By Pickle

~ Chapter 6 ~

(Day Two)

I wake up barely being able to move.  Even getting dressed in jeans and the red and black shirt that Gunnerson told me I had to wear today, “So you’ll be more noticeable when we “scarecrow” ya tomorrow, Bo”, was all I could do.

I grab a fast coffee and a banana before picking up my gym bag, and heading out the door to the driveway.  By my phone it’s 5:55, but Moore, with one of the other guys I met when I was leaving the “Farm” yesterday afternoon, was already there.  I had learned he was Sergeant Sutherland by checking out the various sections of “The Country Boy Punishment Club” website last evening.  I had been able to view not only my own punishments from the day, but also a lot of shit the other “Recruits” were being put through, ranging from a number of different tortures, but also being put through rigorous PT, and running several different obstacle courses set up to be even tougher than any of the Tough Mudder courses I’d seen.  They were all covered in muck by the time they made it to the end of the courses, IF they made it all the way through these sadistically designed obstacle courses, at all.

I learned that the last two guys to finish, would automatically be the unlucky dudes that would “star” in the day’s main punishments.  Coming in last got you penalized and they definitely would make an example out of any losers.

One of the parts of the site I was curious to see was the Roster that Gunnerson and Moore had spoken about.  When I checked it out, it listed each of the recruits by their real names, and nicknames and had a picture of each recruit taking a punishment..  Under my name was a picture of me spread-eagled in the frame with my gut pushed forward.  They truly had listed me as Tim (“Bo”) Dill, not quite the name I went by, but like they said, they weren’t gonna fuck around calling a guy by his middle name when he had a perfectly good first name.  I was even beginning to kinda dig being called “Bo”.  It was cool having these big macho dudes give me a moniker. They put the guy’s personal stats beside his name.  Under each dude’s name and picture were also fingernail icons for and short descriptions of all the videos that guy was in.  So if he had any followers, it was easy for them to watch some of the shit he’d been put through.

In the next section along with each recruit’s  name were columns for Number of Demerits, Upcoming Punishment, Standings for each individual obstacle course, Number of weeks since he’d been recruited, Number of months or years he was contracted for, Balance of Demerits, Donors etc.  I noticed the number under “donors” was a hyperlink to people who had donated to see a certain guy punished.  I saw I already had over four hundred donors, and gasped involuntarily.  Also listed were the number of times each guy had been caught disobeying the “country boy” dress code.  I noticed each of the other fellas had been caught doing that at least once.  Most of ‘em twice, but none of them had been caught wearing sleeves a third time.

I could see everything for each of my fellow recruits, but under my name the “Upcoming Punishment” column was blanked out.  I could see I had the most demerits of any guy on the list.  Shit!  And I was just starting out.  With my hair-trigger temper and stubborn streak, I knew I was in danger of only adding to those demerits in spite of the lessons they tried to teach me yesterday.

I reviewed all of this in my head as I walked out the path to my driveway where both Moore and Sutherland greeted me with “Good morning, fucker! You’re late!”

I checked my iPhone and it said 5:57, and I told them so.  That met with, “Not according to us Dickbreath!  You kept us waiting ten minutes.  That’s 100 more demerits, Fuckwad.  You’re gonna pay for that, Bo boy!  We started the timer when we pulled into your yard.”

So that’s how this was going to go, huh?  I’d be considered late even IF I was ready and on time.  This meant I was going to have to be watching for my ride in the morning, and do my best to beat them out to the driveway before they pulled in.  Fuck!  I wasn’t used to this getting up at 5:00 am shit.

Sutherland gets out of the passenger seat and motions for me to take his place there.  He relieves me of my gym bag, throwing it in the back seat.  Once I’m seated, a ratchet strap again gets whipped over my head and he tightens it even more than Sergeant Moore had the day before.  Then three more get tightened up on me to a point that breathing was extremely constricted.  I guess Sutherland believes in being thorough.  The pain from the tortures of the day before get magnified by the grasp of these four straps.  I learn already that Sergeant Sutherland is a “show no mercy” kinda guy.  I also learn that it only takes one strap around me to get me hard as a rock.  Moore noticed that too and gave my growing bulge a friendly little fist bump as he chuckled at me.  I noticed a glint in his eye as he did it.

“Got some good bruises on ya today, Dildo?”  Sergeant Moore inquires.  I reply that my entire chest and gut are black and blue, and that I have a few open gashes.  (Surprisingly I only have a few, since it felt like the Prison Straps were skinning me alive).  I also tell him that I’ll try to go through his “leg day” routine, but that there’s no way I’ll be any good to them at The Farm.  I’m in just too much pain.  Both soldiers guffaw at that, and Sutherland says, “Tough luck, recruit.  I get to have some fun with you today maggot, and there’s no way I’m missing out on torturing the shit outta you, Dill!”

I figure I’m well and truly fucked, and won’t get anywhere trying to squirm my way out of suffering more today, so I just let it drop.

“You have a decent breakfast, Bo? Asks Moore.  I tell him I just grabbed a coffee and a banana, and that I’m not much of a breakfast guy, that I can never eat it.

Moore says to Sutherland, “Guess we’d better stop and get some protein into this piece of shit.  He’s gonna need some good fuel in him to make it through the morning in the field.”  Then to me, “Remember Bo, you’re on scarecrow duty this morning, and you’re gonna be “outstanding in the field” in that shirt Dill.  Nice and bright and attention getting.”

I was hoping they’d forgotten about that, or had just been kidding, but I’m learning these guys don’t kid around about stuff like that.

Sutherland says, “Yeah, and then he’s gotta get through your leg day before we feed him again, and then he’s got the real special afternoon we’ve got planned for him.  This dipshit doesn’t have a clue what he’s in for.  Fuck, I love breakin’ in a civvy pussy boy like him!”

As if I hadn’t been dreading the day before now , I begin to really fear for what this Sutherland guy plans to put me through.  I thought Gunnerson and Moore were sadists and were enjoying their “job” too much, but this Sutherland prick took that to a new level.  I could feel him grinning from ear to ear at the mere prospect of what he planned to do to me today.  “Can’t wait to fuck him up!” He says to Moore.

We stop at a fairly popular “Smitty’s” on the way to The Farm, and they make sure I order the kind of breakfast they tell me I’m going to need.  I remember my two hour ordeal on the cross yesterday, and I know they aren’t lying.  I somehow manage to stuff an inordinate amount of food in my face.

While we’re sitting there Sutherland asks me if I enjoyed watching him put some of the other fellas through their paces.  One punishment I saw him put a fella through after the guy couldn’t take any more PT from him, was that he strapped him to this motorized see-saw type machine, over a mud hole.  The guy’s body extended over the plank from his chest up and he was strapped onto it face down.  The lever would suddenly drop down at a very steep angle, submerging the guy’s entire body in this quagmire of goo.  There seemed to be no knowing when it would drop, or how long the guy would be submerged.  No way for him to plan his breathing, so if it was happening to you, you’d have to be ready to draw in a quick, full breath every time you suddenly dropped or you could find yourself submerged in mud, and not able to take in a breath when needed.

Before Sutherland strapped the fella to the plank he took a piss in the mud, and told the victim to do the same, if he had to go too.  Sutherland then took a paddle and stirred the piss into the muddy mixture.  God only knows what other crap was in that gunk!

