Double-cross

Yomon Eaton features as the body-guard

1.“If you were a man …,” he snarled, “… she wouldn’t go wandering.”Incensed he hissed his anger back at the husband. Throwing all caution to the wind. He’d tested these manacles. There’d be no getting away. He was done-for. That thought only bloated his defiance. What-the-hell did he have to lose?.“If you were a man …. If you did your job …...”

There was no point denying it. He’d been caught red-handed. On her bed on his knees, dogging her from behind. Her excitement filled the room with sounds of pleasure. The husband had walked in, unannounced. She’d cried out, horror-struck. The husband had stood there, speechless. Eyes popped open like a fish out of water.He did himself the dignity of pulling out. Stark-naked, inside her, he’d twisted his head over at the husband .. kneeling up, caught in the middle of deep slow thrusts. Taken aback he himself had frozen. He’d stopped doing her, heart beating .. his throbbing dick needy pressed alongside her leg. It didn’t take much to realise. He was fucked.

Frog-marched down to the cellars .. by his own mates. Given a good working-over .. the master was looking on. They meant to hang on to their jobs.“Give it the fucker.”His screams of fury echoed off the walls. Pinned against the dank wall, arms held out to the side, still he wasn’t going down without a fight. The first prick who approached, club in hand .. this mate of his took a kick in the crutch. He missed his balls but the fool went careening back. A club whooshed in from the side .. smack across his midriff. Bending him up. But the grip on his arms slammed him back. Before he caught his breath, another club rammed itself in, end-first. Exploding in through his navel. Blasting up his guts inside. It felt like the club rammed his backbone against the wall.

“More. Hit the fucker. More.”The master sounded off his head with fury. But he had no time for that. Again a blaster smashed open his guts. His wind exploding out in a sharp angry cry. His head swam. Flushed, angry, hurting. Pinned back, belly exposed. Two more body-breaking thuds rammed into his guts.

They let him go. Woozy, his leg tottered forward .. abandoning the wall. A knee kicked hard at his thigh. Half-stunned, he was falling, his legs letting him down. A blow to the head decked him. He was still groaning when hands grabbed at his legs and hauled him over the floor. Dazed, weakened by this show his mates were putting on for the boss, he was dragged and dropped into a hole . The metal plate slammed noisily down and locked him in blackness under the ground.

Hours he’d spent in that hole .. in total darkness .. nursing his hurt .. how long he had no idea. But it stank. When the husband’s men came for him, he was covered in grime. He reeked of rot and decay. It took a dozen men to drag him to this cellar. And when he arrived .. when he saw the wooden cross .. caught a glimpse of the vengeful husband waiting for him .. he hit back.

A dozen of them .. the mates he’d worked with, gone drinking with, the other guards .. going for him. Under the master’s watchful eye. They knew .. if they wanted to keep their jobs, then they came in hard. Too many of the pricks, though .. falling over each other. Almost comic .. they

couldn’t get at him. Stupidly trying to get a hold on him, they were tripping over each other. Sprawling back when his fist caught a jaw. Breaking out when an elbow made contact with a throat. But they had clubs. He took a blow across the back of his neck. Momentarily stunned. Another club thwacked him across the waist. Expelling his wind, bending him up. A smack to the skull sent him careening. Taking a couple of men under him as he fell. But he was out.

The shackles to his wrists were unbreakable. He’d tried, a dozen times. He’d come-to with a throbbing head. Panic seized him, he’d wriggled, he’d tugged, he fought against the manacles with all his muscled might. But they weren’t letting him go .. iron fetters kept his arms relentlessly pinned to the cross. Slapped back to consciousness, he’d also found himself shackled at the feet, he knew he was trapped. Spread out on this cross by unbreakable shackles, hands and feet. He knew he was fucked.

“She’s carrying your brat.”Her husband glowering stood before him.“The stinking whore.”

He didn’t need telling she liked her men. He’d been taken on .. hired for the size of him, the way he looked, for the impression his body made .. engaged as body-guard to the wife .. to fend off unwanted attention from other men. It took no time for the other guys to tell him. Any man that looks likely .. she’d have him. She couldn’t get enough.They had been right, it took no time at all. The men who’d hauled his hide down to this cellar .. his mates who’d done him over, the other guards .. they had bragged about having it off with her. The men who’d fought him onto this cross, earlier in the tavern they told tales .. how hungry she was in bed. What a goer. A preying mantis .. almost ate the male alive. Wild.But the last few months it had always been his muscular hide she’d summoned secretly to her bed. Obviously he knew how to please.First thing he’d heard, though, that she was with his child. How much worse did that make things?

