Snuff Festival
III
"Wow! Now that
was INTENSE, wasn't it, Barry?" The camera picked up
the other announcer's image and displayed the uncomposed,
sweating face of the older man. He was still shaking and was breathing
erratically. His partner laughed. "Well, it looks
like Barry ... and several of us ... need to recuperate from that rather,
well, INTENSE, opening performance. So while the crew is washing the cum from
the stand here at Quadrennial Field and gets the trucks off the field and the
bodies and blood removed, the committee has, as usual, planned an
entertaining interlude for the audience both here and at home." "That's right,
Chuck," Barry managed to stammer as he wiped his brow with his handkerchief.
"It would be unfair to the men who have agreed to be executed here today
to have the men in the audience less than fully attentive or not 'creamed up'
enough to enjoy any of the following executions." "Exactly,
Barry. Each of these fine men wants his death to be the cause of several
thousand men shooting the contents of their nuts off. They wouldn't want
people to shoot only half a load or to go limp midway through." The camera caught
Chuck "adjusting" his seat position and Barry giving him an annoyed
sideways glance. "Get your hand
off my cock, Chuck-at least until later." Chuck grinned,
"Well, we don't want to give the folks the idea that WE are the
intervening entertainment." "Of course not!
The Quadrennial Snuff Fest Committee has several fine men who, although they
didn't want to go 'all the way' to a full execution, have been gracious
enough to let themselves be tortured for our enjoyment." "Yep, Barry, we
have cock-and-ball tortures, including a contest between two sturdy hunks who
will have their nut sacks joined by a chain. Weights will be added to the
chains until one of the men actually loses his testicles. They will be ripped
right off! We have a pre-event, pre-recorded interview with these men. And we
have several of Barry's and my own personal favorites-whippings!"
Chuck rolled up his eyes and smacked his lips. Unlike Barry who wore the
traditional commentator's suit and tie (although sans pants), Chuck wore a
V-neck tee shirt and his nipples were obviously erect. Barry was just as
obviously staring at Chuck's round pecs and missed
his cue. "Oh yeah, I
almost forgot. Each time we have a snuff fest, we get calls from the
stay-at-home viewers who complain that they tried to record our broadcast on
their VCRs and couldn't. I'd like to remind you all that we send random
scrambling signals that will prevent you from recording this broadcast. The
reason, of course, is that these men who are being executed are also helping
to raise funds for charity. That's why the pay-per-view fees were so high and
why seats in the stadium here started at $100." "Money well
spent," Chuck chimed in, stroking his seven incher. "Our station
will have a video set of tapes and CDs which will include full footage of the
executions from all vantage points, interviews with several of the executionees, scenes from previous years' festival
highlights, as well as several highly erotic additions not broadcast here
today. The proceeds from the sale of these tapes will go to charities that
are involved in finding cures for serious, life-threatening diseases.
Although the men here today WANT to die-indeed, they are eager to do so for
their and your entertainment-they want to assist those folks who don't want
to die." "Ya know, Barry, I'm thinking of signing up for the next
festival." "Well, Chuck,
you know I like having you on the team with me," Barry leered at the
younger man's crotch. "Your broadcasting style complements mine. This is
our second time together, so why not three times behind the lines here?"
"Actually, I
meant ON the field ... as one of THOSE guys. I have a plan already in mind
and, well in four years it should be just about right. I've even included a
role for you." "Really!?"
Barry choked as he looked in awe at his partner. Unable to restrain himself,
he dove for the rock-hard staff his partner was brandishing and gulped it.
Chuck grinned and stroked the hair of his partner (now nearly hidden from the
camera). "We have
several more executions coming up. There's lots of hangings this year and ...
well, I won't tell you ahead of time, but some intriguing ways to go. So hang
onto your joysticks or have a friend do it for ya,
and we'll be right back after this message. Oh! Barry! Ease up before I ... AAHHHHaaggguuuuurggggggh! Damn! Oh Keeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrryst
... Aaaaaahhhhkkgarunphuck!" Fred was trying to
psych himself so he would be ready for his turn. He shook his arms out and
flexed his fingers, flipping them out and shaking them, the glow from his
cigarette making little neon arcs. He kept raising his legs and stretching
them and nervously looking out at the guy getting his back whipped. A scream
from his right attracted his attention and he saw one of the men from the
ball-pull arch back in agony-an error, since the action jerked his nut sack
and tore it loose. "Nervous?"
