will know who I am if you do that. Everybody will know who I am.” For the first time since he started talking with me, the man actually laughed. Then, his amusement still clear in his voice, he responded, “Boy, how do you think we’ve been marketing you for the last two days, as some nameless muscle stud? All of our subscribers already know you’re Brant Coughlin from Palo Alto, California, the twenty-year-old son of Jack and Elise Coughlin. And they’ll know a lot more about you by the time we’re finished with you. They’ll know the names of all the girls you’ve fucked and how many times you fucked each of them. They’ll know the names of all your friends and all the stupid shit you did with them. They’ll know every dark and dirty secret you’ve kept hidden over the years. In the end, boy, they will know you better than you know yourself. So don’t worry about them finding out your name, boy. That’s already old news to them.” The man stopped for a moment to let everything he’d just said sink in. And I have to admit that I was stunned. Even after everything I had already gone through, I had somehow kept it in my mind that after this ordeal was over I would be able to go back and resume my former life right where it had been interrupted. Now I saw that this was never going to happen. How could I go back to being Brant Coughlin of Palo Alto, California, when I knew that thousands - literally thousands - of men knew the intimate details of everything I had ever done? There would be total strangers out there who would know more about me than my parents and my closest friends did. And I would constantly be wondering if every new person I met was one of those thousands who had listened to me bare the most intimate, embarrassing episodes of my life. Whatever life I might cobble together once they let me go, it couldn’t be as Brant Coughlin. It would have to be as someone else, some new person I invented. Brant Coughlin was dead and gone no matter what happened from now on and it shook me to my core to realize that. My mind was still reeling when I heard the man say, “Okay, boy, let’s take it from the top, ‘I, Brant Coughlin, hereby freely declare…” And, like a trained monkey, I looked up at the camera in the ceiling and repeated, “I, Brant Coughlin, hereby freely declare that I am the property of Enterprise Stud-bitch Corporation and that the officers and employees of this corporation, as well as anyone else they designate, have the absolute right, without any limitation, to use me and my body however they so desire. And, as one of their stud-bitches, I promise to obey any orders or instructions they give me, to truthfully answer any questions they pose to me fully and completely, and to reside full-time on their corporate premises until they give me written permission to leave. And I affirm that they have the right to punish me in any way they judge appropriate for any act or omission of mine they deem contrary to the promises I have just made.” Finished, I looked at the man training me, a man I had just given my verbal permission to use and abuse my body however he saw fit. But if I was hoping that my total capitulation to my captors’ demands would earn me some sort of respite, I was quickly disabused of that notion. The man looked at me, took a last puff from his cigarette and then dropped that on the floor, mashing it out with his boot just like all the others littered around his chair. “Okay, bitch,” he said, getting back to his feet, “It’s time to go back to work.” He walked over to the table, picked up another bunch of small metal balls and walked back in front of me. “By the way, bitch,” he said as he reached out and grabbed the chain connecting the two clips dangling from my boy-tits, “from now on you will address me and any other man you meet here as ‘’Master.’ Do you understand, bitch?” “Yes, Master, I understand” I replied, though the last word was swallowed in the groan that escaped my lips as he began attaching the weighted balls to the chain, forcing the clips to tighten their hold on my nips and dragging them lower and lower towards the floor, making the searing pain I’d felt when he first clamped my boy-tits flare anew. I was writhing in agony by the time he’d attached all the balls to the chain and stood back to admire his handiwork. “Hurts, bitch, doesn’t it?” he asked with an evil grin. “Oh, yes, Master,” I responded through gritted teeth. “It hurts so bad.” “Good,” he laughed, as he walked back to the table. He returned carrying something new. “This, bitch, is a crop,” he informed me. “And it’s gonna hurt, too. Trust me, bitch, it’s gonna hurt, too.” And it did. It hurt real bad. Maybe not as much as the bullwhip he’d already used on me or the cane that he used much later that afternoon, but the crop hurt, hurt enough eventually to make me cry and beg him to stop, which seemed to please him immensely. And he was pleased many times over the ensuing hours as he worked over and tortured my body for the sexual pleasure and amusement of thousands of his company’s subscribers. He wanted me to give them a good show - and I’m sure I did, thrashing around, weeping and crying in absolute agony, begging and pleading