Colonel Karpo looked across his desk with amazement in his eyes. The proposal of the suave young Italian-American sitting there was outrageous. It was indecent, immoral, barbaric. Shocking! And the colonel loved every second of it. Americans were so deliciously depraved ... and rich. He reached across the desk with his hand extended.

"You have a deal!"
A week before, a small group of cadets at the Minsk military academy had mutinied ... joining street demonstrations against the assumption of dicatorial power by President Lukashenko, completing his destruction of the fledgling democratic freedoms of Belarus. The demonstrations had been brutally crushed by the army and police.

Lukashenko, now simply styled "The Great Leader," would no longer tolerate the slightest resistence to his regime, determined to create an economically sound and stable state through totalitarian ruthlessness, hoping eventually to achieve his real goal. He dreamed of a new empire created by reunion of Russia, Belarus and Ukraine under his leadership.

The Great Leader had been particularly outraged by the cadet participation in the disorders. He had personally ordered that the young student-officers under arrest be summarily executed without trial. As Karpo had trembled at attention before Lukashenko in his palace, he had expected to be relieved as commandant at the academy and shot himself.

To his relief he got only a severe dressing down by his volatile, unpredictable master who was already reminding some historians of Adolf Hitler. When told the offending cadets were to be put to death, he eagerly assured that the sentences would be carried out without delay.

"I will leave the mode of execution to you Colonel," the Great Leader had hissed, "But just recall that they have angered and stressed me and I desire that examples be made of them. Use your imagination."
And Karpo had assured that he would do so.

He had not had a great deal of experience in torture and killing and had been contemplating the subject in his office when Salvatore Martini had appeared with a request for a meeting.

"An American?" the colonel had groaned.
Probably an agent of some damned bleeding-heart human rights agency. Begrudgingly he agreed to see the man, intending to make short shrift of him. The superbly groomed and attired visitor got right to the point.
"I have read speculation that you may be about to execute some three dozen of your cadets for their recent demonstration. I wondered if it was true and, if so, I sincerely hope they have not yet been put to death."
Karpo had looked at him as coldly as he could, standing to signal that the interview would shortly be over.
"Mr. Martini, I do not see that our internal affairs are any business of yours or whatever agency you represent. If you have come to plead for the lives of these enemies of the state, you are wasting your time."

"Good, good!" Martini had smiled, obviously relieved. "I was afraid I might be too late. You have also spared me having to present you with all the reasons I had contrived why you should kill the young men in question and in graphically violent or painful ways to make an example of them. The very last thing I came to do was to plead for their lives."

Karpo had stared at his visitor and then abruptly sat back down.
"Just what do you have in mind, Mr. Martini? Why are you here?"
A short while later he and Martini had inspected the cadet prisoners in their holding cells after the youths, all eighteen to twenty year olds in magnificent condition, were required to strip. The American had been obviously pleased at the beauty of the condemned boys and had actually increased the "fee" he had agreed upon with the colonel. Karpo certainly liked the way this man did business!

What did he say he preferred to be called ... ah, yes. Salvi. Just Salvi. Rather like the habit of those muslim Afghan savages ... using just one name.

The artist had gone through and carefully studied each naked young hunk, occasionally nodding and saying "this one" or "him" until an even dozen ... the very best specimens ... had been selected. These were taken to special holding cells where their treatment amazed them. They were allowed to shower and shave, given clean shorts to wear and fed well. They were exercised repeatedly each day to buff up their already superb physiques.

These twelve were arbitrarily labelled "leaders" of the brief uprising and word given that they faced special, severe forms of execution even as Martini flew back to New York. The day after he left, the cadet corps was assembled in the courtyard of the academy to watch in horror or glee, depending on their sympathies, as the remaining two dozen condemned prisoners were brought forth in groups of four at a time, tied to posts and shot by firing squads. Their parents were required to come claim the bodies of the boys for burial and assessed a $200 fee each to reimbuse the state for the cost of their son's execution.


