Ace of Diamonds
Terror has a taste. A type of metal flavor, a hollow sensation that is an inversion of numbness which spreads from the muzzle outward. Novocaine in reverse, a sharpening of every sensation, a reviving of every past memory. Joe Weigleman was acutely aware of every fiber of the cheap carpet underneath him, every breeze that passed through the shattered window of the pro shop. He could almost hear his wife's voice, their vows echoing inside his terror-soaked mind. The chirp of a bird snapped Joe back to his current situation, crystallizing the hidden danger of the tropical paradise in which he was trapped.
Fear, fear Joe had known well. 'Handsome' Saul holding the barrel of a .44 in Joe's muzzle while he signed entry papers was fearsome. Being way down and in the red on a brightly flashing casino floor and the dragon wriggling its tail was scary. He had been frightened with every delivery-room shuffle waiting for his sons to be born. His high school football days had been filled with doubt and fear. All that had an upside, a ray of hope that promised so much reward for the risk. That was fear, the knowledge that thing could go wrong, that fickle fate held all the cards.
At the time he thought that was terror, and now the ox realized his bitter mistake. This island was no tropical paradise, it was a hell mouth with palm trees populated with monsters made flesh. The black cat, the demon, had made that clear with the demonstration of sexual murder and cannibalism. Had he known what this trip had held, he would have opted for Saul to shoot him dead right there in the Nevada desert. That was the meaning of terror, the moment when the desire for a clean death began to overwhelm the instinct to survive. There was so much broken glass all around, the sharp edges glittering in the hazy sunlight with a friendly level of invitation for veins and arteries.
Joe snapped himself out of that lazy contemplation with an almost physical effort of will. He swung one meaty paw, crossing himself with a sudden fervor he hadn't felt since parochial school. Unbidden, the prayer of the Rosary sprung to his lips from a deep well of faith to drown the terror that paralyzed his body. He called on God, the Virgins, the venerated Saints of knights and pilgrims, all the Hosts of Heaven to give him the strength to triumph in this unholy land. Joe could all but feel the hand of God on him as the power of faith invigorated his muscled frame.
Though middle-aged and somewhat out of shape, Joe was broad in frame and a former football player, possessing of strength that belied his gentle nature. He pushed that aside, and with a furor he ripped the boxes in the storeroom asunder. The golf course's pro shop yielded clothes to replace his tatters, and more importantly clubs. He found a long, strong number 1 wood, he hefted it like a sword. God would provide, and thus equipped Joe rushed out of the pro shop.
Afraid of losing the momentum that drove his nerve, the muskox barely paused as he shattered the remaining glass from the broken frame. With a skitter of his hoofs and the tinkling of glass, he landed heavily on the concrete pathway. He drank in the rolling greens, the set of pathways radiating from the pro shop to the driving range and course proper. There! An electric golf cart, heading toward him at speed, two furs in the interior.
Joe did not think, he reacted with the deep and animal part of his brain. Golf club held high, he swung his head in a primal display of his curved horns and let out a loud bellow of challenge! Under his weight and fury, the concrete shattered when he stomped his hoofs in a warmup. His charge started slow, but gained momentum with frightening speed. The club was tossed aside, and his head lowered to bring both those long curving horns to bear at the approaching cart.
The drivers of the cart had no time to react appropriately. It's rather hard to make snap decisions when a few hundred pounds of garishly dressed muskox are charging towards your golf cart. Really, the pink plaid patterns are incredibly disarming when paired with a muskox feeling the Power of God. The collision between the two was impossible to stop by any means.
The golf cart and muskox met in a singular crash that reverberated with the sound of shattering plastic and bellowing males. The golf cart, small and flimsy as it was, canted backwards wheels over roof in slow motion. Its passengers and their precious cargo spilled out in a gentle arc before bouncing across the plush grasses. Joe was far better built for headbutting, his horns, skull, and spine well reinforced to handle other oxen. Golf carts are another matter entirely, and so when the hammer of darkness pounded him into unconsciousness, Joe was startled.
For a little while, everything was quiet. A single flaming wheel rolled away from the wreckage of the destroyed golf cart to rest against a tree where it silently guttered out. The passengers, a beefy tiger and a sinewy chihuahua both decked out in collegiate athletic wear, lay on the grass. The little dog dragged himself out of his crash-induced daze first. "Hooooollllyyy shit! What just, aw man, aw man. The fucking cart!" His triangular ears perked, his ears down, the little dog stared at the flaming wreckage of the golf cart as it blazed merrily on the concrete.
