CUT: Part 4

Seb’s heart slammed against his ribs as he lingered beside the dumpster, the night air thick with spilled beer and diesel. From the open door of the Glory Howl spilled raucous cheers, bass-heavy music, and the hot, humid breath of too many bodies packed inside. Sunny, still draped over his forearm like a second skin, tilted his carved wooden face up.

“Not a bad show, kiddo,” the puppet rasped, painted grin wide.

Seb huffed a laugh, shaky with leftover adrenaline. “Thanks, Sunny. You killed it too.”

“I killed it with your whole arm shoved up my ass,” Sunny shot back, rolling his glassy eyes. “Any chance I get a breather now?”

“Sure thing buddy,” Seb said. He eased the puppet off his sweat-damp arm and set him gently against the cinderblock wall, propping him like a drunk friend. He was about to head back in for the carrying case when the door banged open again.

Channing filled the rectangle of light, all broad shoulders and easy swagger. The white cotton of his t-shirt had gone translucent with sweat, clinging to every cut of his chest and the thick slabs of his pecs. His jeans rode low, the waistband of his boxer briefs just visible, and the denim did nothing to hide the heavy sway of his thighs or the generous bulge straining the front seam.

“Hey, Seb!” Channing’s voice rolled out low and warm. He closed the distance fast and wrapped Seb in a crushing bear hug, lifting him an inch off the ground and spinning him. Hard muscle pressed everywhere—chest to chest, hips to hips—and Seb felt the unmistakable ridge of Channing’s cock, half-hard already, thick and pulsing against his lower belly.

Channing set him down but didn’t step back. “You fucking murdered in there,” he said, voice rougher now, eyes dark and shining. “Crowd ate it up.”

Seb swallowed, mouth dry. “Thanks. After this past weekend, I think they needed the laugh.”

Channing’s brown eyes met Seb’s. “I needed it too.” He said, his voice a notch lower.

He moved closer, crowding Seb back until rough cinderblock scraped the back of the thin young man’s shoulder blades. One thick forearm planted beside Seb’s head; the other slid down to grip Seb’s waist, thumb stroking the strip of skin where his shirt had ridden up.

“But I need more,” he said, voice hot and heavy in Seb’s ear. 

Channing’s hips rolled forward, slow and deliberate. The rigid length trapped in his jeans dragged across Seb’s own aching hardness, a single teasing stroke that made Seb’s breath hitch. He could feel every inch of Channing through the denim—long, fat, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

Channing dipped his head, lips brushing Seb’s ear. “Been thinking about this all night,” he whispered, then claimed Seb’s mouth in a kiss that tasted like whiskey. His tongue pushed in, demanding, while his free hand dropped to Seb’s fly, popping the button with practiced ease. The zipper rasped down. Cool air hit overheated skin, and Channing’s calloused fingers slipped inside, wrapping around Seb’s cock.

Seb moaned into the kiss, hips jerking helplessly into that big fist. Channing broke away only to drag his mouth down Seb’s throat, teeth scraping, tongue licking the sweat there. He sank to his knees without ceremony, shirt riding up to expose the deep, carved lines of his abs flexing with every breath. His hands yanked Seb’s jeans lower, freeing him completely, and the sight of Channing on his knees—beautiful, powerful, hungry—made Seb’s rigid six-inch cock twitch hard. 

Channing looked up, brown eyes blown black with lust, lips wet and parted. He leaned in, breath ghosting over Seb’s slick head—

A sudden roar of boos and shouting erupted from inside the bar.

Seb’s head snapped toward the door. “Channing—wait. Something’s wrong.”

Channing froze, mouth a fraction from taking Seb in, chest heaving. He rested his forehead against Seb’s hip for a second, the heat of his exhale torturous. “It’s just Gunnar being a jackass during his open-mic performance,” he muttered, voice gravel-rough with frustration. “He’ll be fine.”

But Seb’s hands had found Channing’s shoulders, pushing gently. It wasn’t just the noise inside that caught him off guard. “Channing,” he said softly as the hunk looked up. Seb took a big breath: “I—I can’t. Not yet.” His throat felt raw. “I’m sorry.”

