3 of Clubs
The Swiss always made the best watches, ever since watches had been invented. Or at least they always made the most expensive watches in the world, which was the same as the best in the mind of Michael Lumdbergh. An otter born into the new aristocracy of CEO's and upper management, Michael had always believed in good business - which meant money, punctuality, and a fawning servant underclass of employees and hired help. Which is why he found himself momentarily lost on the docks of the mysterious island where he was supposed to be conferencing or retreating. He wasn't sure which, because his personal assistants, digital and flesh, had been prevented from accompanying him. They even took his briefcase (hydra scale with platinum fittings, F.K. Bander Outfitters, $26k) and sunglasses (Jekket and Sons Lenses, 'Starchaser' model with platinum inlay, $7k) leaving him in only his finely cut suit (bespoke silk with accessories, Tangier Tailors of London, $18k) and little else. Michael stared at his left wrist, or more precisely at his watch ( 'Ouroborous' by Chronodom, with platinum and lapis lazuli accents, $12K) and silently cursed the exclusivity of the island. He should be getting his 9:20 blowjob courtesy of his assistant ( Nickolas Smithe of the New Hampshire Smithes, 23, Siamese Cat) at this very moment, or at least be climbing into a chauffeured car!
Around him bustled an absolute chaos of unordered and unproductive fursons that almost turned his stomach. Granted, he was standing on a dock, but the crowd of rowdy college jocks, ragtag clumps of security, construction, and random folks not working to make him money upset Michael even more than the loss of his property. The business otter was of course oblivious to the undercurrent of danger floating among the many males eyeing each other, or casting paranoid glances this or that way. The part of his brain responsible for recognizing physical danger had been long smothered under a life of luxurious safety, health, and privilege. Other parts of his brain, like the sections responsible for recognizing sycophants, underlings, and middle management were much more acutely developed. This allowed him to zero in on a single muzzle among the crowd that was drawing closer and closer.
With the help of a few well placed elbows, a black and white face emerged from between a set of confused looking dockworkers arguing about schedules. Labor-talk, which was to the otter little more than an incoherent buzzing. The, well Michael couldn't quite discern what the fellow was - a bit of a cat, a bit of bear perhaps. A narrow muzzle, black fur, white spots by the nose and eyes. Kind of burly and thick across the shoulders, too bulky for the otter's taste. Wearing a middle-management suit ( the difference is subtle but distinct) and no tie. For one of the first times in his life, Michael tasted doubt.
Then the creature opened its muzzle, and with his words relief washed over the otter. "Good morning! My name's John, the regional office dispatched me to touch base and engage muzzle time for orientation delayering." The critter's voice was a bit deep and growling, and the whole time he talked his arm-thick tail curled around in intricate circles. "I am here to dialog synergy and leverage your management paradigms to champion enterprise level world-class solutions!" Strange as the circumstance, the outfit, and just the male himself, the very nature of the corporate buzz-speak instantly put Michael to ease. He could feel his entire body relax, from his ears to his tennis-ball sized otternuts. Business is business, no matter how weird the wrapper.
"You are late. The ship dropped me off almost 10 minutes ago, John." Michael cut off the bearcat...thing with the subtle annoyance of the furson that controls budgets. The sour look that flickered over John's muzzle sent a tinge of satisfaction all the way to Michael's fat ottersheath. "I trust you have a car waiting?" He left unsaid the implicit understanding that the car would contain some manner of twinky young gent with a supple tongue and perhaps a tight tailhole. Fate would not be so cruel as to place him on an island with a paucity of wet-muzzled twinks, would it?
John smiled slightly and curled his thick tail, nearly as long as he was tall, around a nearby spool of rope nervously. "The island is small. Perhaps we can pawpad while we thought-shower on value-added world-class knowledge-share?" The bearcat had to spin quite a few turns of phrase extolling the win-win nature of walking the supposed short distance to the office. John even upsold the top-of-line visual metrics associated with the game-plan, and possible furson-resource acquisition opportunities that would be proactive in personalized muzzle-time with an underlying robust architecture. That is to say, Micheal was won over at the perceived probability of picking up some young thing that would happily choke on his rod while his webbed-toes playfully stomped on teenage kiwis.
