SLAUGHTERDOME

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By Lance Rush and Illustrations by Michael Kirwan

 

originally published in Torso magazine - December, 1999

 

Citizens of the Earth, masochists of all ages ... Welcome to the Slaughterdome! Players, rev up your turbo-powered blades, zoom to the arena's center, and let the Games begin!

_____

 

Introduction: In 2033, the world is a hyper-violent terrain of chaos. Testosterone tensions have reached a boiling point on the Big Blue Ball known as Earth. Gays and progressive thinkers alike were given two choices: to remain citizens of a turbulent planet, or forge a Brave New World on the Moon's frontier. Most chose the latter. The problem of gravity was solved by a complex system of mass magnification. Pure oxygen was supplied by microchips installed into nose rings.

Each year since the Great Gay Flight, the Moon's beefiest homosexual inhabitants, and the Earth's brawniest heterosexual players compete in Greco Slaughterball Games. Part vicious Laser Hockey, part blood-sport Greco Wrestling, the Games were a manly badge of honor where one winner took all, including the asshole of the defeated, before roaring crowds. From the best of the best, tribes of warriors were brought together in teams of six. The teams were then pitted against the Moon: superior athletes in a clashing, bashing, and eventual ass-fucking take-no-prisoners finale. For hardcore enthusiasts, the Slaughter Games were the best voyeuristic displays of strength, cocks and balls of the new millennium. In 2069, Australia was chosen from a lottery to hold the events.

 

My name is Chan Zeron, and my lover, Blade Andros, was Captain of Team Moon. His mission: to defeat Earth's undisputed Big-Dicked Universal Legend and Reigning Champion of the Greco Games, Maximilan Dane. Blade hated how "The Great Dane" lorded over the title. He wanted nothing more than to beat his straight, cocky ass, and then fuck it long and hard before the masses.

From the clank of iron and rising funk of the Andromeda's Gym, Blade was beginning to feel that burn; the monumental ache and burn of muscle, tendons and sinews he never knew existed. His body was frighteningly overdeveloped. As his trainer, I admired that kind of dedication as much as that jut in his aluminum-plated jock. But all that sweaty sinew was starting to get to my booster rocket, and I had to let him know.

"Blade. C'mon, give it a rest, man! We both know you're the fuckin' best the Moon's got to offer! Besides, my dick's screaming for some attention," I teased, holding my raging bone.

"Look. If you're not gonna take the Games seriously, I'm firing you as my trainer!" he huffed.

Tough guy. Tough talk. But I knew his weakness. Blade wanted to keep his edge by refusing to fuck. But I was bound and determined to change his dedicated mind, and his big regimented dick. As I bent, licking the beads of sweat from his large man-tits, he released a stubborn sigh.

Blade's iron-hard abs heaved as the five-hundred-pound weight quivered in his grip. His attitude was as hard as his fucking body. With the Games a week away, and no time for sex play.

"C'mon! Stop it and spot me, damn it! Get it over my head, or go put on a fuckin' gortex toga, you bitch! I need you supporting me. If not, then stop wasting my God-damn time!"

I knew Blade was struggling with his lust, so I let his verbal lashing slide. Still, it was rough to turn a blind eye to my package. I'm no slouch in the muscle department either; and my Afro-Asian roots render me "exotic" here on the Moon. I stand five-eleven, two hundred and twenty pounds of crunched, carved, carnal manhood, with a dick-bulge chiseled for sin. But then, every man on the Moon is practically an Adonis. Maybe that's why lunar flights have reached an all-time high in recent years.

"I see you've been working that muscle out without my help, buddy. Been using that hydro-powered pump I got for your birthday, huh?" he asked, eyes like green lights shooting over me.

"Nope. Must be all those fist-gymnastics I've been giving it since you started competing," I said.

Staring at my rocket, he said, "Hell! This is the twenty-first century, Chan! No one uses their hands! Why didn't you just grip the Orgasmatron if you wanted to get off without me? Been using your fist, huh? You primitive! Well, maybe, a little fist action would be all right, I guess," he grinned.

Man! I knew something hot was about to happen when his gortex jockstrap fell to his hard, awesomely cut calves, and he whispered, "Come on. Let's grab a steam."

