Snuff Festival
By Yagov Sangria I
The last faint star
and planet winked out of the sky and in only moments, it seemed, the sun was
blindingly bright. The sound of the waves gently slapping against the thighs
of the shore was the only sound in the compound, but several of the men had
been awake for a while, they just didn't want to come out quite yet, even
though this was THEIR day. Not that any of them wanted it to be any
different. They were going to get excellent weather for THEIR day--THE day
that many had been waiting for four years. Yet most of the men
had the jitters as they stirred on their cots. They weren't
exactly nervous, just a bit apprehensive--like the first time they had to
perform on stage at school. Most were awake before the sun had even peeked
over the lake, staring up at the ceiling, running through this little detail
or that one in their minds. The mild sedative they had been given had helped
most of them get some sleep, but the carnival-like excitement of how they
knew the day would be, the expectation that others had of THEIR performances,
and even the sensual anticipation of what they would be going to be through
had made many of them get little sleep. It had been like
when their parents had told them to go to sleep because Santa was coming.
They were so boiled up with anticipation of all they were going to get on
THEIR day, how could ANYONE sleep? Finally, the
"wake-up" horn sounded from the tower, and a few of the men
cautiously opened their doors. There would be another horn, they knew, in
five minutes to call them all into the center area,
but they wanted to get a head start. The more brazen of
the men, the ones who wanted to show off their bravado as if today were like
any other work day, boldly opened their doors and strutted to the center, scratching their crotches. This relieved the
others who, still tentatively, opened the doors to their rooms and stepped
into the street. The street was a
concrete slab that ran between the two rows of buildings which were just
columns of single rooms, each with only a clean and comfortable cot (no
sheets) with bright immaculate walls and floors. Each with its own doors--one
facing the street and another in the back facing the walls around the
compound. In the exact center of the street was the
plumbing area; two parallel troughs and myriad pipes ran the entire length. The men all grunted
their "hellos" to each other, and a few slapped each other on the shoulders
in greeting. All of the men were totally naked, and this highlighted their
natural differences. There were men of all different races, body types,
sizes, and levels of hirsuteness. "'Lo,
Gene," a tall man nodded to the man across the troughs from him. Gene grinned back
as the tall man hefted his genitals, smiled, grunted, and let go with a
forceful stream of piss. The other men grinned, fidgeted a bit and took their
morning leak. The younger man to Gene's left theatrically pretended not to be
looking at Gene's equipment as he whistled while eyeing the ponderous
package. He gave a dramatic yawn and stretched, landing his hand on the
stiffening sausage. Gene grinned and
stretched back so that the young man's hand wouldn't be obstructed. He bucked
his hips to help start the rubbing. "NO! No, no no! You guys know the rules," the loudspeaker from the tower blared
as the grinning director admonished the men. "No one is to cum NOW! It
would spoil what you've waited and trained for." "He's
right," Gene heaved a sigh. "We've invested too much already in
this adventure to waste it now." But the glands inside his body tensed
as Gene imagined how his next orgasm would be produced. He looked over at his
partner. "You okay? You
look a bit nervous." "Naw." The young man, Jon, flexed his fingers open
and closed a few times, shook his arms and flexed his legs up and down as he
looked around with wide eyes. Then he grinned sheepishly and shrugged,
"I'm just a bit jittery, I guess." He cast his eyes down in embarrassment.
"It's just that I've been thinking this thing through and I 'm not sure
I made the right decision." Gene immediately
became the understanding father-confessor, the counselor,
the former Quadrennial assistant-director, and placed an understanding hand
on the young man's shoulder. "That's okay.
