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Revenge Of The Mountain Men
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Tom shivered as he watched Clint open the heavy steel door. It was on the opposite wall of the laundry room from the cell's door.
The last time, Tom had been naked and the laundry room's bare concrete floor had been icy cold against his feet. Donny had unlocked the door and Caleb had pushed Tom into the darkness. Caleb had gripped Tom's waist and pressed his stiff cock into Tom's butt crack. "Soon, Honey," he'd whispered. "Soon."
Clint stepped inside and turned the lights on. Tom followed him.
They were in a big bare room with an unfinished ceiling and naked concrete walls. An age-flattened wine red shag carpet covered part of the floor. The carpeted area was furnished with a broken-down sofa, an old beat-up recliner, a pair of folding chairs, and a card table. Pretty standard for a basement room in an old neglected house.
That changed abruptly in the uncarpeted part of the room. A rectangular steel frame—vertical bars with heavy horizontal braces—was fastened to the bare joists and floor a few feet away from the back wall. A padded black steel bench sat beside the frame. A sling—a black leather hammock suspended from the joists by chrome chains—hung on the other side of the frame.
A black flag was fastened to one wall. It bore the image of a clenched fist—stark white against the black—and the legend "America's Fist."
This was a full studio, with a video camera and lights hanging from the joists, two more cameras mounted on wheeled tripods, and flatscreen monitors scattered around the room.
Tom stood at the edge of the carpet, looking at the bare concrete and sinister equipment beyond that ragged boundary of semi-civilization. Last time, he'd been frightened, not knowing what Donny and Caleb were going to do to him. And knowing his humiliation and shame would be recorded and broadcast to the world—or at least, a small dark part of it—had made it even worse.
Caleb had pressed against Tom's back. "You have SUCH a purty lil ass," he'd said, rubbing his bare dick up and down Tom's butt crack and fondling Tom's cock. Embarrassingly, it had hardened under the bad mountain man's touch. "Oh yeah!" Caleb had crowed. "We're gonna have us some fun tonight!"
"You ready for this?" Clint asked. Like Tom, he was dressed in a black leather harness, a black leather jockstrap, heavy black leather boots, and a black ski mask. They'd borrowed the gear from the Copperhead Gang's well-stocked dungeon.
Clint's voice brought Tom back to the present. "Sure." He felt self-conscious in the leather gear, but was also horny as hell, with his cock straining against the jockstrap. "I don't want to be vindictive, but I can't help it. It's payback time for those Nazi motherfuckers."
"Amen to that, Brother!" Washington came in, bare-chested and wearing skin-tight black leather pants, heavy black leather boots, and his own black ski mask. "After everything they did—" He stopped at the sound of footsteps from the laundry room. "Well, here they come."
"Showtime," Tom whispered as Harry and Tiny brought Donny and Caleb in. Harry and Tiny were still dressed in camo fatigues and combat boots, although they'd traded their pistols and rifles for holstered stun guns. Donny and Caleb were naked, with manacles on their wrists and ankles, looking fearfully at the three leather-clad men facing them.
Harry closed and locked the door. "Let us begin." He stood at parade rest in front of the door, with his hand on the butt of the stun gun.
"Well." Washington stepped up to Donny and Caleb and put his hands on his hips. His unusually long thick cock was clearly visible through his tightly-stretched leather pants. "How's that white power thing working out for you?"
Caleb growled, "Fuck you, n—!" Despite his defiant tone, he looked scared.
Washington smiled sweetly. "That's not how it's gonna work." He patted the tattooed man's ass. Caleb tensed and curled his fists into balls, but then cast a frightened glance at Harry and Tiny and relaxed his fists again. "Not this time." Washington caressed Caleb's butt cheeks and then slipped a finger up his crack.
"Oh fuck!" Caleb whispered. His cock was getting hard. It was thin but unusually long, with a wide head that looked like an army helmet.
Washington grinned at Caleb's growing erection. "We'll get to that." He turned to Donny. "And how about you?"
"You've won the battle," Donny said. "But, the war isn't over. Other Patriots will take our places." He looked tired and resigned. "Whatever you're going to do . . . Just get on with it."
It was almost 8:00 p.m. Harry, Tiny, and Clint had spent most of the day interrogating Donny and Caleb. The video wouldn't be admissible in court, but they'd given lots of names, places, and dates that investigators could use to build cases.
Now, they were going to livestream Donny's and Caleb's punishment for raping Washington and Tom.
"Okay, let's go." Washington and Clint took Donny and Caleb by their arms, escorted them into the studio, and secured their ankle cuffs to a steel ring set in the concrete floor.
Tom followed the little group. The studio lights came on when he stopped in front of the stark white-on-black "America's Fist" flag. "We ready?"
"Yes, we are." A slim 19-year-old Hispanic man with short black hair and a sparse mustache, wearing a heavy long-sleeved shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots, picked up a video camera, came over to Tom, and kissed him.
"Hi, Sancho." Tom put his hand on the bulge in the younger man's jeans. "Good to see . . ." He traced the outline of Sancho's penis with his thumb and index finger. ". . . and feel . . . you again."
"Yeah," Sancho whispered. "Me too. You want to get together after this shoot?"
"Do some private shooting?" Tom laughed. "Sure."
"All right." Sancho was wearing a headset. "The guys upstairs are ready." Big John and Abe, Stonewall Ranch's two hackers, were at the dark web server in the back bedroom, monitoring the video feeds from the studio and choosing which camera to livestream.
Tom picked up a pointed white hood and put it on, hiding his masked face. Memories flooded back as he checked his image in the monitor.
The main memory was of Donny, naked except for his hood and heavy black work boots with his hard cock secured by a black leather cock ring, standing here in front of his white supremacist flag. As a heavy metal version of RIDE OF THE VALKYRIES played, he'd shouted "Patriots . . . Arise!" and extended his arm in a clenched-fist salute. "We are America's Fist—fighting to restore America's greatness and to punish its enemies."
Donny had ranted about "racial purity" and played a recording of Tom, bent over in the middle of the cell with his hands on his knees, bracing himself while Washington fucked his ass from behind. He and Caleb had proceeded to "punish" Tom—flogging and then raping him.
The worse part had been the way Tom had gotten off on it . . .
He forgot all that when the music started. It was the heavy metal version of RIDE OF THE VALKYRIES that Donnie had used for the last webcast. HIS webcast.
As the music blared, Tom shouted "Patriots . . . Arise!" and extended his arm in Donny's phallic clenched-fist salute. "You are America's Fist. He paused dramatically and then cried, "Frantically jerking your limp dicks!" The music ended abruptly and he raised the middle finger of his outstretched hand.
