Memories of the Farm
Tommy got his wish, but with a heavier weight and minus the pants. Coach called the weight an iron fig leaf. Then he whipped him hard.
You grew up on a farm in rural Texas. Working the fields gave you an early start on building up your body. You pitched hay for hours, shirtless in the scorching sun, jeans and boots soaked with sweat. To save money your parents rarely bought you new jeans, even when your legs and butt grew in muscularity. The jeans often ripped open. Like most farmhands, you had no underwear.
You had intense memories of your father beating you in the back corner of the barn if you slackened off or violated one of his insanely strict rules. You had to peel off your tight jeans and boots and then he strung you up, classic spread eagle. Two ropes permanently hung from the rafter for your wrists, pulling your arms up and out, two ropes on the floor to spread your legs wide apart. Then he lashed your back with the whip. It was kept coiled on a peg for instant use. If he was really mad, he used a fresh willow switch on your ass after the whipping. You remember the feeling as the seat of your jeans got caked with blood when you put them back on. The dried blood chaffed the fresh welts.
You remember it wasn’t all that unusual in high school gym locker rooms for a young man to turn up with fresh welts on his back. “Spare the rod, spoil the child” was the farm culture. Most just got a red ass from a spanking. You and a few others received much more brutal treatment. You remember how the other boys would gather round in the showers after gym and feel out your welts, boners in evidence. The hot water in the showers stung.
You remember your mom, who tried to intervene, but who passed away when you were twelve. Your early teens were a blurred mix of heavy farm work and brutal punishment, laced with the intense pleasure of a slow JO when you hit puberty. Your father pointedly ignored it when you got an erection during the beatings. Seems like you always got a hardon when he whipped you. It was rough stuffing it back into the tight jeans.
You used to wonder as you were growing up why pictures and movies showing men being tortured gave you a strong boner. You jerked off to fantasies of being the men in the movies, spreadeagled in ropes or chains, backs and chests striped with lashes. You tried to imagine what it felt like to be stretched out on the rack.
The men in the movies were all muscular, so you built up your body with heavy gym workouts at high school. By the time you were eighteen, you were a strapping young man, as they say: big, muscles ripped, chest fur leading to a furred ab ridges. The trail led farther down to a thatch of pubes from which nicely large junk proudly hung. Thick thighs, broad shoulders, chin stubble, a total young man package.
As you got into your late teens, you recall that the link between sexual arousal and men in pain got stronger. In high school you wrestled all four years. Due to your muscularity you were pulled into the submission bouts club early on, but you usually lost your matches. Submission wrestling had strict rules for the winner and loser, and you were always on the receiving end in the locker room and showers. On the gender sex-mate meter you started off on the hetero side but the needle soon swung the other way from all your fantasizing, wrestling, and shower sex.
You also caught the eye of the wrestling coach. He demanded special training sessions at his house where he had a small gym set up. You had to exercise stripped down naked, often with another wrestler. If you failed to make the required reps, you were strung up in his basement. He made the suspension hurt more with a weight belt around your hips. Then he worked you over with a belt. Memories of your childhood mingled with the memories of these new beatings, always painfully suspended by your arms. You did pack on muscle from the sessions with coach. He also craved shower sex. Your initial horror faded to acquiescence, even with the three-ways, so you could stay on the team. Be senior year there was a tinge of pleasure.
At eighteen you joined the Army on an impulse to get away from your father. You were also drawn by the manly-man mystique of the military and your memories of POW movies. One look at you at the recruiting office had them salivating. Your interview with the recruiter was simple: you flipped off your T shirt and flexed. He rushed to have you sign the contract. Two days later you were shipped off to Bragg.
In the Army you excelled at physical training, hand to hand combat, and marksmanship. Like many recruits, you had problems with military history. The problems were ignored. You spent your spare time in the camp gym, punishing yourself with intense workouts. What were you punishing yourself for? You didn’t really know, other than you had to do it. The muscle ache made you feel good. And the pain gave you a boner to boot.