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The Purge
The systematic
execution of professional football players was a controversial move.
Nonetheless, the CEOs of the Gladiator League were confident the fans would
get off on it. It also provided another powerful incentive for teams to claw
their way to the top of the heap each year.
Beginning with the season that had just ended, each year’s Super Bowl
champs would supervise the execution of one team member from every pro team
that had failed to claim Super Bowl rings. It was called The Purge.
League officials
organized the selection of a player from each team, with the stipulation the
stud had to be of “demonstrable merit.” None of the teams would get away with
losing just a benchwarmer or a seriously injured player. It was supposed to
be the loss of a man who had proven himself on the gridiron and as a breeder
of future gladiators. These men would face random death for the greater good
of Gladiator League profits. This year’s reigning Super Bowl champs became
the first team whose rewards were not only Super Bowl rings but executioner
duty as well. Six of the champs would send six chosen sacrifices to their
deaths. The ballboy who had been assigned to each
condemned player would also die.
The Purge would be
televised in six consecutive death spectacles held in various parts of the
country, with each event featuring the termination of players from six
different teams. Each selection would be from among gladiators in a variety
of player positions, with no two men being chosen from the same category.
This would ensure the bloodthirsty onlookers a diversity of sacrificial meat.
They might well get to see a lean place kicker or punter die, as well as a
moderately hefty quarterback, and also a few heavy-set scrimmagers
and backfielders. For each of the six participating
teams, league officials would announce only the category of player from which
an individual athlete would be selected. The coach of each team would then
select one of his team members who played in that position and send him to
the Purge venue.
The deathfests were spaced two weeks apart. The first of the
Purges took place in a remote part of the Oregon coastline. A spot called The
Cliffs was a perfect place for a mass execution. It was known for some of the steepest drop-offs
on the Pacific coast, where sheer rock faces 250 feet high tower over a beachless shoreline cluttered with jagged rocks. The
official selection of participants preceding each Purge happened via a
prearranged simulcast that was beamed to the teams’ training centers. The
coaches of the six gladiator teams who would participate in the initial event
were required to assemble their men in the auditorium of their team facility
and watch the selection announcements live. The lucky “first six” teams included
the Panthers, the Redskins, the Colts, the Steelers, the Texans, and the
Falcons. A military police vehicle
from the nearest Marine Corps base waited outside each training center, its
engine running, the armed MP dawgs prepared to
escort one of the athletes to the airport, where a chartered aircraft would
take him and his unlucky ballboy to the execution
site.
Before the first
Purge, the league’s head coaches communicated with each other on Skype in
order to decide how best to fulfill their obligations. They decided the fairest way to select a
player from the chosen category would be to write the player numbers of
eligible team members on slips of paper and put them into separate helmets.
When the category for each team’s sacrifice was announced, the coach could
reach into the appropriate helmet and draw a number. The stud with that
player number would be purged. The coaches agreed that in the hours
immediately preceding the televised selection, it would be a good idea to put
the team through a long, rough workout followed by plenty of laps. That way,
when the studs filed into the auditorium to watch the big screen, they would
be fatigued, less edgy and aggressive, and softened up for the grim news.
In the training
center of the Carolina Panthers the team sat anxiously as the screen
flickered to life. After their long PT session, the studs were sweaty in
their workout pants and muscle shirts. Their ballboys
waited together down in the locker room. In preparation for the removal of
one ballboy, an assistant coach had ordered them
all to strip buck naked. They had not been told that the Panthers were among
the first six teams to participate in The Purge, and none of the young
would-be gladiator athletes knew that he could lose his life in the next 48 hours.
Up in the
auditorium only the rookies and guys who were on the bubble, like low scorers
and fuckers with low preg rates, could be sure they
wouldn’t get picked to die. Such players were not eligible for The Purge,
which was about thinning the ranks of star jocks and booting league revenues
and viewership, not getting rid of losers and washouts who would eventually
be culled anyway. One of the Gladiator League honchos appeared on the screen,
flanked by other league officials. A suit standing beside the speaker handed
him one of the six envelopes that would be opened so that its contents could
be announced. The Panthers collectively muttered “Aw shit!” as they saw the
word PANTHERS stenciled on the very first envelope. One of their guys would
be the first pick announced for The Purge. The selection official tore open
the envelope and pulled out the card inside. Looking into the camera for
added drama, he intoned, “The Carolina Panthers will select a linebacker for
The Purge.” The microphone picked up the sound of speculative murmurs from
the crowd of high roller fans who had been invited to witness the selection
in person. The onlookers were running the names of Panther linebackers
through their minds, wondering which guy in the cohort would have to die. The
Panthers coach knew what he had to do. He immediately reached into the helmet
containing the player numbers of the team’s linebackers, drew out a slip of
paper, and read the number on it.