To see Blade in the buff is to witness a piece of human sculpture brought to life. He lay like some aroused god on the table. I began to massage his flesh. I touched his warm, tanned skin, and kneaded to massage his flesh. I touched his warm, tanned skin, and kneaded his rippling torso. That chest alone was endowed with enough muscle to open its own gym. His tremendous biceps coursed thick with veiny rivers, and his massively ripped pees draped so low they were nearly rectangular. Yes, Blade was a beautiful piece of iron. I traced down eight iron abs, and stroked his huge iron cock. A long, thick and veiny bull-cock that shot out from my fist like a bronzed comet of steel and flesh.

Pulling the dick's base made his large smooth balls wag, as the columns of his quads jutted. Its planetary head was juicing. Some power-lifters' bulk diminished the size of their dicks. But Blade's got the biggest thing I've ever seen growing between a man's thighs! His nearly eleven inches of extra-thick fuck-meat completed a mighty package. And there it stood: high, hard and so fuckin' statuesque! I just had to suck it, and get the beast off correctly.

"You been aching to get fucked for a long time, huh?" Blade taunted, soundly smacking the globes of my naked ass. "All right. On your belly!" he demanded.

I obeyed gladly. As Blade lay atop my quaking flesh, I felt the hot wet smear of his early jizz as he began humping me in smooth rippling waves. Kissing the back of my burning neck, he pulled my legs apart and thrust his cock in between. I waited for the slice of his pole to give me what I'd been missing. But he didn't. Damn him! Yet even with no anal insertion, my cheeks trembled against his thick battering ram.

"Tighten your legs around it!" he instructed. "C'mon! Squeeze the fuckin' cum from my balls!" I tightened my legs, viselike around him. "Ahh! Yes! That's it! Make me feel it!" he roared.

My thighs are long and leanly muscled now, thanks in large part to training alongside Blade. But then, his massive body, his huge cock pounded beneath my ass while I gripped tight and felt his hot thick meat surging near my chute. Mmm. Awww! I bucked my restless flesh into a bed of steam, so turned-on, I could barely breathe.

When Blade left the crevice I'd created for him, I thought he'd weakened, given in to the fever. Our pricks stood vertical, as hard cocks on the Moon tended to be. Yes. I really thought he'd weakened. But no. Still he refused to fuck!

"No. No, Chan. Not until the Games are over!" he insisted, positioning himself before me, letting his raging prick bob at my sweating face. I grabbed it by its root, and he slapped my hand away. Horny as I was, I wanted to kick his big, bronzed competitive ass, and make him fuck me!

Sensing my anger, and eyeing my nine-inch dick, he fell like a capsized spacecraft beside me, and we contorted into a blazing sixty-nine. Blade's tongue skated along my throbbing tube, sucking my meat like ancient astronauts used to suck Tang. With his wide cock-knob leaking inches from my blowhole, he lobbed the fuck-pole between my lips, and we both commenced to buck and suck.

The engorged slab pistoned hurriedly back and forth, choking me in the sweetest way possible. Oh! I lunged and slammed my prick down his throat with a frenzy. I hated the Games, and Blade knew why. If he emerged a Level 1 winner, some other earthling would have to suck that same hot, throbbing dick crowding my lips! Gay or hyper-straight, whoever sucked it was bound to fall in lust with Blade's cock-meat. Soon, the liquid friction of his lashing tongue became too much.

Blade cunningly kicked off his and my specially approved gravity boots, and we floated to the ceiling of the gym. Oh! There we were floating and sucking, tumbling and licking dick, both spinning out of control! Soon, we blasted in duel versions of the Milky Way all over each other's sweating, cock-gobbling faces.

Cum still trailing off into the room, Blade asked the fated question that I was so diligently trying to avoid: "So, you think Max Dane will like the taste of my cum? I plan to make that fucker swallow it!"

_____

One week later: After a three-hour flight to Earth, we docked in Miami, took another flight across the continent, and a half-hour later, we were in "Outback." An airbus zipped us to a chrome and iron castle in the sky, where thousands awaited admission to the 2069 Slaughterball Competitions.