Channing rose slowly, tucking himself back into his jeans with a wince, his huge cock still obvious and unashamed. For a moment hurt flickered across his face, then he buried it behind that easy, devastating smile.

“No worries,” he said, voice steady again. He smoothed his shirt down over thick muscle and clapped Seb on the back, a little too hard. “Come on. Let’s go save Gunnar before he really flames out.” 

The Glory Howl reeked of stale beer and fryer grease. Orange carpet, once vibrant, now looked like it had been soaked in bong water for a decade. Fake wood paneling sweated under flickering Budweiser signs, and the relentless thump of euro-house reverberating in the heavy air. The seated restaurant of the truck stop was closed for a much-needed renovation, leaving the bar-side packed with rowdy patrons chomping down on greasy food from the kitchen.

Seb and Channing slipped in through the side door beside the stage. Lyle waved them over, eyes gleaming with secondhand embarrassment.

“Gunnar’s dying out there,” he muttered.

He wasn’t wrong.

Center stage, bathed in a sickly pink spotlight, stood Gunnar in all his obscene glory: six-foot-four, three hundred pounds of competition-grade muscle, every vein and striation glistening under a sheen of oil and sweat. Signature red cap on blonde hair. His bright yellow jockstrap, the word FUCK stamped across the pouch in bold black letters, was the only thing preserving the barest shred of decency. The fabric had gone sheer from strain and perspiration, clinging like wet tissue to the single thickest cock Seb had ever seen. Even soft, it was a monstrous ten inches, pushing the pouch outward to its limit, the fat head outlined perfectly, a wet spot already blooming at the tip where precum had started to leak. 

Gunnar rolled his hips in slow, lewd circles, the swollen pouch swinging like a pendulum. He dragged one huge hand down the deep valley between his pecs, over the ridged eight-pack, and cupped the obscene bulge, giving it a slow, deliberate squeeze that made the jockstrap ride up between his glutes and expose the bottom curve of two round, striated glutes. 

He went into a double bicep pose. Veins forked across his biceps as he flexed, then dragged a broad tongue up the swollen peak of one arm, eyes half-lidded, lips wet and parted like he was tasting himself. His quads flexed and popped, thickly sweeping out wider than most men’s waists, the yellow straps cutting high into the crease where leg met groin. He was golden perfection come to life.

The crowd hated it.

A rotten tomato arced through the air and burst across his abs in a wet red slap, juice sluicing down the deep gutters of his obliques and soaking into the waistband of the jock. Another followed, then a half-eaten hot dog that smacked against one slab-like pec and left a glistening trail of relish and ketchup sliding over a coin-sized brown nipple. Fries rained next, sticking to oiled skin like obscene confetti. A full beer can cracked against his shoulder and exploded, foam coursing down his torso, turning the translucent pouch even more transparent until the flushed head of his cock was clearly visible, thickening visibly under the assault.

“Get off the stage, freak!”

“Put some fucking clothes on!”

“Nobody wants your nasty dick, Gunnar!”

He just grinned wider, defiant, threw his arms up into another pose that made his chest jump and bounce, and thrust his hips forward so hard the pouch looked like it would explode from the strain. The outline of his shaft jerked, half-hard now, stretching the fabric until the seams groaned.

“Fuck you! You know I look good!” Gunnar roared. This was met by a half-eaten hamburger, which smacked him in the face. He lifted up both arms and gave a middle finger to the crowd.

The euro music was suddenly cut, replaced with a maudlin country song. Gunnar strutted offstage, cock swinging heavy with every step, the soaked jock riding lower until the root of his shaft peeked above the waistband, thick as a wrist and glistening, cock half hard, nearly 13” at this point, with room to grow.

Sebastian, Channing Frost, and Lyle Lilly met him at the steps. 

“Tough crowd,” Lyle offered.

