Note: Here are the 30 Chapters of Steve’s fantastic work in a single post for ease in reading and downloading. I’m sure a lot of us will want to revisit this instant hero-in-distress classic often.
Thank you Steve from all of us at the Bunker!!
[Click image to enlarge.]
By Steve McHalperin
I’m writing this from my bed at a special clinic in downtown Houston. The company I work for is picking up the whole tab for my treatment, including some psych counseling. It was their fault I wound up here anyway. This was after the second company retreat. Let me tell you about the first one first.
I work for IT-TICKET, a computer service company specializing in business-to-business systems. We analyze an operation’s structure and work-flow, and recommend vendors for hardware choices. We then supply the software to make it all work together. We’ve been successful in the metropolitan Houston area since many companies’ internal IT departments were often not up to the task. The three nerds who started the company five years ago have since retired to beachfronts in the Caymans, or so I’ve heard, where the long arm of the IRS can’t reach them.
I’ve been with IT-TICKET for a year now, after graduating (a bit late) from Texas A&M with a major in computer engineering. My specialty and the topic of my senior paper was connectivity and security between headquarters and remote offices, a timely topic for sure. It caught the attention of a recruiter and I sailed into a very good job at a very good salary.
Forgot to tell you, I’m twenty-four and my name’s Richard Svenson. Call me Dick, please. Only my folks called me Richard. They were a Norwegian couple, quiet, of course, and very strict in their raising of my brother and me. Many a time either or both of us wound up over my father’s knee, pants down for a severe, bare-assed spanking with a hairbrush. And that was for minor misbehavior. If we were really bad, like getting a B in school when we were required to get all As, we had to strip down and stretch out on a bed for a heavy taste of his belt. When we reached puberty, we both started to get boners during these punishment sessions; there was some kind of connection between the belting and a hardon. I guess that sort of set the course for our lives, certainly mine.
My folks died in a car accident during my freshman year in college. My brother was still in high school. I stayed in Houston for school, my brother moved in with a doddering old aunt and uncle over in El Paso, clear on the other side of the state. I lost track of him sometime during my time at A&M.
As the virus situation seemed to be getting steadily worse back in February, my company decided to have an all-hands-on-deck business retreat to beef up our own plans for working in the coming health uncertainty, or, at least that’s what I thought it was going to be. It turned into an all-hands-on–Dick affair. I was one of the featured attractions.
The memo announcing the retreat was brief but strange. First of all, it was a paper document laid on my desk, not an email. I’m, like, OMG, paper! Who has Covid? Secondly, it went to some executives and staffers, including me, but not all, maybe twenty or so in total, hardly a company-wide distribution. It also included some board members, but, again, not all of them. And two guys in the mailroom? I wasn’t exactly sure why I was on the invite list and why a lot of my co-workers were excluded. Event was to be three-day all-expense-paid meeting at a small convention center way outside the city, halfway to San Antonio. Oh well, three-day holiday, not a bad break. Free drinks and food, also not bad.
I rode out to the encampment on my motorcycle wearing my riding leathers even though the day was a tad warm. Breezing along the interstate at 80 miles an hour can get a bit chilly without leathers. I had a custom made set of jacket and pants. Hell, I could afford almost anything I wanted with my income! They fit me snug, which I liked ‘cause it showed off my well-honed body.
I’m in good shape from a lot of gym work in high school and college. I ran track and wrestled a bit. I enjoyed pushing myself in the gym weight lifting, so I packed on muscle nicely. Came in handy for wrestling, although all I did was intramural. I was too busy with my tech courses to go varsity, but I did workout with the wrestling team on occasion. Got the crap wiped out of me, of course, but it was good practice and the guys were all too eager to try out new moves on me, like a wrestling guinea pig, on and off the mats. They were rough on me in the showers.
The invite memo instructed us to bring minimal clothing. Laundry services would be provided by the center. I had my leathers, a pair of tight jeans, a dress white shirt, two Ts and two jock straps. I shouldn’t have bothered to bring anything.
Meet ‘N’ Greet
The invitation specified arrival at 3 PM so I left right after noon. This would give me three hours for a two plus hour ride. It was a great day to be on a motorcycle: clear, blue sky; no traffic on the interstate; mild temp (for Texas), perfect for riding in leathers.
The directions were easy for the most part. West on IH-10 to an exit halfway between Weimar and Schulenberg, then backtrack a few miles on Route 90 to pick up FM 1383. The FM road numbering is unique to Texas. It stands for Farm to Market and is a numbering system for the vast array of rural roads winding through farming and cattle country, connecting thousands of small towns. Well, 1383 led north to Dubina, a town so small you couldn’t even call it a “one traffic light town,” because there was only a stop sign in the middle of its three-block length. My destination was ten miles outside Dubina, a small complex of buildings with a sign “Dubna Meeting Center.” Probably used to be the Dubina Meeting Center, but the name change made sense when Bush II was in the White House.
I parked my Harley in the lot next to a herd of fancy limousines, which the execs probably came in. As I was getting my small back pack off the bike, another limo pulled up and stopped near me. The tinted back window went down and a voice called out: “Hey, Dickie boy! Glad you could make it!”
I recognized the face and returned the greeting: “Hey, Mr. Snowden. Good to see you, sir!”
“We’re all looking forward to the meeting,” he replied.
“Yes, sir, so am I!”
“I didn’t know you rode a motorcycle,” he then said. “Nice riding outfit, boy!” he added, eyeing my leathers.
“Thank you, sir,” I replied politely. “See you inside, sir.”
“You bet!” he smiled and raised the window. The limo moved off to a reserved parking spot on the other side of the lot.
I locked my bike, which was kind of dumb considering we were in the middle of nowhere and walked over to the main entrance. As soon as I opened the door, I could hear the buzz of male voices mixed with loud laughs. Sounded like a friendly start. The buzz dropped when the men saw me come through the door. Several called out their welcomes: “Dickie, boy! Glad you could make it!” “Whoa, look at the leatherboy!” stuff like that. I hated to be called “Dickie boy.”
I guess my face must have flushed at all the attention. Then I noticed that most of the executives were wearing black jeans and black Ts. A few were actually bare-chested, which struck me as odd. A handsome, young porter dressed in very tight white pants but no shirt walked up to me with a tray of glasses, long skinny ones.
“Have some champagne,” one of the execs said. “And welcome to Dubna!” he added.
The porter handed me one of the glasses and I took a drink. I noticed there was a red mark on the base of the glass, like a Magic Marker. Encouraged by more shouts I finished off the bubbly drink. The champagne tasted OK, I guess. I’m no judge of wines, and I would have preferred a shot and a beer.
It was warmish in the entrance hall. I handed the empty glass back to the young man and then took off my leather jacket. I had a tight T on and I was again surprised as some wolf whistles rang out from the crowd. Another porter came up and took my jacket and duffel bag. He was also in tight pants, no shirt. Odd.
“I’ll take care of these, sir,” he said politely.
As this was happening the group of men slowly formed a loose circle around me. The porter handed me another glass of champagne. Someone said: “Drink up, boy.” Then he addressed the group: “Let’s toast to a really good retreat this week!”
There were cheers of agreement and everyone took a tipple from their glasses. I gulped mine down fairly quickly, not knowing how in the fuck to drink champagne. It was then that my face started to flush and I suddenly felt, like, very warm.
Someone came up behind me and started to lift up my T. “Hey, you look hot, boy,” the voice said. “Probably the bubbly. Take your shirt off and join the group.” Someone else took my empty glass and gave it to the porter as unseen hands raised my shirt over my head. It happened so quickly I didn’t have time to react, not that I was reacting fast at this point anyway. It disappeared somewhere and I was left standing there in my tight leather riding pants, low on my hips, and high boots. There were more wolf whistles from the group. I started to feel slightly dizzy, which I attributed to the champagne. I was handed yet another glass, which I downed in one gulp. The last thing I remember was seeing another red mark on the base of the glass. My eyes defocused and I suddenly felt very weak, not even strong enough to stand up. I could feel hands rescuing me from slumping to the floor but that’s all I remember. The red dot on the glass turned to blackness as I passed out. Oldest trick in the snatch book: drug the vic. Make him drink the glass with the red dot.
I returned to this world in a series of steps. Consciousness began somewhere inside my head and I opened my eyes. I had to squint. There were several bright lights pointing right at me, like mini-suns, but between the lights was darkness, not blue sky. I had a headache. Then I could feel that my arms and legs were stretched out widely apart, my hands over my head, my legs splayed out to the sides. My wrists and shoulders started to hurt since I was sort of hanging by my hands. I stood up straighter, which relieved the tension in my arms. I tried to move my arms and legs, but my wrists and ankles were roped. I was stretched out, spread eagled in a heavy wooden frame!
I felt warm all over and sweaty. Looking down I was startled to see that I had no clothes on; I was naked in the bright lights. And there was some metal device on my cock! WTF! Then hearing returned. There was a buzz of male voices. I tried to say something, protest my situation, but I felt the gag in my mouth. My cheeks were pulled back with some type of cord which I could feel was tied behind my head. My protests were completely garbled.
“Oh, look, our stud’s waking up,” a voice said. Several cheers went up from the darkness, which I now realized was a group of men, the source of the buzz. And I knew all of them were looking directly at me!
One of them emerged into my circle of light. It was Mr. Snowden, the guy I met in the parking lot.
He was dressed very non-executively, wearing a leather jock strap and black leather chaps. He had a black captain’s hat on, glistening with metal studs. He was shirtless and I realized just how fit he was, good chest and arms, solid waist, nice forest of pec hair extending down his taut abs. I knew from seeing him in the office that he was certainly not a fat slob, but I hadn’t realized he was quite the man. Guess he was in his early forties.
He smiled at me: “Welcome to our retreat. We call it Hell Week. It’s going to be heaven for us, but, I’m afraid it’s going to be hell for you. You see, boy, our group here is an S&M club. That’s sadism-masochism, if you will. Whips and chains, stuff like that. We get together periodically at this place for some fun. They have a lot of specialized equipment that we need for our, ah, sessions, and the place is used by other clubs like ours.”
He paused to let that sink in. OK, that’s what the real agenda was going to be: me. Torturing me – and God knows what else. I was stunned and afraid at the same time. My stomach froze to ice. This could get rough.
“Perhaps you’re wondering how we pull this off at the company?” he continued. “So far it’s been fairly easy. Remember the movie Fight Club?”
I didn’t answer right away. He reached out, gripped my right nipple between his fingers, and squeezed down on it hard. I grunted into the gag.
“I asked you a question, boy,” he said, no smile this time.
I nodded my head vigorously, which didn’t help my headache, and he released his grip on my nip.
“That’s better,” he said. “The first rule of Fight Club was that you do not talk about Fight Club. That’s pretty much what we’ve done. That’s why you got a paper invite; there’s nothing in the company email system about this meeting, other than some short ones about vacations and fake business trips that happen to line up nicely. We pay for the event ourselves, so there’s not even a money trail. And we get a chance to work over studs on our payroll, young men we see everyday – and lust to punch their guts out. That’s why you’re here. There’s also two guys from the mailroom. Maybe you’ll see them later. We usually finish off with a three-some. In the meantime, however, I can assure you you will not be killed or permanently maimed, just put through a lot of pain. You’ll be treated like a farm animal, sleep in a barn stall. You’ll be well-fed and watered. Can’t have you slackening off under the whip, can we?”
I was too stunned to respond in any fashion other than to peg out my fear meter. WTF was going to happen to me? Torture? Farm animal?
He again reached out and twisted my nipple. “You are a slow learner, aren’t you?” he said.
Then I realized he had asked a question, two questions, two contradictory questions. I nodded yes. He smiled and released my pec peg. “We’ll keep that in mind during your training,” he added, returning to the group, still in darkness.
There were murmurs, loud laughing, clinking of unseen glasses. Someone said: “Let’s go see those mailroom studs. Let this guy stew for a bit.”
There were sounds of agreement and I guess they all left. I really couldn’t see beyond the bright lights. The room was now quiet and I had a chance to think over the mess I was in. I felt like I was headed for a beating from my old man: fear, dread, memories of past beatings, wonderings about how far he would go this time. Blood? Scars? I also used to get a damned hardon as I stripped for the punishment.
He used a cane on my brother and me a few times. That was the worst pain I ever felt in my life as the thin rod tore into my ass cheeks. The caning left a web of bloody welts that took days to heal. He even had a supply of large gauze patches for just such an occasion. The patches raised a lot of questions in the high school locker room. It wasn’t unusual to have a guy turn up with whip welts across his back. Hell, our farm was in what they call the hill country, predominantly German and Scandinavian settlements with a very strong work ethic: you work hard or you get beaten. You train horses and farm boys with the whip. The ass caning, however, put me in a special category. Every fuckin’ guy had to lift the patches and feel out the wounds. The soap and hot water in the showers stung like hornets. I was humiliated and pissed at the same time.
Based on my earlier wiring I started to get a hardon as I hung in the wooden frame. This erection felt very different, like it wasn’t going anywhere. It started to hurt as the metal thing on my cock held the hardon in; my cock was pushing against the metal cage. My balls were spread out by the device, which was fitted tightly to my junk. Just what in hell was going to happen?!
They left me stewing in the lights, sweating my ass off, waves of dread and anger alternating across my mind. I lost track of how long I stood roped out in that frame thing. I periodically tugged on the ropes in anger. All I accomplished was to hurt my wrists and ankles. Then I would just hang there in dejection and fear. My dick hurt every time it tried to react to a punishment session. The metal cage, whatever it was, was brutalizing my cock.
Noise slowly built up as the group of pervs returned. This time room lights were turned on and I could see the crowd of leather-clad men, some fit, some not so, all bare chested, a range of ages. I recognized a few of them by their faces, but the leather get-ups were certainly a change from business suits. They all were in a happy mood, no doubt drooling at what they were going to do to me – and the other two guys – and well lubricated by alcohol.
Another executive stood in front of me, Mr. Jacob Payne, CIO and my boss’s boss’s boss. At this point I hadn’t seen my immediate supervisor, Harry DieQual. Then he walked out of the crowd and stood next to Payne. His eyes were glistening in the bright lights. Was there a look of lust? If there was, his face showed it. I was astounded to see him in leather chaps and jock. He was also wearing a slim leather vest, half covering his solid chest.
Mr. DieQual walked up close to me and moved his hands over my sweaty chest and abs. He probed my tensed muscles with his fingers and toyed with my right nip.
“You can’t imagine how much I have looked forward to this day, boy,” he smiled at me. It was a lustful smile. Then he grabbed the metal cage around my junk: “Like this, boy?” he asked.
I nodded no, learning that they liked prompt answers.
“Good, that’s good,” he said. “We want to make sure you’re protected from any pleasure you might feel. It’s going to be all pain on your end.” Then he turned to the group: “Hey, Johnny, get me something to keep his ass happy! Ha!”
Another guy walked out of the leather group. It was John Carver, one of the financial wizards of the company. He was carrying a thick, black cylinder thing with ridges and bumps all over it. He stood in front of me and rubbed something glistening all over it. OMG! I realized what it was: a big, fat, bumpy dildo and he was greasing it up to get it ready for me.
He flashed a quick smile, walked behind me, and then centered the blunted end of the thing against my sweaty asshole. With no warning whatsoever, he grunted and shoved the big thing up my ass. I yelled into the gag as the thick cylinder forced its way past my asshole muscle and slid up into my gut. I think I felt every ridge and bump going in. Then there was a strong sensation of extreme fullness in my lower gut, like I had to take a crap in a bad way but couldn’t. My asshole throbbed in pain from the stretch.
Mr. Paine smiled at me. “Good boy. Now your dick and your ass are under control and we can get started on our program for you.”
There was a round of cheers from the other leather guys and the group moved in closer to me. I felt hands feeling out my ass cheeks, pushing against the butt plug, and other hands rambling across my shoulders and up and down my back, prodding my abs and pinching my nips. It was sensual, but that was no consolation to the intense dread which washed over me. Plus, my dick was hurting again as it pushed against the metal work caging it in tightly.
“Yeah, it’s good to see fear on your face,” Paine grinned. “You should be afraid, boy! You’re in for the trip of your life: to hell and back. Ha!”
Then Mr. DieQual, my department head, spoke up. “Yeah, you said it, Jake. Let’s soften him up for the program.”
“Good idea, Harry,” Paine replied. He looked at me: “Get ready for some gut punching, boy. We’re going to use your abs like a punching bag! Feel free to scream. We all like that!”