I was working in my library when the call came in. The voice said simply,

"This is Salvi. I have procured the subjects for your proposed production. Do you still wish to be present as I begin the creation of the work?"
My heart started throbbing furiously,
"Yes," I answered evenly, "I do."

"Very well, then. Be at JFK gate 47, International Terminal, at 4:30 tomorrow afternoon. Expect to be gone for four days. Please make the first deposit before then."

The line went dead. I connected with my bank and directed the transfer of $50,000 to the Swiss account number he had previously provided. I had been waiting for this moment and made the calls to clear my schedule, then went upstairs to pack. It had been just a month before that I had contacted the artist whose works were beginning to be the rage of the wealthiest collectors in the world. I had not known until just now that my project had "aroused" him enough to be accepted. Seduced had been the word used.

I had first encountered a Salvi while dining at the home of a friend, a member of the circle of young scions of old-money families and newly-rich entrepeneurs in which I ran. I fell in the former category and was not at all embarrassed that I had inherited what I had.

Mark had, with great pride, displayed the bigger than life painting adorning his dining room wall. It depicted two young men in an act of sodomy, one mounting his prostrate companion from behind. The boy being fucked was bound in place and his companion was using a knotted cord about his neck to slowly throttle him as he worked towards orgasm.

The facial expressions were graphic and perfect, the colors in the piece spectacular. It was about the single most erotic, perfect piece I had ever seen.

"He calls it 'Ultimate Orgasm' and created it specially for me. With Salvi you describe what you want and if he accepts your commission, he finds the models to use in the production."

"Really spectacular."

I admired it with obvious sincerity and enthusiasm, pleasing him,
"I love it! I'd sure like to meet those models sometime though, especially the boy on the bottom. He's a real stone fox."

"I'm afraid that won't occur," Mark laughed. "He's quite dead. I watched as he was snuffed. He went into his death convulsions just as the boy on top reached orgasm inside him. It was incredible to see."

I gasped,
"The one boy was actually killed? It wasn't just a posed scene?"

"Salvi is the master of's Rembrandt. Nothing in his paintings is just a posed fantasy. As he puts it himself,'What are the mere lives of a few useless young louts when it comes to creation of true masterpieces?
xxxx"Twenty years from now noone would even remember they had lived, but I shall make them immortal, frozen forever in oil on my canvases!'
Xxxx"That's what makes owning one of his works so unique and thrilling ... as well as bloody expensive. He gets a quarter million for each piece he does. You get to watch the scene as it plays out and is intensively photographed and video-taped. He works off the photos and videos for the actual painting later on. Let me show you something else."

He opened a beautifully worked cabinet below the painting and flicked on a light. I stared in awed disbelief. There, mounted in a crystal globe, were a complete set of huge, perfectly formed male genitals in full erection.
I knew without asking who they had belonged to. My eyes shifted back to the bound boy in the painting, then once again to his severed, preserved manhood.
"You get a souvenir of the scene if you like, or souvenirs if there is more than one model being snuffed for your work.
xxxx"Some have had as many as three killed for either a group scene or a set of separate paintings.
xxxx"His base fee is the same regardless but each additional hunk you have sacrificed costs a $50,000 add-on. You get a video of the snuff as well."
Mark had not been surprised when I requested the contact information for the artist.

I made sure I was on time at the airport. I was not alone. There were four other clients going on the trip. Salvi explained his good fortune in locating a group of a full dozen "models" for our various projects.

"This is the first time I have been able to perform the scenario photo sessions for more than two projects at the same time.
xxxx"It works out nicely for all of you inasmuch as you each will get to witness the creative scenes for not only your project but the others. You'll each receive all five of the videos."
I could see that pleased and excited the others as much as it did me. This was working out very well indeed.