The dunking continued for an hour, and as I watched some of it, I couldn’t help but think not only how gross it was, but also how exhausted you’d be after having gone through the toughest PT session I’d ever seen anyone get put through, but also from having to hold your breath all the time for an hour.  I was hoping to God that Sutherland didn’t have that planned for me today.  I was in no shape for it after yesterdays onslaught of punishments, and in no way did I want to be in that guy’s position anyway, even if I was feeling normal.

I watched bits of some other punishments Sutherland had put some of the fellas I’d seen at the gym through, and most of them were even nastier than the dunking.  To his question about whether I “enjoyed” watching stuff he did to other fellas.  I could only reply “Glad it was them, and not me.”

Both Sutherland and Moore laughed a little too hard after I said that.  I knew even before they laughed, that my tolerance for punishment and humiliation were going to have to increase a lot, to say the least!  I also realized too late that I’d forgotten the “sir protocol”.  The goons didn’t mention it, but I was sure it had been noted.

During the meal, Sutherland innocently asks me if I had kind of enjoyed being displayed looking like a redneck yesterday, and if I liked the look of myself in the newly sleeveless red and black shirt today.  I confessed that I dressed like that for yard work, or just hanging out at home now and then, but I was uncomfortable dressing like this in public.  I also told him that I was kinda getting used to it for being displayed on their web site though.  In fact, when I reviewed the videos of myself, I felt like it made me look like the kinda hotdog who should be put through some of the shit they put me through yesterday.  So it felt kinda right in that context.

Sutherland, said “I think you like it a lot more than you admit, Bo!” and he hauled out his phone and brought up some pictures that he’d obviously taken in my yard at some point. He showed ‘em to me and to Sergeant Moore as well.  I had no clue that anyone had been around, spying on me, taking pix.

After showing us the pictures he says, “I think Bo here, likes this look a whole lot more than he’s lettin’ on, huh Moore?  Maybe Dilly boy here would kinda like it if we change his three year contracts to five years?  What d’ya say Timbo?”  He laughs and gives me a sardonic grin.  “Yeah”, he continues, “I think a five year sentence oughta loosen this fella up nicely, don’t you Moore?.  (He reaches over and musses up my hair as he says that).  He took a lot yesterday.  Bo here’s tougher than he looks.  I’m looking forward to seeing just how tough we can make him.  Yeah, Dill … you’re in such deep shit, buddy.  We’re gonna make a man outta ya, no matter what it takes, maggot shit!  We should rack ‘im out again today, and talk him into signing two extra years on both of his contracts”.

With this, he grabs the bill off the table and gets up from the booth.  Again I’d been blocked in, this time by Sutherland.  Moore also gets up, so I follow suit.

Both on the way into our booth, and again on the way out of the restaurant, I keep my eyes peeled and fingers crossed, hoping I don’t bump into anyone I know, since I don’t want them seeing me dressed like this, in spite of knowing I’m somehow going to have to get used to looking like this in public.  As far as I know, I’m safe so far.

Once we’re outside, Sutherland puts me into a seemingly playful half nelson, but I can tell he means business, and pushes me toward the front seat of the SUV.  I get shoved in, and again the straps are quickly thrown over me and tightly secured around my torso, compressing it seemingly to the max.  “Fuck!  I’m going to have bruises on my bruises.  No doubt about that!” I think to myself.

As we pass Troy’s Gym Sergeant Moore honks the horn loudly a few times, signalling to Troy that they again have Dill captured and are about to have some fun with him.  I figured it’s a way of giving him some clue as to how long it’ll be before they’ve got me scarecrowed, so he has an idea of when to check it out on his computer.  I had no idea Troy had been prepping me for these Neanderthals with all the sessions we’d done when I’d hired him as a personal trainer.  I guess in a weird way, I should take it as a compliment that he figured I was tough enough, and enough of a good sport, that I would survive what these shitheads dished out and had in store for me.

 

~ Chapter 7 ~

I soon found myself hanging from the cross again, as I had been yesterday.  They added something new today though. A new layer of pain.  Once I was up there with a hundred pounds of plates and gravity pulling my legs down, opening up my abs, yanking on my chest etc. Sutherland undid my jeans.  He yanked out my cock and balls and put a spiked separator on my balls. He attached some weights to it.  “What d’ya think, Moore … start him out with five pounds on his nuts?”  (I had never seen a spiked separator anywhere before, so I figure one of these guys must have made it with their “recruits” in mind).  Moore nods agreement.  Then a pad is added to each nut.  He then wraps a wire around the base of my shaft and another just below the glans of my cock.  Then a short plug is inserted in my piss slit.  Sutherland then lifts my shirt and puts four pads on my abs.  All of these are then wired, and the wires dropped down inside my pants, and down one leg.  The leads are then attached to a small E-Stim box that gets duct taped to my ankle, just inside my pant leg.  He leaves my cock and balls hanging out but fastens my jeans around them as much as possible.  Moore then climbs up the ladder which he has already used to bolt the crossbar onto the main post, and attaches two Japanese clover clamps to my tits,  Each one dangling a one pound weight.  He climbs back down, and lowers the ladder to the ground.  Somehow, this makes me feel abandoned already.

Once Moore is on the ground, Sutherland lifts my pant leg and turns on the E-Stim unit till he gets a “Yipe” out of me.  He then pushes a few more buttons and the program starts up.

“Ok Dill, we figured since this is your second stab at this, we’ll make it a little tougher on ya. So, you’re up there for four hours today, but we decided we wanted to make it a little less boring for our viewers.  A bunch of them messaged us last evening after you left, asking us to make you squirm a lot more.  Seems they enjoy watching our new recruit suffer, Bo, and they want to see you suffer a lot more!  I’ve set the E-stim about half-way up the scale and it’s on random.  You’re never gonna know how it’s gonna hit ya.  Since I liked the yell I got out of you when I just started turning it up, I’ve set it to microphone mode too.  When you yell, it’s gonna zap you on full, everywhere at once.  You’re gonna light up like a fuckin’ Christmas tree, Dickwad!  Just love training a fella to be the strong, silent type, Dill!  By the way Bo, we checked out how ya look from the camera down by the road, and you show up WAY better than yesterday.  Hell, somebody might even spy you hangin’ up here and come up to try to rescue you.  Shit man, it could get real humiliating for ya if they call the cops to come get you down!”  He and Moore both give a hoot of laughter at the thought of this, and then head on down to the barn without another word till Sutherland turns around about half-way there and shouts, “Good luck, Dill!  It’s gonna be the longest four hours of your fuckin’ life, boy!”  I had already figured that out.  Didn’t take a friggin’ genius!

Sutherland wasn’t wrong!  I passed out several times, but unlike yesterday, no one came to wake me up with the smelling salts. I’d just wake up on my own, but man I felt woozy and like I was going to vomit. If I hadn’t been worn out, and already in so much pain from the previous day, this still would have seemed like I was on the cross for a year instead of only four hours.  Before yesterday I never would have used the word “only” in connection with four hours of being “scarecrowed”.  I made it through though, and as Sutherland predicted, I learned to keep my screams to a minimum after I’d been jolted full force everywhere there was anything to do with electro attached to my body, a few times.  I likely fucked myself with the full force zaps maybe fourteen or fifteen times.  It hurt like fuck, so I tried my damnedest to keep my mouth shut but there were times I’d get a combination of jolts to various parts of my anatomy that I just involuntarily let out a scream.  Sutherland was right again though.  If I was put through this more often, I could see how it could turn me into more of the strong, silent type.  I began to realize that I really was being trained by these guys. Today I actually liked that I couldn’t do anything about the sleeveless button-down shirt, and that I was being displayed there like that.  I knew from seeing yesterday’s videos of myself that I did look pretty decent hanging there like that.