“59,” he said, his
gut sinking as he realized they would lose one of their best. Number 59 was
23 years old, and he had been a standout player early in his career, already
winning an MVP designation. 59 knew he was a prime candidate for The Purge,
but even so, he was hoping for a lucky break. He didn’t get it. The good-looking
linebacker lowered his head as teammates turned to him with expressions of
sympathy, some of which barely masked the relief they were really feeling.
“Tough break, man,” “We’re gonna miss you, buddy,” and “We know you’ll do us proud
out there, man.” 59 stood up and proceeded to the door, his buddies slapping
him on the back and ass as he left the team for good. Coach escorted him into
the exit foyer, where a jock hamper had been brought up from the locker
room. “Those are Panthers property,
son,” Coach said, indicating his cleats and workout gear. “You’re not on the
team anymore.” 59 started to pull his shirt off, then hesitated.
“Aw shit, Coach,”
he resisted. “Can’t you put in a word
for me? I’ve only been in the pros for 18 months.” He saw from the coach’s
implacable expression that all he could do was strip as ordered and accept
his fate. Since joining the Panthers, he had been a prolific performer in the
Gladiator League breeding program, and as he pulled off his shirt, then his cleated shoes and athletic socks, he tried to take some
comfort in knowing that he was leaving at least a dozen whelps behind. 59
dropped his workout shorts. Wearing only his sweat-soaked jockstrap, his
perfect build resembled a sculpted masterpiece. Coach said, “That jock isn’t
yours either, stud.” Number 59 pulled the team-owned ball harness down over
his dick and ass and dropped it into the hamper, exposing his eight inch
uncut cock. Coach escorted the naked 225-pound buck out the door, where the
two US Marine MPs gripped his big arms and hustled the muscular stud between
them to the military police van. During the short remainder of his life, the
linebacker would never wear a stitch of clothing.
Similar scenes took
place in five other pro training centers across the country as the envelopes
were handed over, opened, and their contents read for the benefit of fans and
anxious team members. The Redskins
were ordered to sacrifice one of their quarterbacks. Accordingly, their coach
picked a number from the quarterback helmet, cringing as he called out Number
12. The guy was only second string, but he was a hard-working teammate and a
good-looking stud with a high preg rate. Adoring
female fans were lined up to volunteer as breeding bitches and get knocked up
by his thick cut dick. His absence would hurt team morale. The coach’s
disappointment was nothing, however, compared to the response of Number 12,
who cursed loudly and slammed his fist into the back of the chair in front of
him. “You gotta be shittin’
me!” With a notable lapse in teamsmanship, the head
quarterback grinned at the second stringer, relieved that his number had not
been selected. Number 12 headed for the door with an angry stride and
stripped naked. He would contribute
214 pounds of beef and nearly nine inches of cut cockmeat
to the death spectacle, and he would not see his 27th birthday.
Tension was high in
the Colts headquarters, where a number of high-profile players sat in nervous
sweat. Number 80, a tight end, had an
uneasy feeling about the selection. With a linebacker and a quarterback
already selected, the chances were growing that his position would get
picked. He had had a good season, piling up an impressive number of
touchdowns. Among league breeders his average preg
rate was in the top ten. As it turned
out, he had good reason to be concerned. The league honcho pulled the card
from the Colts envelope and announced, “Tight end.” Number 80 held his breath
as his fate grew ever more tenuous. Sure enough, Coach reached into the tight
end helmet and pulled out a slip of paper with 80 on it. The doomed stud
stood up bravely as his number was read aloud, hardly feeling the ass slaps
of his buddies as he made his way in a daze to the exit for stripping and
cuffing. 252 pounds of muscle and a thick 9-inch uncut cock disappeared from
the Colts organization in one fell swoop.
