Motocross

Author’s Note: If you arrived here expecting a story about dirt bike racing, may I suggest you search elsewhere? Because what follows has nothing at all to do with that.

Disclaimer: the following story is a purely fictional account. Any relationship to any real person living or dead is coincidental. The narrative contains non-consensual male-on-male sex, torture, and death. It is intended for mature readers who wish to view such material, and for whom it is legal to do so. The author in no way condones or promotes such acts in real life.

Copyright © 2018 by POW. For spam prevention, an animal name has been added to the author’s e-mail address. Remove the animal name to get the actual address: POWauthor zebra at yahoo dot com. This story may be freely copied and distributed so long as it is copied in its entirety, unchanged, including the author credit information and disclaimer. Other POW stories are available at https://powauthor.wordpress.com. The author welcomes feedback.

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The doorbell rang and the young twerp who stood there on the front step looked exactly like his picture. He had a nice build, though he was a bit slimmer than my ideal – I prefer men with a bit more meat on their frames. He looked youngish; I could easily believe him to be the 28 he claimed to be when we were chatting online. He was a bit shorter than me and stood peering at me through glasses from under the hood of a very soggy jacket. He was not handsome, not by any stretch. His jaw, in particular, seemed like it had recessed somehow into his neck, leaving his face looking a bit squashed on the bottom. But while my first choice would have been someone a tad taller, more muscular, and more symmetric of feature than Darryl, I was not about to say “ehhhhh, no thanks, I’ll wait till someone better comes along”. I would readily settle for what I could see before me. Heck, I’d settle for much less, even – it’s not every day that a man shows up at my door offering to let me torture him to death.

I opened the door and stared at him. “I’m here,” he said nervously, holding up a very familiar index card and cautiously fluttering it like a sad, rain-soaked flag.

“I see that,” I said, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

He sagged in visible relief and words poured out of him in a rush as he stepped inside. “I was pretty sure this was the right… the lamppost matched… I did it just like I… no one could have followed me, no one knows… I didn’t even bring my phone, left it in Greensboro, it… and the computer is set to put up some Facebook posts automatically on time delay and the… oh, and I had the hood up the whole time so nobody…”

“Stop,” I told him, to no avail. The flood of words continued as he looked for a place to put the dripping jacket he had taken off his wiry frame and that was now occupying one of his hands, preventing him from supplementing his fast-flowing words with matching gestures. “I took a taxi, not an uber, and I paid cash, oh not all the way, I took a bus from Greensboro, the taxi was just from Newark to Morris… that mall and I found the bookstore and the book and… see here are the directions you left! And I walked from…”

“STOP!” I said again, more forcefully. He shut up then. I took the jacket from him and hung it up in the nearby hall closet nearby. He stood in the entryway, eyes flitting around the room, looking everywhere except at me while I stared at him.

“I have to admit,” I finally said, “that I was not expecting you today. Or ever, really. Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted you’re here. Just… surprised. No, don’t talk!” because it was clear he was about to launch into another ramble. “Let’s do this with yes/no questions, OK? You just nod or shake your head.”

He nodded mutely.

“OK. First question. You are Darryl, AKA ‘slave4harshsir’, right?”

Another nod.

“And you came here from Greensboro in a way that you believe is untraceable?”

A vigorous nod this time.

“Because of what we talked about online? And then later over the phone?”

I could see the words were just aching to burst from his lips. He was nodding so hard I thought he’d snap his skinny neck.

“OK. Why don’t you tell me, then, in just one sentence, please, one sentence only… why are you here?”

It visibly cost him to limit his thoughts down to a single sentence, but after a short delay he said, “I want to ride your motocross.”

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Truly, I had no idea the kid would actually want to go through with it. Of all the guys I’ve chatted up, none of them have ever wanted to actually meet in person. I give off a scary vibe, I admit it. The fantasies I weave are about as dark as they get. And while there are a lot of guys who get turned on by thinking about themselves being tortured to death, the number who actually want to meet with me to live out one of those fantasies has so far been zero. I can’t blame them. A lot of the fantasies I spin involve mindfucks. Guys getting in over their heads, getting swept up in events far beyond what they bargained for once it’s too late to back out. No one wants to take the chance that I might turn out to be a psychopath who agrees to set up a nice, sane, healthy, consensual scene and then turns into a monster once the victim is chained up and helpless.

And yet… here was Darryl.

This put me into a bit of a quandary because truth be told, I was just as much of a poser as the guys I’d flirted with. I knew I’d never have to deliver on the ideas I came up with, so it was easy to let my imagination soar. I’d spin out elaborate scenes of pain and horror and the guy on the other end and I would both get nice and steamed up, squirt out a pair of loads, and then be on our separate ways. Darryl was just one more of those when we first crossed paths. He was using the handle “slave4harshsir”. We chatted a bit, discovered a shared interest in crucifixion. I wove a tale of what would happen if he were to come visit me, etc. etc. Rocks were gotten off and that was the end of it.

