Darren turns up for the ‘party’ dressed up to the nines, freshly shaved and clutching his precious golden ticket. He’s eager to run off and meet the footballers, but we tell him he needs a wristband to get past security. Of course, with Frank Lampard in the next room, the selfish little cunt’s not in the least bit interested in us anymore, which enables Terry to apply a pair of handcuffs instead.
The naive straight can’t believe what’s going on. It’s not until we reach for his crotch that he truly explodes with rage – are we fucking poofs or something? I whip out a knife and cut off his smart new shirt, gobbing on his pits and admiring his vulnerable chest with its Three Lions football tattoo.
Darren throws himself back and forth, trying to avoid our insistent, creeping hands. With fingers grasping at his nuts and dick, fingers pinching his nipples, fingers fondling his hairy little arse, there’s no escape. The more Darren struggles, the nastier we are to him, strangling him and hand gagging him whenever he cries for help or tries to resist.
Stan and I yank his nuts about, stretching them right out and squeezing them into a tight ball. Darren’s panicked screams get increasingly loud, and he calls us some extremely rude names – so we take a couple of whips to beat and flog some manners into the little shit. Soon his arse is glowing pink and he’s wracked with sobs as he dances about, attempting in vain to evade the blows from us both.
"I haven’t done anything!" Darren wails. As if this will make us go easy on him. Quite the opposite – we get even nastier. Tight pegs pinching his tender little nips and all over his healthy young balls. Darren’s pain is exquisite. He screams and cries, begging and pleading, his whole body convulsing in agony. He clearly has no idea his suffering has only just begun…
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