The Steelers’
Number 6 had done a decent job as place kicker, ensuring his eligibility for
The Purge. When “place kicker” was
announced on the screen, his stomach turned. Then, when the coach called out
“Number 6!” he threw up. He sat frozen in his seat, his retch in a puddle
around his feet. Coach told him to get up and face the music, but he couldn’t
move. The two Marine guards had to come into the auditorium and haul him out.
It wasn’t the most dignified exit. The kicker’s knees buckled as the Marines
strong-armed the 205-pound jock between them, and he kept muttering “No, not
me!” Once he had been removed from the
viewing room, Number 6 begged Coach to let him do his most recent fuckbitch one last time before he was shipped out. He
wasn’t totally sure he had pregged her, and he
wanted a follow-up session to ensure further extension of his line.
Disappointed that he was asking for special consideration, Coach gave him
some sobering news. “I have to enforce team rules. The lead quarterback
inherits any abandoned breeding bitches. He will be the one to knock her up.
Now get that gear off, or we’ll ripstrip you
ourselves.” As the place kicker was
driven away naked in the prisoner wagon, he knew that any future offspring
from that bitch’s womb would be another man’s spawn.
At the air base the
place kicker and his naked ballboy were escorted
into the chartered FedEx plane that would fly them to the west coast. Before
the studs were shoved together into a caged compartment in the rear of the
plane, the guards locked a meshed cock restraint over the place kicker’s big
shaft of circumcised meat. His ballboy was
crestfallen when he saw his mentor’s cock being put off limits. Now he
wouldn’t even get to suck the place kicker’s sizeable rod a final time before
their executions. The budding young athlete had learned to blow Number 6
exactly like he wanted it. The gladiator regretted that he had never sneaked
the kid out to fuck a whore. Many of his teammates had done this favor for
their ballboys, even though it was strictly against
the rules. In the event that their ballboys ever
ascended into the breeding program, the illicit fucks would be good
experience. The kid assigned to Number 6 showed promise as a future Gladiator
League place kicker and had a promising style. His mentor had been too
conscientious about following the rules, using the kid’s gullet and rectum
for relief between breeding sessions, but never letting the young stud stick
his irrepressible 18-year old hard-on into a chick. “Look where following the
rules got me,” he mused, gripping the bars of his cage. Plus, his young ballboy would die without ever tasting pussy.
Meanwhile, the
Texans had been the next team up. As
their envelope was opened, moans erupted in the room when the announcer
looked into the camera and said, “The Houston Texans will contribute a
defensive end.” Only two of their players in that position had made the
eligibility list for The Purge. The others had not been included due to low preg rates or repeated fuck-ups on the field. It would be
rough losing one of them, but setbacks for the teams were a major purpose of
The Purge. Both defensive ends held their breaths as Coach withdrew the
fateful slip of paper. Number 89 shook his head in disbelief when he heard
his number. An enormous jock, 6’5” tall and weighing 290 pounds, 89 showed a
lot more class than the place kicker in Pittsburgh had demonstrated. The big
stud took it like a man. He stood up, giving his teammates final high fives,
and strutted out of the training center for the last time. In less than an
hour he was being transported in a FedEx cage, his huge uncircumcised dick
incarcerated so he couldn’t fuck the ballboy who
was accompanying him on the deathride. Having been
assigned to 89 only a week earlier, the 19-year old wannabe gladiator had to
be the unluckiest ballboy in the country. He had
never even gotten to see his mentor perform in a game.
At Falcons
headquarters near Atlanta the team’s linebackers, quarterbacks, place
kickers, tight ends and defensive ends relaxed with no worries as the FALCONS
envelope was torn open. The fullbacks, on the other hand, tensed up when
their player position was announced and the coach reached into the
corresponding helmet. Number 42, a 29 year old 252 pounder, turned out to be
the unlucky Falcon. He got up and strode out, his shoulders squared, his head
held high. “Ready to go, Coach,” was all he said. 42 was well known among
Gladiator League fans due to a couple of sensational incidents. A year or so earlier he had been cut from
the roster, unceremoniously replaced by an ill-considered trade-off
acquisition. As a result, under League rules, the fullback had been scheduled
for execution. Team officials had waited for the start of the season, when
full-stadium crowds of paying fans could watch his crucifixion. In an almost
unheard-of reversal of fortune, 42 was given a reprieve after his previously
untested replacement washed out big time in the first two pre-season games.
