By Pickle

Note: This is a continuation of a story by Pickle that has not been updated in quite some time. To start at the very beginning, click here.

~ Chapter 16 ~

I’m left hanging there, and as much as the fiendish belt is giving me some added support so that my arms aren’t taking my entire weight, I’m wishing to Hell it wasn’t there.  I discover it automatically tightens and loosens along with all its other functions.  It squeezes the fuck out of you for several minutes … as if breathing isn’ t tough enough just from hanging there, and then releases for a few minutes, so you think you’re safe from it.

Then it tightens again.  The thing not only sends random shocks through your navel to the back of the pole (where there must be some kind of conductive material I didn’t notice) but also the entire belt shocks you where it touches you.  I learn the “nose cone” also retracts leaving just a thin rounded rod that both jabs a guy in the navel repeatedly and at various sequences, but also circles around inside his navel as it does so … sometimes nailing him dead centre and other just off-centre, so it works the entire bellybutton.  That results in getting me so hard that my cock and balls are constantly getting shocked at full force, along with the shocks to my mid-section and feet.

If it IS “The Boss” who’s controlling the nightmarish shoes I’m sporting, he is a maniacal bastard.  Of all the tortures these fuckers have subjected me to this far, they are ingenious in the excruciating agony they produce.  I’ve learned the hard way that the straps that hold them on my feet also have pins that jab across the top of my feet and around the ankles, and send shocks through them too.

I hear a loudspeaker somewhere behind me ask, “You enjoying your little ride so far, Timbo?  That’s 15 minutes boy!”  I last long enough to hear the same voice call out, “Not too shabby Dill, thought you’d have passed out before this.  30 minutes Fuckwad!”  And then a few minutes later I’m in blessed blackness.

I come to with the smell of ammonia again, which I’m now getting used to after the number of times these guys have waved it under my nose in the past few days.  My God!  Is this only my 4th day? It’s Moore, and once I’m “with it” he gives me a big wink and says, “We didn’t want you to miss out on us bringing you a buddy to suffer with, my dude!  It’s Saturday, so we’ve got a larger selection of our “country boys” here at “Club Med” with us for the weekend.”

I look down and see Gunnerson and MacKinnon dragging a guy I hadn’t seen here before, but I had noticed him at the gym undergoing some intense workouts from these guys.  MacKinnon amiably hollers up to me, “This is one of your new brothers Pick.  “Coffee”, meet Dill Pickle!  Hell, we keep this up and we just might have all the food groups hangin’ up there boys!”  He says more to Gunnerson and Moore, than to me and my new “brother.”  With that they get “Coffee” set up like they had with me immediately prior to getting hoisted up on the pole … suspension cuffs,  leg spreader, santanic “sandals”, and I assume his cock and balls are similarly confined in the same contraption mine are in.

They hoist “Coffee” up the post on the next side of it to my right, instead of opposite me on the back side of the beam.  They stop lifting him up when he’s about a foot lower than I am.  I’m soon to learn this is so they can attach the barbaric belt around him and the post too.  If he was at the same height on the pole, I’d be in the way of the evil strap and it wouldn’t be possible to buckle it around both “Coffee” and the post.  While getting the guy prepped with the gear and then hauled up the upright beam my tortures have stopped, and I’m incredibly grateful for the break, though a bit nervous of what that might mean.  Gunnerson comes to the the corner of the post between us and explains they’ll give us a few minutes to get acquainted before our torment starts up.  The three Tier 1 bastards then leave us hanging there.

I learn “Coffee’s” real name is Zack Kaufmann, and that Dutch heritage explains his very blond hair, what there is of it.  His hair has been cropped to what looks to me to be no more than a #1 buzz and bald on the sides and back … I asked him how long he’d had the High n’ Tight and was told since his initiation here at the “Club.”  I had noticed that McLean’s brown hair was just about that short too, but thought maybe he just liked it that way … kind of the Summer cut thing, so I hadn’t asked about it.  Both guys had what looked to be a day or two’s beard growth, so I guess that was either allowed, or maybe encouraged. I hadn’t gotten a good enough look at Saunders, the guy I saw on the cross from a distance, to see if he was sporting this look too or not, but I started to think about it and realized most of the guys at the gym that I’d seen sporting the “country boy casual look,” as I’d come to think of it, were also shorn good and short like McLean and Kaufmann.  Some of them had short beards like this.  Some had short goatees and some were clean-shaven, as I recalled.

In our short “get-to-know-you” time I find out Kaufmann works at a sign production shop in town, and since it’s basically manual labour our “superior officers” force him to dress down like this at work too. “Coffee” said Gunnerson had actually called his boss and told him he lost a bet, so if it was ok with him “Coffee” would be lookin’ like a Redneck for a several months.  He had apparently even gotten Kaufmann’s boss to agree to “report” him to Gunnerson should he show up at work wearing anything but jeans and a button-down sleeveless shirt.  Coffee said his boss razzed him about losing the bet and laughingly told him his new dress code served him right, and asked him if he’d like to make a bet on the game that night.

While they had held him in a full Nelson at the foot of our post, I noticed Zack looked sexy as Hell in his dark green sleeveless shirt and tight faded jeans. I also saw he was heavier set and more muscular than me.  He looked like he could take more abuse than either me or McLean, and it made me wonder what they’d put this guy through so far.  I had time to ask him how long he’d been stuck in this “program” and he had just enough time to tell me they basically kidnapped him from the gym and signed him up about 5 months ago.  The “kidnapping” part of the story sure sounded familiar!

It’s not long before the pain starts up, and we hear the loudspeaker say, “Ok boys, you fellas are going to be taking the same sequence from the Apps.  They’re set on random but you’ll get the same treatment at exactly the same time.  We want to see which one of you pussies screams louder.  And Coffee, it better be Dill since he’s already been up there for an hour!”  I recognized both Gunnerson’s voice and the degrading tone he was able to manage.  He had the talent of being able to humiliate the fuck out of you even when he was complimenting you, and he wasn’t trying to make either of us feel good about ourselves at the moment.

