By Pickle

~ Chapter 1 ~

It was a pretty typical late June morning, sunny, blue sky and the temperatures were just beginning to warm up now.  It felt like long awaited Summer was actually arriving.  Lately it had been hovering around 15℃ when I left the house, but by 10:30 or 11:00 it would have warmed up to 20 or 21.  I tended to hit the gym around 8:30 am, so I’d lose the “before work” crowd.

I was listening to my playlist and absent-mindedly trotting away on a treadmill when a couple bulked-up, camo-wearin’, macho-looking thugs come up to me while I’m working out, and tell me they think I’m not sweating hard enough.  I’ve seen them training a few other young studs in the gym, making them yell out “Sir, One SIR!, Sir, Two Sir” etc. as they do their reps, as if they were in the military … kind of embarrassing to have to do in a civilian gym, but I have to say, I kinda got a kick out of hearing these other fellas having to vocalize like that, and the thought of the slight humiliation of it even made my cock twitch now and then, especially when the “victim” screwed up his form and the big guy putting him through his paces would make him start over from one. … They really pushed these poor bastards to absolute exhaustion.  I’m thinking “Oh fuck! There’s no way I can say “no” to these brutes, or I’m gonna look like a pussy.”

I ask them if they know I’ve had a pretty severe disease hit me, and I’m really just trying to get rehabilitated more than anything else, but of course, wouldn’t mind putting on some muscle in the process.  They say they’ve spoken to Troy, the owner and personal trainer at the gym about me, and that they know all about my health history and what I’ve been through.  “We figure you’re just the kind of warrior we like to work on, Dill”, one of them says with a friendly grin.  With this, they then tell me they are former Special Forces guys, and they just enjoy toughening-up civilians from time to time … knockin’ the wimp outta them … makin’ ‘em into men!” … “We figure since you’re doing such a great job of battling your disease, that with that kind of attitude, we can likely turn ya into a real gladiator, Pick.”  I’d never spoken to these guys before and they start out by using my last name and then nickname on me.  They’d yet to call me “Charlie” but I figured they knew my name alright.  The larger of the two guys said, “don’t worry bro … we’ll take it a little easy on ya.”  I knew they were trying to cajole me into accepting their offer.

So what d’ya do?  I had to agree to accept.  Cliched, but “an offer I couldn’t refuse.”  I was truly worried I wouldn’t be able to handle their workout, since I was still recovering, and just trying to get back into good enough shape to go back to work, but there was no way to squirm out of this.  I thought it might be kinda fun in a way to have to do the “Sir, one SIR!” routine, or at least my cock seemed to think so.

They put me through the most intense upper body workout I’ve ever done, and I’m soaked in sweat when they’re done with me.  I ask if I owe them anything for the training session, and the guy who seems to be in charge says with a big wink,  “Pickleboy … I’m sure we’ll think of something!  Go get changed, and we’ll take you out to lunch and maybe figure something out.”

I get showered and changed, and I’m just about to leave the locker room when my two new “buddies” enter, locking the door behind them.  I figure this can’t be good!  The older guy, the one who seems to be in charge says, “So Dill, we figured out what your workout’s gonna cost ya, son.”  The younger guy grabs me and puts me in a full nelson.  “Your sleeves!”

I laugh and say, “Seriously?”, but I have noticed that a few of the fellas that these army guys have been training have been sporting the button-down shirt, cut-off sleeve look lately, so I figure he likely IS serious. Commander Gunnerson, as I learn he’s called, says “Yeah Timbo, Seriously!”  He steps toward me, and the younger guy arches me a little more in the full nelson.

I complain, “Aw c’mon man, this is a fairly new shirt, don’t ruin it man!”

Gunnerson reminds me about the Sir protocol by ramming his fist into my navel.  My cock springs to life.  He tells the younger guy to arch me some more … “Stretch this fucker’s abs apart, Sergeant!”  Then he lands a series of hard punches into my core.  “Fuck, I love making a guy’s shirttails dance” laughs Gunnerson.  “Bring him over in front of the mirror so he can see how cool it looks.”

Moore is about my own height, in his mid-thirties I’m guessing, darkly handsome, thick one-day’s growth of black stubble, and built like you’d expect a SEAL or Army Ranger to be built, solid and very muscular but athletic.  He drags me over, and positions me semi side-on to the locker room mirror, and Gunnerson nails my gut repeatedly.  I’m guessing Gunnerson is maybe around 55, about 6’ 2”, salt and pepper high n’ tight, and solid muscle.  He too is a really handsome, macho-looking guy.

Getting playfully, or not-so playfully gut punched by my older brothers and buddies always kinda turned me on a little, and the first volley of Gunnerson’s punches have started my cock jumping too. I can see in the mirror that my hard-on is pretty obvious already, even partially hidden by my shirttails, but hope these guys are too involved in roughing me up to notice. “You’re gonna look even better getting your abs worked-on minus the sleeves, Timmy boy.  We’ve started a little club here at Troy’s gym.  Maybe you’ve noticed a few of the other fellas with cut-off sleeves?  Well, we think it’s time you joined our little club, son.  We’ll talk about it at lunch but the sleeves have gotta go.”  With this statement he pulls out a penknife, opens it up and pokes a hole in the underarm of each sleeve.  Then he rips each of them off to the seams, and then cuts through that with the knife.  He rips them off my arms and says, “Now that’s better isn’t it Timbo?  We thought you’d look good like this Dill.  Makes ya look a little more laid back, and kinda cocky … like you don’t give a shit.  You look alright like this Pickle.  Fuckin’ suits ya, boy!  You’re already lookin’ a little tougher.  Good on ya, bud!”

He then tells Sergeant Moore to tighten the hold on me, and I get another barrage of punches to the gut.  “Shit, I love making this fella’s shirttails flap, Moore!  Looks even better now he looks like he’s got a bit a cowboy in him.”

“Wouldn’t you agree, Dipshit?” He says to me.

I say nothing, so he grabs my face and looks me closely in the eyes with his own piercing light grey-blue orbs,  “I said, wouldn’t you agree, son?”

I reply, “No Fuckwad, I don’t!”

Gunnerson says to Moore, “Good! This piece of maggot shit’s got some spunk in ‘im.  Remind me he called me that later, and give him the 100 demerit points that kinda crap gets him, and I think this guy needs to learn what forgetting to say Sir gets him too.  He reminds me that in private, and in the gym, he expects the “Sir, Yes SIR!” protocol to be followed. In public just “Sir” is fine.  He informs me that every time I forget, I’ll get another demerit.  If I forget even one of the “Sirs” in the “Sir, Yes Sir!” protocol, I get two demerits.  At this point he shows me a clicker he’s got in his pocket.  He holds it up to my face so I can see the number on it.  “So Dill, better smarten up Dickhead, you’ve already got “31” fuck-ups, plus the extra hundred for calling me “Fuckwad”, and you’re not going to like how you pay up for demerits, son.

He asks Sergeant Moore if he’d like to give my gut some punishment and they trade places.  Gunnerson says, “why don’t we tuck the front of his shirt in for him, and you just keep punching him till it’s untucked again?”  Oh shit, with my shirt tucked in the obvious bulge in my jeans is gonna be unmissable.  Moore tucks my shirt in and starts to laugh.  He tells Gunnerson to check it out in the mirror and he says, “I didn’t think we misread this guy”.  Either he likes us, or his treatment.  Wonder which it is?  Either way, we’re gonna make a man out of him”.   I lose count of the punches it takes before my hard-on is covered by my shirttails again.  True to his word once the shirt’s untucked, Gunnerson says, “I guess it’s time we take this guy to lunch.  I think this fucker’s earned it.”

