If you are younger then18y, please, leave!

If you are younger then18y, please, leave!

Please, read!

In this blog you can find immages (mostly drawings) that can be disturbing and not acceptable to view for everyone. It is only fantasy and has no connection with reality. But, in any case, if you think you might feel upset by these creations, please, LEAVE!
The same rule for minors - if you are under legal age, please, leave this blog!

úterý 6. prosince 2011

Piss break

The torture has started some time ago... the slave was tied to a tree crucifixion-like, with his legs dangling. But only until the fire beneath them was lit. Then, after a while of watching the slave's struggle, trying to get his feet as high as possible, sliding over the tree-trunk, the man needed to piss. So he walked behind the tree to the edge of the grass slope.

neděle 20. listopadu 2011

New Master...

He was lead to the library, where lights were rather low and high ceiling was dissapearing in the dark. Book-cases looked old and were filled with lots of books, hidden behind glazed doors. They were made of fine woods, carved and partly gilded. Fire in the fireplace was lit and light from few smaller lamps added to the cosy athmosphere in the room.
The carpet under slave's feet felt very soft and comforting. It was a great feeling after all those hard and cold surfaces he had to walk, stand or kneel on before.

Close to the fireplace, in the distant part of the room there were two high armchairs and small side-table. There was a carafe made of cut glass filled with some whisky or cognac and few glasses on a silver tray. Silver ash-tray already contained few cigarette stubs.
In one of those armchairs there was sitting a man, wearing a light-grey suit. He was probably rather tall when standing. His face was hidden in the shadow.
,,Come here, boy.", he said.
The slave went closer and stoped in front of the arm-chair. His head bowed, his hands behind his back. Feeling slightly embarrassed, he knew he had to stand this closer inspection by his new Master.

úterý 15. listopadu 2011


This time I did a drawing inspired by my own photo.... The most of it is in the photo itself... I added only the stake and left out most of the surroundings.... The pain was there for real... though it was not as much as it seems from the drawing....

neděle 13. listopadu 2011

 It has been some time since I put here anything new... Well, this one isn't new, but it is at least something... My teenage fantasy from times, when I spent summer holidays in a village-house of my Grand-parents. In my dreams there was this scene where local boys took part... I did a drawing then, but that one has been lost for a long time. So I did this "new version" 2 years ago. And I enjoyed it. Only the participants grew up a bit.

Teenage fantasy

pondělí 31. října 2011

At the stake

Today's work - drawing of a nude guy, tied to a stake... prepared for.... anything...
(after a photo by talented artist, photographer Tom Clark)

sobota 29. října 2011

úterý 25. října 2011

Friend artist - Baron

I am delighted to be able to introduce my friend artist - Baron. We happen to live in the same city and we share similar ideas and immagination. There are some diferences, though. I like to work with paper and pencil, while his domain is digital canvas. He is skilful in an art-discipline called "digital manipulation".
We sometimes talk about the way he creates his compositions, but that is far beyond my understanding so I won't even try to depict it here. Anyway - those, who know his works, know what I am trying to talk about. For others - here are two examples of his creations. These are only parts, ready to be used in wider immage... but for me they are perfect as they are now...

If you want to see more of Baron's art, you can check his yahoo group. The address is http://groups.yahoo.com/group/sub-terranean/

neděle 23. října 2011

Story by hardman IOU

Finally I received an email from my other friend-writer of gay BDSM stories. His speciality is non-lethal crucifixion as an official form of punishment. I will not write any more explanation... read the story and you will know it all soon enough.
Once again, illustration by me.

