Plaything
Another amazingly done story by the talented mutt zwoosh-k9!
WARNING: Prepare yourself for some very dark kinky sex! Like, seriously, look at them tags, you have been warned
The atmosphere was electric. As Martin dangled there, suspended by the chains that hung him from his limbs, he could feel his head swimming from the thumps of blood that coursed against his temple, body arched backwards. His arms were held outstretched, attached to a vast frame which kept him aloft at each corner, whilst restraints on his ankles were fitted to the other corners behind him with a spreader bar clamped between them, legs bent at the knee whilst he hung there uselessly. It was as if he were caught in a web, unable to really move except sway to and fro what little he could in whichever direction he tried. He would always be brought to a still at its centre. There was nowhere to go and nowhere to hide. He could literally feel every lewd, leering gaze crawl across his exposed flesh. Every vulnerable inch of him that was available to see was on show to the cheering, hollering crowd that swarmed around the stage, men of all shapes and sizes pressing up as close as they could to tonight's entertainment. It didn't matter which side of things they were on, whether they were here to dominate or be dominated, they were all keen to watch the mutt be tortured for their nasty satisfaction.
"How many was that now?" A gruff voice called out, not speaking to Martin but addressing the swelling audience, "I do believe I lost count."
"Start over!" One man yelled from the back, a pig of a male with tusks and all, holding what looked to be some fox hard against his crotch. Though Martin's perspective was swaying and disorientating, he was sure that however many inches of boar cock was most certainly stuffed down the poor boy's throat so that a bloated sack and a hairy crotch was mashed against his face.
"Who cares?!" Another heckler from the other side of the room shouted over the din, but Martin couldn't find his face. Through the haze of cigar smoke and the filthy shadows, it was impossible to really see who it might have been, "Hit him again!"
The figure on stage with the mutt, the man who'd enticed the audience to give their suggestion though terrifying as they were, sauntered just into view. He was still directing most of his attention out to the patrons of the club, but it was clear he wanted Martin to see, to hear, to know exactly what was going on, and what was about to happen. Vernon had a malicious streak like that. He loved to see the mutt whimpering in a futile attempt of mercy, eyes wide and panicked, drool dripping down his face from the metal gag that forced his jaws apart, leaving his mouth open and gaping. No matter how hard he may have screamed, how much he might have begged with surrender in his expression, the show was to go on. The burly Saint Bernard had made that unequivocally clear before they'd stepped out onto the stage. The words still burnt in Martin's ears as he had felt the man stand up behind him, that fat gut pressing against his back with the bite of a harness digging into his fur, collar yanked back and the leash suddenly taut in the dog's paw, as the second paw had snaked around his throat, claws tempered along the skin, some semblance of a warning if he dared to disobey. What was said didn't truly matter, Martin knew, it was more the intent and the will behind them that he feared more. Vernon had always been plain and frank when it came to abusing him. Nothing was held back, he was never lied to, and he knew very well what he was getting himself in to.
"Oh come now, surely he's had enough?" The tone belied the true urges. Vernon was baiting his spectators. He wasn't even being coy about it. Immediately the roar of indignation and rampant ferocity erupted across the club,
"No!"
"Again!"
"More!"
Vernon let out a sly chuckle. His gaze, if only momentary, flitted down to the mutt's, meeting his eyes. He was going to give them what they wanted. He wasn't searching for permission or consent - that had long since been torn out of the mutt's paws; choice was no longer his - but he was instead letting Martin know what was going to happen. He'd done so throughout the night, it came as no surprise. The mutt just had to accept the fact that it was happening. Something swivelled in the dog's paws, something obscured by Vernon's body. Martin knew what it was, even as he watched the Saint Bernard bring his arm back, only to then let it swing forward. Silence fell across the room as everyone hushed, the silence cut apart by a singular sound of whistling through the air. It was slight, small, almost unnoticeable, but it was clear as day and sharp to the mutt's ears. He clenched his eyes upon instinct, face scrunching up as best it can despite the gag that kept it permanently agape, and he waited.
