Wrestling Captions

Dual domination. Pure fiction, of course!

 

Ty Alexander humiliatingly head-scissored by Lobo Gris, 

while Ethan Andrews is painfully racked by Gabe Steele.

 

 

Rexx and Cameron really go for it.
Dig those saucy panties, Cam!

Photo's above courtesy of Wrestler4Hire  

 Chase Lundquist lifted in a bearhug (or bare hug) by TannerHill
At 88Wrestling 

 

Targeted

Colin's in a fix after being kidnapped at gun-point on a quiet country road.
Not only abducted but his tighty-whitey's ripped to shreds in the process.
Now, collared and chained, he finds himself up for sale to the highest bidder.
The solid gold collar they gave him suggests these are very wealthy buyers
It's scary, but kinda exciting too. All these people want to buy him!

They'll never believe it when he tells them about it, back at work. 

 They've even promised he can keep the collar, no word about new briefs, though.

 

~

This photo-manip is by Herodotus, whose work can be found at Telemachus 12 
Telemachus 12's site boasts an incredible collection of gay art with edge

Homoeros - Recent work (2025) - 3

Start from Part 1 of this series

 

 

'Tavern' sees a young man sucked into a world of wealth and power, and in this image the historical dress conveys that background very effectively. It's combined with a convincing setting, too. This is an age when those who fell from favour might face the axeman, so this grovelling submission is perfectly understandable.

 

This man, Dylan, is not faced by such an extreme a punishment, but the whipping post is bad enough. 

The kneeling position is unusual, but it works visually, introducing a sense of submission.

 

 

The rear view presented to the captor is even better.

 

 

I included a 'riding the wedge' image in Part 1 of this series, It simply showed the rider and by implication focussed on the physical and mental discomfort caused by the device. The introduction of a leather clad top here, surveying the captive, brings home his vulnerability to external interference. Indeed, the restraint arrangement offers him up to such mischief, and he looks quite apprehensive about it. His relative youth and sheer cuteness suggests an experience gap which is likely to be narrowed somewhat before too long. 

 This surprising sequel opens up another dimension to his initiation. The prospect his new visitors promise seems just as scary, judging by his face, but excitement still shows elsewhere. It looks as if he's got himself into a seriously leather, gender-neutral establishment, although the setting looks like an ordinary, nightclub, out of hours. 

It was these two images that prompted me to do a Part 3 of this review. 

 

Didn't that guy do something to me in that S&M Club last night?

Homoeros does a lot of vanilla studies. This one, showing a jogger's chance encounter in the woods, is rather nice. Love is in the air here, not fetish.

 

Two men, clad in black, commit another unfortunate to the cross.

This is a compelling image of the grim moment of truth.

 

 

 

The technician stills the condemned man by sitting on his chest.

Producing an incongruous moment of intimacy.

 

The helplessness of the spread-eagled captive is apparent here.

The outstretched arm is beyond his control

 

 

When they switch to deal with his feet,

it's another significant deprivation of any sense of freedom.

 

Then callously stroll away without a backwards look.

 

 

This device is more humane, a display spreader, according to the artist.

Would that were all it could be used for, the incumbent might wish.

 

 

  In a Police Station near you, another Hoodlum submits.

Deprived of his clothing, it might be a long night.

 

 

 

A casual encounter, the locking of eyes tells a story.

It's about wills and intents, as well as attraction.

 

 

 

 

But all is not what it seemed.

Perhaps he got what he wanted anyway.

But he might look more grateful.

 

 

 

'The Hostage' seems to have been put on display.

His sinewy muscle made useless by the simplest of bindings.

 

Read the whole series from Part 1

 

Visit Homoeros at Deviant Art

Targeted Hunk

 

Brock checked the time for the hundredth time that morning. Where were they? The Pick-up Squads had a reputation for strict punctuality and woe betide any man who wasn't ready for them, exactly as stipulated, when they called.

