“Before you do anything,” Horton says, “tell me exactly what you’re going to show me.” He sits down with the circumspection of someone suffering from paper-thin skin, ready to tear at the slightest ill touch.
I set the cursor to an early-middle bit of the first video – Jim strapped to the metal bed-frame, HH sitting next to him – and send it to the television. Horton jerks his head away the instant the screen flicks on.
“Fuck’s sake, Fredrick! I said I didn’t want to see it!”
“Relax.” I say, and join him on the settee. “I’ll describe it for you. The guy on the left is, I don't know his name, I’ve christened him Halfhawk – because of his hair, you see. The guy tied to the bed is Jim. Jim – if you care to look at the screen – is wearing a VR headset and earphones. He’s being made to play that little cum-block game I had Sierpinski write. How can he play it, you ask? An excellent question. Sierpinski used something tracking eye movements. I don’t know how it works, don’t care, but it cost me an arm and a leg. If Jim doesn’t want to look at it, there’s still audio piping through the earphones. It will get him, eventually. That was the very idea I obsessed about for months. I wanted to force-feed him some of his own bloody medicine. To have him play that game for an entire day, burn it in his mind, and rip out each and every path to orgasm. Make sure the cunt will never be able to cum in his fucking life again, ever.”
I exhale. I’m getting nervous. I want to smash in the television. Szabó’s initial idea of blood and gore turns from reasonable to appealing. I look at the back of my hands, fingers outstretched, they’re shaking. I sigh. “Could you get me in the straitjacket? I’m slipping.”
Horton looks sad. “Sure.” he says, gets up, and shakes his head. “Jesus.” he says, more than once. He’s delicate with the straps. He usually yanks them tight.
“Do you want a drink?” he says.
“Might have been a better idea before the jacket.”
Horton shrugs, makes some hot chocolate, and gives me sips. I don’t know how to continue. I’ve lost my impetus.
“So the guy on the left – the blond boy, eh, guy. What’s he doing?”
Thank you, Horton.
“He’s doing something I wasn’t entirely expecting. That’s what got into me. He was supposed to do two things: firstly, test whether Jim is able to cum after the treatment, by any means possible, and secondly, make Jim feel good during the treatment. Give him a slow, frustrating handjob – like mine nowadays – but he can not let Jim cum. Jim can still cum, at this stage, and I really kicked on the idea that he’s not getting enough to get off while the door to orgasm is slowly and inexorably closing. That was one of the points of the torture. But instead of a giving him a slow wank, Halfhawk here has been getting Jim close to cumming – so fucking close I could fucking taste it – but he never lets the bugger shoot. He stops at the very last, itty-bitty fraction of a second, over and over. He’s been at it for hours. It’s much, much more intense and arousing than I anticipated.”
“He’s edging him.”
“He’s what?”
“Edging him. It means getting someone as close as possible to orgasm, but not letting them cum. It’s a well known sexual practice. In certain circles. For hours, you say?”
I nod. Horton tries not to stare at the screen for too long, tries not to bite his lower lip.
“I’ll show you.” I say. I get up and press play. Not easy in a straitjacket. HH does the two finger thing, stops. Jim pleads. Horton’s concentrating. HH does the one finger thing. Jim cries. Horton hasn’t shifted a hair. HH gets out the blue dildo. I’m not looking – I don’t want the metal to strangle my cock – but I recognise the objections, the moans, the desperation, the interminable repetition. I get hard anyway. Horton has merged with the screen and the settee. I pause the vid.
“That’s about as far as I’ve got.” I say. “I don’t know what happens next. This is halfway through the first video, and there are three more.”
“This is inhuman.” Horton says. He hides his mouth behind a fist.
“That is the point of torture.”
“And he’s never going to cum again, after that?”
“If Sierpinski’s game is working, no.”
“How will you know?”
“I told you: Halfhawk is going to test the cum-block after the VR session. I assume it’s on one of the later videos. I’ve got four files. It must be somewhere in there, I guess.”
Horton lets himself flop deep into the settee. Thus far he’d sat straight up, on the edge of the cushion, hands clasped on his knees. He rubs his face. ‘Fuck’ is all he says. He shifts his jeans down to hide a bulge. Mr. Hunter's hard. I cannot let that go unnoticed.
“It seems I’m not the only one affected by the proceedings,” I say, “as unethical as they may be.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s his moans,” he says. “They’re difficult not to react to. God, this is awkward.”
“You’re saying this to me. I’m wearing a belt and a straitjacket. I wouldn’t say that I’ve grown used to this level of awkwardness, but it has lost some of its novelty.” Horton tries an apologetic smile. We’re silent for a while. “Would you mind popping my chocolate in the microwave? I feel like finishing it before going to bed.”