After the first half hour, I began to think of myself as a tortured PoW hanging there, getting stretched out in the sun, sweating like crazy, and taking electro all over my body.  I hated it when it hit my cock.  The way they had it set up it made it feel like it was exploding and then peeling away like a banana.  Fuck that hurt!  I fought as much as I could to raise my legs onto the hook on the pole, and managed to give my arms, shoulders, chest, abs and neck a break maybe seven times before I no longer had the strength to lift the spreader-bar onto the peg.  Man, when I did manage, the relief on my body felt like heaven for a while, but then my knees would start to shake, and my thighs cramped from holding myself up like that.  My position only allowed for my legs to be bent when the spreader bar was on the peg, so it was a relief for a while, but the relief didn’t last long.  Between shifting positions, squirming and yelling from the electro on my body, the subscribers got their money’s worth this morning.  This time on the cross I now knew there really were subscribers watching, since the website showed them logging in and out, and there was a page showing a list of those who were viewing at the moment.  They were numbered according to the order they signed in … some of them had some pretty interesting “handles” too.  I wondered how many were tuned in and watching me suffer this morning.

Gunnerson approached with Sutherland, and they detached the E-Stim box from all the leads, and then had me down in no time.  Gunnerson said, “Proud of ya, son!  You had over 6700 folks watching you this morning, and you entertained them well, Bo.  You’re bringing in a whack of new subscribers too.  Word’s getting out about what we’re going to do to ya this afternoon when you get back from the gym, so they’re buying subscriptions like nobody’s business.  Bet you wish you knew what was comin’ huh Dill?  Well, I think maybe we’ll just let ya wonder about that till it’s happening to ya.”

Rather than being unceremoniously dragged down to the barn, they detached me from my beam and then Sutherland picked me up and threw me over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.  Hell, maybe he was starting to like me. lol

I was carted into the resting room and placed gut down on a table this time.  My arms and legs were of no use to me at this point, since they had little feeling and what feeling I had felt like they were made of Jello.  Sutherland reached under me and undid my jeans.  He then pulled them and my underwear off.  I thought to myself, “Holy shit, is this guy gonna fuck me?”  I hadn’t given permission for that, but then, I hadn’t given them permission for anything they did to me yesterday.  Today was different though, I had now signed their “recruit contract”.  I might not have a choice.  I was almost relieved when after opening me up a bit with his lubed fingers, he stuffed a butt plug up my ass.  I didn’t realize it right away but he attached a wire to it too.  The two men then flipped me over and pulled my shirt off over my head.  They secured me Vetruvian man style to the table.  Arms out in a “T” and legs spread wide.  Next the gag and blindfold, and then came white noise through headphones that they duct taped onto my head.

It wasn’t long before the pulses began, then the pulses became zaps, the zaps became jolts, and then the jolts became thuds.  Sometimes feeling blunt and round, other times sharp, deep and unbearable.  Unlike yesterday, this “rest period” was not much of a rest period today.  The electro plug stimulated my prostate and my cock was engorged and throbbing in no time.  It didn’t take long before I shot my load.  I’d been hard most of the time I was on the cross, knowing I truly WAS on display, and thinking about how I looked and the possibility of some civilian (or cop) finding me there.  I hated the thought of that but had to admit it also was kind of exciting.  I had no idea how long I was there before they came and got me up onto my feet.  I was pretty wobbly still so they had me sit for a bit and brought me some Gatorade.  After downing two bottles of it I began to feel a bit better and I was ordered to dress myself.

Sutherland and Moore then ushered me outside to the now familiar SUV.  This time I wasn’t belted in though, and I let out a yell as I twisted to reach for the seatbelt.  Shit, I’d never been in so much pain.  Here I am, with Moore dragging me off for “leg day.”  What the Hell did he think I’d be able to do?

We arrive at the gym, and once I’m out of the car, Moore throws me my gym bag.  My reflexes make me try to catch it.  I miss but shriek in pain from the effort.  Moore just laughs a deep, hearty laugh at me, and says, “Ok Dill, move yer ass boy, it’s leg day!  You’re in for it Asswipe!”

We go into the locker room and I open my gym bag to pull out some gear.  I’d put in the six t-shirts they’d told me in but there was only one in there now, and there wasn’t much left of it.  I put on my trainers, shorts and the very shredded shredder and looked up at Moore, who’d been watching me with amusement as he was getting changed too.  He had a big grin on his handsome mug.

Moore proves to be the Personal Trainer/Drill Instructor from Hell.  He’s far tougher on me than he had been yesterday in Gunnerson’s company.  I guess he had nobody to mellow him out a little.  He screamed in my face the entire workout, belittled me in front of all the gym clientele (who were now getting used to the style of these macho “trainers”), anytime I forgot to holler out Sir, (the rep number) and SIR!  I’d hear about it, and then receive one Helluva full-on, open handed swat to the gut, to remind me of protocol.  It was excruciating and humiliating but that’s just about all I remember about that workout.  I just know my legs were in agony by the end of it, and I needed support from Moore and Troy to get back to the SUV.

We drove to the pub they’d taken me to yesterday, and I see Gunnerson, Sutherland, McLean and the other military guy I’d briefly met yesterday, sitting at a large round table … for all the world resembling the Knights of the Round Table.  Though McLean looked about as beaten down as I was feeling.  He was wearing a green and black checked sleeveless shirt today, and the guys in charge of us teased us about looking like sleeveless Christmas elves.

I learned the other fella I’d met yesterday was Captain MacKinnon, and that he’d be involved in this afternoon’s proceedings.  He joked a lot and I found myself kind of liking him, even though McLean and I were the subjects of his jokes a good part of the time.  It felt more like the way a brother messes with you than the way the other three guys did it.  It was clearly meant to be demeaning when they joked about you.

I found myself a little less self-conscious about the way I was dressed, since McLean was there sporting the same look.  It made it somehow a little easier.  Could I already be starting to not only get used to looking like this in public, but also liking it?

After lunch we all headed to the two SUV’s.  Again I was strapped into the front passenger seat of Gunnerson’s vehicle.  Moore joined us in the back seats.  MacKinnon, McLean and Sutherland took the other car.  I noticed as they drove out that McLean looked like he was trussed up with ratchet straps as I was.  Shit, well at least they don’t discriminate.  We’re getting equal treatment.

As we approach The Farm we slow down before the driveway and I happen to glance up the hill to the cross I’d been on all morning.  Holy fuck!  There’s another “sloppy country boy” scarecrowed on it!  I can’t help but wonder which of the other guys from the gym it might be.  Then I wonder who in the Hell put him up there?  Did Gunnerson, MacKinnon and Sutherland do it while I was suffering at the gym, or is there somebody else around that I’d yet to meet?

 

~ Chapter 8 ~

My silent question was answered upon entering “the barn”.  I heard male banter coming out of the kitchen area.  Gunnerson and Moore escort me in, and introduced me to Captain Fulton and Commander Hernandez.  They told me they had “scarecrowed” a fella named Saunders up there for the afternoon.  “Somebody has to take your place while we’re torturing you and McLean down here.  All four men guffaw at that.  At this point Sutherland, MacKinnon and McLean appear in the doorway, and McLean is roughly pushed toward a chair and pushed down into it.  “Dill, you sit too!” Gunnerson ordered.  He pulls a couple Gatorades out the fridge and hands them to the two of us.  “Drink up boys!” Commander Gunnerson barks.  After we’ve sucked the bottles pretty much dry, we’re told to use the bathroom before our next “trial”.  I was hoping that the bathroom would be like a public washroom, with a few urinals and a couple stalls.  I was hoping I could exchange a few words with McLean if it was, but as it turned out it had only a toilet and sink, and we were sent in one after the other.

