Cody

Cody 9 - Horace's Tale (Horses Tail)

Emile 2009

Usual caveats apply

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Well while I'd been busy with Cody, I got a call from the studio.  Horace had tried to run away - well kind of crawl away really.  It was late evening and Pedro and Luis had been taking turns in fucking his face and arse, and then forcing his head between his legs so he could tongue out the juice from his own gaping cunthole.  They'd been going at it for 4 hours, since shooting had stopped, and the beefy muscle freak been crying and getting all sniffly as they rammed their choads down his throat and pistoned into the already slick crack.  But they got bored of the usual training, and told him they wanted him to lick his own arse.  He freaked, tried to jump up, but after a day of buttfucking he could barely walk, and only managed to half pull himself of Luis' gigantic veiny dork before Pedro had slapped him back down.

Once they calmed him down a little, they doubled the size freak over on his ragged 3 seater couch, Luis prising his knees far apart and tying them to the armrests, forcing his hole up and wide.  The position was agonising, and Pedro flailed about, taking both brawny men ages to grip his sinewed forearms and tie them to his ankles. From there, the trussed silicon junkie was theirs, and no matter the pain or his screams, they slowly leant on his back, forcing him to almost double over, crushing his fat pecs against his leaky hard knob, still pulsing between his cut abs, and bringing his swollen cocksucker lips closer and closer to the winking (well, pulsing) hole.  Man and horse cum clung to the ring in clogged chunks, trapped to the few remaining arsehairs and fed by a constant stream of junk from deep inside.  It was foul, and being up close to his own boycunt broke through all the fragile mental barriers the straight beefcake had set up between his rising bodybuilding past and his degenerated dysmporphic porn present.  He gagged, but not before they forced his lips to suction down on the busted hole, closing the loop, so as to speak, so he could do nothing but swallow whatever came out, including the spoogy bile he coughed up to it in the first place.  He nearly choked, breathing only his nose half buried in sopping smelly cunthairs gave some respite from being forced to ream himself out,  They kept him there an hour, five in all, and it was close to midnight when they finally allowed the cumdump to prise his lips off, gasp for fresh air and straighten his bowed back.  And, they said, that's how they left him, arms and legs spread wide, violated hole still oozing slightly, his big crushed balls and throbbing dick still rubbing against his chiselled midsection, leaving a trail of needy dickleak stretching up to his titan tits.

Somehow, during the night, he found the strength to snap off an armrest - no mean feat for most, but his tree trunk legs and melon arms were still impressively strong, when he hadn't been exhausted on the set.  Once he was partly free, he wrestled out of the bonds and crawled across the floor, his fat dork and pumped and stretched balls dragging - something that made him easy to find, since his dickleak, smeared out by the heavy sack, made a glistening snail trail to the door.  He'd not been locked in that night, and when he got out of the door, managed to stumble down the stairs, catching his arsecheek on the bottom steel tread, and letting out a yelp as the pain ripped through his tender hole.  It was his undoing, as a ranch hand heard the naked titan call out, and looked up to see his naked form crawling in the grass, one beefy hand clutching at his muscular arse.  The wily ranch hand didn't alert him though, just watched from a distance, slowly shadowing the abused mule as he crawled slowly for freedom.

It was, by his account, a treat to see, the oversized mancow catching his stretched nads underknee several times, causing him to double over in silent wheezing agony, as he desperately tried to keep quiet.    Likewise his dork dragged across the ground, causing him to cradle it regularly from the beating and scratches of dragging prickskin over rocks and sand, but he was still to fucked to be able to stagger more than a couple of paces before dropping back to his knees.  By 1.30am, the star fuck had half crawled, half staggered out of the compound and to the next farm along.  the rancher watched as he staggered up to the porch, cradling his heavy tackle as he banged on the door, begging for help through the screen.  He rancher chuckled to himself and came back to the studio to tell the guys.

See, the ranch hand knew the stud couldn't get far, and the house he'd chosen to run to was no challenge to them.  Old Ray, who lived in the house, may have been a near blind and deaf old guy on the outside, but most knew what a wily and sick fucker he was underneath.  He trained guys for private clients, and liked to be near the ranch so he could borrow a guy or two to help him.  His latest charge was a 25 year old former model, with a 40" chest and 32" waist, whose hot and hairy body had graced a few magazines with only the thinnest fabric keeping his bulging package from the cameras.  Like so many other charges, he was turning the aggressive A list top into a dick-hungry fuck-anywhere bottom, and from the reamed and  swollen arselips that gaped in front of one of the house's many hidden cameras, it looked like he'd taken him a long way already.

