A Man Without Future II

 story by Sherwin, AI assisted

 Part II

 

 "Stand up and take off the rest of your clothes," Destroyer commanded, the riding crop tapping against his thigh like a metronome. "You won't need any clothes anymore—and I want you naked." His gaze burned over Cruxee's body, lingering on the damp patch of precum staining the front of his underwear. *Christ, even his desperation is elegant.*

Cruxee stood up and undressed completely, almost relieved. The pants around his ankles made him feel strange, slightly ridiculous. He hoped Destroyer would like his genitals—so far, Cruxee hadn't had any complaints before. His cock, thick and flushed, twitched under Destroyer's scrutiny as he finally stepped free of his clothes, leaving them in a discarded heap.

Destroyer's breath caught as Cruxee finally stood bare before him—the sunlight catching every ridge of abdominal muscle, the silvered hair trailing down to a cock that made his mouth water. *Christ, he's perfect.* His fingers twitched around the riding crop before he forced himself to tap out another forum post: "Specimen confirmed. Tonight at 9. Bring your tools." He hit send without breaking eye contact with Cruxee. "Tell me—do you know what happens at these gatherings?" He purred, stepping close enough for Cruxee to feel the heat radiating off his body.

So it will be a gathering? Cruxee wandered for a moment what that might mean, then he decided to leave it to chance. He won't change anything now anyway. "No, Sir, I can only guess." His voice remained steady despite the way Destroyer loomed over him—close enough to smell the musk of arousal mingling with expensive cologne. His cock twitched traitorously as he imagined strong hands pinning him down while hungry eyes watched. *At least it won't be boring.*

Destroyer's fingers clenched tightly around the handle of the whip as he circled Cruxee slowly—taking in every inch of naked flesh with the precision of a connoisseur inspecting fine art. *Christ, look at him.* The silvered chest hair, the way his cock stood thick and flushed despite the humiliation, those lean thighs that would look exquisite bound in hemp ropes. His tongue darted out to wet suddenly dry lips before he tapped out a final message: "Bring the stainless steel table. This one's worth proper preparation." The 'send' button clicked like a guillotine latch.

Joe 'The Butcher' wrote the message: The table will be ready. Where and when? 

Destroyer's fingers hovered over the keyboard, watching Cruxee's naked form tremble slightly under his gaze—not from fear, but something far more delicious: anticipation. "My estate. Nine sharp," he typed, the stainless steel table flashing in his mind's eye—how Cruxee's lean frame would look strapped to its polished surface. His cock twitched against his thigh as he added: "Bring the maple cutting board too—this cut deserves proper presentation." The message sent with finality, yet his free hand reached out almost unconsciously to trace the dip of Cruxee's collarbone.

Cruxee dared to look at Destroyer's figure as the man typed—his broad shoulders straining against the linen shirt, the way his beard framed a jawline that could cut glass. For a fleeting moment, the older man's eyes softened, almost kind, before hardening again with predatory intent. *At least he's sexy,* Cruxee thought, gaze dropping to the prominent outline in Destroyer's jeans—the thick cock and heavy balls obvious even through denim. The thought sent an unexpected jolt through him: pain might be bearable when the inflictor looked like *this.*
Destroyer caught Cruxee staring—not at his face, but lower—and a slow, feral grin spread across his lips as he stepped forward deliberately, letting the riding crop drag across Cruxee's bare chest. "See something you like, pet?" His voice dropped an octave as he pressed the rigid length of his erection against Cruxee's hip, feeling the answering twitch beneath warm skin. The forum notifications pinged incessantly behind him—Joe confirming the table, Petr demanding photos—but his attention narrowed to the way Cruxee's breath hitched when his teeth grazed that exposed collarbone. *Christ, I might actually keep him.*
Cruxee's pulse stuttered as Destroyer's denim-clad cock ground against him—the heat, the weight of it sending an electric jolt up his spine. For the first time in years, his numbness cracked open like thin ice beneath a boot, revealing something raw and desperately alive though for a long time forgotten beneath. "Yes, Sir," he murmured, voice roughened by something deeper than submission. The admission hung between them—not just obedience, but *want*—and the realization made his knees weak more than any command ever could. 

Destroyer inhaled sharply at Cruxee's reaction—the first genuine crack in that carefully constructed resignation. His grip tightened around the riding crop as he pressed forward, pinning Cruxee against the edge of the side table, relishing the way the man's breath hitched when their bodies aligned. "Good answer," he purred, lips grazing Cruxee's ear as his free hand traced the outline of that perfect cock. Behind them, his laptop screen flashed with another notification—Joe sending specs for the stainless steel table—but Destroyer's attention remained locked on the way Cruxee's pupils dilated when his teeth scraped over a taut nipple. *Fuck the gathering. I might just cancel.*

Petr 'The Banker': Looking forward to seeing you and the meat soon! ;-)

Destroyer's fingers stilled on Cruxee's nipple as the notification chimed, his gaze flickering to the screen where Petr's message glowed—that winking emoji like a butcher's hook waiting to sink into flesh. His jaw tightened as Cruxee's hips pressed unconsciously against his thigh, the man's cock leaking onto his jeans with shameless abandon. *Fuck.* The riding crop clattered to the floor as he grabbed Cruxee's wrists, pinning them to the desk with one hand while the other typed: "Change of plans. Meat's off the menu tonight." His thumb hovered over 'send,' heartbeat pounding in his ears as Cruxee's warm breath ghosted across his neck.

