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From: Pegboy - UK <pegboy@hotmail.co.uk>
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Subject: ST: Storm In The Suburbs - Part 1 (M+/M, BDSM, K9)
Date: Wed, 05 Sep 2007 16:46:09 -0500
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===================

All the usual disclaimers apply. The following story is
entirely fictional and contains explicit descriptions of
sexual activity between adult males and minors. READ NO
FURTHER if you are under the age of eighteen or offended by
such material.


Storm In The Suburbs - Part 1

By Trevor Martindale

It was eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning in 1964. The
rain was bucketing down and I couldn't see a fuckin' thing:
the Bedford's windscreen wipers were on the blink, again.

'This van is a crock of shit, Mr Dalby,' I said, seething
with frustration. 'Let's trade it in for something better.'

'No one gives this old crock a second look,' explained Mr
Dalby. 'It's untraceable and ideal for carrying bum-boys
back to the warehouse.'

'To wear 'em out,' laughed Neil.

'Yes, very droll,' sighed Dalby.

'That was a pun, Lunty,' explained Neil. 'A play on words,
like...'

'Fuck off, Neil,' I snapped. 'I know what a pun is.'

We turned into Rosewood Crescent and stopped outside number
eighteen. The rain had eased off a bit, so I had no problem
parking up the old Bedford with the nearside window down.

'Remember,' said Dalby. 'I do all the talking.'

Number eighteen was a large, detached house with a well-
trimmed hedge separating it from the other houses in the
quiet suburban crescent. We walked up the garden path as
the sun disappeared behind a formidable array of storm
clouds.

Mr Dalby pressed the bell push three times.

'Three short rings,' Neil turned and whispered to me. 'The
old sod won't open the door on a Saturday unless the bell
rings three times. It's the "open sesame" code the naughty
schoolboys use to get in.'

'He fancies himself as a disciplinarian,' added Dalby. 'I
bet he's got someone tied down on the bed as we speak. And
I bet that someone has a bright red arse.'

'He likes to punish two or three wimps at the same time,'
explained Neil. 'So he won't ignore the doorbell.'

'Unless they're already in there,' I suggested.

'No, it's far too early for that,' whispered Dalby. 'The
lad who gave me the SP on this fellow reckons he likes to
spend a good three hours with the first wimp he ties up.'

The sound of a bolt being released on the other side of the
door ended our conversation. The front door opened a crack
and Mr Dalby gave it an almighty shove. We steamed into the
hallway and sent our startled host flying.

'Hello, tubby,' boomed Dalby, as I closed the front door
behind us. 'This house must be worth a small fortune. I bet
the insurance cover on this place must set you back a bit.'

'What do you want?' Harkin whimpered.

'Want!' replied Dalby, grinning at the sixty-year-old man
lying on the floor. 'We're here to rape, pillage and burn.
And then we want to take you back to our place and watch
you lose a little weight. Do you like dogs, tubby?'

'Dogs?'

'Yes, dogs. We have a couple of Rottweilers that would love
to get their paws on a new bitch-boy. Have you ever been
fucked by a canine cock?'

The look on Harkin's face went from fear to disbelief, and
then back to fear.

'No! That's sick.'

'And whacking naked men across the backside with a bunch of
stinging nettles isn't, I suppose,' snapped Dalby.

Harkin made a move to sit up.

'Did I tell you to move, tubby?'

Harkin froze.

'Now, let's see what you look like in the altogether,'
continued Dalby. 'I want you to lie perfectly still and let
my friends remove all your clothes. You won't be needing
any togs where you're going.'

Neil and I thumped the old sod a couple of times to let him
know who was boss. We then pulled out a flick-knife each
and cut his clothes to shreds, ripping them off him as we
did so.

'Please don't hurt me,' Harkin sobbed. 'I've got money...'

'How much money?' interrupted Dalby.

'A hundred pounds, maybe two,' mumbled Harkin.

'Where's it kept?'

'In the living-room; I'll go and get it.'

'Oh no, you just lie there and rest your weary head. I'll
go and get it.'

'It's in a wooden cigar box on the Long John coffee table.
There might be more than two hundred pounds in the box. I
can't remember, exactly.'