Officially it was called 'The Agricultural Levy' but ordinary people knew it as 'Farm Slavery'. Five years of work in the fields of the South for any man who was a 'burden on society'. Brock had been unemployed too long and accepted this would be his fate. His wife and kids would get his wages while he was away. He just had to be ready for the pick-up at the designated time wearing nothing but underwear for decency's sake. They'd probably strip him of that too once he was in the van and shackle him, along with the rest of the men on that morning's list.

Hardly anyone volunteered for the Slave Corps, so discipline was necessarily tight to keep them all in line. Stories of harsh punishments for the smallest infringements circulated in the social media. Brock didn't intend to make waves and hoped to avoid that fate. He'd kept himself fit and healthy and didn't mind hard work, which ought to get him a good, straightforward posting. In five years time, he could make a new start.

He jumped as the doorbell suddenly rang and quickly went to the door. Two men in dark uniforms were there and immediately pulled him out. They twisted his arms painfully up behind his back and frog-marched him down to the street. “What's this?” one of them said, “A wristwatch? You were told to bring no personal possessions!”.

“I thought this one looked like a trouble-maker” the other one said, “That's the third one I've had to sort out this morning”. As they hustled Brock roughly into the darkness of the van, he heard his kids calling “Bye Bye Daddy” from the windows above. 

~

Click on the labels below for more tales of enslavement and hairy hunks @mitchmen.

Mercenary Nick - Part 2

Start reading at Part 1

 

Day 4

8

After a night of humiliation at the hands of the Guards, I had to face my torturers the next day clad only in underpants. Even they were not my own clothes, for my guards had either destroyed, or taken for souvenirs, every item of clothing that I had on. As a sop to my modesty, they gave me a pair of underpants taken from another prisoner. He had no further need of them, they said and out of spite, they told me his name. It was one of my comrades who had disappeared some 3 months earlier, while on the same mission as myself. I was trained not to react to barbs like this or dwell on the truth of them, but the symbolism of losing the last of my possessions did hit me hard. 

I felt like I had been condemned to extinction.

Having been suspended by my wrists during those long, cruel hours of darkness, it was a perverse pleasure to be taken down and spread-eagled on an X-cross instead. I was still tied up and defenceless, but able to stand on my feet again. It was obvious that this restraint would enable the interrogator to attack all parts of my body, if I continued to deny him the information that he wanted. However, he surprised me by producing, not some ferocious flesh destroyer, but an incongruous, small batten of wood. It looked like it was fresh from a DIY shop, an unwelcome reminder of the normal world that was carrying on outside the walls of my prison, oblivious of my plight. 

The Interrogator complimented me on my physique, running his hands over my abs and acknowledging that I had been well-trained. Then he proceeded to apply his stick to my torso, landing vicious blows on it from all angles. That batten might have been small, but by heavens it stung! As time went by, the cumulative effect of hundreds of blows from it, switching between the flat sides and the sharper edges, generated a fiery furnace of pain all over my body. He beat me with it patiently, conserving his energy, so my agony might last as long as possible.

 

 

9

After a while he stopped, looked at my bruised body and sighed, as if in regret. Then he went to his bench and returned with a second batten. He used them simultaneously to beat both sides of my body. The effect of the wood smacking my abs had dulled by them, but when he switched to my ribs, the pain was excruciating. I'm ashamed to say that I gasped, quite loudly. My torturer smiled, then hit me again. I managed better control of my responses the second time, but it was difficult. My struggle to remain silent was obvious. That made him smile again, for it was a sign, a small one, that I was losing, and he was winning. We both knew that, and I trembled inside. 

Before he left to take his lunch, he signed off with the battens by rasping their rough cut edges across my body like a saw. My bruised skin was repeatedly pricked and punctured by splinters, with many of them breaking off and sticking in me. He was playing a childish game, but left me with widespread soreness that returned every time I stretched to relieve the stress of the prolonged restraint.