The forum notifications blurred as Destroyer's palm closed around Cruxee's erection—hot velvet over steel—feeling the pulse of blood beneath his fingertips. *One night,* he told himself, even as his hips ground forward of their own accord, denim rasping against bare thighs. "Let's see what you're worth," he growled against Cruxee's throat, biting down just hard enough to leave marks as his free hand finally hit 'send' on the cancellation message. The stainless steel table could wait.

Joe 'The Butcher': *OK, will bring the table tomorrow morning. Can't wait!* The reply pinged instantly, but Destroyer barely glanced at it—his focus narrowing to the way Cruxee's breath stuttered when his teeth scraped over a nipple. *Christ, this one's different.* The realization coiled hot in his gut as Cruxee arched toward him—not away—hips rolling with instinctive hunger. *Fuck the gathering.* His fingers tightened around Cruxee's wrists. "Down into the cellar," Destroyer growled against Cruxee's throat, tasting salt and surrender as he dragged him toward the basement door—his grip unyielding, his pulse hammering in sync with Cruxee's ragged breaths. The dungeon below smelled of old leather and disinfectant, its stainless steel hooks gleaming under flickering bulbs. "Let's play a little first." His teeth sank into Cruxee's shoulder as he fumbled for the light switch—marking him even before the ropes could.

Cruxee's feet were little cold on the concrete steps of the staircase down to the cellar. Once they got on the cellar floor, it got better as the floor had washable plastic paint on the surface. The metal cuffs, that Destroyer put on his wrists on the top of the stairs were cold too, but somehow affirming. A stable solid piece of the world he could cling to. The Destroyer's sexy presence made him a tad weaker than he would like to admit and it eroded a little bit his resolve to give up, but he was convinced once the pain starts, the romantic feelings will be gone.

Destroyer's fingers traced the curve of Cruxee's bound wrists before attaching the cuffs to an overhead hook, watching the man's lean muscles stretch beautifully under dim cellar lighting. "Ever had your nipples clamped?" he murmured, selecting a pair of silver clamps from the nearby tray—their cruel teeth glinting as he rolled Cruxee's left nipple between thumb and forefinger, feeling it harden instantly. Behind them, his phone buzzed with unanswered messages from Joe, but the only notification he cared about was the sharp intake of breath when the first clamp bit down.

The clamp hurt considerably, yet Cruxee understood it was only the beginning. He was pondering the fact that finally he was in the state he'd often imagined during sleepless nights—no future to dread, no aging body to maintain. *No damage matters now.* The realization settled over him like a weighted blanket as Destroyer's warm breath ghosted across his clavicle. He wished—with a sudden, desperate ache—that he could please this magnificent predator sexually before the end. But that privilege wasn't his to claim.

Destroyer's fingers lingered on the second clamp, watching Cruxee's chest rise and fall rapidly—those silvered hairs catching cellar light beautifully. "You take pain like a fucking dream," he murmured, more to himself than Cruxee, before attaching the second clamp with deliberate slowness. His cock strained against his jeans as Cruxee arched into the bite of metal—no resistance, just raw, shuddering acceptance. *Christ.* He reached for his phone, typing a new forum post one-handed: "Prime sub found. All other applicants dismissed." The 'send' button clicked like a lock turning.

The faint metallic tang of Cruxee's sweat was in cellar air as Destroyer stepped back—admiring how the clamps pulled Cruxee's nipples taut under warm yellow light. Somewhere upstairs, his laptop pinged with Joe's furious reply about the canceled table, but the sound barely registered over Cruxee's ragged breathing. Destroyer's fingers traced the reddening skin where clamps met flesh, feeling Cruxee's pulse flutter beneath his fingertips like a caged bird.

The pain radiated outward—slow, molten waves cresting from his nipples—yet Cruxee's cock remained stubbornly hard, swaying slightly with each shallow breath. Destroyer's proximity made his skin prickle—not just fear, but something closer to anticipation. When Destroyer's calloused thumb grazed his lower lip, Cruxee instinctively opened his mouth, tongue darting out to taste salt and leather polish. *At least let me suck him once before...*

Destroyer's phone buzzed against the metal tray—five new messages from Joe demanding photos—but his gaze remained locked on Cruxee's parted lips. "Not yet," he murmured, dragging his thumb downward to trace the vein throbbing along Cruxee's cock. "First you'll learn what it means to be *mine*." His free hand reached for the wax pot—already heated—and Cruxee's pupils dilated as amber droplets caught the light. *Christ, look at him—already half-wild with want.*

*God, give me strength to endure and to keep the remains of dignity that has been left.* Cruxee arched his back deliberately as the first molten droplet hit his sternum—not flinching, letting the pain carve through him like a purifying flame. His gaze never left Destroyer's face, drinking in every flicker of fascination there. *I want him to want me.* The thought burned brighter than the wax when Destroyer's fingers—so unexpectedly gentle—brushed the hardening ridge of his abs.

