9: Cliff (Appalachia)

The road trip had been grand, but frankly I was ready to be back home in my own bed back in New York. Though the memories of Mads in Texas and Kaufmann in Arizona still made my cock hard to think about, nothing quite beat how badly I wanted to be surrounded by my own apartment again.

I was another day or so from New York. I was driving through West Virginia, deep in Appalachia, and it was dark out already. There was no signal out here and the map on my phone had stopped working long ago. I’d consulted a paper map and vaguely knew where I was going, but not really. My goal at this point was to continue east until my phone connected to signal again as I made my way toward Washington, D.C., where I would then return my rental car and catch a train to New York.

The last place I passed through was the small town of Buckhannon. But currently, I wasn’t sure how far back Buckhannon was, or how far ahead of me D.C. – and civilization – was, either. The road is pitch black, outside of the beams of my headlights. I hadn’t even seen a car driving the opposite direction of me.

I was entirely alone, flanked by trees on either side of the narrow two-lane blacktop.

My eyes were glued to the road.  I was terrified that a deer, wild hog, or coyote would emerge through the treeline and I wouldn’t see it in time to avoid it.

It was then that my beleaguered Chevy rental died.

After losing air conditioning at the start of this trip, it had now fully died on me. According to my dashboard, I wasn’t out of gas, the oil looked fine, and I hadn’t overheated. Whatever the cause, I slowed to a stop in the grass off of the shoulder.

The lights dimmed, and went out. The car huffed one last time, and shut down.

The vastness of the silence outside my windows sent a chill down my body. With no headlights or dash lights, I was in total darkness. It was 10:20 PM.

Through the trees off the right side of the road, I see a small light. I attempted to focus my vision on it, revealing that it’s a window. There’s a house over there. Might they have a landline I could use to make a phone call, since I have no service out here? I consider walking over – their lights are on, after all – but considering the time of night, I decide not to.

Instead, I plan to sleep in my car and approach the home in the morning. In the morning, I’ll have a strongly-worded conversation with my rental company and get myself towed into the next town.

I get out of my car, go to the trunk, and grab a blanket. I close the trunk and pop open the back door and take a pillow from the backseat. Back in the driver seat, I shut the door and recline as far back as I can. I roll over and, with a little time, eventually fall asleep.

BANG

BANG

BANG

I’m startled awake by what sounds like gunshots. In the confusion of my half-asleep state, I realize that it hadn’t been gunshots, but a man banging on my car window. I don’t know what time it is, but it’s still completely black out.

He’s shouting, but I can’t understand him. As he bangs on my window again, I reach up and slam the door lock button in a panic.

I realize only a moment too late that I’d hit the button at the wrong angle and accidentally unlocked the doors. In the split second between hitting the button and realizing what I’d done, the man ripped the door open.

The driver side door swung far open and the man reached in, grabbing my arm with force. As I’d been sleeping, I was not wearing a seatbelt. He yanked my arm with more strength than I’d have guessed he had – he appeared to be an older man – and sprawled me on the ground outside the car. As I tried to leap to my feet, I was met with a hard stomp on my chest, briefly winding me and causing my head to hit the pavement, too. I was dazed for just a brief moment, but that was all it took for him to connect a kick with his booted foot against my head.

I woke up with a fading headache. I still didn’t know what time it is.

I was laying on my side, shirtless, with my hands zip-tied behind my back. I believed I was in the man’s basement, from the look of things. Sitting across from me in a folding chair was the man. He was definitely older, likely in his sixties. But he was in great shape. Former military, maybe.

And he’s pissed.

As I came to, he pointed a pistol at me. My heart began to beat faster.

“Why are you here?” he demanded. His voice was direct and authoritative.

“I don’t mean to be here,” I was essentially pleading. “My car just broke down. I was going to sleep in the car and be out tomorrow morning as soon as I can get a tow truck.”

“Bullshit.”

I didn’t know what to say. “No, sir, I promise. That’s all it is.”

“You tell me, right now, why you’re spying on me.” The pistol remained pointed at me, laying on my side across from him.

“Sir, I’m not, I swear–”

My reply was cut short as he stood and crossed over to me. I swore I wasn’t spying on him, to which he replied with a swift kick to my gut. I cried out as the unexpected kick wrecked my innards and slammed me against the wall, which had been a couple inches behind me. A thorough man, he quickly followed the first kick with another, right into the center of my gut. Still dazed from the first kick that I thought was a warning, the second met no resistance from my six pack. The steel toe of his work boot plunged through my bowels, only coming to a stop on account of the cement wall behind me.

