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An expatriate Englishman with a house on a coconut palm shrouded hill fifteen minutes walk through rice paddies from Bali's ancient royal city of Ubud, Oliver Lloyd-Huntley was a bald and bespectacled though handsome artist who had a thing for amputees. Mostly he just drew pictures of them, but occasionally he'd be in luck, and find one who would consent to sex for a little extra money on top of their posing fee. Once a gregarious pair of maimed boys had even consented to being photographed stump fucking each other with a handless wrist and a footless shin. Oliver paid them enough to start a little business, and now they sell ice creams and gelati to the tourists at Gunung Kawi. Bali was convenient for Oliver because there are a lot of amputees there due to the ubiquitous bemos and their constant accidents caused by the narrow winding roads and the endemic traffic chaos. Oliver was forty five, fit, tan and lean. He looked very attractive in his usual nothing but a sarong and surrounded by exotic tropical paraphernalia. His house was all smoldering incense and mosquito coils, glitzy buddhas, waist high urns full of goldfish, terrible gaudy paintings (mostly by him), sandalwood garuda birds, spangled cushions, teak furniture, gigantic philodendrons and calatheas, big white floor tiles and chirping, clucking geckos. The whole Bali catastrophe. He had a very pretty, very effeminate and very efficient house boy from Flores called Herri. Oliver had a sense of propriety, so he never fucked with Herri, or socialised with him more than necessary. Herri was very upset about this. He had become deeply in love with the rich, handsome Oliver, and dreamed about having a sex change, curing Oliver of his strange perversities, and then living with him happily ever after as man and wife, but Herri had no idea how he was to go about performing this miracle, and so nothing what so ever had happened in the five years since he'd come to work for him, except for countless looks of frustrated longing, and his tendency to wash Oliver's white boxer shorts a little late adding some stains of his own, and ironing them a little too well afterwards. Dino and Carmen had met Oliver at an SM symposium in Kuala Lumpur. Oliver had gone there especially hoping to meet the famously beautiful "Athos Hermes", the nil plus ultra of every androphile amputee fetishist on the planet. He had been very keen to get into Dino's hotel bed and had offered "Hermes'" pimp "Belinda" (Dino had insisted she use that name) two thousand dollars for the privilege. Belinda/Carmen had accepted and Dino discovered Oliver to be an avid and capable though distractingly perverse lover. After Kuala Lumpur they had stayed in Bali with Oliver for a couple of charming weeks, and now they all knew each other by their proper names. Oliver, like an alarming number of Englishmen, was heavily into rubber - a thing Dino found utterly bemusing. He could understand the erotic subtext of most things but the use of non dildo, non condom latex or rubber during sex had proved beyond his powers of comprehension. Luckily, Dino's ample amputee status was sufficient turn on for Oliver in itself, and so he was eventually persuaded to abandon his beloved frogman look during their fucks. Since that visit, Dino had maintained contact with Oliver by e-mail. Oliver and Carmen had been well behaved only for Dino's sake however, neither quite trusting nor liking the other. "I think you're being paranoid." Said Carmen. "How is your father going to find us? He's still in Panama according to the web page." "They'll know someone logged on to the page from Buenos Aires. They'll know! Macarthur is a lieutenant and my father is a lawyer. They'll have connections, and if they don't they'll make them. They'll get the necessary warrants. Did you see the look on their faces in that photo! I tell you they know something fishy went on at Freddy's. I just hope Papa still thinks I'm dead." "If they know what went on in Colon why wasn't it mentioned on the page?" "I think they think that Freddy and Balfor are still alive. They don't want them to know how close they're getting - that's why no mention of Calle Rosario. But I tell you Carmen that I feel this in my bones - They know!" Dino did not want to admit to himself that he too had begun to hope that Balfor might still be alive. To be fucked by him just one more time... "If they think you're dead why are you worried they're going to come looking for you?" "I'm worried they'll come looking for someone who might lead them to Balfor or Freddy so they can get their justice or revenge or whatever, and find us like a pair of sitting ducks instead." "I don't think they can find us through a web site like that." Said Carmen. "Of course they can! Don't you understand - it pinged! Everything pings nowadays Carmen! There's nowhere to hide. They can trace any isp that loggs a user onto that web server, and through our isp they can get to us! They could have the police here any minute. Why aren't you packing?" "All right I'll pack." She started picking things up and folding them absently. "You're just humoring me aren't you?" Sniffed Dino. "Yes but I also think we're due for a holiday, and Bali looks nice." "Nice and far away is how it looks to me..." He had to admit though, that it would be nice to see Oliver again and maybe even fuck with him. It was just a pity Oliver had a thin rapier dick, the clumsy frenzied jabbings of which reminded him so much of Freddy. It took the best part of two days, but eventually Balthasar, Caspar and Melchior went to stay with Carmen's leather lesbian sex buddy, A reliable realtor was engaged to deal with the selling of the apartment, they were all packed up, and under their traveling names Ethos Heres and Blinder Tattoo, Dino and Carmen found themselves on a jet headed for South East Asia.