We all head for the parking lot and I throw my gym bag in the trunk of my car.  Then I’m escorted to a large black SUV, and told to get into the front seat.  We head for a pub that’s not too far from the gym, and I get roughly shoved into the inside seat of a booth.  Sergeant Moore slides in beside me, trapping me there.  Gunnerson slides in opposite me.

The waitress brings the menus and some water and asks if we want drinks.  Gunnerson orders a pitcher of draft beer.  When she returns with the beer and glasses, she takes our order.  When I place mine I get a glare from Gunnerson.  I have no idea why, till the waitress leaves.  He tells me from now on, in public I have to say “sir” or “ma’am” to anyone I’m conversing with.  He pulls out the clicker, and shows me I’m now up to 147 demerits.  He chuckles and says, “Dill, yer really not gonna like payin’ for these, boy!”

While we’re waiting for the food to arrive they tell me about this “little boot camp facility” for “wayward civilian guys” they’ve built a little out of town.  They tell me more about the “club” they’ve started for guys like me, where they put us through obstacle courses, PT, and generally both toughen up and muscle up civvies like me.  “Those other fellas you’ve seen sporting the cut-off sleeves, well they’re in our club buddy.  They’re our “recruits” and we call ‘em our “sloppy country boys”.  And Timbo, we love puttin’ our sloppy country boys through their paces, son.”

He continues, “First rule is that you’ve gotta sport this sleeveless, shirttails flappin’ look at all times.  For you Dill, since you’re off work, that’s going to be all day, every day bud … 100% of the time.  For the other fellas, who still work, we have to let ‘em dress normally for work, but as soon as they’re done they have to change into a sleeveless shirt.  We catch any of you guys wearing sleeves when you shouldn’t be, and you have to report to the camp for 24 hours of punishment for the first offence.  You get caught again and that punishment time keeps doubling till you get with the program.  Understand Dill?”

I reply, “You’re kidding me, right?”  (I do tend to dress down like this when I’m doing yard work, or just hanging out on the deck having a beer with some buddies or whatever, but this button-down shirt, cut-off sleeve look is considered kinda trashy around here, and I’m feeling a little conspicuous and embarrassed even slightly hidden in the booth by Moore’s bulking frame.  If I’m already dressed like this and need to run a quick errand, I never bother to change to go do that, but ordinarily I wouldn’t dress this casually to get groceries, get my hair cut, go to the gym, go to a restaurant (even a fast food joint) or whatever.)

Gunnerson glares at me, shows me the clicker now reads “151”, and says, “No fucker, I’m not kidding!  Now here’s the proposition.  Sport this look for us, and join our club for 6 months and we’ll buy you a year’s membership at the gym, and we’ll be happy to act as your personal trainers for the year.  Every workout, one of us is kickin’ your butt.  Now what could be better than that, Dill?”

I say, “No fuckin’ way!”

Moore chimes in at this point and says to Gunnerson, “Don’t ya just love a guy who gives ya reasons?” Gunnerson smiles, nods, and says, “Yeah, I think we’ve got a stubborn one here.  Either that, or he’s just plain stupid!”  Again, that ice cold stare!  “I think it’s gonna be fun makin’ a better sport out of him though, don’t cha think?”  They both guffaw after this last statement.

The food arrives and when the waitress places mine in front of me, Gunnerson says, “So what d’ya say, boy?”

I clue in, and pipe up, “Thank you, ma’am.”

Both soldiers chuckle, and when the waitress has left, Moore says, “I think he still needs some demerits for that since he needed encouragement.”  Gunnerson hauls out the clicker and it now reads “156”.  They both look at me and laugh.

“So Dill, ya wanna see the kinda thing that happens to a recruit if we catch him wearing sleeves?”,  Moore asks, as he pulls out his iPhone.  He brings up what I think is a video, of a guy who’s dressed like me, “scarecrowed” on a cross, in a field somewhere.  Moore manoeuvres the picture so it rotates, showing a hill sloping away from the cross, and a public road in the distance.  Then he rotates the picture back to focus on the fella on the cross and zooms in on him.  I recognize the guy from seeing him in the gym and I see him struggling, trying to pull his legs up onto a peg on the cross.  His legs are spread with a weighted bar, so it looks obviously difficult to do.  Moore says, “That’s McLean, he fucked-up so he’s doing a little scarecrow duty.  He gets a bit of a “leg day” while he’s up there.”  Both guys laugh heartily at that.

Gunnerson says, “McLean’s been up there since 0700, so we figure he likely could use a replacement about now.”  Again he stares at me.  I glance at my watch.  It’s now 12:30 pm.  I do the quick math and think “holy FUCK!”.  I say, “You guys are pulling my leg here!”  Gunnerson says “Nope!” and shows me the clicker now reads “165”.  I say, “No fuckin’ way!”  The clicker goes up to “167”.  “You’re next Timmy boy!” Gunnerson declares.  It hits me that this is no video … this is live feed that Moore showed me.  Again my cock starts to fill with blood.

Gunnerson says, “Dill, we’ve got a little subscription web site where we have a some fun with fellas for the subscribers.  We call it our “Country Boy Punishment Club” , so we’ve been recruiting a few fellas to suffer for “our public.  Yeah Timbo, we’re gonna have a shitload of fun with you, boy!”  Why the Hell did that statement make me nearly cum in my jeans?  I’m glad my shirttails are covering my crotch just in case any pre-cum wetness is showing through the denim.  I’m confused as to why all of this is getting me going, but there’s no denying there’s a part of me that is suddenly kind of wanting to get a short taste of the treatment these guys are talking about.  To see if I’m tough enough to take it, I guess.

I realize I’m trapped. I can’t get out of the booth, and even if I could escape I’d be a pussy to these guys if I didn’t accept what they had planned for me.  Even if I did escape, I knew they knew where to find me.  The gym for sure, and since they’d gotten other information about me from Troy, I figured they had my home address too.

We finish up.  I have a tough time to eat cuz my stomach is flipping, and I have a huge lump in my throat from the fear … it feels like that walk to the principal’s office when you know you’re going to get the strap.  What’s about to happen to me feels totally surreal.  I haven’t faced any kind of punishment since I was about 14, and all of a sudden it looked like I was in for a ton of it.  For some reason this thought also made my cock jump to attention.

The two brutes escort me out to the SUV, where again I’m placed in the front seat.   This time though, my arms are pulled back behind the seat, and cuffed.  Then Sergeant Moore comes to my door and puts shackles with a very short chain on my ankles.  He closes the door, and gets in behind me.  I feel a strap come down over my head and it gets lowered to my navel.  I hear a ratchet, and feel the strap tighten around my waist.  Uncomfortably tight, but again my cock gets fully hard.  Unfortunately when I got into the car my shirttails hiked up above my crotch and I see Gunnerson staring at my jeans and he suddenly reaches out and gives my balls a good hard thump with his fist.  I yelp!  “Just seein’ what ya got, Pick.”   As Moore tightens the strap I feel my abs being pulled back to my spine and my spine into the back of the seat.  Next, another strap goes around my chest.  Same thing.  Tightened till it’s painful.  Gunnerson laughs and says, “Far safer than seatbelts, Timbo!  Yer not goin’ anywhere, boy!”

