Wednesday, December 18, 2013

The Spanking Room

The long climb to the spanking room.  All the guys knew what happened in there.  The whip had been abolished by law, but spanking of buttocks had quickly taken its place.  He would be warmed up with a hundred or so hand spanks on his underpants arse, stretched over the arm of a disgusting old sofa stained with beer and cum.  Thinking this was the end, he would get up.  But it was only the start.  His hooded spanker would sit down on the sofa, legs spread wide, and beckon him back.  Connor would look at the door, but it was locked anyway.  He slowly spread himself over the guy's knee.  And take another hundred.  He was moaning in a pain he had never known before.  His spanker would then spread Connor's legs a little wider over his knee, and reach down the back of Connor's waistband and between his legs.  He would have a good feel of his man, and stroke his cock a little.  Connor whimpered in shame.  His searing buttocks had an erotic effect on his basic instincts, and his cock hardened in the man's grasp.  But this was no tea party.  The guy removed his hand and pulled Connor's pants down, getting him to move his pelvis and legs so that the pants could come off completely and get thrown in the corner.  Another pair for the man's collection.  His hand came down hard on Connor's arse.  The hard slap resounded down the corridor and down the stairs. 
The guys heard him, and looked each other.  This was where it  started in earnest.  Connor moaned, yelped and cried as bruises turned redder, then bled.  The guy turned him round onto the other knee so that he could use his other hand.  Connor collapsed into disbelief and became quieter.  As a final flourish the guy took off Connor's leather lace necklet and gave him 55 hard little whips with it that finally broke the abrased skin in a methodical manner and pushed Connor into a new phase of the sharpest pain.  When his screams reached a certain pitch the man knew his job was done.  He pushed three fingers up Connor's arse, and with an expert, relentless motion found Connor's magic spot.  He waggled his fingers and made the naked young guy shoot all over the man's trouser leg, floor and the front of the sofa.  Connor slumped loosely over the man's knee like a broken doll.  The guy pulled his fingers out and licked them.  He reached down and scooped some cum off the sofa, and forced it into Connor's mouth.  He gagged.  The guy pushed him onto the floor and got up.  Connor looked up.  The man was standing over him.  He unzipped his fly and got his cock out.  Connor looked up again to protest, but caught a face full of piss from a big uncut cock.   Connor dropped his head and the man's strong stream of piss covered Connor's head and face completely.  The guy zipped up and walked out.  Years later Connor was still wanking on the memory of that afternoon in the spanking room

Saturday, December 14, 2013

Torture Arena of Gor

from the chainedmuscle website

A compilation of images from the story about the torture arena of gor

It didn't last

Biker Boy

From chainedmuscle website

It had been a long night, a night of spunk and pain. Encircled, pulled off his bike, stripped of his leathers, the guys had their fun in the lawless way biker blokes do. He knew somehow there was still plenty of mileage in them. He heard the clink of chains, and someone cracked a whip in the air. Oh no, no that, please not that. But he stayed quiet, and inhaled deeply. The guy standing by him tousled his hair a bit. This really was bloke fun, and if they had the mileage in them, then so did he. His cock started rising again

Friday, December 13, 2013

The Warrior and the Prince #7

from the chainedmuscle website

The Prince yells "Bring him in here I have something special planned."

The young warrior is guided into a small adjacent torture room, and forced to kneel before a deep large pit. A wooden suspension device is lowered. The adept torturers make quick work of knotting leather straps to each of his strong fingers. The ends of the straps are attached to the rings of the suspension device. Another torturer manning a winch across the room hauls the brave young man over the pit. Now suspended painfully by his fingers straps are attached to his big on each foot. The tortures make quick work of stretching his legs by the toe straps and attaching them to rings embedded in the dungeon floor.

To complete the Princes' special plan a metal device with a long chain and iron ball is fastened to his private parts. The Prince waves his hand and slowly a hot liquid soupy mix begins to fill the pit.

Saturday, October 12, 2013

Power House

This guy is about to
receive ten hard lashes chained up
in the heat of the
Power House.
Because he was walking around
bragging that he could
take ten standing
on his head.

Inglorious Basterds

Friday, September 20, 2013

Wrestler Boy

The older guy strips off brawny, hairy and hard, and he knows all the moves.  He's brought up and disciplined three sons, all off his hands now, and he wants a replacement.  Except of course this one will have a lot more bandwidth.  A lot more to play with.  A lot more to learn.  Punish.  Teach.  He's got spirit too, and he'll give his new master plenty of pain.  They'll both enjoy it.  If he plays dirty he'll be put over daddy's knee and take a long, hard, slow spanking. Daddy wants his boy in good shape, so no whip for him, at least not until he's 21.  So it?s a man?s hand, and the belt, regularly.  He always gets hard on daddy's knee, then he knows what to do.  He goes up to daddy's big triple kingsize bed and lays face down, spread-eagled.  Daddy eventually comes up and lays down on him.  Both guys always keep their socks on, otherwise they're naked.  Daddy goes thru the wrestling again, telling him what he did right, and finally what he did wrong.  Daddy is big and hard at that point and Jackson can feel him all wet.  He spreads his thighs wide and smells the Nivea creme.  Daddy goes in.  One of the biggest cocks in Texas, and it's all for Jackson.  He thinks that when he starts taking the whip all this will stop.  Wrong.  He'll find that daddy's cock and daddy's whip are a team made in hell.