When the paddle struck his rear, the flat wood smacking against his bared, soft cheeks, it was like a fire had burst out in a violent explosion up through his guts. Martin would have thought he'd be used to it by now, the constant pain, the agony, the bitter and frustrated arousal despite it all, but he was always amazed by a master's ability to make him feel pain anew. They'd been at this for hours, ever since the beginning of the night - though by now Martin was almost convinced they'd slipped into daylight hours - and there didn't seem to be any end in sight. Vernon was just an overseer, someone in charge of the rabble who'd all clamoured to the steps up onto the stage to come take a pass at the mutt left waiting. He choked back a sob, the sound coming out as a garbled slurp, his tongue moving around his wide open jaw, uselessly flexing the only muscle he could, whilst the rest of him suffered in stillness. His paws were clenched into fists, a small and insignificant distraction from the true agony that continued to swirl and dissipate like ripples along the water's surface in his guts, sparks lingering all over his rump. His body was contorting as best it could, though with the purchase it had it was hard pressed to do anything except add a sickening lurch to his swaying. How long _had _it been, truly? The mutt was more than anything just morbidly curious at this point, as it seemed that accepting this would never end would be the only paradoxical way of bringing things to a close. After all, why else would he have accepted Vernon's invite to be his plaything at the Event Horizon if he wasn't going to submit?
It still burned brightly, deep within him. Not so much the agony, as whilst it toyed against his worn nerves it was becoming tolerable as the hoots and jibes of the crowd filled the air in praise of Vernon's work, but the resignation and humiliation. It felt as if he'd only just stepped out onto the stage mere minutes ago, yet at the same time he was convinced it had been nothing but an age. It was sobering to be so utterly confused, the measure of time not simply just taken away and left absent but brutally ripped and shattered into a thousand pieces. Martin was cripplingly aware of what they'd done to him so far, with stark clarity, as his body bore the memories better than his mind did, his system keen to remind him of the suffering he'd so far endured. He recalled stepping out onto the stage, paraded around like any slave would be for the show of the audience, only to then be strapped into on assembly or another, ready to be abused. It didn't particularly matter what they did, all that stuck in Martin's mind was how much it had hurt, how good it had felt, how desperately he yearned for more. It had been vicious. His ass had first been greased up, fucked hard by smaller men until he graduated to those well-endowed in the room. Countless of guys had queued, sometimes even returning to the back only to take what was by then astonishingly sloppy seconds. Martin didn't even realise when Vernon, or whoever else it might have been as by that point, had slid a paw into his bred hole, swirling the loads round as if he were nothing but a bucket. It only added insult to injury when he became aware that some men weren't even lining up to shoot off inside him; they'd gotten their dicks out, sunk their heads into his rim and then sighed happily, letting a flood of rank piss gush into his ass. By the way he hung there, unable to really push anything out as his muscles were beyond sore and tired, it just sat in his guts, sloshing deeper into him. They'd stopped naturally, though how long ago that was eluded him, but the Saint Bernard had made sure the mutt's hole would be still ripe to use after a reprieve. It had been a toy, something he was familiar with, but the canine had eased it into his stretched rim, widening it just a little further until the bulb had passed the brink and slipped inside. The hollow tunnel of the toy, acting much like a butt plug, meant air could still rush into his depths, the squelch and slurp of slick insides gurgling as they swam amidst a sea of jizz and piss. Vernon always made sure to remind the mutt that he had ample access to his guts, pushing fingers down the tunnelled toy and swilling around the mess of juices that sat within him.
They'd then moved onto something far more humiliating; Vernon had picked up a paddle, a simplistic thing and begun to lightly strike the mutt's rear. His exposed hole, a toy lodged up his ass, and his cheeks quickly turning raw as the dog had smacked him over and over, the intensity building with each swing until it felt like Vernon simply wasn't trying to push him to his limits but to pummel the mutt into oblivion and beyond. It had been on routine, a rhythm established rather quickly, for the first hour, if it was even that long. But by now, the dog had descended to riling up the crowd once again, urging them for a response, for some involvement. It was to wheel along the show for a lull, to give the dog a chance to concoct some worse nightmare for the mutt whilst they all waited with baited breath.
