Fourth Victim: The Rough Hardman
Dexter Holt was the kind of man who scoffed at barbershops as sissy nonsense, his idea of trimming down limited to swinging an axe through ten-hour shifts in the backwoods. At 40, he embodied raw, untamed masculinity—a 185 cm tower of 110 kg bulk, broad-boned with a barrel chest matted in coarse, salt-and-pepper hair that trailed down to a thick gut earned from hard labor. His arms were oak trunks, veined and scarred from years of felling timber, skin rough as bark, reeking of tobacco chew, sawdust, and the musky tang of unwashed sweat. A heavy beard framed his square jaw, eyes like chipped flint under bushy brows. But Alex saw potential in the lumberjack's core asset: those massive, low-swinging balls, pendulous and productive, promising a bumper crop for his collection.
The hunt led Alex to Dexter's isolated cabin deep in the pines, where the air hung thick with resin and solitude. As dawn cracked, Dexter stepped onto the creaky porch, steaming mug of black coffee in his callused fist, flannel shirt unbuttoned over his hairy pecs. He didn't spot the drone humming overhead—a silent predator slipping from the canopy. A faint prick at his thick neck, the tranquilizer dart sinking in like a mosquito bite. Dexter grunted, hand swatting air, but his knees buckled seconds later. The mug shattered on the boards, coffee splashing across his jeans as his massive frame toppled, chest heaving, those heavy balls shifting in their denim prison. Pride leaked out with the spill; Alex emerged from the treeline, injecting a booster to keep the big man under while hauling him to the waiting truck—ropes around the ankles, dragged like felled lumber.
Dexter stirred hours later in the farm's darkest corner, a converted barn reeking of earth and iron. No neon glamour for this beast; Alex opted for primal restraint—an enormous X-frame of weathered leather straps and cold cast-iron bars, bolted to the stone floor. Dexter's wrists and ankles were locked wide, arms stretched overhead to expose his hairy pits and the deep furrow of his armpits, legs splayed to thrust his crotch forward. The flannel and jeans were shredded away, leaving his burly body bare: thick thighs corded with muscle, a treasure trail of dark hair plunging from navel to the root of his cock—a girthy, uncircumcised slab even soft, 15 cm of veined heft flopped over those enormous balls, each the size of a plum, hanging low in a wrinkled, hairy sack. A leather head harness clamped his bearded jaw, bit gag forcing his mouth wide, eyes locked straight ahead at a blank wall—for now.
'You... city fuck,' Dexter rasped through the gag, voice like grinding gravel, spittle flecking his whiskers. His massive chest heaved, pecs flexing under the dense hair, shoulders straining the iron cuffs with a metallic creak.
Alex stepped from the shadows, wiping oiled hands on a rag, his gaze raking the lumberjack's exposed form. 'No trees to hide behind here, Dexter. Just you and your base urges. Trust me, that body's gonna betray you before you can spit another curse.' Dexter's cock twitched once, defiant, but the air already hummed with impending violation.
Dexter's flint-hard eyes narrowed, veins bulging in his thick neck as he tugged at the leather straps biting into his wrists. The X-frame creaked under his pull, his hairy chest expanding with a deep, rumbling growl that echoed off the barn walls. Sweat already beaded on his forehead, trickling down through the coarse bristles of his beard. His cock hung heavy between his spread thighs, foreskin partially retracted over the bulbous head, those plum-sized balls dangling like overripe fruit in their hairy pouch, oblivious yet to the storm brewing.
Alex circled him slowly, boots thudding on the packed dirt floor, admiring the lumberjack's raw power—the way his traps and delts flexed involuntarily, the dense mat of hair across his pecs rising and falling with ragged breaths. 'You've chopped down giants in the woods, huh? But this... this is you getting felled.' He flicked on the overhead heat lamps first, a bank of red-glowing bulbs that bathed Dexter's massive frame in scorching warmth. The air shimmered, and within minutes, the big man's skin glistened. Rivulets of sweat poured from his pits, soaking the hair there, streaming down his sides to pool in the crevices of his abs—faint under the layer of hard-earned bulk. His balls tightened slightly against the heat, cock stirring to half-mast, thickening to 20 cm of veined girth, the head peeking out shiny and dark.
Dexter snarled through the bit gag, 'Fuck... you... burnin' me like a damn steer.' Saliva dripped from his stretched lips, but his hips bucked once, betraying the first unwelcome throb in his groin.
Without warning, Alex grabbed a pressurized canister from a nearby workbench, aiming the nozzle at Dexter's crotch. A blast of arctic spray hit his cock and balls—hissing fog enveloping the sensitive flesh. Dexter roared, body jerking violently against the restraints, the iron bars rattling. The sudden cold shocked his system, blood surging southward in a rush that made his shaft swell to full hardness: 22 cm of rigid, pulsing meat, veins like ropes under the taut skin, pre-cum already oozing from the slit despite his fury. His balls drew up tight, then loosened, aching with the thermal whiplash, the hairy sack contracting rhythmically.