Cop Lessons

He was chained up, his shirt ripped off and the first whiplash came swiftly down on his massive shoulders.   Shoulders that up to then had only known the caress of his girlfriend and, way back, his football coach.  He breathed in hard, wondering how many of these he was in for

it was a nice arrangement.  Bob Jarrold was a good border cop, and respected for his hardhitting muscularity, hands-on policing and a sixth sense on when and where to stop and search.  He also got a hefty paycheck each month from Roberto Nunez on the other side

the trick was to balance his intelligence.  His colleagues could not be allowed to suspect they had a mole in their ranks.  Whilst Nunez always wanted to minimise his losses.   It was a fine line to walk, and when he blew the whistle on a truckload of drugs crossing at San Ysidro Nunez was furious.  He was called to the ranch, and he duly showed up.  He knew he was in for a bollocking, but he'd always schmoozed his way out before with the promise of good behaviour for a month or so

Nunez was not buying it this time, and never even went out to meet him.  The whip was cracking down on his rippling back in the hot yard before he knew it.  The cameras were trained on him, relaying HD images to three 54 inch screens in the lounge, as the guys poured drinks and watched

`I've always wanted to see this guy take it` said Rodriguez

`Yeah, he had it coming to him` said another.  One or two said they wanted it on dvd

The lights were dimmed and the curtains hummed and closed.   The screens gave out the only light, and the clean hard crack of the whip landing on heavyweight muscularity was the only noise in the lounge.  Soon, trouser flies were being unzipped, and Mexican cocks were rearing up for release.  Jarrold was grunting, and the smell of cock started to permeate the room

`How many he had?` asked Javier

`Forty` said Nunez, whose eyes were glued to the central screen.  He said something into his mobile.  A young muscular good-looking guy came in, shirtless, in smart black pants and barefooted.  Without a word he kneeled down, took out Nunez' cock and started to suck it.   Some of the guys looked at him rather than the screens, and as Jarrold's groans got louder they shot their muck into tissues taken from boxes on a large coffee table.  They laid back and watched, as Jarrold's physique got welted in the blazing afternoon sun.  One by one, the guys shot their load

Javier spoke on his cellphone, and said `He's had eighty-five boss`

Nunez said `Carry on Javier`  The order was given, and the men watched

`It's not making much of a dent on him, I'll give him that` said one

`He's loving it` said Nunez `the perverted .. bastard`. The last word trailed away into a whisper.   He was convulsing in his armchair, and the young guy could be heard swallowing.   Nunez laid back and watched for another minute or so, then nodded at Javier.  Javier spoke into his phone, and shortly after that the whipmaster threw his whip aside

Jarrold was released by a couple of ranchhands.  One smacked his face around first, and the other punched him in the guts a couple of times.   The whipmaster handed him a mobile.  Jarrold listened, then said `Yeah boss, I got the message.  Lesson learned.  See you next month`

he picked up the remains of his shirt and walked over to his car, knowing his big whipped back was on the cameras.  He opened the car door and sprawled for a few moments on it, head down, shirtless, whipped and sweating.  His leg was cocked on the sill, showing a clear erection in his dark blue pants.   The big muscled cop had taken his punishment, and Nunez knew he was his forever.  He pushed his young muscular boyfriend back down on his cock.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Tarzan, Captured, Chained, & Sold

Border Protection

Borders have to be protected with the utmost rigour.  This guy had been rounded up

`Well done sergeant.  Usual questioning, then send him back over the border`  `Yessir`

In fact Sgt Kovinsky knew the guy only too well.  He'd been a day labourer at the family farm, and the sergeant's sister became fond of him.  Very fond.  Father wasn't too pleased, but she thought her brother would understand.  She told him Kudar was coming back for her, to take her back home and marry her.  Then perhaps to get papers for Germany.  As the sergeant saw it, he now had the guy who was going to carry his sister away, ravish her and sell her into white slavery.  All his.  Until his shift ended at 8 next morning.  Plenty of time for a trained interrogator to make sure that the guy was in no shape ever even to think about seeing his sister again, and if he did, she wouldn't want to know.  He was a fit guy, but an 8-hour shift was enough to destroy him.  He wasn't even sure he'd bother with the electro.  Nothing he needed to know.  Sgt Kovinsky just wanted to get his whip into action.  He loved the feeling it gave him as his arms flexed, and got pumped.  Then it spread to his back.  His lats would flare, and he'd feel the sweat making his waistband wet.  He'd loosen it and swing with even more deliberate aim.  He liked it best if he stripped the guy naked and shucked his own pants off too.  He'd keep his cap on of course, his badge of authority, even though that would darken with sweat

the guy would be slumped, his back totally tramtracked with bloody slashes.  The sergeant would turn him round, for some front work.  The guy would flex in defiance and say `I want Elena and she will be mine`  Wrong words fella.  The sergeant would grab his balls and feel them, rolling them around between his fingers.  The guy would say `They will give you your nieces and nephews`.  Some guys just don't get it, do they?  The sergeant would pull the table over to the guy, and wire his balls up.  Half hour later it was definitely `Byebye nieces and nephews` and the electrodes would be going up his arse for good measure

The Slave & The Warden

He was in for the murder of a gangland rival.  He'd whipped him to death with a length of electrical cable.  With the insulation stripped away at the last 12 inches, and the copper knotted.  It was a nice job, and Warden Tyrron, who was in charge of him and had had black ops experience in his dubious past, appreciated a fellow master.  But there was no turn-turnabout here.  Slavic was in for life, and under `labour terms`.  Meaning that he was a chained slave, the plaything of his warden.  Tyrron liked to keep his man in good shape.  He made sure that the labour was hard, and worked all his muscle areas.  He often took pictures.  Then he'd chain him up in the X-frame.  Slavic was a strong, silent type, but this fell away in the X-frame.  He hated the whip.  `No, please Warden, I'm not due for it yet` he would whisper, as he took the manacles and Tyrron stripped away his jock.  He knew he was due for it, but just couldn't take it.  Tyrron usually gave him 40, and this was about every fortnight, but the fun was in the semen control.  Saturday nights he'd sit with `his boy` in his office and play porn.  He had some good stuff.  Top quality girls, violent, inventive.  Slavic would be sitting in a thin, worn jockstrap, his hands cuffed behind his back, goggling at the action.  Tyrron would play with his boy.  Slavic's cock would rise free of the dirty cotton pouch, and get wet.  His healthy natural urges made his member sticky, a man?s plea for release.  Tyrron would stroke him.  Or leave his warm hand over the pouch and feel the guy's throbbing member.  Or fondle his aching balls.  A happy ending was by no means guaranteed.  Sometimes Tyrron would push him over to the X-frame and whip him to the sound of climaxing females.  Or just take him back to his cell when he was almost there.  Sometimes he would indeed drive him mad with a soft finger stroke to the cock, and let him shoot to that limited stimulation.  He'd stop at the guy's first spurt, and watch him shoot, and dribble spunk down the pouch of his jock.  `Please Warden, jack me off` Slavic would beg, pushing his hips up in supplication to his warden.  But he'd go back to his cell and get chained to the bunk until work on Monday.  `The protein's building you up, 207, instead of going to waste` the warden would tell him `but I'm going back to jack off to that little redhead with the big boobs` he'd say, his bulging crotch right over the lying man's face.  `Just be glad I spared you the whip tonight.  One of these nights your front is gonna get it.  Never had your tits caned, have you dude?  We'll save that one up for Christmas`