by Hardman

Behind them, two patrol cars with their lights flashing blocked one side of the street. Ahead, two more patrol cars were clearing the traffic, driving slowly down the long, gentle slope between venerable stone buildings and towers of glass and steel, forcing cars and cabs to move on, turn into side streets, or make a u-turn and head in the other direction. The senior guard looked behind him, then ahead, and raised his voice over the noise of the traffic still flowing on the other side of the street.
“Let’s get this done”.
Standing in the centre of the huddle of uniformed men, Richard Michaels was in no position to take in the view. A long, thick beam of dark wood lay across the nape of his neck and his shoulders, and his stretched arms were tightly tied to its underside and the wrist, elbow and upper arm, its weight forcing his head and shoulders down. The beam was longer than he was tall, and about six inches by four. Every one of its ninety pounds was pressing into his spine and shoulders. He could feel the roughness of the wood through the superfine wool of his $5000 suit and the best-quality cotton of his $400 shirt. He could only a few feet in front of him and was not even sure which way he was facing until two of the guards turned him 90 degrees and shoved him in the back to get him moving. The party of six then moved slowly down the cleared side of the street – the shackles on Michaels ankles clanking as he shuffled forward.
He kept his eyes on his hand-made leather shoes scraping on the road. He would not have looked up even if there was no beam pressing his head and shoulders down. He knew that if he did there would be faces he would recognise and that would recognize him - ex-friends, ex-colleagues at the firm, rivals from other firms. He could sense them there, pausing on the broad sidewalk to watch him shuffling towards his fate, or turning away to pretend they did not know him. He could hear their voices through the noise of the traffic. He knew some of them were standing on the sidewalk, looking, pointing, frowning, laughing, cursing, as he moved slowly and painfully by. They would read the large sign hanging from the loop of rope around his neck. “$200 M FRAUD” it said in large red letters.
He shuffled across the white markings for crossroads, over tyre marks, patches of oil smeared on the road, scraps of paper, empty food containers blowing across his path in the cross-breeze. He was breathing hard from the effort of carrying more than half his own weight on his back, feeling the splinters in the wood grind into his back and neck. Every now and then one of the guards shoved him in the back and he would stagger forward, straining his arms as he struggled to regain his balance. He was sure that, if he fell, the beam would snap his spine or crush his head like a melon.
He dragged his manacled feet on and on, the white lines in the middle of the street on his left, the sidewalk somewhere on his right. He was sweating heavily now. He could feel it streaming down the hollow of his back and soaking his shirt and even his suit. It trickled into his eyes, making them sting and redden, and he could neither wipe the sweat away nor shake his head to flick it off. Half blind and tiring badly, he staggered on, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, telling himself that this would ordeal would come to an end – and trying to put out of his mind what would happen next.
The road seemed to get longer with every step. He could not look up to see where they were. He could only guess from how many cross-roads they had passed – four, he thought, or was it five? That would take place them in the second-to-last block of the financial district, getting close to the invisible barrier where the smart part of town stopped and the poorer districts began – not so much poor as bohemian, filled with people who dressed funny and had no real jobs, no net wealth to speak of, people who would hate him for what he was and what he represented. If that’s where they were taking him, his life would be an even worse hell for the next five hours.
Another hundred yards and his right knee buckled. He stumbled and was saved from falling only by the guards grabbing hold of the ends of the heavy beam and holding him up. They slapped his head and his back and cursed him, yelling at him to stand up straight, to be a man and not a girl. Eventually, he straightened and staggered on. The weight bearing down on his upper back and shoulders was unbearable. His knees had turned to jelly, threatening to fold under him each time he took a step. And in the middle of the sweat and pain, he heard a guard’s voice: “We’re here, shit-face”.
They pushed and shoved him to the right, and he staggered forward until the edge of the sidewalk came into view. He sank to his knees, feeling the small stones and grit dig deep into his skin through the suit pants. He wondered if it would be better to topple forward and let the beam break his spine or smash his skull, but the guards made sure that didn’t happen, slashing the ropes that tied his arms to the beam, lifting the wood off his back and shoulders. He squealed as the blood rushed back into his arms, fell forward onto his hands, feeling the heat of the road surface through his palms. 