I finally speak up and complain to him that I go by “Charlie”, my middle name, not Tim.  Gunnerson turns and winks at Moore in the back seat, and then tells me that in boot camp nobody gives a shit what name you go by.  You get your last name … if you’re lucky.  After boot camp, nobody bothers with dealing with what name you might happen to go by … nobody’s got time for that, or cares.  You get your first or last name, or whatever name your superior officer decides to call you.  Period!

We drive out of town for about fifteen minutes before we slow down. Gunnerson says, “Take a look up the hill there to your right, Pick”.  I look, and see a scarecrow at the top of the field.  Then it hits me,  “Holy shit!  That’s McLean!”  These guys aren’t fuckin’ around.  They ARE totally serious, and I’m about to be trading places with that guy.  “Faaawk!”

 

~ Chapter 2 ~

The SUV turns into a long driveway, and at the top of it pulls up beside a newly constructed barn.  The straps are loosened and pulled off over my head, as Gunnerson comes around to my side, opens my door and gets me out of the vehicle, re-cuffing me behind my back.  He pushes me and tells me to march up to the cross in the field.  It’s tough going with the rough ground, and the short chain between my feet, and I stumble a lot as we walk.  Gunnerson grabs me by an arm every time it looks like I’m going to fall.

We finally get to the cross.  “”Bet you’re glad to see your replacement, huh McLean?” Moore declares, as he looks up at the living “scarecrow”.  McLean is too exhausted to reply with anything but a blank stare.

As I get dragged over to a beam that’s set between two tall saw horses, I look around and see the view, and the road at the bottom of the hill.  Man, people are gonna be able to see me up here.  Fuck, somebody might figure it out that the scarecrow is a real guy!  Oh SHIT!  That would be so friggin’ embarrassing!  Holy crap, I’d be mortified!

At this point Gunnerson and Moore are tying me to the beam that’s resting on the saw horses.  Gunnerson winds rope around my armpits, and then my elbows.  Next he wraps rope around my chest and the beam, creating a crude harness that should help hold at least some of my weight.  He laughingly says, “We’re gonna be nice to you the first  time, Dill!”  While that’s been happening Moore has been tying splints behind my knees, so I can’t bend them.  Once I’m bound they just let me hang there with my feet out in front of me.  Since the saw horses are taller than normal ones, my ass is off the ground.  With my legs splinted I can’t get out of the position.  I can already feel my torso getting stretched out, even just hanging like this.

The two torturers move over to the cross, pick up a ladder that’s lying on the ground behind it, and begin the process of releasing poor McLean.  Once he’s down, they just leave him lying in the dirt, still tied to the cross bar (like I am), but on the ground.

“Ok Pickle,  you’re turn buddy!”  Gunnerson says as he removes the shackles from my ankles, replacing them with thick leather cuffs.  He attaches them to a heavy spreader bar, and I find my legs spread out about 3 feet.  I notice this isn’t an ordinary bar and figure out it’s actually a barbell bar that’s been “doctored” for this purpose.  Gunnerson then grabs one side of the beam I’m restrained upon.  Moore takes his place on the other side.  They get me onto my feet and drag me backwards up to the upright 8X8 of the cross and attach a rope to the centre of the top of my beam, that is in turn attached to a pulley on the cross.  I’m pulled up till with a jolt, the crossbar lodges into it’s place about nine feet up, in its slot in the upright pole.  Moore then climbs up the ladder and bolts the cross bar in from behind.  Then he puts leather cuffs on each wrist.  “Got a little surprise for ya, Timbo!”, he attaches a rope to each cuff.  On the way back down the ladder he gives my gut a hearty slap, damn near knocking the wind out of me.  My cock had gone limp while they were getting McLean down, but the ride up the post woke it up again, and once I got that hearty, macho slap on the abs it was again fully engorged and wanting to shoot badly.

Once he’s on the ground, the ladder comes down and Gunnerson adds a few plates to the bar.  I’m to learn each one is 25 pounds.  “Ok Timbo, try lifting your legs till you can get them onto the peg and relieve some of the pressure from your arms.”  I do as he says, and manage to get the bar lifted onto the piece of metal embedded in the front of the cross that he was talking about.  Moore says, “I think Timbo here could use another fifty pounds on him.”  Gunnerson nods and they each grab a 25 pound plate and add it to the bar.  “Now try, Dill.”  After a lot more struggling, I manage to lodge the bar in the slot and am able to push up a little to relieve my arms.  The bar gets roughly knocked off the peg.  “Try again, Timbo!”  I struggle again, but it’s tougher this time, as my energy is sapped.  The two army guys chuckle as I strive to get the damn bar into position.  I do finally manage, but it’s all I can do.  Gunnerson says, “I think that’s good enough for now.” and again pulls the bar off the peg, leaving me hanging again.  I feel my abs opening up and pulling down from my chest.  It’s already getting a little tougher to breathe, and my arms, shoulders and neck are in an insane amount of pain.  “Ya know, Timbo here looks pretty good sportin’ our “country boy look doesn’t he? Looks like he’s honest to God white trash.  I think we oughtta just shorten his name to “Bo”.  He looks like a Bo to me.  Kinda the redneck, hotdog, don’t give a shit, country boy type.  I’m glad we slopped him up like this.  It works on him.  Yeah Moore, when you add him to our roster on the site, list him as Tim “Bo” Dill.

Next the ropes that are hanging from the cuffs on my wrists get tied to two 25 pound weights, and they are left dangling a few inches off the ground, stretching my arms down from the elbows.  “Fuck!  They’re stretching me almost every way they can think of.”

Once the boys are satisfied I’m in deep shit, they each take a side of the beam that McLean is still tied to, and begin to drag him down the hill.  When they get about 50 feet away, they set him down face down in the dirt, and Gunnerson comes back to the foot of the cross I’m now hanging from.  “Bo my boy,  almost forgot to tell you to smile for the camera.  You’re on “Candid Camera” my friend.  Our subscribers get to watch you sweat on live feed.  We have a few cameras on ya, and we can change the angle and which camera we display you from.  Hey Moore, check your phone and see how many folks are checkin’ out our boy Bo here right now.”

Moore digs out his phone and shouts back, “Three thousand eight hundred and seventy-two, Sir! Then he says to me, ”They always get curious when word gets out we’ve got a new recruit.”

Gunnerson then tells me to “Suffer well, fucker!  We’ll be back in a few hours, after McLean’s had a bit of a rest and we get some grub into him.”  With this, he heads back to Moore and McLean, and the two of them pick him up and drag him down the the barn.  Fear starts to set in as I see them disappear into its entrance, and I’m alone … except for the cameras.  Just me and maybe 7,748 eyes.  I figure IF this web site and live cam is real, and from what they showed me in the pub, it IS, that Gunnerson and Moore will be watching me from time to time, along the other 3,874 (and counting) leering subscribers.

I hang there, at first letting my body stretch out for as long as my arms, neck and shoulders will take it.  (With the ropes around my chest, it’s not quite as tough as I thought it would be.  At least so  far.)  I realize quickly that trying to pull my legs up to re-lodge the bar and give myself some relief, will sap my energy … fast, and I figure I’m going to need every ounce of energy I’ve got, to get through this Hellish predicament. So I just hang till it gets to be too much.  Then I struggle to get the spreader bar back up onto the protruding peg.  I only manage to do this a few more times before my legs will no longer cooperate.  Along with all the pain I’m in, I can’t get the words “If he … only … had a brain!” out of my head.