Panicked, the small dog started to shake the bigger tiger frantically. "Erik! Wake up! You lazy cat, wake the fuck up!" The handsome tiger stud grumbled, and twisted on the grass unhappily. The feline's tight shirt rolled up, exposing the cobblestone abs that led down to his overstuffed bike shorts when the striped stud twisted just so. The chihuahua took this opportunity to punch his pal in the guts. "We crashed the cart you stupid ass, the booze is fucking gone!"
Erik oofed at the punch, and sprung from prone to roughhousing with sophomoric speed. "Dan, I fucking know!" He growled, sinking an arm around the dog's neck, head-locking the smaller fur. "More importantly, we hit some asshole and he looks fucking dead!" The beefy tiger surged to his full height, grinding his knuckles on the protesting dog's head while the little dog-paws kicked at the air. "Such a short-ass. Go get Tom, from Zeta Tau. He's with Rob." The dog was dropped without ceremony, and he scampered off at speed to find Tom.
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The scene of the accident quickly turned into something like a small circus. Two more golf carts arrived, bearing with them booze, pot, and two new furs. A slightly pudgy raccoon, Rob, still in his luau skirt and trucker cap rode with the kegs in tow on the spare seats. The other cart, full of foodstuffs, bongs, and other party gear was driven by a dark furred and thickset bearcat in a bright patterned Hawaiian shirt and shorts. The bearcat had been kind enough to give Dan a ride back to the scene of the accident. Luckily chihuahuas don't require much space!
The golf cart squealed slightly when it was parked, and bounced slightly when the bearcat hopped out of the driver's seat. 'Tom' curled his muzzle up in a grin as he got a look at the huge muskox sprawled out across the concrete. "Well well...." The binturong all but purred, drawing from one pocket a battered wallet. He flicked it open, an accordion of muskox family photos spilling out. Joe getting married, Joe's three sons growing up, amusement parks and picnics and football games. Now, Joe knocked clean out and three strong frat boys to help him remove another contestant. Sometimes one comes home to the metaphorical dinner and panoply of blow jobs from Lady Fate.
"....take a look at this shit, guys!" The binturong continued, tucking the wallet away. "I thought I recognized this guy! Its Dean Weigleman! That ass that disqualified us from the Greek games!" As 'Tom, vice-president of Zeta Tau,' Juan had cemented his identity with second-hand stories of collegiate hijinks. The Greek Games story had an unnamed but evil antagonist dean that had nixed his fraternity's shot at glory, and molested some brothers in the bargain! The boys of Phi Delta Phi were dumb as any frat, but the excesses of alcohol and pot made them all the more gullible. Never suspicious, they welcomed the binturong as a brother in a distantly allied fraternity. Lying should not be so easy.
Thus prepared, when 'Tom' revealed that the unconscious muskox was none other than a villainous administrator, an agent of 'The Man', a cog in the machine that threatened their boyish fun and games, well they were incensed! Angry mutterings, growlings, and typical insecure heteromale posturings began in earnest as each of the three tried to outdo each other for the binturong's benefit, to demonstrate brotherly solidarity.
"What a dick move! I'm glad we hit him!"
"Hit him, we fucking aimed for that dumb ass! I'd like to kick his ass when he wakes up!"
"Fuck that, lets just run over him again!"
"Lets cut him slow and feed him to the sharks!"
'Tom' had to actually throw out a paw to catch the diminutive chihuahua from launching at the oxen in a frothing rage! Dan jerked at the end of the binturong's reach, paws flailing at the air as he lapsed into spasms of high pitched yapping barks and growls. With slow deliberation, 'Tom' hauled the dog back and set him on the grass. "I've got a much better idea." The bearcat all but purred, his muzzle twisting into a devilish grin. "Erik, I need you to help me load him onto one of the heavy maintenance carts. Rob and Dan, you guys need to get some stuff from the pro shop and maintenance shed....." A beckoning gesture drew the raccoon and tiger into the huddle, where they discussed the muskox's fate. Joe remained unaware as his doom was sealed, eyes tightly closed, not even twitching when he was loaded onto a cart.
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The morning sun was high and hotly intense, each beam a jackhammer of bright heat. The light pounding against his eyelids finally managed to drag Joe from the deep blackness his headbutting had put him in. Immediately he had wished he had stayed unconscious, for everything ached. His head and neck were like awash in a hot swollen painful ache that suffused him to the waist. It didn't help that the sun was painfully blinding him. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the onslaught of the bright lights.