'You know there's more than two ton in the box, you tight
arse,' said Dalby, from the living-room. 'You were going to
short-change us, weren't you?'

'No, honest I wasn't. I...'

Neil shut the old sod up with a swift punch to the stomach.
He then took hold of the man's ball-sac and gave it an eye
watering twist.

A flood of tears streamed down Harkin's face as I covered
his mouth with my hand to muffle the screams.

'Less noise, tubby,' announced Dalby, returning from the
living-room with a large wad of cash. 'I'm afraid this
pittance isn't enough, old son. What else do you have on
offer?'

I removed my hand to let the man speak.

'The chap upstairs,' sobbed Harkin. 'He's tied down on the
bed; he's gagged and blindfolded; and he loves being hurt.
In fact, his number one fantasy is to be kidnapped, raped
and tortured.'

'What's his name?'

'Robin. Robin Miller. He's a BBC researcher.'

'And how old is Robin?'

'Twenty-two.'

'So you're offering us four hundred quid and a bum-boy
named Robin Miller. What else?'

Harkin looked blank.

'How about the names and addresses of some of your other
naughty schoolboys,' suggested Dalby. 'A few photographs of
the said boys in action would also be appreciated.'

'Well, I...'

'Don't even think about lying,' interrupted Dalby. 'You
wouldn't want to see us rip this place apart looking for
the low-down on all your regulars.'

Neil grinned and gently squeezed the man's ball-sac.

'All the stuff's upstairs in the spare bedroom; in the
wardrobe on the top shelf. It's in a large cardboard box on
the right-hand side.'

'Photographs?' Dalby enquired.

'Yes, lots and lots.'

'Good. Now let's see you turn over and slither up those
stairs like a grass snake.'

Harkin looked up at Mr Dalby and grimaced. He had given up
his regulars without a fight. The words 'grass' and 'snake'
described the man perfectly. However, the only word I was
interested in was 'torture'.

Harkin crawled up the stairs in front of his three captors.
The tub of lard was sweating profusely as he struggled to
stay ahead of us.

'You really need to lose some weight, tubby,' said Dalby.

'I'm not a well man,' Harkin replied. 'It's my glands. I
have to take three lots of pills a day.'

'You won't be taking any pills where you're going, old son.
You'll be as thin as a rake by the time we've finished with
you, glands or no glands.'

'But I thought...'

'Oh no, tubby,' sneered Dalby. 'The money and the low-down
on the naughty schoolboys, and the bum-boy upstairs, just
aren't enough to get you off the hook. We would have found
everything ourselves if we had turned the place over. You
just saved us the time and effort.'

'I can get more money; or maybe I can help you blackmail
the men that bend over for me. I know lots about them.'

'You'd do that?' mocked Dalby. 'You would sell everyone
down the river to avoid a little pain and humiliation?'

'Yes.'

'And stand by while Robin and the others are being mounted
and fucked by two horny Rottweilers?'

'Yes.'

'And help us stave the men half to death, zap their goolies
with electrickery and burn the soles of their feet?'

'Er, yes.'

'Well, I really don't know what to say.'

'Most of them would welcome the opportunity to suffer real
torture and humiliation. They're always asking for more.'

'It's a deal,' said Dalby, lying. 'You tell us everything
you know about the scallywags, and then we'll let you go.'

'They mustn't know I folded so easily.'

'Of course not,' said Dalby, grinning. 'We'll let them
think that you are being tortured as well. I have a friend
that can break anyone - so Robin and the others won't be
blaming anyone for talking after they've met him.'

'It'll only be for show. I...'

'Yes, of course,' interrupted Dalby. 'Vic the Impaler will
just be going though the motions in your case. You'll be
tied to a chair for most of the time.'

'Can I watch the others being trained?'

'You kinky old so-and-so,' rebuked Dalby, laughing.

It was then that the heavens above Rosewood Crescent opened
up, releasing a deluge of rain and hailstones. A flash of
lightning soon followed, and then a crack of thunder. The
hailstones hammering against the window that overlooked the
stairs made everybody look up.

'Fuckin' hell, Mr Dalby,' I yelled over another crack of
thunder. 'Storm won't like being stuck in the van with all
this going on. Can I bring him in?'