 

~ Chapter 17 ~

We’re still in “Coffee’s” first half hour of this pure Hell when Hernandez and Fulton appear in the clearing dragging yet another guy I’d only seen at the gym before.  He’s got sandy brown hair, like my own, but again cropped into a High n’ Tight.  He’s wearing a plaid tan and white sleeveless shirt that shows off a nice-looking full sleeve tattoo, and faded jeans, shredded at the knees and torn on the thighs. He looks to me like he’s maybe a little taller than me, with broader shoulders, and again more muscular.  He’s also covered in a thin layer of dry dirt, so I figure they’d been putting him through some of the PT I’d seen them put guys through online when I looked at that section of the website after my first day of “imprisonment” at the “Club.”

Hernandez introduces us and I discover his name is Nick Burton and he got initiated just over four months ago, not long after Zack.  At this point I don’t really care what his name is … I just hope it takes them a while to get him hoisted up the post, so the break from the diabolical tormenting continues.  I have no idea how long I’ve been hanging here, but I know I’d been up here alone for over thirty minutes, and then they winched “Coffee” up and gave us another thirty before they dragged Burton’s ass along to join us.

Once they get Burton geared up and ready to get hoisted up the post on my left side Fulton calls up to us, “Ok boys, looks like it’s gonna be a party!”  He then pulls the rope on Burton’s winch and he soon hanging on the post, just a little lower than Kaufman and opposite him on the pillar.  Once he’s in position they lock his hideously torturous belt on him and it’s not long before the three of us are squirming, suffering and screaming out from the mind-blowing layers of torment.

It’s amazing how things slow down when you’re in this much trouble, and it takes all of about 30 seconds before my brain feels like it’s going to explode from the overload of demonically painful sensations, but in those few seconds while my brain still functions I can’t help but think “at least misery loves company,” and I can’t help but wonder how we look from the road.  Three good-looking young fellas, all in our 20’s, and all hanging from and strapped to a tall post in an open field.  All of us yelling our heads off from the pain, and twisting and convulsing as much as the bonds allow.

During my conscious moments I realize that even though it’s not a well-travelled road that cars have been slowing down, and occasionally honking throughout this entire ordeal, so I know people can see this spectacle.  I can’t help but wonder why they don’t send help but no help has arrived.  I guess if any of them do call 911 for help the cops really have been tipped off (or bribed) not to respond.

Possibly people think we look like the kind of hotdog punks who maybe deserve whatever discipline is happening to us for whatever reason.  In my mind’s eye I can see the three of us hanging there with our bodies spasming involuntarily from all the electro and assorted maniacal sensations … all of us with cut-off sleeves and our shirttails flapping from the way our bodies are thrashing around.  Why the fuck is there a part of me that likes the way we look in my imagination?  In those few seconds before I pass out again I realize that I’m starting to like not only being on display like this, but also how hard these macho torturers are testing and pushing me. Fuck!  Am I actually starting to want this treatment?  What the Hell are they doing to my brain?

Then in another fleeting second I remember Saunders, the guy who was being scarecrowed, whenever the Hell that was.  I have no idea when I saw him up there at this point, I just remember they told me his name.  I wonder what’s happening to him at this point.  Do they still have him here today, or has he gone home for some rest?  I’ve totally lost track of time with all the punishment I’ve been through in the past several days.  Then … merciful blackness!

I awaken to MacKinnon’s voice, “Looks like these boys are done, fellas.  Let’s poke ‘em to make sure!”  I hear the masculine laughter of at least four guys from below me, and just as I take mental role call that it’s MacKinnon, Moore, Sutherland, and Hernandez I get the strongest jab to my navel I’ve had since being hoisted up on the post.  The belt is tightened so hard that I feel like the damn nose cone contraption in the thing is hammering my navel right to the post.  It literally feels like a jack hammer ramming right through my jizz cup.  I hear not only myself emit a series of involuntary loud grunts as it nails me but I’m hearing Coffee and Burton making similar noises.  All the other tortures have stopped, so having just one to focus on is almost worse.  The men below sit in the grass not far away and just watch us and shoot the shit, while the three of us learn to deal with just this one, awful belly-churning part of this punishment.

“So boys, that’s fifteen minutes of just the belt.  Think they’ve had enough yet?” I recognize MacKinnon’s voice again. Then I hear Moore say, and I hear the smile in his tone, “Naw, they’re tough guys, they can take another ten at least.  Then let’s get Kaufmann and Burton down first and keep it up on Dill while we put them in the wagon.  We gotta break him in good after all!”  I manage to blurt out “You fuckin’ Prick!” in-between grunts, and know I’ve just signed myself up for more demerits.  It kinda felt worth it to show these guys I still had some spunk left in me after everything they’d put me through so far.

I hadn’t noticed it till Moore mentioned the wagon, but when I looked off to my left there was a large ATV with a metal two-wheeled wagon attached to it.  It made me wonder where we were going to be carted off to next in the thing.  I knew no matter what I’d be a totally useless glob of muscles, skin, organs, and whatever was left of my brain after this mind-shattering onslaught of punishment that my new brothers and I had been subjected to on the post.

I’m vaguely aware as Coffee and Burton are released, that their fiendish shoes are removed once they’re on the ground.  They’re then cuffed behind their backs with heavy manacles, and each guy’s ankles are also shackled close together so there’s no way to walk, let alone run!  They’re unceremoniously dumped face-down into the wagon, and as if they were going anywhere, each guy then had his ankle chains pulled back and locked onto the chain between the cuffs on his wrists before a heavy collar is then attached to each guy’s neck.

