Balfor and Terry 4

He'd had to let Terry sleep, noticing the purple discoloration spreading in his crotch from his dead balls. there was a beatific smile on his sleeping face and his eyes were moving under their lids, indicating a nice dream.

He knew the young man was about to become very ill and that he would have to go easy on him for while if he wanted him to live, and he realized with mild pleasure that he did want him to live.

He was shaping up the be a good slave. Very quick to obey, and personable. There was something disarmingly defiant about him though too. He'd had the balls to try and steal the seven million after all.

"Well he's lost those balls now" he said out loud to himself with a chuckle, feeling his own hefty orbs. He looked forward to having a eunuch slave when he was so well endowed. All the better for contrast.

He liked also that although he was almost twenty, the kid still had a little dick, barely bigger than a boy's. He liked shaming men with small dicks with his own great uncut monster.

He kid was physically small as well, though nicely muscled, and because Balfor was unusually large, there was even more highly desirable contrast between them. He could dominate him absolutely. Rape him if he felt like it with no fear of effective resistance, and after last night's near flawless piss drinking performance, he knew the kid could learn to like this treatment.

And he had a nice little bubble butt, with a neat, 'rhoid free sphincter to stretch as well. He'd bucked and gyrated it around very skillfully while he was being fucked, as Balfor remembered from one of their sessions on the ship.

He estimated that Terry was experiencing about fifty percent pleasure, thirty percent humiliation and shame, and twenty percent pain and desperation to get away. The way he fought with himself to save his useless pride - Perfection! There was nothing worse than a too willing slave. They were just boring.

The kid had obviously had a tough life as well. He'd had to run the streets that one, but he had survived somehow in spite of his sensitivity and small stature. He had Balfor's respect on that score.

The kid was ideal in every way. Balfor had hit the jackpot. He barely thought about the lost seven million, and he'd been planning to retire to a nice farm on his substantial share... A farm with a barn and a dungeon and a kennel, far away from prying puritan eyes.

Terry might actually turn out to be worth the loss of a couple of million if he could take all the training Balfor had planned for him. Once he got him back to civilization there'd be a cage, a collar, a chastity device. He might let him keep his dick, he thought - but tucked away in a tight metal tube where he couldn't get at it to pleasure himself, except for one or two annual occasions of leniency.

Christmas perhaps, and his birthday.

Experience told him he hadn't rendered the little fellow's little fellow completely useless with his very exciting and enjoyable cigar burning session of three nights ago.

It had been an admirably brave little penis, standing stoically to attention as he'd held it delicately in one hand and rubbed fire onto its head with the other. He remembered the smell of the searing skin and the feel of the kid's desperate vacuum spasming throat as he suffocated and choked around his cock.

Balfor wished he hadn't lost his deep throat flange. He had paid a fortune to have it made. You just can't buy a toy like that in a shop, he thought, and there are few things more annoying than the feel of teeth on cock. He had felt Terry's teeth yesterday as he'd face fucked him and had almost slammed him in the head, but he took pity on him on account of everything he'd put him through already.

Damn he missed his flange, there was nothing like fucking hard right down into a throat with no fear of teeth.

Since they were stuck on this sand pit of an island without the flange, he would have liked to take Terry's teeth out. But with what? there were no pliers here. Maybe he could smash them out using a stick and a rock like a hammer and chisel.

If he did this, Terry would have to eat mash from Balfor's own mouth, like a baby bird. Chewing for two would be a chore, but he'd get used to it, and it was appealing to think of the control he would have over the kid's food intake.

Terry's fastidious demeanor told Balfor he would find eating or drinking from another man's mouth almost intolerably disgusting. That thought was appealing as well.

I want to do it, thought Balfor, I am cruel enough to do it. yeah, I might do it.

Though he would see how Terry felt about it first. If he didn't like the idea and turned out to be good at taking a lot of anal, he might not need to face fuck him again until they got back to somewhere where he could have another flange made.

Oh but the thought of a toothless mouth to fuck was very tempting. Balfor knew his own appetites well enough to know that Terry would have to put up a convincing resistance if he wanted to keep his teeth.

Problem was, he doubted that Terry would survive his neutering, and so was as annoyed as hell. If he'd known the little fucker was going to survive his execution and be of use he would have left his nuts intact, all the better to ruin them more slowly. Now they were dead and rotting fast, and there were no antibiotics here. There were flies though - and when they came to feast on Terry's balls he would know better than to shoo them away.

He had found a cave further up in the wall of the gully where it got steep, and the sensible thing to do would be take Terry there until he either died or got better. They would be out of the rain, and if the kid got a fever, the best thing would be to plunge him in the cool stream, which was handy from the cave.

He'd spent the previous two hours gathering ferns and moss and making a bed in there. Then he'd had to play with himself because he got horny thinking about what he'd planned to do to Terry that morning. Nothing extreme really, Just more piss drinking, sit on his face until the kid was good and sick of licking him out, and then an old fashioned arse fucking.

Great way to start the day.

Then when he'd gone to wake him for this treat he saw that damn rash and knew instantly what it meant. Slave out of action. It would be a month at least before he could fuck him again with impunity. He'd just have to control himself and nurse his new acquisition back to health.