DieQual unsnapped his leather jock, releasing the big sex snake from within. It bobbed up as he walked over and stood behind me. He leaned in against my back and ass, bracing me so I couldn’t move back an inch. I could feel his leathers against my legs, his chest on my back, his hardon in my ass crack.
“Grab onto the handholds, Harry, and we’ll get down to work,” Paine said. A big guy from legal joined Paine. Then Paine and the legal dude moved in right next to me and the gut punching started.
The Vic is Softened Up
It was totally embarrassing for me to have my boss standing right behind me, his thick hardon snug up my sweaty ass crack. He was pressing against the base of the dildo and I felt him bracing himself with the handholds on the wooden frame.
Paine’s first jab caught me off guard. I was swimming in an ocean of sensations: spread eagled, naked, sweating like crazy, stomach in cold knots, dreading the unknown tortures I was facing, all these things.
His fist hit me in the upper abs, just below my rib cage. I heard him grunt with the effort, then the splat of fist on flesh, then my head exploded with the stab of pain. I screamed like an idiot. “A-a-h! A-g-h!!” I could hear my own screams echoing back to me in the large room. Then I heard a roar of cheers from the group, egging the two punchers on.
“Hit him! Harder! Punch those hairy abs!”
Another jab got me lower, above my navel. I don’t even know who hit me, Paine or the other guy. Splat/scream, splat/scream, cheers from the crowd.
They jabbed in single punches, one-twos, triple combos, roundhouses to my rids and lower sides, sending me into agony. Then the uppercuts to my solar plexus, tearing into my abs and internal organs. I tried to back off, an instinctive reaction to the rain of blows, but DieQual behind me held firm. I couldn’t move an inch. I could feel our sweaty skins rubbing, his hairy chest scratching my back. His dick got harder as he pressed it in. I thought he might have been moaning with pleasure, I really didn’t know or care. I had my own problems.
The two punchers moved down my abs this time. My dick was conveniently out of the way, trapped in the metal cage thing. This left my lower abs totally exposed – and they took full advantage. Jabs center, jabs right and left, back to center, lower, just above my cock. “A-a-g-h! A-h!” I couldn’t stand the pain. I tried to throw my head back but DieQual had turned his head to one side and braced against my own head. I was a trapped animal, nothing I could do would stop the pain and torment.
They switched back to uppercuts, pounding my upper abs and ribs. I thought they were breaking bone it hurt so much. All I could do was scream and gasp for breath. The uppercuts were badly hurting my solar plexus, my breathing diaphragm, and I was having more and more trouble getting air. You can’t scream without air! Then a very strange sensation started deep in my stomach. I could feel my stomach spazing and quivering. I knew I was going to throw up.
They must have seen the stomach movements too. There was a brief period when they stopped punching me. I could hear them breathing heavily, as was I. Even the group surrounding us was quiet. Someone from the group passed up a small plastic bucket and Paine held it under my mouth, but my stomach quieted down and the urge to upchuck passed. I hung from my wrists until they throbbed, then I stood back up.
“Oh, good,” Paine said. “No upchuck and it looks like he’s ready for round two. Let’s beat the shit out of those thick pecs!” He passed the bucket back to the group in front of me. If I could have cried, I would have.
Pec Deck Work Out
Paine and the big guy from legal changed places to either side of me, but they didn’t lose any time in restarting the torment. Paine jabbed directly against my left pec, aiming right for the nipple. Then the other guy started to pound my right pec with his thick fist. It felt like they were crushing the muscle against my ribs. I could feel my nips immediately stand to attention, which just made the pain worse.
Jab/splat/scream, jab/splat/scream, over and over. I yelled out in pain as my whole chest caught fire. There was no relief. Paine rotated slightly so he could roundhouse into my pec with his right fist, again and again. The roundhouse hurt even more; he could get more speed up in the arc. Mr. Legal Guy alternated his pec pounding with a few more unexpected strong jabs to my lower abs. He “accidentally on purpose” hit me real low, at the base of my caged dick. The metal pressed into my poor cock and I thought I’d go nuts from the pain.
It didn’t stop them. I didn’t know where they would strike next. My whole torso, neck to nuts, was in agony. My wrists and shoulders were throbbing from the strain of my constant struggling, struggling to escape the torment. My left thigh started to quiver uncontrollably. Even my ankles hurt as they pulled against the ropes. A crazy thought raced across my mind: maybe if I pulled hard enough the wooden frame would topple over and they’d have to stop punching me. Then I realized that wouldn’t happen and I had no recourse but to take it.
DieQual behind me kept grunting and pushing in hard against me. He suddenly started to yell out, clearly in pleasure, and I guess he shot his load right into my ass crack. I really didn’t care at that point.
Grunt/jab/splat/scream, louder if even possible. “A-a-h!!” still mixed with the shouts from the crowd of men. Pound, pound, pound on my pecs. I thought my nips would explode from the beating. It hurt to breathe but I had to so I could scream. Every breath agonized me inside but I had to gasp for air. This couldn’t go on.
It did. They shifted back and forth between my abs and my pecs, high, low, left, right, unpredictable, unknowable, just react to the pain, try to get some air, and scream your fuckin’ guts out. I wanted to pass out but you can’t make yourself pass out just by wanting it.
I don’t know for how much longer they punched me, but eventually it did stop, not just a break, but a full stop. I knew this because a lot of the men came up from the crowd and ran their hands over my sweaty body, abs, chest, shoulders, back, they all wanted to feel out the bright red flesh, mounded muscle, veins on my arms and legs, my swollen nipples, anything of interest. One guy even stuck his hand inside my gagged mouth and pushed down on my tongue. I wanted to bite down on his fingers, but the gag kept my jaws apart. DieQual backed away but swatted my ass twice with his hand. I didn’t even react to this parting insult.
Screaming for Dollars
Paine moved directly in front of me. “There’s something I didn’t tell you about Hell Week,” he started. “I personally am impressed you took that punching episode fairly well. We have an incentive program we use for torture toys like you. Money. You will get a substantial bonus at the end of your stay here depending on how much pain you can take and how you perform during our sessions. So far today, this round of gut punching has earned you a thousand dollars, which you will get regardless of what happens later this week. You took the pain well and weren’t blubbering at the end. That shows some self-control. Tomorrow there will be two, ah, sessions, each of which could get you two grand apiece. The day after the award is three grand apiece. So, there’s a progression and you could make a lot of money. What does it take? You take the pain, scream your guts out, and take it like a man. That’s all. Sometimes we vote as a group on how well you did; sometimes the person in charge of the session, like myself, can make the decision. I’m not going to tell you what’s in store for the rest of the week. We keep that as a surprise. I can tell you it is going to hurt a lot, unbelievably so, but a real stud can take it and we have a lot of confidence in you, boy.”
Everybody cheered at this point. “See?” Paine said. “They all like you!”
Big fuckin’ deal, I thought. Their confidence and two bucks buys a cup of joe.
He continued: “We’re going to play with the two guys from the mailroom now, but it’s a bit late and I’m sure you’re a bit tired, yes?”
The earlier conditioning kicked in and I nodded yes, not wishing anybody to touch my poor nips again. They hurt like hell.
Paine droned on: “My two friends here from accounting will take you to your sleeping, ah, quarters for tonight. It’s not the Hilton, but you’ll fall asleep quite quickly and I don’t think you’ll really mind. Ha!” he laughed at the end.
Two big guys came forward. I have seen them in the accounting department, but I had no idea they were part of this crazy cabal of pervs. They were in leathers, of course, but were both wearing vests over their chests. Both were a tad on the skinny side, but their leather jock pouches were by no means lacking. Guess they had hardons.
They unroped me from the wooden frame. I couldn’t believe the relief I felt when my arms were finally lowered and my legs were allowed to come together. I listed a little to the left and they moved in to support me under my arms. Not a word was said, however. I was still gagged but I didn’t feel like saying anything anyway. I really was exhausted.
They half-carried/half-dragged me from the room, out of the main building, and back to a small barn behind the building. Then I remembered Paine said I was to sleep in a barn stall, so there you are, that’s where we were going.
The barn was dimly lit by several widely-spaced flood lights. There were actually two horses in stalls on the right. They snorted when we entered. I was carried to a stall next to the second horse. The sign on the stall read Dickie Boy. I looked around at the other stalls. One had a sign “Hell-bent Harry.” The other one, farther down the row, said “Dick, Dick, Goose,” whatever in the fuck that meant.
The floor in my stall was strewn with straw. They carried me into the stall and slowly let me down onto the floor. It was warm and the brittle straw was scratchy. They let me sit up and then surprised the hell out of me by removing my gag. I moved my jaw side to side to loosen up the tight muscles and swallowed a few times to moisten my mouth. It had dried out during the torture since I was gasping for breath through my mouth. My nose was dribbling snot.
Then another surprise: Over in the corner was a small tray with a full bottle of Jack Daniels and three glasses. One of the guys went over and poured out three generous portions. He handed one to me and one to his companion.
“You did good, boy,” he said quietly. “We were all hoping you would. We all looked forward to having sessions with you ever since you joined the company. Did you deliberately wear the sexy clothes at the office?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. Like others millennials I wore tight pants and form-fitting shirts. I liked my bod and I was proud to show it off. So, yes, I guess it was sexy.
I answered him: “Yes, sir, I enjoyed showing off my bod,” I managed to say. I didn’t want to enrage them with any flippancy. I was worried they all would be like Paine, who had a short fuse. “Was that a problem for y’all, sirs?” I added.
“No, no, no, not at all,” he replied. “We, ah, that is, those of us in the club, very much enjoyed looking at you and what you were wearing. We often talked about you and imagined what fun it would be to have you out here at one of our retreats.”
Then he lifted his glass: “But, let us not waste time. Let’s toast to young studs who continue to give us a lot of fun!”
Strange toast, of course, but I raised my glass, too. I wanted to get a good belt of Jack. We clinked glasses and downed the strong whiskey in a gulp. He quickly refilled the glasses. The other guy then chipped in: “I’m sure you’re a bit confused by all this, boy. You’re off to a good start with your performance this afternoon.”
“Sir,” I cut in, “I wasn’t performing, sir. I was trying to survive!”
“Yes, yes, I know that,” he replied, a bit nonplussed. “That’s the wrong word for you. We use it, but it’s not the right word for you. Yes, you did survive. And you were truly a stud; you took it all. That’s why we’re so excited about you. Depending on what happens over the next few days, you could wind up being the best we’ve ever had out here. We do have high hopes for you. AND I have to reinforce the bonus you’re due to receive.”
“Yes, sir,” I interjected. “I was unaware of that during the punching, but quite surprised afterwards.”
He took a big gulp of the Jack, so I did, too. I was feeling more relaxed now. Thank you, Mr. Daniels.
“So, this is your stall for tonight, boy,” the first guy said. “One more shot and I think you won’t mind a bit!” He smiled at the end and topped off our glasses yet again.
Nobody said much more as we finished off the bottle. I was loopy at this point, half wiped from the punching, half wasted on the whiskey.
“There’s one more thing,” the first guy said, putting the empty bottle and the empty glasses back on the tray, “We have to chain you down. That’s the club’s orders for the first night.”
I had nothing to say. All I wanted to do was to crash on the floor. The two of them retrieved a set of chains and cuffs from another corner of the cell. The way they were carrying them told me the stuff was very heavy. They started with a ridiculously thick metal collar which they locked onto my neck. It fit snugly, but it was so damned heavy it actually upset my balance. The lock hasp included the end of a chain which led to cuffs for my hands and feet. The cuffs were ridiculously heavy also, like I was King Kong. The chain lengths were short, so I was pulled into a fetal curve on the floor. One final short length of chain was locked to an eyebolt cemented into the floor. I wasn’t going very far that night, that was clear.
Then the first guy kicked me in the side, hard but not lethally. I grunted from the blow.
“Sleep tight, sweetheart,” he said. Then the two of them left me in the stall, turned off the barn lights, and left me in the darkness.
I grunted from the kick, but then fell asleep not a few seconds later. Welcome, blackness. Welcome, sleep. Thanks, Jack.
Wake Up Call
Guess I slept well that night. I don’t remember waking up until the sun shone through the gaps in the barn siding and hit my face. My first thought was an overwhelming need to take a piss. I moved a bit but quickly realized that I was chained to the floor with super heavy cuffs and collar. The piss won and I had to let loose on the floor into the hay. Guess I flushed red with embarrassment; my face felt hot.
I’m also embarrassed to say that being chained up that way and forced to sleep in a barn stall like a beast of burden was a bit sexy to me. I was starting to realize that the role of sub or bottom or, WTF, slave? was resonating deeply in my head. Yes, I was muscular and good-looking. Yes, I felt like I was a stud, and, yes, even these crazy pervs thought I was sexy. But – and here’s the big realization – I realized that from my early childhood, getting whipped by my father, exercising to the point of exhaustion and pain in the gym, getting worked over by the guys on the wrestling team, all these things came together in an intense desire, deep in my bones and cock, for pain. I found that pain was sexually exciting, even necessary for arousal. Pain and a good hardon went together, followed by an intense JO. The fantasies were always in a familiar vein: POWs getting tortured, inmates abused at a prison, cops interrogating a perp, a slave in the Middle East, a young sailor getting whipped on a clipper ship, rope bondage, straps, straight jackets, all that stuff. Then, when I was twelve or so, I saw a picture of a medieval torture rack. OMG! There you go, easy fixation for years.
With the need for pain there was also a need for abuse and humiliation. I know this sounds kind of weird, but I seek this out not to denigrate myself or wallow in self-pity. I do it to show that I can’t be broken – by anything. They can’t break me with pain, they can’t debase me, they can’t abuse me sexually because I’m strong enough to take anything! So, go ahead, think you’re insulting me by forcing me to suck your dick. You’re NOT! You can’t break me! Do whatever comes into your kinky, perverted little mind. I will take it like a man.
Enough of that. I heard the barn door open and the two guys from last night came into my stall. They were still in their leather chaps, jocks, and vests. They put two metal bowls down on the cement floor next to my head, and left without saying a word.
I painfully raised myself off the straw and examined the bowls. One had water in it and the other had what looked like oatmeal or some cereal. It wasn’t dry; there was milk on it. I got up on all fours and had my breakfast, eating from the bowls like a dog. It felt a bit stupid, but I was hungry and willing to eat anything at that point. The heavy metal collar strained my neck and back as I ate and the chains clinked at every movement. The only other sound was the occasional horse snort or winnie. Welcome to farm life, only this time you’re part of the animals. I finished off the oatmeal and drank a lot of water.
The two guys returned shortly after I was done and had laid back down on the straw to relieve my neck and back muscles from supporting my head and the thick collar. One of them picked up the empty bowls. The other unlocked the chain from the eyebolt and told me to get up. He actually helped me stand.
“We’re taking you back to the main building,” he said as he grabbed my arm and directed me out of the stall. “Your session begins in a few minutes.”
On the way back they led me into a small copse of cottonwood trees and low bushes.
“Bend over, boy,” one of the men ordered. I almost lost my balance when I bent at the waist; the neck collar must have weighed twenty-five pound or so.
One of them pulled the large dildo from my ass in a not overly gentle fashion. I grunted as the ridges again tormented my asshole muscle.
“You have two minutes to take a crap,” the other one said. “Dig a small hole with a branch and crap into it, then cover it over,” he added.
So I did. One of them handed me some paper towels so I could wipe my ass. I buried the towels in the little hole and covered it over with dirt. It was a brief moment of bodily pleasure, not to be repeated until the next day. I knew the rest of this day would be pain and humiliation.
The pain began almost immediately as the dildo was quickly shoved back into my ass. I grunted as the invader once again filled my gut. What had someone called me yesterday? “Torture toy?”
Get Ready for Tit Torture Tuesday
Instead of the main hall, I was force-marched to one of the center’s smaller rooms. It was difficult walking with the short chain between my ankle cuffs, but I wasn’t rushed. There was a wing extending back from the main hall, not visible from the front, which had a series of smaller rooms. Had this been a real business retreat operation I guess these rooms would have been for smaller gatherings, seminars, and the like. It looked like now they were fitted out with dedicated torture equipment. As we walked down the hallway I could heard moans, groans, and a few screams from the rooms we passed. Guess the young guys from the mailroom were getting worked over.
We stopped in front of a door with a picture of a strong guy’s muscular chest, featuring his pecs. The nipples looked a bit odd, enlarged and distended, swollen even, but still in a cylindrical shape. The pecs were hairless to show off the muscular structure. They opened the door and pushed me into the room.
There already was a small group of execs, six in all, standing around a wooden table in the center of the room. One of them was my boss, Mr. DieQual. Paine wasn’t there. The men were sipping cocktails, which struck me as odd since it was still early morning. The thought crossed my mind that getting tortured by a bunch of drunks might not be the safest option. But there I was.