Finally it’s my turn to be extricated from my position on the “Pillar of Doom,” as I’d come to think of it during my ordeal, and the horrible navel poking ceased at long last.  Moore climbs up and takes the belt off of me and then Hernandez lowers me, and I collapse into the helpless heap that I had imagined.  I’m soon cuffed as the other boys had been and roughly dumped into the wagon shoulder to shoulder with Burton, before my ankles are forcefully pulled up and attached to my wrists.  It made the shackles on my wrist bite into my arms, but I figured that was the least of my worries at this point.  I hear the slam of the tailgate of the wagon being shut and then hear Hernandez say, “Ok Moore, you and “Sudsy” drive ‘em up to the barn and we’ll follow along and help you get ‘em strung up in the dungeon.”  I think, “Oh great!  Just what I need … to be strung up again when I haven’t got anything left in me.  I’m completely wrecked and exhausted form the tortures on the pole and I thought for sure they’d plunk us on the tables where they allowed us to recover from other tortures.  I thought even the electrocution they put me through on those tables was easier to take than what I’d been through on the post, and welcomed the thought of it as a “rest” of sorts.

 

~ Chapter 18 ~

The ride back to the barn was bumpy on the cow path of a trail, and Moore seemed to deliberately driving fast and aiming for every good pot hole he could so the wagon would bounce enough that Burton, Coffee and I would all become airborne and then slam down on our guts onto the corrugated metal floor of the wagon with a fair bit of force.  He was making this ride as tough on us as he could, and I’m sure getting a good kick out of it.  Fortunately it wasn’t all that far back to the barn if you weren’t in 5-points, and being roughly transported like this.  At least I had company in the wagon, and was reminded of that when my body slammed into Burton’s or his into mine. I knew that Kaufmann was also getting jounced around and hitting Burton from the other side.  Being hogtied like this there was no way to lessen any blows from the unrelenting bashing around that Moore was giving us.  It took everything in me to keep from having my face bashed into the floor, and I did get it on the side of the head a few times, since I was trying to keep my head turned enough that if I hit I wouldn’t break my nose or lose some teeth.  I could see Burton trying to do the same thing.

When the ruthless ride came to an end, I feel one of the men at the side of the wagon.  It turns out to be Moore, “So you boys enjoy the ride?”  Wonder if we might’ve knocked some sense into any of these fellas Sudsy?”  They laugh.  “Ok, let’s get ‘em into the barn.”  I feel my legs release from my wrist and my toes clunk down to the floor since any muscle control has long gone.  I feel Burton’s legs similarly released and I assume Kaufmann’s have been too.  “Let’s take Dill first.” I hear Moore say, and Sudsy replies, “Yeah, he doesn’t look so good does he?”  They both chuckle.

I feel myself grabbed under the arms and also held by the ankles and I’m lifted out of the wagon and stood up between the two Tier 1 soldiers.  Each guy takes me under one armpit and I get dragged into the barn and into the “Rest” room.  This time however I’m not plunked onto the tables I’ve been on before.  I’m hauled over to the far side of the room that I haven’t seen before.  I’m unshackled and placed gut-down on what seems like a massage table.  My shirt is pulled off over my head, and my jeans and underpants yanked down and off over my feet.  I guessed they still had my Merrell’s that they removed before placing me in that gruesome metal footwear I’d been in for however long it had been.  I’m now buck naked but am too destroyed by everything that had happened today to give a flying fuck.

The guys adjust my body on the table so my face is placed in this padded ring, so that my eyes, nose and mouth are in the open space.  The thing about this that tells me I’m not about to get a nice massage is there’s a large penis gag facing up from a strap on the bottom of this opening.  My pie hole is forcibly pried open and my mouth is roughly shoved down onto the monstrous gag.  Then a belt is pulled over the back of my head and tightened so hard I feel like it’s a zit they’re trying to pop.

Next I feel the bottom end of the table getting pushed in a bit, so that my shins and feet are in mid-air but the rest of my body is on the table.  Again, my ankles are pulled slightly apart and my legs are belted down individually to the table just above and below the back of the knees.  A wide belt is then tightened down hard over my shoulder blades, pressing my chest in tight to the table.

As if I could go anywhere now, they’re not done with me yet.  They pull a wide belt over the small of my back and I hear them ratcheting it down and feel my gut getting pressed tighter and tighter into the table. I feel my spine crack.  “Still breathe, Dildo?”  I hear Sudsy ask. I manage to make a grunt through the gag.  Moore then says, “Guess it’s not tight enough then huh Sudsy?”  They chuckle at the position I’m in.  I then feel something pulled out of the side of the table at each side near my shoulders.  My arms are then strapped down to the arms of the table that have been positioned at about 45% from the table itself.  It’s amazing where our brain goes when we’ve been through a lot, but mine said to me, “At least they’re not above my head!” and I actually felt relief from that.

At this point “Sudsy” Sutherland says “I bet this fucker’s starving by now.  We’d better get some nourishment into him and get him hydrated.”  I feel a tourniquet wrapped around my left arm just above the wrist, and then I was aware of a not-so-gentle poke as a needle was shoved into a vein, and it was taped there.  I hear something being rolled over to my left side and then Sutherland says, “Ok Timbo, this’ll make ya feel better.  We’ll get ya rehydrated and then we’ll consider getting some actual grub into you before we have a little more fun with you and your friends.”  Even though I can’t see it, I realize he’s hooked me up to an I V and I’m being pumped full of some kind of revitalizing fluid or fluids.  I freak out a little at what they might actually be putting into my veins, but there’s nothing I can do about it, so I just allow myself to give in and not fight it … as if I could!

As I’m about to fall asleep in this position I hear the voices of MacKinnon and Hernandez come into the room.  They say something about Kaufmann and I can tell they’re just to my right.  I figure he’s getting the same treatment I’m getting.  It’s not long before Moore and Sutherland drag Burton in, and plunk him down on my left.  Then the four soldiers leave the room and turn off the light.  Total blackness!  It’s not long before I lose consciousness.

When I do come-to  the room is still pitch black.  In the darkness I’m aware of the breathing of the guys on either side of me, and wonder how they’re doing.  I realize that after the sleep and whatever fluids they pumped into me that I was actually feeling a lot better, but then, you couldn’t feel much worse than I had after the accumulation of tortures and punishments my body had been put through since the day Gunnerson and Moore had put me through their combined workout in the gym a few short days ago.  Man, was that just this past Wednesday?  It seems like a freakin’ lifetime ago.