Thursday, August 8, 2013


The Pickup

`got a buck buddy?  I haven't got enough to get in`
`it's no good`
`I thought he got whipped`
`yeah, but he gets rescued`
`oh that's no good`
`you look like you're pretty well-made yourself dude`
`train twice a day
`take any bondage?`
`a guy used to whip me.  He joined an oil rig`
`you got the gear?`
`prefer the whip, especially from a guy like you`
`let's go`

Monday, July 29, 2013

The Spy

Commando Interrogation

Gundar: Scene 2: Ambush

Gundar did not believe the sight that lay before him. Amari, the city, the legend. Just as the old man had said. A fortress like Gundar had never seen before. An impregnable baked-brick stronghold such as he had never known. Evidence that this legendary kingdom did exist. Evidence of Amari’s wealth. Proof of its power. He had been taken prisoner by strong young warriors from this incredible legendary city. So the old man had been right. The marauders were from Amari. At the sight of this place of his capture, Gundar again fought helplessly against his impossible bonds. Strength bulged on taut smooth skin that rippled like the breeze on a lake. A sheen of nervous sweat coated the rounded contours of his solid tanned skin, ridged slabs of his uplifted chest strained, capped by dark pouting nipples. Every power-filled muscle danced within his bonds but Gundar remained prisoner of the Amari. These men who had come for him. For what? This had been no slaving party, they had captured only him, Gundar. They had come looking for him alone.

And the other words of the old man rang true too. They were cruel by nature. What fears lay for Gundar behind those walls? For three days now he had been marched in the slave collar to here. Barely a drop of water had wet his lips, hardly a bite of food. Free of these bonds, Gundar would have made short work of every one of them. Guarded and tormented every minute by fit young warriors, though, they had no intention of letting him go flee. Taunted, tested, whenever they took a rest. The old man had warned him of the Amari’s streak of cruelty. For days now, Gundar had learned the folly of ignoring that warning. They had routinely mis-treated him. They had mis-used him physically. They had abused his manhood. He was their plaything. Gundar, the mightiest creature in the jungle, had been used as an Amari toy. In the way only cruel men in their prime knew how. Powerfully built arrogant warriors intent on asserting their preening manliness. Sadistically abusing his body, ridiculing him, experimenting with Gundar’s own burgeoning manhood. For fun, to exact the sadistic enjoyment out of Gundar’s plight that he saw filling their groins. The old man’s words rang now prophetic. “You’ll spend the rest of your life in chains”. Gundar’s arms had been locked in this collar for three days. While they had toyed with him, mocked his helplessness. And brought him captive to their city. For he knew not what.
Stories had reached his ears. Skirmishes from an unknown invading band. Sometimes robbing, perhaps searching for slaves, always frightening simple unarmed villagers. . But each time Gundar went to investigate, the marauders had evaporated. A band of about twelve, built like fearsome warriors. They roughed people up, gave it to anyone who stood up to them. Popping up all over the place, aggressively asked questions in a language no one understood. Stole food, threatened the women and then stole back into the forest and disappeared.

Gundar had sat patiently by the old man’s bed holding his hand while he ranted on. “Amari’s”, he kept saying. “They were Amari’s”. Everyone smiled benignly. Amari was out of the mists of time, it was not real. The old man had been stabbed when he’d dare stand up to the band. Vicious muscled bullies who had taken it out on a frail old man. He was obviously gripped by the fever of his wounds going on about being attacked by men from a storytale.

“Amari’s”, he repeated to Gundar, glad that their giant of a protector had turned up. But his temper broke when he saw the patronising smile on that big soft face.
“Don’t give me that look!” he snapped. “You’re not so big I can’t box your ears”, he yelled infuriated at the giant muscled hulk by his side.
“I spent 5 years in their slavery. I know an Amari when I see one”.

Gundar nodded kindly, he let the man rant. Five years in slavery in a city that did not exist, the old man had started to believe his own stories! Stories about being taken as a young man into slavery. The starvation, the destitution. He’d obviously elaborated his stories so many times he thought they were true. The unwarranted beatings at the hand of the Amaris. Things, the old man said, he could not talk about in front of the young, giving Gundar a knowing look. Gundar listened patiently, putting these stories all down to the fever, burning up with his wound. Amaris - a legend. A mythical kingdom never seen. But supposedly peopled by a ferocious warring tribe. Whose cruelty against their enemies was legendary. Whose name was a by-word for barbarity. A name to frighten children with when they wouldn’t go to sleep.

Gundar stood to take his leave, the old man already dozing. But as he left, he heard the dozing words from behind.
“Take care, young man. The Amari’s mean harm”.
Prophetic words.

Two days later, a stranger was pointed out to Gundar, one of the old man’s attackers. One of the raiding party still making trouble. Protective to his own, Gundar had strode meaningfully towards him. But the stranger spotted him and took off. Gundar followed at a comfortable sprint down the river bank, his long loping stride keeping pace without any effort. No stranger was going to out-pace the stamina of Gundar.

The warrior turned and hesitated. He was fit, a fast-runner and Gundar saw him shudder that his sprint had not shaken him off. Gundar noticed him re-think his escape and then dart into the trees seeking cover in the jungle. Without even breaking stride, hardly in a sweat, Gundar followed in fast pursuit. Crashing through the trees, the undergrowth getting thicker, the track getting narrower, Gundar was closing. Not for one second losing sight of that broad muscled back on a full-grown man who dared bully a frail old man from his tribe.

