HardShrimp

So, before I start telling this story, I wanna let ya’ll know that I have been sexually active when it comes to a noose, since I saw my first western on TV when they were in black and white. Seriously, something inside me popped and I thought I had injured myself when I looked down at my crotch and saw wet. I was probably 9 or 10 at the time. Headed into the bathroom and checked myself out and didn’t see any blood so I figured I was ok.

Now I can be complicated with my upbringing. Single mom, poor, but was only allowed to wear 1 pair of sneakers and cords. Mom wasn’t a person who liked denim so that is why she never bought blue jeans for me. Yet most of the guys in school growing up wore Levis. I was always looked down on and really hated school because I was that kid who never fit in with anyone so I was mostly a loner.

After graduation I started work on my first paycheck I bought a pair of Levis, dark blue, man I jacked off more times than I could count. I stopped wearing underwear because the rough denim always had my cock semi-hard. My boot fetish started about the same time. I stole my first pair of boots from the clothing store. I went to try on a pair of those rough out ACME cowboy boots that everyone seemed to be wearing in the 70’s. Later I bought my first black pair of buckaroo boots from the western store. Tony Lama was my go-to boots after that and a Stetson. Mind you there were other brands of cowboy hats, but in the western store they had a poster called “Never Steal a Stetson” and it showed a cowboy who had been hanged.

Moving forward, I started taking riding lessons and after 3 years bought my first horse and saddle and I stabled Hamet at a local stable that was out in the country; 3-4 times a week after work I was out there, riding, brushing him down, weekend I reserved for trail riding. 3-4 hours at a time. I really wasn’t ever a ‘cowboy’ more a horseman. I did the show circuit and did pretty good. But it all came crashing down when I lost my job, couldn’t make rent and pay for my horse and the stable bill. So, sold the horse and saddle and moved to the city where I was able to find work. But through this all, the noose was always in the back ground. What I jacked off too fantasying about.

The city changed me in several ways, I found out that I liked guys as sexual partners, went to my first leather bar and discovered a whole new world. Black Bike Leather and western gear, head to toe. Bondage and S/M. Made some friends, did a lot of shit. But again, the noose was always in the back of my mind.

By then the internet was booming, chat rooms opened up. There was a software I bought called mIRC where you could create a room and guys would sign in and start a group chat or a personal chat. I always create my room called #GayNoose and that is when I met him. My handle at the time was “Boots and Hat”. His handle was “string you up”. He lived outside of Houston, TX. On his ranch Northwest of the city with 60 acres. House and barn with some horses and he had a ranch hand that helped him out with the livestock. His first question to me was “How long are you looking to ride the noose?” I told him if he was gonna hang me that would be on him to make that decision. He wanted to know more about me. I told him that I was getting older, most of my friends were looking more for the young Leathermen and weren’t interested in me. Then he said, “Well, I would hang you!” Instant hardon!

I said, ‘no shit?’ he laughed and said, “so when did you wanna do this?” I told him in the early Summer or late Spring. He asked me why so many months from now. I explained that there were things I needed to take care of, I was executor of my sister and the doctors didn’t think she would last until fall.  My sister had money and I was the only benefactor. If I was gonna come and visit Houston I would be coming to stay.

We talked for months, making plans on how I was just gonna disappear from the area. So, after my sister was buried and estate settled we reconnected. He sent me a burner phone talked on the phone and we set the plan in motion that we had settled on what my last ride was gonna be. Every night I was on the road he would call me to check on where I was on my trip, told him what my plan was for the night and told me to have fun and he would call me the next night.

With my inheritance I bought a Black Dodge RAM pickup truck, packed a couple things and left my life behind me and started my drive to Houston, headed south to San Francisco, stopped off at Mr. S, got some items I had ordered, did the leather bars there and then headed to LA, did the leather bars there and then headed east. I hit Houston in 4 days. He had told me where there was a cheap motel outside of the city, road wasn’t busy so I stopped got a carton of Marlboro Light 100’s and a bottle of Jack. Checked into the seedy Motel, he told me to go too, at around 4:00 pm. I unpacked what I had brought and laid my gear out on the bed. Lit a smoke, pour a whisky and sat down and looked at the gear I was gonna hang in.

I got the last call that night around 6pm, told me to stay put, rest shower and at 9:00 pm start walking down the road out front of the motel. I did ask him if “This is really gonna happen?” His response was serious, “We got your back, man.” And then hung up.

