The author narrates.
The sight wasn't so unpleasant.
That's what Vikram thought,
like someone who finds something beautiful in the body of the monster whose skin he's about to shed.
Before him, the Executioner sat, his cock throbbing as if it had a heart of its own.
He barely stroked it, sliding his fingers over the glans with calculated movements,
waiting—not impatiently, but with certainty—
that Vikram would keep his word.
"No one will know... just do it. Let's get this over with quickly."
He sighed heavily.
He knelt.
His knees creaked as they touched the cracked floor.
With measured steps, he approached the bed, and there…
he took the Executioner's cock in both hands.
It was as big as a forearm.
Or bigger.
Its texture was warm, but not human.
It throbbed as if it carried the weight of a symbol.
And Vikram knew it.
He hesitated.
He studied that penis as if it were a technical challenge,
a formula he once thought he knew but that now demanded something else.
He remembered how the girls had done it before:
slow, playful, then wild.
He took those memories as if they were emergency instructions,
as if he could copy what a part of him still considered foreign.
He closed his eyes.
He swallowed.
And he leaned down to take it in his mouth.
But the first time you try to take something like that…
your body protests.
Your jaw opens wider than it wants.
Your throat tenses.
Your reflex kicks in.
And tears, inevitably, begin to flow.
Vikram choked.
The sound was sharp.
Real.
The Executioner sat up immediately.
Not like someone alarmed,
but like someone watching over the balance of the sacrifice.
He observed the human, breathing heavily, his eyes red, his body convulsing for seconds at a time.
He didn't push him, nor did he demand anything.
He simply looked at him, as if that were enough to know if continuing was right… or just inevitable.
Vikram shuddered at the feel of the thickness of that impossible thing inside his mouth. It wasn't the typical sexual encounter that happens in the darkness of an ordinary room. This was something more. Something imposed, ceremonial, and profoundly invasive.
His throat closed. The reflex kicked in. He choked.
He didn't want to stop, but his body protested.
The Executioner didn't apply pressure, didn't push. He just waited. As if he knew that human will breaks from within, not from without.
When Vikram opened his eyes, what he saw disgusted and paralyzed him: his own saliva, glistening, coated the Executioner's hardness. That trace of himself, in something he didn't even want... made him look away.
And for the first time, he felt dirty.
Not in the physical sense.
But in that invisible layer that covers you when you use someone without wanting to know them.
"Is this what it feels like...? When you take an innocent girl, invite her out, take her away, and then expect her to give you pleasure, even though you don't give her anything real... Is this what it feels like to be the one in control? The one who doesn't look, doesn't touch the soul... only the body?"
The Executioner, without uttering a word, moved deliberately.
He leaned back further on the bed, positioning his colossal body against the wall.
He spread his legs.
It was a wordless invitation.
A burning altar.
A silent command.
Vikram understood.
And that frightened him even more.
Vikram: Wait… let me find a… mask —he murmured, his voice heavy with nerves, disgust, and need.
The Executioner nodded, with a chilling calm.
Vikram rummaged through his backpack with trembling hands.
He pulled out the mask.
He clutched it between his fingers, like someone covering their eyes not to sleep… but to avoid witnessing themselves.
He approached the bed.
First the shoes.
Then the jacket.
Then the trousers.
Each garment he left behind was a symbol of his dispossession. He was left in his boxers.
His body half-naked, his will completely broken.
His movements were clumsy, as if each gesture were a relearning of how to be a body.
There was no eroticism.
There was no control.
Only the empty conviction that this had to be done to save himself.
He climbed onto the bed slowly.
The mattress groaned under his weight.
The atmosphere grew denser.
The Executioner watched him without judgment.
Only presence.
And just when Vikram was close enough, the Executioner extended a hand—an enormous hand, distorted by symbolism—and stroked his head.
Gently.
But it wasn't human tenderness.
It was something else. A ritual calm, as if that caress were saying: Take your time… but he's already yours.
Vikram closed his eyes.
The blindfold still in his hand. His soul hung between fear, memory, and what was about to begin.
Vikram closed his eyes.
Not calmly, but with that tension you feel when you don't want to see the abyss you're entering. He adjusted the blindfold with sweaty hands, as if hiding his eyes could protect his dignity.
The Executioner's cock was close.
So close he could feel it without seeing it.
His breath bounced off the glans like hot mist. He gripped it firmly, swallowed, and told himself it would be the last time.
The last time he hesitated.
The last time he resisted.
He started at the tip.
He licked it slowly, like someone tasting something bitter knowing they must swallow it anyway.
It reminded him of sour ice cream…
but without taste, without color, without joy.
The pre-seminal fluid made him frown.
He didn't like it.
He knew it clearly: that night would be eternal.
He let himself fall a little further.
His mouth opened, obeying a will that wasn't entirely his own.
The Executioner's member began to enter.
Vikram made slow movements, simulating thrusts with his head.
He wanted the act to end.
