Gut Punching 202
Danny couldn’t see what was going on around him; the blindfold was very effective. He could hear booted feet moving across the concrete, low level talking among the testers, a few laughs.
He was naked, scared, hopelessly bound to the pole, and freaked out at the prospect of gut torture. He knew about gut punching. His wrestling buddies sometimes used it after a submission bout. The loser was punched and dragged into the showers for some man sex. It was all just grab-assing, of course, and didn’t mean anything in the long run. Just some buddies having some fun.
Danny knew this was going to be different. His buddies didn’t go for max pain when they punched. It sounded like these guys would. His buddies didn’t punch too long, just long enough to make some good red blotches. These guys were not after fun, they were after insane pain.
He was startled from his thoughts when he felt leather gloves running up and down his abs. His sweat lubed the leather. He also felt fists with thin leather gloves, and perhaps naked fists. All of them were prodding, pushing into his abs, testing his musculature. He instinctively tensed them; murmurs of approval could be heard. But then the gut punching began.
The first blow to his abs was a standard jab by the guy wearing 14 or 16 pound boxing gloves. There was the spl-a-a-t sound as the leather smashed into his skin, then the explosion of pain as the punch drove into his abs a split second later, then he screamed into the ball gag: “A-a-g-g-h-h!” echoed in the small room; his scream could escape the gag, unlike coherent words. He screamed again; the pain was huge, overwhelming, but he took it. He took it like a man! His triumphant feeling was shattered by a second jab, this one with unpadded gloves, either a naked fist or one with thin gloves. Same spl-a-a-t on his sweaty skin, same explosion but from lower on his stomach, same scream. “A-g-h! A-g-g-h!” His instinctive hard flexing of his abs tried to pull his chest and head down, but the cord around his head held him firmly upright. There was pressure on his neck, but he could still scream full throated.
Then someone did a quick succession of jabs, a combo of three in a row, same spot on his abs, plunging him into agony. He screamed and screamed, pulling like a madman against the bondage to the pole. He hurt his wrists in the struggle and realized that if he moved his hips too much, his junk was brutalized.
Then he was startled by a series of roundhouse punches to his sides, right, left, right, producing agony in his ribs. Did they break any? Crazy thoughts careened through his head between the screams and gasps for breath.
And still the level of punishment increased. Anther combo of boxing glove jabs, and then another, this time with bare fists. There was a series of uppercuts aimed just below his rib cage, pummeling his solar plexus. He screamed again into the ball gag. He thought there would be a pause, but a string of cross cuts hammered his lower abs. It was then he realized why his junk was tied off and pulled to the pole: they didn’t want his hardon in the way of punishing his lower abs.
They moved up to his pecs, jabbing and hooking with brutal force, focusing on his nipples. Blow after blow squashed his nips into his chest bones, tortured his meaty pecs. He thought he was going crazy from the unending pain. There was only one reaction: scream and take it!
He couldn’t avoid the pain. No possibility of slipping the blows. How can you bob and weave when you’re lashed to a metal pole?
He was on the verge of breaking down and crying when the punching suddenly stopped. He was hanging against the pole, breathing heavily, gasping for air. It was hard to breath when you’re forced to scream from spikes of pain exploding into your brain. You took your breaths when you could, in between brutal punches.