Dust and cobwebs

For something like twenty years, now, I've been a regular user of Internet Relay Chat, or IRC. I'm actually there now, in fact, on EFNet in a channel called #gaysnuff. I don't know if I should give that particular detail, except it's pretty dead. Ha ha what a pun. No, I mean, dead as in no one there but me. It used to be fun; there used to be quite a few guys with various kinks of a fatal sort, all talking fantasy. They're mostly gone now. But then most of the whole EFNet is gone now. It used to see 100,000 users at any one time, or more, and at the moment there's all of 26,000. I don't know where they've gone. Probably the same place as all the guys who used to go to bars, maybe.

I admit that, especially in the last five to ten years, I would disappear from IRC during periods I wasn't quite as horny (or noose-hungry, maybe is a better way to put it). Then I'd come back after a couple of months, and things were a little different. The channel would have a new set of bots or operators, or different users, or what not. Now, there are no bots, and usually when I join the usual channel I'm also the first one there. Ops for me, yay! Not that I remember what to do with op privileges, anymore. It's not as if there is much reason to throw an ops' weight around in a moribund channel.

IRC is not very spiffy. Old tech rarely is, and everyone goes to the shiny new places instead. I can't imagine finding someone to share a snuff fantasy with on Grindr, but maybe one can. (I don't even own a smartphone, so I wouldn't know.) It's still possible to have fun on IRC. All it takes is a few warm bodies.

New year's greetings and random thoughts

Happy new year to you ... Wow, 2015 already, huh? Maybe I should make a resolution to update this blog more often. Anyway, just wanted to check in and let you know I'm still thinking about the blog and any readers I have. Thanks for stopping by. There are still notions for stories perking in my head, though I haven't made the time to coax them out of my head and into the computer lately. I will soon.

I've been going through my image archive on my computer and rearranging photos into new folders, deduplicating as I go. It is a long chore, mostly because each image tends to get examined closely, and that's when distractions happen. Large, stiff, somewhat leaky distractions. Perhaps you know what I mean. If I should uncover photos that would be of interest to readers of this humble blog, I will share them. I've mostly limited myself to images that are in the public domain, but I may rethink that this year.

A crazy notion has occurred to me: Maybe a few of the stories I've posted here could be collected into an ebook somewhere. One of the other websites I follow frequently mentions such things created by the blogger. It's just a thought, for now. Which stories would you pick for this, dear reader?

Noose selfie

That's me. Can't you tell? A reader suggested photos of myself with a noose, and this one just happened to get into my camera. Yes, I know the knot isn't behind my ear and the rope is slack, but ... if only I knew another kinky photographer to help out here.

Dreams

Every once in a while, I'll actually have a noose dream. While sleeping, I mean; thought I'd better clarify that. Usually I'm nude and in a fairly large and empty basement with gray cinder block walls and exposed beams, and I'm trying to work out a way to wrap a rope around my neck and play before anyone else comes down to the basement. This scene has played out a few times, but I've never been noosed up so far.

The one I had last night was a little different. I seemed to have been hanged already, and I was lying on the floor, nude. Someone was coming over to me (I think he was nude, too), and I was trying to decide whether to be dead (or maybe play dead) or try to get up, and I chose the latter. I woke up then, so I don't know how that scene would've played out. I don't have noose dreams all that often, which in a way is surprising because of how many times nooses figure in my fantasies.

In fact, erotic or kinky dreams of any sort don't come to me often, unfortunately. I had another one last night, though. I was walking along a pier or breakwater at night with a high school friend (one who I'm pretty certain is not kinky or queer in any way), and we were both in leathers and boots. He got ahead of me with another friend, so I got to the bar alone. In my dream it's the Detroit Eagle, but the scenery doesn't exactly match the real bar (as happens in dreams). I walked through the place, got a beer, saw guys I know, and enjoyed the feeling of my leather and boots.

This Eagle had a leather shop off to the side, so I went there to browse. It was packed with shirts, pants, chaps, and accessories, and it was almost like a leather surplus store. On one wall were shelves of boots, and I particularly remember U.S. army "Mickey Mouse" winter boots, huge ones in sizes 33 and up. (That's U.S. sizes, mind. My feet are large and the size number is only 15.) No, I didn't buy any.

Eventually I needed to piss, and I went to a toilet in the back. There was a sign that implied that I should leave the door open, so I did, and someone came to watch while I pissed. This didn't turn me on, but I didn't stop what I needed to do. And that's about where that dream ends. No nooses, but that's OK. The dreams have kind of left me horny all day, actually. That's probably why I had to write about them here.

