Balfor and Terry 13

"Where is it today?" Came his muffled voice from between her legs. "Is it over here?" moving his tongue. "No? Is it over here?"

When her gales of embarrassed giggling subsided he moved in for the real business.

God how he loved her. He would like to have married her but the local priest would not allow it, Parnell being not a whole man and all. Something about marriage being sacred and sex being concerned with procreation.

So Crisantema bless her heart had defied the will of her family and the opprobrium of the whole village and had kept the man she found among the bushes in the side passage of the ruined house at the Calle Rosario in Colon, that she and her cousin had been plundering; in spite of his missing so many of his parts.

She had applied for and got Panamanian residency for him under an assumed name. He was a U.S. citizen, and would have gone home to Philadelphia, except that he couldn't stand the idea of his family and especially his own sons seeing him without his arms legs and everything else that he was missing. He wanted them to remember him as he was, strong, proud, defiant; an unrepentant gun toting outlaw. Neither did he want to hear his upstanding parents intone their inevitable I-told-you-sos as they found out what had befallen him when he fell out with his cohorts. So he worked hard to forget his life in Philadelphia.

How emaciated he had been when Crisantema found him. He had hidden from the shooting and then the gravediggers among some sacks right at the back of one of the dog's sleeping boxes in the kennel. He had survived in the grounds of the house for three weeks without any food, and just the dripping from a garden hose for water. Crisantema's cousin had argued that they should have taken him to some kind of special home, but he had insisted not, that they should just leave him be. Parnell and Crisantema had locked eyes and the understanding was instant. She had got him a drink of water, fed him some of the sandwiches she had packed to sustain her during the pillaging of the house. It had not turned out to be as lucrative as they expected. Others had got there before them.

She cleaned Parnell up a bit, and then simply picked him up with no trouble at all and put him in the back seat of her cousin's car and insisted that they take him home.

Crisantema was prodigiously ugly, but she wasn't stupid. She knew any of the village men who would have her would be more trouble than they were worth. (The idea of penetrative sex had never appealed to her.) Parnell was a good deal. She went out to work, Parnell was cheap to feed (A man weighs about half as much without his arms and legs and uses much less energy), his presence was sufficient to mind the house while she was away and when she came home it was hello Mr Power Tongue.

And he was excellent company. Surprisingly cheerful as long as there were no fools around to give him pity. Parnell's barely more than adequate Spanish and Crisantema's appalling English also meant that they never ran out of things to say to one another.

Parnell didn't mind Crisantema being so ugly. She had a great body with big billowing breasts, her limbs were supple and soft, but well exercised with work, and she kept herself clean. Besides this he thought, after losing his limbs and balls and cock and being constantly fucked by a pack of savage guard dogs for several years, it might be considered sort of natural for a man to lower his standards and expectations a little.

The truth was though, he sorely missed the dogs. He had occasionally achieved orgasm with them, but had not had one since he'd come to Crissy over ten years ago. That was a long time to go without a climax.

Parnell had survived the kennel at Calle Rosario by escaping into dreams and imagination.

When ever the dogs set in fucking him, he would close his eyes, conjure his dreaming power and suddenly they were not dogs at all.

The dogs merged together in his mind and became an evil woman raging over him, raping him from behind him where he couldn't see her, with a coat of coarse fur, rubbing it against his rump.

She would scratch his back with her sharp fingernails as she clambered on him, poking him in the arse deeply with one finger she kept nail clipped and wet specially for the purpose.

She would lick his back, biting his shoulders and neck, often drawing blood. Yelping with the pleasure of hurting him.

His nipples would become hard and erect, and rub painfully on the rough concrete floor with the struggling that her manipulations inevitably exited in him.

Her thick fur coat rubbing on his backside, stimulating him.

Her hot breath on him. Growling, dominating him.

Her humiliating finger jabbing him painfully, deeply. Incessantly.

Her finger would invade him again and again with minimal rests in between the bouts of her attack. His arse hole would become horribly raw and sore and still she would go at it.

If this went on for long enough eventually he would feel the stirrings down inside him, the juicy piquant feeling of building toward orgasm and then it would come and flood all over him and he would forget everything for a moment and damn it was nice. Almost as good as when he had been whole, before Friedrichs got to him. There was no erection of course seeing as how he didn't have a dick any more, but something profound went on down there, and there were pelvic spasms, and something watery spurted out of his truncated urethra; and the warm glow afterward as his phantom limbs curled all around him invisibly, uselessly.