I’m lying here wishing to God they hadn’t gagged me.  I’d like to talk to these two guys who’ve been “with the Program” for four of five months now.  Since they’re not making any noise other than their breathing I know they’ve got to be gagged too.  I’ve been told I’ve got a big mouth a few times, but man, with this gigantic leather phallic “thing” in my face, it sure didn’t feel like I had a big mouth.  When they first shoved me down on it and tightened strap over the back of my head I gagged till I was able to relax.  Both “Sudsy” and Moore had gotten a kick out of that, and I thought I remembered hearing one of them say, He’ll learn!” and I wondered exactly what that might be implying.

I must have been lying there awake for a good hour or so before the lights go on, and I hear a bunch of masculine chatter as the military guys enter the room.  It seems to be the whole fuckin’ “platoon” since I can feel two guys on either side of my table.  I figure it’s likely the same for Burton and “Coffee.”  I assume we’re about to be released, and even possibly allowed to go home considering the nastiness of the punishment we’d taken that morning.  I’m soon to learn that’s not the case however, although there is some relief in the fact that the gag is removed from my face, and the strap taken off the back of my head.  I can’t help myself and “About fuckin’ time!” comes tumbling out of my mouth.  I hear Troy say, “Man, he just can’t help himself can he?  Gotta love it when I guy like Dill asks for it huh?”  I’ve realized my mistake even as the words are leaving my lips.

When I hear the other two “country boys” each say “Sir, thank you SIR!” I know the gags have been taken out of them too, but they’ve been here long enough to have the cockiness tamed out of them, or at least to be smarter about things.  I’m hating myself for allowing what was in my head to pass my lips but Troy was right.  I still couldn’t help myself.

Gunnerson says, “Hey Troy!  I bet The Boss is fuckin’ loving that about Pickleboy here, huh?”

“Yeah, he tells me he’s enjoying how much shit this cocky little fucker’s getting himself into. Not to mention all the money he’s making us by the number of new subscribers we’re getting, who like seeing him fuck himself just as much as the rest of us do.”  I feel a hand tussle the back of my hair.  “Keep it up Timbo … we all like money, don’t we boys?.  Almost as much as we like roughing you up, and watching you take it, Dill!”  That was Moore’s voice.  “Ya know, there’s somethin’ about the “country boy casual look” on ya that makes you look like the kinda cowboy who deserves to get roughed up a little extra bud!” The whole room minus my “brothers” laugh at that remark, since Moore had been dressed exactly the same all day too.  I find myself kind of liking both that Moore was teasing me like this, and that he called me “bud!”.  I lift my head to see if I can see him and he’s standing about 5 feet away to my right.  When he sees me glance over at him he gives me a big wink to go along with the big grin on his face, and I knew he realized I liked this look on him too.

The slight “joy” that I felt from Moore’s teasing and wink was soon to be taken away from me though.  A small section of the table was removed from under my crotch area.  I then feel my cage-encased junk pulled down through it.  I start to get really nervous!  The cruel contraption is removed but replaced with something that feels like rods that then get squeezed tight at the top of my scrotum.  Then a slight pressure on my balls.  Then … it gets worse.  It gets tightened till I’m screaming for it to stop.  Gunnerson tells me to “Shut the fuck up, or I’ll keep on going boy!  I stop when you man-up and stay quiet.”  I somehow manage to suppress my screams from the indescribable pain, and true to his word Gunnerson stops tightening the horrific vise.  Even though I’ve ceased screaming I’m having to really breathe deeply to maintain any semblance of composure.  As deeply as the belt across the small of my back will allow, that is.

I then hear Kaufmann screaming, and then Burton starts up, and since I can now lift my head enough to see, I know they’re getting the same treatment.  They eventually get hold of themselves too, and I figure whatever else is coming we’re all expected to take it like the “strong, silent” type.  We’re given a few minutes to get used to this assault on our balls and then a trap door in the floor directly below my balls is opened and a steel cable is pulled up and attached to the ball crusher.  I feel it pull taut.  I turn my head each way and see that the other two victims have the same done to them.

Gunnerson’s voice again.  “Ok boys!  Time for a little ball stretching competition!”  The soldiers all laugh.  “Well, it’s not really a competition.  We’re just gonna toughen you fellas up a little.  Dill, this is new to you but it’s similar to the “Gut Buster” you three are all gonna get the same stretch to your balls.  Coffee and Burton have been through this before, so it’ll likely take longer to get them yellin’ like pussies again, but the first guy who can’t control his screaming gets put on 24 hours of scarecrow duty.  That’s 24 hours boys!  Ya hear me fellas?  You get four, one-hour breaks off the cross, but you do a full 24 hours up there.  Dill, both Coffee and Burton have served that sentence before, so they know just how tough it is.  They’re going to do their very best to keep their mouths shut till you start screaming and can’t get control of yourself.  I guarantee they don’t want to go through that again.  Burton’s managed to get himself into that trouble twice before, so he’s really gonna stay quiet.  So Pickle, like I said, you all get exactly the same amount of stretching.”  He pauses … “You boys ready?”  I hear “Sir, yes SIR!” outta the other two captives and then I get a hard swat on the ass.  I look down and see Gunnerson holding a Prison Strap again.  “Dill, are you ready boy?”

I manage a suitably loud “Sir, YES SIR!” and get another hard swat on the ass.  “That sounded like you’ve got some contempt in you BOY!  We’re gonna have to work that out of you in the next few weeks.  No worries Dill, you’ll soon learn you deserve this just like all our other “country boys” do, son!”