A few times I notice cars slow down on the road below.  One car actually stops by the side of the road, and I assume the driver is having a good look at me, but maybe they’re just taking a phone call. I’m hoping the zoom on smart phone cameras isn’t good enough to be able to tell I’m now a “living scarecrow”.  The fear had made the erection die until that car stopped but I as I wondered what they could see, and how I must look I remembered how McLean had first looked to me from the smartphone in the pub, and then when Gunnerson called my attention to him before we pulled into the driveway, and the erection returned with a vengeance.  I realized I thought McLean looked kinda hot strung up and dressed like this.  As I’m hanging there I wonder if I look as good as he did, and I start not only kinda getting used to the cut-off sleeves, shirttails flapping look (and they ARE flappin’ in the breeze up here on the cross) but I also decide I’m sorta getting off on being stuck dressed like this with no choice.  There’s nothing I can do about it up here anyway, so I guess I realize how casually I’m dressed is the least of my worries.  These guys are clearly planning to knock the crap outta me.  It looks like I’m going to be one of their “sloppy country boy” recruits and tortured for their pleasure, and the pleasure of their subscribers.

After a while, between the tough bondage and the hot sun beating down on me, I thankfully pass out.  I’m awakened by the smell of ammonia as Moore holds a vial of smelling salts under my nose.  “Sorry Bo, you don’t get out of it that way buddy boy!”  Once he knows I’m fully awake again he heads back down the ladder, and again gives me a hard slap on the gut.  It felt like I’d been hit by a Mack truck, and if I had dentures, it would have knocked them out.  Once on the ground again, he shouts up … “You’re looking good up there Dill.  That slap looks like it got your “interest” up again”, he chortles. “Got more subscribers signing up and tuning in too!  Word’s getting out we’ve got a new boy on our roster.  They’re enjoying your sweatin’, suffering, and squirmin’ Pickle.  Keep it up boy!  We’ll be back when we’ve had a little more fun with McLean, down in the barn.  You’re gonna like the barn, Dill!”, he chuckles sadistically.

I’m left hanging for what feels like hours, but I know it’s likely more like 30 minutes … and then blackness.  I’ve passed out again.

I’m awakened by the same pungent smell, and as I come to, I realize there’s no weight on my wrists now.  Moore is working on the bolts holding the cross beam in place.  Once he unscrews the final bolt he heads back down the ladder.  Once there, he and Gunnerson begin taking the plates off the spreader bar, and I feel at least some relief.  They release my ankles from the bar and then use the pulley to get me back down to the ground.  My entire body is now useless.  I’m like floppy, rubbery goo when my feet touch earth, and as I’m lowered, I just collapse.  I hear McLean mouthing off, and then realize they’re hanging him up on the cross again.  “Fuck!  These guys don’t mess around!”  Once he’s anchored in place, I’m dragged down to the barn in the manner I had earlier seen them do with McLean.

 

~ Chapter 3 ~

I’m taken inside the barn and into a large room, where I’m lifted belly up onto a large table that feels like it’s covered with something like a wrestling mat.  I’m released, painfully, from the cross bar and strapped with my arms by my sides, legs slightly spread, to the table.  A blindfold is pulled over my eyes and a ball gag placed in my mouth.  “Ok Dill, time for some rest.  We’ll be back for ya in a bit.” said Gunnerson’s voice.

After what feels like only seconds, Moore is screaming “Ok Dildo. Wake the fuck up dipshit!  Time to get some grub into you, and then you get to pay up for some of those demerits you’ve been chalkin’ up, Dill.  Man, you are gonna wish you’d been a little more cooperative with the “sir-sayin”!  Just your lucky day too Bo, cuz it’s double demerit day.  Ya shoulda bought a lottery ticket today too man!”  He laughs, “You are SO fuckin’ fucked, Dilly boy!”

As Moore is releasing the straps holding me to the table, Gunnerson enters the room and helps get me onto my feet.  I’m still wobbly but with their help manage to walk to a small kitchen with an eating area.  Once I’ve re-fueled, they let me go to the washroom, but when I come out I’m grabbed and they take me to yet another area in the barn.  In no time they’ve got me loosely spread-eagled to a vertical frame in the centre of a medium sized room.  I notice some other bondage furniture around me too, but didn’t get much of a look at the frame that’s holding me before I was in place on it.

Gunnerson again says,  “Smile for the camera Bo!  You’re bringing in all kinds of new subscribers.  Word’s definitely getting out.  Oh, by the way fucker, the subscribers know what’s in store for you after this, and by the looks of things they must want to see you take it, cuz they’re networking out to their buddies and getting them to join the site. Hell Dill, likely a lot of women out there watching, who like to see a good-lookin’ country boy like you taking his punishment too.  Never know who might be watching ya, Bo boy.”

“This position is a piece of cake after being scarecrowed, huh Dill?” Gunnerson asks.  I’m in no extra pain from the position I’m in, so I reply, “Yeah, piece o’ cake, dude!”  Gunnerson says, “I knew this guy had some cowboy in him, thinks it’s a piece of cake.  Kinda cocky considering he’s a newbie, huh Moore?  He seems to still need some encouragement with sayin’ “Sir” too.  How many demerits is he up to now? 187?”  He checks his clicker, “Yeah, it’s 187.”  You’re not gonna like this much, son.”

Moore says, “Since Bo here’s givin’ us some attitude, why don’t we make this a little tougher on him?”  Gunnerson laughs and says “Sure, let’s see what we can do for him, since he thinks this is so easy.”  With this I hear a “click … click … click” and my feet are lifted off the ground slightly as the spread-eagle I’m in becomes tighter and tighter.  Just as I feel like I’m almost stretched out to the max, the clicking stops.  I breathe a sigh of relief and relax for a second, at least, as much as I can in this position.   Gunnerson tells Moore to come around and have a look at me.  “Dill looks real good slopped up like this huh?  Just something about this look on a fella that makes me want to punish him harder!  Moore laughs at Gunnerson’s statement and then goes back to the winch on the frame.  “Think that’s tough enough on him, Sir?” I hear Moore ask.  Gunnerson shakes his head and says, “No, this fuckin’ sloppy recruit needs to learn his lesson.”  With this I feel something padded and curved against the small of my back.  I hear a crank being turned, and the padded bar gets pushed more and more, arching me and presenting my gut “front and centre”.

“I think Sergeant Moore mentioned to you that this is double demerit day, isn’t that right Dill?

I reply, “Yes, Sir!” thinking I’m obeying the “Sir thing”.

Gunnerson states “189” … “You fucked up again, Pickle.  In private I need to hear the word “Sir” outta you when you first open your pie hole and the last word before you shut it,  Understood recruit Dill?”

“Yes SIR!”

“191”

“Oh fuck”, I think to myself.

“I think recruit Dill needs a little more pressure on his back Sergeant Moore.”  The bar gets pushed some more by use of the crank that’s being operated by Moore.

“Ok Pick my boy,  I think it’s time you learn what a demerit earns you.  Ordinarily, a demerit will cost you five swats with a strap, flogger or whip, or five punches, if you happen to be in this position, but today, since it’s double demerit day, you get ten for each demerit.  Told ya you were going to regret being such a stubborn little prick, Dill.  Now you learn the hard way what that gets ya, boy.”