A warm glow that he had really begun to miss.

And afterwards his raping woman would dissolve into the dogs asleep all around him, and on him, using him for a pillow. Their soft hairy coats comforting him. Their happy, fulfilled personalities keeping him company.

He loved them, scratchy claws and all. They didn't mean to hurt him. They were as much Cooper and Friedrich's prisoners as he was.

It was Balfor Cooper that Parnell had to keep away from now that Friedrichs had finished with him. Parnell had managed to make a cave among some old sacks in one of the dog's sleeping boxes. It was hot and dusty, but he would make sure and be hiding there in the mid afternoons, when Balfor was most likely to come around looking for some fun.

It was one thing to make believe a pack of dogs was a woman raping you, but imagination could not cover the disgusting things Balfor had made him do.

It made him shudder to think of it. He had been forced with the threat of Balfor's cigar to actually tongue the arseholes and suck the cocks of the dogs who raped him every day.

It had been an utterly hellish time, a no win situation. It was the disgusting taste of the dogs arseholes, the horrible smell of their cocks or Balfor's cigar burning him. After quite a few deep and horrible burns he had finally given in, tearfully capitulating to the unthinkable.

Balfor obviously got really excited doing this because he always flopped his meat out through his fly and let it pole proudly up in full view as he patted the dogs and spoke kindly and quietly to them.

Some of the dogs in their excitement would lick Balfor's rigid cock like a dog's lollipop as he was forcing the torsos to work on its under parts. Incredibly he just allowed the dog to continue doing this with its dirty dog tongue. He even seemed to enjoy it. The man was clearly more of an animal than the dogs were.

In spite of this ghastly torture, Parnell's ego had survived, because as he worked his tongue in and out of those horrible hairy holes, or sucked and licked those rank doggy cocks one after another, he swore to get his vengeance on Balfor somehow, some way, someday; if he had to move the mountains and fly to the moon to do it.

He had devoted a good deal of his time to working out how to hide and survive and avoid Balfor after those ghastly soul destroying days. Eventually Parnell got so good at hiding he was pretty sure everyone but the dogs had forgotten he was there. And so they had. It was what saved him when it came time to behead all the torsos as the secret prison of Calle Rosario was shot up during the raid.

The henchmen at the house kept only a cursory inventory of the prisoners once they went into the kennel because it was hard to say exactly how long they'd last. Every so often the mind of one of the kennel torsos would snap and he would refuse to let the dogs fuck him. They would then set on him, tearing him to shreds and then his meat would supplement their dinner. His well chewed bones would eventually be buried in little holes all over the garden.

The dogs were well used to the taste of human meat, both cooked and raw. Freddy and Balfor always gave them the left overs.

It was always hard during Balfor's afternoons at the kennel for Parnell to lie among his sacks and listen to the sobbing and the occasional shrieking of the two torsos who had not managed to hide. The humiliating, useless feeling of not being able to do anything to help those poor bastards as Balfor forced them to do oral sex on the dogs twisted him up inside and he would cry silently for hours. Although he feared they might, they never betrayed his hiding spot.

Several times he had seen Balfor dragging the biggest and most dominant dog backwards by its balls onto his big uncut cock so he could fuck it. What a sick bastard he was. Who the hell would want to fuck a dog? But what a monster of a cock he had! Parnell's cock had been big too, but not that big. Before Freddy cut it off.

He'd left it till last.

First Parnell had lost his balls after Balfor had all but ruined them in the dungeon by hanging him up by them. He had forced him to kiss him as well that day. It was the most humiliating moment of his life up until then, but that cigar had forced it out of him. He kissed that Bastard, all the while smelling his own seared belly flesh while Balfor burned him with a cigar until he got it right; until somehow he found a way to make himself feel sufficiently soft and yielding under that mongrel's domineering mouth. All the while clutching the rope, standing on tip toes with cramped legs trying to save his agonized, blood starved balls.

It was hard for Parnell to imagine Balfor without his cigar. He had never seen him without one.

He couldn't look at a man smoking a cigar now, or even smell a whiff of tobacco without feeling a rush of sickening dread.