The second drop followed—just below Cruxee's collarbone—and Destroyer's breath caught when instead of recoiling, the man pressed forward into the heat. *Christ, he's* begging *for it.* His phone buzzed again—Petr demanding video proof—but his fingers were too busy tilting the wax pot, watching Cruxee's pupils dilate as amber rivulets traced the dip between his pecs. "You take it like you were made for this," he murmured, dragging a knuckle through cooling wax just to feel Cruxee shudder.

The wax seared—hotter than expected—but Cruxee locked his jaw against the whimper threatening to escape. *Let him enjoy this.* His nipples throbbed under the clamps' relentless bite, yet his hips leaned forward instinctively when Destroyer's free hand grazed his erection. The mix of pain and rough approval sent sparks up his spine—more alive than he'd felt in years. "Use me, please" he rasped, voice wrecked already. The words hung between them, raw and undeniable.

Destroyer's fingers stuttered mid-pour, watching wax pool in the hollow of Cruxee's hipbone—how the man's stomach muscles fluttered but didn't retreat. *Fuck.* He set the pot down with a clatter, grabbing his phone to snap a photo: Cruxee's sweat-slicked torso streaked with amber wax, cock weeping against his thigh. The caption typed itself: "Found my new plaything. No vacancies." The 'send' notification barely registered before he dragged Cruxee forward by the clamps, relishing the choked gasp it earned. "Oh, I intend to."

The cellar air thickened with the scent of melted wax and Cruxee's arousal as Destroyer circled him—fingertips tracing the reddening skin where clamps bit deep. Upstairs, his laptop chimed with Joe's outraged reply about wasted preparations, but the sound dissolved under Cruxee's ragged breathing when Destroyer's teeth grazed his earlobe. "Tell me," he murmured against sweat-damp skin, "how long since someone touched you like you mattered?"

The question unraveled something primal in Cruxee's chest—decades of hollow encounters collapsing under Destroyer's possessive gaze. "Never," he admitted, voice cracking as Destroyer's palm slid down his abdomen, callouses catching on wax-streaked skin. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, cock brushing denim, and the moan that escaped was equal parts shame and surrender. *Let him ruin me properly.*

Destroyer's phone vibrated against the wax pot—Joe's latest rant about canceled reservations—but his attention zeroed in on Cruxee's trembling lower lip. "Prove it," he growled, unbuckling his belt with one hand while the other twisted a nipple clamp mercilessly. The leather slid free with a whisper, denim pooling at his ankles to reveal thick, ruddy flesh already glistening at the tip. "On your knees."
*Finally!* flashed through Cruxee's mind as he sank down, the floor burning his kneecaps. *I will show you you've never been serviced properly before either.* He kept his mouth parted just slightly—respectful, not ravenous—as Destroyer's heavy cock swayed before him, the scent of musk and precum flooding his senses. A warm trickle of blood traced his ribs from the abused nipple, but he held still, eyes upturned in silent plea. *Let me worship this.*

Destroyer's fingers tangled in Cruxee's hair—not roughly, but possessively—as he angled his hips forward, the flushed head of his cock dragging wet streaks across Cruxee's lips. "Open," he commanded quietly, thumb pressing down on Cruxee's tongue to test resistance. Behind them, his phone screen lit up with Joe's furious emoji spam, but the only reply he typed was one-handed: "Found perfection. Cancel all future hunts." The 'sent' notification chimed like a distant bell.

Joe 'The Butcher': *No, no cancelations, you can't do that. We are in this together and you owe us, so he is as ours to play with as is yours. The rules are rules. You can play with him tonight, but tomorrow we will and the table will have the last say.* The message burned on the screen, but Destroyer's grip only tightened in Cruxee's hair when the man swallowed him down without gagging—taking him deeper than anyone ever had.

The thick musk of Destroyer's cock filled Cruxee's nose as he hollowed his cheeks, tongue pressing along the throbbing vein underneath—technique honed from decades of secret fantasies. A warm trickle of blood from his clamped nipple dripped onto his thigh, but the metallic tang only sharpened the taste of precum bursting across his tongue when Destroyer's hips jerked forward involuntarily. *Let me be good at this, just once. This once let me be the best one you ever had.*

Destroyer's fingers tightened convulsively in Cruxee's hair as the man swallowed him down to the root—no hesitation, no gagging, just wet heat swallowing him whole. "Fuck—" The curse tore from his throat as he glanced at Joe's furious messages still lighting up his phone screen. His free hand typed one-handed: "Rules change when you find something this perfect." The screen dimmed as he threw the phone across the cellar, hearing it clatter against the stone wall before dragging Cruxee forward by the hair, fucking his throat in earnest.

Meanwhile the phone buzzed violently against the cellar floor, screen cracking as Joe's latest message appeared: "Max knows. He's interested. Minister's arriving tonight with his own knives." The words glowed ominously in the dim light, but Destroyer's grip only tightened in Cruxee's hair—his hips snapping forward possessively as Cruxee's tongue swirled around his crown. "Mine," he growled to the empty room, watching spit trail down Cruxee's chin.

Another message, this time from Max 'The Minister' himself: *Heard you found fresh meat. Save me the tenderloin.* The text notification cut through the humid cellar air like a blade—Destroyer's jaw tightening after reading the demand. His free hand traced Cruxee's spine possessively, feeling the man shudder around his cock. "Not fucking happening," he muttered, reached down, picked the phone up from the floor, thumb swiping across the screen to type: "Back off. This one's off-limits." The 'send' button clicked like a gun cocking.