A strangled cry came from the muskox's lips as his hand failed to rise, its motion arrested by a thin cable wrapped firmly around his wrist and staked to the ground. His fingers flexed angrily, ripping up grass as he tried his other arm. His legs. All for naught, as the taut cordage kept him firmly pinned against the soft grass. The realization that was trapped washed over him like a black wave, just as his addled head pieced together recent memories of the island on which he was trapped.
The muskox tried to scream. He did not get very far, as a vast black shadow suddenly blocked out the sun. A well aimed heel slammed into Joe's thick belly, the blow shuddering through fat and muscle to strike the solar plexus firmly. A spasm ripped the air from the muskox's lungs, leaving his muzzle open in a silent cry, his pupils dilated far too wide for the bright day. The black shadow leaned down, revealing it to be a furson. Weird shaped narrow muzzle, black fur, white spots and the Devil's own grin.
"Stop trying to scream, Joseph, or I'll hit you again." The binturong spoke in a different way than with the frat boys. A cooler, more continental tone that simmered with menace and an undercurrent of pity. "I see your eyes, the way they shift. Recognize me? Who was it that warned you, Fat Jimbo? Handsome Saul? One-Ear Andy?" Joe would have gasped if he was able, because he did recognize the binturong now, from a grainy black and white photograph the grizzled cougar had shown him. "Ahh, Saul. You know I gave him that limp? Don't be surprised. I know all about you, your situation, your history, your......" Juan held up the wallet, and allowed the accordion of photos to unfold. "....family." The threat was implicit, and crystal clear.
Joe worked his muzzle, to say something, to plead, to protest. Again, the muskox was struck rather expertly in the solar plexus. "Allow me to finish, Joe. Can I call you Joe? Great." The binturong smiled, thinly. "You don't belong on this island. I read your dossier, and you have been set up to fail. So go quietly, with a little dignity if you can. Otherwise I might pay your bouncing baby boys and wonderful wife a visit when this is all over. We wouldn't like that, now would we? Just nod if you agree."
Dumbly, Joe nodded his shaggy head up and down. Grimly, his heart tied itself up into knots at the binturong's words. His family! His boys, his wife - would he, could the bearcat do something wicked to such innocents? The debts were his and his alone, yet, he seemed to have been offered a way to shoulder the burden alone. He had to. That was what a father did, make sacrifices for his family. So he nodded his head, and closed his mouth, ignoring the dry, bitter flavor of his impending castration.
"Excellent." Laughter and the sound of tires spinning started to drift to the two of them. The frat boys on their way, it seemed. "Time is short. So, one last thing...." The binturong reached into a pocket, and drew forth a battered deck of cards. They made a soft hissing sound as they shuffled, their backs blurring into a shapeless flow of color. "I'll draw for you." Flick! The deck stopped as if it hit a brick wall, and deftly a single card was drawn. The Ace of Diamonds, the color on the old card still vibrant as fresh shed blood. "Ahh, now that is a card. Tragic." Those deft paws slipped the deck back into a pocket. Joe opened his muzzle, reflexively curious about the significance. He was struck firmly in the solar plexus once again.
When the golf carts full of supplies and the frat boys returned, the binturong shifted. His shoulders sloped, and his posture slouched. Before the muskox's startled eyes, the dangerous devil seemed to shrink, In the space of a breath, the binturong resembled much the whooping college furs that pulled up. Once more, Juan became 'Tom', the super-senior brother from Zeta Tau. "Hey fellas, you get everything?" Even his voice changed, slower, more open and friendly. Kind of stupid in a way, and the binturong's eyes were partly lidded to simulate a glaze of alcohol and drugs.
The heavy duty maintenance carts could hold a lot of cargo. Much more than the passenger carts, and so in addition to the party supplies several clubs, buckets of balls, and other such gear had been fetched. The boys had to take a few minutes to unload the equipment, giving Joe time to reflect further on his position. He was firmly tied and staked to the grass at the top of a gentle hill. Spreadeagled, and embarrassingly nude. His fat sheath was held almost upright by the curve of his prosperous belly, and his massive calf-makers swung heavily between his thighs to brush the grass. Perhaps it was the warm sun playing across his body, some weird combination of stress and terror, but he began to get hard. Very hard.
"Ha, the Fiagra you put in his muzzle is working, brah!" Dan pointed his little paw at the hardening bull-cock, snickering. The little chihuahua hopped from paw to paw, barely hesitating before getting a long loop of tightly braided cord. The hyperactive dog hardly had the wherewithal to hold still long enough to wrap that massive musk-ox cock in a tight web of cord. He staked it down, ensuring the huge prick pointed directly skyward!