with the man, with my ‘Master,’ to please, please, stop. Of course, my Master never paid any attention to me or my desperate pleas. He stopped when he wanted to - when his arm got tired, when he needed to switch from the crop to the cat-o-nine or from the cat-o-nine to a slapper, or, most frequently, when he just decided he wanted a smoke. Then he’d stop and admire his work, while I hung limply in the air, hurting more than I ever would have believed was possible. Then, after two or three cigarettes, he’d get up, pick up some more metal balls and add them to the chain connecting the tit-clamps, dragging my nipples further and further down until I was sure they were going to be ripped from my chest, and then go back to work on my body. I don’t know how long he worked me over that first session - it seemed an eternity - but at some point when he was using the cane on me I must have passed out because the next thing I knew I was being dragged out of the torture chamber - that’s how I’ve thought of it ever since, as the ‘torture chamber’ - and being unceremoniously tossed onto my bed, shrieking as my grossly swollen tits came into contact with the mattress. And then I passed out again. I woke to an incredible pain in my ass and turned around to see that the black dude from the previous night was already balls-deep up my hole. I groaned in pain and then looked around and saw that there were a half-dozen guys in my room - all of them naked, all of them hard. It was time for my regularly scheduled evening gangbang though I didn’t realize it back then. Anyway, they all fucked me for the next five hours and when they were done my pussy was hurting as badly as the rest of my body. The next morning, they got me up bright and early, a Master gave me my morning cunting, had me shave myself down during my morning shower, fed me my breakfast, which consisted of half of a can of Alpo’s dog food out of a dog bowl, naturally, and then had me do menial chores around my apartment - washing floors on my hand and knees, vacuuming carpets, even doing some ironing which was a little bizarre seeing how I don’t have any clothes of my own, all buck naked and fully erect. As one of my Masters eventually explained to me, a lot of their subscribers liked seeing a well-hung fuck-bitch like me doing household chores totally boned-up since they knew I was only permitted to cum while I was being dicked and they figured that having to walk around all day with a throbbing erection jutting out of my pubeless crotch would be both humiliating and frustrating. And, I’ve got to admit, they were right on both counts. That afternoon two well-hung dudes gave me my first double-penetration and, boy, it hurt like a motherfucker. But apparently the subscribers really liked it since they’ve been doing it every afternoon since. After that it was a couple of hours doing nude exercises to keep myself fit, though every half hour or so they made me stop and do five-minutes of naked jumping-jacks so my viewers could enjoy seeing my boy-junk flopping around all over the place. Then they fed me the rest of the can of Alpo for dinner, after which it was time for my evening gangbang. That pretty much is my daily schedule now, though they vary it from dad to day, of course, particularly in the mornings, with hours-long sessions serving as a human urinal, or cleaning out dirty asses, or just licking my Masters’ naked bodies. And, once each week, they return me to the torture chamber where my torture Master does another number on me. Over time, my pussy’s stretched enough so I can take a good pounding by a decent-sized cock without too much pain, though a couple of the really well-hung Masters can still make me squeal when they really throw it to me. The DP’s, though, they still hurt - a lot. And while I still cry and carry on like a little boy when my torture Master is working me over, I have gotten better at dealing with the pain. Not great, mind you, but better. But, like I said at the beginning, what I still have trouble handling is the realization that literally thousands of men, all around the world, are seeing all the shit they do to me here - and getting off on it. Getting off on it enough to actually pay money to see it, money that’s used to pay my Masters for using and abusing me. If they weren’t out there paying money to see me fucked and tortured, I wouldn’t be in here being fucked and tortured. And someday soon, my Masters are going to raffle off an afternoon or an evening with me and one of those bastards is going come on in and fuck and torture me himself. And I’m gonna have to let him do just that, let him do whatever he wants to me while all the other sickos this site caters to get their rocks off watching him abuse and molest me. And that whole prospect makes my skin crawl. It really does. But what choice do I have? I’m the property of Enterprise Stud-bitch Corp., and I have to do whatever they tell me to do or pay the price. And, knowing what that price is if I don’t do what I’m told, it‘s not a price I’m willing to pay. So I’ll do whatever they tell me to do. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. It doesn’t mean that at all. -- source link