Then the forest all closed in on them, Gundar’s prey slowed, stopped. His back showing confusion, worry. The path had narrowed to nothing. It ended in a wall of rock. Gundar stopped too. And smiled, relaxed, his prey was trapped, he had nowhere to go. Forward was only a rock wall, to the sides dense impenetrable undergrowth. Cornered. Gundar slowed to a halt, feeling a burst of energy gushing with satisfaction, like a dynamic starburst. The old man’s attacker was trapped. The only way to go was back. Round Gundar. Through Gundar. Gundar smiled. Knowing he was about to teach this abuser of old men a lesson he’d never forget.

The man turned to Gundar. Arms out, placating, in friendship. Talking a language Gundar did not understand. Explaining probably he meant no harm, the old man had got them wrong. Smiling, telling lies, it was the old man who gone for them with the knife, the wound was an unfortunate slip. But Gundar just stood and stared, not understanding, not wanting to know. He felt himself endowed with a potency of righteousness. Knowing only that whatever the stranger said, Gundar was going to give him a thrashing that he’d not forget. The warrior was brutishly good-looking, and powerfully muscled. Pure animal male, surely intimidating to an old man but it seemed the brave old man had bravely stood up to these indomitable fighters. But against Gundar this stranger didn’t have the strength for a fight of any sort. In this battle for male supremacy, there was only one possible winner. He was going to be on the receiving end of Gundar’s fist and Gundar was not about to go easy on him. Still the stranger talked away, still many paces apart. Let’s talk about this, his body seemed to say, we men know how easily an accident can happen…….. Warily eying Gundar’s size blocking his escape route.

Eventually, Gundar held up his hand to stop the excuses. Despite his own physical appearance, the strongly-built stranger automatically stopped his incomprehensible gibberish and obeyed Gundar’s simple sign of strength and authority. Cowed by the overwhelming power behind the simple gesture.
“You and your friends took it out on a frail old man”.
Gundar’s voice was deep, authoritative. The warrior did not understand the words but he seemed to get the tone. His eyes opened a bit wider. In fright.
“You’ve frightened women, beaten up old men. Stolen hard-earned food. And now I am going to make you listen”.
To underline his words, Gundar shook his fist.
“You’ll go back to your friends and tell them. Gundar says, Leave”.

The warrior visibly saw the threat carried by that huge threatening bicep. The size of other men’s thighs. He seemed to blanch at the sight of the shaken fist. Gundar saw the swallow of fear in a thick muscled neck. And the warrior started jabbering again. Not so glib, not so confident now. Slowly backing away on his own powerfully built legs. Evidently intimidated by the indomitable force blocking his way. Backwards towards the impregnable rockface. Slowly Gundar advanced. Not even aggressively. He didn’t need to, he’d flattened the swine with one blow. This was justice, this was deserved.

It happened before he realised. A sharp snap cracked in the air. A tight catch around his leg. And then Gundar was disoriented. The world turned on its head. Before he knew it, Gundar was swinging upside down. A tight pain around one ankle and swinging wildly wrong way up. He’d stepped in some animal snare. Just as he had been about to teach this stranger a lesson. Just about to pay him back for wounding an old man, Gundar had stepped into some stupid animal trap. Hardly the best way to teach a bully a lesson.

Tuesday, July 23, 2013


They'd been mates for years, and joined up together.  There was no avoiding this though.  Timpson had been guilty of rape in one of the villages they'd served in.  To avoid a court martial he would have to take a private thrashing in the abandoned barracks.  Soames was chosen to give it.  The men looked at each other, face to face.  `Get on with it you twat` said Timpson.  They smiled, but they both knew that Timpson would have to look well beat up before Soames reported back.  Soames stepped up to his mate.  They looked into each other's eyes.  `You'll be OK mate` said Soames.  Timpson nodded.  Their faces moved closer.  Timpson closed his eyes, and Soames kissed him.  They held the moment for about 20 seconds, tasting their breath and smell, their pecs and nipples nudging and kissing. `Sorry I've gotta do this buddy` said Soames. `I would rather have it from you than anyone else Soamesy` whispered Timpson.  `Just like the old days eh Timmo? back in the garage?`  They grinned.  Soames stood back and flexed the belt, whipping it thru the air.  `It feels good Timmo, I might even enjoy this`  He laid it hard on his buddy.  The first of many.  Very many.  He was still lashing his buddy, with a hard-on in his jeans, when the sergeant-major came down.  `OK Soames, I think he's had enough now`  `I wanted to lash the spunk out of him sir, for what he?s done` said Soames.  `Yes well, you two can sort that out another time` said the sarge, and he went back out.  `Hear that Timmo?` Soames asked his mate, holding his face in his hand.  `Yeah` whispered Timpson `sort me out now Soamesy.  Please`  Soames grinned, and his hand dropped onto his mate's cock.  It was already semi-erect, and soon got hard in his hand.  `Guess I've got the whip hand then buddy` said Soames, as he started to jack his mate.  `You always have had Soamesy, and you know it`  `That bruv of yours is 18 now, ain't he Timmo?` asked Soames.  `Yeah, and he likes you mate`  Timpson and Soames looked at each other.  `Take him under your wing when we get home Soamesy.  Sort him out.  Man to man.  He needs it` said Timpson.  `My pleasure mate, my pleasure` said Soames, as Timpson shuddered and shot in his hand

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Jailed Hero

The choice was his.  200 lashes as he was, or 100 naked.  The prison guards knew he wouldn't want to be seen taking the whip stark bollock naked in front of the gathered prisoners, most of whom hated his guts.  He was too good for them, a military hero who found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time.  A slight pause.  He knew what 200 lashes would feel like, what it would do to a man.  All he had to do was let them delicately pull that white lace, and pretend his pants were still on.  No way.  He muttered `200`.  Six months later, when the general jail riot broke out, he was chained up here again by the rioting horde.  They hated him even more for the 200 he'd taken, and they remembered alright.  Nothing gets forgotten in jail.  Although the chief riotleader was brandishing a whip it wasn't used.  He just delicately pulled the white lace, leering into his face.  A couple of inmates pulled the trackie bottoms down and cut them away with Stanley knives.  Then without further delay one of them grabbed his balls and sliced his ballsac off with the knife.  He stood there, legs spread wide, trying to maintain his pride and dignity as blood ran down his thighs.  His cock hung flaccidly, but they knew he still had spunk in him.  One of them grabbed his cock and jacked him.  He was horrified that it got hard in the lowlife's hand, and he felt himself cumming.  He shot his load and a massive roar went up that could be heard by the gathered SWAT and police teams outside the prison walls.  He broke down and sobbed, as his bollocks were passed around and kissed by the rioting men