Not only had the fuck-up fumbled every ball he got hold of, he also shot
blanks into the pussy provided for him. Not a one of the breeding bitches
would get a big belly after the fuck. The Falcons capitalized on the unusual
turn of events by raising their media profile. They let Number 42 throw the
switch on the loser, who had been castrated before he was executed naked in
an electric chair in front of live TV cameras. After the wash-out had been
gelded, the team’s med techs hadn’t bothered to cauterize the crotch wound.
The current coursing through his body as he sat strapped in the hot seat took
care of that. To avoid a big gap in their backfield, the Falcons gladly
reinstated 42 just a few days before the first game of the season, and he had
made good use of his second chance—good enough to be eligible for The
Purge. Hell, considering his sketchy
career, it was a fucking honor to be singled out as worthy of sacrifice. Besides, at age 29 and with a rough history
of multiple concussions, the buck probably wouldn’t last that much longer
anyway.
By chance, 42’s
main breeding bitch had arrived at the training center about the time the
selection had started. Bitches were banned from the screening room during the
broadcast, but a lot of them had gathered outside the facility to greet the
surviving studs and share their relief at not being selected. 42’s bitch was
ripe for pregging again after birthing the last bun
that the big fullback had put in her oven. She was eager to have him knock
her up again with that spectacular 10-inch circumcised cock of his. The fuckbitch nearly fainted when she found out her fuckstud had gotten the axe. She elbowed her way past the
Marine guards into the outer room, where the big, fully naked fullback had
just dropped his jock strap into the hamper. His doomed ballboy
had already been brought up from the locker room in cuffs.
42 wondered if his
manly comportment at the time of his selection may have earned him some
leeway with the coach. He requested permission to poke his bitch a final time
before departure. It was strictly against the rules, and Coach hesitated
before finally answering, “Aw, what the hell. I’ll give you time for a
quickie, then off you go.” 42’s uncut beer can dick sprang to life, and he
shoved her against the wall, hoisting her onto his prong and banging her
ferociously with the full ten inches. She wrapped her legs around the fuckstud while he rammed her. It didn’t take him long to shoot in her,
and she screamed in orgasm, as she always did when a gladiator cock was in
her. The smell of sex filled the air
in the small room, and the 18 year-old ballboy
boned rock hard as he watched his mentor make a baby. The big jock wanted to
leave his still-hard rod in her as long as he could after he had shot. He
continued to press her against the wall and hump, trying to ensure a final preg. Coach had been as generous as he could, though. He
brought in the two Marine MPs who were standing outside the door. One of the dawgs gripped 42’s shoulders and pulled him out of his
bitch. “OK, stud, you’ve done your duty. Time to go.” They put a cock cage on
the fullback’s slimy dick and locked in place with a secure leather strap
around his back. As her stud was led away, the used bitch sank exhausted to
the floor and put her legs up against the wall to let gravity assist her
man’s sperm descend into her tubes. 42 would go to his death confident that
at least he had managed to sire one more son before his career ended. After
that, the team’s lead quarterback would fuck her. Incarcerated with his ballboy during the flight westward, the fullback
regretted that the cock cage would prevent the young athlete from licking his
mentor’s dick and tasting that special mix of pussy juice and sperm that was
drying on his spent shaft.
A Marine Corps air
base not far from The Cliffs was the rendezvous point for the condemned
players and their ballboys. Players were herded
into one MP prisoner van, the ballboys into
another, and the death wagons drove in convoy to the execution site. There
were no windows in the cargo area of the vehicles, so the studs were unable
to see the groups of curious fans that had gathered along the road to watch
the meat wagons pass by. Trying to buck up their spirits, the players
reminded each other that they were only there because they were top notch
jocks. Some of the guys had opposed each other on the gridiron. Now they rode
in solemn camaraderie to their deaths. The linebacker and the tight end
recalled a rough collision they once had on the field, taking both of them
out of the remainder of the game. After a big win over the Redskins, the
Falcons had once acquired a dozen or so breeding bitches from the losers as
victor spoils. As a result, it turned out that the second-string quarterback
and the fullback had both fucked the same chick. They even had similar claw
scars on their backs, a reminder of the bitch’s trademark orgasm frenzy. A
few jokes were floated. Although the fullback was himself very well hung, he
checked out the defensive end’s impressively thick uncut dick, which was
straining painfully inside his too-small cock cage. “Damn, man. That thing’s gonna pull you over the edge without ‘em
even having to shove you!” 89 grinned
at the dark compliment. The fullback’s attempt at gallows humor caused the
nervous place kicker to loosen up and join in for the first time. “Hell,
man,” he said to the fullback. “You’ll be at the bottom before he will with
that freak of a prick you’ve got!” The fullback laughed and wagged his caged
ten-incher at the place kicker.