Vernon's delay however had been a reaction to a rather peculiar development. A small secret of the mutt's physiology, one he'd done well to keep hidden, had decided it would rear its head again and surprise the onlookers, though their startled stares had swiftly turned to riotous roars or horny demand. Even the canine up on the stage with him had been amazed as he too watched around about the fifth or sixth minute of vicious strikes against Martin's ass as his crotch began to ebb with a bizarre glow, tinged with blue, as his sheath, throbbing neglected cock, and sore balls had transformed before their very eyes into that of a pair of dripping, anticipating, waiting lips. The mutt changed sex right before them, morphed from the male they'd all assumed he was to the infamous urban legend of a cunt boy, something that had only been believed as a rumour until today. Now, on stage, for all the men to see at the club, was a male slave with a pussy wet with need between his legs. He could have tried to explain the change as a cause of intense arousal and what it all meant, but with the gag keeping his mouth wide open Martin found it quite impossible to tell Vernon or anyone anything. Not that he needed to. Vernon seemed to be incredibly taken with his toy's new equipment.
"Do you think he's had enough, fellas?" The spat protests from the crowd were loud and vicious, but Vernon was already putting the paddle down, signalling that the spanking was at least over. But knowing the dog there would be more in store for him, so the mutt didn't dare to breathe a sigh of relief. All he could take solace in was the fact that the last torture was now over, and now something new just awaited him over the crest of his reprieve.
"Let us fuck 'im again!"
"Just zap his tits!"
"Get the needles out!"
Another sadistic little chuckle from Vernon; he was enjoying riling them up, letting them help him cook up some nasty little plan for the mutt. But Martin was still helpless to stop him, to stop any of it. The Saint Bernard remained by his little trolley, paw hovering over the top most tray, eyes looking directly into the upturned mutt's, leaving him the mystery of guessing what he might next bring out upon the slave. Slowly, delicately, with just a touch of wicked intent, he picked up the next instrument of the dog's will. As it rose into view though, Martin grunted and squirmed as he realised just what Vernon had in mind next: a riding crop, just as simple as the paddle that had preceded it. The harsh lights that flooded the stage so that every detail, every moment, every single thing that occurred on stage right from the curves of a rear clad in rubber to the small beads of sweat that would trickle and matt another's fur, from the gleaming buckles of a dominator's harness all the way to the delicious shimmer of another male's jizz splattered across someone's dripping hole. The crop had that dulled sheen to it, the only look leather could have, with a thin arm leading from its woven grip to the small piece of curved leather at its head, looking rather dainty in the huge canine's paw. It was almost out of place, were the mutt and the fellow patrons all well aware of what such an instrument could do. Sharp, precise, clean... it might look more refined compared to its paddle brother, but it was anything but weaker.
"Oh come on!"
"Make the bitch scream!"
Clearly the audience were getting more and more restless. Martin could hardly blame them, though he was their entertainment. They were probably all thinking just what was the point, graduating from one form of impact play to another. There was no fun in that, no new thrill. He might have understood if Vernon had brought out a vibrator, or like the hecklers had suggested grab some gear and fit electrodes in all manner of places on his body and jolt him into agonised ecstasy. Hell, it would have even been more refreshing to bring out some surgical needles like the last guy had shouted. Though it would have stung like a bitch and left its mark in the morning, it would have been new and intriguing to the audience to see them disappearing into the mutt's flesh. But no, Vernon strutted around Martin with the arrogant gait and the nasty smirk upon his face, dragging the crop ever so lightly across the suspended male's limbs, following the contours of his body as he came back around to the mutt's behind. Once more the crowd jeered in disapproval, clearly not happy with the dog's routine and hoping for something better, though what that might have been was truly unthinkable, as it could have come from so many options, all with their own horrifying consequences.
Vernon smiled. Whatever it was that he was planning, he knew it had different consequences that what either Martin or the spectators were expecting. He stroked that fine, delicate leather tip over the male's struggling form, tracing out a path towards his crotch. The mutt shivered uncontrollably as the cool hide, softened from experienced use, slid its way over the wet folds of his sex. The gracing touch was insatiably frustrating, the urge for greater contact burning deeper within him. Strung up as he was, unable to do nothing but gently rock, he bucked as much as he could muster against the crop's end, whimpering around the gag.
"How many do you think I should start out with?" Vernon called out, head turned to the crowd with an expectant ear. His lopsided grin was enough to show he was enjoying this, his swelling bulge just hidden out of sight between a bigger gut and tangle of sweaty fur a testament to truly how enamoured he was with the boy before him. Martin could already envision what lay beneath the leathered jock strap, he already knew what would be soon in store for him; as much as it pained him to admit it, this for them both was just the foreplay.
"Don't stop until he bleeds!"
"Nah, make him beg for more, push him to the edge!"
"I want to see that cunt burning red before you wreck that boy's pussy!"
