(Palaestra - an ancient school of wrestling or gymnasium.)

It all begins with the stink. The subtle and passing aroma of stale piss. The lingering, eye-watering stench of days-old smegma joyfully preserved around a cum-encrusted foreskin. A bouquet of delights! Endless, delicious, young boy farts. The stink of loathsome, putrid cunt-slime. The mouth now lasciviously salivating and the tongue sliding hungrily over fucking mean lips. Juices dripping like a tap. Fuck yeah! Only a supreme effort of self-control prevented me from grunting like a fucking pig. However, I knew from experience that holding-back at this moment only increased the excitement later: when I would give in – utterly give in - to any urge, no matter how vile, revolting, disgusting or violent. Fuck yeah! You wait and see!

So - the air in the streets leading to the Palaestra was laden with the all-pervading, fucking stink of corruption, degradation, debauchery and brutal sadism – you think sadism doesn’t have a smell? You have to know it to know it. Plus - oh the joy - it’s all not only all allowed but positively encouraged!

The appalling, stomach-churning stench seemed to fade on the air at the exact moment before you were about to gag, heave and vomit the contents of your stomach, acrid and lumpy, onto the pavement. To vomit too soon would be a mistake, I always think, such a waste.

Tonight I would vomit in the open mouth and on the face of the most beautiful young man - the most perfect, the most angelic, the most fucking debauched, muscle-bound boy I could find – and there would be plenty to choose from, and the standard of choice, as always, would be fantastic. Ok, the cunts would be cock-hardening too - but vomiting on cunts? Fuck no! What a waste of good, organic stomach acid! Real acid for them.

I liked it, acid that is, liberally poured up fuck-holes and injected in fucking huge tits.

The artist organisers were so clever at keeping this stench outside at just the right hint of emetic. It was there to lead me, and all of us, on. And it did. This walk towards the source of the foul smells was like the stairway to heaven. To say it made me feel good to be alive is the weakest thing I can think of. It was fucking glorious to take every breath.

My honed, perfect body – old enough but fucking perfect - hummed with the harmony of the fucking spheres. I was dizzy on human toilet stink. Not manure, not animal smells, nothing farmyard, they knew that wasn’t a turn-on. Even when the cunts – or occasionally a gorgeous boy or two - were serviced by their zoo or farmyard stock, they controlled the aroma, so it didn’t smell like a fucking circus or horse-track. The smells were always deliciously human-toilet in origin.

Some of our first hardons were associated with lavatory stink, and these artists knew how to jog that memory. At this distance it seemed almost as if it was a memory of the stink not the stink itself, but that was the success of the illusion. However as I walked towards this legendary Palaestra the great smell of stale piss and shit must have been a reality - the big, heavy cock was twitching – so nice - and more importantly the face began to twist into a fucking nasty sneer. I really wanted to grunt and thrust my hips and yell, “Die! You fucking whore!” But to do so would be hopelessly unsophisticated, so I controlled myself.

Those fucking clever bastards! The subtle blend of stinks would be gone completely for say thirty seconds, leaving the mind to work on it - the imagination would take over and desire would grow throughout the muscles even more during the absence of the actual stink.

Inside the Palaestra, the glory of the environment included you taking on any sexy age you wanted. I don’t actually know fully how they achieved this, I know it didn’t involve drugs or intoxication – there was plenty of that available for those who used that shit - I think they achieved it through a combination of elements e.g. the way you were treated and the surroundings. Anyway, however it was done you always believed it, you felt it in every part of you. Of course they couldn’t create miracles and you shouldn’t look too hard at the copious mirrors surrounding your booth but casual glances at a honed body – as mine is - combined with a fucking overwhelming belief that you were - for this time at least - the age you desired – these combined to complete a more than satisfying illusion.

I’ll confess that I loved being a pubescent boy obsessed with his own fucking huge cock, in love with it, for the first time. On my last visit, a couple of weeks ago, I inhabited this persona. When he was young – this boy I was - he didn’t even know it was fucking magnificent.