For the ritual to be complete.
For the sentence not to last longer than necessary.
But every inch that entered
made him feel further from himself.
The sensation was physical, yes.
But also psychological.
A mixture of repulsion, duty, and emptiness.
He stopped the movement to breathe.
His hand, however, didn't stop.
As if his skin had learned the rhythm before his soul.
He continued masturbating the large cock.
Automatically.
Almost independently.
Vikram: This… feels strange —Vikram murmured, his voice worn.
The Executioner heard him.
He lowered his head.
He watched him.
But Vikram, with his mask on, didn't notice.
And in that ritual silence, the Executioner brought his right hand to the human's buttocks.
He squeezed it.
Firmly.
Not aggressively, but not innocently either.
Vikram jumped.
He recoiled like someone who'd accidentally touched fire.
He didn't scream.
He didn't curse.
He just moved away.
Because he didn't want to know…
what it would be like to have that inside him.
The Executioner slowly lowered his hand as he saw Vikram back away. Not with annoyance, but with that imperturbable calm that seemed set in stone. It wasn't rejection, it was patience… ritual patience.
Vikram abruptly removed his mask. His gaze was a whirlwind: fear, disgust, shame… but also something more subtle, difficult to name.
A crack between the ego and the inevitable.
Vikram: Um… couldn't just… my mouth be enough? —he asked in a trembling voice, trying to keep the pact within his limits.
The Executioner shook his head.
For the first time.
A simple, yet decisive movement.
And the shiver that ran down Vikram's spine was like an icy dagger.
Vikram: But... look at it—he pointed awkwardly.
The Executioner followed the instruction without question.
Vikram swallowed.
Vikram: It's very big... I don't think... all of that will fit. —The words came out like small betrayals.
Each phrase carried a double meaning that made him shudder inside.
The Executioner didn't answer.
Instead, he grabbed him.
Not violently, but decisively.
Vikram barely had time to shout:
Vikram: Hey, hey!
He was lifted as if he weighed nothing.
His body was suspended, trembling in the air.
And in a movement as agile as it was brutally precise, the Executioner ripped off his black boxer shorts.
Without ceremony.
Without permission.
Just the truth.
Vikram was completely exposed.
His breath caught in his throat.
Vikram: Hey… hey… —he repeated, each time slower, each time smaller.
The Executioner held him in front of him, analyzing him.
Not like someone looking at a victim… but like someone measuring an essential ingredient.
And then he brought him close to his member.
That enormous, throbbing thing, erect like a symbol of a destiny that could not be avoided.
But Vikram reacted.
With both legs, his feet tense, he braced himself against the Executioner's hips.
His body trembled, but he still retained the reflex to defend himself.
Vikram: Wait… please! —he gasped.
His chest rose and fell rapidly.
His face… red, tense, flushed with pressure.
Vikram: Let me at least find… lubricant—he growled through gritted teeth, like someone negotiating with death.
The Executioner didn't nod. He didn't speak.
But he halted his advance.
He allowed the pause.
Because this ritual…
isn't about brutality.
It's about surrender.
Vikram stood up, his body trembling, his breath ragged, with the feeling of crossing a threshold from which there was no return. The Executioner was still there, waiting with a patience that hurt more than any pressure. He wasn't forcing him. But he wasn't letting him escape either.
Walking around the room naked, searching for lubricant, wasn't a trivial act. It was symbolic. It was accepting that what he feared… was going to happen. That the ritual was continuing, and only he could decide how to experience it. Not if it happened, but how.
He rummaged through his backpack as if expecting to find something else. As if by searching through his belongings an excuse, an escape, a sign to stop everything would appear. But no. Only the small bottle—light, cheap, ironically useless before the body that awaited him.
He held it in his hand for a few seconds.
The Executioner watched him from the bed, legs still spread, his member erect like a living statue, throbbing.
His gaze did not judge, did not desire, did not pressure.
It was simply present.
Vikram returned.
His steps were slow, as if each one carried the weight of all the times he had said "I never."
He climbed onto the bed.
The mattress groaned beneath him.
He positioned himself between the Executioner's legs, still not touching him.
He took a breath.
And opened the bottle.
The sound was minimal.
But in that room of condemnation, it felt like the harbinger of a new phase.
Vikram cupped the liquid between his fingers.
He watched it glisten.
And finally…
he began to rub it on himself.
It wasn't pleasure.
It wasn't surrender.
It was preparation.
For something his body didn't crave, but that his soul, somewhere deep inside, had accepted.
The Executioner watched him without moving, without speaking.
And between them, the air was like a heavy cloth: dense, taut, intimate.
Vikram knew it.
That moment was his.
Not through domination.
But through acceptance.
___________________________________
The curse couldn't be worse 😈
Hahahaha. 😹
The chapter I made is literally very long, so it'll take a while.
I'll post the rest later.
Did you like it? Then leave a heart or comment to let me know your reaction.
Chao! Chao! See you later! Bye!