Gunnerson, Sutherland, MacKinnon, Fulton, Hernandez and McLean were waiting in the hallway when I got out fo the restroom.  It had a heavy feeling of foreboding.  I could tell that McLean and I were screwed.  I noticed Moore was missing from the macho group, and wondered where he might be, and more to the point, what he might be up to.  I had a feeling he was preparing something bad for McLean and me.

Hernandez and Fulton grab the two of us and put us both in full nelsons.  We’re pushed down the hall and through a door I’d not yet been through.  There was some kind of a mechanical looking contraption in the middle of the space.  Still no sight of Moore.  I try to break free of Hernandez’s hold and find out I’m going nowhere.  In spite of being shorter than the other men, he’s built like a brick shithouse.  He arches me back sharply and he gets a “Faaawk!” out of me, and says “Fifty more demerits for Recruit. Dill!”  I settle down and let him push me over nearer the large contraption.  McLean is brought over beside me.  Commander Gunnerson explains that McLean has been on it before, so he knows what it’s all about, but for the benefit of our new boy, and any new subscribers he would describe the machine and what it does.

We call this machine the “Gut Buster”.  “Dill we couldn’t help but notice you get a little “excited” anytime we give you a little pat on the gut, so we thought this would make things more “enjoyable” for you this afternoon.   As you see it has three sets of “fists” on pistons.  They can be calibrated and set to give each of the three trapped occupants exactly the same type and strength of punch, poke or prod.  You can see there are three full sets of heavy, padded cuffs.  We position a guy like this …”  At this point McLean is dragged over to the far side of the machine, he’s positioned with his lower abs on the fists.  Fulton then lifts one of McLean’s legs and cuffs his ankle.  This is repeated on his other leg.  It leaves McLean hanging down from the padded “fists” from his waist.  Fulton then attaches McLean’s wrists in the appropriate cuffs.  He presses a button on the machine and I see McLean suddenly get tightened up into a shallow spread-eagle.

Gunnerson says, “Ok recruit Dill, you’re next boy!”

Hernandez drags me over to the middle position on the machine and puts me through the same routine that Fulton had done to McLean.

Gunnerson explains both to me and to the new subscribers, that not only are any punches we’ll receive from the machine identical, but it also puts the same amount of stretch, measured in PSI, on each victim.  I’m stretched out slightly with my navel area resting on the “fists”.  I look over at McLean, his shirttails are hanging down behind the fists, and he’s stretched out as tight as I am.  As I’m checking out how McLean looks on this sadistic piece of furniture, I hear the door shut to my left.  I automatically look, and there is Captain Moore, in jeans and a sleeveless button-down shirt, with his shirttails untucked.  Fuck he looks good!  It only takes me a nanosecond to realize who the third guy is going to be on this “Gut Buster” ride that we’ve been put on.  Gunnerson and MacKinnon get Moore set up and stretched out like us.  There are the three of us, stretched out gut down, with our lower abs resting on the fists, sleeveless, with our shirttails dangling down from behind the fists.  I really couldn’t help but admire how hot Moore looked dressed like this, and tried hard not to gawk at him too obviously.  McLean looked pretty hot like this too.  I was hoping I looked even half as good as the two of them.  Suddenly I realized I was enjoying being dressed this casually with the two other victims.  I’d always thought there was something kinda “boys will be boys”, masculine and attractive about this look on a guy, and I truly liked how kinda cocky it made a guy look, but just never really felt I was the right kinda guy for it.  Didn’t figure I could pull it off.  In this position, stretched out between the other two fellas though, I wouldn’t have wanted to be looking any different than I presently was.  I was just one of the boys strapped onto this fucked-up machine, and as scared as I was, I was feeling oddly honoured to be strung up like this with them.

Gunnerson went on to explain that he would adjust the PSI stretch on the three of us before anything else.  He called out the numbers as he upped the PSI.  I realized that by measuring in PSI the stretch on the three of us would be more even than if it was measured in inches.  We’d each feel exactly the same amount of pull.  Until Gunnerson stretched us more by turning the dial, our guts had been resting on the fists.  As he turned the PSI up I saw Moore’s belly lift off the fists at the same time I felt it happening to me.  Gunnerson kept turning the dial until he got a grunt out of Moore.  McLean and I had both let out yells long before this point.

At this point Gunnerson stands in front of the three of us, and explains the game.  He tells the camera that the three of us will spend a minimum of an hour getting pummelled by the mechanical fists.  Each fella receiving exactly the same type and strength of punch to exactly the same area on our guts.  We are to stay on the machine as long after the hour is up as we can stand.  First guy to safeword gets two extra punishments the following day.  Second guy to cry “uncle” takes one extra punishment.  The last man standing (or in this case lying gut down in mid air) is obviously the winner, and just gets strung up by his wrists and left to dangle for 90 minutes.  The two losers get strung up beside the winner, on a long beam that has several winches attached to it for this purpose.

This would mean the three of us would be hanging side by side, and on display like three hunks of beef for the cameras and therefore the subscribers.

Gunnerson asks to no one in general, what the safe word ought to be.  He feigns mulling it over and then says, “In honour of Dildo here, why don’t we make it a “safe phrase”.  How about, “Sir, please slop me up, SIR!?  I like the thought of Dill here begging us to make a sloppier guy out of him.  Won’t hurt McLean to have to say it either”.

He walks over to the machine and picks up some sort of remote, saying “ready boys?”

“Well, ready or not maggots, your shirttails are gonna “dance” … GO!  ”  with this he pressed a start button on the remote and the punches start up.  I look over at McLean and see his shirttails bouncing around like crazy from the punches he’s taking.  I look down toward my feet as far as I can and see my shirttails doing the same thing.  I check out Moore again and his shirttails are flapping just like ours.  Fuck, there’s something even more masculine about him dressed like this than when he’s in his fatigues.   I realize it makes me glad to be dressed like this and on display with him too.

I discover the machine’s fists move around, working my whole gut but it seems to focus on the navel area.  Gunnerson was right … it’s always been a part of me that kinda likes taking a punch, so I figure if it continues like this I might even stand a chance of winning this perverse little game of “Gut Buster”.  After the first full round of punching, the fists stop just long enough for me to realize that the stretch on me is getting a little tougher.  Then the fists begin again.  This time a different pattern I discover.  Aww shit, I could be fucked.  The fists pause for a few seconds … the stretch gets a little tighter again … the fists begin again. The punches are random … sometimes hitting in exactly the same spot, with exactly the same force, sometimes a fast volley of punches, sometimes slow, sometimes in two entirely different spots on the gut.  It seemed totally random so there was no way to prepare for what the fists were about to do to you.  All you knew is that you had to keep your gut flexed or you could really pay a price, and that each of the other guys hanging on display on the machine are getting exactly the same treatment that you are.  I find myself getting hard being punished in this way.  I even find myself kind of being proud to get tortured alongside Captain Moore.  In less than two days I was discovering I had a lot more admiration for him than I cared to admit.  It made me feel just a little more macho knowing we were in the same boat, and so far I was taking it as well as both Moore and McLean.

Gunnerson shouts, “Ok, that’s fifteen minutes boys!”

I think “Fuck ME!  That was only fifteen minutes?”