"Fucking shit Dan, this asshole's prick is bigger than your forearm!" Erik snorted, his striped tail turning around behind him in slow circles. The tiger panted in the sun-struck heat, peeling his shirt off and discarding it. The humid air pinned his fur down, exposing the taut outlines of his trim frame from broad shoulders to his bracing ball-bulge. Much cooler in just his bike shorts, the feline sat down on the grass and propped up his massive hind paws. Broad, musky, and pink-padded those feline footie curled and flexed fitfully before getting stuffed into a pair of cleated golf shoes.
"Little faggot, you look like you like handling that rod. Just get it straight, so we can play." Rob spoke for the first time, the tired looking raccoon accepting the offered shoes from Erik. In just his grass skirt and trucker hat, the pudgy but powerful raccoon was perfectly at home. When Dan tried to sock the masked frat brother, Rob just smacked the little dog in the face with his shoes. A scuffle ensued, but eventually it ended and everyone except the bound-up muskox wore a pair of golf shoes.
"Alright fellas. Rules are simple. You slice, you drink. We play until this big fuck..." 'Tom' paused in his explanation, prodding the now shivering muskox with a driver. "...has a dick as broken as our dreams for success in the Greek games. Dan, you seemed to pop wood handling his prick, so tee him up." The binturong smiled cruelly, and Erik ground his knuckles on the chihuahua's head. Fuming at being ribbed so, the dog pulled the bag of giant-sized novelty golf tees from the bearcat's other paw.
"I'm not a faggot, I just take pleasure in ruining this ass's life!" The snarling dog pulled out a novelty golf tee, almost a foot long and bright green. His other paw took hold of the bound-up muskox cock. Joe couldn't even breathe as he watched the little dog handle his cock. He wished he was soft, but between the Fiagra and the cords tightly cocooning his shaft there was no way it'd be anything but throbbing. His entire muzzle went dry as the small frat boy snuggled the tapered end of the thick wooden tee against the muskox's piss-slit. "Looks like it your turn to get nailed, Dean!" The chihuahua snickered at his own joke before slamming the golf tee right down Joe's urethra.
The novelty tee was almost an inch thick, three fourths of an inch wider than Joe's dick channel. Over stuffing generally leads to burst containers, but luckily for Joe his cock was made of a nicely spongy flesh. Even engorged with blood and stiff, his dick had enough stretch to take the tee with a minimum of ripping, tearing, and bleeding. The pain was incredible, however. Every tender nerve ending in the length of his impressive shaft lit up by a strike of pain that traveled down in a slow wave to the very root of his cock. The pain exploded up his spine and slammed into the base of his skull.
The steel cords holding him down quite neatly keep the ox from moving much. His arms and legs strained at their bonds, but got nowhere. Firmly tied, his huge cock barely shifted as it oozed blood-droplets around the thick wooden stake running down its center. The ox could not even scream, the agony was so paralyzing! He didn't even notice the little giggling dog perch a golf ball in the tee's cup before rolling out of the way.
"Clear out, Dan! I go first!" The tiger bellowed, stepping up to Joe. The big striped jock took another step, raising his massive hind paw, complete with golf shoe. The bottom of the shoe was studded with gleaming cleats made of stainless steel, each one almost an inch long and needle sharp. The size 12 shoe came down with well over two hundred pounds of tiger behind it, and it landed directly on Joe's left calf-maker The fat, squishy orb rocked down low in its sac before it hit the grass. Then the pressure built, and though it took only a second it felt like an hour to the muskox. Joe felt keenly aware of every sharp cleat as it pushed against his shaggy nutsac, dimpled his skin, struck the nerves beneath.
The wind whistled as the muscled tiger swung his three iron in a skillful if beer-fuzzed display of youthful athleticism. The flat-faced head approached the thick ox-prick with a frightening speed - and struck the gold ball squarely with a CRACK! The ball flew into the sky, while the resonating recoil of the blow shuddered down the thick wooden tee. It reverberated along the thick cock, scratching and tearing at the tender lining with every small rock. His swing done, Erik stepped back. Much to Joe's relief, as his stressed out calf-maker had the pressure taken off nicely.
"Nailed it."