Gunnar snatched a towel and started wiping the mess off his torso, smearing ketchup across one nipple and only making himself look more debauched. “Townies wouldn’t know a perfect body if it fucked them raw,” he growled.

“I thought you looked… impressive,” Seb tried.

Gunnar didn’t even glance at him.

Then a squat, heavyset girl in a too-tight tank top barreled through the crowd and cracked an open-palmed slap across Gunnar’s cheek hard enough to snap his head sideways.

“OW! What the fuck, Sandra?”

She was all acne and green ponytails, face red with rage. “You’re a disgusting pig, Gunnar Stokes! Parading that nasty thing around like anyone wants to see it!”

She stormed off, hips waddling.

Gunnar rubbed his cheek, the godly body still heaving, cock still half-chubbed and jutting obscenely in the ruined jock. “A whole fucking year of dating and the bitch wouldn’t even touch my dick,” he snarled. “I’m so goddamn horny I could split wood with this thing right now.” 

Channing jerked his thumb toward the door, smirking. “Truck stop’s still open, big man.”

Gunnar’s face was sour. He shouldered his backpack. “Fuck them, and fuck all of you,” he muttered, shoving his way out the door, every step making his massive muscles flex.

Seb blinked. “The truck stop?”

Lyle’s grin turned filthy. “Showers and bathrooms out back. Rumor is that a couple of the stalls got glory holes big enough to fit Gunnar’s monster through. Truckers don’t care what’s on the other side as long as it’s warm and wet. Neither do the boys of Coxwell, apparently.”

“Never tried it myself,” Channing added quickly, though his eyes lingered on the swinging door Gunnar had disappeared through. “But beats another night with Rosie Palm and her five sisters.”

Seb nodded, feeling out of his league. He felt Channing’s heat as the big hunk stood a little too close to him. Lyle’s gaze flicked between them, sharp and unreadable. Something hot and brittle flashed behind his eyes before he masked it with an easy smile. 

“Right, I’m going to head to the bar,” Lyle said, voice light. “Sorry you’re stuck on the wagon tonight, Seb. I’m sure Channing will keep you… entertained.” His stare lingered on Channing’s package a second too long, then slid to Seb, cool and challenging.

Seb’s pulse stuttered. “I should grab Sunny’s case and head back to campus anyway.”

Channing shifted, the movement dragging the hard line of his thigh against Seb’s hip. “Want company on the walk?” His voice was low, almost hopeful, thumb brushing the bare strip of skin above Seb’s belt like he couldn’t help himself.

Seb glanced at Lyle again. His roommate’s too-wide grin had gone tight at the corners, jaw flexing. 

“No, it’s okay,” Seb said quickly, “You should stay. Keep an eye on Lyle. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Lyle’s laugh was thin. “I’ll try to behave.”

Outside, the night air hit Seb’s flushed skin like cold water. He knelt beside the cinderblock wall of the Glory Howl, easing Sunny into the padded case, fingers trembling as he snapped the latches. The puppet’s carved grin seemed to watch him, knowing. 

He was slinging his backpack over one shoulder when his pocket buzzed, sharp and insistent against his thigh. He startled, nearly dropped the case, then dug out the brick-heavy Motorola. Kurt Stryberg’s cellphone — the lifeline. The little green screen glowed:

UNKNOWN CALLER

His thumb hovered, heart suddenly in his throat. He pressed the answer button.

“Hello?” He said into the receiver.

“Hello, Sebastian.” A masculine voice, low and rough, like gravel pressed under a boot.

But it was a voice that Sebastian knew. 

He was intimately familiar with it. 

It was Sunny’s voice.

Goosebumps raced down Seb’s arms. He pressed the phone tighter to his ear, breath shallow.

“Sunny?” he whispered.

A dark chuckle vibrated against his ear, intimate as a tongue. “Miss me already, kiddo?” 

Across the parking lot, Gunnar kicked the stall door shut behind him and shoved his backpack into the corner with a thud. Grease and ketchup still streaked his skin, sliding down the deep canyons between his abs like obscene warpaint. He dragged the ruined yellow jock down his tree-trunk thighs and let it drop, the soaked fabric peeling away from his cock with a slick sound. The pouch clung for a second to the fat, hooded head before surrendering, and the whole monstrous length flopped out obscenely, already half-hard and drooling.