With these words the pull on my balls slowly begins to increase.  With them being crushed too, even a slight pull is almost more than I can take, especially after a morning of having them zapped almost constantly.  I’m actually surprised I can feel my nuts at all.  Hernandez starts calling out the pounds of stretch once it gets to five pounds.  “Six … six point five … seven … seven point five … eight … etc.”  We reach twelve point five and I both scream and shoot my load at the same time.  The stretching continues however, and I’m told to shut my mouth and get ahold of myself.  I totally lose control of myself at fourteen pounds and can’t stop yelling.  Both Kaufmann and Burton shoot at nearly the same time when we reach seventeen and a half pounds.  The stretch continues though till both of my new friends are screaming their bloody heads off too.  Burton manages to hold out till we’re all at twenty pounds.  Our captors keep us there at the twenty for what we’re told is 10 minutes, but I’m sure they’re fucking with us.  It’s got to be more like half an hour or more.  Then mercifully the stretch is decreased till we’re all at five pounds again.

“So it seems we have a winner, boys!”  Laughter from the six soldiers and Troy.  “Dill, we’ve got a little surprise for ya son.  There’s a little extra uh … treatment … for the guy who shoots first.  Seems like you won yourself three hours on The Plank.  In case you don’t know what that is Pick, it’s the long board that dunks you in our little pit of muck.  You’re gonna look way “prettier” mucked-up Dilly boy!  No worries son, we’ll get ya good an’ sloppy.  Don’t you worry!”  I remembered very well what “The Plank” was.  It was the thing I’d seen done to a fella that I dreaded most of what I’d seen online.  “Fuck!  Three hours of trying to catch my breath before being plunged into that thick, gross-looking muck.” I was already dreading it!

“Oh yeah Pick … one more thing!”  It was Hernandez’s voice this time.  “Guess you’ve noticed you’re still kinda stuck there.  Well, the way this works is each of you boys needs a good ass beating before we put you away for the night.  Burton held out the longest so he gets fifty swats with the Canadian Prison Strap.  Coffee came second” he chuckles, “In both senses that is …” the rest of the men laugh too, “So he gets a hundred lashes with it.  And Dill … well you’re the big “winner” boy.  You get two hundred swats for losing.  You get three hours on The Plank, AND you get to play scarecrow for 24 hours dude.  Fuck Pickle, you’d almost think you like this shit the way you keep getting yourself in trouble.  Oh yeah, and remember … your demerits are going through the roof man!  You are SO totally fucked Timbo!”  Gunnerson pipes up with, “And remember, he still has another rack session comin’ his way so we can get another two years added to his contract.  I think we can get at least that out of him, huh boys?”  Troy speaks up and tells him The Boss has now requested they double the length of my contracts.  “Seems he really likes the sleeveless version of Dill, and REALLY likes watching him get tortured.  He also said to tell Pickle he thoroughly enjoyed zapping him today and is looking forward to working him over remotely lots more!  He also said to tell Burton and Kaufmann not to feel left out.  He wants us to get one more year added onto each of their contracts too.”  Gunnerson replies with “I don’t think any of us have a problem with that, do we boys?”  They all agree they’re going to enjoy keeping us around as long as The Boss wants.  Moore says, “And the way Dill’s goin’ our replacements down-the-road will still be torturing him when he’s eighty!” This gets a loud guffaw from all of them.

 

~ Chapter 19 ~

“Well, I think this little chat we’ve been having has given these boys enough rest for now.  Troy, you care to do the honours today bud?”  Hernandez asks while holding out the prison strap.  Troy says, “More than happy to Commander!  Thanks bud!” and accepts the strap from Hernandez.  This done, he moves over beside the table to which Burton is bound and tells him to call out his swats “Nice and loud, bud!  Nice and loud!  We all want to hear you loud and clear boy.”  Burton takes his fifty like a man, and I only hear him grunt loudly on a few of the last ten swats or once Troy whacks him extra hard to get him to squawk a little.  From the sound of the strap on his butt I can tell the last five are as full-on as Troy can give.

Our former Personal Trainer is a huge guy, 6’ 6” if he’s an inch and he’s 325 pounds of solid muscle, so I know Nick is taking a Helluva beating from this guy’s last five strokes especially.  I admire him for not being more vocal than he was during all of it, but especially his last five hits.  When he’s done he hands off the strap to Captain MacKinnon … apparently they’re going to take turns on Kaufmann I figure.  Troy must’ve caught my momentary questioning look when he handed off the strap, and says, “Don’t you worry Bo my boy … I’m gunnin’ for you!  Just taking a bit of a rest so I can give you what you fuckin’ deserve Dill!”

“Coffee, you ready boy?” MacKinnon asks

“Sir, yes SIR!”

Mac’s nearly as big a guy as our “friend” Mr. Troy Turek, at 6’ 4” and at least 295 pounds, and he takes a big wind-up and swats Kaufmann’s poor ass with as hard a wallop as he possibly can even on the first one.  It’s as if he’s got something to prove, or really has it in for Coffee.  The boy screams “Faaaaaaaawk!” in obvious agony on his very first hit.  MacKinnon makes sure every one of his swats lands as hard as the first one, and poor Zack goes quiet by the time fifteen have happened to him.  It’s like he’s given up hope of the pain ever stopping and he no longer screams out possibly trying to brace his nerve to get through the rest of his punishment.  By the time Mac gets to forty strokes I begin to hear some almost imperceptible sobbing between the “Sir, forty-one SIR! … Sir, Forty-two SIR! … (sob) … Sir, Forty-three SIR! … (sob-sob) …” from the handsome fella on the table to my right.

“Dill, you scared yet boy?  You oughtta be Fuckwad!”  It’s Gunnerson, as he takes the prison strap out of MacKinnon’s hand.  He then asks Zack if he’s ready for the back half of his punishment.  “Sir, yes SIR!”

Gunnerson snarls “I didn’t fuckin’ HEAR you, Kaufmann!”

“SIR, YES SIR!”

“That’s better recruit, make sure it’s like that from now on!”

“SIR, YES SIR!”