'Yes, Lunty,' replied an angry looking Mr Dalby. 'And,
while you're at it, tell the rest of the crescent who I
am.'

'Tubby won't blab,' I said, crestfallen. 'I'll cut off his
cock and shove it down his throat if he ever did.'

Mr Dalby gave me daggers, as did Neil.

'Besides,' I continued. 'With his track record, the filth
won't believe a word he sez. He's no honest citizen.'

'Stop digging, dozy,' said Neil. 'Just go and get the dog.'

'And don't forget to lock up the van behind you,' added
Dalby.

*  *  *

Mr Dalby sat on the bed and studied the black and white
photograph. Three naked men were triple-stacked on a king-
sized bed, with their arses facing the camera. The first
man was on his hands and knees; the second was draped over
the first man's lower back; and the third man was draped
over the second man's lower back. All three arses were in
line, and all three arses were clearly being caned in
rotation by a tall, skinny teenager.

The teenager had a mop of blond hair, a cherub-like face
and a tiny cock. Mr Dalby recognised the fifteen-year-old
boy immediately: he was the one who had given up Harkin.

The next photograph revealed the faces of all three men.
Tom, Dick and Harry were kneeling in a semi-circle, facing
the camera. They were looking off to their left, presumably
waiting for young Trevor to step into the limelight and
offer them his cock.

The third black and white photograph captured Tom and Harry
waiting eagerly to lick Trevor's cock into shape. Dick's
face was completely hidden by the boy's trim little arse.

'So you have facials of all the naughty schoolboys in your
stable?' asked Dalby.

'No, not all,' replied Harkin. 'Some of them are camera
shy.'

'So how many can we approach with photographs like these?'

'Seven.'

'That's enough for starters,' said Dalby. 'We don't want to
fill up the warehouse with too many bodies. By the way, is
Robin the researcher one of the seven?'

'No. He's a new boy,' replied Harkin. 'I was going to team
him up with the trainee teachers, Gary and Hugh.'

'And when will they be turning up?'

'Any time now - I thought you and your friends were them.
The bad weather must be holding them up.'

'Have you got any compromising snaps of them in action?'

'Yes. They can't get enough of the old cane and birch; and
they really like Trevor, the boy in the photographs, tying
them down and tormenting their cocks.'

'Good,' Dalby mused. 'I like to see teachers being taught a
lesson.'

'They're only trainee teachers, Mr Dalby.'

'So they're both young?'

'Yes. They're both in their early twenties.'

'Excellent! Now let's take a look at Robin the researcher.
I do hope he likes dogs.'

Robin lay face down on the bed. His arms and legs were
fully outstretched and his wrists and ankles tied to the
bed with rope. A black leather blindfold and gag covered
most of his face, and his arse-cheeks were still showing
the signs of a caning.

It was a bit crowded with four men and a dog surrounding
the king-sized bed. However, with Storm on the bed, between
Robin's outstretched legs, the congestion eased a little.

'Lick, boy,' I commanded. 'And no biting.'

Storm nuzzled and licked at the researcher's arse-crack as
he rattled around in his bonds. The dog's tongue soon found
the base of Robin's ball-sac, which Harkin had shaved clean
before the CP session had begun.

'Doesn't that smell nice, boy,' I said. 'I bet the nice man
would want you to claw up his back and fuck him hard.'

'Look, he's shaking like mad,' said Neil, as he put an arm
round Harkin's naked shoulders. 'He's truly terrified.'

'I do hope those ropes are tied good and tight,' said
Dalby.

'Yes,' said Harkin. 'Those knots won't budge an inch.'

'Now why don't you climb on the bed, on your hands and
knees, and help Storm out,' suggested Neil, pushing the old
man forward a little. 'Just pretend to be Tubby the Tongue,
the man who likes to suck canine cock.'

Harkin tried to step back, but was thrown forward and told
to get involved. The cane he had used on Robin's backside
was pressed into service again, but this time it was used
to encourage him to co-operate.

Mr Dalby stood and watched the Rottweiler dominate the two
men on the bed. Robin thrashed about as Storm trampled all
over him, as if he was a doormat. Harkin sobbed as he was
forced to work on the dog's unsheathed cock with his hands
and tongue, and then offer the beast his own cock to play
with.

