BDSM Library - Story: Mike - A Detective Story, Chapter: Part 2

Mike 2

A Detective Story

by Emile

______________

So it was that when Mike didn't show for his big 18th birthday, there were plenty of confused guys and girls wondering where their hero and lust object (secretly some of the guys as much as the girls) didn't show.

Hey what're you doing here?

Mike your as skittish as a colt. Relax, it's your birthday. I got something for you.

Uh, you shouldn't have, I mean...

I said relax! I left it upstairs, c'mon.

Really, I shouldn't, and I gotta get to my dads...

The hot jock had so much charisma and athletic prowess it was unthinkable anything could have happened to him he didn't want. I mean, the taut musclestud wasn't scrappy, but he could hold his own in a fight, the huge guns that helped him vault and pivot were also mean weapons of defence. So for a while, the guys joked around about some secret initiation or rite of passage, guessing that this was part of some other plan, while Sasha lolled about, pulling at her dress which clung uncomfortably to her newly denuded snatch.

Oh fuck I'm so bombed, and this jacket's really hot...

I'll fix you another. Don't worry, we got this hotel room for the night, just relax, you can put it back on later. Whoa you're really stretching those buttons, and sweating already. Why don't you loosen your collar a bit for me?

Uh, who's we? And I really got to get going, I'm like super late already...

Whoa whoa, you ain't in no position to go like that. Sit here for a bit until you're feeling better. The boys'll be up soon...

What? um, maybe we should call...

Mikeeey....

Oh fuck, hi guys, can you help me, I really gotta get to the party...

Mikeey, chill out, have a brewskie... Here I got a game we can play - 18 rounds for your 18 years, eh?

Oh, no, I can't have any more, I'm feeling kinda dizzy and...

Okay, fuck no drinking man, you'll sober up just fine. Here, just poker. Hey we'll make it interesting. Strip poker?

Well, maybe if she, I mean if we're all playing...

But as midnight approached, everyone was worried. They checked on his dad's hotel, but the high flyer had taken back-to-back calls all afternoon while waiting, had had to be pried away from a London teleconference to hear the news that his son, due hours ago, was missing.

Shit, no, not again...

Woohoo Mikey, lost again. Well what's left?

Uh, well, oh no... That's it man, I've just got my jocks, I'm out.

Fuck no man, look at us, we've just got our boxers. You got plenty more to lose...

Uh, man, whats that mean... I'm still a buzzy and how come she's still fully dressed...

Yeah dumbass, you'll work it out eventually. So hup, shuck them jocks...

The police were called, and despite their usual 24 hour rule, they were all our searching for the hometown hero by first light. The morning news carried the story, hundreds of horny housewives woke to pictures of the white neon smile and chiseled face of Mike on the morning news, in his training singlet with folded arms tucked behind his triceps across his barrel chest. A convincing picture for compassion.

Oh no please no you can't ...uugh it's my, it's ...

yeah shut the fuck up cuntbreath you know the rules. so what you got left to give, eh. I mean you agreed to lose your pride, all you had to do was sit on my lap...

But I didn't know you were naked man, and then I felt...

Fuck yeah, your legs spread, my thick cock pressed up against yours, you look like a real male fuckslut in the pictures. But you liked my fist around your dick, you were humping and thrusting and drooling so much the shots look like porn. So you just keep playing your cards right and no-one has to see eh. So again, man, what you gonna lose? Huh?

No, please, my, I can't. I was drunk or drugged or something, I swear. Please just let me go, it's like dawn already...

No can do man. You gotta lose your virginity first. I mean you been riding my finger here for 15 minutes already, how much worse'll it be. Here, have another shot, it'll make it easier. Yeah your already pretty messy, and yeah, we slipped something in to keep you nice and passive, heh, so here, just another shot. Tell you what, he can go first, loosen you up, eh...

Two days went by without word, and Mike was a household name, a campaign in the making. Without leads, there was little the cops could do, and the news features anguished home room teachers, friends and fucks in a juggernaut of emotion.

Rise and shine Mikey, so how'd you rest. So those tradesmen really like their tools eh. Fuck you look a mess, your nipples are all puffy and look at the fucking head of that thing, it's like on fire or something! What'd they use? This bottle? Root killer eh, but that stuff's caustic! And they didn't even touch the grease I left for the fucking machine. Yeah yeah quit moaning, I'll ungag you as soon as I turn the machine off. Whoa - XXL, that's one mean dong pulverising your chute. Crack whores would choke on that choad. The suction's like reaming you out big time. Maybe I'll leave it on for a while longer, yeah? Oh don't get like that, quiet down or I'll get the wrench out. I'm warning you, you know your big muscles are no match for iron, specially tied down like that. I mean I'm sure you'd have moved your bare forearms away from the cigarettes yesterday if they were. So, how 'bout an hour?