“Sure.” Horton gets up. The machine is whirring and goes ping. “I’ll get you out of the jacket.”
“Just for the drink then. I’d rather sleep in it. I’m used to it now. I think it might be better, given my nerves. I find it soothing, once in a while.”
“I’ll go and set up the baby monitor.” he says.
The chocolate is nice, though still too cold – I give it an extra ten seconds of microwave-whirr and a stir. Still a bit too cold. Horton gets me in the jacket when I’m finished.
“Give me a shout if you want me to tuck you in.” he says.
“I’ll be fine, thanks.”
We wish each other goodnight.
I roll around, struggle on my stomach against the leather pinning my arms down. My cock’s still half-hard. I hump the bed, not that I can feel much in the belt, stop it, and sigh. It’s 3AM, and I haven’t slept. I go for a pee, the insomniac’s last resort. I kick off the bit of duvet that is clinging to my legs and go to the loo. The toilet lid’s down. I get it up with my foot, it slips, and crashes down. It crashes again at my second try, and I shush myself between my teeth. So much for trying to be quiet.
A pressure remains in my pelvis – I didn’t pee as much as I thought. Every week, after I’ve had my orgasm, the knot grows larger in my groin. This time it’s about as bad, if not worse, as the day before release, which is three days from now. I hate it. Seeing Jim’s treatment was supposed to bring all this mulling to an end – perhaps it will, eventually – but all it has done so far is to make me needy. I get up from the loo, shake my bum around to get some more drops out of the belt. More yellow-stained bedsheets for the washing machine then. Oh well.
Horton knocks on the door. “You alright?” he says from the other side.
I wait a bit too long to answer. “Yeah.”
“Sure?”
“I’m fine. Just can’t sleep.”
“Me neither.”
“Thought a pee might sort it out. Wishful thinking, undoubtedly.”
“Heh. I heard you struggle a lot over the monitor. That jacket’s loud.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
We go to the kitchen, have a sip of water, sit down on the settee. The black screens, the silent computer – they’re watching us. I can see the SD card in its slot.
Horton thinks I might be better off with a wank now. I’m not sure. We ponder about when and how to watch the videos, when and how to have my wanks, and how to combine both, avoiding the belt or fits of nerves. The permutations are vast, the complications they engender intangible. It’s too late to ponder, we conclude; time will tell. Chasing around hypothetical scenarios at four in the morning has never led to many breakthroughs. I’m going back to bed. Horton asks if I want tucking. I’m fine, I tell him.
Catching sleep turns into a tussle. The straitjacket is too hot. My bum and feet are cold. The foot-end of the duvet has come undone and creeps between my toes, the bedsheets are full of irritating creases that I can’t straighten out. Curse this lack of autonomy. And I’m hard, leaking, straining in the belt. I need a huge glass of diuretic. That may make me pee enough to stay soft – I still wouldn’t sleep though. I turn onto my other side, a final time, and get up to see Horton, to ask him for my wank.
No response when I call his name. I try once more. He’s asleep. I can’t bring myself to rouse him for a selfish wank. Sleepless night then.
When I wake up, enough straps of the straitjacket are undone for me to struggle out. It’s ten in the morning. Horton’s left a note on the kitchen table:
Good to see you had some sleep. You didn’t budge when I loosened the straps. I’ve hidden the SD card (don’t worry, it’s in here, somewhere) because I think it would be better if you didn’t watch anything until I’m back.
H.
The sneaky bastard – but he’s right. I spend the day on the net, browse fora, trawl the news, look for things to invest in. It’s time to stretch and flex the financial muscles again lest they atrophy. And it keeps my mind off my cock, when I don’t think about the fact that it’s keeping my mind off my cock. Paradoxes hide everywhere.
I’m cooking dinner when Horton comes home. Home? This is the first time I’ve thought about it like that. He spends the day at his place, doing his coding thing – whatever that is, net stuff or apps or something – comes back when he’s done. That’s been our arrangement for two years. It grows on you.
“You seem cheery.” he says.
“Can’t complain.”
He looks at me from the corners of his eyes. “You haven’t…?” he says, and mimes suggestive gestures.
I raise my eyebrows, tap the solid metal under my jeans. “How could I?” I say, and continue stirring the stir fry. There’s no stir fry without stirring. Ten minutes later, over my mediocre attempt at beef stroganoff, we chat in cheerful nihilistic tradition about the dreadful state of affairs this world is in, about our various futile enterprises, about Jim, my wank, and the unexpected sense of contentment with which I got up this morning.