Rob exchanged a high five with the striped frat brother as they traded off positions. The chubby raccoon's grass skirt swung saucily, exposing hints of the masked stud's pendulous low hanging nut sack There was a reason Rob sometimes went by Lowbee! The raccoon stepped up, his greater weight landing firmly on the right calf-maker, the needled cleats popping all the way through and into the nut. Blood and seminal fluid bubbled up against the sole of the golf shoe, a concert of pain that opened like a field of stars inside the ox's mind. Rob rocked back, brought his club up high and brought it down. Into a terrible slice.
Normally a slice would carve up a nasty looking divot in the turf. This time, though, the head of the club struck Joe's shaft about three inches below the tip with an incredible force. Transferred to his cock, the spongy flesh proved to be no match, dark bruises blooming instantly. Pain, sharp and immediate came on an express train with his best pal agony and all the worse because it arrived just as the weighted shoe was removed from his calf-maker. Relief and pain grappled, and pain won. All the muskox could experience was agony.
Rob cursed. He almost threw the club away in frustration, but the sight of a fresh cracked beer calmed him down. To the chant of "CHUG!" the raccoon poured the golden liquid into his already sloshing beer-gut. The can was crushed on Erik's forehead, helpfully. The drink ritual complete, Dan stepped up to take his turn. The little dog made up for the difference in weight by viciously stomping on both those calf-makers before slicing with equally painful results. Thus began Joe's first foray into the hinterlands of agony.
First one pain, then another, too inconsistent to drown out. Joe tried to focus on his wife, his sons, the sacrifices he was making like Jesus had done on the cross. He could not, as different weights and different shoes slammed and nearly crushed on one nut, then the other. Sometimes his cock got the close brush, and the slow burning pain of the near miss as the splintering tee shook inside his dick channel. Equally as often, his massive shaft was struck almost hard enough to break in half, yet that cursed tee kept his prick straight but swollen! Can after can of Beast was emptied as the four furs took their swings, and empty buckets began to pile up beside Joe's head.
Rob, the worst of them at taking his strokes had to take a break. Two hours and nearly twenty beers in, the raccoon found himself unable to carry on. He needed a sit-down! "Serious fellas, I'm a fat dude. Not made for all this golf shit. I gotta take a sit down Dan can take my strokes." The stripe-tailed stud leaned heavily against the binturong, and 'Tom' seemed more than happy to help support the full-bodied boy. "Tom will sit with me, won't you man?"
"Aw, you fuckin' fatass. Just go man, we put the chairs on the other side of the tree." Erik shrugged his broad shoulders, the tiger having long since striped to his jockstrap. The cat was no less impressive in just the overstuffed black cotton that matched his black stripes. He gestured to the chihuahua, who had likewise opted to wear a jock. Though Dan's was unbelievably ridiculously yellow because dogs are dorks. "Mini-fag fabulous and me will do the heavy lifting on the Dean here. We got this."
In fact, 'Tom' had barely helped Rob stagger to the tree before the hoarse bellows and smacking of steel on flesh began anew. Luckily the binturong was a strong fellow, as Rob leaned heavily on him for support. Which incidentally gave the bearcat clandestine opportunities to stroke his paws along the soft curves of that sloshing beer gut. To squeeze the soft, graspable love handles, pat on the very well padded ass. His long, prehensile tail even flicked under the disintegrating grass skirt, brushing along the set of very low hanging and heavy gray fuzzed nuts!
"You're flat about to pass right out, Rob." No response came from Rob's muzzle, only wet mutterings. The raccoon got slung into a wooden chair made of stout wide-gapped slats. "You're already there, huh?" Out of the sight of his frat-brothers, Rob's head bobbed down, his muzzle hanging open slightly. 'Tom' tilted back Rob's head, and casually poured yet another beer into the fat stud's gullet. The can was tossed aside, allowing the thick bearcat paw to rub gently on the firm curve of the taut beer gut. Slosh, slosh went the beer filling the stud's tank. "Full up here."
Around the tree, Dan howled in delight at a particularly cruel blow. 'Tom' smirked, and just let his paw sink lower, parting the grass skirt. For the first time, Rob's nuts were on full display. True to the stocky coon, they were both fat as all hell, and their weight had dragged and stretched the fuzzy sac until they reached a good two thirds of the way to Rob's knees. The binturong cupped them, venerating the full weight of those healthy young nuts. Loose skin and soft squishy bulk hid the veins, but 'Tom' could feel the pulsing slow heartbeat of the passed out frat boy through the rich bed of vessels.