Our flight was long but comfortable. Air France took us to Paris where we boarded an Aeroflot flight to Minsk via Warsaw. In Minsk a uniformed border officer took us in tow as soon as we deplaned and whisked us through customs without even stopping. We were taken to the academy and housed in comfortable guest rooms that I sensed had been specially prepared for us. The next morning, breakfast was served to us in our rooms and at 10 AM the first scenario ... okay, execution ... was carried out.
The first scene was somewhat tame by comparison to the ones that followed, but that was good.

I'd discovered that, like myself, none of Salvi's other art lovers on the trip had ever witnessed an intentional killing and we were all just a tad nervous. A big strapping slave boy was brought naked from his cell and bound to a post and blindfolded.

Then he was shot to death. No. It was not a firing squad.

A tough young commando from the academy cadre had been assigned to Salvi as an aide, hand-picked by the commandant for his combat experience in Chechnya and his sadistic impulses.

He alone was the executioner. When Salvi nodded to him to proceed, he unholstered a pistol and raised it to aim at the gorgeous prisoner. We all held our breath in excited anticipation and waited for the shot.


As the sound echoed in the courtyard, the young body bound to the post contracted in rippled agony as a round hole appeared magically in the right shoulder with a wet thumping sound and a spray of blood.

The gunman aimed again, taking his time.


This time the small bloody hole popped in place in the left shoulder. Next each thigh was targeted with perfect accuracy, the rounds drilling just a couple of inches below the crotch in the inner side of each hammy leg.

I had thought I might prove squeamish watching such torture imposed, but instead found it exciting and erotic. I was secretly hoping to see the boy shot where I would most certainly have placed a bullet if I were in charge of his execution.Thus I caught my breath in excited anticipation as the executioner stepped close to the bleeding, moaning, writhing boy bound to the post and aimed the muzzle at close quarters straight into his crotch.

Yes! I exulted. Do it! Shoot the young fucker there!


The shots resonated loudly as the commando pulled the trigger three times in quick succession and obliterated all trace of the boy's manhood. After then gutshooting him twice, the soldier just holstered his pistol and stepped back for us to crowd close to examine the wounds of the still living, semi-conscious cadet.

He was allowed to just hang limply on his post and slowly die from blood-loss and shock while we watched ... able to touch him or even probe our fingers into his wounds if we desired to personalize our involvement in this first killing experience.
After a short break, three more cadets were brought forth to die in what would be a series of paintings forming a common set.

The young men were gathered around the block of wood upon which they were to be beheaded and the first made to kneel down.

The commando aide stood ready with his gleaming axe, himself naked, fully displaying his own magnificent young physique and powerfully aroused genitals.

We were so caught up in the erotic anticipation of the actual killings to come that we all, in retrospect, completely missed spotting a magic moment.

At one point, for a fleeting instant, all four of the participants in the little drama happened to turn their faces to the camera in unison, three sober and terrified, one smiling in sadistic pleasure.

Salvi, with his master's eye and instinct, spotted this one small frame of film and from it produced the wonderful painting that has been acclaimed as perhaps his finest ... "Prelude to the axe."

The commando had obviously been practicing and proved skillful. He took off the head of the first cadet cleanly with one perfect stroke. The axe rose and fell, its loud thunking impact into the wood cracking like a gunshot as the head dropped away from the boy's shoulders in a great spurting spray of dark crimson. The headless corpse was rudely kicked aside and the head itself impaled for display on a slim, short post.

Then the next trembling cadet was made to kneel down and extend his neck out over the wood. The axe rose and fell again with perfect aim. A second head went onto a post. Then the third youth knelt and was expertly beheaded as well.

I'd be having wet fantasies about this scene for years!

That was it for the first day and we were feted to a fine banquet that evening hosted by the colonel commanding the academy. We were very careful not to raise any delicate questions about Belarussian politics and the new dictator.

That night, those of us who had indicated we would enjoy male companionship found our beds shared by most willing, luscious young volunteers from among the loyal cadet corps. The beautiful blond angel assigned to me proved incredibly adept in using his mouth and tongue. I have no idea if his tight little asshole was virgin before he came to me but I made quite sure it was not when he left me in the dawn.