ANNOUNCER: "Citizens of the Earth, masochists of all ages ... Welcome to the Slaughterdome! Players, rev up your turbo-powered blades, zoom to the arena's center, and let the Games begin!"

Inside the Slaughterdome, two hundred thousand strong cheered, and the bloodthirsty roar was deafening! Tier upon tier housed the thundering throngs in spirals leading up to the fifty-story ceiling. Team Earth, led by Maximilan Dane, jetted into the stadium in one speedy hydraulic thrust. The players wore red, white and blue aluminum helmets and aerodynamic unitards. Plates of armor adorned their knees, forearms and chests. And there was Max--a big, toothless, vicious wad of strange beef, if there ever was one. Six-foot-six, three hundred pounds of head, neck, chest, thighs, and attitude. All that bulk was made more menacing by Dane's mechanical left hand. His original one was lost in a freak swoosh of the laser puck two years before. His other five teammates were a posse of snarls and threat.

Team Moon propelled into view, only with far less fanfare (we were after all, visitors on a hostile planet). Of course, our costumes *rocked!* Lavender and midnight-blue, with clusters of stars along the codpieces, and streaking comets flashed across the asses; our helmets jutted forth like deadly boners over the face guards. And my man Blade, he never looked more magnificent.

ANNOUNCER: "Good citizens, please direct your attention to the rules posted on the scoreboard. Now, as you know, there are few rules short of killing your opponent. Players, retreat to your Home Stations for Round 1, Level 1. Slaughterball! Now, of course, the ball is actually a laser puck, controlled by the players via their sticks. The object is to lead the puck across the steel-enforced field and into your team's respective goal. I understand Team Moon has a killer offense. But we'll see. Aggression is the key here. Team Earth, led by Captain Max Dane, is favored to take this round. But let's see how the Game shapes up."

The period began with a center face-off spot. As visitors, Team Moon was given possession. The puck moved at a breakneck pace from teammate to teammate heading toward Team Earth's goal. That small blue glowing beam represented our destiny as it zipped from stick to stick. Once in the sure control of Blade's stick, we saw visions of glory. But they were quickly dashed. Max Dane body-checked Blade and drew a takeover, as the wild multitudes clamored for our blood.

 



ANNOUNCER: "Good citizens, the force of velocity on this field is simply incredible. There's Dane, flying full-speed ahead. Oh! He's nailed Andros with a merciless wallop! And so it goes, in this theatre of physical savagery! Look at him control that laser puck! Yes! He's sending it directly to the goal. Yes! Score! Moon's Goalie, Rad Cumson, looks like a complete incompetent."

Things went on that way. Puck possession, then checks, body-checks, and goal points. By the end of the third period, the score was Earth up, five to one. All we had going for us, as the biased announcer quickly pointed out, was that we "looked good" in our uniforms. In the interim, a personal grudge-match waged between Blade and Max. They kept racking up numerous calls, for holding, charging, tripping, high-sticking, and slashing. That last call sent both teams and alternates rushing the floor with fists blazing! Didn't matter. We'd lost Level 1 of Slaughterball!

ANNOUNCER: "And to the losers go the spoils. In this case, the spoiled, sweaty cock of a Team Moon player. Looks like this game's become a feast for the eyes and the groin alike. As is tradition, the Captain of the winning team may choose the form of humiliation he'd like to inflict upon the challenging Captain. Max?"

"Well. Let's see. Since Team Moon looks so damned cute in their little outfits--I'm sure you'll all agree--I'd personally like to see how cute Moon Captain Blade Andros will look with my big thick cock in his mouth. Get over here Andros, and whip this fucker out!" a surly Max demanded.

"Suck that dick! Suck that dick. Suck that dick!" the restless crowd all chanted.

Blade wearily stepped to the hub of the packed arena where Max's cock cut a massive shadow.

"Suck that dick! Suck that dick! Suck that dick!" the entire arena screamed.

There stood beefy, bombastic Max Dane, removing his helmet, a mess of sweaty blond curls matted his huge skull.

"On your knees, faggot!" Groups of hundred-foot video monitors recorded every hard, veiny trail of blood-engorged prick as the fucker grew thicker on Blade's tongue. Shit! Max Dane must've hit Earth's penis lottery! The man's dick was so damn *big* it was freakish!