It was a few months later that I posted an update showing my latest home construction project. A friend of a friend of mine owns an auto body shop and was replacing the lifts, which were fine, just old and slow. Through my buddy, I asked what the owner was planning to do with the old ones and he said he was just going to scrap them. He had no idea what use I could possibly have for them when I asked him if I could take them off his hands, but New Jersey is filled with practical people – if I was the kind of idiot who was willing to relieve him of a few bulky, heavy chunks of useless crap, he was not going to discourage me.

So I tinkered in my basement for a few weeks and then, one day in February, I had a piece of equipment I was quite proud of. I was not expecting it to ever see use – I just like working with my hands. I took a few photos of it and shared them, and that’s when slave4harshsir got back in touch. I figured we’d have another mutual jerk-off session around it, which we did, and that would be the end again.

But he found me again the next day. And the next. And he wanted to speak by phone so he could convince me that he was for real, he was genuinely interested. And I’ll be honest, it was intriguing to imagine actually putting my construction to its intended use. Not that I got my hopes up – I kept my expectations realistic. He would never follow through, or he would start to and then back out. It was late at night so I told him to give me his number and I’d call him the next morning. Our local mall still has a pair of coin-operated pay phones in it, so at 10:00 I merged in with the stream of retirees who like to walk the halls, getting their exercise in before the shoppers come out in force. I stood there at the pay phone and gave “slave4harshsir” a call, telling him to call me back at whatever number had just showed up on his caller ID. He did. We spoke for about fifteen minutes. Well, he spoke for thirteen and a half of them, describing what he was looking for in fairly repetitive detail and lots of stop-and-start sentences. What he was looking for was hot stuff, all right, hot enough that there was a point when I had to snuggle up close to the pay phone to hide the bulge in my pants.

When I was finally able to break in, I told him how it would work. I explained my fetish for privacy and untraceability and said that if he really, truly, wanted to find me, that he should come to the Headquarters Plaza mall in Morristown, New Jersey, and find the Barnes and Noble inside. In the store, he should look for the tech section and find a book called “Mastering Visual BASIC 6.0”. Between pages 82 and 83 would be a note with further instructions. He was to follow the instructions and bring the note with him. I had him repeat it back to me to make sure he got it right. Then I hung up.

I didn’t think anything would come of it, but just to be duly diligent I went up to the second floor and found the dusty old tome, still just as dusty as it had been the last time I had browsed through that section. VB6 had been a hot new thing… in 1998. These days, not so much. One of these decades, the store staff would probably get around to tossing out a worthless old thing no one would ever buy, but for the moment it was still sitting on its shelf. I put the index card with the directions inside. The instructions were clear, but vague. No street names, no addresses. Just things like “leave the mall by the Cinnabon exit” and “turn right at the third street” and “the house with a black and copper lamppost by the front walk”.

And son of a gun if he didn’t turn up one wet March day!

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He was all fired up to start that day, that moment. There was an almost manic gleam in his eye, which I found a bit alarming. Impulsiveness is a good way to get yourself hurt or killed. Which, in this case, was exactly what he intended, but still, I wasn’t ready to dive right in. Darryl may have been working himself up for this all the way from Greensboro, but it was a total surprise to me and I needed a little time to mentally adjust.

I told him we were going to wait two weeks before we did anything serious. He was disappointed, but acquiesced because he had to – it was my toy! I figured two weeks should be enough time for pursuit to arrive if there was going to be any. He indeed did not have any electronic gadgets on him, so could not be traced that way. And I knew what my own records of our correspondence contained, and though he asked and pleaded to come visit me, all the written records showed me as believing it was just part of the fantasy we had spun together. It was only over the phone that I had told him how to actually get here.

But I had no idea who else he might have talked to, or what social media he might use and what he might have said there. So I went out one day and used the local library’s internet connection to see what I could find. He willingly – and without me prompting it at all – gave me the passwords to his various accounts so I could check for myself. That hardly seemed safe, though, to log in as him from my own town, so I just looked at what was publicly available. Reassuringly, there was nothing that mentioned me, at least, not that I could find. It was tempting to use the credentials he had provided, but I held back. If he was telling the truth, then as far as law enforcement was concerned, he was still in Greensboro. Doing anything to give evidence otherwise would be counterproductive. And if he was lying, well… nothing illegal was going to happen for two weeks (if anything illegal was going to happen at all), so I had nothing to worry about.

His time-delayed Facebook posts were only going to happen for the first three days of his absence. He had spent one day traveling, so by the time he had been in my home for two days, his disappearance would be official. That day passed, and the next, and the one after that. We passed the time with some consensual bondage play, agreeing that the two-week waiting period I was imposing was all part of the scene – this was his time on death row. I like to switch, but under these circumstances that would not be advisable, so I was only the tie-er, never the tie-ee.

It was a strange time, that two-week cooling-off period. I was sometimes jailer, sometimes roommate, and the power dynamic flowed and swirled between those two roles. He was a prisoner, but a willing one, so when I needed to go to work or go fetch some groceries, I would leave him chained to the bed in the guest bedroom, but with the key within his reach. He had no desire to escape, but even so, it’s wise to plan for unexpected events. His carefully-choreographed plans for his demise did not include getting caught in an accidental house fire, for instance. So he had access to the key to his chains, but it was at the bottom of a full jar of vegetable oil. Using the key would leave a large mess that would make it obvious he had done so. He never did, not once.