It would be nice to have something to carry water in for him to drink, he thought. He'd scour the beaches later. There was bound to be a plastic bottle or something washed up somewhere. The whole planet was polluted like that now after all.

His fingers were wrinkly with the water and he was going kind of deaf from the splashing so he decided he'd had enough.

On his way back to their palm grove, he found Terry unconscious among the bank of ferns he had fallen into.

"Shit!" he said.

He scooped Terry up effortlessly and carried him to the stream to wash off the mess he'd made of himself as he'd collapsed.

He came around slightly as Balfor bathed him, but was evidently delirious, muttering something about Gollum and Smeagol.

Carrying his limp body back to the cave, Balfor noticed a couple of flies exploring the folds of skin where it pinched against the bindings on Terry's scrotum. "Good." he said, "You guys are on time for once." A shudder went down his big bear spine, remembering what had happened the last time he had seen this sort of thing.

He had been in his late twenties at the time, running drugs every now and again but mostly working as a henchman for a famous central American drug baron, though he never actually got to meet the man himself.

He and his immediate boss Friedrichs had been shot up badly by a squad of para-military police from who new where, and while retreating from the heat, their land rover went off the road and plunged into a gully.

Rather like the gully he was carrying Terry through now thought Balfor, Pacific Rim Volcanism. Interesting, even the vegetation is morphologically similar.

Friedrichs was a man of mixed descent from Brazil, ten years Balfor's senior who although relatively high up in the food chain, new better than to give Balfor a direct order. At the age of twenty eight, Balfor had already been a difficult figure to deal with, even for a casually violent psychotic like Freddy, whose favorite part of the job was dealing creatively with those who had fallen foul of their overlord. Though he and Balfor were very good friends, some of the things that Freddy liked to do, especially to the younger miscreants, went a little beyond the pale even for Balfor.

Balfor had a sense of fairness, and it pained him to discover that Freddy sometimes framed the young men who would end up his prisoners simply because they caught his eye and looked a bit tasty.

Freddy had a taste for human flesh and his surgical training meant he could make a prisoner last for weeks or months, sometimes years, eating him testicle by testicle, inch by inch, limb by meticulously amputated limb.

In the between time he would clamp them firmly into position and tattoo them extensively in the most sensitive parts of their bodies, the souls of their feet while they still had them, the heads of their cocks while they still had them, their lips, just inside their noses. He had a collection of these surprisingly artful tattoos tanned and framed on the wall of his study in the grand and spacious house he and Balfor shared with the victims and the staff who looked after them, who lived in their sound proof basement.

Like a true connoisseur of pain, Freddy liked to keep notes about the deterioration of his prisoner's mental states.

He didn't kill them once there was nothing left of them to cut off.

If they had survived the loss of their limbs and cock and balls, and were sufficiently good looking, he would keep them as sex toys and ornaments. He usually had at least three in the basement on rotation. He made them learn songs, and had kept one of his best singers for nearly a decade. Several times a week he would bring them upstairs and prop them up on the piano, conducting them like an orchestra.

He liked to drape and pierce them with jewelry, and on evenings of special performance they could be wearing up to three hundred thousand American dollars worth of sapphires and platinum gloriously set against their otherwise naked skin. Freddy liked sapphires and he liked inflicting pain.

Mostly though his limbless, neutered, dickless, often earless though rarely eyeless (he liked them to see what was happening to them) creations would disappoint him, and wind up in the kennel for the rest of their lives to be fucked by the guard dogs.

Freddy and Balfor's house was patrolled by seven magnificent German Shepherds, all male. Balls intact.

There were usually about four or five torsos in the kennel depending on the rate at which their cocaine baron boss developed enemies among his people.

There's not a lot you can do prevent a dog fucking you, thought Balfor when you're just a head and an anus, incapable of anything but wriggling. If they tried to roll over onto their backs to avoid the dog's attentions, they would risk a nasty bite.

All the kennel torsos were badly scratched on their backs from the dog's claws and most had old bite marks on their heads and sides and arse cheeks. They had numerous burns from Balfor's cigars as well, where he had tortured them either on a whim, or to make them perform some specific act for his amusement.

Though the torsos never came back out of the kennel, they often lasted years in there, eating nothing but what the dogs left them on the floor, drinking nothing but water tainted with dog saliva.

The dogs were fond of the kennel torsos and fucked them constantly. It was good for the dogs' morale as well, to have human refuse at the bottom of their doggy social order. Hardly any fights broke out among the dogs as a consequence.

Balfor was fond of the dogs and would sometimes prop a couple of kennel torsos up on old cushions and make them suck and rim dog after dog for its enjoyment and his entertainment. He liked to pat the dogs fondly while this was happening, so they knew who to be grateful to, he thought it was endlessly comical to watch their handsome hairy faces go stupider as their pleasure increased. tongues wagging, whimpering as they came to orgasm. The dogs quickly learned to wait their turn for this.

