34: Joseph (Rocky Mountain National Park)

I've been walking for hours, the good kind of exhaustion settling into my legs. The city noise that's been rattling around my skull for months has finally started to fade, replaced by wind through pines and the occasional bird call. This trail isn't on the tourist maps – exactly why I chose it.

At the overlook, I drop my pack and let the view wash over me. Mountains stretching to the horizon, valleys carved by ancient ice, air so clean it feels like a privilege to breathe it. I close my eyes, feeling the sun on my face.

"Beautiful day for it."

The voice startles me. I turn to find a park ranger standing a few feet away – tall, broad-shouldered, with a soft confidence that immediately catches my attention. His shirt is tucked into his waistband, revealing a chest dusted with blond hair and a soft belly that contrasts with his otherwise sturdy frame. Sweat glistens on his collarbone. His shorts hug strong thighs, and there's trail dust on his boots.

"Sorry if I startled you." He steps forward, extending his hand. "Joseph. I patrol this section."

His grip is firm, palm calloused. Up close, I notice the sun has left its mark across his nose and shoulders, painting him in shades of bronze and pink. Blue eyes, weathered at the corners. A neatly trimmed beard frames a mouth that sounds like it doesn't like to waste words.

"Leo," I reply, suddenly aware of how isolated we are. "Didn't expect to see anyone else up here."

Joseph nods, his gaze drifting past me to the mountains. "Most folks stick to the marked trails. You're about two miles off the usual route."

"That a problem?" I ask, suddenly aware of the danger that I may not be allowed here without some sort of permit or something.

"Not if you know what you're doing." His eyes return to mine, assessing. "You seem equipped. Just making my rounds, checking on the solo hikers. Been some weather moving in fast lately."

Whew.

Joseph unscrews his canteen, takes a long drink. A single drop of water trails down his neck, disappearing into chest hair.

“How long you planning to stay up here?" He asks. 

"Just a day hike. Need to get back to my cabin before dark."

He nods, studying the position of the sun. "Taking the main trail back?"

"That's the plan."

"There's a shortcut back to it," he says, gesturing toward a barely visible path veering off to the west. "Cuts about an hour off your return. It's not on the maps we give out to hikers, but it's ranger-authorized." He shrugs. "I'm headed that way myself if you want company."

I hesitate. Following a stranger into the woods off-trail isn't exactly Travel Safety 101… though he is wearing a park service badge. Then again, the shortcut is tempting, and something about Joseph's demeanor makes me want to know what might happen if I remain in his company. Does he want something from me? Is there sincerely just a check in? But why is he hanging around after he’s already assessed that I’m good to go?

And if he tries to murder me, I think I can take him.

"You make this offer to all the hikers you find?" I ask.

His mouth quirks. "Only the ones who look like they can handle themselves on the shortcut." His eyes travel down my frame, lingering just long enough to make it clear he's not just assessing my hiking abilities. "You've got good trail legs. Strong core, too. I think you can handle it. You play a sport or something?"

"I just like to stay fit," I reply, feeling a flush of heat that has nothing to do with the sun. "Mostly lifting and boxing these days."

Joseph's eyebrows lift. "Boxer, huh? I used to spar a bit myself." He pats his midsection, which slopes outward in a soft curve beneath his ribs. "Though you can't tell now. My gut's gone soft since I started ranging full-time."

The way he says "gut" catches my attention – there's something in his tone, a slight emphasis that feels deliberate.

He continues, "I can still take a hit better than most. Something about all those trail miles – builds a different kind of strength, I think."

Well, this isn't standard hiking small talk.

"You take many hits out here in the woods?" I ask carefully.

Joseph's eyes meet mine, hold steady. "Occasionally." He taps his belly with two fingers. "Body’s still pretty tough."

The air between us shifts, charges with something unspoken but unmistakable.

"I've always found it interesting," I say, matching his casual tone, "how some people shy away from that kind of intensity. While others seek it out."

"And which are you?" His voice has dropped lower, though his expression remains neutral.

"I've been known to appreciate a good test of endurance." I take a deliberate step closer. "From both sides."

Joseph nods slowly, a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. "Thought so. Can’t put my finger on what gave it away, but something about your whole… vibe." He gestures toward the path. "Shortcut's about a twenty-minute walk from here. Pretty isolated. Good place to talk more about, uh, training techniques."

The invitation couldn't be clearer if he'd spelled it out.

