The Drop

Finale

I have only one cell here. There is space for a dozen, but that would be dangerous. I could fill a dozen cells with teen and twink meat, but then the temptation, or necessity, would be to hold boys for long periods.

Having just one cell requires discipline on my part. Take a boy. Strip him and break him. Reconcile him to his end. Deflower him and enjoy his pain. Maintain his physical fitness and attractiveness, despite his crushing fear. Then, at the appointed time, end him. End him before sentimentality warps my judgement and corrupts my business plan.

Sometimes it’s four weeks to the end, normally five. Now the cell is required again, there is a new boy who needs to stay, and that means saying goodbye to Chris.

Part of me would like to tell you that we needed the kiss of the whip, or the temporary paralysis of the cattle prod, to encourage Chris to mount the stool. Often we do, and that certainly adds to the show. This kid, however, opted to maintain a quiet dignity. Derek and I each held one side of the stool, whilst Chris climbed aboard the metre-high, three-legged wooden affair. The seat – not that the youth would ever be sitting on it – was flat, and twelve inches in diameter. Stood a metre off the ground, hungry and scared, with size ten or eleven feet, those twelve inches never seem generous.

The spotlights adjusted to train their beam on the kid, who, with the additional height of the stool, appeared as a giant to my guests in their arm chairs below and in front of him.

High in the eaves, a motor whirred, and pulleys delivered a rope directly above the stool. Derek, meanwhile, had positioned a tall set of step ladders ready to catch the end of the rope, and was up them in seconds. The kid was eye-to-eye with his tormentor again.

“Eyes straight ahead. Do not move a fucking muscle. Got it?”

I thought for a moment that Chris hadn’t ‘got it’. He made to ignore Derek. Then, out of the corner of his left eye, he saw the huge palm of a hand ready to deliver a stinging slap to his cheek.

“Yes Si……………owwwwwwwww”

Too late. The force of the blow badly de-stabilised the kid, and the audience gasped as he made to wobble off the far side of the stool. Derek, however, was ahead of the action. He grabbed Chris’s left bicep and hauled him back to vertical. His face now looked odd. One rosy-red cheek, with the imprint of a flat palm and five fingers, and one ghostly white cheek.

The boy regained his composure, to an extent. By that time, however, the noose at the end of the rope had been pulled roughly over his head, and was being tightened by Derek.

“Is that nice and comfortable, batty boy?”

Derek guffawed at his crudity.

Of course, it was precisely tight enough. Which meant the kid could feel the coarse fibres around the circumference of his smooth neck. At present, however, discomfort was restricted to the scratchiness of the rope, and a strange sensation of its weightiness.

“Okay, listen bitch, and listen well. You’re about to go for your first lift. In front of you, at the back of the room, is a large digital stopwatch. You see it?”

Chris went to nod.

“Hey kid, at this stage, best not to move your head at all, yeah? If you don’t understand anything, just shout, instead.”

He continued his well-rehearsed script. 

“The stopwatch will count down, from thirty seconds. Then, the lift will start. When you’re lifted to where we need you, the stopwatch will start counting down again. But maybe not from thirty seconds!”

He gave a dirty laugh, and some of the audience joined in.

“Anyway, when we reach zero, you get a nice break baby. You see, we’re thoughtful right to the end.”

Derek clambered down the ladder. He turned back to the noosed boy.

“Here’s some free advice. Keep nice and still. Let it happen. No panic, just bravery. That’s what we want to see, kid. Prove you’re a man!”

With that, he removed the ladder, and himself, from the stage.

******

The silence was punctuated by a clunk, as half the spotlights were extinguished. This scene was getting darker, in more ways than one. Chris could now barely make out the figures in the audience. They, of course, could still see him well enough.

The kid wobbled from one foot to the other, testing his (inadequate) purchase on the varnished stool seat, and ignoring in the process Derek’s sound advice to remain stationary. All the while, he kept one eye on the digital stopwatch, similar to that at an athletics meeting but with thoughtfully illuminated numerals.

The youth was starting to feel a little faint. They all do at this point. Hunger comes into play. Nerves too, of course, plus the gradual drip-drip loss of blood from the countless needle and pin punctures in his tits, breasts, thighs, and scrotum. The wooden surface on which the boy balanced precariously started to turn crimson, as little trails of blood fell upon it, making it, of course, a little more slippery.

Was all hope lost, Chris wondered?

Maybe not. Maybe these bastards have enjoyed themselves so much they will beg for a repeat showing, and grant a temporary reprieve. And a reprieve would mean a chance to plan an escape, or, maybe, a chance to try and talk Ben out of the whole thing. Fuck, where is Ben? Come on Chris, don’t give up. Breathe deeply. Try and chill and…

Clunk. The countdown had started.