My hands were still zip-tied, leaving me no way to cradle or protect my belly.

“You CIA motherfuckers have been on my shit thinking I wouldn’t see you,” he said as he began to pace. “But that stops today, shithead.”

I stared at him, at a loss for words. I was still catching my breath. But I had an idea.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “You got me, I’m CIA.”

He stopped pacing and looked back at me. He actually seemed surprised that he was right. I mean, of course he wasn’t correct, but this could be my hail Mary to get the fuck out of here.

I continued, “If you kill me, they’ll send a fuckin squad after me. You won’t survive that.”

He thought for a moment. “What about it, then?”

“Beat me up and let me go,” I said. “Let me go back to D.C. and show them what you’re gonna do to the next guy who surveils you.”

He thought for a moment longer.

“Beat the shit out of me,” I said, “but you have to send me back alive.”

“Alright,” he said. “But your hands are staying tied. And you don’t get a fuckin safe word, prick.”

I agreed, not knowing what was in store.

If I’m being totally frank here, this had always been a dream of mine. To be beaten up in some basement somewhere. No rules or limits. I’ve taken road trips before, especially while visiting family in Texas, and this always crossed my mind. But here, now, in the reality of it… I was scared, despite my cock growing cautiously harder as the time passed, and as this man decided what he wanted to do with me. Or, to me.

He paced ahead of me for a moment. Back and forth, looking me up and down. Reached down and grabbed my shoulders, attempting to pull me to my feet. I tried to find purchase under my shoes as I scuffed his floor until I was finally able to stand. He shoved me hard against my pecs, backing me into the cement wall.

“Tell your men Cliff sends his regards,” he said before he landed a hook across my cheek, knocking my head to the side and causing me to briefly lose balance. I heard myself let out an UGH as the strike caught me off guard. I stumbled to the side before standing back up straight. I’d let him do what he wants if it means I get to live. Another hook across my cheek – the other side – knocked me the opposite direction.

Between the two punches, he just stared at me. I don’t know what he wanted. But without an ongoing barrage of punches – with him taking time to size me up before the next punch – I didn’t know when to expect the next impact, or where.

The taste of iron began to fill my mouth. Quickly I feel my teeth with my tongue. None of them are loose, thank god. But then, ouch, I found it. The blood. He’d cut the inside of my cheek with one of those punches. No broken teeth, though? Then I’m good. Keep it coming, Cliff, I thought.

Another two hook shots strike my face just like the first two. After four hard punches to the head, though, I was beginning to get dizzy. “Sir,” I started to say.

He answered with another shot to the left side of my face, whipping my head to the side, earning another grunt, and briefly making my 6’3” frame stumble to regain my balance.

“No safe words, fuckup,” he said. He stared intensely. “You’re the little shit who got caught.”

“You’re right,” I said. But I had to think quickly. “You can’t disfigure me, though. I gotta go back looking the same. Too much and they’ll come after you. You can’t ruin a U.S. spy’s appearance. It’s how we blend in.”

I made all that shit up, but Cliff really seemed to be thinking about it as if it were true. 

“Alright,” he finally said. “Then what do you propose I do with you? ‘Cuz you ain’t gettin’ outta here that easy.”

“No sir,” I said. “But you can hit me in the stomach. All you want. They can see my face, they can’t see my stomach.”

He smirked, letting go a soft chuckle. “You asked for it, kid.”

He had never been more than a few mere inches from my face since we started talking. Practically on top of me, he launched an immediate uppercut into my belly.

I should have been prepared, but I thought he’d back away from me first to size me up again. Instead, his fist plowed straight through my almost-flexed abs. The unexpected impact shocked my unprepared innards, winding me immediately as his punch forced my intestines into my diaphragm. A strong UGH erupted from me as his fist sank as deep as it would into my belly, doubling me over onto him.

“What the fuck they trainin’ y’all on?” he laughed. “Can’t take a body shot?”

He launched another one at me, but I flexed my abs this time. His fist struck my marble-hard belly, tweaking his wrist.

“Got-dammit!” he shouted, shaking his fist. “Nah, son. Loosen that up. You’re gonna take this and it’s gonna hurt.”