ANNOUNCER: "Don't know about you fellow cock-suckers out there, but Max Dane looks like a throat-full! That thing seems too much to suck! Check those muscles flexing in Max's ass as he whips that cannon forth. Oh! Poor Blade! Aw! The humanity!"

The crowd leaned forth, ooh'ing, ahh'ing as Blade bitterly allowed the slimy head, then the shaft, inside his mouth. I prayed he wouldn't gag or choke on that schlong, and lose those critical Style Points! But, no. Blade was handling Max's spit-slicked hard-on a little too well.

ANNOUNCER: "Yes. Andros is swallowing his defeat. But Moon guys lack no experience in this area. Whoa! What's this? Oh, my! Max is ramming, power-fucking Andros' steely jaw. Yes! That cock-head is threatening to bust right through Blade's cheek! Well, no one's ever called Max Dane a gentle champ. Jeez! Max sure is woolly around the penile area. Someone grab a razor!"

"Like 'em hairy, huh? Bury your fuckin' nose in it, Blade, baby! Inhale all that funk and sweat!" Max taunted. "Get it all down! Yeah, take that dick, you Moon-licking fag!"

The buzzer sounded. Though Max Dane didn't cum, those five raunchy cock-sucking minutes seemed like an eternity. Blade rose from his knees, turned and spat on the arena's floor while the charged crowd booed. He walked back over to the team, as I gave him a swig of mouthwash.

"That motherfucker needs a bath! Tasted like something to be damned! But don't worry, fellas. We'll kick his ass in Level 2, and 3!" Blade assured us.

Level 2. Speed Skating Competition: The objective--to massacre your rivals, produce as much bodily injury as possible, and remain on your blades. For two arduous hours of no-holds-barred rough-and-tumble, bodies skidded, teeth flew, and neither team escaped unscathed. But thanks to the never-say-die power thighs of Apollo Davis, and a strong show of adrenaline from Fearless Flash Williams, we managed to squeak out a tie. Team Moon did indeed have balls!

ANNOUNCER: "Will someone please, PLEASE wipe the field clear of blood, guts, and testosterone? Good citizens, we promised you a show, and by God, we're delivering here tonight! Now, for the finals. Level 3. It's winner takes all in Greco Wrestling 3000!"

Wrestling was clearly our strongest event, plus, we sported killer unitards. The asses were cut out, showcasing the best sets of taut male beef the Moon had to offer! Rad Cumson, all butch, blond and bulging, used a cross-ankle pickup on his opponent, and drove him down. When the whistle blew, that earthling's unitard stretched with more meat shank than before the match began.

Cock-strong Apollo was up next. Apollo, his black sinews rippling as he grunted, gripping his rival's thigh and pushing back with all his might. All eyes were glued to his glorious buttocks. Yes! Apollo easily defeated his adversary, pinning him within the first thirty seconds.

You could feel it. The hordes were turning. It was predominantly male-driven, and of course, we had the gay contingency. But little by little, the bi-curious and straights who wavered on the fence were starting to root for Team Moon.

ANNOUNCER: "And now, for the Blood Match we've all been awaiting. Let's have a rousing ovation for Universal Champion Max Dane! Yes. Soak it in, Max. You deserve it. And now, the challenger, Team Moon's Captain, Blade Andros. Come on; let's hear it for the lunar queen, er, uh, I mean, the man who would be king! All right you Warriors--time to lock and load!"

They came to grips, standing in a tie-up, both sets of arms wrapped tightly about the other's thick neck, their eyes fixed in brutal determination. Finally, Max's ham thigh stretched and his foot tried to disable Blade's firm hold on gravity. But Blade wasn't going anywhere. They were locked in mortal combat. Every muscle of their mammoth torsos labored against the will and unwavering power of the other. Max peered at the crowd, grinned wickedly, and bit Blade's neck. The ref didn't call it. Damn! You could almost feel the sting, then Max hauled off and whacked Blade with his mechanical hand! "*Aww!*" All hell broke loose! All grace was abandoned to walloping groin kicks, vicious bites, gouges! A near-fall granted Blade three points. Yes! A reversal gave Max two. Boo!