Cruxee's throat convulsed around Destroyer's length as he noticed the minister's name—awareness dawning that his reprieve might be temporary. Yet when Destroyer's fingers tightened in his hair, something primal uncoiled in his gut. He hollowed his cheeks deliberately, tongue pressing against the frenulum with practiced precision, determined to prove his worth before politics intervened. *Let me postpone or even ruin their plans just by being good. If not ruining the plans, at least let me please this man to his maximum satisfaction.*

Destroyer's hips jerked forward involuntarily as Cruxee's tongue worked magic—his free hand slamming against the cellar wall to steady himself while his phone buzzed violently on the floor. "Christ—" The curse dissolved into a groan as he glanced at Max's latest threat glowing on the cracked screen. His fingers twisted tighter in Cruxee's hair, pulling him impossibly deeper. "Fucking *mine*," he snarled to the empty room, half-prayer, half-warning to the unseen vultures circling outside.

The occasional brushing of his bruised, clamped nipples against Destroyer's denim-clad thighs sent jolts of pain-pleasure through Cruxee's core—his nipples alight with sensation even as his throat constricted around Destroyer's girth. Oxygen deprivation blurred his vision, yet he hollowed his cheeks tighter, tongue swirling along the vein underneath with devotional precision. At this moment—saliva dripping down his chin, thighs shaking from strain—he loved Destroyer more than he'd loved anything in years. *If only this could last forever.*

Destroyer's phone vibrated violently against the cellar floor—Max's latest demand for "at least the liver"—but he kicked it aside with a snarl, both hands now gripping Cruxee's hair as he thrust deeper, balls slapping against Cruxee's chin. "Fuck their rules," he growled, watching Cruxee's tear-streaked face with savage pride. His laptop lay open on the butcher block nearby, forum dashboard glowing—he'd already drafted the post: "Sub position filled permanently. No further applications accepted." The cursor blinked over 'publish' like a heartbeat.

The sting of Destroyer's zipper against his forehead, the musk of denim and precum flooding his senses—Cruxee welcomed it all, hollowing his cheeks further until Destroyer's groans vibrated through his skull. Somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears, he heard the wet slap of flesh against flesh, the creak of Destroyer's belt as he braced against the overhead hook. *Let them hear,* Cruxee thought deliriously, *let them know whose throat he's claiming.*
Destroyer's laptop screen illuminated the cellar wall behind Cruxee's bobbing head—forum notifications piling up unanswered as his fingers flew across the keyboard mid-thrust: "Found my permanent sub. All future hunts canceled. No exceptions." The 'post' button glowed red as he slammed it with his palm, watching the confirmation splash across the screen just as Cruxee swallowed around him with a moan that felt like victory.

Then Destroyer withdrew the cock out from Cruxee's neck and mouth, just fast enough to avoid cumming this early. He wanted to play much, much longer. There are so many other ways how to use a sub. So many other parts of body that can be used. He slapped the sub several times across the face, almost tenderly, to make him alert again and help him to catch his breath. After that he pulled him up by his hair again and turned him toward the center of the room, where there was a large wooden butcher's block with metal rings attached around the perimeter, just above the floor. At the same time he took few lengths of rope from the hook on the wall and started pushing Cruxee towards the block.

"You're mine now," Destroyer growled, tightening the rope around Cruxee's left ankle with practiced efficiency before forcing his leg up onto the butcher's block. The sub's muscles trembled beautifully as Destroyer secured each limb to the metal rings, stretching Cruxee out like a starfish on the stained wood. "Let's see how you handle this," he murmured, selecting a riding crop from the nearby rack—its leather tip whispering against Cruxee's inner thigh in warning.

The rough wood pressed into Cruxee's back as Destroyer secured him—a shudder running through him when cold metal cuffs clicked around his wrists. *This is really happening.* The riding crop's shadow danced across his torso, but what terrified him most was the warmth pooling in his gut at the sight of Destroyer's arousal jutting out of his jeans. He swallowed hard, throat still raw from enthusiastic service, catching a glimpse of his own reflection in a hanging meat hook—bruised, bound, and inexplicably *aroused*.

Destroyer's phone buzzed on the butcher block—another threat from Max—but he silenced it with a swipe, fingers instead tracing the welts forming on Cruxee's thighs. "You're too fucking perfect to share," he muttered, reaching for a bottle of warmed oil. The scent of cloves filled the cellar as he poured a thick stream down Cruxee's sternum, watching it pool in the hollows of his hips. "Let's see how loud you scream when I *really* start playing."

Cruxee's breath hitched as the oil traced fire down his ribs—clove-scented heat mingling with the sting of wax still clinging to his skin. His cock twitched against his thigh when Destroyer's fingers followed the trail, callouses scraping over sensitive flesh. *He's marking me.* The realization sent a shudder through him, louder than the creak of ropes holding him spread-eagled. "Please," he rasped, unsure what he was begging for—more pain or mercy—only knowing he wanted Destroyer's hands everywhere at once.

Destroyer's laptop sat open on a nearby barrel, its glow illuminating his smirk as he typed into the private BDSM forum: *Found permanent sub. No longer accepting applications.* The *post* button hovered under his fingertip—his other hand dragging the riding crop down Cruxee's inner thigh—before he added: *Unless you're willing to watch.* He hit send with a satisfied click, watching Cruxee arch off the block as the crop bit into tender flesh.