Terry awoke. His strength had returned. Balfor was sleeping near him in gloom. Morning was fulsome and rioting outside, and some birdsong and shimmering golden light filtered in from the cave entrance. Terry needed to stretch his legs and go to the toilet. As he got up there was an irksome pulling feeling between his legs and the chain slinked wetly off and clinked to the stone floor of the cave. He gasped at the enormity of what this meant to him. His balls were really gone now. Should he feel around for them on the floor? With a shudder he recalled the one awful, awesome kick from Balfor that destroyed him as a man. The squelching thud of hard leather on his own pathetically naked scrotum as he had stood there, legs chained conveniently apart to make way for the boot. Those deliberate, movements Balfor had made a second before, repositioning his bonds, thoughtfully arranging his balls, tugging them out to see where they were going to lie, had been a premeditated preparation for one awesome kick. It was as if Terry were a football, rested carefully on a pile of sand. He'd had no idea what was coming. And then Balfor had tensed, suddenly propelling himself forward like a stallion on those big footballer's legs of his. The blinding explosive pain in his crotch taking his breath. He had never imagined such pain possible. Even Balfor's cigar on his cock head had not been such a full body arresting, comprehensive agony. He had actually seen stars pulsing before his eyes in time to the throbbing in his crotch and the breaths of his screaming, which curiously seemed to come from someone else. The kick had actually lifted him off the floor and for a moment he was airborne in his chains, and the whole momentum of that flight had been transmitted through his balls. He recalled the horrible pseudo-orgasmic tremoring of his whole body as it tried to curl up, frustrated by his bonds, while something began spurting out of his cock. His naked scrawny young thighs involuntarily scissoring forward and together after the fact, spazming inwards like that, too late to protect his crushed manhood. His rasping throaty keening and whimpering, his baby like crying as his bladder shamefully continued emptying itself automatically onto the floor in raw, blood tinted spurts. How his whole being had crumpled before Balfor as he stood there quietly watching. And then with his pain still pulsing and waxing, still quietly crying, Balfor had fucked him. Just like that. He just went around behind him, flopped out his meat and fucked him as if it were the most natural thing to do. The shame. The indignity. The helpless terror of it ripping inside him. And all along there was that quiet but persistent masochist voice inside him exalting and rejoicing in his own destruction, and then as Balfor reached around and squeezed his already mashed nuts in his fist, tugging on them as he fucked him, the voice grew louder and proclaimed its ascendancy with the unspeakable totality of Balfor's triumph over him. How could he possibly in the midst of all that grisly suffering, have loved the warm soothing feel of Balfor's big hands pulling backwards on his hips from behind, positioning him, steadying him for the onslaught of what felt like a horse's cock probing him? He would always remember that fuck as the consummate moment of his enslavement. Curiously, now that his balls had finally sloughed off, instead of merely shaming him it also made him feel perversely special. Balfor had made a eunuch of him, and it seemed to make him more desirable in his master's eyes. And was a eunuch not a rare thing in the world nowadays? . He was actually a neutered man, a proper eunuch. The sound of the word "eunuch" evoked Imperial China, or an Ottoman Sultanate. He enjoyed toying with the sound of it in his mind. He began to feel quite exotic. What a strange unexpected status to acquire. He went out into the light to see. There were maggots crawling all over and inside a ragged gaping wound between his legs under his cock. Strips of putrid grey flesh hung at its rim, and a revolting brown fluid had seeped from it down his leg. The world suddenly took on a strange Hitchcockian camera angle that didn't have much to do with the fact that he was bent over to look at himself; and was that tinkling sound bird laughter? The maggots were crawling all over his cock as well! Several of them actually underneath skin that was still alive even after all of Balfor's burning. He half retched, half screamed, eyes bugging. He had never seen anything so monumentally disgusting and it was all attached to his own body. For a couple of seconds he did a strange dance, arms and legs akimbo, gaping at his crotch and trying to leap away from himself. Before he could think to bat the maggots away, strong hands gripped him from behind. "Leave them alone." Said Balfor over his shoulder. "They're the reason you're still alive." "Oh my GOD!" Screamed Terry struggling uselessly against him. "You've got to be fucking kidding!" "You've got to be fucking kidding SIR!" Balfor corrected him. Terry got a grip. "Yes sir. Of course sir. As you wish sir." It astounded him how comforting it was to have Balfor back in control. He relaxed. "I'm going to let go of you now. You will leave the larvae alone. You will do your business and come back to the cave." "Yes sir." "There is some fish and fruit for you to eat. I want you to have a good meal, drink lots of water and go back to sleep if you can. Remember, those maggots are the reason you are still alive - What are they?" Terry whimpered "They're the reason I'm still alive sir." "Good. Now go. Just don't look between your legs!" Terry left, shaking with revulsion to relieve himself in the bushes. He was not quite convinced, about the maggots, but he knew enough about Balfor's wrath to leave them alone as instructed. Then he began vaguely to recall a story of the American Civil War, something about soldiers who had survived serious abdominal wounds because they had been infested with maggots. So Balfor was right, the maggots were saving him from gangrene and death, and Balfor had saved him from thwarting them. Terry didn't look between his legs again, but he could not help swooning with the nausea of every revolting little nibble, every squirming little wriggle that he felt down in there.
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