He began lightly punching my abs while staring directly into my eyes. “Loosen this shit up. Every fuckin’ time I punch this body, it better feel like that first one did. You wanna be punched in the stomach? You’re gonna take a beating to the stomach. You ain’t walking outta here with your head held high.”

I did as I was told and relaxed my abs. As soon as I did, he stopped tapping his fist on my belly and slammed my navel into my spine with a cross. I doubled over again from the pain of the suckerpunch blowing through my guts. Like the first gut shot, this one worked an involuntary UGH from me as his fist damn near connected with the wall behind me through my relaxed core.

He stood me back up against the wall with a hand on my muscular pecs.

“I’m gonna like this shit,” he said.

He drove a left hook deep into my bowels. The blow landed just to the right of my navel, sending a shockwave across my gut as my intestines were punched to the side. I struggled to keep my abs relaxed, but I did. As soon as his fist retracted from my gut, his right hook connected with the left side of my navel, pounding my innards to the right, where, you guessed it, another hook from the other side rocked my loose belly to the other side again.

He kept up with his left and right hooks for a few uninterrupted minutes of intestinal brutalization – impressive cardio for his age, honestly – while my cock continued to get hard. Each time his fist rammed into my belly, brutally sloshing my intestines from side to side, the more I had to fight the urge to give Cliff a Fuck yeah. Keep going, bro.

I knew I couldn’t, but the desire was there.

Though of course, if my cock escaped my underwear and jeans, Cliff would definitely know something is up. Instead, as each punch impacted my soft, pliant six pack and painfully wrecked my bowels the way I like it, I just moaned. Grunted. Groaned. Sounded like I was in pain – which I was – but not like I enjoyed it – which I did, secretly.

He ended his barrage of hooks with another, more powerful cross, which was the hardest punch I’d taken, like it was meant to be a finisher. The shot landed right above my navel, driving deep into the pit of my guts. The punch doubled me over again with his fist still jackhammered in my soft belly as deep as he could drive it. My muscular chest, with his fist still jammed into my intestines, came to rest on Cliff’s shoulder. The meat of the muscle of my pecs pressed onto his shoulder as he pumped his fist in my belly for a moment.

“Yeah you fuckin take this beating,” he sneered as he pumped his fist in my loose six pack, working the breath out of my body, onto his shoulder.

“You ever had this kind of control over a guy?” I asked, trying to catch my breath. 

“The fuck kind of question is that?” he said with visible disgust. He pushed me off of him and cracked another hook across my face. When I stumbled to the side, he caught me, slammed me to the wall, and drove a punch into my lower intestines. God, if he only knew how badly that made me want to cum.

All I did was grunt and groan.

I felt a liquid trickle work its way down my chin, through my scruff. For all I knew, I could have drooled on myself, but it was more likely blood. I realized my bottom lip felt hot, which probably meant he’d busted it and I was bleeding. Sometimes that kind of pain can feel like heat when your body is figuring out what’s happened to it. 

Cliff strode away from me to a black footlocker. He popped the lock to reveal that the footlocker was full of sports equipment.

He removed a Louisville Slugger and pointed it at me.

“Now we’re gonna have some fun,” he said smiling.

I refused to show it on my face, but panic arose in me. Was he going to use that on my gut? That would be fine, but what if he’s changed his mind? What if he cracks that bat over my head?

My hands are still zip-tied. I try to inconspicuously break the zip ties, but the intertwined ties are each a quarter-inch wide. Police ties, maybe. I can’t snap them.

He approaches me and sizes me up again. I just stand before him panting.

He swings the bat at me — at my gut — which cracks loudly across my belly, which I’ve tried to keep relaxed. It felt like the bat must have ruptured my intestines, but the feeling quickly dissipated. I was fine; doubled over in pain, but fine.

He wedged the end of the bat under my chest and used it to direct me back up against the wall. I breathed as deep as I could, my soft abs heaving under my chest.

“Yeah,” he said. I don’t know if there was more to that statement, but that’s all he said as he stared directly at my belly. Watching my stomach heave as I breathed must have given him an idea. Some other way he wanted to exercise control over my gut.

He repositioned his hands on the bat and jabbed it like a police battering ram into the center of my gut above my navel. The hardwood bat actually connected with my spine — I felt it — and pulverized the intestines in its way. The explosion of pain in the deepest part of my gut was intense, more so than a punch, but if I’m telling the truth – I could feel the cum welling up below. 

The bat had doubled me over again. I had no control over the forceful grunt of pain he forced out of my belly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” is all I could repeat as I tried to catch my breath.