The Super Bowl
champs were waiting in eager anticipation for their killmeat
to arrive. By means of a lottery among team members, they had already
determined which six champion players would get to shove a naked Purge
sacrifice off the precipice. A camera crew on the ground, another in an
overhead chopper, and a camera team with telephoto equipment in a boat
offshore were all prepared to capture the event for a large viewing public.
When they were told to exit the death wagon, the studs were a little
surprised that the guards did not put cuffs on them. The big Marine MPs merely unlocked and
removed their cock cages and escorted them unbound toward the edge of the
cliff. The men saw that their ballboys had already
been lined up side by side on the very edge of the sharp drop-off, their
faces and cocks toward the Pacific. The wrists of the doomed youths had been
shackled in front of them, exposing their bubble butts to the gladiator
players approaching them from behind. Each player fondly recalled the tight
fucks they had enjoyed in those asses. The ballboys
turned their heads from side to side, glancing uneasily at each other as they
awaited an early death. Though they had all taken it in the ass as part of ballboy service, a couple of them would die as cock
virgins. Fathers, uncles and in some cases brothers of the young losers had
been invited to witness the plunge. Their dads had signed away their lives in
the risky hope that the young studs would somehow get a foothold on the
lowest rung of the Gladiator League ladder and eventually climb their way to
a spot on the roster and entry into the breeding program. Part of the deal,
though, was that if a gladiator is cut from the team or executed, his ballboy goes with him. In spite of these high stakes, the
over-confident fathers considered it worth the risk. Their jock sons would
now pay the price.
The league official
who had ripped open the envelopes on television and read out the names of the
condemned men now stood in person in front of the six naked gladiators and informed
them of the procedure. “You have all failed,” he began, pausing to let the
statement sink in. It was a hell of a send-off message for guys who were
about to die. “None of you wears a
Super Bowl ring,” he went on. As if they weren’t acutely aware of it.
“Nonetheless, you men have the honor of participating in the first Purge.”
Here’s how things will go down.”
A couple of league
flunkies standing beside him chuckled at the unintended pun. “They’ll be
going down, alright,” one of the suits was heard muttering to the flunkie standing next to him.
The MC went on
without losing his pace. “When you get the order, shove your ballboys off the edge. All six of them will take the
plunge at the same time. If you hesitate to kill your gopher, we’ll cut your
nuts off before we throw your ass over the cliff, so do as you’re told. After
you get rid of the kid, take his place on the edge. Along with their Super
Bowl rings, this year’s champions have earned the privilege of sending you
down. With luck, it might be your team who will be doing the shoving next
year.” The prospect held little meaning for the men, who merely lamented that
they wouldn’t be around to see their teammates claw their way to the
trophy. The speech continued. “You’ll
go out one at a time, from left to right, with an interval of approximately
thirty seconds between each shove. This will allow time for descent and
impact, as well as a photo op for whatever remains there are on the rocks. We
take care of our players, so do not be concerned about a lingering
death. There are Navy SEALs stationed
below who will verify termination. In the unlikely event that you survive the
drop, they will finish you off with a mercy shot. Despite your failure to
become champions, think of Purge selection as an honor, not a punishment.
Thank you for your service to the Gladiator League and for the progeny you
have sired. . . . Now proceed to the cliff.”
The studs knew
right away which position they should take in the cliffside
line-up. Their player numbers had been painted on the backs of their ballboys. In a perverse touch of orderliness amid
otherwise anarchic brutality, the players would die in numeric order. From left to right, the numbers on the
backs of the naked ballboys read 6, 12, 42, 59, 80
and 89. As the men took their positions, their gopherboys
tensed up and began breathing heavily, their gazes fixed either at the ocean
horizon or down at the pounding surf far beneath them. The star athletes each
placed a hand between the shoulder blades of the ballboy
he would kill, touching his own player number painted on the skin of the
doomed youth.