27,26,25

What was going to happen? The kid realised he wasn’t sure. What had the black beast meant when he talked about a ‘lift’.

19,18,17

But let’s be realistic, Chris thought, this is going to be bad.

11,10,9

Worse than anything he’d been made to endure so far.

3,2,1

The motors whirred again, and the pulleys clattered into motion. There was very little slack in the rope, and this was reeled in slowly, inch by inch. Within twenty seconds, the rope was at taut vertical.

Tipping point. The point at which all slack is gone, the rope can do no more, and the noosed young man abruptly becomes a burden. The point at which, perhaps for the first time, a kid really gets a true impression of his own weight. The point of shock and panic. The fabled edge.

Click, click, click went the pulleys. Chris formed an involuntary arrow-straight vertical, as instinct activated calf, thigh and back muscles to give himself an extra millimetre of height, here and there.

Click, click, click. The kid rocked forward onto the front of his feet. The tautness of the rope was such that the back of his soles no longer had a purchase.

Click, click, click. The 21 year old was flushing crimson in the face, red in his neck, but the rest of his body remained ghostly pale.

Click. The boy ‘leaned into’ the noose a little, throwing him slightly off vertical and towards his appreciative audience.

Clunk. The countdown had started again. 90 seconds.

90 fucking seconds!

The youth tried to cry out, but nothing happened. He didn’t really understand why. His vocal cords were not totally useless, even with this much stress on his neck.

Then, exquisitely, Chris started to piss. Not a dribble, but a fire-hose strength torrent of almost clear piss. After his departure from the cell, he had forgotten about his full bladder, denied release for too long. He had bigger things to worry about. But the physiological need to empty out had continued to build.

Most of the audience members moved a little nearer the stage, delighted to bath in the fountain. Those who desired were able to take a face full of weak, snuffee fear-piss from the hoisted young man towering above them.

The choking snuffee, meanwhile, realised he had lost control. They had now taken his bladder motions too. Really, it was at that point he accepted all hope was gone.

Clunk. Zero on the clock.

Click, the pulleys dropped the kid back onto the balls of his feet, as always working more swiftly on the release phase than the tightening phase.

The straight young man just sobbed. That was it really, just sobbing.

*******

In the short interlude, those audience members who were not already naked got out of the last of their clothes. The chairs were pushed to the back of the room. There was a need, towards the very end, to be so very close to the action. There was a desire to reach out, in an entirely futile fashion, and try to understand how desperate, hoisted flesh really felt. There was a desire to read every horrific facial expression on the hoistee, and take in the frightening palette of colours on his face and neck. So they stood on the piss-wet floor in front of the youth, and waited.

“Ben, please…….”

The boy had rustled up enough strength to ask for a saviour. A bogus saviour who would no longer be answering his pleas. Not now.

Instead, he got Derek again.

“Okay, kid. Well done on that last lift. You are truly impressive. But now we have a harder test. Boys who piss all over the stage, and the audience, progress from the standard lift to what we call the punishment lift. Now, there’s nothing new for you to learn, so please don’t worry. Just chill, baby, like you did last time.”

There were a few groans of pleasure from the audience. The anticipation was building.

“I’m not big on this psychology stuff, but I’m sure if Ben were here now, he’d be telling you to use this punishment lift positively, to reflect on why your self-discipline has been so poor, and ask what you’d do differently next time. If there was a next time!”

Derek reached up and stroked Chris’s left calf, wet through a cocktail of sweat and piss.

“Good luck, baby.”

The boy could do no more than whisper.

“No, no, no.”

The countdown started immediately, this time, but Chris was no longer focussing on the digits. His perception of time was now a little wrecked. He was mentally overwhelmed.

The punishment lift is a very different scale of challenge, and I want to be candid with you about this before you read on. There is edge activity – akin to the standard lift – of a kind one might, just about, encounter in BDSM play in the dungeons of Berlin, Prague and San Francisco.

The punishment lift, very deliberately, takes a boy to the head fuck of a no-mans-land that exists between life and death. Boys who experience the punishment lift are not, generally, going to die during it – although the margin of error is so very narrow – but they will feel as though they are at the end. If they thrash around too much, they are endangering themselves substantially. If they keep some composure, well, they should be okay.

I also want to tell you how cathartic it feels, to witness a boy undergoing his punishment lift. Cathartic, that is, for the small group of men and women whose sadism runs so very deep, and who cannot see a very attractive youth on the street without wishing to put him through ‘the process’ that has lead Chris to his stool.

