The Photoshoot

Morgan Bradley dripped with confidence as he strutted toward the pair of steel and glass double doors, whatever sense of intimidation or grandeur they were meant to convey was totally lost on his arrogance. Morgan was twenty-six – well beyond the age that most models had transcended from ‘aspiring’ to ‘established’ – but he still held out hope that he was just one amateur photo-shoot away from being discovered. He had strong, handsome facial features topped by a neatly styled head of silvery grey hair that gave his young face a striking air of maturity. Morgan was only 5 foot 6, but his tone build was perfectly sculpted from years of careful dieting and exercise. He had a defined chest, powerfully built arms and a washboard stomach but wasn’t bulging with muscle.

Morgan rang the bell and waited. The stately home before him was large and beautiful, the crown of a cul de sac rimmed with equally impressive homes. The street was awash in bright summer sunlight and not a single house had anything less than a Mercedes parked in the driveway. A woman was casually walking her designer toy dog in laps around the center island. The picturesque nature of Chrysanthemum  Heights made Morgan much more relaxed about meeting for a shoot in a private home. But, he figured, he likely wasn’t going to find an axe murder lurking in this palatial home with ocean views, and he had heard good things about this photographer from a few guys.

Just as Morgan went to press the doorbell again the doors opened with a soft whoosh. On the other side was Paul, a middle aged man with thinning hair who was wearing only a grey tight fitting t-shirt and bright orange, baggy board shorts.

“Come on in,” Paul motioned as Morgan made his way into the entry way. It was a far cry from Morgan’s uptown flat. A sculpture that looked very Greek was in an alcove, a chandelier hung regally from the ceiling. Light bathed the spacious living room from breathlessly tall windows that ran from the floor to the cathedral ceilings. Stone, leather and chrome were everywhere giving a decidedly modern appeal to the home.

The two went through the customary greetings as Morgan shared his modeling experience and Paul talked up his experience in shooting. Paul was an amateur photographer aside from a banking job in The Shard, the specifics of which Morgan didn’t catch, but Paul’s photography equipment – keeping up with his lifestyle – was hardly amateur. As they made their way to the sunroom in the back of the house, Morgan was amazed by the view. Three of the walls were entirely glass with sweeping ocean views. Clearly there were advantages to being at the top of the cul de sac.

Lights and other equipment were already setup and a curtain had been draped over the back window, blocking the ocean and sunlight. Morgan figured this was probably as close to a traditional ‘wall’ this room had ever seen. A lamp post, presumably some kind of stage prop, was setup in the middle of the room. Street signs were attached making it look like it was standing at the intersection of 52nd Street and Sunset Avenue.

“Alright so this is free right?” Morgan asked, shocked that such an elaborate setup wouldn’t require a fee.

“Totally, just give me permission to keep some of the proofs. I’m trying to build a portfolio just like you. But it’s more of a hobby for me than a career…”

Paul handed Morgan a handsome leather bound book filled with dramatic black and white photography. There were a few models, mostly men, in provocative poses leaning against the street pole, and some women showing off fashionable dresses on the beach. A few of the vista shots could have passed as Ansel Adams pieces. This guy really was good.

“Shall we get started then?”

Morgan shrugged and approached the lamp post. He was wearing just a pair of tight fitting faded blue jeans and a white Armani Exchange t-shirt that clung to his chest and hugged his biceps. No sooner than Morgan knelt in front of the pole than the rapid string of flashes began.

 “Be casual!” Paul assured.

Morgan knew that an almost nonstop series of flashes marked professional photo shoots but none of his amateur work even came close to this. He was a bit intimidated but quickly got into the rhythm.

Paul moved from side to side with his camera, giving Morgan hand gestures on how to tilt his head, if he was smiling too much or not enough and how to stand. About a half hour in, Paul stopped shooting and motioned for Morgan to stand with his back to the post. Paul knelt down and motioned for Morgan to stand with his legs wider apart. Morgan complied and Paul aimed the camera upward, snapping several dramatic upshots as Morgan looked off into the distance, the faux street signs visible in the frame.