I’m literally pulled out of my thoughts as the machine pulls my limbs out a little more.  As a result, of course my abs get pulled apart a little more too.  This time the punches feel harder and I don’t think it’s just cuz we’re stretched out more.

I must have had a surprised look on my face because Sergeant Moore looked at me and said, “The punches get harder every fifteen minutes. Get used to it Dill!  And by the way Dipshit, you look pretty damn good on this.  I’m enjoying watching you take it, Bo.  Not bad for a newbie, bud!”

His words renewed my resolve, and I decided I was going to do my best to win this demented game.  Toward the end of the third fifteen minute round, McLean screamed out “Sir, please slop me up, SIR!”

It didn’t do him any good.  Gunnerson came over to his side of the machine and I heard him tell him that he knows damn well he’s on there for the full hour even though he safe-phrased out early.

I can tell McLean is really suffering through the last fifteen minutes of the hour.  I’m feeling for him but I’m also suffering a lot.  The machine has been getting grunts and groans, and the occasional “Fuck” or “Fuck ME!” or even a “Mother FUCKER!” or two outta me.  Every time I curse I hear one of the guys say, “That’s another fifty for Dill!  He’s SO fucked!”

When the hour is up, the machine stops it’s punches but keeps the stretch going on us.  Gunnerson and MacKinnon come over to McLean’s side of the machine.  Gunnerson flicks a switch between McLean’s feet and I hear the hiss of air as his stretch is relaxed.  I see his belly go back down onto the fists, whereas Moore and I are remaining stretched tight with our guts hovering in mid-air over the fists.  The men release McLean from the machine and carry him off to the side and just lay him out on the floor.  They know he’s goin’ nowhere unless they pick him up and move him.  He’s been reduced to jello at this point.  I know I’m soon going to be in the same state.

Gunnerson says, “So boys … ready to continue?”

Moore cockily grunts out “Go for it Fukkah!” and gets twenty swats from a Prison Strap across his upper back for his effort.

I think, “Hmmm, so these guys punish and push each other too huh?  Interesting!”

The first punch of this next round, damn near knocks the wind out of me.  It was an uppercut right into the solar plexus.  Felt like it went right up under my rib cage and up to my throat.  God damn it was a hard punch.  I then receive a second and third punch to the exact same spot.  Then thankfully the fists move down to my lower abs.  This time around they seem to concentrate on breaking down those muscles.  The fists move around a bit but they always return to those lowest abs.  I start to really lose my resolve to win this game during this round, but I manage to hang on.

A slight maybe thirty second pause, another slight stretch, and then the punches begin again.

In the second quarter of the second hour, I finally feel like I honestly can’t take another punch.  My gut has been through Hell these past two days, and I can’t take anymore.  “Sir, please slop me up, SIR!”

I can’t believe I’m hearing myself say those words but I realize I have no choice if I want the pain to stop.

Gunnerson comes to the bottom of the machine and flicks a switch that’s located between my feet … “More than happy to slop YOU up, Dill!”  I feel the mechanical fists rise up and push me in the navel area of my gut, stretching me even more.

Then to the camera he says, “Bo here is our second place finisher.  For that he gets to remain in a stretch, but we also raise the fists straight up into his gut by half an inch every five minutes.  Dill stays on here with the fists ramming up into his gut more and more, for as long as Captain Moore here holds out.  Oh, and Captain Moore wants to beat his record today.  Dill wanna know what Moore’s record is on this?”  He pauses just long enough for my stomach to flip. “Moore’s made it to 3 and a half hours, Dill.  You boys have another hour to go before he matches his record.  I think Moore’s pretty determined to take it as far as he can go today.  I have a hunch he’s sort of enjoying watching you sweat beside him, Dill.  That’ll be enough to keep him taking punches for at least a few more hours, I’m guessing.”

I realize that Gunnerson is messing with my head and teasing Moore a little at the same time.  I’m just hoping to God that Moore caves soon too.

He winds up making it to another hour and a half before he manages to croak out “Sir, please slop me up, SIR!”.  I’m bloody thankful that he finally gives.  I realize the fists are now ramming nine inches up into my already stretched out guts.  Feels like they’re pushing my bellybutton into my spine, and my spine right out of my back to the ceiling.

“Not bad Moore” I hear Hernandez say to him. “Dill, that wasn’t too shabby on your part either.”  I’m in major pain, still stretched out on the “Gut Buster”, (and now I fully understand why that’s its name), but I can’t help but feel a ton of pride from the compliment I just received from Hernandez.

He and Gunnerson come to my side and begin to release me from the machine’s grip.  I hear the hiss of air again, as the machine gently releases it’s stretch on me.  Gunnerson releases my wrists, and my upper body just flops down.  Hernandez get my ankles out of their straps and he places my feet on the floor, one by one.  I’m just doubled up over the mechanical fists, hands dragging on the ground, ass up, feet on the floor.  They leave me like this till they release Captain Moore, and leave him there in the same position I’m in.  Gunnerson motions to MacKinnon and Sutherland, and they pick McLean up off the floor and drape him over the fists that had been belting him, and he’s in the same position as Moore and I.

Gunnerson states to the camera that they’ll leave us there to rest for half an hour before they string us up by the wrists, like beef in a meat locker.

Once we’ve rested, true to form, we’re manhandled over to an area at the side of the room that has an exposed steel beam about ten feet up.  There are several winches along the length of the beam … I assume enough to hold all of the guys they’ve recruited so far, and maybe a few more.  They lug us all over and lay us down under hooks that have been lowered somewhat.  They stuff ball gags into our mouths and tighten them hard.  Hernandez, Gunnerson and MacKinnon each take one of us, and quickly fashion some hefty rope cuffs, measuring about a foot from the wrist up the arm (for good support) and then cinched tight between the arms, and tied so there’s a loop of rope to attach to the large hook.  We’re all checked for any possible circulation problems and then each lifted onto our individual hooks.  There we hang … side by side … with Sergeant Moore in the middle … three “country boys” on display for God knows how many subscribers by now.  In spite of the pain I’m in, I hafta say, I’m looking forward to watching some of this on the site when I get home.  Again I find myself kinda liking that I’m being shown off dressed like this.  I’m definitely getting off on it a little while I’m being roughed-up by these guys at any rate, but I also know they want me looking like this, so it’s not as humiliating when you know it’s the expected uniform.

Hernandez takes over emcee duties, and tells the camera that ninety minutes is basically as long as you can let a guy hang like this before irreversible nerve damage occurs … “so we’ll let these fellas squirm there that long for you folks.  Looks like a fair bit of testosterone hangin’ there doesn’t it folks?  Three sweaty boys … getting treated like “sloppy country boys” like them oughtta be treated.”  He hits a switch, and I discover the winches we’re hanging from rotate slowly, so not only do the subscribers get to see how we look from all sides while we’re hanging there, but we get to view each other as we rotate too.  My cock again jumps to life.

Hernandez then comes over in front of us.  “Dill … McLean, we’ve left your next fates up to the subscribers.  We listed five potential punishments for each of you fellas, and polled the “audience”.  You boys are SO fucked!  Gotta tell ya.  Especially you, Dill!”  Hernandez walks away and just leaves us hangin’ in more ways than one.  The five army guys then leave the room … I assume to either just hang out in the kitchen or outside the barn, or more likely, to set up whatever doom McLean and I were going to face later on.

As tough as hanging here is, it’s really the lightest punishment I’ve been given so far in my two days as a new recruit at “The Camp”.  I was actually kinda getting off on the masculinity of hanging here like this with two bros, even if one of ‘em was actually one of my torturers.