Lenny grinned from under his MP helmet. Damn. Fred did like him in his full
military regalia and Fred's cock just sprung out on its own. "Of course!
What a ninny you are. If I weren't 'nervous', something would be seriously
wrong with me. I'm almost scared shitless-or scared to death." He puffed
on his cigarette. "Want to bail
out?" Fred cocked his head
sideways. "Do you want me to?" "Well, uh
..." Lenny looked ludicrous when he stammered, He was a big, mean
looking fucker-a thick-necked brute ideally suited for his role as an MP.
"I mean yeah because I still want you with me, but then again, no,
because ..." He blushed. "You want to
see me get killed. Well. I may be scared, but I am also the horniest I have
ever been in my life! I really dig this scene and I'm looking forward to it.
If I go AWOL now, I'll never be able to live with myself." He grinned
and winked at his joke. Lenny's hand reached
out on its own and his eyes just stared at Fred's bare torso in a trance.
Fred stood still as Lenny pressed his finger into several places on his
chest, muttering "There, and there, and there." He pressed his
finger onto the firm, narrow belly and grinned. "And there and there ..."
Lenny wasn't exactly the brightest lug nut under the hubcap, but he was
Fred's favorite lug. As Lenny moved his hand back
up to Fred's chest and began to rub Fred's small nipples, Fred almost
expected his buddy to repeat a line his namesake had: "I want to hold
them, and pet them, and squeeze them. Can we get some rabbits?" Fred was on the
small side. Although his shoulders were wider than his hips, he had a small
chest and an even narrower waist. He was shirtless, and his smooth skin
turned white with each press of Lenny's finger and then back to its even
tone. The only clothes he had on were his sailor's pants (white
bell-bottoms-not regulation anymore, but Fred liked them) and his sailor cap.
He was barefoot. The only real roundness he had was his firm, bubble ass which
was being massaged by the other MP-who was almost a duplicate of Lenny. Well,
a negative duplicate since this guy was black. They turned to the
field when they heard a scream. The guy getting branded had let loose with
one hell of a screech. Fred couldn't leave
Ben out of the picture here. Ben was the MP who had often had the task of
taking Fred to the brig. Oh, yeah. Fred was really a sailor and spent a lot
of time in the brig. But Fred didn't like it there. He was too small to
defend himself against the big bruisers who were with him and, despite the
porno stories, being raped isn't enjoyable. Neither is getting the crap
kicked out of you. Most of his stints
in the brig were short, and Ben did come by to make sure the guys weren't too
hard on him. Fred's latest snafu, however, was going to land him some serious
time (several years) in the hoosegow outside of his own captain's influence.
Before that happened, though, his captain had cautioned him in a fatherly way
(while Fred was sucking the captain's pole, of course). When Fred got into
his latest troubles, he knew he was royally fucked. It was the captain who
had jokingly suggested the snuff fest as a way to avoid several years behind
bars. "You know, the
Navy used to hang guys for what you did, or execute them in some way,"
the captain had frowned as he laid a hand on Fred's shoulder, stroking his
neck with one finger. He scrunched up his face, "Now we just put them in
the brig for a decade or two and then they're out. (Sigh!)" Fred had
sucked harder, but he was listening. "That much time behind bars wastes
good meat, and the men aren't any better off when they come out. And I can't
get you out of any more messes. The most I could do for you is sign for you
to join the Quadrennial Snuff Festival instead." And so ... Fred was startled
when he heard the drums. The field was clear and the spectators were ready
and expectant. Nervously, he shook his hands one more time, then turned and
stood at attention. "Ready?"