Other times, when I was home, he would have free run of the house, totally unconfined. We’d sit on the sofa and watch the news or a movie or porn and idly talk. We had several long conversations (made longer because of his elliptical speaking style) in which I tried to understand his motivations. I never did, even though he tried to explain. The conversations went something like this:

Me: “Is it because you’re sick? You have some kind of cancer that’s going to destroy your quality of life and you want to go out on your own terms?”

Darryl: “No. At least, not that I… although you never really know, right? I mean, we’re all dying, slowly, and we can’t… I had a lump taken out once, but it wasn’t anything… they told me it was just fatty tissue… in my back… it wasn’t malignant, but I worried it might because my dad? Yeah, skin cancer that went to his lungs and pancreas, but he was older, he was over 60…” (which, by the way, may seem like “older” to him but from my perspective it’s not that far away).

Me: “But… why you? Why now?”

Darryl: “It’s hard to explain… this is just… it’s two of my favorite fantasies, and at the same… because it never occurred to me that you could do them both at… I mean it’s not really both, but it’s kind of like that… you get the sensations of each one, but sort of at the same time? Even though they’re not really the same… but it never occurred to me to try to combine the two, but the moment I saw your… well, I knew, I just knew right then. It’s hard to explain… I just know that this is what I’m supposed… this is what feels… you know what I’m saying? This is, like, everything I’ve hoped for…”

No, I didn’t understand. Not at all, and his explanations didn’t make his thought process any clearer to me. But then, I wasn’t him.

Me: “You do understand that this will kill you, right? You will die. This is not any kind of ‘Risk-Aware Consensual Kink’ stuff, this is 100% guaranteed mortality. Why the fuck do you want to do that?”

Darryl: “All I can say is like I said… I just know this is right. This is the right time, this is the right way… the right method… I thought about it for a long time and I am totally ready, I’m not going to change my mind now, it’s already irreversible, right? I’m on death row! If the… I bet back home people are already starting to wonder… but there’s no going back. They think I just disappeared, and I… so it’s like it’s already happened, right? So until it really does happen it’s like I’m not really here, see? Like I’m watching it happen after the fact, even though that can’t… because I couldn’t be, right?”

I have to say: I do not understand the mindset of the suicide-attempter. To me it makes no sense at all to end your own existence. I don’t understand the draw that it had for him. But the draw was there, it was real, and he seemed sane enough. His words were hard to understand… no, that’s not true. His individual words were easy enough to comprehend. It was his sentences – or rather, his sentence fragments – that were so unclear. Over time I got the sense that his thoughts flew so fast that his tongue couldn’t keep up. But those thoughts were perfectly rational, perfectly consistent: he wanted to die a slow, agonizing death at the hands of a sadist who would relish his suffering. Dying a slow, agonizing death is something he could have arranged on his own, but for him it was crucial to the scene that he have an observer, and not an impartial observer. He needed to have someone there who would enjoy the experience of watching him suffer and die. Well, I certainly fit that bill.

So we spent the two-weeks both planning the event to come and playing around in anticipation of that day. I kept him cuffed and chained a lot of the time, but made sure to exercise him and feed him well. We both wanted him to be at full strength for the ordeal to come. Five days before the designated time he enjoyed his last orgasm, and I made sure it was a doozy, building him up to it for three long hours. I locked him in chastity after that because we both agreed that he would enjoy the experience more with a few days’ worth of sperm built up inside him.

One day before, I started getting into sadist-space, shifting to jailer-mode full-time. No more roommate mode; no more idle chats on the sofa. Just as submissives have a sub-space they get into to help them endure a scene, I find it necessary to get into the proper mindset to really enjoy the proceedings in the dominant role. In real life, I’m a nice guy, fairly gentle, polite, quiet, helpful, well-mannered. The perfect friend or neighbor or coworker. But those traits do not make for a perfect dom. I mean, “quiet” is fine – I get off more on making a sub have to pay attention to my every word and flicker of facial expression than on shouting at him. But “gentle”? “polite”? These are not typically the attributes of a sadist. (I am aware I am generalizing here. I suppose it’s possible to gently and quietly remove a man’s eyelids. But politely? Not so much.) So I made an effort to stop thinking of him as “Darryl, the guy who showed up on my doorstep, who I’ve been having casual sex with for the last two weeks, who has a brother back in North Carolina who may or may not already be worrying about him and who will probably be sick to his stomach if I screw up the cleanup stage of this operation and he ever learns what really happened during his brother’s final hours” and start thinking of him as “bag of meat with ability to scream”.

And when the two weeks were up, I brought him downstairs for the first time since his arrival, when he had insisted on seeing the motocross for himself. This time, he wouldn’t be just visiting. This time, his journey down the steps was a one-way trip.

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“Strip,” I commanded. He dutifully removed his shirt, his sweatpants, his socks, his underwear, until he stood naked before me, goosebumps rising on his skin from the cold air. Even the glasses came off – he had no further need for 20/20 vision.