Paul stood up and positioned Morgan’s head slightly to the right then, to Morgan’s displeasure, proceeded to tussle his hair. Morgan was about to say something when he felt Paul grab his shirt and ripped it down the font.

“Look angry, but sexy,” Paul instructed and Morgan posed spread leg with his shirt torn open and his back against the post.

Paul again took a break from shooting and instructed Morgan to take off his shirt, which he did. The young man was now wearing only a pair of tight jeans. His chest was starting to glisten with sweat from the intense studio lights. Paul stood in front of Morgan’s spread legs and, before Morgan could react, lifted his knee toward his crotch.

Paul’s knee came to a rest just barely touching the hulking bulge in the front of his jeans. Morgan’s pants left little to the imagination, especially up close, and Paul could feel that his knee cap was squarely resting on Morgan’s egg-sized right nut.

Paul and Morgan’s eyes locked, Morgan’s face a mixture of confusion and fear.

“That! The expression right there. Do that again.” Paul commanded with all the zeal of a Hollywood photographer, stepping away from Morgan.

Morgan held the look of mild fear as the camera flashes began anew. This went on for a few minutes before Paul set the camera down and approached Morgan. Remembering what happened last time, Morgan’s legs came together slightly. Paul smiled and walked behind Morgan.

“Give me your hands, please.”

 Without thinking he put his hands around his back so they were wrapped behind the post. Paul took them and there was click. To Morgan’s mild terror his hands were now clasped in a pair of handcuffs; he was stuck to the pole. Paul stood in front of Morgan and looked him over.

“Spread your legs a bit –”

Morgan timidly spread hit legs again and Paul’s knee again lifted. It connected slightly harder than the last time, but not very hard. It was however startling enough to make Morgan gasp. Their eyes locked and Paul lowered his foot… Morgan sighed but only for a moment before Paul’s knee came up again still harder than the last time.

This time Paul kept his knee pressed into Morgan’s bulge. Their eyes locked again and Morgan’s face was contorted in confusion and fear, but it was still very handsome. Paul’s eyes examined Morgan’s face while his own face had a vaguely-disguised smirk. Paul started rubbing his knee cap into the bulge in a circular motion, increasing the pressure slightly. Morgan winced, more from fear than pain.

“Dude, what the hell?” Morgan spat.

Paul only responded by increasing the pressure on his knee briefly, lowering his foot, then bringing his knee squarely into Morgan’s crotch – hard. Morgan’s gasped in pain and surprise and Paul could feel the bulge flatten under the impact. It was far from the hardest knee he could have delivered, but it was still a lot harder of a blow than Morgan’s boys had experienced for a while.

“That look! Keep that look,”

Paul stepped away from Morgan and picked up his camera. Morgan, trying to stay professional and remembering that he was - after all - still in a safe, suburban area, did his best to keep his devil-may-care model facial expression, despite a growing fear.

“That’s great!”

Paul kept shooting blinding flashes as Morgan as he walked behind him again. Before Morgan realized it, Paul had knelt down and grabbed his ankles. Morgan went to move his legs but with surprising strength Paul was able to shackle Morgan’s angles together behind the pole. Paul no doubt took advantage of Morgan’s surprise and unpreparedness in restraining the young man.

Paul stood up and faced Morgan.

“Hey man what’s going…”

 Morgan’s question was interrupted by a sharp knee to the balls. Morgan gasped and attempted to double over but couldn’t since he was firmly attached to the post. Paul paused, and then raised his knee again three more times. Each time he could feel the mound in Morgan’s pants being compressed and despite the fact that Morgan was frantically trying to close his legs, the jeans were so tight and kept the bulge so prominent that Paul had no problem staying on target.

“Please, what do you…?”

“There! That’s it!”

Paul abruptly stopped kneeing Morgan’s swelling manhood and resumed the frenetic photo taking. Morgan’s face was now contorted in fear and pain, tears streaming down his face while his pecs and chest heaved, now dripping with sweat.

