Desert Cookout

By Rob Cole

It had been a long drive out. Peter had started out with his cock hard in his jeans, his mind in turmoil. He almost stopped and turned around several times, telling himself it wasn't worth it and he was going to regret it, but the long-nourished fantasy, which he must have jerked off to a thousand times in his young life, won out. For the last 20 minutes, as the sun sank into the mountains on the horizon, apprehension about what was going to happen gave way to anxiety that he had the address wrong. The houses were thinning and the darkening desert landscape getting emptier, so he felt mostly relief when he finally spotted the address on a rusty wrought-iron gate.

He could just see the house in a stand of scruffy trees, vaguely silhouetted by lights behind it. His apprehension came back full force as he got out to give his name to the intercom box, but so did his excitement and the pressure of his cock against the crotch of his pants. His heart was pounding as he got back in the car and the gate began to swing open. Last chance to back out. But he told himself it was now or never, took a deep breath, and drove through.

As he approached the house, he saw a number of other cars pulled up off the gravel drive further on, but Carson, a big, bluff man wearing only a black leather jockstrap and sandals, was waiting outside the house–-a big, white rambling affair-–and waved him to stop.

"Strip and leave your clothes and keys in the car," he ordered as Peter got out.

Peter gulped, said, "Yes, Sir," and obeyed, then stood beside the car as Carson examined the hair removal job he'd done on his genitals. His cock filled out fully and stood up as Carson handled it possessively.

"Good. Spread your legs." Carson picked up a gun-like object that he had laid momentarily on a large decorative rock, pulled up Peter's balls and stuck the thing in his crotch. Peter heard a faint click and almost screamed as a dozen wasps seemed to sting him all at once in the root of his penis, but the sensation faded almost immediately, replaced by a spreading warm numbness.

Carson waited a moment, then clamped Peter's testicles and ground them together in one big hand.

"How's that feel?"

Peter felt the pressure but only a faint ache.

"Okay, Sir."

"Good, come along."

As he rounded the corner of the house, Peter saw a dozen or so men, naked or near naked, gathered with drinks in hand in a floodlit brick patio area beside a large green-lit pool. A laden buffet table stood off to the side. Unfamiliar instrumental music played low in the background. The dry desert air was cooling but still warm and most of the men were as naked as himself. But he didn't see anybody with a full erection and he was keenly self-conscious with his nine-inch dick jerking stiffly from side to side as he walked, feeling his heavy low-hangers brushing the inside of his legs.

"Meat's arrived," someone sang out.

The others gathered around.

"Nice piece of sausage," said another.

They were all staring at his genitals. Peter felt his face go red. In reaction, he squared his shoulders and thrust his cock and balls forward.

"What's your name, boy?" asked a handsome 20ish guy, wearing nothing but a heavy chrome ball weight glinting under his half-erect cock. "I always like to know who I'm eating."

"Peter."

"Appropriate."

"Dibs on the cockhead," said another man, wearing a black leather jock strap.

"You'll draw for it like everybody else, Sam," another man said, and they all laughed.

But Peter's attention had been captured by something at the far side of the patio. He knew what it was for immediately.

An open pedestal BBQ grill had been altered with a cover over most of the top and a curved metal shield projecting up from the side of the uncovered area. As he approached with Carson, Peter saw there was a round opening in the shield down next to the grill itself, with some kind of iris clamp. The back of the shield was insulated.

When they reached it, Carson's guests following, Carson ordered Peter to put his hands behind his butt, then bound Peter's wrists.

"Okay, spread your legs."

Carson felt over Peter's organs, yanked the balls down and back and tested the hardness of the dick, after which he pumped it a few times and tested it again. Apparently satisfied, he took from a small table something that looked like an over-sized pair of pliers and fitted a C-shaped piece of heavy wire with sharpened ends into the jaws.

Holding Peter's balls stretched forward, he slipped the jaws over the base of the cock, pushed down as far as they'd go, and squeezed the handles of the tools. The handles worked in reverse, compressing the C-clamp tightly around the root of the cock. Peter felt the pressure despite the pain-killer. When Carson released the jaws, the C-clamp had become a ring digging deeply into the root of the penis, which immediately began to darken. It was obvious that ejaculation was now out of the question-–for Peter, anyway. A couple of the guests were idly stroking their own dicks.

Carson released the testicles and slapped the whole works back and forth a few times.

"Okay, boy, step up here and stick everything through the hole."

It was a little low for Peter's crotch. Carson squatted and adjusted a crank, raising the grill a couple of inches. Peter stuck his penis in, feeling his glans brush numbly against the side of the opening.

"That's it. Move forward."

Carson reached forefinger and thumb of his left hand through the hole in the shield under Peter's cock, got hold of Peter's scrotum and tugged it through. But the opening was a little small for his testicles. Carson bent and stuck his right hand between Peter's legs, found the balls and popped them through.

"Press in all the way," Carson ordered. "Don't want to waste any of this."

Peter obeyed, pressing his loins tight against the insulated back of the shield.

"Good." Carson grasped Peter's penis and balls together in one hand, pulled forward, and yanked them roughly back and forth, getting everything he could through the hole. He triggered a catch and the spring-loaded iris clamp seized the base of Peter's penis, apparently just in front of the C-clamp, with an audible snap. Experimentally, Peter relaxed his body's pressure against the back of the shield, but his organs stayed put, balls lying on the uncovered area of grill-–which was about a foot long and half that wide, penis sticking out over them.