They all turned to look at me. My chains rattled as I was shoved towards the wooden table.
“Ah, good. You’re here, well fed, I trust, and we’re all ready for your morning session,” DieQual said. There were cheers of agreement from the others.
“Jake Paine might join us later, but for now, it’s just us and you,” he added. “And this morning your nipples will be getting all our attention.”
Even though I was not gagged, I thought it better not to say anything. I mean, I hadn’t been asked a question and I really was a bit terrified of what might be coming.
“First we need to get you ready,” DieQual continued. “Have you ever been in a straight jacket, boy?”
“No, sir, I haven’t,” I answered truthfully. I’ve thought about them and fantasied about them, but they were expensive and you couldn’t get in and out of one by yourself.
“Good, then this will also be a new experience for you,” he smiled at me. Another lustful smile. “Arty, here, will get things moving,” he added.
Arty was Mr. Arthur Pendleton, head of our vendor assessment operation. His department vetted vendors before we recommended a client purchase their equipment. I remember him as friendly at work, but he looked a little grim, especially all dressed up in leather.
One of the leather guys went to a small cupboard against the back wall. On top of the cupboard were a variety of whiskey and wine bottles, a few beers, and some small sandwiches. He opened the far left door and withdrew a white SJ, made of heavy canvas and bristling with brown straps. When he came back to where the rest of us were standing at the brown table, my “escort” from the barn unlocked my collar and the wrist and ankle cuffs. Other guys removed all the cuffs and handed the whole thing back to my “escort,” who then left the room.
My freedom from the chains was short-lived. “Hold out your arms, boy,” Mr. Pendleton ordered.
He slid the SJ arms over mine. The canvas was indeed heavy and the arms fit snugly around my own. Maybe my muscles made the difference. Other hands were at work behind me fastening all the straps across my back.
The first was a double strap on the high leather collar. These were pulled in fairly tight, constricting the leather around my neck. I could still breathe OK, but the collar was so high I could hardly move my head up or down. I could feel each back strap getting pulled in unbelievably tight, slowly constricting my chest as they worked their way down. This was going to be rough, I thought. Then the stomach straps were tightened, pinching my waist even narrower. Finally the hip straps. Hands fed the crotch straps between my legs, alongside the metal cage thingy on my dick and then these were pulled in tightly and buckled off. I had no idea a straight jacket could be so confining. It was a canvas skin.
My arms were still dangling at my sides, but then they crossed them over each other across my stomach and threaded the end straps behind my back. Then I felt a tremendous pull on my hands and arms as they drew the straps in with all their strength before buckling them off.
Now I was starting to panic a bit. I could still breath, of course, but it took effort and I couldn’t move my arms an inch. I was surprised, then, when they secured additional straps around my forearms, guaranteeing I couldn’t escape from the SJ. I thought at least my legs would be free. I was wrong.
“Get up on the table,” my boss ordered. “Lie down in the middle.”
I obeyed as quickly as I could. It was awkward moving with the SJ on. DieQual pushed against my shoulders and I thought I’d crash against the table since I couldn’t move my arms, but other hands intervened and my torso was lowered onto the table top.
Someone else brought over another canvas garment. This one was the pants equivalent of the jacket already imprisoning my upper body. It also was heavy canvas and bristled with straps, even more than the jacket. They threaded the pants onto my legs until my toes reached the end of the foot pouches. I was surprised that the pants only came up to my hips. My crotch and ass would remain free. This was not a comforting thought.
Then the laborious process of buckling all the leg straps had to be done. Everyone pitched in. Straps went around each leg first, pulling the heavy canvas in tight to my skin. Then other straps went around both legs, compressing them together. Yet a third set of straps went clear across my body, head to toe, fastening it down tight to the table top. There were dozens of metal rings along all four sides of the table which they threaded this third set of belts through.
By the time they were done, I couldn’t move a muscle! It was the strictest bondage I had ever been in: totally encased in heavy canvas, held in place by so many belts I lost count. Only my head was free. But there was one final set of straps. One went across my eyes, forcing me to close them tightly. The second one was forced into my mouth. When it was tightened and buckled off it was a strap gag, a vicious strap gag. My jaws had been forced wide open and now I couldn’t even more my head.
“Let’s take a few pictures for his file, gents,” I heard my boss say. I heard several cell phone clicks. “The room video’s running, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes, Harry,” a voice answered. “I turned it on when they brought the vic in.”
“Good, good,” he continued. “Now let’s see those little guys!” he laughed.
I felt two Velcro flaps being unsealed over my nipples. The flaps felt like they were several inches wide, so a good part of my pecs was also exposed.
Hands then started to gently squeeze and prod my nipples, forcing them to quickly erect. My cock wanted to follow suit, but the metal cage kept it in check – painfully, I might add.
OK, so now we were finally ready for Tit Torture Tuesday. My stomach again turned to ice, despite the warm feeling I had from the thick canvas skin strapped around me.
What Tit Torture Feels Like
The pinching and squeezing slowly got more severe. My face was contorting in a grimace from the increasing pain. Then I started to groan into the strap gag. My little guys were getting roughed over in a manner I had never felt. It was torture but also sexy. How could two such contradictory feelings arise in one head, mine? I also thought that the guys working me over probably also had two feelings: lust to be torturing a muscular young man and strong sexual arousal. Hell, maybe the two feelings were fused in both of us.
Mr. DieQual explained each step of the process. “OK, your nips are at attention. Now it’s time to molest them. First we start with nip clips. These are metal clips with alligator teeth jaws. We can adjust the tension with two small control knobs. We will start off not too bad, but then the fun part as we slowly increase the tension. As Jake said yesterday, feel free to scream.”
I flinched when they applied the clips. Damn, the metal teeth hurt as they bit into my nipple flesh! I tried to squirm in an instinctive reaction to the pain, but the straps and canvas did their job. Like I said, I couldn’t move a muscle.
I felt a jiggle in the clips and quickly realized someone was turning the knobs, tightening the jaws. The pain ratcheted up strongly. I had to verbalize from the pain so I moaned. There were sounds of approval from the small group standing around the table. These guys simply lusted to see a young stud suffer. I’ll bet they all had outstanding hardons.
The clips went tighter still, higher pain, more intensive groaning. Someone in the group fondled my caged cock, which made it hurt more as it tried to respond. Then tighter, escalating the pain. I was now yelling into the strap gag, squirming in a stupid effort to escape, totally trapped for their kinky amusement.
Then a stunning tightening, several turns of the knob. I had to start shouting for them to stop the torment. I said “No! NO! STOP!” but only garbled nonsense came out through the gag. So then I had to yell from the pain. The room was small and I could hear my screams of torment echoing loudly.
The confinement of the SJ and canvas pants was becoming maddening. With the gut punching at least I could move a bit, but not here. The tight canvas and dozens of straps did their job. I was told later it’s called immobilization bondage. Perfect description, trust me.
There was one, final tightening, which they held for only a few seconds before they released the clips completely. I gave them one final yell of pain and then reverted to just heavy breathing, trying to get back in control of my body – and my mind. I still couldn’t move in the slightest, but at least I wasn’t drowning in pain.
Then I was! The clips had squeezed the blood out of my poor nips and it returned in a gusher when the clips were removed. They were squeezing and prodding my nips as the blood returned and the nerves woke up. It was excruciating! It lasted a good half minute or so. Finally the pain dropped to a merely annoying level.
Then DieQuals’ voice cut in: “Oh, my. You did good, boy, real good, but now you have pancake pec pegs. They do not look manly. We’re going to use the clips again, but we’ll rotate the angle and put them in a reverse pancake. That’ll straighten things out and you’ll look good again.”
They did it again, the slow escalation, the build-up in pain at each level, the final screaming, the whole nine yards. It seemed to go more quickly this time. Who knows? They took the clips off and I had to endure the same squeezing of raw nerves. I had to scream from the pain.
The men took a break when a tray of sweets, coffee, and several scotches was delivered by a porter.
“Ah, good,” someone said. “Thank you, James. I’d like some scotch and coffee right now.” The other men agreed, and I thought I’d get a break along with theirs. I was wrong.
One of the men, I didn’t know who, gave disturbing orders: “Danny-boy, please entertain our guest here with the hair brush. You did bring it, didn’t you?”
A younger voice answered: “Yes, sir, I have it right here. I’ll make sure he’s kept alert, sir.”
I found out later that within the S&M “club,” there were two levels: Masters and a group they called MAs, Master’s Assistants, another word for slave. The MAs were younger staff members; the Masters were exclusively executives and department heads. There was a third group, of course, vics like me, the lowest members on the torture totem pole. I really wanted to get out of this club, but right now, strapped down in skin-tight canvas, I wasn’t given a choice. My only option was to continue to scream my guts out and live in constant fear and dread of what in the hell further tortures and humiliations they would be putting me through before I passed out – or died.
I heard someone approach my table. The sound was intermixed with the murmur of light conversation of the execs on their little break. Then I remembered what had just been said: hair brush? There could be only one use for that in my present position: more tit toture.
A voice came from very close to my head: “Oh, my, you’re not going to like this, boy, not one bit!”
With that threat the hair brush treatment began. He ran the brush over my right nip, which was still recovering from the clipping and brutal resurgence of bloodflow. It was a light touch, half pain and, truth be told, half pleasure. The pleasure part didn’t last long. He bore down on the brush, and the stiff bristles were now full pain, no pleasure. It was a totally new sensation for me, not that I’d ever had nip clips on, but the feeling was a searing pain, almost like a hot iron was being set on my pec peg. The pain radiated from my nipple outward through my pec muscle, like fire spreading through a field of dry underbrush. I had to grimace my face and moan into the strap gag. I heard him make sounds of pleasure and I felt the table shake rhythmically; guess the perv was mashing his crotch against the side of the table.
He switched to the other nipple and it hurt just as much. Now my whole chest was on fire. The guy was good using the brush: back and forth, varying the pressure on the brush from feather light to sledgehammer heavy. My response varied from light moaning and quick breathing to screaming and quicker breathing. There was certainly no break in my torment. I hoped the execs would choke on their sandwiches.
However, they all returned. I guess nobody died. Mr. Fuller Brushman stopped with the hairbrush. The table was again surrounded by men eager to torture me. I heard them welcome Mr. Paine, so now the Perv-in-Chief was there.
I heard him ask the group: “Are we ready for the needles? His nips look raw enough. I’d say they were ready! Brilliant red and standing at attention like good soldiers!”
There was agreement and laughter all around, so on we went to the next round.
They lost no time in moving on to my next Tit Tuesday Torment, as they jokingly called it. I had just a momentary break between the hairbrushing and the next torment, but you take your pleasures when you can, so I used the time to catch my breath. The SJ constricted my chest so tightly I couldn’t take a full breath, but it was better than nothing.
I could hear murmurings and low conversation as the men took another little break. The conversation ended with someone asking a question: “Time for pins, Harry?”
DieQual answered yes and I could hear them gather around the torture table again.
DieQual addressed me: “Next level, boy. Your nips are now supersensitive, so what we’re going to do will hurt twice as much as normal.”
The dread meter needle quickly rose up into the red zone. Pins? Fear, dread, and uncertainty are strong drivers in the vic just before torture resumes. They could have touched me with a feather and I think I would have screamed.
I did howl when I felt something sharp pricking my pec peg at the base, still inside the aureole. It was the promised pin and it was being slowly pushed horizontally into the cartilage of my nipple. The pain came in spurts as the needle broke through each of the microlayers of cartilage. I could feel a popping sensation, followed by a spike of pain to the brain. So I kept yelling my head off. There was a big increase in pain as the needle broke through the other side.
I thought they’d switch to the other nip, but then I felt a second pin pricking my pec peg perpendicular to the first. More insertion pain, more cartilage drilling, more pain, more screaming. This second one, for some reason, really hurt.
Then they did switch nips and I went through the same drill: push, pain, yell; push, pain, yell. The second pin also hurt more than the first.
Nobody said a word during the pinning. There were a few groans of pleasure, no doubt from someone rubbing a hardon within a leather jock.
DieQual ended the process: “There. Four pins in a beautiful cross configuration. And, notice gentlemen, very little bleeding. I told you, John, that this step is often quite clean.”
Someone, presumably John, replied: “Yes, I see that now, Harry. I thought the opposite. A little blood is OK, but I get concerned if there’s a gusher. Do you have the coagulant spray I recommended?”
“Yes, I do,” DieQual answered. “We might need it later,” he added.
Oh, great! Now I’m going to bleed to death.
A Good Stretch
I heard people moving around and some metallic clicks, but, of course, I had no idea of what was coming down. Blinded by the strap over my eyes, all I could rely on was hearing, so every new sound tended to be viewed as some new and dreadful torture; some new, higher level of pain. Torture is so effective when it is strung out in incremental and unpredictable steps. The vic is kept in a constant state of fear.
I heard/felt something rubbing against the sides of the table near my chest. DieQual was so helpful as he described what was happening next.
“My dear Dickie-boy,” he said. Is there such a thing as unctuous lust? That’s what he sounded like. “This next adventure for you will build on the last one. We’re keeping the pins in, of course, but we going to thread a cord around each cross. The cords lead up to two small winches set on a frame which is now directly over your chest. As we crank in on the winches, the cords will tighten and then pull your whole nipple area up, stretching the pec muscle and your skin. We will do it slowly so you can appreciate every millimeter, but, do understand, dear boy, it’s going to hurt a lot. You won’t be damaged, I assure you of that, but there might be minor muscle pulls inside your pecs, those beautiful, manly pecs. But the tears will easily knit in a few days. It will still hurt while they’re healing, but that’s part of our little game, isn’t it?”
He asked a question, but my head was immobilized so I couldn’t nod. I tried to say “yes” but the strap gag mangled it. At that point I didn’t care. What more could they do to me for punishment?
I felt the cords being threaded around the crossed pins in my nipples, minor pain at this point. Then someone started to turn the winch leading to my right nip. There was a clicking sound, which DieQual quickly explained.
“There’s a little ratchet and cog on each winch, so it’ll hold its position until the ratchet is released. That’s the little click. Think of it as a medieval rack for your nipples. Ha!” Several men of the group laughed with him. A fleeting picture of a naked man being racked in a castle dungeon, screaming his guts out, crossed my mind. My caged dick liked the thought, though, and I had to add that pain to the list.
The clicking went on until I could feel the cord get taut. Then the stretching started. No problem at first, but the pain quickly kicked in. Whoa! I thought. This is far worse than I expected. Suddenly the clicking on my right stopped and the winch held my nip and pec muscle firmly stretched out to a painful distance. Then the clicking started up on my left side. The cord got taut, a few more clicks, and my left nipple was stretched out. My face was distorted in pain.
Two more clicks on each side and I had to yell. It was very rough. Two more clicks and I was screaming from agony. Again my voice filled the small torture room. “A-a-h! Agh! A-a-g-h!” I tried to struggle, but the bondage was completely immobilizing. I could activate my muscle groups but nothing moved! I had to try, the tortured animal has to try to escape. A million years of evolutionary wiring compelled it.
Was that another click? The pain redoubled in my chest and I guess my screaming got a rough edge to it. Then I felt a slight back off. It felt like they went back a bit on the ratchet, back to very painful but not maddeningly agonizing as it was at the peak.
DieQual’s voice again assaulted me: “There, I think we found the sweet spot. We want you in pain but not too close to passing out. That ruins the fun for us, so we’ll keep you at this level for a while.”
Then I felt hands and fingers prodding my stretched-out pec muscles, spiking the pain at each touch. There were “oooohs” and “aahs” from the group and I felt hands running down my imprisoned thighs and calves. These crazy pervs were feasting on my pain and bondage! It was their nectar, engorging their lust.
The torture and humiliation went on for an hour. Was it an hour? I couldn’t really tell. Intense pain messes with your mind, screws up your internal clock. The absolute inescapability contributes to the horror of the situation. This twenty-four year old stud was reduced to a piece of strapped down meat for the perverse pleasure of the men in my company. My relationship to them was permanently altered. They would now look on me only as a thing to be tormented, humiliated, and abused. I would look on them as Masters in control of my universe.
Suddenly I was startled to hear clicks from the damned winches on my chest. The pain rocketed up and I was again plunged into agony. My throat started to hurt from screaming and I was gasping for breath, trying to pass out. Unfortunately that doesn’t work; you can’t make yourself pass out.
Just as suddenly the ratchet was released and all the tension on the cords slackened off. Then they were taken off, but the pins were left in. I trembled from relief.