"Oh don't worry," there was an undercurrent of evil in his voice, something off about the dark glare behind his gaze as he turned his focus back to the hanging mutt, "He will be."
Without a second more Vernon lightly tapped the riding crop against Martin's sex, the leather tip snapping against his clit. Though it was probably only the beginning of many, many strokes, it felt indescribably intense. The feeling of shooting pleasure and pain fractured out amongst his gut, splintering through his abdomen like a lightning bolt through the air. He might have said it was intense, or phenomenal, or some other fancy word to describe the sensation, but it was just... Something, he couldn't place the word, like his mind refused to acknowledge it whilst his body roared at him. Though it took the growling of his nerves some time to calm down to a point where his knuckles weren't white as they strained in the bindings and for his jaw to unclench, he eventually returned to sanity with the cheers of strangers ringing in his ears.
"Looks like he didn't take that too well!" Vernon had his back to the mutt, a bit of showboating to his audience, "I wonder how many it'll take before he passes out?"
There was a collective and appreciative rumble from the crowd, various more suggestions and insults hurled his way as they were all quite keen on seeing him suffer at the hands of the fat dog. The Saint Bernard turned back to him, one finger caressing the tip of the crop like he was inspecting it for damage and not the male strung up before him. Another grin, the first shot was just a test, a warning signal to the mutt, something to prepare him for what was in store.
The second came with little warning. All that was afforded to Martin to steel himself was Vernon sauntering in front of him, crop lifted to the ready before it was slapped down once more against his clit. The violent flash of agony scored yet again along the fibres of his nerves, his abdomen and belly teeming with the freckled pain. But it didn't stop; there wasn't a chance to recover this time. As if timed to a metronome or to the tick of a clock, Vernon began to whip the crop against Martin's sensitive folds, aiming for that small, sensitive nub that heralded all that pain and pleasure at once, each smack and tap of the riding crop hitting its mark in rhythm. The only respite was that in the beginning the dog started off lightly, rousing Martin's attention until he was writhing and squirming in his bounds. He beat the mutt's snatch at this leisurely pace with no eagerness to go anywhere, no urgency of finishing off the ordeal. There was no need, after all. They had plenty of time to fill and the dog hadn't even so much as touched himself, let alone get his own cock out.
Though, steadily, as time went by and yet more catcalls broke through the white noise that blared inside the mutt's head, he grew aware that Vernon was speeding up. Sometimes he might stop, occasionally, if only to shift about on stage to let some other members of the club that night see, but he would always return in a short moment. When he did, he would only come back as though in that fleeting second he'd taken to pause, the mutt had somehow offended him, angered him or antagonised the situation. Perhaps the dog had gotten it into his head that someone had called out for greater severity. Whatever it was, all the end product was Vernon smacking the boy's cunt even harder than before. It was getting to a point where the edges of Martin's vision would darken, his cries becoming shrill yet still unintelligible, gargling up spit and saliva that dribbled down his chin. He couldn't take much more, his head was pounding and his pussy was burning, as if a literal fire had been lit down there in his loins. Typically, in this form, that was a good thing, but this burnt with a nasty flame, something that hurt him more, like acid peeling along his insides, rather than the amenable warmth akin to a gentle fireplace. It didn't help that the tunnelled plug still sitting inside his hole, keeping him held open, was adding to the soreness with the dull throb which underlay the current of pain.
But still... even with all what could only be described as torture, sexual as it was, Martin began to find himself enjoying it. With eyes all around him, all fixated on his broken form as he was pushed to his limits and beyond, he couldn't help but feel proud of himself. Vernon was putting him through his paces not simply because the people wanted it, but because he wanted it. It was an amateur performance, not something scheduled with professionals. Vernon had brought him here not for their entertainment but for his own, for _his _pleasure. Regardless of it all, the crowd might well have not been there and it wouldn't have mattered. Things wouldn't be much different. All they added as an interesting dynamic to an already intense scene. What truly mattered was that Martin was enduring what Vernon wanted him to. He wanted to see the suffering and the agony etched into his face, limbs, and body, with his mind giving in and succumbing to it all like an obedient little pain-slave. As Vernon began what surely had to be the final course of vicious strokes of the crop against the mutt's clitoris and cunt, his head cleared of the scramble and a soft quiet fell within him. Sure, it hurt, his body was churning with the mess of plenty other men, pain working its way to every nook and cranny that sat within him. But it all became something in the back of his head as his attention focused solely on the motions, ears pricking up as they heard the whistle of the crop before it slammed hard against his pussy, the sound tasteful and sharp, the feeling of the leather gracing across his beaten flesh blossoming through his body more like budding flowers than the lightning he'd felt before. It was all by Vernon's paw that he was granted this blessing, delivering himself to the canine's whims for his to use and control. If Martin had been in his right mind and aware of what he was doing, he would have said he'd been broken by the Saint Bernard and was now just a subservient slave, eager to satisfy and please the heavy male.
