Deserving men get abducted and abused in this new series from Horny Old Fag.

Muscles Inc - Chapter 1
by Horny Old Fag
Series: Muscles Inc
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Monday night, me and Dawg caught the brawny twenty-eight-year-old big rig driver we’d been stalking for the past three days beating the crap out of yet another nelly lot lizard at this deserted truck stop on the outskirts of St. Louis, Missouri. We tasered the raging bully, affording his hysterical victim the chance to flee, and us time to strip and secure his spastic six-foot-four-inch, two-hundred-and-ten-pound carcass inside our van. We drove straight through the night and into the morning, stopping just long enough to piss, grab coffee, and switch drivers, and lugged the fuming trucker inside our underground survival bunker in the Dakota badlands. The pissed-off bad boy roared at us to let him go. I brandished my shiny new Colt Delta Elite, which I’d bought for my forty-seventh birthday last month. He begged me not to shoot, swore we must have the wrong fella, all the usual bullshit.

Leaving the unnerved big rig driver bound, we cut off his boxers and examined the goods. Seems the bigger the meathead, the tinier the bunghole. The squirming trucker protested that he didn’t do butt sex, but had sucked seven dicks in his life, a number so specific I figured it must be true, and offered to blow us if we spared his ass. We agreed, but I crossed my fingers. The wary peckerhead eased onto his knees, and sucked Dawg off, but choked on my schlong. I drove my boot into his junk, and when he doubled over, gored his hairy rump. He howled that my dick was too big, damned me to hell, roared for me to at least slow down. Nothing I hadn’t heard before. I pounded a load out of the bad boy, and he dropped the attitude.

Dawg affixed a PVC three bumps for your rump butt plug to the floor, while I wiped the slime off my flagging schlong, and we sat the tussling trucker down. His new mangina engulfed the lumpy ass buster. His breath smelled like dick, inspiring his name. Dick Breath bucked and squealed. We pinned the growling peckerhead until he quit struggling. He slouched forward with his bearded chin resting against his furry chest. Dawg jacked the fagged bad boy stiff, while I tickled his balls. He pleaded for release, in more ways than one. We wedged a stick gag between his teeth and bolted the door on our way out.

Over the past twenty years, me and the Muscles, Inc. gang have broken in and turned out hundreds of meatheads. On average, three to five per season. Primarily North Americans, largely from the states, although we’ve nabbed several Mexicans and Canadians, and occasionally snagged a lone traveler from further afield. That sounds significant, until you consider literally tens of thousands of fellas go missing on the continent every year, and many are never seen or heard from again.

Worn out from driving all night, me and Dawg fixed sandwiches, grabbed a bag of baby carrots, and headed to the lounge. After we ate lunch, Dawg dozed in front of the television, while I took a nap in our bunker. Four hours later, I awoke refreshed, and took care of a few chores around the complex, while Dawg fixed spaghetti and meatballs. Over dinner, we watched Dawg’s favorite horror movie, Saw, for the umpteenth time, and afterward dozed off on the couch.

Snake pulled up shortly after midnight with a thirty-eight-year-old bisexual Italian stallion rolled up inside a tarp flopping around in the bed of his restored 1969 El Camino. Our hairless inked and pierced carny partner boasted how two nights back he’d roofied the six-foot tall, two-hundred-pound rent boy pornstar in a seedy Philly bathhouse, and screwed a massive load out of the inebriated fuckdummy in the parking lot before bundling his ass and hitting the road. Me and Dawg helped Snake lug his squirming load downstairs. Dick Breath growled at us. The disgruntled big rig driver still had a boner, no doubt from the pressure the three bumps for your rump plug exerted on his prostate. I flashed my Colt. He averted his glare. We sliced the duct tape loose and unfurled the tarp. The enervated Italian stallion toppled out, stripped to the waist and barefoot in blue jeans. Sweat plastered his jet-black hair to his scalp. His buff torso and pale size fourteen dogs glistened. He blinked several times and whined he needed to pee.

Snake sucker-punched the bewildered rent boy pornstar between the legs. “Did I give you permission to speak, fuckdummy?” The groaning stunt cock shook his head. Our cruel carny partner groped the squawking Italian stallion’s junk through his jeans. A damp piss spot about the size of a quarter formed in the center of his crotch. Snake sniggered and bored down harder. “The only time your mouth should be open is when you’re sucking dick. Capeesh?” The screeching fuckwad frantically nodded.

We cuffed the debilitated Italian stallion to the wall by the wrists and shackled his ankles. He whined that his ailing nonna needed her medications and pleaded with us to let him go for the old bat’s sake. Like we were born yesterday. Snake flashed his switchblade. The horrified stunt cock begged us not to kill him and promised he’d do whatever we asked. Snake raked the knife over the whimpering pornstar’s nipples, and whisked the blade across his throat, narrowly missing his flesh. The bugged-out whore shrieked falsetto and soaked his jeans in piss.

We bolted the door and headed upstairs, laughing our asses off, poured nightcaps, and hopped online. Besides finding several ads featuring the scantily clad meathead pitching various fitness supplements, a few solo porn shoots of his meaty rump riding dildos while he jacked off, and a couple of amateur videos of the buff stripper wagging his schlong onstage before a raucous crowd of screaming faggots, we discovered dozens of queer and femdom bondage and discipline videos in which he got bound, beaten, and banged under the alias Big Willy. We located his bio posted on several male escort websites. They all listed his cock size as nine inches, which was a gross exaggeration. His schlong was long, but mine was longer, and fully boned even I fell short of that boast. The deceitful stunt cock could not be over seven-and-a-half, eight inches tops.

Every chance we got, we targeted pornstars, strippers, and rent boys, because they already peddled their asses for their keep, were seldom the sharpest tools in the shed, and often had little contact with their families and few close friends. A lot of meatheads paid the bills by posing nude and stripping, and many also fucked for money, both on camera and off. Fitness training wasn’t cheap and sex work paid a lot more than managing a gym or doing manual labor.

Gary and Roland weren’t due for hours, so me and Dawg retired to our bunker, leaving Snake beating off and watching a grinning black leather master choke Big Willy’s gurgling throat, while a petite Asian dominatrix sporting a huge hot pink strap-on hammered his sweaty rump. The ruthless bitch demanded the overwrought stunt cock scream and did he ever. His shrill shrieks carried down the hallway. He might be the nastiest whore we’d ever caught.



  1. 31118azti - May 13, 2020, 8:31 am

    Wow, to be kidnapped and stripped!

  2. scotts60143 - May 13, 2020, 8:10 pm

    Always enjoy a story by Horny Old Fag!! This one certainly does not disappoint. Enjoy the way they are abducted and taken to the bunker! Wow!! I need one of those for sure!! Cant’ wait for more.

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