By Jardonn Smith
Based on Aquadude’s Single-Plate Fantasy,
“Kick and squirm, you handsome young thang, you! You ain’t going nowheres, except round in circles… not ‘til I’m finished whipping on you. Then you can hang there by your sore-as-hell wrists and watch yourself bleed.”
Poor fella, only been strung up here for one week so far and already he’s tasted my bullwhip at least, well, let me cipher on it… two times per day times two dozen strokes per… that’s more than 300 times, I reckon.
“Don’t worry, blondie. We’s just getting started.

‘T’ain’t my fault. It’s his for being such a jock, such a purdy boy, mister college stud… same kind that rode my boy outta college with their teasing him all the time.
“That’s right, mister big man quarterback. I done found your student ID. I know what you are… or were.”
This is the good part… where I tell him before painting new lines to those big ol’ muscles exactly why I’m doing what I’m doing.
“Clete, Jr. was my pride and joy,” I say while standing in front of him, just out of reach of his kicking feet. “A natural born musician, that’s what he was. Could pick a guitar at age four, mouth harp, fiddle, anything I brought home for him to play he could play. Something was wrong with him. He‘s ten times smarter than me and his ma. Worked my fingers to the bone down at the feed mill… unloading trucks… working nights so he could get a proper learning. And for what? So snot-nosed, rich boy punks like you could keep my boy beat down… making fun of him cause he’s from the country… making fun of his teeth being crooked and the way he talked… riding him ‘til he couldn’t take no more… riding him ‘til he ended it himself. That’s right, joe stud jock… you’re gonna bleed same way your kind made my boy bleed… except you’re gonna bleed nice and slow, and after my wife heals you up with her nasty lard, I’m gonna start in on you all over again. Go ahead, scream your little head off. All you’re doing is making the bullfrogs croak… making the birds squawk. Ain’t nobody can hear you that gives a shit.”
It sure gives me peace of mind to watch this purdy boy dangling, his wrists nice and close together makes them big-muscled laterals of his flare out like butterfly wings. The way his pecs bulge and belly caves in gets me all stirred up. Makes me hear little voices telling me to slice him, punish him, make him wiggle, make him scream. And every time he screams, I hear my boy, my Clete, saying, “Thank you, pa. I’m writing an ode to you up here in heaven. With every lash you lay onto his skin, I jot down the next note to my melody. So keep on cutting him, pa. Every session of whipping means a new song written for you.”
I’m an artist too, you know. Using this deep-tanned muscle stud for target practice brings me great joy. See that tit? Tiny little thing, ain’t it? Watch this… crrrack! Got it with the very tip of my leather. Man, that made him cry like a bitch. See them lines of belly muscle? Bet I can draw red on ’em… all six… follow them curves line for line… just like purdy boy made ’em… doing all them exercises or whatever made a belly like that… whoosh… take that hot shot… one down, five to go… look at them powerful legs he’s got… and the tops of those manly feet. Yep, he’s one strong sonuvabitch, but he’s purdier in red. I leave his face and those baby blue eyes just as they are. Don’t mess with his man parts, neither, not yet. Gotta leave those skimpy cut off blue jeans on him lest I be tempted. Now they’s all yellow in front and brown in back, but that’ll be fixed in a day or two when I shred what’s left of those purdy boy shorts with my whip.
Yes, sir, I do paint a pretty picture. Then I let Lyla Lou fix him up. Put this milk crate under him so he can stand on something… let him get some circulation back in his hands so they don’t fall off.
Ha! That Lyla… poor old hag… give her something to do instead of pestering me all the time… wanting me to long-dick her all the time. Lyla didn’t age well. No part of her did. Even a bag over her face don’t help no more. I just can’t get it up when I feel her old leathery sagging tits under me.
I let her feed him with whatever she congers up out of her garden, and her lard fixes up the mess I made on his purdy boy skin. Must burn like hell, too, from the way he carries on when she tends to him. That’s how I let him sleep at night, you know… standing on his milk crate, his arms still over his head in those ropes strung to my oak tree.
Stonewall’s the only friend he’s got. Good old hound dog keeps purdy boy company at night. Only took a couple of nights before blondie figured out that Stonewall’d be barking any time he tried to use his muscles to escape… try to throw up his legs and climb the ropes to my tree branch. Kept waking me up… pissed me off, so I’d have to come out here in the dead of night and pound his belly to a pulp. Felt good, though, my fists driving full force into his hard gut. Made him puke up whatever slop Lyla’d given him… made him starve ‘til morning when she fed him again… AFTER I’d put a new set of lines to him with my bullwhip paintbrush. Some nights when I’m restless I come out here to pound on his belly just for the hell of it… just so I can wear myself down and get some shut eye. After all, a man like me’s gotta keep up his strength to do a proper job of torturing.
Thank god my purdy boy came along, but I gotta watch myself. He’s kinda given up all hope now. I done told him nobody comes round here lest I put up the bridge over the swamp… the swamp where his fancy automobile is now rusting peacefully. And I never put up the bridge lest I plan on going somewheres. And I don’t plan on going nowheres.
You see, it’s been seven years since my boy kilt himself… six years since I could gather the strength to put my meat to Lyla… so this purdy boy is a godsend to me, but I ain’t going near that hole ’til those blue jean shorts fall off of him… ’til they rot or ’til I slice ’em.
Even then I’ll have to wait for Lyla to clean him up down there, but after that… well… ’til then, I’ll be poking my own pants and nothing else. But some day, when purdy boy comes to realize that I’m the only man keeping him alive… that I’m the only man who matters… that I’m the only man he deserves, then I’ll add a little something extra to his whipping… something that’ll make him think the whipping part ain’t so bad after all… and my boy up in heaven will be singing a fine tune… a purdy tune to my long suffering, purdy boy.
I wonder how blood’ll work for slicking up that hole.

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