Hell in a Cell (or a Warehouse)
A commission for someone on FA: Enjoy!
In a certain corner of a city that probably got called "the engine of America" back in the fifties and clung desperately to that nickname ever since, there was a giant grey cinder block with broken windows. It was used as a warehouse for some time, before it closed up sometime in the nineties and never reopened. If you walked inside of that warehouse (which is not recommended) and took a deep breath (which is recommended even less), you could almost smell everything that had been stored there over the years, like the olfactory equivalent of rings on a tree stump; wood, corrugated cardboard, engine parts, pork. It should have been torn down a long time ago, but the mayor suggested that it stay up in case Amazon came to town and wanted to set up shop. That comment earned appreciative chuckles until the press realized that he was serious.
Abandoned warehouses, while useless for any company in need of a place to store things clean of broken glass and rabid raccoons, are a boon to the local criminal ecosystem. After it closed, this particular one gained new life as a haven for drug deals, assassinations, and particularly taboo sex acts; that worked for a time, but in a city as grey and numbed as this one even the criminals lost energy after a while, and it went back to being largely abandoned.
The exception was Saturdays. Saturdays were when a certain visitor would bring a guest to the warehouse and make use of something that stood out in the endless grey expanse of the floor; a large, worn wrestling mat, colored a faded blue.
Being kidnapped rarely puts one in a contemplative mood, but as Jared Karpovsky lay in the trunk of a car going fifty miles per hour, he couldn't do much else. Certainly not with his hands tied behind his back, or with a strip of duct tape wound around his mouth twice. And so the fox lay there in the dark and thought about his current predicament.
How did he get here? Well, he ended up in this city on a business trip; perhaps as an effort to revitalize it, or perhaps in a continuing quest to pick the dullest, most lifeless cities in America for important functions, his company picked this Rust Belt nightmare as the location for their annual conference. Jared flew here with an expensive yet deeply mediocre domestic airline, and stayed at a hotel that (he was assured repeatedly) was the best he was going to get while he was here. He had been on his way to grab dinner from a place down the road that might have been, if not good, at least cheap, when he felt something wrap around him and felt something else slide over his head and pull him into darkness.
Next question, then. Who did this to him? He didn't get a good look at his assailant, although he got an excellent view of the inside of a burlap sack once it was fastened over his head. All he knew of his attacker was that he was strong (Jared was a pretty skinny guy, but surely he weighed enough to slow someone down, right?) and that he panted. Not panting out of exhaustion or heat, but hungry, excited pants, like a ravenous dog. Jared paused for a moment, and decided he didn't want to ride that train of thought any further down the track.
Why him, of all people? Jared knew that people had a way of going missing, particularly in this town, but usually they were prostitutes or homeless people or runaways. He was a twenty-five year old fox with an apartment in suburban Phoenix and a fiancee who at least tolerated him. This sort of thing simply didn't happen to people like him, and though thinking on that made him feel a bit guilty that didn't change the truth of it.
What did this kidnapper want from him? Did he want to kill him? Why? And if not why, how? Was it going to be quick? Would he be tortured first, like in Hostel or something? Was he going to get raped? Fuck, he hoped not. Maybe he was going to be enslaved, or ground into sausage-although, considering what a beanpole Jared was, that last one didn't seem too likely.
I'm taking this pretty well, Jared thought. Immediately after thinking that, the car shuddered to a halt, heavy footsteps walked across gravel to open the trunk, and Jared was carried in someone's arms like a somewhat unwieldy package.
I think I should panic now, Jared thought. And he did.
Whatever noise Jared was expecting when he was dropped to the floor, it wasn't fwumph. Instead of hard concrete or splintery wood, he landed on something yielding, almost soft. It was like a mattress-although, as Jared squirmed, he realized that it was too rough and canvas-y to be a mattress. More like one of those gym mats they had back in high school, the kind that chafed the skin when the bigger kids twisted you into a pretzel on top of it.
Before he could come to terms with that, he felt a particular coolness on the lower half of his body that made him sit at attention and yelp through the duct tape covering his mouth. Whatever it was that kidnapped him had yanked off his pants, leaving him wearing nothing but his tighty-whities and a buttoned-up shirt-which, after a rrrrrrrip that made the fox wince, was no longer in the way.