The next day we were given a tour of Minsk and after lunch, the next execution was carried out on a small archery range on the academy grounds. Two more of the condemned cadets were brought there, naked, to be put to death, providing the basis for another related pair of Salvi masterpieces.

As soon as I realized what we were about to witness, I felt a special thrill of pleasure race through me. Ever since I was a small boy, I had always been fascinated by arrows. I watched cowboy and indian movies expressly in the hope of seeing a combat scene with lots of good arrow impacts, The Battle of The Little Big Horn having always been a favorite.

The sight of a barbed shaft knifing into flesh, even when just faked on the silver screen, never ceased to arouse me. In high school I had taken archery and fantasized about having the big jock hunks in my class standing naked against a target waiting as I aimed and drew back my bowstring.

Ummm. Such mind pictures never failed to bring me to a sweet, deep orgasm.

And now it was for real! A brawny, trembling cadet was standing stark naked before a round target, restrained only by having his ankles secured to stakes. We were introduced to Dimitri Rusklinov, Belarus national archery champion and olympic gold medalist. He was an army officer and fervent supporter of The Great Leader and appeared delighted at being asked to do the honors for us.

I drew in a tense, excited breath as I watched Dimitri take position and place the first arrow in his bow. He studied the target, raised the bow and with fluid perfection eased the string back. When he let fly, the arrow hissed through the air and performed a remarkable feat.
He had noticed how the boy had one hand flattened against his gut just above his crotch and to the right.

He pinned that hand to the lower belly with a perfect gut shot!

The loud, wet WHUMP as the arrow impacted and drove deep into the cadet's innards was music to my ears.

I was surprised at how little blood there was compared to a gunshot wound.

The target boy seemed paralyzed by the agony and shock from the projectile jutting from his gut and securely pinning his hand in place.

He slowly collapsed to his knees, staring down in a sort of fascination at the arrow protruding from him. He didn't quite know what to do with his free hand and let it drift down over his belly.


The second arrow flew and pinned the free hand to the boy's rib cage just above and to the left of his belly button. He just stayed there on his knees, providing a wonderful target for Dimitri who almost casually fired arrows through each of the muscular thighs, then each shoulder.

The suffering cadet now resembled my favorite religious painting, The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian. The saint had been slowly arrow-executed by the Romans just as was this cadet. I was not at all surprised that the seventh arrow was placed directly between the well-hung boy's thighs. The eighth went into his heart and he pitched silently forward onto his face in the grass to end the display.
The second cadet was brought out and positioned before a target.

Dimitri again took aim.

This time he began the process by sending his first arrow into the young bull's crotch.

The kid's demented shriek left little doubt about how much that hurt.

He stood there clutching the shaft and the look on his face was priceless.

After he too was turned into a porcupine, bristling with feathered shafts, a last killing bolt was placed into his heart.

We had the rest of the day free to roam the quaint streets of the ancient capital of Belarus which had never known independence until 1990.

A pageant of foreign rulers had left their varied marks upon the city ... Mongols, Poles, Huns, Lithuanians, Germans, Swedes and Russians.

I had my bed-cadet Vasili along to interpret ... the pretty boy spoke passable English ... and enjoyed shopping in the little bazaars and markets. We found a shop that sold hand-made leather and steel dog collars and on impulse I bought one with which to equip Vasili for our sexual mating that night. Getting into the spirit of things, the shyly grinning boy pointed out a rack of vicious looking little whips and flails.

"For bad puppies," he said simply. "I look very much like a puppy, no?"

"Are you a bad puppy, Vasili?"

I started sorting through the whipping devices.
"I a very, very bad puppy. Need really good whipping to correct me. Really, really good long whipping all over me, even here where hurt worst!"
He gestured towards his bulging crotch and I almost creamed my pants.