“Put these on,” I told him. One by one, I handed him the cuffs for his wrists. They were very heavy-duty pieces of work, designed more for strength that comfort. They were made of metal loops that encircled each wrist with three chains leading out to form a pyramid over his hand to help distribute the strain more evenly. There was some leather padding around the wrist piece, but it was only a token gesture toward the wearer’s well-being, really only relevant to the first ten or fifteen minutes of use. He put each one on and snugged it down.

I put on the leg cuffs myself while he stood meekly waiting. His dick twitched inside its clear plastic case, but could not rise to attention. He was quivering, either from the cool air or from the anticipation, I couldn’t tell which. Maybe it was both.

Then I fixed his arms in place on the crossbeam and secured his legs to the sides of the upright. He had a small stepstool to stand on so at this point he was merely standing with his arms outstretched, not in any discomfort at all. I removed the chastity device and fluffed his cock a bit, now that his arms were trapped safely away from it. It puffed up straight away. That must have felt good for him, having his first hard-on in five days. I suspected it wouldn’t last very long once things got going.

He got even stiffer as I brought a padlock and some chain over. I pressed his balls down in the sac, slipped the lock around it, added the end link of the chain, and then snapped it shut. Kind, gentle, polite guy that I am, I made sure no skin was pinched in the mechanism of the lock. This was an important part of the scene for him – he wanted to have weight dangling from his testicles while he hung from the cross. No problem; happy to accommodate that request. So I brought over a moderate-sized starter weight and fixed it to the end of the chain, then carefully lowered it down until he was supporting it with his nuts. They stretched down very satisfyingly, tugging his fully-erect dick downward with them.

“Ah, damn, that feels so fuckin’ good…” he crooned. I let him savor the sensations for a while, then spoke.

“Now,” I said. “This is your absolute last chance to back out. After this, there is no stopping the process. If you are going to change your mind, you have to do it right now. If you want to change this into a consensual scene where I hurt you a bit and you walk away unharmed afterward, we can do that and I will not think any less of you for it. But if you insist on going forward, then you are going forward all the way to the end, no matter how much you plead, no matter how much you beg, no matter how much you scream.”

It probably wasn’t fair of me to be slowly jacking his dick while I was saying this. I might have biased his decision just a bit in so doing. But he was a grown man and had already made his wishes clear numerous times. I held up the control buttons in front of his face, just under his chin.

“If this is really what you want,” I said, “press the red button”. (It always confused me why machine shops seem to have their colors reversed. I would think that green would be “make machine go” and red would be “make machine stop”. Like traffic lights. But the manufacturers use “green = safe, red = danger”, I guess.)

He tested his bonds a bit, breathed deeply a couple of times, and then brought his chin down on the button. A gentle hum filled the air.

I knocked the stool out from under his feet. He sagged down far enough that his toes brushed the floor, but not enough that he could put any weight on them. He was crucified.

As usual for the first few minutes of a crucifixion, the victim was in no real discomfort in the beginning. Darryl – the meat – held his legs straight and supported his weight on them. He was pretty taut already; I hadn’t left much slack in the arrangement of his limbs. His arms were just slightly angled from horizontal. If he were to let his knees bend, his shoulders would drop a little bit down toward more of a Y shape than a T, but for now he was standing as upright as he could. I kept stroking his still-hard cock just enough to keep his attention, not enough to bring him anywhere close to an unwanted climax. He had his eyes closed and his head leaned back against the upright post, knowing he had just committed himself to an agonizingly painful death, loving the pull of his own weight on his limbs and the extra weight on his balls, satisfied in some sick way that he was finally living out his fantasy.

In the course of any other crucifixon (and yes, I have attended a few, though never at my own house), the scene would last about twenty or thirty minutes. After five, he would begin to feel the discomfort. After ten, he would be enduring serious suffering as he either fought to support his weight on his fast-tiring legs or hung painfully from his stretched-out arms. After fifteen, he would be pleading for release and beyond that, it was just a matter of enduring the minutes one at a time. For me, on the outside looking in, each minute would take sixty seconds to pass just like always. But for the victim, hanging in agony, time would dilate such that each minute would take twice as long to pass as the one before. His last minute on the cross would feel longer than the first fifteen put together.

This was not an ordinary crucifixion, though. This was my motocross.

What I had done was taken the hydraulic tubes from the body shop’s retired lifts and assembled them into a cross. One of the tubes formed the upright. On top of it rested the other tube, horizontally, with another short bit of upright attached on top of that. Unlike most crosses, which simply stood there and let the victim’s weight and gravity do all the work, this cross could move. It could grow. And that is what it was doing, in teeny-tiny increments.

At the rate of two millimeters per minute, far slower than the minute hand of a clock moved, the horizontal post was expanding. Darryl’s hands were fixed to opposite ends, and so as it expanded, the distance between his wrists would also expand. And the vertical beam was expanding at the same rate, so the distance between his ankles and the crossbeam that held his arms was also increasing by two millimeters for every minute that passed.