Friday, June 28, 2013

The Containement of Testosterone

Punishing young men took up a huge amount of resources for frontier folk.  Keeping them in the best shape for work, keeping their male urges in check and punishing them when they didn't.  The young male labour force created the West, but only under the liberal use of the whip and the liberal use of muscle from the older guys.  More severe correction was often needed, in dark places which no-one spoke about, since it was also deemed a waste of energy for a young male to spill his seed needlessly.  Everything had to be channeled into muscle energy, and the young guys were taught this in the only way they understood ? the infliction of pain on their burgeoning masculinity

Thursday, June 27, 2013

Whipped Cop

it wasn't the pain, he could take that. It was what they were doing to his manly, beautiful body that tore the guts out of him.  He'd been building his physique up for years.  He loved it, women loved it, and he flaunted it in front of men.  Men were now destroying it, and they'd only just started


Thursday, June 20, 2013

Day 1 of my Summer Vaction by garyRo

Gangbanger's (Newark New Jersey)

GaryRo's cross country trip journal

Like many American's I thought it nice to spend some time traveling across the U.S. from east to west coast. I took most of the month of June starting in the east and working my way through America's heartland to Los Angeles. Unlike most American's and their families I could give a fuck about historic sites, I was far more interested in visiting and partying with my favorite Gangbangers along the way. Of course I documented my trip to share with my friends at Chained Muscle.

To be honest I kicked off my journey in New York City but my first stop was in New Jersey where I hooked up with some old friends in Newark, hadn't seen these guys in a few years, but they sure treated me to a great night.

Next stop the city of Brotherly Love (so correctly named)

Stinging Pecs

yeah he's getting it, as he knew he always would

`yeah go on Reece` another smack tears into his chest

`ahhh yeah, you fucker, give it to me`  CRACK

`ahhh you bastard` CRACK

`ahhhhhh, fuck Reece, you're good mate`  CRAAAACCKKK

`awwwww, oh Reece`  CRAACKK

`awww mate you got me where you want me`   CRAAAACCKKK`

`awww fuck mate I built up this body for you mate`   CRACK

`awwwwwww yeaah, destroy me you fucker, it's all yours`  CRACKK

`give it to me`   CRACKKK

`it's all for you mate`   CRACCKKKK

`destroy me mate, destroy me`   CRACKKK

`aww mate, I'm never gonna compete again after this`   CRACKKK

`I'm finished, and you're the guy who did it` CRACK

`aww mate yeah, lower that waistband`  CRACKK  `AWWW!!!!`

Reece turned him round and said `That was just for starters buddy.  Now for some real fun.  That back has been waiting ten years for this`   SMMMAAAAACKKKKK

Monday, June 17, 2013

Lashed Up On A Saturday Night

The boss loves him, but can never show it.  The only thing Tim Douglas understands is the whip.  He takes it like a hero, egging his boss on. `Go on Mr Sampson, give it to me, harder, I've been slacking this week ...OH YEAHHH... oh sir, that's it .....OH YEAAHHH`   The whipping sessions at the back of the aluminium yard, usually on a Saturday evening, after the yard closed.  It's all both guys live for.  Mr Sampson's pulse races each Saturday morning at around 8 when he hears Tim roar thru the front gate on his gixxer thou, stunting around and spinning up the rear wheel, shirtless and in only in his denim cutoffs, boots, gloves and lid.  He skids to a stop in front of the boss's window, gunning the motor, his legs spread wide on the big Jap bike, grinning at him thru his dark visor.  Finally he'll kill the engine, pull off his helmet and look at the boss.  Sampson will say `One of these days you'll throw that bike down the road Douglas, and that pretty body of yours will know all about it`.  `Well, I guess making me know all about it is what you're gonna do to me later on tonight, ain't that right Mr Sampson?`  `Get to work you dog, I'll sort you out later`  Saturday always passed slowly for Sampson, as he counted the hours til 6pm.  In the afternoon at about 3 he'd get eaten up with jealousy when Tim's girlfriend flounced into the yard.  Douglas would always make a fuss of her, stroke her back and arms, hold her close, and look up at the boss's window to check he was taking it in.  He'd see Sampson's steely stare through the glass, and knew he was working him up for a thrashing.  `Am I gonna see you tonight baby?` his girl would ask `You know I can't babe` Tim would always say `Gotta work late for Mr Sampson.  He puts the bread on our table for us and our little Timmy`

Sunday, June 16, 2013

Tommy & The Mob

Tommy was a typical handsome college stud, frat boy, arrogant, and an all around dick wad. Just the kind of ass wipe I always hated in college. Tall with bright blue eyes he got any chick he wanted, how I got stuck with this worm for a room mate I'll never know, in fact his only redeeming qualities as far as I was concerned was he made good eye candy and the fact that he dealt drugs (far be it from me to complain about free pot).

I eventually changed room mates, Tommy's drug dealing was consuming him and I didn't want to get caught up in his shit. One day Tommy just disappeared, I figured he got busted, someone told me he was skimming profits from the Russian Mob, who knows the truth. I'm sure he got what was coming to him.

Gundar: Scene 1: The Plot — 1a. Prophecy

A myth. A story.
Gundar held the old man’s hands. Feeling respect. Feeling for the injuries the frail old man had taken. And suspecting a fever had seized hold of the old man’s brain.
“It was Amaris. I should know, I was their slave”.
Slave to a myth. Slave to a people that did not exist! The thought was still flashing through Gundar’s head when the old man turned on him.
“Mock me at your peril, you fool!” he cried.
Gundar squeezed his hand.
“Relax, old man. I believe you. Just rest”.

“Rest, you stupid young puppy!”

Gundar smiled benevolently at the old man who had been attacked by the strangers Gundar had been trying to track down. With Gundar’s shape and age, “puppy” was hardly the word. But the man would not let go.

