Robbery gone wrong

My security systems spotted them a week before their doomed burglary attempt on the manor. Only a few well-paid lawyers in London fully understand how much of the surrounding countryside I own, and they remain blissfully ignorant of, how much surveillance tech I have access to.

I had just returned from an assignment when the alert came through from the road outside the big front gates to the property. A quick visual scan showed me the beaten-up white van and it was the work of minutes to access various databases (that I really shouldn’t be able to access) and gain every detail of the occupants.

It was no surprise that Tommy had the most social media presence of the group for he was the youngest at 29. Scrolling through TikTok showed me the smooth, muscular young man bench pressing heavy weights, shouting abuse at football matches, and taking the piss of his girlfriend. Not a bright lad but handsome, down to earth, and with a cheeky smile. No criminal record but a caution for a bar fight and a terrible credit score. Tommy occupied a dead-end job in the local factory and, judging by the state of his finances, it wasn’t paying enough.

The owner of the van, Pete, wasn’t much older than Tommy and a bit of digging uncovered their link; Pete went to school with Tommy’s older brother on the same estate in the village not far from the manor. Pete, at 32 years of age, had the rough, heavy-set musculature of someone who developed their physique through hard work rather than artfully crafting themselves in the local gym. I watched the trio and noted that Pete would stroke his bushy dark beard whenever nervous. It was a sweet gesture. I hacked his phone and quickly realised that he was a bit of a loner. Calls to his wife, his one co-worker at the small building firm where he worked, and his mother were the only times I could see Pete interact with anyone else in the world. Tapping into his browsing history was an eye-opener. He, almost religiously, wanked off every day at about 12 p.m. to some quite lurid porn involving women who seemed to be into spitting. Following this up; I logged into the local traffic cameras and, sure enough, at noon every day, there was Pete, whacking off in his van in his firm’s car park. I wondered if his two partners-in-crime were aware of how much dried sperm they were sitting in. Nice dick though.

Watching the third occupant through my various lenses did not prepare me for the moment when he emerged from the cramped front seat of the van to urinate in the bushes at the side of the road. He was an enormous bear of a man; fully 6’4” tall with broad, muscular shoulders. As he aimed his stream into the undergrowth I took in his massive gut, ridiculously bushy eyebrows, and the scar that ran down the back of his shaved head. It took a bit longer to identify this one, mainly because I don’t speak Polish and it was on those databases that I finally became acquainted with Pawel. He was 42 years of age and had recently started working at the same factory as Tommy. Before this, he’d been in prison in Piotrkowa for 6 years following an armed robbery attempt that went south.

Listening in on the men, using a well-concealed boom microphone, it became apparent that Pawel spoke little English but was happy to go along with the impending burglary to get some money together to send to his ageing mother in Rakow. Pete was the more nervous of the three and Tommy had the exuberance and cockiness of youth and, frankly, wouldn’t shut up as a consequence of a combination of excitement and nerves.

I immediately decided that I could have some very selective fun with these three specimens and started to set to work.

I should explain. I’ve lived here for about 15 years. As a living, I perform tasks that other people cannot, or will not, do. I am called upon to do this only once a year – twice at most and, effectively, I do not exist. My anonymity and my ability, through much of the aforementioned tech, and my access to intelligence systems the world over, ensures that I always pass unnoticed as I go about my business. The work pays very handsomely and only 3 people know me well enough to avail themselves, or their nation, of my services.

In my line of work, however, it pays to be vigilant. Hence the amped-up security, defence systems, and monitoring gadgetry that litter all of my homes. Developing a profile of the three men parked outside my home took half an hour. Planning the next steps took slightly longer, if nothing else because I had to defrost the bags of specially formulated food paste.

I should point out that I’m not a hermit by any stretch. I have a healthy social life and a rapacious sex life and my friendships are very real. They simply don’t know what I do for a living and my birth-name has long drifted out of existence. Sexually, I’m very sanguine that my kinks are not to everyone’s tastes but it is the age of the internet and I do okay. Scanning the three men made me salivate most inappropriately, I won’t lie.

My next steps were quite leisurely – the chatter from outside told me that they were casing the manor and planned to strike on Friday in the early hours of the morning. I smiled to myself over the discussion about where to buy balaclavas and Pawel’s misunderstanding that they were going to purchase cakes.