"Lead the way," I say, shouldering my pack. "I'm suddenly very interested in your trail knowledge."

As Joseph turns to guide me down the path, I catch the way his eyes linger on my midsection – hungry; appraising, even.

We follow the shortcut in comfortable silence, Joseph leading with the easy confidence of someone who's walked these paths a thousand times. I'm struck by how different he is from some of the men I meet: no carefully curated BrutalChat profile, no gym small talk, just this immediate, unspoken understanding that he clocked from a mile away (maybe literally).

The trail narrows as we descend through a grove of aspens, their leaves shimmering silver-green in the afternoon light. Joseph walks ahead, and I find myself studying the broad plane of his back, the way his shoulders move beneath sun-bronzed skin.

"Almost there," he says over his shoulder, pointing to where the trees thin ahead. "My service cabin's just beyond that clearing."

As we emerge from the tree line, I spot it – a small, sturdy structure with a metal roof that catches the sunlight. It's clearly not meant for tourists; there's no sign, no picnic table, just a simple porch and a door with a park service emblem.

Joseph pauses at the edge of the clearing, wiping sweat from his brow. "I wanna make a stop here before heading back to the main station." He unclips his canteen from his belt and takes a long drink before offering it to me. "Water?”

Our fingers brush as I take the canteen. The water is cold and tastes like nothing I've ever had from any city tap.

"Thanks," I say, handing it back. My throat feels unexpectedly dry despite the water.

Joseph nods toward the cabin. "You're welcome to sit a minute, too. Rest up before the last stretch." His tone is casual, but his eyes hold mine.

I check my watch, pretending to consider the time. "Wouldn't mind catching my breath."

He smiles – a quick, knowing flash of teeth through his beard – and heads for the cabin. I follow, watching the roll of his gait. 

Inside, the cabin is just as spartan as I expected – one main room with a bare cot pushed against the far wall, a desk cluttered with maps and reports, and a sofa covered in rumpled sheets. The floor is swept clean, and a few lanterns hang from the ceiling beams. It's not a home, just a functional outpost for a man who spends most of his time outdoors.

I unlace my boots and kick them off by the door, feeling a flush of heat rise through my body. Joseph moves to the center of the room, stretching his arms overhead, every muscle in his torso elongating. Sweat glistens in the hollow of his throat, trailing down to his chest hair.

He drops onto the sheet-covered sofa, leaning back with his arms folded behind his head. The position pushes his chest up and lets his belly relax forward – not flabby, but soft and vulnerable. I find myself staring at the way his stomach rises and falls with each breath, at the faint trail of hair disappearing into his waistband. Imagining the man’s guts settled inside his belly. 

Joseph catches my gaze and smirks. "What are you thinking?"

I don't bother denying it. "What, about the view?"

He glances down at his own belly and back up at me. 

I remain standing, enjoying the position it puts me in – looking down at him, watching the subtle changes in his expression.

"Not many boxers on the hiking trails?"

"Not many who understand what I’m asking for." Joseph leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Most guys who throw punches want to hurt someone's face, their pride." He taps his midsection. "They don't understand the feeling of a good shot to the gut."

I take a deliberate step closer.

Joseph stands suddenly, closing the distance between us. 

"I don't usually bring people here," he says, voice dropping to something raw and honest. "This is my space. Private." His eyes hold mine, searching. "But it's been weeks since I got punched."

The directness of it hits me like a physical force. No games, no dance around the subject. Just pure, unfiltered want.

"You sure about this?" I ask, though I already know the answer. "Here in the cabin?"

"I'm sure about what I saw on your face when I mentioned taking hits." His hand moves to his stomach, fingers running across the soft curve. "And this is as private as it gets. I guarantee you no one will hear a goddamn thing."

I step closer still, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Tell me what you need.”

Joseph's breath quickens, but his gaze remains steady. "I need someone who won't hold back. Someone who understands that this –" he gestures to his exposed torso "– can take more than most people think possible."

I raise my hand slowly, letting it hover just above his belly. "Show me how you want it."

Joseph's expression settles. He takes my wrist and guides it to press against his stomach. Under my knuckles, I feel the softness giving way.

"Hard," he says simply. "Deep. Until I can't stand. And then way more."

Joseph breaks away, pacing the small cabin with restless energy. His hands move to his belt, unbuckling it with deliberate slowness. The button of his shorts pops free, then the zipper. He sheds them with the unselfconscious ease of a man who spends half his life changing in the wilderness, as comfortable with nudity in the forest as a bear.