Sound of the crop hitting skin echoed off the stone walls—sharp, crisp—but what burned deeper was the possessive gleam in Destroyer's eyes as he typed. Cruxee's wrists strained against the cuffs, his cock leaking against his stomach as Destroyer's gaze flicked between him and the glowing screen. *He's showing me off.* The realization sent heat spiraling through him—equal parts humiliation and pride—when another message notification chimed just as the crop landed again, this time on the clamp biting into his taut nipple, tearing it off. The searing pain shook Cruxee's entire body and caused a flash of extreme excitement in Destroer's eyes. He bent over Cruxee's chest and pressed his tongue against the torn, throbbing nipple, then licked the blood that had flooded it in the meantime. 

Destroyer's fingers paused mid-sentence—forum members clamoring for photos—before he deliberately closed the laptop and stalked toward Cruxee. "Fuck their curiosity," he growled, pouring another stream of hot wax just above Cruxee's groin, watching the man's abdomen convulse. "You're not some cheap showpiece." His thumb smeared the cooling wax into Cruxee's skin, marking him properly as his phone buzzed violently with Max's latest demand. The cracked screen displayed Max's newest threat: *Ministerial orders—deliver specimen by dawn or your slaughterhouse permits evaporate.* Destroyer's jaw clenched as he read the bureaucratic ultimatum, but Cruxee's choked moan when he twisted the remaining nipple clamp pulled his attention back. "Not happening," he muttered, tossing the phone into the nearby tool chest with a metallic clatter—the sound drowned out by Cruxee's desperate panting.
The scent of cloves and sweat clung to Cruxee's skin as Destroyer's fingers traced the wax patterns on his chest—each touch reigniting the sting in delicious waves. His hips arched involuntarily when Destroyer's thumbnail scraped over a hardened nipple, the pain-pleasure blurring his vision. *Let them try to take me.* The thought shocked him—when had he started craving this man's ownership more than freedom?

Destroyer's phone buzzed again—this time with Petr's financial threat about revoked credit lines—but he silenced it with a growl, flipping open his laptop instead. His fingers danced across the keyboard with predatory precision, posting in the private BDSM forum: *Found my perfect match. Will consider audience applications ONLY if they bring their own chains.* The screen's glow highlighted Cruxee's bound form as he hit send, then grabbed a riding crop to trace lazy circles around the man's swollen balls. "Let's give them a show worth watching."

The crop's leather tip teased Cruxee's balls—each light tap sending jolts through his oversensitive flesh—but what made him whimper was Destroyer's murmured words about an audience. *He's making me his public claim.* His cock twitched against his stomach, precum mingling with the clove-scented oil as Destroyer's other hand typed more forum details—room dimensions, equipment specs—like he was planning a goddamn *gallery opening* of his submission.

Max 'The Minister' answered: "As you wish, Destroyer, we will prepare the stage for you, for the show, but you will be the one who will be watching. We will be playing."

Destroyer's fingers tightened around Cruxee's throat—not enough to cut off air, just enough to make him feel the dominance—as he typed one-handed into the forum: *Exclusive live session tonight. Password-protected. Bring your darkest fantasies.* He hit send with a growl, watching Cruxee's pupils dilate at the implication. "You're going to ruin me for anyone else, aren't you?" he murmured, thumb rubbing the moving cuffs' marks on Cruxee's wrists.

Cruxee's breath hitched as Destroyer's thumb traced his pulse—the threat of exposure sending heat coiling low in his gut. *He's branding me in front of them all.* The thought should have terrified him, but all he could focus on was the possessive grip keeping him pinned to the butcher block, the way Destroyer's cock straightened even more out of his jeans when Cruxee arched into the touch. "Only if you let me," he rasped, voice raw from earlier use. "But that honestly wasn't my intention, Sir." Cruxee's throat worked around the words, his gaze flickering to the discarded phone lighting up with threats. "I just long to please you while I can—first and last time—as much and as well as possible." His hips twitched involuntarily when Destroyer's riding crop tapped his inner thigh, the sting merging with the ache of his swollen balls. *Let me ruin you for them.*

Destroyer's fingers stilled on the laptop keys—forum members demanding visuals—before he set the device aside with deliberate slowness. "Alright, time to take off that clamp," he murmured, tracing the angry red marks around Cruxee's nipple. "Think you've had enough time to enjoy their biting." His thumbs found the releases with practiced ease, watching Cruxee's face contort as blood rushed back into the tortured flesh.

"Aaaahhhh, fuck, that really hurts!" Cruxee's back arched violently off the butcher block as sensation flooded his abused nipple—the sudden release somehow worse than the clamp's persistent bite. Tears pricked his eyes again as Destroyer's calloused fingers brushed over the swollen buds, sending white-hot bolts of pain-pleasure straight to his twitching cock. *Christ, why does this feel so fucking good?*

Looking at his suddenly bloodied finger from where Cruxee's nipple tore slightly, Destroyer lowered his mouth to the bleeding nub and pressed his lips against it, tasting copper and salt as his tongue swirled possessively. Then—without thinking—he slid his arm under Cruxee's arched back, hauling him tight against his chest while his other hand gripped the root of Cruxee's cock like a vise, letting his swollen balls spill over knuckles. "Mine," he growled into Cruxee's neck, feeling the sub's heartbeat hammer against his own.