And then the hospital and Freddy's knives. Parnell recalled the hideous licking pain of the scalpel as it scythed though the meat of the arm and the leg that Freddy had done without anesthetic.

But it was the cutting of the bones that hurt the most. The horrendous raw grinding of the saw buzzing through live marrow. It felt like breaking a bone but much, much worse. It was as if he could feel every tooth of the saw scratching its way through his nerves; and the butcher shop smell pervading the air, the smell of his own hewn meat, exposed to the air. All the time he was screaming pleading, begging, incredulous, dazed and depersonalized, hyperventilating with his endless cries. He couldn't even remember exactly what he'd screamed trying to get Friedrichs to stop. What ever the words were that he had found they had not been in the least effective.

It was as if Friedrichs considered them part of the music.

And after weeks of this he'd been left just a trunk and a head and a cock. Once he had recovered sufficiently from the loss of his arms and legs and balls and was beginning to pull together the threads of his shredded sanity, Carmen had wanked him for a while and then Freddy had departed after chastising him with a whip. Carmen had mounted him and given him the saddest, sickest fuck of his life. It astonished him that he had managed to maintain his erection, so distracting were the circumstances.

But what a dark beauty Carmen was, quiet black eyes of terrifying owl like depth set in her cruel face of arsenic white, lipstick the color of dried blood, crucifixes everywhere. The heady female scent of her. The weight of her on him, riding his cock to her own pleasure and his destruction. Her triumphant arms pushing down on his chest. Her black hair loose and plentiful and flowing everywhere.

Yet not touching him at all. At no point did their flesh make contact. She had mummified him in suffocating latex and duct tape and his cock was in a condom. but his nostrils had been free and he could smell the skin between her breasts as she had draped them over his face, cutting off his oxygen according to her whim.

She rode him like that, concentrated, slightly unhinged, like a dark demented spider, a black widow with fangs in her cunt to suck out his juices.

And so he came, suffocating, feeling the pulse of his pumping fluids through the length of his cock for the last time. Carmen had made a show of throwing the condom in the bin.

"Well, that's the last of you." she said.

Carmen had unwrapped him then, an agony in itself as strips of hair tore out of his chest and off his buttocks along with the tape. Then she sponged him off and after strapping his body down firmly again, and propping Parnell's head up on pillows so he could comfortably see what was happening to his lonely penis, poking out all by itself into the air, she departed.

Friedrichs entered almost immediately. Face flushed with anticipation. He put a c.d. on and music filled the air as usual. This time it was more contemporary- "Spare us the Cutter." by Echo and the Bunny Men. Friedrichs had programmed it to play this song on endless repeat. "Balfor recommended this song to me-" said Friedrichs, "It's nice isn't it- I don't usually like guitar of course, but these fellows seem to be on to something. It's quite beautiful."

Ignorant it seemed of the howling of his prisoner strapped down on the bed to prevent wriggling, he tattooed a Celtic design of interlocking white dogs with red ears on the knob of Parnell's dribbling cock, and then, tying the knob tightly off behind the corona, with a catheter inflated in his bladder, Friedrichs unceremoniously started slicing off the already blood soaked glans with a fresh scalpel to the renewed accompaniment of Parnell's anguished screaming.

"No! please God no! Oh my God no! Don't- ! My Go- " The thing he had not been able to believe would happen was happening.

Had happened. Parnell went deathly silent. There was no air in the room and therefore no sound. His face ashen and dead looking, eyes like those of a fish on ice at the markets, he took it all in. Strange sexually insistent searing pain sang and drummed at the end of his cock shaft in time to the silent music. He watched Freddy delicately pull his severed glans along and then off the end of the clear plastic tube of the catheter like a decorated bead on a toddler's toy. It left a trace line of bloody fluid droplets along the tube as it went, each one a perfect tiny garnet sparkling in the fluorescent light.

"Suck off the blood." said Freddy from a million miles away, popping the glans into Parnell's mouth.

Parnell felt the spongy mass of his own cock head like a small plumb in his mouth. A part of him that was no longer a part of him. He licked it with his tongue, turning it over, sucking it obediently, as if in a trance. He could taste some bitter tattoo pigments seeping out with the blood, a trace of piss, and he could detect the sexual manly taste of himself, what the women tasted who he had forced to give him head. A proud, arrogant flavor.