The motocross! It’s a cross, it’s a rack! This was what had enticed Darryl to abandon his ordinary life and travel a couple hundred miles north to come find me. This was the combination of torments that he had never dreamed of combining. This was what he had found so irresistible. My little home construction project – two medieval torture-execution methods in one.

The tubes were strong enough to support the weight of a car; the chains and restraints were made of thick steel. None of them were going to be the weak link. When the hydraulic tubes expanded to the point that something had to give way, what gave way was not going to be the cross or the restraints. What gave way was going to be: the meat. In half an hour, the bar holding his arms was going to be longer by about the width of my fist. And it was going to be farther above his ankles by that same amount. Thirty minutes later, there would be two fists’ worth of additional space. And so on. The only thing his body would be able to do to fill that extra space would be: st-r–e—t—-c——–h.

A few minutes in, I stopped stroking the meat’s dick and started working on my own. His cock stayed pointing upward for a minute or two, then started to gently deflate and droop. The flood of words that had marked his stay until now had finally slowed to a trickle. The only sounds he made were grunts and explosive releases of breath and the occasional “damn, I can’t believe this is actually happening”.

As I mentioned a time or two before, I did not understand this mentality. A victim who wanted to be hurt? A submissive so depraved as to actually want to snuff himself? Mostly for his own sense of fulfillment (I had to assume), but part of that fulfillment involved having a sadist there, watching him and relishing his torment? That was a role I was happy to fulfill, but it was… weird. My fantasies all involved pushing the victim to places he didn’t want to go. My dick didn’t quite know how to react to a man who chose suffering voluntarily. It rose partway as I fondled it, watching Darryl hanging in front of me, and I was enjoying the scene for sure. But it was just… well, as I said before: weird.

By five minutes in, the victim was feeling it. His toes no longer brushed the floor. His arms had been pulled one centimeter further apart and his shoulders had been lifted that same distance higher. His legs were still holding him up, but he was clearly feeling the burn of having been working his thigh muscles steadily. He wanted to rest them, to lock his knees, to find some relief. There wasn’t going to be any. On top of that, his nuts were still bearing the burden of the weight that swung beneath them every time he shifted position. Sweat had started to bead on his forehead, but he was still stoically enduring the challenge. For the time being, at least. I figured eventually he was going to stop moaning and start screaming. My money was on the ten-minute mark.

And yet he was still manfully taking it by the eight-minute point. By then the work demanded of his legs was starting to wear on him. With every passing second their job would become tougher and tougher. This was true of an ordinary crucifixion but even more so on my motocross. But he was still happily in his sub-space, powering through the increasing discomfort.

And my dick was totally soft! What the heck??? Somehow, this was not working for me.

If you had asked me at any point in the past “how would your dick feel if you had a not-unattractive man hung up on a cross in front of you, totally in your control?” I would have said “solid as steel!”, no question. Yet here I was, in that exact circumstance, and I just wasn’t feeling it. And as the minutes passed and my dick remained stubbornly unengorged, I began to suspect that the only possible explanation was: it was because the guy wanted it. I stood there, impassively watching as he writhed and squirmed, and I realized I was starting to resent the meat for his failure to suffer in a satisfying way. Here I had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity handed to me, and it was being wasted. The victim’s attitude was ruining my enjoyment, and there was no way, none at all, that I would ever get a chance to do this a second time.

It dawned on me that if I was going to get any satisfaction out of this at all, if I was going to have any hope of enjoying this scene myself, then something was going to have to change. I was going to have to break him out of his sub-space. I thought for another minute or so while he maintained his posture of brave endurance, then decided on a course of action that just might do what I needed.

Over the course of our conversations during his time on “death row”, both in jailer-mode and in roommate-mode, he had revealed various aspects of his fantasies to me. He had a very clear mental image of how his death should play out. Things like the ball weight and the observer were must-haves, but some variation was possible. Tit clamps or no tit clamps? Blindfold or no blindfold? Gag or no gag, outdoors or in, one crucifier or a crowd? He and I would both have been fine going either way with any of these options, and we had talked through the finer points of each at great length (and more than one orgasm). He kept coming back to the ball weight, though. The ball weight was essential. What I realized at that point, watching him suffering so unsatisfyingly, was an implication that had gone unspoken during any of our conversations: a ball weight required balls from which to hang the weight, no? Following that chain of thought ended in only one logical conclusion. And once I’d thought of it, I had to try it. There was no guarantee that the meat would be blown out of his sub-space at the proposal I was developing in my head, but it was a possibility worth exploring.

So I bent down and fastened the other end of the ball chain to a point on the upright between his ankles. The weight on the chain was already pulling his balls pretty far down. I had to tug them a bit lower to make the attachment happen, securing the end in place to ensure they would never, ever have the opportunity to rise any higher than they were at that moment. He groaned at first in a happy, satisfied way at the sudden increase in strain, but when he looked down and realized what I had done, the groan changed tone, and I could tell he was starting to get nervous. I had deviated from the script, and now he had to be wondering: what else might I change now that he had no power to stop me? He didn’t say anything and neither did I. I just took the now-superfluous weight off and tossed it aside.