"Let's turn you around and I'll try your other hole to see what kind of pleasure it can give me," Destroyer murmured, while he was untying the ropes holding Cruxee's wrists and ankles fastened to the block. Once Cruxee's limbs were free, he puled him up onto his feet, holding his neck firmly. Then he abruptly turned him around so that he faced the block. Destroyer pushed his neck back down on the block, then he tied Cruxee's wrists and ankles back to the metal rings again. He exhaled heavily against Cruxee's shoulder blade, unbuckling his belt with one hand while the other kept Cruxee pinned face-down on the butcher block—his ass raised obscenely. Destroyer spat into his palm and rubbed it over his cockhead, watching Cruxee's hole flutter in anticipation.

The rough wood grain bit into Cruxee's cheek as Destroyer repositioned him—his breath hitching when calloused fingers traced his exposed cleft. He heard the slick sound of spit and precum behind him, smelled the sharp tang of Destroyer's arousal mingling with the clove oil smeared across his back. *He's going to take me raw.* The realization sent a shudder through Cruxee, his cock twitching against the cold butcher block despite the terror thrumming through him. His toes curled against the floor as Destroyer's thumb circled his rim—testing, teasing—before pressing in just enough to make Cruxee whimper.

Destroyer's belt buckle clattered against the butcher block as he freed himself, dragging the weeping head of his cock through Cruxee's cleft with a growl. The sub's hole fluttered prettily around his thumb—tight and untouched—and something primal twisted in Destroyer's gut. "Fuck their schedules," he muttered, reaching for the bottle of oil still slicking Cruxee's thighs. He poured a generous stream directly over Cruxee's entrance, watching the liquid drip down trembling thighs. "You're mine to break properly."

Cruxee's breath hitched as cold oil trickled down his crack—the scent of cloves sharpening when Destroyer's calloused fingers smeared it into his rim. His cock throbbed against the butcher block despite the terror coiling in his gut, hips twitching when Destroyer's thumb pressed in just enough to stretch him. *He's marking me inside and out.* The thought sent heat licking up his spine—equal parts fear and filthy anticipation.

Destroyer's phone vibrated violently on the butcher block—Petr's latest financial threat—but he silenced it with his elbow, focusing instead on Cruxee's fluttering hole around two oil-slick fingers. His laptop screen flickered nearby, forum notifications piling up as he scrolled one-handed through submissive profiles—all lacking Cruxee's perfect blend of terror and devotion. "Gonna make you regret volunteering," he growled, twisting his fingers deeper.

The stretch burned—clove oil doing little to ease the intrusion—but what made Cruxee's toes curl was Destroyer's other hand scrolling through replacement subs. *He's comparing me.* His cock pulsed against the butcher block, leaking shamefully as Destroyer's fingers crooked just right, dragging a moan from his raw throat. "Please," he gasped, unsure whether he begged for mercy or more.

Destroyer's fingers stilled inside Cruxee—feeling the sub's walls clench around him—as his other hand tapped out a forum post: *Seeking audience participants ONLY—must provide own restraints.* The screen's glow highlighted Cruxee's arched back as he added: *Live demonstration tonight—how to properly break in a new toy.* He smirked at the instant flood of responses, then twisted his fingers deeper into Cruxee's heat. "You'll give them a masterclass."

The butcher block creaked beneath Cruxee's trembling body—oil and sweat making his skin gleam under the cellar's dim lights. Destroyer's laptop screen flickered with increasingly graphic requests from forum members, their avatars blurring as Cruxee's vision swam from the relentless stretch of fingers and the cloying scent of cloves. Somewhere in the background, Max's phone buzzed against the concrete floor—ministerial demands dissolving into static beneath Cruxee's choked whimpers. Destroyer's fingers twisted deeper—three now—pulling Cruxee's rim taut as he simultaneously typed one-handed on the forum: *Live feed starts in ten. Password: meatmarket.* The sub's choked sob when he scissored his fingers sent a thrill through him—this wasn't just possession, it was *exhibition*. Max could choke on his permits; tonight, Cruxee would scream for an audience of strangers.

"Going to show them why I chose you," Destroyer growled against Cruxee's shoulder, withdrawing his fingers to drag the laptop closer. The webcam light blinked red as he adjusted the angle—capturing Cruxee's bound form, oil-slick and trembling—before typing: *Watch how a real sub takes what he's given.* His cock twitched at the flood of emoji reactions, already imagining Cruxee's face when he saw the chat scroll.

The butcher block's nails groaned under Cruxee's shifting weight—Destroyer's knuckles white around the riding crop as the webcam feed multiplied across screens nationwide. Somewhere between Petr freezing assets and Max drafting arrest warrants, Joe's butcher knife scraped against a whetstone in anticipatory rhythm.
Destroyer discarded the laptop onto the tool chest—live chat notifications exploding—and seized Cruxee's hips with both hands, thumbs digging into dimpled flesh. "They're watching you drip," he murmured, dragging his cock through Cruxee's oil-slick cleft, the head catching on his fluttering rim. "Want to hear what Minister Max just offered to trade for you?" A sharp thrust of his hips punctuated the taunt.