Through the fog of his trance, Martin became aware of his master's voice, the sound so hypnotic and captivating, a rich warmth washing over him as he heard the man speak, though the words were muggy to him,
"Looks like we've finally done it," a paw cupped his chin, lifting him by the jaw as Vernon's head loomed into view, the dog's face admiring the mutt's, peering into his eyes, waving the end of the riding crop from side to side to check for signs of life. Naturally Martin ignored them in his fugue state. He kept focused on Vernon. He was all he wanted. He could do whatever he wanted. "Seems like he's finally snapped; such a good little boy, ready to have that cunt of yours bred?" The tone was condescending, but it didn't matter. It wasn't really for him but those watching. All the dirty talk was. As he was now, it was irrelevant anything Vernon said to Martin. It would just go in one ear and out the other. All that mattered were the commands and the service.
The riding crop was replaced back on the tray it had come from, the gear no discarded and forgotten to the side of the stage. Vernon finally turned his attention on himself for a change. His thumbs hooked under the waistband of the leather thong he was wearing, pulling down the material and easing it off his hips, down past his thighs and shins, before kicking it off. Now free, his cock was able to harden fully, no longer constrained by the garment, and Martin, as well as the whole club, got to see Vernon's member standing proud. Thick barbells gleamed in what light there was as a row of frenum piercings lined down his shaft, piercings Martin was all too familiar with from another time. It seemed Vernon had switched them out for a larger gauge though, as somehow they looked even bigger than he had remembered them to be. Whilst not sporting perhaps the longest of lengths, the Saint Bernard's girth was monstrous. Not even including the knot, it would be the something akin to taking a fist, the girth so fat that not even Vernon himself could wrap his paw all the way around it. It bounced between his legs, tucked under his gut which still hung just a little over it, hiding away the fear-inducing knot that was already keen on swelling to twice the size of the cock it belong to. There was an appreciative applause, or maybe it was just noise, Martin couldn't tell, from the spectators. It was what they'd all been finally waiting for.
Vernon had to make them wait though. The last thing he seemed eager to use though was a small beaker, nothing special. It was a mere plastic cup, something that looked like it might have come out of a water cooler or somewhere else equally mundane. The only difference it seemed to cut was that it was much larger, practically a pint, and little else.
Vernon moved to the back of the frame by which Martin was held captive, reaching up to one ankle and unlatching it, letting the limb drop rather lazily to the floor. Though he didn't attempt to catch the mutt's weight, Vernon seemed more enraptured with the hollow plug still sitting within his by now ruined hole, as every muscle was since dead and refusing to respond, like it had given up any sentiment of clenching down upon the toy anymore. Stuffing as many fingers as he could into the insides of the plug, the canine kept in the sickly concoction that had been brewing within there, the swirling cocktail of cum and piss by now a rancid mixture Martin almost dreaded to contemplate, though it was difficult to focus on little else. With his free paw, leaving the cup on the floor for a moment, Vernon undid the second restraint at the ankle, moving with the swing of the mutt's exhausted body with his paw still shoved up the plugged rear. He snatched up the beaker now, bringing it up to the toy before finally he removed his fingers. Martin grunted and whined as he felt the fluids drain from within him, unable to stop the flow, but unhappy at the sensation as finally he felt his guts seep out the mess in a potent stream. It took some time, with no ability to actively expel the blend, but soon enough Vernon seemed satisfied he'd got it all, or at least enough for what he wanted. He held it up for all to see, swirling the cloudy amber liquid round its glass. It was thick with cum, the urine adding volume; who knew how many males had added to that mixture? Martin watched, glazed eyes, as Vernon once more addressed the spectating audience,
"Ah, a home brew, straight from the tap! What do you suppose I should do with it?" He sniffed the edge of the beaker, immediately recoiling, "Phew! Smells pretty rank and nasty; I wouldn't want to be the one drinking this little beverage!"