"MMMMF!" he tried to cry out, but that was useless. Jared's voice was muffled enough by the duct tape, which meant that the burlap sack was just overkill. When he felt an iron-strong pair of hands reach to his neck, Jared prepared himself for the worst, but flinched as the hands only yanked the sack off of his head-and gawked as he came face to drooling, slobbery, frightening face with the man who would be haunting his nightmares for years to come.
Jared could see, objectively, what was looming over him. His captor was a Saint Bernard, with everything that implied; dense, thick brown-and-white fur, a heavy body, a pair of salivating lips. He was much bigger than Jared; easily two to three feet taller, and who even knows how much wider. His brown eyes were narrowed and hungry, and he wore nothing but a bright red jockstrap that hugged his fat bulge.
When the big dog is described like that, he sounds normal; perhaps a bit intimidating and worryingly comfortable in his own skin, but nothing so out of the ordinary. And yet that couldn't explain the pit of deep, wordless fear that opened up in Jared's stomach and sucked up all his courage like a miniature black hole. To Jared, this dog looked like a mountain, a monster, a demon. The fox could feel, with sickening clarity, the malevolent glee that this beast was taking in his terror. Whatever this was, whatever the behemoth was going to do to him, his kidnapper would be enjoying every moment of it.
The dog's belly thrummed, and he gave a low, sinister chuckle. "Hmmmm? Is something wrong, boy?" Jared shuddered as that dark, rich, bassy murmur made his knees feel weak. "Here, lemme take off that tape..." A massive hand reached up to grab onto the edge of the silver duct tape, tearing it off with a loud RIP! Jared flinched from the sudden pain before responding.
"Who are you?" the fox asked. He wished he sounded more confident than he did.
"Who am I?" the big dog repeated. He leaned forward slightly, looming over Jared even more. "They call me The Executioner." When that made Jared almost pass out from fear, the dog gave him some small reassurance; he wouldn't make a habit of it. "Don't worry, I ain't gonna kill you."
There was something about the glint in The Executioner's eyes that told Jared that that wasn't the good news he was hoping for. The fox swallowed a lump in his throat that felt like it was the size of a softball before he responded.
"So what're you gonna...?" His voice trailed off, and the Saint Bernard chuckled.
"Awww, I'm just gonna have some fun with you, that's all!" The Executioner's voice dripped with insincerity, the knowing phoniness that bullies use to catch victims off guard. Jared shivered.
"Now, let's get your wrists free..."
Jared knew that, whether or not he was going to be bound up, he wasn't free. Running wasn't an option, even if The Executioner let him more than five feet away from that wrestling mat. And he certainly couldn't fight off the giant dog-he'd have better luck licking his way through a brick wall. But even with these limitations in mind, he felt hopelessly restricted. It might have been the shock of being kidnapped in a city he knew little about, with no idea where this warehouse was or how to get back to safety.
It might also have been the arms wrapped around his midsection like a python.
"AAAAAAAUGH!" Jared's legs kicked ineffectually against The Executioner's beefy body, his arms completely immobilized by the crushing force of the big dog's hold. His face was inches away from the Saint Bernard's broad, hairy chest, almost completely buried in The Executioner's thick, flabby moobs. It would have been hard to breathe even without those arms, cinched tight around the fox's body, holding him still and torturing him with their crushing force.
Of course, it may have been for the best that Jared couldn't breathe too well in The Executioner's bearhug. If he could, he'd become intimately acquainted with another part of the dog's body; namely, the truly horrific amount of sweat the Saint Bernard produced. It dripped off of his body in rivulets that flowed almost constantly, from his brow, from his pits, from his chest, from his ass, from his balls, from everywhere. It matted both The Executioner's fur and Jared's own, the warm, sticky fluid making the fox wince as it pooled onto his body. He had never been so disgusted in his life.
