Thanks to an almost full bottle of Jack Daniels, I had a good sleep on the floor of my flat. I was wearing only my boots, my locked-on cock cage, and my souvenir harness from the “executive retreat.” The retreat had been nothing short of a trip to hell, orchestrated by several executives and department heads from where I work. I got worked over pretty hard and there were also two guys from the mailroom, whom I didn’t meet until the end of the weekend. They got tortured too.
The welts on my back were still red, but not as angry looking as they were at first. My abs throbbed with the residuals from the rounds of gut punching. My nips, pressed against the zapping devices on the harness, throbbed from the torments of the weekend. I also got a taste of a shock when I first got home from the torture session.
When they strapped the harness on my chest at the end of the torture weekend, they told me it was remote controlled and any of the executives who were at the retreat could activate the damned thing at any time. There were three levels. Level one, which they showed me at the retreat, was brutal. And I guess I got a taste of level two when I first got home. That one knocked me to the floor. I was very fearful of what level three, the highest level, would do. Anyway, the harness was locked onto my chest and my boss at work, Mr. DieQual, had the friggin’ key, so there was nothing I could do about it.
He also had the key to my cock cage, which was fitted tightly onto my junk. I could already feel the confinement every time I thought of what I had endured at the hands of my company’s executives. There was something inside me linking pain and pleasure, which confused me.
There was a deep ache in my back and shoulders. The rack did something to my lower spine and left a residual ache I felt whenever I moved. My shoulders ached from the workout on the chain gang, splitting rocks with a heavy mallet. Hell, even my ass hurt from all the humiliating abuse I had been forced to endure. I must have gained a pound or two from all the executive cum. Then again, I probably sweated off ten screaming and struggling against the bondage.
I finally got up off the floor, took a whiz through the piss tube of the CD, and took a long, hot shower. The water felt good on my shoulder and back muscles, even though it stung the welts a bit. I fried some eggs and bacon and had coffee with aspirin on the side Man o man, everything hurt when I moved. I was haunted by the certain knowledge that my pecs could be zapped anytime, at any level, with no warning at all. My stomach was in a knot, and I guess my breakfast didn’t sit well.
Before we left the “conference center,” aka torture complex, I got the cell numbers for the two guys from the mail room who had been tortured with me that weekend. I called Gary, the big guy, with the big equipment to match. I think his remote device was a cylindrical ball crusher. Yikes.