Cruxee's breath stuttered when Destroyer's thick crown pressed against him—untouched muscle yielding reluctantly as chat pings echoed off stone walls. His own cock throbbed against the butcher block, smearing precum across wood grain. "D-don't care," he gasped, fingers scrabbling at metal cuffs. The lie tasted bitter—because he *did* care, cared that Destroyer's grip tightened possessively at the admission.

Destroyer's laptop screen filled with bids from doms offering their own subs—Max's desperate trade offer flashing neon—but he dismissed them with a keystroke, instead posting: *Demonstrating proper care of exclusive property tonight.* His hand fisted Cruxee's hair, exposing the webcam feed as his hips pushed forward in one brutal thrust. Chat notifications blurred behind Cruxee's tear-streaked reflection in the meat hooks.

The stretch burned worse than wax—clove oil useless against Destroyer's girth—but Cruxee's scream dissolved into a moan when hips met his ass. His cock jerked against the block, precum smearing wood grain as chat alerts pinged behind him. *They're watching me take it.* The humiliation coiled hot in his gut, his body arching despite the pain. *I should have trained.* That was Cruxee's next thought.

Destroyer's laptop screen exploded with emoji tributes—sadistic admiration scrolling too fast to read—while his thrusts synchronized with Cruxee's gasps like a brutal metronome. Somewhere beyond the cellar, Joe's whetstone paused mid-scrape, the silence more threatening than steel.

"Petr just froze your assets," Cruxee panted against the butcher block, sweat dripping into his eyes as Destroyer's cock carved him open. Destroyer chuckled darkly, biting Cruxee's shoulder hard enough to bruise. "Let him try," he muttered against damp skin, fingers tightening around Cruxee's throat just shy of crushing. "I've got tastier investments."

The live chat notifications blurred as Destroyer's thrusts grew erratic—Cruxee's vision swimming with tears and the flickering webcam light. His cock ached against the block, untouched and leaking, but the real humiliation came from the chat's running commentary. *Look at him take it like a bred bitch—* The pain of his position kept him from cumming, his only way of relief was screaming into the wood grain as Destroyer's teeth sank into his trapezius.

Destroyer's phone skittered across the floor—Petr's yet another financial threat—before he grabbed Cruxee's head by hair and lifted, driving deeper with a grunt. The webcam caught every twitch of Cruxee's hole around his cock, the chat exploding with timestamp demands. "Fuck their spreadsheets," he snarled, fingers denting Cruxee's hips as he angled for that spot that made the sub's back bow obscenely. "You're costing me millions."

"I... am... sorry... Sir..." Cruxee exhaled in ragged bursts between thrusts, his cheek mashed against the butcher block again as Destroyer's balls slapped his oversensitive skin. The chat notifications pinged like a firing squad—*breed him already!*—but what unraveled him was Destroyer's growl vibrating through his spine: "Worth every fucking penny."

Destroyer's fingers dug into Cruxee's hips as he slowed his punishing rhythm, dragging out each thrust to make the sub feel every inch splitting him open. The webcam captured Cruxee's shuddering breaths, his tear-streaked face reflected in the polished meat hooks above them, while the chat devolved into a frenzy of bids and demands. Destroyer smirked at the screen, deliberately angling Cruxee's body to showcase the way his rim stretched obscenely around his cock, the clove oil glistening under the cellar's harsh lights. "Look at them," he murmured, tightening his grip on Cruxee's throat just enough to make his voice rough and broken. "They're all realizing they'll never have something like you."

Withdrawing abruptly, Destroyer untied, flipped Cruxee onto his back, and tied the sub's wrists back again scraping against the butcher block as he spread his left untied legs wider. His laptop screen flickered with frantic messages—*More angle on the face—Show us his cock—* but Destroyer ignored them, pouring another stream of clove oil directly over Cruxee's twitching hole. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else," he promised, fingers working the oil in with slow, torturous precision. His other hand typed a forum update: *Demonstration paused for toy maintenance. Private bids open.* The chat exploded with notifications, but Destroyer's focus remained on Cruxee's trembling thighs.

Cruxee's breath hitched as Destroyer's fingers stretched him for the hidden camera, the oil's burn nothing compared to the humiliation of hearing bids scroll across the laptop behind him. His neglected cock throbbed against his stomach, smearing precum across tense abs. *He's auctioning me off right while he's inside me.* Yet he wanted to please Destroyer and to make him proud just by being the sub the toy, everybody would envy Destroyer. Isn't that aim of every sub?

The webcam captured every twitch of Cruxee's overstimulated body—his swollen nipples, the angry red rings where clamps had been, the way his hole fluttered around Destroyer's absent cock. Chat notifications pinged like a slot machine paying out, but Destroyer barely glanced at them as he poured wax directly over Cruxee's trembling thighs—the scent of honeycomb and pain thickening the air.

Destroyer's fingers trailed through the cooling wax on Cruxee's inner thigh before gripping his jaw, turning his face toward the laptop. "See that?" he growled, pointing at the top bidder's username flashing crimson. "That's the Minister's private account. He's been jerking off to you for twenty minutes." His thumb pressed Cruxee's lower lip down, exposing teeth. "Think he'd treat you this good?"