2.

“Your stinking fuck-brat.”The husband stood grim and resentful.“Not mine. I’ve not touched the whore in months.”He knew that. She’d told him. Did she care? Did she hell! Plenty of likely males only too willing to do the job. All the better for him, too .. or so it had seemed. “On duty” nightly .. for weeks, months now. No wonder really she was carrying. At some point something would stick. She couldn’t get enough, hungry as hell. He just hadn’t given it a thought.

Things looked different now. Her husband stood before the cross. Glaring indignant at his rival hopelessly stretched out. Powerful, muscled. For that reason the husband had hired the hunk for the job. But he’d overstepped the mark.“Can’t stand the bitch …..”Maybe not. But a husband’s vanity was offended. No one else was supposed to do the job …..

He’d hired some hunk to keep her free from male advances? Yet didn’t touch her himself. What the ….? Where did this arsehole keep his brains? Up his arse, not in his dick. Did he not once think she’d get turned on by her well-built guard? Hired with the purpose of sticking close to her. Not wonder she might take an interest in getting a peek at what he kept under his britches? What a stupid prick!What did this husband have for a head? Exposing her to a stud who looked every bit the man her husband was not? Manly, muscled. Virile. That was what had got her. Virile.

That first time .. when she’d lured him into her privacy .. he had hesitated. But not for long. The others had had her, he’d been told .. had them often enough. What the hell! And what did this prick of a husband think a stud like him kept in his britches? He bred from his stallions, didn’t he? Never think a muscle-hunk of a guard might have hot blood in his veins? What did he think, this arsehole? He owned her, he thought. He bought his guards, his property too .. he thought. Their dicks as well?

Gripped suddenly by a rush of anger at the futility of his position, again he tugged madly at his wrists. Yanking at the fetters that pinned him to this cross. Nothing gave. Just a searing burn from flesh sore from his efforts .. from tugging at the shackles on his arms. In frustration he gave out a massive roar. Flooding the cellar with his rage. Furious that there was no escape. That he’d got himself caught like this. Captive of a husband riven with jealousy and hate. At the hunk he had hired .. for daring to fuck his wife. A man who feared the world would know .. laughing .. his wife had gone with her bodyguard. YES. HE was fucked alright.

The stupidity of the husband .. the hypocrisy of his mates .. his spirit inflamed into a rage so strong that it seemed the pressure in his head could actually boil. Burning with anger .. at himself .. furious at getting caught out .. his head shot back. Defiant he roared his fury at the gloomy ceiling overhead.“DO YOUR WORST!”

With seething rage he splattered the air with his rage.“Who gives a fuck?”

HE did, of course, the husband did. Fearful of the titters behind his back. Seeing himself held up for a cuckolded fool. Cheated by the hunk he himself had hired to stay close to his wife. He roared out in fiery frustration.Laughter greeted his outrage. Breathing hard, his broad chest heaving with the passion of his rage, defiant, beyond himself, he fixed the jealous husband with his anger.He felt the eyes scour over him. Down from the manacles hopelessly trapping his muscular arms. Glorying in the anger in his sweat-drenched armpits. Scraping over the solid breadth of his broad chest. Furious he heard the husband chuckle. Something he had not expected.

The husband’s eyes were full of mockery. “Who gives a fuck? Who cares?” he repeated the retort.He heard the man chortle, eerily.“I do,” he answered.He saw the husband’s faced change to a mock smile. On his features was a look of pretend-amusement. Covering a sadistic glower. Cruel eyes running down over the hard-prominent boulders in his belly. And .. having made sure his gaze was being followed .. he saw the husband’s look slide further down.“NO ONE can know. No one will know.”

The husband nodded to one of the guards. “Cut away this garb. Let’s get a look at that deadly weapon. The thing he used.”It was one of his drinking mates who came forward with a knife. Slicing away his remaining covering. One of his fellow body-guards. Who himself had boasted about “sticking it to the bitch”. Ironically now eagerly doing his master’s bidding. Hanging on to his job. Throwing the last shreds of his clothes to the side.

The guard turned his head. At the sound of his master snapping his fingers. Indicating impatiently with his hand. Ordering to be given the blade.“Do my worst? Eh?”The husband was twirling the knife in his hand. His gaze had dropped down the body on the cross. To the point where the frame spread open the legs. To the limp member lying snug in its nest of crinkly hair.Their eyes met again. A sadistic smirk lit the husband’s face. A quick look down again. A twirl on the knife-handle in the husband’s hand.“I intend to do my best.”