He told himself he was just changing. Just wiping the night’s humiliation off his body and getting the hell out. Besides, the truck lot was nearly empty; nobody would be here this late. Nobody would be waiting.

But his eyes slid to the hole in the wall anyway.

It had grown over the years, carved wider and smoother by countless impatient hands. Now it gaped like a hungry mouth, edges wrapped in layers of crusted toilet paper, graffiti scrawled above in frantic black marker: HEAVEN with an arrow pointing down.

Gunnar’s breath hitched. Blood surged south so fast his vision blurred. His palm slid down the sweat-slick valley of his huge pecs, over the ridged eight-pack, and wrapped around the root of his cock. Fifteen inches of thick, veiny meat pulsed in his grip, the shaft as wide as a wrist, the head already flushed angry purple and glistening. He gave one slow stroke and a fat bead of precum welled up, stretched, and fell in a long silver string to the grimy tile.

He groaned, low and filthy. The thought alone of some anonymous mouth stretching wide, choking on his size, gagging and drooling while he fed inch after brutal inch between strangers’ lips, made his balls draw up tight, heavy as ripe fruit, aching with a load he’d been carrying for weeks. 

No. Change and leave.

He turned to grab his clothes from the backpack, every muscle flexing in the shaft of moonlight slicing through the high window. Shoulders like boulders, lats flaring so wide they cast shadows over the taper of his narrow waist. His ass two perfect, striated globes, clenching as he bent forward, and his cock swung between his thighs like a club, smearing precum across his inner leg.

Then the restroom door squealed open.

His dick jerked so hard it spurt another rope of precum across the floor. Footsteps, boots on tile, slow and deliberate, passed the first stall, the second, the third. Gunnar’s heart thundered so loud he was sure the stranger could hear it.

The stall beside his creaked. Zipper. The sharp hiss of piss hitting porcelain. Flush. Silence.

Then the soft scrape of denim, the shift of weight, and the gloryhole framed it: a thick, uncut cock shoved through, six fat inches jutting aggressively into Gunnar’s stall. Beer-can girth, flushed dark, veins like cables under the skin. A bead of piss trembled at the slit before it dropped.

A gravel-rough voice rumbled through the partition.

“Quite the performance on stage tonight, boy. You were on fire. Show me if your mouth matches your moves.”

Gunnar’s own cock lurched again, fifteen inches of steel-hard meat bobbing in protest, head swollen and leaking in a steady stream now. He had never been on his knees for anyone. Never wrapped his lips around another man’s dick, never tasted cum that wasn’t his own. 

But the thought of finally unloading, of some faceless mouth milking him dry while he drowned them in pint after pint of thick, pent-up seed, made his hole clench and his thighs tremble.

He dropped to his knees without another thought, the cold tile biting into his skin, his massive frame folding like an offering. The stranger’s cock bobbed inches from his lips.

“Yes, sir,” Gunnar rasped, voice hoarse with raw, desperate need, and opened wide.

He took the stranger in one slow, greedy slide. The head pushed past his lips, stretched them thin, scraped over his teeth, and settled heavy on his tongue. Salt and skin and the faint bite of urine exploded across his taste buds. Gunnar moaned around the intrusion, the sound vibrating straight into the stranger’s shaft.

The man on the other side grunted, hips jerking forward hard enough to shove another inch down Gunnar’s throat. Gunnar’s eyes watered, but he didn’t pull back. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked, hard, tongue flattening along the underside, tracing every pulsing vein. His own cock, fifteen monstrous inches of it, bobbed untouched beneath him, slapping wetly against his abs with every desperate swallow, precum pouring from the slit.

“Big boy on his knees like he was born for it.” The stranger growled, voice rough and oddly familiar. 