I guess we kind of expected someone as young as you are to have second
thoughts. Twenty is too young for decisions of this magnitude. I know you
pushed the Quadrennial Council to admit you even though you aren't
twenty-five, but you can get out any time before it's your time. You know
that." He pointed to the
doors in the wall around the compound. The wall around the compound wasn't
designed to keep the men in, rather it was meant to keep out the riffraff. There
was the press with their insipid questions about "How does it feel to
know you're gonna die? What were you thinking when
you knew the last fuck you had would be your last? What made you decide to
participate in the Quadrennial executions? Do you have any regrets? Any last
thoughts?" Then there were the
groupies--the ones who wanted to slide all over the bodies of these men and
suck and feed on the remaining life in them.. Of course, the merely curious,
the autograph hunters, and those who got a bizarre thrill about being close
to someone about to die also had to be kept out or they would have driven the
men insane and prevented them from completing their preparations. A fence had
to be built a few hundred feet off the shore to keep the boats out of the
way--although several bobbed up and down even now as their occupants peered
through telescopes or camcorder lenses. Jon's eyes opened
wide. "Oh, no" he gasped, almost horrified, then gave his sheepish
grin again. "I don't want to get out of this, I'm just not sure about
HOW I want this done. You and a few others convinced me about the thrill of
being hanged--and I've always wanted to go that way, but I was talking to Gus
this week and he made decapitation sound damned good, too--although I
probably wouldn't orgasm like a hanging does to a man." Gus was a little
farther down the trough, scratching his huge, hairy body and balls. He was a
massive man, hard with muscles--a barrel chest, iron abs, arms as thick as a
tree trunk and a neck thicker than his head. He had opted for decapitation
and had apparently discussed his dreamy fantasy plan when Jon was around. Jon
was just too impressionable. Jon wanted to have everything for his execution.
Four years ago, at
the tender age of sixteen, his lover of a year-and-a-half had joined the
Quadrennial festival. The man was thirty-four, and nothing Jon said to him
could dissuade him. Although a person had to be eighteen to get into the
stadium, Jon had been given a special dispensation because of his closeness
to one of the men being executed. He became fascinated with the way the men
went to their deaths, enjoying and savoring their
own final, euphoric moments. When it was time
for Jon's lover to be executed, he just looked down at Jon with such loving
eyes, asking him to understand his decision--just before he was tied to the
horses who quartered him while the executioner stabbed his limbless, agonized
body to death. Jon had watched the live show from special seats and had
viewed the videotapes at least a hundred times--and he had come to
understand. He understood so well, that he was driven with the same passion
all of the men here had and had been demanding special rights from the
Quadrennial Council for four long years. He had to lay with all of them
several times, but he got permission to join. "I guess I
just want it all!" Jon grinned and stood up, squaring his shoulders. He
had what some of the men called a "light-bulb head", very rounded
at the top, but narrow in the face and with a long, skinny neck. His bowl-shaped
haircut added to this image. "Well,"
Gene grinned, tousling the young man's hair, "why don't you just go see
the director and see if you can't do some last minute changes? I was one of
the coordinators here for the last three Quadrennials and I had a few men who
made last-minute changes, too." Jon looked a little
sad. "Yeah, I know, but I just don't know which one to choose. They both
sound really neat, and I can only die once ..." He eyes brightened and a
slow grin spread across his face as an idea came to him. "Yeah! That's
it!" he beamed and strutted in a circle. They were
interrupted by the loudspeaker. "Okay, you
meaty dogs!" the voice chuckled good-naturedly, "Have a partner run
one of the hoses up your asses for a final clean-out. Put those sweet arses
over the troughs when you dump. You know the water has to run clear." The men hadn't
eaten anything solid for a day and had stopped having liquids at midnight.
The men paired off and lubed the wands, fucking
their partners with them as they washed out their rectums. The warm liquid
and detergent did the trick and the men were whistle clean on the inside. "Now, take the
shower hoses and scrub those luscious bodies--those meaty corpses have to be
clean when we cart them off, you know!" the director joked. "And,
hey! No drinking from the hoses. If you are thirsty, we have some ice chips
for you to suck on." A couple of men
good-naturedly flipped him the finger, but they thoroughly washed themselves
from top to the soles of their feet. They cast admiring glances down the line
at the other men--most were in the age range of twenty-five to forty-three. When Jon was done,
he rushed to the tower to talk to the director. The men returned to their
rooms only long enough to retrieve whatever clothes or paraphernalia they
would be bringing to the stadium. Most of the men just stayed naked. A few
wore only T-shirts, and a couple wore shorts or pants, but all had their
raging, bloated genitalia sticking out in the sunlight and warm, ocean
air--much to the delight of the boaters with the binoculars and camcorders. Jon ran,
practically bouncing along as he did so, to the tower. His smile was so wide
and his attitude was so giddy that he knew he was making the right choice. II
"I've got
butterflies in my stomach," Harry muttered to no one in particular. He
looked like a marine sergeant with his broad shoulders and muscular neck. "Yeah, I know.
