The Cellar Pig

In that sealed darkness the feedings never stopped. Warm shit, thick ropes of cum, and the slimy contents of used condoms were forced through the tiny mouth slit. Any resistance earned vicious strikes from the cat-o’-nine-tails across his cock, balls, and chest.

They made him repeat “I don’t have a name anymore” until his throat was raw and bleeding. They locked him in the tiny wooden coffin-box, restricting his air and pouring piss down his throat when he panicked.

During the worst sessions they lowered him onto his back, wrists chained high above his head so his body was painfully arched and his face completely exposed. While one used his face as a toilet — dropping heavy, warm loads of shit across his eyes, nose, and open mouth — the other worked on his ass.

They used increasingly massive toys: a huge fist-shaped dildo, then an enormous horse-cock shaped toy nearly as thick as a forearm. They rammed them in mercilessly, stretching and tearing his hole wider with every brutal thrust. The pain was blinding. Blood mixed with lube ran down his thighs. They pulled the toys out roughly to admire his slowly prolapsing, ruined asshole before slamming them back in even harder.

“Good pig. We’re going to destroy that hole completely.”