Somehow, missing Mike was a cue for universal bonding, his girlfriends gathering in wistful recollection of the way he would get turned on whenever a towel grazed his nipples, their sensitive electricity shooting down to his hefty dick, which lurched with every touch like a livewire. They'd recall how need to fuck was always urgent and intense with him, unstoppable once it started, they knew after a few good wipes he'd throw them against the wall, in the athletes tunnel, only metres away from the cameras, and fuck them hard and long, like a piston, buttcheeks clenched in concentration, until he washed them with cum with a low gutteral moan. What a pretty boy he was, a mate to all the guys, and the heartthrob of all the girls. And they'd get all hot and lusty, masked as emotion, and would rush off to 'cry' in the bathrooms, more like crying out, as they fingered themselves to ecstasy.

See, that's how you finger a girl. It was fun for a while, playing with your special spots, you hated it, turned you on something fierce. Not so special now we've all had a go. Not so sensitive either eh, really pretty messed up, I'm surprised it's not just all numb already. Well, I guess the bits we left. Still horny and hungry though, aren't you piggie. And that's what I mean, see, fingering a chick isn't about getting her off, it's about getting her wet for you. And you, well, I just need to nudge your balls like this ... and twist in here... yeah, I can play you like a fiddle. Fuck there are go-go boys in San Fransisco that put out less'n you. If it was up to me, we'd just keep you here, our little fucked up fucktoy. But the others, they wanna get more serious now. Way more serious. Sorry Mikey, no hard feelings eh. Just like you always said...

______________

It was almost a week before Mike was found, barely alive on the dirt bike track. He was messed up so bad they couldn't show it on the news, not just his face, which his assailants had punched and pummeled until his once pretty jaw was broken and black eyes swollen shut, but all over his body, one aching mess from head to beaten foot. His powerful gymnasts arms were broken, with scars across his hands like he'd been forced to rub them raw.

"Okay cunt, since your ankles are tied to your balls, you can either crawl up the steps here on your knees and tug those nads hard, or you can drag yourself up the rope. Quit whining, you can still use your thighs to grip, if the pain's not too bad, and you've wrapped your palms around meatier shafts than this old rope in the last 24 hours. Keep coming... little more... See that wasn't so bad. Now wrap your pretty lips around the shaft of this rubber dong. Yeah I lathered it with goop and cunthairs just like a real cock for you... Okay and now... wait, dang it, we forgot the cockring. Okay shimmy back down the rope and we'll start again. Yes on your hands and knees, dumbfuck. I want this just right for the camera, even if it takes a dozen shots. Shoot now I'm gonna have to dip this dildo in crud all over again, and I just took off them gloves. Maybe I'll just leave em on until we get to the fistin..."

They'd been resourceful too, whipping his back with his own leather belt before skewering his right tit, apparently after some earlier work, with the blunt buckle. But it was his fat swinging tackle they'd focused on, his cock not just beaten and balls bashed, but a complete laceration of his very manhood. The process had clearly taken days, some wounds scarring over with others still fresh. The constant attention had grossly swelled his tender flesh, perhaps deliberately so, the once finely veined tube now freakishly tortured, thick welts criss-crossing the overstuffed pizzle. In fact, it appeared that after beatings and burnings, they had injected something under the flesh itself, pushing the skin out in long tracks like ribbing.

Oh yeah Mikey feel that, sliding under your cockskin. See you pork chicks like this, stretch em out, now we get to stretch your porker instead. Hey guys, we got more of this stuff, I wanna really make this fucker big. You like your big dick don't you Mikey, you were so proud, how'd you like it supersized? Of course it's fucking painful, and ugly, and kinda useless once we've stretched it this much, but then you never cared much about consequences, eh Mikey boy. Okay, here goes another...

Aaaugh fuuuck please stop you're killing me....

I warned you cuntface, don't make me smack those babymakers again. Sorry, ex-babymakers, your tackle's pretty useless now. Still hurts like crazy though...

Please guys why are you doing this? I thought you liked me? I mean...

Oh yeah Mikey, we like you plenty...

At some point they'd moved from fists and whips to blades and chains, his long foreskin slashed and split, blood only staunched by his tattered suit pants glued to the gash. The skin had been split apart, then recut, until his whole cockhead was exposed and the hood flaps hung free, weighed down by two padlocks punched through the two ends. His neck was bruised from a heavy chain connected to a meathook still skewered though the tender glans, apparently having been yanked round his broad neck muscles so hard the hook had all but torn through the meaty head, tearing up against the two padlocks pulling downwards. Beneath it, his pisshole had been stretched wildly, first by what looked like a marker pen to judge from the black ink scraped down the sides and the tearing around the pisslips, but other implements too, the last, an old iron key, one of those long ones with big square ends, still jammed in deep, the teeth still digging into the root. All this had stretched the urethra wildly, so it gaped around the handle drooling goop. It wasn't clear what the stuff was, the guys thought precum, until the lab results confirmed it was liquid soap they'd apparently used as stinging lubricant.

Now there's this surgeon at the hospital, he's into some sick shit. Be thankful he isn't here, or you'd lose your lumpy dick for sure. So spread wide - wider, so you can feel the muscles ache. That's it, hold it. Get used to that feeling, nice and stretched - wait, you're used to that now! Just a little wider, so I can get a clear shot. And put your hands up above you head, so you don't accidentally defend yourself and break your wrist or something, that'd pretty much rule out gym. Well there's still a slim chance, maybe, if you got help soon. Anyway I like seeing your smooth pits, it'll be great when the redness goes down, then it'll just all be smooth. Okay stretch your thighs again, really wide now, like your stradding a horse. Good.