Gunnar whimpered, the sound muffled and wet. He pulled off just long enough to drag his tongue in one long, filthy stripe from hairy balls to dripping tip, then sank back down, deeper this time, until coarse pubes scratched his nose and the fat head bullied into his throat. Spit spilled from the corners of his mouth, running in silver threads down his chin, dripping onto the swollen shelf of his pecs.

The stranger started to fuck his face in earnest, short, brutal thrusts. Each slam forced another helpless noise out of him, high and broken, nothing like the cocky overhung musclejock who’d strutted onstage only a short while ago. His hands scrabbled at the partition, huge fingers splayed against chipped paint, desperate for something to hold onto as his throat became nothing but a slick sleeve.

His balls were so tight they ached, drawn up hard against the base of his shaft, churning with a load that felt big enough to flood the entire stall. Every time the stranger’s cockhead battered the back of his tongue, Gunnar’s own dick jerked and spat another thick jet across the floor, the puddle spreading wide and glistening under the harsh fluorescent light.

“Gonna feed you,” the stranger rasped. “Open that throat.” 

Gunnar did. He relaxed every muscle, took one last breath through his nose, and let the man bury himself to the root. The first pulse hit like a fist, hot, thick spurts blasting straight down his gullet. He swallowed convulsively, throat working around the spurting cock, milking it for every drop.

The stranger gave one last shuddering thrust, then pulled free with a wet pop. A final spurt striped across Gunnar’s cheek, clung to his lashes, dripped from his lips. 

Gunnar panted, the salty taste of semen rolling around his mouth. There was silence for a moment. Then a shifting of weight on the other side.

“Your turn,” the voice said.

Gunnar complied.

Outside, back at the Glory Howl, Seb’s knuckles went white around the Motorola, the cheap plastic creaking under his grip. His pulse hammered so hard he felt it in his teeth.

“Who the fuck is this?” he forced out into the phone, voice cracking.

A low, wet chuckle slithered through the earpiece.

“Poor little Sebastian Prescock,” the voice purred. “Always two seconds from crying. Couldn’t even let that muscle slut Channing get his mouth on you without turning into a guilty little virgin, could you? Bet he’s still hard thinking about how you taste.”

Seb’s breath hitched. He spun in a slow circle, scanning the empty lot. Sodium lights buzzed overhead, turning everything sickly orange. A couple of idling rigs loomed beside the dark restroom block in the distance, their chrome catching the glare like teeth. Orange tarps over the diner’s renovation site snapped and billowed in the wind, sounding almost like laughter. Behind him, muffled bass and drunk voices leaked from the Glory Howl, suddenly a world away.

“I’m hanging up you freak,” Seb said, hating how small he sounded.

The voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Hang up and I’ll knife all of your pretty friends. Start with Lyle, maybe. Slice him open while Channing watches. Just like I did with Cass. Just like I did with Sean. I remember how loud they screamed when I gutted them. I still jerk off to the sound.” 

Seb’s knees almost buckled. Tears burned hot at the corners of his eyes, spilling over before he could stop them.

“What do you want?” he choked.

A soft, satisfied exhale. “I want you to SUFFER. And I’m going to enjoy every second of it”

“WHO ARE YOU?” Seb screamed into the phone, the words ripping his throat raw.

Silence. Then, so soft it was worse than shouting:

“You’ll find out soon enough, Sebby.”

Click.

The line went dead. Seb looked at the restroom block, then back to the Glory Howl. 

Inside the restroom complex, Gunnar’s pulse kicked again. He rose slowly, thighs trembling, every huge, rippling  muscle gleaming under the light. Cum dripped from his chin as he turned, planting a palm against the cold wall on either side of the hole.

He fed himself through.

The head of his cock met resistance first, too fat, too swollen, the rim catching on the padded edge. He rolled his hips, slow and deliberate, and the stranger on the other side gave a hoarse laugh that turned into a groan as the crown finally popped through. Inch after inch followed, thick veins dragging over rough toilet-paper padding, until seven inches, less-than-half his impossible length jutted into the next stall like a challenge.