Right around that point, the ten-minute mark, he sagged for the first time. He totally let his legs go limp and hung entirely from his arms. This took a bit of strain off his legs and his balls, but at the cost of increasing the pain in his arms. These were now stretched out two centimeters farther apart than where they had started. There was still room to go before he lost all slack, but that slack was steadily disappearing, and he’d be feeling it in his chest. And once he was done resting his legs, he would find that they would have to work even harder to support his weight because he wouldn’t want to push himself all the way to vertical now that his nuts were set at a fixed height. Trying to lift himself higher would only yank his nuts lower, so in addition to chest pain and leg exhaustion he would also have to balance groin pull. His moans were starting to sound a little less pleasure-filled, but he was still pretty far from the breaking point. Clearly he really did get off on living out this fantasy, and when he stood back up again his dick was still semi-hard, though with his balls being yanked so cruelly downward it wouldn’t have risen above horizontal even if it had been fully erect.

It seemed I was on the right track, but I still needed more to break him down. I grabbed a shoelace and tied it tight around the base of his half-hard cock. The meat was not happy about this second deviation from the script we had so carefully worked out over the past two weeks. His eyes really went wide, though, when I went upstairs and returned with a long, wickedly-sharp knife from the kitchen, and I knew I was on to something. His bucking and thrashing tripled in intensity and he shouted at me that no, no, this wasn’t part of the plan, I couldn’t do it, I had to stop, stop, stop…

This is where “quiet” works for me as a sadist. I could have explained to him: I don’t care that we didn’t agree to it beforehand, I don’t care that you don’t like it, I don’t care that it doesn’t fit your image of the way your death scene should play out. But I didn’t. My silence communicated all that for me far more effectively than words could. My silence told him not only that I am the one who decides how he will suffer, but also that he was not relevant enough to my plans for me to bother explaining them to him.

I let him wait another minute or so while I played with the knife, running the point along his dick, pressing and sliding. I was willing to bet he wasn’t feeling the pain of the cross at all at that point, even though he had been hanging for fifteen minutes by then. The fear and adrenaline surging through his system at the thought of what I was about to do to his helpless dick would have all his attention focused on that, leaving none to spare for the trivial pain of slowly being ripped apart by gravity. At one point I drew blood and held it up to examine the red stain on the blade, making sure the meat could see it as well without being obvious that I was showing it to him. The fight started to go out of him then and I stopped toying with him.

Gripping his cock in one hand, I placed the blade underneath and slid it sideways while pressing upward. The knife, designed to slice through cow or chicken muscle, had no trouble at all with the softer target it had been assigned. The blood that had been trapped in the part that was now detached spurted out, draining down onto the plastic sheets that I had covered the floor with. A little bit more oozed out of the stump left on the meat’s body, but the shoelace worked to keep most of his fluids inside him where they would continue to circulate and keep him from expiring too quickly. I shook as much blood as I could out of the shriveled lump of flesh in my hand and held onto it while I watched his now-completely-different suffering.

“No! No! Oh, fuckindammit, no!” and so on and so on. I couldn’t understand half of his complaints because his words were slurring. But he was most definitely complaining now, and that was exactly what my dick wanted to hear. I had succeeded in nudging him out of his sub-space. This was no longer the death fantasy he had spent years imagining. Now he was suffering in a way he had not anticipated, which drained out all the… joy? pleasure? satisfaction? Whatever he used to be deriving from the experience, he no longer was. Now it was just pain with no higher purpose. Unwanted pain, undesired suffering. Which was exactly what I needed. My cock hardened fully as I savored his distress.

He continued to kick up a fuss as the minutes dragged by and the cross continued to expand. He stood and sagged and stood again, over and over in endless cycles. The cruel torture of the cross: the victim is forced to participate in his own agony. Part of his torment is the pain of his tiring muscles. Should be easy to simply stop working those muscles, right? Let them rest? Ah, but then he has to suffer the pain of suspension, of gravity attempting to tear his chest in half, and that is too much to bear and so he forces his exhausted muscles back to work to buy a few more seconds of slightly-reduced discomfort at their expense…

At least, that’s how the classic version plays out. The motocross gives the sufferer fewer options. As the slack is taken out of his limbs, the victim has fewer and fewer choices available to him. He loses the ability to decide how to suffer at any given moment and instead simply has to endure what the torture tool dishes out. The cross slowly becomes the rack: pure, immobilized pain.

At the twenty-minute mark the tubes had expanded by four centimeters. There was very little slack left in the meat’s arms. His breathing had become rough, which at least cut down on the quantity of his words. And the volume of his screams. When he did speak, it was to beg and plead. “Oh, woe is me, this is not what I meant, not at all, oh, you nasty old man, cutting off my dick like that, oh boo hoo hoo”. Not his actual words, of course, but that was the gist of the sentiments he expressed. He also seemed to have some wildly delusional fantasy that his cock could be reattached if we could just get him to a hospital in time. Very droll. Also “get me down this instant, I changed my mind, this has to stop, I don’t want to die” and so on and so on. Again, I let my silence speak for me. I wasn’t explaining anything to the cross or the restraints or the plastic sheets; why should the meat get any different treatment?