Finally, if course, it is intensely erotic. Obviously. Hence the well-paying audience and my ability to purchase these substantial, remote premises.

Click, click. The pulleys are off again.

The boy pulls to the vertical, lifts off the balls of his feet, leans into the noose again.

Click, click.

Click, click

Chris thought I might be his saviour. He cannot see me up in the eaves, operating the pulleys that hoist him, maintaining constant eye contact with Derek, on the stage. Of course, nothing is said between I and my torturer friend. We communicate via little nods.

Derek has to be the one on the stage. He will nod to me when Chris is hoisted sufficiently. He pushes a boy harder, further into the darkness than me. He is not insane, but he is merciless. I would probably have nodded and stopped the winch now, with Chris on tip-toes on the stool. I waited for Derek’s nod, but it didn’t come.

Click. One little further lift.

Derek nods.

My smooth little hero of a kid is on the very tips of his tippy-toes. They are taking his entire body weight.

Clunk. 360 seconds on the clock. Six minutes.

My youth is a millimetre away from total suspension by the neck. The digits on his feet claw desperately at the slippery wet wood, nails scratching the varnish. The flesh isn’t making much contact at all. I think he may be literally balancing himself on his short toe nails

I’m not sure he understands how long he needs to hold out. He will be struggling to see vividly now. He will be blurry, maybe blacking out intermittently. This is a punishment, after all, and such is the nature of punishment for boys I work with. Did some of you think that spanking or belting constitutes a suitable punishment for a 21 year old boy?

One of the audience noticed, before I did, that Chris’s penis was becoming erect. You certainly cannot guarantee a final erection, but neither is it unknown.

It’s an interesting phenomenon, the noosed erection. It is presumably involuntary, and triggered by whatever thoughts an oxygen-starved brain is generating. Strictly enforced chastity, from the day a boy arrives here, must surely be of benefit.

Chris’s dick rises firmly to the horizontal, raspberry beret pointing like a stick at my audience, who are highly appreciative. With the pins in his balls, this has got to be causing Chris some pain.

Derek shouts, unscripted.

“Cum, and thirty seconds will be taken off your punishment tariff.”

Obviously there is no verbal response from Chris. All we hear from him now is an odd gurgling, and frighteningly strained short breaths. But he moves his left hand, quite perceptibly, and Derek, like me, can read a boy very well. 

“Yes, kid, you may use your hands to masturbate.”

Remarkable. He has just enough lucidity to understand, still.

At the first attempt, he has insufficient energy to reach his dick with his hand. Perhaps it was that, or perhaps it was the kid frightening himself by attempting to move too quickly, and almost throwing his balance off its delicate equilibrium.

But second time around, he has a firm grip, and who knows, maybe finds some reassurance in holding his member tightly.

I have not seen anything quite like this before. The kid is teetering on the very edge of existence, face purple, neck red raw through rope burn, a strawberry glow now spreading down over his shoulder blades. Tiny little breaths. Bloodied eyes, pupils outrageously dilated.

But there he is, pumping away at his dick as hard as he can. If the audience would just pipe down, they would be able to hear desperate lustful little moans.

“That’s it, baby, enjoy your punishment, enjoy your last bit of fun, really work that cunt stuffer!” Derek exhorts.

We have gone from a horizontal half-mast to a 45 degree blood-engorged hard-on. Chris’s ball sac is shrivelling. God knows what those pins must be doing to his gonads, but surely now his mind is in a different place, and he is able to float over the intense pain of it all.

His ejaculation, when it comes (with one minutes fifty seconds still on the clock) is still that of a virile young man, rather than a tortured piece of meat. Slick white cum shoots up, and whilst the majority is deposited on his heaving chest, a string lodges itself, really so erotically, on the kid’s chin, where the string grows as though it were elastic, back down towards his tight, stretched little six-pack of a belly.

Three of the men in the audience simply can’t contain themselves, and cum in unison with my boy, wasting themselves before the end game. But, if we are honest, that was not a bad scene to cum too. Asphyxiation orgasms from snuffees are very rare. They have had their monies worth tonight, already.

Chris flaps his cum-soaked wanking hand again. I know what he’s trying to say to Derek.

‘Please, I’ve cum, let me down’.

But it’s not yet time, even on the discounted tariff. Derek stands by, watching, along with the audience, as the boy drifts out of consciousness, spit drooling from his lips, cum dripping from his chin. 

*******

And so, we have reached the end.

At this point, the boy is unable to stand unsupported, so the pulleys that drop him back onto the balls of his feet stop whilst there is still some tension in the rope to assist his standing position. Strange really, in the end, that the rope has become his friend.

In the long term, what Chris has suffered already is likely to have left a degree of mental impairment. Too much oxygen has been denied. Ending him, now, is the kindest thing to do.