My gut's been flip-flopping for the whole ride," Gus added. "Think
it'll stop?" "Sure!"
Larry piped in. "When you stop thrashing at the end of the rope."
He and the others guffawed as Gus also laughed and kicked out at Larry's
legs. The men's hands were tied with rope, just as they had planned at their
last bowling match. "Well, guys,
we're finally going to go through with it. We missed it four years ago, but
now I think we're truly ready. Anyone want out?" Mike, the team captain,
asked. The men eagerly
shook their heads, grinning lasciviously at the hard-ons
the other men had. "Good, then.
Now remember," Mike grinned, "no gutter BALLS this time!" They all turned to
Ozzie, a light-skinned, lightly built African-American. "Oh yeah. NOW ya guys have the nerve to bring that up." During one
of their tournament games, played in the raw, of course, Ozzie had slipped
when he threw the ball. He had gotten a strike, but in his efforts not to go
over the foul line, he had hopped and practically danced three lanes down,
finally tripping and landing straddling a gutter. His balls had actually
landed IN the gutter. The judges had
checked the rule book and as long as he hadn't landed in any of the
tournament lanes, the strike was a valid one and his next two frames helped
to win the game. As a reward, the others straddled him over the ball return
while his own bowling ball (from the winning frame) came back. He had
encouraged the ball, shouting at it to "Come and crush my tan nuts, you
big black sucker!" The ball obliged, and smashed into the softer balls,
pinning them between two bowling balls. The men from all of
the teams doused him with beer while he howled in delighted agony. Now, he
was going to join these same lovable assholes in this excellent adventure. The truck lurched
through the stadium doors, and the men could hear the audience as they
cheered the truck's entrance. The announcer blared, "Here they come,
guys! And cum they will--as will we as we watch while the very breath of life
gets cut off from them. But hey! That's what they want and that's what we
want them to do--so it's perfect for all of us." "Yeah,"
Harry muttered, a smile crossing his strong face. "Only, they're not
going to feel the ropes and the pain and ..." He jerked his head
sideways, gagging and sticking his tongue out. He almost made the other men
shoot their loads just watching him. "Ah!" he said, rotating his
neck. "I feel better already. No butterflies in my stomach now!" There were
thousands of men in the stadium, for this was the most important event to be
held every four years. Most of the men in the stands would have wanted this
to take place every year--or even every month--but the original Council had
decided that they didn't want the event to be too commonplace. The four-year
wait would create a heightened anticipation in both the spectators and the
participants. They were right, of course, and more than half of the original
Council had later opted to become participants themselves. They had been
involved in the planning, preparation, and execution of the executions that
they opted to expend that energy on themselves, too. As the truck pulled
to a stop, hard-bodied actors dressed in military uniforms trotted up to the
truck and stood at parade rest, their rifles by their sides. The canvass was
lifted and the seven men looked out at the wooden-beamed structure and beyond
to the throngs of admiring spectators, cameras, and commentators. "Gentlemen,
before we begin today's festivities," the announcer blared over the
speakers, "let us give thanks to these and the other men who are
sacrificing so much for our benefit and theirs." Several thousand
spectators cheered and "rah rah rahed"
the men (some of the other participants were watching from their hidden
positions, not wanting to take anything away from this group). "Now let's
sing our song--sung to the tune of 'On Wisconsin'." Thousands of men of
all ages rose, their hardened pricks wrapped in tight fingers (often someone
else's) as they belted out the verses. Masturbatin', Masturbatin,
Unlike the National
Anthem, everyone knew the all of the verses and sang it lustily. An anticipatory
silence fell over the crowd as the soldiers snapped to attention. On command,
they lifted their rifles and shot a volley of bullets into the air. They
formed a line on both sides in back of the truck as the cameras tried to get
a shot of the back of the truck. "Yes! I can
see one of them now--no, two. Can you get in closer?" The commentator
feverishly tried to describe the entire scene. With a bang that
belied the smallness of the truck, the back panel dropped and startled the
spectators, occupants, and soldiers. "Move outta there, ya scum
bags!" The order was barked and as the men rose and went to the back of
the truck, two soldiers grabbed each of the men's arms and roughly pulled
them from the rear of the truck so they landed on their knees. They were
crudely raised and half-dragged to the apparatus of their destruction. Harry was breathing
heavily, now--his mouth open and his tongue dry as he was half-dragged and
half-pushed to the beamed structure he and Mike had designed. Despite their
recent shower, he was sweating profusely and a small fart escaped his ass.