“That look! That’s what my clients are looking for…”

More camera flashes. Morgan was in a world of hurt and confusion. He had abandoned trying to keep up the emotionless face of a couture model and instead was pleading for Paul to let him go. His muscular body squirmed against the restraints. Paul stopped shooting and set his camera down. He left the room and Morgan could hear him going upstairs.

Several moments passed and when Paul emerged he was holding a wooden baseball bat.

Morgan’s knees attempted to lock together and his struggling increased by an order of magnitude but he was still firmly in place on the faux street corner. Paul approached with deliberate speed, taking time to bat the palm of his hand. When he was within striking distance he took a stand like he was at a batting cage, lining up the end of the bat over Morgan’s mound. Morgan’s nuts, which were already large, bulged even more obscenely from the swelling from earlier.

“Batter up!” Paul laughed as he swung the bat full force. It sailed through the air with an audible whoosh and Morgan was sure his nuts would be cracked… but to his surprise the bat only collided gently with the vulnerable lump.

 “That look! Of terror. That’s it!” Paul dropped the bat to the floor with a clang, grabbed his camera and proceeded to photograph Morgan.

“Now we just gotta’ take these off…” Paul walked up to Morgan and proceed to unzip his jeans and pull them to his knees.

Morgan screamed and pleaded while Paul took the opportunity to fondle his large nuts, now protected only by the thin cotton of his briefs. The outline of each egg sized, swollen nut could clearly be seen, as could his fat cock, which - at 6 inches soft - snaked down Morgan’s chiseled thigh.

“Mmm, looks like someone wants to play!” Paul said, grabbing Morgan’s cock through the thin fabric.

To Morgan’s surprise, his cock started to swell from excitement despite the pain radiating from his balls from the earlier abuse and the panic and confusion that was causing his heart to quicken.

The stroking went on for several minutes, giving Morgan’s balls a welcome time to rest, until finally the young stud’s thick nine inch cock was barely contained within the fabric. Despite himself, Morgan found himself throwing his head back and moaning at the surprisingly good hand job. Paul noticed this and, without warning, buried his hand inside Morgan’s shorts. Precum was oozing out of Morgan’s mushroom head at such a rate that his shorts were developing a noticeable wet spot. It also provided Paul with ample lube as his fist, wrapped tightly around Morgan’s throbbing shaft, pumped up and down its entire length.

“Oh yeah…” Morgan moaned, the pleasure from his cock almost entirely replacing the dull ache still coming from his nuts.

Just as suddenly as Paul had started the hand job, he stopped. Stood up, looked Morgan in his dazed and sex-struck eyes and - without warning - slammed his knee several times into the young man’s exposed crotch. The pain was incredible. Pauls’ hand job had gotten Morgan’s baby making juices flowing, filling his nuts with cream. The extra liquid flooding his tender balls, along with the swelling from earlier was stretching the membranes holding Morgan’s package together to their breaking point.

Morgan’s cock deflated as Pauls’ powerful knee slammed into Morgan’s bulging underwear. Morgan cried and pleaded as his now ridiculously swollen balls were turned to mush. His cock which was still six inches flaccid and flopped over his balls, was also taking a terrible beating by Paul’s knee. Morgan was so lost in the tremendous pain that he barely noticed the flashing of lights around him. Cameras that had been sitting idle on tripods around the room were capturing the destruction of his nuts in living color.

“Please…” Morgan couldn’t finish the plea, cut short by a heave.

Paul stepped back lest he be splatted by Morgan’s lunch, but Morgan - keeping with a tip he had heard about never eating before a shoot - only dry heaved and coughed for a moment. After his victim had recovered, Paul stepped back from Morgan a few feet.

“Finally…” the thought was left unfinished, replaced instead by the worst pain Morgan had ever felt in his life. With the strength and precision of an accomplished kick boxer, Paul’s foot collided into Pauls’ mound, extended at the end of an outstretched leg.

Morgan’s right nut had taken the blunt of the blow and it radiated fresh waves of nauseating pain even after Pauls’ foot was retracted.