"Out here," he says, kicking his clothes aside, "I don't have to muffle anything. No walls. No neighbors for miles." His voice drops lower, hungrier. "Just mountains and trees that don't give a damn how loud it gets."

I watch him strip, appreciating the contrast of his body, the weathered strength of his shoulders and arms against the softer give of his midsection, above the thick muscle of his quads. There's something primal about him standing naked in this wooden outpost, like we've fully stepped outside of civilized society.

"Works for me," I say. "Been holding back too long myself."

That’s a lie. But he doesn’t need to know that.

Joseph moves to the sofa, stretching out on his back. He lifts his arms over his head, gripping the armrest behind him. The position elongates his torso, chest rising as his belly settles into a gentle slope. His blue eyes lock onto mine, wide with anticipation.

"Start with your fists," he instructs. "Slow. Deep."

I approach, standing over him. I flex my fingers, making a fist as I inspect his belly.

"How long has it been?" I ask, placing my knuckles against his gut, not pressing yet, just letting him feel the promise of impact.

"Months," he breathes. "Too fucking long."

I draw back and deliver the first punch – moderate, exploratory. My fist sinks into the soft flesh of his navel. His belly yields around my knuckles, flattening like warm dough. Joseph grunts lightly as my knuckles gently press into the softness of his guts.

"More," he says, eyes half-lidded. "Don't test me. Just go for it."

The second punch lands harder. I feel his soft intestines blow out under my fist as his face contorts into that usual expression a man has when he feels the pressure of a fist in his bowels. His stomach accepts the blow, swallowing my knuckles deep into his core.

I find a rhythm – slow, deliberate strikes that give his body time to feel each one fully. My fist drives into the same spot, straight into his navel where his belly is soft and thick. Each impact sends a ripple across his unflexed midsection as his guts slosh, depressing deep into his belly, which eagerly rebounds every time I withdraw my fist.

Joseph tries to keep his abs loose against the blows. He offers himself up, letting each punch sink deeper than the last. His breathing turns ragged, punctuated by grunts that I eagerly punch out of him.

"Fuck," he groans after a particularly deep hit. "Oh, fuck, that’s good."

I adjust my angle, driving upward now. My fist burrows into the pit of his stomach, and I feel his abs engage, lightly, as his intestines seek a break from the pounding.

“Loosen up,” I say softly with a baritone hush, my fist gently pumping against his belly as I feel his abs soften back to fully unflexed. “Let me in these guts.”

For a moment, I continue pumping my fist in his belly – gently, but deeply. His intestines feel like a soft, yielding mass beneath my knuckles, squishing back against his spine.

I drive a punch into him, feeling nothing but jelly intestines as my knuckles plumb the depth of his gut, a whoof of air rushing from his throat, turning into a moan.

Joseph's face contorts – not in pain exactly, but in a kind of transcendent intensity. Sweat beads across his forehead as another, and another punch flattens his bowels, his body consciously choosing not to flex despite how badly his intestines might want him too. This feels too good to protect his guts from it.. His mouth falls open, breath knocked out in stuttering gasps. But his eyes stay locked on mine, barely blinking, glazed but present.

"Yeaaahhh," I groan, landing another blow that folds him slightly upward before he melts back down. “Yeah, you can take it.”

Eyes wide, he nods in reply. A tremor runs through his body. His cock hardening despite – or because of – the abuse his midsection is taking. Each punch now draws more sound from him – half-groan, half-moan – that echoes off the cabin walls and vibrates through my own body as I eagerly fuel his reactions with my fists.

I climb onto the sofa, straddling Joseph's hips. The new position gives me better leverage, my weight pinning him in place. He knows what's coming next.

"Keep it soft for me, bro," I command, feeling his body heat beneath me.

Joseph nods, deliberately exhaling. I watch his stomach soften further, settling into a perfect target as his lungs empty. I pull my arm back and drive my fist straight down into the center of his gut.

The impact is seismic. My knuckles slam into his flattened belly, burying directly in his intestines. His guts gurgle briefly from the water he drank earlier. I feel them squish and displace around my hand as his sides bulge from the brutal sloshing of his guts – soft tubes of flesh compressing against his spine. His entire midsection hollows under my fist, caving inward before bulging outward as I withdraw.

"Christ," Joseph gasps, his head thrown back.

“You can take it?” came out like a question, but it wasn’t. Still, Joseph nodded eagerly, unable to answer vocally.