“I’ve come to the conclusion,” I say, “that I’ll have my wank on Saturday. As usual. No point of screwing up tradition.”
“Sensible.” Horton says.
“I’ve also come to the conclusion that I won’t watch any more of the videos before Saturday.”
“Sensible again.”
“And lastly, I’d rather have you do the wanking.”
Horton’s mouth falls open in a concerned ‘ah’. His fork hovers halfway between his plate and mouth. “What?” he says.
“Yes,” I say, “I’d like you to do the wanking. If that is all right with you.”
“That’s, eh, novel.”
“The reason’s very simple. If I watch more of Jim before my wank, I’ll want to cum in seconds. I can’t have that. So, straitjacket, or another form of restraint, and you do the slow, infuriating wank. That should make it last, at least. On my own I won’t last twenty seconds, and we all know where that leads to.”
Horton nods in astonished agreement. “Very sensible.”
“I’m a sensible man. Sometimes. I hope you don’t mind wanking a cock?”
“You’re being facetious, aren’t you? I don’t mind at all. The question is,” – his frown turns into a shy smile – “whether you’ll be up for it, come Saturday, being wanked by a bloke. A gay, cock-loving bloke.”
I do a one-hand fingernail pluck, trying on the air of a smug, aristocratic adventurer. “I might close my eyes,” I say, “and imagine more appealing vistas. Like long haired, buxom vixens.”
“I’ll make sure you can’t keep your eyes off that head bobbing up and down between your legs, bathing your cock in unspeakable bliss for much longer than one of your boring wanks and getting you so, so very close to cumming, again and again, for hours, before letting you shoot.”
Horton’s eagerness comes as a surprise gush of wind that slams a door into your teeth. “Oh shit.” I say, “I hadn’t thought of that. I retract my words. It’s not a sensible idea.”
“Oh, it is. A very sensible idea.”
I had not expected such vigorous affirmation.
*
Horton doesn’t mention either Jim or my wank on Thursday or Friday. I keep quiet and don’t complain about the belt – not even for my crap or my shower. Saturday comes and Horton seems oblivious. Perhaps he was joking about the whole wank thing.
“About that wank,” he says, at lunch. “I’ve been thinking.” He hasn’t forgotten.
“You do the thinking about my wanks now?”
“Well, you asked me to wank you, so, yes, I’ve been planning it in my head – seems only natural. I’ve been thinking … wouldn’t it be an idea to watch just the end of the videos today, just the bit where we’ll see whether the treatment took or not?”
“I thought that was the idea?”
“It was, but perhaps you had other thoughts.”
“No, not really.”
“OK.” he says, and nods and looks at me, shuffling with some air of expectation – the proverbial twinkle, although subtle. “And, eh, any preference for when you’d want your wank?”
“2 PM fine for you?” I say, business-like.
He nods. “Certainly is.”
“Right. I’ll be on the internet.”
“I’ll be reading a book.”
“Good.”
“See you then.” he says. Did he smirk?
I’m still pottering around on the net when Horton comes up. The straitjacket’s clasps and buckles jangle at each stair. “It’s two.” he says, and hands me the SD.
“Is it? Ah.” I scratch my neck.
He slumps his shoulders a bit. “If you’d rather do it the usual way, that’s perfectly fine. I don’t want to force you into anything. This is all a bit unusual – and rushed, perhaps. I can totally understand if you’d rather–”
“No,” I say, “we’ve discussed this before. If I get too aroused, I won’t be able to eke out my wank, which is the last thing I want to happen. I’ve been feeling bright and alert – better than I have in months – and I wouldn’t want to wallow back into the murk of madness. We’ll look at the video – you don’t have to if you don’t want to – you put me in the straitjacket, get the belt off, and administer the wank. Tie me down if you have to.” My determination surprises me. I sigh. “I agree that it’s all a bit strange and awkward and perhaps rushed, but things have been strange and awkward for two years now – and it’s all starting to feel like a rut.”
“Just let me know if you don’t feel comfortable about anything, at any point. I’d hate to destroy things, by careless … rushing, or anything.” he says and hands me the card.
I tell him not to worry, take the SD, and push it in its slot – the folder comes up. I double-click on the fourth file. The HDD grinds, the media player comes up. I hit pause. The image freezes on Jim still wearing the VR. I nudge the cursor. Still wearing it. Nudge again. It’s off. I feel my bowels contract. Hit the cursor back. HH is taking off the goggles. I tweak back a fraction, to the point where HH wipes off his hands, and hit play.