For a second there were only two things in the entire universe. The furious flame of pain on the end of his cock shaft, and the insensitive dying ball of aromatic flesh rolling in his mouth.

"Now spit out." Said Friedrichs breaking the trance.

Parnell spat his own saliva clean, intricately tattooed glans onto Friedrich's latex-gloved hand. It sat there for a moment looking back at him, frowning with its little piss slit as if to say "How could you let this happen to me?" it surprised him that his sad lost little cock head was familiar in its fleshy pinkness in spite of the fresh tattoo all over it.

Freddy held it between thumb and fore finger, studied it for a moment, proud of his handiwork and then rested it aside in a kidney bowl.

Freddy was very pleased with the look in Parnell's eyes. Lost, disbelieving and yet believing. Frantic with helplessness. Indignant. Mind evidently fragmented behind them.

Some more tattooing around the shaft of Parnell's truncated cock, and then that was sliced off as well and drawn off the end of the catheter.

More screaming.

Parnell was looking very messy by this stage, snot and drool running freely onto his chin. He could not recall Friedrichs suturing his cock's stump though he had watched the whole thing intently.

Parnell had not lasted long as a house ornament. He couldn't sing for one thing, and he had been too traumatized by the surgery to even seem to feel Freddy's cock as he poked him, lined up glazed eyed and distant with the others.

So Parnell had quickly descended to cock sucking kennel torso status, where he got to see Balfor fucking the alpha dog, or was Balfor the alpha dog fucking the beta dog? What ever. It had a ring to it that, thought Parnell "Balfor the Alpha Dog" like a cartoon character.

Parnel had been fucked by Balfor in the dungeon before Friedrichs started cutting him up, and he felt sorry for the poor dog who got chosen for this.

Parnell had been in the navy. Though perfectly straight, he thought he knew what it was to be fucked by a man until Balfor did it to him. How wrong he had been. Up until then he had not known that the entire universe had the capacity to collapse onto a tortured, dilated human rectum. He had come in spite of himself and could not decide which was which, the pain or the pleasure.

Crissy was a bit of prude, and never went any where near Parnell's arse hole or prostate- the only places he was left with sensitive enough to bring him to orgasm.

He had tried stimulating himself while she was out at work, rubbing his arse crack on chair legs, on a pipe in the bathroom, he'd even managed to get a coke bottle up there and with an hour's furious work had almost managed to cum, but it wasn't the same.

He needed the fury of the fur and the claws and the teeth and his imaginary yelping woman and her cruel finger.

He needed something either very big or very insistent, preferably both.

It got him very exited but horribly frustrated licking Crisantema out every day, having no possibility of reaching orgasm himself. He had erotic dreams during his sleep but they were never conclusive, always he would awaken before the climax.

He had begun to give in to despair.

He licked her and licked her and flicked his tongue over her clitoris, kissing her deeply down there, thrusting in and out and then when her face had begun to flush, he concentrated hard and rhythmic on the clit until she heaved and shuddered, almost crushing his head between her thighs.

"Oh my love!" she cried for the thousandth time. She dragged him up where she could cuddle him.

Once again he lost himself amongst the soft comforting flesh of her, so soothing he almost forgot to miss his orgasm.

"It's early yet," she said "what do you feel like doing for the rest of the evening?"

"I might do some painting."

So she spread some newspaper on the floor, a glass of water, some watercolors and brushes and fine rag paper for him to daub on.

Parnell had won first prize in a local art competition and was very proud because nobody knew it was by a man with no arms or legs. On his insistence, Crisantema had entered it as her own work.

He painted trees mostly. Groups of trees on lonely hills. On weekends sometimes Crisantema would borrow her cousin's car and they would go on picnics and he would sketch and she would take some photos.

She lifted him down off the bed so he wouldn't have to bump his arse getting down, and he wriggled over to his painting place on the floor.

He had a soft hair brush in his mouth and was dipping it in the water when something on the newspaper caught his eye.

It was just four letters visible amongst the text, the rest hidden under another sheet but these four letters alone were enough to cause him to catch his breath.

B-a-l-f-

The brush fell out of his slack mouth. He slid the upper sheet of newspaper away with his forehead.