I oblige. “Exhale for me again,” I tell him, gently massaging his belly with my knuckles. He exhales and, again, I watch his belly settle flat. This time I aim lower, just beneath his navel. The punch lands with a dull, wet sound. His gut yields completely, offering no resistance as his grunt morphs into a groan. My fist burrows against what feels like a tangled mass of bowels, and perhaps his bladder.

I grind my knuckles up and down, from sternum to groin, feeling his intestines squelch across my knuckles as I manipulate them from the outside. “Fuuuuck yeah, I can feel your guts in there.”

"Don't stop," he pants, his voice cracked and desperate. "Fuck my insides up."

I deliver three rapid punches to the same spot. The first punch drives into the center of Joseph’s gut, winding him as I relish the feeling of my knuckles meeting zero resistance, his intestines fully blown apart by the force of my punch. The subsequent two punches had no breath to expel from his body, and instead impacted his empty gut like a sandbag, two solid THUDs echoing in the cabin as Joseph’s face abruptly changed from ecstasy to shock and back again, his eyes rolling back mid-moan.

His cock throbs against my balls as I straddle his waist. His face is transformed – mouth open, eyes unfocused, cheeks flushed deep red. The muscles in his neck strain as he struggles for breath, but his belly remains completely yielding, taking everything I give it.

Joseph finally chokes out some words: "Been waiting – ”

THUD

“UGH – so long for this."

I sink my left hand into his upper belly, grabbing ahold of his loose guts like an abdominal claw without the abs. He groans as I grab and squeeze his upper belly, shaking my hand softly back and forth to accentuate how soft his guts are by making them jiggle from side to side – the perfect set-up to ensure his abs remain fully relaxed. With my left hand squeezing into his upper belly, his lower gut gently bulges just slightly as his guts are squeezed from the top of his belly into his lower gut. With my right fist, I plunge my knuckles into that soft mound of trapped bowels above his groin.

His intestines flatten against his spine with a delicious gurgling sound as that water continues to slosh in his gut. His entire body shudders, hands gripping the armrest so hard his knuckles turn white while he moans.

I ease up, giving Joseph a moment to catch his breath. His chest heaves, stomach rising and falling in hypnotic waves.

"More," he pants, his voice growing hoarse from the grunting and moaning. "Shelf. The flashlight."

I follow his gaze to a sturdy metal shelf mounted on the wall. Among the supplies sits a heavy-duty park service flashlight – the kind rangers carry at night. Not one of those lightweight plastic models, but an old-school metal one, thick as my wrist with substantial weight.

"That?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

Joseph nods, a feverish intensity in his eyes. "Been wanting to do this forever."

I cross the room and lift the flashlight. It's heavier than it looks, solid metal with a dense, weighted base. The kind of tool designed to survive wilderness conditions – or, apparently, to devastate a man's insides.

Joseph pushes himself up from the sofa, legs slightly unsteady. He moves to the wall, bracing his back against it. His arms rise slowly above his head, fingers interlocking behind his neck. The position pulls his chest taut while leaving his midsection completely exposed – defenseless. His belly, already reddening from my fists, pushes forward slightly as he makes a point to relax his abs.

"Drive it in," he says, voice dropping to something raw and desperate. "Like a battering ram. Deep as you can."

I weigh the flashlight in my hand, testing its heft. "Yeah, you want this?"

Joseph's eyes lock onto mine. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. "Please."

The naked plea in his voice is all I need. I step closer, pressing the blunt end of the flashlight against his navel, letting him feel the cold metal.

"Right here?"

"Right there. Or lower," he directs.

I adjust, positioning the flashlight just below his navel, where his belly curves outward most prominently. I can feel the softness of his gut against the metal, yielding even to this gentle pressure.

Drawing back, I thrust forward with controlled force. The flashlight plunges into Joseph's belly, burying itself deep in his abdomen. The impact makes an immediate sloshing sound as his intestines accept the blow. I feel the flashlight hit something solid and jerk to the side – I may have just crushed a loop of intestine between a metal prod and his spine, driven into his belly with the force of a trained boxer.

Joseph's reaction is instantaneous and electric. His entire body convulses, head snapping forward toward his chest. A guttural sound tears from his throat – not quite a scream, not quite a moan, but something primal that seems to bypass language. His legs buckle slightly, but he keeps himself upright, arms still locked behind his head.