“Hey, Johnny,” DieQual yelled. “We’re going to the other room to play with number 2. Amuse yourself and him while we’re gone.”
Johnny was the hairbrush man. He answered “Yes, sir!” and I again felt the stiff bristles brutalizing my tortured nips. I groaned and tried to twist in the tight bondage as he varied the intensity of the brushing, all of it painful. There was to be no relief. I would have cried, if I could.
The Fuller Brushman worked me over for a good hour. I don’t know how he kept his attention on the task at hand. He never slackened off. I did get a few minutes of relief when he announced he had to take a piss. He left the brush resting on my right nip, I guess to remind me where I was, I don’t know. I could feel the bristles pricking my nipple peg, which was so sensitized by now that it probably hurt twice as much as it would have without the prior torment.
He must have been a quick pisser because he returned within a minute or two. He took up his assignment of torturing my poor nips with renewed gusto and I screamed into the strap gag. This went on and on as, again, I lost track of time. My NOW was swimming in an ocean of pain, alternating between right and left nipples. Sometimes he just squeezed my pec pegs, tighter and tighter, like a volume control on my screaming. Minute by minute passed. I was almost delirious with pain, frustration, despair, and fear – but there was still that deep-seated feeling of triumph: I was taking all this pain, screaming my fuckin’ guts out, but I WAS taking it like a man-stud. They hadn’t broken me. Yeah I bent a bit, I mean, screaming is not the most manly thing in the world and having your cock caged in a tight metal tube is humiliating, but I took it. I took it! Granted, there was an element of uncertainty as to how much more I could bear up under, but as of right now I was King of Studs, Slave Extraordinary, Grade AA Stud-Meat-Piece. And that gave me satisfaction in the midst of torture.
Then loud voices announced the return of the Masters.
I heard DieQual say to the group: “OK, gents, let’s move on to Phase 2 of Tit Torture Tuesday! Arty, get the nipple suckers,” he added.
The small group cheered and at least the brushman stopped tormenting me. I guess he was Arty. A minute later I heard him return to my table of torture.
“Here you are, Sir, all greased up and ready for action,” he said.
DieQual then turned his attention to me: “Well, now, Dickie-boy, here’s a variation you’ll like. Phase 2 is a set of heavy vacuum suction devices we’re going to put on your nipples. We’ll be keeping the pins in place. These suckers are very narrow and will fit snugly over your nips. There’s a soft seal around the bottom which Arty has greased up so there will be a perfect bond to your skin. We control the vacuum level with a small hand piston pump and there’s a gauge which tells us exactly how much vac the piston is producing. You’ll know the level by the pain the stretching will cause. I do want to tell you that this little exercise will help shape your nips into very sexy man pegs. You’ll look even better in those tight shirts you wear at the office! We’ll all see those pegs stretching out the cotton, man studs advertising your availability for use. Ha!” he laughed at the end.
I could hear him smiling as he spoke. DieQual was a perfect perv. He really delighted in a young stud’s torment. They all did! Then I felt the suckers being positioned over my poor nips. I could feel the slippery ends sealing down onto my pecs. Then there was the sound of a piston pump being pulsed.
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. I felt the initial tug of the vacuum on my nipples. It hurt because they were already tortured red hot. Then the tugging got serious and I realized just how rough this was going to be. The pain escalated and I had to moan in an instinctive reaction. “Ohs” and “Ahs” from the assembled pervs. Hands started to wander over my imprisoned body, prodding canvas-clad muscles, fingers running through my sweaty burr cut hair, feeding on my pain and agony.
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. The pain shot up another level and I had to yell, which the strap gag reduced to something like a loud gurgle. “A-a-a-a-h! A-a-a-a-a-h!” reverbed in the small room, sounds of my own torment. My nips were searing with stretch pain. It felt like they were being sucked off my pecs. The pain was spreading across my whole chest.
I heard someone say: “Oh, look, they’re starting to bleed a bit.”
I think it was my boss who spoke then: “Yes, that often happens, as you know. It’ll stop. All we have to worry about is if milk comes out! Ha!” he laughed. The others joined in his humor while I lay there, strapped tight to the table in a canvas cocoon.
I twitched and jerked in the bondage when I heard another squeeze sound from the pump. The pain immediately spiked up another notch and I had to start screaming. Once again my full-throated howls filled the small room. Once again hands roamed all over my immobilized body. Once again the pervs had their fill of lust nectar.
Prep For Another Round of Gut Abuse
There’s a funny thing about torture. I mean, torture is not funny in any sense of the word, but there is an unusual phenomenon I’ve noticed and I’m sure other subs would concur: when a given torture is increased, say like the above nip stretching, there’s an immediate spike of pain. OK, so you yell your guts out. That’s what They want. But the pain spikes and then drops off a bit. With a whip lash, the effect is very clear. You get the lash, the intense burn, you scream, but then the burn drops off to a bad sting which continues to diminish. Kind of weird. With the nip stretch, there was certainly a spike with each squeeze of the pump, but it did drop off a bit, not as quickly as a whip lash, but there was a drop off. That’s probably the only good news of that day. The rest was torment.
My thinking and yelling was interrupted by DieQual’s return along with the other Masters.
“We are going to back off on the nip vac just a little so you’ll stop screaming so loudly. Feel free to moan, however.”
I heard a hissing sound and the extreme tension on my pec pegs dropped to the point where I could take it without yelling. He was right, I had to moan from the new level. There was to be no full release from the constant pain!
“Some of my colleagues here,” he continued, “Have suggested another round of gut workouts for you. There are several who want the chance to pound the piss out of those hairy abs of yours. We’re going to shave you later, but the hair looks good for now. Oh, and I should say, they will use their bare fists, although they might use special, ah, fist insrts. But there will be no padding, no boxing gloves.”
He let that sink in for a bit, giving me time to remember the initial gut punching I had endured yesterday.
“We’re going to unstrap you from the table and take off the straight jacket. I think we’ll leave the pants on, though, so your legs won’t flail about.”
I was unstrapped from the table and very glad to be able to move a bit. They had to help me stand up, though; I was still quite stiff. The straight jacket was unstrapped and removed. I shivered slightly; the thick canvas had was quite warm, but I welcomed the chance to take in a full breath again. I thought they would remove the pins still lanced through the base of my pec pegs, but they left them in. Was someone going to pound their fists into my pinned pecs? My stomach froze again in dread of the damage this could do.
The straps binding my canvas-clad legs together were removed, but the straps around each leg were left on. I could walk, although a bit stiffly. My caged cock was still exposed through the big hole in the canvas pants crotch. They unbuttoned and lowered the canvas flap over my ass. I could feel the coolness. Then they force-marched me out of the pec peg room, down the hall, and into another torture venue.
In this one a small, black leather, punching bag hung in the center of the room on a chain from the ceiling. There was a second chain from the bottom of the bag to a metal eye drilled into the floor. The bag looked thinner than a regulation punching bag.
“Put his back to the bag, Arty,” DieQual ordered. “Like we normally do and then strap him in.”
“Sir, yes, sir” came the reply from Arty as another guy came over to help him out.
They backed me to the bar and I realized there wasn’t much play in the movement of the bag; the two chains were tight. I wouldn’t be able to absorb any blows by backing off. Then fastened me in. A wide strap went around my neck. It was pulled snug but I could still get air. They pulled my hands behind the bag and strapped them together. I tugged on them; there was no give.
A belt was strung across my upper chest, just above my pinned pecs. This one was pulled in fiercely tight and buckled off. The last belt went around my upper thighs, just above the bottom of the bag. This was also strapped in very tightly. I twisted and jerked to test the bondage. It was all tight; I wasn’t going anywhere soon.
DieQual checked out the belts and nodded his approval. Then two execs, whom I recognized as board members, stepped up close to me.
DieQual introduced them. “Here is Mr. Harrison and Mr. Reynolds. They are distinguished members of the board of directors and have singled you out for this special session. I told them I thought you’d be a good piece of meat to punch, but they wanted to see for themselves how much you could take. You should know they were amateur boxers in law school. They will know exactly what they’re doing.”
He turned to the two men: “I presume you’re satisfied, gentlemen?”
They both nodded and ran their hands over my chest and stomach, tweaking the pec pins to make me grimace. Mr. Reynolds said: “Oh, yes, Harry. This one’s a real prize.” They turned to me and I could see the lust glistening in their eyes. “We’ll punch the piss out of him and then you can have him shaved down,” he added.
“Are you going to use the . . .? DieQual started to ask.
Reynolds interrupted him. He held up two sets of metal devices. “The brass knuckles?” he said, smiling broadly. Then he answered his own question: “Yes, we are. We’ve been looking forward to this for quite a while, as you know.” Both he and Harrison held up the thick, copper-colored items for me to see.
Brass Knuckles in Action
Both he and Harrison made a big show out of palming the long bars of the metal knuckles into each hand, and then adjusting the position of their fingers to interlace between the short bars stubbing out from the palm bar. The ends of the short bars were rounded and protruded maybe half a inch or so above their fingers. That was the working end of the brass knuckles. The protrusions were designed to break jaw bones and save the puncher’s hands from sprains or even broken fingers. That was their usual use by mob muscle. Used on abs muscle, they would double the force of the blow. Plus, just the thought of getting punched by them usually freaked out the vic. I know it did me. I was terrified of what was coming!
It came fairly quickly. The two big guys made sure the brass knuckles were seated properly and then laid it on me.
The first blow was low on my abs, just below my navel. It was a straight “popping” jab, expertly delivered with force. There was a splat as his metal-reinforced fist pounded into my tensed muscle. Then a sickening pain exploded in my gut. Yeah, my skin hurt and my muscle was pop-stretched, but there was also a deeper pain, like your inside guts were greatly disturbed. They didn’t like it one fuckin’ bit and made sure your brain was told about it in the language of deep pain. It knocked the wind out of me, but then the pain exploding in my brain made me scream. OMG, this was going to be awful!
A long “A-a-g-g-h-h!” tore from my throat as I forced my head back against the leather bag. The punch had pushed me back a few inches, which was the limit of the range of the chains, and then I rocked forward in recoil.
A second jab, almost on top of the first. Jab/splat/grunt out air/scream, jab/splaaaat/gruuunt/screaaaaam, over and over. My whole body broke out in sweat from the assault, the fear, the total dread of what those brass knuckles could do.
Then a one-two sequence from both of them. With only a fraction of a second between punches, the pains from each blow combine and it hurts twice as much. You scream twice as much. I pulled against the straps on my wrists. I tried to move my legs. I tried to move my torso away from the torture. The straps held tight; I was a trapped animal.
More one-two, one-two, jab, jab, jab. I couldn’t believe the splat I was hearing was their fists hitting my own flesh. It was so loud! The pain was escalating and I was screaming as loud as I could and pulling on the straps as hard as I could. The punch combos went on and on until there was finally a break.
I was almost unaware the punching had stopped. I slowly opened my eyes, which had been forced closed so tightly tears were streaming down my cheeks. I could feel drool running from my mouth as my lower jaw just hung open like I didn’t have the strength to close it. It ran down my chin and was dripping onto my chest. I hung in the straps, gasping for breath through my mouth. Liquid was dripping from my nose. There was a deep ache in my lower gut, a sensation very much like the first punching session I had had yesterday.
The punchers had stopped for a short break. Glasses of red wine were offered and they drank slowly, their eyes roaming all over my chest and abs. The other men moved away slightly from a large wall mirror and I could see myself strapped onto the bag. My stomach and lower abs were bright red with random splotches, souvenirs of the pounding I had taken. Reynolds reached out and rubbed his hands over my skin, a lusty sneer on his face.
“Yes, I think that was a good beginning,” he said to no one in particular. “I want him to get his breath so he’s ready for Round Two,” he added, slowly sipping more wine.
I wanted to shout and curse them out, even spit on them since I wasn’t gagged, but I had to rein in my rage. These guys were vicious enough without being goaded. I had to stay in control of myself. I had to show them they couldn’t break me. I could feel the resolve strengthening in me, but there was also that nagging little voice: just how much more do you think you can take, buddy-boy? This is really bad!
My resolve was to be tested when I notice the two punchers had moved slightly to each side. This could mean only one thing: round house time. A jab is a quick in and out. Done by a muscular man, as these guys were, it’s a powerful punch. Combinations are devastating. The round house punch is different. It’s delivered in an arc motion from the side, not head-on. The longer arc allows the puncher to gain more speed so the punch hurts more. It can also punch the vic’s sides in addition to the frontal abs, providing access to a wider area of his body. It’s often a knock-out blow in a boxing match if it lands on the side of the other guy’s head. Here, it was just going to hurt twice as much over a wider area.
And it did. They pounded away at my lower front, between my navel and my nuts, brutalizing what had just been brutalized. But now they had access to my sides and they totally pummeled them into agony. There was a louder whoosh as their fist arced through the air. The splaaaat was louder, and, God knows, the pain was unbelievable. I went back into primal animal scream mode, my body blasting pain into my brain. Again I wanted to pass out, but that wasn’t going to happen. At least not yet.
They switched up into random punches and combinations, throwing me totally off any semblance of anticipation. Whoosh/splaaat/gruuunt/scream/gasp for air. Over and over until I was almost delirious.
Then I couldn’t believe it when I felt it: they escalated the punching into uppercuts to my stomach. The uppercut is an arcing punch, like the round house, but it’s vertical instead of horizontal. Like my earlier beating, I was having intense trouble breathing now that my solar plexus muscle was spazing out. You need air to scream and things can get dicey real fast.
They did. I had to scream, but I couldn’t get air. I started to panic. I was suffocating, drowning in pain and lack of air. The punching was non-stop, unpredictable, excruciating. I could feel my stomach start to get real nauseous and thought I was heading for an upchuck, but then something unexpected happened. I passed out.
Your brain has circuit breakers in it, maybe left over from evolution, who knows. The animal brain can only take so much before the breakers blow, sort of in self-defense. And that’s what happened to me. I could feel the wave of darkness draw over me. It started to the sides of my vision and then closed in like a big curtain. Blackness. No pain. No me.
Another Night in the Barn
I woke up in my barn stall. The heavy collar and cuffs had been attached and I was curled up on the scratchy straw. My stomach and lower gut ached enormously, like constipation times a hundred. My wrists were raw from pulling on the straps and my throat hurt like hell from screaming. I almost couldn’t believe no one was punching me. It seemed like the session had been hours and hours.
I was by myself on the floor for maybe an hour when the two guys who had gotten blitzed with me last night came into the barn. The horses whinnied again as they came into my stall.
“You did good, boy,” one of them said. “Real good. I don’t think we’ve seen a performance like that in a long time. How do you do it? How can you take that much pain?”
“I don’t know, sir,” I answered groggily. “I just can, sir.”
“Well, you’ll get something of a reward for dinner tonight. Master Jacob has authorized some steak for you along with some good veggies. It’s actually what they’re having tonight. The meat’s all cut up so you won’t need a knife and fork.”
The other guy put down a large aluminum dog bowl. It was filled with chunks of meat and greenery and smelled quite appetizing. Then again, I would have eaten cardboard at this point. I was ravenous. I painfully got up on all fours so I could eat from the bowl.
Then my first guy put down another bowl. “And here’s some beer to go along with it. They’re having fancy wine, but we thought you’re more of a beer man.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “Thank you very much!”
“So, OK for now. We’ll leave you to your supper, but we’ll be back later with some Jack for all of us,” he said as they both left my stall.
Man oh man, did I tear into that steak! It was delicious, and the beer felt great on my parched throat. I would have liked more salt, but, what the hell, you take what you can get when you’re desperate. I finished off the two bowls in record time and then lay back down on the straw. Every time I moved the heavy chains rattled. I was getting used to the heavy collar and cuffs. I still couldn’t get used to the damned cock cage.
My two drinking buddies returned later, as they had promised, and again we all got blitzed on Jack Daniels. I was quite surprised this time, however, when my two guard-buddies did not leave me alone for the night. They stripped off their leathers and curled up against me.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Mr. First Guy said, ‘But your ass is just too tempting and the horses’ll keep our little secret.”
I took it as a strange show of friendliness amidst the swarm of torturers. Or at least that’s what I thought until my butt plug was removed and the two horny devils had their way with me. Two at once! This whole thing was getting insane. Then I realized this was all part of dehumanizing me, trying to turn me into a piece of meat for them to play with. Even after incredible abuse and humiliation, I was still determined not to break.
I – we – did finally get some sleep. Of course, the butt plug went back in. I guess these guys had their orders.