"Just force the bitch to take it already!"
There were collaborative cheers, all of them in unison for once. They all wanted Martin to down the cup, as he tiredly hung there, footpaws failing to gain strength and aid him in standing up, his wrists the only thing holding him upright for now. His head was almost lolling to one side as the fatigue started to teeter on his consciousness, threatening to send him into a blackout. It was only when he felt the Saint Bernard once more step up behind him, just like they had started out before heading on stage, with his stomach pressing against his back and the harness digging into his shoulder blades. Vernon scooped one arm under the mutt's, heaving the weight up so that Martin was forced to stand on two footpaws, leaning mostly against the canine for what support he could offer. He was feeble and humiliated, all he wanted was for Vernon to give him what he wanted. Obediently, he tilted his head back, muzzle held upwards to the open air. The dog chuckled, paw snaking up his throat to stroke him, reminding him again of the power he still commanded over the mutt as he lifted the cup over Martin's head.
"Good boy, drink up now."
He let the glass tip over, pouring the contents ever so slowly down through the open gag and into Martin's waiting throat. He began to gulp as best he could, coughing at the foul, bitter taste but diligently swallowing every drop that was fed to him. The flavours of musk, of saltiness, of stale bitterness, it all flooded into his mouth and pervaded every sense. It felt like a thick sludge that wormed its way down his gullet, Vernon's paw stroking along his bobbing neck as he obeyed the canine's wishes, the crowd's wishes indeed. The sensation of it pooling in his stomach, sitting like a warm, thick tar, was unreal. It was almost all Martin could concentrate on. That was, until, Vernon decided otherwise.
Lifting the mutt up, pulling his legs back, he eased his cock into the mutt's waiting folds. The tip, blunt and drooling with backed up pre, pressed up against Martin's wet pussy. The desperation in him was there, but Vernon was more set on taking his time. Still finishing off the final dregs down the mutt's throat, the Saint Bernard took his time in letting the poor boy sink onto his cock, gravity pulling his body down and down. Martin groaned and let out spluttered whimpers as he felt his sensitive cunt, still sore from the beating, stretch wide over the dog's endowment. He felt those piercings slide against him, slipping inside with heavy pops, going deeper and deeper. As he'd known, length was never the issue, it was always girth. The dog's thickness forced Martin apart, feeling like he might split at any moment given the monster that was slowly impaling him, gradually working down to the far too big knot that awaited him. There might have been panic in his head were it not for his entranced submission. He knew there was nothing to be done except accept whatever Vernon wanted, to please him was his only concern.
With the cup finished and all drained down the mutt's gullet, Vernon tossed it aside without a second thought. His paws immediately returned to grope at the body before him, Martin whimpering as he felt those heavy paws molest him with sloppy grabs. The feeling of being used and abused was not lost on him, even in his submissive state, but it didn't really matter to him anymore. His mind now reeled as he felt the dog begin to fuck him, ever so slowly, lifting him up and down onto his member. Vernon fucked his cunt just as he'd whipped it with the crop, both with an ambling speed and a tidy rhythm. He would lift and let the mutt fall on perfect beats, pressing him back against his rotund gut, spine arched against the muscles hidden beneath the fat. Vernon's strength came in to play as he manoeuvred Martin like a ragdoll sex toy, a sleeve for his dick and something to enjoy the screams of. His mouth found its way to the mutt's neck and sunk his teeth into the soft flesh there, enough to latch on, whilst one of his paws found Martin's pierced nipples, pinching the nubs and tweaking them in either direction, making his whole body squirm as he continued to leisurely enter and retreat from that warm, wet hole. His other paw wandered down, heading south until the fingertips came across the sore and battered clit. Martin gasped aloud - as best he could, though the sound was smothered in spit - when Vernon made contact, the sensation in excess to even try to begin to understand. It must have lit something within the dog, as from that point he wouldn't leave the poor mutt alone, rubbing his fingers around the sweet spot mercilessly, causing all sorts of noises to be made from the gagged muzzle.