So, I took a shower and pulled on my new Wrangler Jeans, and tall Black Tony Lama boots. Put on my denim shirt, belt and packed my leathers in a duffle bag with my gun belt, spurs and leather gloves. Also had the carton of smokes and the rest of the bottle of Jack and the burner phone.

After putting on my fringed leather motorcycle jacket and Stetson, I picked up the duffle bag, slipped out of the motel room and locked the door and left the keys on the table.

I walked to the end of the drive way, turned onto the road and started walking. Couple cars drove past me, one guy offered me a lift which I declined. I knew the color of the truck he was driving so there wasn’t any confusion.

About 15-20 minutes down the road a truck passed me and slowed down. It pulled over and the passenger door opened and waited. I put my duffle in the back of the truck and climbed into the truck. That is when I met my hangman. Dark hair, dark eyes, Stetson, jeans, boots Levi jacket. He was probably 6.2 190lbs. He looked at me and said, “You Ready?” I looked at him and said, “no changes to the plan?” “Nope, we are on track.” And I closed the passenger door.

We drove for about 45 minutes going farther out into the country. We did small talk, every once in a while he would touch his crotch and give a heavy sigh, then reach over and stroke my cock through my Wrangler’s and smile and say, “Just Checking”.

Eventually we make a right turn onto a dirt road with a gate, he told me to get out, and so did he. We walked to the front of the truck and he gave me a once over. He smile and said, “Last chance, once we go through this gate there is no turning back, do you understand?” I paused, looked at him and said, “I been through a lot, done a lot, I think it is time for a new adventure.” He smiled and nodded his head.  He followed me back to the truck, opened the passenger side of the door and stopped me. From his back pocket he pulled out a small leather thong and told me to turn around, which I did and he proceeded to tie my hands behind my back and then helped me back into the passenger seat. Walked around the front of the truck to open the gate and rolled through, stopped and locked the gate behind us. He climbed back in and we drove on, came around the bend in the road where his house and barn were located. Then I saw another guy waiting on the porch. His ranch hand! About the same height and weight, more muscled I would say because of his work on the ranch. He came down the stairs, walked over to the passenger side of the truck, opened up the door and stated, “Hey Steve, looks like you got us an outlaw.” Steve said, “Yea, Gary, he is committed, told me at the gate.” Gary grabbed me and pulled me out of the truck and shoved me toward the house.

We walked up the stairs and through the door, I stood there while they sized me up, talked about my hanging and how it had been a while since they had played. Steve told Gary to get my duffle out of the back of the truck and put it in the barn. Gary left, and Steven let me to my room for the night. Back of the house, he opened the door and I only had a bed, and a table. Steve untied my hands which my now my fingers had grown numb. Told me to get some rest, and not to jack-off, my load was gonna be the highlight of my hanging in the morning.

Steve stepped out of the room and locked the door behind me.

I lay down on the bed, I didn’t sleep well since I kept trying to finger my balls and cock, Morning finally came and the door was unlocked. Steve came into the room, dressed in full black western leather. He looked at me, check the sheets to make sure there were no stains and led me out of the house after a stop off at the bathroom. There was a bag of water hanging with a hose, purge, he told me. So, I clean myself, still naked except for my boots and walked out of the bathroom. Steve was waiting, then took me through the back of the house outside and into the barn.

I stopped; the darkness took a while for my eyes to adjust. There was a noose hanging above a platform about 4’ off the ground, stairs leading up the top. A large box was positioned under the noose. My gear was laid out on the edge of the platform; I was told to get dressed. I got my spurs on first, then my western chaps, they were a smooth shiny black leather with conchos down the legs. My leather vest was next and then my double gun belt. Finally gloves. Gary was there wearing his western gear as well. He was fuck’n handsome, clean shaved with a stache.

Gary came over to get me, as Steve mounted the stairs and started adjusting the noose. Gary, then bent me over and I was to use the platform to lean on. Then I felt my ass being greased and then pressure as Gary slipped his bare cock into my hole. He started slow and me trying to take is cock all the way. Gary knew I was ready when I pushed myself back on his cock. Then he really started, hard thrusts, he grunted with each push. At one point he leaned over on top of me and grabbed each arm and tied my hands behind me. He shouted to Steve he was gonna pop, and then I felt my guts get warm as he shot his load inside me. He laid on top of my panting and sweaty, and whispered in my ear, “Now you are gonna hang, faggot outlaw.” His cock shrunk and he pulled out with a pop. Next I felt was Gary placing a butt-plug into my ass, and told me he was gonna keep his seed in me while I twitched.

