Deliverance - Hooch and Matt's Story (32 page)

Hooch immediately obeyed the command, moving on his knees without the use of his hands, presenting his tattooed lower back to the crowd.

After a long inspection, the dom straightened up and looked at Matt. “He bears your mark,” he stated, his voice full of awe.

“Of course.” It felt so strange, at once detached and possessive, wanting to tear the man’s arms off for touching Hooch, and yet feeling removed from it all. Matt couldn’t deny the surge of power at the respect and awe in the eyes of the others.

The first man joined Hooch. “Will you be using H tonight?” he addressed Matt. The eagerness that this might not be what Matt had planned, was written across his elegant face and audible in his New England accent. “Or do you want him to be used for your viewing pleasure?”

Sensing Hooch’s reassurance rather than seeing it, Matt considered for a moment. Much as the thought of others touching Hooch made him stew, this time—at least at first—he wanted observe, as Hooch had suggested, to get a sense of what it was that Hooch needed. One thing to imagine it from the half-sentences and the aftermath, quite another to see it. “I shall watch,” keeping his voice cool, “you may use him.”

“How many?” A third voice asked from the crowd. A black guy stepped through, with shaved head and fit body, the unmistakable look of a someone who was still or had been in the military. “There are several of us who are H’s regulars.”

Matt gave an appreciative look at the guy’s muscles, pretending to consider, as if he didn’t know the answer Hooch craved. “You may,” the same level tone, “I’ll let you know when he’s had enough.”

Not quite answering the question, but allowing him to stop at any time.

“We all had scenes with H,” the tall and elegant guy said, identifying himself as ‘Eagle’, “and each of us realized we had a hard time breaking him on our own.”

‘Breaking him’. Matt knew this was what Hooch craved and needed, but it still felt like a gut punch.

“We’ve been having extended scenes here on stage with several of us together for the last two years.” The black guy added, who called himself ‘MC’, the moniker telling Matt all he needed to know about the man’s military background.

“I see,” Matt nodded, trying to pretend a calm he didn’t feel. “And now?”

Looking at the men, each of them so different. Wondering, at the back of his mind, what it was that each of them did to try and break Hooch.

“You most of all know how unbreakable H is.” The hairy biker-type guy drawled, the name ‘Skull’ tattooed on his neck.

“Yeah,” a forth man stepped forward. Short but broad built, identifying himself as ‘Tank’. “You’re his owner.”

“Do you want us to give you a scenario?” Eagle asked.

Not looking at Hooch, but continuing to keep his eyes on the men, Matt inclined his head slightly. “Yes.” Feeling the eyes of the men on him, on Hooch, who was still kneeling with his back to most of the room.

Tank spoke up first. “Ropes. I’m a shibari master.” He didn’t elaborate any further, clearly expecting Matt to know what he was talking about. “H is a tough bastard, can withstand the worst positions for the longest of periods.” He was in awe of Hooch’s stamina, that was obvious. “I want to try a new technique, hang him from a beam.”

“I like to deliver pain.” MC said lazily with a slow, almost predatory smile. “H takes a lot of whipping, beating and flogging before he screams. You must be a damned genius to manage on your own.” He nodded towards Matt.

Eagle raised an amused eyebrow at MC. “Wandplay. I got H to be able to take the second to largest one the last time he was here. You’ve been training him, haven’t you?” He flicked his wrist, “and electricity. H got a special scream for that.”

Skull only raised his right arm and made a fist, smirking. “Guess.”

Matt wasn’t sure how he managed to keep a straight face through the introductions, and the assumption that he knew what they were talking about, and that he did them to Hooch. Each sounding worse than the other. He wanted to run out of there, dragging Hooch with him, but this was what he had promised to do. He knew that Hooch needed this, needed what these men gave him, and he would never understand it if he did not see it through. He hoped that his audible voice didn’t sound as shaky as his internal one, as he nodded at Tank. “You can start.”

