The Trophy (Part 3)

***WARNING*** Extreme abuse, rape, body modification, mutilation, and snuff ahead. Read at your own risk.

Once a man is broken, you’ve won. They don’t always realize it right away, and so, it’s best to start them off small. I forced him to shave his head every day from then on, and then, after he did that without complaint, he graduated to shaving his face and body as well. At this point, I also faced a decision of my own–now that he’d been broken down, what should I do with him? I had enjoyed taking his fingers, to be honest–I hadn’t done anything like that in ages–so why not go a bit further?

I began by getting him adjusted to bondage, immobility and darkness. I would keep him bound, first for hours, then days and then eventually for a week at a time. In his bondage, I would have men arrive and abuse him as they saw fit, or I would simply have them use him as a dump or urinal. At this point, I had treated him with products designed to remove his hair permanently–no more shaving would be required, ever. And then, I began the modifications. with the help of a dentist friend, I removed his teeth and tongue, and then together dropped his jaw, opening his mouth impossibly wide, and we crafted a new mouth with latex putty–soft, tight and inviting–a mouth pussy, as I called it. It got rave reviews from all the men who used it, and so I began crafting various attachments that could be inserted, in order to give different sensations and textures, different degrees of tightness.

Since he was no longer able to eat like a man, I fed him by tube–and soon he realized that he was becoming fat, his lithe body from before slowly expanding with mass, first a small gut and moobs, but as the drug cocktail broke down his metabolic rate, he expanded faster and faster–in six months, he had ballooned up to four hundred and fifty pounds, with no sign of stopping. The only thing clothing he wore now were full body rubber suits designed to deprive him of his senses. His eyes and ears were covered nearly all the time–he was only really aware of himself by feel and heft, rather than by sight or sound. When I took his eyes and ears, I don’t think he even noticed a thing aside from the pain–not that he could have registered disapproval with his mouth pussy anyway.

At about eight hundred pounds, when he was no longer able to move much at all, I decided it was time for permanent installation in my dungeon–we removed his cock and balls, his arms and legs, anchored him on a concrete block, and kept him growing, kept him alive, so he could feel what we were doing to him, carving out chunks of his fat, and installing latex holes for men to fuck, turning him into a jiggly fuckcushion for men to pin. I wonder what it felt like, to him, to have men fucking him in every direction, caught in the middle of their orgy. The rubber holes all over his body all drained out, along with his bodily fluids, into the sewer below the concrete slab–I would rinse him out once a week or so, to keep the pincushion from stinking up the room too much.

Alas, a little after one thousand pounds, he finally expired. I didn’t get rid of him, of course–he was mostly rubber at this point anyway. With the help of a taxidermist I knew from previous catches, we got rid of the flesh and stuffed what remained with rubber filling, preserving it’s squishy, fleshy feel, and it lives on in my dungeon, though I often rent it out to parties and local clubs as a fucktoy statement piece. I often have people ask me how, exactly, I made the thing, what had inspired me to create something like that, but I usually just remain silent. “I like my projects,” I say sometimes, happy with the double meaning.

You probably think I’m mad, don’t you? But how different is it, really, from a hunter keeping their trophies in the living room? That massive bear looming over them in the armchair, stuffed with fluff? I caught him–this is my token, my own personal trophy for my kill. Still, I’m getting the hankering for another project here soon–maybe not something quite so massive. Maybe I’ll make a pup for myself, or for a friend–I haven’t done one of those in ages. In fact, I’ve heard some rumours of an illegal dog fighting ring around town, and I bet I could extract an invite from one of my contacts–hell, maybe I’ll just run a kennel for a while? Pups are fairly easy, after all, I can make a few. After all, the only cruelty towards an animal I can condone is against a fellow human, you know?

The Trophy (Part 2)

***WARNING*** Abuse, rape, and physical mutilation ahead.

You have to start off by destroying their pride, you see.

You have to figure out what, more than anything else in the world, they treasure–that thing about them they love more than anything else, that thing where they store their idea of themselves. If you aren’t very experienced, you might need to rely on trial and error, though for most guys, it’s pretty obvious, I suppose. Got yourself a muscle man? Chain him up immobile for a few months with a catheter, feed him some gainer shakes until he’s good and plump, along with his own piss–ruin his body, and you can ruin his spirit faster than anything else. He’ll do anything you want so long as you don’t make him eat anymore. But for some guys, it can be as simple as a good, cleanly shaved head.