Two guards pulled him to his feet, hauled him bodily up onto the sidewalk, his feet dragging behind him, his precious shoes scraping on the ground. To his left was one of those concrete troughs placed there by some optimist for a street beautification scheme, but never used except as an unofficial garbage can. Now it had another use. It had been filled with concrete and gravel and they had planted in it, not shrubs or flowers, but a vertical beam of wood like the one he had just hauled from the top of the street – only longer. It rose seven feet above the surface of the trough and the top six inches had been pared away into a peg. Two of the guards were standing up in the trough, lowering the beam he had carried onto the peg, making a T-shape.
The two guards holding him dragged him twenty feet along the sidewalk until they got to the trough. The guards standing up there reached down and grabbed his arms. They pulled and the other two pushed, heaving him up until he was standing unsteadily two or three feet above the sidewalk, facing away from the street, his back to the upright beam. People were walking past or stopping to watch, people in t-shirts and shorts or jeans, grinning, staring, pointing. The guards took the FRAUD sign off and began to strip him, dragging off his suit jacket roughly and tossing it onto the sidewalk, bending to pull his shoes off and then his socks, standing again to drag the knot of his tie down and slip the expensive length of silk over his head. They popped the buttons of his shirt and ripped it off, then undid his pants and shucked them down, slipping them over his heels and tossing them onto the growing pile of expensive clothes below.
Rough hands grabbed his wrists and lifted his arms until the back of his wrists were level with the crossbeam.  Thick white roles were produced and one of the guards tied his left wrist hard against the beam, and then the right. Richard Michaels was fit but not muscular, medium height, pale skin, not deep-chested but with pecs that were well-defined, a hint of abs under the thick treasure trail that led down under his briefs, strong legs and butt. Women giggled, men stared, a few had something to say – variations on how the mighty had fallen, laced with profanities. One of the guards grinned at him, elbowed the other guard. They both laughed and the first one crouched and slowly slid the young man’s dark briefs down to his knees, the helmeted head and veined shaft of his medium-sized cut cock springing out, then his balls, clutched tight against his pelvis. Then the guards jumped down and joined the others, standing, looking up at their handiwork. The naked man’s face was bright red. He was staring at his reflection in the window of the nearest building, at the image of his own naked body, spread-eagled on a cross on a city sidewalk. One of the guards crouched to chalk something on the front of the trough and when he had finished, most of the people standing around looked at their watches and some drifted away.
For the next 30 minutes or so, he became a street attraction, passers-by bringing their friends, people coming out of stores and offices to take a look and the naked man with his underwear around his knees, his gear hanging out for all to see and comment on. A few of the bolder voyeurs came to close, and were chased away by the guards – for now.
Michaels could feel the cross-breeze waft between his bare legs, through his pubic hair, and it all felt wrong.  He had stopped blushing but could not bring himself to make eye contact with the people swirling around him. A guy with a dyed Mohawk had stopped to look and laugh.  Two women in jeans and t-shirts stopped to taunt him, some 1960s bullshit about capitalist pigs.  One of them slipped behind the trough and managed to grab a handful of his bare ass before the guards chased her away.  Men in suits came down the block to look from a more discreet distance, and he knew some of the faces and voices.
He was wondering how long this could go on when the guards on the sidewalk gathered together.  Suddenly the crowd swelled, all along the sidewalk to his right and left, people crowding the windows of the office in front of him, people standing around the corner, on the edges of the street, even behind him. There was a buzz of anticipation, even excitement, the predatory sound of excited voices. The guards below him looked at their wristwatches again, nodded to one another, and two of them clambered up onto the trough.
There was a ripple of applause and a ragged cheer. Michaels began to breathe more rapidly, his chest rising and falling, flat belly clenching hard. Until now he had pushed the thought of the end game out of his mind, but now there was a uniformed man standing beside him holding a huge hammer and a long, long gleaming nail. Michaels swallowed, and gasped making a strange muffled squeak in the back of his throat. He turned his head to the left, away from the guard forcing his hand open and strapping it in that position, fingers spread, against the rough wood.  He turned away from his reflection in the office window in front of him.