While I’m getting this small lecture from Gunnerson, Moore has fetched two Canadian Prison Straps and hung them on a couple of hooks on the wall just behind Gunnerson.  He then places two sets of MMA gloves on the floor beside Gunnerson. Moore makes sure he has my eyes as he’s placing the implements.

Gunnerson takes a few minutes to let me just think about what’s about to happen.  I’m stretched out in an incredibly tight spread-eagle, arched with my gut pushed out by a bar that’s going to make sure there is no give when the straps or the punches land.

“Ok recruit Dill.  What’s it gonna be?  In this first set, you’re going to work off five demerits.  What do you think the subscribers want to see?  Fists or prison straps?  We’re gonna take turns on ya, boy.  So what’s it gonna be, Bo? You’ve got five seconds, or we’ll work off ten demerits and we’ll use both on ya!”

I decide the prison straps look fucking menacing, and I’ve never taken a Canadian Prison Strap before, so I decide on fists, since I know I can take a punch, but this will be a helluva lot tougher in this position.

“Whoops, took too long, Dill … you get both bro!” Moore happily declares.  “The subscribers are gonna get treated to us really making your shirttails dance, Pickleboy!  They’re gonna fuckin’ love this!”

They decide they’ll start with punches, and that they’ll alternate every ten, for the first five demerits.  Fifty punches in all. “Oh shit, can I take this?  My guts are already messed up from the locker roomwork-over.  Guess I haven’t got a choice!”  I brace myself.  Moore goes first and he knows how to punch.  Then ten from Gunnerson, he hits even harder, and his punches are sharper than Moore’s.  Then another five from Moore, and then it’s Gunnerson’s turn again, but they give me a short break after the first twenty-five have landed all over my abs, but mostly dead centre in my navel.

Gunnerson starts the next onslaught, and with his fifth punch lands a medium strength liver shot that would double me over ordinarily, but I’ve got no way to move held in this position.  Oh fuck, this IS torture!!!  My entire body wants to crumple up from the pain, and to protect myself, but all I can do is jerk in my bonds.

Moore gives me another ten once I’ve caught my breath, and managed to get ahold of myself.  His fifth shot is to the liver as well.  Oh FAAAAAWK!  So that’s how this is gonna go, huh?

My new buddies continue in this fashion till I reach my fiftieth punch, and that is performed by Gunnerson in his last group of ten.  He lands the hardest liver shot I’ve ever taken.  The last thing I see before I pass out is Gunnerson smirking at me.

I wake up to his ugly mug too, as he waves the smelling salts under my nose once more.

“Not bad Dill, I knew you could take a decent punch since we took you for that little test drive in the locker room, but you’re tougher than ya look son.  I’m curious to see how well you take the prison strap, Pickle.”

“Moore, I think Dill’s gut needs to be pushed forward a little more before his strapping begins.”

I feel the bar in the small of my back push harder, and my abs open up more from the extra stretch it puts me in.  I’m totally spent and don’t know how the fuck I can take any more of anything.  I’ve heard of how evil the Canadian Prison Strap is but never had one used on me.  This is going to be one Hell of an introduction to it.  These guys don’t mess around.  They’re not faking it.  They punch full force and I know they’ll strap me full force too.  I’m SO Fucked!!!

Gunnerson brings me out of my head, “You ready Dildo?”

“Sir, Yes SIR!”

They both chuckle and Moore says, “I guess we’re starting to get through to him.”

Gunnerson gives me the first ten, and as I knew they would be, they are full force.  I feel like my abs are being driven right through my spine to the back wall of the room, with every blow.  Gunnerson takes his time between swats.  Letting each one take full effect.  I get a one minute break before Moore starts in on me.  In that short sixty seconds the heat begins to build, and I know I’ve already got a real “pink belly” and that’s from the first ten of fifty.  FAAAAAAAWK!!!!!

I pass out several more times along the way, and they always revive me with either smelling salts or by splashing ice water on me.  The ice water cools the burn on my abs for a few seconds too, so I’m almost happy when they do it.  I finally get to the fifty and think it’s the end, and my body relaxes a little.

No! I don’t believe I’m hearing this.  It’s Gunnerson telling the audience out in Live Feed Land that he thinks recruit Dill has earned himself another fifty punches, since he’s been so reluctant to get with the “Sir saying program”.  He turns back to me, and he’s sporting an evil but mischievous grin and says, “Ok tough guy, let’s see what ya got!”

This round they spare the liver shots, but they hit even harder than the first round, or at least it feels that way.  Since Gunnerson goes first, it means it’s thirty from him and twenty from Moore.  Tougher than the other way around, and I know Gunnerson planned it that way.

Once I’ve had the final ten punches, the bar that’s been pushing into my back is backed off, and even though I’m still left hanging in a tight spread-eagle, the relief is awesome!

They let me hang there for another fifteen minutes or so before they get me down and take me back to the “resting tables” in the other room.  I’m strapped down on the table again, the blindfold goes back on and the ball gag gets stuffed in again.  Then … silence.  The noise cancelling headphones have gone on too.  I have no clue if they’re still in the room watching, watching me on cam, or if a bunch of subscribers are watching?  Is that a mind fuck or not?  Maybe the live feed they showed me in the pub was just so they can check on a guy from their own phones and not really being broadcast out to the public at all.  Maybe they were just trying to mind fuck me with this “subscriber” thing.  That’s my hope at least, but it seemed my cock kind of got off on the “on display” factor.  Are there cameras everywhere in this place, or just here and there?  How many subscribers are there really, if there are any at all?  If there is some sort of “Country Boy Punishment Club” site, how do people find it?  Yeah, Google, I know … but I expect something like this is kinda hard to find.  Maybe it’s through the dark web or something. I’ve heard of “Red Rooms”, sites where people are tortured, but I believed they were fake, or just rumours.. My mind goes everywhere with thoughts and fears while I’m lying there restrained on that table.

How long before the burn on my abs is going to subside?

How bruised am I going to be from the punches and the prison strap?

How long will it take for what I’m sure is deep bruising to go away?

Are any of my muscles or tendons torn from the sadistic stretching?

If I need to go to the doctor how am I going to explain the extensive bruising that must be all over my chest and abs.

So they want me dressing like a “sloppy country boy” … how long am I going to have to do that?  What do I remember them saying in the pub about that?

How would they actually know if I were to cheat and wear a shirt that still had sleeves on it?

Is McLean STILL on the cross, or are they getting him down now?

How many other guys are being tortured like us?

I remember I’ve seen three or four other guys dressed like McLean and I are at the moment, either entering or leaving the gym, so it’s likely these buffoons are controlling them too.  I guess it’s really not that big a deal, and I do have a few old button-down shirts that I’ve cut the sleeves off, for just hanging around on the deck, or doing yard work or whatever.  I’ve just never thought of myself as being the kind of guy who can get away with this look in public.  Likely the other guys at the gym don’t really give a shit that these guys have made it a dress code for them.  Hell, maybe they kind of like it.  I hafta admit, I kinda like the look on other guys, I’ve always thought most people would figure I’m white trash though.  A redneck.  And I wasn’t keen on people thinking that about me.  Fuck!

The shirt thing didn’t feel like that big of a deal once I was hanging on the cross for fifteen minutes or so.  I was actually kinda getting used to it.  Even kinda liking it a bit.  Hell, if I’m being tortured like a cocky hotdog, I guess I might as well look the part. I wonder if there really are over three thousand people gaping at me dressed like this and taking these punishments?  But those folks are tuning in to see “country boys” tortured, after all, so they’re gonna like it if the guy is dressed down if he’s still got a shirt on, and looking like a farm hand. If indeed there really are any subscribers watching.