When I woke up the next morning my two “friends” had gone. I was alone in the quiet barn except for the two horses next to me, but they didn’t make a sound. My nipple pins were still in, but there was little or no pain by now. My ass, however, did hurt. Just like yesterday, I had a big need to pee, and, just like yesterday, I had to let loose on the straw. I hadn’t noticed it before, but yesterday’s straw had apparently been mucked out, along with some dirt. This was fresh straw.
The two guys did return with my breakfast bowls: oatmeal and water. Seems the only ray of hope I had was their promise I wouldn’t be killed or starved. Short of that, anything was fair game.
They both grinned at me as they set the bowls down.
“You’re good, boy. We had a good time last night. Let me say this, though, don’t you dare let on to anyone what happened. You wouldn’t like them consequences. You keep quiet about this and everything works out OK. Ya understand, boy?” Mr. First guy asked.
“Sir, yes, sir, I understand,” I duly answered. That was all I needed at this point, additional punishment.
They left and I dug into my breakfast on all fours. The collar’s weight was really heavy and put a strain on my back muscles as I lapped up the oatmeal. The water was fresh and cool.
When the guards came back the routine was the same. I was unchained from the overly heavy metal bondage gear, collared with a leash, allowed to take a crap, and taken to a small room for the day’s tortures.
The door to the room had a picture of a guy’s junk, no cock cage, but several wires attached menacingly to the lad’s dick. OK, electro-torture, electroCBT, whatever. I was truly scared now. This was something new to me. I had heard and read about it on the net, but couldn’t imagine how it must feel. The cold knot of fear congealed in my stomach.
A large group of men was already in the room. They were drinking coffee and munching on small sweets. A cheer went up as I was escorted in.
“Ah, Dickie-boy!” one of the execs from legal said. “Just in time for today’s fun. Take him over and strap him down on the table,” he added as orders to my escorts. As they were strapped me down, the exec addressed the two guards. “And don’t think you got away with all that hanky-panky last night in his stall. Did you forget about the video cams? You two will be suitably punished!”
I saw my two guards react to the discovery: their faces blanched. Well, well, guess there would be two status changes for the men. Come in as guards, leave as chastised vics. Knowing that did not make me feel any better. I guess I sort of liked them a bit, I mean, as far as guards go, but it was dumb of them to forget the CCTV all over the place. I mean, it was, like, a really wild session in the stall. Even I was curious to see the recording.
The guards were ordered out of the room and the Masters gathered around the long table with the slab of meat – me – strapped down on it. Then I remembered the guy’s name, O’Donnell, Lawrence O’Donnell, Esquire. Another guy rolled over a small metal cart from a corner of the room. There was a metal control unit, black, of course, with dials and switches on it. A small LCD monitor was attached to the top of the box. Someone plugged the thing in and the box and screen came to life.
O’Donnell held up two wire leads. One end was plugged into the box face, the other ended in small Velcro straps. “Guess where these go, Dickie-boy,” he taunted. I could feel other hands removing the metal cage thingy from my dick. I had a feeling of, like, relief, despite my fear. At last my cock was free! I wanted to get hard, but the fear of what was coming shut down the circuits. He rubbed some kind of jelly on my cockhead and at the base of my dick and then attached the Velcro straps. OK, I thought, so far, so good. I was surprised, however, when a wide medical-type of belt was attached low on my hips, just above my junk. It also had wires going back to the box.
“This set up is for delivering electricity to your handsome cock. Let me explain what we’re going to do,” he droned on. I felt like shouting for him to shut the hell up and torture me, but I held my peace.
“The box is actually a customized computer one of our brilliant engineers in tech support devised. The screen displays a bit of software he wrote that controls all sorts of things. We can obviously set the current and voltage, but it also controls the shape of the shock. We can go continuous, we can spike it hard, we can ramp up and down, all kinds of things. But it also has a unique feature residing in the belt on your hips. The belt picks up the smallest muscular movements in that area and can tell us how close you might be to a climax. Among the many fun things we’re going to do to you, you will be seriously edged. Do you know what edging is, boy?”
I shock my head no. All I could think of was the edge of a razor blade, which I sincerely hoped would not be used on my junk!
“It’s a fairly sophisticated form of torture which actually plays off your own sexual pleasure. As you will soon see, light electrical pulses to your dick are very pleasant sexually and your young man dick will follow its wiring and get nice and hard. You will enjoy that – ah, briefly. The program will continue to stimulate you until you’re ready to have a good ol’ young man cum. Your hips will start to pulse, getting ready for a faux fuck, and the belt will pick this up directly. Before you can cum, however, the voltage will spike up very high. You will, of course, scream from the pain, but the shot of pain will short-circuit the cum cycle, turn everything off, and your prized organ will quickly go flat. Then the voltage is dropped back to nice and pleasant and the cycle starts again. You get hard, you will get close to cum, the computer will pick this up and, BANG, you’re shot down again. Now, imagine this over and over. You will want to cum so badly you will start begging and crying for release. After an hour or so you’ll be screaming from anger and frustration. It’s an exquisite torture and we very much will enjoy it. But that’s not all, young man. Sounds like a late night infomercial for Ginzu knives, doesn’t it? Ha!”
There was laughter all around, but then he continued: “After the edging, which, as I said, can go on for an hour or more, then the computer program switches to the milking subroutine. You probably don’t know milking, either. At the end of edging, the computer will let you cum. I can tell you this, boy, it might be the biggest and most shattering cum in your life. You’ll go crazy with pleasure, as will we, but eventually your dick will go flat. That’s when the new subroutine kicks in. You’ll be stimulated again to get hard and you’ll be allowed to cum, but this time the cum will be accompanied by a strong electric shock which will turn the pleasure into intense pain. You’ll still cum, but it will not be to your liking. Then you go flat and the program revs your dick up again, on and on. Each cum will be excruciatingly painful. That’s called milking. And it’ll go on for an hour or so. Each climax will take longer, that’s just the way men are wired, but you will be forced each time to cum. Most guys run out of jism after three or four cycles. We collect the ejact and measure it. We’re betting you can produce a record amount. Those big balls of yours must be loaded with young man jizz. The real twist of this session is to turn what should be a very enjoyable pastime for a young man into a dreadful torture session. Clever, right?” he taunted at the end.
I didn’t think his question required an answer. Good God, I was now terrified. All my hopes for some kind of pleasure when the cock cage was removed were shattered. I should have known better. They told me it would be Hell Week for me.
“Gentlemen, let’s let Dickie-boy here stew a bit while we check in with the mailroom guys down the hall. I’ll set the controls for a mild tingle, but I’ll also set the alarm so he can’t cum,” O”Donnell said to the group.
There was a murmur of agreement and they all filed out. A minute later Arty came in. I thought I was going to stew in peace, whatever that meant, but Arty had his hairbrush and kept my nips in torment with the damned thing. I didn’t have much time to think about anything other than the renewed pain in my pecs.
Intro to Rough Electro
Looking back on this session I don’t know which was worse, the edging or the milking, or even the cross-over cum in between. Let me explain.
The straps holding me to the table were somewhat loose. My wrist and ankle cuffs were on tight, but the connecting straps were longer and allowed me more freedom of movement than the immob bondage the day before. I didn’t know what this should be the case, at least at first.
The Velcro straps on my dick were pleasantly pulsing and my now-uncaged cock was enjoying the freedom of a hardon. Oh, did that feel good! The pulsing was set high enough so I’d get a boner but low enough that I couldn’t get to cum.
When the covey of pervs returned, additional electrodes were attached to me. A painful set of pads were clamped onto my balls. Additional pads were put onto my abs and thighs; the pads had some kind of sticky stuff on them. Then the pads were further secured with strips of adhesive tape. All the pads had wires going back to the control box on the cart. They strung a wide belt loosely across my chest, just above the freakin’ pec pins. My head was secured with several wraps of cord through my mouth and around the table. This did immobilize my head as the cord was pulled quite tight and I was back to being gagged. They did not blindfold me.
Paine orchestrated the session. “And now we come to the electroCBT on our prized Dickie-boy. Notice the good sized hardon the boy has. Very studly. And those juicy balls, now clamped in and ready for roasting. Johnny suggested more pins in his stomach, right into his navel, and I think that’s a sterling idea before we get into edging. Johnny, do you have the pins?” he asked.
“Right here, sir. Good three inchers!” a voice said. I couldn’t move my head to see who it was but shortly John Harding from billing showed up in my field of vision. He held several pins in front of my face so I could see them. They were thicker than the ones still skewering my pecs and I didn’t like the idea of what he was going to do with them.
He lost no time. He was smiling like an idiot as he moved down to my middle and I could feel the initial prick of the metal tip. He slowly pushed the pin in and I felt the most extraordinary pain as the needle crunched through the cartilage in my navel and then broke through into my ab muscle. After the initial pain, it didn’t get much worse, but he inserted two more pins, each one generating a sickening spike of pain in my stomach, which radiated or connected somehow with my pec pegs.
Paine explained the sensations: “We’ve been told by some Oriental Masters that the navel is a central chi point right on the chest’s meridian. The pins are part of acupuncture, but the size we use generates pain, not curing.”
Gee, thanks, I thought. Nice to know why I’m ready to scream. Nothing further was done, so I guess this was a sideshow to the main event.
“Thank you, Johnny. Now we’ll proceed to the main event, edging Dickie-boy.”
I could feel the level of pulsing electricity ramp up and the pattern changed. Strong pulses alternated between the two straps. Good God, it felt like my dick was getting a hand job, an electric hand job. It did feel good. But then the pads on my abs were activated and my thick musculature was forced into a strong contraction, which held for several minutes until I had to scream from the cramping pain. Then they relaxed the muscles and I was left breathing heavy in relief.
The stroke of my dick was slowly being increased. I didn’t notice it at first, but now it was getting stronger and more rapid. I could feel my arousal moving along nicely. A good cum was suddenly on the horizon.
The stroking increased and I started to moan, this time in pleasure. Oh, it was wonderful, a measured ride up Sex Mountain, hands-free no less. Of course, I had completely forgotten about the sensor belt strapped around my hips. It was monitoring me all this time, plotting the incremental increases in hip muscle movement, watching me like an electronic perv. But I couldn’t resist basking in the warm feeling from my crotch, sexual fulfillment on its way, a wild young man cum coming up.
The pulsations increased yet again and I was starting to go a bit wild with pleasure and then I felt that special tingle, that special sign that the plumbing was primed, the stage was set, the climax was within reach – and then I screamed as an unbelievable bolt of pain exploded in my crotch. My dick and balls felt like they were shocked with a thousand volts. I pulled against the straps, writhing in frustration and pain. No, no, no! Let me cum! My brain screamed out. Don’t stop now!
But it did. The jolt disrupted the sex sequence and my brain was blown as my dick collapsed. OMG, I realized, this was edging: taking the vic just to the edge but absolutely not over. No cum for you, Dickie-boy! I could almost hear a school yard chant: “Nah, nah, nah! No cum for you today!”
I felt like I had been dropped onto the table from ten feet above it. Sweat broke out all over my body and I was in a fog of frustration and confusion. But then the silent stroking kicked in again, forcing my dick into another cycle of arousal and expectation. Again it felt so-o-o good. My dick loved the stimulation and did what millions of years of evolution had trained it to do: harden up and expect the best.
My moaning tracked the increase in pulsations. The stimulation was so realistic I could almost forget my hands were strapped to a torture table. I got so expectant, trusting the sex plumbing would explode in pleasure. Up, up, up the mountain the pulses pushed me. OK, boys, here it comes! Oh, yes, so close, so much pleasure. Yes, this is it!
“A-a-g-h! N-o-o-o!” I screamed as the thousand volts tore into my cock and balls. Everything stopped except the bolts of pain from my dick and balls – even my abs were shocked. I screamed and thrashed in the straps. No fair! You can’t do this! You can’t stop right at the end! I was totally bummed out and furious with their interference in what was shaking up to be a cum for the ages.
The electricity ramped down and my dick went totally flat. It was then that I heard the laughter and shouting going on around me. “Did you see him that time?” “Ha! Look at his face! He is not a happy pup!” “He actually thought this was it! What a dumb shit!”
What I didn’t know was that this was to go on for an hour or more. That’s edging. Each time I had hopes of a monster cum. Each time as I got near, the freakin’ computer found out and shot me down with a thousand volts. At least it felt like a thousand volts. It was enough to totally disrupt the normal sex sequence, enough to drive me crazy, enough to have me screaming, begging even, for release. My cock ached at this point and my balls were getting fried. I think they swelled up, or at least the pressure from the clamp electrodes hurt more. How much worse could this get?
Edging into Milking
Of course, it got much worse. The edging pattern was changed from the massive short-circuiting jolt to a more subtle approach. The computer would bring me close to cum and then slowed the stimulation way down. It didn’t stop, but went into low gear. This had the diabolical effect of keeping me close to cum but not allowing me to actually get there. It was maddening.
I was now screaming: “No-o-o! Let me cum!! PLEASE let me shoot!” The cord gag garbled everything, but every Master surrounding the table knew exactly what I was shouting out. The grinned in lustful pleasure as I agonized on the table. A guy’s whole sexual cycle is easy: flat dick, hardon, cum, back to flat. I was suspended on the knife edge between hardon and cum, ever so close to cum but denied the last inch. Not only denied, but kept there, deliberately. Everything nerve in my crotch was GO FOR LAUNCH, but the clever computer program wouldn’t allow it. I screamed for release, almost crying from the ache in my crotch. I’ve never felt such man-pain before.
Then I thought I heard someone say: “OK, let ‘er rip.”
I didn’t know what this meant but the feeling from my dick was sensational. The stimulations cranked up and I suddenly realized I was headed for one hell of a climax. The long denial was over, for some crazy reason my dick was getting stroked right on target. A massive wave of relief and anticipation washed over me as the plumbing inside my crotch finally shifted into high gear and the explosion came. I started to yell out “Yes! Ya!! Ya!” as the extreme pleasure of a massive cum peaked in my dick.
Just as the final release was started and I was ready for the cum of my life, the voltage shot up and my dick exploded in pain. The pads on my abs and thighs were shocked, sending the muscles into extreme cramp. I screamed from the agony and jerked like a madman against the straps. No, this couldn’t be happening I thought! No, let me cum! Stop the pain!
The shock continued beyond my climax, or at least it felt like that. The pleasure of the cum was completely eclipsed by the agony of the high voltage shocks. I had been cheated of pleasure once again and once again plunged into pain for the lustful pleasure of the Masters surrounding the table.
Everything stopped at that point. No more stimulation, no more patterns, nothing but the pain of a ruined cum. My body was covered in hot sweat and I collapsed on the table, no more struggling, just a zombie-like stillness.
To add to my misery the Masters were cheering and high-fiving each other. “Did you see that?!” “Man, did that hurt!” “Did you see the look on his face when the thing shocked him? That was one for the books!” were the comments from around the table.
Paine peered into my face: “My, oh, my. What a show! Now that that’s over, we can finish up with phase two, milking. You might like the first few times, but then it’s going to get rough.”
The stroking pulses started up again and my damned dick reacted according to its wiring. Very quickly I had another enforced hardon, but this time there was an ache deep inside my crotch, like the plumbing was protesting another attack. The program was diabolical and brought me again up the mountain, heading to the peak. The ache inside me grew stronger, but I couldn’t stop the inevitable push to climax. You can’t tell your dick not to cum when all the nerves are being so perfectly stimulated.
Then it happened. I had a series of big spurts of jism, flying wildly into the air, but there was no pleasure in it. It hurt! How can a cum hurt? I asked myself. This is supposed to feel good. I yelled out in pain as the deep ache spiked into acute torture.
There were more cheers from the Masters, more obscene comments. I was dazed but I thought some one was taking bets on something. Then I realized they were betting on how many times I could be forced to climax. “Ten bucks we get to five.” “He’s a fuckin’ stud, he’ll easily do a half dozen.” “No, I’m putting twenty on eight.”
Six? Eight? You mean I’m going to go through this again and again? That can’t be, I thought. No one can cum eight times in a row. That’s like science fiction.
My thoughts were interrupted by the computer program which was already beginning the next cycle. I tried to resist since the pain inside my crotch was really bad now, but ol’ Dickie-boy’s dickie-boy did what it wanted and again got hard. This time the hike up Sex Mountain was not at all quick. It took a good fifteen minutes to kick-start the cum. I did not want to cum but the computer program won and I was forced into yet another very painful climax. OMG did that one hurt! It felt like my jism was being sucked from my balls which had already been drained. Then the full meaning of the word milking crashed across my brain. My balls were being milked! Sucked dry!