Martin wanted to yell out, to beg him to stop, the feeling growing to be too much. It wasn't pleasurable, he couldn't really count it as that, but with the massive cock entering him and fucking him softly, the teeth bearing into his nape, and all the attention being paid to such tender parts of his body it was an overload to the senses. He'd experienced these kinds of feelings before, far and few between, but enough to know the symptoms of one. It wasn't an orgasm, no, he wasn't fortunate enough for that, it was more an expulsion. The kind of release that was nowhere needed euphoric but necessary all the same, just to vent out all the feeling of climax to be forgotten, abandoned. Grunting and moaning, his body writhing in time to Vernon's thrusts like he was trying to get away from it all, Martin roared, essentially cumming, though all it left him with was a frustrated urge to do it all over again, to achieve another orgasm though he knew it would never come.
Vernon growled in satisfaction, speeding up as he felt the wash of new warm juices rush over his cock as he continued to hump the mutt. With his ass still plugged, his cunt now filled with a fat prick, and his body overworked to the point of exhaustion and collapse, Vernon figured it was finally time to move into the last stage of his performance by breeding the boy's pussy and leaving him up on stage for anyone else to have at. He redoubled his efforts, slamming his hips against Martin harder now, with insistent force, as he could feel his knot tapping against the wet cunt with lewd slaps. Without a doubt, he was going to tie the bitch and then rip it back out when he was done; he just wanted to make sure Martin understood that too in his delirious, addled condition.
Grunts would emanate from his chest and the mutt could feel them, both in his ears and through the vibrations in the dog's chest. The Saint Bernard was pounding him harder now, without remorse but with a determined conviction. He could feel the losing battle as more and more of that terrifying swollen knot, ballooning quite obscenely now at the root of Vernon's cock, was pressing into him, battering his folds and seeking to tie him. Something similar to panic, though defeated and hopeless, gripped the mutt's being and had him groaning and whining as he knew the moment was coming nearer. His whole body shook from the force, Vernon's hips slamming into him. Each time he might inch in a bit more, get further into the mutt, his pussy by now ravaged and stretched wide, but there was still further to go, and Martin feared he might actually tear open if the dog wasn't careful. His position though wasn't to complain or protest, it was to serve and serve he did as he awaited the inevitable.
It didn't take all that long, just a few minutes more of heady grunts, savage snarls and a bellowing bark before Vernon finally got what he wanted. It happened so fast Martin barely had time to register it, but once the knot was sucked inside him, his lungs gave out in a breathless cry, the sound nothing but air rushing out of his wheezing muzzle, the knot swelling up inside him and locking their bodies together. Vernon continued to thrust, fucking what he could into the tied cunt, panting heavily and beaded with sweat as he rode onto his orgasm, teeth digging deeper down onto the matted fur and puncturing the skin. He snarled into the shoulder as he came, paws clamping down onto Martin's body to trap him against the Saint Bernard's own, pumping thick dog cum into his pussy, each shot dumping more and more into him. Through the stinging soreness and aching pain, Martin could feel the warmth seeping through him, dribbling down as it leaked past the knot and trickling along his thigh. With every hole practically bred and abused, filled with one horrid cocktail or another, he resigned himself to the defeated submission he'd been longing ever since he'd gotten on stage. Though perhaps he might never have agreed to this had he known the full details before heading out with the man, Martin knew it was his place. It was his natural position, collapsed onto a bigger, superior man whose only interest was to use his body whichever way he saw fit, and for others alike to take him too, fucked until the point of exhaustion and then beyond. The taste in his mouth, the feeling of stickiness now sitting in his gut alongside the monster that pulsed and throbbed within him, and the toys still fitted in his mouth and ass, Martin knew it was all for him, it was what he wanted. He was a plaything to men like Vernon who'd leave him in the state he was experiencing now. It was a natural place to be, for a male like himself.
Vernon yanked his hips back once he was done unloading into the mutt's cunt, tearing his knot free and leaving Martin to gasp and whimper as the restraints on his arms caught his weight, rivers of seed pouring from his gaped snatch, dripping to the floor amongst all the other errant juices of the night. A riotous holler from the crowd applauded the finale, but amongst the din, as everyone climbed down from the soaring high of a job well done, the more restless patrons began to chant, repeating one word over and over as Vernon cleaned himself up, admiring his work with a smug look of satisfaction. The one word danced in both men's ears as it grew louder and more distinct; for Vernon, it brought a sinister smile to his face, but for Martin it marked the beginning of a very long kinky nightmare.
"Encore... Encore... Encore..."