Number 6, the place
kicker, had gotten his shit together after his shameful breakdown back in the
Steelers training center. He now showed some leadership, hoping he had found
a way to redeem himself. “Let the ballboys jerk off
one last time before they drop!” he called out to the league honcho. “These
kids will never get to breed. A little cock pleasure is the least we can do
for them.” Number 80, the tight end, quickly chimed in and yelled, “Yeah, let
the boys wank!”
The others were also calling out their support for the proposal. The
men’s impertinent demand put the head honcho on the spot. The cameras were
already rolling. A masturbation display had not been planned as part of the
event. The coach of the champion team
grumbled his objections to the idea. His men were eager to get to the main
event and shove some meat off the cliff. Since when do ballboys
deserve special consideration? But the league official made a quick executive
decision and gave his consent to the request. It would provide viewers with
an extra bit of entertainment, so why not? He had someone hand him a
stopwatch and told the men, “The signal to shove will come in exactly five
minutes. When time is up, push your ballboy over
the edge, whether he has spurted or not.” The gladiators encouraged their ballboys to grab their dicks and get off a final wad.
With their hands chained in front of them, the young studs could easily grab
their meat and stroke themselves. Despite the dire circumstances, horny guys
in their late teens never have a problem getting a boner. 42’s boy in
particular brought his rod to immediate full hardness just by recalling the
sight, sound and smell of the fullback fucking his main bitch back at Falcon
headquarters.
In under two
minutes a couple of the ballboys inhaled sharply,
tossed their heads back, and thrust their pelvises forward as if trying to
fuck the air. Their mentors each put a hand on their shoulders, telling them
quietly, “Shoot a big one for me, stud,” and “Come on, show ‘em what you’ve got, kid.” Long thick ropes of teenage cum
were soon flying from their dicks and arching out over the edge of the cliff.
Both of the starters continued jacking fiercely as their spunk sprayed
outward and downward to fertilize the Pacific Ocean. A seagull swooping along the side of the
cliff spotted a large glob of flying cum, freshly shot from the dick of an 18
year-old ballboy. The bird snatched it into its
beak, swallowing the spunkwad as if it was a fat
bug. The sound of the first two ballboys grunting
in strained ecstasy was enough to bring the other four off as well. After
another thirty seconds their cum was also shooting out over the edge of the
cliff. When the last of the young studs had finished spewing, there was still
a minute remaining on the clock. They spent their final seconds stroking
their spent manhood with their cum-coated hands, some of the young studs
leaning back against the strong bodies of their gladiator mentors, who
congratulated them on their manly performance. The ballboys
could feel big meaty dicks rubbing against their smooth asses.
The players all
wanted to give their protégés a final ass-fuck, but there wasn’t time. The
shrill sound of a coaching whistle signaled that there would be no further
delay. The players all stepped back, extended an arm to the bare back of the
young man in front of him, and simultaneously shoved the young fucks over the
edge. Only 89, the big defensive end, said anything to his ballboy as he carried out the execution. “Sorry, kid,” he
told him as the good-looking young man suddenly felt only air beneath his
feet. The poor bastard had only been in service for two weeks, and 89
regretted the kid’s bad luck. The tight end, Number 80, departed from the
procedure. Instead of shoving his 20 year-old protégé in the back, 80 used
his left hand to reach between the guy’s thighs and grab his cock and balls.
He pushed upward, lifting the ballboy with his
forearm planted firmly against the taint of the young jock. With his right
hand he shoved his ballboy’s head forward, flipping
him in mid-air, then let go of his genitals. The maneuver ensured that the
young stud would fall head first. 80 figured it was the least he could do to
make sure the kid died quickly as his skull smashed onto one of the jagged
rocks. Other ballboys either tumbled forward and
positioned themselves into a head dive, flew off and flailed in awkward belly
dives, or fell feet first, as if they were parachuting without a chute. Half
of them screamed on their way down, but the others clenched their jaws shut
and descended quietly. Even the sound of waves pounding the rocks below was
not enough to obscure the crunching of bones, the splitting of skulls, and
the loud thumps caused by six guys hitting the rocks at the same time. The
tight end’s good-looking ballboy had been the
oldest and most promising of the bunch, and it was shit luck that he had to
go out this way. However, thanks to his mentor flipping him in mid-air, he at
least had an instantaneous death. His
head had struck a sharp rock, and the receding surf carried his smashed
brains out to sea.