"Jesus fuck," he gasps, eyes wide and unfocused. Then, before I can ask if he's okay, he straightens. Resets his stance. "Again."

I drive the flashlight in a second time, angling upward. The metal base disappears into his navel, inverting his soft gut with the force of a battering ram like he asked for. The immediate and liquid visual of his gut rippling deep with the force against his loose guts is hypnotic.

Joseph's mouth falls open in a silent scream, veins standing out on his neck. Sweat only continues to built on his forehead and chest. But again, he resets, widening his stance to prevent his knees from giving out. 

"Again."

The third impact lands with brutal precision, straight into his navel. I knew it was a calculated angle – plowing the end of the flashlight into his gut directly, instead of shoving it upward like an uppercut, meant that I ran the risk of again smashing some intestine between the metal and his spine.

And I think I did. Joseph doubles over briefly, moaning in pain, but gripping my thighs to hold me close to him. He wanted more.

As Joseph stands back up, I notice his lower gut is beginning to swell and distend. What started as a soft curve is now beginning to bulge outward, his intestines pushed forward from the repeated trauma. The skin below his navel stretches taut over the swelling, gleaming with sweat.

“Look at these fucking guts,” I snarl.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” he mutters breathlessly. “Oh, fucking beat them.”

I form a tight fist and deliver a vicious uppercut directly into the bulging mass of his lower intestines. The sensation is incredible – he’s managed to stay relaxed, and my knuckles ram his beaten intestines back up into his body.

Joseph makes a sound I've never punched out of a man before – a broken, desperate moan that I don’t think even he expected to make. 

"Don't stop," he gasps between blows, voice barely recognizable. "Rearrange me."

Joseph staggers away from the wall, one hand dropping to his swollen gut. His skin is flushed deep red, the entire area below his navel distended and trembling. His breathing comes in ragged bursts, sweat pouring down his chest in rivulets.

"Not done," he pants. "Need more."

He moves to the sofa with unsteady steps, dropping to his knees in front of it. The motion sends a visible ripple through his abused midsection. Without a word, he bends backward over the edge, draping his torso so his head, chest, and shoulders lay on the seat with his belly arched off the side. His arms return to their position behind his head, locked there like he's afraid to let go.

The position transforms his belly completely. What was soft and yielding now stretches taut across his frame – not from muscle tension, but from the arch of his spine. His intestines, already swollen and displaced from my assault, press out a visible mound against the skin, creating a subtle bulge across his midsection, just above his fully erect cock.

"Your heel," he says, voice strained from the position. "Full weight. Stomp on my fucking guts."

I look down at my feet, already stripped of boots and wearing only thick hiking socks. The request sends a wave through me – standing on a man's belly is different from punching it. More deliberate. More crushing.

"You sure?" I ask, though I'm already positioning myself.

"Please," he begs, his face begging as much as his words. "I want to take it."

I place my right foot gently on his lower abdomen, feeling the heat radiating through my sock. His belly is fever-hot, the skin stretched and tender. Even this light contact makes him moan.

"Don't tease," he groans. "Full weight. Crush me."

I shift my stance and gradually transfer my weight onto his gut. The sensation is extraordinary – like stepping onto a waterbed filled with warm jelly. His abdomen gives under my heel, compressing inward as his intestines displace to the sides.

"Fuck!" Joseph cries out, his back arching further. "Oh my God – oh, fuck – ”

I press harder, digging my heel into the softest point just below his navel. I can feel his guts warm and soft, totally unprotected beneath my foot – tubular, slippery masses shifting and compressing against his spine. The pressure forces a wet gurgle from deep inside him.

Joseph's body bucks, but the position leaves him no leverage. His face contorts in ecstasy, mouth open in a silent scream before sound finally tears from his throat – a guttural, animal noise that echoes off the cabin walls.

"More," he gasps. "Deeper. Crush my fucking bowels."

I shift my full weight onto his gut now, grinding my heel back and forth. The compression is total – I can feel his intestines flattening completely beneath my foot, squeezing against his spine, moving and squelching as I grind my heel. Something inside him shifts with a wet, sloshing sound.

"Oh Christ," he moans. 

His face is transformed – eyes unfocused and blown wide, mouth slack with pleasure and pain. Sweat pours from his hairline, running down his forehead. Every muscle in his neck strains as he struggles to maintain the pose.