The Executioner, by contrast, was having a whale of a time. The big dog's face still wore that nasty, sadistic grin, the behemoth grunting every time he shifted his weight or squeezed his grip even tighter around the poor fox. He knew exactly what sort of effect he had on people, and he learned how to use that to his advantage a long time ago. People were afraid of him, disgusted by him, in awe of him. He wouldn't have it any other way.
"Y'holding up OK there, kid?" The Executioner purred in Jared's ear, his voice deep enough that it felt like it could cause a hurricane. "I ain't going too hard on you, am I?"
Jared would have answered if he didn't have a face full of hairy, sweaty man-chest, and if his lungs weren't filled with nothing at all. His legs alternated between dangling forlornly and trying to wrap around The Executioner's waist for some sort of leverage, but that would have been a tall order even if his legs didn't slide down from the sweat pouring down the dog's body. He wiggled his head against The Executioner's chest, brushing his nose against a rough, rosy-pink nipple, and whined like a kicked puppy.
A raucous laugh from the Saint Bernard, the beast's prominent gut pulsing and jostling Jared with its movements. "Well, shit, kid! I dunno what to tell ya, but I'm going easy on you! I've tussled with some guys that could eat five of you for breakfast, and when I was through with them they were so twisted up you could fit 'em in a backpack. But you're such a string bean that I gotta put on the kid gloves. Nnnnf!"
With another brutal cinch, The Executioner's grip tightened, and Jared threw his head back to howl out in pain and despair. If this was the monster going easy on him, then Jared would hate to see him at his full power; the sweat was bad enough without the Saint Bernard patiently turning him into organic no-pulp orange juice. Jared got his head free from The Executioner's chest fur to look up at him, pleadingly. His eyes were wide, and his throat made hoarse wheezes from the compression.
It was when Jared's head was tilted up that he looked into The Executioner's eyes, and what he saw made the hair on his neck prickle. The look in those eyes wasn't that of bestial, feral pleasure; that, at least, would be understandable. But this wasn't ravenous lust; this expression was careful, almost methodical. There was pleasure there, but the pleasure wasn't that of a wolf sinking his teeth into his prey; it was that of a craftsman fiddling with something, taking care to get the minutiae right. The Executioner was doing this calmly, step-by-step, a tried-and-true process to break another man. And it only just started.
Jared was startled from this train of thought by the sensation of something dripping against his forehead. Another look, and he saw what it was: drool, from the corners of the Saint Bernard's thick, jowly lips, dribbling onto the fox's face. He was about to exclaim with disgust when the Executioner added a whole new level to Jared's torment.
The Executioner's tongue lolled out from his mouth, spattering Jared across the face with slobber like it was splattered paint. The copious drool spilled from the big dog's mouth, dribbling all over Jared's face and making the fox gag in disgust. It wasn't even as though it was foul or tasted bad; it was tasteless, for the most part. But it was hot, it was slimy, and it got everywhere! Jared kicked his legs, groaning and trying to get free from this new torture.
"Now what's the matter?" The Executioner admonished, teasingly. "I'm just tryin' to give ya a kiss!" And with that, the dog's tongue reached down to Jared's mouth. It probed at the fox's lips, trying to find an angle to get in; Jared tried to resist and squirm, but it was to no avail. The Executioner had a way of getting what he wanted.
Queasily, Jared felt that slimy tongue crawl into his mouth, the hot, dripping wet muscle filling up his mouth as easily as a gag. The sensation was enough to make the fox retch, but that wasn't enough; no, The Executioner had plans for him, yet. With a low chortle, the big dog started to feed Jared.
Glug. Glug. Glug. It was as though The Executioner's tongue was a pipeline from his mouth to Jared's, carrying an endless flow of slobber and drool and flooding the fox's mouth with it. Jared, to his credit, handled it well to start; he took steady, even gulps of the slobber, even as his face was the picture of misery. He tried to think of it like drinking from a hose; just take it easy, and it wouldn't be too hard. After all, how much drool could this dog have?
Glug. Glug. Glug. Glk. Glllk! GLLLLKH!
Jared convulsed in The Executioner's grip, choking on the slobber he was being force-fed through that French kiss. As he gasped for air, the big dog just grinned.
"Just sit tight, I ain't done yet..."