All of the four men stepped onto the stage, and turned Hooch round to face the rapidly gathering crowd of spectators. Hooch kept staring straight ahead at nothing. This was ‘H’, and the scene was going to be extreme. Everyone who’d ever been to the club knew of Hooch, and most had seen him on stage. The fact that ‘H’ was there for the first time with his owner; not wearing the collar, not blindfolded, but bearing new and permanent marks of ownership on his body, was enough to bring a buzz into the whole theatre and raise anticipation. Staff seemed aware, too, looking more ready to serve than ever. This night was going to be something special, and no one wanted to miss it.

Eagle talked to a member of staff who vanished behind the scenes, MC conferred with one of the bartenders, and Tank motioned to staff to bring his kit. While waiting for the natural ropes to arrive, all cut to the same lengths, he laced his fingers into Hooch’s short hair and pulled his head far back. He held out his hand and Skull handed him a broad metal posture collar with rolled edges, but no padding, and secure locks. Tank placed it around Hooch’s neck and snapped it shut, forcing him to keep his head up and back, so high Hooch struggled to swallow. He couldn’t look down, couldn’t see what was happening to him, and while not blindfolded, he was effectively blind. The effect of the discomfort was immediately obvious on his cock, now fully hard.

Matt looked on, trying to keep his face impassive; trying to ignore the buzz behind him in the crowd. Watching Hooch, the way his cock hardened as he was manhandled into the collar, unable to make eye contact with him now. Matt fought to remain still at the sound of machinery above them, as a heavy metal beam, perhaps eight feet long, was lowered on long steel chains.

The murmuring in the room grew as a male staff member, wearing a collar, latex hot pants and nothing else, returned with his arms full of ropes. He placed them down at Tank’s feet before walking away backwards, never turning his back on the stage. Tank picked up the first length of rope just as Skull and MC took hold of Hooch’s wrists. They were obviously used to working as a team. Matt kept his eyes on them steadily, careful to observe Hooch’s reactions, oblivious to anything else.

Skull and MC pulled on Hooch’s arms, stretching them out as far as they could, while Tank positioned the beam behind Hoch’s shoulder blades and outstretched arms. Eagle stepped behind the other two men and held the beam in place, to stop it from swinging on its chains. Tank took the first length of sisal rope, wrapping and knotting it around Hooch’s biceps. Tightly binding his arms upper arms to the beam, meticulously and alternately, trying the immaculately placed rope artful knots. Rope binding deeply into flesh and smooth skin, but never cutting Hooch’s circulation off. A true shibari master, slowly and confidently creating a piece of art, as he bound Hooch’s wrists to the beam as well, then proceeding to fix the hands and each finger, leaving him crucified to the physical extremes.

Eagle fixed a tight cockring and ball spreader onto Hooch’s hard cock, ensuring he would stay erect without being able to come. Hooch, spread out, muscles and tendons tensed and clearly displayed, the faint gleam of metal in his nipples only serving to emphasize the power and the strength of his body, bound and trapped by the ropes. Cock weeping and reddened against the leather straps and metal.

Matt’s mouth was dry long before Tank completed his complicated dance with rope and knots, which now crossed and bound Hooch’s chest and abs. Sisal pressing tightly into strained muscles, to emphasize the strength of the helpless body.

Satisfied with his work, Tank nodded to someone at the back of the room, and the bar started to rise, pulling Hooch off his knees and onto his feet, until he was stretched out, displayed for all the room to see, and yet the beam rose higher.

MC and Skull remained at Hooch’s side, and when Tank finally gave the order to stop the lift, Hooch hung free, unable to touch the ground with his feet, the full weight of his body supported by his outstretched arms and strained shoulders.

Matt couldn’t see his face, upturned to the ceiling as it was, but he saw Hooch’s breath come shallow and fast, the barbells in his nipples catching the light as his chest moved rapidly.

Each of the two men took hold of one of Hooch’s legs, and at Tank’s nod they spread them impossibly far apart, holding them in place while Tank bound Hooch’s ankles, as securely and as artfully as his arms and upper body. Fixing the ankles to metal rings in the stage floor, he kept the body suspended and open, and under an incredible strain. Tank went on to bind Hooch’s legs, displaying bunching muscles and cutting into delicate flesh at his groin.