Another cycle, this one taking a half hour. More pain, deep pain. I screamed from the agony. Another cycle, an hour. Then another. Each one took longer and prolonged the deep-seated agony. There were pulses to my abs and thighs, just for fun, just to add additional pain to the process. The clamp pads on my balls were stimulated. I could feel my nuts getting warmed up, being primed to produce more jism. They were already hurting with that scary nut-pain, like I was getting kicked in the balls.
By the fifth or sixth cycle my brin was fogged. Was it number eight? I had lost track and was drowning in an ocean of sex-pain like I had never felt or even imagined. My throat was getting raspy from screaming. My abs and thighs were aching from the cramps and my arms and legs hurt from my struggling and pulling against the straps.
Eventually they did stop. I found out later that I did make it to eight cums and I guess that one guy won his bet. I really didn’t care. When the torture stopped I drifted off into a deep sleep. Maybe I passed out. My last conscious thought was that sex for me would never be the same.
They didn’t let me sleep long. I was shaken awake, still strapped to the table. Something felt different in my crotch. The cock cage was still missing, and my dick was flat and flopped over onto my right hip. Then I realized that the electropads clamped to my balls had been removed. I couldn’t move my head to check; the cord gag was still in place. Some of the Masters were casually roaming their palms and fingers across my chest and legs. Pervs.
Then Paine came into my limited field of view. “Now that you’re awake, we’re ready for some baseball games. We call it ‘batting practice.’ The focus is your balls, which I must say are nicely sized and will provide much sport. So, just lay back, we’ll provide the entertainment. Feel free to scream.”
My sex plumbing ached like hell inside my crotch. The milking had been brutal. How perverted can you get, turning a wild pleasure like a good man-cum into an act of torture. So, what was going to happen now to my balls? They already ached from the milking. What was next?
I could feel a cord being tied around the base of my nut sack. Then someone pulled my balls out, way out from my crotch. “O-o-o-w!!” I screamed. Hands quickly attached some metal device to my stretched-out nut sack. I felt the cold metal close down around the skin, followed by a metallic click as a latch engaged. My sack was kept stretched out, pressing my balls down to the end. Hands eagerly palmed my nuts, hefting them, squeezing them. I grunted from the pain. Unfortunately, this was nothing like what was to come.
Paine’s unctuous voice chimed in again: “Ah, yes, now we’re ready. Batting practice lets the Masters who have a fixation on testicles have their special fun with our handsome young studs. As they say at the Olympics, ‘Let the games begin!’ Ha!”
A short wooden paddle was thrust in front of my eyes so I could see what was going to be used to torment me. A hand gripped the metal stretcher device and the batting practice began.
It started with gentle raps with the paddle to my precious nuts. Tap, tap, tap. I think I heard a few laughs from the assembled Masters around the table. The tapping increased in intensity. I grunted in time with the raps; it was starting to hurt. Every man knows the gut-wrenching feeling of ball pain. All my instincts were to try to double over. My abs were steel tensed in the effort to get into a fetal curl. The straps holding me down won, of course. Straps always win.
The tapping was escalating into a pounding. I thought I heard sounds of pleasure and awe from around the table, but I wasn’t so sure since I was now screaming from the pain, not in time with the blows, but random screams whenever I could catch my breath. “A-g-h! A-a—h!” filled the small room again, my own cries of agony, the primal animal trapped in pain. I was jerking like a madman now, pulling on the straps, trying to escape the torment. Hands still roamed over my body, my chest, tightened abs, quivering thighs.
It was an orgy of pain-lust on their part, a red ocean of ball pain on my part. I thought my balls would explode and be ruined forever. That primal gut-fear smashed through my brain. I know they said I wouldn’t be maimed, but how could I be sure? When an orgy starts, there’s no telling where it could go. I mean, I was just an employee. With their power and money they could cover up my disappearance in a snap. The pain mixed with total dread of what could happen to my poor nuts.
Normally this level of pain would have activated that special nerve connecting to my cock, ensuring a good hardon. I did feel sexually moved, but nothing happened. Dickie-boy’s dickie-boy just laid there, flopped over to the side. I realized later that it was flat out spent. The hours of milking had taken a toll. I sincerely hoped the price was right for this round and that it would come back to life later!
Then one of the scariest things I have ever seen. Someone held a baseball bat in front of me. A voice said: “That was warm up, boy. Now we’re into batting practice.”
NO! They couldn’t hit my balls with a freakin’ bat! Jesus, one swing and I’d have mush for nuts, neutered like an eggplant, ruined for the rest of my life! He moved away from my head and I pulled like a maniac on the straps, trying to get away from the most awful thing that can happen to a guy. But the worst was not to happen. It was somewhat for show and to fulfill their pun “batting practice.”
I felt the bat handle centered on my chest. The other end was raised up a few inches and someone held up the metal stretcher, making my nuts a prime target. Then the bat end was dropped! Deep pain fried my brain. I could hear my scream get ragged. It was a combination ball pain and fear. What if the guy made a mistake and the bat slipped a bit, what if he broke something inside my sack, what would happen if a vein or an artery got damaged and I bled to death? Pain and fear, an unbelievable combination. In regular S&M, safe and sane S&M, there’s fear but you know the Top will stay within the pre-agreed boundaries. With this crowd of nut cases, I wasn’t so sure. Pervs behaving badly!
The bat end height was gradually increased. I couldn’t see the final distance. I only knew the ball pain increased slowly but decisively until it reached agony. The batting practice continued, what, a half hour? Felt longer, of course, but that’s what I was told later.
My balls had swollen up and were throbbing with pain. They took the metal stretcher off, but that was no relief from the ache. The cord gag was removed, but I could hardly move my jaw. My mouth was dry from screaming and my throat hurt like hell. I looked down and saw my swollen nuts. At least they were still there, still in their sack, and, hopefully, still functional. The cock cage was put back on and locked. DieQual hung the key around his neck.
He helped me off the table. “Unbelievable, Dickie-boy, just unbelievable what you can take! Never saw anything like it,” he added.
I tried to answer thank you, but my mouth couldn’t sound out the words.
Another voice cut in: “Stop making him feel good, Harry. It’s late and we’re all hungry!” There were murmurs of agreement. “Get some guards in here and get him back to the barn. I need a drink!”
Two new guards came in. I didn’t know what happened to the other two. I was “escorted” back to the barn stall, given a minimal dinner, and then chained up for the night. No Jack Daniels, either. Cheap fuckers!
I was kicked awake after a fitful night. My inside sex plumbing and my balls ached like hell. My wrists and ankles were a bit raw from pulling on the straps. I guess I did sleep.
“Wake up, shit head!” the guard said. Then he put down my usual bowls of water and oatmeal. “Eat it up quick. They have big plans for you today,” he added. The horses whinnied at him as he left the barn.
It was painful for me to get off the floor onto all fours to eat, but I managed. He came back fairly quickly and I was glad I had scarfed down the meal. He unchained me, attached the collar and leash, and we went back to the motel. He didn’t say a word until we were in the building and even then it was sarcastic: “Enjoy your morning stretching exercises,” whatever that meant.
It sounded like some of the Masters were already at work. As the guard and I walked down the corridor of the motel wing I heard groans and screams from some of the rooms. The mailroom guys were getting worked over. I knew I would soon add my own screams.
We stopped at a door with a picture of a medieval dungeon, oil torches, dark stone walls and all. I came to a standstill when I entered the room and saw what was in the middle of it. Unlike the other rooms, this one was longer than wide. The length was needed to make room for a heavy wooden rack! It looked like something out of a time travel trip: thick wooden construction, dark wood, a large spool of chains at each end with smaller, spoked wheels at their base. The chains ended in leather cuffs, probably the only modern element on the device. I thought real racks had metal cuffs. Like it really mattered! I was going to get racked!
There were four Masters in the room, off to one side. They cheered slightly as I entered and froze in my steps. DieQual, my boss, was one of them. He and another guy had changed out of their leathers and were now wearing goofy executioner-style outfits: tight black calf-length breeches, bare chests, and black half hoods. The other two guys appeared to be wearing nothing but long plastic aprons and high boots. I got the executioner outfits, but the aprons? Butchers? Whatever. My thoughts quickly turned into dread as I was led over to the rack and told to get up on it.
“Now, stretch your hands over your head,” Die Qual ordered.
Like an idiot I replied: “Sir,yes, sir.” Already I was trained in proper slave behavior without consciously acknowledging it.
The leather cuffs were strapped to my wrists and ankles. They were more like half-gloves than cuffs. I think the design was chosen to not cut off circulation under stress, something like that. How considerate. We wouldn’t want his blood flow cut off, would we, while we pull his body apart!
The rough wood of the rack table scraped my back and my dread meter was now pegged at terror. I mean, everyone has seen B Grade movies where the hero or some spy gets a workout on a rack. They scream and struggle, but it’s all fake, of course. It’s a movie. This was going to be real.
Nobody said anything further as they went to work, two at each end, turning the small wheel with the big spokes sticking out. There was a lot of clanking and clicking. The small wheels were cogged and passed under a ratchet which would prevent the wheel from moving back once engaged.
Suddenly I felt the tugging on my feet as the chains down there went taut. They stopped turning the wheel. Then my arms were pulled until the slack was out of those chains. My chest was pulled up and expanded, while my stomach was pulled in by the initial stretch.
DieQual moved closer to my head so I could see him. “Now we’re ready to begin, Dickie-boy. We are all interested to see how much you can take on the rack. Just to remind you, so you don’t go crazy on us, although this rack could indeed pull your arms and legs off your body, we won’t do that. It will just feel like it!” he added with a smirk. “Feel free to scream, as we like to say.”
The stretching began. Each team slowly turned the smaller drive wheel at their end of the rack. There was an interplay of clicks from the ratchets. I felt the tension mounting in my hips and shoulders, slightly painful. My shoulders and ass stung from being dragged across the rough wood. I felt a sharp stab in my right calf, like a splinter had punctured the skin.
Then the team at my feet left that end of the rack and came up to the head, joining DieQual and his buddy.
“Now we’re ready to really begin. Your legs are in place and we will do all the stretching at this end so we can all see your reactions. I must say you are quite a sight stretched out on the platform. We certainly made a good choice in selecting you for our games!”
I wanted to say something nasty, but under the circumstances that would have been not very useful. So I just gritted my teeth and try to steel myself for what was to come.
It came. Click, click, click. The tension in my shoulders jumped up and now my elbows and wrists were hurting. My hips were also aching. I tried to twist and turn on the platform and I had to groan from the pain. The nature of this novel torture was taking shape now. Who knew what it would feel like to get racked? It wasn’t so much muscular pain; they could take stretching, except for my abs which were still sore from the gut punching. This new pain was centered in the joints as the tendons, which are not elastic, are lengthened abnormally like a sprained shoulder. It’s a deep pain, but, like a sprain, not totally unfamiliar. The dreadful part is the gradual but unstoppable increase as the rack does its job.
Click, click, click. Each ratchet fall announced the increase in pain level. It was weird: The intensity sort of moved around from joint to joint. I was in serious pain now, my face was distorted in agony. A groan wasn’t enough and I started to yell out.
Then the strangest, least expected thing happened: a new pain appeared. It was centered in my lower spine, not too far from my hips. I hadn’t realized my spine was being stretched also, and I guess there was a weakened spot there that took all the stress. It started off small but quickly escalated way up until it matched and then exceeded all the joint pains. Sweat broke out all over my body as a kind of gut fear reaction.
Click, click, click. This was real bad now. My back felt like someone was hammering in a spike and I went into full-throat scream, primal animal mode. I expected more clicks and was wondering how I could handle an insane level of torture, but there were no more clicks. Instead, hands started to move all over my body, prodding and pushing into my muscles, testing their tautness, feeling out the distended joints, even tweaking my poor nips. The Masters had reached the torture-as-lust-nectar stage where every detail of the poor suffering stud had to be identified and examined and prodded. Someone even stuck their fingers in my mouth, wide open from screaming.
I was in mind-fog, so I don’t know how long this obscene worship of my body went on for, but the only plus was no further stretching, no more clicks. Amidst the torment, a tiny voice in my head boasted my survival. They hadn’t broken me, even on the rack, which is supposed to break any man. I also was thinking they came damned close! All the focused tortures had been really rough. My nips and balls were still hurting from the abuse, but this was body-wide, EVERYTHING hurt. If I had some secret spy information and this was a medieval castle, I’d be real close to spilling my guts. If I were a heretic, I’d sure mend my ways in short order.
All good tortures must come to an end, which is often the only thought that keeps you sane. And this one ended, again, after I don’t know how long. I heard the ratchets being lifted from their current cogs, the big wheels creaked as they turned in their supports, and all four chains slackened. I still had my arms out overhead, but at least they were still attached to my shoulders. The pain in my spine lessened but did not go away.
DieQual broke into my trance: “Oh, my, that was most excellent! I think we’ve hit a high note here. We didn’t tell you ahead of time, but there’s a small stretch gauge at this end of the rack and you made it up to four and a half inches! That’s a new record, Dickie-boy!”
I said nothing. What was there to say? Thank you for not pulling my limbs off my body? Thank you again, sir, for testing my self-control and my sanity? I was getting really tired of this torture-the-stud game. Anger welled up so I just glared at him. He smiled a bit, and then the four of them abruptly left the room. I was left a sweaty, achy mess; still strung out on a medieval rack; naked under the bright lights; and fully aware of the blinking red eye of the videocam facing me from a corner of the room. I wanted to try to spit at it, but it was too far away and my mouth was still dry from screaming. I know it might sound crazy considering my position, but I think I dozed off a bit.
My tormentors eventually came back and released me from the rack cuffs. They had all changed back into their leather Masters gear. They helped me off the rack table and waited a moment as I got my balance back. I was still angry with this whole thing, but I was reluctant to show it lest they take it out on me with yet more pain. We left the rack room and headed for the main dining room.
I could hear the loud buzz of voices as we approached. A cheer went up as we entered the room. I suddenly stopped walking, froze in my steps again, when I saw the center of the room.
The two guys from the mail room, whom I had not seen all during the retreat, were chained from the ceiling, arms straight overhead, bodies right next to each’n other. They were both muscular young studs, younger than me and prime meat for the retreat. A few feet away my two previous guards were also strung up, wrists chained overhead, bodies directly against each’n other, chest to chest. Like me, all four were naked, and their sweaty skin glistened in the bright ceiling lights.
My guards pushed me to the center, right against the guys from the mailroom. My arms were stretched out and my wrists were shackled in metal cuffs. Then I felt the chains lifting my arms up farther until I was standing on the balls of my feet. This really hurt. My shoulder and arm joints were still raw from the racking.
Jacob Paine, CEO, came up from the crowd. “Welcome to our final session, gentlemen,” he said, addressing the other Masters. “As we usually do, we will have a threesome session with our three studs as star attractions. Today, however, we also have a side show. Two of our guards violated our code of conduct the other night, thinking they could get away with abusing our Dickie-boy here, but they stupidly forgot about the CCTV coverage. So they will be punished also.”
Then he turned to us: “We are going to whip the three of you, ah, no, the five of you, while you are bound together. You will feel the other guy getting the lash and they will feel your torment. The way we do this is for all of us Masters to randomly whip any of you. Each of us will use their favorite type of whip, and we will circulate around you to vary your punishment. We’ll take a break for refreshment, and then go back for round two. We will continue to whip the five of you until we decide to stop. You will then hang there while we have our parting luncheon. Some Members might decide to abuse you further for dessert. That’s their choice. Feel free to scream and curse. That always adds to the excitement. Then you will be taken down and released. For this whipping you will all get a $5000 bonus, maybe more if we like your spunk,” he added looking directly at me.
OMG, I thought, the end is in sight. Only one more session of pain to go and then it’s over. Can’t believe it! It’s like the feeling that a nightmare is ending – except we have one more scene of the nightmare to endure, one more torture session. Or was it two he said? Or would it be three if our asses were dessert? Didn’t matter. The end was at least in sight.
Arty, Mr. Hairbrush Man, was moving among the Masters, distributing whips of various kinds. I saw long bullwhips, several single tails, and, I think, two cat-o-nine-tails. I winced when I saw two Masters select long, thin canes. Two other guys had riding crops and were wearing leather breeches.
Our legs and thighs were pulled in together and tied off with rope. This put all three of us pressing against each’n other, hips to hips, chest to chest, crotch to crotch. The mailroom guys were wearing cock cages, too, and they all clanked together. The two guards were tightly pressed against each’n other. It was a totally sexy scene, but there would be no pleasure on our part, just the incredible pain of a whipping.