Even if he remains unresolved to his fate, he appears to have no will to fight it. We leave him in peace for a few minutes, to see what composure will be regained without the terrible pressure on his neck. He still knows where he is, I believe. He still knows he is suffering for us.

On the back wall, a large LCD screen bursts into life. It flickers for perhaps twenty seconds. Chris kind-of watches it, his muddled mind still alert enough to be interested in a distraction. On-screen, a young female figure appears. She appears to be at some kind of news conference.

“Chris, if you’re watching, please get in touch. We all miss you like crazy. If you’re upset about something, we can work it out together. Please just call the police or me or the family, and let us know you are safe, even if you don’t want to come back for the moment. Love you, babes.”

The pert-looking blond girl then dissolved into tears. The camera stuck with her for a few seconds, then reverted back to the start of her little missing persons speech. It was on a loop. Chantelle, Chris’s girlfriend, was on loop.

We let him watch the clip five times, because in his current state, he’s unlikely to have understood first time around. But now he realises it’s her, and it’s his turn to sob, chin almost resting on the heavy rope as he cries uncontrollably. We leave him in his misery for a minute, then the screen flickers again. I am speaking live to camera, back stage.

“Hello Chris, it’s Ben. I want to say a few words, before we part. You probably realise, this process is designed to be very hard on a boy. Very hard indeed. That’s the right way, in my opinion. My role is to hurt, to punish, and to take young men to the edge, but also to understand their emotions along the way. I have enjoyed working with you, Chris, and I want to thank you for allowing me to use you to the fullest extent. But, I think that final spectacular orgasm was for Chantelle, and you have truly done her proud, young man. You won’t be together, physically, any more, but you can rest easy that you have been as brave as possible, for her. We, and she, couldn’t have asked more from a straight kid.” 

I stopped for a moment, needing to catch my own breath and overcome the stomach butterflies that always hit me at this point.

“In just a moment, you will be lifted again. Don’t worry, it won’t be as bad as the punishment lift. You see, we need to lift you a little to drop you. All you need do is stay nice and still, nice and relaxed, and go with it. Whilst this happens, I’m going to put Chantelle’s photo back on the screen for you. The Drop, you see, doesn’t need to be unhappy. Only you can make it unhappy, kid. Try and enjoy this, if you can. It really is better that way. Okay, kid, it’s time for me, for uncle Derek, and for all of us here, to say goodbye.”

There was no stopwatch now. The winch powered immediately into life. Chris made the familiar journey up off the balls of his feet, and onto the end of his soles. Not quite tippy toe this time. Not quite a punishment lift. The winch stopped, and suddenly it was quieter than anyone in the room could remember.

From Chris, there was a little noise. Some sniffing. That gurgling again as the veins in his neck became engorged and terribly constricted once more. Fairly pathetic little ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’ as vocal cords permitted. Once more, his body was covered in a sheet of sweat.

Derek approached from the rear of the stage. Chris couldn’t see him, but the audience alerted him to his tormentor’s presence.

The Drop. I wonder if my insertion of that phrase had confused Chris, as it had so many youths before him. At this point, many expect one clean lift off the stool, to their choking death, but we play complex games here and there is one final head fuck.

Derek pushed the stool from behind with a booted foot, and now, inevitably, Chris understood The Drop. The boy hung onto the edge of the stool for dear life with crunched up, clenched toes. There, we dramatically paused. One last chance for the audience to take in immaculately tight boy muscle, every part of his body straining so hard to assist his toes, but especially his meaty buttocks, the dimples accentuated by the particular nature of his stress position. His neck looked so long in the rope noose, forced, as he was, to look up towards the dark eaves. I think, however, he will have seen Chantelle from the corner of one eye. 

Derek removed the stool with a mighty kick, and it flew over the stage and down into the pit below.

My boy took his drop. My audience ejaculated to the sound of a crack as his neck bone went. His last breaths were accompanied by a final episode of limb twitching, and his purple tongue emerged from between his lips.

Another one ended. Another journey concluded for a wonderfully virile youth, whose misfortune was to be too perfect, and in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Derek moved in to commence the disposal process, about which I don’t wish to elaborate further here. You know where to find me.

My audience went to enjoy long baths or showers, before we ate communally, and extravagantly, later in the evening.

I, meanwhile, felt drawn back to the cell. Here, I could still smell Chris. The last one in always lingered for a few days. I folded his T-shirt and shorts carefully, and placed his watch on the top of the pile. In their place, on the bed platform, I deposited the data folder of Phil, who is currently being held off-site, ready to start the process, ready to take The Drop.

*******

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