He had convinced himself that this would not hurt as much as he feared and breathed out slowly, determined not to scream and yell. That all changed when he felt the tip of the nail pressed into the center of his palm, breaking the skin. He winced, bit his lip, feeling his balls clench and try to crawl inside him, his dick shrinking back into his pelvis in sympathy. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the backswing of the guard’s arm and then heard a dull metallic sound. A fraction of a second later, a tidal wave of pain surged up his arm and he heard himself gasp in surprise and then cry out. There were echoing shouts and jeers from the crowd and the hammer blows kept on falling, each one sending another bolt of agony up his arm. He threw his head back, mouth open, strings of spit between his lips, his eyes bulging, strangled grunts issuing from his throat, as the blows fell and fell. And no sooner had it stopped than it began again in his other hand, the metal spike invading his flesh and tearing through the back of his hand to sink into the wood.  His whole body shuddered as he tried to hold it all in, but as the nail sank deeper into the beam, the agony overwhelmed him and he screamed and screamed, the crowd mocking him by yelling along with him, then laughing and cheering.
Suddenly his nakedness did not matter, nor the crowd jeering at him as he writhed from the agony surging through his body. All he knew now was the unbearable throbbing in his hands, deep pulses of pain that invaded every part of his body, and the terrible knowledge that he was now nailed to the beam like a carcass, helpless, friendless and alone in the middle of the cheering, jeering crowd.  He had closed his eyes against the rows of hostile faces, trying to suppress the great sobs that racked him, desperate to master the pain, to deny the baying crowd its entertainment.  He barely felt the guards raise his right leg and tie his ankle tight to the upright, but when they pulled his left foot off the ground, his body slumped and the movement jerked at the nails through his palms, sending fresh waves of pain through his body, making him groan and whimper. He lashed out with his free leg but they were ready for him, one guard ducking away while the other darted in and got an iron grip on his victim’s balls that took the wind out of the struggling man. Michaels shrieked as the big hand squeezed hard, stopped struggling, hung there helplessly as the second guard tied the other ankle hard against the upright. They slipped his briefs right down to his ankles, holding his knees apart for a minute or so, pointing at his cock and balls, grinning and posing for the cheering crowd, then hanging the sign that announced his crime around his neck once more.  
When they jumped down to take up position on the sidewalk, standing at ease at the base of the trough, he was alone up there on his cross, raised three feet above the heads of the pointing, laughing crowd, nailed and naked, his body squirming and twitching as the pain attacked him from every direction, the deep throbbing in his hands now joined by the growing pain in his arms and shoulders as his body dragged on his elbows and shoulder joints and pulled at his upper chest, shoving his rib cage forward, distorting the shape of his torso. In a few minutes the terrible dragging sensation grew worse than the pain in his hands, and instinctively he used his strong legs and butt to heave his body upwards a few inches, taking some of the strain off his shoulders. He held himself up there as long as he could, until he felt the long muscles in his thighs begin to tremble, and he eased himself down again, groaning as the weight came back on his arms and shoulders.
He repeated the steps of this barbaric dance over and over, hanging with his full weight dragging  on his arms until the pain in his joints and the intense ache in his arms and shoulders became unbearable, then heaving himself up with his legs and butt muscles until they too began to shudder from the effort and he slumped once more with a groan of utter despair. He lost track of time as the pain and the struggle consumed all of his energy.  He lost interest in who might be standing on the street watching him suffer, aware only of blurred figures passing by, stopping to stare and point, or laugh or taunt him. His whole world had shrunk to the white heat pain of the nails through his hands and the relentless drag of his own weight trying to pull his arms and shoulders apart. His chest muscles began to cramp after the first hour and the breath hissed out of him at the pain they caused. An hour later and his legs joined in, his calf muscles clenching into tight knots that made him scream and beg them to take him down, over and over. The guards at his feet did not even turn to look. This was par for the course, a day’s work, a script they were accustomed to. At some point in the next hour - 90 minutes tops - he would ask them to finish him off and stop the pain. And they would ignore him. When the screaming got irritating, they would think about supporting his upper arms with straps, but only when his shoulders were on the point of dislocating.
All of these things happened in their time, the young man’s screams bringing people out of the office in front of them to ask if they could keep the noise down, glancing up at the naked young man writhing and roaring with pain, hurrying back to their comfortable workplace. As the day dragged on, some of the bolder passers-by asked if they could climb up onto the trough and have their photographs taken next to the crucified man. The guards were used to this too, and helped people to clamber up and pose next to the cross, watching as they gave a thumbs-up sign for the camera, or leaned against the man’s body, or even grinned and pointed at his cock and balls. One of them had to jump down quickly, breathless and laughing, when the crucified man let out a stream of pungent piss.