When Tank was done, he had created a work of art made from rope and body: intricate twists and elegant knots. A masterpiece of pain and discomfort as Hooch’s body hung suspended and stretched to the extremes, but kept accessible at the most sensitive areas. His smooth skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, making Hooch’s tanned body gleam in the light of the theatre. Caged and framed in rope. Muscles, tendons and extended veins straining against the bonds.

Matt thought it was just as well he’d kept his words to a minimum so far; there was no way he’d be able to say anything when it felt like there was an enormous lump in his throat. Watching Hooch, undoubtedly in agony, but knowing this was what he needed, craved, and that he had promised to watch tonight.

Tank looked at Matt, before he stepped back to join Skull and Eagle, letting MC take centre stage. The muscular man had ordered one of the ever present staff to bring an array of tools of corporal punishment, such as a heavy yet flexible black leather paddle, adorned with blunt metal studs that delivered the maximum damage without breaking skin. Several floggers and whips, and even switches. MC turned to Matt as he picked up a sturdy flogger with an abundance of long, thin round leather cords, and a whip with several strands of thin braided lead-tipped leather.

“H’s owner,” he addressed Matt, “which one to start with?”

It was then that Matt realized he hadn’t given his name, nor a pseudonym. No matter, though, because that wasn’t important here, all he was was H’s owner. Matt hoped that the gulp he took as he tried to force the lump down his throat wasn’t visible. One thing to watch Hooch strain against the cruel ropes, muscles painfully constricted and his own weight pulling him down—quite another to see the collection of tools, all for the purpose of inflicting more pain. He repressed the shudder that ran down his spine at the thought of any of them striking Hooch, and looked MC straight in the eye. “The whip, first,” he said, hoping that it would be the slightly less painful. “Careful of the piercings and the tattoo. They’re still fresh.”

MC nodded in agreement and put the flogger down, before testing the whip. The sound stark in the room, despite the murmur of the crowd. Hooch strained against the ropes, hearing the sound but unable to see what MC was doing. He visibly braced himself for the inevitable first strike, but nothing happened as MC waited, not giving a clue, rendering him unable to anticipate what was coming next. The moment the tension in Hooch’s bound body eased a fraction, MC raised the whip, and hit the helpless body with a powerful strike. Hooch jerked in the bonds that hardly allowed him any movement, a groan escaping, suppressing a much more tortured sound.

The next lashings came down with no rhythm to brace for, and no less strength. MC hit the middle of Hooch’s chest, avoiding the fresh piercings, then concentrated on his abs, until deep red welts appeared wherever the skin was exposed. Suddenly moving around, an almighty strike hit Hooch’s back and he almost screamed, the groan reverberating in the room that had become quiet.

Hooch’s body jerked and shuddered, sweat running down the rapidly discoloring skin, but he didn’t scream. Not yet. Not enough yet. Holding onto his inhuman control.

Matt had to force himself to remain still through the whipping, stoic. This was what Hooch needed, craved, what he had sought here, a facsimile of the real thing. The wounds were real and painful, the whip was, but in the end this was the safest place for such things. Each of the men on the stage, no matter what they did to Hooch, knew the boundaries. At the end of the night, Hooch would be bruised and covered in welts and scratches and grazes, but he was always in good enough shape to get home. Matt clung to that. He had to. Even as he fought to stop himself from rushing up on the stage and unbinding Hooch and dragging him away. Back home, safe, away from chains and whips and bizarre toys.

MC stopped abruptly, turned to Skull who had appeared behind Hooch, and nodded at him. Skull grabbed Hooch’s hip with one large hand, digging into the welts until Hooch hissed in pain, the other positioning a thick butt plug, its lubed-up black silicone glistening in the light on the stage. He pushed slowly but relentlessly, forcing Hooch’s ass cheeks apart, driving the oversized plug through the ring of muscle and deep inside. Hooch involuntarily tried to jerk away, but the ropes held his strained body so securely, nothing stopped the merciless intrusion that left him gasping and whimpering. Visibly fighting for breath while forcing down groans, when the plug finally had been pushed fully into his body, securely held in place by the widened ring-muscle, stretching around the silicone ring.