 

~ Chapter 9 ~

After the ninety minutes we were all taken to the “resting room” and each hooked up to more electro and strapped down in identical fashions.  We … and the cameras are told that our set-ups are all exactly the same, and that each of the three of us will be hooked up to the same random E-Stim programs.  Gunnerson is back to acting as Master of Ceremonies and MacKinnon is operating the system.  He turns the dials till he gets first me, then McLean and finally Moore letting out yelps.  Once Moore is getting vocal Gunnerson tells MacKinnon to leave it set there.  Toughen these other two pussy boys up to Captain Moore’s level.  Let ‘em find out what a Tier 1 Special Forces guy can take.  I had assumed these guys had been, and maybe still were members of Delta Force, but this was the first Tier 1 had actually been mentioned in my hearing.  Fuck!  Now I’m really feeling like a wuss in the company of these macho guys.

Sergeant Moore, McLean and I all have blindfolds and earphones added to our ensemble of electro gear, and ball gags, and the white noise is turned up but not quite enough to drown out the screams from the other guys … or … are those my screams?  All I know is this is the most severe electro I’ve yet experienced.  I’m guessing they have it set so the mic is picking up all of our screams, so that we’re all getting the full effect, all of the time.  Jesus Christ!  When is this going to stop?

I wake up to the pungent odour of smelling salts again.  The bottle is stuffed part-way up one nostril and it’s being held there for a good thirty seconds after I’m awake again.  The electro doesn’t stop.  I’m left alone (with two other guys?)  At this point I don’t know if McLean and Moore are still restrained and suffering beside me, but I think I hear some muffled screams, other than my own.  Just can’t be sure through the static in my ears.

After what seems like a lifetime the electro “rest” period ends.  The headphones, blindfold and gags are removed.  I wasn’t alone after all.  McLean looks like he’s been through Hell, and I wonder if I look that bad.  Gunnerson, Hernandez and Fulton get each of us slowly up to a sitting position on the tables and Captain Moore is led out of the room.

McLean’s arms are roughly pulled behind his back, fastened there, and he’s taken from the room.

Then it’s my turn.  I’m ordered to stand, and although wobbly, I manage.  I’m spun around, and the rope cuffs which have been left on me, and also on the others, are pulled behind me and fastened together with a padlock, just as McLean’s had been.  I’m then led out of the Resting Room, down the hallway, and back through the door I realize is leading me back to the rack.  Holy Fuckin’ Jesus! Please NO!  I can’t take any more stretching, punching or strapping.  Seriously!  I can’t!  I’m hoping with everything I’ve got that the “audience” didn’t vote to have these guys make me taller again.

“Our subscribers voted for a slightly different “up close and personal” time for ya with our magnificent wheel here, Bo!  Since we were using it differently yesterday, I didn’t think it was necessary to share with ya that it’s got a few different purposes.”  Gunnerson explains.  He moves over to a large valve, opens it up, and I hear the rush of a LOT of water.

Gunnerson and Hernandez manhandle me over to the rack and hook my wrists onto it.  Hernandez then cranks it, pulling me up onto my toes.  A strap gets tightened down hard just under my chest, and then my ankles are cuffed and attached to the wheel itself this time, instead of to rings in the floor.

The two men then pull what looks to be about a  4’ X 8’ section of floor out from under my feet, and I can just see a pool of water down there.  They then move behind the rack and I’m guessing remove another section of floor.  It’s then that I see Captain Moore in a frame in front of me, against the wall.  He is really being stretched hard in a spread-eagle.  I can see the pain on his face but holy fuck, he looks good!  I’m beginning to see why these guys feel that this button-down, sleeveless, shirttails flappin’ look on a guy makes him look punishable.  Moore looks like he’s one helluva cocky hotdog, in spite of the pain on his face.  The way he looks even makes me want to torture the fucker.  I realize I want to see them stretch the fuck out of him.  The guy looks like he’s just beggin’ for it, and it makes me wanna see what he can take.

Hernandez notices I’m staring at Moore, and goes over to the frame, and presses a button on the side of it.  I hear a “whirrrrr” and hear Moore gasp.  He’s being tightened up even more.  Hernandez then slugs him HARD in the navel, and Moore calls him a Motherfuckin’ Son-of-a-Bitch.  Hernandez lets out a sadistic giggle and then focuses his attention back on me.  There’s a big bulge under the front of my shirttails from having seen Moore’s treatment, and how searingly hot he looks taking it.  Hernandez notices, lifts my shirttails and points it out, and then brings his fist up hard under my nuts.  I suddenly feel like I’m that game at local fairs where you use the big mallet to try to hit the bell.  Well, I felt like Hernandez hit that bell with my nads!  I think they were driven up and hit my Adam’s apple before descending again.  Fuck it hurt!  He gave me about thirty seconds to allow my senses to perceive all the pain, and then the fucker did it again!  I got it five times … each with the time in between to let all of the pain register before I got it again.  After the fifth shot to my nuts he walks back to Moore, and I hear the “whirrrr” of the winches and one bloody awful scream outta Moore.  Hernandez rams his hefty fist into Sergeant Moore’s liver and I hear an even worse scream and then he passes out.

Gunnerson says, “Well now that that’s done … here’s the deal Dill.  We’ve got five fire hoses aiming down into the pit at your feet.  There’s a large outflow valve in front, so there is always new water coming into the pool.  Nice, COLD water!  We can decide which way the wheel goes … backwards, so your head goes in first … forward, so your go in feet first … or set it to random … the direction can change abruptly, so you never know what’s coming till it happens.  We can also set the speed of the wheel, and also the length of time you’re held at the bottom.  That can also be set to random and we can fine tune the minimum of time you’re under and the maximum as well.  Oh yeah Bo, consider yourself lucky.  Your fans took pity on ya this time around … we can actually fill this pit with mud too, or rather, a mixture of mud, piss and manure from the cows, sheep and horses we keep here on the farm.  (I don’t know if this is true, or possible a mind fuck.)  Yeah, it is a real working farm, and you fellas work it for us.  You boys get to do a little forced labour for us fairly often.  We get you boys to do the dirty work.  Nothin’ like a nice dirty, sloppy farm stud to increase subscription sales.”  I’d seen a second barn behind this main one and wondered if they had a second one full of torture devices.  I was relieved to realize it must actually be for the farm animals

“So, get the picture, Dill?  We call this “The Dunker” when we’re not using it as a rack.  Your fans decided you needed to take a good bath today, Timbo.  They must be able to smell you through their computers, I guess.”  He laughs at his own joke.  “They also thought you needed everything set on random.  That makes it as tough as it gets, son.  On random you can’t get used to the amount of time you’re under, or the speed that you’re going around, or what direction.  I think a twisted little prick like you is going to enjoy this ride, Bo boy!  It’s just like Disneyland!”

He goes to a table near where Moore is getting stretched, and picks up what looks like a large remote.  He presses a button and the wheel starts turning … I’m going backward, up and over and then head down, face into the five fire hoses, opened full force.  The water is cold as ice, and it feels like my face has been hit by a truck, then the water pushes against the rest of my body as the wheel turns, and I’m then completely submersed in the pool.