His butterflies had returned in full force and with a vengeance as his
stomach tightened into knots. The structure was a
simple but elegant one. Four vertical beams supported the long beam at the
top. This created three "bay" areas, each containing two nooses. A
second beam was a just few inches from the ground and was slid into cut-out
slots in the vertical support beams. A chain was affixed to one end and the
other was firmly attached to the cab of a semi truck which chugged in neutral
a few yards away. Several feet of chain were looped around on the ground,
making a snake of links. Mac, a good friend of the bowling team's, leaned
against the truck's cab door, his arms folded across his broad chest as he
puffed billowing clouds of smoke out of his cigar. His truck billowed out its
diesel fumes. On the top of the
structure, led to by a ladder on the end of the structure on the side
opposite from the chain, was a narrow plank under a gibbet. This was for
Mike, who, unlike the other men, had wanted to have a trap spring from under
him. Mike was led up the
ladder and had to balance himself on the beam with his hands tied behind his
back. The men had chosen to have ropes instead of handcuffs on their wrists
since they felt there would be less cutting into their wrists--which might
distract them from their other sensations. The two "soldiers" at
the top positioned Mike on the plank and placed the noose around his neck.
His noose had a larger knot than the others. He had wanted the traditional
thirteen windings in his knot to make it heavy and dangerous. The slack of
the rope was draped over his collarbone. His companions
stood beneath him, balanced on the beam. Their ropes' nooses were slipped
over their heads and yanked snugly. No slack was left in their ropes, since
they had wanted a regulation-type strangulation hanging. "Hey
Ozzie!" Tom shouted down the line from his first bay down to the third
one. "With that nappy hair of yours, just jump up and you'll stick--we
put some Velcro up there in case you chickened out." This had been a favorite racial joke which Ozzie had had fun telling over
and over. His short hair DID feel a bit like Velcro and the men had loved the
feel of it when Ozzie rubbed it against their crotches and the undersides of
their bellies while wrapping his luciously thick
lips around their pricks. "Fuck you,
Tom!" Ozzie grinned. "I'll show you what my stereotypically black
dick is gonna do which will make your puny white
one jealous of." The men all
chuckled, and even the actor soldiers--who were doing their best to act
serious--cracked grins. When the
preparations were done, there was silence in the stadium except for the
chugging of the truck's motor. Mac threw himself forward away from the door,
grinned at the tethered men, giving them a thumbs up sign of
encouragement--followed by jerking a "thumbs down" to condemn them,
and climbed into the cab. The rope on Harry's thick neck was chaffing him, even though it was
oiled. It was under his prominent Adam's apple and every time he swallowed
(and he swallowed hard a few times), it threatened to ride over the nodule.
But his muscular neck was thick, and the noose was snug. The other men
shifted from foot to foot. The cameras panned their faces, their bodies and
their drooling cocks. The
"captain" barked out, "Listen up, you fuck ups! This is it!