Gundar tried to stop him but the old man shrugged off his hand and struggled tottering to his feet. Angrily he gestured away Gundar’s offering arm.

“Rest?” The old man shook his head in frustration.
“You’ll spend the rest of your life in chains if I rest!”
Gundar smiled kindly.
The old man glared back in frustration. For all his size Gundar was like every young fool! They always knew better!

The old man had been right. Unsuspecting Gundar had walked straight in the trap. He had never believed this kingdom existed. He knew of those Amaris as just as story. But everything the old man had told him about them was turning out to be true. Yet Gundar had dismissed the story of the Amaris as some legend the old folks told. A myth of the legendary city of Amari. A place of subjugation and cruelty. The kind of story about savage marauding warriors you frightened children with when they didn’t behave.

But then in that case it was a myth that had put Gundar in bonds. In chains, - just as the old man had warned. Prophetic words. After three days of being marched away into their captivity Gundar was fully convinced. Warriors of Amari had come for him, they’d brought the battle to him. Well-prepared, well-armed, sending their best after him by the look of these warriors. There was a strong streak of cruelty in them, too, in these men who had mockingly shoved and jostled at him these last three days.. Just as the old man had warned. Hands trapped behind his head for the last three days, unfed, barely watered, toyed with, mocked. His hands caught up behind in the collar that they’d forced on him, beaten and abused at every chance, Gundar now stared in amazement at this mythical city. He stood in the shadow of this incredible citadel to which his captors had brought him. Him and him alone. This had been no raiding party. They had not come to take slaves. They had come for only him. He stood in bonds before this fabled city, ogled by onlookers. They had come for him. They wanted him. Him and only him. For what? He shivered in realisation that the legend of the cruel Amari had set out to take Gundar captive. For what?

“Rest?” Gundar had said coaxingly.
The old man had uttered in disbelief at this scepticism.
“You’ll spend the rest of your life in chains if I rest!”

Friday, June 14, 2013

Class Act

As an infantryman he didn't know much. And on the second session he'd told them all he knew. And they knew it. But he was just so bloody good. He took the whip with style. He knew how to respond to the pain, to stifle a moan, to sway and square his stance. To drop his head when things were getting bad. To raise his eyes at his captors and pant heavily, to drop his gaze slowly from their face, down their chest, onto their groin and down onto their feet. They kept him in good condition, and brought him out for the men parties on holidays. `Let me go, please let me go` he'd whisper. But just in the right way. Did he even want to go home? Eventually a sheik bought him. For the same stuff, but those chains were made of white gold, a neckchain of lapis lazuli was added to his dogtags, and he was allowed a girl once a month. The sheik looked on as he enjoyed her. He'd then take him into his room for his monthly lashing

Thursday, June 13, 2013

Wipping the Grin Off His Face

A waiting cell was just that, and there were strict rules that the prisoners had to be left alone.  But what the rules said and what actually happened was, well, kind of different.  This guy was still giving lip, despite the clamps.  We'd have to fix that.  The sheriff reached into his drawer.  Where is it?  Ah, here it is.  A large powerful bulldog clip.  It had corrected so many guys' balls.  They were all street brawlers and thought they could take anything.  Until their balls said hello to the sheriff's bulldog clip.  A couple of hours of that and they were corrected.  Punished.  Disciplined.  He'd jack them till they were there, then as they climaxed he'd take it off.  Shooting your muck in pure agony.  Just one of the tricks you learned in the waiting cell


Tuesday, June 11, 2013

The Legend of Gundar Introduction

Gundar, orphaned in the darkest jungles during bloody tribal wars and taken in by his father¹s friends, is raised in the ways of the jungle warrior. With the help of his murdered father¹s scientific breakthrough, young Gundar grows into the largest, most powerful warrior the tribes have ever seen, this golden-haired, bronze-skinned giant taller and more massively muscled than any white man or native to walk the Zucubu jungle...a giant with one very dangerous weakness. A side effect of his father¹s discovery could render this brave powerhouse totally helpless and at the mercy of his enemies...a secret few know.

Now a strange band of marauding warriors are causing trouble in the Zucubu jungle. The men evoke fear and fantastic stories of a distant city...tales of cruelty and torture. Only Gundar can put a stop to the harassment of the villagers and ease the fears of his people. Gundar must hunt down these foreign warriors...but is the muscular hunter being hunted?

The warring tribes of the isolated and vast Zucubu jungle believed in an ancient prophecy—legends told of the coming of a giant, golden-haired, white warrior of great strength and power. This mighty warrior would be god-like, standing a head taller and nearly twice the size of the mightiest of the Zucubu, with muscles massive, rippling, and awe-inspiring even to the fierce and powerful Zucubu tribesman. He would live among the people fighting to serve and protect the weaker tribes. He would have the strength of ten Zucubu warriors but his temperament would be as gentle as would a child’s—until the peace of the jungle was threatened. Jonathan and his young son Gunther were unaware of such stories when they came to live and work in the jungle.

Jonathan, a research biologist, came looking for rare plants to study their properties and hopefully create new biologic medicines and serums. The doctor’s wife had recently passed away and Jonathan brought his son with him to experience a new life of discovery and adventure, hoping that one day he could find a cure for what lead to his wife’s death. Some of the tribes feared the white man, golden-haired, tall and powerfully built, the tribal elders and witchdoctors wondering if the prophecy might come true. Jonathan and his fair-haired son took refuge with a tribe on the high plateau, a tribe with open hearts and minds. The tribe helped Jonathan set up his jungle lab and reaped the benefits of western technology and medicine.

With his lab established and young Gunther adjusting well to his new surroundings and friends, Jonathan set about researching the local flora—and he was amazed at the numerous plants that had never before been seen anywhere on the planet. He also discovered other plants obviously related to previously known specimens but which were somehow different, almost mutated from their known cousins. Even more amazing to Jonathan, he discovered that the combination of various plants by the elder medicine women of the tribes were what gave the Zucubu warriors their powerful builds and musculature and the Zucubu women their strong, athletic stature, such size and strength uncommon in other tribes of the continent. The similarities of these potions to supplements and steroids used in the modern world but without the detrimental side effects in the tribesmen piqued Jonathan’s curiosity. Further studies led him to believe that by modifying the potions with some additional plants and compounds found only on the plateau could lead to a compound that would develop the human body in ways never before seen. Unsure of the side effects his variations on the original potions may create, Jonathan decided to test the new compound on himself—the results were nothing short of amazing.