Jared had foolishly hoped that The Executioner would be doing nothing but bear-hugging and slobbering all night. As unpleasant as it was, it was something he could get used to without feeling like his pride was snapped in two like a bundle of twigs over the dog's knee. But today, it seemed like nothing was going his way; Jared would find out as the night progressed that this would be a recurring theme.
"HRRRRRNNNGH!" Jared reached his skinny arms up, desperately trying to push up on the big furry ass cheeks that was smothering the fox's face (and most of his chest) in that hairy, sweaty, musky prison. Of course it didn't do anything-fucking look at them! Jared looked like a meek pencil wearing a fox fur coat, and The Executioner looked like a boulder that someone taught how to fight. Jared couldn't stop this humiliating debacle, no matter how hard he pushed against those hefty glutes.
The Executioner, in contrast to his victim, was perfectly comfortable where he was. This was the big, domineering St. Bernard in his element; sitting atop some weak, ineffectual submissive and enforcing his will through his big, wobbly, terrifyingly heavy rump. The Executioner's ass was always his proudest feature; they were the reason why he wore jockstraps instead of briefs, and when he wore street clothes he made sure they accentuated those meaty buns. The ass of The Executioner was almost a microcosm of the man himself; it was thick, heavy, sweaty and overpowering, and if you were left alone with it for even five minutes you would be afraid of it, too.
"There's just no pleasing ya, is there?" The Executioner asked, grinning as he swayed his hips to and fro on top of Jared's face. "You wanted me to stop bearhuggin' ya, so I let you chug on my slobber. You didn't want that, so I sat on ya. And now you're bellyachin' about this, too." The big dog snorted, crossing his arms over his flabby chest. "Ungrateful. That's what you are. This is somethin' a lot of guys 'round your age would pay for, y'know."
That may well have been true, but the fox was certainly not one of them. This might as well have been hell for poor Jared; completely at the mercy of a hulking, sadistic beast, smothered under his ass, and trapped in a ripe, eye-watering prison of musk. The Executioner's rear was as sweaty as the rest of him, and although Jared couldn't see a goddamned thing underneath that ass he was sure the sweat was practically flowing like a water slide. He gave muffled, pathetic coughs as the sweat pooled on his face, making it even stickier.
After a few minutes of stone-cold sitting, The Executioner lifted up his big fluffy rump a few inches, letting Jared gasp for precious, precious air. It was less an act of mercy and more an act of pragmatism; after all, the fox wouldn't make for nearly as fun a seat if he was knocked out. The hulking St. Bernard glanced over his shoulder as Jared coughed and wheezed for air. The gears in the big brute's mind were turning, and he was getting an idea to really make Jared squirm.
"Don't like my ass, do you, boy?" The Executioner said, watching Jared frantically shake his head as he panted, filling his lungs with the relatively clean air of the warehouse (shit, at least it wasn't more dog-musk). "Well, tell you what. If you can stop my ass from comin' down on your face, then I won't sit on you. How's that sound?"
It sounded great to Jared, at least at first. A chance to get free from under that hellish, smothering ass! He'd take that in a heartbeat. But immediately after that initial rush of hope, the fox felt it curdle in his belly. How the hell was he going to stop this colossal monster from sitting on him? Right when that thought hit him, The Executioner sat up slightly, that fat ass practically raining sweat down on the poor fox's face.
"Ready? Here it comes...!"
The Executioner started to lower his squat, his furry rump getting closer and closer to Jared like a rogue planet, steadily continuing on its path to crash into Earth. The fox raised his arms up, whining as he pushed up as hard as he could, trying to shove the big dog, trying to get him away once and for all.
Both of them knew very well that that wasn't going to happen. Jared's arms, even at their full strength, barely even slowed down the constantly-lowering movement of The Executioner's rear. The fox's hands practically disappeared into the fluffy, sweaty fur, as though his arms were being swallowed up by this domineering creature. Jared grit his teeth and grunted, pushing again in vain hope that he would achieve something-but still, he couldn't stop The Executioner.
"Nnnngh...! Fucking...get off..."