'That's it, feel that fire in your veins,' Alex murmured, setting the canister aside and prepping the syringe. The needle glinted as he plunged it into the meaty swell of Dexter's shoulder, just above the collarbone. A cocktail of concentrated testosterone and prostate stimulants flooded in—potent chemicals designed to ignite the primal engine. Dexter's eyes widened, a guttural bellow escaping as heat bloomed inside him, spreading from his core to his groin. His prostate swelled, pressing against nerves that fired like lightning, while the testosterone amped his aggression into raw, animal lust. His cock jerked upright, slapping against his hairy belly with a wet smack, the head flaring purple and leaking steadily now, a thick strand of pre-cum stretching to his navel.
The lumberjack's massive thighs quivered, muscles clenching as the drugs took hold. 'What the hell... did you... pump in me?' he gasped, voice cracking for the first time, his huge chest heaving faster, nipples hardening amid the sweat-matted fur.
Alex smirked, selecting the mechanical tool from his array—a custom sleeve of weighted silicone, lined with rough, nubbed ridges mimicking bark texture. He gripped Dexter's throbbing cock at the base, feeling it pulse hot in his palm, the girth barely fitting his fingers. Slowly, he rolled the sleeve down over the length, the internal bumps scraping along the sensitive underside, catching on the frenulum. Dexter hissed, hips thrusting forward involuntarily, the device settling heavy around his shaft like a vice of textured torment, its base ring cinching his balls to keep them exposed and vulnerable.
'Never let yourself go soft, did you, big man?' Alex said, flipping the switch. A low-frequency hum started, vibrations rumbling through the sleeve at 50 Hz, resonating deep into Dexter's core. The big man's body tensed, every fiber vibrating in sympathy—his abs contracting, balls churning visibly under the hairy skin. The ridges inside the device massaged his cock relentlessly, not stroking but grinding, forcing blood to engorge every inch while denying release.
Dexter's defiance cracked almost immediately. His gravelly curses dissolved into grunts, then moans muffled by the gag. Sweat poured off him in sheets, his hairy pits and chest slick, the scent of his musk filling the barn—earthy, potent, mixed with the sharp tang of arousal. His cock strained against the sleeve, pre-cum bubbling out the top in steady pulses, dripping down to coat his swinging balls. The vibrations hit his prostate via the drugs, building pressure like a logjam about to burst.
But Alex wasn't done. He knelt between Dexter's spread legs, callused hands—still rough from axe work—now at the mercy of the collector. Alex cupped those massive, heavy balls, feeling their weight, the way they rolled full and taut in his grasp. He kneaded them firmly, thumbs pressing into the base where sack met taint, milking upward with slow, deliberate squeezes. Dexter's eyes rolled back, a deep, animal whine escaping as the manual assault combined with the mechanical buzz. His body arched, pecs flexing into slabs, veins popping across his biceps as he yanked the straps.
'Hold it, Dexter. Fight it like you fight the wind in the trees.' Alex increased the vibration to 80 Hz, the hum deepening to a growl that made the X-frame shudder. The sleeve's ridges abraded the glans now, teasing the slit without mercy, while his hands worked the balls harder—squeezing, tugging, rolling them to force more production. Dexter bit down on the gag, drawing blood from his lip, his bearded face contorted in a mix of rage and ecstasy. His cock wept profusely, the sleeve slick with his own fluids, but the device was calibrated for edging—no friction release, just endless buildup.
Minutes stretched into an hour. Dexter's roars faded to whimpers, his massive frame trembling, muscles burning from the strain. The drugs peaked, turning his aggression inward, every nerve screaming for climax. His balls ached, swollen to bursting, the hairy sack stretched thin. Pre-cum flowed like sap, pooling on the floor beneath him.
Finally, Alex amped it to maximum—100 Hz, the vibrations a earthquake in Dexter's groin. He massaged the balls with both hands now, fingers digging in, urging the load upward. 'Let it go, Timber King. Give me that wild seed.'
Dexter broke. His body convulsed, back bowing off the frame, chains clanking like felled timber. A muffled howl tore from his throat as the first orgasm hit—his cock erupting inside the sleeve, thick ropes of cum blasting into the attached collector tube. It wasn't a spurt; it was a flood. Guttural moans followed, his hips bucking wildly, balls contracting under Alex's grip as wave after wave pumped out—hot, viscous semen filling the reservoir, overflowing the one-liter mark in seconds. Dexter's eyes glazed, tears mixing with sweat on his cheeks, his massive chest shuddering with aftershocks.
The second climax chained immediately, drugs prolonging the ecstasy into agony. More cum surged, the tube gurgling, until the two-liter bottle at the base swelled full, creamy white under pressure. Dexter sagged, spent, his cock still twitching in the sleeve, dribbling the last drops as Alex detached the collector with a satisfied pop.
He labeled it carefully: Exhibit #4: The Timber King. Dexter's head lolled, breaths ragged, the primal beast reduced to a quivering shell, his essence harvested like prime lumber.
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