“Goddamn,” the stranger rasped. “That’s the biggest fuckin’ cock I ever seen.”

A calloused hand wrapped around the base, fingers nowhere near meeting, and tugged HARD. Gunnar’s forehead SLAMMED against the wall, a deep, guttural sound ripping out of him as the stranger roughly pulled the entire length of his musclecock to the other side. Fifteen bloated inches of rock hard teen muscle-meat, the tip spurting pre-cum in jets.

Then he felt the mouth. Hot. Wet. Greedy.

The stranger took him in one brutal swallow, lips stretching obscenely wide, throat opening with a wet choke. Gunnar felt the vibration of a moan around his shaft, felt teeth scrape lightly, felt the suction pull another fat bead of precum out his slit. The stranger couldn’t take it all, no one could, but he worked the first ten inches like a man possessed, tongue lashing the underside, cheeks hollowing, spit pouring down the length that wouldn’t fit. 

Gunnar’s hips snapped forward involuntarily, driving deeper. The stranger gagged, pulled off with a messy gasp, strings of saliva bridging swollen lips to Gunnar’s glistening crown.

“Easy, fucker,” he growled, voice wrecked. “Lemme work.”

Then he dove back down, taking him to the root of what he could, nose buried in the trimmed blonde hair at Gunnar’s base, throat spasming around the head. Gunnar fucked the hole in short, desperate thrusts, the partition creaking under his weight. Every slide dragged the stranger’s lips along his shaft, every pull back left the man chasing, mouth open and hungry. The wet sounds echoed obscene and loud, slurping, choking, the rhythmic slap of Gunnar’s hips against the dirty stall partition.

His thoughts raced, filthy and fevered: this mouth was made for his cock, stretching wide, gagging on his size, the stranger’s throat convulsing like a velvet cocoon around his throbbing meat. He imagined the face on the other side, wrecked, lips bruised and swollen, tears streaming from the effort of swallowing him down. Gunnar’s balls churned, heavy with jizz, tightening as the pressure built low in his gut. He was close, so goddamn close, the edge rushing up like a tidal wave, his cock swelling thicker in the stranger’s mouth, veins bulging, precome flooding the man’s tongue in salty waves.

“Gonna cum so hard,” Gunnar warned, voice shredded. “Fuck, gonna flood you—”

With a roar, Gunnar unloaded. Huge spurts of cum jetted out of his donkey cock. The stranger’s mouth popped off with a wet suck. Gunnar’s massive cock throbbed obscenely, ropes of sperm splattering the floor and the opposite wall. Gunnar bucked his hips madly against the wall, his huge nuts unloading their seed.

But then something cold and unyielding pressed along the underside of his shaft, hard metallic ridges digging into the sensitive skin just below the crown. Confusion flickered through the haze of lust, his hips stuttering mid-thrust.

Before the huge, hunky musclejock could react, a rough hand seized his cock at the base, yanking it sideways with brutal force. The partition groaned as fifteen inches of rigid meat was wrenched to the side, the head smacking against the stall wall with a meaty thud, still spurting cum.

A pneumatic hiss filled the air, followed by the sharp crack of a nail gun firing. Pain exploded, white-hot and shocking.The first nail punched through the thick shaft just below the head, pinning it to the partition like a butterfly on a board. Blood welled instantly, hot and slick, dripping down the wall in crimson rivulets.

Gunnar roared, the sound raw and animal, his body jerking back instinctively, but the nail held fast, tearing a fresh wave of agony through his cock as the force of his withdrawal made it tear into the sensitive flesh. The stranger didn’t stop. Another hiss, another crack— a second nail drove through the middle of the shaft, embedding deep into the wall, the metal shearing through veins and flesh with a wet crunch.

“FUCK!!! WHAT THE FUCK!! – ARRRGHH!!!” Gunnar’s voice broke into a scream as a third nail followed, slamming into the base where his cock met the gloryhole, securing the entire length flat against the partition. Blood sprayed in fine arcs with each pulse of his heart, soaking the floor. His cock throbbed wildly, trapped and mangled, the once-proud meat now a pierced ruin, nails glinting under the fluorescent light. Blood mixed with cum spurt out of the tip. 