His nuts, too, were grossly swollen, clearly ruptured from countless blows and kicks, no more baby batter from his baby's-fist bat anymore. A cord still tied around the nutsack, ropeburn across the tender nutflesh, showed how they'd yanked his balls taut before inflicting the crippling blows. His body had not been spared either, lacerated with crude messages cut across his chest and back. Inking too, you couldn't really call it tattooing, it was pretty amateur, but what they'd lacked in skill they'd made up for in effort - big red and black letters - OINK across the nape of his neck, DOUCHE across his pecs, even "HOG PIZLE" down his inner thigh. Really filthy stuff. Not even spelt properly.

Safety pins had been punched through his tender skin everywhere, his lips, nostrils, even the length of his cut cock and bloated ballsac, not to mention painfully skewering between each finger and toe, not just delicate pins but extra large motherfuckers, some tugged and torn through. And then, there was the damage to his arse. So much cum was leaking out the gaping hole it took them four hours to notice the hairspray can that had been shoved in, keeping his sphincter dilated to 5 inches across. The detectives rushed DNA tests through, sure the cum would lead them to the rapists (for no one guy could produce so much spunk), but when the milky slop came back a mixture of horse and dog cum in castor oil, the same cocktail they found in his pumped stomach, they were no wiser. Not only did the castor oil grease his innards to much they couldn't move him without squelching crud, his gaping arselips unable to stop days worth of cummy junk leakage, but he was found almost cyclicly puking the cum from his stomach. By their guess, this meant the gallon or so of animal spoooge they pumped from him accounted for only his last few hours, let alone what else he must have swallowed in previous days.

It was inconceivable who would've done such a thing to the popular hero. As he lay in traction in hospital, his jaw wired shut, arms in casts and tubes all over him, countless schoolmates and townsfolk stopped by, gawking at the naked and mutilated jock. They couldn't even cover his once proud prick and balls, from the tubes and bands they had around it. In fact, it was a blessing he was still in an induced coma, as no-one was sure what to do about the damage, even the plastic surgeon doubtful they could turn the messed up flesh into any semblance of male tackle. Some things, like the overstretched right nipple with its post-buckle hole, could be fixed. But whoever had messed up Mike had really made sure he'd never be swinging his dick again.

The lead up was also pretty bad. First they woke him at 6am, not only waking to the searing pain, but discovering his jaw wired shut, arms immobilised, and some male nurse coming in for prep. They pulled off the covers, so his naked flesh was exposed to the cool morning air, and drew back the curtain, so everyone could see him. Lots of guys were there - the whole dorm, the gymnastics team, even the girls from the squad, and they all saw Mike's ripped stomach and bulging chest, the bruises, cuts and fithy messages. Moreover, when the orderly parted his legs to give him the pre-operative shave, they saw everything. It was awful the process took 30 minutes, and when finished he was as bare as a schoolboy, the last thatch of hair reduced to match his smooth gymnasts skin. They pried and prodded him, ignoring him when he became increasingly agitated, catching a glance at some of the guys in the crowd. But the orderlies ignored it, and injected a muscle relaxant to quieten him down. Nurses, orderlies, even casual visitors could see his whole body and tackle, as he lay slackly in the bed, waiting for the procedure. He was humiliated and in agonising pain, although he should have been prouder of his big boy and balls. Certainly he should've enjoyed his last chance to show them off.

After all, he was handsome and popular, and even if the beatings and the humiliation left lasting scars on his psyche, he might've recovered somewhat, if the procedure had gone differently. But his surgeon - at his insurers insistance - the county's best - was Dr Crestwell. The last thing he heard as he lay on the gurney, losing consciousness, was the doctor lifting his hospital gown, and shaking his head.

No, definitely can't save that. I'll have to cut it off for sure. Best thing is for a gender reassignment, at least then it won't look that strange.

Strapped down naked and barely able to protest, he tried desperately to say something as the anesthetist turned up the gas, and looked impassively into his struggling face. "There there" the assistant said, as the doctors peeled back the hospital gown, scalpel in hand.

Dr Crestwell, to give him credit, was very, very good at his job. The surgeon had done dozens of gender reassignments before, and prided himself on his ability to "build a functioning vagina". He cut off Mike's ruptured balls, ripping away forever his testosterone pumping masculinity, but still, with expert care, keeping the tubes intact so the seminal fluid (so like cuntjuice) could still flow when aroused. He inverted the dick, so Mike's sensitive long former foreskin would itch and tingle with touch as it lined the walls of his new cunt. He removed the cockflesh down to the root, even most of the precious mushroom head, just leaving a bundle of sensitive nerves sewn together in a bag of glans skin, a new dangling g-spot. He even reshaped the pelvic bone, pulling the crotch skin down, to make proper labia surmounted by an (eventual) hairy thatch (although much less than the boys former cockroot). It was really only when the poor former jock cunt was wheeled back into his room for recovery, still groggy with anasthetic, that the full magnitude of what they'd done would hit home.