There was another banquet, this one hosted by the martial-law commander of the city, some lieutenant-general who made a really boring, pompous speech commending our fine support of Belarus' national interests.

What a crock! I escaped as early as I could and found Vasili stretched out naked on the bed slowly stroking his huge cock.

Well, he wasn't totally naked. He was wearing his new dog collar, and I swallowed hard at the exquisite beauty of the trim, silky-skinned, muscular body. The multi-tailed flail I had purchased with the boy's eager approval was suggestively held in his free hand, the leather thongs snaking over his left thigh.

The idea of whipping a future officer of the Belarus army was erotic as hell and I determined to do the job up right. I almost tore off my clothes, my turgid rod bobbing out in full arousal. He watched with interest, then with an impish grin stated in a near challanging tone ...
"Vasili piss on floor in bathroom ... again. What you do about it?"

"Vasili," I sternly admonished, "You've been a very bad puppy. I'm afraid you must be punished. Very severely punished."

He handed me the flail and rolled over to display his luscious bubble ass. As I raised the whip high, preparing to put every ounce of my strength into the stroke, he made a little growling, barking noise at me. That was cute, however, the yelp he made as the leather strands bit viciously into his silky ass lobes was not a pretense and I enjoyed that sound ever so much more.

In the morning, I fucked Vasili for the fourth time of the night and then lay admiring the delicious patchwork of thick, brutal welts decorating him from his shoulders to his feet on the backside and marking his thighs and chest in the front. His genitals were deeply bruised and painfully swollen from the strokes delivered directly between his thighs.

What an absolutely wonderful night it had been!

As heady and memorable as had been the shooting, beheading and archery killings of the previous days, I can say without a doubt that my third day in Belarus under Salvi's choreography was the most unforgettable of my life.

I had never imagined I would witness the incredible scenes of ultimate torture that unfolded. The member of our group who had commissioned the two paintings that would evolve from the film produced that day was a somewhat mousy accountant from Deluth, Minnesota. I think I speak for all of the rest of our group when I say we will be forever indebted to him.

We took a trip into the verdant countryside for quite a distance from the city until we arrived at an ancient monastery that had been abandoned during the communist period. It had now been repaired and housed a small group of monks who had removed themselves elsewhere for the day, leaving the place to us.

Our guide was the handsome young commando-executioner who had been so effective in the first day's killings. The archer, Dimitri, was along to assist him in managing the pair of gorgeous condemned cadets brought with us for the day's activities. Luki, the boyish guide, spoke perfect English and gave us a brief tour of the place.

"There has been a monastery here at Vorshilov since at least the 12th century. Reflective of the turbulent nature of the area, there was continual violence between the catholics from the west and the orthodox church of the east as they met here in Belarus.
xxxx"This monastery was sacked repeatedly by the catholics which is why you see the rather unusual fortress-like outer walls, and the monks here were notoriously blood-thirsty themselves when it came to dealing with catholics unfortunate enough to fall into their hands.
xxxx"They deemed it God's will to punish and destroy these enemies of the true faith and saw no contradiction in such actions and their christian principles."
Consistent with religious hypocrisy, I thought, remembering how the catholics sacked and massacred orthodox Byzantium on their way to the middle-east in the crusades ... or the current catholic-protestant violence in Northern Ireland. Noone can kill a christian with greater fervor than another christian.
"There was a great schism within the Russian Orthodox Church in the fifteenth century centered on ridiculous issues of precisely how certain rituals were to be performed and how to make the sign of the cross.
xxxx"It was very serious then, however, and under Tsar Ivan The Terrible the dissenters within the church were hunted down and put to agonizing deaths. A torture chamber was established in the cellar at the order of the Tsar here at Vorshilov for the torture and execution of Orthodox Christians by fellow Orthodox Christians, presided over by the monks themselves, if that makes any sense at all.
xxxx"I suppose potential novices for the order were screened not only for their dedication to good christian works and a life of pious poverty and prayer, but also for their willingness to torture and kill."
That drew laughter from our group as we imagined the monastic elders debating a candidate ...
"He is a wonderful, dedicated Christian boy ... "

"Yes, but can he carry out a decent castration? He seems a bit too squeamish about blood for my taste."

