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A vivid image of a swollen, overused hole flashes before Collin’s eyes before he manages to close them. It’s his hole, he knows—how it looks right now—and he doesn’t want to see. But the man who captured him delights in more than physical torment, and the electric current will keep building in Collin’s balls as long as his eyelids remain down. Colin grits his teeth and bears it, bears it, bears it—until he can bear it no more.
He opens his eyes and stares into the abyss of his own body. The tired muscles in his sphincter clench painfully on nothing, then after an uncanny second of delay the alien thing on the monitor pulses. It’s crimson inside, spilling into purple edges—a perverted, fleshy rose mourning its lost innocence.
Colin bites his lower lip and swallows, his throat suddenly tight.
He wanted to lose his virginity, not to… not to…
The image on the monitor changes. It no longer shows his current reality, but goes back in time, to the long-lost moment when Collin’s hole was still hairy and dusty pink, then through a quick stop-motion montage of his progressive degradation. First all the hair disappears, then his hole reddens, winks open—wider, wider, wider—then, after its first encounter with a leather switch, it swells shut again. The widening after that is more gradual, and the color deepens; it becomes almost pretty in an alien way, raised and glistening; it looks hungry. A switch closes it again after that—shit, does that hurt—and the circle repeats. On the screen, it looks like a pulse, or as if some sort of divine sexual being winked at Collin in invitation; it would’ve been erotic—if only it was someone else’s ass.
Finally, the perverted movie ends, longer than the previous one by another frame. “Please, no more!” Collin begs the clinically white, empty walls of the tiny room the front of his body is imprisoned in.
Before, the man who took him has never listened, but now an electronically modulated voice comes from the speakers. “Do you feel properly deflowered?”
A cold finger touches just inside his sore rim.
Colin bangs his forehead on the—bench? table?—he’s lying on. “Yes, yes! I’ll never go on blind dates again, I swear. Just please, please, enough is enough!”
A thick cock stabs, then stirs the ache inside him.
“Oh, God, no! I can’t!”
Chuckle cracks in the speakers. “Isn’t that what you said the last, oh, twenty times?”
Pressure gathers in Collin’s guts that he can almost—and with great reluctance—recognize as pleasant, but his balls are dry, and his cock hangs above them, soft, sad, and much too sensitive. His breaths come faster and heavier, and he grunts low in his throat or curses quietly every time the man bottoms out, in unsuccessful attempts to distract himself. The friction has been hot from the start, but it soon turns burning. His blood pulses in the bruises both inside and out.
“I don’t think we’re quite finished transforming you into a proper slut,” the man says, and Collin sucks in a breath. “This hole, it still feels much too fresh and tight.”
“No, wait!” Collin’s muscles seize.
The speakers groan. “See, that’s what I’m talking about.” The thrusts punch into Collin faster. “If you still can do that, then you still need many more hours of taking cocks.”
“No, no, please, I’m a slut, a real whore!” Collin cries. “Look how many men came inside me. Please, look at my ass, at how broken it is. Oh God, it’s so swollen. It hurts so much, please, I can’t!”
Collin’s protests only seem to excite the man more. He fucks Collin hard, not merely with no regard for his comfort, but taking sadistic pleasure in the torture he delivers.
With clenched fists, Collin imagines what the next shot of his ass will look like, and the next after that. His chest feels hot and tight, and there’s something familiar and very unwelcome swirling through his pelvis. On one of the man’s thrusts, that feeling pops like a water balloon and spills its icy-hot contents through Collin’s groin, and belly, and ass; it grips Collin’s insides in an iron grip, pulls his muscles through pain, through pleasure, and into spasms.
Collin screams as the man fucks into his clenched asshole, as he unlocks Colin’s insides, unfastens them, undoes him. Just as Collin is certain he’s tumbled past the apogee, the man strikes something deep inside—and cums, and cums—and it wreaks a last, painfully tight convulsion out of him.
The man pulls out, and Collin sobs.
Soon, electricity fills his balls, and he knows he needs to look at the screen, but he doesn’t have the strength.
“Ple-please,” he begs.
A switch lands wetly on his hole.
Electric shocks pierce his tender, empty testicles.
He needs to look.
Part of it will stop if he looks.
He lifts his heavy head, and there it is, on the monitor.
The dripping, swollen proof of his destruction.