Every time you stretch out like this, the memories flood back. You like to feel your arms up over your head. That’s the way it was when the metal wrist cuffs held them there, forcing your back and ass against the stone wall. You were bound next to your buddy, Paul. He was captured with you.
You like to wear dog tags; “it” happened while you were in the Army. You like to wear military fatigues, low on your hips, like you wore at the base before the event. You tense your abs; feels good. You hardened your belly when they punched you with their fists. One of them used a wooden club. Drove the freakin’ wind right out of you. When you caught your breath, you screamed from the pain. Paul was screaming, too. They laughed and clubbed you again.
The torture went on for three hours. The club was replaced by a whip, then the worst, electro on your cock and balls. Your arms and shoulders agonized as you struggled and pulled like a wild animal. Your brain was in primal mode, fight or flight, confounded. Through the gag you begged for the pain to stop, you begged to be let down so you could collapse on the floor. The rope gag garbled your words. But, there was something else, a deeper voice, also primal. This one said: “Hurt me more! I can take it! You can’t break me!”
It feels sexy when you pull hard on the overhead pole you are grasping, putting you up on your toes. Your calves cramp. The strain on your arms and shoulders resonates to your crotch. Your dick gets hard in the confines of your fatigues, wetting the tight fabric with precum. You swim in the pleasure/pain ocean, memories of the oldest form of sexual pleasure coupled with the strongest form of pain you ever felt as they tortured you and Paul.