"Everyone reveres our Tsar Peter The Great as the enlightened Romanov who opened windows to the west and built St. Petersburg in the seventeenth century, founding modern Russia. Of course, St. Petersburg was constructed with slave labor and tens of thousands perished.
xxxx"Peter was anti-cleric and suppressed the church, seizing much of its property. Church elders commonly regarded him as the anti-christ himself. The monks were expelled then, temporarily, from Vorshilov and a prison established. While Peter was away on his famous tour of the west, there was an attempted coup by his palace guards, Orthodox, conservative soldiers called the Streltsy.
xxxx"Loyal troops put down the rebellion and upon his return the enlightened tsar made an example of the Streltsy with a prolonged bloodbath of torture and execution lasting more than six months.
xxxx"The guard force was executed to the last man ... thousands were hanged, beheaded, impaled, disemboweled or roasted alive in huge iron pans. To demonstrate his strength, he assembled the entire diplomatic corps in Moscow and forced them to watch as more than three hundred of the handsomest, youngest Streltsy guards were lined up and beheaded one after the other.
xxxx"The execution scaffold literally ran with blood."

Hmmm, I mused, Oh to have been an ambassador back then!
"There was a small Streltsy contingent stationed in Minsk. Though there was no sign that they had joined in the rebellion in any way, Peter ordered them seized.
xxxx"They were brought here and over several weeks the place rang with their screams as they were put to lingering deaths one by one using the devices maintained in Ivan's old torture chamber in the basement.
xxxx"Those devices were last used under Catherine the Great in the eighteenth century and thereafter the place became a bit of a curiosity, a sort of museum run by the monks to amuse visitors.
xxxx"But today we have renovated two of the devices and set up Salvi's cameras. If you will now join me in the basement this place will echo with the screams of prisoners under torture for the first time in more than two hundred years.
xxxx"We have our own pair of young modern Streltsy rebels who need to be dealt with!"
And scream the two boys certainly did.

The first, a tall youngster with superb musculature, was made to stand on a large wooden dais and his ankles strapped widely apart. He was then bent over forwards until his wrists could be similarly restrained before him.

A thick strap around his waist was attached to the end of a dangling chain in the small of his back which was hauled up tight to keep him frozen in that arching posture. We all gulped in sudden surprise when Dimitri and Luki brought out a hammer and four thick nails.

Pleasurable surprise, of course. I got hard as a rock between my legs as the first of the nails was driven through the cadet's right foot. The scream that produced was excellent.

Four times the hammer was employed until both hands and feet were nailed down to the underlying wood. Blood began to seep into small pools beneath the palms and soles.

Then the real nature of the torture was unveiled. A small iron brazier was placed in the center of the dais beneath the arch of the boy's body, directly below his crotch. The bed of coals was small and once ignited it took a while for the rising heat to begin to be fully felt.

Then the blond, hunk cadet really began to scream in earnest. He was being roasted alive with excruciating, diabolical slowness and his level of suffering was almost unbelievable.

"They say," Luki noted, "That as the monks slowly seared a victim to death in this manner, they knelt all around him and prayed for his soul."

"I bet," Dimitri chuckled, "They were jacking off under their cossocks the whole time! I sure as fuck would have been!"

Rather than pray for the suffering, screaming boy, we watched in open enjoyment and took bets on how long it would take for him to die from his slowly inflicted, deepening burns. After a bit, our attention was diverted as Dimitri and Luki started working on the second cadet, a golden adonis.

This boy was bound with his back to a post while a screw-operated iron garrotte collar was locked around his neck. Small steel hooks hanging from thin chains before him were pulled down and brutally pierced through his big, ripe nipples and the flared head of his long, thick cock.