This one, it was so fucking obvious. His hair was the cleanest thing about him, primped and curled and flowing down past his shoulders. Sure, it looked nice, and there’s nothing wrong with a guy who wants to look pretty–everyone wants people to think they’re pretty, at the end of the day. But you want to break someone like this? Make them ugly. Of course, you can’t *just* shave their head. I coddled him for a few days, got him feeling better, gave him a bit of hope as his wounds were healing. He thought, just like a good beta, if he could perform submission well enough, I might just let him go. Then, when I couldn’t stand his false simpering anymore, I drugged him, hauled him out of the cell in my basement where he’d been staying, and bound him up naked–leaving just one arm free. I laid out the tools of his torture, while he slept–scissors and an electric razor, both within his reach, and then I waited for him to wake up, so I could explain the rules to him.

The game was simple enough–he had a choice to make. Either he could cut his own hair and shave himself bald, or he could take his punishment, whatever that might be. I remained vague, on that last part, of course. In his mind, he knew what I might be capable of, but a man’s vanity can be much stronger than good reason. He laughed, he thought this was ridiculous. Didn’t I know how long it takes to grow out hair like this? In truth, this was a test to see if I had guessed right. Any normal pragmatist would, perhaps, balk at shaving their head, but they would all do it, in the end. But him? No, his hair was the one thing about him which, in his mind, redeemed the rest of his failed life. Without his locks, what even was he anymore? I told him he had half an hour to complete the task–he didn’t even pick up the scissors once. So I bound his arm back down, and set up his punishment.

I hooked his cock up to a milker, put electrodes on his sack shoved a plug in his ass designed to vibrate against his prostrate, turned them both on, and sat back, to watch. He shivered at first, until the first load exploded out of him, and into the milker, which pulled out and dribbled into a quart mason jar, which I had set in his vision. He turned to me, and asked me how long this would take, and I informed him he could return to the cell when he had filled the jar. This, he thought, was ludicrous–a fucking quart of cum? I, however, was completely serious, and knew how long it would likely take–I kept him in that chair for six days straight, feeding him, giving him only two breaks a day, to shit and piss in a bucket under the chair, before hooking him back up. By the end, his cock was red and inflamed, he couldn’t even speak, having lost his voice after all the screaming, and I returned him to the cell to think about it for several days, before I dragged him back out, tied him down, and gave him the same choice: cut your hair, or take your punishment.

He actually picked up the scissors, that time, hands trembling, but he couldn’t do it. Still, progress. I knocked him out again, and hooked him up to a fucking machine–pounding his hole relentlessly until he could take my arm to the shoulder. As a relative virgin, his was…fairly tight–it took two days of work before he finally did it, and I locked him back up. At this point, I was sure he was imagining that this abuse was the worst I could do, the furthest I could go. I could wreck him, certainly, but I couldn’t destroy him. As expected, he again refused to cut his hair, certain he could take anything I might throw at him–but I had anticipated this, and so I took the thumb and index fingers from his left hand. He screamed for days, unable to believe what had just happened to him, what I had just done. This time, I let him stay in the cell with his ruined hand for close to a month, allowed him to heal slowly, without any relief from the pain. Then, I put him back in the chair.

He was terrified, but I told him that, this time, if he still refused, he could take his punishment and I would release him. However, I told him what that punishment would be. I would place a rubberband around his balls every ten minutes he failed to have his head completely shaven, and at an hour, I would take his nuts. He picked up the scissors before I even started the timer, and was hacking away at his locks. I got three bands on him, the pain and terror of his balls dying making his hand shake so much he had trouble finishing the job, but he made it, sobbing, and when I cut the bands, he shot a load from the sensation alone. I told him I was proud of him, and threw him back in his cell.

Here’s a picture a me wit’ mah latest trespasser. He came up mah drive one night, tellin’ me his car broke down on the road, but I knew what he was, really. Another one a ‘em spies, sent by the guvment, just like the rest. Sure, it took a few days, but I beat the truth out. He says he a real sorry–the fuckin’ liar. He don’t know what it means tah be sorry, but I’ll learn him here soon enough.

I’ve been thinking ’bout the fact that I could use a fancy garbage disposal, somethin’ tah make mah food scraps intah compost faster. Think I’ll hook the spy up tah the sink, work a drain down his throat intah his belly, ‘n he can take care a that fer me. It’ll be tough gettin’ him tah fit under the sink–but a garbage disposal don’t need arms ‘r legs, right? Think I’ll get a couple more fucks outa him ‘fore convertin’ him though. He’s got a real tight ass, that one. Maybe I’ll make ’em a fuckhole instead, ‘n then move ’em intah the kitchen when his ass is good ‘n loose. Sounds like a plan tah me!