Gunnar’s scream tore through the stall, raw and shredded, echoing off the piss-stained walls.His body jerked, every muscle locked in agony, but the nails held him fast, his fifteen-inch cock stretched obscenely sideways, the head purple and bloated, pulsing with each frantic heartbeat.

The stranger’s laugh was wet and hungry, a predator’s sound. “Scream louder, big man. Makes my dick hard.”

Boots scraped on tile. The nail gun whirred, compressor hissing like a snake.

"NOO!! PLEASE! LET ME GO!! MY PERFECT FUCKING COCK! PLEASE!! AAAARGGHH!" Gunnar wailed.

Gunnar’s head snapped up, blind instinct, chest heaving, sweat and cum and blood streaking his perfect torso. He opened his mouth to beg, to roar, anything, but the muzzle of the nail gun pressed cold against the partition, right where the stranger guessed his face would be.

CRACK.

The first nail punched straight through the thin metal and wood and into Gunnar’s left eye. The orb burst like a grape, vitreous fluid and blood exploding across his cheek in a hot gush. His body convulsed, back arching, cock ripping against the nails that held it, fresh blood spraying in a violent arc.

"FUUUUUCKK!!! OH FUCK! YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! FUCK!!"

CRACK.

The second took his right eye, driving deep into the socket with a wet crunch. Darkness swallowed him whole, pain so bright it felt like light, his scream turning into a high, broken keen as he thrashed, head trying to slam back, but the nail was fast, blood pouring from ruined sockets down his beautiful, shattered face.

"NO! OH GOD! MY EYES! YOU FUCKING NAILED MY EYES! AAAARRRGGHHH!"

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK. 

Four more in rapid succession, nails hammering through the partition and into his cheeks, his forehead, his open screaming mouth, one shearing through his tongue and pinning it to the roof of his mouth in a spray of crimson. His perfect features collapsed inward, bone cracking, teeth shattering, blood bubbling from his lips in thick froth.

"AAAUAUUARGRGGGGHHH!!'" 

The nail gun lowered.

The compressor whined again, hungry.

And then the real punishment began.

CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

Nails slammed into his trapped cock one after another, a merciless barrage. The first punched through the fat crown, splitting the head wide, blood and cum mixing in a grotesque flood. Another drove through the thickest vein along the top, severing it, arterial spray painting the wall red. A third, a fourth, a fifth, nails overlapping, crossing, turning fifteen inches of proud, godlike meat into a pinned, bleeding ruin, each impact making the shaft jump and twitch like it was still trying to come.

"NOOO-AAGGHHHH! AAHHHHH!!!" Gunnar's wails were inhuman, no words anymore, just gutteral screams.

Ten. Twelve. Fifteen nails. Twenty. 

The gun never stopped. Nails tore through the shaft in clusters, ripping flesh, pulverizing erectile tissue, driving so deep some punched clean through and embedded in the wall behind. 

"MMMPPPH!! AHHHH!" The huge hunk cried out, his mouth thick with nails, his sight blinded, his body being ruined by the second.

But the stranger wasn’t done. The nail gun shifted lower along the wall.

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK. Nails fired into his quads, one after another, shattering the muscles that had once flexed like steel cables on the stage, driving deep into femur and sinew, blood erupting in geysers that soaked his calves. His legs buckled, but the pinned cock held him up, ripping fresh agony through his groin as his 300 pounds of rippling perfection sagged and tore.

"AUGHHH!! P-EASE! ARRRRGH!" Gunnar could barely breathe, blood filled his mouth.

Upward now. CRACK. A nail into each pec, piercing the swollen slabs of muscle, deflating them like punctured balloons, blood bubbling from the entry wounds and cascading over his abs. CRACK-CRACK. More into the eight-pack, nails crisscrossing the ridged valley, shredding the core that had once been unbreakable, turning it into a pulpy mess of ruptured organs and splintered bone beneath.