Paul walked away from Morgan and picked up his camera. He proceeded to circle Morgan, snapping photos at a blinding speed and barking directions as if this were the most ordinary photo shoot in the world. Morgan was sobbing, pain pulsating from his battered manhood with each heartbeat.

The bizarre scene continued for twenty minutes, and Morgan’s organs had just started to settle back to a state of dull aching when Paul set down his camera and approached. He went around the room and methodically turned off the automated cameras. He made a passing comment about them being low on film, but Morgan was far beyond the realm of engaging in idle chit chat. When the last camera was off, Paul approached. Morgan immediately resumed pleading, trying to make eye contact, trying desperately to forge empathy with the monster coming toward him.

“We have to get these off for the last scene change,” Paul grabbed Morgan’s underwear with both hands and proceeded to rip them to shreds.

 Morgan looked down with horror at his mangled nuts. They were still whole, but swollen to nearly twice their normal size and bluish black. The right one had a twinge of reddish purple. His big flopping cock also showed bruising, but was still a magnificent specimen. Paul dropped to his knees and swallowed all six inches of Morgan’s soft cock. With masterful skill, he sucked and milked Morgan’s cock as it involuntarily swelled. It was only a few minutes before all nine inches of now rock-hard model cock was pulsing in Paul’s mouth.

There was a visible bulge in Paul’s throat as he bobbed up and down Morgan’s knob. Morgan’s balls rolled with baby batter, which only added to his pain. Despite the fact he was getting what was probably the most skilled blow job in his young life, all Morgan could comprehend was the tremendous pain from his crotch. For Morgan, Paul no longer existed. The stately home, the perfect cul de sac simply vanished to him. Nothing existed but panic and pain.

“Good. Now stroke it, I wanna’ see you cum.” Paul said, standing up.

He was dripping with sweat from the oppressive studio lights and the excitement of having this young stud literally by the balls.

He walked behind Morgan and unclasped his right hand. Morgan was too dazed to fully comprehend what was happening. Paul spit in Morgan’s hand and placed it on his now throbbing rod.

“Now, stroke, Morgan. Look hot for me.”

At first Morgan was too out of it to comply. His hand ran the length of his cock weakly, barely keeping its hold. This went on for several minutes, while Paul impatiently barked out orders like “Look this way!” and “Turn your head!” Paul set down the camera with force and stormed out of the room. Morgan could hear Paul rummaging through the large, echoing house. In his haze Morgan wasn’t able to estimate how long Paul was gone, but it must not have been long enough for his cock to lose interest; it was still rock hard and pulsating as if blissfully unaware of the mortal danger it and the rest of its package was in.

When Paul finally emerged he was rolling in an odd looking contraption. Morgan, who was desperately trying to regain wits, stared at the machine. Whatever it was Paul was obsessively positioning it just right. When it was in position, he stepped out of the way so that Morgan could fully see what it was. 

 Morgan’s eyes bulged in terror and he let out a howl of fear. A wave of such intense panic went through him that he instantly found himself lifted entirely from his haze and painfully aware of his situation. Paul had positioned a baseball pitching machine across the room. Morgan could hear the motor humming quietly, the mechanism making an occasional clicking sound.

“Please, please don’t…”

“In a moment, I’m going to start the final shoot. I wanna see you stroke that big cock of yours and blast a load. But I don’t want to be at it all day, to incentivize you finishing… “Paul stopped.

He pushed a button on the machine and a ball went sailing, colliding full force into Morgan’s stomach and knocking the wind out of him.

“Oops, too high.” He adjusted the device and fired again. The aim was dead on. The ball hit Morgan’s swinging balls with a wet thud. The impact was biased toward the right, and that nut was stinging especially. The ball had barely bounced off and hit the ground when the delayed pain hit Morgan. He let go of his cock and cradled his nuts in his free hand. He was crying and screaming in an inhuman manner.

“Where was I. Ah yes, to give you an incentive to finish in a timely manner, I’m going to fire a ball every thirty seconds or so until something blows…”

Morgan’s face froze in fear. He glanced over at the masts holding the automated cameras. Paul had activated them when Morgan wasn’t watching and a red light was now glowing on their fronts. An occasional burst of light escaped the flashbulbs behind them.