A staffer appeared with a tray of wine and most of the Masters stopped to imbibe while they lustily eyed the five of us and discussed their whipping strategies. The bull whippers needed the most room, the caners and riding croppers the least, but things had to be set up so the latter Masters were not within the scope of the bull whips. I was hoping some of them would get accidentally slashed by their own fellow Masters, but they had already worked that out in many previous sessions.
The discussions finally died down and the Masters assembled around us in a very loose circle. On a cue from Paine, they all cracked their various whips into the air or against their leather-clad legs or the floor. The snapping leathers made a sudden din and I felt my companions jerk in the bondage from sudden fright. I jumped, too. The sound was loud and menacing. We all knew the next targets of the whips would be us and there was no escape. My stomach froze again in fear. Then the Masters laid into our backs with their whips.
The session was a cacophony of whooshes through the air, leathers splatting into muscle, and ceaseless man-screams, full throated wails of agony from the five of us. Separate cries of “A-g-h!” “No-o-o!” “STOP!” filled the large dining room. I could feel my mates jerking and struggling along with me as our backs were welted by the whips. My own back was searing with pain as the leather tails tore into it. It was impossible to know which whip was landing; they all hurt. I did know when the canes were used on my ass. The intensity and brutality of that pain is unmistakable.
I heard the unique crack of the bull whips, loud and scary, followed by a bellow of agony. The smaller whips whooshed more quickly. The canes sliced the air loudly since they were so thin. The random staccato of leather splatting onto flesh, followed by agonized screams, my own included, made the room sound like bedlam, an out-of-control orgy of pain, a scene from Hell. The three of us were screaming right into each’n other’s faces. I could see their looks of agony. One of the mailroom guys was crying like a baby in between gasps for air and sudden howls of pain. We were all sweating in the warm room from our pulling against the bondage and jerking from sudden explosions of pain in our back and asses. Where our bodies were pressed together the skin was slippery and hot. My ears were hurting from my own screams combined with the wails from the other four guys.
I have never heard such a din of torture. Even in the large room, the sound levels were incredible. Whoosh, splat, scream, different whoosh, different splat, same scream or worse. As usual during torture, you lose track of time. Time seems to stop. You’re suspended in an unending round of jolting spikes of pain, spaced so unevenly there is no way to predict what will happen. Sometimes there a break of five or ten seconds and you can get your breath. Other times the spikes of pain pound into your brain in rapid succession and your screaming somehow feels like it’s getting disconnected from your breathing. You lose control of your body; it goes into autopilot mode, basic survival instincts kicking in, primal patterns taking over.
And then it stopped.
We were left hanging from the chains, breathing shallow and fast, slowing returning to sanity. I looked at my chain-mates. The one guy was still sobbing, although quietly now. His head was bowed. The other guy just returned my look, despair and agony in his eyes. We were pressed so close together I could feel them breathing, feel random muscles trembling, feel the streams of sweat running freely down our bodies, even dripping off the cock cages. My right thigh was quivering on its own. I couldn’t stop it.
My back and ass were on fire from the whip lashes and cane strokes. All of the lashes had been expertly aimed. There wasn’t a scratch on my neck or arms. But between my shoulders and my ass cheeks there was a solid sheet of raw agony.
Paine addressed the group: “Good work, gentlemen. Excellent and precise lashing. I’m sure you feel as I do, I’m exhausted from all the work! Let’s take a break and then we’ll resume with the ass focus.”
Another cheer went up. Arty collected the whips from the Masters. Several bare-chested staffers appeared with goblets of red and white wine and assorted cheeses. They murmured among themselves as they ate and drank. We hung there speechless, mixed with relief for the break and dread for whatever would shortly resume. The proximity to my two chain mates was a very sexy experience for me. I’d seen the guys in the mailroom and noted their good builds, but I had no idea I’d ever be hanging pressed against them – arms, legs, chests – in a torture scene.
My resolve to hold up under the torture welled up in me. I managed to quietly say: “Hold on, guys. It’s almost over.” At least the one guy had stopped sobbing. He looked up with tearful eyes and nodded his head in agreement. The other guy now had a defiant look, which I had to admire after all we had been through. The two guards hanging next to us were cursing under their breath and I couldn’t much make out what they were saying.
All the while the Masters sipped their wine and ate delicate cheeses while they looked at us with lust glinting in their eyes.
The five of us hung there, sweating, recovering our breath, bodies still stinging from the lashings, wondering what agonies and torments Round Two would bring.
Finale, Round Two
When I saw Mr. Hairbrush come back into the dining room my dread meter pegged out. He was carrying an assortment of paddles, belts, and canes. There were fake fraternity paddles with Greek letters on it. Then again I wouldn’t have known if they were fake or real fraternities; I wasn’t into that crowd in college. All I cared about was that they were long, thick, wooden paddles. A few had holes drilled in the wood. I had no idea what that was for. One had raised metal points on it and looked like a medieval weapon of war. There were leather belts, but not regular clothes belts. These were thicker and wider. And then the canes, the freakin’, fuckin’ canes, the deadliest of all. Two had been used on us in the first round, and I knew we would be blistered again in round two.
Mr. Snowden addressed the group, which drew into a tighter circle around us after they had selected their torture tools from Arty. “Gentlemen, this final round, as per our custom, will focus on the slaves’ asses, including our miscreant guards over there,” he added. “We all got some good strokes in earlier, and I see some red asses over there, but this time you are free to go to blood. We’ll patch them up before discharge, but in the meantime, I want you to enjoy this final round of entertainment. We heard some good yelling earlier, but this time let’s go for broke and make these guys howl!” He smiled at the group and they cheered in response, brandishing their paddles, belts, and canes like party favors.
The Masters returned wine goblets to waiting staffers and formed a tight circle around us. OK, I told myself, we were ground zero again and this was going to be very rough. At least it was the last “session,” as they called it.
The beating started. I was hit with a wooden paddle, which made a loud splaaating sound on my ass cheeks. I twisted my face in pain and gave a loud grunt. Of course, they were just getting started. The next lash was from a belt, I guess. It wrapped across my ass cheeks and around a hip, where the tip of the belt dug in especially painfully. OK, so I yelled, as did the other four guys. Once again the dining room was filled with the din of torture: whooshes, splats, screams, an irregular chorus of torture and pain. “A-g-h!! A-a-a-h! No-o-o-o!” filled the large dining room.
The other two guys pressed against me screamed, writhed in pain, and jerked spastically when they were hit. I guess I did the same, I don’t know. The “blur” of torture was setting in where you lose track of the time and are trapped in an unending NOW of agony. The only punctuation was the strokes from the canes, that uniquely spiking pain that blisters your ass and your brain. I lost control and pissed myself. I think one of the other guys did, too. If it weren’t for the big dildo, I would have crapped.
The orgy of agony went on and on. I know my ass was bleeding from open welts. I could tell because the pain in my ass was unbelievably high, not just spanking level, but well into agony. I found out later that the belts and paddles inflame the skin, producing wide, angry welts. It’s the canes that do the most damage. The narrow focus of force not only makes welts, but they’re deep and often break right through the skin. I knew this from my earlier years with my strict father. A caning from him was almost worse than a horse whipping. Maybe it was a toss up: when you’re getting whipped, that’s the worse; when you’re getting canned, well, now that’s the worse. Then I thought: who the fuck cares! All I have to do right now is keep my sanity, scream my guts out, yes, but keep my sanity.
I found out afterwards that this second round went on for a good half hour. I was shredded when they finally stopped. I looked down and saw sweat and blood running down my legs in rivulets, twisting and turning through my leg hair, mixing with the pool of piss on the floor. The guy on my right was crying again, head lowered. The guy on my left, well, his face was ashen like he was ready to pass out. I didn’t bother to look at the two guards. At this point, after severe torture, you don’t care about anybody or anything, other than the thought that somehow you survived. And that it was finally over, as in totally over, no more torture, soon to be free to leave this hell hole, soon to return to the real world.
Paine interrupted my thoughts: “Ah, wonderful, wonderful! Gentlemen, we had one of the best finales in months. I think we should bring these three back, right?”
Cheers and whistles filled the dining room. My heart sank at the prospect of going through this all over again. Good Lord, these guys were true pervs! I realized I really would not be returning to my normal world; that was changed forever, gone for good. I’d live in constant dread of when the next summons would show up on my desk, the next fake executive retreat. I sagged against my wrist chains, my hopes shattered. The only bright note was that I did survive, I did take all their crap, they did not break me, they did not reduce me to a blubbering child. The only problem with this was that I’d have to do it all over again some unknown time in the future, another round of Hell Week.
The Masters returned their torture toys back to Arty and went over to the big dining table already set with a profusion of glassware, silverware, and small bowls of flowers. Bare-chested staffers quickly poured more wine and then the food came out in sumptuous abundance. The smell alone was driving me crazy!
Asses for Dessert
We hung there for a good hour while the Masters’ feasted at their final luncheon. There was loud talking, bursts of laughter, toasts to this and that, until the meal was finally over and the dishes were being cleared. There was another round of wine, along with a few liqueur selections, and then Paine stood up: “I always enjoy our final luncheon, although it is regrettably final for this retreat. I’m not sure when we’ll have the next one, probably in a few months. The conditions might change a bit if this virus thing gets bad, but we’ll have to see. Luckily our stud guests will be less susceptible to it, even in their current weakened condition. Some rest, some food, and they’ll be right as rain. But, for now, we will have dessert. The selection of desserts is hanging right over there, five prime asses for your pleasure, all bloodied over and ripe for abuse and humiliation. As usual, form lines behind your selection, but I do have to invoke senior executive privilege here since I’m picking Dickie-boy over there. I will be joined by Snowden and Harry DieQual, all IT guys who have observed Dickie-boy for weeks now and who will be monitoring him when we get back to Houston. Other than that, please feel free to pick your pleasure over there!”
More cheers as the Masters left the table and came over to where we were still hanging from the ceiling. I’ll skip the details here, you already know what happens when a guy’s ass is primed for abuse. There was a lot more screaming, only this time there were two kinds: young men screaming from pain and humiliation, and older men yelling out their pleasure. We were reduced to sub-meat-things, objects for abuse and painful degradation. I think the three of us on the receiving end all cried a bit. It was so totally debasing. I don’t know how the guards reacted and I didn’t care.
After their dessert, we were taken down from the bondage chains. Additional tables had been brought in and we were each directed to lay down on our stomachs on a table. The table tops had pads and white sheets overing the pads. All the Masters left the room, again laughing and talking loudly as they zipped up their leather pants or adjusted their leather jocks back in place.
Staffers and the Masters’ slave cadre then administered to our lashes and wounds. The blood was wiped away, soothing salves were applied, and large patch bandages were taped to our asses. This rather surprised me, but it was certainly welcome. The also put salve on our wrists which had been rubbed a bit raw from all the struggling.
Then the three of us were astounded when we were beckoned to the dining table and a very nice lunch was served. The two guards left the dining room; I don’t know what happened to them. We had sandwiches and side salads, a few beers each, but no wine or heavy spirits. We were very hungry at this point and there was no conversation. Frankly I was a bit embarrassed to be sitting there with three naked guys who had all been through a humiliating and debasing parting shot from the Masters.
Discharge from Hell Week
After our lunch, Snowden and Paine returned to the dining room. My little flame of hope after the food and beer didn’t last long.
“So, now that we’re at the end this week’s fun and games, perhaps you’re wondering what happens when we all return to work,” Exec VP Snowden said to us. “When we’re done here, you will be allowed to put on your original clothing and we will prepare for departure. There are some changes, however, that we need to make to ensure your silence – and your continued cooperation. You will be fitted out with special, ah, devices, clever things that will keep us entertained, even at work.”
While he was speaking, three of the Masters came into the room. Each was carrying something different. Snowden continued the speech: “First of all, boys, you will keep the cock cages on. They are locked, as you have discovered, and cannot be removed without major damage to your junk, so don’t even try. The keys will be held by one of us, but you won’t know who. That means you will have to treat us all the same: be nice, polite, courteous, and, above all, submissive. You will eventually be released from the cock cages, but you won’t know when until it actually happens.
“In the meantime, we have a special treat for each of you. My associates here each have a special training device for you, specifically chosen for each of you as we observed your reactions to the various games we played.”
He looked directly at me, and my boss, DieQual, stepped forward with some type of black harness thing. There were two rounded boxes on one of the straps. DieQual slipped the harness over my head and adjusted it to fit across my chest and shoulders. This put the two strange boxes directly over my nipples. Then he showed me two padlocks. I heard one clink on onto the harness in the back and watched as he put one in front, securing the two chest pieces together after he tightened the harness snugly around my chest.
“So, then, slave Dickie-boy,” he said, looking at me. “You have shown us particular sensitivity to your nips, which, I might add, are fine examples of manhood in themselves. This harness will stay on, like the cock cage, until we decide to take it off. It’s plastic, so you will be able to shower with it on. The little boxes? They are remote control electrical stimulators. They have a very wide coverage range. What is it, Max?” he asked.
A voice from the group answered: “Two miles, Harry”
“Thank you,” DieQual replied. “We all have activators. In fact, you other two slaves will also get remote devices, which we will affix after we’re done with Dickie-boy here. Listen up, however, since you’re going to be subject to the same regimen.
“So, here’s what’s in store,” he continued. “Anytime we are at work, any one of us can press any of the three activator buttons and one of you will get zapped with rather severe pain. The fun part of the game is that you’ll have no idea when this will happen. It could be in the middle of a meeting, or while you’re at your desk, even in the men’s room. We really don’t care because we will all know that something very nasty is happening when we press the button and you simply have to deal with it best you can. Great game, no?” he asked sarcastically.
None of us nodded our heads.
“With the wide range, we can also torment you at home. All three of you live close enough to the office that, if we stay over at night, we can continue to torment you unpredictably. I love to wake my guys up in the middle of the night with excruciating pain and imagine them hollering their guts out in bed! Ha!”
“You have only two things you have to do in the game. One is to keep the batteries fully charged in the devices. For that you will have to hook them up to your computers at least every other day. The devices also report back on battery level and if we see it dipping down too far, we will intervene and shock the living piss out of you until you plug the device in and recharge it. Even if you try to run the battery down, there is always a reserve charge that will bring you to your knees. Your other task is to take the pain, buck up like a good slave should. As we say here, ‘feel free to scream.’”
By this time DieQual had adjusted the harness buckles until the whole thing fit very tightly on my shoulders and chest. “The harness will be visible when you wear your tight dress shirts at work, of course. You are to tell any questioners it’s a shoulder brace to treat an old football injury. Got that?” he demanded.
“Sir, yes, Sir,” I replied, scared to upset the guy in any way but also wanting to know more. That came quickly.
“I’m going to show you how it works, Dickie-boy,” DieQual said, removing a black remote controller from his pocket. He held it up in front of my face. “See these three red buttons? You’re number 1. And this little knob down here controls the intensity. It goes from 1 to 5. Let me show you #1.”
He turned the dial, I guess to #1, and then made a big show out of holding the remote up and pressing the red button. It felt like someone had my nips in metal pincers and chomped down. The pain was intense, but by no means “excruciating.” I winced and gasped a bit.
“That’s just a start. We don’t use #1 very much,” he said, grinning into my face.
I wanted to smash his jaw in with my fist but thought that would not help my cause.
“Very good, very good,” Payne said. “So, that’s dickie boy’s situation. Let’s move on to troy-boy.”
The guy from accounting stepped up with a small, curved metal device, also equipped with a box. The box end had a metal ring. There was a lock hanging through the ring, which he unlocked. He forced Troy Calhoun, their #2, to spread his legs as far as he could, stretching out the chain between his ankles. Then he locked the ring onto the bottom of Troy’s cock cage. The other end of the curved metal piece had a large metal ball, which he lubed up and forced against Troy’s ass hole. The metal arc was not very long, and it was a painful strain to stretch out Troy’s asshole muscle to accommodate the ball. Finally, with a loud grunt from Troy, the ball went in.
Then the guy explained the whole thing to Troy: “Your device is also a remotely controlled shocker. Your cock cage and the metal piece to your ass will conduct the current and it will hurt very nicely. The ball has to stay in your ass or the thing automatically shocks you until you put it back. With the stretch, there’s enough clearance for you to crap freely, but I do warn you, if the ball slips out you’d better get it back in pronto unless you want to be forced to the floor in agony. You have five seconds to re-insert. Just like dickie boy, you will wear this until we decide otherwise and we look forward to watching you react at work when someone decides they need some entertainment.”
Then he gave Troy a sample of what the device could do, I guess using the #1 setting. Troy gasped loudly and almost doubled over when his button was pressed.