I rock forward, pressing even harder. My foot sinks impossibly deep, as if there's no bottom to his gut. The pressure must be excruciating – his intestines completely flattened, organs displaced, everything inside him compressed to the limit.

Joseph's body trembles violently. "It's against my spine," he chokes out. "I can feel my guts against my fucking spine."

I grind down harder, twisting my heel into the softest part of his belly. The sound that comes from inside him is obscene – liquid, gurgling, animalistic. His intestines slip and squeeze beneath my foot like thick soup in a bag.

"Your insides are fucking destroyed," I tell him, watching his face contort with each grinding press. "I can feel them under my foot."

"Don't stop," he begs, voice breaking. "Feels like you're standing on my organs directly – no skin – no muscle – just pressure on my raw guts."

“Yeeeaaahhh,” I enthusiastically groan with a devious smile.

I lift my foot slightly, then stomp down with deliberate force. Joseph's entire body convulses. A broken cry tears from his throat, his arms finally breaking position to clutch at the sofa cushions.

"Fuck yes," he sobs, eyes rolling back. "Mash them. Ruin me."

I stomp down again, putting my entire body weight into it. Joseph's intestines compress like a water balloon caught in a vise, tubes of flesh flattening against bone. The yielding mass beneath my heel sends a jolt of power through me.

"HUHGHH – " Joseph's words disintegrate into primal sounds. His face contorts, mouth stretched in a rictus of ecstasy, eyes unfocused and glassy.

Spittle forms at the corner of his mouth as incoherent syllables pour from him. His hands claw at nothing, fingernails scraping against the sofa fabric.

Another stomp lands dead center. I feel his core collapse completely – no resistance left, just the sensation of my foot plunging through membrane and tissue until it meets his spine. His gut cradles my heel like memory foam, molding around the invasion.

Joseph convulses violently. A strangled wail erupts from him – the sound of a man experiencing his body from the inside out, demolished and transcendent at once.

I lift my foot and survey the damage. Joseph's belly has transformed – no longer just soft, but actively distended, his intestines bulged from the repeated trauma. The skin below his navel stretches taut over the swelling, veins visible beneath the surface.

“Fucking finish me,” he pleads.

I drop to one knee, positioning it directly over the center of his gut. His eyes widen in anticipation as I slowly transfer my weight. My kneecap sinks into his abdomen like it's penetrating a ripe fruit. The sensation is immediate – his intestines gurgle and separate around by knee, then flow back together when I ease up.

"Jesus," I mutter, feeling the way his organs yield beneath me.

Joseph's mouth falls open, a strangled gasp escaping as I press down fully. His gut molds around my knee, creating a perfect hollow. I can feel something tubular sliding sideways – his colon perhaps, desperately seeking space as I compress everything else against his backbone.

I shift position, dropping my full weight onto him. His abdominal cavity practically disappears, flattening completely beneath me. A wet, bubbling sound rises from deep inside – air and fluid forced through his intestinal tract by the crushing pressure.

Joseph's eyes roll back. His hands scrabble at the sofa edge, knuckles bleached of color. A string of saliva trails from the corner of his mouth as he makes a sound that's half-sob, half-moan.

I rise, then position myself between his legs. His belly has changed again – now a bloated landscape of red skin, hollows and bulges where none existed before. I form a tight fist and drive it into the center of this new terrain.

The impact is different now – my knuckles sink into tissue that feels simultaneously firmer and more liquid: while his body may be stretched taut, his bowels are a soft mound in the center. His intestines have begun to swell, creating a pocket of exquisite torture every time I slammed a fist right into it, just to watch the mound of guts flatten beneath my knuckles and displace into his obliques. Each punch lands with a muted splat, like striking waterlogged earth.

Joseph's reactions grow more primal, his throat working around sounds that aren't quite words. His legs tremble uncontrollably, toes curling with each new blow.

"Fuuuck yeah," I tell him, landing another punch that sends a visible wave across his distended abdomen. “You can take it. You can take it.”

"Don't stop," he gasps, barely coherent. "I need to cum.”

I establish a steady rhythm now, each punch precisely targeted to the softest, most vulnerable section of his gut. His body jerks with each impact, but he remains draped backward, offering himself completely to the destruction.

I grind my knuckles in, feeling Joseph's insides part and flow around them like thick custard. His abdominal wall has surrendered completely – there's no resistance, just a hot, yielding mass that accepts whatever I give it. My fist disappears to the wrist, buried in what feels like living pudding.