he asked Lenny and Ben. "Us? Shit man. We've
been ready. You?" Fred took a deep,
final drag on his cigarette and slowly let the smoke out, then flipped the
remains onto the floor. He was about to crush the stub when he realized he
was barefoot and hesitated. "What the fuck?" he thought. "I'll
be dead soon." He went to step
forward to crush the butt, but Ben's massive black paw gripped his shoulder. "Where the fuck
do YOU think you're going sailor? You just stand right there at
attention-with that fine white ass of yours sticking out. I'll take care of
this." He smiled, slapped Fred's ass, and crushed out the cigarette with
his heavy boot. He flipped out his handcuffs and cuffed the doomed man's
wrists behind his back. The drums started up
again and the three men stood at attention, Fred, with his chest puffed out. Brum, parra parra brum, dum. Brum, parra parra brum, dum. The line of soldiers
slowly and stiffly followed the three drummers onto the field. Fred's stomach
fell and his head seemed to float. Finally, the line stopped and they all stood
at attention. There wasn't a sound
on the field or off. The crowd was hushed as each man's eyes strained to peer
across to the door with the three men. A small smile curled Fred's lip as he
thought, "I'm in control, now!" He let them wait for
a minute and then began his own march. Lenny and Ben picked up immediately
and strutted out in step with their prisoner. Finally, they stopped in front
of the waiting line and stood at parade rest, Fred's chest heaving, but his
bright white pants tented magnificently. They all stood
stone-faced for a moment and it was time for Lenny and Ben to leave Fred
alone in the center of the field when Lenny did
something unplanned. He leaned over and undid Fred's fly, letting the stiff
and ample cock slap upwards and then jut out at attention too. Lenny grinned and
from between unmoving lips, he whispered, "For me ... and because you
looked uncomfortable." Another drum roll.
The two escorts left Fred and approached the line of men where two holes in
the line had been left for them. They each did their about faces in tandem.
The men next to them, standing at parade rest, each had two rifles, their
butts resting on the ground next to their boots. The drummers squatted and
placed their drums on the field, and stayed squatted next to their rifles. "Ready?" In a fluid and
flawless movement, the men with two rifles each let one go and Lenny and Ben
quickly and fluidly grasped theirs. A welling up of panic seized Fred and his
stomach, small as it was, kept heaving in and out. He controlled the panic
and thrust his chest, as small as it was, forward--jutting his chin up.
Anticipation replaced the panic and his rock-hard prick stiffened more,
leaking clear pre-cum so that it slid down his shaft. "Aim!" The drummers
remained squatting, with one knee down to steady themselves as they raised
their weapons. The standing men took their stances and aimed. Lenny and Ben
were now just one of the line of executioners, the only difference was their
white helmets and their armbands set them apart. "Come on Lenny,
wait for the order," Fred worried. But he didn't have to. Ben had been
training him and Lenny wouldn't shoot until the others did. "Hit one of
the spots you marked on me," thought Fred. That would make both of them
happy. "Fire!" It wasn't like in
the movies where all of the men fired at once. It was more like a set of
firecrackers going off in succession. The first hit Fred's left chest muscle
just above the nipple. He gasped and staggered back. He was far enough back
from the line of weapons that the bullets' impacts wouldn't knock him down.
He stood his ground as a fraction of a second later another hit his right
nipple. The other shots quickly followed, some in his gut, some blasting his
chest. None hit his heart. Splatters of blood
stained his once proudly white uniform pants and his hat, jauntily tilted to
the side, fell off. Fred fell to his knees, groaning, his head slung forward.
The two MPs strode
forward and took out their pistols. Fred lifted his head and grinned at them,
finding the energy somehow to lean back a bit so they had a better target. "I hit one of
my spots!" Lenny grinned. "I know,"
Fred rasped, streams of blood sliding down his torso and pants, with a small
trickle down the left side of his mouth. The volley of
bullets from the pistols hit him squarely in the middle of his chest, lifting
him up and thrusting his body backwards. As he lay on his back his legs
twitched and Ben and Lenny emptied their revolvers into the sailor. As the men calmly replaced
their revolvers into their holsters (Ben had to suck his muscular gut in),
the grinned down at the dead man. As if they were one man, they grabbed
Lenny's naked feet and ragged the dead sailor back the way they had marched
out. The captain, his stiff
cock aching, moved aside. He had come down to oversee the little show from
the door. He sneered as the two MPs came up to him and saluted. The gangly
body, its limbs askew, lay at his feet. "You were a
great lay, but the navy can't stand snafus, and yours was too big. You made
me proud, son. This is how the navy should deal with its fuck ups and you
made sure it did." He saluted and then snarled, "Take the little
shit to my cabin." The men stayed on
the field, but donned more rugged military apparel. Now they were ready for guerilla warfare, it seemed, with bullet belts
crisscrossing their chests and their faces smeared with dirt. The next victim was
literally dragged out of the back of a military truck. He squinted in the
bright sunlight and then tried to shake his captors free. One butted him in
the gut with the handle of the rifle. The prisoner grunted
and bent forward. He was a large man, a burly man with a broad chest and
thick arms, standing six-foot-three and all hard muscle. His belly, what one
could see through the torn and dirty tee shirt, was so hard and knobbed and
so smeared with grease and dirt that it looked like it was made of corrugated
steel plate. His legs were
well-muscled, too, and thick. The denim shorts he wore were torn and dirty
and barely covered his crotch. One couldn't tell if his complexion was
naturally swarthy or made that way from the ground-in grime. He sneered at his
captors who were no small men themselves, but were nearly dwarfed by this man
who was dangerous looking even with his arms bound behind him. Another guard came
out of the truck and pushed the bound man forward. The prisoner bolted
forward, using his lowered head to butt into the guard in front of him,
knocking the wind out of him. He charged forward as if attempting to escape,
but one of the men whacked the backs of his knees with his rifle and brought
the large man down. Those in the audience who knew the man's personal
history, gasped. Several of the men jumped on the escaping prisoner like
football players (in actual fact, the "prisoner" had been a
professional football player, Jake Corliss). To the uninitiated,
this looked like the Committee was trying to get a non-volunteer to
"volunteer," but this treatment is precisely what Jake had wanted.