After he had gone, to my surprise, the Guards took me down and gave me a small but nourishing meal. I ate it appreciatively, imagining that someone, at least, wanted to keep me alive. But for what? As soon as I had finished, they tied me up again.

 

10

When the torturer returned, the games continued. It was clear he was beginning to enjoy the task of wearing me down, waiting for me to crack. He was relying on time and repeated attacks to persuade me, rather than extreme wounding. This time he took up a wooden paddle with which to torment me. 

I'd experienced the paddle before. It looks slightly comical, but its flat surface produces a wider spread of pain. The holes in it ensure that air making way for its delivery do not impair the impact. It is most effective on large muscle groups and so is widely used for buttock spanking. Naturally, my Trainers hadn't spared me that experience and humiliation, although they claimed to think it beneath them. I wasn't convinced about that after experiencing their efforts, but my torturer seemed to share their view, he made no move to turn me round to feel its sting on my behind. Instead, he applied it to my pecs and thighs, two areas which had largely escaped his attention in the morning.  

Vast new areas of fiery pain erupted to torment me.

 

11

 It was a long, long day and it left me raw, bruised and physically exhausted. My borrowed underpants were sopping wet from profuse perspiration, but thankfully, the relatively low level of brutality had spared me the humiliation of losing all control of my organs. I was glad it was over, but, tomorrow would be another day of torment and before that, I faced another night at the mercy of the Guards.

 

 Day 5

 

 

12

 

My Guards must have lost interest in me that night, for I slept right through. There had been visitors, I could tell, for when I awoke, my underwear was round my ankles and there were deposits on my skin. But I hadn't been treated badly enough to wake me up. Perhaps some other unfortunate soul had claimed the attention of the brutalisers. 

 

As usual, the Guards took me straight from my cell to the interrogation room after I had eaten. This time, however, instead of tying me to the cross or a post, they simply shackled my ankles, tethered my wrists to a dangling chain and left me standing in the middle of the room. I stood like that for about an hour, puzzling over this turn of events. Had something happened? Was my torture ended?

 

These foolish thoughts were immediately extinguished when my tormentor returned to resume his painstaking exploration of my inner reserves. To my horror, he was brandishing a bull-whip which made the reason for the changed restraints perfectly clear - he was going to work all over my body and wanted no obstacles to impair his lashes. The ploy of keeping me waiting had softened me up nicely, for I immediately began to tremble with fear. He gleefully used the stock of the whip to lift my chin and make his usual request, was I going to talk?

 

13

 

It took all my courage to refuse once again. 

Seconds later, the whip fell across my body and all the previous bruises re-erupted.

It was just the start of a slow-paced barrage of lashes that spared no part of my body. 

14

 

Before long, I was on my knees blubbering. 

But I had the strength to refuse to give in and tell them what I knew.

 

15

 

My reward was a barrage of kicking and whiplashes which sent me sprawling. 

I lost consciousness.

 

16

 

I can recall very little of what happened after that. I woke up in a primitive, wooden shack with 3 other prisoners. They nursed me back to some semblance of health, until my captors decided I was fit to work in the quarry, which was just outside our hut. This is the place I now call home.

As soon as I was able, I searched for my missing comrade, the man whose underpants I still wore, but I did not find him, only more strangers, most of whom did not speak my language. As I became better acquainted with my new companions, I was able to join in their secret, nightly intimacies, which were unexpectedly tender and comforting. Necessarily so, because of the patrolling guards who might otherwise hear us. 

In reality, though, my only real bond with them is our experience of the Orange Room, of which none of us ever speak. Whether I broke and talked or kept my silence until they gave up trying, I cannot say. It doesn't matter, because I know for sure that my mission ended in failure. It gives me no comfort to have escaped death when my other comrades may well have perished, for I have still paid a terrible price for my failure.

 

17

It's hard work, breaking the stones and carrying them to the collection point where the lorries come to pick them up. I soon discovered that slackers quickly feel the whip, and that invoked such terrible memories for me that I take care not to provoke the overseers if I can help it.