The thirty-eight year old man soon began to feel the youthful strength and vigor of a man twenty years younger. His already mature and substantial muscles not only began to grow, but over a period of weeks they thickened and developed a density that was nothing short of mind-numbing. Within a matter of six weeks, Jonathan’s body had grown to huge proportions even by the standards of the tall and powerfully built natives of the region. To aid in his taking measurements during the process of testing the compound, Jonathan had built a rough but accurate set of scales using rocks as a counter balance. To his amazement, while the strapping research scientist’s muscular, 6’2”, 200-pound frame did not gain any additional height, it did gain another 100 pounds of dense, powerful muscle and bone mass—and the increase in his raw strength was more than proportional to the increase in muscle mass and density. Jonathan was astounded that, by using his new compound, he had developed the physique of the largest super-heavyweight bodybuilder and the strength of the world’s strongest men—and in a phenomenally short period of time and without ANY side effects common to those men. In fact, the only visible side effects were far from detrimental in Jonathan’s mind. In the modern world, men typically gained their tremendous physiques and superhuman strength by using steroids, human growth hormones, and synthetically manufactured supplements used over a period of years in conjunction with lifting enormous amounts of weight. Jonathan, however, noticed only two side effects and, while both could be somewhat embarrassing and somewhat debilitating at times, they were anything but negative as far as he was concerned.

First, though he did not suffer from gynecomastia, Jonathan began to notice a surprising and intense sensitivity in his nipples—a sensitivity so strong that he could not suffer the friction of even the softest clothing rubbing up against them without becoming extremely aroused sexually. That sexual arousal compounded the fact that, far from genital atrophy, Jonathan’s serum had caused genital hypertrophy—that is, his already impressive endowment had increased quite dramatically in size and sensitivity. In a nutshell, about three weeks into the changes, Jonathan couldn’t suffer a shirt or anything else touching his nipples—not that he had any shirts that would fit him after the first week anyway—without the friction causing him to become extremely aroused. Now only able to wear a pair of pants cut off into some very tight shorts that did little to hide his new bulge even when he was soft, the bare-chested, bulging scientist was normally more naked than not—a visual that was not lost on anyone who saw him.

All of the tribesmen saw the transformation in their golden-haired guest and murmurings that the prophecy was indeed coming to fruition began to circulate through the village as well as the other tribes. Noticing the change in the natives’ reaction to his new physique, Jonathan questioned the chief as to the prophecy that was being whispered about behind his back. The tribal elders brought Jonathan to ancient caves where extremely specific and detailed hieroglyphs described the legend. Surprised at the similarities between his new form and this jungle giant, the muscle bound scientist could not believe that he had anything to do with such a story—but the neighboring tribes did.

As rumors of the white man suddenly becoming a muscle giant spread throughout the jungle, rival tribes grew more and more fearful. Some ambitious and greedy among those tribes decided to capitalize on the concern that the balance of power between the tribes would be upset–they preyed on those fears until the various tribes were so stirred up that they had begun to prepare for all out war. They must kill the white giant and the tribe that would benefit from his power.

The village elders could not convince their counterparts that Jonathan was not the prophecy fulfilled and soon realized that war was inevitable. Regardless of the fact that their muscular and powerful guest was convinced he was not the giant foretold in the prophecy, they had no doubt that Jonathan would make a formidable warrior and provide them an advantage in the battles to come. At first, Jonathan refused to believe that there was no way to avoid a war based on mistaken identity. But as skirmishes began to occur and villagers began to die when caught too far from the village, Jonathan realized he had no choice but to fight for the people who’d taken he and his son in so generously — they would all be killed if he didn’t.

An so, Gunther safe with the women and children of the village, Jonathan marched with the village warriors to meet the other tribes head-on before they could get too close to their homes on the plateau. The battle took place at the river. Jonathan proved as powerful and valiant as any warrior and his tribe was victorious—but the white muscle man sustained injuries in confrontations where he was overwhelmed by the sheer number of enemy warrior and those injuries lead to his death a few days later.

The tribal leaders promised Jonathan on his deathbed that they would raise and protect young Gunther, whom they called Gundar, (they could not pronounce the English “th” sound). The instigators of the unrest had been killed and with his death, the other tribes would believe the balance had been restored and would no longer perceive them as a threat—Gundar would be safe—at least until he was a grown man and able to take care of himself.

Over the next eight years, the tribe hid the existence of young Gundar, fearing other tribes would fear the golden-haired youth as they had his father. However, Gundar was raised as one of their own and never had reason to be concerned about his place in the village.

And Gundar grew strong and proud and even larger than his father before taking the growth serum. Quickly outgrowing his western clothing and wanting to be as much like his friends in the village as possible, the young man quickly became accustomed to wearing tribal clothing amounting to nothing more than a small animal skin thong. As his deeply tanned body filled out with thick, powerful muscle, he was taught the ways of the jungle warrior and learned all the skills necessary to survive in such a harsh environment. Broad-shouldered, deep-chested, hard-muscled, and thick, closely cropped golden-blond hair…Gundar!

At twenty, Gundar came of age and tribal elders took Gundar to the ancient caves. They explained the prophecy and the scientific discovery of Gundar’s father. They believed Gundar was the chosen one. Only the chosen one could take the strength potion and fulfill his destiny. Even without the strength formula of Jonathan, Gundar was nearly a perfect specimen. The young man was very tall and muscular with agility and skills unlike any of the other young warriors. The elders knew of the plants and the formulation of the strength serum. Gundar must take it and fulfill his destiny. They gave Gundar all the journals containing the instructions of his father, so he could understand what was going to happen to him. The metamorphosis ceremony began and Gundar began to change with every dose of the medicine. Within days, the tall young man became a muscle giant. He was indeed the chosen one.

