Page 19 of Iced Out

“PLEEAASE!! NOOO!!”

The knife bit into the soft skin, just breaking the surface. With a surgeon’s precision, the man sliced open the “sheath” down to the tip of Brad’s shaft. The pain somehow surpassed that of his blown-out knees, and he screamed.

The men watching the “operation” didn’t flinch—neither at what they were witnessing nor at Brad’s cries, which escalated when the blade severed the sheath from the head, and the man began peeling it away from the muscle.

Instead of making Brad’s member shrink, the pain sensors in his cock caused it to stiffen slightly, which made the surgical process more effective.

“Stop… please stop!” His head thrashed back and forth. “Don’t! Please don’t! It HURTS!! STOOOP!!”

“It’s supposed to hurt, dumbass,” the young spic mumbled, his tone ice cold.

The cowboy walked closer. “How many times did your victims beg you to stop because you were hurting them?” When Brad opened his mouth—whether to answer or to scream, he didn’t know—the cowboy backhanded him, slamming his head against the springs and ripping his cheek on the coils. “That was rhetorical, motherfucker.”

Brad squeezed his eyes shut as hot tears streamed down his face. Blood wet the coils beneath his cheek, but he barely felt the sting of the wound as the cowboy’s friend peeled his cock like a kid dissecting a frog in science class.

Just let it be over—please, God, just let it be over!

The big man’s words rippled through his mind: God don’t listen to child fuckers.

But God was on his side—on the side of those in power—not these filthy pagan heathens. That was the consensus in Brad’s circle and higher up.

Does it look like He’s on your side now?!

Brad’s insides quivered and shook, triggering revulsion throughout his body. He couldn’t stop it and retched again, but only a thick, disgusting coating of bile came up, which didn’t make it past the back of his tongue and made him retch even harder, grinding his gut into excruciating knots.

He felt the skin of his dick pulling back from the main muscle, fibers tearing, the thin blade slicing through those clinging veins and vessels. Brad’s breath was wild and ragged, heaving his chest so hard it caused a pressurized pain to surge through his chest cavity.

Let me have a heart attack! Just make it stop!

His heart kept beating.

It didn’t stop.

Cochise stood, wiped the thin blade on his jeans, and stepped back. He looked at Clint. The cowboy nodded, took the small knife, and returned to the table, replacing the blade with the other tools. He sank to his heels beside the table, reached into a small wooden crate beneath it, grabbed the items inside, then crossed the floor to the Egyptian, who took the thick, protective gloves and pulled them on. Clint handed over the second item.

Crus and Rodriguez moved in closer, curious.

The guest’s eyes were clamped shut again, his stomach still lurching slightly.

“Open your eyes,” Cochise said, his voice low.

The captive choked on sobs and shook his head.

“Open your fucking eyes, or I’ll chop up your cock and make you eat it, piece by piece.”

Whimpers bubbled from the man, and he opened his eyes a crack.

Cochise held up the item Clint had given him: a medium-sized jar of clear liquid. The guest’s eyes opened wider. “Wh-Wh-What is that?”

Looking at the jar, Cochise said, “Some old school stuff my dad used back in the day on those who really deserved to suffer.” The Egyptian stepped closer, and the guest flinched. “Wretches like you.”

“Wh-What is it?” the man cried. “What the fuck is it?!”

Cochise carefully removed the jar lid. “Some truly nasty shit.” His mouth twitched.

“No-no-no!” the guest choked on a renewed surge of panic. “No, don’t! Don’t! No!”

Leaning in, Cochise growled in his face, “Fuck you.” He held the jar just above the man’s flayed cock and tilted the container as the liquid flowed toward the opening.