I wonder if while I was being scarecrowed, if any of the people in the passing cars, and especially the one that stopped, took pictures of me hanging there.

Oh fuck my body is killing me.  I don’t think I’ve ever been in so much pain before, and right now, I’m only lying down with no real torment other than the residual pain from the two things I’ve been put through here at “the camp” so far, and the workout these assholes put me through this morning.

Since my hearing, sight and speech have been taken from me, I have nothing but thoughts bouncing around in my brain … synapsis firing on overload.  Then … mercifully, some sleep.

 

~ Chapter 4 ~

I’m awakened to Gunnerson’s voice telling me to “wake up soldier”.  He shakes me awake, and again with the smelling salts, but it does clear my brain a bit.

He and Moore are undoing the straps holding me to the table, and the gag comes out.  “That better, son?” says Gunnerson.

“Sir, Yes SIR!”

They both chuckle and give each other the “he’s learning” glance.

Once all the straps are released, they get me up onto my feet.  I’m wobbly as all get out, but with a little help am surprisingly able to stand on my own.  Suddenly Gunnerson has me in a full nelson again, and he’s walking me toward another door I haven’t seen before.  Moore pulls a heavy canvas hood down over my head and then I’m moved forward again.

We stop, and they just keep me standing there in the wrestling hold for a few minutes.  No one speaking.  I finally ask what the Hell is going on.  They let me worry for a few more minutes and then the hood gets yanked off.  In front of me, bathed in bright lights is a large drum, like the water wheel of a mill.  I know immediately that it’s a rack.  I also know … I’m screwed!  “What obsession do these guys have with stretching and arching a guy backwards anyway?”  It had already been done to me in the frame, but I realized this was gonna be different.

As the two soldiers get me restrained to the rack, Gunnerson explains to the new subscribers who haven’t seen this rack used on a guy yet, exactly what they’re doing.  “This rack has a fine tuning adjustment where the ankles are attached.  We’ll just let this fella hang there for ten or fifteen minutes, allowing his body to stretch out to it’s natural maximum.  Then we can tighten up the adjustment here at his ankles.  It’s a much finer adjustment than cranking him out a notch.  We can get him set up so there’s just the beginning of a pull on his body to start off with.  That way, the guy is being stretched and tortured from the very first notch.  More fun for us.  And more than a little troublesome for the victim here”.   With this he gives me a hard slap on the gut.  I grunt, and he and Moore laugh.

“Yup Dill, we’re gonna make a much better sport out of ya today buddy boy!”

He turns to the camera (that remains unseen to me) and explains that he and Moore offered me the chance to “dress down” a little, and be part of their  “Country Boy Punishment Club” for just six months, and they’d give me a year’s gym membership, and would be my personal trainers for every work out.  “Bo here, declined that generous offer, and we hafta say, we’re real disappointed in him for being such a lousy sport.  We figure he needs us to teach him a little lesson, needs us to loosen him up a little.  So Dill … (he pauses and turns to me) now we’re going to bring out the sloppy country boy in ya for three years, and you’re going to be a recruit in our “Country Boy Punishment Club” for three years too, son.  By the end of the afternoon you’ll be signing two contracts agreeing to both of these adjustments to your present lifestyle.  Your ass is ours, Dildo!  The rack always wins!  Time and pressure boy.  Time and pressure!”

“Ok folks,  enjoy the show!” Gunnerson says to the camera.  He motions to Sergeant Moore, and Moore turns a crank.  The rack clicks a notch, and I find myself already in trouble and in more pain than I’ve ever imagined.  The accumulation of pain from the day so far had me in agony, and now THIS!.  Even at just the first notch.  “Fuck me!  I’m in deep shit”, but I’m resolved that I’m not going to let these two bastards win.

“Commander Gunnerson, do you think Bo here ought to work off a few more demerits?”

Oh man, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill that Moore guy, if I ever recover from this day.

Gunnerson gleefully agrees with Moore that I should.  He suggests they put up a poll on the web site to see how the subscribers who are watching would like to see me work off another fifty demerits.  Moore adds the poll to the appropriate spot on the site, and tells the audience they’ve got ten minutes to vote, while they mess with me some more.

While waiting for the results of the poll, Gunnerson stands in front of me, arched backward on the rack.  He tucks the front of my shirt in for the second time today and then unzips my jeans, reaches in and grabs my cock and balls.  He turns and leaves through one of the doors and returns a few seconds later.  He ties my balls and separates them, tying them off to a hook in the floor between my legs.  I immediately realize that as they crank me out each notch, not only is my body going to get agonizingly stretched out, but my balls are going to get yanked down too.  Gunnerson yanks on them hard, and gets a loud scream out of me.  While he’s got them stretched out he flicks each nut in turn, with his middle finger.  I scream some more. “Hell Moore, we just might turn this fella into an opera singer at this rate.”  They both chuckle.

Gunnerson lets go of my balls and tells me he’ll be right back.  He leaves the room again for a few minutes and returns bearing a riding crop.  He grabs my balls again, yanks them down hard and then starts slapping each nut several times in turn.  He has me wanting to squirm out of my skin, yet I know there’s no escape.

Fuck, when they first asked me to be part of their “Country Boy Punishment Club,” why the Hell didn’t they tell me the consequences of refusing.  Oh well, no use wishing things were different.  I’m now in way over my head, plunked on a machine I’d only ever imagined before.  I didn’t think there were any in existence in our modern world.  So much for that idea!

Moore interrupts my thoughts with “looks like they want him to take the Prison Strap again, Sir!”

Gunnerson replies “Great!  Let’s take him out another notch first.”  Moore steps up to the rack and cranks it another notch.  I scream like I’ve never screamed before.  They let me settle into this new pain and then Gunnerson starts in on my abs with the Prison Strap.  The first swat feels like my gut is being seared on a hot grill.  The pain of the second swat is at least double the feeling of the first one.  SHIT!  Fuck me!  498 swats to go.  No way am I going to make it through this.  “WHACK!” Gunnerson just grins as I scream for mercy.  He lets me calm down and tells me I’m getting all 500 swats.  Potentially caving in to signing the contracts doesn’t get me out of working off my demerit points.  He continues till I’ve counted ten to myself.  Between the stretch, my squirming, and the beating, my shirttails have untucked themselves again, and thankfully hide my junk from the cameras.

Next up … Moore “at bat”.  He decides he wants to hear me count them out loud from now on.  “Give me “Sir, One SIR!, Sir, Two Sir!”, Dill.”  Somehow, I manage to scream the count out as I’m tortured.  I continue yelling out the count as they work off 50 demerit points, 500 fuckin’ whacks with this maniacal implement from Hell!

After those fifty get worked off, they give me a small break, but during it Moore takes the crop to my balls, chest and nips.  He stands on a stool and unbuttons my shirt to my navel so he’s got better access to my chest.  He pulls nasty-looking nipple clamps out of one of the pockets on his camos and applies them to my tits.  He then pulls a piece of cord out of another pocket and attaches it to the chain between the clamps.  The other end gets tied to the same hook in the floor that my balls are tied to.  Nobody has to tell me how this is going to affect the clamps and my nipples.  Once the “break” is determined to be over they crank me out another notch.  “Hell Bo, you’re lookin’ like a real country boy, and it’s not killin’ ya, now is it?  I think it’s time you agree to signing the Dress Code contract, son.”  Gunnerson cajoles.

