To Bryan My First Love

[WanThemGone65]

The story began on a quiet camping trip deep in the pines, where Allen—bisexual, quietly obsessed, nursing a years-long crush—had finally lured Bryan, the straight friend he’d never stop wanting, into the wilderness. Allen had packed the pills. Tasteless. Reliable. He’d handed Bryan the spiked beer with a smile, watched his eyelids grow heavy, and then taken what he’d fantasized about for so long.
That first night, Allen had been careful at first—almost reverent—peeling Bryan’s shorts down, kissing the inside of those thick brown thighs, sucking the big, circumcised cock until it thickened in his mouth even in sleep. Then he’d pushed in, slow at first, then harder, whispering filthy things against Bryan’s ear while he fucked him deep and came inside. Bryan had spilled untouched across his own carved abs, body responding on instinct. Allen had cleaned them up, curled beside him naked, and fallen asleep tangled in guilt and triumph.
Morning came. Bryan woke sore, sticky, confused—but said nothing. Just stretched, winced, muttered about a weird dream. Allen handed him coffee and smiled like the night before had never happened.
The second night Bryan switched the drinks.
He crushed Allen’s own pill into the bottle while Allen’s back was turned. Watched him drink it down. Waited until Allen crawled into the tent, stripped naked, sprawled out, and slipped under completely.
Then Bryan took his turn.
He tied Allen spread-eagle with tent stakes and rope—wrists and ankles staked tight to the ground, hips propped on a rolled sleeping bag, ass raised and open. When Allen woke, he couldn’t move. Bryan didn’t explain. He just fucked him—hard, merciless—while Allen begged, then sobbed, then came anyway, helpless and ashamed.
Bryan wasn’t done.
He opened the tackle box. Pulled two large treble hooks. Pierced Allen’s nipples clean through—barbs sinking deep, blood running down his chest in bright trails. Allen screamed until his voice cracked. Bryan held the fish-cleaning knife to the base of Allen’s still-hard cock—contemplating castration, promising it—then withdrew, only to force another orgasm out of him while tugging the hooks like reins.
The rage grew.
Bryan dragged Allen deeper into the woods while he was still conscious enough to whimper pleas. Forced the last pill down his throat. Waited for blackout.
In the clearing, Bryan tied him over a fallen log—face down, ankles spread to saplings, wrists lashed back. He hooked Allen’s balls wide apart. Pierced the frenulum with a heavy hook, tied it high. Sliced shallow rings around the shaft. Forced a needle through the glans sideways and suspended that too. Fisted Allen’s ass to the wrist while the ruined cock spasmed through forced orgasm after forced orgasm—bloody, weak, unstoppable.
Bryan couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t stand it. Allen’s body kept coming no matter how savagely he hurt it.
So he made it hard one final time—stroking the mutilated, hooked length until it stood rigid and throbbing despite everything.
Then he sawed.
The fish knife bit in at the base. Slow. Methodical. Skin parted. Blood gushed. Muscle gave. Tendon snapped. Allen’s drugged body convulsed through one last, spraying orgasm as the cock came free in Bryan’s hand—still twitching, still leaking, hooks dangling from it like trophies.
Bryan pressed the severed end against Allen’s gaping hole and pushed it inside—deep, all the way—until only the fishing lines trailed out. He used those same lines to cinch the raw stump closed in tight, overlapping loops—sealing the wound into a puckered, bloody knot. Then he stitched Allen’s ass shut around the embedded cock—pulling the monofilament through torn rim like crude sutures, drawing it closed until nothing could leak out.
Allen lay there—groin a nightmare of stitches and absence, ass bulging unnaturally, sealed around what used to be his pride. Blood crusted everywhere. Hooks still in his nipples. Balls still spread wide.
Bryan sat back against a tree and watched the light fade.
When night fell he carried Allen—limp, unconscious, ruined—back to camp. Laid him in the tent like nothing had happened. Zipped the flap.
Morning would come.
Allen would wake groggy, aching in ways he couldn’t comprehend at first. Then he’d look down.
He’d see the flat, stitched stump. The black fishing line holding everything closed. The impossible fullness still inside him—his own cock, severed and buried.
And Bryan would be there—handing him coffee, smiling softly.
“Rough night, huh?”
Allen would stare at him—tears welling, voice gone—and understand, too late, that the balance had shifted forever.
Bryan had taken everything back.
And he wasn’t giving any of it up.