The Furnace Room: A Descent into Darkness

The furnace room
TW!!!!! this story is quite dark and involves physical harm against a 21 year old boy.
TRIGGER WARNING - this story may be too much for some people and can be classed as disturbing!
He was twenty-one, still had the soft jawline of someone who hadn’t truly eaten yet. They called it the furnace room even though the coal boiler had been ripped out twenty years earlier. What remained was a windowless brick box, thirty centimetres of concrete between the living and whatever was happening down here. Sound?? didn’t leave easily. Screams became furniture.
He was outside Vauxhall station just after two a.m., hood up, shoulders already rounded like he knew the script. He didn’t fight when the black transit slid alongside and the side door opened. He climbed in because the driver said “two hundred” and because he was already three weeks behind on rent. Arithmetic is its own handcuff.
They zip-tied his wrists behind him with the thick black ones’s electricians use on heavy cable’s and cut his clothes off with garden secateurs. Not quickly. Slowly enough that he felt each individual snip against skin. When they reached his briefs they didn’t cut; they pulled the fabric aside just far enough to expose cock and balls and then left the elastic cutting into the tops of his thighs like a cruel garter.
Humiliation first. Always.
The man they called Brick had thick black hair that fell across his face in loose curls. He was lean, muscular, with sharp features that accentuated his small frame. His skin was taut, almost translucent, and it seemed to glow under the dim light of the furnace room. There were deep lines etched into his forehead, between his eyes, and down the sides of his neck.
His lips were stained purple from the blood of the boy they had harmed. He was panting heavily, sweating profusely, and breathing fast, as if he had just sprinted for a moment. His eyes were red-rimmed, showing that he had cried or been emotionally drained by what had happened in the furnace room.
Brick fucked the boy while the burn was still smoking. No lube except the boy’s own blood and the spit that had already dried on Brick’s cock. Every thrust tore the fresh wound wider. The boy's body kept trying to clench, which only made it worse. Brick came inside him with a grunt that sounded more like relief than pleasure, then stayed buried until he softened enough that gravity pulled him out with a wet sucking sound. Semen mixed with blood ran down the insides of the boy’s thighs in slow, lazy rivulets.
Surgical was thinner, older, and wiser. He carried a plastic tray like the kind dentists use. On it: a disposable scalpel, a disposable lighter, a small butane torch head, surgical gloves, and a short length of 8 mm copper pipe with one end hammered flat.
They bent the boy over a steel workbench that still had the original vice bolted to it. Ancheks cable-tied to the legs, chest and upper arms strapped down with ratchet straps until the breath came in shallow, panicked sips. His cock was traitorously hard from the adrenaline and the earlier choking.
Surgical took the scalpel first. A single clean line, root to tip, along the underside of the shaft. Not deep enough to sever erectile tissue, just enough to open the skin like gift wrapping. The boy screamed until his voice cracked into white noise. Blood welled immediately, bright and arterial, dripping onto the stained floor in fat drops.
Then the lighter.
They heated the flat end of the copper pipe cherry-red. Surgical held it there for maybe seven seconds until the metal lost its glow and the smell of burned meat filled the small room. When he pressed it to the cut the boy’s whole body seized so violently that the workbench rattled against its bolts. The hiss was louder than the scream. Skin curled black at the edges; subcutaneous fat bubbled and popped. The smell changed again–now it was pork rind and copper.
Brick fucked the boy while the burn was still smoking. No lube except the boy’s own blood and the spit that had already dried on Brick’s cock. Every thrust tore the fresh wound wider. The boy's body kept trying to clench, which only made it worse. Brick came inside him with a grunt that sounded more like relief than pleasure, then stayed buried until he softened enough that gravity pulled him out with a wet sucking sound. Semen mixed with blood ran down the insides of the boy’s thighs in slow, lazy rivulets.
Surgical was thinner, older, and wiser. He carried a plastic tray like the kind dentists use. On it: a disposable scalpel, a disposable lighter, a small butane torch head, surgical gloves, and a short length of 8 mm copper pipe with one end hammered flat.