With this Gunnerson hits Coffee’s ass with a spine-chilling blow so hard that it actually flips my stomach when I hear it land on him.  It gets a loud “FAAAAAWK!” out of my poor buddy and I’m not only feeling for him but also dreading what’s in my immediate future, and realize with every swat Kaufmann is taking my own fate is getting closer and closer.  “SIR, FIFTY-ONE SIR! … SIR, FIFTY-TWO SIR! … SIR, FIFTY-THREE SIR …”  By the time Gunnerson is through with Kaufmann and he’s made it to “SIR, ONE HUNDRED SIR!!!” the boy has lost all of his reserve and he’s sobbing uncontrollably.  These guys aren’t messing around … they are out to make this hurt as much as they possibly can.

Gunnerson hands off to Sullivan.  “So Dill, like I told ya in the car the other day.  I think you actually kinda like the sloppy Redneck look, now don’t ya son?  Gotta say, I like ya like that Timbo.  The first day I was doin’ a little recon on ya in your yard and was shootin’ pix of ya when you were doin’ yard work, I thought to myself that fuckwad looks real good like that.  With the cut-off sleeves and your shirttails flappin’, you look like the kinda “cowboy” who needs some fellas like us to knock the fuckin’ crap out of him.  I knew right then and there we had to “slop you up” a little more permanently, son.  It really is a good look on ya boy!  Yeah, I like this look on ya a lot Dill!  Makes me wanna hurt ya real good, my dude!”  With this he wields my first swat of the set, and it’s one helluva swat.  It carries that same sickening sound that nearly made me toss my cookies when I heard it on Kaufmann.  My eyes immediately water but I grit my teeth, determined not to scream out and give Sullivan the satisfaction of knowing how much pain I was in from his first blow.  I manage to stifle the scream I wanted to let out, and have it come out as a barely audible, muffled grunt.  My first of many in that set of fifty from “Sudsy.”  “SIR, ONE SIR!” I yelled out.  Then it was “SIR, TWO SIR! … SIR, THREE SIR!” and so on.  In the last ten, he did succeed in getting me to scream out obscenities a few times for damned sure.

Sullivan passes the strap to Moore.  “So … here we are again Dill.  Seems like you get yourself into these predicaments a lot buddy.  Gotta say, dressing like this (he points to his own shirt) you really do look like a fuckin’ troublemaker.  Bo, if you keep insisting on dressin’ down this sloppy, I guess you’d better expect to get your ass kicked a lot, cuz like Sudsy here said, it makes you look cocky as shit, and you’d better believe it’s my pleasure to help dish out the punishment a punk like you looks like he deserves Pickle!  And I gotta tell ya, it’s gonna make me real happy to make sure you STAY this sloppy Dill!”  He gives me another big wink that makes me think he really does like the sleeveless, shirttails hangin’ out look on me.   “Ok, let’s get this set underway.  I wanna hear you count ‘em out louder than you did for Sudsy.  You got that Dipshit?”

“SIR, YES SIR!!!”

“You sure about that Maggot Piss?”

SIR, YES SIR!!!”

“You ready Dick Breath?”

SIR, YES SIR!!!”

He slams the prison strap down on my ass harder than anyone has yet today, and I let out a blood-curdling “FAAAAAAAAWK!!!”  He moves up beside my face, bends down and quietly tells me that that display of cowardice just got me an extra fifty, that he’ll be happy to give me after my original two hundred has been reached.  He orders me to count ‘em out and only count ‘em out … “Keep your fuckin’ screams to yourself Dill!”

He informs the rest of the room that I’ll be taking an extra fifty in this session, and hearing him say it without any emotion in his voice to the other men makes me involuntarily shudder at the thought of what’s yet to come.  He steps back near my position and prepares to give me my next belting.  It’s even harder than the first one, but I clench my jaws and emit only a soft grunt, then “SIR, FIFTY-TWO SIR!!!”

With this Moore again moves up near my face and screams “NO FUCK-UP!  YOU MESSED UP RECRUIT … YOU’RE BACK TO NUMBER ONE AGAIN YOU PIECE OF SHIT!!!”  He gives me a minute to take in what he’s just screamed at me.  Then he steps back into position to strap me and starts in again.  He swats me even harder than the first two, but I manage to keep it together and just yell, “SIR, ONE SIR!!!”  Moore is nowhere near as big a guy as either Turek or Sullivan but somehow he manages to keep up the intensity of the blows for the entire set, and it seems to me he’s hitting even harder than those larger men.  I’m about to find out for sure since he passes the strap over to Troy.  Turek, or “Turk”  (as I’ve heard Gunnerson and Moore call him at the gym) does, as it turns out hit even harder than I thought, and I can’t help but let out a few good screams, but I manage not to curse.

Next it’s Fulton “on the plate.”

“Dill, I’ve been wanting to do this to you since the first day I saw you at the gym.  Boy, you wear a constant smirk on your ‘resting face’ that I’ve been wanting to wipe off you since day one!”  With this he starts his set of fifty.  His first twenty or so are harder than anyone has dished out yet but he peters out after that and it almost feels like I’ve won a prize since I barely cringe with each one of the rest of his set.  Once he’s done he hands the strap back to Gunnerson.

“Timbo … you need this boy!”  No further ado … he starts his set of fifty, and he does it with gusto.  Gunnerson is only a little taller than Moore and not as heavy-set or as muscular but the man can pack a wallop with that fuckin’ prison strap.  My ass has been on fire since half-way through Sullivan’s set and with every blistering swat since that heat has only built and built.  Somehow even though Gunnerson might not hit as hard as Moore or Turek he manages to make it sting much more.  There’s a bite to his swats that the others haven’t perfected yet. and every time the strap hits it feels like he’s branding my ass with a searing hot iron.  I can’t control my screams any longer and let out a good one with every swat.  I pass out after I’ve hollered out “SIR, ONE HUNDRED EIGHTY-ONE SIR!!!” and am brought back to the ‘living’ with the smell of ammonia in my nose.