I manage to reply, “Sir, No way, Dipshit! SIR!”

Gunnerson cranks me out another notch, and when my screaming subsides he tells Moore to add another hundred demerits to my tally, for cursing at him.  “This guy is a real slow learner, huh Moore?”  Moore agrees with him, and the two of them chuckle at me.

“Time for the next ten to get worked off, Dill.”

Moore starts this time, and I feel like the skin is being clawed off my body by the holes in this heavy Canadian Prison Strap.  My whole six pack is on fire, it actually feels like I’ve been lowered onto hot coals and left there to cook.  Somehow, I manage to make it through this set of a hundred swats.

Commander Gunnerson, stands on a stool beside the rack, so that he can turn my head to the side and speak to me eye to eye.  “Dill, I think it’s time you decided to let us “slop you up” for the three years, and sport the redneck country boy look, rather than being so stubborn and uptight, and getting yourself cranked out another notch.  C’mon boy!  It’s not gonna hurt ya to dress down a bit. Another notch isn’t gonna be too good for you though, son.  You’re getting real close to your arms being dislocated.  I’d say you’ve got maybe two, possibly three more notches before that happens.  Now, except for the pain you’ll be in, it’s no big deal.  Sergeant Moore and I both know how to get a guy’s arms back into their sockets.  I don’t think you really want to go through that, just because you don’t want to dress down the way we want to see you, boy.  Think about it son.  Is it really worth it?  Tell ya what Bo, I’ll let ya think about it for five minutes, and if you decide it’s a good idea to sign the Dress Code contract, we’ll loosen you a notch for your next ten demerit pay up.”

He leaves me alone to think about things, and I hear him babbling something to the camera.  He must be bringing them up to speed on what he’s said to me.

He comes back to me far too soon for me, and re-poses the question, “Dill, are you going to sign the Dress Code contract?

“Sir, no SIR!” I manage to squeak out.

“What boy?  I didn’t hear you!”

“Sir, NO SIR!” I say a little louder, but up about half an octave from my normal voice.  The stretch is more than getting to me.

“One more time, son.  I can’t HEAR you!”

This time I yell out, “SIR, NO SIR!”

With that, Gunnerson turns the crank, and I feel like I’m literally going to be pulled apart as he does it.  I half expect my guts to come squirting out like one of those wire snakes in a can.  I scream so loud it feels like somebody’s ripping my throat out.  “Next ten demerits!”  Gunnerson says to the air, but meant both for my benefit and the benefit of those watching me suffer on live feed.

Before they start in on me, Gunnerson stands on the stool placed in front of me, unbuttons the rest of my shirt and pulls each side around and tucks them behind my back.  “I think he needs the next set on his bare abs, now that we’ve got ‘em pulled apart so nicely.”  He motions for Moore to give me the first ten whacks.  I literally feel like my brain is going to short circuit from all the layers of pain that I’m experiencing.  I’m also starting to believe that there really are subscribers watching and paying to see me tortured like this.  The feeling that that’s been a mind fuck has gradually been dissipating as I’m being stretched more and more.  The rumours that there are sites like this on the dark web that torture people (and much worse) on live cam are feeling way more believable now, so that’s really playing around in my head.

At the end of the set Gunnerson again climbs up beside me and asks If I’m ready to sign the Dress Code contract.  He thinks I’m going to refuse again and begins to crank me out to the next notch.  I scream, “Ok fucker, I’ll sign it!”  Oh shit, I didn’t mean to say that, and immediately regret it. Gunnerson says, “Love a guy who makes it fun, Dill!  Fuckin’ LOVE makin’ an example outta you, boy” and cranks me out two more notches.  I feel my shirt pull out from where the front tails have been tucked around in back, and it’s now just lying open at each of my sides.  My brain starts taking me away from reality for a few seconds and I imagine seeing pictures or video of myself dressed just like this but maybe with a baseball cap or cowboy hat too and throwing bales of hay onto a truck.  I start thinking i probably wouldn’t look all that bad, and then I start wondering how I look in my present situation … that brings me back to reality.

“We’ll let you think about what just happened for the next fifteen minutes.  It’ll give you a break from the Prison Strap at any rate.  Bo boy, you’re now going to be dressing pretty “casual” for the next three years, whether you like it or not, and you bet your ass we’re going to keep close tabs on YOU, son!  Hell, maybe some of these subscribers are locals.  Ya never know.  They spot you wearing sleeves anywhere, and report you, and you’re in deep shit!  Simple misdemeanour, but disobey our contract, and you will fuck yourself BIG time!”  He chuckles and says, “I bet this town’s gonna enjoy the new, improved, sloppier version of you, Dill.  ‘Bout time somebody loosened you up!”  From the glint in his eyes when he said this last part I had a feeling there was some double entendre in that statement.

During the fifteen minute “break”, I mostly can’t do anything but feel how much agony I’m in.  I’m stretched further than I thought possible, and my abs are aching and on fire.  I can’t bend my neck far enough to see, but it feels like I’ve been skinned alive and then stretched out over a white hot fire.  Part way through the break, Moore starts to mess with my balls again.  “Fuck me!!!”

After this “intermission” I’m told they’re about to begin the next set of prison strap swats.

“In this last set, you’re going to work off the final fifteen for today, Timbo.  Then we’ll concentrate on getting you to sign the “”Country Boy Punishment Club” recruit contract.

If I can just take 150 more swats, that’s it.  No more of that pain at least.

Gunnerson is about to start swatting my abs again, but Moore stops him, and says, “I think Bo here needs to go out one more notch for his last fifteen of the day, doesn’t he?  Gunnerson nods agreement, and Moore moves over to the rack, and cranks me out another notch.  The pain is searing, and it feels like my arms are ripping from their sockets.  They keep taking me to levels of pain I’ve not felt before.  When I stop screaming, and get hold of what’s left of my dignity, the strapping begins.  During this phase I pass out several times again, and thankfully they bring me back by using the ice water on me.  At least it cools the burn for a few precious seconds.

The punishment continues for what feels like years, and then it stops.

“Congratulations Dill, you made it through today’s demerit pay up.”  He holds up some paper into my line of vision. “Now let’s get you to sign this “Country Boy Punishment Club” recruit contract.”  Gunnerson doesn’t even ask if I want to cave and sign it, he just comes over and cranks me out another notch.

I hear my spine making cracking sounds and then I hear “Fuck yeah!  I’ll fuckin’ sign your Goddamned contract you fuckin’ asshole!” I scream.  Then I realize that came outta me.  My mouth has acted against my better judgement yet again, and I’ve managed to get myself in more trouble, to be dealt with another day.

Gunnerson glares at me, and says “About fuckin’ time you broke, Dill!   Sergeant Moore, add another two hundred and fifty demerits to Dill’s tally on the roster.  It’s almost like he enjoys working them off.”  They laugh hard at this, and Moore adds, “We’ll get cha good tomorrow, Dill!”

Gunnerson replies, “Yeah, I think Bo here just signed himself up for the morning shift for scarecrow duty too, didn’t he?”  They laugh again.

“Ok Dill, since you’re such a stubborn fuck, we’ll let ya think about things for a bit.”  With this they leave the room with me still stretched to my limit, sporting jeans, a sleeveless button-down shirt (now opened up) and a raging hard on while I’m still stuck on this barbaric machine.