The naked man showed no sign that he even knew they were there.  He was beyond shame at his nakedness in this bustling street, beyond humiliation at this very public punishment. All he knew was agony, pain he never imagined was possible that racked his body and flooded his brain. The only conscious impulse left to him was the desperate need to heave himself upwards to gain a few seconds relief for his tortured arms and shoulders. And when he tried, the camps came back, stronger than ever.  He screamed and yelled as the muscles clenched and knotted, screamed until he had no energy left to cry out, his mouth open in a silent, spit-flecked scream.
Only when he began to convulse did the guards scramble up onto the trough, waiting until the spasms grew less violent before looping the supporting straps under his upper arms, taking some of the terrible strain off his arms and shoulders. The guards began to look at their wristwatches after that, looking up at the naked body hanging up there, slumped and still as death, then at their watches again. The cross had done its work. The young man’s face was gray, his eyes dull, his body unresponsive save for a few pathetic attempts to push himself up. Occasionally the cramps would be so strong that his torso and hips twisted and squirmed, making his cock bounce on his thighs, strange squeaks and groans issuing from his parched mouth and throat.
Time passed slowly, but it passed, and as the shadows on the street lengthened a crowd gathered again to watch the final act, the cutting of the ropes around his ankles, the screech of the nails as they were yanked out, the wrist ropes cut, the lowering of the pale, limp body down to street level, the gurney, the unmarked ambulance driving away, and the guards taking down the crossbar and cleaning up the mess. They could never be sure when it would be needed again.  maybe tomorrow, maybe next month - not if, but when.