They bent the boy over a steel workbench that still had the original vice bolted to it. Ancheks cable-tied to the legs, chest and upper arms strapped down with ratchet straps until the breath came in shallow, panicked sips. His cock was traitorously hard from the adrenaline and the earlier choking.
Surgical took the scalpel first. A single clean line, root to tip, along the underside of the shaft. Not deep enough to sever erectile tissue, just enough to open the skin like gift wrapping. The boy screamed until his voice cracked into white noise. Blood welled immediately, bright and arterial, dripping onto the stained floor in fat drops.
Then the lighter.
They heated the flat end of the copper pipe cherry-red. Surgical held it there for maybe seven seconds until the metal lost its glow and the smell of burned meat filled the small room. When he pressed it to the cut the boy’s whole body seized so violently that the workbench rattled against its bolts. The hiss was louder than the scream. Skin curled black at the edges; subcutaneous fat bubbled and popped. The smell changed again–now it was pork rind and copper.
Brick fucked the boy while the burn was still smoking. No lube except the boy’s own blood and the spit that had already dried on Brick’s cock. Every thrust tore the fresh wound wider. The boy's body kept trying to clench, which only made it worse. Brick came inside him with a grunt that sounded more like relief than pleasure, then stayed buried until he softened enough that gravity pulled him out with a wet sucking sound. Semen mixed with blood ran down the insides of the boy’s thighs in slow, lazy rivulets.
Surgical was thinner, older, and wiser. He carried a plastic tray like the kind dentists use. On it: a disposable scalpel, a disposable lighter, a small butane torch head, surgical gloves, and a short length of 8 mm copper pipe with one end hammered flat.
They bent the boy over a steel workbench that still had the original vice bolted to it. Ancheks cable-tied to the legs, chest and upper arms strapped down with ratchet straps until the breath came in shallow, panicked sips. His cock was traitorously hard from the adrenaline and the earlier choking.
Surgical took the scalpel first. A single clean line, root to tip, along the underside of the shaft. Not deep enough to sever erectile tissue, just enough to open the skin like gift wrapping. The boy screamed until his voice cracked into white noise. Blood welled immediately, bright and arterial, dripping onto the stained floor in fat drops.
Then the lighter.
They heated the flat end of the copper pipe cherry-red. Surgical held it there for maybe seven seconds until the metal lost its glow and the smell of burned meat filled the small room. When he pressed it to the cut the boy’s whole body seized so violently that the workbench rattled against its bolts. The hiss was louder than the scream. Skin curled black at the edges; subcutaneous fat bubbled and popped. The smell changed again–now it was pork rind and copper.
Brick fucked the boy while the burn was still smoking. No lube except the boy’s own blood and the spit that had already dried on Brick’s cock. Every thrust tore the fresh wound wider. The boy's body kept trying to clench, which only made it worse. Brick came inside him with a grunt that sounded more like relief than pleasure, then stayed buried until he softened enough that gravity pulled him out with a wet sucking sound. Semen mixed with blood ran down the insides of the boy’s thighs in slow, lazy rivulets.
Surgical was thinner, older, and wiser. He carried a plastic tray like the kind dentists use. On it: a disposable scalpel, a disposable lighter, a small butane torch head, surgical gloves, and a short length of 8 mm copper pipe with one end hammered flat.
They bent the boy over a steel workbench that still had the original vice bolted to it. Ancheks cable-tied to the legs, chest and upper arms strapped down with ratchet straps until the breath came in shallow, panicked sips. His cock was traitorously hard from the adrenaline and the earlier choking.
Surgical took the scalpel first. A single clean line, root to tip, along the underside of the shaft. Not deep enough to sever erectile tissue, just enough to open the skin like gift wrapping. The boy screamed until his voice cracked into white noise. Blood welled immediately, bright and arterial, dripping onto the stained floor in fat drops.
Then the lighter.
They heated the flat end of the copper pipe cherry-red. Surgical held it there for maybe seven seconds until the metal lost its glow and the smell of burned meat filled the small room. When he pressed it to the cut the boy’s whole body seized so violently that the workbench rattled against its bolts. The hiss was louder than the scream. Skin curled black at the edges; subcutaneous fat bubbled and popped. The smell changed again–now it was pork rind and copper.