The Executioner gave a big, booming laugh at the pathetic whine that Jared gave at the end of that sentence. The pitiless St. Bernard felt the fox desperately shove, claw and even punch against his fat ass, achieving absolutely nothing but winding himself and getting The Executioner even sweatier. It was almost a relief when his struggles were muffled by The Executioner sitting down completely.
"Whew!" The big dog reached his hand up to his forehead, wiping his brow in mock-exhaustion. "You had me for a second there, I ain't gonna lie!" He rested his hands on his knees, waggling his ass backwards. "Comfy down there?"
"Mmmmmmmrf..." Jared twitched under the boulder-like weights resting on his face and chest.
"That's what I thought."
In the moment, Jared thought he might never get out from underneath The Executioner's ass. Not that he thought the St. Bernard would kill him (not so quickly, at least); no, the lack of air had gotten to him, making him panic and fear that he was doomed to spend all eternity smothering underneath the fat, sweaty cheeks of a sadistic wrestling dog. If Hell existed and Jared belonged there, the fox was certain that The Executioner would be waiting for him with a nasty grin and a sweat-soaked jockstrap.
Right now, Jared wondered if that would be preferable.
"That's right," The Executioner leered, laying on his side on top of the fox, his right arm lifted up. "Deeeeeeep breaths, little guy. We've got plenty of time for you to meet my pits."
Ever since Jared saw the sweat perpetually dripping off of the St. Bernard's body, he dreaded the thought of getting up close and personal with The Executioner's armpits. And yet, there was a feeling in the pit of his stomach like the kind he used to get when he weaned himself off of the night light in grade school; the feeling that all his worst fears were going to come true at once.
Jared's legs kicked ineffectually beneath the lazily lounging form of The Executioner, his arms batting at the St. Bernard's biceps like he was trying to shoo away a flock of pigeons. The fox's muzzle was buried deep in The Executioner's armpit, wiry pit hairs shoved up his nostrils, the constantly oozing sweat so relentless that it was like waterboarding. The smell was somewhere between a locker room full of wet dogs and the world's largest gym sock; Jared's eyes were squeezed shut and watering like he had hay fever.
"There we go," The Executioner taunted, shifting his body weight to scrub his hairy armpit all along Jared's face. "Just a matter of getting you used to it. See, you're takin' it like a champ!" He sniggered, snorting slightly as he laughed. "Taking it a helluva lot better than you took my ass, at least."
Jared flushed. If he was fighting The Executioner a lot less than he was earlier, it was simply because the merciless canine had steamrolled every ounce of resistance the fox had. All he could do was bat at the St. Bernard's brawny arms, and that was as effective as a water gun against a five alarm fire. The musk, hot, salty and ripe, kept seeping into his mind, making him feel woozy, lightheaded, almost dazed.
"Mmmm? Yeah, you're real relaxed now, ain't ya?" The Executioner's voice sounded like it came from underwater as the stinging, tingling musk of his sweaty pit worked its way into the fox's lungs, paralyzing him with disgust and...and...
Whatever it was, the sadistic fuck wasn't about to let him feel it for too long. He lifted up long enough for Jared to get a few choked gulps of air before switching pits, clamping down over the fox's face like a mask.
"Now it's time ya met Lefty, little guy. Why don't ya say hello?"
Eventually, The Executioner got bored. At least, that's what Jared assumed; there was only so many different ways you could sit on someone's face or feed them armpits, right? Whatever the case, he had hoped the end of the night would be, if not gentler, then at least quieter; returning Jared back to where he came from, never to be spoken of again.
But that would be the easy way, and The Executioner was not interested in the easy way.
"Grrrrrrrhhf!" Jared kicked his legs about frantically, squirming in The Executioner's grip like an agitated eel, hands desperately trying to pry the St. Bernard's bicep off of his throat.
"Mmmmm? Couldn't hear ya," The Executioner growled in the fox's ear, his evil smile obvious even without looking at his face. "What'd you say?" Jared was pressed up against the big dog's rounded belly, trapped in place with an airtight chokehold wrapped around his neck.
"Get off, you fuckin'..." Jared thrashed his head as best he was able. "You fucking psycho!"