čtvrtek 20. října 2011


It is not always that I draw by heart. I think it is rather important to do some practise by drawing real men, real human fiugure. It helps make the fantasy immages more credible.
I am fortunate to have some friends, who look very well and who are so very kind to pose for me nude.
Here are two examples of drawings slightly BDSM themed.

středa 12. října 2011

Modern Sebastian

One never gets tired of some motifs and themes that run through his whole life... like the St. Sebastian immage. And how would it look like if something like this should happen in modern times? Lets ignore the possible reasons why the scene "would" happen....
It might look something like this... Secluded place... maybe a private garden with a solid wall around and slightly unkempt greenery. And old tree is rather favourite thing to tie Sebastian to it. Ropes. And no underwear.

...you won't need those anymore.

čtvrtek 6. října 2011

Story by Guru, illustration by me

It has allready been few years since Guru and me became friends through internet. We share similar type of fantasy and immagination and we, in many cases, complement each other rather well as an author and illustrator.
So let me show you one of the examples of our cooperation in the past.
There is a story called "Be careful what you wish for" that I did an illustration for once I read it. Guru seemed to be pleased by it and he was so very kind to allow me to publish his story here in my blog. So here it is....

Careful what you wish for
story by Guru

He had asked for this and he was happy. It had taken many months to negotiate but now he was waiting by the side of the road. The Greyhound bus had dropped him at the old gas station an hour before and he had done what he had been told to do. Wait. There was nothing else to do. The gas station looked as if it had closed down in the fifties and the desert stretched out in all directions. The bus driver had asked him two or three times if he really wanted to be left in this remote spot but he had insisted.

He took off his baseball cap and the blond, skater boy wig he’d worn and took off the big T shirt with ‘Hang 10’ on it. He pushed these items into his backpack next to his laptop and phone. He had been ordered to bring his communication devices with him that told the story of his courtship.

He noticed a cloud of dust coming from the east. There was a dirt track that ran from the highway, cutting alongside the station then disappearing into the heat haze of the desert. Through this he could make out a truck of some kind coming his way; the waving lines of the haze made it impossible to identify. It took another three minutes before he saw it was a dusty, beaten up ’89 Ford 150. There was just one man in the cab. He pulled up under the canopy of the station and got out. Six two, very muscular, wearing old cowboy boots, worn jeans that were painted to his body and a singlet. He was about thirty and very good looking.

Pete looked at his new owner and smiled. He had wanted to be an owned slave, indentured, possessed one hundred per cent by one man. And this was the man. Sandmaster was his on line name and Pete knew no other. He was looking Pete over, walked round him as he stood there in the agreed clothing of white T and Levi 501s, black DMs, nothing else. Sandmaster reached out for the backpack Pete held and he willingly gave it over. His master took it over to an open oil drum standing on its own in the open space next to the station and dropped it inside. He came back, patted Pete down, made him empty his pockets, took the loose change and the ten dollar bill and added them to the drum. Going to the open back of the truck, he removed a can of gasoline, poured most of it into the drum, stood back and lit a cigarette. He tossed the match into the drum and didn’t flinch at the whoomp of igniting petroleum. He waited to the flames died down, checked the contents, seemed happy and went back to the truck.

‘Get in the back, boy.’

Pete climbed in and hunkered down. The truck lurched off back down the track and he was on his way to hell. No one knew he was here. The bus driver, if he remembered him, would describe another kid altogether, not the cropped headed boy being covered in dust in the back of the F150. His old life had just been burnt up in an old metal drum.

After about thirty minutes the truck slowed and Pete looked over the side at the ranch house they were drawing up to. It stood on its own in the desert, a single storey wooden building with a porch. There was a barn about twenty yards off to the rear. The sun beat down fiercely on the sand and grit that made up the driveway. Sandmaster stopped the truck and climbed out, ordering him to follow. They went inside and his owner took two beers from the icebox, opened both and handed one to Pete. They chugged them down real fast. Without a word, Pete was led into the back room, stripped and put face down on the white bed sheet. Ropes were tied to his ankles and wrists and he was quickly fastened spread-eagled. Sandmaster stripped off, spat on his hand, lubed his cock and positioned himself over his new slave’s asshole. He spat again then simply thrust in deep and hard. Pete screamed and bucked under the pressured and weight and pain. Over and over again the cock went in, right in to the hilt then out again, then in deep. Sandmaster raped his ass for an hour, finally coming up his ass with much grunting and sweating. He got off and left the room. Pete could hear water running but just lay there, shaking with shock. He had never been fucked by such a huge cock. He had never been used so brutally. He had never been happier. Or in so much pain.

He heard Sandmaster return. There was a phone by the side of the bed and he saw his owner’s hand reach down, pick up the receiver and punch and few numbers. He tried to look up but he could see his master. Just the telephone cord spiraling up out of sight.
‘He’s arrived. As agreed.’ Sandmaster listened to some brief comments then said, ‘See you at six.’ And clicked off the call. He dialed another number and repeated the conversation. There were two more calls then the receiver came down. He went out, came back with a damp cloth of some kind, wiped his slave’s ass then left the room. Silence. Pete waited. With his head facing the wall at the top of the bed, he had no way of looking round the room. Other were coming. He knew a slave was property to be used by his master any way he felt fit but he hadn’t expected his new owner would let others use him on the first night. Maybe it was just going to be an inspection. Showing off his new ‘boy’.