“Get your ass back up,” he spit, forcing me back up just to deliver another battering ram shot into my belly with that bat. This one sank directly through my navel. It again connected with my spine as a debilitating pain erupted in my soft bowels. I could feel the bat churning and crushing my battered innards as he kept it plunged in deep, my muscular chest bent over it.

My knees gave out, and with hands still behind my back, I fell to my knees doubled over in pain. I just moaned, hoping my cock was still out of sight, tied down by my pants and underwear.

“We ain’t done yet,” he kicked my bicep, knocking me to the floor, laying on my side. I winced in pain until a moment later as his steel toe boot slammed deep into my intestines again. My soft belly enveloped the end of Cliff’s boot.

UGH came out of me like a shout. As he did before, he crouched and picked me up to stand me against the wall. My belly, now aching badly, barely allowed me to stand up straight. 

He looked really pissed now.

Left hook, right hook, cross. Left hook, right hook, cross. Left hook, right hook, cross.

With my back against the wall, he furiously pounded my intestines. I could only partially catch my breath between shots, but each one was solid and deep, and quickly followed the one before it, punching the breath out of my belly as soon as I’d tried to catch it. There were no grunts or groans from me this time – no breath to make them. Just the silence of the basement and the thuds of fists on thick guts.

With no warning, a right hook and then a left hook struck my face, causing me to stumble and lose vision. Immediately following, another cross into the pit of my gut. He drove his fist deep into my innards, holding it there as deep as he could for just a moment as he stared into my eyes before allowing me to drop to the floor.

I collapsed. I didn’t even mean to. But I did. 

He delivered one final kick to my guts as I laid there. My loose intestines flattened against the wall behind me. My soft abs willfully allowing his boot into my beefy body. 

After the kick I curled up on my knees, sitting on my feet, hunched over, while my intestines ached and ached. I was softly moaning, but didn’t even realize it. I could now see that there were drops of blood all across the floor. 

“Get the fuck out,” Cliff said. He spit onto the ground next to me.

I didn’t say anything, but I groaned.

I heard him angrily sigh before he grabbed my shoulders and lifted me to my feet. He held me tight as he walked me up the basement stairs and through his kitchen and living room. At the front door, he swung it open and pushed me out onto the porch. He flicked open his pocketknife and cut the zip ties before slamming his door closed and locking it. 

Through the door, he shouted directions at me. How to find the driveway that leads back to the road. I thanked him, but I’m not sure why.

I followed his instructions and, just as he said, there was my rental car. I hopped in and locked the doors. The car wouldn’t start, still.

I laid back in the still-reclined seat. 

Laying back, I rubbed my belly. I gently flexed and relaxed my abs as I felt my red skin. I pressed into my stomach a little. When I tensed my abs, I felt the hills and valleys of my six pack form under my fingers. The flexing and relaxing felt therapeutic to my sore guts. I continued to rub myself. As my abs relaxed, those stone-solid hills and valleys disappeared. I gently pressed my fingertips into my intestines as I ran my hands along my unflexed gut, still deeply aching.

I sucked my belly in with a vacuum pose, then relaxed it. I had a pair of shoes on the floorboard in the backseat, so I took one of the shoes and pressed the toe of the shoe into my soft gut. I worked the rigid-soled shoe in and out of my ruined innards like a massage. I caught myself moaning as I did it.

Fuck it, I thought. That was wild, but I’m safe now. I’m going to jackoff about it. 

I slid my jeans and underwear down my legs, and had been shirtless the whole time already. My cock was still hard. I grasped it and began to masturbate with my eyes closed.

I recalled the feeling of his fist plunging into my navel. The feeling of the breath being punched out of me with an uppercut. With my left hand, I sank my fingers into the pit of my belly where he had both punched and kicked me. 

The feeling of my fingers pressing into the pit of my gut, through my relaxed six pack, caused the already achy spot to ache more. My intestines hurt and I could feel them. 

So, naturally, I came. Strong jets of white cum landed on my pecs and face until my body calmed down and relaxed once again.

I wiped the cum from my chin with my palm and looked at it. The liquid on my hand was like a peppermint swirl of red and white. Blood and cum. I took a finger in my mouth anyway.

I slept rough, afraid Cliff might return. But upon the early sunrise, I sat up and tried the engine once more.

It worked.

Refusing to question my rental, I just drove. I fucking drove, and drove.