"How long will it take to cook him?" one of the guests asked.

"About half an hour," Carson replied, "But we need to get the meat down on the grill."

He lifted a light chain attached to one side of the grill, blackened so it had obviously been used before, and looped it around Peter's upjutting cock just behind the head. Pulling the cock down on top of the testicles, he attached the chain on the other side, then reached down and turned on the gas, which lit automatically.

Peter stared down at the fire, the ceramic coals starting to glow a few inches under his male organs, feeling the heat on his face and body and just a little on his testicles. He took a deep breath, pressing again into the back of the shield, heart pounding with excitement. It was going to happen. Despite the numbness and the clamps, urgency was building in his crotch.

Carson slapped him on the butt, then rubbed his hand around Peter's firm ass cheeks.

"Some nice meat here, too."

"You ever roast a boy whole?" a guest asked. Peter gaped at him.

"No, I haven't, Tony," said Carson, "but I've seen it done on a couple of runs."

Peter's blood went cold. Were they serious?

"Alive?" Tony was hard erect now, pulling on his balls.

"One, yes. I'm not sure about the other one. They were both drugged and given wine enemas after they were cleaned out. One was bashed on the back of the head, like a steer, the other boy wasn't. But I don't think either was feeling much pain."

"Wow, that would be something," Sam said. He eyed Peter speculatively. "Maybe we could roast this one."

Peter almost stopped breathing. He was way the hell and gone out in the desert and nobody knew where he was.

"Naw," said Carson. "Take too long."

"How long?"

"Hours. Maybe next time. You guys wanta make some sauce?"

Peter sagged against the clamp in relief. But the discussion had perversely increased his excitement. Despite the numbness, the root of his cock felt like an iron bar between his legs. He caught a whiff of roasting meat.

Several of the guests lined up at the table beside the grill and jerked off into a bowl, then Carson took the bowl and a small brush and spread the cum over Peter's penis and balls. The meat was hot, now, and this produced a strong musky aroma with a suggestion of roast pork. Something like muted fireworks went off in Peter's crotch and he made frantic pumping motions against the clamp. He could barely feel his cock and balls and the orgasm, focused instead in his prostate, wouldn't resolve. It went on and on.

"I think the boy just came," somebody said, and they all laughed.

"Did you, boy?" Carson asked.

"Yes, Sir," Peter gasped.

"Good. It'll be your last, and it'll make the meat taste better."

Peter looked down at his roasting organs and surprised himself by grinning from ear to ear. He kept pressing into the heat shield and squirming against it.

"Sir," he tried to say, and had to clear his throat to try again. "Sir, when the. . . the meat's done, can I have a bit of it?"

Carson's guests laughed again. "Maybe," said Carson. "We'll see. I like a boy who enjoys being roasted."

After awhile, Carson undid the chain. Peter's organs, the cock with its flaring head looking as big as ever, remained sizzling on the grill. Peter watched with fascination as Carson brushed them with melted butter and added salt and pepper. The meat was browning nicely. As Carson worked on it, Peter felt the ghost of another orgasm in his crotch.

After another ten minutes or so, Carson stuck a fork in Peter's cock, then one of his balls. The tines went in easily. "Meat seems to be done," he remarked to a guest watching.

By working another lever, he released Peter's organs from the heat shield and ordered him to step back. His cock and balls, now a rich golden brown, dropped heavily to hang between his legs, looking enormous.

"Carving time," somebody yelled, and the guests all gathered around.

"Thrust ‘em forward, boy," Carson ordered, and Peter obeyed. Carson pulled on an insulated glove and picked up a large carving knife from a table. As Peter and the guests watched, he grasped Peter's organs, pulled them out and up, and cut them off at the clamp with one quick stroke. Then he plopped them on a carving board on the table, fixed the penis with a fork, and sliced off the glans. He cut the testicles off next, then sliced up the rest of the penis in half-inch chunks. He speared one of these with the fork.

"Open your mouth, boy." When Peter complied, he thrust the meat in.

Peter gagged slightly, but took a deep breath and started to chew. The chunk of cock tasted vaguely like pork. He was eating his own penis! He closed his eyes and savored it. Some of the onlookers laughed.

"He's really getting off on it," somebody said.

Peter swallowed the meat, opened his eyes, and grinned around at the guests. "It was worth it," he said.

Carson untied his hands and slapped him on the butt. "Good boy. Mingle, have a beer. Enjoy yourself. I'll patch up your crotch later."

The rest of the party was a hazy blur in Peter's mind afterward. He woke up next day in what turned out to be a motel room in Indio. His first waking thought was that he'd had the most vivid castration dream yet. He threw back the sheet to jerk off, as he did most mornings, but there was nothing in his crotch but a white bandage with a catheter sticking out. Dismay warred with excitement. It had really happened! He stared at the bandage, letting out his breath in a long sigh. He knew he should feel devastated, but what he really felt was mostly regret that he couldn't do it again. Unbidden, the recollection came to mind of the talk at the party about roasting a boy whole and he found himself wondering, would a boy be acceptable for that whose genitals had already been removed?

At some point, he knew, he'd be calling Carson again.