The third slave was Gary Loveland, the other guy from the mailroom. Gary was built like a linebacker and had sex plumbing to match. His cock cage was noticeably bigger than ours and even then cock flesh swelled out between the metal bars of the cage. I mentally winced when I though of what he must feel when his monster man hose started to react. Oof! That had to smart.
His torment device was a small metal can which fit tightly over his big balls. Once his balls were in the can, a special lid was screwed on. There was a slot in the top for his scrotum skin. The remote receiver box was attached to the lid. The whole thing was bulky and I’m sure would be very uncomfortable to wear continuously. I thought the metal can was a ball shocker, but I was wrong when Gary’s Master explained.
“And you, my wonderful, big slave boy, get a device appropriate to your endowment. Your balls are sealed within the cylinder and the lid has a piston built into it. When the remote is activated, the piston is driven by a small but quite powerful motor which will start to push against your balls, crushing them against the bottom of the cylinder. The knob on our remotes regulates how far the piston moves. Let me show you the #1 setting.”
He held up his remote in front of Gary and we held our breaths as he pushed the red button. Gary screamed from the pain and, like Troy, doubled over in agony. Whoa, I thought. If that was #1, I wouldn’t want to be around for a higher setting. The poor big guy was going to go through hell – just like me and Troy.
It didn’t take much thought to realize that the three of us, and God knows how many other poor slobs at the company, were being forced into lives of torment. It was totally certain we would continue to be tortured, even after the past three days. What was uncertain was the timing and intensity. That was truly diabolical, which surely was their intent. We would be doing our jobs every day, scared shitless of a sudden burst of pain, constantly thinking of getting tortured, constantly seeing ourselves as slave meat to be tormented. The locks on the devices of torment on our bodies ensured there was no escape.
A sudden thought did flash across my mind. I could get a bolt cutter from a hardware store and take all this shit off me by cutting through the leather harness and heavy metal cock cage. My face must have revealed my intention.
“Don’t even think of removing any of the devices,” Payne said quite menacingly. “There are failsafe sensors in the boxes which will detect a disconnect. We have a special squad of men on alert for such an event. They will be at your door in minutes if the sensors are activated. Trust me, you won’t like what they will do to you as punishment. Do you doubt me? Remember you work for a high tech company. Two of our club members are very bright engineers and they have equipped those boxes with a lot of circuitry you can’t even imagine.”
“There’s actually some features which will protect you,” he continued, smiling brightly like this was wonderful news. “There’s a GPS, of course, which allows us to track you anywhere, but it also serves as a motion detector. You will never get zapped while you’re driving a car or on your motorcycle,” he said, directing the last comment to me. “We wouldn’t want you to get hurt,” he added, laughing.
”And, finally,” he continued on. “There’s an automatic feature built into the boxes. Even without activation by a club member, you will get a reminder zap every now and then. It’s totally random in frequency and intensity. It’ll keep you on your toes – or on your knees. Depends on the shock level,” he added, again laughing at his little joke.
Then he turned his attention to the crowd of pervs surrounding us: “Well, gentlemen, we come to the end of a very successful executive retreat. There are more refreshments in the locker room as you change back into your civilian clothes.”
Paine looked at the three of us. “Your clothes will be returned to you, minus the shirts. You’ll have to go home bare chested, just for the fun of it. Don’t worry about riding your motorcycle, Dickie-boy,” he said to me. “You will not get shocked on your bike. That would endanger your life and all our plans for you would have been wasted. As I said, there’s a GPS in the boxes, so we’ll know when you’re home.”
“Sir, Sir, may I ask a question?” I piped up.
Paine raised an eyebrow, indicating I could.
“Sir, what about my leather jacket, Sir? It cost a lot. Can I have it back, Sir, if’n I promise not to wear it home, Sir? Please, Sir?”
He hesitated for a moment. Someone in the small remaining group yelled out: “Give him his jacket, Fred. He put on one hell of a show. But put a time lock on it.”
“Good idea, Paul,” Payne said. “Oh, I forgot,” he continued, looking at me. “We made a slight modification to your leather cycle pants. I don’t think you’ll mind.”
He didn’t specify any further. We followed one of the skinny Dubna staffers to a side room where our clothes were waiting for us. Gary and Troy put on their pants and shoes. As promised, there were no shirts. I put on my riding pants and immediately noticed that the seat of the pants had been split open. There was a neatly hemmed 6 inch slit right over my crack and asshole. Oh man, I thought, how am I going to wear these around? The pants were also altered in terms of size. The legs had been taken in and there was a strip of strong elastic down the outside of each pant leg. I squeezed into the pants which now fit me like a second skin. It was also tighter around my hips, which pulled the ass slit apart. There was no way I could cover my crack! This was going to be something!
One of the staffers came in with my jacket, which had been neatly folded up into a small packet. The packet was tied up like a birthday present, but with thin chains instead of ribbon. There was an electronic lock where the chains came together and I saw that it was a count down timer set for six hours, more than enough time for me to get back to Houston.
The remaining club members left us. I turned to my companions. “Well, guys, I think we’ve been properly fucked. I don’t see any way out of this shit, do you?”
They both shook their heads.
Then big Gary spoke up: “We might as well just accept it and go along with these lunatics. I like my job in the mail room and I want to keep it. The work is easy, pay is good, and we all have a fat benie package. So we get shocked every now and then. And the fuckin’ pervs leer at us. Maybe we’ll even wind up back here for another ‘retreat.’” He finger quoted the last word.
“You’re right, man,” Troy said. “We’re fucked. Hey,” he perked up. “Maybe we can wrangle this into a promotion! Wouldn’t that be sweet!”
“Jesus, Troy,” Gary replied. “You are one hell of an optimist. Who knows? Maybe we’ll actually get used to all this stuff. I’m all for getting more bonuses and I’d do whatever the pervs wanted if They deliver on the money.”
“’Show me the money!’” I quipped. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Maybe we’ll actually get used to it.”
We shook hands and the two of them left. I had a problem I needed to resolve. Against my better judgment I sought out DieQual. He was chatting with a few other Masters in the reception area.
“Sir,” I said, trying to be as polite as possible, “Can I have a private word with you, sir?”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise, but nodded affirmative. He beckoned me to a small side office.
“So, what’s on your mind, Dickie-boy?” he asked. “Got a problem with the nip shockers?”
“No, sir, no, nothing like that, sir. I’m just concerned about riding my Harley back to Houston. The other guys came in their own cars and with no shirt on they can still hide their backs in the driver’s seat. I can’t, sir. All I need is for someone to see my striped back and call the state cops, sir, and that could easily happen, sir, so I’m asking, sir, if I can hang around here until tonight and ride back in the dark. It’s no guarantee, sir, but I think my chances are better at night.” I quickly added “Sir.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Let me check with Jake on this, boy. It’s a highly unusual request but I have something in mind he might go along with. Look, you stay right here and I’ll be back with an answer. In the meantime, strip off those boots and pants.”
“Sir, yes, sir,” I replied as required. What could he have in mind? I thought the tortures were all done. I was wrong.
My boss, Mr. DieQual, came back fifteen minutes later. I had removed my boots and stripped off the now-skin-tight riding pants. Both he and Mr. Paine entered the room. I stood loosely at attention, trying to be a good boy.
Paine looked me up and down and then said: “Harry has come up with a brilliant idea. You wanted to wait for nightfall, and that certainly makes sense. We can’t have some cop questioning you about where you’ve been. Just seeing the welts on your back would probably land you in the hospital, again something we do not want. So, yes, you can stay here as late as you want. We do need you to leave today, however.”
“Thank you, sir!” I said quite relieved I wouldn’t have to ride during the day. “I do appreciate the option, sir,” I added.”
“Well, maybe you will and maybe you won’t,” DieQual jumped in.
“Sir?” I asked. What was he getting at?
“It’s simple,” Paine answered. “You can stay here but you’re going to be put in a chain gang breaking rocks until we decide you can stop. You’ll be joining the two guards who were disciplined with you. The lashing was only part of their punishment. The two of them are chained up like prisoners and they’re breaking rocks just like prisoners. You’ll fit right in,” he added with a grim smile. I made no answer, but I think my face blanched a bit.
“We need to stop in one of the equipment rooms, boy,” DieQual said. “Follow me.”
“Have fun, Dickie-boy,” Paine called out as we left the room.
“Sir, yes, sir!” I answered, leaving my boots and pants on the office floor. OK, I thought, what the fuck did you get yourself into this time!
I followed my boss down the corridor and he opened the door to a room near the end. I followed him in. On the walls were all kinds of S&M gadgets and equipment. Hoods, gags, whips of all kinds, hanks of rope, large reels of chain, all kinds of stuff that can be used to inflict pain and terror on a man. There were some things I had no idea what they were for other than to cause pain.
DieQual walked over to a wall with a variety of chains, cuffs, and collars. He beckoned me over and pointed to a pair of work boots in the corner.
“First you will need boots,” he said. “Put them on.” They were well-worn and fit me OK. I bent down to close the laces, but he intervened.
“No, no laces, boy,” he said. Then he ordered: “Hold out your hands, boy.”
He lifted a pair of heavy metal cuffs from a hook on the wall and closed them on my wrists; they fit tightly. There was a two or three foot length of thick chain between the cuffs. Then he attached a very heavy set of metal cuffs to my legs, just above the tops of the low boots. There was a slightly longer chain between these cuffs, but still overly thick links. The grand finale was his selection of a ridiculously heavy metal collar, much like the one I had worn at night in the barn. I thought we were done, but then he locked on the cuffs and collar with large padlocks, locks big enough to hold a gorilla. Each click of a lock was a strong signal to me: you’re fucked, boy. What did you expect? They’d give you a meal and send you to the library for a few hours?
“Follow me outside,” he then ordered.
“Sir, yes, sir,” the dutiful slave replied. The collar put me way off balance and I had trouble walking.
At the end of the corridor was a door to the outside. I followed him out and we walked behind the barn. As I approached I could hear the sound of mallets hitting stone and saw the two guards as we rounded the corner of the barn.
There were several piles of huge rocks. There was one of the Masters acting as over-seer. He had a long bullwhip in his hand. It was not coiled up, but laying on the ground, ready for use. The two guards were naked and in metal bondage like me. They were covered in sweat and dust and looked totally miserable. There looked like some raw welts on their backs, but it was hard to see them in the welter of lash marks from the luncheon whipping. The overseer ordered them to stop, and the guards lowered their mallets and took what looked like a welcome break.
DieQual ordered me over to the barn wall. Hanging on the wall were several more lengths of chain, longer than the ones between my cuffs. There were also several heavy mallets.
“Get a length of chain and a mallet, boy, and go over to the guards,” DieQual ordered.
“Sir, yes, sir,” I barked out. I picked up one of the chains and a mallet. Good God, the mallet was heavy. Must have been 20 pounds or so. Then I walked over to where the guards were smashing rocks. The overseer, whose name I did not know, handed DieQual two padlocks, which he used to secure one end of the chain to my right leg cuff. The other end went onto one of the guards’ leg cuffs, also secured with a padlock. It was then that I noticed that the guards themselves were chained together the same way I now was. OK, so this was a genuine chain gang. Unlike me, however, they did not have cock cages on their equipment. One of the guards was halfhard as he rested against the mallet handle.
“You’re all set, boy,” DieQual smiled at me. “Frank here will make sure you are productive.” Then he nodded to the overseer and left.
Mr. Frank, whatever his last name was, didn’t waste any time. “Pick up the mallet, maggot boy, and get to work. Your pile is that one over there,” he added.
I walked over with difficulty to the high pile or rocks. Then I was stunned when I heard a crack of the bullwhip followed by a searing pain on my shoulders.
“That’s the motivation we use here, maggot boy. I’ll remind you periodically. Get to work, all three of you!” he shouted.
I lifted the mallet immediately, not wishing for another lash. It was certainly heavy, but I had the muscles to handle it. I swung the metal head down against the nearest big rock. It thudded on the rock which split in two. Then I went to work reducing the smaller pieces to rubble.
As the afternoon bore on the work got very challenging. The mallet seemed to gain weight by the minute and my shoulder and arm muscles were burning. My shoulder and arm joints ached from the earlier racking and swinging the mallet didn’t help. My skin was burning in the Texas sun. The heat seared the welts on my back and ass. I looked over at one of the guards. His ass was purple/red from the paddling with some vivid souvenirs from the caning. II guessed my own looked the same. Their muscles were corded and pumped from the grueling workout. None of us said a word as we smashed away at the stupid rocks. We did yell when the overseer felt like whipping us.
I thought I was going to pass out in the heat, but one of the staffers came by with a bucket of water and some metal ladles. The overseer nodded to him and he walked over to us.
“OK, maggots, you can take a drink of water, but be quick about it,” he ordered.
It was an incredible pleasure to put the mallet down on the ground and get a drink. I could have kissed the staffer. Like the others here he was shirtless with tight white pants and a bit on the skinny side. He had an odd look on his face as he scratched his crotch, which I would swear was bulging. I wondered what the staffers did during these S&M “retreats.”
“OK, that’s enough, maggots, back to work!” Overseer Frank barked at us. Wasn’t “maggots” a military word for new trainees?
We jumped to the task and the water boy went back to the motel complex. The overseer cracked the whip on one of the guards’ backs. I was glad it wasn’t mine.
So, yeah, we broke rocks for several hours. There were more water breaks, probably so we wouldn’t die. My back was hurting from swinging the mallet and I was very grateful when the torture was over. Like the other two guys, I was sweaty, dusty, and really wiped out. The dust under my nipple zapper harness made the skin raw. Even my cock cage was full of sweat and dust.
We were ordered to line up against the barn wall and Overseer Frank coiled his bullwhip and snapped it into a holder on his belt. He uncoiled a short water hose and went over each of us, head to feet, washing away the sweat and dust. He spent special time on my cock cage. He signaled for us to turn around and he hosed down our back with special emphasis on our asses. Then we were unchained from each’n other and herded back to the motel wing. The sun was low on the horizon as we shuffled along the ground. The water in out boots make a slushing sound as we walked and the wrist and ankle chains clinked lightly.
Back at the rear of the motel complex Overseer Frank left us as we entered the door. Once inside the guards went somewhere else, I don’t know where, but DieQual was there and directed me back to the equipment room where all the cuffs and the collar were unlocked and removed. I had to hang them back on the wall, as well as put my boots back in the corner for the next maggot-boy to use. Everything was still wet from the hosing down.
“Go back to the office and put your boots and pants on, boy,” he ordered. “There’s a rag there to dry yourself off. Then meet me in the dining room.”
“Sir, yes, sir!” I replied, very grateful the whole friggin’ thing was coming to an end and I’d be released.
There were coffee and sandwiches on a sideboard in the dining room. DieQual told me to take what I wanted and then leave the complex. He left the room as I wolfed down two sandwiches and the coffee. I stopped in the office, got my riding boots and skin-tight leather pants back on. My backpack was there also.
Walking out to the parking lot over to my Harley was one of the sweetest feelings I’ve ever had. Freedom.
I was wrong about the freedom thing. As I was riding back to the city, I was worried that I’d get zapped at any moment, lose control of my motorcycle, and get maimed or killed in a crash. It seems, however, that the GPS device did protect me as long as I was moving fast enough to confirm I was cycling or driving. I do remember that when I got back to my apartment, after I closed and locked the door, the device must have been activated by one of the Masters, sensing I was now home. My chest exploded in pain that dropped me to the floor. I writhed in agony for a good minute, trying not to scream, until the electroshock was turned off. I lay on the floor for a while, panting hard, letting the thought of what my new life would be like after the executive retreat. The cock cage was still locked on. The nip shocking harness was locked on and clearly quite active. And I had to face these pervs every day at work. Plus, I would probably be “invited” to another retreat sometime in the near future. What did Paine say? Two months? No freedom for you, Dickie-boy.
Luckily I had a full bottle of Jack Daniels in my apartment. After peeling off my leather pants, I put my boots back on, sat on the floor with the bottle, rearranged the cock cage a tad, and then proceeded to get blitzed in short order as I remembered what I had gone through over the past few days. I finally admitted to myself that the certainty of heavy pain and abuse was a turn-on for me; it satisfied something deep in my crotch, ass, my brain. I didn’t know if sub or slave described it. The uncertainty of the timing created a baseline of dread that would constantly be with me, keeping me off balance. It also generated defiance and the self-confidence that they couldn’t break me. I could take whatever these pain pervs could dish out!
An odd thought crossed my mind: just who was the pain perv here? Ahh, didn’t matter. I passed out on the floor. Thanks again, Jack.