Pawel was the most straightforward person to make disappear. He barely registered with the landlady in the house where he rented a room and workers came and went from the local factory at such a rate that no one even noticed (a quick look at their payroll system showed me that they had a regular banking schedule for the unclaimed small weekly envelopes of meagre cash). He wasn’t under any form of scrutiny from the authorities. Only his mother would miss his daily call. 

Pete and Tommy would be missed. Fortunately, they were known to be best friends and so I lined things up so that a large sum of money from the Lottery would be deposited into Tommy’s bank account and then drawn out sporadically by a contact of mine in Tenerife. I already had enough footage that I was able to use AI to manufacture a couple of TikTok entries where they could be seen celebrating the win and boarding a plane for a lad’s holiday with grinning apologies to everyone they hadn’t notified of their good fortune. I automated all of these routines so that they would trigger in a logical order from the Friday morning after their burglary attempt. I planned to be busy at that time.

Then I set about readying the manor. The basement was already set up and well stocked for my enjoyment but I did spend a bit of time ensuring the strength of some of the restraints; Pawel would definitely put up a fight and was sturdily built. I didn’t want to take any chances.

From my laboratory (yes, I have one), I gingerly took some nerve gas that I had needed for a previous job and set it up to feed into the big lounge via the air conditioning. This was where I had heard they were planning to enter, after using a crowbar to lever off the French doors, and it was quite handy for me as the room, like most of the rooms, could be sealed off from the rest of the house quite easily. It was unlikely, in the darkness, they would notice the blast doors that would drop down once they were in the space.

Then I simply went about my business for a day or so, while monitoring their various movements and communication, until Thursday night. I slept well. I always do.

It always makes me smile that people who are doing something clandestine nearly always choose to do it on the hour. In my line of work, I specifically never act at any o’clock. This tends to be when soldiers relieve one another, meetings end, people start moving around, and people are at their most aware.

Sure enough, however, at 3 a.m. the slowly blinking blue light on my phone told me that the fun was beginning. From my bed, a good fifty metres away, I watched as Pete gently levered the French doors out of their tracks and Tommy lifted them out of the way. I paused to check Tommy’s Instagram and there he was, blurrily dancing his ass off in a smoky club in Tenerife. His girlfriend’s comments were less than savoury. I was pleased to see they had committed to the balaclavas.

They entered the lounge carefully, torches illuminating the silk wallpaper and immediately spotlighting the TV on the wall. They were talking in stage whispers that my listening devices picked up as if they were shouting. Pawel wanted the TV. Pete thought there might be jewellery somewhere. Tommy was as excited as a puppy but had no clue – he thought one of the side lamps might be worth something (Ikea).

I opened the app I had designed and started the release of the gas. Slowly, invisibly, I brought the levels of the gas, in the room, up. Tommy was the first to experience any effects.

“Feel a bit sick”

“It’s nerves. Get your head in the game for fuck’s sake. We gotta be quick” Pete was checking the drawers of the dresser as he spoke.

 “TV.”

“Yes alright, but quietly”

“Fucking foot’s gone to sleep.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

I lowered the blast doors with a resounding clang.

“What the fuck!”

“Run! Grab what you can and run! Shit!”

With the space sealed, the effects of the gas were much more speedily felt. Tommy fell over, seemingly amazed that his legs had stopped working. In the infrared light his tight buttocks, clad in a black tracksuit that read as a light grey, were a joy to behold. He opened his mouth to speak and only guttural gibberish emerged. I couldn’t help but notice a darker patch develop under him as his bladder gave out and he wet himself helplessly on the carpet.

Pete, seeing Tommy go down, turned back to him to offer help even as Pawel reached the door to the room and, realising that it was locked, bracing his foot immediately against the jamb and began pulling at the handle with furious strength.

Pete didn’t make it across the room to his, now paralysed, buddy. Swearing futilely as his legs gave out under him, Pete went down like a felled tree, smashing into the edge of the sofa and landing a full metre away from the now completely immobile 29-year-old. With grim determination, Pete managed to drag himself a few yards closer to Tommy before succumbing to the gas.