We all cringed at the thought of having that wicked, curving barb forced through our nerve-rich dickheads. The boy's reactions and squeals evidenced that we were right.

It hurt like hell!

I was a bit disappointed when I thought he would now just be slowly strangled by the garrotte, as entertaining as that would be. I had hoped he would be made to suffer more. A whole lot more. I had underestimated the intentions of his executioners.

There was no way the boy was going to be permitted to die easily. He shrieked so loudly I thought he'd rupture his vocal cords as Dimitri slowly applied a glowing set of heated pincer tongs to his nipples and the head of his cock, literally frying the tender sex flesh.

When Luki used a knife to make a slit in the kid's big scrotum, I assumed we were going to watch a castration, but he made just a small incision through both the outer sac and the inner lining.

Then he used tongs to bring a small, red-hot coal from the brazier ... just the size of a large marble. Dimitri held open the sides of the little slit while Luki inserted the coal inside the cadet's ball bag!

The scrotum swiftly began to redden, then darken, then smoke as the seeders were steadily cooked to a char and the sac burned from the inside out. The boy bucked against his restraints with every fibre of strength in his hard, young body and screamed in crazed agony.

Only after his balls had been utterly destroyed did they begin the slow, steady tightening of the screw to close the garotte loop about his throat. After he was finally dead, we returned to the still roasting cadet arched over the glowing brazier of coals.
He was still alive and conscious, his chest, belly, and thighs raw masses of deep blisters, his genitals virtually cooked to char.

He died not long afterwards after two hours and twelve minutes of abject, excruciating suffering. I won the bet. I had guessed he'd last two hours and fifteen minutes.

After yet another tedious banquet that evening I found a new cadet in my room wearing only the dog collar I had bought for Vasili the day before.

The new boy, Pavel, explained that Vasili just was in no condition to share my bed again.

"But I think you find I do real good for you."
He grinned broadly.
"I very big, very strong. Vasili say he think you want this for to use on me."
And he handed me the flail.

Oh yes, it was another truly wonderful night. I had not imagined it would be possible to enjoy a whipping session more than I had with Vasili but I outdid myself with Pavel.

They had to carry the big bull from my room the next morning ... he was in no condition to walk.

I think I ruined his genitals beyond any chance of repair.

At least I certainly hope so! I certainly tried hard enough to achieve that excellent result.
It was the last day and it was now time for Salvi to execute the four cadets I had purchased for my project.

All were big, handsome lads with thick necks and lots of chest strength. That was nice. They were all to be hanged.

Slow hanged.

They were strangled on their ropes at excruciating length, their limbs unbound so they could writhe and dance ...

....kick and flail around

........flex those wonderful muscles

............and desperately, vainly draw out their slow executions by grabbing at the ropes for as long as they could.

They were hanged in pairs, one in each duo going first and as he weakened and began his death struggle, his partner was made to begin his own dance of death.

It made for an interesting contrast.

All four were roused to full erection and ejaculated spontaneously from the erotic effect of the strangulation.

That was certainly a nice bonus for our entertainment.

That last night in Belarus, three hunk cadets were sent to my room for my pleasure.

I imagine the cadet commander thought I'd be less likely to ruin a group like that than if I concentrated my zeal on a single boy.

He underestimated my dedication and lust. I am reasonably confident that none of those three will be having any future orgasms.

When I received my pair of paintings from Salvi some months later, I was thrilled. They were true masterpieces.

He had captured the death agonies of each pair of hanging cadets to perfection.

I displayed them side by side over the great mantel of my dining room fireplace and on the mantel below were displayed the four perfectly preserved heads of the four cadets shown dying in t he paintings.

It had been an expensive acquisition ... but worth every penny.

I've already commissioned my next project with Salvi and he should be calling soon to let me know that he's found the perfect boys to kill for the sake of realism in that new artwork.

Ooops! Gotta run! There's the phone ringing now!