The shock of the freezing cold water, and the pressure of it made me lose all the air out of my lungs in a gasp.  I was under water and needing to breathe badly.  Just when I think I’m about to take in a lung full of water the wheel begins to move again.  Still in the same direction.  My head comes out of the water just in time, and I gasp for a breath.  Just then, the wheel reverses direction.  “Fuck ME!” I think.  Then I’m submerged again and this time it feels like a lifetime before the wheel continues back up, taking my feet out first.  I feel the pressure of the water coming out of those hoses on my gut, then my chest and neck and then on my face.  Fuck, it’s like getting sandblasted by five hoses at once. I feel for sure that it’s rearranging my face.  Gunnerson hits the STOP button long enough to laughingly say, “good way to shrink down that cock of yours huh Dildo?”  Then he hits START for the second time.

This punishment continues for what I’m to learn is 45 minutes.  It’s like going through Hell, but once I’m used to getting repeatedly dunked in the cold water, I realize it’s making all the pain in my body feel a little better, or maybe it’s just got me so numb that I think I’m in less pain.  It doesn’t take long before I’m shivering like crazy, but the punishment is relentless.  I have to assume the guys administering this insane torture, are keeping an eye on me for any signs of hypothermia.  I’m learning that they know how much I can take better than I do, and I’m beginning to enjoy the macho nature of this whole set-up and that I’m getting pushed hard, and roughed-up at every turn.  I’ve never been under this much strict control, and to my surprise, I am already finding I sorta like it … to a point.  Sure as Hell am enjoying the elation of having made it through each tough torture test.  I figure they are feeling me out to see exactly what I can take, and I decide, coming from these macho dudes, that that’s kinda cool.

Eventually the wheel stops rotating, and Gunnerson and Hernandez get me off of the fucked-up, evil machine.  I’m exhausted and freezing by the time they release me.  I’m also a limp rag.  No way I can possibly stand on my own.  They drag me over nearer to Moore, and just let me flop out like a jellyfish on the floor in front of him.  Hernandez then strips me and leaves the room with my clothes.  When he comes back Gunnerson says, “Our subscribers aren’t done with you yet, son.  They want to see you and McLean framed up and stretched out like Captain Moore here.”  They pick me up and Hernandez holds my limp body as Gunnerson hooks my rope cuffs onto each of the top corners of the frame.  My legs are then spread out and I soon find myself being stretched out in the same suspended spread-eagle that Moore has been in for at least an hour by now.  They increased the tension on me till they get a good gasp out of me.  I’m hanging there naked in front of the three elite soldiers, two of ‘em in front of me and the other hanging beside me.  Hafta say, at this point I’d kill to be sporting a sleeveless button-down shirt and jeans. At least they gave Moore that bit of dignity, if you can call it that.Fuckin’ humiliating being buck naked in front of these guys, not to mention “the TV audience” watching on the website.

Fulton and MacKinnon drag McLean in while I’m lost in these thoughts.  The voices of the soldiers greeting each other brought me out of my thoughts.  I gaze at McLean, or what I can see of him.  He’s plastered in muck from head to toe.  I can tell he’s still got his clothes on but he’s so completely gooped up, it really wouldn’t matter.  The army boys get him stretched out in a frame next to mine and MacKinnon, who’s the stereotypical red-headed and bearded, brawny Scottish type, “Mac” as I hear the other soldiers call him, says “Now ain’t that a pretty picture boys?” And pulls out his smartphone and actually takes some pictures of the three of us hanging there helplessly.  I can imagine the guy in a kilt, tossing a caber with no problem at all.

Hernandez then explains that they can adjust these frames to put equal pressure (or pull in this case) just as it was on the Gut Buster.  With this said, he goes to a panel next to Moore’s frame and I feel the thing pull me tighter.  “There ya go boys.  That oughtta make ya sweat a bit.  Let’s see who wants out first.  Is it gonna be Dill or McLean?  We’re going to have to get Moore off soon.  He’s closing in on ninety minutes.”

They leave Moore with us for maybe another ten minutes, and then get him down from the frame.  Two of his buddies cart him off, out of the room.  I assume he’s headed back to the Resting Room.

I glance over at McLean, and not only does he look filthy, but he looks like a completely beaten man.  I’m not really sure if he even knows what’s happening to him at this point.  He looks like he’s just in a total daze.  I find myself envying him for that.

Hernandez breaks the silence.  “You boys are up there till the muck on McLean is completely dry.”

“Holy fuckin’ Jesus”, I think.  How long is that going to take.  The muck looks pretty thick on the guy.  It’s definitely going to take a while.

“We’ll let you know once you fellas can safe word out.” Hernandez tells us.  Why don’t we use the same phrase as before boys.  “Sir, please slop me up, SIR!”  First of you dipshits to cave in, gets scarecrowed for the morning shift tomorrow.

Lots of stuff goes through my mind as these sadistic bastards gradually stretch us out more and more.  I think about how in just two short days (even though they’ve felt like years) I’ve begun to change.  I’m feeling a little more masculine than before these guys recruited me.  I’m even liking being dressed like a sloppy redneck and put on display for the subscribers.  Other than how hard I tried to hold out on the rack yesterday, to keep from having to sign the dress code contract, there’s no way the “audience” could know being dressed like this would have embarrassed the shit outta me before.  Now I found myself actually sorta wanting to be displayed and tortured looking like this.   I really liked not only how I looked on the videos last night, but also how all the other fellas looked.  Now after seeing Moore dressed down like this, and strung up a few times.  I was really starting to dig this look.  At least here at The Camp that is! It would still be a different story in front of the general public.  THAT was going to take a while to get used to.  I did kind of relax about the whole deal at lunch today though, with McLean dressed like me and sitting there at the table too.  Other people in the restaurant probably just thought we were a bunch of guys on a construction or road crew, and wouldn’t have even given how McLean and I were dressed a second thought.

I glance over at McLean again, the surface of the muck on him looks dry but I’m sure it’s not dry through.  I notice that he looks like he’s passed out.  Hernandez sees the same thing and stuffs the smelling salts in his nose till he’s back in the land of the living again.

Finally Gunnerson declares that McLean’s suit of mud is dry, and we’re now entering the phase we can safe-phrase out of.  I decide there’s a part of me that wants to be scarecrowed and displayed on that cross again, and I yell as loud as I can, “ Slop me up, Fuckers!”

Hernandez says to the other soldiers, “I kinda like this guy.  He’s got some spunk … more of a hotdog than I originally thought.  We might make a soldier out of him yet!”  Then to me, he says “Trouble is Dill, you just got yourself another five hundred demerits too, since ya wimped out.  We like to teach a fella a good lesson around here.  By the looks of your dick while you’re up there I figure you kinda want the cross treatment again, but since you wanna play cowboy, you’ll pay for it!”

He turns to the rest of the men in the room and says, “We’ll rack him again tomorrow and extend his contracts by a few years.  I think this fucker needs to spend five years with us.”  The other men vociferously agree with him.  Looks like I’m going to be going through five years of attitude adjustment if they’re going to rack me again.  I learned yesterday, just as Gunnerson had said, “the rack ALWAYS wins!”

Fuck!  Like it or lump it, it looks like I’m going to be looking like a country boy even longer, and my body is going to be abused for a very long time to come.  Hell, I guess if I have to take it for three years, what’s another couple of years. Fuck me!  All I can hope is that when they spit me out the other end, that I’m as well-built, and as tough as these Delta Force dudes that nabbed me.

Gunnerson approaches me, grabs the hair on the top of my head pulls it down so I’m looking into his face and gives me his best eye-to-eye Drill Instructor stare.  “Ok men, I think these guys have had enough for today.  Let’s get ‘em home.  They’re gonna need some bunk time to get through what we’ve got in store for ‘em tomorrow.  Especially Dilly boy here!”