Pawel, as expected, was a joy to behold. When wrenching at the doorknob failed to produce a result, he began hurling himself at the door to try and break it down. He smacked into the door with such force that, had it not been reinforced with steel, he might have had a chance of breaking out. Eventually, he went to his knees, still hammering at the door with his huge fists even as he darkened the front of his combat trousers with his piss. Eventually, he slumped sideways and landed like a sack of cement, mouth still moving like a caught fish, no sound emerging.

I turned off the gas flow, turned on the lounge lights, and got out of bed to get dressed for my guests.

I opened my wardrobe and scanned for the apparel most likely to have maximum impact on the three hapless men lying prone in my lounge. In the end, I selected the black leather pants with the detachable codpiece, Schott boots, and a chest harness that flatters my hairy body. I then strapped myself into the leather hood, that showed only my eyes and mouth, and topped the look off with a biker hat. Into my belt I made sure to slot a cat of nine tails and a selection of cuffs; more for effect than practicality – the only damage done would be self-inflicted as they ran my gauntlet of humiliation and predicament-based choices.

I have found, while on certain jobs, that fear is a much greater weapon than pain. Noting the positioning of Tommy and Pete, I decided to have some fun and turned on the TV and screened their departure to Tenerife; clearly letting them know that they were, to all intents and purposes, out of the picture to their loved ones for an undetermined period of time.

Both men’s eyes widened as they took in the scene presented to them and I could tell that they understood the severity of the position that they found themselves in. Neither man could do more than drool helplessly but, behind the paralysis, both knew that they were in a level of danger previously unimaginable.

I had parked the trolley outside of the lounge for convenience so it was an easy matter to raise the blast door on the French window, disengage the lock, and enter the lounge to collect my haul. Pawel was closest and was a heavy weight, even for me, to get onto the trolley. His eyes burned with anger as I smiled at his inert form before wheeling him off to the elevator that took us to the basement.

The nerve gas assured me of at least an hour’s torpidity from my new charges. That said, Pawel was clearly fighting the effects of the gas and was moaning his frustrations and inarticulate threats even as we arrived in my playrooms. I wasted no time in stripping him to his underwear, marvelling at his strong, hairy frame as I reduced him to a pair of wet, y-fronts and manoeuvred him into the bondage chair and strapped down his ankles, thighs, waist, chest, biceps, wrists, and neck with the heavy leather straps. Soon he was sitting, immobile, thighs wide, in front of me and I couldn’t resist playing with him. I leaned in, grabbed his shrivelled cock, and sizeable nuts, through the wet fabric, and kissed him full on the mouth. Even under the effects of the gas, I could feel his muscles spasm as he tried to pull away from me. I was under no illusion that had he been able, he would have tried to kill me on the spot. Sadly, his opportunities were limited and he had no choice but to submit as I inserted and fastened the feeding gag and lined up the bag of paste on the mobile stand. I didn’t click the feeding tube controller; choking is a hazard after nerve gas so that joy would have to wait and, besides, I had my other callers to accommodate.

I returned to the lounge and loaded Pete up next. Once down in the basement, and in full view of the furious Pawel, I stripped the bearded man bare. As I had witnessed previously, Pete had a lovely big cock, nestled in the hairiest bush I’ve ever seen. I then wrestled him, ignoring his groans, into the tight yellow speedo and secured him in a chair similar to the now-sweating Polish mammoth pinioned opposite him. It was apparent that Pete had whacked himself badly as he fell to the floor in the lounge and I could see a black eye forming. Throughout, both men gurgled and moaned in frustration. I, again, fitted the feeding gag and bag of paste to the bearded hunk and headed upstairs for my last guest.  

Tommy was the lightest of my cargoes and it was quite straightforward to get him down to the basement, strip him out of his wet trackies and boxers, and prepare him for his own ordeal. His smooth, tanned, muscley body reminded me of an action man and his dick was more sizeable than I had been expecting. Tommy went into the chair naked except for a pink speedo: drool dripping uselessly down his perfect pectorals until I gagged him with the feeder gag.