Steve told Gary to get me up the stairs and on the box. The trap door was under the box, so when Steve pulled the lever, the box would drop out from under me. Steven met me at the top of the box; he looked me in the eyes as he placed the noose around my neck. Slide the knot to my right ear and smiled. I looked down and saw Steve’s cock straining at this leather jeans. He saw me look down and opened his fly and he cock came out and was pouncing.

Gary came up the stairs and stood next to me, I felt his hand on my butt cheek, “Just gonna steady you.” He said. Steve started to take up the slack of the rope to the point I was standing on the toes of my boots and Steve tied off the end, Gary came around front of me, and so did Steve. “You ready to swing, outlaw?” Gary said, and I looked at them both and smiled. Steve brought out an bottle of poppers and told me to inhale deeply a couple of hits. My head started to swim as Gary started to jack me off with a gloved hand. Steven went over and put his hand on the lever. “Gary, you let me know when he shoots and I pull the lever and he hangs.  His hanging like that will make sure his death-load is a big one!” Then Gary did something I wasn’t expecting, he started to suck my cock. I tried not to shoot, but my cock chose my time to hang. Gary dropped his arm, Steven pulled the lever, trap opened, box through the trap and I was kicking! We had agreed, no drop, no snap, I would strangle out kicking and pumping air all the time till the end. Poppers kept me going a while longer as Steven came over to watch the show and Gary jacked Steve off and spattered his seed on my still twitching boots. Spurs jingling like the tail of a rattlesnake.

The farmer had always taken pride in his "special projects," but the two men he found were his most ambitious yet. He moved them into the quietest part of the farm, away from prying eyes, and began a strict regimen of indulgence.

The Feeding Phase

Every morning, the air in the barn was thick with the scent of sugar and lard. The farmer didn't just feed them; he curated their growth with a meticulousness usually reserved for prize-winning livestock.

Constant Monitoring: The farmer used a large industrial scale to track every pound gained, documenting the progress on a chalkboard hanging from the barn's timber beams.

Gourmet Fattening: Fresh blueberry pies were a staple of their diet, delivered warm by the farmer who watched with a satisfied grin as they ate.

Physical Checks: To ensure the quality of the "marbling," the farmer would often poke and prod their expanding midsections, even applying oils to keep the skin supple as it stretched to accommodate their growing bellies.

The Growth Profile

As their bellies began to protrude further, the farmer became obsessed with their side profiles. He developed a custom "profile growth chart," using it to trace the curve of their stomachs against a clipboard to visualize exactly how far they had progressed toward his ideal. Soon, they were so large they could stand belly-to-belly, their massive, oiled midsections pressing firmly against each other.

The Butcher's Inspection

When the farmer decided they had reached peak weight, he contacted a local butcher who specialized in "specialty cuts". The men were taken to the sterile back room of the butcher shop, a stark contrast to the rustic barn.

The Final Appraisal: The butcher, donning a white apron, joined the farmer in a professional inspection, measuring the circumference of their bellies with a tape measure.

Mapping the Meat: The men were instructed to lie on their backs atop cold, stainless steel processing counters.

Marking the Cuts: With the precision of a surgeon, the butcher and his assistants used black markers to draw dotted lines across the men’s bare, oiled skin, labeling different sections of their bellies as "Sirloin," "Flank," and "T-Bone".

The farmer stood by with his clipboard, checking off the final "Fat-to-Rupture Index" as the butcher prepared his tools, surrounded by the heavy, hanging carcasses of the day's more conventional stock.

Longpig farm

Arthur had recruited a group of stout, hard-working men from the local area, offering them good wages and plenty of home-cooked meals in exchange for their labor. The men, unsuspecting and grateful for the steady work, quickly settled into farm life.

What they didn't know, however, was that Arthur's generosity had a ulterior motive. He was aiming to fatten up the men, meticulously tracking their weight gain and belly circumference in a worn notebook he kept hidden in his vest pocket.

Every day, the farm kitchen bustled with activity as Arthur's wife, a woman of few words but formidable culinary skills, whipped up hearty breakfasts of pancakes, bacon, and eggs, followed by lunches of stew, biscuits, and pies, and topped off with dinners of roasts, potatoes, and cobblers. Arthur would playfully nudge the men to take seconds, even thirds, praising their appetites and encouraging them to eat "like growing boys."

The men, initially surprised by the abundance of food, soon grew accustomed to the rich meals. They laughed about their expanding waistlines, attributing it to the physical demands of farm work and the undeniable deliciousness of Mrs. Arthur's cooking. They were oblivious to the fact that their daily indulgences were part of a calculated plan.