Brick fucked the boy while the burn was still smoking. No lube except the boy’s own blood and the spit that had already dried on Brick’s cock. Every thrust tore the fresh wound wider. The boy's body kept trying to clench, which only made it worse. Brick came inside him with a grunt that sounded more like relief than pleasure, then stayed buried until he softened enough that gravity pulled him out with a wet sucking sound. Semen mixed with blood ran down the insides of the boy’s thighs in slow, lazy rivulets.
Surgical was thinner, older, and wiser. He carried a plastic tray like the kind dentists use. On it: a disposable scalpel, a disposable lighter, a small butane torch head, surgical gloves, and a short length of 8 mm copper pipe with one end hammered flat.
They bent the boy over a steel workbench that still had the original vice bolted to it. Ancheks cable-tied to the legs, chest and upper arms strapped down with ratchet straps until the breath came in shallow, panicked sips. His cock was traitorously hard from the adrenaline and the earlier choking.
Surgical took the scalpel first. A single clean line, root to tip, along the underside of the shaft. Not deep enough to sever erectile tissue, just enough to open the skin like gift wrapping. The boy screamed until his voice cracked into white noise. Blood welled immediately, bright and arterial, dripping onto the stained floor in fat drops.
Then the lighter.
They heated the flat end of the copper pipe cherry-red. Surgical held it there for maybe seven seconds until the metal lost its glow and the smell of burned meat filled the small room. When he pressed it to the cut the boy’s whole body seized so violently that the workbench rattled against its bolts. The hiss was louder than the scream. Skin curled black at the edges; subcutaneous fat bubbled and popped. The smell changed again–now it was pork rind and copper.
Brick fucked the boy while the burn was still smoking. No lube except the boy’s own blood and the spit that had already dried on Brick’s cock. Every thrust tore the fresh wound wider. The boy's body kept trying to clench, which only made it worse. Brick came inside him with a grunt that sounded more like relief than pleasure, then stayed buried until he softened enough that gravity pulled him out with a wet sucking sound. Semen mixed with blood ran down the insides of the boy’s thighs in slow, lazy rivulets.
Surgical was thinner, older, and wiser. He carried a plastic tray like the kind dentists use. On it: a disposable scalpel, a disposable lighter, a small butane torch head, surgical gloves, and a short length of 8 mm copper pipe with one end hammered flat.
They bent the boy over a steel workbench that still had the original vice bolted to it. Ancheks cable-tied to the legs, chest and upper arms strapped down with ratchet straps until the breath came in shallow, panicked sips. His cock was traitoriously hard from the adrenaline and the earlier choking.
Surgical took the scalpel first. A single clean line, root to tip, along the underside of the shaft. Not deep enough to sever erectile tissue, just enough to open the skin like gift wrapping. The boy screamed until his voice cracked into white noise. Blood welled immediately, bright and arterial, dripping onto the stained floor in fat drops.
Then the lighter.
They heated the flat end of the copper pipe cherry-red. Surgical held it there for maybe seven seconds until the metal lost its glow and the smell of burned meat filled the small room. When he pressed it to the cut the boy’s whole body seized so violently that the workbench rattled against its bolts. The hiss was louder than the scream. Skin curled black at the edges; subcutaneous fat bubbled and popped. The smell changed again–now it was pork rind and copper.
Brick fucked the boy while the burn was still smoking. No lube except the boy’s own blood and the spit that had already dried on Brick’s cock. Every thrust tore the fresh wound wider. The boy's body kept trying to clench, which only made it worse. Brick came inside him with a grunt that sounded more like relief than pleasure, then stayed buried until he softened enough that gravity pulled him out with a wet sucking sound. Semen mixed with blood ran down the insides of the boy’s thighs in slow, lazy rivulets.
Surgical was thinner, older, and wiser. He carried a plastic tray like the kind dentists use. On it: a disposable scalpel, a disposable lighter, a small butane torch head, surgical gloves, and a short length of 8 mm copper pipe with one end hammered flat.