The vying of two ferocious titans became a fantastic war of brawn, brains and balls. At times, as their super-buffed bodies stressed and squirmed against each other, you'd swear they were engaged in some violent act of gladiator fucking. Watching them, a man could bust a nut from the driving exhilaration of tendons tightening; humps of hammering flesh pounding flesh. As Blade lay twisting on his back, he used some inner force to pump hard and throw burly Max to the mat.

Then Blade bounded up and drove headlong into Dane, and with the swell of his chest, he managed to pin one shoulder. The hard humpy sight of Blade's tight, hairless bronzed ass must've weakened Max. He lay there huffing, puffing, every part of him clearly exhausted except his dick. That earthbound slab of cock was throbbing, bobbing up his panting belly.

Seeing the specter of that bone, Blade slammed hard and rode against it using his weight to pin both Max Dane's robust shoulders soundly, and without question, to the mat! Blade on top of him, there was a good ten seconds as the crowd hushed. Finally, the whistle was blown. And Blade leapt up, both arms raised. Hell, yes! Victory clearly belonged to Team Moon! We roared!

ANNOUNCER: "Good citizens, we have an UPSET! Yes. History has been made tonight. Max Dane has gone down in defeat to THE NEW UNIVERSAL SLAUGHTERBALL CHAMPION, BLADE ANDROS! Behold, your new god. Every square inch of him forms a fucking muscle! Cheeks of stone. Jaws of square granite. Let's check the stats: twenty-three-inch biceps, a powerful fifty-two-inch chest. Thighs: twenty-seven inches. And that ass--a rump of two globes, glued together by space-age polymers to form one perfect sphere. Is he real, or synthetic? Only those closest to him know for sure. Doesn't matter tonight. He and Team Moon go to the Hall of Champions. Congratulations, Blade! And yes, the whole lavender team. I guess the better man has indeed won ..."

Steel thighs thundered with each step and stride Blade took about the floor of the arena.

"Go on, guys! Go join him. It's a victory for all of us," I told the other players.

"Naw. Let him savor it right now. Blade was the hungriest of us all," Apollo insisted.

As his chest swelled with pride, his Herculean shoulders seemed to fill that giant arena as the crowd went wild. Blade gazed back at me. He looked absolutely triumphant. Jade green eyes were silently fucking me with one piercing glare. The thrill of the game, the lust at emerging the Winner had swollen his dick, thicker, longer. Standing victorious, he shoved Dane to the mat and set his super-cock free. Then, crouching over his sweaty face, Blade dick-slapped his rival before the hordes. He moved in the slowest undulations as Max gripped Blade's perfect ass.

With the sound of "Ooooohhhh," Max's tongue darted the air and swiped the pearl of jizz that formed at the wide piss-hole. Blade washed his face in it. Man! I'll bet ol' Max's cheeks were on fire! Boldly seizing the tremendous pipe in his fist, Max Dane wrapped his burning lips tight to Blade's outsized crown. He groaned as he licked the slimy head, up, down, his wild tongue teasing all around its heavily ridged knob. Soon, Max Dane commenced to not just suck, but chow down on Blade's projecting dick until his steely jaw grew tired from the thrusts!

Then, I watched it happen. Slowly, the mighty Max turned over and yanked down his unitard! Those big, bullish thighs wavered like two Roman columns about to topple before the Great Fall. But was he falling from defeat, or falling into lust for Blade's dick? The man lay on the ground of the arena, belly down, grimacing, squirming as four of Blade's fat fingers entered the zone of his forbidden chute. The groan Max unleashed racked the ears of all the spectators. It was one small digital lunge for Blade, yet one *giant finger-fuck for all gay mankind*.

For a moment, that arena became so quiet you could hear a dollop of cum drop.

"Go on. Take it. Take my ass. You won, damn you, Blade! Now take it!" Max grunted.

Blade mounted him, grabbed a fistful of hair, and sunk deep into Max Dane's asshole with his big, hard eleven-inch prick. Oh! He jammed so deep Max's hole was buried up to the burly cock-stem. And he fucked, he rammed, and he thrust in that hard jolt, sure to bust a straight man's cherry.