Tall, slim, broad-shouldered, short black hair and a giant cock - a foot long and six inches round (forgive the boast but this wasn’t that far from the truth, my own cock was fucking huge) he craved the smell of his own farts, nicer and more exciting than anything he had ever known. This dirty, innocent sexy kid knew nothing and was simply a slave to his senses. His mouth watered at the stench of his own unwashed crotch – despite being very beautiful he was very smelly, in fact he stank - and he lived to experience the stink again and again - the sick-making, repulsive aroma of his own sweaty, unwashed crotch and the sickening smell of dirty public lavatories were his passions. Secretly and lovingly he used to lick the obscene pictures drawn on the walls of the filthy cubicles – impossible tits, dripping slits and fucking hard hairy cocks.

Two weeks ago, through the skill of the Palaestra, I was that age and that spontaneously filthy. The memory of that unutterable filth was like a warm bath – enveloping, luxuriating. I passed an old female crone, bent and hideous and I imagined throwing this revolting, withered female to the ground and fucking it to death – I was so fucking horny I’d have fucked anything with a hole. (I was to remember this thought towards the end of the coming session and it gave me a very special idea – you’ll see later, men.)

But tonight I was just going to be myself – it’s a mistake to overdo the role-play opportunities – it can backfire and become stale. I was simply going to release my own instincts for debauchery and cruelty. Fuck yeah! “Don’t grunt, don’t thrust your fucking hips for god’s sake, you are in public!” I had to keep telling myself. I wondered if the other clients had a similar struggle as they approached the Palaestra – there were a couple of thousand of us converging. It was a massive stadium.

These brilliant artists, as I said, knew how to tease us. The smell vanished and I would silently long, beg for it to come back. I’d surreptitiously put my hand in my crotch and casually put my hand to my face, smelling it eagerly, hoping it smelt of stale piss and sweat but it didn’t, I was too clean now. But I wanted to stink, badly, so fucking badly. But fuck! I would stink sickeningly and gloriously before this session was finished

The way they orchestrated your approach was so good. These tantalising smells built an image as hard and exciting as a fucking muscle boy’s twenty-inch biceps, as real as a cunt’s piercing screams of white hot agony, and I wasn’t even there yet.

There it is was again, this time it was cum, that sour, sweet smell of gallons of cum shooting from a young, huge cock, covering the whole body, in the mouth, sliding down the throat, coating the tongue, up the nose and filling the ears.

Specifically and in detail I was going to watch the destruction of hundreds of big-titted, young whores – inventively done, eliciting as much pain as it was humanely possible for the cunt to experience. Fucking great! Even though I’d been many times before, my enthusiasm was never diminished – I was eager as a football fan going to watch his team at a final.

I wanted to watch cunts being destroyed with my nose and mouth bobbing up and down on a hot boy hole. A hot teenage boy hole. Shoving my tongue up there, biting, trying to fucking climb up into his shit-hole – sucking loads of cum from his hot boy-hole, letting it coat my tongue and lips. I was swooning with anticipation. “Stop it! You don’t know what you will do till you get there!”

Men, there is something else about my last role-play, something intriguing, that you might find it interesting to understand. To that hot, teenage, slim. dark-haired boy that was me and who was thinking all that filth – to him it wasn’t good, dirty, healthy fun as it was to me, to him - it was sin! The blackest, most evil sin, the negation of god itself and all that was good. I fucking loved that! Even “the thought” was sin, for this religious but hot and smelly youth I pretended to be, he didn’t have to do it to be damned. He just had to want it and he was damned! He just had to imagine it to mean eternal damnation, even before he committed the gross acts – and fucking hell! Did he commit fucking gross acts two weeks ago, oh yes! He hurtled his hot, young body headlong into vile acts that condemned him to hell for all eternity!

Only a fucking medieval monk with nothing better to do than whip himself into a bloody frenzy in the cold isolation of his cell could think up the idea that desire itself was worthy of hell. Controlling the urge had no merit – if you desired it and imagined it – the fucking hateful christian god chucked you into the fiery pit. (Nothing especially hateful about the christian god, they are all fucking loathsome, he’s just the example here. Well maybe not all loathsome, some Hindi gods enjoy a good shag, I believe.)