Gunnerson reminds me of the count and then continues his set.  When we reach two hundred he hands the strap back to Moore, and says, “Why don’t we get Coffee and Burton up where they can witness Timbo’s last set?”  He motions to the other men and Fulton, Sullivan, Hernandez and MacKinnon get the other two boys off their tables and cuffed somewhere behind me, arms above their heads, still naked, to the ceiling.  Fulton notices that the skin is open in a few spots on Kaufmann’s ass and calls for some antibiotic gel.  Whatever they apply to him makes him scream almost as loud as if he’d been cracked on his open wounds with a bullwhip.  I think, “Oh great!  I’m in for that next!”  Since I figure I must have some pretty nasty-looking lesions myself by now.  Sure as Hell feels like I do.  Remembering the strapping I’d taken on my abs the first day I was thinking these guys do a damned good job of making you feel like they’re skinning you alive and then cauterizing your wounds on a brazier.

Moore takes his time prepping for my extra fifty.  Of course by making me start my count over I was now about to be taking number 251 to 300 in the stroke count. He comes over opposite my face making it easy for me watch him.  He first unbuttons his shirt, and then slowly removes it, exposing a perfect, very ripped 8-pack, and one of the nicest set of pecs I’d ever seen anywhere.  They were nicely square at the bottom instead of rounded like most guys.  Then he makes a show of first flexing his biceps, and then warming up doing windmills, shoulder shrugs and circles, bending over to touch his toes several times and then back to a few more windmills.  Then he comes over closer to me, putting his hand just between my shoulder blades and leans down and says “Pretty impressive soldier.  You’re doin’ great!  Btw Dill, like what ya see?  I’m gonna whip you into this kinda shape too boy, don’t you worry.  I’ve got your sorry ass bud!  OK boy, just fifty more now, so hang in there Pick.  Show me what ya got though Dill … I don’t want to hear one fuckin’ sound out of you for these next fifty.  Count ‘em out, but that’s ALL I want to hear out of you, understood recruit?”

“SIR, UNDERSTOOD SIR!!!”

If Moore has taken any kind of brotherly liking to me he certainly doesn’t show me any favours while he’s wielding the strap.  These last fifty strokes feel like he’s peeling away layer after layer of skin by burning it off.  At “SIR, TWENTY-EIGHT SIR!!!”  I scream out a “FAAAAAWK YOUUUUUU!” before I can hold it back.  Moore chides back, “No … I’d say YOU’RE the one that’s fucked, Dill!” and then continues on with me letting out a yell on each of these last several strokes.  He says to the room, and I’m assuming to an internet audience, “Dill’s original sentence served!  “Turk”, since you’re here today, you feel like carrying out his penalty?”  He continues spelling things out as much for me as anyone else, that since I can’t keep my girly little cake hole shut that maybe some bastinado might cure the problem.”  Then he does speak to the camera … “A hundred ought to do our pecker-headed pussy-boy Timbo here some good, huh?”  With this my former personal trainer is handed a very nasty-looking cane, and he positions himself so that he can get a good, proper swing to hit my trapped feet.

This time Moore keeps the count … giving me time to feel each and every swat to it’s full potential.  His timing is excellent, and the sensations are nauseatingly painful.  I guess they must in fact be succeeding in toughening me up since in spite of the horrible abuse I don’t pass out.  I can only assume my mind has been numbed with so many levels of pain that it can no longer really discern how bad it really is at this moment. Through both the ass beating and the caning on the soles of my feet I am very glad that I’m strapped down to the table as thoroughly as I am, because otherwise I’d be jumping and yanking my stretched-out nuts off.  The rest of the pain has been so bad, I barely even notice the continuous five pound stretch on them.

When I hear Moore call out “One Hundred!”  my tensed body relaxes, but Turek gives me one more, the hardest yet, and it makes me shriek out “YOU FUCKIN’ PRICK!”   He says to everyone in general,  “Ya know, I really like the country boy version of Dill!  And I fuckin’ love how he looks scarecrowed up on the cross displayed all nice an’ sloppy.  What d’ya say we give him forty-eight hours up there boys?  String him up there for Monday, Tuesday and the first part of Wednesday?”  I hear Gunnerson say, “Done!”  Then Troy continues, directing his comment to me but meant for everyone to hear, “That oughtta get you used to lookin’ like you’re one of the boys, huh Bo?  Yeah Fuck-up, we’ll get you loosened up and make a real sloppy fella outta you yet Dill!  If these guys keep punishing you for dressing too neat, I think you’ll come around, just like all the other dudes have.  Hell Pickle, I thought with some of your brothers here showin’ up at the gym wearin’ cut-off sleeves you just might join ‘em all on your own, but I guess you’re a little too uptight to show off your sloppy side huh?  No worries, I know these guys’ll take care of that overdose of self-consciousness you’ve got goin’ on, Dill!”  Troy and all of the military guys laugh at this statement, and Moore says, “Yeah, no worries Turk, we’ll loosen ‘im up!”  Troy then grins and says, “You fellas know how many days Bo here showed up at the gym in a button-down shirt with sleeves on it since he joined?”  I hear a chorus of “no” from the soldiers.  “Well Dilly boy here joined four months ago, and he’s showed up in a button-down shirt fifty-one times, even though he saw these other boys sporting this cut-off sleeve look.  You’d have thought he might have clued-in and decided to sport that look himself once or twice at least, now wouldn’t ya?  But no, Mr. Prissy Fart-Pants here couldn’t “lower” himself enough to join the trend.  The Boss has been telling me all along he thinks that Pickleboy needs to pay for that.  You guys think of any ways to work on Dill’s little “I’m too good to dress that sloppy” attitude?  Hernandez pipes up and smirks, “I’m sure we can come up with somethin’.  We wanna keep The Boss happy now don’t we?”  He gives Gunnerson a big wink and a smile.

At this point, having to be a sloppy guy all the time is the least of my worries, so I let Troy’s words go in one ear and out the other.  I know he’s kind of half-teasing me anyway.  I am conscious enough to wonder who “The Boss” might be though.