Time past. Pete dozed. Then he heard the sound of a truck pulling up outside. And other. Voices. Laughter. Bottles clinking together. Doors opening and closing. Someone walked into the room. Pete heard him drop his boots on the floor and the sound of stripping. Then another gob of spit hit his asshole and another cock penetrated him. The new man smelt of beer and sweat –not unpleasant but not clean either. He pumped Pete’s ass for a good long time. Someone else came in and stood by the side of the bed, watching. The first man came and got off, to be replaced by the second. In turn, he was replaced by two more. The four men used his ass hard, leaving him very sore and stretched. Pete needed to piss badly but just took the fucking without a word. He wanted his master to be proud of him.

When the fourth man was done with him, they all left and Sandmaster came in and untied his ropes. He pulled Pete off the bed and pointed to a door.
‘Go into the bathroom. Clean your ass, boy and shower quick. I want you back here in your DMs, naked, in five.’
Pete ran into the bathroom. He took the hose off the shower and cleaned himself out, pissed in the shower cubicle and washed himself off. Drying himself he ran back in and put on his DMs and stood, hand behind his back, head down, waiting for instructions. His master came back in, stood behind him and handcuffed him and pushed him out into the hall and further, onto the porch.

He was led across to the barn. There was a chain hanging from the roof beam and his hands were uncuffed and then recuffed round the chain. One of the men, a dark, handsome guy in tight jeans, pulled on a rope and the boy’s arms were stretched high and his feet lifted off the dirt on the barn floor. When he was six inches off the floor, the pulling stopped and he hung there, naked. The five men surrounded him. A punch to the gut. A slap on the ass cheeks. A nipple was pulled and twisted. He swung round, facing each in turn, getting the gift of pain from each. Then Sandmaster took off his thick leather belt. The others followed. Five bastards, one boy, five belts. He was lashed across the chest. The ass. The belly. His master looped the belt and brought it up hard between his legs and cracked it across his balls. He screamed.

The beating went on for an hour. His whole body was bruised, red and black. Tenderized like meat. He hung there, shaking. Finally his master grabbed his balls in his fist and squeezed, slow and hard until Pete was howling like a dog. The rope was released and he fell to the floor. Five men. Five cocks out, five streams of piss. Over his skin. In his mouth and eyes. He lay on his back and took the treatment. They left him there and went out of the barn, sliding the door closed.

Two hours later, his master returned. Threw a bucket of water over him. Told him to stand. Untied his hands then used the handcuffs behind his back and led him out to the yard.

It was dark now. The only light came from a camp fire burning in an open pit. There were the four men sitting round the fire on logs. Beer was being drunk. On each side of the fire were two heavy metal posts, each one having a slot cut in the top that could hold a metal pole for turning the meat to be cooked over the fire. The pole lay on the ground, seven feet long, one end turned into a handle. About three feet from one end there was a metal tube sticking up and out like an L. About twelve inches long, it came out about seven inches before turning up to run parallel with the pole. The tube was about two inches across. There were pieces of fencing wire lying next to the pole, barbed points catching the glow of the hot burning wood in the fire pit.

When they saw Pete come out, the four men stood up and waited. Two of them were wearing thick work gloves. One picked up the pole. Sandmaster ordered Pete to take off his boots then undid the cuffs so he could obey. The boy was shaking now. The idea of what might be coming was impossible but he obeyed anyway. This was not what he has asked for. Maybe it was a test, to see if he would crack and cry and run away. He took off his boots and waited. The fourth man came up to him and stood at one side and then Sandmaster, on the other, escorted him to the waiting men. He was turned round so his back was to the pole. He felt the two men grab his biceps and lift him. He felt the piece of the pole that stuck out come between his legs then he was forced down onto it. Twelve inches of cold metal were pushed up into his asshole and he whimpered.