But many clouds have filthy silver linings: if this anti-human, fucking medieval monk and his ilk hadn’t promulgated this ridiculous mental self-torturing fantasy about damnation as the reward of sexual pleasure (religious education, incidentally, is now - quite rightly - regarded as the most serious form of child-abuse) anyway thanks to those fucking deranged repressed monks and saintly churchmen I could enjoy that delicious fantasy, it made holding the orgasm back so delightful. The orgasm that when it happened plunged my imagined boy into the eternal, fiery pit was something special. It had needed working on, and I had practiced it quite a lot now. But damn it! I shouldn’t overdo it; fantasies can be worn out by familiarity.

I was near the place now, absorbed in the fucking revolting stink and deeply remembering being that naïve blessed boy! Totally damned for what he craved. Fucking mortal sins! Damnation! Fuck yeah! Terrible beyond belief – but exciting beyond belief. Every thought, every sniff, every lick meant burning in an eternal hell: the terror was a trembling reality yet nothing, fucking nothing, could overcome the craving. These smells embodied it all.

It was his fate. He had anticipated nothing short of total, hellish debauchery. I was getting nearer. Boys, cunts, massive tits, huge cocks, cum, piss, spit, sweat and shit, blood and agony! Fuck yeah!

The shit was the most terrifying therefore the most exciting. I was going to wallow in fucking shit, and see beautiful boys sliding in shit and eating shit, and cunts forced-fed shit.

Separating myself – with difficulty - from the identity of the damned teenage boy I thought about the cunts that lay ahead for me. The cunts at the Palaestra were always fucked in fucking agony. Cunts fucked by huge muscled men wielding massive, cunt-wrecking engine-parts, shoved mercilessly up those gloriously revolting holes – and something special was always done to the fuck-holes to make them even more utterly revolting than they were naturally.

Syphilitic spores from specially cultivated moulds would be transferred to the fuck-holes – a favourite on the very young, very young, huge-titted cunts – disfigures the slits hideously, inside and out of their previously pristine fuck-holes – and it apparently takes only a couple of days to cause huge, puss-oozing sores. Delicious!

Grossly distended cunt-lips – a bit boring I thought.

Inventive tattooed messages – “this hole is for garbage”, “this hole is for pissing in”, “pack shit up this cunt”, “kick hard here” ... I liked that

Maggots and flies specially bred to live in around the fucking-cunt hole.

Small snakes trained to live up the cunt- hole.

Litres of animal cum stored up the cunt-hole and allowed to seep out.

Cunt-holes used as ashtrays, full of cigarette and cigar ends and ash – I fucking loved this – I hated the look of ashtrays and the smell – seeing a cunt as an ashtray always made me fucking loath it ... it always made me physically violent to the cunt...

Fucking cunt-holes used to breed worms.

Cunts used for kitchen waste, rotting food shoved up the cunt-hole.

Cunts packed with compost and weeds growing in profusion from the revolting fuck-holes.

Cunts as nests for hive of bees.

I was thinking of huge-dicked animals fucking big-titted cunts barely more than children. (The reality of this, actually men, was often a bit disappointing, so impractical to organise- sight-lines and so on, and the animals needed such expert training beforehand – it was all a bore, if the truth be known.)

Young cunts fucked in shit, fucked to death, while beautiful boys pissed on each other and slid their cocks and mouths over your body. It was what we all needed and we given it and were never allowed to run short or be frustrated.

A favourite popped into my mind and my fucking huge cock stiffened. I thought of that classification of cunts that were trained to beg for torture, and to be fucked in ways, which are torture - those cunts that were trained to beg to be covered in shit and to drink pig’s piss and then implore the hot studs to fuck them to death. It was so good, so necessary for us, as I said.

I had another thought – perhaps I would order two hot, young muscle-bound guys to fuck to death a young, really young, specially bred, huge-titted cunt - tits huge and firm – possibly one of the ones who had to be wheeled around in a cart because it couldn’t carry the weight of the massive, firm meaty tits, but also one of the ones who was trained and conditioned to adore the men who were fucking it. I really loved it when these stupid – they bred them to be fucking stupid – young, big-titted whores were cooing and going crazy over the guys who, unknown to the cunt, naturally hate and despise it.