His arms next—CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK—nails hammering into biceps and triceps, pinning his limbs to the wall beside his head, the peaks exploding outward in sprays of meat and fluid, veins bursting like overripe fruit. Shoulders, traps, delts—all targeted in a frenzy, dozens more nails fired point-blank, the compressor screaming as the stranger emptied the magazine into every inch of Gunnar’s godlike frame. 

Flesh tore, bones cracked, blood painted everything in slick red horror. His chest heaved in ragged, gurgling breaths, each inhale sucking air through nail-punctured lungs, his body a crucified slab of destroyed perfection, every ripple and vein now a channel for crimson ruin.

Gunnar’s body went rigid, then slack, then rigid again, jerking with every impact like a puppet with its strings cut and re-tied. Blood poured from his blinded face, his ruined cock, his mouth, pooling thick and dark beneath him. His screams had dissolved into wet, gurgling moans, barely human, as the last nail fired, CRACK, straight through the root of his cock, severing it almost completely from his body, leaving it hanging by threads of skin and sinew, nailed to the wall like a trophy.

Silence fell, broken only by the drip-drip-drip of blood and the soft, satisfied exhale from the other side of the wall.

“Perfect,” the stranger whispered, voice thick with lust. “Fuckin’ perfect.” 

Gunnar, pinned and ruined, could only twitch in his blind, blood-soaked haze, wet gurgles bubbling from his shattered mouth as his 300 pounds of once-godlike muscle hung limp against the partition, every ripple and vein now a lacerated channel for crimson ruin. 

A heavy scrape echoed—metal on tile—as the stranger dragged in a rusted propane tank, the kind used for roadside grills, its blue cylinder scarred and dented, hissing faintly from a loose valve. He entered the stall of the once proud musclejock. The stranger positioned it at Gunnar's feet, the tank's cold curve brushing against the jock's shredded quads, where nails had exploded the teardrop muscles into hanging shreds of meat, exposing bone that gleamed wetly under the fluorescent buzz.

"Almost done with my masterpiece," the stranger rasped, voice thick with twisted arousal, his own cock straining against his jeans as he eyed the wreckage: Gunnar's pecs deflated and leaking from nail wounds, abs pulverized into a bloody pulp, arms crucified with steel spikes that had burst biceps like overripe melons, juice and fiber spraying in erotic horror. The big hunk was a canvas of destruction that made the stranger's breath hitch with dark lust.

He twisted the valve wide open. Propane whispered out, invisible and deadly, filling the stall with its acrid, egg-rotten stench. Gunnar choked on it, his punctured lungs sucking in the gas in ragged, frothy inhales, body convulsing as the fumes invaded his bloodstream.

The stranger stepped back, nail gun still in hand. CRACK-CRACK-CRACK. Three more nails fired into Gunnar's torso for good measure. Gunnar's body arched one last time, a final, erotic spasm rippling through his destroyed frame, blood and gas mixing in a haze that made the air shimmer.

Satisfied, the killer backed out of the stall, trailing a long strip of toilet paper he'd rolled into a crude fuse, unspooling it across the restroom floor to the door. He lit the end with a Zippo from his pocket, the flame catching hungrily on the gore-slick paper, blue fire racing toward the tank as he slipped outside into the night, the door clicking shut behind him.

The fuse burned fast, snaking into the stall. Propane thickened the air, saturating Gunnar's wounds, seeping into every puncture and tear. The flame hit the tank's base with a whoosh, igniting the leaking gas in a chain reaction. The explosion roared like thunder, the tank rupturing in a fireball that engulfed Gunnar whole—flames licking up his nailed body, charring the mangled cock to ash, melting nails into his flesh as his 300 pounds of ruined muscle vaporized in a blast of heat and shrapnel. The partition shattered, the stall walls buckling, but the cinderblock restroom contained the worst of it, the door holding just long enough for the stranger to sprint clear across the empty lot.

As he sprinted, he tore the mask off his face and dropped it to the asphalt. Freed, he disappeared into the night as flames consumed the complex  behind him.