"Fuck ass! Fuck ass! Fuck ass! Fuck ass!" the roaring masses chanted.

Blade's ramming fuck speed accelerated. That horse-cock began drilling the straight ass into queer infamy, plowing, pounding the holy hell out of it. There was lightning in his cock! I was begging to feel envious. There was Blade nailing that ass, hammering it hard and ceaselessly, with a driving mission to cum! Pounding. Thrusting. His weighty nuts slapped back and forth with a brutal beating friction. There was no stopping him. But some of us didn't believe Max Dane, Earth's former Slaughterball champ, even wanted Blade to stop.

What a manful sight Blade was, glistening in metal shin-guards, his ass a hard and thrashing naked wonder covered in sweat.

"Fuck me. No. Stop. No. Don't stop!" Max begging, both lost and caught up in a thrust.

Seeing their fearsome leader taken down seemed to inspire the others--not to riot, but to join in on the horny celebration of victory in the Slaughterdome. Codpieces fell, revealing hard and sturdy pricks that showed no visible signs of defeat. Who were these guys, anyway? Two of Earth's players hoisted Thad Darius over their shoulders. But Thad was one of our alternates! Yet there they were picking him up and ripping at his unitard. I couldn't believe it! Earthlings were kissing Thad's moons! Things became even more heated and far more raunchy after that!

 



ANNOUNCER: "Folks, this is madness! Never seen anything like this! It's a free-for-all! Asses are being fucked wildly! Champagne corks are popping, and--oh!--the suds are splashing all over naked dicks! Erect dicks. Dicks everywhere! I can't give you a blow-by-blow. It's hard to tell which cocks are getting sucked. Someone zoom in for a close-up! Men are slapping, kissing, licking naked asses! Madness! There's Blade's teammate, Apollo Davis, swinging his big black cock around. Oh, my! Look at those straight guys diving for dick! Blond Butch Branson's taking it in the face, while Corbin Cruz takes care of those big brown nuts! It's absolute pandemonium in the arena! A bucking, sucking, fucking orgy of beef, brawn and awesome manhood colliding! Hey! Doesn't anyone want the trophy? I--I can't go on! It's too much! Citizens, what can I say? In 2069, it's good to be gay!"

As I finally joined in on the celebration, Blade took one look at me and hauled Max Dane's burly ass away. He wrestled me playfully down to the floor and gave me what I'd been going crazy waiting and pining for. The hot slide of his thick cock burrowed through my chute like a laser saber. But--oh!--I loved that heat. Once in deep, he pulled back far and slammed me that hot way I needed to be slammed! "Yes! Shit! Blade, yes!"

His ramming dick filled me, drilled me with pulverizing thrusts! Every sinew rippled and lunged. I rocked and shook, so hot, so turned on, I could hardly breathe! On hands and knees, I was bravely fucked, unafraid of what our audience thought. But they were far too enthralled by the clashing of muscle, the lashing of cocks, that most whipped out their Earth pods and flogged along to the rhythm of us! Oh! I glanced up, cowering, as Blade ripped up my rectum to find an arena of nearly two hundred thousand hard, naked pricks violently saluting us! Instead of grabbing their steely balls and heading home, Earth men decided, they'd much rather play with ours, bat for OUR team!

Yes. Those Slaughterball Games were brutal. It had been a war. But it was peacetime now and we were only too glad to welcome the new recruits to our side in the year 2069. 


THE     END

Stories Main Listing

 

 

 

Any images, writings or other content on this website may be copied for personal viewing only. They may not be: redistributed; sold; altered; enhanced; modified by artificial, digital or computer imaging; used on another website or blog; posted to any internet or computer newsgroup, forum or media sharing site; nor used for any other purpose without the express written permission of the artist or KirwanArts.com.

Any images, writings or other content on this website may be copied for personal viewing only.
They may not be: redistributed; sold; altered; enhanced; modified by artificial, digital or computer imaging;
used on another website or blog; posted to any internet or computer newsgroup, forum or media sharing site;
nor used for any other purpose without the express written permission of the artist or KirwanArts.com.