Number 5

New story! I started writing this years and years ago, and forgot about it until this year, when I finished it up.

"Fourth young man dead in woods." I must've read that article a dozen times. Another guy was found naked and hanging from a tree a couple of miles outside town in a secluded wood lot. He was about 21, good-looking according to reports, hands bound behind his back with rope, probably sexually assaulted first. Just like the guy last month, and the one before that in the next county over, and the first one. The sheriff was talking as if he had a serial killer on his hands. The first guy's car was left at a rest area out on the highway. This last guy was probably picked up hitchhiking. Everyone was getting a little scared and all the authorities urged people to keep an eye out for strangers.

Like I said, though, I memorized the article, watched all the TV coverage. And it haunted my dreams at night. I had just turned 22 and had been frequenting the rest stops or hitchhiked for tricks for a couple of years now. It could have been me the killer picked up. I stopped going to rest areas for a while. Too many police anyway.

But I kept having these hot dreams and I'd wake up with my heart pumping with fear and my dick rock hard. In my dreams, it WAS me — me the killer picked up, raped, and strung up.

After about a week of this, I knew that anything I obsessed about that much, maybe I wanted it. What the fuck — my job wasn't that good and my friends had all gone to college or moved away. So I went back to cruising rest stops. Since it had been a couple of weeks, the attention was off the killer in the press and the sheriff's office. The rest stop was quiet still. The first couple of days, nothing. The third day, I could've had a blow job in the men's room by this older guy I'd seen before there, but I turned him down.

I skipped the weekend, figuring there'd be too many tourists. I called in sick on Monday and headed back toward the highway again. I parked at the far end of the rest area 40 miles south and waited. After a half hour of flipping the radio dial, just when I was thinking I would have to leave to avoid looking like a vagrant, a van drove in and parked a few spots away from me. The driver gave me a look. A good look. He got out and went to the men's room. I waited a minute and then followed.

It has been so long since I posted anything new here, you probably just about gave up on me. Maybe you thought I was dead, even. Probably got myself hanged from a rope somewhere, left there by a guy who I should've checked out better before I said I would play with him. My crotch took over when he said he'd help me out with my noose "problem." He helped me out, all right, up to a point... but when I was hanging from the rope, that's when he decided he was done helping. He watched me kick, watched me try to grab at the rope, watched my cock bounce around, then watched me slump and give in to the noose. Then he walked away to let someone else find my hanging dead body.

Or ... not.

Fortunately (I guess) I'm still here. Unfortunately, the foregoing is about all the finished writing I have for you. My fingers are crossed that my writer's block goes away soon. Or else, readers might have to get together to make me pay for the lack of new stories.

Not Practice This Time

Here's something... it's from about six years ago, and it probably is half of what the story should be—the climax half, at least. The premise is that the "victim" has somehow trained himself to hang without snuffing it right away (which of course is not really possible, unfortunately). One ought not tempt fate too often, though.

It's been about ten minutes and I just felt one of those gentle, warm breezes lick my whole body and make it spin around a little, slowly. It feels so fuckin' good that for a moment I forgot about the rope that's tight around my neck. I'm dangling from a sturdy oak branch, buck naked, with my hands tied helplessly behind my back. My buddy Buck, the one who tied my wrists after I snugged the noose around my neck, just watches. We're on his land, which is wooded and far from a paved road, and he's my only way out of this.

Usually a guy in my position would be a corpse by now. But I've been working on this for years. It's a combination of control that makes it possible for me to hang and not die. I know there isn't much blood getting to my brain, or much oxygen in it. But I'm hanging still and quiet, conserving energy. I've gone five minutes before, even ten. This time it'll be twenty, maybe. Buck will get me down then, or sooner if I give him a signal, which would actually be a trick without my hands. But I'm not worried. I'm relaxed, letting my head droop forward, my shoulders sloping, neck stretched, feet limp and pointing down. My cock isn't so relaxed; it arcs out from my crotch fat and semi-hard, the same as when I started this.

About ten minutes ago... well, maybe twelve I guess... I stepped down the three-step ladder, first one step which tightened the rope. Then I tried to reach the next step, but my right foot didn't reach it and my left foot ended up pushing the ladder out from under me. The rope caught me, and I had to struggle a bit to adjust where the rope was on my neck. That's always where the most danger is with this. Maybe I won't get the panic under control? Or I'll shift wrong and break my neck? But the struggling makes a good show. Buck records it on a digital camera. I'll struggle and kick for a minute or so, then slow down, and finally hang still. That's where you'd think I'd be unconscious and just about dead. But I'm not. I'm just really enjoying hanging from the rope at that point.