The sheer dishonesty involved was simply delicious – then at close quarters – I could get to see the revolting young cunt fucked to death. Not poisoned or tortured, simply fucked to death – assisted by choking perhaps – but close up, human, masculine, primitive and brutal. Would that be on my menu-card to tonight? Perhaps I would choke the cunt myself while the two hot young muscle-guys fucked its ass and cunt. There was always a wonderful moment when the young cunt realised the truth, that the guys fucking it hated it – fuck yeah! The cunt saw that it was fucking hated by these hot young guys – I loved that.

So, you see what this trail of stinks was doing to me. My brain was feverish with fucking, animalistic lust. No wonder I felt as if I was walking on air. No wonder my perfect body felt alive to the slightest sense of touch, I could feel my clothes, my watch, my knotted tie, my ear-studs. I was simply – sorry to use a cliché – so fucking alive.

The first choice was which booth, which facilities and which view it provided? Because of the vast numbers accommodated at each performance this is a decision that was best made in advance. This particular Palaestra was dedicated to the most extreme violence and cruelty they could invent, directed at young fucking loathsome cunts in the main, with young men and boys occasionally thrown in to spice things up; others in the city and around the globe were of different varieties.

The only entry qualification, if you could afford the fee was a cock. And amazingly, there was no age limit, upper or lower, but the owner of the cock presumably had to be able to walk. It was a superbly enlightened approach to education. They had enlightened ticket policy and always had plenty of basic seats, not booths, for the disadvantaged members of society.

But walking round the booths it was always a wonderful moment to come across some young male, very young male, being encouraged to hate cunts, inflicting the most excruciating pain on big-titted whores even before they could get an erection.

“Come on, boy,” it was usually his father or an older brother, “you want to hear this fucking cunt scream, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, daddy, I do.”

“Because... “ The boy paused not knowing what he was expected to say.

“What are cunts for?”

“Cunts are for destroying, daddy.”

“That’s it, well done. And this cunt was specially bred for you to hate. Look at that those huge tits. What else do we call them?”

“Fucking huge jugs, daddy. Or fucking huge, man-pleasing melons.”

“Right, very good. Now watch me hurt them.” Wanting to be as primitive as possible in order to make his point for the boy, he simply bit hard into the tit-meat, gnawing at the huge tits and drawing blood, which he let run down his chin. At the same time, not wanting to neglect the other fucking massive tit, he dug his strong hands into it and squeezed it so hard it left the imprint of his hand. The cunt really didn’t like this treatment.

“Now look at the fuck-hole, and watch me kick it.” He did so, very hard, wearing steel-toed boots for the purpose. Now, do you fucking hate this cunt like I do, boy?”

“Oh yes, daddy, I really hate this fucking cunt, just like you do. Daddy?”

“Yes, son?”

“Can I hate the cunt more than you do?”

“If you think you are up to it? How much do you hate it, boy?”

“Well I hate boiled vegetables, and I hate this cunt more than that.” The father managed not to laugh, but simply congratulated his son.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Since you hate this cunt more than you hate cabbage, fucking shove that spiked dildo up the cunt. And do it hard, boy!”

“Yes, daddy.” This cunt could have been his sister, or hopefully his mother. I do hope it was, in fact, his mother. I really hope it was his mother.

In fact maternal abuse was sometimes arranged on an individual basis as part of the worldwide education programme. It was very effective but generally the boy could only experience it once, unless, that is, the whore-mother was kept alive and brought out for continued training for the boy.

It was superb preparation for his developing masculinity and added wonderfully to the health of society in general. No more youth violence; mutual respect and politeness reigned: Videos or DVDs of “lager louts” and football violence of the old days were apparently available circulating underground if you wanted them. Some people, I believe got off on them – ugh, perverted if you ask me.

The care with which the older men treated the boys was exemplary and if I may say, a glorious demonstration of humanity’s finest qualities. (Boys used as exhibits were a different matter.)

Each booth was equipped with a screaming exhibit – a restrained young, big-titted cunt who was provided so that you, and your man-whores, or friends if you wanted to share, could inflict pain on it in any way at all. This was standard; you could, if you paid for it, have as many screaming exhibits you wanted. These cunts were now specially bred - at the start of the programme they had to be captured, but now it was organised on an industrial scale world wide, and totally efficient.