I think about escaping sometimes, but the fire in my belly has gone out. The fear of more, remorseless punishment has finally quenched my spirit. My comrades seem to feel the same, although none of us talk of our past lives or what we endured to get to here. I am one of the lucky ones, supposedly. 

So I wield my sledgehammer and count the hours 'til the next meal, which is usually quite nourishing and designed to keep us alive and working. The alternative would be starvation rations until we die. 

I'm not sure which is the worse fate of the two. 

 ~

Imagery for this story is from 'Mercenary Nick' at Real Chained Heroes.

The star is 'Robert' flaunting his fabulous physique. 

Go to Part 1

 

The Tie Game by Cybertied

 This is a brilliant fantasy about a 'sports centre' where men can go to experience being tied up. Luckily for us, they are all extraordinarily cute or handsome and there's a shop full of sexy gear for them to wear while they live out their bondage fantasy. You can see it's the first time for some of them, and they are plainly surprised and sometimes shocked by the unexpected reality of being in the hands of an unseen and none-too-gentle rope-master. There's even a hint that his work goes on, after the centre is closed for the night, leaving you wondering just what happens in the end to all those 'rope-curious' men.

~

I'm full of admiration for all the creative effort that has been put into this by Cybertied, negotiating the restraints and wilful disobedience of the AI Art engine and creating a storyline that is tantalisingly sketchy and vague about what is really going on.

Visit Cybertied at 'X'.  and  Cybertied @ Tumblr

Mercenary Nick - Part 1

 Day 1

 

At first, everything went exactly to plan. I travelled to the capital on a normal commercial flight and booked into my hotel without any trouble. Our contacts had arranged a room that overlooked the head-quarters of The Organisation, which I had been sent to penetrate and destroy. 

 

I freshened up with a shower and changed into my combat pants, ready for action that evening, then I took up position at the window and observed the comings and goings. My plan was to wait until midnight and then enter through a service door at the rear, which it had been arranged would be left unlocked for me. 

 

1

 

Night had begun to fall, and the office staff were leaving, but the real work of the Organisation would continue after the exodus, in the so-called 'Orange Rooms' where they would be interrogating suspects, out of sight. Many of our men had gone through those doors and never been seen again. I was about to risk joining them. A cold shiver ran up my spine, but I quickly dismissed the negative thought.

I rang Room Service for a snack and while I waited and diverted myself by wondering if it would be brought by a handsome waiter in a cute, tight-fitting outfit. There was time for a little relief before I commenced my mission. Or so I thought. But when I answered the knock on the door, I found four, ugly goons waiting outside. They barged in, seized me and took me down with professional ease. I felt the sharp stab of a needle in my neck and within seconds lost consciousness.

 

Day 2

 

2

When I woke, I was stretched out on a bare table with my wrists handcuffed above my head and my feet shackled together. Above me, an orange light burned. My stomach immediately churned with fear as I realised where I was. Beside me, an interrogator was already waiting, stroking my body appreciatively, like a trainer examining a fine stallion or a butcher selecting his meat. 

His touch was ice-cold and I shuddered. 

 

 

3

Seeing that I was awake, he introduced himself with the strange, polite formality that still persists in that part of the world. He explained that he was searching my body for hidden electronic devices, adding that anything he found embedded beneath my skin would be prised out with his favourite tool - a commonplace screwdriver. He showed it to me, wondering if I might like to direct him to the hiding places and so avoid unnecessary pain.

 

 

4

I had no hidden devices, I was totally alone. But he would expect me to say that, so I stayed silent and tried to prepare myself for indiscriminate butchery. He laughed as if reading my fear and swapped the screwdriver for a brush-like scanner device. It would detect and disrupt any electronics, he said, but as it passed scratchily over my body I was subjected to burning stabs of electricity that seemed to pepper my flesh like shotgun pellets. I'm ashamed to say that I cried out in pain and surprise. 