Balfor would have to be smoking a cigar of course, to insure the torsos were very diligent with their tongues. Most of them never got over the disgust of tonguing a dog's hairy sphincter, or burying their faces in sweaty, dusty hair to suck on a dog's reeking boner. If the cocksucking kennel torso failed to swallow any of the dog's pungent semen, a slow agonizing burn from Balfor's cigar was bound to ensure it didn't happen again.

Balfor would eventually get too exited to control himself. He usually dealt with this by fucking which ever seemed the most dominant of the dogs at the time, holding it by the balls to keep it in position. The dog's arsehole had of course been recently cleaned out with a human tongue after all so where was the harm?

Seeing who fucked who kept all the dogs well behaved and obedient, and Balfor liked the idea of being literally top dog. He respected the dogs more than he respected most humans.

The dogs were less likely to fight also, because the size of Balfor's cock meant that dog seniority was associated with the risk of a painful fucking.

Of course it would never have occurred to him to fuck one of the kennel torsos. They were filthier and smellier than the dogs and usually beneath contempt.

Their boss was very pleased with Freddy and Balfor's work, and paid them generously as a consequence. Though he himself was too squeamish to attend any of the infamous soirees in their house on the calle Rosario, the news of what went on there kept everyone very effectively in line and that was good for business.

Although Balfor would never have fucked a kennel torso, Freddy didn't mind him using his house ornaments and it was very convenient to have Carmen the catholic dungeon nurse bring one upstairs for him to play with when ever he felt horny. They were grateful for the attention by and large, having nothing else to do but talk and sing or watch television other wise.

Dino was his favorite, he had somehow survived Freddy's horrors with no loss of sanity. Freddy must have liked him from the start, because unlike the others, there were no tattoos on Dino's face, and he still had his ears.

He was a swarthy, intelligent conversationalist who liked to play chess after they fucked. He had a great memory and scarcely needed to look at the board as he called his moves. None of the others seemed able to cum, but Dino squirted a clear fluid from his repositioned urethra upon orgasm that told Balfor he was not faking it. Balfor had a perverse desire for the taste of this, and would spend hours milking him for it, first sitting on Dino's face and playing with his nipples, then fucking him slowly and rhythmically in an ideal position to stimulate his prostate until he started flipping out with pleasure.

Balfor liked to get Dino out of it on booze and LSD as well. He was better company than Freddy and very witty, even when completely wasted.

He alone seemed to almost enjoy his new status as an ornament, even though he knew he was one of those who Freddy had framed in order to acquire.

Then in the end, by an astonishingly rare act of poetic justice, Freddy's legs had been crushed and almost torn from his pelvis in the crash, and he'd had to tie them off, knowing that he would lose them.

Balfor had been small-calibre shot in the shoulder and through the calf, but had not been badly hurt in the crash except for a concussion. Freddy's surgical skills had been easily up to the task of patching him up.

They lay commiserating with each other in the gully for nearly a day before Balfor's dizziness abated enough for him to go and get help, leaving Freddy his meds and plenty of water. Unable to get directly up to the road because of the steepness, and disoriented by his head injury, he had become hopelessly lost.

By the time he'd returned with a couple of farmers a week and a half later Freddy's legs were still seething with maggots. In the tropical heat they should have been almost gone by then. His belly was black and swollen. His face was waxy and yellow, cadaver like.

Shortly before he died he said "There weren't any flies Balfor! Who would believe it. The maggots might have saved me, but they just didn't come. My legs were stinking and there were no flies. If they had come earlier I might have lived. This stupid fucking country - not even the flies can follow a timetable!"

He died, eyes wide with terror while Balfor and the farmers were making a stretcher for him out of canvas and saplings. They left him there to rot, the soil too shallow to bury him and the stench from his legs too unbearable to be borne for the sake of a corpse.

Most of his skeleton is still there, pale bones scattered around the rusted hulk of an old land rover full of spider webs.

(His skull is not there though. A lonely and quiet farm girl found it while out on one of her walks and she now keeps it in a cardboard box, under her bed, wrapped in her own beautifully hand embroidered linen. She takes it out sometimes and tells it her secrets while erasing or going over the ever improving curvy day-of-the-dead patterns on it with her paints and colored pencils.)

On his return to the house after the crash, the whole place had been shot up and gutted by fire. The staff was gone, the torsos were gone, the dogs were gone. There were mounds of earth in the garden by the frangipani tree. He cried for hours. Mostly for Dino.

That's when he had moved to South East Asia, formed a consortium and bought the "Brenhines Blaidd" from an old Welshman in Port Moresby.

He never had gotten around to changing her name to something pronounceable. They just ended up calling her the "Bren."

And then she had gone down, and now he was here at the cave.

Balfor laid Terry down on the fern bed he had made for him, and went to get a mouthful of water. He returned, dribbled the water into Terry's mouth and went to get another one.

After three of these trips to make sure Terry would not dehydrate, he made sure the bindings were tight on Terry's scrotum which smelled now like a rotting fish. Several tiny white maggots were crawling on the blackened skin and more flies had been attracted. They walked all over his cock.

That's really gonna tickle when he wakes up, thought Balfor.

He went to the beach to look for a bottle.