Look at the sorry lot of you!" he reached out and grabbed Larry's
dripping cock, yanking it forward and almost causing him to loose his balance prematurely. "This is the
last time these sorry cocks will explode, you scum. Your sentence is to hang
until your sorry little asses are dead, dead,
dead!" He turned and faced the line of soldiers. "Are you
ready?" The men on the
scaffold nodded as the soldiers did. The soldiers raised their rifles as the
captain raised his arm. Harry sneezed and
the crew chuckled, but after a momentary pause, the captain dropped his arm. "This is it
..." the announcer whispered after holding his breath, forgetting to
make any further comments, fearful, too, that if he did he would detract from
this moment. The arm dropped
sharply down. Mac blasted the truck's horn which startled everyone (it wasn't
planned). Then grinning around his cigar, the doomed men saw him raise a
thumbs up as he floored the gas pedal. The truck took off,
quickly gaining speed as it raced across the field, belching out plumes of
dark smoke as it roared along. The curls in the chain noisily lost their
curves and finally lifted off the ground. But it didn't stop the truck. The
snap of the chain was followed by the squeal of the wooden beam as it hissed
through the openings in the upright supports of the scaffold, shooting out
from under and dropping the men who had been standing so recently on tip toes
on it. Ozzie was the first
to drop, and the rope gripped its tight fingers around his throat as it gave
a small tug as if to say, "Uh, Uh. You're not going anywhere today,
buddy." The others were
suspended in succession like the well-planned drama had intended. Each man
struggled with the sharp pain in hid neck and the
struggle to get air into his throat. "Oh, how they danced on the night
they were dead!" was a song ringing in their ears along with the rest of
the ringing caused by the lack of oxygen and the beating sound of their
hearts. It was a song they used to tease each other with when they had drunk
too much. They barely heard the loud bam of the beam as it hit the ground. Their eyes were
popping out as they struggled. Tongues darted madly in and out as they kicked
and twisted--which only stretched the oiled ropes and added to their
torments, but they wouldn't have had it any other way. "What a
rush!" Harry thought as the redness in his field of vision widened. The
mind had started to ignore the pain as the thrashing became less and less
intense. "I wonder if I'll know when I ... Oh shit! There she
blows!" Like fireworks
going off one after another, the men shot their wads of jism.
And, oh, what streams of white cum were shot. From within each man, the hot
white liquid rushed to flee the dying bodies, expanding every vessel to the
maximum like those cartoon hoses with the lumps of liquid coursing along.
Stream after stream of pent-up man juice spewed forth in the ultimate orgasm.
Ozzie's had been
the first to spew, but Harry's had been the most
prolific. The crowd of spectators rose to its feet. Men were yanking wildly
on their own man meat, cheering the jerking men on. Their roar was almost
lost in the roar of blood surging in the dying men's ears. The kicking was
weak now and a few of the men merely twitched. Thanks to small, and nearly
invisible, butt plugs and their washing out that morning, no other bodily
contents were emptied. The men dangled and twisted for a few moments until
Mac walked up to each one and, grabbing each man by the testicles, yanking
down hard until they stopped twitching. When he was done with the last man,
he took out his cigar and blew the smoke into Harry's
face. Then he stepped out of the way. "Ready!"
the captain shouted and the actor soldiers raised their rifles. "Aim!"
the men complied. "FIRE!" Bullet after bullet
hit the bodies of the dangling men and their impact made the swinging corpses
dance a bit more. Mike winced a bit at the sounds of the bullets and a tear
for his comrades trickled down his cheek. To make sure that no one would
think he had had a change of heart, he looked down and taunted the captain
with his shouts, "Hey, fuck face! I'm still waiting up here, ya know!" Mac grinned and
used his bulk to push the captain aside (as was planned, of course). He
looked languidly up at his pal and bunk mate, then reached casually for the
rope near one of the center support beams. "Hey, buddy! Ya got low HANGIN' balls. How's about I get ya down to my level and I'll suck ya
off while ya do yer
jig?" His fist flexed
around the rope as the cameras zoomed in on his hand and on Mike. A vicious
jerking by the brawny arm released the platform which dropped against the
beams as Mike's body plummeted, jerking to a stop a few feet above the
ground, his stiff meat in front of Mac's wide face. There was a distinctly
audible snap when the rope refused to go any further. Mike gave a small gasp.