"Your gut's fuckin’ gone," I tell him, voice rough with exertion. "Nothing worth a shit left in here."

Joseph's response isn't words anymore – just a high, keening sound that breaks into whimpers as I rotate my knuckles deeper. His face is unrecognizable from the composed ranger who approached me on the trail. Sweat plasters his hair to his forehead, his beard glistening with moisture.

I withdraw my fist, watching his belly quiver in its absence. The distension is dramatic now – his lower abdomen protrudes outward like he's swallowed something massive. The skin stretches taut in some places, sags in others, mapping the internal devastation beneath.

His hands flutter weakly at his sides, no longer able to maintain their grip behind his head. He begins to jack off his cock as he waits for more. His legs tremble uncontrollably, muscles spasming from the strain of holding position while his insides are rearranged.

I form a tight fist and drive it into the center of his swollen gut. The impact makes a sound I've never heard before – not a thud or a slap, but a sick, viscous splash, like a stone dropped into mud. His intestines offer no structure anymore, just a churning sea of tissue that parts around my knuckles.

His cock jerks, pre-cum leaking at the tip. He's close – I can see it in the tension of his thighs, the flush creeping up his chest, the desperate, animal need in his unfocused eyes.

"Can you feel it?" I ask, pressing deeper. "Feel what I've done to you?"

"Yes," he stutters, voice cracked and raw. "Yes sir."

I pull back, measuring the next blow. Joseph's belly releases any tension. His breathing comes in shallow gasps, chest heaving with the effort.

"One more," I promise, though it's as much a threat as reassurance.

I position my fist directly over the pit of his stomach – that hollow space just below his sternum where all sensation centers. Drawing back, I summon every ounce of controlled power and drive forward.

My fist lands with a satisfying THUD against his meaty belly, blowing through his beaten guts.

Joseph's reaction is electric. His entire body goes rigid, back bowing off the sofa edge. A sound erupts from deep in his chest. His eyes roll back as he closes them, as his cock pulses, spurting across his devastated belly in thick ropes.

I keep my fist buried in him through his orgasm, feeling the spasms from inside – his abdominal muscles contracting weakly around my knuckles, his intestines quivering like gelatin. His cum pools in the hollows of his ruined gut, sliding into the divot of his navel.

When the last tremor subsides, I withdraw slowly, watching his belly reshape itself around the void. Joseph collapses completely, sliding from the sofa edge to the floor in a boneless heap. His chest heaves with desperate breaths, sweat-soaked and gleaming in the afternoon light that streams through the cabin window.

I sink down beside him, my own body trembling with exertion. Golden sunlight catches the sweat on our skin, transforming us into something gilded. Neither of us speaks.

Joseph's eyes finally focus, finding mine. A smile – exhausted but deeply satisfied – pulls at his lips. His hand moves weakly to his busted guts, fingers tracing the damage.

I pull Joseph gently upright, his body still trembling with aftershocks. He's dazed, breathing shallow, eyes glossy in that post-orgasmic stupor that follows complete surrender. I settle on the floor beside him, back against the sofa, and guide his weight against my chest.

"Easy," I murmur, feeling his heart hammering through his back.

My hands find his devastated belly, fingers gently rubbing across the hot, swollen skin. I begin to massage gently, tracing circles around where the worst of the beating occurred. His gut feels different now – looser somehow, the tissue beneath my fingertips tender and yielding in new ways. His intestines shift beneath my touch, settling back into some approximation of their original position.

"Fuck," he whispers, head lolling back against my shoulder. "That was..."

"I know," I say, because I do. Words aren't necessary for what just passed between us.

My thumbs work deeper into his abused midsection, finding pockets of tension, easing them with careful pressure. Joseph groans – not in pain, but in release. His breathing gradually steadies, his weight growing heavier against me as his muscles finally surrender their vigilance.

His hand lifts weakly, reaching back and up to find my torso. His calloused fingers trace the ridges of my abs – half-flexed from supporting his weight. I feel his touch exploring each individual brick, pressing gently against the semi-solid muscle.

"Solid core," he murmurs appreciatively, fingertips dipping into the grooves between my abs. "Bet you can take it too."

I laugh softly, continuing to massage his distended belly. "Another time. You're in no shape to deliver right now."

His fingers keep moving across my midsection, tracing, testing, learning. There's something unexpectedly intimate about it – this quiet exploration after such violence. His touch is different than most men's – more knowing, more deliberate. He understands exactly what he's feeling for.