John led the way, a bounce in his step, while Micheal followed with a half hardon and his heavy balls stretching out the silk of his fashion briefs. Customarily they would have been emptied by now, and thus provided a distraction that did not wane as they walked along the beach. The bearcat's patter drifted in one ear and out the other as Michael's eyes roamed over the scenery. The beach was pretty enough, but the remains of a college kegger caught his eye - a bunch of strapping young lads certainly fell into the otter's taste. A bit too well muscled and masculine, perhaps, but far better than the fireplug bearcat chattering away. The sight of those speedos and jockstraps almost fit to burst with all that young meat, the rippling muscle as they cleaned up their bonfire, it all inflamed the otter. He had to find a twink to rough-fuck and nut-stomp soon or he'd end up bursting a vessel!
The droning sound of the bearcat melded with the soft strained rips of Michael's silk briefs struggling to contain his steely erection. All of the otter's attention and sensation seemed to narrow to the very tip of his cock as it stroked along the smooth inner silk lining with every step. The luxurious weave of silk cradled his overstuffed nuts, heavy with cream those overactive cum-factories had been churning out since the last purging almost four hours before. Could sexual frustration and broken routine actually bridge into physical pain, as Michael felt? The sensations were so intense that even John's beefy ass was beginning to look more and more acceptable.
Michael snapped out of his cock-fixated contemplation when he realize the bearcat was asking him a pointed question. Asking him a question while stopped, which was important consideration as Michael was still walking and almost slammed into John cock-first. Another important note would be that John was holding something in an oversized paw, and as Michael focused he say that said paw contained a pack of cards. This is the trouble with having vastly overfilled nuts; one generally has a hard time coming back to reality any faster than piecemeal.
"Lets talk about synergy. Pick a card." The bearcat fanned out the deck of cards, their backs pattered and emblazoned with the logo of an unfamiliar casino. "Just select one." The cards seemed to beckon, their edges slightly worn from so many draws. Michael hurriedly drew one out, perhaps feeling a hint of guilt for having space out so much. He turned it over, revealing the three of clubs to himself, and to John before sliding it back into the deck. The way the bearcat snapped the deck back together and tucked it away with such smoothness seemed slightly unsettling.
Michael narrowed his eyes, and diverted a sliver of attention from his steel-hard cock. "Explain again how this exercise relates to synergy again?" He even gestured with one paw as he continued. "It just seems to be playing cards, and not good ones at.....hey, do you smell popcorn? Or is that cornbread that I smell around..." The otter did not get a chance to complete his question, or an opportunity to track down the odd popcorn smell. Either task is particularly difficult to undertake when a large mature coconut has been slammed into one's nuts.
This experience is painful, but to be more clear a coconut about the size of a honeydew melon has an inch-thick husk of dense fiber and weighs nearly eight pounds. Essentially, a slightly softer wooden bowling ball was swung upwards at a good clip directly between Micheal's thighs. It first impacted his left nut, sending it bouncing up to the root of his ballsac when it bounced on the spermatic cord like a bungee cable. Then it struck the right nut, carrying it like a piston to meet the other. Both nuts were sharply compressed against the base of the otter's sheath with about half the force necessary to crush either of them. As luck would have it, that was exactly twice the force needed to send a lightning bolt of pain up the otter's spine, where it exploded behind his eyeballs like an orgy of Cenobite-flavored suffering. Michael dropped like a hamper of luxury driving scarves (Virgin vicuña wool, by Fashion Peru, $4k per yard).
Had Michael been paying closer attention, he might have seen the bearcat's dexterous tail lift the short section of rope that was rapidly wrapped around his wrists, and subsequently around a sturdy bit of tree. By the time the otter could see straight, he was quite securely staked down. His muzzle opened, and threats of legal action, reports to police, and of course a Grade 4 firing all awaited at the tip of his tongue. They never got a chance to be spoken. John loomed over the prone otter, coconut firmly gripped in one massive paw. He brought it down in an overhead strike, to land it square on the barely recovered nuts. Michael managed to scream this time, his pained bark trailing off to be replaced by a sound choked with menace.