Yet Mike wasn't
dead, to his surprise. It was as if he had suffered a neck injury that left
him totally paralyzed but fully conscious--at least for a while. He could
feel Mac's hot lips as he shot wave after wave of the familiar liquid into the
familiar mouth as the blackness swallowed his vision and finally his mind. Mike's body
twitched more than the others had. Whether this was from Mac's sucking on the
still granite-like cock or just muscle spasms was hard to tell. His head was
dangling oddly, as such an execution is wont to leave a corpse. Mac slowly,
reluctantly left his friend's prick and his big paw gently patted the now
dead man's face. "I've got a
surprise for ya, buddy," he choked out to the
sightless man. "Now it's my turn." It was a surprise
to all but the Director, since Mac had made his decision and was rushed
through the procedures just that morning. Mac tore off his
T-shirt and ripped open his denim cut-offs to reveal a very thick, although
average lengthed, piece of hardware. He popped the
cigar into his mouth as the two trucks were positioned and flipped his
enormous balls out as he winked, "For good measure." The soldiers rushed
him. Leather wrist bands were strapped on him by two men while chains were
dragged out and snapped onto them. He spread his feet and more bands were
placed on his thick ankles. Fortunately, he had brought his own well-used set
or he might not have had a good fit. More men drove stakes into the ground
and chains were attached to these and the ankle cuffs. The bee-like men
swarmed to complete the task quickly and just as suddenly left the field. Mac
adjusted his stance as much as his restraints would let him and flexed his
knees. A nod from him signaled the drivers who
slowly pulled forward, stretching his arms out. As his arms were
pulled, his muscles lost their roundness and lengthened, showing striations
along his arms, shoulders, and across his massive chest. He grabbed the
chains in his fists and tried to pull the trucks towards his body, like some
movie Hercules, but the trucks get inching and pulling on his arms, until his
sockets almost gave way. His face registered
the agony as he clenched his teeth around his cigar, puffing heavily on it.
Beads of sweat dotted his stubbled face and hairy chest
and his thick neck was knotted from the strain of being pulled in two
directions. He watched in gleeful anticipation as a tall man approached him
to stand beside him. Fortunately, there was a microphone on the executioner's
leather collar. "Is this your
final wish?" "Yes! Yes! Dammit, let's get on with it. My arms are gonna come out!" The executioner
felt the shoulders, but the sockets held. "Listen! I
didn't want to be hung because my neck is too thick, so I figured I could do
this for the guys--and the viewers, too." "No
regrets?" "None. Now
pull, dammit!" The executioner
took a batter's stance, with the long, heavy sword perched just above his
shoulder. He signaled the trucks and they pulled
harder as Mac groaned in agony, his thick neck just so much tightened muscle.
Just as the strain popped his arms out of their sockets, the executioner's
sword slapped against Mac's throat--just where the neck meets the shoulder. A
quickly lengthening line of red (later to be shown in slow motion on the
video tapes) was made by the tremendous "home run" impact of the
blade as it coursed its way through skin, muscles, sinews and bone. The
unkempt hair flew in all directions as the huge knobbed ornament to Mac's
massive body separated from it and exploded onto the field, rolling for
several feet before resting face up. The body had jerked
only once, and was still standing--partly because of Mac's thick and sturdy
legs and partly because of the chains. Finally, the body wobbled and sagged
on buckling legs. There had been no orgasm on this one (decapitations rarely
end like that), but the prick was still stiff when the body was released and
carried off the field to the waiting flatbed where it was hoisted and tossed
on top of the bodies of the bowling team friends. Mac's head, however, was
grabbed by the hair and a rope was tied to the hair with a mini-noose. The
head was hoisted up the tallest flag pole because Mac had said he wanted to
see the whole show. In a parade-like
processional, the trucks left the stadium--the semi blasted its hown as it passed the flag pole and a burst of diesel
exhaust blew into Mac's face. |
The
men from the bowling team were pulled into the stadium in an army truck with
the canvass covering the back of the truck. The ride had been bumpy and the
back of the truck was stuffy and warm.