With this the men lower us from the frames.  They hose McLean off, strip him, hose him off again, get him dry, and then lug the two of us back to the Resting Room for another session (this time stark naked) on side-by-side bondage tables for more electro. This time we’re plugged and electrodes are placed on our abs, biceps, hamstrings, thighs and calves.  Then two clips are attached to our nipples.  Our cocks get treated to an electro sound and then the cock gets wrapped at the base and glans with copper wire. Our balls are also wrapped and separated with the wire and pads get put on each nut.  “Holy FUCK!  They’re actually going to fry us this time!”  I thought the last taste of this was about all I could take but these guys plan to really cook us before they take us home.  This time they use bit gags on us that buckle both behind and also on top of the head.  We’re blindfolded and then on go the headphones for the white noise.  What feels like about thirty seconds later the pulses start up … they slowly ramp up to pure Hell.  I’ve never felt anything this bad before, and just as I think I’m going to pass out the intensity lowers … turns out just long enough to make me think it’s going to either stay at this lower level, or possibly even stop.  I’m wrong.  Suddenly it’s turned up beyond the previous intensity … they’re playing with us again.  “Fuck me!  Get me the Hell outta this!” I try to yell through the gag. I know my gargled words are falling on ears that are impervious to my pain.  I can’t help but wonder how McLean is doing through all of this.  Is he still conscious and suffering too, or has he been lucky and passed out?  I guess my adrenaline must be really pumping since it takes what seems like hours before I finally black out.

I awake to Hernandez and Sutherland removing the last of the electrodes and unwrapping my cock and balls.  McLean is already absent.  They toss my clothes onto the table between my legs and tell me to get dressed and come to the galley.  I’m still groggy and in major pain, so it takes me forever to get dressed.

When I finally manage to stumble my way to the “galley”, McLean is finishing up a plate of food.

I hear the microwave beep and through the blur that has yet to clear, I’m handed some grub.  I’m so out-of-it I don’t even take in what I’m eating.  I just do it automatically.  Once finished I’m roughly grabbed under the armpits, lifted up to my feet and walked out to the waiting SUV.

It takes me till I’m nearly home to realize it’s Fulton and the guy they call “Mac” who are chauffeuring me this time.  Again, I’m tightly strapped to the front seat.  I don’t remember much banter but I might have still been too groggy to take it in.

We stop in my driveway and Fulton, who’s been driving, pulls out his phone and brings up a picture of me wearing a mustard coloured shirt.  “This one tomorrow Dill!  It’s got the nice deep-cut shirttails like we like boy.  You know what to do with it when you get in the house … same treatment as the one you’ve got on Maggot.  Since we want to get you up on the cross nice an’ early, make it 0530 tomorrow Pickle.  Fix-up that shirt and get your sorry ass in the sack.

I’m still unsteady on my feet after they kick me out of the truck and I stagger my way up the path and into the house, like a drunk on a tear.  After cutting the sleeves of the indicated shirt, I put it in  the washer.  Then I strip and pour a good three cups of Epsom salts into the tub, hop in, and fill it with the hottest water as I can stand.  I soak for a good half hour, hoping I don’t fall asleep while I’m in there.  By the time I get out, I’m feeling a slight bit better, and the shirt in the washing machine is through the cycle.  I stuff it in the dryer and head up to bed, setting my alarm for 4:30 am, and a second one for 4:45.

 

~ Chapter 10 ~

(Day 3)

I must’ve slept through both of the alarms because I awake at 5:10 with a shock.  I quickly stuff my legs into my jeans and run to the basement to get my newly adulterated shirt out of the dryer.  I microwave what’s left in the pot of yesterday’s coffee, down it, grab my gym bag (which I’ve dropped by the door on the way in last night) and run (as best I can with my body in it’s present abused state) to the driveway. I glance at my phone on the way … 5:36.  “Shit!”

This time it’s Hernandez and Gunnerson.  First words I hear are “You’re late, Fuckwad!  We’ve been waiting since 0515.  That’ll be another 210 demerits Dill.  You eat?”

“‘C’mon Asswipe!  Fulton said … I catch myself and realize I’d let my mouth get me in deeper yet again.  The fact that Fulton said 0530 had no bearing.  This was their game and I had to play by their rules.

“Fuck Pickle!  I swear you friggin’ love our demerit system, boy.  Sure seems like it anyway!” says Gunnerson with a big smirk.  Then he asks if I’ve eaten.

“Sir, no I haven’t eaten, SIR!  And no I don’t like it you cocksucker!”  I guess I’m just too exhausted to control my mouth, cuz it just slips out.

Hernandez replies with a simple and menacing, “Coulda fooled us!”, half under his breath but loud enough to get the point across.   And he reaches between the seats and holds his phone with my profile pulled up from the roster. I hadn’t checked last night when I got home to see what my demerit tally had risen to, so when I saw the number I’m sure I turned ghost white … 2376!

“That’s the up-to-the-minute tally, Bo my boy!”  Hernandez says with a sadisitic chuckle.  “Pickle … you are SO fucked!”

The three of us go to the same Smitty’s for breakfast and Gunnerson orders for me, since he wants again to get as much protein into me as possible.  After the waitress leaves the table, he says “Bet you’d like to be able to see the section of your profile that tells our subscribers about your “Upcoming Punishments”, huh Dill?”  I know it’s a question that needs no answer, so I just look up from my plate long enough to see that glint in his eyes.  This guy friggin’ LOVES making a guy suffer, and he’s one of those guys you can see exactly how much he loves to torture a fella by reading his eyes.  You just know he must’ve loved training the men under his command, like Moore.  All these guys are built like tanks but Moore has the best physique of ‘em all.  Some of the other torturers are almost too muscular but Moore’s build is truly perfect … he looks like a MMA fighter.  Maybe a Super Middleweight or a Light Heavyweight … big, but not ape-like.  Absolutely the physique I’d freakin’ just about kill to have too.

Once the thought of Moore pops into my head I remember him getting worked over with us yesterday, and how good he looked sporting the “country boy look”.  I have to say, I could see why they like to dress us like this when I saw him being worked over.  Fuck, he looked so cocky, AND hot!  He’s got a trace of a Southern drawl, so I wonder if he’s a guy who grew up ripping the sleeves off his shirt for the hot Summer heat down there, or if Gunnerson brought out the “country boy” in him once he got his grubby paws on him in the military?  The other men are all steamin’ hot too, but Moore really is head and shoulders above them when it comes to good looks.  He’s one of those guys that all women want and all men want to be like.

Picturing Moore being tortured in those few seconds made my cock spring to life pretty fast, and I realized I was getting off a little, both on that thought of seeing him being tortured, and on being dressed like him and knowing I was going to be displayed again this morning.  I liked the way I looked being tortured when I saw myself on the site a few short nights ago, and I sure as Hell enjoyed seeing Moore dressed like this and taking his punishment, but this was the first time I was actually kind of enjoying having to sport this look in public.

When we get up to pay the bill and leave, I notice a few 40-something-ish women throw me a look of disdain, and I actually think to myself, “so what if they think I’m an uncultured lowlife, I bet they’ll remember me, and who knows … maybe even fantasize about me the next time their boring, clean-cut, strait-laced husbands are making out with them”.  To my surprise I find myself sort of enjoying looking like a rough, ignorant hick this morning.

On the way across the floor to the door, I started thinking about starting out my day on the cross again and realized in this mustard coloured shirt I was really gonna show up from the road.  My dick got even harder at the thought.

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