He had designed and choreographed the little scenario that was about to take
place-from his "capture" and incarceration three weeks ago, through
his daily beatings (videotaped, of course), to this final act. Oh, the committee
had insisted that Jake have a safety word (actually three of them) just in
case Jake really did want out, and all of the participants were fully aware
of what to do should Jake even whisper one of the words. He was, after all, a
well-known sports star and the top celebrity at this year's snuff festival.
He had given up pro football because of his bad knees, but he still wanted to
entertain the guys in the stands one last time. Two soldiers grabbed
the prone stud under his armpits and lifted the dead weight up so that he was
dragged forward, his poor knees bumping along the ground. "Hold it!"
the commander barked, and the men lifted their burden higher. Standing in
front of the ragged prisoner, the commander flashed a wicked grin around his
cigar and lashed out with his boot. The vicious kick caught Jake squarely in
his crotch. "Aaaahhhhhhhgh!!! You fuckin' cocksuckin' son of a ..." Jake screamed as he fell,
twisting sideways and writhing, bringing his knees up to his chest and his
head down to his waist. With his arms bound behind him, he could only curl
up. "THAT,"
spat the commander as his fingers curled into Jake's dirty sandy-blond hair,
"you worthless piece of shit, is for trying to escape. Do it again
and," there was a twinkle in his eyes, "I'll kill ya. Har! Har!"
He yanked Jake's head
up by his hair and twisted it sideways. Jake's Adam's apple pulsed up and
down as his face was dragged right up to the commander's crotch. "I'd let ya suck, but ya might
bite." A coarse finger traced a line down Jake's throat. Jake's throat
was all muscle, and the ridge down the front was prominent, looking almost
like the underside of a man's stiff cockmeat.
"I should slit this for ya and save us all a
lot of trouble." Jake's massive chest
was heaving erratically. The butterflies in his stomach were knotting it
up-until the commander kicked him in the gut. "Tie him to the
pole and let's get this piece of shit exterminated." With his legs now
straight, Jake was dragged sideways along his hip. His shorts, as a result,
worked their way down over his hips and the top half of his solid butt
cheeks. He was dead weight, groaning from the pain in his balls. The soldiers sweated
and huffed but finally lifted him up, slamming his back against the wooden
pole. Ropes were passed under his armpits and around his shoulders, wrapping
around the pole, part of his upper chest, his waist, hips, thighs, and
ankles. He had jerked around
and the men kept having to rough him up, hitting him with their fists in his
gut, kicking his legs, slamming their bodies into his torso. The ropes weren't
tight because of Jake's combative challenges. He sneered when the commander
approached. "Ya haven't learned, muscle boy. Yer
just meat now. Ya think yer
hard, doncha?" He reached and grabbed Jake's
balls through the shorts, slowly squeezing and twisting them. Jake's face
turned red and he gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. The grimace
tightened all of his facial muscles. The commander
released his grip and Jake gasped and gulped full breaths of air. The sides
of his square jaw jutted out as he glared in hate at the commander. His tormentor gave a
mock yawn of disinterest. "Yep. Muscle boy may be tough when he has
shoulder pads, knee cards, and a cup, but..." Swiftly, he rammed
the but end of his rifle into the bound man's balls.