Since the introduction of the programme, productivity across the board – because, I assume, of increased motivation - had soared. World leaders were predicting the end of all wars – and the public believed them amazingly.

Naturally you could fuck the screaming exhibit if you felt like it, it wasn’t expected that it would survive the session anyway, so fucking it inventively was always a good challenge. The performances in the arena often provided me with inspiration and fresh ideas, particularly after several hours, eight or nine, when I was getting a little tired.

In the vast reception area, you were always greeted by one of an apparent army of young man-whores, who could be dressed as an army or navy officer, or a businessman, or a boxer or footballer, or in some fetish outfit. The good thing about this dressing up of these muscular, young man-whores was that they were provided with real clothes, not some cheap porn version. So you could decide to use them – in your imagination to start with – as sex objects if that was your thing, or treat them just as officials. They were elaborately polite in the preliminaries – nothing overt. Although the smell of their cologne was always underpinned by a subtle smell of shit or piss which seduced me, at least, into fervently and instantly wanting to see them viciously fuck a moronic, big-titted cunt until it was a gibbering wreck. Or fucking devour him myself.

The boy-whores of course, loved this, it was what they were trained for, the more they saw the lust in your eyes, the greater their feeling of self-esteem, and the more charming the smiles they gave, but at this stage they never let on, they smiled, kept their distance and were terribly polite and formal, like well-cut and well-groomed receptionists at a smart hotel. But we both knew, me and the gorgeous, young male creature handing me my ticket and key, that this smiling, handsome, well-dressed and well-mannered boy was as depraved and degraded as hell itself. Wait and see, men.

The contradiction was fucking delicious. If he wasn’t performing in the arena tonight and since he was on welcoming duty he wouldn’t be, I could choose him and I could shit in his mouth, coating those spectacular white teeth, and he would moan with delight. Everything about these Palaestras was fucking great, I had tried a couple of others but this one was my favourite.

What was wonderful was that these fresh, strong, glamorous and muscled young studs handled the cunts with astonishing expertise – they ought to, they were trained exhaustively for at least ten years. They knew how to induce exquisite agony in a big-titted young cunt - this was the only point to the cunt’s existence of course. The cunt’s agony was orchestrated such that it enhanced these muscular young stud’s own virility – they only ever fucked for the benefit of the men watching – they were ineffably arrogant and had the confidence of perfect youth – displaying their skill was all they lived for. Their extraordinary arrogance, confidence, self-assurance whatever you call it – so fucking sexy, such a fucking turn-on for some of us guys – but they served another and more important social purpose – it was a fucking superb example to the rest of male society. And it worked, male self-esteem was the highest it had ever been.

As you will have realised, dear readers, the men of the audience wanted to see their own masculinity reflected, enlarged and emphasised. It was rightly called a school of wrestling, or a gymnasium - the young men performed sexuality athletics and were given their due appreciation – some of them had achieved the status of super-stars – and earned millions. A hugely satisfying career for suitable young men.

The booth I had booked was on the ground floor, it had the best view as far as I was concerned, and mine had bathroom facilities attached – all the booths had drains naturally but I could afford the best – well not quite the best – the best had fully equipped private dungeons as well. The poorer men of our society had to make do with seats, as I said, but as you can imagine, they were very inventive about enjoying themselves and the walking cunts that were available.

What was a booth like? I’m struggling to paint a picture - if you can imagine - the following was nothing like it but it’s the nearest I can think of - a large opera box with a shower room attached – that was where I was going to spend the next fantastic twelve hours.

Walking into my booth the smell was overpowering, utterly revolting – imagine the nasty, filthiest public toilet, swimming in turds and piss. Heavenly. The look of the place was immaculate, perfect, comfortable without being ostentatious. The screaming exhibit was fixed in place and my-suck-and-fuck* whore was already jiggling her massive tits at me. A comment about this cunt in a minute.