Half the front page of the newspaper was devoted to the discovery of ten human skeletons in the grounds of the prison-house at Calle Rosario. There was the main story, detailing the investigation, revealing the names of the bodies thus far identified, including Jeremy Macarthur, who Parnell had briefly known in his house ornament days before Friedrichs had tired of him and sent him out to rot as a kennel torso.

There was grizzly detail about the limbless state of the skeletons and the fact that human bones had been chewed by dogs.

There was a photograph of a harried looking Dr Alejandro Navarro-Cortez, a shy but furious looking Gerald Macarthur and a depressed looking Anselmo Nettis. Parnell didn't know these men however, so he was more concerned with the grainy black and white photo of Friedrichs and Cooper on a hunting trip.

There was the usual blah about the inconceivability of such heinous crimes, a brief heavily catholic Look-What-Happens-When-People-Abandon-Their-God discussion on this latest manifestation of evil. The Calle Rosario Atrocity as it was now called was compared by a local bishop to a recent case of consensual cannibalism in Germany, just to give the thing a global spin. There was lots of saber rattling about the civic responsibility to bring these heinous criminals to justice and so on but what most attracted Parnell's attention was a side bar detailing the discovery of a bullet riddled Landrover in a ravine with the bones of Manuel Friedrichs scattered all around it.

"Yes!" Whooped Parnell in English. "Eat wormy dirt Friedrichs you ass hole!"

This was a small miracle for Parnell. Not for one second during his agonies at Calle Rosario had he really thought that he might outlive his tormentors, even as he was swearing vengeance on them in the back of his mind.

"What was that dear?" Said Crissy from the sofa where she had only just cracked open a translation of "Women in Love" by D.H.Lawrence.

Parnell had never disclosed the details of how he had come to be in the grounds of the house where Crissy had found him. Although Crisantema's curiosity was often an acute torment for her, it had become an unspoken thing between them that it would be too painful for him to discuss.

"Did you read the paper Crissy?"

"No darling it's just depressing. I get it for the crossword and the tv guide, you know that."

"You better come see this." The moment he said it he regretted his haste. Everything would have to come out in the open now, and he knew what would inevitably follow. Crisantema would insist they get in on the media act.

Parnell had reached the stage where he was ready to throw the dice in the air, and now he had.

He let Crisantema read the articles through without interrupting her. She went quiet for minute afterward, absorbing the horrors she had just discovered about her lover.

"My God what they did to you." She said quietly.

"You don't know the half of it." He said studying her, trying to gauge her mood. Her reaction. This could change everything between them. She knew now that he had been into organized crime and drugs.

She picked him up, cuddled him to the sofa, sat him facing her in her lap. They were both still naked from the sex earlier. She said cautiously to him. "You know I think we should get in contact with the police about this. If they catch the other one, that Balfor guy, they'll need witnesses for the prosecution."

"But that will mean my real name will come out. They'll know I was a criminal. I did things myself you know, bad things Crissy. Things that don't get forgiven or forgotten. I've paid obviously. You can see. But the law will make me pay again. And won't you get in trouble for helping me to fake my residency?"

"I think it will be worth risking it. They might grant us some kind of special amnesty because of the circumstances." There was a light in Crisantema's very plain eyes that Parnell knew better than to argue with. She had seen a rare opportunity for them to rise above their mundane lives and participate in something bigger than themselves. Something exciting and important. "This is going to be so big! We'll be on the news!" She flopped him onto the couch and danced around, the newspaper flapping in time to the wobbling of her breasts.

Before he could object any further she was avidly dialing the contact number that had been supplied for people who might have information.

"Fuck fuck fuckety fuck!" He whispered to himself. There was going to be no stopping this now; but with his apprehension there was relief also that a chance had come for him to maybe get some revenge on Balfor.

There were a few things that perplexed him though. Why had there been no details in the paper of the raid on the house which had preceded the mass burial? Who exactly had done the burying? Who had chased Friedrichs and Cooper off the road in the Landrover? Why had this been covered up so effectively for so long?

He would not trouble himself about it now. he too was a more than a little excited. His depression had lifted. Fear and the possibility of a glorious vengeance replaced it.

He began to look forward to meeting Gerald Macarthur and Anselmo Nettis, the aggrieved and vengeful fathers who seemed sure that Balfor, the other monster was still alive somewhere.

"Ooh" mused Crisantema, "Let's watch the news tonight - there might be something on about all this. About you!"