He was hanging off the pole, impaled. The fourth man held him there by placing a hand on his chest as Sandmaster took his hands and handcuffed them behind his back with the pole between his hands and his back. He saw the other two men with gloves move, picking up pieces of fencing wire. His feet were dragged behind the pole and there was pain as they were bound in position with the vicious wire. A piece came round his chest, metal points ripping his skin as he was bound to the pole just below his nipples. Another piece fastened him below his belly button, cutting into his six pack.

Finally his mouth was forced open and wire filled it, cutting across his cheeks and pushing his head against the pole. He started crying, softly. He felt his whole body being lifted as the four men, two on each end of the pole, moved him from upright to horizontal. He was carried over to the fire and, quickly, they swung him over the burning wood and dropped the ends of the pole into the two metal supports. He now hung like a piece of meat over the heat, which was intense. They had put him there without a word. No one had said anything as they prepared him for the fire.

Sandmaster stood at the end with the handle and turned it. Pete saw the flames disappear and the stars appear, the heat moving from his front to his back. He was turned 360 degrees. The water dripped off him into the flames and sparked and sizzled. His bruised body turned. He hung over the heat, his cock hanging down, the head quickly starting to burn. He was turned and turned again. Sandmaster handed him over to another of the men and Pete was turned some more. He felt his pubic hair burn. He screamed as the heat crisped his foreskin and scrotum. His eyelashes burnt away. He heard the laughter of the men awaiting their meal as his skin reddened and cooked. Finally, just before he lost consciousness, he thought of that last message from Sandmaster. ‘Don’t be late. I’ve got friends coming for dinner. You’ll be serving them. They like their meat on time and very rare, young and hung. Tenderized.’

They ate well that night.

sobota 1. října 2011

Saint Sebastian

Saint Sebastian has been my biggest inspiration so far. I have had many fantasies - alternations of his story.. There are many aspects of his martyrdom that thrill me... Though the end of his life isn't as thrilling as one might think. According to Legenda Aurea, he was cured by some women (including St. Irene) and he went to see the emperor again just to be sentenced to be clubbed to death (this time he really died) and was thrown to Cloaca Maxima - Rome's biggest sewer.
Artists seem to ignore this fact (or maybe not - you can't judge from their works) and they depict this young, athletic hero in their paintings and drawings most often tied to a column, pole or a tree trunk, almost naked and pierced with one, few or many arrows.
Pietro and Antonio Pollaiuolo
Andrea Mantegna
That is the immage, that has haunted me ever since I first saw it. Andrea Mantega was the one who made the biggest impression on me... so I tried to copy him at the beginning and later I started to draw my own Sebastian...

pátek 30. září 2011

Logo design

Some time ago I sent one of my works to my friend Baron (who was so very kind and as the first commented on my blog) and asked him to edit it as I did with many of my works before... Those days we were discussing design of logos and signatures we use in our works.
As I work mostly with paper and pencil, I don't use nice and stylilsh logos in my immages. I just simply sign every of my works at the bottom and leave it like that. While Baron and his friend Borg (both very tallented and artistic creators) work in digital media and their signatures and logos are pieces of art themselves. So Baron suggested creating such signature-logo for me.
This immage was a result and I sent it together with inviting email to my friends and all others, interested in my art.

One of you asked me to publish the drawing that is used as a background to the logo... so here it is.

čtvrtek 29. září 2011

Why this blog...

I was many times asked by diferent people about some place where they can find my works together in one place... So I started, long ago, thinking about easily accesible but at the same time safe place where I could share my work with people interested in the same topics.
I am consulting putting here all the works, no matter how intense their content might be... but it will take some time to make the matters clear. So in the meantime I will start posting some of the milder stuff... And see what happens.
It might also work as a trial period... as I am not sure whether this place will have enough audience to become worth keeping.
Let me know what you think... Thanx!