That seemed to please him.

 

 

5

Then suddenly he stopped and said, “Ah, what have we here?” 

“Nothing!” I gasped through the pain, as he crushed my seared pectoral with his tools. 

He looked at me and nodded, registering my first moment of weakness. Then he proceeded to probe the area with his tools for several minutes, in search of subcutaneous gadgetry that didn't exist. I squirmed in agony, anticipating the crude rupture of my flesh. But he was just playing games with me, eventually he laughed, then put down his tools and left, saying that he would send someone else to examine my inner cavities. 

 

 ~ 

 I can hardly bear to describe what followed. After a long wait stretched out, shivering on the table, a man dressed like a Doctor came to me. He put his hand and various instruments into my mouth to search inside. Then he pulled down my pants and repeated the process between my legs. I could feel him inside me. My ears and eyes and even my penis were probed by his instruments. His searches were both thorough and lengthy, but there was nothing for him to find. Eventually, he left.

 

After he'd gone, it wasn't long before the guards took the opportunity to assess their new prisoner and gloat. Multiple invasive humiliations followed, peppered with slaps and punches, long into the night. I had sampled many such things during my training, but now discovered that even the most determined of my instructors had not to managed to simulate the profound depths of sleazy, violent lust unleashed on me that night. When they finally tired of abusing my unresisting body, they abandoned me to exhaustion. But there was little chance of sleep for me, tightly restrained on the hard table. 

Just the dismal knowledge that I was quite, quite alone.

Day 3

 

 

6

Early the next morning, I was released from the table and taken to another cell, where I was strung up by my wrists. There the guards soused my body with water, cleaning away the residue of their abuse.

A short time later, my original interrogator returned. 

 

He made his intentions clear by knocking me off my feet with a hard punch in the solar plexus before even a word had been spoken. The blow caught me by surprise and I collapsed in great pain. But as I tried to get back on my feet, fearing he would start kicking me, he grabbed my hair and held me down, ridiculing my attempts to stay strong.

 

He said he expected me to stay loyal to my unit, but assured me that eventually I would break and talk. His arrogance re-kindled my resistance, as he knew it would. He told me the higher I rode, the further I would fall - for fall I most certainly would.

 

 

7

The guards hauled me back to my feet using the wrist chains, so I was virtually hanging, standing on tip toe, fully stretched. The interrogator taunted me once again, introducing my torturer, black-clad and armed with a whip. I contemplated spitting in their faces, then thought better of it, only to chide myself for my cowardice. 

 

When the first lash of the whip landed squarely on my back, it was almost a relief. I had been trained for this and knew how to endure it. But my training also told me, from the first blow, that my torturer was using a heavily weighted one. The sheer force of its impact jolted my body. I would have been knocked down if not for the restraints digging into my wrists. I sensed he was an expert with his weapon too, and he proceeded to prove it as he whipped my helpless body with a slow, measured pace. He spaced each blow, allowing none of the searing, penetrating pain to be submerged by over-enthusiastic overlays. Despite my agonised bucking and twisting, he made not a single miss-hit. 

 

Eventually the interrogator, who had been watching my performance closely, signalled the torturer to stop. He asked if I was ready to talk, but it was a formality, we both knew that. There was a long way to go. He simply nodded at my silence and left me hanging to contemplate the raging pain of my ravaged back. I watched the whip man cleaning his weapon as best he could, feeding its suppleness with oil, so it was ready to embrace another body, probably mine again. He looked at me occasionally as he worked, showing neither emotion nor pity. I imagined he was measuring me against all the other men who had danced under his fiery kiss. 

 

Eventually, he carefully wound his whip up and packed it into its bag. He left me, hanging alone in the darkened cell and there I stayed until nightfall was announced by the return of my lecherous guards who silently pawed my weary body and bathed my wounds with their rasping tongues. 

 

~ Continued in Part 2 ~