Arthur, on the other hand, was delighted by their progress. He watched with a glint in his eye as their bellies grew rounder and their movements became a little slower. He would sometimes pull aside the fattest of the bunch, a man named Bob, and give him a playful pat on the back, commenting on how "well-fed" he was looking. Bob would just chuckle, unaware of the sinister meaning behind Arthur's words.

Arthur's ultimate plan was to sell off the fattest of the men to a local restaurant that specialized in "farm-to-table" cuisine. He imagined the premium price he could command for such prime, well-marbled specimens. He even had a restaurant in mind, a place known for its decadent pork belly and hearty stews.

As the months passed, the men on Arthur's farm grew larger and lazier. Their physical prowess, once a source of pride, was slowly eroding under the weight of excessive eating. They still worked, but with less enthusiasm and agility. Arthur, however, was not concerned. Their growing girth was, to him, a measure of success.

One day, the restaurant owner, a man named Franco, paid a visit to the farm. He was a shrewd businessman with a sharp eye for quality ingredients. Franco walked around, inspecting the men with a critical gaze. He seemed particularly interested in Bob, whose belly had reached impressive proportions.

Arthur, sensing an opportunity, pulled Franco aside and whispered, "I have some prime specimens for you, Franco. Look at Bob over there. He's been well-tended to."

Franco smirked, understanding the implication. "Indeed," he replied, his voice low and smooth. "He looks like he'd make a magnificent roast."

Arthur's heart leaped. The deal was almost sealed. He just had to keep the men eating, keep them unsuspecting, until the day he would deliver them to their fate.

​Then there was James. James was a fixture in Dale's life, but not as a customer. James was a regular at the doughnut shop next door, a large, slow-moving man whose only joy, it seemed, was consuming as many glazed rings as he could fit into his mouth at once. He was a glutton, a walking mountain of excess, and to Dale, he was an abomination. Dale saw the waste of space, the lack of self-control, the general... unappealing softness of James. He saw the potential for ruin. He also saw James lack of true satisfaction. He wasn't happy; he was just full.

​A thought began to curl and grow in Dale's mind. It was a dark, dangerous thing, a transgression against the order of life. But it was also, in its own twisted way, a form of perfection. He didn't see a person in James. He saw quality. He saw tenderness. He saw a special meat.

​The game was slow and meticulous, built on a foundation of false friendliness. Dale started bringing James small cuts of meat—the best bits, the prime cuts—telling him they were too rich for ordinary customers, that only a true connoisseur like James could appreciate them. James, used to being ignored or mocked, was overwhelmed by the attention. For the first time, he felt special. Not just a fat guy eating doughnuts, but someone chosen.

​"Try this, James," Dale would whisper, presenting a small, perfect piece of ribeye. "A true artist’s cut." James, his eyes bulging, would chew and swallow, his face a picture of ecstasy, completely unaware that he was the intended final course in Dale's twisted masterpiece.

​The "special treatment" escalated. Dale invited James into the back, the inner sanctum of the shop. He let him stand near the cooler, letting the cool, damp air seep into his massive bulk. He let him touch the heavy oak cutting board. He even, in a bizarre and disturbing turn, allowed James to lay down on the large wooden prep table, under the pretense that he needed to understand the "anatomy of flavour." James, in a state of naive bliss, complied, letting Dale trace lines across his massive, pasty torso, completely oblivious to the fact that these were butcher's lines, cut charts for his own body.

​Dale's voice would drop, full of mock reverence. "Look at this rib section, James. Look at the belly flank. This is potential, true potential." James would nod, a small grin on his face, believing he was being praised for his appreciation of fine meat, not for being the meat itself.

​The trap was closing, and Dale was in a fever of anticipation. He prepared the back room, ensuring it was spotless. He sharpened his cleaver and knives to an impossibly fine edge. The tape measure, once used for measuring carcasses, now lay on the cold iron scale, waiting for the final weight.

​The night he finally did it, the town was quiet. Dale invited James for a "special tasting," a dish he said he'd been perfecting just for him. James, his heart pounding with excitement and a general lack of oxygen from his bulk, practically waddled into the back.

​The story ends right as Dale reaches for his main tool. He has successfully groomed James, transforming him from a simple glutton into a willing, and entirely naive, participant in his own demise. He has tricked him into believing he is a prized guest, when in reality, he is the prized product.

AI // The Coach’s MVP Banquet