"Aww, that's a nice set. Wish I had time to do it proper. Lets see what She says about you, Lowby." The bearcat snickered heartily, rolling those fat nuts between his fingers as his other paw dug out the deck of cads. Flick! The four of spades stared at him, and the binturong licked his lips at the prospect. "I think they'll need a new nickname for you pretty soon. I'm sure your brothers will think of one when they're filling your tank with their hot sperm." Still intimately gripping the fat nuts in one paw, 'Tom' leaned in and gave a long, hot lick along Rob's cheek.
The binturong's almost worshipful fondling and slurping of the raccoon in preparation of castration was shattered by the sound of a swing and sudden wet popping from the site of Joe's torment. A string of profanity from both feline and canid muzzles followed, and the binturong rolled his eyes. "Children. Well, no time...but you have drawn." With a grunt, the bearcat was struck with inspiration. His strong fingers shifted those fat and squish-able nuts around, and firmly pushed one into the gap between the chair's slats. With a bit of goading, first one, then the second orb plopped through to thread the gap. With both nuts firmly seated and trapped on the other side of the chair seat, 'Tom' stood up and gave the chair a nice hard kick.
The chair and its unconscious passenger tipped over neatly, and began to tumble down the very steep grass hill upon which it had been perched. The heavy chair and heavier raccoon bounced and rolled together, bound by the low-hanging nutsac, for almost four rotations. Then the stretched out skin and cords gave way with a unheard ripping sound. Chair, frat boy, and two fist-sized cum-nuggets flew apart in separate directions before getting lost in the underbrush. The binturong grinned, and returned to the muskox.
"This is your fault, you little fucking spazz! You broke him for good! No more swings!" Erik was at the precipice of roaring, his temper having gotten the better of him with all that beer in him! Both those huge paws were full of Dan's throat, as he had the little chihuahua in a standing choke hold for shaking and screaming at. The dog gripped ineffectually at Erik's paws as he struggled valiantly! The binturong slapped himself right in the muzzle with an open paw. This very circumstance illustrated why frat boys do not make for reliable minions.
An eye turned to the almost catatonic Joe, the strapped down muskox looking so much worse for wear. Each of his calf makers had long since swollen up from semi-crushings, and their taut skin was pierced better than a pincushion. A crusting of blood and ball-fluids coated those tormented nuts almost evenly, free and clotting alike from almost two hours underneath evilly cleated golf shoes. From the trauma, internal clots had begun to form in several places that bulged out from the root of his pouch in sickly blood blisters.
Joe's cock fared even worse. It had finally given in to the repeated blows, and split like an overcooked hot dog. Massive black bruises and swelling had strained and splintered the cheap wooden tee stuffed down his piss-slit. Slivers of wood had driven through and further inflamed and irritated the sensitive tissue as it was battered with clubs. The differential swelling had already tried to put a curve in that long shaft, to tie it in knots with the bruising. All it took was one last blow to shatter the tee, and Joe's entire cock opened like pinata. Bloody cock flesh and wooden splinters spread out in a stumpy, cactus like formation. Joe's maleness was ruined completely beyond all recognition.
"Put Dan the fuck down. This is what we wanted, Erik." When the tiger protested, 'Tom' simply lashed out with his hind paw, lightly catching the big cat in the jock pouch. Just a strong flick of the binturong's toes on those heavy goose-eggs got the desired effect, and both frat boys fell to the grass in recovery. Dan panted, rubbing on his sore neck, coughing and hacking while Erik growled and cupped his tender nut sack "Focus our fury on this guy. You pre-pulled...yeah, you got it."
The binturong rolled the mini-mulcher from the cart Erik had stored it in. The small red device was a mini-mulcher, made to handle thin branches and green waste with a series of interlocking steel blades. Though electric, it was pretty darn powerful and with its chute-guard removed it appeared very menacing! Its steel blades, freshly oiled, glimmered in the machine's 'mouth' as the bearcat started it up. Whisper quiet, the rotating blades started to turn, faster and faster.
"Adios, dean." Additional sarcastic emphasis was added to the false title as the lightweight muncher was lifted easily by the burly bearcat. Gravity was allowed to do her work, drawing the humming machine down onto the propped up prick pyramid and ox nuts. The shimmering, clacking blades hit the tip of cock-meat mountain and did not even slow down. They were engineered for wood. Spongy flesh offered no resistance, and the sharpened blades chewed and gulped hungrily! The soft, humming whine was replaced with a wet squishing sound, a terrible sound of flesh getting sliced. Ripped out. Tossed around. Liquefied.
Erik and Dan were perfectly positioned to get the full spray of the newly extracted muskox masculinity.