John let out a deep, gurgling chuckle from the depths of his throat. The sound somewhat resembled a drain trying to clear itself, mixed with the devil's own asthma attack and a hint of James Earl Jones. Or perhaps the pain was making Michael hallucinate a bit, but even frazzled he was aware of those dull claws ripping his slacks off. His slacks cost more than most furs made in months, and they got tossed into the brush. His red briefs followed, and with some detachment Michael noted his cock was still hard, if unhealthily purple.
"There they are...." The bearcat's voice sounded different, the sycophantic slant gone, replaced with a deep bass undertone. His huge paw dipped between the otter's thighs, lifting up those big low-hanging nuts. Having been hit twice, they were already tender and the slightest contact made the executive hiss through his clenched muzzle! "...already starting to swell nicely." The bearcat weighed those nuts in his palm, rolled them around, and the pain was enough to bring Michael to tears.
John was cruel, and skillful. He let those nuts rest for a moment, long enough for them to begin darkening with a bruise, to swell slightly, and most importantly for the numbness to fade. Then he brought the coconut to bear again, dashing it against the massive heavy low hangers hard enough to make them bounce at the very confines of their sac. The otter screamed, and nofur heard him. Michael suffered, and his nuts throbbed as delicate vessels burst under the onslaught, engorging the inner spaces with blood. Again, the bearcat's paws cupped those nuts, squeezed them gently, gauged their swell. The coconut was swung again.
How many times was Michael struck? A dozen? Two dozen? Enough times that when he opened his muzzle to scream, not even a hoarse whisper came from between his dry and cracked lips. His eyes were red and muzzle wet with tears. He could not even bear to look at his own nuts cradled in the huge bearcat's grip. They had gone from large and heavy to ridiculously swollen. Practically black with bruises, his nuts had grown large and dark with blot clots until each rivaled a grapefruit in size. His velveteen nutsack was stretched to the limit with the useless bulk of his assuredly ruined balls. After being hammered so many times, they were no doubt dead - and yet his cock was still hard! Purple hard in fact, a color he had never seen before, but sickened him. His nostrils were drowning in the scent of his own fear, coconut, and for reason buttery popcorn.
"Damn, a man can work up an appetite working out in this heat." The bearcat spoke with a sickening casual matter-of-fact tone, wiping his silver-spotted brow. A twist of his powerful paws, and the coconut was deftly split in half. The water inside sloshed, and from it John took a hefty pull. The rest of the sweet water was dumped into Michael's mouth, and the moisture startled him so much that it almost distracted from the bonfire of pain in his nutsack. Almost. He greedily gulped down the muzzle-ful of water, wetting his cracked lips.
Licking across his muzzle, Michael stifled back the pain to croak out pleadingly. "Why?"
His thirst sated, John took a coconut half in each paw. "Why not?"
With a mighty swing, the bearcat brought the halves of the coconut back together. Around Michael's incredibly battered nuts, which would certainly not fit between those halves. With the thick husk and coconut 'meat' layer the inner hollow section was barely fit to handle an orange, much less a grapefruit. The otter's bruised, beaten, and brutalized balls were each well over the size of a tangerine. When those halves came together, there was a bit of resistance - but then both nuts burst in a shower of blood, cum, and fluid. The pressure on those balls was so strong that in the instant before they exploded, a half-load of cum was pressurized up the van defrens. The hydraulic, weaponized load of cum and blood almost shredded Michael's dick as it exploded out the tip to shower his muzzle. The last load the otter ever shot, pink, thick, and all over his own muzzle.
He was thus spared the sight of that coconut pulling away, taking his liquefied nuts and leaving the empty shreds of a nutsack. The pain and terror hit him like a hammer, and blissfully Michael passed out. He slumped against the tree, ruined cock limp and dripping blood fit to match the slow flow from his ripped out sac-root. In a way he was already dead - he'd sire no cubs, continue no name, build no dynasty.
John, well, Juan when he wasn't lying through his teeth, walked away. He had a delicious coco-nut pudding for brunch. Protein, carbohydrates, everything a binturong would need for a long day of brutalizing. Why? Well why not? The low throaty chuckle and scent of buttery popcorn filled the air as as sought out another victim.