Strong, virile, muscular men, captured, interrogated, tortured told in fantasy images and stories. These are from the website of Chained Muscle.
Monday, July 29, 2013
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.
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
Mates
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
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