They bent the boy over a steel workbench that still had the original vice bolted to it. Ancheks cable-tied to the legs, chest and upper arms strapped down with ratchet straps until the breath came in shallow, panicked sips. His cock was traitorously hard from the adrenaline and the earlier choking.
Surgical took the scalpel first. A single clean line, root to tip, along the underside of the shaft. Not deep enough to sever erectile tissue, just enough to open the skin like gift wrapping. The boy screamed until his voice cracked into white noise. Blood welled immediately, bright and arterial, dripping onto the stained floor in fat drops.
Then the lighter.
They heated the flat end of the copper pipe cherry-red. Surgical held it there for maybe seven seconds until the metal lost its glow and the smell of burned meat filled the small room. When he pressed it to the cut the boy’s whole body seized so violently that the workbench rattled against its bolts. The hiss was louder than the scream. Skin curled black at the edges; subcutaneous fat bubbled and popped. The smell changed again–now it was pork rind and copper.
Brick fucked the boy while the burn was still smoking. No lube except the boy’s own blood and the spit that had already dried on Brick’s cock. Every thrust tore the fresh wound wider. The boy's body kept trying to clench, which only made it worse. Brick came inside him with a grunt that sounded more like relief than pleasure, then stayed buried until he softened enough that gravity pulled him out with a wet sucking sound. Semen mixed with blood ran down the insides of the boy’s thighs in slow, lazy rivulets.
Surgical was thinner, older, and wiser. He carried a plastic tray like the kind dentists use. On it: a disposable scalpel, a disposable lighter, a small butane torch head, surgical gloves, and a short length of 8 mm copper pipe with one end hammered flat.
They bent the boy over a steel workbench that still had the original vice bolted to it. Ancheks cable-tied to the legs, chest and upper arms strapped down with ratchet straps until the breath came in shallow, panicked sips. His cock was traitorously hard from the adrenaline and the earlier choking.
Surgical took the scalpel first. A single clean line, root to tip, along the underside of the shaft. Not deep enough to sever erectile tissue, just enough to open the skin like gift wrapping. The boy screamed until his voice cracked into white noise. Blood welled immediately, bright and arterial, dripping onto the stained floor in fat drops.
Then the lighter.
They heated the flat end of the copper pipe cherry-red. Surgical held it there for maybe seven seconds until the metal lost its glow and the smell of burned meat filled the small room. When he pressed it to the cut the boy’s whole body seized so violently that the workbench rattled against its bolts. The hiss was louder than the scream. Skin curled black at the edges; subcutaneous fat bubbled and popped. The smell changed again–now it was pork rind and copper.
Brick fucked the boy while the burn was still smoking. No lube except the boy’s own blood and the spit that had already dried on Brick’s cock. Every thrust tore the fresh wound wider. The boy's body kept trying to clench, which only made it worse. Brick came inside him with a grunt that sounded more like relief than pleasure, then stayed buried until he softened enough that gravity pulled him out with a wet sucking sound. Semen mixed with blood ran down the insides of the boy’s thighs in slow, lazy rivulets.
Surgical was thinner, older, and wiser. He carried a plastic tray like the kind dentists use. On it: a disposable scalpel, a disposable lighter, a small butane torch head, surgical gloves, and a short length of 8 mm copper pipe with one end hammered flat.
They bent the boy over a steel workbench that still had the original vice bolted to it. Ancheks cable-tied to the legs, chest and upper arms strapped down with ratchet straps until the breath came in shallow, panicked sips. His cock was traitorously hard from the adrenaline and the earlier choking.
Surgical took the scalpel first. A single clean line, root to tip, along the underside of the shaft. Not deep enough to sever erectile tissue, just enough to open the skin like gift wrapping. The boy screamed until his voice cracked into white noise. Blood welled immediately, bright and arterial, dripping onto the stained floor in fat drops.
Then the lighter.
They heated the flat end of the copper pipe cherry-red. Surgical held it there for maybe seven seconds until the metal lost its glow and the smell of burned meat filled the small room. When he

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