Jake's head snapped up and his eyes bulged out in a look of surprise (the
audience gasped, too). He had known, of course (since he planned it), that
he'd get another slam to his nuts, but he was surprised by the degree of pain
it brought. His jaw dropped open, oscillating up and down as if he were going
to address Congress. He let out a tremendous roar of agonized pain. His knees
nearly gave way, and, after his thrashing around in his bond, he stood
limply. "He won't give you
any more trouble now. Tighten those ropes. And here, wrap this one around his
neck and put it through that hole." The was a hole
through the pole about two inches above Jake's neck. The two ends of the rope
were passed through this and the curved portion was lifted over Jake's matted
hair and over his neck. The commander yanked
on the rope, choking Jake and banging his head up against the wood. Without a
care for his prisoner, the commander tied a knot with the loose ends around a
thick rod of wood, effectively preventing the knot from slipping through to
the other side. The commander came
around the front and unceremoniously grabbed the torn shirt. With a vicious
rip, he tore it open, revealing Jake's magnificent and massive chest to the
crowd. Another rip exposed an abdomen that was knotted with hard muscle.
Jake's torso looked like a Roman general's suit of armor.
The men in the
stands all gazed upon the gorgeous hunk bound to the pole. Even the two
chatty commentators were flabbergasted. Every single man had at least one
large and glossy picture of this football player. 95% of those pictures were
of his impressive naked body. Jake had always liked bondage, so many of those
pictures had him tied up with ropes or manacled with iron shackles or with chains.
In all of them, Jake's imposing iron-like cock and majestic balls almost
dwarfed the man's large muscles. Men's mouths watered
when they looked at those pictures. Now he was spread out before them like a
sacrificial animal-here as an offering to appease their insatiable desires. The soldiers this
time shuffled lazily about and slid their weapons laconically off their
shoulders, snapping in the belts of ammo they had worn around their torsos.
There were no commands issued. The commander just lazily snapped his uzi up and, without aiming, burst the silence with the
weapon's cacophony. His recruits immediately did the same. Bullets sprayed
everywhere, many missing their target, but most tearing through the muscles,
sinews, and bones of the prisoner, spraying pieces of flesh and blood several
feet. The impacts made
Jake's body lurch backwards and writhe from side to side. His agonized twistings to avoid the slaughter only served to bring new
surfaces of flesh to be ravished and shattered by the unmerciful bullets. His
agonized screams couldn't be heard through the din. After a full minute,
the body's (what was left of it) movements were only from the sputterings of the weapons. As suddenly as it started,
the weapons ceased. The torn up remains of the proud football hero sagged
along the pole, the rope around his neck the only thing holding him upright,
tilting his head at an odd angle and stretching his neck. He had died from
the bullets, but the rope would have strangled him. The commander
gestured and the men rushed to cut the ropes free-all but the neck rope. The
commander stuck his cigar in his mouth and with his hands on his hips he
sauntered to the prisoner no one need fear and spat in his face. Removing his knife
from his belt, he reached out to cut the last rope that held the swaying body
up. Although it was rehearsed, he made his eye movements to the shorts look
casual. A hard hand reached toward the corpse's groin. An appreciative raise
of the eyebrows accompanied the gesture and the commander sliced the tattered
shorts off the body. He hefted the
massive genitalia. Although somewhat damaged by the spattering of bullets
(hardly a portion of the body had escaped damage), they were still intact. To
the gasps of the crowd, the commander made a vicious swipe that severed the
male organs cleanly from their former owner. Pocketing the war
prize, the commander blew smoke into the dead man's face. "The spoils of
battle." He sliced the remaining rope and the body crumpled. The soldiers grabbed
meat hooks and, slamming them into the remains of the gladiator's chest,
dragged the body off the playing field for his last touchdown-leaving a wide
trail of blood. The entire crowd
rose to cheer him on, waving their pennants and penises. "Well, now.
Don't go away." "That's
right," added Chuck. "There's plenty more cumming
after our station break and a word from our sponsor. We have a lynching next,
and... Barry? Does this say 'catapult'?" "That's right,
Chuck. We have quite a few variations on a theme going on and the spectators
here and at home will get a chance to vote. One of the men who has worked
here at the snuff festivals in years past is going to go out-way out-to give
us a demonstration with a catapult and a goal post." "I can't even
begin to imagine. What that involves, do you? Nope, I thought not. Another
guest will perish with a variation of the catapult and still another man will
show us... let me quote this here, "a variation of a Thanksgiving
tradition.' I-we-don't have any idea what these three contestants have
planned, but we can assure you that it will be spectacular." "Are we off the
air? Barry! Get those juicy lips around..." |