Morgan totally ignored his raging cock and instead kept his hand firmly over his balls.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you…”

A ball went flying, crashing squarely into Morgan’s hand, which did little to block the force over the blow. Had it not been for the restraints, Morgan would have doubled over in intense pain as his balls were literally crushed by his own hand. He stopped his futile effort to protect his boys and got to work on his cock. He tried desperately to think of the hottest sexual images you could think of. He replayed Paul’s blow job hoping to work out a load, but it was of marginal use. No sooner as he felt a load starting to build another baseball and then another and another came crashing with deadly accuracy into his defenseless nuts.

The studio was filled with the din of the machine’s motor, the pop of flashing lights and inhuman grunting and screaming of Morgan. By the eleventh ball, Morgan’s dick started to become limp, not from lack of trying, but the sheer distraction of having his baby makers turned to baby food. The slight misalignment that was biasing the balls to strike Morgan’s right nut were causing that ball to swell dangerously. It was hanging heavier in the sack than the left and was throbbing constantly. Every time Morgan jerked his cock, the tugging on his sack only inflamed the right ball more.

Bam! Another ball struck. Morgan knew his right nut was about to burst. How much more could it take…? The sound the baseballs made on impact was turning into more of a wet splat and the pain on the ball was orders of magnitude greater than the left; which itself wasn’t exactly being spared. Morgan’s panic grew, knowing his manhood was about to be ended and he forced himself to jerk. His cock was just starting to perk up again when…

BAM! BAM! BAM! Three balls in rapid succession came crashing into the Morgan’s swinging gonads. His right nut was turning blackish blue. Most alarmingly, it was turning numb…

BAM!

Morgan bit his lip and started jerking profusely. He focused every ounce of conviction he could muster to think of the hottest sexual images he could conjure. His imagination worked in overdrive filling his hormone-and-pain washed brain with images of football jocks joined in cum-splattering daisy chains, cum dripping off the faces of the hottest celebrities he could think of, the feeling of having a huge cock ramming into his ass. The imagery was working.

BAM!

Morgan kept jerking; he could feel his balls starting to roll. This load was close. We recalled the image of a twink ‘water boy’ being drenched in cum by a rugby team circle jerk from a porno he’d watched the other day. His cock surged with blood. It was rock hard and - as if it suddenly became aware of its mission - was close to blowing.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Another three ball volley. Morgan could no longer feel his right nut, now swollen to absolute bursting. The left was turning beet red and was starting to hang lower in the sack. “If I don’t blow this load, my balls are gonna…”

BAM!

“Come on! Come on!” Morgan coaxed himself in his head “if I don’t cum my balls are gonna be turned to mush! They’re gonna’ pop like grapes.”

Suddenly, and quite to his surprise, Morgan felt his cock twitch violently and his pace of stroking quickened. It was the type of response that usually came while he was being bent over a table and ravaged by a hung stud, like the Latin photographer who bent him over a makeup table a few weeks ago, plowing so far into Morgan that his big heavy Latin nuts slammed into Morgan’s ass with each thrust.

“My balls are going to be turned to mush! They’re gonna splatter like two huge cracked eggs”

BAM!

Morgan’s stroking intensified. “Oh crap, my balls are gonna pop. They’re gonna POP!”

Suddenly Morgan was no longer concentrating on cum-glazed jocks or getting fucked to work up his sex juices. He was getting turned on by the prospect of having his gonads turned into paste. It was the strangest, and hottest, stimulant he’d ever encountered. The pain radiating from his balls was turning him on, and the prospect of having one mushed was strangely hot.

BAM!

 Morgan stroked faster and faster, his cock twitched…

“Oh shit! I’m cumming!” Morgan screamed as he threw his head back, his hair matted to his forehead from sweat.

BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

Multiple balls with virtually no delay between them laid waste to Morgan’s dangerously swollen manhood.