Jonathan’s research journals explained the only side effect to the permanent metamorphosis — hyper-sensitive nipples. Gundar could only brush his hand across the large nubs and become overwhelmed. His knees would buckle and the muscle god would develop an instant erection. He must keep his secret weakness quiet, the tribe still had a few enemies in the jungle, enemies that would want the muscle giant dead.

A meeting was held of for all of the region’s tribes. Gundar was introduced as the fulfillment of the prophecy — the chosen one. Gundar knew he and his tribe would be tested. The skirmishes broke out almost immediately. Gundar single handedly overwhelmed the small, unorganized groups of men that confronted him. Soon his dominance set all precedence and peaceful relations between the tribes. There was the occasional feud or outbreak of violence, but Gundar was always there to resolve it, by force if necessary.

Can Gundar’s great strength be enough to overcome new threats to the peace? Gundar is put to the test when a strange band of warriors invade the Zucubu jungle…with the intent of hunting the legendary muscle man.

Sunday, June 9, 2013

This One's Special

Another one, they were all disposable objects.  The women had been at him - his cock was semi-hard and dripping.  Now a man would have his fun with him.  Tariq slashed his whip across the young soldier's chest, nearly at his throat. He barely made any sound, but flinched and looked away.  Tariq's aim was perfect.  He lowered his whiplashes half-inch by half-inch.  The soldier stayed quiet, but on the eighth stroke the whip went right across both nipples and he screamed out.  Tariq laughed but carried on slowly lowering his aim.  The sixteenth went across his navel and the soldier buckled up as far as his bound wrists would let him.  Tariq's eyes flashed.  He knew his soldier was now in pain.  His next stroke went slightly lower and at the twenty-first stroke the whip wound round the young man's pelvis.  The end gave a higher smack note as it kissed his left arse cheek.  The soldier tried to keep silent but burst out with a groan as the sting racked his body.  `That feels good doesn't it soldier` said Tariq and he repeated the stroke.  The whip was at the level of the man's pubes, and Tariq lowered the next one slightly lower.  It caught the man's cock, which was still semi-hard.  It flicked his cock violently upward, and more drops of spunk flew off his cockhead.  The man was looking away.  Tariq moved to the left side of the soldier and started his strokes again from the very top of his chest.  The man squared his stance and flexed his body as the whip travailed slowly down his naked bleeding chest.  When it reached his pubes again he was still semi-erect, and spunk was drooling from his pisshead, swinging in time to the whiplashes.  Tariq went up to the guy and took hold of his cock.  It went hard in his warm hand, and Tariq grinned at him.  `You're loving it aren't you you sonofabitch` he said to him.  `I could say the same to you you bastard` said the soldier.  His eyes met Tariq's and his lips were apart.  Tariq grabbed his head and kissed him.  The soldier made a stifled grunt of protest, and tried to force his head away.  Tariq continued to hold him and enjoyed the invasion of the soldier's face.  He was still holding his cock in his left hand, and he felt it throb.  The soldier came, and warm jizz ran down Tariq's fingers.  He pulled away and laughed, as the soldier dropped his head and started to sob.  Tariq resumed his whipping.  The man broke down in shame. Tariq smacked the lashes across his groin and watched the soldier's semen continue to dribble and flick.  This guy was special.  He undid his shackles and pushed the cuffed man down into the special holding area.  He joined three other captives.  They all showed ability to take the whip, and respond to it in ways Tariq or his men liked.  If they took the whip, they could take other things.  There was plenty of boy fun to be had down here.  One guy was taking juice to his balls.  This was where Tariq and his men relaxed  

Thursday, June 6, 2013

The Warrior

Chained and exhausted the handsome young warrior faces his fate, firmly in the grasp of a torturer he is guided deeper into the smoke filled torture chamber. He feels a knot in his hard stomach as his eyes begin to adjust in the firelight room where he is treated to the sight of strong young men helplessly in agony. The torturer forces the muscular warrior towards one of the tiny cages hovering over a pit.


The priest would make his entry ritualistically slow, using buffalo grease to lube the procedure. But only for his own comfort.  He was well-hung, and entering a man was difficult.  After six slow jabs into the punished man's arse he would withdraw.  The man would be tied belly-down over the altar, and his back lashed while the priest pushed his cock down the man's throat.  The braves would enter and fuck the guy, the most senior first.  They never took long.  They slapped his arse hard as they cum, then pulled out and the next one was in.  Time was of the essence, as fucking ceased when the priest shot his seed down the man's throat.  The priest would leave, and the lashing stopped.  He would be left there, but the braves then violated the man's urethra, pushing blades of dried alfalfa grass into his cock until he shot his load.  He would be dragged off the altar and hustled into a tent for more punishment.  The sounds of the night animals would be punctuated by his moans, his screams.  `Aahhhhh my balls, no more please, ohhh my balls ...`

Tanaeus Gets Pinned

Tanaeus flexes his pecs while the dungeonmaster presses his nipple studs in. `Thankyou sir` he whispers. The dungeonmaster looks at him with surprise. `It always helps when an expert does it` Tanaeus added. `I'm an expert with the whip too, slaveboy` dungeonmaster said. `Your body tells me that sir. Your body's fantastic` Tanaeus said. `Flattery will get you nowhere with me. Move along` said the dungeonmaster. But he was well made up, and made a big show of flexing his biceps when he ripped off the tatty vest of Ganno behind. Ganno was too dumb to try any flattery though, and he took a gut-punch, before the dungeonmaster reached down into his pouch and squeezed his balls hard. `He loves it sir` chuckled Tanaeus. The dungeonmaster looked round at him, again with surprise. Tanaeus was standing with his legs spread apart, his loincloth showing a buttock. He was facing forward but looking round at the dungeonmaster with a cock-sucking grin. `I told you to move down to the cells` said the dungeonmaster. `Will you be coming down sir?` asked Tanaeus. The dungeonmaster flicked his gaze over the slave's back, and felt himself get hard. `You're asking for it Tanaeus` said the dungeonmaster. `Don't ask, don't get` winked Tanaeus, and he slouched off, swaggering his broad lats, saying `oh my nipples sir, they hurt, they hurt so good`