By the thirty-minute point he was not saying much. His arms no longer had any slack in them at all. Further stretching was going to start tearing tissue. Also, he wasn’t really supporting his weight on his legs any more. The stretching of his arms had lifted his torso – painfully – higher up on the vertical beam, which had itself expanded during the same time. The result was that the restraints on his ankles were now doing more to hold his feet down than to hold them up. The “rack” aspect of the motocross was starting to dominate over the “cross” aspect. This had an effect on his oxygen supply – his chest and ribs were no longer able to expand and contract naturally, so he had to work to keep air flowing in and out. As I watched, he would go long times without breathing at all – fifteen, twenty seconds, even half a minute once. His breath, when it came, was rushed and intense and satisfyingly full of the sound of agony, but then it would taper off again.

Fortunately, I had anticipated this. It would do no good to have the meat pass out from carbon dioxide buildup in his tissues before we got to the good part. So I strapped a mask on his face, hooked up the hoses, and turned on the ventilator. Now he had a machine breathing for him, forcing air into his lungs and pumping it back out again. It imposed a steady rhythm onto his respiration and soon I could see him perking up from it. His eyes cleared and he looked at me. “Please,” he begged. “Please take this off. Just let me die.” Well, of course I was going to let him die… eventually. But he was asking me to rush the process, and that was not in my interest at all. So the ventilator stayed on and the meat stayed awake and aware.

A little before the forty-minute mark his left shoulder gave way. I could see the buildup happening for maybe half a minute before it happened – the meat’s face went tense and he was clearly fighting some horrendous, agonizing sensation far beyond anything he had encountered before. He made little high-pitched nasal noises… “Nnnngggg! Nnngggggg!” I could only imagine what it must have been like for him – he was feeling his flesh tearing apart and was trying to hold it together by sheer force of will. But the machine was implacable and he could do nothing but endure as his upper arm was slowly, painfully wrenched from its socket. It was gruesomely fascinating to watch, taking place over the span of about five seconds during which his body moved in ways that it simply should not have been able to move. His scream was shrill and nearly silent, but the look in his eyes was loud enough. The squirts of semen from my orgasm hit the floor where they mixed with the smears of blood on the plastic – two different fluids spilled from two different cocks.

And that was kind of a mistake on my part. Orgasms always knock me out of sadist-space. In five seconds, I go from getting turned on by some guy’s suffering back to mild-mannered regular-guy me. Regular-guy me is fine with the fantasy of hurting someone for sexual gratification, but to actually do it for real? No. As the last pulses of sperm dribbled out of my dick, the scene before me transformed from “fuck’n hot” to “wait a minute” to “this is sick!”. Suddenly, I was horrified. This was just wrong, absolutely, 100% wrong. Even if Darryl had done this to himself willingly, still, I could have tried to talk him out of it. Or declined to be a part of it. Or I could have at least let him play out the script the way he wanted it and not made it all about my satisfaction instead of his. Even now, I had the power to stop it. Disgusted with myself, ashamed, even nauseated to the point where I nearly threw up from the sight and the smell, I wanted to turn the machines off, to take Darryl down and tend his wounds and ease his pain and be an actual decent human being. I almost started to do exactly that.

Then my sadist side stirred itself from its blissful post-orgasmic fog and enlisted the aid of the cold, rational part of me to speak on its behalf while it took a few minutes to recover. The rational part dutifully stepped in and reminded me that there was no way to undo what had been done. Darryl’s severed dick was still in my left hand. I dropped it to the floor, recoiling, but there was nothing I could do to magically rejoin it to the rest of him. His left arm had been severely damaged and would also not be easily repaired, if it could be saved at all. And trying to save it meant a trip to a hospital, which meant facing questions that I had no desire to answer. There was really no way out of this scene that would involve Darryl being alive and healthy and whole again and me not in jail. There was no way back. We could only go forward.

And as long as we had to go forward, we might as well go all in. Instead of mercifully ending Darryl’s agony with a quick flick of the knife to his throat, I might as well let the motocross tear him apart. Instead of turning off the ventilator and letting him slowly lose consciousness, I might as well leave it on. I would never, ever get an opportunity like this again; how could I not take full advantage of it? It was what Darryl had wanted, after all. More or less. My sadist part and my rational part joined forces and my regular-guy part grudgingly acquiesced to their mutually-agreed plan, setting its quaint notions about ethics and morality down by the roadside and moving on with a last mournful, lingering backward look.

While I had been wrestling with my inner demons, the meat had reached a new temporary equilibrium. Most of his body sagged to the right and his right arm now made a greater angle with the floor as his wrist was repositioned relatively higher compared with his body. His left arm stretched out obscenely far. His skin was still intact, so there was no blood visible outside his body. But there was definitely internal bleeding going on because the skin had begun to darken and swell in the area around the tear. Having torn once, though, that was now the weakest link in the horizontal chain, and so further stretching took place there.