By this point, the men were beginning to regain some level of voluntary motion in their limbs. I grinned as I locked eyes with Pawel while clicking the switch that began the steady flow of paste into their stuffed mouths. All three men screamed against their gags but soon the only sound that could be heard was the rhythmic glugging as they were forced to swallow the paste.

Each bag of the paste, that the lads had been force-fed, contained several chemicals designed to have specific effects at various stages of the digestive process and I had made sure that each man got a different recipe.

I left them to get on with it and headed up to fix myself a martini and clean up the lounge.

When I returned a half hour later the three bags of paste were practically empty and all three men had regained full control of themselves. All were, sweatily, fighting against the leather straps that held them so effectively and it was sweet to watch Pawel’s pee-stained bulge swinging around as he jerked and thrust against the leather.

Common to all three bags, the first of these effects to manifest was a whopping dose of Viagra; unlikely to be noticeable unless the hapless victims were manually aroused but, subsequently, unavoidably disconcerting. I passed Tommy’s chair as he pleaded for release through the gag and moved directly in front of Pawel. Truth be told, this specimen of a man was the guest I had been most looking forward to playing with and, as he screamed muffled imprecations at me; the cords of muscle in his neck visible as he fought the chair, I knelt in front of him and, again, grabbed his dick through the drying fabric of his Y-fronts. Flecks of spit and sweat hit me as he went apeshit with rage, but he couldn’t stop me as I gently squeezed and stroked his cock. Sure enough, and totally against his will, he began to harden under my ministrations. I locked eyes with him and could see his look of absolute horror as his manhood slowly rose to full mast, tenting the fabric of the underwear and leaving no confusion about his aroused state.

I stepped away so that his compatriots could get a good view of the hot and bothered man and take in his now-throbbing cock, pulsing against the damp underwear. Pawel was shaking his head in disbelief, trying to gain control of himself and will away the embarrassing hard-on. Tommy and Pete, blissfully unaware that they too could easily be joining the muscular thug in humiliated arousal, noticed their friend’s predicament immediately and confusion reigned on their faces even as Pawel attempted futilely to move his massive hands to cover his embarrassment. Pawel couldn’t make eye contact with his two co-conspirators and he hung his head in shame even as his engorged dick jerked uncomfortably.

Included in Pawel’s bag of paste was a concoction that combined a stool-bulking agent with a mild laxative and I had the timings such that I knew his next ordeal would shortly begin. I moved behind the chair in which Pete was held and lined up the fucking machine directly below his speedo-clad arse. Pete and Tommy couldn’t see my activities but Pawel definitely could and he thrashed anew, groaning, and grunting at me to try to get me to abandon my machinations. Pawel’s clear distress created anxiety for the two unfortunate men opposite him, even as I moved the second fucking machine directly below Tommy’s pink-clad butt, and they yelled against their gags fruitlessly, trying to work out what was going on. The fact that Pawel was still mercilessly erect during this made for a comical scene.

I then fetched the ‘detonator.’ This was a device I had crafted to sit just below the rim seat of the bondage chairs in which the three thieves found themselves. The detonator was a large red button, on a box, that connected wirelessly to the fucking machines. Once the button was pressed, the machines under the chairs of Pete and Tommy would commence their ascent, self-lubing before painfully entering the two men; the speedos' spandex offering no real resistance.

I placed the detonator under Pawel’s seat, an inch below his muscular buttocks, and addressed the room.

“Gentlemen. Underneath your chairs, you both have dildos attached to a fucking machine. Once activated these dildos will slowly rise and penetrate you. They will then commence fucking you, slowly yet surely.” Pete and Tommy looked terrified at this news.

“Your friend here, with the rock-hard dick, (Pawel groaned in shame) has the detonator for this process under his chair. No detonation equals no anal invasion. From the looks on your faces, I suspect that would be your preferred option.

The trouble is, the big guy is soon going to have a bit of a dilemma and then it’s all just about how long he can hang on to avoid you guys spending the rest of the night getting buttfucked relentlessly. Your immediate future is in his hands… Well, technically in his underpants.”

“I’ll be off now, for a bit, but I’ll see you again in a couple of hours. Tata.”

I left the playroom to the sounds of Pete and Tommy screaming from behind their gags and retired upstairs to watch their predicament unfold from the comfort of the lounge.