Deep, continuous panting. The occasional hard swallow. Hoarse moans.
HH gets up, leaves the screen, and comes back with a pair of scissors. He cuts away the tape holding the VR. Jim doesn’t move. He just pants. His chest heaves. His cock is popping with veins, his balls are straining to get out of the rubber ring and to plop deep up his stomach, ready to lurch out their tortured semen at the slightest touch. No longer obscured under the VR, Jim’s face is red, hair plastered to his forehead. His vacant gaze reaches well beyond the ceiling. Sweat glistens all around his eyes, streaks flow down from his temples.
- Where do you want the VR? HH says.
- Anywhere, GV says. See if it worked first. If it did, I’ll dispose of it and the computer. Otherwise, you can try again tomorrow, last chance – after that I have to get rid of him – he’s been here long enough.
“So, Jim?” HH says. “How are you feeling?” He puts the VR on the floor.
Jim doesn’t answer.
“Ready to cum?”
Heaving.
“Do you need some time?”
Heaving, and then, buried in more heaving, “Please…”
“Ah! You’re not brain-dead. Always good.” HH pats Jim on the face. “You OK, Jim? Ready to cum? Answer me, Jim.”
“Please…”
“Is that a yes?”
- Stop playing, GV says.
- You boring prick.
HH slides the rubber ring off Jim’s balls. He gasps. “Oh God,” he says. His balls are sucked in. HH bends over Jim’s cock, puckers his lips over the head. Jim’s melting. His incantations start straining. HH licks it, licks it again, like a lollipop. Just the underside. “Pleeease,” Jim goes. HH holds the base of Jim’s cock with both hands, his thumbs are pressing under his balls, roll them up, caress them, still lollipop-licking. Slow, long, full-tongue licks. Going lower each time. Drawing them out. Jim’s begging gets more compact. He starts breeding the air, jangles on top of the bedsprings. HH takes him in his mouth, sucks and fucks and rapes Jim’s cock, ripples it in his hands, pops up his balls, presses against his taint. Jim looks down, expectant, half-smiling, in bliss and agony of exhaustion. He smiles, lets his head fall back, jerks up, grinds his teeth, wobbles as if going to vomit, freezes, and screams. His scream stops only for him to gasp, then he screams again – eyes wide open and glowering at his cock. HH accelerates. Jim’s scream is now a shriek.
“Pleeease !” he cries between screams. “Pleeease let me cuuum !”
- He really isn’t cumming! HH says to the off-camera GV, letting Jim's cock go for a brief moment. Nothing, not a drop! he says.
He goes back to sucking Jim.
“Bljaaad,” GV says, close to the phone but offscreen. No translation.
HH gives everything he’s got. Hands, mouth, deep-throat. He flies over the cock, squeezes it, slobbers over it, massages all the sweet spots he’d found during torture, everything that would have made Jim cum at a sliver of the intensity. Jim just strains, shrieks, and pleads. Screams for it to stop now. HH has to catch his breath.
Instead of calming down, Jim snaps. Unfettered hate flashes off his face. “Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop now. I was so fucking close, you fucking asshole! Make me cum!”
HH, taken aback by the sudden fury, shrugs, shakes his head, and goes down again.
Jim squeals. His sudden aggression congeals into frightened pleading. HH tires.
When he stops and wipes his mouth, panting, Jim catches his breath and goes mad with the swearwords. HH tightens black rubber straps to Jim’s balls.
“What’s that?” I ask Horton.
“Electro, I guess.” Horton sounds miles away.
“Electro? Ack!”
“Not necessarily. Can be wonderful.”
HH turns up a dial, makes Jim scream, and adjusts it down. Jim starts fucking again while HH attaches a tube with duct tape over his cock.
“And that?” I point at the tube.
“Milker.” Horton says.
“Does it do what it says?”
“It does.”
Hands on his hips, HH stands up, looks at the sleeve milking at maddening pace, at Jim screaming. GV steps in, pushes a wad of cloth into Jim’s mouth and tapes it shut.
- Are you sure he’s not cumming?
HH rips the tube off and looks into it, shakes it, gets his fingers in.
- No. Dry. Never seen something like that. It’s like magic, he says, and sticks the milker back on.
I nudge the cursor. Jim’s calming down the way someone running up stairs reaches their limit. At some point your body stops following orders. The muffled shrieks go dull. His eyelids flutter and close. He goes limp. The milker slurps, slurps, slurps.
- I think it worked, HH says. He can’t cum any more.
- Just to be sure, give it another try when he wakes up. Perhaps tomorrow again. I don’t want trouble with — .