(*I came across the sobriquet “fuck-and-suck slut” or “fuck-and-suck whore” etc. in a great and educative story by The Chairman, “Juicing Jeanne” on the BDSM Library site, and it stayed in my mind - such a poetic and apt description of a useful class of cunt. I liked it so much I thought I’d pay him the compliment of stealing it. I would hate to plagiarise without acknowledgement.)

There was nothing between my booth and the arena, I could lean out and maul the performers if I wanted – it was welcomed. If I wanted privacy there was a two-way mirror that I could draw down to cut me off from prying eyes. But I never wanted privacy – in fact I always hoped that other fellas on the opposite side of the area were training their binoculars on my booth.

The smell was more like disgustingly sweaty feet and armpits now and it produced, in me at least, a sudden and empowering surge of violence. I told the young sailor whore-boy I’d picked and the suck-and-fuck whore to get the screaming exhibit’s legs apart – fucking quick – yank them wide open – and I kicked the cunt’s cunt viciously several times, then I slapped it and punched it hard in the face until I’d taken the edge off.

It was an absolute necessity to be that suddenly and totally violent after the build up provided by the stinks - and my own imagination - in the approach. The organisers knew this and quite often the screaming exhibit was destroyed in the first few minutes of the client entering the booth – this was good for business as of course the man always wanted a second, or third – and yes, that did cost.

I was nearly in that position myself, and more so because I really wanted to lay into the sailor boy and punch the fuck-and-suck slut’s idiotic face as well but you were encouraged keep the whores for specific functions – sensible really – the fuck-and-suck slut couldn’t concentrate on my needs if she was screaming, and the sailor boy-whore similarly. That was why it was so necessary to have the screaming exhibits, so that all urges could be expressed when they needed to be. So I prepared to take a shower. I thought I better order a second screaming exhibit as I was going to need two. The fuck-and-slut whore did this while I told the sailor boy what I wanted – I wanted to watch him shave while the I did the same, shave, smoke and have the big-titted whore attach its face-hole to his cock.

I realised I wanted a cunt-boy to destroy as well. So the fuck-and-suck slut ordered me that in addition to the extra screaming exhibit. Fucking expensive but I was in extravagant mood. The virtually brainless fuck-and-suck slut had its massive, firm tits sticking out from its flimsy porn whore dress and knelt down in front of the gorgeous sailor boy-whore, and nuzzled his cock, licking the cloth. This muscular stud-whore removed his hat and top, and then put his hat back on, a nice instinctive performance touch – I told you these boys were trained to want sex only for the benefit of the men watching, that’s what turned them on – not the cunts, not their own bodies, the thought of the pleasure they were giving to their male audience – it was this that made them feel so ultimately masculine. And also because of this they could perform any category of debauchery without ever feeling that this superb masculinity had been diminished. If they were fucking a boy for example, or shitting in a whore’s mouth, or kissing another whore-stud, it was all for the audience, all for men.

The thought that I merely wanted this stud to do something as simple as shave, and have his cock sucked – was such a compliment to this young man, it flattered his giant ego hugely, he was glowing with male pride. He flashed me genuine smiles of pure delight. He lathered his chin –carefully, for his audience not for him, wiped his hands in the cunt’s hair, put a cigarette in his mouth and let it dangle while he started shaving. In fact every movement was a pose, I could swear he was seeing himself as double-page spread in a fashion magazine: his inexhaustible vanity was a fucking turn on, all these boy-whores had it. Such depth of self-regard took years of encouragement, refinement and development, and could only be wondered at! And, as I said, such absorption in his own masculinity was a fucking fine example to other men.

I could hear the attendants – body-builders – shackling the second screaming exhibit.

“Leave it ungagged, guys. I want to hear its moans.”

“Where d’you want the cunt-boy, sir!”

“Send him in here.” I’d asked for a particular cunt-boy, one I’d seen in a display niche on the way to the booth: they have these platforms dotted about the corridors on which cunts fuck themselves silly with a variety of unpleasant objects, or a stud invites you to stick a skewer through a cunt’s massive tit, or a young boy fucks himself energetically with a very large dildo – etc, you get the idea. I’d seen this cunt-boy doing just that with a dildo that must have been six inches in diameter, so I knew he’d have a ruined boy-cunt. He was maybe fifteen, short, skinny but very appealing.