Eventually they come back into the rack room.   Gunnerson draws more attention to my cock for the people in “TV land” and then says to Moore, “I bet Pickleboy here would like to get “released” about now.  Looks like he kinda likes how we’re treatin’ him.  Moore climbs up on the stool beside the rack and gives me a sardonic smirk as he cranks me out one more notch.  “thought that might make it easier for ya to cum, fucker!” Like even just a slight draft on my cock wouldn’t make me cum at this point.  Gunnerson produces a Hitachi wand with a cock sleeve attachment, and I shoot practically to the wall in front of me before he even strokes me with it once.  The two former soldiers laugh their heads off and tease me that I damn near hit one of the cameras.  “Guess you did need to get “released” recruit Dill.”  Then they gradually reduce the stretch on me, and get my limp, but conscious body off of the demonic piece of furniture.  I’m dragged back to the resting room and am placed on a table beside McLean.  He’s blindfolded and gagged and strapped down as I have been before, and am soon to be again.

 

~ Chapter 5 ~

I’m not sure how long I was there before Sergeant Moore released my restraints, and helped me walk (basically carrying me) to the gallery, where he sits me down and gets me to honour my word, by signing both the “Dress Code” and the “County Boy Punishment Club” contracts.  Once that’s out-of-the-way, he lifts me up under the armpits and manhandles me out to the SUV.  Outside it’s beginning to get dark, but as we approach the vehicle, I see Gunnerson speaking with a few other muscular guys.  He says, “So boys, here’s our “catch-of-the-day”.  Hope you fellas were watching us break him in a little today.”

He continues, “recruit Dill, these are two more of your commanding officers.  They’ll put ya through your paces nicely too, but for now they’re going to have fun with McLean in there.  We’ll go get your car.  You’re in no shape to drive home.  You’ll be with me, and Sergeant Moore will follow in your car.”

They get me into the passenger seat, chained, handcuffed, and strapped in as before, except they add one more ratchet strap just under the bottom of my ribs.  I’m well secured to say the least, and my cock begins to betray me again!  We head off to pick up my car at the gym.  Troy the owner, my former personal trainer, comes out to say hello.  “So Pick, these fellas show you a good time at the farm?”

So Troy’s in on this too!  I begin to realize I was screwed from the time I set foot in the place.  Perfect set up for nabbing guys to torture for subscribers.  Fuck!  I wonder how much these guys are making off of us.  Troy smirks and says, “I hope I’m gonna see you lookin’ a little sloppier from here on out, Dill.”  He laughs and tousles my hair.  “I told these guys I had a fella here who needed a little loosening up.  I’m gonna enjoy watching your transformation, Pick.  These fellas know how to knock the crap out of a guy, and you need it Dill.  It’ll do ya a shit load of good, man!”  With this, he gives the SUV a thump on the roof, and off we go, heading home to my place.

When we arrive in the driveway, Gunnerson stops and turns off the engine.  He pulls out his phone and shows me a picture of myself in a shirt I bought along with the one I wore today, a bright red and black plaid with decent deep-cut shirttails.  He tells me he wants me to cut the sleeves off of it as soon as I go inside, before I eat.  He instructs me to put it in the washer, so the sleeves will fray a little.  Then I’m to get dinner and tune into the website.  He tells me he’s forwarded the URL and a special password that will allow me into most of the site. Everything except the advertising of my own, upcoming penalties.

I’m told that McLean will be on live feed getting punished by the fellas I met as we left, but everything that happened to me today will be in another section being played in a loop.  I’m instructed to watch it, and that I’ll be receiving a call sometime in the evening to chat about how I feel watching various parts of my day.  I’m also told to look through other sections of the site that show guys running obstacle courses, being put through some pretty rigorous PT outside, and some of the other recruits being punished in a number of ways.  “I’ll be checking in with you to see what you think, and likely one of the other officers you met will be giving you a call too.  Ok Dill, be standing out here at 0600 tomorrow, waiting for us, and sporting the shirt I told you to wear.  You are doing morning scarecrow duty, and we want you on that cross no later than 0730, so there’s lots of traffic passing by on their way to work.  Btw, Sergeant Moore will be putting you through leg day at the gym tomorrow, and if you think we tortured you today, wait till you go through THAT workout of his.  He’s a fuckin’ sadist in the gym.”  Gunnerson giggles at his little joke.  “When he brings you back to the farm, the four of us will be putting you and McLean through your paces.  His 48 hours of punishment can’t be continuous because he’s got to go home to his girlfriend tonight, but Dill, if you fuck up once, you’re ours for 24 hours straight, man!

Oh btw, you notice that black rubber ring on your finger?  Well, there’s another one around your balls, and a third one on your right big toe.  They’re GPS trackers.  (“Fuck, they must’ve put them on me as I slept.  Maybe I’d passed out and not just slept, as I’d thought.”) You try getting them off and we’ll know.  Any tampering and we each get an alarm on our phones.  Just makes it tougher for you to try to run, and lets us show up when you least expect us, to see if you’re following the Dress Code.  That’s how we nailed McLean.  His girlfriend convinced him to wear a shirt with sleeves when they went out to get groceries.  We innocently bumped into them in an aisle, passed the time of day, and his girlfriend had no idea we were anything other than buddies of his, but McLean knew he was fucked.  Should have seen his face.

This is the second time he’s been caught disobeying the Dress Code too, so he’s getting 48 hours this time around.  It doubles each time you fuck up, Dill.  I think you’d better get used to the idea of sporting the cut-off sleeve look, Bo my boy, or you’ll be just as screwed as McLean is at the moment.  Well, actually, since you’re in the breaking-in phase, you’re already as screwed as he is, but I wouldn’t suggest asking for more trouble.  Today was kindergarten compared to some of the shit we can put you through.  Alright Bo, let’s get you the Hell out of the truck, so you can go doctor up that shirt and then check out how ya look on display.  I think you’re gonna enjoy seeing yourself in the trouble you were in today.  Oh and Dill … good to have you on board brother!”

Before getting me out of the SUV Gunnerson reminds me to expect a call from him and/or one of the guys I met just before leaving the “camp”, to see how I was doing, and what I was thinking of all of this.  He told me tomorrow would be tougher, since I’d be incredibly sore from the punishing day they’d put me through.  He said I did pretty well for a fuckin’ pussy civilian, and that I did better than he thought I’d do.  “Of course, that just gets you in more trouble, Dill!  Means we’ve gotta be tougher on ya!”  I’m then told again to be waiting in the driveway for someone to pick me up at 0600 sharp.  “Every minute you’re late gets ya 10 demerit points, and I’d say you’ve got all the demerits you can handle for now, Bo boy!  Oh yeah, grab 5 or 6 T-shirts and stuff ‘em in your gym bag.  While you’re getting worked on tomorrow one of us will turn those into “shredders” for ya, Dill.  From here on out, you’re gonna be sleeveless and showin’ lots of upper body skin in the gym too, buddy boy.”  He gets out, walks around my side of the vehicle, unshackles and unstraps me, and gives me one parting, hard slap on the abs.  “Now get the Hell out of here, and get started on your “homework”, son”.

I slowly get out, since I feel like I’ve just been run over by a steam roller and then put through a meat grinder, and grab my keys from Moore, who’s been waiting, leaning against the hood of my car, behind us in my circular driveway.  I make my way in the walkway and hear a “toot” as my tormentors start off on their way, I assume, back to help torment poor McLean.

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