I’m knocked out of my thoughts by the sounds of “Coffee” and Burton being unhooked from the ceiling and watch as they’re put into fireman carries and taken out of the room.  Once they’re gone Moore and Hernandez attend to my wounds, and I was right, whatever antibiotic gel they use must be designed with the dual purpose of healing AND adding to the torture.  I’m so destroyed by the events of the day, not to mention the three previous days that the stuff only makes me flinch. I’m too tired to even grunt!  My eyes roll back up into my head … and then I’m plunged into precious darkness!

 

~ Chapter 20 ~

(Day 5)

I awake with “morning bone,” and that makes me aware I’m again locked in the awful cock and ball cage.  When it activates, I’m reminded the thing not only covers, shocks, and “nails” my cock but also my balls.  I’m more or less used to the damned thing after the amount of time I’ve spent being tortured in it the past few days but in my groggy state the first time it punishes me, it still takes me off guard and I let out a loud yelp!

I’m still naked but there are no shackles on my limbs or neck.  At least not yet!  Who knows what I’m in for now.  Hell, maybe I’ll be lucky and they’re just getting me rested up enough to take me home.  Again in this darkness I have no idea if it’s day or night, or how long I’ve been unconscious.  I feel around my surroundings and realize I’m in the same-sized cell I was in the night before.

I get up off “the rack” to try to find a bucket to piss in, and I trip over something.  I reach down and find some clothes … I sniff the jeans and realize that if they’re the ones I had on during the tortures on the post, that they’ve been laundered, cuz I’d have smelled the multiple times I creamed myself in them while hanging there, not to mention the few times I wound up losing control of my bladder.  I’d held it as long as I could … but even though I’d been dehydrated after a while up there, I still had no choice but to “let it go,” as that annoying song says.  I don’t think that’s what the lyricist had in mind when they wrote it though.  I half-chuckle at my own joke.

I get dressed in the pitch blackness and in feeling around and putting the stuff on the cot, before getting dressed I find there’s a jock with the shirt, pants, socks and boots.  I’d been wearing hiking sneakers, so I had no idea what these boots looked like since I was still going totally by feel.  They seemed to be military style boots, at least they felt about that height and shape, but maybe a bit heavier than I remembered my own pair being.  I could tell the jeans fit me like a glove.  Pulling them up and over my butt hurt like Hell since it was in bad shape after the beating I’d taken, however long ago it had been. When I picked up the shirt to put on, I realized it was, of course, minus its sleeves.  I had no idea if it was the mustard-coloured one I’d been wearing for the past few days or not.

Once I was dressed I heard a voice that was coming through a speaker somewhere in the cell tell me to face the bottom end of the cot and lock my ankles into the shackles I would find attached to the legs on either side.  I was then instructed to lie down on it belly-down and lock my wrists into the cuffs I’d find just above my head attached to the wall.  Then … silence!

I fell asleep in that position but was awakened several times by the fiendish device that was attached to my junk.  I was so exhausted that I’d remain awake for only a short time after the thing had reminded me that I’d had a boner in my sleep.  I must have been having nightmarish replays of the tortures that I had endured so far, or of things I’d seen some of the other guys put through. I can’t help but wonder why the Hell all of this gets my cock’s attention.  I must be fuckin’ insane!

Maybe I’d been dreaming of how great Moore looked when we were being tortured together the other day.  I realized he intrigued me, and I was not only wanting to be like him, but that I would just about kill to have him locked in this tiny cell with me right now … only minus the cuffs!  I couldn’t tell if the guy was interested in me as a novelty, the new prisoner to torment and toughen up, or if there was something else goin’ on there.  Maybe he just felt kind of like my big brother or something.  A mentor-type relationship.  A macho guide to show me the ropes of my new situation, in all meanings of that expression.  I couldn’t help think there was more to his macho teasing, winks and encouragement, not to mention how hard he liked to torture me.  For some reason, when he was working me over it made me feel like he was doing it in a “teacher’s pet” kinda way.  Like I was getting pushed extra hard because of some kind of connection between us.  I found it was making me want him to rough me up extra hard IF it actually would turn me into as tough and macho a guy as he is.

Eventually I’m shaken awake and then slapped hard on the ass.  I let out a “FAAAAAWK YOU!”  It was just automatic.  I heard Moore’s deep masculine laugh.  The slap hurt every bit as much as any of the swats I’d taken.  I realized that was because of the damage that had already been done to it.  So did the guy who did it.  He was accompanied by MacKinnon, and together they unlocked my cuffs and shackles and re-shackled me with my ankles tight together and my arms behind my back.  Together they dragged me out of my cell and up the stairs to the galley, where all the other soldiers I’d had the displeasure to meet so far were hanging out and bantering with each other.

Moore and “Mac” set me down on a chair by the table.  MacKinnon re-cuffed my ankles to the chair, which was equipped with steel rings on the legs for just this purpose.  Moore unlocked my cuffs from behind my back and replaced them with ones with a longer chain between them.  He then locked them to a steel ring on the underside of the table with another chain.  I realized this was all so I could eat but not escape.  Like I could, in the shape I’m now in.  In pain, bruised, and damn near crippled by everything they’d put me through, with six big military guys eyeing me.  Even IF I could run, they’d tackle me in two seconds flat.

As I’m sitting there chained to the table and chair I smell coffee being brewed and food being cooked, and realize how hungry I am.  It must be at least 24 hours since I’ve eaten anything (that wasn’t pumped into my veins, that is) and my head is pounding from the lack of caffeine and hunger.  I look over to the stove and Fulton is on chef duty.

Moore brings me a steaming hot cup of black java and it’s wonderfully bitter taste begins to revive my wooly-feeling brain.  A few minutes later and there’s a huge plate of bacon, eggs and toast, along with some fruit and cheese, in front of me.  It looks like enough to feed all of the guys in the room, and when it’s first plunked down I wonder how the Hell I’m going to be able to eat it all, and I figure there’d be one penalty or another if I didn’t.  In my ravenous state it all disappears in no time flat though.  While I’m eating I figure that since they’re stuffing this much nutrition into me that there’s a reason for it, and it’s not likely to reward me for taking what I’d been through yesterday.

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