'He won't bite it off, tubby,' I said, grinning. 'He just
likes to slobber it up a bit. Now, spread your legs apart
and let him lick you into shape.'

The look on Harkin's face was terror personified. He lay
back and spread himself out on Robin, as if the young man
was the bed's mattress. Back to back, the two men felt the
dog nuzzle and lick their genitals. Harkin's cock was the
main target for Storm's lust, especially when he found the
man's purple knob-head.

*  *  *

I remained upstairs when the doorbell rang three times. Mr
Dalby and Neil invited the two trainee teachers into the
house and, armed with several incriminating photographs,
showed them into the living-room.

'Now, you must take off all those wet things,' said Mr
Dalby, as he closed the living-room door.

'Those two bum-boys will be eating out of the governor's
hand by the time they reach the warehouse,' I said to my
two charges. 'We're gonna have a real field day with you
lot.'

'Can you call the dog off, sir,' Harkin pleaded.

'No. Turn over and let him lick your anus,' I snapped. 'And
use your hands to spread those arse-cheeks apart.'

Tubby struggled to stay on top of Robin as Storm rimmed his
sixty-year-old arsehole. He kept asking Storm to 'be good'
and 'don't bite' as the growls got louder and louder.

'He wants to fuck you, old man,' I said, coldly. 'He wants
to get that knot of his inside you, and then he wants to
turn you into his bitch-boy. You could be tied together for
hours.'

'Please don't let him,' Harkin whimpered. 'I'm not a well
man. I could have a heart attack and die.'

'Fine, let's compromise,' I said. 'Help me get Robin's arse
up in the air, so that Storm can mount him.'

'I can't do that. He'll never forgive me.'

'Right then, you'll have to be a brave little soldier and
take it up the arse yourself. It's your choice.'

It took a dozen cane strokes and a lot of crying before my
dog was presented with a nice manhole to fuck.

Harkin whimpered and sobbed throughout the ordeal. He had
agreed to help me prepare Robin for his first canine fuck.
However, Storm wanted to mount the old man, and mount him
he did. I managed to pull the rascal off twice, but Storm
had made up his mind.

'Stay down or he'll bite your arse,' I said, as Harkin
tried to escape a third time. 'His todger is nice and wet,
so it'll slip in easy.'

'Get him off me. Get him off me.'

'Shut up, tubby,' I snapped. 'Just relax and go with the
flow. I wouldn't want to cut off your cock and shove it
down your throat.'

'Please, sir .... Fuck, he's inside me.'

'That's good. Now, just hang on in there.'

The dance lasted for a good ten minutes. Storm's powerful
front legs held the old man in a vice-like grip. Harkin's
body poured copiously with sweat as his inner sanctum took
in more and more canine cock. The poor sod was being raped
by a 120lb Rottweiler, and he was in no position to stop it
happening.

'Nice,' I mused, as the shutter on my camera opened and
closed.

*  *  *

Neil entered the bedroom and smiled.

'Gary and Hugh folded as easily as the old man,' he said.
'The soles of their feet are a little burnt, and they're
battered and bruised a bit, but they're still in pretty
good nick.'

'You haven't left 'em down there with the governor?' I
asked.

'Yeah, I tied them up and left his nibs to play with their
feet. He's using that new lighter of his.'

'Storm ravaged our host and then wandered off somewhere. He
won't be able to fuck another manhole for a while.'

'Not to worry. Mr D wants us to tie up these two lemons and
get them in the van.'

'But it's still daylight. We'll have to wrap 'em up in a
carpet or something.'

'Yep, that's the new plan. Mr D wants them back at the
warehouse as soon as possible. He's taken a real shine to
the two bum-boys downstairs.'

'Are they anything special?'

'They're in love; so Mr D wants to test that love. You know
what he's like.'

'Yeah, but four runs to the van with a rolled up carpet. It
could be risky in daylight.'

'It's raining cats and dogs out there.'

'So?'

'So the plebs will be huddled around their fires, watching
the telly.'

'Let's hope your right.'

- - - - -

(c) Trevor Martindale, September 2007

All comments welcome (pegboy@hotmail.co.uk)

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