So it was that while his charge was locked in a hidden room with as 12 inch rubber dong, a smear of vaseline and an idea of his punishment if he didn't shove it in to the hilt by sunset, that Horace stumbled up the stairs and flopped (literally) into Ray's house.  Ray was a generous man.  After making sure the model was raping himself quietly, he offered charity to our aching cumslut, and promised to hide him, and even found some clothes, even if they were only a smelly old pair of boxers that Horse flopped right out of, and a filthy singlet that scratched his nipples raw.  Of course, Ray had cameras stashed all over the joint, so we got to see Horse sit uncomfortably on the hard stool Ray set down for him, legs akimbo to balance on the low seat, his tackle hanging down from the leg. Ray pretended not to know, but kept accidentally swinging his cane and whacking the swollen dong, or prodding him to make a point, scraping his foreskin flap along his thigh.

Horse never complained, but tried to rest up on the short and heavy iron cot that Ray made him pull down to sleep on.  After making sure the model had enough pissy gruel and viagra for the day, Ray alternated Horse's drinks between an adrenaline that made him jumpy and itchy and really uncomfortable for one of two days, so he could barely sleep and was scared of discovery at any moment, and when he was almost crazy with sleep deprivation, aching pain and fear, slipped him some sedatives and roofies that knocked him cold out on the bunk in his boxers, his arms and legs flopped over the sides like fresh catch.

Of course Ray did the most unspeakably filthy things with him while he was knocked out.  Seeing how Horace was recovering his strength, for instance, and could possibly set off any day, he rolled up the shorts to his waist and pounded his inseam with the butt of his cane hard, just on the pubic bone next to the thigh, so he could barely close the leg, let alone stand on it, without being in brutal pain.  A couple of smacks hit his ballsac, but Ray was much more calculating than that.  He rolled Horse over to expose his slowly healing arsepucker, and dragged him by the ankles until his fat tackle dropped between the fabric and the frame.  From underneath, he pinched together Horaces low hanging sack and generous foreskin, pressing them against a rusty hangnail until the point broke through the skin, piercing his cock and balls together underneath the bed.  Even when he was fully concious, Horace couldn't be sure if the brutalising pain was from accidentally having hooked himself on the old frame or something more sinister, and he couldn't reach around to free himself either. 

Just to be sure of that, Horace's tits were level with a long split in the fabric, which lined up with one of the hard iron crossbars.  He'd already felt it biting into his back on previous nights, but would soon find the real reason for the exposed and rusty bar.  Ray reached under the unconcious hulk, pointing a glue nozzle between the bar and the fat titmounds bulging through the fabric.  Squeezing a healthy dollop of the superglue between them near each nip ensured that even if Horace tried to lift his bodyweight off his crushed nips, they'd be held firm against the chafing steel. Being effectively trapped to the cot, his bulging arms uselessly sprawled out above him, Ray took the chance to brutalise the slowly healing sphincter now winking in front of him. He pressed the dirty rubber cap of his gnarled cane against Horace's slowly recovering hole, rubbing the arseflesh raw until it tiny red cracks around the stretched sphincter snaked down to the wide cane plug.  Horace bucked and moaned in his sleep but was so drugged out he could barely resist the mechanical rape, even when he pushed the cane deep, sinking it inches into his unresisting bowels.  There was something more depraved about how Horace still had the old boxers on, so while his buttcheeks and tackle had come out of the fabric, Ray still needed to push aside the thin strip of material that had until then hidden his manpussy, before brutally ramming the stick in.  He knew the fabric would cover the worst of the damage from Horace's eyes.

When Horace awoke, of course, he was wracked with pain, shooting up his arse, tugging at his tits, not to mention when he tried to roll over and his pincered tackle jerked him back in place.  That was about when he felt the heat and smelt the aroma of another guy, a rank, sweaty pussystuffer, hovering over him.  Ray had woken up his charge, whose slippery hands still clung to the mega dildo, sweat and vaseline smeared over his hairy body, from the position he'd passed out in the secret room.  He had a mission - he would release him - for just one week - if he gave the guy in the other room the hardest, deepest punish fuck he was capable of.  To Horace's horror, only seconds after realising his predicament, the colt bore down on his arse like a meat tenderiser, slamming into him, spearing his sore arse deep and hard, theonly lube their intermingled sweat, making Horace scream with pain.  As he was thrust against the bed, not only did his whole body ache, but his pincered tackle pulled and scraped, nearly tearing an inch long hole in his precious foreskin, dragging the ball sac too. His mantits too yanked and dragged, until finally he ripped free of the crossbar trying to brace himself with his brawny arms against the onslaught, his pouty tits red and searing from losing their top layer of skin.  He bellowed like a trapped lion, or more accurately, a pig on a spit.  And all the while his rapist was himself still buttstuffed to the hilt.  Little did Horace know, in that first arse-rending rape, not only had his career as gay pin up boy come to an abrupt end, but that he had just become the bottom of the trash heap - a slave's slave.  Poor Horse would never be the same again.