Ding! Round Three
Payner and the torture-testers came back riotously loud, jostling and laughing as they entered the small room. Danny’s level of alarm notched up at the thought of further torture, but this time from a bunch of drunks. There was just so much that could go wrong, even accidentally. He could be maimed, injured internally, damaged for life if someone made a mistake. In gut punching inches can make the difference between a “good” blow, inflicting pain, and a “bad” blow, pain again but damaging an internal organ.
He wanted to ask if he had passed the test, but the ball gag insured his words were garbled. He tried to say: “OK, guys, that’s it! Please stop! I don’t care if I passed the test or not. Just stop and let me go!”
“Uh…ah…oh…oh” came out.
Payner read his mind. He ran his finger tips up and down Danny’s chest and stomach. “You can’t see it but your chest and abs now have a nice red color. You have done well, Danny boy. You have survived the test so far and I will put you on my team and pay you all that money. There’s just one more step. It’s not a nice step, but we have found that it can give us final proof of your abilities. For this test we are going to remove your gag and your blindfold, but I do want to tell you that we will ignore whatever you say. I told you at the beginning that we will go through the whole exercise, whether you want it or not. We remove the blindfold so you can better prepare yourself for the test.”
Hands unbuckled the strap on the gag and it was unshipped from his mouth. It was an enormous relief to close his lower jaw. The gag had forced his mouth open so wide his jaw had cramped.
As soon as he could, he launched into his desperate plea: “Please stop! Let me go! I won’t tell anyone, I swear. Just stop!” His words were distorted into babble because his lips and cheeks were still numb from the gag.
There was no reaction to his pleas. All he heard was feet moving on concrete behind him. Then he was stunned as the blindfold was unbuckled and removed. Even the dim bulb over his head hurt his eyes at first.
He looked around. The three testers and Gerry were still bare-chested, but now covered in sweat. They also had taken their uniform pants off and were now wearing white jock straps. All the jock pouches had big bulges upfront. The white fabric was darkened with sweat.
Then he was horrified when he saw what the four torturers were holding: the police night sticks. Three of them were black, one was white. The white one was deeply stained red and brown. Blood? What the fuck was going to happen?
Again Payner read his mind. “This last test will involve using those sticks on your abs. It’s fairly brutal, but I repeat it is critical for you to concentrate and focus. If you pass this test, you will get more money than you can spend and you will have a good job to boot. Just think of that, if you want some motivation. I think you can take it. Show us you can.”
Two of the testers took up positions to either side. They both had black police batons and it was clear what was going to happen. Danny braced his abs for the blows. As he flexed, the pain from his thick musculature was enormous, but he knew he had to brace hard or else the sticks would do even more damage.
The first blow landed squarely at navel level. It was unbelievably painful and actually splattered sweat into the air. Now he could fully scream unfettered by a gag. And scream he did: “A-a-h! A-a-g-h! No!! A-a-h!” filled the room. He gasped again for air which he needed to get in order to scream.
There was a long interval after the blow. The pain did ramp down and he was reduced to moaning with loud, heavy breathing.
Then the second brutal blow landed. The rhythm was the same: spl-a-a-t, scream, gasp, scream. The peaks of pain in his abs, the desperate need for air, the unstoppable need to scream, the chaos in his head. Then the despair, the realization he couldn’t go on. The desperate pleas to stop, ignored completely. The futility of struggling on the pole. The pain in his shoulders from the stretch of his arms. The sharp pain in his cock and balls. EVERYTHING hurt.
A third, blinding blow, harder than the first two. Then a fourth and a fifth in rapid succession. His consciousness was getting blurred. He was an animal, tied up, tortured, fighting for its life, and screaming in primal pain. The sixth blow almost made him pass out from the peak of pain.
But then the beating stopped as a new sensation manifested itself in his gut. His stomach was starting to quiver on its own; he had no control over the spasms. The torturers noted the ripples on his skin, which is why they stopped. The inevitable consequence of a nightstick beating was happening: the vic was going to vomit.
Gerry quickly reached for a small bucket tucked in a corner of the room and held it across Danny’s mouth and chin. The spasms increased and then the involuntary reaction took over and Danny upchucked into the bucket. As his stomach emptied, the contractions hurt unbelievably since the internal musculature had been so badly mauled, particularly his solar plexus, which is the driver of vomiting. He groaned in between upchucks. The stale, acid taste filled his mouth.
There were several waves of nausea, but eventually Danny hit the dry heaves. His stomached spazed and trembled, but nothing further came up.
He was surprised when the dispenser of a squirt bottle was forced into his mouth. The water rinsed his mouth and dribbled out into the bucket. Was this a touch of humanity? What was next?