- Sure.
- Show the milker to the camera, GV says.
HH grabs the camera, the screen topples – for a brief glimpse tree-topped hills are visible through a window. The milker slurps at Jim’s cock, HH rips it off. The membrane continues pulsing. “Look, dry.” he says. The inside of the sucking sleeve is shiny, but not a drop of spunk dribbles out.
The video cuts to Jim strapped to the bed, gagged with tape. The light is different. This must be the tomorrow GV was talking about.
“Right,” HH says, “Last night we gave Jim a few more hours of game. I tried milking him again just to be sure. Still no cum, but I forgot to record. Sorry. Now I’ve warmed Jim up for about two hours. He should be very ready to cum. He certainly thinks he is. In normal conditions, so would I. And to prove I didn’t swallow yesterday…” HH shows the pulsing milker and lets it suck itself onto a frenetic Jim. He spasms, jerks up, screams. He’s bruised around his arms, where the straps were yesterday. Today he’s taped to the bed-frame. Pleading, wailing, and jerking is all he does. HH shows the inside of the slurping tube. “Dry.” he says, slides it back over Jim’s cock. Jim doesn’t know what to do. Scream in agony or scream in despair or scream in jubilation that the slurping is back. Perhaps he thinks he’s going to cum – perhaps he knows he’s not. He’s just thrashing about while HH presses the tube down over his cock, keeps it there while Jim shudders in a state of catatonic suffering, and pulls it off. Jim twitches. He shows the inside of the dry tube and puts it aside. “And now with warm-up.” HH says.
“Do you want to see the warm-up?” I ask Horton.
“Hrmh.”
I take that as a yes.
HH slips on a glove, squirts on some lube, and grasps Jim’s cock just under the head. He’s holding his thumb and forefinger in an O wrapped around the cock, and twists his wrist. Jim starts keening, immediately.
- Get the phone, film up close, HH says.
The screen shakes again and fills up with a black glove gliding right under the rim of the cock head. It swells, HH slows down.
- Could you also get his gag out? HH says.
GV mumbles. The ceiling appears, the same window and hills flash over, the rip and aw of tape coming off of skin, the phone falls to the floor, GV swears, Jim is pleading unseen, then the cockhead’s back, a heartbeat pounds in it. The slit glistens with teased out drops of precum. “Cut it off.” Jim says.
“What?” HH says.
“Cut it off please. I don’t want my cock any more. I can’t take it.”
“I can’t do that. If I did, I couldn't torture you anymore. This is much more fun.”
The glove hasn’t stopped circling. The throbbing hasn’t calmed down, neither has Jim.
“Oh God.” he says. “Oh God. Please. God. Please.” Many times I’ve seen and heard this now. Like before, HH slows down, Jim’s pleading gets more urgent. The end result is an immobile glove that hovers and glides over the same spot of Jim’s frenetic, engorged, twitching cock. Jim babbles and despairs. He must know that he’s not going to cum. Every time he sounds so hopeful though. I almost feel sorry.
“Nearly there.” HH says. With the tips of two fingers he glides over the pads of Jim’s cock, massages just under the cockhead. It’s standing steel-straight and pulses, jerks, quivers – it has a mind of its own. The fingers don’t push it back, their graze is beyond light touch. More would precipitate a torrent of cum. Without warning, the wet, maniacal slurping of the sleeve gobbles up Jim’s cock. He yelps, contorts his entire body, begs – Please! Please! Please! – on and on and on. HH pops off the tube. Dry. Back on the confused cock. Same dejected screams, same dejected spasms. Dry. Back on the cock, HH struggles to keep it down on the flopping, faltering, then fainting Jim. The slurping sleeve is dry. HH tosses it on Jim’s stomach, bends over, and switches off the machine. The sudden silence that drops over the video is eerie.
HH grins from ear to ear. “There. I hope you’re satisfied.” he says. “If you have more patients who need treatment, let me know.” He points a black, glistening thumb up.
The video window turns black.
Our minds are struggling with re-entry – at each approach they skittle off the atmosphere. Horton shuffles a bit, rubs his face. You could mistake his rubbing for cerebral palsy. My cock is strangled to death – not so much because of the no-cum, but because of that last edge. Worst of all, I want a follow up. Jim, Six Months Later: still hasn’t been able to cum. Not very catchy either, but I’m sure there would be interest beyond me.
“Do you want your wank now?” Horton says, in the tentative voice.
“It might be better if we wait just a sec.” I say. I smell of sweat. Nervous sweat.
“Tea?”
“Never before a wank.”
“Good thinking.”
(I 2021)
Next page