"Yeah? I'm a psycho, huh?" Quickly, with more skill and practice than you'd think from looking at the big lumbering behemoth, The Executioner wound his legs into Jared's, yanking them apart in a textbook grapevine hold. The fox made a noise somewhere between a squawk and a hiss from the sudden pull, groaning as his chest rose and fell.
"Been called a lot worse than a psycho, kid," The Executioner said, panting. "Gotta try a little harder'n that."
Jared would have, if he was able to speak at all with that slowly constricting arm wrapped around his throat. Instead, he choked in that sleeper hold, his breathing shallow, his eyes wide and frightened.
"That's it, just settle down, little guy." The big dog's voice grew lower, more teasing, almost seductive. "You got put through the wringer today. You deserve a little nap..."
"Nnn...nuh-no!" Jared bucked in The Executioner's grip again, trying to pull away, his eyes bulging comically as his oxygen was methodically choked out of him. He wasn't gonna fall asleep. He wasn't gonna pass out. He wasn't gonna let this...this monster, this...beast, this...this...
Jared's eyelids fluttered, and he started to wheeze as he breathed. The fingers that had been trying to dig into The Executioner's arms started to falter, slipping on the sweat that ran down the St. Bernard's forearm, before relaxing by the fox's side. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he started to twitch.
"Ssssssshhh," The Executioner said, his sleeper hold as ironclad as ever. "Sssssssh, that's right. Close your eyes. Relax..."
Jared couldn't argue with that.
If you'd like to know just what Jared Karpovsky felt like upon waking up the next morning, here's an easy way to simulate the experience. First, get absolutely drunk off of your ass; any sort of alcohol will do, as long as it's cheap. Then, find the laundry cart in a local gym and bury yourself deep inside of it; really let yourself marinate in the sweaty socks and jocks that you find. After a few hours in the hamper, hop out, go outside, and play chicken with a bus.
That's what Jared felt like the next morning. The second he opened his eyes, he hissed and covered them with his forearm; even the tiny amount of sunlight through the curtains of his hotel room felt like they could sear out his corneas. He tried to ease himself into it, slowly opening his eyes just to see that the sun hadn't been replaced by horrible pain lasers. When that was satisfied, he tried to sit up.
Big mistake. He felt like he had just been pushed through a keyhole. His body felt like a broken accordion. He swore and flumped back down onto the mattress, admitting defeat to his sore bones.
What the fuck happened last night? Did he get drunk? That seemed like it was the most likely option, but it wasn't like there was much of a nightlife to speak of in this shithole city. Maybe he just got a brown bag from a liquor store and chugged it in a parking lot? Well, when in Rome, do what the Romans do. But Jared had been hungover before, and this didn't feel like a normal hangover. It felt stickier, for one thing. Saltier.
Jared's nose twitched as he sniffed the air. He had been in enough hotel rooms to know that they rarely, if ever, smelled like balls. And yet there was that ripe, tangy scent, sharp in the nose and hazy in the brain. It was too fresh to be his own; besides, he usually went nose blind to that sort of thing. He sniffed the air again, rolled onto his side, and blinked.
Something bright red laid on the pillow on the other side of the bed, standing out from the lavender pillowcase. Was it a tie? It certainly wasn't his tie; his ties were blue, not red. A pair of underwear? From that overwhelming ripe scent, that seemed likely-but whose? Jared leaned in to inspect, and blanched at the sight.
It was a bright red jockstrap, with a note attached to the pouch. It read:
Had a hell of a night. Hope you keep me on your mind.
The note had a big, mock-dramatic heart drawn beneath the message, complete with an arrow going through it. Christ, he thought it was real fucking funny, didn't he?
Jared stared at the jockstrap, then the note, then the jockstrap again, for a full minute. Almost unconsciously, the fox balled up The Executioner's jockstrap in his hand, tensing his fingers around it, getting angrier and angrier.
Then, he raised his arm to throw the jockstrap against the wall in a rage-or at least, that's what he would have done if his sore muscles didn't loudly complain about the sudden exercise.
"Son of a bitch!" Jared clutched his arm, lay back down on his bed, and ran through the litany of swears in his head.