After about four minutes, Buck stopped the video. He took some still photos then. Full length, then close-ups of tied wrists, dangling feet, head with mouth open showing tongue, cock and balls. Buck then stepped back and took long-range pics, lots of trees with a naked guy hanging from one of them.

Then he sat down near me, back against a tree, and waited. Me, I just floated, kind of, Float in the air, float in and out of consciousness, in a way. All my eyes see is forest floor and my legs dangling above it. It's all very dim too.

Minutes pass. Long minutes. I'm vaguely beginning to wonder if it's time to come down. My brain is real foggy now. There's a breeze but I can barely feel it. I'm only sensing the movement as the forest floor changes below me. My right foot twitches, almost like a kick.

Buck gets up and comes near. He's shirtless, wearing just jeans and work boots. His jeans are probably bulging, if I know him well enough. "Think it's time to come down, boy?" he says. His voice is kind of hard, actually. I blink twice. Yes.

"22 minutes. You did good." He reaches up and strokes my chest and the hair on my belly. "I think you could do better, though, know what I mean?"

I don't know what he means. Twenty-five minutes? Half-hour?

"When they hang a guy, a guy who deserves to be hanged, they usually let him hang for a half-hour. Maybe an hour," Buck said slowly. His hands were down into my crotch fur. "Y'know, to make sure he's dead." My cock jumped a bit at the word 'dead', or was it because that's when Buck's hand reached my balls?

I tried to groan, and managed only a little rasping noise. He didn't need to be getting fresh with me — he needed to be untying the rope around the tree trunk and letting me down. Instead he kept stroking and pulling on my balls.

"See, while I've been waiting for you, I figured something out. I figured, boy likes his rope too much. Boy needs to own up to the fact that he needs to snuff it." Again a jump from my cock, which was really hard. "Boy needs to snuff it NOW."

I kind of struggled. No! Tried to say it, but I only made another raspy noise, a bit louder than the first.

"There's a nice hole I dug for you, back behind my barn. All I have to do is drag you over to it, dump you in, cover you up. Let you sleep a long long time. You'd like that, huh boy? Dead and buried, boy." He had a big hand around my dick now. "Dead and buried."

I pulled together as much energy as I could and kicked him. He fell back onto the forest floor, while I started swinging wildly. I knew if I didn't get down fast, I'd need that hole he dug.

Buck just smiled, and got up. I looked down at him with pleading eyes, mouthing the word Please....

"No, boy, your dick says you need this," he said, and my goddamn dick was still rock-hard and purple headed. Buck grabbed me in a bearhug, so I could struggle against his body but not do much. I was getting tired from the exertion, and the rope seemed to be trying harder to strangle me now. Buck had a good hold on me, and then he slowly wrapped his lips around my cock and took me in.

Fuck, he's gonna suck me off and kill me. I could feel his lips trying to pull spunk out of me along with his arms pulling down on me, stretching my neck. The rope got even tighter. The edges of my vision started turning even darker and fuzzy. All I felt was Buck sucking hard on my cock. My own damn fault, I thought. Then that was gone in a flood of euphoria — I was shooting down Buck's gullet, the biggest, hottest, and last load I'd ever have.

And then Buck pulled down hard on my hips, like he was hanging off of me.

Blackness rolled over me. I could only let it take me this time.

# # # # #

"Yeah, that's it, let go fucker," I said as I held onto the nearly spent body. I could still taste his spunk in my mouth as I held him and looked up into his face. I watched as the light finally went out of his eyes, and felt the body twitch slightly against me. That's when I let go of the bearhug, and unbuttoned the fly of my jeans. Pulling my own hard and dripping cock out, I stood close and stroked, aiming at his legs. A minute or so of stroking was all it took and I was shooting thick ropes of cum on his legs and dangling feet.

After I got steady again, I went back through the woods to get the wheelbarrow back by the barn. When I returned, first I grabbed the camera and took a few more photos of the boy. He looked even more relaxed now. He still had a fat, hard prick jutting out from his crotch fur, the tip still a bit wet from his last cum. I got close-ups of that, and of his face with the blank stare and half-open mouth. He liked being in that position. That's why he was willing to try to see how long he could hang. He just didn't count on me wanting him to snuff him today.

I untied the rope from the tree and the boy dropped into the wheelbarrow, with a little help from me. I slipped the noose from around his neck and then carted him off to the place behind the barn where the grave was dug and dumped him in, face-down. Soon he was covered with dirt so he could have his nice long nap.

And tomorrow, I was going to start training another guy to do what this boy did.