Another twenty minutes passed and the meat stayed alert through all of it. The respirator continued to supply him with oxygen and pump out the CO₂, and the time scale of this operation was too short for hunger or thirst to play a significant role. I steadily worked my way back into full-on sadist mode and instead of worrying about how to ease his ordeal, I instead worried that he would expire from internal bleeding before the next major failure event. But he didn’t. He hung in there, suffering magnificently all the while, sometimes in tense silence, other times mewing like a kitten, other times crying out as loud as his mask-covered mouth and machine-regulated breathing would let him. The horizontal beam continued to expand, slowly pulling his left arm further and further away from the rest of his body. The skin gradually tautened and I knew that at some point it would have to rip apart. Meanwhile, the vertical beam continued its own expansion. The failure of his left shoulder had granted some slack there, but it was soon taken back up again by the relentless pull.

Right around an hour – 12 centimeters of stretch – he let out a fresh yelp and started twitching. (Twitching was all he could do – he was stretched so tight that no other motion of any significance was possible.) I looked to see what part of him was giving way this time. To my delight, it was his scrotum. The unyielding chain had not expanded a bit, so every bit of vertical motion his body had made from the waist up had been applied to the connection between his balls and his pelvis. They were now held impossibly far down in their sac, looking purple and black and distorted. I couldn’t see anything obvious giving way, which eventually made me realize what had happened: the connecting cords must have been stretched past their limit and torn free. The skin of the sac was still intact – it must have had more give available to it – but the balls themselves were now floating untethered inside. The meat was now unmanned in both the cock and the ball department.

It was hard to tell how aware he still was. Clearly he was still feeling pain, but he had stopped trying to talk and didn’t respond when I got up in front of his face and tried to catch his attention. So I just waited, watching.

Ten minutes later, his balls tore free completely. And I mean, tore free. There was a sudden wet popping sound while I was distracted watching his left arm, and next thing I knew two white blobs hit the floor in a wash of blood along with the lock and chain that had held them. I quickly went in and tied off the gash that was left behind, though I knew it was only a temporary stopgap. The meat had definitely felt the loss of his balls because he had let out a thin, reedy yelp at the time, but it was clear he wouldn’t be lasting much longer. Inspired by the sight, I was sorely tempted to add a few more white droplets of my own to the growing puddle of gore. But I held back, knowing that doing so would would make it impossible for me to have the stomach to see the scene through to the end.

He lasted long enough to be able to feel the moment when his left arm finally came completely free at about one hour and fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, there was just no way to keep him going after that. His now-wide-open brachial artery pumped jet after jet of hot sticky fluid onto the floor as if it were having an orgasm of its own. It went on for a minute or so and then there was just no blood left inside to pump out. So the meat quietly ceased feeling pain and I waited all alone for the last failure to occur. I took the now-unnecessary breathing mask off and then decided to up the speed a bit. With the left arm no longer a factor, the meat was now only attached at his ankles and his right wrist, so a lot of the previous tension was now gone. He sagged down, hanging from his wrist, and it would have taken a long while at two millimeters per minute to get him stretched taut again. So I cranked the rate up to ten. That did the trick in reasonable time. When I had gotten him re-tightened, I slowed the rate back down to normal. A few minutes later, the right shoulder gave way just like the left one had. I fast-forwarded another few centimeters, then slowed again until the skin tore free and the body flopped forward. His head hit the plastic-covered floor and I could hear the skull fracture as it did.

I shut the motocross down.

The resulting tableau was interesting, but it could be improved – both arms were dangling from their restraints, suspended like legs of lamb at a butcher shop. That looked great, but the body was lying on the floor with only the ankles attached to the upright. So I did a little staging work, securing the torso and head to the upright with ropes and using more ropes to angle the arms back toward the shoulders they had until recently been attached to. There was plenty of space separating them, enough to have fit a third arm segment in the gap: hand, forearm, upper-arm-become-middle-arm, space-for-new-upper-arm, shoulder. Then I used strings to attach his cock and each ball to the points they had each been ripped from. The strings were long so the dick and balls swung down around the level of his knees. All in all, it made for a rather appealing photograph, and so I took one. Just one, and just the image – no GPS-coordinate metadata or camera identification or any other privacy-compromising details. The sole bit of physical evidence that this event ever happened. Well, it would be the sole physical evidence once I disposed of the meat and all the fluids he had left behind.

The cleanup was tedious. I needed to get every scrap of mess. Liquids were allowed to dry; solid bits were cut into manageable-sized chunks and went into the freezer. At some point, I would be renting a boat (ostensibly for fishing), and I would be disposing of the various parts in the Atlantic, each one weighted down so nothing would come washing back to shore before nature could take care of the recycling. The plastic sheets would be scrubbed in the salt water until no evidence of him remained.

I suppose it would have been possible to dispose of at least part of him a different way. “Tastes like chicken,” I might tell you. But both my regular-guy side and my sadist side would agree that such a line would have no truth behind it. My regular-guy side would know that it’s an attempt at gallows humor, a macabre joke, a way of defusing a pretty horrifying situation by trying to find a little bit of lightness somewhere in it. Something funny to joke about in the abstract, knowing that actually eating the flesh of a man I had tortured to death was beyond the pale, not something I would ever, ever do for real.

My sadist side would tell you he tasted more like pork.