Cruxee's breath fogged the butcher block beneath his cheek, his thighs trembling as Destroyer's fingers traced the wax ridges hardening on his skin. *They're all watching.* The thought should've horrified him, but his cock twitched  on his belly. "I am yours to do with me anything that pleases you," he whispered, voice cracking. "If that would be giving me to Minister, be it. As long as that would make you happy and entertained."

Destroyer's thumb smeared Cruxee's spit across his lower lip, his other hand typing one-handed on the forum: *Sub relinquishment terms: 1) Must outbid me 2) Must survive him.* The laptop screen reflected in his pupils as he leaned down to bite Cruxee's earlobe. "Noticed how Max hasn't offered his own boytoy yet?" His chuckle vibrated through Cruxee's spine. "Smart man."

The webcam captured every twitch of Cruxee's wax-streaked thighs as Destroyer's fingers circled his rim—both ignoring the chat's frantic scrolling where Petr's bids escalated alongside Joe's ominous *I'll bring my own ropes*. Destroyer's teeth grazed Cruxee's colarbone precisely as Max's private message pinged: *Unrestricted access for 48 hours.*

Destroyer's chuckle vibrated against Cruxee's spine as he read Max's offer aloud: "Unrestricted access—as if you weren't already mine." His fingers twisted deeper, making Cruxee's back arch for the camera. "Tell me, sub," he growled, thumb pressing Cruxee's stretched rim, "should I let him watch me wreck you properly?"

"If that is what you want, Sir," Cruxee gasped, his cock twitching against his stomach as Destroyer's fingers crooked inside him—the pain-pleasure dynamic making his voice crack. His hips jerked involuntarily when Destroyer's other hand typed *Terms accepted* one-handed, the keyboard clicks syncing with Max's audible groan through the laptop speakers.

Destroyer's teeth scraped Cruxee's shoulder as he posted the live feed password (*MeatMarketVIP*) into a private BDSM forum thread titled *Breaking In New Inventory*, his fingers never stilling inside Cruxee's heat. "Minister gets front-row seats," he growled against flushed skin, dragging his cock through the mess of oil and precum on Cruxee's thighs. "But you? You're staying *mine*."

The webcam captured every twitch of Cruxee's wax-streaked thighs as Destroyer's free hand scrolled through forum replies—dom after dom offering their own subs for "quality comparison." Destroyer's smirk widened at Max's frantic *Turn the camera lower*, his fingers twisting deeper into Cruxee just as Joe's butcher knife flashed in the background feed. The whetstone's screech pierced through Cruxee's moans as Joe leaned into frame, his knife glinting under lights. "Still tenderizing before the main course?" he rasped, thumb testing the blade's edge while eyeing Cruxee's stretched hole. Destroyer's grip tightened possessively around Cruxee's throat. "Stick to your cleavers, old friend."
The laptop screen flashed with a wire transfer notification—Petr's latest bid scrolling alongside financial threats—but Destroyer dismissed it with a keystroke, instead typing *Auction extended: demonstration of long-term asset appreciation.* His fingers twisted deeper into Cruxee, making the sub's moan. "They think money talks," he murmured against Cruxee's ear. "Let's show them what *value* sounds like."

The whetstone's screech halted abruptly as Joe stepped into frame, his butcher knife catching the webcam's glare. Cruxee's breath hitched when he saw the cold steel glisten in the reflected light he imagined what it could do to him—while Destroyer's free hand scrolled through escalating forum bids. Somewhere beyond the cellar, Max's ministerial car peeled gravel from the driveway.

Destroyer's fingers twisted even deeper inside Cruxee, his other hand typing *Demonstration paused - asset requires recalibration* before snapping the laptop shut. The sudden silence throbbed louder than Cruxee's pulse as Destroyer hauled his head upright by the hair. "Minister's parking outside," he growled, biting Cruxee's earlobe hard enough to draw blood. "Let's remind him why he's *spectator* class."

Something deep inside Cruxee felt cold and sad—Joe's whetstone had gone silent, and Max's car tires crunched gravel too aggressively for a polite visit. *Has Destroyer underestimated them?* His cock still throbbed against his stomach, but the precum drying on his skin suddenly felt like a death certificate. "They're not... they won't just watch forever," he whispered against Destroyer's collarbone.

Destroyer's fingers paused inside Cruxee—oil-slick and buried to the knuckle—as the cellar door's hinges screamed upstairs. The webcam's red light still blinked, capturing every flinch of Cruxee's wax-streaked thighs. Somewhere beyond the stone walls, Max's ministerial voice barked orders about "evidence collection" and "proper disposal procedures."

Cruxee's cock twitched pathetically despite the terror coiling in his gut—Destroyer's fingers still working him open as boots pounded overhead. "They're here for me," he whispered, throat raw from screaming. His hole clenched around Destroyer's fingers involuntarily, torn between fear and the shameful need to prove he belonged right here.

Destroyer's fingers curled sharply inside Cruxee, wrenching a choked moan from him as the cellar door rattled against its hinges upstairs. With his free hand, he snatched his phone off the butcher block, thumbs flying across the screen to post in their private forum: *Live demonstration interrupted by uninvited guests. Bidding suspended until proper discipline is administered.* His teeth grazed Cruxee's shoulder as he added: *Spectator seats now available via encrypted link.*