The naked
gladiators stepped forward as instructed, standing on the exact spots where
their ballboys had waited for their pushes. They
squared their shoulders and pulled in their chins, jutting their pecs in an impressive display of some of the finest
manhood in the league. Their big dicks swung across their muscular thighs as
the ocean breeze wafted over their sexmeat. The
salty air tickled their low-hanging sperm bags. The men were ordered to cross
their wrists behind their asses, and for the first time since their
selection, they were placed in cuffs. Six Marine MPs, one behind each
athlete, secured the restraints in quick order. Then the six Super Bowl
champions moved into position, each placing a hand on the shoulder of the
loser he would execute. The studs would never know the identity of the man
who did him. They could only turn
their heads enough to see four fingers of the executioner’s hand as the
champions grasped the shoulders of the losers. Each hand had a Super Bowl
ring on one finger. The executioners each pressed a thumb against the
shoulder blade of the man in front of him, ready for his turn to shove.
Number 6 was the first
to drop. The killer standing behind the place kicker growled, “Happy landing,
fucker,” and shoved him hard. The champion had gotten a boner
in anticipation of hearing the Steeler’s 205-pound
frame smash onto the rocks below. He was disappointed, though, when the drop
turned out to be one of the impacts that coincided with the loud crash of a
wave against the shore, obscuring the sound of the impact. He did derive some
satisfaction, however, from hearing a couple of other things. The doomed
athlete had screamed on his way down. Then shortly after that, the champ
heard the report of a SEAL rifle. Apparently, the place kicker had required a
mercy shot. The stud rubbed his cock in sadistic celebration, imagining the
intense pain the sorry-assed fucker must have felt before he was finished
off.
While waiting for
the appropriate half-minute interval to pass, the Redskins quarterback,
Number 12, grew red with fury as he felt the guy behind him tease his doomed
ass, then fingerfuck him with his left hand.
“Pussy,” he heard the champion taunt him. As Number 12 flew off the edge of
the cliff with a firm shove against his back, the finger left his ass. A
particularly large wave bashed against the rocks just as he hit bottom, and
once again the guys topside couldn’t hear the splat. The quarterback hadn’t
screamed on his way down, either.
42 went over next,
managing a final expression of defiance before he died. The big stud shouted
“Geronimo!” as he felt the champion’s hand push against his back. Despite the
fullback’s bravado, the remaining Purge participants heard desperate
obscenities in quickly fading shrieks before the jock smacked against the
rocks. He had ended his fall during an interval between the ocean waves, and
the impact of the Falcon fullback’s 252 pounds of muscle and guts was
sickeningly audible.
The young Panthers
linebacker, Number 59, counted off the seconds, feeling the Super Bowl
champ’s hand clutch his muscular shoulder. He was sporting wood, a detail not
lost on Number 80, who stood next to him, observing the impressive boner.
“Way to go out, stud,” the tight end complimented his deathmate.
When he had counted down the seconds that he had left, 59 turned to the tight
end and said, “See you in hell, buddy.” The linebacker went over the edge, a
strong nausea gripping his gut due to the rapid descent. He couldn’t hear 80 reply “Right behind
you, man,” as the tight end watched 59 start his plunge. The 23 year-old
gladiator jock tugged against his handcuffs as he plummeted, irrationally
entertaining as his final thought the desire to grab his dick and jack off.
The air rushing over his balls and the underside of his stiff meat stimulated
him, and as the handsome linebacker’s body smashed face and chest down onto
the rocks, he actually humped a few times in involuntary reflex, pumping out
some deathwad and adding a flourish to his studly legacy.
Number 80 grinned
deviously as he decided to rob one of the champions of his kill. Before the
thirty-second interval had passed, the tight end said “Fuck it,” and stepped
forward on his own. He pushed himself off the edge with his feet and assumed
a head-long dive. The champ who had been standing behind him cursed but was
too late to prevent the Colts stud from sailing off into the void unassisted. The tight end felt the rush of air over his
highly prized manhood as he descended. 80’s head popped on the same rock that
had offed his ballboy,
and their brains and blood joined in the reddening surf.