Four thick ropes of semen shot out of him. Morgan looked down in amazement as cum exploded from his jerking cock like silly string. The ’shortest’ distance handily cleared seven feet. Two more ropes of cum shot out. More cum oozed out like a leaking faucet. It was thick, forming a cream colored, unbroken column of liquid that stretched down from his still raging cock for nearly two feet.

The cum rope hung suspended for several moments, Morgan moaning and screaming in pain and pleasure.

BAM!

 The rope was broken as another baseball tore through it on its way to its target. Morgan’s right nut, which had been the focus of so much abuse, just couldn’t take it.

Everything happened in what seemed like slow motion. The baseball got drenched in cum as it tore through the hanging cum rope, travelled the remaining 9 inches to Morgan’s balls and collided squarely with his right nut not with a thud but with a faint – but painfully audible – wet ‘pop’.

Morgan’s moans of ecstasy stopped. His head jerked forward and his eyes bulged, his mouth fixed in a noiseless ‘O’. The veins on his neck bulged and his chiseled abs rippled as every muscle in his body tensed.

 BAM!

The final baseball finished the job the previous one had started. Morgan’s big, swollen and vulnerable right ball blew apart in the sack. The left ball wasn’t in much better shape…

Though only a brief second actually transpired between the instant Morgan went from being a virile, muscular young man with two working balls to a defeated model with half a sack, to Morgan it seemed like an eternity. His mouth was still locked in an ‘O’, his brain too overwhelmed to generate the appropriate response…

“OH GOD!” Morgan screamed followed by inane babble and howls of terror and pain.

Paul turned off the machine and approached Morgan. He grabbed Morgan’s rapidly swelling sack and fondled it roughly. The left nut, though swollen to huge proportions, was still solid and intact. The mess in the right side of the sack could hardly be called a ‘ball’. It was slightly mushy, with one central mass and several smaller chunks. The abused testicle had literally blown to pieces. Paul grinned as the restrained stud continued to convulse and screech. Paul walked behind Moran and unrestrained him. Morgan dropped to the ground sobbing and clutching his ruined ball.

Through his haze of pain he could see daylight spilling into the entry hall, and like a wounded animal he began to crawl on all fours toward it. He passed a stately statue of Greek inspiration sitting on a pedestal. He rounded an Italian leather couch. Such stately and civilized surroundings hardly seemed to blend with the savagery of a crippled young stud literally crawling to safety.

Paul, who was slipping his phone back into his pocket after sending a text, looked down at Morgan. In Morgan’s pain-wracked mind he had made significant progress toward the door. In actuality, he’d gone only eight feet. Paul walked behind him slowly and noticed that Morgan’s sack was dangling wildly between his legs like a piece of ripe fruit; the target was entirely too tempting…

“OH CHRIST!” Morgan screamed at the top of his lungs as Pauls’ foot collided full force.

Paul’s leg had collided with Moran’s defenseless package with such tremendous force that Morgan was literally lifted from the ground. His right ball was further mashed and his left nut was on the verge of cracking. His beautiful, veiny cock was turning purple and swelling from the abuse.

 Morgan, too stunned and pained to go forward, toppled over and passed out…
 -
Lyle Christopher rang the bell and waited. The home before him was large and beautiful, the crown of a cul de sac rimmed with equally impressive homes. The street was shadowed by a slight autumn overcast and not a single house had anything less than a Mercedes parked in its short drive way. A woman was casually walking her designer toy dog in laps around the center island. The scene made Lyle much more relaxed about meeting for a shoot in a private home, which he typically avoided. But, Lyle figured, he likely wasn’t going to find an axe murder lurking in this palatial home with ocean views, and besides, his boyfriend had been singing the guy’s praises since they had first met at a party two months ago.

Several moments passed with ostensibly no response. Lyle checked the scrap of paper he was carrying to confirm the address:

Paul’s address;

2121 Poseidon Vista Road - You’ll Love this Guy,

Love Morgan!

Just then, the doors opened with a soft whoosh. On the other side was Paul, a middle aged man with thinning hair who was wearing only a grey tight fitting T-shirt and bright orange, baggy board shorts….