After 80’s unanticipated
stunt, the last executioner in the line-up gripped his killmeat
more tightly, determined to avoid another premature nose dive. 89’s enormous
chest was heaving anxiously. The breeze on his body did nothing to alleviate
the profuse sweat that was beading on him. The big Texan was not nearly as
much of a showman as 80 had been. He would just let himself get pushed.
Thirty seconds after the Colts tight end had descended to his death, the
25-year old defensive end received a firm shove from his executioner and
quickly felt the rush of air around his balls. He heard the champ gloat,
“Have a nice swim, dude,” as he was forced over the edge. The big hulk flailed his feet in utter
futility, as if the bicycling motion would somehow slow his fall. A ferocious
wave obscured the sound of his back smashing against the rocks, breaking his
spine. His handsome head was still intact, though, and somehow his legs were
twitching slightly as he lay sprawled over a rock outcropping. The cold surf
washed over his cock and balls. Two
rubber suited SEALs maneuvered their inflatable dinghy closer to 89’s busted
up body. One of them took aim with a rifle and scope and blew half of the
fallen gladiator’s head off to make sure he was finished.
The entire team of
Super Bowl champions pulled out their cocks and lined up on the edge of the
cliff to take a piss. They released a massive coordinated golden stream into
the ocean below. The team’s show of contempt for the dead studs was followed
by finale performed by the six executioners. The pissers stepped back,
allowing the six killers to stand at the precipice and stroke their cocks.
The champs simultaneously grunted out wads of cum, quietly hoping their semen
would find its way onto the corpses of the men they had executed.
With the kills
complete, the officials, Marine guards, camera crews and family members of
the dead ballboys packed up to leave. The
helicopter camera team lingered over the site for some time, filming the
rocks and the surf below the death cliff to capture the aftermath in
meticulous detail. Shattered rib cages, spilled brains and other bloody
detritus lay strewn over the rocks. Many of the eviscerated guts had been
carried out to sea to become fish food, but several dismembered limbs and all
or part of twelve broken, muscular bodies were visible, the arms still linked
at the wrists by shackles or cuffs.
It had been a very
successful initial Purge, and league officials wondered if it could even be
matched by future events, let alone topped by them. Even so, the promotion of
the second Purge began immediately. Six envelopes were being prepared for
each of five remaining teams in this year’s round, and fans were enticed by
the announcement that in two weeks the next kill would take place in the
desert between Phoenix and Yuma. Six gladiator jocks and their ballboys would die by various means after being staked
out naked in the sun.
The only football
fans who were disappointed in the prospect of a desert Purge were the Navy
SEALS floating in their rubber dinghies near the base of The Cliffs.
Witnessing the Purge from below had afforded them the best view possible, and
serving as the mop-up crew had been a dream assignment. Their big SEAL cocks were painfully swollen
inside their skinsuits. They lingered in their dinghies
until the chopper and other camera crews had departed, then moved in toward
the bodies that littered the rocky shoreline. Their training served them well
as they swam through the rough sea toward the dead meat. With their combat
knives drawn,they harvested as many cocks as they
could find, sawing through the thick studmeat and
claiming trophies from the event. The ballboys’
dicks were of lesser interest, but the SEALs sliced them off anyway as
souvenirs. The Navy men were fortunate to find enough professional cockmeat left for each SEAL to take home the dead dick of
a gladiator. Once they had claimed
their spoils, the SEALs paddled down shore to a quieter stretch of coastline,
where they could disembark and spread the butchered shafts out side by side
on the rocks for comparison. None of them was a small dick, but the squad was
eager to see which of them had gotten hold of the heftiest fuckrod. It
appeared that 89, the Texans’ defensive end, had owned the biggest piece of sexmeat. The SEAL who had amputated it from the athlete’s
corpse grinned in fortunate satisfaction. He knew his triumph meant that he
would have to buy the first round of beers when went
out to celebrate.
The SEALs headed to
base with their souvenirs, eager to pickle or tan the gladiator meat and show
it off. Not many football fans can boast of owning the cock of a star
professional player. It was just a damned shame that Navy SEALs would have no
role to play out in the desert, when in two weeks’ time twelve more studs
would die in the sun.
Buzzards would
probably get the cocks.
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